by TM Logan
Larssen came in, breathing heavily, his cheeks red. He saw me, hurried over and sat down. While he got his breath back and extracted his iPad from his briefcase, I told him what I’d been doing and detailed my latest discoveries. He cut across me.
‘We don’t have much time,’ he said, ‘so I’ll be as quick as I can.’
64
‘Two developments,’ Larssen said. ‘The police took various possessions of yours from your house earlier this week, correct?’
‘Yes, loads of our stuff.’
‘Your last mobile phone as well?’
I nodded and took a drink of black coffee. It was strong and hot, an instant caffeine hit on an empty stomach. The caffeine would give me a headache – it always did when I was wound up – but it was the only way to fight the exhaustion of too many nights with too little sleep.
‘Only had that one four days. It was almost brand new.’
‘The Met’s forensic data people have been looking at it.’
‘Forensic data?’
‘The team that analyses phone and computer evidence, the digital footprint a suspect leaves behind. Ten years ago they were focused on child abuse cases, paedophiles, white-collar crime, that kind of thing. But they’re now routinely used in every investigation of serious crime, mobile phone data being so ubiquitous.’
I tried to remember who I might have called or texted on my phone. Ben. Mel. Our home number. A few others maybe. Nothing too suspicious.
‘OK,’ I said.
‘It seems the forensic data chaps are particularly interested in some internet searches they found on your phone.’
A stab of concern in my stomach.
‘What searches? I only got it on Saturday, and they took it away last night. Don’t remember using the browser once.’
‘So you never did a Google search on the legal difference between murder and manslaughter?’
‘No.’
‘The definition in law of a crime of passion, and how a sentence might be reduced for that?’
‘No.’
‘How much blood or saliva is needed to make a DNA comparison? The location of the nearest landfill sites to your house?’
I shook my head, incredulous.
‘They found all of these on my phone?’
‘So it seems.’
‘I didn’t do those searches. There was no reason for me to do them.’
‘Someone did.’
Mel?
But she didn’t know the passcode to unlock my phone. She’d never asked, and I’d never told her. In any case, I’d only had the bloody thing for a few days. The alternative? It had been hacked, by someone who knew computers inside out, someone who lived and breathed computers, someone who knew all the tricks and could bypass the usual security.
Someone like Ben.
‘What about the message that appeared on my home PC on Monday – the threat from Ben? Have they found it?’
Larssen shrugged.
‘Indications are it’s a Trojan virus that was either downloaded intentionally, sent in an email or installed at source. They can’t tell which yet, but it’s recent. There were other viruses on your machine which would have given a remote user the ability to take it over and use it as a “slave” device. It’s not that uncommon.’
‘Can they trace it back to Ben?’
‘Unlikely. They actually think it’s more likely you put it on there yourself, to reinforce your story of being the victim.’
I shook my head in disbelief. Outside on the street, a bus rolled up, stopped, disgorged a dozen passengers onto Cricklewood Broadway and moved off again. People shopping, taking a late lunch, meeting friends, going for a swift half at the pub. Living their lives, quite happily, as mine disintegrated at increasing speed.
Larssen said: ‘Who else has had access to your phone in the last four days?’
‘No one. I don’t know. My wife, I suppose, but she doesn’t know my passcode.’
‘Perhaps she guessed it,’ he said, picking up his coffee.
‘I doubt that. She can barely remember her own, let alone guessing someone else’s.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
You hacked her phone, why couldn’t she have done the same to you? I ignored his question.
‘What does it mean that they found these searches?’
He took a sip of his latte.
‘It’s another piece of the puzzle as far as Naylor is concerned. Circumstantial, but telling all the same, in the eyes of a jury.’
‘A jury?’
‘Yes.’
‘As in, court, trial, prosecution?’
‘Yes, Joe. We need to start being prepared for that.’
‘A few days ago you were saying it would probably fizzle out long before it came to this.’
‘A few days ago the police didn’t have the evidence they have now. They weren’t digging holes in the park looking for a body.’
‘Christ.’ I rubbed my face with my hands. ‘What a mess.’
For a moment neither of us spoke and I could hear the muted sounds of traffic in the street outside. I was hungry and exhausted and suddenly wanted all of this to be over.
Larssen said gently, almost apologetically: ‘That’s not all, Joe.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m afraid . . . that’s not the worst of it.’
My coffee cup was still half full but I couldn’t face it. I was starting to feel sick.
‘Go on,’ I said, trying to keep my voice even.
‘When they took your mobile, they took away your car too?’
‘That’s right.’
He lowered his voice still further, making me lean closer so I could hear him.
‘Their forensic people have been doing various tests as part of the investigation, as you can probably imagine.’ He paused, checking over his shoulder to ensure there was no one coming out of the toilets behind him. ‘And I have it on very good authority, from a highly reliable source, that they have found blood and hair in the boot of your car.’
‘Blood?’ I repeated.
‘From two different individuals. Small amounts.’
I shivered involuntarily. Someone walking over my grave.
‘It’s possible I cut myself taking things to the tip, something like that.’
Larssen stirred his latte, put the spoon delicately back on the saucer, and leaned in a little closer. The noise of the wine bar seemed to recede, everything else sliding into the background apart from me and my solicitor opposite. A fluttering in my stomach. Fear.
Larssen said: ‘One sample’s been matched to you. The other one to Ben Delaney.’
65
For a moment I couldn’t speak and just stared at his face, a numb feeling spreading out from my chest into my arms and legs.
‘Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Joe? Both blood and hair samples have been DNA-matched to Ben Delaney.’
‘Ben.’
‘Yes. In the boot of your car.’
‘How much blood?’
‘Enough to make a match. They don’t need much – microscopic traces are enough.’
‘It’s not possible.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s never been in my car, for one thing.’
Larssen shook his head.
‘You’re missing the point, Joe. This is not him travelling as a passenger, or as the driver. They found blood in the boot.’
I stared at him, blinking fast. My caffeine headache was getting worse, a rigid band of pain across my temple.
‘How do you know all this?’ I said. ‘Who’s your source?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘I’m asking. It’s pretty bloody important at this stage.’
He considered for a moment.
‘The source is my wife.’
‘How does she –’
‘I told you – don’t ask. The point is, we need to be prepared, Joe, we need to look at your options here. We should look at th
e smartest thing for you to do in this situation.’
‘I don’t like the sound of that.’
‘From a legal perspective – based on my twenty years’ experience in criminal law – the smart thing to do is for me and you to go down to Kilburn Police Station today, this afternoon. Tell Naylor you’re coming in voluntarily, you’re keen to cooperate, because you have nothing to hide. Take the initiative away from them.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘We should be prepared for charges and this is your best option in light of that. It’s my professional advice to you.’
I was struggling to get the words out in the right order.
‘I don’t . . . I don’t . . . understand. Charges. What . . . what does that mean?’
‘For the police to charge you, within the next twenty-four hours. We need to prepare for that. They have enough – more than enough – to arrest you again and I would expect that to happen very soon.’
I opened my mouth, closed it again. Words seemed inadequate – everything was happening too fast.
‘It’s not true.’
Larssen put a hand on my arm.
‘Joe, you need to go home, talk to your wife, tell her what’s going to happen. And your son. Give them a little bit of time to prepare for it. There will be nothing worse for them than having this happen out of the blue.’
‘You think it’ll be today?’
‘There’s not really any reason for Naylor to hang about now.’
‘He’ll want to be sure, though?’
Larssen drained the last of his coffee.
‘Oh, I think he’s well past that stage.’
66
As I rode the moped home, I tried to think of what to say to my wife. How to phrase the fact that I was about to be charged with murder.
Listen, Mel, I have to tell you something.
I’m not capable of committing this crime. You know me better than anyone. You know it’s crazy, what they’re accusing me of.
But we have to agree on what we’re going to say to William.
It’s going to be OK.
We’ll get through this.
We just need to –
There were two police cars outside my house. People walking up my driveway.
DCI Naylor was one of them.
I braked sharply and pulled over to the side of the road, a couple of car lengths short of my house. Naylor had come mob-handed today: as well as Redford he had brought two tall uniformed officers in high-vis jackets, bulky with gear, flanking the detectives on either side. Maybe to discourage me from doing something stupid.
The front door opened and Mel stood there, looking from Naylor to the uniformed officers and back again, as if she couldn’t understand what they were doing there. As if it was all some huge mistake. William appeared at her side, half hiding behind her leg, peering up at the police on the doorstep.
Naylor was talking to Mel. She shook her head, giving short replies. Her eyes came to rest on me, sitting on her moped across the street. She knew I was using it, knew I was using her helmet too. Naylor would not recognise me with the helmet on, but she would. She stopped, did a little double take, and then shifted her position so that William couldn’t see me. I half expected her to point her finger, call out, give me away – but instead she went back to talking with Naylor as if she had not seen me at all.
I felt a surge of gratitude for my wife.
Thank you, Mel.
She still felt something for me, the spark was still there.
A bead of cold sweat rolled slowly down my side. It was one of those moments where you either surrender or you push all of your remaining chips into the middle of the table and see what the last card brings.
I revved the moped back into life and sped away.
There was a small retail park about a mile from my house, with a Sainsbury’s and few other chain stores. At the end of the row was a Frankie and Benny’s. I went in, bought a bottle of Becks and sat in a booth at the back of the bar. Rested my head back against the wood panelling and closed my eyes.
My whole life had been spent as a law-abiding, tax-paying member of the public. I played by the rules. Except that Ben was playing by a different set of rules entirely: the rules of the jungle, red in tooth and claw, the rules of hooray-for-me-and-fuck-you. The rules that said: It’s not enough for me to win – everyone else has to lose. And right now he was winning hands down.
I needed back up. Advice. Help.
I rang Adam.
‘Yup.’
‘It’s me, mate. It’s Joe. Can you talk?’
‘Not really.’
‘Just for a minute? I really need your advice.’
‘Not a great time right now.’
‘I’m in deep shit, Adam, I need –’
His voice turned low and hard, as if he was hunched over the phone to prevent anyone eavesdropping.
‘You need to stop calling me on this number, OK? Get yourself some legal help, and stop calling me at work, all right? I can’t be talking to you. You’re the subject of an active police investigation, and my boss will have my balls for cocktail olives if he knows we’ve even been speaking.’
With every word, my heart sank further into my stomach. I felt like a climber dangling at the end of a rope, hanging over the abyss.
And my friend was about to cut the rope.
‘Adam, please,’ I pleaded, trying without success to keep a note of desperation out of my voice. ‘I need your help. Now more than ever.’
There was a click as he hung up. I stared at the phone for a moment, thinking how fast fifteen years of friendship had evaporated.
The phone buzzed in my hand. A text.
Police here, same detective as yesterday. You OK? Worried about you. M xx
4.27 p.m. Mel mob
I wrote back:
What do they want?
4.28 p.m. Me
Waiting 4 you, want 2 talk. Looks like might be here 4 a while. Where r you? M xx
4.29 p.m. Mel mob
Naylor was still there, hence the texts rather than a phone call.
Wembley. What’s Naylor said?
4.29 p.m. Me
Won’t give details but sounds serious. 4 of them here. M xx
4.30 p.m. Mel mob
I took a long pull of the Becks, then another, the lager icy against the back of my throat.
Back later, text me when police have gone.
4.32 p.m. Me
Her reply was almost instant:
OK. Love you. Take care, come home soon. M xx
4.32 p.m. Mel mob
I sent a final message, wondering whether it would be my last as a free man.
Kiss Wills for me. x
4.33 p.m. Me
The phone rang as I pressed send. It was Larssen. I rejected the call: I had to get things straight in my head before I talked to him again.
Going back to my house was not an option. And in any case, there was only one place that I could think of to go – one place that might hold some answers. I had to follow Ben, find him before the police found me. What had he said in his email to Mel?
Need to see an old mate at home.
He had just renewed membership of his favourite casino, in his home town. It couldn’t be a coincidence. I did a quick Google search and checked my watch. It was tight, but just about possible if I didn’t hang about. The mobile beeped as I drained the last of my Becks – a new message as Larssen spoke to the answering machine. The phone’s battery was showing about fifty per cent, and I had a moment of unease about doing what I had to do with a dead phone battery, cut off from everything – it was the one thing I had left to rely on. I went into the Sainsbury’s next door and bought an Apple charger, then withdrew £200 from the cashpoint outside, my maximum daily amount. The mobile rang again, a withheld number.
‘Hello?’
A woman’s voice. Husky.
‘Hello there, this is Lorna, you called me earlier.’
Lo
rna. It didn’t ring a bell.
‘I did?’
‘Yesterday afternoon. Lorna from VIP – you were too shy to leave a message.’
‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ The escort agency. ‘Thanks for . . . calling back.’
‘So, what sort of thing are you looking for, sir? What’s your fantasy?’
Think. VIP provided ‘male and female companions’ for dates, nights out and consensual sex. The truth was, I had no idea how it was relevant to Mel’s affair with Ben – but it must be relevant somehow, otherwise she wouldn’t have tried to conceal it.
‘I’m . . . I’m looking for a repeat booking, actually. My wife and I used your company recently and were very satisfied with the evening. I was hoping to book in another visit. Same again.’
‘Surname?’
I told her.
‘Sorry. We’ve had no booking under that name.’
What name would she use?
Of course.
Her maiden name.
‘She would have booked it under the surname Bailey.’
A pause.
‘Ah. Yes. Here we go.’ The sound of keys clicking on a keyboard. ‘Are you sure you want the repeat booking? I could text you a little selection, in case you’d like to meet one of our other escorts.’
I checked my watch again. Time was getting short.
‘Listen, Lorna, sorry but can I call you back a bit later? I’ve got to be somewhere.’
‘Sure, darlin’. I’ll send you links to a few pages on our site, see what you think she might like.’
‘Including the original booking?’
‘Of course.’
‘Great, sounds good.’
‘Oh, our boys and girls are always good,’ she said, the practised patter of an experienced madame. ‘Very, very good.’
I swung my leg back over the moped and headed for King’s Cross. I pushed it as fast as it would go, went through three red lights and up on the pavement a couple of times to save time getting through traffic-clogged junctions. It was ten past five by the time I was buying a single ticket for the 17.18 to Sunderland – paying in cash – and then I ran all the way from the ticket office across the concourse, through the barriers and down the platform, jumping aboard the train just before the guard slammed the last of the doors shut.
