The knocking at my door woke me up.
It was 11am the following day. Still half asleep I fumbled my dressing gown on and staggered across and opened it.
“Jack Lockwood?” said one of the people on the step. Their expressions said it all: serious, grim and businesslike. “Detective Sergeant Hollamby and Detective Constable Jane Redfern.” The man and woman showed their identification.
I closed my eyes, cursing myself for running away from St Kilda’s. How could I have thought I could get away with it? My car had probably been seen in the area. Maybe someone had seen me running from the house.
“I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Mrs Shelly Hart. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you do say...”
Chapter 7
SUSPECT
Edith Grove police station near to Canterbury city centre was an old Victorian building, and the dark green walls, linoleum floor and yellowing ceilings had that rubbery disinfectant smell, redolent of the endless miserable corridors I remember from my schooldays. There was a harsh fluorescent striplight overhead and DS Rex Hollamby and DC Jane Redfern sat opposite me across the table. Hollamby was a stylish dresser, a dark three-piece suit hanging on his thin frame as if it had been specifically designed for him, a neat white handkerchief folded into a triangle that protruded from his top pocket. He had pleasant features, neat dark hair and luxuriant eyebrows. Jane Redfern’s face should have been ordinary, with her steel-framed glasses and fringe of brown hair and unremarkable features. Maybe it was her expression that made her intriguing, the intense concentration as she stared across at me while I talked, the way she frowned one moment, then almost smiled, the edges of her mouth tipping into an upward lilt. She had an ample figure, verging on weightiness, and wore a stylish black trouser suit with a pink blouse, that matched her trimmed, pink-painted nails, which occasionally tapped impatiently on the desk’s grey plastic surface. Those nails reminded me of the pain I could still feel in my back from Shelly’s attack.
I noticed the video camera in the corner of the room, had been told it was a formal interview, being recorded. They’d explained to me that O’Kane was Shelly’s maiden name, that she used professionally, but her married name was Hart.
“Cigarette?” Hollamby asked.
“I don’t smoke.”
He looked at my face, frowning. “Have you hurt your mouth, sir?”
I hadn’t looked in a mirror since last night. Apparently Shelly’s bite must have left a noticeable scar.
“Yes.”
“How did it happen?”
“It’s nothing,” I looked down, avoiding his eyes for a moment, then returned his gaze.
“When did you last see Mrs Hart?” he asked.
“About a week ago. Or was it? Yes. Last Friday night.”
“Sure about that?”
“Yes. Friday night. Late.”
Shelly had said she was going to take her own life, and I hadn’t believed her, had shied away from the problem, shut it out of my mind. Now, it seemed, she’d been murdered. Had she killed herself somehow and tried to make it look like murder?
And a husband. She’d never told me she was married. That explained a lot: the large house with its masculine décor and furniture, the ostentatious affluence that hardly matched up to Shelly’s artistic credentials, or the exhibition in the tacky down-at-heel venue and her desperation to make a sale.
I felt a wave of emotion, tears pricking at my eyes, but I managed to stay in control. I thought back to Shelly’s sadness, her loneliness, her desperation to be liked. How I’d left her without a word and cut her out of my life. How disturbed she’d sounded that last time I spoke to her, when all I cared about was my own problems. With a sinking heart I thought again about those slash marks on her wrist.
“Firstly, I’d like to explain that I’m from the Met police, and DC Redfern is based here in Canterbury.” Hollamby began. “We’ve read Mrs Hart’s texts, and we found your business card at her address, and a witness saw someone answering your description leave her house on Friday night. So far as we can see, it seems that you were one of the last people to see her alive.”
“But I didn’t kill her.”
Hollamby opened a file and looked at some papers. “Where were you last night, from 8 o’clock onwards?”
I racked my brains before I remembered with relief. “Near home, just outside Whitstable. Helping a friend do some work on a car.”
“In the evening?”
“We both work in the daytime. It’s a hobby.”
“And how long were you doing this work?”
“Three or four hours I suppose. I’m not certain.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
I told them, and gave them Keith’s name and details too, since the pair of them might as well supply my alibi. Jane Redfern had been making notes, and got up and went outside, presumably to have the information checked.
Forensic evidence and phone records meant that even if I’d wanted to, there was no point in telling lies. Shelly’s fingernails had raked my back, so there’d be traces of my skin under her fingernails: classic evidence of a victim who’s resisting her attacker. Plus there was goodness knows how much other traceable evidence in the flat, in addition to DNA evidence from my blood.
The silence, while we waited for Jane Redfern to return, was hard to bear. I wondered whether I should consult a lawyer, as they’d suggested earlier. But if I asked for a legal representative it would delay everything for hours, when with any luck my alibi would clear me. And asking for a lawyer would make it look as if I had something to hide.
“When was the last time you spoke to Mrs Hart?” Hollamby asked.
“On the phone. Let’s see, yesterday afternoon.”
“Really.” He lapsed into silence again.
Jane Redfern came back into the room and settled down opposite me. “So how well did you know Shelly Hart?” she asked.
“Not very well at all.”
“How long have you known her?”
“I first met her on Friday, around lunchtime...”
I proceeded to tell them everything, how we’d first met, the research I was doing into Maggi O’Kane’s death, the underground train disaster and the evening and part of the night we’d spent together, leaving nothing out, even telling them about the injuries she’d inflicted on me. They already knew from Shelly’s sent texts that we’d had some kind of relationship, but they didn’t know any details. Since I knew they’d find out anyway, there seemed no point in lying.
“So you discussed this book you’re writing about her mother, and the evidence you’ve apparently found to exonerate the woman of the murders she was assumed to have committed?”
“Yes. We had a few drinks and ate a meal. We talked.”
“And?” Hollamby asked.
“We got on well. We drank some wine. One thing led to another.”
“You had sex?” Hollamby’s direct gaze never left my eyes.
I shook my head. “No. Things didn’t reach that stage. Shelly scratched my back, bit my lip, she wanted to do things... Let’s just say she was into things I didn’t understand.”
Both police officers were staring at me patiently.
“Go on.” Hollamby prompted.
“She didn’t want ordinary sex. She was into pain – both giving and receiving it. When I found out, well, frankly I was terrified.” I looked down at the desk, aware that my cheeks were burning with shame. “And I think you need to know this: at one point she put my hands on her neck, she asked me to choke her. It really freaked me out. I left as soon as I could.”
“What did she say when you left her?” Jane asked.
“She was asleep.”
“Asleep? When you’d just had sex?”
“I told you, we didn’t. I couldn’t. We’d been drinking. We were both drunk. She fell unconscious.”
“Let’s get this straight,” Hollamby interjected. “You had a companionable evening, w
hich culminated in you reaching the point where you almost had sex with her. She suggested you indulge in some kind of sadomasochistic foreplay, then she fell asleep. And you sneaked off in the middle of the night without even telling her why.”
“That’s about it.”
“Yet, according to your statement, she scratched your back badly before you ‘almost’ had sex. Why didn’t you just get up and leave at that point?”
“I did. Or rather I wanted to. But my thinking wasn’t clear, you know? I’d been drinking, thought the nails across my back may have been a mistake on her part. But then she bit my lip. She was pulling me down, struggling with me, trying to put my hands around her throat, trying to persuade me to choke her. As I told you, she fell asleep just after that, but if she hadn’t I’d have left just the same.”
Both police officers stared at me impassively.
“Look, please, can you tell me how she died?” I asked. “Is it possible that she might have killed herself?”
There was a long pause before either of them answered. They exchanged a glance, before Hollamby looked me in the eyes.
“Did you kill her?”
“No.”
“We’ll find out in the end. You can stop this interview anytime and arrange to get some legal representation. Then you can just tell us the truth.”
“I don’t know when she died. I don’t know how she died. But it had nothing to do with me. Unless she killed herself. And then…” my voice broke with emotion.
No one said a word. They just stared at me.
I took a deep breath. “Listen. Shelly was on a high. She was excited that I’d discovered a possibility that her mother wasn’t a murderer – my discovery that she’d been murdered herself and framed for the other deaths. If Shelly was murdered, she might have contacted someone, telling them what I’d found out. They might have wanted to shut her up.”
“But you must also have talked to people about your theory,” DC Redfern pointed out, tapping her notes with the pen, removing her spectacles and dangling them from her fingers. “Has anyone threatened to kill you?”
“Not so far.”
“Are you sure about that?”
The woman officer had picked up on my momentary hesitation, the colour I felt darkening my cheeks once more. “Listen Dr Lockwood, if someone has physically threatened you, you need to tell us.”
“I haven’t been threatened.” I went on, wishing I could tell her the truth about Clifftop Paradise, but aware that if I did I’d face serious charges for not reporting my involvement in the deaths of the two men. “The thing is that Shelly probably knew plenty of people in the music business, and I don’t. She might have talked to someone who has a lot to lose if the truth comes out.”
“A lot to lose?” Hollamby queried. “Who would care so much about a 28-year-old miscarriage of justice?”
“The point is there must have been a reason why Maggi O’Kane was murdered. We don’t yet know what it is, but I have, or did have, evidence to suppose it may have had something to do with the death of John Lennon.”
“The death of John Lennon?” Hollamby smiled in disbelief. “Right. Yeah. That makes a lot of sense. Some new discovery about a crime that was witnessed by several people, and an assassin who’s still alive, who’s confessed to everything.”
I tried to ignore the headache behind my eyes. “I never saw Shelly O’Kane after last Friday night.”
Hollamby and DC Redfern exchanged a glance. “So you say,” Jane Redfern replied. “Someone’s checking on the information you just gave us.”
“I see.”
“But make no mistake, Dr Lockwood, whatever happens you’re in a tricky position.” Hollamby said, leaning forward, staring into my face. “Even if your story checks out, and her death turns out to be suicide, you probably bear some responsibility for her death.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?”
I thought for a while before speaking: “There is one thing you may not have considered.”
“Go on.” This time is was Jane talking. Despite the grim circumstances I couldn’t help noticing that there was something fascinating about her face, but at the time I couldn’t work out what it was. Maybe the set of her mouth, or the sincere expression in her eyes. In that moment I realised that she was someone I’d have really liked to get to know better, if we hadn’t met in such circumstances.
“As I told you just now, Shelly bit my lip badly, prior to which she tore her fingernails into my back, and I’ve told you about her wanting me to choke her during sex. When I first saw her naked I was shocked to see a number of cuts and bruises. But it was only when she wanted me to strangle her that I realised exactly what I was getting into.”
“Which is why you sneaked off in the middle of the night without telling her why.”
I sighed. “Okay I was a coward. But there are some things you can’t put into words, aren’t there? Some things that are so embarrassing, so awful…”
“What’s your point Dr Lockwood?” Jane Redfern’s pink fingernail tapped in irritation against some papers.
“This might be crazy speculation. But is there a possibility that she had sex with someone who shared her interest in sadomasochism, and the violence he got up to went too far?”
“It’s a possibility,” Jane referred to her notes again. “But Mrs Hart’s husband was in Spain. And her texts to you suggest that she was avid to see you again. Do you think it’s likely she’d want to have sex with someone else?”
“How would I know?”
“Ah yes, you told us.” A thinly veiled smile of sarcasm. “You hardly knew her.”
“Look I’m telling you the truth! I’m trying to do my best to help!”
“Pity you didn’t try to help Shelly.”
Hollamby raised a hand to silence Jane Redfern, wanting to take a line of his own. “There’s another scenario I’d like to put to you Dr Lockwood.” He sat back and looked down at the desk for a moment, avoiding my eyes. “You’ve admitted you nearly had sex with Shelly. You’ve admitted you found her attractive. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“During an intimate relationship it’s not unknown for a man to, how can I put it?” He looked pained as he groped for words. “Find that he’s not quite able to rise to the occasion. Supposing you tried, but failed to consummate this new relationship a week ago. You knew that Shelly still wanted to see you, to try again. So you went back to see Shelly afterwards, to try and rekindle your affair – or rather get it off the ground.”
“That didn’t happen. After I left her that night I never saw her again.”
“Because you were impotent that first time? That is the truth, isn’t it?” He stared at me. “You were impotent?”
“Yes, of course I was, I told you, when she bit my lip, that was it. I no longer wanted to have anything to do with her.”
“So you say. But what if you’re stretching the truth? We’ve not seen the injuries to your back, and a love bite need hardly be a passion killer, especially if she made a mistake, intending only a gentle nip? I’m suggesting that you didn’t answer her texts, not because you wanted nothing more to do with her, but because you were embarrassed, ashamed of your own inadequacy. So you went back a few days later, convinced things would be fine. But when you tried to make love to her, you found that you were impotent for a second time. You couldn’t be a man. You couldn’t satisfy her needs. Did she taunt you? Did she call you names?”
“No. That didn’t happen.”
“On the other hand, a certain type of man in that situation might be frustrated. Angry at himself for the failure of his body at the crucial moment, particularly if it had happened for a second time. He might get furious, directing his rage at the woman, because he blames her for not being alluring enough to light his fire. He might lash out at her, hit her even, perhaps even try to strangle her. And before he’s even realised what he’s doing, he’s killed her. He didn’t mean to kill her, things just got out of hand.”
/>
“That is not what happened.”
“But you admit she laid it on the line, and you were impotent?”
“For good reason.”
“So you say. But how do we know you’re not just making up all this sadomasochistic stuff up? What if it’s all much much simpler than that?”
There was a knock on the door and DC Redfern stood up, walked across and opened it, talking to someone outside.
She called Hollamby to come across to her at the door, and whispered something to him.
When they returned to the table, Hollamby couldn’t conceal the disappointment in his eyes. “Well, Dr Lockwood, it looks as if your story checks out,” he said at last.
“So I’m not a suspect?”
Hollamby’s expression had lost some of its hostility, as he shook his head. “As you know, one of your friends who gave you an alibi, Keith Turner, happens to be a serving police officer. It’s unlikely he’d risk damaging his career by telling lies. Let’s say at this stage we’re satisfied with your version of events.”
“Can you tell us again why you left her like that late on Friday?” Jane asked.
“I thought I made that clear. I was upset and deeply disappointed. I simply wanted to get away and forget the whole ghastly experience.”
“Go on.”
“I was in shock. I was disappointed and upset.” I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.
“Please, I want to explain,” I went on, my voice almost giving way to the emotion that I was feeling. “Look, you’ve just told me she was married – I didn’t know that. She said she was divorced, like me, and that’s what I believed. I liked her, I enjoyed her company. I’d spent a wonderful evening talking to her, she was attractive, exciting, and she made no secret of the fact she was attracted to me. I was falling for her. I’m not the sort of person who goes in for casual sex, or one-night stands. For me it wasn’t just a physical thrill. I was hoping that whatever happened between us that night might lead to something more permanent. But during the act I discovered, well you know what I discovered... In that moment I felt I didn’t know her at all – nor did I even want to. She was like an entirely different person. It was as if our whole time together had been an illusion.”
Rock'n'Roll Suicide (Jack Lockwood Mystery Series Book 1) Page 11
