by Cara Hunter
Denise Webb frowns. ‘She’s not at the Blakes’?’
‘No. We did call Mrs Blake, but she said she hadn’t seen her.’
‘I suppose she must be here then,’ she says. ‘You’d better come in.’
‘You haven’t seen her today?’
The woman shrugs. ‘You know what teenagers are like – if you see them at mealtimes you’re doing well.’
They follow her into the hall and through to the kitchen. The house has a slightly echoey quality to it, as if it’s not fully furnished, not quite lived in. It feels like a show home, and the studiously monotonous colour schemes aren’t helping.
‘Have you been here long?’ asks Somer.
‘A couple of years. Since my husband left.’
Somer bites her lip; this job is strewn with bear traps. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Life goes on,’ she says. ‘You don’t have any choice. Not if you have kids.’
‘Patsie has brothers and sisters?’
‘Just a brother. Ollie. He’s at college in Cardiff. Engineering.’
Everett looks around. ‘It’s a big house for just the two of you.’
She shrugs. ‘My boyfriend’s here on and off. But Patsie spends more time at her friends’ than she does here.’
There was a quick bitterness in her voice, but then it’s gone just as fast and she shrugs again. ‘Like I said, life goes on. Her room’s upstairs. You can’t miss it.’
The staircase is carpeted in thick taupe-brown shagpile that seems to swallow their feet. The curious sense of muffledness grows even stronger as they make their way soundlessly up the steps, past pictures that are an odd mix of Ikea and Victorian kitsch. Somer frowns. She can’t get a handle on this place at all. With her expensive blonde highlights and Boden top, Denise Webb looks full-on yummy mummy, but when she turned away Somer could see the coils of a snake tattoo creeping up from under her sweater and across the back of her neck.
At the top of the stairs she stops and looks round, but Ev is already touching her arm and pointing. The door to the room on the left is half open. It’s obviously the master suite, given the size of it. The bed is made, but there are clothes strewn across it. Male clothes. But again, not the ones Somer might have expected. No suits or shirts, but T-shirts, heavy-duty jeans, a tool belt. And on the floor, a pair of steel-capped work boots.
‘Maybe it isn’t a coincidence that Patsie’s suddenly spending a lot of her time somewhere else,’ says Ev in a low tone.
They exchange a glance.
‘Remind me, will you,’ says Somer softly, ‘to check where this bloke was the night Sasha disappeared.’
Ev’s eyes widen. ‘You don’t think –’
‘No, I don’t. I just want to cover all the bases, that’s all. We don’t want anything coming back to haunt us, just because we couldn’t be bothered to do a couple of routine checks.’
She doesn’t mention Fawley’s name. She doesn’t have to.
On the other side of the landing, there’s the door to what must be Patsie’s room. There’s a bead curtain hanging from the lintel, and the strings are tinkling slightly in the draught of their arrival.
‘Takes me back,’ says Ev. ‘My gran had one of those. I didn’t think you could still get them.’
Somer takes a step closer and reaches for one of the strings. The beads are pink, silver, blue; glittery, iridescent. And heavy. Much heavier than she’d expected.
‘These must make a hell of a racket when you open the door,’ she says.
Ev joins her. ‘Perhaps that’s the point,’ she says in a low voice. ‘There’s no lock.’
Neither of them likes where this is going, but they can’t afford to jump to conclusions. Somer raises a hand and knocks. ‘Patsie? It’s DC Somer, can we come in?’ There’s the sound of footsteps and a moment later the door opens. Patsie is barefoot, in denim shorts and a black Ariana Grande T-shirt. She has a bruised look around the eyes.
‘What do you want?’
‘We’ve just got some new information. Something we weren’t expecting. I know it’s boring but it means we have to ask you some more questions.’
Patsie’s eyes narrow. ‘It’s about that creep Scott, isn’t it?’
‘I’m sorry, Patsie, but we’re not allowed to talk about it here. We need to take you back with us to St Aldate’s, so we can record the interview.’
Patsie rolls her eyes. ‘Seriously?’
‘I’m sorry. We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’
She sighs. ‘Yeah, yeah. I get it. But you’ve got to promise me you’ll actually nail that creep, OK?’
* * *
Interview with Patsie Webb, conducted at St Aldate’s Police Station, Oxford
9 April 2018, 4.45 p.m.
In attendance, DC V. Everett, DC E. Somer, Mrs D. Webb (mother)
ES: So, Patsie, we’re hoping you can help us by answering a few more questions.
PW: I’ve told you everything I remember already.
ES: This is about something that happened before Sasha died. The morning of Saturday 17th March.
PW: I don’t get it – what’s that got to do with it?
ES: The incident involves Mr Scott, your art teacher.
PW: Oh right. That perv. I thought you said you arrested him?
VE: We did. Which is all down to you, incidentally – to the information you gave us.
PW: He deserves it, the bloody weirdo.
DW: Actually, I think you should be grateful to my daughter for all the help she’s given you.
VE: Oh, we are, Mrs Webb. In fact, Graeme Scott has been here answering questions today.
PW: He’s here? Like, now?
VE: There’s no need to be alarmed. He can’t talk to you.
ES: So, can we talk about that Saturday morning, Patsie? Do you remember where you were?
PW: [shrugs]
Not really. It’s ages ago.
ES: Only a couple of weeks, surely? And if I said it was on Walton Street, would that jog your memory? Isabel’s mother met her at the coffee shop that day – do you remember that?
PW: OK. Right. Yeah, I remember.
ES: There was a woman with a bike there too, and we’re pretty sure she saw something. Something she found disturbing. Shocking, even. But we haven’t been able to talk to her. In fact, it may be impossible to trace her at all.
PW: Well, I didn’t see anything, so –
ES: But someone else did. Your teacher – Mr Scott. He was there that morning. He saw you – all four of you.
PW: [silence]
ES: Do you know what he told us, Patsie?
PW: What’s that creep been saying? The fucking perv –
DW: Patsie, there’s no need for that sort of language.
PW: [getting to her feet]
I’ve had enough of this crap. I’m going home.
VE: Sit down, please, Patsie. I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere.
ES: [to Mrs Webb]
It seems Patsie doesn’t want to tell you, Mrs Webb, so I will. Mr Scott saw the four girls – your daughter, Sasha Blake, Isabel Parker and Leah Waddell. They were walking up Walton Street from town and stopped at the junction of Great Clarendon Street where they talked for a moment. Then they all hugged each other and Sasha left the rest and crossed the road towards the Blavatnik centre.
DW: So? What’s wrong with that?
ES: According to Mr Scott, as soon as Sasha turned her back on her friends, Patsie lifted her hand and mimed a gesture. And the other girls laughed. But Patsie wasn’t laughing – Patsie was deadly serious. That’s why it stuck in his mind – it wasn’t just what she did, but the look on her face as she did it. He said it made his blood run cold.
DW: I still don’t get it –
ES: She mimed a gun, Mrs Webb. Shooting a gun. Your daughter play-acted killing her friend. And now that friend is dead.
DW: And that’s the reason you dragged us in here? For that? They were just play-acting. Even you admitted th
at. They’re kids, for God’s sake. You know what it’s like with teenagers, on one day, off the next –
ES: I do know what it’s like, Mrs Webb. And I also know how intense things can be at that age. Small disagreements, imagined slights – how quickly they can escalate.
DW: Sasha Blake was Patsie’s best friend. They spent all hours God sends together – they’ve known each other since playgroup. Have you any idea how terrible this whole thing has been?
VE: I’m sure it has, Mrs Webb. And most especially for Sasha’s mother.
ES: Is your mum right, Patsie? Were you best friends with Sasha?
PW: Of course I was –
ES: Because I’ve never pretended to kill one of my friends. Even in jest.
PW: It was just a joke – how many more times – it was just a joke – we did stuff like that all the time.
ES: Was that what happened, Patsie? Did that start as ‘stuff like that’ too?
PW: [looking from one officer to the other]
Did what start? What are you talking about?
ES: I’m talking about the night Sasha died. Was that just supposed to be another of your little ‘jokes’, only everything got way out of hand?
PW: What the fuck? Are you actually saying I killed Sasha? Like, seriously? Why would I even do that?
ES: I don’t know, Patsie – you tell me. Did you have an argument? Or was it envy? That work placement she got at Vogue? The way she looked? Or just that she was clearly a lot more popular than you?
PW: You’re fucking sick – you know that? Sick.
DW: This is outrageous – how dare you –
ES: Do you remember that reconstruction they did at the bus stop, Patsie? One of our colleagues saw a news report about that on the TV. It was in the John Radcliffe hospital so it was on mute. And you know what that’s like – when the sound’s turned down you focus more on the pictures. You notice more. He saw you and Leah talking to each other. It was when they were interviewing Sasha’s father. But you were in the background. You were talking to Leah and she was looking very upset. Do you remember that, Patsie?
PW: So? Why shouldn’t I talk to Leah? What’s wrong with that?
ES: I suppose that rather depends on what you were saying.
PW: And anyway, we were miles from the cameras. No way anyone could’ve heard.
ES: Right. That’s what our colleague said, too.
PW: Well then, what’s your bloody problem.
ES: But then he had an idea. He’s done some outreach work recently with the local Deaf Club, so he took the footage over there and showed it to an expert in lip-reading. And she was in no doubt at all.
DW: What are you talking about? Patsie – what are they talking about?
ES: [passing across a sheet of paper]
It’s all here, Mrs Webb. But the relevant part is highlighted halfway down. Leah is talking to your daughter – she’s clearly in some distress but you can’t see what she’s saying because she has her back to the camera. But Patsie doesn’t. Patsie can be seen quite clearly. She grabs hold of Leah’s arm and says, ‘How many more times – it’ll all be fine as long as you keep your fucking mouth shut.’
PW: [getting to her feet and moving towards the door]
I’m out of here.
VE: [following and attempting to prevent her]
You can’t do that, Patsie –
PW: [pushing her away]
Don’t you fucking touch me, you ugly bitch –
ES: Don’t be stupid, Patsie – this isn’t going to help –
PW: [yelling and hitting out at DC Everett]
I said get your fucking hands off me –
ES: Patsie Belinda Webb, I am arresting you on suspicion of involvement in the death of Sasha Blake. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Interview suspended at 17.06.
* * *
* * *
Adam Fawley
9 April 2018
17.18
‘I’m not saying you’re wrong, Adam,’ says Gallagher. ‘I just can’t get the timings to work.’
We’re standing in front of the whiteboard, in the incident room, looking at a map and a timeline scrawled in Gislingham’s untidy capital letters.
And it’s all there, in black and white. The bus ticket, the driver, the neighbour, the mother. Things we can’t get round. Things we know are true. And from the moment the girls leave Summertown the whole sequence is barely half an hour from start to end.
‘However much I contort it,’ says Gallagher, ‘there isn’t enough time. The CPS will never run with this – they’d get torn to shreds.’
She’s not wrong. I can hear the defence lawyer now, telling us we’ve got it all wrong – that it must have been a random predator, some pervert who happened to pass Sasha at the bus stop. Or someone else who knew her – someone who could have been stalking her. Like Graeme bloody Scott, for instance.
‘But we know Patsie was involved somehow.’ I turn fully and look at her. ‘Don’t we? Or am I on my own on this?’
Gallagher shakes her head. ‘No, I think you’re right – not just because of what the lip-reader said but the way she reacted just now. I just don’t see how we square the circle on how.’ She sighs. ‘And as for why –’
I turn back to the map and then the timeline. ‘OK, let’s start with what we know. The bus arrived at 9.43, Patsie, Isabel and Sasha got on and Leah started to walk home.’
She nods. ‘Which is supported both by Isabel’s bus ticket and what we got from Leah’s mother.’
‘Right. But we only have that one ticket, don’t we? What if Isabel got on that bus alone? What if Patsie went off with Sasha much earlier than that – even as early as 9.00 – and Leah and Isabel then hung around on their own for half an hour or so before going home?’
Gallagher’s eyes widen. ‘You mean they did it deliberately? To create a fake timeline?’ She gives a low whistle. ‘You’re talking about a pretty sick conspiracy there, DI Fawley. But OK, let’s play it through. Have we ever nailed down where they went after they left the pizza place?’
‘They claimed they just “hung out”. You know – on those benches up by South Parade. Which are conveniently out of range of any CCTV.’
Gallagher nods. She knows the place, of course she does – she lives up that way herself. And there are always kids mooching about there in the evenings. Smoking, drinking cider. ‘Hanging out.’
I take a step closer to the board; my head is buzzing. ‘What if this whole thing is a lie? What if Patsie and Sasha started for home straight after leaving the restaurant? Only they didn’t get a bus. They walked.’ I trace the route – down the Banbury Road and then along the Marston Ferry Road towards Cherwell Drive. And then I stop and tap the map.
‘Here,’ I say, turning to her. ‘This is where they stopped. This is where they turned off.’
The footpath leading to the Vicky Arms. Barely a hundred yards from where Sasha’s body was found.
Gallagher considers. ‘It would have been pretty dark along there at that time of night.’
‘Patsie could easily have brought a torch. If it really was that premeditated.’
Gallagher glances at me. ‘But why would Sasha go with her?’
I shrug. ‘She didn’t know Patsie intended her any harm, did she? They were supposed to be best friends – they’d known each other since playschool. Perhaps Patsie said she wanted to go to the pub. Perhaps they were supposed to meet some boys. Who knows.’
‘OK,’ she says. ‘Then what?’
‘As soon as they’re out of sight of the road, Patsie turns on Sasha and kills her, then drags the body into the river –’
‘Sasha’s phone,’ says Gallagher suddenly. ‘The last signal was at 9.35. We thought her battery had run out, but perhaps it wasn’t that at all. Perhaps the phone went dead then because Patsie had just chucked i
t in the Cherwell.’
It fits; it all fits.
Gallagher moves closer to the map. ‘And after that Patsie just heads off home on foot as if nothing had happened?’
I nod. ‘And when she gets there, she makes a big point of talking to someone in the street, so they’ll remember seeing her. Meanwhile Isabel gets on the 9.43 bus in Summertown, making sure to ask the driver the time when they’re approaching Headington.’
‘Perfect little alibis, gift-wrapped and ready to go,’ says Gallagher. ‘All they have to do after that is keep on insisting all three of them were on that same bus.’
I sense someone come up behind me now and turn to see Gislingham at my shoulder.
‘Good news,’ he says. ‘Someone called in – looks like we’ve found Sasha’s handbag. It was up near the Vicky Arms. Quinn’s on his way to the lab to take a look.’
I stare at him. ‘Where was it – where exactly?’
He goes up to the map and points. ‘About there, I think – in a ditch on the corner of Mill Lane.’
Halfway between where Sasha died and Patsie lives. This isn’t just a hunch any more. This is evidence; this is a case. And for the first time since this all began, I’m staring at the photos of Sasha with a picture in my head of who did that to her. The body head-down in the water, the bound wrists, the jagged lacerations. The white and broken face.
‘Something else occurred to me as well, boss,’ says Gislingham quietly. ‘What you were saying about Patsie Webb – no one saw anything on her clothes when she got home, did they? Perhaps that’s why she used that plastic bag. Something to keep her clothes clean and tidy while she beat poor bloody Sasha’s head in.’
Gallagher looks across at him. ‘I suspect you’re right, Sergeant. But I don’t think that was the only reason. She didn’t want to look at her. She couldn’t bear to see her face.’
* * *
Interview with Patsie Webb, conducted at St Aldate’s Police Station, Oxford
9 April 2018, 6.45 p.m.
In attendance, DC V. Everett, DC E. Somer, Mrs D. Webb, J. Beck (solicitor)
ES: Interview resumed at 18.45. Patsie has been given time to consult with a lawyer, and Mr Jason Beck is now present.
