by Tania Carver
Cotter was about to reply, but Phil cut her off.
‘Please. You know what’s happened.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘I’m pouring everything I’ve got into this job to try and stop myself thinking of anything else. To keep me going. The job is all I’ve got. Please.’ Phil felt a pleading tone enter his voice. He tried to stop it, but it had crawled there of its own volition. ‘Don’t take it away from me.’
Cotter sat back, thoughtful. Phil said nothing. Eventually she leaned forward again.
‘Who was your CI?’
‘What?’ It wasn’t what he had expected her to say.
‘Your CI. The one who followed Roy Adderley last night. Who was it?’
‘Erm… it —’
‘Because I received a complaint from Roy Adderley’s friend’ – she spoke the word in speech marks – ‘saying that you were round there last night harassing him.’
Phil felt himself reddening. ‘Ah. Well…’
‘I’m waiting.’
Phil shook his head. No point in lying. ‘Yeah, it was me. After the way he was when Ian and I went to see him yesterday, we thought there must be more to him. So I… parked outside his house. And he saw me. Came out. There was an argument.’
‘And you drove away.’
‘One of us did.’
Despite the nature of the conversation, Cotter’s copper instincts were still working. ‘Where did he go?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why not?’
Phil shrugged, apologetic.
‘You passed out.’
He looked uncomfortable.
‘And presumably his return woke you up.’
‘Yeah. Kind of a coincidence, really.’
Cotter sat back once more, shaking her head. A smile almost appeared at the corners of her lips. ‘On the one hand, that’s good police work. On the other, you were a drunken, angry slob out looking for a fight. And there’s no place for people like that in my team. No matter what’s happened to them.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Cotter sighed. ‘Not to mention how you got there. Were you driving drunk?’
Phil said nothing. Just looked ashamed.
Cotter shook her head, mouth curling in distaste. ‘Jesus Christ… One last chance to pull it together, Phil. Otherwise you’re out of here until you can convince me you’re fit to return. Got that?’
Phil felt something positive stir within him. ‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t make me regret this. The case has been upgraded to high priority. Go on, bring Adderley in for questioning. But Phil, I want you focused. Not fixated.’
‘Right.’
‘He’s the prime suspect, but if it’s not him, you keep an open mind.’
‘Okay.’
‘And if it does turn out to be something more, we may – and I stress may – get some psychological help in. And you would have to be all right with that.’
Phil didn’t reply. Just nodded.
‘Good.’ Cotter sat back. ‘On you go, then.’
Phil thanked her once more, got slowly to his feet and left the office. A reprieve. Nothing more than that.
He was standing on the edge of the abyss. He just hoped he had the strength not to be pulled in.
26
‘Not much chance it was an accident, then.’ Detective Constable Imani Oliver stared at the crime scene in Oakwood Park.
It looked like the garden party from hell. Most of the grassed area had been taped off, giving it an air of exclusivity, while the ubiquitous white plastic tent had been erected over Janine Gillen’s final resting place. Instead of caterers, paper-suited crime-scene investigators moved about. Behind barriers at a distance, the usual collection of rubberneckers were watching, along with the media.
‘Thought you’d have screens up,’ said Imani. ‘Stop that lot from getting too much footage.’
‘Screens?’ Detective Constable Avi Patel laughed. ‘Wish we had the budget. Anything beyond the plastic tent has to be begged for.’ He looked at Imani, smile still on his face. ‘Must be different over in the big city.’
Not being unkind; just banter, thought Imani. That was how she would take it. He seemed naturally cheerful. She hoped she hadn’t misread that. ‘Big city? We’re only down the road.’
Patel nodded. ‘Yeah. And we might be handing this one over to you, from what I’ve heard. Could be a link with that body in the canal?’
‘That’s what I’m here to find out. You identified her?’
‘Janine Gillen. Her wallet was still in her coat pocket. Wish they were all that easy.’
‘Know anything about her?’
Patel took out his notepad, read from it. ‘Quite a bit. Wife of Terry Gillen. He’s been on and off our radar over the years. Bit handy with his fists, that sort of thing.’
A shudder of something like recognition ran through Imani. ‘Against his wife?’
‘And others.’ Patel checked his notebook once more. ‘Yep. Cautioned. That’s all.’ He looked up and the earlier cheerfulness was absent. ‘Fucking scum, they are. Wife-beaters.’ He realised he had been talking to a woman. ‘Sorry. ‘Scuse my language.’
Imani smiled. ‘You’ll hear no argument from me.’
Patel looked relieved, continued. ‘I know we get sent for training, go on courses for how to deal with this, but…’ He glanced round at his colleagues. ‘Most of them? Not high on their list of priorities. Slap on the wrist, don’t do it again, that sort of thing. Or even worse, when uniforms agree with the husband. Women need a smack now and again, keeps them in line. All that shit.’ He shook his head, looked like he had something unpleasant in his mouth, wanted to spit.
Imani gave a short laugh. ‘You sure you’re actually a copper?’
He smiled, slightly shamefaced, reddened. ‘Sorry. Bit of a pet hate. Just tell me to shut up.’
‘No, I’m glad to hear it.’ Imani found herself smiling once more. Maybe there was more to DC Patel than met the eye. ‘So what’s the husband got to say for himself?’
‘He was out last night. First thing he said, wanted us to know it. And he’s got a watertight alibi. With his kids. Watching the Villa.’
‘Poor bastards,’ said Imani, then looked up hurriedly. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Patel. ‘More of a cricket man myself.’
‘That’s okay,’ said Imani. ‘It’s just I come from a family of Villa fans. I can remember what it was like at home when they lost. My dad wasn’t worth being around.’
‘Did you know that when a football team loses, the rate of domestic attacks in that area rises? What does that say about us?’ said Patel. He looked at her sheepishly once again. ‘Sorry. They told us that on one of our courses. Couldn’t get it out of my head ever since.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ Imani looked back at the murder scene. The body was long gone, but the aftermath of the act still hung in the air. Phil Brennan always likened it to a stage set in a theatre after the actors and audience had gone home, and she could see what he meant, but for Imani it was something different. It was as though all the incidents in Janine Gillen’s life, no matter how large or small or seemingly insignificant, had led her to this point. Everything. Imani didn’t believe in predestination or anything religious, but there was something about moments like this, settings like this, where the forcible absence of life had occurred, that made her understand spirituality, the need for there to be something else, even the desire to take pilgrimages to certain sites in the hope that something mystical might occur. Some answers be found. Even here.
‘So this husband,’ she said as they walked towards the white tent. ‘How did he take the news?’
Patel shrugged. ‘Not that bothered really. Maybe he was in shock and it hadn’t quite hit him yet. Just moaned that he couldn’t take time off work to look after the kids.’
‘Where does he work?’
‘Roofer.’ He smiled when he said it. ‘Kind that doesn’
t bust a gut if the weather’s bad.’
‘What’s your feeling about him? Think he did it?’
Patel stopped walking, gave the question some thought. ‘Don’t think so. I mean, I know he wasn’t all that bothered, and of course he was a bastard to her at home, but I didn’t get a murderer vibe from him. Not deliberately, anyway. Not like this. One thing he said, though. They’d started seeing a therapist, a counsellor together.’
‘Really? Doesn’t sound the type.’
‘Don’t think he was. Marriage was rocky, though. Apparently his brief told him to do it.’
‘So next time he hit his wife he could say he was working on being a changed man.’
Patel gave a grim smile. ‘Exactly. Anyway, he didn’t last long at it. But I think Janine kept going. Became something of a bone of contention between them.’
Imani gestured towards the white tent. ‘Enough to…?’
Patel shrugged. ‘And there’s the question of the car as well. Terry Gillen was driving his last night. We looked it over. Not a mark on it. Well, no new ones, anyway. Nothing to match this.’
They stopped walking, in front of the tent now. Imani could see the ruts left by the tyre tracks, deep and muddy. The grass seemed to have almost been ploughed, the driver had gone backwards and forwards so much. She could also make out where the earth was much darker in colour than in other places. She knew what had been there. Or rather who.
‘Body was in a right mess when we got here,’ said Patel, no trace of a smile now. In fact his mood seemed to have changed the nearer he got to the murder scene, any earlier humour now completely gone. ‘Some dog walker just about brought up their breakfast. Body was all over the place. Bottom half on back to front, ground into the… well, ground, I suppose. Horrible. Horrible way to go.’
Not that there’s ever a good way, thought Imani. She liked this young DC. His attitude, his thought processes, his commitment. Or at least that was what she told herself.
‘There was one other thing,’ said Patel. ‘She had a card in her purse. For a refuge.’
‘A women’s refuge?’
Patel nodded. ‘It’s been bagged and taken as evidence, but I wrote the details down.’ He tore a page out of his notebook, handed it to her. ‘Here.’
She read it, looked up. ‘Safe Haven,’ she said. ‘D’you know them?’
‘Not my area, really. I’d just started asking around about them. Hadn’t got very far.’
Imani smiled. ‘Considering what little time you’ve had, I think you’ve done a great job.’
Patel blushed, looked away. ‘Thanks. You know… So you think it’s connected with your case, then?’
‘Could be. Some strong links there. Need to do a bit more digging. But thank you.’ She held out her hand. ‘I really appreciate the help.’
‘No problem,’ he said, taking it and holding it for a moment too long after shaking it.
‘Why don’t you come with me? I want to check out this refuge and the counsellor. And there’s someone I want to bring in who might be able to link the two cases together. I’ll give her a call on the way. You up for it?’
Patel smiled. ‘Off to the big city?’
‘If you think you can handle it.’
‘Why not? It’ll look good. Bit of joint enterprise, if you like. Engendering relationships across the forces. Sharing good practice. All that bollocks.’
Imani smiled. ‘Another training course?’
Patel laughed. ‘Paperwork’ll be a bastard, though,’ he said.
‘You can deal with that.’
She walked away towards her car, Patel following.
27
The interview room held stories. And the ghosts of stories. They hung in the air like stale coffee-coated breath, clung to the hidden dusty corners where no cleaner could reach. They lay amongst the dead fly carcasses in the strip-light casings. Clung to the walls, refusing to be washed away by paint or paper. And in more tangible form, the table held the marks of those who had sat there previously. The names of the players, guilty and innocent and everything in between, their illiterate litanies recorded forever, biro upon biro, carving upon carving. Threats to the guilty for stitching up, grassing, all violence and horror and bloody retribution. Prayers for the innocent and invocations of despair. Heartfelt and real and often the only honest sentiments ever expressed in that space.
From that side of the table at least.
Phil sat on the other side. The clean, unmarked side. Sperring alongside him. Their story in front of them, hidden in the binding of a manila folder. About to add it to the room’s collection.
Opposite sat Roy Adderley and his solicitor, Lesley Bracken. She looked professionally stoic, bored even. Adderley had the look of a man who had gone to hospital to have his bunions looked at only to be told he had something inoperable and terminal. He looked like he was about to melt into a pool of sweat. The closeness of the room amplified it, gave the atmosphere a rank edge.
‘Thank you for sparing the time to come and see us, Mr Adderley,’ said Phil, unable to keep the smile from his face.
‘My client wishes to state that, for the record, he came here voluntarily and of his own free will,’ said Lesley Bracken, the words said so often she could probably have recited them in her sleep.
‘And we’re very grateful,’ said Phil. ‘Saves us the trouble of doing this under caution. And this way nothing gets put on tape.’ He opened the folder in front of him, studied it. Or pretended to. He knew exactly what he was going to say, the approach to take. Before he could start, Bracken spoke again.
‘My client would also like it known that as a gesture of good will, and to demonstrate his innocence, he will not, at present, be pressing charges arising from your behaviour towards him yesterday, Detective Inspector Brennan.’
‘Kind of him,’ said Sperring, finding something on the wall fascinating.
‘Your client ran when we identified ourselves as police officers. That what innocent men do?’ Before she could say anything further, Phil continued. ‘But let’s get down to business.’
He stared at the words and pictures before him, playing a waiting game, making Adderley’s unease rise even higher.
Eventually he looked up, straight at the nondescript man before him. Didn’t look like a wife beater or a murderer. But then they very rarely did. ‘Not the first time you’ve been in here, is it, Roy?’ he said, face blank.
Adderley didn’t respond. Just gave his solicitor an imploring look.
Bracken jumped in. ‘Is that relevant?’
‘We’ll see when he answers the question,’ said Phil. He turned once again to Adderley. ‘Do you want to answer the question? Or shall I just tell you?’
‘That… that was different,’ said Adderley, voice small.
‘Not so different,’ said Phil. ‘Assault. Bodily harm.’
‘I was never charged,’ said Adderley. ‘It’s not relevant.’
Phil smiled. ‘That phrase,’ he said. ‘Never charged. Never proved. Not “I never did it”, not “I was innocent”. No. Just never charged. The refuge of the unproved guilty, that phrase. Well, you were charged. You were cautioned and no further action was taken. Your victims all withdrew their complaints.’
‘All women,’ said Sperring, before Bracken could raise an objection. ‘Your victims.’
Phil leaned forward. ‘Like hitting women, do you? Gives you a thrill, makes you feel big? Like a real man?’
Adderley looked down at the table, shook his head. There were things being said that even his solicitor couldn’t help him with.
‘You’ve got previous for violent attack as well, haven’t you?’ said Sperring. ‘Against men this time.’
‘Years ago,’ said Adderley. ‘All in the past.’
‘Yeah,’ said Sperring, looking down at the report in front of him. ‘Looks like you always came off second best, an’ all.’ He glanced up. ‘They used to hit you back, the other blokes? Hurt you too much?’
; ‘I…’ Adderley sighed. ‘That was years ago,’ he repeated. The words dried up and blew away as soon as they left his lips.
‘Right,’ said Phil. ‘So now you only hit women.’
‘That’s not fair,’ began Bracken.
‘You’re right,’ said Phil. ‘Not fair at all.’
‘I… I’m a different man now,’ said Adderley. ‘I… don’t do things like that any more. The Lord gives me strength now.’
‘The Lord?’ asked Phil.
‘God. I worship God now. He gives me strength.’
Phil looked at him, a mocking expression on his face.
‘Look,’ said Adderley, ‘I know I’ve had problems in the past. Trouble with my temper an’ that. But ever since I gave myself up to the Lord I’ve been a much better person. A much calmer one. At peace. Contented. I’ve put all that behind me.’ He looked at Phil. ‘You should try it.’
‘I’m not quite that desperate,’ said Phil. He opened the folder. ‘May I?’ Didn’t wait for a response. ‘Here’s a transcript of an interview with Gemma Adderley, your wife. This is from… let’s see. Two years ago. Nearly three. A complaint she made to the police about you. She gave her statement to a constable while she was in A and E. Remember? Or do they all blur into one after a while?’
Adderley dropped his gaze, bowed his head.
‘Here we go. He would hit me, she says. Like this time. He would get angry because I hadn’t done something right, or he’d come in from work and the table wasn’t set the way he wanted it or I’d made something for dinner he didn’t want. Something like that. Or Carly was making too much noise playing with her dolls. Then he’d get angry with me, start to shout. Prayers and stuff. Then he’d get the Bible down. This big old book, massive and heavy, really thick, and hit me with it. All over, my arms and legs, my body. Shouting all the time, bits from the Bible, prayers. Then my head. Sometimes I’d pass out. But this time it’s really bad. And he hit Carly this time. So I came down here. There’s a bit more, then she says: It was always the same. If I go back now he’ll be on his hands and knees praying for forgiveness, in tears. It always happens. Every time. And I go back to him because he promises to be better. But not this time.’ Phil looked up, put the paper down. ‘But she did, didn’t she? She did go back to you. Shame, really, because if she hadn’t, she would probably be alive now.’
