‘Wait!’
He was out of the front door in a minute and racing down the road in the direction of town. He pulled out his phone and tried calling Liv but she didn’t answer. It was getting dark and he didn’t see anybody as he trotted down College Street and Montague Place. Quiet residential roads on a Monday evening. There was more traffic as Bristol Road led him into St James’s Street and there were groups of people drinking and smoking on the pavement outside the pubs. He slowed down to a walk and pulled off his hoody. He was hot now, and he knew that a black guy running in a hoody was never a good look in some people’s eyes.
Goddammit.
He passed a newsagents with a sandwich board leaning up outside. Two murders, it screamed, city of terror.
Tash and Sally Ann. He couldn’t believe they were both dead. Once again, the realisation caught him by surprise. For a moment he couldn’t find a breath, the hard, heavy knowledge suffocating him. He stopped, one hand reaching out for the stability of a wall while he struggled to stay upright.
Deep, slow breaths. Stop the world from spinning.
He recovered, then looked around. St James’s Street was still the same. No one took any notice of him. He felt invisible. And then he wondered. If the police thought he’d hit Tash, and if the police knew he knew Sally Ann – which wouldn’t be hard to find out given she’d been at college with him and Tash, and had texted him that evening – then why hadn’t they pulled him back in for more questioning? It didn’t make sense.
He looked around again. Now a couple on the other side of the road were staring at him, so he started walking.
And when he saw a police car turning the corner into St James’s Street, he instinctively ducked into an alleyway. He pressed himself against the wall, panting. Sweat soaked through his T-shirt, but he didn’t dare move until long after the cops had driven safely by.
Was he a fugitive now, on the run? Did everyone think he’d done it? Even his mother?
Fuck you, Frank Sullivan.
He tried Liv’s phone again, but still there was no answer.
28
Monday, 21 August 2017
Francis
Francis felt a wave of anxiety-induced nausea as he went down the stairs. He couldn’t stand the thought of putting his mother away in a wooden box. The realisation that he wouldn’t be able to see her again sliced through him anew every day when he woke up – but the idea that her funeral was supposed to give him some sort of closure on this absolutely terrified him.
He walked uncharacteristically slowly from John Street across to Saint Catherine’s, smoking a cigarette as he walked. He was going there to meet Robin and Father William to discuss the arrangements. Heat oozed up from the paving stones – heavy clouds had blanketed Brighton all day, until even the sea breeze had seemed choked. As darkness fell it felt hotter than ever. The city was tired and fractious.
Francis looked at his watch as he walked up the brick path to the church. He was late, but at least he’d made it – he was determined to be as supportive to Robin as he could be. He heard the murmur of voices as he approached the vestry through the church, and he wished he could be anywhere other than this.
‘Hello Fran,’ said Robin, as he pushed open the door. ‘I was worried you weren’t going to show.’
He bent to kiss her on either cheek. He could have taken her remark as a dig, but he didn’t want to bicker with her, today of all days.
‘You smell of smoke,’ she said, wrinkling her nose as he stepped back.
‘Hello, Francis.’ It was Jered Stapleton.
Francis was surprised to see him here. He’d been expecting to meet with Father William.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ He shrugged. Robin didn’t need an explanation – she knew it would be work.
Francis pulled a wooden chair out from the opposite side of the table to where Robin and Jered Stapleton were sitting. He sat down.
‘I’ve asked Jered to help us work out what we want,’ said Robin. ‘I talked it through with him yesterday . . .’ There was an awkward pause, as if Robin was aware that she shouldn’t have started planning without him.
Francis glanced from one to the other of them. They both looked sheepish.
‘What have you come up with?’ he said, keeping his tone even.
Robin pulled a notepad from her bag, on the first page of which Francis could see a long list.
‘We were thinking of a wicker coffin,’ said Robin.
We?
Jered Stapleton pushed an undertaker’s brochure across the table towards him.
‘Your sister likes this one,’ he said, planting the end of a thick finger in the centre of an image of a coffin, effectively obscuring it from view.
Francis took the leaflet from under Jered’s finger to take a look. He noticed the verger’s nail had a rim of dark grime under it.
‘It’s nice,’ he said, studying the picture of the wicker coffin, illustrated with an effusion of wild flowers trailing along the top and over the sides. It was pretty, but he wasn’t sure it was what his mother would have chosen – Lydia would have been more the black coffin, white lilies type. He wasn’t going to argue about it, though.
They went on to discuss the flowers, then the order of service. Throughout the meeting, it seemed to Francis that these weren’t Robin’s suggestions at all. The verger stepped in whenever he asked Robin a question and she seemed to defer to his opinion, particularly over the choice of hymns and music. It seemed out of character for Robin, making Francis wonder about the exact nature of their relationship. How long had they been this close? Watching someone wield influence over his sister in this way made him feel distinctly uneasy.
It took about an hour to run through everything.
‘I can host the wake,’ said Francis. ‘It makes sense, being so close by.’
‘But you can’t cater for that number of people.’
‘I’ll use caterers.’
‘I know a good catering company . . .’ said Jered.
‘It’s fine. I’ll sort it.’ He hadn’t meant to sound ungracious, but Robin gave him a look that told him that he had.
They wound up the meeting.
‘Dinner?’ said Francis to Robin as he helped her with her coat. ‘I thought we might go to Polpo.’
Robin and Jered Stapleton exchanged glances.
‘That would be lovely, Fran.’ Robin turned to the verger. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at choir practice, Jered.’
‘Great,’ said the verger. ‘I want us to try out some new hymns.’
Once they were seated at the restaurant, Francis couldn’t resist asking.
‘Since when have you been a member of the choir? I haven’t seen you singing at any services?’
‘When were you last in church?’ said Robin with a wry smile.
‘Touché. I haven’t been to the morning service for a few weeks.’
‘Work?’
‘’Fraid so.’ He studied the menu.
‘Are you on that big case?’
Francis looked up. ‘Which do you mean?’
‘That was in the Argus this morning?’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice, presumably so the young couple at the next table wouldn’t hear her. ‘The girls who were attacked and tattooed – at the bandstand and the aquarium.’
‘What?’ Francis exploded. ‘Did you actually read those details in the Argus?’ They hadn’t issued any information to the press.
‘Yes, look.’ She pulled a folded copy of the Argus out of her bag. ‘Full page, picture of the first girl who died, not so much about the other girl . . .’
Francis scanned the piece. Tom Fitz seemed to know altogether too much about both crimes. Where had he got the information?
He jabbed at his phone.
‘Rory? Did you see today’s Argus?’
The silence at the other end of the line told him that his sergeant had.
‘Why the hell didn’t you say anything to me? You didn’t speak to Fitz about the case, did you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘So we’ve still got a leak in the department?’
‘Maybe he got it from the families?’ said Rory.
It seemed unlikely.
‘Go through the article with a fine-tooth comb, then work out who could have known the facts that he covered. We need to close this down.’
‘Right, boss.’
‘I’ll be with you in five.’
Robin’s face fell and she bent over a corner of the menu in frustration.
‘Seriously, Fran?’
He’d almost forgotten she was sitting there.
‘Give me a moment, Rory.’
He dithered. His sister stared across the table reproachfully, not saying a word.
‘Robin . . .’
She waited.
‘Robin, I have to . . . I can’t let this leaking go on indiscriminately.’
‘What can you do, if you don’t know who it is?’
‘I need to find out, the sooner the better.’
Robin deflated visibly and Francis couldn’t meet her eye.
‘I could have been out with Jered this evening, but an offer from you is so rare.’
‘So how long has this been going on?’
‘What?’ Robin’s feigned innocence didn’t fool him.
‘This thing with Jered Stapleton?’
Robin frowned. ‘It’s not a thing. Jered’s been helping me with . . . helping me come to terms with things. He’s lost close family members, too.’
Francis pulled out his wallet. ‘I’m sorry, Robin, but I’ve got to go,’ he said. He put a couple of twenties on the table.
‘Forget it,’ said Robin. ‘I don’t need handouts.’ She held out the money to him.
He didn’t take it at first, just stood staring at it, his face suffusing with colour. Robin’s arm showed a slight tremor, but she didn’t withdraw it.
Aware that they were being watched by the other diners, he snatched it from her grasp and put it in his pocket. Then he left the restaurant without another word.
29
Tuesday, 22 August 2017
Marni
Marni was late for court, but she didn’t give a damn. There were roadworks in two places, with temporary traffic lights and queues. The fact that she wouldn’t have been on time even without the congestion was neither here nor there. They should be grateful she was turning up at all – it was going to cost her several days’ work she could ill afford to lose. And at this point, she was more concerned with being available for Alex than she was over what became of Sam Kirby.
Truth be told, she was dreading the whole thing. Memories of another courtroom, in France, a long time ago, swirled into focus every time she thought about her summons to give evidence. She hesitated on the steps of the court building for a few moments before going in. She wanted to turn around and leave.
Damn. She couldn’t let the past dictate her behaviour.
She made herself stand taller and, with a deep breath, stepped forward.
The foyer of the courthouse was busy with people coming and going in preparation for the day’s business, but as soon as she’d passed through security, Francis Sullivan appeared at her side. Frowning.
‘You’re late.’
‘At least I’m here.’
He winced.
Upstairs, he showed her into the witness room, where she would wait until she was called into court.
‘It’ll only be a couple of minutes,’ he said. ‘You should have been on the stand twenty minutes ago. I’ll just go and let the clerk know you’ve arrived.’
She put a hand on his arm to stop him.
‘Frank, I’m not sure I can do this.’
His eyebrows shot up.
‘Marni, we need you,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. We’ve been over all the questions and you’ll be standing at right angles to Sam Kirby, so you don’t even need to look at her.’
Marni took her hand back and rubbed the scar that had distorted the tattoo on her left forearm. A gift from Sam Kirby.
‘It’s not her I’m worried about,’ said Marni. ‘It’s being back in court. It brings back memories.’
Francis looked momentarily nonplussed.
‘Marni, you’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘You’re our most important witness.’
Was there a note of desperation in his voice?
‘But she’s admitted killing them already . . .’ She tailed off. She really didn’t want to go in there. She knew how lawyers could twist your words, how they could trick you into saying things you didn’t want to say.
Francis took hold of both her hands. It was the first physical contact she’d had with him since their short-lived affair had broken up. She took a step back and pulled her hands away.
‘Marni, please do it. If not for me, then for her victims. She knew what she was doing and she deserves to go to prison.’
‘People said that about me.’
‘But that was different. You attacked Paul in self-defence.’
She shook her head. It hadn’t been self-defence. It had been several days after he’d raped her. She’d told Francis the whole story before.
She sighed. ‘I’m here. I’ll do it.’
‘Thank you, Marni. I owe you a lot for this.’
‘Then maybe you could lay off Alex.’ The words came out of her mouth before her brain had engaged.
Francis’s eyes widened for a split second.
‘I tell the clerk you’re here,’ he said, disappearing from the room.
Walking into the courtroom and taking her place in the witness box brought back a flood of memories and a rush of anxiety. Despite the heat, Marni experienced a cold chill on her arms and a fluttering in her stomach. She could feel a hundred pairs of eyes upon her as she made the affirmation, looking down, only making eye contact with the clerk for the briefest moment.
Why had she agreed to do it? Her civic duty – and, yes, for the families of Sam Kirby’s victims. Not for Frank Sullivan and his bloody career. She looked across the court to where he was sitting behind the defence barrister’s table. He gave her an encouraging nod, then he looked to where Sam Kirby was sitting in the dock.
Marni’s eyes followed his gaze. She’d avoided looking at Kirby so far, but as Don Martin shuffled through his papers in preparation to cross-examine her, her eyes came to rest on the killer.
Seeing Sam Kirby made her catch her breath. She had forgotten that the woman was so large – easily a foot taller than Marni and certainly far stronger. But that night in her tattoo studio, when Sam Kirby attacked her, suddenly seemed more recent than it was. She rubbed the scar on her arm where Kirby had slashed her with one of her specialist Japanese flaying blades. It was still painful when she applied pressure to it. Now she was glad she’d come, glad that she was going to play her part in putting the bitch where she belonged.
Don Martin stepped up to the witness box.
‘Hello Mrs Mullins. I’m going to ask you a few questions about your involvement in this case. First off, can you tell the jury what you do for a living . . .’
Marni was on the stand for hours, labouring her way through how she’d first found the body in what became a spree of murders and attempted murders, then detailing Sam Kirby’s attack on her in her studio, when her arm had been injured. She didn’t enjoy it. She felt uncomfortable and put upon, as Martin fired question after question at her. The court was hot and airless – her mouth felt dry and her clothes stuck to the sweat on her body. There were moments, as she answered the questions about the Tattoo Thief’s tanning workshop, when the room began to swim around her. She’d
fainted that day when she saw her own picture pinned up as a potential target on Sam Kirby’s wall, and now she felt the same thing was going to happen again.
‘Some water, Mrs Mullins?’ The clerk of the court was holding out a glass towards her.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
She took the cool glass and pressed it against her cheeks and forehead, before drinking from it.
‘Can we continue?’ said the prosecution barrister.
And so it went on, hour after hour. Every now and again, she would glance across at Francis. He was always watching her, always gave her a smile or a nod of encouragement. It helped.
When the defence barrister took over, Marni felt a change in the atmosphere of the courtroom. A sudden burgeoning of expectation – all the eyes in the public gallery were focused on her, ears straining to pick up every word.
Marni felt shaky, anticipation bound up with anxiety pulsing through her.
The questions started and the man wasn’t pulling his punches.
‘What were you doing in DI Sullivan’s car when he went to investigate Stone Acre Farm?’
‘Did you not attempt to strangle my client when she broke into your studio?’
‘Would it not be the case that it would be you standing in the dock now rather than my client, if it hadn’t been for the timely arrival of the police, who were able to drag you off her?’
‘Is it true, Mrs Mullins, that you already have one conviction for attempted murder?’
‘Objection, m’Lord.’
The prosecution barrister kept interrupting, and the jury would be told to ignore this question or that question. Marni felt hotter and hotter. How dare they bring up the case against Paul. That was ancient history, back when she’d lived in France when she was eighteen. How could it possibly have anything to do with Sam Kirby’s case? And what was the point of the judge telling them to ignore it? Of course, it would be the first thing they’d remember when they got into the jury room to deliberate. It felt like she was on trial rather than Sam Kirby. She wished she hadn’t agreed to do it.
And all the time, Marni was aware of Sam Kirby fidgeting in her seat, pulling faces and coughing loudly, so she was forced to repeat her answers. Although the judge threatened Kirby with contempt of court on a number of occasions, she kept finding new ways to needle Marni. Francis looked furious, sitting behind the prosecution table, glaring by turns at Kirby and the defence barrister. From time to time, Sam Kirby would stare straight back at Francis and give him a beaming grin.
Her Last Breath: The new crime thriller from the international bestseller (Sullivan and Mullins) Page 15
