Come and Find Me (DI Marnie Rome Book 5)

by Sarah Hilary

  Once, before I’d opened my eyes properly, I could’ve sworn a giant pike was lying under the blankets. Black and glistening, its fat-bellied grin running up the wall beside me, hooked jaws trembling as it laid its cheek on my pillow, the iron stare of it reaching up through the bunk and the bed’s metal frame, through the mattress and my clothes, to bite its cold teeth at the back of my neck.

  12

  ‘He was out of his depth,’ Ruth Hull said. ‘In prison. He shouldn’t ever have been put there, of course, but that’s a separate issue.’ She delivered a soft, brisk smile. ‘I hope you’re asking a lot of awkward questions at Cloverton because nothing that happened there can be explained away. Not the fact he was denied access to the chaplain, and certainly not the fact of his escape.’

  ‘How do you explain his escape?’ Marnie asked.

  Ruth nodded, as if the question pleased her. ‘Michael was afraid. He didn’t feel safe in Cloverton. He’d asked to be put into isolation, that’s how very afraid he was.’

  ‘And you knew this how?’

  ‘It’s in his letters.’ A hint of colour in her cheeks. Pride, or pleasure? ‘He wrote to me every week, sometimes twice. I sent him stamps so he could write whenever he wanted. It was important he knew I was here when he needed someone to listen, or talk to. I wrote to the prison chaplain on his behalf, and to the governors. I’ve written to the Home Office.’ She swept her fair hair behind her ears. ‘I made certain he knew his rights because it’s too easy to be misled when you’re an inmate. “Governors must ensure faith provision is available to all prisoners in accordance with the Service Specification, Faith and Pastoral Care for Prisoners.” I sent him the paperwork, and copies of the letters I received in response to my appeals to the chaplain and governors.’ She waited for Marnie to respond to this, but was quick to fill the silence: ‘He saw that I took it seriously because it was so important to him, and therefore important to me. I knew his rights, and I made sure he knew them. I told him, “It’s your fundamental human rights we’re talking about, no matter what you did.” And of course he didn’t do a fraction of what they claimed in court.’

  Again she waited until the silence forced her on: ‘That woman was all about the compensation, you could see it in her eyes.’ She sat up straight, filling the shoulders of her faded denim dress. ‘I don’t blame her. I expect she was told to put on a performance for the court.’ A brisker version of the same smile, less soft now. ‘But the prosecution couldn’t provide evidence of bruises let alone the rest. He was sorry, he’d told her he was sorry. It was a mistake and of course he was willing to pay for that, but they should never have sent him to prison.’

  ‘You say you don’t blame Julie Seton for his sentence,’ Noah said, ‘but it sounds as if you do.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she was just doing as she was told by her counsel.’ Ruth dismissed the idea of Julie, setting her aside as if she were incidental, of no interest. ‘It’s just a shame she didn’t have anyone else, someone impartial, giving her advice.’

  ‘Did you offer any?’ Noah asked. When Ruth looked puzzled, he said, ‘In letters, perhaps.’

  Three letters, from three different women. Julie had binned them, but Ruth didn’t know that.

  She held Noah’s gaze. ‘It was too late for that. She’d already done the damage in court. Michael made his apologies, but she wouldn’t accept them. Apologies don’t come with compensation, of course. So yes, I was helping him. And I understand why he ran.’

  ‘Were you helping with that?’ Marnie asked. ‘His escape.’

  Ruth gave her a pitying look. ‘You have to ask, I understand. But no. I was pursuing all legal avenues for appeal. He wouldn’t have let me break any laws for him even if I’d wanted to.’

  ‘Did you want to? It’s clear you feel very passionately about Michael.’

  ‘Passion isn’t a dirty word, DI Rome.’ Her mouth spread in a wide smile. ‘No matter what anyone tells you.’ She moved in the chair, settling her hands in her lap. Large hands with square fingernails, polished calluses on her thumbs from repetitive industry of some kind.

  She wasn’t what Noah had expected. Living in a church mission, writing ‘Dear Michael’ letters, advocating for a violent inmate’s release. She was in her late twenties, tall and well-built with tanned skin and a forward thrust to every movement as if she couldn’t get through her days fast enough, and anticipated resistance each step of the way. Under the denim dress she wore black tights and the ugliest green leather shoes Noah had ever seen, round-toed like a child’s with a fat buckle fastening. The shoes were polished, the tights had an expensive sheen. The denim dress was tailored and she’d taken care of it. Everything about her, from the ugly shoes to her blunt-cut hair, had been selected to scream, ‘I don’t care about physical appearances,’ but she did. Noah sensed that strongly. And she could afford to. She’d handpicked this uniform, paying good money for it. Was her tan from a holiday abroad? The kind of holiday Julie and Natalie could never afford, even with the compensation.

  ‘Yes, I care passionately about Michael.’ Ruth lifted her chin. ‘Does that mean I assisted in his escape? No, of course not. If you have any suspicions in that direction then I request a solicitor be present during this interview. You haven’t cautioned me, so I’m assuming this is an informal discussion. If you’ve misled me in that regard then I have the right to a solicitor.’

  Her father’s solicitor, Noah guessed. The accent she’d ironed from her voice was well-heeled Home Counties. She was someone’s high-achieving daughter, privately educated, independently wealthy. Noah could have guessed that much without Colin’s research which had fleshed out the fine details: a degree in art history and philosophy after which she’d worked in shops and restaurants before turning to the church, volunteering at the mission in Danbury for the last two years, knocking on doors to recruit new believers, standing on court steps handing out pamphlets, protesting sentences like Michael Vokey’s which she considered unfair. Often she was the only one pamphleting, a one-woman protest. How did her parents feel about the direction her life had taken? Her father was a local magistrate, her mother a retired GP. Neither was church-going.

  ‘You care passionately about Michael.’

  Marnie’s tone was as cool as the collar of her shirt. She was making notes, a tactic which denied Ruth the eye contact she craved. It was the right strategy for this witness. Ruth was desperate to latch onto a barb in Marnie’s voice, some evidence of a police conspiracy, or a sign she wasn’t being taken seriously. It was very clear that Ruth wanted to be taken very seriously.

  ‘The correspondence you received from Michael in reply to your letters. Where is it?’

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t keep anything.’

  She’d prepared a smile for precisely this question, serving it with a relish that set Noah’s teeth on edge. He thought of Julie’s courage, the staunch line she’d drawn under her pain, her determination to move on. Thinking of that made it hard not to despise Ruth.

  ‘There’s no space at the mission, you see. For papers, or letters. We recycle.’ As if the destruction of potential evidence were a civic duty.

  ‘You threw his letters away.’ Marnie made a note, nodding as if Ruth had given the correct answer. Then she glanced at her watch. This interview, her glance said, was a formality to be got through, unlikely to yield anything of interest or importance.

  Ruth glued the smile in place, but she hated being sidelined. She was here as the star witness for the defence, coveting her role as Vokey’s disciple. This was her chance to fight openly for her champion, although why she wanted to do so was a mystery to Noah. Piety, or passion?

  ‘You’re imagining I kept the letters because I’m infatuated in some way. I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’m simply someone who happens to believe everyone deserves a second chance, not to mention his fundamental human rights.’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ Marnie said, a lick of boredom in her voice. ‘We have the letters you wr
ote to Mr Vokey last week. We understand the nature of your relationship.’ She gave the woman no chance to react to this before saying, ‘You told DS Carling you hadn’t been in contact with Michael Vokey during the last eight days. Is that correct?’

  Ruth didn’t move but the chair creaked under her, giving the lie to her stillness. ‘You have my letters?’ Hissing on the last syllable.

  ‘And your photographs, yes.’ Marnie turned the page in her pad, moving on. ‘You haven’t heard from Michael Vokey? Despite the fact he has your address?’

  ‘So you’ve interfered with his post.’ The expensive tan turned patchy as Ruth paled, revealing a broken line of acne at her jaw. ‘I’m on an approved list, so you know.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve researched legal guidance on offences by prisoners, including mutiny and escape with the use of force.’ Marnie continued looking through her notes, ignoring the woman’s increasingly agitated efforts at eye contact. ‘He’s facing a possible life sentence, so yes. We’re investigating the matter thoroughly and from every angle.’ She looked up at last, her ink-blue gaze pinning Ruth in place. ‘Please answer the question. Have you heard from him?’

  ‘No.’ Ruth glanced across at Noah then away. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Were you expecting to? You said he was writing twice a week. This would be the eighth day without a letter from him.’

  ‘That’s why I agreed to come here!’ She raised a hand from her lap then dropped it back down. ‘I’m worried about him. He hasn’t written and of course he’s had other things on his mind, but I’m worried about him, very worried in fact.’ She allowed the Home Counties accent to the fore for the first time: ‘I’m on his side. That doesn’t mean I condone his recent behaviour.’

  ‘Yes, it must have been uncomfortable,’ Marnie said. ‘To learn of his offences at HMP Cloverton and realise exactly how much he belongs behind bars.’

  ‘You don’t know him,’ Ruth gave back. ‘You’ve never even met him.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘I know him through his letters, and his art. I know his soul.’

  ‘Which art, in particular?’ Noah asked. ‘The pictures he drew of you?’

  But Ruth wasn’t flinching from that. She nodded strenuously. ‘Yes. Do you want to see?’ She reached for her bag, pulling out a photo album the size of a paperback book. Tooled green leather with her initials, RH, blocked in silver. A gift from her parents? Ruth held the album in her hands before passing it across the table, keeping her grip on it until Marnie took custody.

  In place of family photos the album contained a series of sketches, each preserved in a plastic sleeve sewn into the leather spine. Charcoal life studies, recognisable as Ruth if you knew Vokey’s style and had seen enough of his subject to appreciate the fragile ferocity of her ego. It was there in her eyes and the angle of her jaw, the heft of her hands – all of her superiority, and her fear of going unnoticed. The sketches were damning, full of judgement. She couldn’t see it, but Vokey despised Ruth. He’d seen through her piety to the shallow truth underpinning it. Noah battled with his instinct to admire the talent at work, reminding himself of everything Vokey had done. All that destruction, the trail of blood and body parts, jarred against the creativity displayed in the pages Marnie was turning. Eight sketches in total, five of Ruth’s face, two of her hands, one of her naked legs leading in a series of wide vertical strokes to her bare feet knotted with corns and calluses, the outer edge of her big toes polished to horn. Feet as ugly as her shoes. Vokey’s sketch was pitiless, triumphant in its cruelty.

  ‘You see?’ Ruth was no longer bothering to sit still, squirming contentedly in her seat, face glowing with pride and pleasure. ‘This is Michael. This. Not the monster that woman described in court. A monster didn’t draw these, how could he?’

  ‘You’ve never met,’ Marnie said. ‘He drew these from the photographs you sent to him?’

  ‘Yes! But these are so much more than that. Don’t you see? So much more than copies of photographs. They tell the truth. He’s captured me, all of me.’

  Marnie reached the end of the sketches, resting two fingers on the empty plastic sleeve which followed the final sketch. ‘Where’s the missing one?’

  Ruth blinked, her face convulsing evasively. ‘No, these are all the sketches he did—’

  ‘There’s charcoal dust, here.’ Marnie held the album where Noah could see the smudged evidence that another life study had once lived inside the empty sleeve. ‘Why didn’t you want to show us this last sketch, Ms Hull?’

  ‘It’s not— There aren’t any other sketches. I moved the order around, that’s all.’

  She wasn’t a good liar, which surprised Noah. With so much self-delusion to maintain, he’d have thought she’d be an expert.

  ‘You felt uncomfortable sharing it with us.’ Marnie flicked back through the album. ‘Not as skilfully done as the others, perhaps. You didn’t like it as much.’

  The dismissal in her voice and the contemptuous flipping of her fingers made Ruth snap, ‘You clearly know nothing about art. Michael has more talent in his two thumbs than most people have in their entire bodies.’

  ‘Tell that to the men whose eyes he gouged out with his two thumbs.’ Marnie closed the album and handed it back. ‘Thanks for sharing.’

  Ruth cradled the album in her palms as if it were a living thing. ‘Shall I tell you about my experience as a prison visitor?’ She wasn’t about to be dismissed so easily. ‘Authority in prison is an illusion. These places stand or fall by the cooperation of men like Michael. He was cooperating. They shunted him around like an unwanted pet, but he didn’t complain. He was doing his best to fit in. But you tell me, how do you fit in somewhere you’ve no business being in the first place? He wrote about the things he witnessed on a daily basis, degradations, petty cruelties. He accepted it as his lot, but he despaired. Often, he despaired. He saw officers assisting in the smuggling of drugs and weapons. Knives, guns even.’

  ‘This was all in his letters.’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘The letters you recycled.’

  Ruth thrust a hand at the accusation. ‘He was living in fear of his life, and his soul. They didn’t believe in him. They thought his faith was convenient, that’s the word they used. That he’d invented his faith in order to get special privileges.’

  ‘You don’t believe he did that.’

  ‘I know he didn’t.’

  Marnie referred to her notes. ‘When he was first sentenced in Leeds, he declared his faith as “none”. How do you explain that?’

  ‘He’s a changed man.’ Ruth gave a lofty smile. ‘Isn’t that what prison is supposed to achieve?’

  ‘Like Ryan Gatt?’

  ‘What—?’ Her face blinked open then shut.

  ‘Ryan Gatt,’ Marnie repeated. ‘The inmate you wrote to before Michael.’

  The silence carved a hole in the room. Marnie rested her eyes on Ruth, as if she had all day to wait for an answer.

  Ruth moved her feet, the rubber soles of her shoes raising a sound like shrieking. ‘Well, there you are, then! This isn’t anything peculiar. My faith requires I reach out to people, especially those in trouble.’ She gestured with one large hand, wanting to move on.

  But Marnie wasn’t done. ‘Ryan was guilty of aggravated burglary, the same as Michael Vokey. You stayed in touch with Ryan after he was released. He spent a lot of time at the church mission.’

  ‘Everyone’s welcome there. We don’t judge.’

  ‘Oh, I think a few people may have judged you, when Ryan made off with the presents from a pensioner’s wedding party.’

  Ruth’s tan faded at the edges of her mouth. ‘You’re wrong, in fact. No one at the mission would ever point the finger of blame at someone who believes in second chances.’

  ‘You were mistaken about Ryan. He’s back inside now. Are you writing to him?’

  ‘No.’ Through gritted teeth. ‘But that was his choice.’

  ‘And of course you�
�re busy with Michael now.’ Marnie turned a page in her pad. ‘What makes you think he’s any more capable of change than Ryan?’

  ‘Michael’s different. For starters, he wasn’t guilty of half the things that woman claimed in court. Forgive me if I lack the necessary credulity for faith in our so-called justice system.’

  For the first time, she looked pious. No more, no less. But Noah wasn’t convinced that her chief motivation was her spirituality. She believed in Michael Vokey and it was physical, corporeal. The letters Marnie had brought back from Cloverton suggested Lara was the one with the unhealthy sexual attraction to Vokey. Ruth, they’d decided, was fixated on his innocence. But it went deeper than that. The sketch she’d removed from the album was intimate, Noah was sure of it. The eight sketches she’d allowed them to see were intimate enough, but she was clearly blind to how much they revealed of her infatuation and Vokey’s manipulation of it. The missing sketch had to be even more exposing. Crude, perhaps, since she’d chosen to remove it from the album. She was proud of these other sketches, had wanted the police to see them, showing off not only her hero’s talent but their special relationship. She wasn’t proud of the missing sketch. Or else she feared it shone light of a different kind on Vokey’s talent.

  ‘His art’s going to be exhibited, you know. It deserves to be seen.’

  ‘I doubt that will be possible,’ Marnie said shortly. ‘Given the gravity of his offences.’

  ‘He ran because he was afraid. Because you people put him beyond the reach of help, denied him access to it in the most barbaric manner.’

  ‘What was he afraid of?’ Marnie closed her notebook and folded her hands on the table. ‘You’re his confidante. Help us to understand why he felt he had to run.’

  ‘He wasn’t safe there! You’ve been inside Cloverton. You know how bad it is, how bad it is in every prison in this country. Would you feel safe inside?’

  Noah wanted to ask how safe she thought Julie Seton felt, or Ted Elms. If Vokey’s idea of safety was freedom to indulge his vicious pastime, then the less safe he felt, the better for everyone.