“Very good, Mr Phelps,” Sukarba said. “Very good.”
“Do you have my swabs? And fingerprints?”
“Do you not trust me to dispose of them?”
Ronnie thought for a second. The simple answer to that question was no; he didn’t trust the policeman as far as he could throw him.
“I would rather have them myself,” he said, “as a keepsake of my time here in Bali.”
“You’re not staying?”
“I think it’s time to move on.”
Sukarba stared at Ronnie for a few seconds, his face passive. Then he got to his feet, opened the door, and shouted something in Indonesian. Ronnie saw the policeman behind the desk get to his feet before the door swung shut again.
“My colleague will get them. May I?” Sukarba pointed at the envelope. Ronnie was reluctant to hand it over before he’d got what he came here for, but he had no choice. He watched as the policeman carefully counted the notes. When he had finished, Sukarba smiled and closed the envelope before putting it into the thigh pocket of his trousers.
Ronnie looked at him, trying to hide his nervousness. If Sukarba got up and walked out, there would be nothing he could do. The policeman didn’t seem to be going anywhere, though.
“While you are still here in Bali, Mr Phelps,” Sukarba said, “I would suggest that you exercise a lot of caution.” He glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room, which was still turned off. “I have eyes and ears everywhere, and you are quite a distinctive man. The areas you frequent are not ones that see many westerners, unless they are lost, and they frequently come to harm.”
“I understand,” Ronnie replied, his mouth dry. He would ask for a glass of water, but he didn’t want Sukarba to go anywhere.
The two men stared at each other for a few seconds until Ronnie looked away from Sukarba’s penetrating eyes. The sooner he could get out of the police station, the better. Eventually, after what seemed to Ronnie like an eternity, the door to the interview room opened and the other policeman entered the room. With a scornful look at Ronnie, he threw two plastic Ziplock bags onto the table before leaving. In one of the bags was a fingerprint card, and in the other a small plastic tube with a swab inside.
“There you are, Mr Phelps,” Sukarba said, scraping his chair back and getting to his feet. “We are, how do you say, honours even?”
Ronnie scooped up the bags and thrust them into his jacket pocket. One thing that there was very little of in the interview room was honour, but he decided against saying anything to the policeman.
When he stepped back out into the sunshine, Ronnie almost had a spring in his step. Now that he had one less monkey on his back, he could start planning his next moves. There was one, in particular, he was looking forward to a lot. He smiled in the sunshine, knowing that the bitch McGuire hadn’t heard the last of Ronnie Phelps.
59
Malcolm yawned, leaning back in his chair as he did so. Even though it was only eleven o’clock in the morning, he was exhausted. He’d not been sleeping very well for the last few weeks, but last night he didn’t think he’d slept for more than a couple of hours. He knew he should go to the doctor, see if he could do anything about it or give him some pills. But like most men of his age, Malcolm had an inherent fear of doctors.
On the desk in front of him, his phone rang. Rubbing at his eyes, he picked it up.
“Detective Superintendent Griffiths?”
“Hi, sir. It’s Constable Harris on the front desk. There’s a bloke here who says he’s got some information on that diver that was found up at Cley-next-the-Sea.”
“Is DC Hunter about?” Malcolm asked. He really couldn’t be bothered to talk to someone who almost certainly would turn out to be a crackpot.
“No, sir. I did try her first. She’s on a job out at Yarmouth.”
“Do you know who this chap is?”
“Says he works for the Eastern Daily News.”
Malcolm thought for a few seconds. Talking to the press wasn’t something that he did often, if at all, but occasionally they found out things that the police couldn’t.
“Okay, put him in one of the interview rooms. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
Malcolm took his time getting down to the ground floor. He visited the bathroom to make sure that his eyes weren’t too bloodshot, but they were. He wouldn’t have minded so much if it had been from booze, but he’d not had a drop the night before. Maybe that was where he was going wrong, he thought as he looked at himself in the mirror.
“Thanks, Harris,” Malcolm said as the policeman on the front desk told him that the visitor was in Interview Room Three. It was the nicest of the interview rooms and had armchairs and soft furnishings as opposed to the stark functionality of the other rooms.
“His name’s Christin, sir,” Harris told Malcolm as he walked toward the room. “Daniel Christin.”
The visitor in the interview room was in his mid to late thirties, and in Malcolm’s opinion at least, well dressed. Especially for a journalist. He was sitting on one of the chairs, clutching a laptop to his chest as if Malcolm was about to steal it.
“Mr Christin?” Malcolm said as he entered the room.
“Yes, that’s me,” the journalist replied. He was talking quickly and was perspiring, even though the air-conditioning was on.
“Detective Superintendent Griffiths,” Malcolm said, extending his hand. After they shook hands, he had to resist the urge to wipe his hand on his trousers. “Did Harris offer you a drink?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Would you like one? I’m going to have a coffee.”
“Thanks, that’d be great. Can I get one with milk and no sugar?”
Malcolm left the room and spoke to the policeman on the desk.
“Harris, can you rustle up a couple of coffees, please?”
“No problem, sir.”
“What do you think?” Malcolm nodded in the direction of the interview room.
“He’s nervous as hell about something.”
Malcolm returned to the interview room and took a seat opposite Christin.
“So, Mr Christin. Constable Harris said you had some information about the case at Cley-next-the-Sea?”
“Yes, I do. In fact, I remember you. You were there?”
“I was, yes. That’s why Harris asked me to come and speak to you.”
“Ah, okay.” Christin put the laptop on the coffee table between them. “I got an e-mail off someone who only called himself R. It said to watch the attachment to find out about the man found off of Cley. The video’s on there,” he said, pointing at the laptop, “and it’s disgusting. I didn’t watch all of it, mind. Only the first minute or so. When I realised what was going on, well, I…”
“If it’s what I think it is,” Malcolm replied as Harris opened the door to bring their drinks in, “then I’m sorry you had to see any of it.”
“Am I in trouble?” Christin asked. He had a gold chain around his neck and had pulled a small crucifix on the end out of his shirt so he could run it between his fingers. Malcolm looked at him, realising that the reason he was so nervous was because he was sitting in a police station with child pornography on his computer.
“Did you copy the clip?”
“I downloaded a copy of it if that’s what you mean? So I could watch it. I only watched a bit and then turned it off.”
“If you didn’t actually make any other copies, then in that case, you’ve got nothing to worry about.” The look of relief on the journalist’s face was palpable.
“Oh, thank the Lord,” Christin said. “I didn’t know what to do, see? I thought, well, I don’t know what I thought.”
Malcolm smiled at him to reassure the man.
“Well, you don’t need to be concerned in the slightest. You’ve done exactly the right thing by bringing it here. We are going to have to take your laptop, though.”
“Oh, I’m not bothered about that. It’s the newspaper’s anyway.”
> “Could I perhaps ask you something, Mr Christin?”
“You don’t want us to publish anything about that?” The journalist nodded at the laptop.
“That’s right,” Malcolm replied. “It is still an active investigation.”
“I’ve not even told my boss about it.” Christin stared at the computer as though it was possessed. “I want no part of any of that sort of thing. I won’t even report on things like that. They’re very good, the paper, about respecting my faith.”
Bloody hell, Malcolm thought. He didn’t think he’d ever met a journalist like Christin before.
“Okay, no problem. I’ll just get Harris to do the paperwork, and we’ll take it off your hands. I can speak to your editor, if you want? Tell him how helpful you’ve been?”
“I doubt she’d care, to be honest,” Christin replied. Malcolm winced slightly at his incorrect assumption about Christin’s boss’s gender. “She’ll only try to persuade you to give her first dibs on the story when it does get out.”
“Well, just let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“Are you a believer, Detective Superintendent?” Malcolm paused before answering. He wasn’t—far from it—but at the same time, he didn’t want to offend the man.
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “This job doesn’t make that kind of thing very easy.”
“I think you probably need God in your life more than anything else,” Christin replied. For a moment, Malcolm thought the man was about to reach into his pocket and give him a tract on sin or something like that. He didn’t, but just pointed at the laptop. “Because what’s on that laptop truly is the work of the devil.”
60
Laura picked up the carrier bag from the floor of her Mini, mindful of the fact that it had bottles in it. On the way over to Annette’s house, she had stopped at a corner shop just around the corner intending on picking up a couple of bottles of wine. The small shop had a 3 for 2 offer on Pinot Grigio. Rude not to, Laura had thought as she picked them up off the shelf.
By the time she reached Annette’s front door, it was already open and Annette was standing just inside.
“Hey, you,” Annette said, glancing down at the carrier bag. “Has that got what I think it’s got in it?” Laura lifted the bag and grinned.
“Wine, and plenty of it,” she replied. “I threw some takeaway menus in there as well just in case you don’t have any.”
“Great stuff, come on in.”
Laura walked into the house and through the hallway to the kitchen.
“I’ll shove them in the fridge, will I?”
“Yeah, that’d be good. There’s some in there already chilled, and the glasses are in the cupboard above the fridge.”
Laura opened the fridge and laughed when she saw three bottles of wine in there already. They were identical to the ones she had brought.
“You saw the same offer, then?” Laura asked as she rearranged the bottles, putting hers at the back of the fridge. Annette just laughed in reply.
An hour later, they were down by a bottle. Their earlier plans to watch a film hadn’t yet come to fruition, and they had spent the time just chatting. Laura was buzzing slightly from a couple of glasses of wine on an empty stomach, but Annette didn’t seem to be in any hurry to eat. Laura thought a couple of times about suggesting they order something, but Annette was talking so much she could barely get a word in.
“Anyway, to cut a long story short,” Annette said, even though it had been far from a short version, “that’s how I ended up getting married to the pillock.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard anyone use the term pillock since I was at school,” Laura replied with a chuckle. “I think one of the teachers might have actually used the term in one of my reports.”
“My God, they wouldn’t dare to do that now,” Annette said. “My lot would be up in arms about it.”
“I’d forgotten you worked for children’s services. How much longer do you think you’ll take off?”
“I’m not sure. I spoke to my boss the other day, and he just said to come back when I’m ready. I might go on holiday somewhere.”
“Where are you thinking?”
“Somewhere hot and sandy. Maybe Greece, like Shirley Valentine?”
The two women started laughing, and Laura got to her feet to grab another bottle of wine.
“We should see if that’s on Netflix,” she called through from the kitchen. “I’ve not seen that in years.” As she walked back to the lounge, Laura picked up the menus she’d brought with her. “What do you fancy? I’ve got menus for pizza, Indian, or Chinese. Or if you want something more exotic, we could go on the net and see who delivers?”
“Pizza’s fine by me,” Annette said. “Not really a fan of all that foreign stuff, to be honest. But if you want to get something else, I don’t mind.”
“Pizza’s just as foreign, isn’t it?” Laura replied. “It’s Italian.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Annette frowned before continuing. “Isn’t it from that place with the wonky tower?” A few seconds later, both women were laughing so hard that Laura managed to spill wine on the carpet instead of into Annette’s glass.
“Oh, arse,” Laura said, still giggling. “I’ll get a cloth.”
“You will not,” Annette replied, waving her hand. “There’s been plenty of wine spilt on that carpet over the years.”
The two women ordered their pizzas on Annette’s phone and sat back to wait for them to be delivered. Laura looked at Annette, pleased to see that the other woman had a contented smile on her face. Gareth had told her how lonely she’d become since returning to England and, when Laura told him they were going to have a girlie night in, he’d been really pleased.
By the time the pizza arrived, another bottle of wine had been demolished. This one had disappeared much quicker than the first, and Laura told herself that she had better slow down. Annette heard the gate opening and was at the door by the time the delivery man was halfway up the path. Laura stood behind her like an excited schoolgirl.
The pizza delivery man was about the same age as them, broad-shouldered, and with a mop of curly blonde hair. He grinned broadly at Annette as she took the pizzas from him and handed him the payment.
“Keep it,” she said as he patted his pockets, pretending to look for change. “Have a drink on us.” He looked at them both and Laura could see that he knew the effect his smile could have on some people. Women, mostly.
“Thanks very much,” he said with a flash of white teeth. “I certainly will.” He turned to walk down the path and they both watched as he did so.
“Oh my God,” Annette said, closing the door. “Did you see him?”
“I was right behind you, Annette,” Laura replied. “Of course I saw him.”
“Bloody hell, I would. Wouldn’t you?”
“Er, maybe.”
“If it weren’t for Gareth, I mean,” Annette called over her shoulder as she walked toward the kitchen. Laura paused, not sure what to say. She didn’t think Gareth would have said anything to Annette, even though he was her sister. “Don’t worry, he’s not said a word, but it’s bloody obvious to me at least.”
“Oh, okay,” Laura said, feeling her cheeks starting to flush. Whether it was because Annette knew about her and Gareth, or whether it was at the thought of Gareth, Laura wasn’t sure. “You get some plates, I’ll get another bottle.”
61
“Laura, can I tell you something?” Annette asked. They were both in the lounge. Annette was lying down on the sofa, while opposite her, Laura was sprawled out on an armchair with her legs looped over one of the arms.
“Of course you can,” Laura replied. She looked over at Annette, but made no effort to move.
“Well, two things, actually. One is that I’m stuffed.” She started giggling. “And the other is that I’m a bit pissed.”
“That makes two of us,” Laura said, rubbing her stomach. “How was your Hawaiian?”
&nb
sp; “Lovely.” She groaned and sat up, pouring them both another glass of wine. “I only used to have that because Philip hated pineapple. It stopped him nicking any of my pizza.” Annette stared at the now empty bottle. “Bloody hell, I think we’ve done three bottles, girl.”
“Three left then,” Laura replied with a chuckle as Annette lay back down on the sofa. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you miss him?”
Annette paused before replying. It wasn’t an unreasonable question, but at the same time, she didn’t really want to talk about him. But she was going to have to at some point, so she might as well start now.
“No,” she replied, sitting up. “I hated him, Laura. To tell you the truth, him managing to drown himself is the only good thing that’s happened to me since I married the bastard.” Annette watched as Laura processed what she had just said before sitting up herself.
“Seriously? It was that bad?”
“It was fucking awful, pardon my French.” She took a large sip from her glass. “He was a nasty piece of work. A total control freak.” Annette paused before deciding to just tell Laura everything. “He was more than happy to slap me around if I didn’t do what he wanted. Never left any marks though, not that anyone would be able to see.”
“Oh,” Laura replied, her voice quiet. “Gareth said it was bad, but I didn’t realise it was that bad.”
“It was. He wasn’t happy unless he was hurting me, and that included in the bedroom.” She glanced at Laura, who was staring at her glass of wine. “And then I find out that ours wasn’t the only bed he hurt people in.”
“I’m so sorry, Annette,” Laura whispered. “I can’t even begin to imagine.”
“Don’t be sorry, Laura. I’m not. I’m just angry that I let him hurt me for so long.”
“Did you think about leaving him?”
Single Handed (Gareth Dawson Series Book 3) Page 22
