Dead Guilty

by Michelle Davies

  ‘Really?’

  Shah looked sheepish as he nodded. ‘I just have a very good memory. Always have had.’

  Paulson palmed two digestives off the plate and was still chewing the last one when he asked Maggie what she’d heard about former Chief Superintendent Patricia Pope. She tried to ignore the crumbs he sprayed in her direction as he spoke.

  ‘The same as you, I imagine.’

  Maggie didn’t want to admit she had stayed up late reading everything Google had to say about her.

  The two officers exchanged knowing looks.

  ‘Have you talked to Katinka yet?’

  ‘No, but the boss has filled me in.’

  In his email, Walker had explained that the previous FLO, DC Katinka Kasia, had been redeployed at Patricia’s request but would be happy to do a handover with Maggie. But, Walker wrote,

  I can tell you now what Katinka will say: Patricia Pope functions more from the viewpoint of a former chief superintendent than she does a grieving mother and she expects the Operation Pivot team and especially her FLO to respond accordingly. The problem you’ll have, which Katinka also had, is that she doesn’t rate family liaison – she thinks it’s a superficial specialism. So, be warned, she can be a bloody nuisance. Then again, ten years is a long time to not know why your daughter was brutally murdered and by whom. The husband’s lovely though. I get on well with him and Katinka did too.

  ‘It sounds like Mrs Pope is determined to find out who killed Katy and can be pretty strident about it,’ Maggie added.

  Paulson gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Strident is definitely one way of putting it.’

  ‘A fucking pain in the arse is another,’ said a voice from the doorway.

  Maggie spun round to see a shambolic-looking middle-aged man enter the room. His wiry grey hair needed a cut, a comb and a wash by the looks of it and the elbows, knees and thighs of his navy suit were shiny from over wear. His paisley-patterned tie was so wide it pretty much hid the shirt he was wearing, which was probably as well because Maggie could just make out a stain on the placket.

  He came across and shook her hand.

  ‘DCI Walker, pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘I hope these reprobates have been making you feel welcome.’

  ‘They have, sir.’

  ‘Forget that “sir” nonsense, Maggie. “Boss” will do fine.’

  He looked over to the refreshments, clearly harried.

  ‘Where are the chocolate biscuits?’

  ‘There aren’t any, boss,’ said Paulson.

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’

  The three of them exchanged bemused glances as he slopped coffee into a cup then stirred in four spoonfuls of sugar. Maggie wondered if he was always like this. Not the swearing, but the anxiety that was coming off him in waves. He was as taut as a violin string.

  ‘Sit down, sit down,’ he ordered them as he took a big slurp of his coffee then winced as it scalded the inside of his mouth.

  Maggie took a seat next to Shah, with Paulson on the other side, as Walker paced in front of them.

  ‘Is the Commissioner not joining us?’ asked Shah.

  ‘No, something more important came up. Which is bloody annoying because we’ve had a development I need to tell her about, which has come via Declan Morris of all people. He went round to see the Popes yesterday.’

  ‘Still trying to clear his name, I see,’ said Paulson with a wry grin. He turned to Maggie. ‘For a time our boy Declan was the local police’s primer sospechoso – prime suspect. This was despite Katy’s parents providing his alibi that he was on the beach with them when their daughter vanished. The inspector in charge of the investigation latched on to the theory that Declan had offed Katy to get his hands on some savings she had.’

  ‘Which was ridiculous, because for Declan to have got the money after her death, he would have had to be a beneficiary in her will,’ Walker interjected. ‘She was seventeen; there was no will.’

  Shah leaned forward in his chair. ‘I thought he and the Popes were estranged, boss?’

  ‘They were until yesterday. The reason ma’am has been on the phone making my ears bleed again is because Declan’s been sent an email by someone he thinks could be Katy’s killer.’

  Paulson swore and Shah’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Are you serious?’ asked Shah.

  ‘I’m serious that she made my bloody ears bleed. Ma’am wanted us straight round there to discuss a strategy –’ Walker pulled a face as he made quote marks in the air with his fingers – ‘but I said we’re busy preparing for the appeal and asked her to get Morris to forward the message on.’ He paused, pulled his phone out and checked his emails. ‘Nope, still not got it. I told her I didn’t need to read it in person with her watching.’

  ‘Why don’t I go round to see them after this briefing?’ suggested Maggie. ‘I should meet them before we fly out to Palma and this way she’ll feel like we’re taking it seriously.’

  Paulson chuckled as he side-eyed Shah. ‘Ma’am won’t be happy if the boss sends an underling.’

  ‘No, she won’t. But she’s never happy anyway, so where’s the harm in one more incidence of pissing her off?’ said Walker. He let out a long sigh. ‘The way she’s carrying on, we’re all going to need a bloody holiday after this trip.’

  11

  Crystal Palace was one of many areas of her new city that Maggie hadn’t yet got round to visiting, but she immediately warmed to the place as she walked along its neat high street lined with independent restaurants and shops. There was something village-like about it, not to mention it offered the most spectacular view. Maggie stood for a moment at the top of the sloping street where the Popes lived and marvelled at the sight before her. She could see almost the entire city, but her eye was drawn to the business district where the skyline was dominated by the shimmering Shard and supported either side by buildings she’d now come to recognize, including her personal favourite, 122 Leadenhall Street, known colloquially as the Cheesegrater.

  She walked down the street, searching door signs, until she found number thirty-one.

  The Victorian terrace house owned by the Popes rose impressively over three floors. Maggie was nervous as she walked up the chequered tile path to the doorway – Walker and Paulson’s comments about Patricia had left an impression and now she was worried she might not pass muster.

  It took ten seconds of meeting Patricia for Maggie’s fears to be founded. The woman took one look at her and went to shut the door.

  ‘I don’t like being pestered on my doorstep for donations. Go away.’

  ‘I’m not collecting for charity,’ said Maggie, cursing herself for not having her warrant card ready. ‘I’m DC Maggie Neville, your new family liaison officer. DCI Walker sent me. He thought we should meet before I join you in Saros and because of the email sent to Mr Morris. I’m here to see that you’re okay.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Maggie never knew one small word could convey so much disdain. Already it felt as though she’d got off on the wrong foot and it was going to take all her professional skills to avoid being kicked off the case in DC Kasia’s wake.

  ‘We’re still waiting for Mr Morris to forward the email to us, but perhaps you and I could discuss the content based on what he told you?’

  ‘I thought you were our FLO,’ said Patricia. ‘Why are you looking into the email?’

  Maggie had lost track of the number of times she’d had to explain to people that even though she was their family liaison, she was a detective first and foremost and expected to investigate, but she was surprised to have to explain that to a former high-ranking officer and wasn’t sure how to frame it without making it sound as though she was being critical. Fortunately for her, Patricia didn’t have the patience to wait for her response and said, ‘I suppose you’ll have to do. You’d better come in.’

  Maggie followed Patricia into a bright, airy hallway lined with the same tile pattern as the pathway. There was no time to take in more of her s
urroundings though as Patricia walked briskly through a doorway into the reception room and Maggie hurried to follow. Once inside, she only just managed to resist blurting out whoa in response to the décor: all four walls were painted the most vivid, headache-inducing shade of crimson she’d ever seen. This was not a room to relax in.

  ‘I shan’t offer you anything to drink because the sooner you get back to look into this email the better,’ said Patricia, although she did at least invite Maggie to sit down.

  In the flesh, Patricia resembled only a little of the stern-faced officer she was in her official Met photos, which Maggie had found online last night. The white-blonde hair severely scraped back into a chignon was now worn long and loose to the shoulders and there were far more grey streaks than highlights. But one thing hadn’t changed: her granite-like expression.

  Maggie got out her notebook and went straight to questioning her about the email. Patricia began describing the message in a perfunctory manner then stopped.

  ‘What is it, Mrs Pope?’

  ‘The second part of the email detailed a private medical matter of my daughter’s that I would rather not discuss with you. Suffice to say, Declan confirmed it as being true.’

  A few scenarios came to mind but Maggie decided not to push Patricia to pick one – she’d know soon enough when the email was forwarded to them. A good FLO knew when to back off if a relative was getting distressed during an interview; Patricia might be doing a stellar job of containing her upset, but it still filled the room.

  ‘How did the email finish?’ she asked.

  ‘He said he planned to return to Saros for the anniversary, which suggests he doesn’t live there. Make sure you tell Walker that,’ said Patricia, as if they were too stupid to deduce it themselves.

  ‘Did Mr Morris happen to mention the email address it was sent from?’

  For the first time Maggie saw Patricia’s veneer slip. Only by a fraction, but enough to make her think the woman was human after all.

  ‘I – I didn’t ask. I should’ve done, but I didn’t.’ High spots of colour appeared on Patricia’s cheeks.

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘I know it is,’ snapped the woman, the haughtiness quickly returning. ‘I can’t be expected to do your entire job for you.’

  Maggie ignored the dig and cleared her throat.

  ‘I know you are well aware of what a FLO does, so I won’t insult you by explaining what my role will be when we get to Saros. But if there’s anything you would specifically like me to do on your behalf, please ask.’

  ‘I’d like you to do your job and to know your place,’ said Patricia evenly. ‘The last girl managed neither. I am not your friend and neither is my husband or my son.’

  Bloody hell, she really is a prize bitch.

  ‘I understand. I would like to introduce myself though. Are either of them here?’

  ‘George, our son, left home years ago and even if he hadn’t he would be at work now. He’s a barrister,’ she said, with obvious pride. Then, less so: ‘My husband is in the garden.’

  Maggie waited for Patricia to get up but the woman sat impassively.

  ‘Is it okay for me to go out and say hello?’

  ‘You’ll meet him soon enough. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s gardening.’

  Maggie didn’t buy it for a second. Patricia didn’t want her to meet Philip because she was establishing her ground rules: she called the shots and Maggie was to deal with her, not her husband or anyone else.

  ‘Is that all?’ Patricia got to her feet.

  Maggie rose too. She steadied her nerves with a deep intake of breath. If she didn’t say this now, she would forever be on the back foot with Patricia and it would make her job impossible. She had to make her position clear, even though her heart was thumping wildly in her chest as she spoke.

  ‘Mrs Pope, I take my job as your FLO very seriously. I want to do what I can to support you and your family during the trip and the memorial service and to assist DCI Walker in making sure the press conference achieves its aim of bringing forward new witnesses and fresh evidence in your daughter’s case. To do that, I need to have a good working relationship with you and your husband so we can discuss what needs to be done.’

  Patricia stared at her but said nothing, which Maggie took as a sign to continue.

  ‘I don’t know what your feelings are about family liaison but I am as focused on the investigation as I am the relatives I’m assigned to. Please don’t mistake me for someone who simply doles out tea and sympathy.’

  The final line was in reference to the out-dated reputation family liaison used to have.

  She held her breath as she waited for Patricia to respond. After what was only seconds but felt like hours, she finally did.

  ‘Every officer should be passionate about the job they do,’ she said.

  Well, it wasn’t exactly an endorsement but it wasn’t censure either, thought Maggie, as she followed Patricia back into the hallway to the front door.

  ‘Thank you for your time,’ she said politely, shaking Patricia’s hand.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Patricia. Then she shut the door without another word.

  12

  Friday

  Philip quailed in the blast of his wife’s anger, which she was articulating loudly enough that people were turning to stare at them.

  ‘I simply don’t understand it,’ Patricia was saying. ‘Why are there so few of them here?’

  ‘I don’t know, darling. Perhaps something more important has come up. You know how the news cycle works these days, it changes so quickly.’

  Instantly he knew he’d said the wrong thing.

  ‘What do you know about the press?’ She couldn’t have been more dismissive if she’d tried.

  ‘Dad’s right though,’ George chipped in. ‘You did all you could to get as many journalists as possible here, but something else must’ve got their attention so let’s make the most of the ones who are, eh?’

  With a wink at Philip, George steered his mum towards the small group of reporters waiting by the entrance to Gatwick’s North Terminal. The group was made up of a lone reporter from the Press Association, who said he’d be sending his copy to all the nationals and snapped pictures of the family on his phone, a stringer for the Evening Standard and a crew from ITV’s London Tonight news programme who couldn’t say for certain that the footage would run.

  Philip was grateful to his son for the intervention. If anyone could placate Patricia, it was George. He was as unflappable as she was, but had a natural charm his mother sorely lacked. While she rubbed everyone up the wrong way, George would having them eating out of his palm.

  He gripped the handle of the luggage trolley bearing their cases as he watched the two people he loved more than anything in the world tell the press why they wouldn’t rest until Katy’s killer was found. A curly blond forelock flopped across George’s forehead as he spoke and not for the first time Philip’s mind registered how dissimilar they were in looks as well as temperament: his son was as golden as he was dark. As though sensing his father watching him, George glanced over his shoulder and flashed Philip a smile of reassurance. We’ll get through this, Dad, I promise. It was the same promise he’d been making for the past ten years.

  ‘Mr Pope?’

  The unexpected interruption made him jump. He looked round to see a smartly dressed young woman standing beside him. She had dark-blonde hair and striking green-blue eyes, and she was holding a warrant card.

  ‘I’m sorry to startle you. I wanted to introduce myself: I’m DC Maggie Neville, your new family liaison officer.’ She offered him a handshake to go with her smile. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’

  This must be Katinka’s replacement, thought Philip. He had been sorry to see her go and certainly didn’t think her ‘crime’ warranted it, although he had yet to confess to Patricia that it was he who suggested she take her shoes and socks off while they were sitting in the garden chatting. He’d
read somewhere that you absorb Vitamin D best through your feet because the skin is thinner there, and thought the officer could probably do with a top-up after being cooped up in an office all day. If he’d known Patricia would take such umbrage at seeing the young woman’s toes he’d never have suggested it.

  He returned Maggie’s handshake.

  ‘It’s nice to make your acquaintance. I was very sorry to have missed you when you came round the other day.’

  ‘Likewise. Hopefully there will be more opportunity to chat while we’re in Saros.’

  Philip felt his mood plunge at the mention of their destination. His hatred of the place had worsened the closer their departure. It was like this every year, but still Patricia insisted they make the pilgrimage. She said she felt closer to Katy in Saros, which Philip found baffling. For him it was at home, in the rooms she’d eaten, slept and sat in, in the hallway she’d walked through, on the stairs she’d climbed every day. He didn’t understand how his wife could most keenly feel Katy’s presence in the place where she was murdered.

  His anguish must’ve shown in his expression, because Maggie asked if he was okay, her own face a picture of concern. He nodded and tried to brighten his tone.

  ‘Philip, please. We ought to be on first-name terms, don’t you think?’

  ‘That’s entirely up to you. I think your wife would prefer a more formal address though,’ said Maggie.

  She had a twinkle in her eye that Philip liked.

  ‘Call her whatever she wants, but I’m Philip,’ he said firmly.

  ‘I’m sure you’re already familiar with what my job involves because of DC Kasia, but if you have any questions, please do ask.’

  ‘I have one,’ a voice suddenly boomed behind them.

  It was George, his interview wrapped. Philip glanced over to see that Patricia was still going. Onlookers surrounded her and the journalists now, clucking sympathetically as it dawned on them who she was and why she was at the airport. He looked away, unable to bear the sorrow their faces were projecting. He carried too much inside him to dwell on theirs.