Dead Secret (23 page)

It was at that moment that Neal doubted they had found their killer. He had done the training, learned about aspects of deviant behaviour and psychopathy. He knew there were manipulative and charismatic individuals out there who could dissemble to a spectacular degree, but in his heart of hearts, he just did not believe that Simon Foster was one of them. Yes, he had issues relating to his early childhood abuse and would probably benefit from some hours on a psychologist’s couch, but he was no killer. He said, quietly, “Simon, we know you weren’t with your mother the night Amy died. She told us so. Care to tell us where you were, really?”

Simon looked as miserable as a person could look. Looking like a man about to damn himself, he said, “I was following Amy, but only until around seven thirty. She met a girlfriend outside the cinema. I hung around for a bit, wondering whether to go in, then I just left.”

“And where did you go?”

Simon looked completely miserable, “I bought a bottle of vodka and drank it sitting on a swing in the little kids’ playground off Friary Lane. It was deserted at that time of the evening.”

Neal nodded. He knew the park Simon was referring to; he had taken Archie there often when he was younger. It was near a school in the Uphill area and wasn’t frequented by the usual vagrants and junkies because it was kept locked at night.

“How did you get in?” he asked Simon.

“I climbed the fence. It wasn’t that hard.”

It was believable. Your everyday vagrant wouldn’t think it worth the effort, but for a young, fit lad like Simon, it would present little difficulty.

“And you stayed there all night — in the rain?” Ava asked.

“I drank half the bottle and passed out in a little playhouse.”

Neal sighed. He remembered bumping his head in that playhouse whilst chasing Archie through it. No one would have seen Simon in there; small as it was, he could have lain curled up inside without his feet protruding. He said, changing tack, “Simon, are you aware that following Amy in the way that you were doing could be construed as stalking?”

“That’s what Maya said, but I didn’t see it that way at the time. I was kind of obsessed by her, but I wouldn’t have harmed her, I swear. I just wanted to look out for her and learn more about her. I wasn’t the only one obsessed with her either.”

Neal and Ava exchanged glances. Neal frowned, thinking of Becci’s remarks about someone else besides Simon stalking Amy. “How so?”

“I was in the Union bar one day and I got talking to this bloke — he wasn’t a student at Stromford Uni — he was studying elsewhere but was visiting his dad for the weekend. Anyway, we’d had a few beers and got talking; we were looking out the window . . .” Simon paused, colouring, “Seeing if any hot girls were walking by, and he got all kind of puffed up at one point and pointed out a girl standing outside the library. When I looked over, I saw it was Amy. He told me he used to fancy her, but I got the impression he still did. We’d both had quite a few pints by then and I started telling him how I thought Amy might be my sister who’d disappeared years ago after my father killed my mother. He was really taken by the story, wanted to know all the details, where my father was doing time, when and where it all happened. I made him swear not to tell Amy about all this.”

“And what makes you say he was obsessed with Amy?” Neal asked.

“Because he was following her too. He was in Stromford all that week and I saw him watching her and her friend, the skinny blonde one, on more than one occasion. Then he just disappeared. I assumed he’d gone back to uni.”

“You spent — what — a couple of hours chatting over beers. Did you exchange names, contact details?”

Simon shook his head, “We kind of just called each other, ‘mate.’”

“Can you describe him to us?”

“He was a big guy — I mean not particularly tall, just kind of . . . overweight,” Simon answered tactfully, “not being mean or anything but he wasn’t really god’s gift — I doubt he was the type a girl who looked like Amy would go for. Even if he had a great personality, which he didn’t, really.” Simon paused, embarrassed, perhaps, at his honesty.

“Go on,” Neal said. A picture was forming in his mind, but he needed to be more certain. Ava, he noticed, was leaning forward in her seat again. Did she share his suspicions?

“He had light brown hair, very short, spiky really, like he’d shaved his head and his hair was just growing back. Sorry, I don’t remember much more about him. After that first time, I only saw him from a distance.”

Neal turned to Ava, “Get PC Jenkins to bring a picture of Bradley Turner from the file.” He and Simon sat silently while they waited for Ava to return, which she did after less than two minutes, carrying a brown file, which she handed to Neal. He opened it, removed a photograph and slid it across the table to Simon, rotating it until it was the right way round for him to see.

“Is this the person you were just describing?” he asked. There was no hesitation.

“That’s him. Who is he? Did he kill Amy?” Simon seemed to suck a big breath in and forget to let it go, then he did let go but the next breath came as a laboured gasp and within seconds he was struggling to breathe.

“Simon. Do you have asthma? Where’s your inhaler?” Ava said, sounding a little panicky.

“It’s not asthma, it’s a panic attack,” Neal said, recognising the symptoms. “Get a paper bag, quickly.” As Ava dashed out the door, Neal pulled his chair to the other side of the table so that he could sit next to Simon.

“Okay, take it easy, son, just concentrate on breathing.” Simon Foster was twenty years old, but at that moment he seemed younger than Archie. Neal pushed the comparison out of his mind, reminding himself that Simon was still a suspect in a murder investigation. The boy’s attack appeared genuine enough, but even if it were, how could Neal be sure that it had not been somehow self-induced?

Ava re-entered the room carrying a brown paper bag. Before passing it to Neal she turned it upside down and scattered pastry crumbs all over the table, explaining, “Sykes had a Cornish pasty for lunch, he dug this out of his waste paper basket.”

“It’ll do the trick,” Neal said, placing the bag over Simon’s mouth and nose and instructing him to breathe in and out, repeating the words, “in and out,” over and over to help the lad focus on something other than his alarming symptoms. Within minutes, Simon’s breathing steadied and he signalled for Neal to remove the bag.

“Okay, Simon. Here’s what’s going to happen. Detective Sergeant Merry here, is going to contact your mother and ask her to come down to the station to collect you. She will take you home and you will stay there. No more running, understand?”

Simon nodded, still recovering. Ava gave Neal a quizzical look and left the room to call Anna Foster.

“Get one of the PCs to bring Simon a glass of water,” Neal called after her.

In less than forty minutes, Anna Foster had collected her son and taken him home. Ava had explained the circumstances over the phone and when Anna arrived at the station, she greeted Neal and Ava with a chilly look and no exchange of pleasantries. All she said was, “Where is my son? What have you done to him?” Clearly, she was of the opinion that Simon’s panic attack had been the result of mistreatment whilst in police custody.

“She should be grateful we’re letting her precious son walk,” Ava commented, after the Fosters’ departure.

“For now,” Neal reminded her. Frustrating as it was, they had no real reason to detain Simon; he had bolted, but there was no evidence to tie him to Amy’s murder. Despite Neal’s feeling that Simon was not a killer, the lad did lack an alibi and he was still a suspect.

“How’s the foot?” Neal asked Ava. He’d noticed she was still limping.

“Better. I’ll make that appointment.”

“See that you do, Sergeant.” There was an awkward pause, but the previous tension between them had evaporated. Neal asked, “Fancy a bite? We can discuss Bradley Turner and you can tell me about this idea you have that Amy Hill was blackmailing Taylor.”

“I’m famished,” Ava admitted. Then, perhaps sensing that Neal was no longer angry with her, she added, “It’s more than an idea, sir. I have proof.”

At a secluded table in the nearest pub to the station that served decent food, Ava related how she had spent her morning, and her suspicions about Taylor, leaving Neal with a sense that there was something she had left out. There was an edge to her voice when she talked about him that hinted at something — what? Neal couldn’t put a finger on it. An idea flashed in his mind and was cursorily dismissed. There was no way his sergeant was involved sexually with Taylor, was there, even as she sat in front of Neal, accusing the professor of having intercourse with underage girls?

At first, Neal made no comment, only concentrated on working his way through the best steak he had eaten in a long time. Or was it just that it had been a long time since he had eaten?

Taking a slug of cold beer, he said, “It seems that you’ve been carrying out your own investigation, Sergeant.” His voice was stern, but he wasn’t certain how he felt about Ava’s behaviour. Was she a bit of a loose cannon, or a person who acted on her own initiative and got results? He would not give her any indication that he approved of her running a parallel investigation into a man who wasn’t even a suspect.

“How do you even know if this Rohina or Roxy or whatever she calls herself is telling the truth? You say she admitted herself that as a young girl, she fancied Taylor. What if, as he claims in Amy’s case, he turned her down and she resented him for it?”

Ava was shaking her head in frustration.

“I’m sure she was telling the truth. The man’s a monster.” The words came out with such vehemence that Neal was startled.

“I know his alibi is cast iron, sir, but even if he didn’t kill Amy, his relationship with her was far more than he admitted to.”

Neal had had enough. He said, “Taylor did not murder Amy Hill. If he’s guilty of having sex with underage girls, then that’s a whole separate investigation. And what do you have? Look at it from the point of view of a jury. At best, one possible victim’s word against that of a respected academic. At worst, a spiteful girl getting her own back on a man who spurned her.”

Ava was staring at him, looking a little stunned.

“I didn’t take you for the kind of man who dismisses allegations of abuse against women so casually,” she said, “I know that kind of attitude is still prevalent amongst lots of cops but I didn’t have you pegged as one of them.”

“What are you talking about?” Neal answered, astonished at his sergeant’s interpretation of his words. To his annoyance, his next words were even more inflammatory, the more so for being untrue. “And I hadn’t pegged you as one of those women who carry a huge chip around on her shoulder.”

To say that Ava was provoked was putting it lightly; she was practically turning purple and emitting steam from her ears, but she managed to keep her mouth shut. To his shame, Neal realised that, as his lower ranking officer she was obliged to show respect, and not answer back or undermine his authority. He was in the position of power. She was holding back because she couldn’t trust herself to speak.

“Look, Sergeant — Ava — your initial assessment of me was the correct one. I’m not the kind of cop who takes issues of violence against women lightly. I know it takes courage for girls and women to come forward and report abuse and that their actions often encourage others to come forward against the abuser. I would never make an assumption that such matters should not be properly investigated and I apologise if that’s how I came across. I was playing devil’s advocate, trying to make you see you can’t jump the gun in police work. It’s about more than just clever deduction and matters of right and wrong. It’s about putting a solid case together that won’t fall apart the minute we walk into court.

I know we’re still finding our way as partners and that we have to earn each other’s respect, but I need you to be sure what kind of man I am, and what kind of police officer. And, to be frank, I’m a little disappointed that you don’t know me better than that.”

Ava’s demeanour seemed to revert to something less reminiscent of a raging bull. Her complexion faded to a healthy pink and her shoulders relaxed. In a low tone, she said, “Yeah, I do know you better than that. And, if I’m carrying anything around, it’s not exactly a chip.” She cleared her throat, “I have some . . . personal experience of this kind of thing.”

Neal waited, but she didn’t elaborate. What kind of thing was she referring to? Sexual abuse? Assault? He thought again about their conversation on the train, but he would not press her to reveal more than she was willing to share. Ava spoke again, but this time, it was the Ava he was more familiar with,

“Okay, I accept I don’t have much to build a case around, but do you object to my carrying on looking at Taylor, if it doesn’t interfere with the main investigation?”

You had to admire her tenacity
.

“Alright,” he agreed, “See what you can dig up and make sure you can back any allegations up with reliable evidence or credible witnesses. The last thing we need is for lives — and that includes Roxy’s — to be ruined by press coverage without evidence. He wondered if the word ‘credible’ would be taken the wrong way, but Ava didn’t challenge him on it. Unhappily, he sensed the chill in the air between them hadn’t quite thawed. He said,