Bleed for Me (12 page)

‘What about the twelve apostles?’

‘I wasn’t going to be that presumptuous.’

She picks up her notes and motions me to fol ow. ‘I’m lucky to have this many.’

‘Why?’

‘Half my team is babysitting witnesses for the Novak Brennan trial.’

That name again.

‘Has someone threatened the witnesses?’

‘Precautionary measure. It’s a bloody circus - we’ve got the right-wing extremists on the one side and refugee groups on the other. I don’t know who’s worse.’

‘I think you do.’

She grunts. ‘Look, I’m no fan of neo-Nazis or right-wing extremists, but we have a race problem in this country. We have home-grown terrorists blowing themselves up. We have gangs of teenagers kil ing each other with knives, Asians, blacks, whites . . .’

‘Maybe that’s a social problem, not a race problem.’

‘Makes no difference to me. I’m just sick of putting good officers in situations where every scrote and teenage scumbag on the street has a knife and a grudge.’

‘So where does Novak Brennan come into it?’

‘He’s a politician in search of a crowd. The ignorant, the uneducated, the unemployable; they listen because they want to believe their miserable lives are someone else’s fault. Novak Brennan tel s them what they want to hear.’

‘He incites hatred.’

‘He lances the boil.’

The detectives are waiting, mostly pale and hung over. Ronnie Cray introduces me. Suddenly, my left leg stops moving and I’m stuck in front of the whiteboard. Staring at my feet, I concentrate on making my leg lift. It looks like I’m stepping over a tripwire. They are al staring at me with solemn expressions, pitying the poor bastard.

Cray takes over, beginning the briefing. I find a chair and feel their eyes leave me. The DCI outlines developments in the investigation. Sienna’s boyfriend has been interviewed.

Danny Gardiner claims that he dropped Sienna on a corner in Bath just before 7 p.m. but he hasn’t given police an alibi for later that night when Ray Hegarty was murdered.

Lance and Zoe Hegarty have also been interviewed. Zoe was in Leeds, but Lance is a possible suspect. He works as a motorcycle mechanic in Bristol. On Tuesday afternoon he left the workshop at five, went to the pub for an hour and then went home by himself. His flatmate was out.

‘We’re bringing Lance in again today,’ says Monk. ‘He’s an aggressive little shit, but I don’t think he’s lying. He couldn’t hide a hard-on in baggy jeans.’

Two hours are stil missing from Ray Hegarty’s afternoon and telecom engineers are trying to pinpoint his whereabouts using his mobile phone. The door-to-door inquiries have thrown up several unknown vehicles in the vil age in the previous few days. Two motorists also reported seeing a blonde-haired girl in a short dress walking down Hinton Hil at about 10.15 p.m.

That’s about a mile from Wel ow. It could have been Sienna.

Monk picks up a spiral notebook and flips a page.

‘A month ago Helen Hegarty claims she saw someone peering into the downstairs window, but they ran off before she could get a good look at them. A while later she found rocks organised in a circle in the garden bed beneath the kitchen window. The soil was compressed like someone had been crouching there. Says she told her husband. He suspected local kids.’

‘Any of the neighbours report similar problems?’ asks Cray.

‘Nope, but one of them, Susan Devlin, says she saw Ray Hegarty arguing with someone outside his house about a week ago. It was about ten o’clock at night. The car had dropped Sienna home.’

‘Maybe it was the boyfriend,’ says Safari Roy, a smal tanned detective with black hair parted to reveal his scalp. Roy’s nickname came from his lounge lizard clothes and his love of sunbeds.

‘He drives a Peugeot,’ replies Monk. ‘The neighbour said it was a silver Ford Focus.’

‘Talk to her again,’ says Cray. ‘Get a better description of the driver.’

Monk nods and final y asks the question on everybody’s lips. ‘How did it go downstairs, boss?’

The DCI looks over their heads at a weak shaft of sunlight that has found a way through the building’s defences.

‘She says her father was dead when she arrived home.’

Glances are exchanged between the assembled.

‘Our number one priority is to find the murder weapon,’ says Cray. ‘We’re going to search the house again - every cupboard, crawlspace and cistern; the flowerbeds, the compost bins, the incinerator. The same goes for the river. Retrace her steps. Turn over every rock and leaf. Find the blade.’

One of the officers raises his hand.

‘Are we getting any help?’

‘I’ve got twenty-four uniforms waiting downstairs and two dog teams. Make the time count. They turn back into plods at five o’clock.’

I look at my watch. It’s almost midday. I’ve missed my lecture but can stil get to the university and do some work. At the same moment my mobile is singing. Julianne’s number lights up the screen.

‘How goes the trial?’ I ask.

‘We’ve been given the afternoon off.’

‘Bonus.’

‘You free for lunch? We can talk about Charlie.’

Talk is good.

She chooses an Italian restaurant, San Carlo in Corn Street, not far from the Corn Exchange. I arrive first and take a table by the window where I can watch for her. I order her a glass of wine.

Final y she’s here, dressed in a suede jacket, a scarf and a ribbed sweater. The waiters fal upon her like Elizabethan courtiers. She’s a beautiful woman. Good service is guaranteed.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she says apologetical y. ‘I had to make sure Marco was al right.’

‘Marco?’

‘My witness.’ Her brow furrows. ‘He’s nervous. I don’t know if he’s sleeping.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘The Crown Prosecution Service has a safe house.’

Her new haircut is sharp just below her jawline. I feel my mind taking a snapshot so I can study it later.

‘I’ve decided that jury trials are one big sociology experiment. You take twelve people who don’t know each other and have nothing in common and put them together for eight hours a day and then drip-feed them information, tel ing them not to discuss the case or read the papers or do their own research.’

‘You feel sorry for them.’

‘They saw the photographs of the fire today - three little girls and their parents - it was horrible.’ Julianne squeezes her eyes shut as if forcing the images to go away. They open again.

‘It’s not what I expected, you know. The trial. The defendants. Novak Brennan doesn’t look like a monster.’

‘There are no monsters.’

‘That’s what you tel Emma.’

‘It’s true.’

‘I know, but I expected him to be different. I feel as though he’s become familiar over this past week. I’ve seen him every day - always immaculately dressed and polite. He nods and smiles to the court staff. He bows when the jury enters the room. He has these long lashes like a girl and the bluest eyes. Arctic blue. I can almost see the snow blowing across them.

Makes you wonder.’

‘About what?’

‘If he real y firebombed that house . . . kil ed that family.’ She pauses, searching for words. ‘The other defendants look like thugs and bovver boys, grinning at each other and guffawing.

Novak Brennan looks almost serene. He doesn’t fidget or squirm. He hardly shows any emotion at al , except when he glances at his sister in the public gal ery. She’s been there every day.’

‘Which way are the jury leaning?’

Julianne shrugs. ‘It’s too early to tel . So far it’s al been about the prosecution case.’

She glances at the menu, giving me an opportunity to look at her without making her feel self-conscious.

‘Are you staring at me again?’

‘No.’

‘Good. So what are we going to do about Charlie?’

‘The police aren’t going to charge her.’

Surprise on her face. ‘That’s great. What happened?’

‘Ronnie Cray sorted it out.’

‘You made some sort of deal.’

I don’t answer. Normal y, Julianne would fight against the idea, but this time she says nothing.

‘How is Sienna?’ she asks, switching her concern.

‘In a lot of trouble.’

‘Did she do it?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe she had a reason.’

Our meals have arrived. In the lottery of ordering, Julianne has again triumphed. Her choice looks healthier and more appetising. She’l eat half and push the rest around her plate.

‘So what are we going to do about Charlie?’ she asks between mouthfuls.

‘She made a mistake.’

‘She broke the law! I talked to the school counsel or today and she recommended a therapist. He has a practice in Bath.’

‘I’m a psychologist.’

Julianne puts down her fork. ‘You’re her father. I’m sure there is some sort of conflict of interest there.’

She’s right, of course, but I stil baulk at the idea of my daughter talking to a stranger, revealing things that she wouldn’t tel her parents.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Robin Blaxland.’

‘I could check him out . . . ask about him.’

‘And not scare him off?’

‘No.’

‘We stil have to punish her,’ she says.

‘I saw the video of what happened. She tried to pay the driver but didn’t have enough money. She only panicked when he locked the doors. I think she was frightened it was going to happen again, the kidnapping.’

‘She should never have gone to the hospital without our permission.’

‘I know. Maybe we could ground her for a few weeks.’

‘School and home.’

‘Tough but fair.’

I like talking with Julianne like this - discussing anxieties and tiny victories, the happenstances of family life. Her long fingers toy with the stem of her wine glass.

‘Do you want to go to dinner on Saturday night?’ I ask.

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m going out.’

‘Who with?’

‘Harry Veitch.’

My heart jerks like a hooked fish. Harry is an architect. Rich. Divorced. One of his houses was featured on
Grand Designs
, which I guess makes him a celebrity of sorts, or a ‘person of note’. He has a daughter Charlie’s age living with her mother. I can’t remember her name.

‘How long have you been . . . ?’

‘We haven’t.’

‘So this is your first date?’

‘It’s
not
a date.’

There is an edge to her voice. She’s waiting for me to say something negative. I glance at my food, no longer hungry. I didn’t see this coming. Didn’t even contemplate it. Harry is older than I am - by at least ten years. He’s one of those big-boned former rugby players who struggle with their weight when they give up competing but never lose their self-belief.

Julianne speaks. ‘Harry wants to thank me for helping him choose a colour scheme for one of his new houses.’

‘That’s nice,’ I say.

There is a long embarrassed silence. The silence of separation. Worse - the silence of possible divorce. I can see the future flashing before my eyes. Julianne wil marry Harry ‘big-boned’ Veitch and spend her new life choosing colour schemes for his McMansions. The girls wil have a new father. At first they won’t like him, but Harry wil bribe them and make them laugh. He’l be jol y old Harry. Rich old Harry. Ho, ho, ho Harry. He laughs like that: ‘Ho, ho, ho.’

‘What did you say?’ asks Julianne.

‘Nothing.’

‘You sounded like Santa Claus.’

‘Sorry. So where is he taking you?’

‘To a new restaurant. He knows the owner or the head chef - something like that.’

‘What about the girls?’

‘Charlie can babysit.’

‘I’l do it.’

Julianne arches an eyebrow. ‘Charlie’s old enough.’

‘I know.’

She reaches across the table and takes my hand. ‘You’l have to let go one day.’

Is she talking about the girls or herself?

‘I don’t want to let go.’

Her pupils dilate slightly and she releases my hand, folding her arms beneath her breasts like a teenager. I’ve upset her now. She changes the subject.

‘Charlie says you kissed Miss Robinson.’

‘She gave me a peck.’

‘On the lips?’

‘Some people peck on the lips.’

‘I’ve always found that kind of creepy,’ she says playful y. ‘It was Miss Robinson who suggested Charlie see a therapist. Apparently, some of the teachers are worried about her.’

‘Miss Robinson didn’t mention anything.’

‘That’s because she was flirting with you.’

The silence stretches out and is far more uncomfortable than it should be after so many years of marriage.

‘Did Miss Robinson mention Sienna coming to see her?’

Julianne shakes her head. ‘Maybe you should ask her. Take her for a drink.’

‘I don’t want to ask her out.’

‘She’s very pretty.’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘But what?’

‘She’s not
you
.’

Julianne shakes her head and drains her wine glass. ‘This was nice, Joe. Don’t spoil it.’

Summoning a waiter, she asks for her coat and leans towards me, accepting a kiss - a peck on the cheek, not the lips.

Almost in the same breath she hesitates, looking over my shoulder.

‘Is something wrong?’

‘I’m not sure.’

I fol ow her gaze. A man is standing on the corner, looking towards us. Pale and blade-faced, his dark oiled hair is combed back in vertical lines that cling to his scalp like the contours of a map. The tattoos on his forearms have faded with age into blue and black smears, but the most startling markings are ink lines drawn vertical y down his cheeks like twin channels for his tears that extend from his lower eyelids to his jawline.

Usual y, I study people instinctively, reading their body language, their clothes, their fleeting expressions, trying to understand who they are or what motivates them and what they’re capable of. This time it is different. I don’t want to notice this man. I want to look away. I want to ignore him.

Julianne is staring at him.

‘He was in court,’ she says. ‘I saw him sitting in the gal ery.’

‘Today?’

‘Every day.’

The school grounds are empty apart from a gym class running around cones on the playing fields with batches of students in the goal squares and on the halfway line. I ask at the main office for Annie Robinson and am directed to her office. The note pinned to the door says she’s in the hal , painting sets for the musical.