‘Yeah.’
‘Right.’ Turnbull nodded, pretended to be thinking. ‘Like the photos you took. They were good. Well framed. Good composition.’
Nell rolled his eyes. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem. Don’t know that the women in them were that pleased. Looked in pain to me.’
‘They were models. Just prostitutes I picked up. They were paid to do that. To look like that.’ A note of desperation was creeping into Nell’s voice. Turnbull pounced on it.
‘Were they? Did you ever photograph Ashley like that? Did you get her to pose for you?’
‘No.’
‘Did you try to? Did you want to?’
Nell was breathing heavily, nostrils flaring.
‘Did you?’
Nell looked towards Janine Stewart, who opened her mouth. ‘This isn’t necessary.’
‘Answer the question, please, Mr Nell.’ Nattrass kept her eyes on Nell, unblinking, ignoring Stewart.
Nell gave a curt shake of his head.
‘For the tape, Mr Nell is shaking his head,’ said Turnbull. He unfolded his arms, his stare hardening. ‘You like a bit of violence, eh, Michael? Specially against women, yeah?’
‘Not especially. Just in general.’
‘So let’s see if I’m right. You went to that club. In Amsterdam. I don’t know, maybe others. But it turned you on. Something in you … responded. Yeah?’
Nell said nothing. Turnbull continued.
‘So you came back over here, on fire. Wanting to try everything you’d seen. So you had a word with Ashley. And she wasn’t up for it, was she?’
Nell flinched.
‘She didn’t want anything to do with your plans. So you got some models.’
Turnbull produced several plastic wallets, each containing one of Nell’s photographs. He spread them out on the table in front of Nell. Women, half-undressed, their faces and bodies battered and bruised. The nasty end of bondage. Turnbull flashed on the photo of Ashley he carried, lifting her drink, smiling.
‘For the tape,’ said Nattrass, ‘DS Turnbull is showing Mr Nell photographs.’
‘These are yours, yes?’
‘Yeah,’ said Nell.
‘And they’re models.’
‘Yeah.’
Turnbull leaned forward, elbows on the edge of the photos. ‘But you get bored with models, don’t you? You have to pay them? Find ones who are willing, then pay them? I’m guessing the more you want to do to them, the more you have to pay, is that right?’
Nell said nothing.
‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah.’ Nell’s voice was shrinking.
‘Booking a studio. Doing it properly. All costs money, doesn’t it?’
Nell blinked, said nothing.
‘So you thought you’d try something nearer to home. Someone you didn’t have to pay.’ Turnbull sat back. Folded his arms. ‘And there she is. Ashley.’
A flicker of defiance passed through Nell’s eyes, a sneer played at the corners of his lips. Turnbull noticed it, fed on it, pushed ahead.
‘But she wasn’t up for it, was she? Didn’t like the rough stuff. And that made you angry. So whether she liked it or not, she was going to get some. Maybe you didn’t mean to at first. Just a couple of slaps, soften her up. But you went too far, didn’t you? Eh? Didn’t you?’
Anger and fear had hardened Nell’s arrogant carapace. ‘I didn’t do it.’ He was trying to remain stolid, but a frail tone had entered Nell’s voice.
Turnbull sighed, stared at him. ‘So you didn’t. So you say. Well, let’s assume that you’ve admitted it. Let’s look at it further down the line. When you get inside, Mick, when you’re doin’ life for this, they won’t think you’re bein’ transgressive. The other cons.’ Turnbull leaned forward, warming to his theme. ‘No, they’ll think you’re a coward. Because you pick on women. In fact, you’ll probably have to go on the VP wing. Know what that stands for? No? Vulnerable prisoners. The nonces. The rapists. The ones too scared to pick on other men. Only women. Or children. And they’ll be your best friends. For the next twenty years. Plenty of time to tell them about bein’ transgressive.’
Nell’s lower lip began to waver. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. Turnbull leaned further forward, his voice even smaller.
‘Want to tell me about it, Mick? Eh? Make it easier. See what we can sort out for you.’
Nell opened his mouth, his lips twisting as he tried to form the words. Turnbull stared at him, unblinking. Next to him Nattrass sat likewise.
‘I …’ Nell steepled his fingers, twisted them together into the shape of a spired church. Tore it down again. ‘I didn’t do it …’
He began to sob.
‘I didn’t …’
Turnbull sat back, sighed. Looked at Nattrass. She gave a quick nod to Turnbull, the resignation obvious. Turnbull returned the nod.
‘Interview suspended at sixteen hundred hours,’ Nattrass said and stood.
Michael Nell kept his eyes on the table, didn’t look up.
‘You’ve got nothing … You’ve got to let me go.’ He sighed between sobs. ‘I didn’t do it …’
‘Just sit tight,’ said Turnbull, joining Nattrass in rising. ‘We’ll be back soon.’
‘Can I have a word outside?’
Nattrass and Turnbull turned. Janine Stewart had stood up also and was hastily stuffing papers into her briefcase.
‘In a minute,’ said Nattrass. ‘I think you should have a word with your client first.’ She turned and left.
The corridor smelled of cleaning solutions, stale air, the faint whiff of fried food from the canteen. The usual corridor smells of an institutional building. Compared with the tense, sweaty and fear-choked atmosphere in the interview room it was positively a lush glade in springtime.
DS Shaw came to join them. Small, intense. His wire-framed glasses catching the light. ‘Good work,’ he said.
‘I nearly had him,’ said Turnbull, holding up his thumb and forefinger. ‘I was that close.’
‘He’s a tough one,’ said Shaw.
Nattrass yawned.
‘Know how you feel,’ said Turnbull. ‘Eighteen hours we’ve been on this now.’
‘Then time for a rest.’
All three turned. They hadn’t heard DCI Bob Fenton approach.
‘I was listening,’ Fenton said. ‘Good work. But he won’t crack.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Look, it’s nearly half-four. Why don’t you two knock off now, get some rest?’
‘What about Nell?’ asked Nattrass.
‘I’m sure a night in the cells will do him a power of good,’ Fenton said. ‘You can have another crack at him tomorrow. See if we can get a confession before his twenty-four hours are up.’
The interview room door opened. Out stepped Janine Stewart. When Nell had made his phone call earlier, one of Newcastle’s most high-profile and well-respected criminal solicitors had arrived. Nattrass and Turnbull had dealt with her before and they had both respected her. The respect was mutual. But they also had their jobs to do.
Turnbull unconsciously straightened his tie. Nattrass suppressed a smile. Janine Stewart, with her expensive accent, her Bristol university law degree and her unshowy way with designer labels, was way out of Paul Turnbull’s league. But it was fun to watch him try.
‘Ah, Janine,’ said Fenton. ‘Good. Just to let you know, your client won’t be called on any more today. But we’re holding him overnight.’
‘I see. On what grounds?’
‘Circumstantial evidence. We’ll be applying for a search warrant. That should take place overnight.’
‘I strongly object.’
‘I’m sure you do. But that’s that.’ Fenton turned to Turnbull and Nattrass. ‘If you’d like to go and break the good news?’
He pointed to the interview room. Nattrass, Turnbull and Stewart trooped back inside.
Diane Nattrass entered first, sat down opposite Mick Nell. Paul Turnbull and Janine Stewart resumed their
previous positions. Nell looked up.
‘So that’s it, then?’ he said to Stewart. ‘You’ve waved your wand, made your deal. I can go, yeah?’
‘Not exactly,’ replied Stewart, her voice demonstrating that what was about to follow wasn’t her idea.
Nell looked around, fear rising in his eyes again. ‘What …?’
‘We’re holding you for another twenty-four hours,’ said Nattrass, looking straight at him, ‘during which time you’ll be kept overnight here in the cells and we’ll be applying for a search warrant and going through your flat.’
Nell stared at her. His mouth fell open.
‘You can’t do that.’ He looked at Stewart, imploring her to do something. ‘Tell them they can’t do that.’
‘I’m afraid they can, Michael.’
‘Whose fucking side are you on?’ Nell looked between the three of them. All previous poise and attitude now disappearing from his body like air from a party balloon. ‘No …’
‘Unless there’s anything you’d like to tell us?’ said Turnbull.
Nell shook his head, eyes downcast. ‘Can’t tell you anything, can I? I didn’t do it.’ He looked at Stewart, almost wailing like a lost child. ‘Tell them I didn’t do it …’
It seemed like a snake had wormed its way inside Nell’s body. Try as he might, no matter how much he shifted, he couldn’t seem to get rid of it.
Paul Turnbull watched the young man squirm and tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress a smile. He wasn’t touched by his pleas. It wasn’t a victory, but that would be only a matter of time. He would forestall the celebrations until then.
*
Michael Nell sat in the cell, darkness and shadows all around him.
He stared up at the window. Nothing but night and reflected streetlighting came through the glass bricks, the overhead cell lighting having been turned off. He checked his watch. Two hours ago.
Two hours. Time was dragging slower than an old cart with a broken wheel.
He sat hunched on the hard unyielding bed, pulled his legs into his body, rested his chin on his knees. Sighed.
He had tried to tough it out, shouting at the door after the uniformed officer had slammed it behind him, telling him what was going to happen when he got out, what his father would do, what he himself would do. Other inhabitants along the row, voices blurred with alcohol and implied violence, had informed him what they would do to him if he didn’t shut up. That had soon quietened him down. He had paced the cell, read the graffiti on the walls, wondered who the writers were and where they were now, and, gradually, calmed down.
As the day had darkened, so had his spirits. When it finally turned to night, his thoughts and emotions became correspondingly blacker. And when the lights were eventually extinguished, he had begun to feel colder and lonelier than he had ever felt.
The tears had come then, self-pityingly squeezed from the corners of his eyes and down his cheeks, his body racked with sobs. Alone. No bravado, no longer able to hide behind the wall of sophisticated outsiderdom he had cultivated for himself. This wasn’t getting locked up for a few hours for being drunk and disorderly. This wasn’t being pepper-sprayed for giving a copper lip, stumbling out of a club in the early hours of a Saturday morning. This was serious. This, unless something happened quickly, could mean life.
Innocence had nothing to do with it. Those coppers had it in for him. And if they wanted to, they would get him.
He knew that.
He remembered his father’s words the last time he had been in trouble:
‘You’re on your own next time, boy. I’ve had enough. About time you stood on your own two feet. Made something of yourself. You do this again, you get yourself out of it. See how you like it then.’
There then followed the usual list of Michael’s shortcomings and failures. Michael had sat, around the dining table, listening, not daring to speak, knowing that age hadn’t diminished his father’s vicious right hand.
He had taken the latest character assassination, nodded, and kept on eating. All the while ignoring his stepmother’s half-smile at his discomfort. His stepmother. How could he call her that? His father’s vacuous, blonde, trophy second wife. Her real title.
But he had said nothing. Just sat there. Waiting for the handout that came at the end of the meal; the latest guilt offering from his father. Given, and taken, with extreme embarrassment.
And now here he was again. And this time he was really alone.
Mick Nell sat in the cell, darkness and shadows all around him. And cried.
Not for Ashley. For himself.
A clanging sound following by a heaving one. The cell door opened. Michael Nell opened his eyes. He jumped up when he saw who it was.
Janine Stewart, being led in by a uniformed officer.
He got up off his bunk, crossed the floor to her.
‘Is that it?’ he said, hope rising desperately within. ‘Can I go now?’
Stewart gave him an understanding smile. ‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’
Hope was extinguished within him, quicker than a candle in a force-nine gale. He physically slumped as if he had been hit.
‘This is a legal visit,’ she said. ‘We’re going to talk.’
Nell sighed, said nothing. Then: ‘I’ve said enough.’
‘Michael, look at me.’ She placed her hand on his chin, turned his face to look at her. Her eyes were hard, businesslike. ‘You’ve messed the police around, messed your father around and now you’re messing me around.’ She spoke as if he was a naughty child needing admonishment. ‘And this won’t do.’
Nell said nothing.
‘Right now they’re arranging for a special magistrates’ court hearing for tomorrow morning. I’ll apply for bail, but it’s going to be turned down. After that you’ll be remanded in custody while the police tear your flat and your life apart. Now if you want me to get you out of this place you have to cooperate. You have to talk. Got that?’
She waited. Nell eventually nodded.
‘Good. Now this gentleman is going to close the door and leave me alone with you in here. And when I’m ready I’ll knock on the door to be let out. How long I spend in here depends on you. And what you tell me. If you’re not cooperating, I’m knocking on that door. Are we clear?’
Nell nodded again.
‘Very well.’ She nodded at the uniform, who turned and left the cell, closing the door behind him. ‘Right, Michael. Start talking. And don’t fuck me around.’
Nell blinked, startled to hear her swear. She returned his gaze, unblinking.
He started to talk.
10
Joe Donovan sat back in the chair, tried to look relaxed, knowledgeable, in command. With his brown-leather jacket creaking and squeaking against the leather upholstery every time he moved, it was difficult.
Janine Stewart sat behind her desk in a large glass-walled cubicle of an office in her law firm. The office, and the whole floor of the building belonging to the firm, was bright and airy, the design minimalist and geometric, corners of desks and shelves sharp enough to draw blood. Walking through, Donovan felt that the firm exuded simplicity and confidence. And money. He looked around the office. No family pictures, nothing of sentimental value. Just a few law books on the shelves, and even these seemed to have been chosen for their colour coordination rather than their relevance. The computer on the desk, like the desk itself, was slim and efficient. Like Janine Stewart, too, thought Donovan.
Stewart was reading an open file on her desk, aware that Donovan was waiting. Her blouse light turquoise, artfully crumpled and ruched silk, her skirt and jacket crushed, iridescent dark satin, she looked every inch the poster girl for the legal profession.
He knew of her by reputation. Ambitious, hard-working and quite brilliant at her job. On her way to becoming a big hitter. Out of deference, he hadn’t worn his Green Lantern T-shirt.
She looked up, smiled. It was meant to contain warmth and friendliness to dazzle the recipient, but Dono
van had dealt with solicitors before. It held all the long-lasting promise of a pre-performance lapdancer asking for money.
Not to seem impolite, Donovan returned the smile.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Just checking where we are.’ She gave him her full attention, turning up the wattage of her electric-blue eyes.
Contacts, thought Donovan. Got to be.
‘What has Francis Sharkey told you?’ she said. ‘Has he brought you up to speed?’
‘Not really,’ said Donovan. ‘I just got a phone call from him last night telling me I had an appointment with you today. Here I am. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’
Sharkey had also told Donovan that there would be big money involved, but that was something he could only mention later. Donovan had argued that he didn’t want to go; he had no time. Katya had spent her second night at his house, the case involving her not moving fast enough. Donovan also wanted professional help for the woman. Counselling, health checks. Nothing had been forthcoming as yet. But, as Sharkey had reminded him, he wasn’t in a position to turn down work.
‘I understand you’re an—’ Stewart referred to her notes ‘—an information broker.’
Donovan nodded.
‘What does that mean, exactly?’
‘I find things out. Either as part of a team or as an individual.’
Stewart nodded. ‘I see. Like a private detective.’
‘Not exactly,’ said Donovan.
‘What’s the difference?’
‘That conjures up images of fat, greasy, corrupt ex-coppers with heart conditions turning blind eyes to villains to pay off their CSA debts or their ex-wives.’
A look of amusement crossed Stewart’s face. ‘Really?’
‘That’s the British type.’
‘Are there any others?’
‘The American one. The private eye.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘An unworkable stereotype in this country.’
‘I see.’ She gave a small laugh.
‘So I’m an information broker.’
‘Good.’ Stewart leaned forward in her seat. ‘Well, my usual … information broker, private detective, call him what you will, is indisposed at the moment.’
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