‘Hello, Alex,’ said Rory. He was going to lead the questioning while Angie focused on the kid’s body language and behaviour.
Alex looked up at him with a nod but hardly made eye contact.
Rory ran through the statement Alex had given at the hospital, in the first hours after Tash’s abduction. Of course, there had been no mention of the fight they’d had, or the fact that Alex appeared to follow some time behind her after she left the club. But at that point Tash was still alive and no one had guessed it might become a murder investigation. Now, however, they needed the truth.
‘Alex, can you tell me exactly what happened last Friday evening and in the early hours of Saturday morning?’
In short sentences, with frequent prompts, Alex told them about the early part of the evening when he’d been with Tash. They’d had a few drinks in the Mesmerist, where they met up with a group of friends, and had then walked around the corner to The Haunt.
‘What time was this?’ said Rory.
Alex shrugged. ‘Eleven, half past eleven? I don’t know.’
‘What happened at The Haunt? Why did Tash leave the club without you?’
‘She was tired. She’d been drinking on the beach all afternoon. I wasn’t ready to go home at that point.’
‘What time was that?’
Alex shook his head. ‘No clue.’
‘But you thought it was all right to let her walk home through Brighton on her own?’
‘She’d done it before. It was her choice.’
Alex was sounding belligerent and he wasn’t giving them any new information. Time to raise the stakes.
‘Alex, we know from the CCTV footage in The Haunt that you and Tash had a fight.’
‘So?’
‘We know that you walked along the front a few minutes after she did.’
‘I wasn’t following her.’
‘Really?’
Alex’s eyes glazed over with exhaustion – shock and bereavement leaving their mark. Rory had seen it before, all too often.
‘What time did you get home?’
The boy put his face in his hands, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know.’
He might be nineteen, but he was still just a kid. Rory felt uncomfortable watching his composure crumble, but it wasn’t going to stop him. He was on Tash Brady’s team now and he wanted to go in for the kill.
‘Come on, Alex,’ said Angie, firm but not harsh. ‘You must have some idea. You need to try to help yourself here.’
‘Alex, do you have any tattoos?’ said Rory.
Alex rolled his head from one side of his shoulders to the other. It was clearly a question he’d faced often, given that both his parents were tattoo artists.
‘No.’
‘Have you ever worked in your parents’ tattoo shops or given anyone a tattoo?’
Alex shook his head with a sigh. ‘No.’
‘Do you know how to use a tattoo gun?’
‘Iron,’ Alex corrected him. ‘They’re not guns.’
‘Do you know how to use one?’
‘Of course. I grew up in a tattoo studio, didn’t I?’
‘But you’ve never tattooed anybody?’
‘It’s not my scene. It’s what my parents do.’
‘You know your mother served time in prison some years ago, don’t you?’ Rory knew full well this was below the belt – and the way Alex’s head snapped up told him that the kid hadn’t known.
‘She stabbed a man.’
Alex’s eyes widened and his breathing became panicky.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true, Alex. I wouldn’t make up something like that. Is it something that runs in the family?’
Rory could feel Angie glaring at him, but he wasn’t going to turn his head to make eye contact with her. It wasn’t the strategy they’d agreed for the interview, but if he could wind Alex up enough, perhaps the kid would make the slip-up they needed him to make.
‘Like mother, like son?’
With a yelp of rage, Alex stood up, knocking the chair over behind him. He leaned across the table and Rory thought for a second that he was reaching for his neck. He was wrong though.
Alex planted both hands flat on the table and snarled right in his face.
‘I want my lawyer. Now.’
16
Tuesday, 15 August 2017
Francis
‘I don’t buy it.’
Francis nearly spat the words as he enumerated where Rory had gone wrong. Tempers were reaching breaking point in the tiny viewing space next to the interview room where Rory had just questioned Alex Mullins. Francis’s superior, Detective Chief Inspector Bradshaw, was using more than his fair share of the oxygen and the air was rank with male sweat.
Rory blustered against Francis’s every argument.
‘You were supposed to be information gathering,’ said Francis. ‘Not setting him up to be a hostile witness.’
‘Witness or suspect?’ said Rory. ‘That boy’s looking good for charging to me.’
‘Sure,’ said Francis. ‘We haven’t even got the bloody cause of death pinned down yet.’
‘Means. Motive. Opportunity,’ said Rory. ‘We know he would have access to tattooing equipment, and he’s admitted knowing how to use it. Motive – he’d just had a very public bust-up with Tash and was probably feeling humiliated by that slap. Opportunity. Yes, he followed her home in the small hours of Saturday morning and he was in her hospital room when she died.’
‘But that frames the attack on Tash Brady as a crime of passion, sergeant. Fine, if he’d run after her and knocked her down on the pavement. But this has all the hallmarks of premeditation.’
Francis had watched the interview through the one-way mirror between the two rooms, Bradshaw standing, sweating, by his side. He was incensed with the way Rory had casually wound Alex up and, now the boy had lawyered up, they had no hope of getting anything useful from him. But Rory and Bradshaw remained convinced of Alex’s guilt.
‘It’s perfectly clear he did it,’ said Bradshaw. ‘Ockham’s razor – heard of that, Sullivan? We go after the most likely suspect first and Mullins fits the bill.’
Francis pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead in frustration.
‘Only he doesn’t.’
‘What is this? Your second or third murder case? Rory and I must have worked scores of cases between us. We know what we’re talking about.’
Still they couldn’t forgive him for being promoted young.
‘With all due respect, sir,’ said Francis through gritted teeth, ‘we don’t even know if this is a murder case. The PM results aren’t in and Rose hasn’t given us a cause of death yet.’
‘So let’s hear why you think it wasn’t him,’ said Rory. Francis didn’t like the undercurrent of sarcasm in his voice.
‘Tash slapped Alex in the club. You’re suggesting he retaliated by attacking her, tattooing her with a Latin inscription and giving her stigmata?’
‘Both his parents are tattoo artists,’ said Bradshaw, letting a note of satisfaction creep into his voice.
‘But Alex Mullins isn’t. And what about the religious aspect to the attack? You didn’t touch on that in the interview. Does he even believe in God?’
‘Why are you so keen for it not to be Alex Mullins?’ said Rory. ‘Because you know the family? Is that it?’
Francis didn’t care for the insinuation and headed for the door. He wasn’t going to expand on his relationship – or lack of it – with Marni in public. He needed some air.
‘Marni Mullins is due to testify in Sam Kirby’s trial next week. I don’t want to do anything to derail it, and prematurely charging her son with murder would do just that.’
He pulled open the door, and took a deep breath of the compa
ratively fresher air in the corridor.
‘Sullivan! Don’t turn your back on me. Where are you going?’
Francis paused in the doorway. ‘To release Alex Mullins.’
‘It’s my opinion that you should be charging him,’ said Bradshaw.
‘We need more evidence to do that, sir. I suggest waiting to see what Rose and the SOCOs come back with. Rory, I want the team looking at other possible suspects. What about Richard Brady – am I right in thinking he’s her stepfather rather than her real father? What other significant men were there in her life?’
Rory stared at him, blank-faced. ‘Richard Brady has an alibi – he was in London at the time of the attack.’
‘Has that been confirmed by independent witnesses?’
‘Hollins is on it.’
‘Rory, we’ve got plenty of work to do. In the meantime, Mullins is free to go.’
‘I think not,’ said Bradshaw.
‘Sir, I’m OIC on this case, so it’s my decision whether to charge him or let him go.’
Bradshaw drew himself up to his full height. A drop of sweat flew off the end of his nose and landed on Francis’s sleeve.
‘You know, you’re making enemies in all the wrong places, Sullivan.’
‘Just as well I didn’t take this job to make friends. Sir.’
Half an hour later, Alex Mullins left John Street station in the company of his mother and his lawyer. Francis watched them walking down towards Edwards Street from the window of the incident room on the third floor. He stayed where he was long after they’d rounded the corner and disappeared from view.
Why couldn’t he get a handle on this case? The team were asking the wrong questions, looking at the wrong people. They weren’t listening to him. Rory seemed certain it was Alex Mullins, while he didn’t feel certain of anything at all.
He hoped to hell he hadn’t just made a terrible mistake.
As he went back across the incident room to his office, his mobile signalled a text.
It was from Robin.
Come now.
17
Tuesday, 15 August 2017
Francis
He called Robin’s number but there was no answer.
What’d happened?
He repeated the text message over and over in his mind as he hurried out to the car park. Did it mean his mother was dying? Would he get there in time? Shaking hands made him clumsy, and he dropped the keys as he tried to unlock his car. Grabbing for them, he grazed his knuckle on the tarmac, then crunched the seatbelt buckle in the door as he closed it.
‘Damn!’
He made himself sit still, hands on the wheel, to take five deep breaths before turning the key in the ignition.
Did it mean his mother was dying?
When he arrived at the hospital, he ran up the stairs, too impatient to wait for the lift. The nurse at the nursing station came to meet him as he barrelled through the doors onto the ward.
‘Lydia Sullivan? What’s happened?’
‘We think she might have developed pneumonia. She’s running a high temperature.’ The woman led him towards his mother’s room.
‘But she’ll be okay?’
‘It can be dangerous with her condition.’
The nurse was sugar-coating.
Francis stepped into his mother’s room, muttering a prayer under his breath.
Please God, let it be a false alarm.
When did he last go to church?
Robin was sitting by their mother’s bed, and she stood up when he came into the room.
‘Fran,’ she said simply, coming forward to embrace him.
He gave her a quick hug for form’s sake, but he wanted to give his attention to his mother. A medic stood on the other side of the bed, listening to Lydia Sullivan’s chest through his stethoscope. He looked grim-faced as he straightened up.
‘Her respiratory rate is high, and I think she might have some fluid collecting in her lungs.’ He gently placed an oxygen mask back over her face. ‘I’ll increase the dose of antibiotics.’
Francis could detect no note of optimism in the man’s voice. He knew that with his mother’s weakened chest muscles, pneumonia could take hold rapidly.
He turned around to look at Robin and for the first time noticed that Jered Stapleton, the verger at his local church, St Catherine’s, was standing behind her chair. What was he doing here?
‘Have you spoken to her today?’ he said, addressing Robin.
‘No. She’s been asleep since I arrived.’
‘It’s better that way,’ said Jered Stapleton. ‘She needs all her strength for fighting the illness.’ He was a tall man who stooped somewhat to hide it, and his hair was thinning on top.
Francis wondered when he’d become such an expert in geriatric care.
The medic finished writing up her chart and hooked it over the end of the bed.
‘We’re always on hand,’ he said. ‘Just press the bell if you need us.’
‘Thank you,’ said Francis.
He sat down by his mother’s bed and took her hand. It was cold, already the hand of a dead woman.
You can’t think like that.
He rubbed it gently to bring some warmth back. A feeble movement of her fingers made Francis look up at his mother’s face. Her eyes fluttered open. She tried to speak.
Francis lifted the mask from her face and rested it on her chest.
‘Maman.’
Lydia managed a weak smile when she saw it was him.
‘Twice in one week,’ she croaked. ‘I really am dying after all.’ Her breath wheezed as she struggled with the words.
No one laughed and Francis felt a lump forming in his throat. The exertion of speaking caused Lydia to start coughing.
‘No more talking – you need to rest,’ he said.
‘I’ll . . . do that . . . when . . . I’m dead,’ said Lydia, gasping for air between each chest-rattling cough.
‘Don’t talk like that,’ said Francis.
He put the mask back over her face and her breathing eased a little.
‘Don’t tire her,’ said Robin. She looked exhausted herself.
‘How long have you been here?’ said Francis.
‘Most of the night,’ said Robin.
‘You should go home and get some rest. I’ll stay with her.’
Robin’s withering look spoke volumes. She wasn’t going to leave her mother’s side at this point. Francis wondered how long Jered Stapleton had been there, but he didn’t ask.
‘You could have called me earlier, you know,’ he said.
Lydia closed her eyes and, in a moment, she was asleep.
They sat in silence. An hour passed. Jered Stapleton made himself useful, fetching coffee and a sandwich for Francis, when he admitted he hadn’t eaten all day.
Robin felt her mother’s forehead.
‘She’s not shaking off the infection,’ said Robin. ‘I’m worried.’
‘But the antibiotics will kick in.’
‘They should have done that by now.’
Francis didn’t have to ask what this implied, and Robin’s muted sniff showed that she was well aware how serious it was.
Lydia slept on, but Francis felt more and more aware of the labour each breath took. Despite the mask, he could hear the wheeze in her throat.
A nurse came in and checked her temperature and blood oxygen levels.
‘Any improvement?’ said Robin.
The nurse shook her head.
‘Should we call Father William?’ said Francis.
‘If that’s what she’d like, yes, I think it would be a good idea,’ said Stapleton.
Robin got up and slipped out of the room, followed by the verger. Alone with his mother, Francis took both her hands in his an
d raised them up so he could kiss them. She barely stirred in her sleep as he placed them back on the sheet. As he stroked her hair, memories of his childhood crowded back, of being picked up from school by his mother in the smart little Volkswagen hatchback she had before she became too ill to drive, of the long days of summer spent down on Brighton seafront, him always begging for ice cream, her giving in to him with an indulgent smile, and of the darker times, after his father left. By then she was sick, and he could remember hearing her crying in her bedroom for what seemed like for ever.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it.
It vibrated again. What could be so important?
To avoid disturbing his mother, he went out into the corridor, pulling his phone from his pocket. It was Rory.
‘Is it important?’
‘Where are you?’
‘At the hospital, seeing my mother.’
‘How is she?’
‘Rory, what did you want?’
‘It can wait. Are you coming back here?’
Francis hung up on him and hurried back into his mother’s room.
He looked down at Lydia, sleeping. She wasn’t wheezing now. Then it hit him. She wasn’t breathing at all. And then Francis realised that his mother had died, simply slipped away on her own, with no one there to hold her hand. The room spun and for a moment he felt as if he couldn’t breathe. He could hear his mother’s voice calling his name but her lips weren’t moving. He wasn’t ready for this. He wanted to go back.
He should have had more time with her.
Robin and the verger returned.
‘Oh, Fran,’ Robin gasped, realising immediately what had happened.
Francis had lost all sense of time and place.
He was aware that Father William arrived, and Stapleton fussed around everyone with endless offers of cups of tea. Francis wished they’d all go away. The doctor who’d been in charge of his mother’s care came and spoke to them about issuing the death certificate and what would happen next – Lydia’s body would be collected and taken to the undertaker’s, pending funeral arrangements. Francis took in only a fraction of what he said. It seemed like an efficient machine had been set in motion as their mother had drawn her last breath, and all he wanted to do was to stop time and scroll through his memories.
Her Last Breath: The new crime thriller from the international bestseller (Sullivan and Mullins) Page 9
