Lie Beside Me

by Gytha Lodge

  Alex began to demonstrate a series of moves, all based on forward and side plank, and Hanson found herself taking mental notes. This was good stuff, which made her think again of what a stupid waste his death had been.

  The clip ran smoothly for five minutes, and then Alex got up to turn off the camera. There was nothing in there about his life. Nothing to suggest why he might have ended up dead.

  She tried the previous four videos, which were much shorter, and it turned out that these were all out-takes of the same short segment. In the first one, Alex fell over his words, made a burbling sound, laughed, and went to turn the video off. In the second one, he made it through the intro, and then tripped over trying to move into the plank. He collapsed into a fit of giggles that was infectious and, for Hanson, achingly sad.

  The fifth clip was less engaging. Alex was filming himself doing 2k on the Concept 2 rowing machine. He gave a brief introduction, saying he was filming it for posterity, and then he turned some pounding music on and started.

  Hanson skipped on twice, seeing nothing much of interest. And then, at five minutes in, Alex suddenly faltered, and came to a stop. He let go of the handle, breathing heavily, and then he let out a roar. He undid his foot straps with a furious rush, and staggered to his feet, swinging close to the camera.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, you fucking pussy!’

  Hanson actually flinched as he shouted. It didn’t seem possible that it was the same voice as those cheerful, encouraging comments on the other videos.

  His movements were no less aggressive. He started to kick the wheel of the Concept 2, lending a rhythm to his shouts of, ‘What – the – fuck – is – wrong – with – you?’

  The anger went on for a good minute, and then Alex collapsed onto the floor and began to cry, still half raging between the tears. Calling himself a useless twat. A pathetic fag.

  Hanson paused it, wondering for a moment where the rage had come from. Then she remembered what Phoebe had told them.

  He was a bit of a mummy’s boy. At least, that’s what Daddy used to think …

  She felt slightly sick as she moved on to look at the other videos.

  ‘Niall Reakes’s alibi seems to hold up,’ Lightman told Jonah, after tapping on the door to his office. ‘His firm has sent over a few social media photos of the conference and forwarded on his flight bookings. He was on the twelve-forty home today.’

  ‘OK, thanks,’ Jonah said, reflecting that this would make things simpler. If Niall had been abroad, Louise alone had been responsible for moving Alex Plaskitt’s body, and quite possibly for killing him, too. But that didn’t mean that speaking to her husband was any less important.

  Jonah braced himself for something of a confrontation, given Niall’s earlier blustering, but, in fact, the interview went smoothly. It was clear that Niall had burned off a lot of energy while he’d been waiting. By the time Jonah entered the relatives’ room, he was sitting meekly at the table, his expression mild and eager to please.

  Jonah explained to him, briefly, why they needed to hold Louise. About the terms of custody and their application to the magistrate.

  ‘You can make this a lot easier, however,’ Jonah went on. ‘If, for example, there’s any previous behaviour of this kind you can tell us about …’

  Niall gave a slightly helpless expression. ‘Behaviour like – like being involved with a dead man and then …’ He gave a short laugh, and then shook his head. ‘She’s never been in trouble with the law before. I don’t know if that’s what you want to hear.’

  ‘And she’s never brought anyone else home?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Niall said, a little hoarsely. Niall looked a lot like his friend Patrick, but, as he spoke, Jonah could hear differences. Where Patrick was clearly public-school-educated, Niall’s accent was neutral south-east England. He seemed more open, too. Less in control of his emotions. Easier, Jonah thought, to provoke.

  There was a brief silence, and Jonah raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  Niall looked uncomfortable, and added, ‘When I’m away, I guess … I wouldn’t know if she was …’

  ‘You’ve never had reason to suspect?’

  Niall hesitated, then shook his head.

  ‘But the drinking?’

  ‘I guess …’ He sighed, briefly and sharply. ‘Yeah, it’s a bit of a habit. I mean, not often. A couple of times a month. But it’s always a mess.’

  Jonah nodded. ‘Is that to imply that you’ve had to step in at times?’

  ‘I usually just have to pick up the pieces,’ Niall said. ‘Although these days she mostly waits until I’m abroad, so all I get to see is the terrible hangover. And she’s – she’s a nightmare, hungover.’ He shook his head. ‘Just deeply self-pitying and guilty.’

  ‘Has she had things to really regret?’

  Niall gave a tight laugh. ‘Nothing most people would worry about. She can beat herself up over having said something a bit impatiently, or having lost her keys. Just not … you know. Terrible.’

  ‘You didn’t get the sense she was hiding worse things? Thinking back to the last few times this has happened?’

  Niall paused for a moment and then shook his head. ‘It’s hard to say, but … I don’t think so.’

  ‘Has she often been unable to recall much of the night before?’ Jonah tried.

  Niall gave him a long, considering look before he said, ‘I honestly don’t know. She normally remembers some things, at least. I’m not sure she’d tell me if she had huge blackouts. She said she had once, but …’

  Jonah watched him, briefly, and then said, ‘Your wife would like to see you. It’s not standard practice to allow suspects to see family while in custody, but I’m prepared to make an exception, given that you’ve been away from her for several days.’

  He saw Niall stiffen slightly. And then, to Jonah’s surprise, he said, ‘I don’t want to see her.’

  Jason ambled over to Hanson’s desk while she was writing up her notes on the video footage.

  ‘I’m done. They’re screening the game at the Hammer and Tongs so I’m going to head over there. See if I can catch the end and then eat something unhealthy.’ He gave her a slightly ironic look. ‘Your perfect evening.’

  Hanson laughed. She had admitted to Jason early on that the Hammer and Tongs was her least favourite pub. It was devoted to sports Hanson had no interest in, had a generally sticky floor, and served only one type of cheap gin alongside the countless lagers. But Jason was a huge rugby fan, and part of a group of detectives and uniforms who used it as their local. They went there three or four days of the week and often watched obscure matches streamed off a PC. Hanson had dutifully gone along with Jason a few times, but avoided it when she could.

  ‘Thanks,’ she told him. ‘I’ll be here a while, and then I might find myself just too tired for such a fantastic event. You can come to mine afterwards if you like, though. I may have beer.’

  ‘I’ll see how I go,’ he said, throwing his car keys up and catching them. ‘Don’t work too hard.’

  Jonah ducked back into Interview Room 1, where Louise and her solicitor were still waiting. Louise was gazing at nothing, her whole pose defeated. Patrick Moorcroft rose from his chair the moment Jonah was inside the room.

  ‘I need to get back home to my family,’ the solicitor said. ‘I assume there’s nothing more for me this evening.’

  ‘No,’ Jonah agreed. ‘We’ll continue tomorrow.’

  The solicitor collected up his coat and briefcase, and spoke to his client quietly. ‘I’ll check in tomorrow morning. I’ll work out what time I need to be here.’ Louise nodded without looking at him. Patrick glanced at Jonah. ‘I assume you’re pushing for a magistrates’ court hearing.’

  ‘Yes. We should know by mid-morning.’

  ‘We’ll discuss that tomorrow,’ Patrick told Louise, looking at her with an expression that might have been slight concern. ‘You’ll be here for the night, but it should be relatively comfortable.’
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  Louise nodded again, and then looked up at Jonah. ‘Has Niall gone?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jonah said, quietly. ‘I’m afraid he wasn’t feeling equal to seeing you.’

  Louise’s mouth twisted, and she looked down at her hands. ‘Poor Niall.’

  ‘There’s a constable on the way to take you to a cell. She’ll get you sorted with some food, too.’ Faced with her desolate expression, he added, ‘They aren’t bad, the cells. They have TVs, and the beds are OK.’

  It was always an odd thing, holding a suspect in custody. They were at once the enemy and within your care. The fact that Louise Reakes may have killed a man and then tried to hide it made Jonah feel no less concerned for her welfare than if she had done nothing wrong. She would clearly be having a hard time for the next few days, whatever happened.

  He left the interview suite along with Patrick Moorcroft, allowing the solicitor to walk ahead of him. Neither of them spoke as they made their way across CID, but as Jonah held the door open for him, the solicitor turned briefly and said, ‘Niall may well regret his decision not to speak to her. If he does, would you be willing to grant him access?’

  Jonah studied his expression, wondering if his question was down to his friendship with Niall, or reflected concern that Louise’s husband might undermine her defence.

  ‘I’d certainly be willing to consider it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the solicitor said, and left.

  Jojo gave Jonah her version of the third degree while they drove to dinner at Roy’s house. He’d had to push the timings back by an hour and a half, and felt lucky to be making it at all. Fortunately Roy and Sophie were unshakeably relaxed about that kind of thing, and Roy had even said cheerfully that it might mean the house ended up tidy before they arrived.

  Jojo’s form of interrogation always started with, ‘Did you manage to arrest anyone today?’

  ‘No,’ Jonah replied. ‘Massive fail.’ He grinned at her. He’d stolen one of Jojo’s current favourite phrases, which she’d stolen from the younger climbers and a good portion of the people she followed on Twitter.

  ‘God. It’s a wonder they pay you at all, Copper Sheens.’ She shook her head, and started scrolling through radio stations out of a general disgust with his allegiance to Radio 2. ‘You said it was a murder?’

  ‘Yes. A stabbing.’

  ‘Young person or old?’

  ‘Young.’

  ‘That’s cruddy,’ Jojo said, more seriously.

  ‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘And it’s definitely more complex than a random on-street attack. The body was moved, by someone who may or may not have killed him.’ Which was as much as he could say to her about it, however greatly he trusted Jojo’s discretion.

  She gave him a sidelong look. ‘Sounds like just your cup of tea.’

  ‘You may be right,’ he agreed.

  They arrived a few minutes later in Lyndhurst, where Roy and Sophie had now bought themselves a fairly substantial marital home. The parking was alongside grass on an unlined, very rural-looking road. He took care not to let the tyre dip down off the tarmac. He’d made that mistake last time and then spent ten minutes getting it unstuck again.

  He cut the engine and turned to look at her. ‘I like that dress,’ he told her, reaching out to tug the material further off her shoulder. ‘Particularly the way you can see the strap of your bra. It’s got a kind of … rebellious-chic thing going on.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ she asked, moving in on him. ‘That’s interesting, because I’d say you’ve got a sort of slutty-authoritative vibe.’

  ‘I always have that vibe,’ he said. ‘It’s what they say about me after my press appearances.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She kissed him, and then sighed. ‘They’re all over you. It’s so hard dating eye candy.’

  He pulled her towards him for another, longer kiss, before releasing her. Four months in, he was still hugely proud of taking her out to see his friends. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t equally impatient to get her home at the end of the evening.

  Hanson checked the car park several times before heading to her car. There was, luckily, no further sign of Damian, or of any idling cars. Her Nissan was only ten feet from the door, and she climbed into it thankfully. It may have been freezing in there, but it was a safe space.

  She set the engine running before doing anything else. She found herself looking across the road towards the Hammer and Tongs, wondering whether she should go and find Jason. She knew he’d appreciate it, for all his facade of independence. And maybe afterwards they could go home and have a proper talk, and she could tell him about Damian at long last.

  But the idea seemed too much just then. With her mind half on the murder enquiry and having worked six long days this week, she was tired and fragile. She could also feel a headache coming on and knew that a loud pub would be the worst thing for it. It would be better to find time when things had calmed down a bit.

  Decided, she plugged her phone in, hit the play button on some of her running tracks, and pulled out onto Southern Road. By the time she’d got most of the way home, the music had worked out some of the tension in her head.

  She backed the Nissan into its customary position as close to the front door as she could manage and killed the engine. The silence left by the music seemed worse than usual. And then she realised that it wasn’t the quiet that had hit her; it was the darkness.

  She turned her head to look back at the house, where the security light usually came on when anyone came up the driveway. She could see its outline, faintly, but it was in darkness.

  She felt a rush of unease, and thought about driving away again.

  But this was her house. She needed to go home. To shower and change. To sleep.

  She hesitated, and then picked up her baton. There was no point being unprepared. Hefting it, she climbed out of the car slowly. She tried to look everywhere as she walked, letting nothing escape her notice. But it was hard to make anything out in the tiny front garden. She was suddenly aware that it was riddled with hiding places. Behind the conifer. Round the corner of the house. By the side gate …

  God, she hated this. Hated how rattled she felt at a simple light not working.

  But as she trod towards it, her feet encountered the unmistakable crunch of broken glass. She looked up at the light, her heart jumping. It had been resoundingly smashed, in what looked like a frenzied attack. The light itself was hanging off at a sad angle, trailing wires behind it.

  There was a sound up by the gate, and she spun wildly, her baton held out in front of her. But the shape crossing her view turned out to be a chihuahua. It paused at the far gatepost to lift its leg, and then her neighbour appeared after it, his eyes on the illuminated screen of his mobile.

  She lowered the baton in case he turned and saw her, though she needn’t have worried. He was too engrossed in the screen and must have been totally night-blind.

  Trying to force herself to breathe steadily, she reached into the car and picked up her bag and coat. Her hands were shaking as she let herself into the house, and they kept shaking as she shut the door and checked every room.

  There was no broken glass. No forced entry. Nothing to be afraid of. And a quick glance outside showed her that the big, fake but realistic security cameras higher up the wall were still intact.

  She moved back into the hall and finally put her bag down. But she kept the truncheon in her hand and used it to hit the carpeted stairs as hard as she could. The sound was loud and satisfying, but not as satisfying as when she yelled ‘Bastard!’ at the top of her voice.

  The Hammer and Tongs was, predictably, crowded. There weren’t many places that screened club matches, and this had been Southampton playing. They’d played well, too. As a result, a lot of groups had stayed after the match and there had been a long wait for food.

  Jason had caught some of the second half of the game and was feeling as cheerful as most of the other punters. Queuing for the bar when it was finally his round turned out
to be a slog, but one that had become strangely companionable. Everyone was either enthusing about Southampton’s performance or talking about the upcoming Six Nations.

  He eventually made it to the front of the queue, and found himself squeezed in a little uncomfortably next to a strapping bloke in a Hackett shirt. He made an involuntary noise, and the guy said, ‘Sorry,’ and shuffled away a bit. ‘I’m fatter than I think.’

  ‘You’re all right,’ Jason said, with a nod.

  A barman came over to him and he managed to get his order in before anyone else. Once he was done, the bloke next to him asked, ‘Are you guys coppers?’

  He turned to look at this man a little more carefully, trying to work out why he was being asked. The guy didn’t seem to be angry. Just cheerfully curious.

  ‘Yeah,’ Jason answered. ‘We are. But off duty.’

  ‘Oh yeah, obviously.’ The guy shrugged. ‘You have to have time off. I used to tell my ex that. She was always on the job. Though actually –’ he gave a laugh – ‘it turned out it was bullshit, and she was on a different job.’

  ‘Ah, I’m sorry,’ Jason said, his eyes on the first almost-poured pint. ‘That’s tough.’

  Jason had never known why he gave off such a strong aura of ‘tell me your problems’. He was tempted to blame the psychology degree, though it had happened to him as a teenager, too. Somehow people found him approachable whenever he didn’t actively give them fuck-off vibes. And sometimes even then.

  ‘I was pretty cut up at first,’ the guy said in a lower voice. ‘But actually it was the best thing for me. I was tired of the games. And, oh my God, Juliette loves to play games. She got me to move here, and then was stringing some poor bastard in her team along, too.’

  Jason found his pulse quickening. It was no different to the feeling when a witness said something incriminating.

  He glanced at the big bloke, who was holding on to the bar with one hand now, bouncing his other fist off the surface. He was clearly in his late twenties. Quite expensively dressed. Attractive. And his accent was decidedly Brummie. He was from Birmingham, like Hanson.