A Cry in the Night (16 page)

‘Hello, I’m Helen Seymour,’ the woman said, offering her hand to Sam and then to Zoe. ‘I’ll be representing Sarah Downing from now on.’ She was small, and Sam towered over her, but this seemed to cause her no discomfort. At first glance she looked a little dowdy, and the eye slipped easily past her onto more interesting things, but Zoe found herself drawn in by her calmness. When she shook Zoe’s hand, the grip of this fifty-something-year-old woman was surprisingly firm.

‘I’m afraid it’s been a bit of a wasted trip for you, Graham,’ she said to the solicitor, who stood open-mouthed at her arrival. She offered Graham her hand, just as she’d done with Sam and Zoe, and he was simply dispatched. Then she turned back to face the cops.

‘If it’s okay with you, I’d like to have a quick chat with my client and then I’ll come and find you. Shall we meet in the canteen?’

She looked at them and waited, hanging on their reactions as though their happiness really, genuinely mattered. But at the same time, she’d just strolled into a police investigation and derailed an interview. Zoe noticed the simple jewellery, gold hoop earrings, no wedding ring, and the smart leather bag that she carried.

‘Yes, no?’ Helen ventured when Sam didn’t reply.

‘Sure, no problem,’ Sam replied, but didn’t move. In reaction to this, Helen, whose hand had never left Sarah’s side, gently guided her client away from them, talking quietly and earnestly throughout. Somewhere, someone started screaming; a man, wailing and roaring. Other voices rose to meet his cry but Helen seemed oblivious as she led Sarah out of sight.

Sam turned at once and he and Zoe walked out, heading for his office.

‘Where did she come from?’ Zoe asked. Sam shrugged, as per-plexed as she was. ‘Well, I’m stuffed if I’m waiting in the canteen,’ she said. ‘Let’s go back to CID and let her find us there.’

Pleased by this petty rebellion, they walked on, soon reaching the main staircase that lay in the centre of the building. Built in the 1970s, everything felt archaic and drably utilitarian. Warped wooden wall tiles were uneasy partners to a mosaic on the floor in garish cyans and aquamarines, all lit by harsh strip lighting which reminded
those inside that this was a place for work, and work alone. Zoe liked it like this and felt comforted by the lack of pretension. She was buoyed by her return to the noise and the clutter, and bounded up the stairs happily.

But Sam followed more slowly. He was tired, they were making little progress and this woman seemed like she was going to make things slower and harder. All around, policemen and women shunted their duties before them. He saw a big, bulky skinhead who was being led down the stairs, flanked by two uniformed officers. The skinhead had tattoos that crawled up from his chest and wrapped around his neck.

‘Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!’ he snapped, over and over. One of the men held his arm tightly, chatting calmly to his colleague throughout.

‘Don’t touch me!’

‘Yeah, so we’ll ask his mum. She’ll be back around ten.’

‘Don’t touch me!’

‘Fancy a curry tonight? Me and Charlie are going for something cheeky.’

‘Don’t touch me!’

Sam checked his watch. He had wanted to call home and let the girls know that he was back, but it was too late now, and if this carried on much longer, he worried that he’d be sluggish and grumpy in the morning. It made the stairs even steeper.

At the top a WPC had dropped a stack of files and was desperately trying to reclaim them as feet hurried past. Sam trod around her as delicately as his big feet would allow and then moved on up. The paintwork on the stairs was flaking and the last ten or so steps were sticky. There used to be a series of wall-mounted lights here, but they were constantly broken by prisoners (or frustrated police) and so they were taken down and now there were ungainly holes with wires jutting out, their tips wrapped in masking tape. The higher you got in this place, the more it felt like it was slowly crumbling away.

Sam pushed through a set of double doors that led to CID: a large open-plan space, littered with desks and computers. At either end were offices for more senior officers (like Sam), while the rest of the team all mucked in together in the middle – fifteen or so detectives who personalised their desks with football scarves, photos of their wives and kids or magazine snaps of semi-naked women. The room was rarely empty and it was hard to have a private conversation in here. Last month, DC Darren Heath’s divorce had come through and he was the last person to know about it. Since Andrea’s death, Sam had noticed that the gossip reached his ears a little more slowly than the others’.

He went into his office, passing a bored DC who was listening to someone on the phone while playing solitaire on his computer. He sat down at his desk and checked his
in-tray, noticing the usual mountain of dull bureaucracy. There were framed photographs of the girls on his desk, plus a separate one for Andrea. It was of him and her together, taken the year before by Issy when they were on holiday. It sat behind the others, as though it was wrong for it to grab too much attention. Elsewhere, he had pictures on the walls. Buddy shots of him and the guys on golfing trips, of him receiving a commendation, certificates and congratulations.

Zoe burst into the room. ‘So this is weird,’ she said. ‘I just asked Adam about Helen Seymour. And guess what? She’s a silk. Not even a duty brief. A bloody barrister.’

The news was a jolt. ‘A QC?’

‘Uh-huh. What’s a QC doing turning up in person to intervene like that?’

Sam went to the door and called out to Adam Brown – a misanthropic DS in his late thirties. His skin was pitted with acne and he was constantly rubbing his teeth with his tongue. Everything seemed to leave a bad taste in his mouth.

‘Yes, Guv?’

‘You know this new brief – Helen Seymour?’

‘Of her. Seen her in action in court. She defended that mad bird six months ago – the one who stabbed her kid.’

Sam knew the case well – it had been one of the files that he’d taken with him to the lakes.

‘Did she win?’ Zoe asked.

‘Always wins, apparently. She on your case?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Unlucky.’

‘Alright,’ Sam nodded, dismissing him, ‘cheers.’

‘No worries, Guv.’

Adam headed back to his desk and Sam shut the door again. His fingers drilled a rhythm on the door frame.

‘Let’s go to the canteen,’ he said. ‘I want her thinking we’re utterly professional, thorough and respectable coppers.’

Zoe raised an eyebrow at this.

‘Which we are,’ he added.

‘If you say so, boss.’

At that moment there was a sharp rap on the door, and when Sam turned he could see Helen Seymour waiting patiently outside. He opened it hastily.

‘We were just heading down,’ he said, a little too defensively.

‘Oh, I’m sure, but I thought I’d come find you anyway. Save us all the bother. Shall we do this in your office?’

She stood there, smiling politely, waiting for him to let her in. He saw that all eyes in the office were on them, so he stood aside and gestured for her to enter. Zoe decided not to sit but leaned against the wall, stuffing her hands deep into her trouser pockets. The pose was designed to be unfriendly, but when Helen registered her, it was with a friendly nod. Sam went back behind his desk. The small office now felt bursting with the three of them inside it.

‘So?’ he asked.

‘So,’ she echoed politely. ‘I’d like you to release Sarah Downing immediately.’

Sam laughed and she smiled, as though her words were indeed a comedy act. But Zoe saw the steel in her eyes. As much as she shuffled and shrugged, there was a ferocious tenacity underneath.

‘Talk me through it,’ Sam said genially.

‘Sarah doesn’t like cops,’ Helen said. ‘She’s had bad experiences in the past. That’s why she won’t talk to you. She’s a very fragile figure. I feel awful for her. I’m not blaming you for that, I hasten to add!’

She said the last line to Zoe but got no response. It didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest and she continued with her same thoughtful, professorial manner.

‘Now then, here’s what happened. Sarah went down to the woods to get away from her husband. They’re not happily married and haven’t been for some time. You know this, I think. Anyway, she goes to the woods, gets stoned as she is wont to do and passes out. When she wakes up, she’s covered in moss and grass and panics because she’s ruined a rather lovely dress. So she hurries home, scared that her husband will flip out when he sees the mess she’s in. Apparently there’s a more unpleasant side to him that he reserves for her in private. Sarah then hides the dress because she thinks he’ll go mad, and that’s the end of it.’

‘She told you all this?’

‘She did.’

‘In, what thirty seconds?’ Sam leaned forward, his hands spread out on the desk before him. ‘How long were you actually with her for? I’m amazed she even got to say her name in the time.’

‘Well, once she felt she safe, she seemed very keen to unburden herself. Unless you’re implying that I’ve made up her testimony. You’re not implying that, are you, Detective Inspector?’

And there was the steel again. She sat primly in her chair but all the pressure was on Sam. He brushed it aside with a casual wave and mutter – ‘Of course not’ – then sat back and watched Helen, who waited for more.

‘I don’t believe her story,’ he said when her eyes drifted to the framed photographs on the desk.

‘I understand why you consider her a suspect, but you have no evidence.’

‘We believe that there was more than just moss on the dress. We believe there was blood.’

‘But you don’t have the dress.’ She said it a little sadly, as though she were embarrassed at his fruitless labour. ‘Really, you have a lot of innuendo, but that’s your lot.’

And then she turned to Zoe. ‘What do you think?’

Zoe couldn’t hold her eye and so Helen turned back to Sam.

‘I understand your actions, there will be no follow-up, you don’t need to worry about any civil cases for wrongful arrest—’

‘Hey, hang on—’

‘But you have to let her go now. You do understand, don’t you? It’s best for everyone.’

She felt so much older than either of them. It felt like they’d been playing at being detectives now she was in the room. Zoe had seen tough men squirm in that seat when Sam had gone for them. Helen, however, was unflappable. Sam seemed so too, but Zoe knew that he would be seething beneath the facade. She had absolutely no idea what Helen was thinking or feeling.

‘Let her go, Sam. Please. Come back when you’ve got something concrete.’

She was carrying a file, which she placed into her fine leather case. She zipped the case shut, placed the bag on her lap, rested her hands on top, and waited.

‘Who called you?’ Sam asked.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘It’s not normal for a barrister of your considerable calibre to be called to the station like this. This is the work of a duty solicitor.’

‘You’re flattering me now.’

‘My question, Helen.’

‘I was interested in the case. That’s all.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s all.’ She glanced at her watch and waited.

‘Does Sarah have any idea where Lily might be?’ Sam asked.

‘Of course not. She didn’t do it.’

‘I think she did.’

‘No. She’s their mother.’

Sam shook his head as though the comment were somehow risible. But that was all he could do.

‘I’ll let the duty sergeant know,’ he said. ‘She’ll be released within the hour.’

‘Thank you.’

Helen stood up and then looked back at Zoe.

‘I’m surprised you don’t say more,’ she said as she passed. It was a simple, throwaway comment and there was no obvious bite or rancour in the tone, but Zoe felt the barb sure enough. Helen looked at her again, her head tilted slightly as though she was trying to work something out.

‘Until the next time, then,’ she said, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Something smashed before Sam stormed out.

Two hours later, Sam turned the key in the lock and was greeted by the familiar smell of home, a sensation rather ruined when he then tripped over three school bags, dumped by the door, and nearly broke his neck. Clambering over them and whispering curses, he slipped up the stairs, hoping that his noisy arrival might have woken one of the girls and given him a chance to say hello. But the house was deathly silent. He carried his bags into the bedroom and closed the door before turning on the light.

The room was just as it always was. Tidy, pleasant, marked by Andrea’s eye and female touches. Sam put his things away, not really looking at any of it. It had felt fine when he’d shared it with his wife, but now he felt too big in here. He pulled the powder-blue throw off the bed and chucked the red velvet cushions onto it. When the girls wake up, he thought, I’ll make them pancakes. I’ll surprise them with tea in bed and then drive them both to school. Pleased with
the idea, his mind drifted back to Sarah and then to Helen Seymour. He wondered again what had summoned a QC to a police station at that time of night. Would Sarah’s husband have called for her? It seemed unlikely, especially if Tim had turned against her.

He tried to think of other things, but the loss and embarrassment of the collapsing case poked at him. He checked his watch. He’d need to be up in just over three hours. He rolled onto his side, where he was skewered by a photo of Andrea with the girls when they were toddlers. He rolled onto his other side to hide from them.

Sarah Downing said nothing for hours, didn’t move, barely blinked, and then suddenly this stranger appeared and opened her up. It felt unnatural.

He worried about it some more, his eyes screwed shut to avoid the painful reminders around him. He should move some of the pictures, he thought to himself. But that would upset the girls. How would he get Sarah Downing to speak to him if and when he returned to Lullingdale? He wondered if there was any maple syrup in the cupboard and what Helen Seymour charged for a visit at such hours. He’d waited for Sarah to be released and had watched her for clues as she’d stumbled into the back of the police car. God, maybe Issy was being funny about food again and would only eat something like muesli or dry toast. And what about those other women and their terrible crimes? Was Sarah one of
them? Is that what Mr Frey was suggesting? And how would he know?