‘Oakley.’
‘Anyone would crack under that kind of pressure,’ Sexton says flatly.
McConigle opens her mouth to pursue it, but Sexton has moved on. ‘Who’s that?’ he asks, pointing a finger over the steering wheel at a face in the crowd. ‘To the left of Rory, the man with red hair in a ponytail, leather jacket, trainers.’
McConigle spots the guy he means in a group of three men isolated from the rest of the crowd.
‘Dunno,’ she says. ‘But he’s talking to that scrote Frankie Brown from Fatima Mansions.’
The block of flats McConigle is referring to had produced some serious drug dealers over the years, but Brown was a talented artist who sold reproduction artwork, before he was caught and convicted of fraud and forgery.
‘Yeah, that’s Frankie all right,’ Sexton says, stunned. ‘What the hell … McConigle, look.’ He points. ‘That red-haired guy is the arsonist Johnny McCann. I knew I knew him.’
‘Bloody hell, it’s like a criminals’ convention!’ McConigle says.
Sexton keeps his trap shut. He twists around and reaches between the seats for the long-lens camera on the back seat, lifts it up, points through the window, closing one eye before he snaps. The shutter makes a clack-clack-clack sound. He snaps to the left and the right, on high alert, as he peers through the magnifier for any sign of Bert McFarland. He checks the image on the camera’s mini-screen, then returns it to the back seat. He doesn’t want any trouble here. ‘Got him,’ he says. ‘I’ll confirm that ID later.’
‘Who’s that?’ McConigle asks about a woman working the crowd.
‘Bronwyn Harris, the headmistress, and students from Benedict’s College,’ Sexton answers.
He watches Bronwyn Harris walk across the church car park and approach a well-dressed man who has just come out of the church. She puts her hand on his shoulder, shakes his hand. Other people in the crowd approach him.
‘Must be another of the dead girls’ dads.’ McConigle remarks, reading Sexton’s mind.
Sexton clicks his fingers. ‘I know him. He’s … he’s Amy Reddan’s dad. I saw him in the school the day of the lecture. He looks different, though. Thinner.’
Sexton takes his phone off the dash and dials Rory’s number. He puts it on speakerphone so McConigle can listen. They watch Rory glance at his phone, say something to Jo and step aside to answer.
‘Rory, do you see that guy the principal is talking to in the car park to your left?’ Sexton asks.
Rory looks around in confusion to locate Sexton and then gives him a brief wave. Then he tries to find out who Sexton means.
‘Rob?’ Rory says.
‘Yeah,’ Sexton reacts. ‘Rob Reddan, good. And see the dodgy blokes to your right?’ Sexton says, referring to Frankie Brown and Johnny McCann. ‘The red-haired one in the leather jacket and the men he’s with? Have you any idea how Anna might have known them?’
Rory shrugs. ‘I don’t have a clue. They’re in the choir. Lucy’s dad’s in it too. He’s in some weird church. The music is good, though. If you’re into hymns and stuff.’
‘How come your folks are here?’ Sexton asks.
‘That was Mum’s idea,’ Rory says, not hiding his disparagement. ‘She wanted to show her support. I wanted to come with my mate, the one who went out with Amy.’
Sexton’s eyebrows go up and he shoots McConigle a look. ‘Right. Which one is that?’
‘You mean Darren?’ Rory asks, putting his arm around a youth’s neck. ‘That would be this blond-haired faggot.’ He rubs his knuckles in Darren’s scalp, and Darren tries to jostle free. ‘I keep telling him to get it cut,’ he tells Sexton, struggling to keep the phone pressed to his ear. ‘He looks like a queer, doesn’t he?’
Darren puts his hair behind his ears and asks Rory who he’s talking to.
‘Tell him to come over to the car for a sec,’ Sexton says.
‘Are you nuts? My mother will kill me if she knows I’m talking to you.’
‘Don’t tell her then, just send Darren.’
Sexton hangs up and watches Rory point out the car to his friend, who puts his hands in his pockets as he lopes across the street.
Sexton gets out of the car to talk to him.
‘I’m sorry about Amy,’ Sexton says.
‘Yeah, I know,’ Darren says. ‘Adults think it’s a good idea to go up to you at a funeral, shake your hand and tell you they’re sorry for your trouble. What else would they be, unless they’re psycho? Why are you guys here, anyway? Don’t tell me you think Anna was murdered?’
McConigle pounces. ‘Murdered? Woah, why would you say that?’
Darren shifts his weight uncomfortably.
Sexton smiles. ‘It’s just part of the Talk About Feelings programme. I’m the juvenile liaison officer; this is the family liaison officer. We’re here to support the kids, and their parents.’
Darren nods.
‘Did Amy’s mum die when she was young?’ Sexton asks. ‘I read Amy’s funeral notice before. I didn’t see her mentioned.’
McConigle glances at Sexton in surprise.
‘No, she’s still alive,’ Darren says. ‘Amy was real close to her mum.’
‘Is she here?’
‘No, she doesn’t go anywhere the dad is. They don’t get on. That’s why she wouldn’t have been mentioned in the funeral notice. She didn’t even go to Amy’s funeral. She lives in England.’
‘Do you want to update me?’ McConigle cuts in.
‘Amy’s own mum didn’t go to her funeral?’ Sexton asks in disbelief.
Darren shakes his head. ‘She absolutely hates her exhusband, Rob.’
Sexton’s gaze moves to Rob Reddan.
‘Could you get me her number?’
‘Look, you should really talk to Rob about it,’ Darren says. ‘He’s over there. I can get him if you want.’
‘That’s OK,’ Sexton says. He still has Rob’s card in his pocket.
‘I don’t have Amy’s mum’s number. Amy didn’t like talking about it. It kind of broke her heart when her mum went.’
Sexton nods. ‘OK. What does Rob do for a living?’
‘He makes TV ads, or he used to. I don’t know if anybody advertises anything any more, though. I’ve got to go back, OK?’
Sexton climbs back into the car and watches him go.
‘What’s going on?’ McConigle asks.
‘What’s the only thing that would have kept you away from your own daughter’s funeral, if the two of you were real close?’
‘What are you thinking?’ she asks.
‘That she’s scared,’ Sexton says.
‘Or a cold cow,’ McConigle says.
They both stare at Rob Reddan.
‘Write him down,’ Sexton says.
‘What about Nigel Starling?’ McConigle asks, spotting Lucy’s dad emerge from the church. ‘And his weird church?’ Nigel is heading over to Frankie and the other criminals, and together they walk to a Volvo and climb in.
‘Leave him out of it,’ Sexton says. ‘He’s all right.’
49
McConigle wanted Sexton to tail Nigel, but that proved impossible with the funeral cortège. They head back to the station for a midday conference on developments. McConigle updates thirty-odd officers on the operation, which she has code-named ‘Dracula’. She pauses every couple of minutes to take another bite from a dripping tomato sandwich, angling her body away to avoid being hit by red blobs. Behind her, posed school photos of Amy Reddan, Melissa Brockle and Anna Eccles have been stuck to the whiteboard. There’s also one of Anna taken at her post-mortem. The contrast is so great, it could be a fourth victim. Sexton knows Lucy’s picture should be there too, but is relieved it’s not.
Sexton tunes out as McConigle talks, and studies the pictures. His gaze moves from Amy’s shy, tilted face to Melissa’s. Anna’s PM picture is the only one with the haunting symmetrical blood circles on her neck, but Sexton is willing to bet that if the other girls had had autopsies the
same marks would have been found.
‘Bugger!’ McConigle curses as a spat of seeds manages to land on her white shirt. Sexton tunes back in as she details the main lines of enquiry she wants actioned.
‘Right, if there’s a “How To” video out there, we need to find it. Sexton heard Anna’s siblings talking about it, so that’s where we’re going to start looking. Those kids need to be interviewed – sensitively, they’ve just lost their sister – but they can’t fob us off this time either. Did either of them see the video on Anna’s phone? If so, what did they see? If not, did Anna tell them about it? Did she discuss it with school-friends? Did anyone else get it?
‘Then there’s the wood where all three died. I want it fine-combed with a dragnet and using the sniffer dogs. Who knows what might crop up.
‘Also, we need to contact the parents of all of the other children affected, and the doctors who proclaimed them dead and the undertakers who buried them will have to be contacted and asked if they remember any strange markings on the neck. Despite what you might think, it’s not the norm to carry out PMs in suicide cases.’
Sexton shifts uncomfortably in his chair as McConigle brings up Lucy Starling.
‘I need someone to concentrate on her father, Nigel, to find out if he’s got any previous. Nobody hangs around the kind of crooks he does without good reason.’ She names the criminals whose company Nigel was in at Anna’s funeral and details their crimes.
‘I’ll do it,’ Sexton offers.
‘Got him!’ a voice pipes up. Sexton turns and sees a uniform sitting at a computer and displaying a little too much initiative for his liking.
McConigle grabs a napkin, wipes her blouse and heads over. The others crowd around the screen for a view.
‘Bloody hell!’ McConigle remarks, leaning on the desk. She reaches for the mouse and scrolls down the page.
‘What is it?’ Sexton asks.
‘He’s only just found a photo of Nigel Starling in a Welsh newspaper with a bunch of schoolkids in Bridgend,’ McConigle says. ‘You know, that place in Wales where all the kids topped themselves.’
‘I know the place,’ Sexton says, as if he’s hearing it for the first time.
McConigle reads from the screen. ‘The caption says: “Registered homeopath Nigel Starling, who specializes in depression, gives a talk to pupils at the local comprehensive.”’
‘A lot of people don’t like taking drugs for depression,’ Sexton says calmly.
McConigle is bobbing on the balls of her feet, clicking her fingers, trying to summon up a memory. ‘Something weird came up in Anna’s bloods,’ she explains excitedly. ‘The prof rang me during the conference yesterday. He said it was hypericum. Ever heard of it? It’s more commonly known as St John’s Wort. It’s used in the treatment of depression.’
‘It’s common as house salt,’ Sexton says.
‘I wonder if any of the suicide victims came to see Nigel Starling,’ McConigle says, as if she hasn’t heard.
‘Oh, now he’s Harold Shipman, is that it?’ Sexton asks, referring to the serial-killer GP who murdered hundreds of his own patients.
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ McConigle says. ‘Better bring his wife in too, see what Dr Death has to say for herself. Sexton, can you do it? If they come voluntarily, we won’t need arrest warrants and we won’t have to worry about the clock ticking.’
50
‘How’s Lucy?’ Sexton asks when Nancy opens the front door. To his surprise, Nancy steps forward, throws her arms around him and hugs him tightly.
‘What is it?’ Sexton moves back, holding her by the shoulders at arm’s length so he can see her face.
Nigel joins them in the hall and puts an arm around her. ‘I’m afraid Lucy’s condition has deteriorated a lot,’ he says.
‘What do you mean? Is she …?’ Sexton can’t bring himself to ask how sick Lucy is. His emotions have taken him by surprise.
‘She doesn’t communicate any more,’ Nancy explains with a sniff. ‘Come in, won’t you?’
Nancy takes Sexton’s arm in hers. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s just the sight of a kind face. You understand, you always have, and you have shown us great kindness. You think we don’t know, but we know. Tim McMenamy wrote to us. He’s dropping his case. He told us what you did. Thank you for that. But you have news for us, that’s why you’re here. What is it?’
‘We need you to come into the station for questioning,’ Sexton says. ‘It’s just routine, nothing to worry about.’
‘We’re just about to sit down to lunch,’ Nancy says. ‘Can it wait half an hour? We can’t both go, obviously, because of Lucy. But we could stagger it once we’ve eaten. Can we eat first?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’ll join us?’ Nancy says. ‘We can talk properly that way. Not like in a stuffy, sterile station.’
Sexton nods reluctantly. ‘All right.’
As they walk towards the kitchen, he stops and turns to glance towards Lucy’s room. ‘Want to say hello?’ Nigel asks him.
‘I’d like that.’
Nancy lets go of his arm and steps up to the bedroom door ahead of him, pushing it open a chink. She peers inside and turns back to Sexton.
‘She’s asleep,’ she whispers with a smile. ‘We’ll eat first.’
‘I’ll just have a quick peek,’ Sexton says. He enters the room and walks up to Lucy’s bedside, appalled by how different she looks to last time. She is so frail now. He checks over his shoulder and lightly moves the hair from her neck so he can see it properly. No stun-gun marks, he notes with relief.
In the kitchen, Nigel is pushing the handles down on a bottle of wine, uncorking it.
‘Not for me,’ Sexton says.
‘Don’t be silly, you’re our guest. And we owe you so much. We’ve had a rough few days with Lucy, and I need a drink. Please join me.’
‘All right, just one,’ Sexton says.
Nigel examines the bottle. ‘It’s a nice one too,’ he says, sounding desperate to change the subject as he holds it up by the neck to examine the label. ‘I picked it up in Venezuela in 1985, would you believe, and have been saving it for a special occasion. But, actually, a shit day is equally deserving. Isn’t it, darling?’
Nancy sighs. ‘Probably more so, if you ask me. And it’s not one shit day, it’s thirteen.’
‘What has happened to Lucy?’ Sexton asks.
‘She has total Locked-in syndrome now,’ Nancy says. ‘We have touched base with the leading experts in the world, based in Florida, consulting on her treatment plan. We’d volunteered for a new clinical course of a wonder drug that is on trial, you see, but they can’t tell without monitoring Lucy’s progress how she’s reacting to the drugs. She’s one of only three people in the world who is eligible for testing, because the patient must have suffered the syndrome within a window of just over two weeks in starting the trial, otherwise there can be no benefit. Without seeing Lucy and scanning her brain, they don’t know if there’s a problem and whether she needs to have her dosage adjusted. Today’s Thursday …’ She pauses to take a sip of her drink, and it’s clear she’s holding back tears. ‘By tomorrow, Lucy will have been locked in for two weeks.’
‘Can’t the tests be done from here?’ Sexton asks.
‘The equipment we’re talking about is so sophisticated it isn’t even available in the specialist brain hospitals. This research is being funded by private donations. It’s taken ten years to get it to this point.’
The atmosphere grows morose as Nigel walks Sexton over to the table. ‘Talk about something – anything – else. My head hurts with worry and dread.’
Sexton takes a breath and tries to get his mind off it. ‘What were you doing in Venezuela?’
Nancy pokes her husband’s elbow with her own. ‘Carve,’ she says, eyeing the roast.
‘Studying the medicinal practices of the Yanomami tribe,’ Nigel tells Sexton as he slices the meat. ‘They’ve got a huge botanical knowledge.�
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‘Cannibals!’ Nancy says.
Sexton is relieved the mood has lightened.
She grabs the set of whiskey glasses Nigel has poured the wine into, tut-tuts and carries them over to the sink, where she sloshes the wine into proper glasses.
‘Sampled some hallucinogens too while I was there,’ Nigel says, lowering his voice and nudging Sexton. ‘Don’t mention the war!’
Nancy hands out the wine glasses. ‘Here you go,’ she says, passing them around.
Nigel raises his glass and gives her a doleful look. ‘To Lucy.’
‘To our beautiful daughter pulling through, and to these nightmare teenage years finally coming to an end,’ Nancy says. ‘Only five years to go.’
Sexton clinks his glass against theirs. He sits at the table as Nancy lights candles and Nigel dishes the food on to the plates.
‘Can I do anything?’ Sexton offers.
‘You can eat and drink and tell us what you need to know so badly,’ Nancy says, sitting down too.
Nigel places Sexton’s plate in front of him. Ham, spuds, carrots and broccoli and a spoonful of mustard are arranged on it – like a still life.
‘Did you use a ruler then?’ Sexton jokes, waving his fork at their plates. Each plate is like a carbon copy of the next – the food, the portions, exactly the same on all three.
‘Mild autism,’ Nancy jokes, tucking in. ‘It has its advantages. Lucy’s medication is administered like clock-work as a result. Now go on, tell us what’s up?’
Sexton shoves a forkful of food into the side of his mouth. ‘I noticed some of the members of your choir are not exactly … how shall I put this? … men of good repute.’ He smiles. ‘How did you come into their company?’
‘God forgives sinners,’ Nigel says earnestly. ‘So does Conquest.’
‘Conquest?’ Sexton asks.
‘Our church,’ Nigel explains. ‘We wouldn’t have got through the bad times without it. It’s still small, but we’re spreading the word. We originally belonged to the Free Presbyterian Church, but we broke away because it was too unforgiving, especially when it came to Lucy’s rebellious year. Our pastor’s advice was to read her the Bible!’
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