"Sleeping Beauty's definitely woken up," Joe said to Grove. To Monkman he said, "My friend's an accomplished classical pianist. He accompanies me while I indulge in my favorite pastime of singing Schubert Lieder."
Monkman said, "Wanker."
"Piss off," Joe told him.
"Gentlemen," Grove said. "Please." He said to Joe, "You're an educated man."
"He's a smart-mouthed little shit," Monkman said.
"I pick things up," Joe said, ignoring Monkman.
"Aye," Monkman said. "Busted ribs." He grinned, delighted with himself.
"You went to university," Grove said, also ignoring Monkman.
"Doesn't mean anything."
"On the contrary. It means a great deal."
"It does?"
"Means you're bright."
"Your logic's debatable. But, suppose what you say is true. How does it help?"
"It means you can be reasoned with, Mr. Hope." Grove retrieved his glasses from the table, held them by the leg and swivelled them from side to side. "You can't possibly appreciate how valuable that is. Intelligence is not something we see very often within these walls." Slipping on his glasses, he turned to face DS Monkman. "You know what I'm talking about?"
"Yeah," Monkman said. "Criminals are thick."
"Quite a generalisation," Grove said. "But it's not far from the truth. In my experience."
Joe said, "You think I'm special, then? Well, gee boys, I'm flattered. I hope you don't mind, Sergeant Grove, if I point something out."
"Be my guest."
"The criminals you see are only the ones you catch. The intelligent ones elude what you call justice. Therefore, your statement is wildly inaccurate."
"You think so?"
"Criminals that get caught are thick. That's all you can say. And I'd also like to point out that criminals are not the only people within these walls. If intelligence is a rarity in your everyday life, you need look no further than the redneck sitting next to you to see why."
"Thank you," Grove said, placing his hand flat against Monkman's chest to keep him from diving across the table. "Interesting observations." He said to Monkman, "Detective, would you like to leave the room or do you think you can restrain yourself?"
Monkman glared at Joe. "I'm okay," he said between clenched teeth. He pointed at Joe. "Five minutes alone with you," he said.
"Sorry, love," Joe said. "But I don't fancy you."
Just at that moment the door opened. A young man in a navy blue suit entered the room. His face was so smooth it looked like he hadn't started to shave yet. Monkman lowered himself back into his chair and laughed. "That must be your lawyer," he said.
Joe's lawyer clutched a briefcase to his chest as if it was a baby the social services had threatened to take into care. "Which one of you is Joe Hope?"
"Christ Almighty," Joe said.
DS Grove held out his hand to the baby-faced lawyer. "Good to see you again, Mr. Brewer," he said. "That's DS Monkman from the Orkney Command. The gentleman opposite is your client."
The lawyer manipulated the briefcase so he could hold it to his chest with only one hand. With his free hand he grabbed Monkman's and shook it. "Ronald Brewer," he said. "From MacDonald Galbraith." Then he offered Joe his hand.
Joe turned his head away and muttered, "The best Cooper could come up with. How old are you?"
"Twenty five."
"You don't look it. You had much experience in this line of work?"
"Well, a couple of cases. At university we covered—"
"What's your plan?"
"Well, I'm not sure—"
"I thought so."
Grove said, "You've been briefed?"
He patted his case. "It's all here."
"You'll be wanting some time to talk things through with your client before we begin our interview, I expect."
"If that's okay," Ronald Brewer said.
"Certainly," Grove said. "Detective Monkman and I will excuse ourselves for, what, an hour?"
Joe said, "What about my coffee?"
"We'll have it sent in," Grove said. "And you have my word DS Monkman won't spit in it." He looked at Monkman. "Or anything worse."
FIFTEEN
Ronald Brewer said, "How are they treating you?"
"Amazing," Joe said.
"That's good to hear."
Joe spoke slowly. "Amazing that you're the best lawyer Cooper could come up with. I'd love to have seen the worst."
The best lawyer Cooper could come up with planted himself in the seat vacated by DS Grove, placed his briefcase on the table between them and said, "I will defend you to the best of my ability, Mr. Hope. If you think someone else can do a better job, you're at liberty to change your counsel at any point. Our law firm is highly respected, and, by the way, I graduated top of my year."
Joe was slightly taken aback by the young man's attitude. "Well, Mr. Brewer, I don't know that I want your counsel, as you put it."
"That's up to you." Neither man spoke for a short while. The young lawyer opened his briefcase. "Now, while you're thinking, can I ask you a question?" He didn't wait for a reply. "Do you know why you're here?"
"Are you for real?"
Ronald Brewer removed a stack of documents from his case and started shuffling through them. "You understand you've been arrested for the murder of your wife, em—"
"Ruth," Joe told him.
Brewer looked at him. "Her name temporarily slipped my mind."
"Don't forget again. It's impolite."
"Sorry," Brewer said.
"No need to apologize. Just don't be a twat."
"Sorry," Brewer said.
Joe glared across the table. "Answer this for me, Brewer."
"Sure, Mr. Hope."
"How did my wife die?"
"Are you saying you don't know?"
"Two earholes not enough? If my hands were free I could help drill you another one. How did my wife die?"
"I have to know something," Ronald Brewer said. "Are you guilty, Mr. Hope?"
"Is that what you think? You're doing a great job of selling yourself." Joe paused for a moment. "I shouldn't be here, Brewer. I'm not guilty."
"The evidence is pretty convincing."
"I wouldn't know."
"I would've thought they'd have told you."
"Well, they haven't." Joe took a deep breath. "They haven't told me shit. That's why I'm asking you."
Ronald Brewer tightened the knot in his tie. Joe tapped his fingers on the table. Eyes clouding over as if he was hearing news of his own young spouse's death, the lawyer said, "She was beaten repeatedly with a baseball bat."
"My bat?"
"You own a baseball bat?"
"Jesus." Joe ran his hand over his scalp, resisting the impulse to grab a handful of hair. After a moment, he lowered his hand and placed it between his knees. "Any fingerprints?"
"On the bat?" Brewer shook his head. "Wiped off. They showed me pictures." He switched his gaze to his notes.
"Keep them to yourself. I don't want to see them."
"Oh, I don't have them now. I wouldn't want them, anyway." Brewer looked up. "The bat's streaked with blood. Your wife's blood. Rubbed into the wood by whoever wiped the fingerprints off."
Joe cupped his hands over his nose and mouth. Breathed into his hands. His breath was warm and sticky and smelled of blood and coffee.
"Want me to stop?" his lawyer asked.
Joe lowered his hands. "How come nobody heard her?"
"Heard her what?"
"Screaming."
Brewer flicked over a couple of pages of his notes. "Nobody knows exactly where the attack took place. Probably some isolated spot."
"But she was beaten with my baseball bat." Joe paused. Then he said, "To death, right?"
"There's a massive injury to the back of her head. It's possible that she fell, and that the fall killed her. But she was hit, uh, extensively."
"Maybe she wasn't supposed to die."
"Maybe
. It hardly matters."
"Doesn't it?"
"You're my client. You tell me you're not guilty. That's all that matters."
"I tell you. Says it all, doesn't it? Why are you and everybody else so sure it was me? I mean, if there are no fingerprints."
"You really want to know why, Mr. Hope? First. Your neighbors heard you arguing. Shouts and yells. The sound of something being thrown and breaking. Second. You've just admitted to owning a baseball bat. Not a common sport in this country. Why would you own a baseball bat? I don't know why they're on sale, really. Everybody knows what they're used for. Anyway, your wife was beaten to death with a baseball bat. One that appears to belong to you. But, most damning of all, her body was found in the boot of your car."
Joe pursed his lips. "I left my car at the airport."
"According to the experts, it seems that the body was in the boot before you left for the airport."
"What?" Joe's jaw felt slack. His lips felt thick, pulpy. "I drove there with Ruth…" His mouth hung open. He'd driven his dead wife to the airport. He couldn't get his head round that. Ruth stuck in the boot of the car, while he hurried to catch a plane to avenge his daughter's death. Of course, he'd fucked up with that little mission, too. He was fucking useless. The lawyer was staring at him. Joe said, "How was she found?"
"A joyrider."
"Explain."
"A joyrider stole the car. Drove it for a bit. Parked it in the Muirhouse area. Got out to have a look in the boot. Found your wife and ran away."
"Leaving the boot open?"
"Leaving the boot open."
"That's unlucky."
"The fact that you had decided to fly to Orkney was even more unlucky. It looks highly suspicious. It confirms what the police were already thinking. You were on the rampage after your daughter's death. Blaming it on everybody who knew her. First your wife, then, uh, her cousin, Adam Wright—"
Joe broke in. "Somebody who had access to the car."
"What?"
"It must have been somebody who had keys."
"The joyrider didn't have keys," Brewer pointed out. "Didn't stop him."
"The joyrider doesn't exist," Joe said. "Nobody goes to the airport to nick a car. Anyway, I'm thinking aloud."
"Can I try?" Brewer said.
"That's what I'm paying you for."
"Technically, that's incorrect." Joe tilted his head to the side and Brewer continued, "Did your wife own a set of keys?"
"Yeah."
"It could have been anybody, then. Could have used hers."
"Ronald, were the keys in the car when it was found?"
"I don't know. I can find out. What are you thinking?"
"If somebody wanted to set me up, they could have followed me to the airport, waited till my flight had taken off, got into the car with Ruth's keys and left them in the ignition."
"An open invitation, as it were."
"Better still, better still. I've got it. Who discovered the body?"
"We don't know. The police received an anonymous phone call."
"What a surprise. Okay. How about this?" Joe bit his bottom lip for a second or two. Then he said, "Two people are in the car tailing me. One of them gets out at the airport. The other drives off. The first one gets in my car, using Ruth's keys, drives it to a rendezvous spot at Muirhouse, opens the boot and gets in his mate's car. Then they both drive off."
"Having very nicely set you up."
Joe nodded. "Muirhouse. Major dump. You automatically think, joyrider. I'm amazed the car wasn't burnt out by the time the police arrived."
"If the boot wasn't open, it may well have been."
"Shit," Joe said, imagining Ruth's charred remains. "Thank God the police got there so quickly." He paused for a minute, then said, "One other thing bothers me. How did the police know I was in Orkney?"
"Your flight number."
"And how did they know that?"
"It was scribbled on a piece of paper in your glove compartment."
"Ah," Joe said. "Convenient. Ronald, at no point did I write down my flight number. Can't they check the handwriting?"
"I'm sure they will, but it won't prove anything. Somebody else may have written down the details, but you were undeniably on the plane."
Neither man spoke for a while. Eventually the lawyer broke the silence. "Can you tell me something?"
"What do you want to know?"
"Did you have an argument with your wife?"
"Do you argue with your wife?"
"I'm not married. Did you often argue?"
"Yeah."
"Did you love your wife, Mr. Hope?"
"I hated the bitch." Joe twisted his wedding ring a fraction. He tugged it towards his knuckle. No way was it ever coming off. "But last time I checked, that wasn't against the law."
"You want to tell me why you hated her?"
"None of your business."
"I'm not asking out of idle curiosity. It might help your defense."
"Tough." Joe crossed his arms.
Ronald Brewer shoved his bundle of papers back in the briefcase. He coughed. He removed a notebook from the briefcase and unclipped a biro from his breast pocket. "I spoke to Mr. Cooper earlier this morning. He said to tell you that Tina had agreed to back up your story."
"What story?"
"What game are we playing here, Mr. Hope?" Brewer leaned forward and whispered, "Nobody's listening, you know." He leaned back. "This is between us. Is there something you want to tell me?"
"I asked you a question," Joe said. "What story?"
"That on the night of your wife's death, you were at your prostitute friend's flat all night. She's prepared to state that you didn't leave her bed until the morning. After your wife was murdered."
Joe's eyes widened. What the fuck was this? He was at Cooper's the night Ruth was killed. Okay, he was at Tina's earlier in the evening, but he left, went home for a while and had a cup thrown at him by a very much alive Ruth, then went on to Cooper's where he stayed the night. "Yeah?"
"It's an alibi, Mr. Hope."
"I can see that."
"Your alibi. Your beautiful, watertight alibi. The police are interviewing Tina as we speak." Ronald Brewer made a few marks on his notepad. "You know," he said, "I can't help wondering why an innocent man would need to fabricate an alibi."
Joe wasn't sure either. Cooper had obviously arranged it with Tina. Maybe Cooper had thought, being Joe's best friend, he wouldn't make such a convincing witness. Tina, on the other hand, had no such emotional attachment. Why would she lie? But would a jury see it like that? "What makes you so sure I wasn't there all night?"
"Like I said, your neighbors heard you arguing."
"Couldn't have been me. Maybe it was the TV."
Behind the lawyer, the door opened. The policeman who'd vanished what seemed like hours ago to fetch coffee reappeared with a single white plastic cup. Obviously, he'd delivered Monkman's first. Bastard.
Joe said, "What took you?"
The policeman didn't reply. He set the cup down next to Joe's right hand, acknowledged Ronald Brewer with the tiniest elevation of his eyebrows, turned and left the room.
Joe picked up the cup. Instant crap. From a machine. Freckles of undissolved granules floated on the surface. Despite Groves' assurances to the contrary, he wondered if Monkman had spat in it. "Don't suppose you have a spoon on you?" he asked the lawyer.
"Are you going to talk to me or am I wasting my time?"
Joe took a sip. Scalding. He smacked his burned lips together. They tasted of chicory. Like his grandmother's Mellow Birds. "I don't know what you mean." Joe had to make a decision. It wasn't hard. He asked himself who he trusted and immediately put himself in Cooper's hands. "I was at Tina's all night. That's all there is to it."
"What about the neighbors who heard you having a row?"
"They're mistaken." Maybe that's what Cooper was trying to cover up. "If it wasn't the TV they overheard, then maybe Ruth was arguing with her kill
er. How should I know? I wasn't there."
"Why did Mr. Cooper insist I pass on the message?"
"About Tina? I suppose he just wanted me to know she had agreed to cooperate. It was likely she may not have wanted to get involved." He took another sip. "You're young, Ronald. It may surprise you to learn that some prostitutes are shy of our friendly police force."
"Mr. Hope," Ronald Brewer said. "If anybody saw you that night and can place you at a location other than Tina's residence, a guilty verdict is likely to be a formality."
"And if not?" Joe asked.
SIXTEEN
Adam Wright stared out of his bedroom window. In the distance, sea tangled with sky in threads of grey. Rain fell like dust shaken from a sheet of dark cloud. To the west, an island (Shapinsay, maybe, the one with the castle — there were sixty-odd islands, none of which Adam had visited yet) poked through the stormy water like the head of a drowning giant. Inland, new houses — in various states of completion — lined the suburban end of Berstane Road. From there, a series of fields — a couple used for grazing, one recently ploughed — rolled towards Wrighters' Retreat, this monstrous but cheap edifice he'd bought after his parents' fatal accident five years ago. Below, at the edge of the nearest field, was an ever-expanding pile of rubbish the council wouldn't pick up for reasons almost entirely beyond Adam's comprehension. For once, he observed the disgusting mess without a flicker of anger.
He'd had the opportunity to tell Monkman everything. But he'd chosen not to. Far from certain he'd made the right decision, he pressed his forehead against the rain-spattered windowpane, wishing Gem was still here to ask. What did she expect from him? It was a big effing secret. The glass was cool against his brow. His breath was shallow, hardly misting the glass. He stepped back from the window and stumbled towards his unmade bed. He unlaced his shoes and kicked them off. Snatching Gemma's diary from the bedside table, he lay down. Why the hell had she left it with him? He didn't want it. The damn thing dug into his chest like a sharp stone.
The last days of her life were recorded in the book he held in his hand. He had found it stuffed in the top drawer of his desk, resting on top of a pile of unpaid bills. Curious, he had opened the book. Stuck inside the front cover was a handwritten note. It read: Please make sure Daddy gets this. Thank you for everything, Adam. I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say.
Kiss Her Goodbye Page 8
