by GJ Minett
Hall said nothing and Holloway accepted the implied rebuke with a nod. Patronising at best. Served him right.
‘We weren’t sure you’d be here,’ he continued. ‘Half expected you to be out on a job somewhere.’
Hall picked up a rag and started rubbing furiously at one of the blades.
‘Things are a bit quiet at the m-moment,’ he mumbled.
‘Really? I’d have thought autumn would be a busy time for you gardeners. All those leaves to rake up, trees to cut back . . . that sort of thing?’
‘Yes. Well, w-word gets around.’
‘Word?’
‘I’ve l-lost a few customers. Thanks to you.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Then stop c-c-coming round to my home. It doesn’t help.’
Holloway nodded by way of apology.
‘OK. I’ll get to the point, then we can get out of your hair as quickly as possible.’
‘I’ve got an appointment with a ph-physio in a f-few minutes.’
‘OK, I’ll make it quick. We just need to ask you a couple of questions. First of all, can you tell us where you were last night?’
‘Home.’
The answer was so instant it almost overlapped the question and it was obvious to both of them that he’d known what was coming.
‘All night?’
‘Y-yes.’
‘But you must have gone out sometime during the day, surely?’
‘I w-went to the c-cinema in the afternoon.’
‘And what time did you get back?’
‘Dunno.’ He’d dropped the rag now and was standing almost to attention, the fingers of both hands pointing downwards. Every so often he looked up, as if daring himself to face them but within seconds he would be staring at the ground again. Holloway felt for him, wondered what it must be like to be constantly on the defensive.
‘Roughly,’ he said. ‘What time did the film end?’
‘About five.’
‘And you came straight home?’
He nodded.
‘So that would make it about half five you got back here, right? And you’re saying you didn’t go out again all evening?’
He nodded again. Holloway and Horgan exchanged a meaningful glance, taking care to make sure he noticed.
‘Well, that’s a bit confusing,’ said Holloway. ‘You see, we’ve got CCTV footage of your truck at a petrol station near Littlehampton a good two hours after that.’
‘N-n-not my t-truck.’ The words were barked out – came out like soot from a blocked exhaust. Again it was difficult to escape the impression that neither question nor response had come as a surprise.
‘You can see the number plate very clearly, Owen. And then there’s footage of you inside the shop. Not only can we see your face close up, we can even make out what you’re buying – the mints are still on the passenger seat of your truck, by the way. So we know you were there. What we don’t know is why you couldn’t just say so when we asked.’
Hall suddenly folded his arms across his chest and started the curious rocking thing they’d seen the last time he was interviewed. He was mumbling to himself – it sounded like a series of numbers. Holloway flashed a quick glance in Horgan’s direction and could tell his colleague wasn’t in any way impressed.
‘Are you OK, Owen?’ he asked.
‘I d-d-don’t have to answer your questions,’ he said after a few moments.
Holloway pursed his lips.
‘Well, technically that’s true of course. But you need to understand something here. You always have the right to say nothing but if we decide there are questions we need to ask, you do at least have to listen to them, and the only reason we’re here is because we thought you’d prefer it that way rather than having to come down to the station. If we’re wrong about that, you only have to say.’
‘You can’t ask me questions without Mr Mitchell.’
‘If this ever gets to the stage where we need to make it a formal interview, then no one does anything until your friend Mr Mitchell is there to support you. But we were hoping this might be just a friendly two-minute chat between the three of us. Save bothering him.’
‘I’m not saying anything without Mr Mitchell.’
Holloway could sense Horgan bristling next to him. His body language left no doubt as to what he felt the next move ought to be but he wasn’t ready to up the ante and take Hall in for questioning just yet.
‘Look, put yourself in our position for a moment, OK?’ he sighed. ‘We’ve got CCTV that puts you there and also witnesses who say you were upset about some girl who’d gone missing. Now, you don’t expect us to ignore that, do you? We can’t just sit back and do nothing or we wouldn’t be doing our jobs, would we? Help us out here. Either it’s true, in which case we need you to be a bit more co-operative so we can find out what’s happened, or it’s not and you made it all up for some reason. If it’s the latter, Owen . . . you need to tell us now.’
This seemed to bring Hall to life again. Suddenly he seemed very animated.
‘No one’s b-been abducted,’ he said, a touch of anger creeping into his voice. He’d picked up a large adjustable spanner, which immediately put Horgan on the alert. ‘You know no one’s been abducted!’
‘Are you saying you made it up?’
‘No!’
‘Then I don’t understand. Have you spoken with this girl Julie since last night?’
‘It’s a trick. All of it.’
‘A trick?’ Holloway frowned. ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’
‘You think I’m stupid and you’re all so c-c-clever. But I’ve checked.’
‘Checked what?’
He shook his head.
‘Are you saying this girl . . . Julie . . . is OK?’ Holloway persisted. ‘You know where she is?’
‘I’m not answering any questions without M-M-Mr Mitchell.’
It was clear from his posture that he wasn’t about to back down from this position, which meant Holloway had a decision to make. He knew what Horgan would do. An hour or so alone in an interview room, left to think things over for a while, was often all it took to persuade an inexperienced suspect to be a little more co-operative.
But Holloway wasn’t about to take any chances. He apologised to Hall for disturbing him, thanked him for his time and told him he was free to go to his physio appointment. They would go back to the station and would expect to see him at 3.30 that afternoon. Did he want them to contact Mr Mitchell in the meantime to see if he was available or would he prefer to do it himself?
Hall seemed surprised, opting for the latter as if approaching a package he regarded as suspect. Holloway reminded him again: 3.30. Non-negotiable. Then they left him and made their way back to the car.
‘So what do you think?’ Holloway asked, as Horgan started the car and pulled away.
‘You know what I think, boss.’
‘You think he’s playing us?’
‘You saying you don’t?’
‘So this business with the girl . . .’
‘What girl? All due respect, sir, but I didn’t see one on the security tapes. Did you? The people at the petrol station didn’t see one. What we did see was him arriving on his own and leaving the same way.’
Holloway scratched an itch behind his ear and gave this some thought.
‘She could have got out of the car somewhere else. Round the back, maybe? There are no cameras there, remember.’
‘But why? Why stop the car and let her out, then drive another thirty metres to park it? Wouldn’t she just get out when he did?’
‘Maybe she thought the toilets were round the back.’
‘But they’re not, so she clearly didn’t know, in which case why assume they were? Wouldn’t she try inside first? That’s where public toilets are most of the time nowadays.’
‘OK,’ said Holloway, keen to explore Horgan’s theory further and put it to the test. ‘Let’s say you’re right
. There never was a girl. This Julie is someone he’s invented. Why? Why would he do that? I mean, if she doesn’t exist, that means he’s driven from Bognor to Littlehampton, which is what . . . twenty-five minutes? Maybe half an hour in that clapped-out truck of his. Then he’s gone inside and kicked up a fuss about his girlfriend having gone missing and when the police are called in he drives off like a scalded cat before they get there, even though he must know his truck will be identified and that we’ll be calling on him before long to ask what he’s playing at. That make any sense to you?’
‘OK,’ said Horgan. ‘Look at it the other way. There was a girl and they were on their way somewhere and she’s genuinely disappeared. Vanished into thin air. What does he think? She’s been abducted? If so, why not hang around and tell the police what’s happened? But what does he do? He drives home and forgets all about it. He doesn’t phone it in, explain what’s happened. How does that work?’
Holloway smiled.
‘Doesn’t make a lot of sense either way, does it?’
‘Smoke and mirrors, boss. He’s up to something.’
‘Up to what exactly?’
‘Don’t know yet but I think he’s messing with you. I know he’s an oddball but that doesn’t make him stupid. Difference between you and me. I think he’s devious. You know the first thing everyone who knows him has said to us? How clever he is. Really clever. They’ve all gone out of their way to say so.’
‘You don’t think he is?’
‘On the contrary – I’m sure he is. So someone that clever . . . we turn up and ask where he was last night and he says he was at home, like it hasn’t even occurred to him there’s such a thing as CCTV cameras and we’re going to trip him up at the first hurdle. Really?’
Holloway smiled. ‘So what do you think?’
‘It’s a double bluff. We know he was there; he knows he was there. Only a simpleton would try to make out he was at home. So that’s exactly what he does, then falls apart at the seams when he’s found out. It all helps to reinforce this idea of him as some sort of helpless victim who needs to be protected from himself, like all this barking at things that aren’t there and the number chanting and the Weeble impression and all the rest of it. Do I think he’s clever? Yes – I think he’s clever enough to play on these things to throw us off balance, stop us pushing as hard as maybe we ought to.’
He paused for a moment. ‘You mind if I speak honestly, boss?’
Holloway waved the question away. ‘Go ahead.’
‘He’s disturbed, yes. He’s vulnerable, yes. I’m sure he’s had a hell of a time of it in the past. But he’s not Derek Rafferty, boss.’ He turned to face Holloway briefly before concentrating on the road ahead once more. ‘He really isn’t.’
They drove for a while in silence.
5
EARLIER: MONDAY, 25TH AUGUST
ABI
The plans were fantastic. Way beyond what she’d expected. He’d done four separate drafts, one for each budget range she’d suggested. So much attention to detail – not to mention imagination and creativity – had gone into each design. He must have spent the whole of Sunday working on it. She was amazed and told him so. And as she might easily have predicted, his face turned a brighter shade of crimson in a way that instantly brought back some of their conversations as children. It was touching somehow that there was still a connection of sorts, even after all this time – just a little incongruous though to see such embarrassment and self-consciousness in a man of his size.
She’d called round as soon as she’d finished work at the bookshop. This wasn’t her first visit. She’d been here once before, to a birthday party when she and Owen were both at the same primary school. But that had been twenty years ago and she’d needed her sat nav this time.
The bungalow had aroused vague stirrings in her, shards of memory pricking at her consciousness as she walked through the front door and stepped into the tiny lounge. She had no clear recollection of how it had been furnished back then but imagined that things probably hadn’t changed a great deal in the intervening years. The furniture had a dated and worn feel to it. The mantelpiece still had an old mahogany clock that looked as if it had been passed down through several generations and was flanked by a number of family photographs from years gone by. There was also a solitary birthday card, which she assumed must be for Owen until she peeped inside while he was making tea.
To Willie
From your loving brother
Owen.
She’d bitten her lip at that.
It had been fun catching up with him. She’d enjoyed the conversation a lot more than the tea and the stale Swiss roll in all honesty but it was touching that he’d made the effort. For the first few minutes he was as shy and withdrawn as ever but, as had always been the case with her, he’d opened up a little once he started to relax. Even in those early years at secondary school, when things had been so tough for him, she’d always had the ability to draw him out of his shell and she found it reassuring that she still could after all this time.
He even talked about his mother whom she herself remembered as being a kind but sickly woman, always coughing her lungs up and dabbing at her lips with a handkerchief. It turned out she’d lasted a lot longer than might have been expected, finally succumbing to lung cancer just over fourteen months ago – on his twenty-fifth birthday, he mentioned as a casual aside, as if the awful poignancy of such a thing hadn’t even occurred to him. She had to admit that he’d adjusted fairly well to his loss considering that, when she’d known him before, he and his mother had been just about joined at the hip.
They were still poring over the plans when her mobile started ringing. She apologised and fished it out of her bag. Callum, she mouthed, offering a reassuring smile. She wondered whether the twitch near his eye was anything more than coincidence.
‘Leaving in the next few minutes, babe. Thought I’d ring and say goodbye since you’re not here.’
‘I’m at Owen’s remember?’ she said, half-turning away from him. ‘We’re going over the designs he’s drawn up. I told you this morning.’
‘Right. Forgot. Anyway, I’ll ring later, OK? Probably won’t be till ten or elevenish cos I think we’re all meeting up for drinks first and then going out for a meal.’
‘Maybe texting would be better if it gets too late,’ she said. ‘Do you know where you’re staying yet?’
‘Not till I get there. Bill Shawcroft’s set it all up – his secretary at any rate. I’m picking the keys up from him so I’ll let you know later.’
‘Make sure you do . . . just in case your mobile packs up and I need to get hold of you. When are you back on Friday?’
‘Late afternoon, I’d have thought. Maybe we can go out to dinner. I’ll book somewhere.’
‘That would be nice. Drive safely. And look after yourself, OK?’
‘It’s Bournemouth, babe, not Baghdad.’
She laughed and ended the call, her thumb lingering on the End call icon for a moment. She tried to summon up a modicum of regret that they would be spending the next four days apart and was only mildly disturbed to find that she couldn’t do it. They needed a break, she felt bound to admit. Things had been tense of late. Maybe a few days away from each other would do them some good.
Owen seemed a little subdued after the call. It wasn’t as if he’d shut down exactly but some of the spontaneity that had just started to ease its way into their conversation appeared to have seeped away. She had no illusions about why – it was sad that Callum still had this effect on him after all this time. Under different circumstances she’d have happily stayed a little longer to make sure everything was OK but after a few minutes he got to his feet and told her he needed to get ready. He’d booked a ticket online for Cineworld and would have to leave soon.
She gathered her things together and asked if it was OK to take the designs with her. If she had a good look at them later that evening, she’d be able to ring him in the morni
ng and let him know which looked the most likely. He told her he’d be working but would have his mobile with him.
As she got to the front door and turned to say goodbye, he surprised her by putting one hand on her shoulder and leaning forward. Then, just as quickly, he pulled away sharply and gave her a clumsy pat to cover his obvious confusion.
She said goodbye and started to walk away. Then, on an impulse, she turned and came back. Going up on tiptoe, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek, smiling to herself as she walked back to her car.
CALLUM
‘Designs,’ he chuckled to himself. Owen Fuck-all and his grand designs. Some bloody joke that was. She seemed to forget sometimes that he knew the guy almost as well as she did and if there were two words that would never belong in the same sentence in this life, they were Owen and design. Couldn’t plan his way out of a cardboard box. He hoped she’d bring these masterpieces home for him to have a look at as soon as he got back from Bournemouth. He could do with a laugh. He could remember when a design for Owen Fuck-all involved a crayon in a grubby fist and a square house with square windows and stick people. Oo, Owen, that’s really good. Well done. Yeah . . . for a fucking two-year-old.
He didn’t bother to text Hannah to say he was on his way. She wouldn’t be ready in any case. He could send a team of liveried servants round to help her pack and she’d still find some excuse to keep him waiting. Woman’s prerogative was how she saw it. No worries though. He wasn’t in any great hurry. It wasn’t like they needed to be in Bournemouth by any specific time. They could take it easy, stop for a meal on the way if they saw somewhere they fancied. He knew where to pick up the keys when they got there.
He turned off the A27 at the Whyke roundabout, picking up the Selsey road before branching off left again towards Pagham. He found himself caught in a stream of vehicles behind a pony and trap whose two occupants were either oblivious or utterly indifferent to the problems they were causing. In different circumstances he’d have been leaning on the horn and yelling at them through the open window the moment he got within striking distance but today he was happy to sit back and just drift along the back road. No hurry. No worries. A week of good business, better food and unbelievable sex stretching ahead of him. The two pikeys in the cart up ahead, no doubt smirking at the hold-up they were causing, obviously thought this was as good as it gets. They had no idea.
