by A K Reynolds
CHAPTER SEVEN
The drive gave me time to reflect on things. Losing Sarina would be like losing a limb, and Tara’s death had made me feel as if I’d already lost one. I could only hope that whoever had abducted Sarina – if that’s what’d happened – hadn’t killed her. Sarina had been part of my life for less than a year, but during that time we’d become inseparable. As far as I was concerned, we were like two halves of a painting, and I felt as if I only made sense when I was put together with my other half. She was fond of telling our friends that she found me in the Marble Arch Inn, as if I’d been wandering around like a lost soul until she happened to come along. There was more than a grain of truth to her words. I’d always felt incomplete until I got together with Sarina. We met when I was at the bar, ordering a drink. I noticed her standing next to me. She twirled her hair with a finger, smiled, and said, ‘Hi, I hope you don’t mind me asking you this, but can I join you for a while? I’ve been stood up, and I’m on my own.’
When I heard those words and saw who’d said them, I felt as if I’d won the jackpot on a one-armed bandit in Vegas. Sarina was that special. Whoever had stood her up had to be insane. She had eyes like onyx, a cascade of black hair, and a smile of the purest mischief. Her cheekbones were the stuff of legend, her lips as luscious as sin. And her personality was dazzling.
‘Yes of course. Let me buy you a drink.’
When we sat down with my two friends at our table, it was clear she made as big an impact on them as she made on me. She spent the whole night with us, much of it talking to me about my interests. It turned out she liked all the things I did – the same jazz and blues artists, the same books and movies, the same foods, and even the same drinks. So we hit it off right away.
Within weeks, or maybe even days, she’d become my best friend and confidante. Only three months after we met, we got married. It just seemed the natural thing to do because we got on so well. It made perfect sense to commit to spending the rest of our lives together.
And now I was facing a future without her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The police pulled the BMW into a car park next to the modern six-storey glass-and-concrete building that was the Greater Manchester Police Headquarters on Northampton road. Once the car had drawn to a halt, Hammer and Trapp more-or-less frogmarched me through the entrance and took me into the bowels of the building, to an open area marked Custody. It was a ten-yard by ten-yard square of grey-painted misery with a chest-high desk at one side of it. The desk had a narrow beech top and dark blue fascia proudly emblazoned with the crest of the force. Behind the desk stood a man in uniform with a shining bald head wearing the cheerless facial expression that the police always seem to adopt when dealing with innocent members of the public like me.
‘This is Sergeant Doherty,’ Hammer said. ‘He’ll be looking after you from now on.’
Doherty put a plastic container resembling a Tupperware box in front of me on the desk-top and nodded at it. I put my mobile phone, house keys, and watch in it, noting that it was now 4.30 a.m., and turned my trouser pockets inside out to show them I didn’t have anything else on my person. He remained standing, while tapping away at a keyboard on a secondary worktop at a lower level than the one that was visible from my side of his desk.
‘Name please?’
For the next few minutes Sergeant Doherty busied himself taking my details while Hammer and Trapp got themselves a cup of coffee each from a vending machine in the corridor. They returned to the custody area and sat on a bile-green faux-leather sofa drinking their coffees with evident enjoyment.
‘What about me?’ I said, looking enviously in their direction. ‘I’m gagging for a drink.’
‘All in good time, Ms Finnegan.’
‘Open your mouth please,’ Doherty said.
This prompted me to stop looking at Hammer and turn towards Doherty. When I did, I saw he was holding a something that resembled, and may well have been, a cotton wool bud in his right hand. I opened my mouth and he took a swab from the inside of my cheek.
‘Thank you.’
He put the swab in a clear plastic specimen container then placed a sheet of paper and an ink pad on top of his desk.
‘Fingerprints now.’
I rolled my fingertips over the ink pad, and pressed them into the boxes on his sheet of paper.
‘Please give me your belt and shoelaces.’
I took them off and put them into the plastic container along with the rest of the things I’d already placed in it.
‘I’d like to get some legal representation,’ I said.
I could’ve represented myself given my background, but I wanted someone else there to take notes and make sure I didn’t get fitted up with anything. Anything else, that is. Moreover, as the saying goes, the lawyer who represents herself has a fool for a client, and I didn’t want to risk being a fool.
Doherty placed his cream coloured landline phone on top of the desk. Specialising in criminal law I had a pretty good idea who to call. I picked up the receiver and dialled the number. It rang four times and switched to an answering machine. Then I remembered the time and no law firm in Manchester would be open.
‘Just get me the duty solicitor,’ I said. Doherty nodded and made a note. ‘And tell someone to get in touch with my parents about what’s happened. They live in Spain.’
‘Time to show you to your accommodation,’ he said in response, eagerly taking a bunch of keys from a clip on his belt.
‘Make sure you get some people looking for my wife while you’re at it.’ I spoke loudly enough for Trapp and Hammer to hear. Neither of them paid any attention to my words, while Doherty nodded, looking for all the world like he didn’t give a fuck.
He emerged from behind his desk and led me to a brightly-lit grey corridor with a series of doors along one side of it. All the doors were made of a dull grey metal and were equipped with barred inspection panels six by six inches square at eye level. We stopped at the fifth door. Doherty stuck his key in the hole, turned it with a loud click, and pushed open the door. I hesitated until he placed his hand on the small of my back and pushed me forward in a manner that could’ve been calculated to irritate the hell out of me. Somehow I kept my temper and went inside, with only the clothes I stood up in for company. The door slammed behind me then, before he left, Doherty peered through the inspection panel. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘A get out of jail free card, or failing that a coffee, please.’
A grim smile split his face.
‘Please be patient. It might take some time.’
I believed him.
My new home had a floor area that was around ten by ten feet square. It had walls made of grey concrete blocks and was lit by a single bulkhead light glaring at me from the grey ceiling above. A small barred window was set high up in the far wall. The only item of furniture was a wooden bench projecting from a side wall. I sat on the bench. The smell of bleach, piss, and vomit assaulted my nostrils, which started itching. I don’t normally pick my nose, but the need to scratch the itch was irresistible, so I stuck my finger up my right nostril and encountered a boulder-sized chunk of congealed blood, which I removed, not without pain. I tried to get comfortable on the bench, a task which proved impossible.
It occurred to me my DNA test might link me to the death of one of the hoodies and the serious injuries of the other two. If that happened, I really would be sunk. I could only hope that when I’d run them over, I hadn’t got any of their blood, particles of skin, or anything else incriminating off their person.
As expected, Doherty took his time getting back to me with my coffee, so I glanced at my wrist to check how long, and was reminded that he’d taken my watch. I went to the cell door, my lace-less shoes annoyingly flipping and flopping from my feet as I walked, and stared through the inspection panel. I couldn’t see anything except the grey wall at the other side of the corridor, so I sat down. After a while I got up ag
ain and paced around until Doherty’s face appeared at the inspection panel.
‘Routine check, to make sure you’re all right.’
‘No, I’m not all right,’ I said firmly. ‘I want my solicitor. And I want something to drink, preferably a coffee, and I want it now. I’m dehydrated and my health is at risk.’
‘We can’t have that, can we?’ There was a sarcastic edge to his voice I didn’t much care for.
He returned five minutes later with a cardboard beaker containing a lukewarm liquid the colour of mud, which tasted worse.
I took a sip. ‘The contents of this cup are a fucking joke. How long will my solicitor be?’
CHAPTER NINE
Sometime later – I don’t know how long – Doherty returned to open the cell door.
‘This way,’ he said, leading me back along the grey corridor to the reception area and through a door marked Interview Rooms 1-8. The door opened onto a narrow corridor with further doors at either side of it, all of them numbered. He ushered me into the one marked Room 5. It was half again as big as the cell I’d been occupying, and was light and airy by comparison, which isn’t saying much. I had a choice of two crappy chairs to sit on, both of them made of plastic in a bilious green colour. They were positioned before a large table on top of which was a recording machine and a black telephone. Two more crappy chairs were positioned on the other side of the table.
‘Take a seat.’
Doherty left, and seconds later a small thin man entered, wearing a tweed suit. In his left hand he was carrying a brown leather case with a buckle-down flap. He had brown hair combed neatly in a side parting and black framed spectacles with lenses so thick they were probably bullet-proof. Five-o’clock shadow darkened the lower half of his face. When he saw me his full lips curved into the first genuine smile I’d seen since leaving my place of work the previous evening.
‘Ms Finnegan.’ He had a refined Scottish accent that was probably acquired in Edinburgh. ‘I’m Mackenzie Hogg, your solicitor.’
CHAPTER TEN
It felt like the relief of Mafeking.
‘Good to see you,’ I said. ‘Call me Jo. Let’s get started.’
He sat next to me and put a legal notepad on the table.
‘You can start by telling me what you’ve been up to for the last few hours.’
I gave Hogg a summary of recent events, carefully omitting the fact I’d killed someone and seriously injured two others. He made copious notes and looked at me through the unfeasibly thick lenses of his glasses. They made his eyes appear twice as big as they actually were.
‘I think we’re ready to do battle, Jo,’ he said.
Hogg picked up the telephone handpiece and dialled a number.
‘Hogg here, room 5. We’re ready now.’
A minute or two later, Hammer and Trapp walked in and sat on the other side of the table from us. Hammer had a folder of documents and a small box, both of which he placed on the table. Then he switched on the recording machine and made the usual speech about who was present, what the date and time was, etc., before fixing me with a cold stare. I noted that the corners of his mouth seemed to be turned down even more than usual.
‘What time did you get home yesterday, Ms Finnegan?’
‘3.40 a.m.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I opened the door, hung my jacket up, and went into the front room. That was when I saw Tara lying on the sofa, dead. I was about to call the police when you lot rolled up outside.’
Hammer reached into his box and pulled out a clear plastic bag containing my rubber gloves.
‘Are these yours, Ms Finnegan?’
‘Yes.’
‘The marks on Ms Tara Finnegan’s neck are consistent with being strangled by someone wearing gloves like these.’
I knew he couldn’t have got a forensics report that quickly.
‘You’re just guessing.’
‘What was your relationship with Ms Tara Finnegan?’
‘She was my sister.’
‘Yes, but what was your relationship with her like?’
‘It was good.’
‘Did you ever argue?’
‘We had our spats, like all siblings.’
‘Spats? Would you care to expand on that?’
‘What are you implying?’
‘I’m not implying anything, Ms Finnegan. But since you appear rather sensitive of the subject, did you two have any serious arguments?’
‘I’m not “sensitive of the subject” as you put it and we absolutely have not had any serious arguments.’
‘Serious enough to kill for?’
‘Have you listened to a word I’ve said? I’ve just told you we haven’t had any serious arguments.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m bloody sure.’
‘You can understand our difficulty with what you’re saying, Ms Finnegan. Murderers are seldom strangers. More often than not, the killer is a member of the victim’s family. Usually a close member such as yourself.’
‘That’s enough of that, Mr Hammer, move on,’ Hogg said, his thin face registering annoyance.
‘Did your sister keep any secrets from you?’
‘What’s that got to do with the price of fish?’
‘She might have had secrets serious enough to kill for.’
‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘People have motivations which baffle even experienced members of the police force like us. We have to keep an open mind and explore all possibilities, Ms Finnegan.’
‘That one’s a dead-end.’
‘Be that as it may, it’s an open line of enquiry for now.’
‘Look, by definition, if my sister kept secrets from me, I wouldn’t know about them, would I? So you can close that line of enquiry right here and now.’
Looking less than convinced by my responses, he pulled a plastic bag from his box. It contained my bottle of sleeping pills.
‘Are these yours, Ms Finnegan?’
‘Yes.’
‘There were no signs of a struggle in your house when we examined the crime scene. That makes it possible Ms Tara Finnegan was drugged before being strangled. I put it to you that you drugged her using these and then strangled her.’
‘No I didn’t. I categorically deny that allegation. Anyway, I wasn’t home long enough to have done that.’
‘This stuff works pretty quickly.’
‘Not that quickly.’
‘It does if you get a big whack of the stuff.’
I mentally calculated how long I’d been at home before the cops came, and whether it was theoretically possible for me to have killed Tara in the way he said during that time. The horrible answer had to be that it wasn’t, but they might be able to convince a jury I’d been home longer than I claimed. The fact my gloves might prove to have been instrumental in Tara’s death, and would contain large quantities of my DNA in them, was cause for more than a little concern. The time of death, once established, wouldn’t be a big help to me. Those matters are always fallible.
‘I disagree.’
‘You’re not a medical expert.’
‘Nor are you.’
‘I’ve consulted one. I might add you may not have had recourse to the sleeping pills. It may be that you simply overpowered your sister in order to strangle her, and you tidied up after yourself, explaining the fact there were no signs of a struggle.’
‘How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t do it.’
‘Are you sure about that, Ms Finnegan?’
‘That’s enough of that, Mr Hammer,’ Hogg said. ‘Your question has been answered. No need to repeat it.’
Hammer frowned.
‘Perhaps you and your sister had a falling out, Ms Finnegan. She was talking to you with the security chain on the door and she refused to let you in, because she was scared of what you might do. But you got in anyway, by smashing the do
or open with some form of implement. Once you were inside you overpowered your sister and strangled her to death.’
‘That’s absurd. If I did, why would I leave so many clues lying around?’
Hammer’s brown eyes focused on me and felt to be penetrating the very depths of my soul. I wondered if it was a trick he’d been taught at the police training college in Hendon.
‘In our line of work we often ask that same question, Ms Finnegan. We see that sort of thing all the time. It’s as if a certain type of criminal wants to be caught. You may be one of them.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Do you own a sledgehammer, Ms Finnegan?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes. The previous owner of the house I bought left one in the garage. All I’ve ever done with it is move it around when it’s got in the way.’
He reached under the desk and lifted up a particularly large plastic bag with my sledgehammer in it.
‘Look closely. Is this yours?’
‘I really can’t tell.’
‘We got it from your garage so it must be yours, mustn’t it?’
‘If you say so.’
‘It has traces of paint on the head that appear to match the paint on your front door. We’re having it tested by forensics to determine whether it is a match, and whether your fingerprints are on the handle. Do you have any comments to make at this point, Ms Finnegan?’
‘If it’s my sledgehammer, my fingerprints will be on it. That doesn’t mean I used it to break my own door down.’
