Rumour has it she’s even got her claws into the assistant chief constable, but ACC John Wise must have been out of town last night because she was slumming it with the underlings. She hung around Danny like a bad smell. He did well to avoid getting two black eyes, the way she was thrusting her tits in his face. Steve has to hand it to Danny. Somehow he gave her just the right amount of attention, so she didn’t feel brushed off but knew she’d be going home without him. She got the message in the end and left, but not before giving Danny a look that said she’d drop her knickers for him another time.
Steve looks at his desk. He’ll have to get this lot tidied up. The murder’s solved and it’s up to the Crown Prosecution Service to make a credible case. Just as well the Hedges guy confessed. This one could have dragged on for weeks, like the Easter Day business at Briggham. He sounds a right nutcase, going to church in stockings and suspenders, according to the rumour Steve heard. The prison chaplain better watch his back.
When the office door bursts open, Steve manages to retain his grip on his coffee. It’s Mike Matthews’s new girl, breathing heavily and her cheeks flushed a brighter shade of pink than her T-shirt.
“Easy does it, Agatha,” he says.
“Where are the forensics for the Brock case?” she gasps.
“It’s all here.” He points at his desk. “I’m still sorting it. What do you want to know?”
She comes towards the desk. He straightens up in his chair but she still towers over him. The word statuesque crosses his mind.
But then again, statuesque women don’t trip over chair legs and land with their full weight against the side of desks.
“Ouch! Sorry!” she yelps.
“Mind how you go, love,” he says.
Shame really. That body could be sexy on someone else. Her eyes dart over his piles of papers and plastic bags.
“If you tell me what you’re after, I might be able to help,” he says.
“I just need … these.” She snatches two small evidence bags and heads for the door.
“You can’t take those. There’s such a thing as continuity of evidence,” Steve shouts, awake for the first time that morning.
“I won’t break the seals.”
“You’ll have to sign for them.”
She returns to the desk and holds out her hand impatiently. Steve retrieves the appropriate form from his top drawer, her sense of urgency rubbing off on him in spite of himself. She seizes it out of his hand and makes a grab for his pen. It’s attached to its holder by a short chain. She leans across him so that the pen will reach the form. Seconds later she’s gone.
Statuesque after all. He looks at the form. And barking mad. Just right for CID. She’s signed it “Agatha Adams”.
My footsteps thud down the tiled staircase. No going back. People will get hurt, destroyed, but I have to see it through. Panic threatens. How will I ever get DI Bagley to listen? The woman has cracked open champagne. Case closed as far as she cares. I’ll have to try my luck with DCI Hendersen. No incriminating logos on my T-shirt and he’s my best hope.
I crash onto the stairwell and through the chipped doors, my feet becoming quiet on the carpeted floor. I slow to a brisk walk. Decorum needed now. Decorum and professionalism. I don’t look at the first door and pray it doesn’t open. The last thing I need is to bump into DI Bagley. As I pass the second office, a door opens further along. DS Matthews leads Gaby Brock into the corridor, and DCI Hendersen follows them out, drinking from a coffee mug.
“Ah, DC Adams,” he calls. “You can drive Mrs Brock home.”
I come to a halt but my insides carry on for several inches in front of me. No chance now of laying my case before him in the confines of his office. Time to go for broke, in front of Gaby Brock and Matthews. I’m not sure where decorum fits in, but I’ll do my best.
“Of course, sir,” I say, mentally keeping my pounding heart inside my chest. “But can I just ask Mrs Brock why the key was in the back door?”
“You what, Agatha?” Matthews asks.
“No more questions,” Hendersen says and sups his coffee. “Mrs Brock has given us enough answers for the time being. She’s just picked Hedges out of a line-up. Luckily for you the VIPER identification video was set up before we got his confession. Not sure why you insisted on it, but it’s another nail in the proverbial coffin for the accused.”
“It was unusual, wasn’t it, Gaby?” I keep my tone soft.
Gaby looks back blankly. Her face still carries the grey hue that’s masked it since I first met her, but the bruises around her eyes have turned green like badly applied eye shadow.
I try again. “Carl’s sister, Linda, said Carl never left keys in door locks. He knew it was an invitation to burglars.”
“He must have forgotten,” Gaby says and looks at Matthews as if appealing to him to support her.
“Let’s get you home,” he says.
“What clothes were you washing in your machine that night?” I ask.
“What?” Exasperation in her weak voice.
“Agatha, you know as well as I do that it was men’s shirts,” Matthews says.
“Carl’s shirts?” I put my question to Gaby who doesn’t reply. I ask another. “Why were you wearing winter pyjamas in the middle of June?”
Gaby Brock opens her mouth to speak, but Hendersen steps in.
“Will one of you please take this lady home?”
I’m getting nowhere. “Sir, Bartholomew Hedges didn’t kill Carl Brock.”
Gaby lets out a soft, shocked sob.
“Not now, Adams.” Hendersen’s angry baritone voice reverberates along the line of doors.
The doors are all closed, ganging up on me, not listening, not believing. I take a shaky breath. “Bartholomew Hedges wouldn’t have killed Brock on Sunday night. He still needed him to supply drugs for Saul. The family didn’t hear from Alderley Lodge until Wednesday – more than two days after the murder.”
“The man has confessed, and Mrs Brock has identified him at an ID parade.” Hendersen speaks slowly, as if explaining something to a child. He drains his mug and smacks his lips. End of discussion.
Matthews, who’s begun to move Mrs Brock along the corridor, turns back. “Why did he confess, if he didn’t do it?”
“To protect Saul.”
“You’re saying that Hedges junior committed the murder and Dad took the fall for him?” he says, rubbing his chin and apparently forgetting Gaby and Hendersen are there. “It’s possible. Saul could have been off his head enough to do it, and his father wouldn’t be the first parent to cover for a son.”
“Stop it now, you two,” Hendersen says. “Take Mrs Brock back to her sister-in-law’s. Make sure Linda Parry is there. Mrs Brock shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”
“Will you grieve now, Gaby?” I ask, my tone soft again.
Gaby Brock stops sobbing for a second.
“I mean grieve for the baby you lost last year.”
Gaby seems to crumple in on herself and her sobs become louder.
“What happened, Gaby?” I ask. “Did you fall down those stairs last year or did Carl push you?”
Gaby freezes in mid-sob and her shoulders shake.
“That’s enough.” Hendersen again.
“Sir, Carl Brock was a violent wife-beater. Ask the police doctor to have another look at her injuries. There are older fading bruises on her arms, as well as the fresh ones from when we found her. I’m sure a full examination will confirm this and the fact that she’s pregnant again.”
“I want to go home,” Gaby sobs, her eyes beseeching Hendersen.
Before he has chance to come to her aid, I fish the brown envelope out of my bag. “I have Mrs Brock’s medical records. At the time of her miscarriage, she also suffered a broken ankle, a badly strained wrist and—”
“Injuries entirely consistent with a fall down stairs,” Hendersen interrupts. “Stop crossexamining Mrs Brock. Has it completely slipped your mind that she’s just lost
her husband and was herself the victim of a kidnapping? Where did you get that file?”
“… and a scald mark on the side of her mouth, consistent with being struck by something hot,” I continue, not answering the question. I force the envelope back in my bag. We both know it’s illegal for me to have the file. But does Gaby know?
Apparently not. Her doe eyes are on Hendersen. “I fell down the stairs and lost my baby.”
I press on before he intervenes. “Your medical records also say you’ve been treated on four separate occasions for injuries to your knuckles.”
“My knuckles are prone to dislocation,” she says. Her voice is calm but tears stream down her face.
“A witness heard Carl arguing and fighting with someone at your home three weeks ago. Was he beating you?”
“What witness?” DS. Matthews asks.
“Mrs Hedges.”
“Have you completely lost the plot, Agatha? Sonia Hedges is the wife of the man who’s confessed to murder. It’s hardly rock-solid evidence, is it?” Matthews says, his earlier interest vanished.
“Get Mrs Brock out of here,” Hendersen tells him and then to me: “You, my office, now.”
His voice echoes around my head, like a gong that can’t be silenced. I’ll disappear inside the noise unless I act swiftly.
Matthews leads Gaby Brock almost to the double doors before I find my words again.
“Why are you still making excuses for him?” I call out. “He can’t hurt you anymore. Tell us what kind of a man he really was.”
Gaby stares blankly at me, then turns to go.
“You’ve had a dislocated shoulder, a fractured cheekbone, two broken ankles, severe bruising to the chest. And all in the last two years. How long were you and Carl married?”
Gaby looks at the floor, silent.
“How long, Gaby? I already know the answer. Shall you tell the chief inspector or shall I? How long were you married?”
She turns round and gives a sigh, letting go. “Two years,” she whispers.
Matthews and Hendersen exchange a glance. I blunder on.
“You know we might not pursue the drugs issue. We’ve only got Hedges’s word that was why your husband was killed. Carl’s dead anyway, so we’ll probably drop it.”
“You’re back in uniform, Adams.” Hendersen’s jowls are red with rage.
I falter. The corridor zooms in and out of focus. Adrenaline pounds in my ears but I’ve heard what he said. Slippery ground. I’ve no right to predict the course of the case however good my background research might be. But there’s no going back. I catch up with Matthews as he holds the door for Gaby.
“He’s probably died with his reputation intact. Is that what you want?” I clasp the door edge, my fingers shaking as I struggle to keep hold.
But Gaby doesn’t step through the door. She hangs back and loses all semblance of composure. Her tears become wild and she drops to her knees.
Squatting beside her, I pull a clean tissue from my bag. “Did you ever try to leave him?”
She dabs her eyes with the tissue. “He said he was going to leave me once,” she sniffs. “I remember clinging to his legs, begging him to stay. I bumped along the pavement as he dragged himself away.”
“Why didn’t you want him to go?”
“I was nothing without him. I couldn’t manage on my own – too stupid, too useless.” She slides to the floor, arms wrapped around her knees.
“Is that what he told you?”
Gaby nods. “He chipped away at me for so long, I shrank and shrivelled as a person.”
“Mrs Brock, I’m sorry to hear of your difficult domestic situation, but we have a confession from the killer.” Hendersen sounds like a kindly uncle. “We’ll take a statement from you when you’ve calmed … when things are calmer.”
But Matthews doesn’t move, turning to me in anticipation of my next question.
“Couldn’t you have told someone?” I ask.
Gaby wipes her eyes again. “Who would have believed me? Everyone thought he was the sweetest guy. Whenever he opened his mouth honey came out. Dedicated teacher, loving husband.”
“I think Linda would have believed you,” I say.
“Carl would sit me down on Linda’s sofa and take my hand. Linda thought he was playing with it, a sign of affection.” Gaby gives a weak smile, then her eyes narrow. “But he was crushing my fingers, daring me to call out in pain. That’s why the knuckles dislocated. I never cried out.” She swallows a sob.
“So you had to kill him,” I say.
Gaby shakes her head. “I didn’t know what to do. I decided the solution was to kill myself.”
“Why didn’t you?” Matthews says, leaning against the wall with his arms folded.
“First I couldn’t leave Pipkin and then I was pregnant again.”
“Who the devil’s Pipkin?” Hendersen asks.
“She means her pet cockatiel,” I explain. “We found his old cage at the house. Linda Parry said his feathers went black and he died.”
Gaby sobs again. “Carl did it. He knew I loved that bird. I’d do whatever he wanted to protect him. One day he brought a man into the house and told me to be … nice to him. Carl was trying to make some big deal, but I couldn’t do it. After the man had gone, Carl set fire to Pipkin’s tail to teach me a lesson. The shock killed him a few days later.” She swallows her words.
“And that was the final straw, was it?” I suggest.
Gaby doesn’t reply, her fingers rubbing furiously over her crossed arms.
“What’s all this got to do with Saul Hedges killing Carl Brock?” DS Matthews says, stepping away from the wall.
I shake my head. “I didn’t say that Saul killed him, just that his father thought he did it.”
Matthews rolls his eyes. He helps Gaby to her feet and pushes open the swing doors again.
“How’s your yoga these days, Gaby?” I say.
Gaby Brock freezes.
Chapter 39
“Linda told me you’re good at yoga. It must make you very supple.”
Gaby still doesn’t move.
“I went to Magica yesterday,” I go on. “Have you ever been? My little brother loves it. The candyfloss seller told me a story that got me thinking. It was about the Giovanni clan, the people who owned Magica when it was still a circus. Apparently Giovanni’s son became a yoga guru in the States. But he didn’t start off with yoga. He used to be in the circus, a contortionist.”
“What are you on about, Agatha?” Matthews asks. It’s his turn to grip the door. He rocks it angrily back and forth.
I continue. “If he could use his contortionist skills to become a yoga master, maybe a yoga expert like you could use those skills to chain yourself up in a fake assault. I wonder how difficult it would be to move from yoga to contortionism and escapology.”
“If I’m an escapologist, why did I have to wait to be rescued?” Gaby says, suddenly defiant.
“You stopped the act halfway through. You only had to lock the shackles and wait.”
“That’s impossible. Carl locked the chains and put the keys in my pocket.”
“That’s right,” Matthews snaps. “Only Carl Brock’s prints were found on the chains and keys. How do you explain that?”
DCI Hendersen takes command again. “I can’t see how even the world’s greatest contortionist could snap shut padlocks and get the keys into a breast pocket. You can go now, Mrs Brock. I’ll send a couple of my people along later to take a statement from you about your husband.” He taps his empty coffee mug on his curled fist.
Matthews leads Gaby out to the stairwell. I rush past them and block their path. I hold up the two exhibit bags I snatched from Steve Chisholm. The colour drains from Gaby’s face.
I know then that I’ve guessed their significance but unless Gaby admits what they are, the evidence is too flimsy. Time for a different approach.
“Bartholomew Hedges, that man you’ve trapped, wasn’t a dealer,” I say,
bending my knees to bring my eyes directly into line with hers. “He was a poor, proud man, trying to save his son from your husband. When he’s convicted of his murder – and he will be convicted – he’ll go to prison for years. But he’s a victim just like you –- with a child to protect.”
My words hit home.
“Oh, God. I didn’t know,” she cries and falls against Matthews. He has to hold her to keep her on her feet. “It seemed the easiest way ….” Her whole body’s shaking. “I had to think of my baby. I thought I was framing a criminal.”
Hendersen drops his mug. It shatters across the floor.
I begin the caution. “Gabrielle Brock, I’m arresting you for …” The words stick in my throat.
“The murder of Carl Edward Brock.” DCI Hendersen continues it with resumed authority.
Chapter 40
The interview room is a functional, nondescript space with a plain table and four chairs, all fixed to the floor. It often rings out with the not-so-innocent protests of angry, drunken suspects, but the current, sombre atmosphere reminds me of the mortuary where I took Gaby to see Carl’s body. The woman sits opposite me now.
Chief Inspector Hendersen speaks the introductions into the recorder and adds that Mrs Brock has declined legal representation.
“Right, Mrs Brock, shall we get on with this?” he says, shuffling his paperwork. He switches to a more conciliatory tone, no doubt hopeful of charming her into a quick confession for the tape. “Please take your time and tell us about Carl. Perhaps you could start with how the two of you met.”
“I met him when I started work at Swan Academy.” Her voice is monotone, no nostalgia in recounting this story. “We just clicked. He was like a breath of fresh air in that school. He used to go out of his way to help the low achievers. The ones who were neglected at home, you know.”
“You mean he sought out the company of children with low self-esteem, vulnerable children,” I say.
“I didn’t see it like that then. It was much later that I realized he might be cultivating them as customers for his drugs business.”
“You said he changed after your marriage?” Hendersen says.
The Good Teacher Page 21
