Good Girls Don't Die (26 page)

After Hilary’s call alerting her to the
Courier
’s story about Danny, Grace wasn’t able to resist running out to the newsagent to pick up a copy. The headline
IS POLLY STILL ALIVE?
was shocking enough, but Grace couldn’t wait to turn to the inside page where sure enough there was a blurred over-the-shoulder shot of Trev beside an admittedly rather nice picture of her taken at one of this week’s press conferences.

Brave officer’s torment at hands of police thug husband
ran the strapline. Her mouth dry, she read on:
DS Grace Fisher, the detective at the heart of the Colchester murder inquiry who has sworn to bring the killer of best friend plucky local reporter Roxanne Carson to justice, was driven out of her job as a detective inspector in Kent by uncaring boss Detective Superintendent Colin Pitman, who is now part of the three-man review team scrutinising the Essex investigation.

She just won’t listen!
ran a smaller heading below.
Disgraced ex-police constable Trevor Haynes claimed that his former wife’s ‘problem’ was that she wouldn’t stay in line and cover up for a
violent, drug-abusing colleague. Both Lee Roberts and Trevor Haynes were convicted earlier this year on separate charges of …

Grace skipped the few sentences that graphically described the injuries she’d sustained from Trev’s beating and jumped to the last paragraph, which lambasted her spineless former boss Colin Pitman for presiding over a bullying police culture that encouraged wrongdoing by a handful of bad apples.

Part of her wanted to both laugh and cry with relief that someone had, for the first time, stuck up for her against the bullies, but a larger part cowered away from the bruising truth that this article would merely reopen old wounds and leave her vulnerable to yet more sideways looks and sneering comments. Colin, too, would never forgive her, even though this time it had been his mate Trev who had stepped out of line.

Grace’s sister rang just as she finished reading. She had never told Alison the full horror of Trev’s assault – either too proud or too afraid that even Alison would, deep down, believe Grace had brought it upon herself – and Alison was calling to tell Grace how hurt and offended she was at having to learn such details now from a national newspaper. Grace appeased her as best she could and promised to visit at the first opportunity. She didn’t tell her sister that by the end of the weekend she might again be out of a job.

When the next call flashed up, Grace was tempted to reject it, but was soon glad she hadn’t: it was Lance, wanting to check she was all right and offer any help or support she
wanted – any time. She thanked him warmly, and explained that Hilary Burnett was on her way over. As soon as the chief con had been made aware of Ivo Sweatman’s interview with Trev, she’d insisted on seeing Grace immediately, even on a Saturday, to deal with the outstanding disciplinary matter. Hilary had offered to accompany her to Chelmsford and Grace had gratefully accepted.

Not long afterwards, in the passenger seat of Hilary’s Audi, Grace watched the windscreen wipers steadily clear away the morning drizzle and was relieved that the communications director didn’t expect her to chat. She wished now that she’d read Ivo’s interview with Danny more carefully so that she could decipher the detail. She didn’t believe a word of it. Despite hundreds of unconfirmed sightings of Polly up and down the country, there had been absolutely no activity on her phone, bank account, credit cards, email or social media. It remained a possibility that she had committed suicide, but there was no body and no note. The sad truth was that the police could offer her parents no real hope that she was alive.

Whatever Danny’s warped reasons for spinning such a tale – and she’d think about that later – it was cruel of Ivo to have run the story. The torment that Phil and Beverley Sinclair must be going through was unthinkable. Reflecting on her own conversation with her sister, she could barely imagine the phone calls from friends and family that they would now have to deal with. Grace couldn’t conceive how any civilised country could allow such irresponsibility, yet millions of people would buy today’s
Courier
and genuinely
believe it was because they cared about the fate of ‘Our Polly’.

They arrived at Essex Police HQ. Hilary had an electronic pass for the car park and took a visitors’ spot near the entrance. She switched off the engine and turned to Grace. ‘Ready?’

‘Not really.’

Hilary scrutinised her. ‘Got some lipstick? Go in fighting.’

Grace laughed and rummaged in her bag. As she used the visor mirror to apply some dusky pink to her lips, Hilary patted her leg. ‘I know it’s horrid to have your dirty linen spread out in public, but Ivo Sweatman has actually done you a real favour,’ she said.

Grace concentrated on keeping her hand steady and did not reply.

‘The chief constable’s priority will be damage limitation. And this timely reminder to the public that you’re our very own plucky heroine will have put a very different spin on things.’

Grace nodded reluctantly as she capped her lipstick and stowed it away. She simply dare not allow herself to hope that her career could be saved: better to face the worst and get it over with.

‘Will you let me do the talking?’ asked Hilary. ‘Trust me, I know how to press the right buttons. I’ll have you walking out of here with a commendation!’

Grace couldn’t help laughing again. She knew this last boast was a joke, but began to realise that perhaps she’d been unfair to Hilary: she was just as skilled in her way at
reading, managing and defusing people as any Tier 3 police interviewer.

They were shown straight into Irene Brown’s spacious corner office. Hilary glanced at a thermos jug and cups and saucers already laid out on the coffee table between two brown leather sofas and raised an eyebrow at Grace: this was a favourable sign. The chief constable, relaxed in a uniform dress shirt rather than the full regalia of a buttoned-up jacket, came out from behind her desk to greet them.

‘Hilary, DS Fisher, please.’ The chief con sat in the middle of one sofa, gesturing to them to sit beside one another facing her. ‘Coffee?’

Grace was about to refuse, not sure she could cope with managing a cup and saucer without spillage, but a nudge from Hilary made her accept.

‘I was very disappointed to receive Superintendent Pitman’s call yesterday,’ Irene Brown began without preamble, ‘suggesting that you have had further unauthorised contact with the media, in direct contradiction of my express orders the last time we met. I’d like to hear what you have to say.’

‘It is true, ma’am, that I met a second time with Roxanne Carson.’

‘Without informing your SIO?’

‘It had nothing to do with any operational matters, ma’am. Our meeting was of a purely personal nature.’

‘Because Roxanne Carson was an old friend?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Grace felt a leap of hope: if the chief con was feeding her own witness and showing a readiness to
describe Roxanne as a ‘friend’ rather than a journalist, then maybe Hilary’s prediction was right and she was being handed a lifeline. But then the bitter taste of betrayal flooded the back of her throat:
was
Roxanne a friend? How much of what Grace had so gratefully confided in her that drunken night at the Blue Bar had she passed on to Ivo Sweatman?

‘DS Fisher was one of the first officers at the scene when Roxanne Carson’s body was found, ma’am,’ said Hilary gently. ‘She was understandably reluctant to talk to the media about their friendship so soon after such a distressing experience, but was professional enough to be persuaded of the benefit to the investigation. You yourself have seen first-hand the value of her contribution.’

Irene Brown gracefully accepted Hilary’s deft reminder that she had specifically asked to be seated beside Grace when facing the TV news cameras at the media conference. ‘The human face of modern police work,’ she acknowledged. ‘Not that I intend to be held to ransom by the media,’ she added pointedly. ‘However, I have also received an email from Superintendent Stalgood.’ She turned to Grace. ‘He wished to make me aware that your actions, although regrettable, had not in his opinion impacted negatively on the investigation. He feels that, going forward, the needs of the inquiry should override any draconian disciplinary procedure.’

‘I can only apologise, ma’am, for a regrettable lapse of judgement and for wasting everyone’s time.’

‘I will leave it to Superintendent Stalgood to impose an
appropriate redress.’ The chief constable rose to her feet, smoothing down her immaculately fitted black uniform skirt. Grace put down her untouched cup of coffee and stood up.

‘I won’t take up more of your time, Hilary,’ the chief con continued. ‘I imagine you’re needed back in Colchester to deal with this latest story about Polly Sinclair.’

‘It’s going to be extremely difficult,’ agreed Hilary, following Irene Brown to the door of her office. ‘I’m sure that the parents would really appreciate it if you could send them a personal message.’

‘Absolutely. Draft something for me to approve. And let me know if you want me to add weight to today’s media conference.’

‘Thank you, yes. I think your presence would definitely set the right tone.’

‘Then I’ll see you later.’ With a brief nod of farewell to Grace, Irene Brown shut the door on them. Grace could hardly believe it. She was safe. Her job was safe. She felt like dancing down the corridor. Cue lights! Cue music! She could go back to work!

‘Told you,’ said Hilary gleefully, as soon as they’d reached the privacy of the lift. ‘Last thing on earth she wanted was to have to take any action against you. Can you imagine the media backlash if she had?’

‘Thank you so much, Hilary.’

‘I just offered her what she was looking for: a way out.’

‘No,’ said Grace, hugging her, ‘you were wonderful. Played a real blinder in there!’

Hilary went pink and turned to the mirrored wall of the lift to primp her perfect hair. ‘I don’t know why Superintendent Pitman felt he had to refer it to her at all,’ she said. ‘Though maybe it’s just as well he did.’

Grace’s heart sank. Colin had referred it because he hoped she’d be sacked. He wasn’t going to be the least little bit pleased to see her walk back into the MIT office, especially not after the hatchet job Ivo Sweatman had done on him in this morning’s paper. He wouldn’t even be able to avoid it: a copy of the
Courier
would be on every desk because of the interview with Danny Tooley. Colin was just going to have to suck it up.

Grace phoned Lance from the car and was thrilled by his genuine pleasure and relief at her news. He was at work and, hearing an unusual amount of noise in the background, she asked what was going on.

‘Colin’s just announced that Sapphire have charged Matt Beeston with rape.’

‘That’s good.’ Grace relayed the information to Hilary, who let out a sigh of relief that she would have at least some positive news to present to the media.

‘Once Matt’s been before the magistrates, they’ll send him back to us,’ Lance continued. ‘Colin’s looking to bring murder charges by Tuesday at the latest.’ Grace began to object, but Lance cut her short. ‘Don’t rain on his parade,’ he warned, lowering his voice. ‘Right now he needs every bit of reflected glory he can lay his hands on.’

‘Maybe I should take the day off? Come in on Monday?’

‘I think that would be wise. I’ll keep you posted if there are any developments.’

‘Thanks, Lance. Hang on, what about Danny?’

‘He’s downstairs. We’re waiting on a shrink to say he’s fit to be interviewed. But he’s a time-waster. Twisted wannabe. We know that.’

Grace decided now was not the time to argue. ‘OK, thanks.

‘Take care of yourself.’

Hilary dropped Grace at her flat and sped off to prepare for the daily press conference, which promised to be the liveliest yet. Grace slipped out of the formal grey suit and pale blue blouse she’d worn for her meeting with the chief con and pulled on her most comfortable jeans, a yellow vest and a peach-coloured short-sleeved T-shirt. The rain had cleared, the sun was back out and she wanted to celebrate her reprieve, so bright colours seemed like the right idea. She tied back her hair and dug out a pair of bug-eye sunglasses, hoping they’d be enough to stop anyone recognising her. She didn’t want the fragile balloon of her positive mood burst by anyone connecting her with the ‘brave officer’ stupid enough to have let her ‘thug husband’ beat her up.

As she locked the door to her flat and made her way downstairs, she thought about Danny, waiting in the bowels of the police station. She didn’t need a psychiatrist to tell her that he was more than a time-waster. It was not unusual for a perpetrator to hang around an investigation, courting great risk but apparently unable to leave it alone. Some try to be helpful, offering tea and biscuits to officers guarding the perimeter of a crime scene. Some turn up at their victims’ funerals. And quite a few over the years had volunteered to talk to the press.

Grace considered what lay behind Danny talking to the
Courier
. She doubted that he craved celebrity or notoriety, nor that he resented another suspect taking credit for his crimes, though she knew that both were motives that had driven other infamous killers to seek publicity. It could be an attempt to mislead the police and muddy the waters of the investigation, or in hope that Ivo Sweatman would, in return, give him the inside track on what the police already had on him. But she believed Danny’s purpose lay deeper: maybe, driven by guilt, it was his wishful thinking that the girl of his dreams
was
still alive that had created this fantasy of rescuing her. Saying it aloud and then seeing it in print might make it seem real.

She had intended to walk to Castle Park but now changed direction. So far none of the evidence she had gathered against Danny was any stronger than that against either Matt Beeston or Pawel Zawodny. She needed more than cod psychology if she was to stand any chance of persuading the team to listen to her. Back to basics: Danny had said that on the night Polly had asked him for a lift back to Wivenhoe he’d been drinking with some of his brother’s army friends. It shouldn’t be too difficult to work out which of the pubs near the garrison the paras had claimed as their own.

It was clear that the Armoury was a venue where local girls on the pull could chat up squaddies to their hearts’ content. Even on a Saturday lunchtime the tight group of tanned, exceptionally fit young men at the bar was already surrounded by a flock of admiring and scantily dressed
young women. It was easy to see how the soldiers’ training and experience gave them a glamour reflected irresistibly back at them in the girls’ shining eyes. Grace couldn’t imagine Danny lasting two minutes in such company.

The landlord, who looked like a former drill sergeant, shook his head and directed Grace to the Dog and Whistle. ‘Ask for Mandy,’ he told her. ‘It’s the army wives who keep tabs on everything around here. Mandy’s the mother hen and if she can’t tell you what you want to know, no one can. And catch the bastard,’ he called after her, waving an arm to encompass the excited girls around the bar. ‘They’re sitting ducks, this lot. No point telling them to go easy because they don’t bloody listen.’

As Grace made her way to the Dog and Whistle, it occurred to her to wonder if the existence of a brother, too, might simply be another lie, an imaginary friend Danny had conjured up out of his need to belong. The pub, half empty and low on charm, was a featureless Sixties building with big windows along one wall through which the midday sun remorselessly illuminated every mark and stain on the red-patterned carpet. Grace ordered a water with lime juice from the barman, who, after a quiet word, pointed out a whippet-thin woman nursing a half of lager and chatting sedately to a couple of other women. ‘Mother hen’ was not the description Grace would have chosen. Mandy was probably about the same age as Grace but had a smoker’s prematurely aged skin and the sinewy arms of someone used to hard manual work. Grace introduced herself, showed her warrant and apologised for disturbing her.
Mandy gave her an undisguised up-and-down look. ‘It’s OK,’ she said, picking up a packet of Silk Cut and a disposable lighter. ‘Mind if we chat outside?’

Grace followed her out to a small fenced-off area of damp concrete with a picnic table and a rubbish bin. Mandy lit a cigarette and perched up on the table, resting her feet on the grey wooden seat. She wore a gold ankle chain and her toenails were painted a frosted emerald green.

‘What d’you want?’ she asked.

‘I need to speak to a para serving at Camp Bastion, name of Tooley,’ said Grace. ‘He’s absolutely not in any trouble, but I need to check something with him.’

Mandy nodded, considering her response. ‘Michael Tooley?’

Grace gave a slight nod, hoping this wasn’t just coincidence. ‘We think someone’s been using his car without his permission.’

Mandy raised an eyebrow. ‘His pimped-up Beemer? He won’t be happy about that.’

‘I’d rather not hang about waiting for official wheels to turn,’ said Grace, hoping her excuses didn’t sound too dodgy.

‘It’s important?’ asked Mandy, turning her head to blow smoke out sideways, away from Grace.

‘Yes.’

Mandy eyed her shrewdly. ‘It’ll be about young Danny, then?’

‘Possibly. You know him?’

Mandy nodded. ‘There’s no harm in him, but he can be a pain in the arse.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘So it is about him, then?’

Grace smiled and sat up on the table beside her. ‘Does he hang out much with his brother’s mates?’

‘Hangs on sometimes.’

‘Might he have spent an evening drinking with them?’

Mandy’s laugh turned into a cough, and she never replied. Grace sipped her cold drink, realising she was glad of the refreshment, and waited comfortably for Mandy to decide how much she wanted to say.

‘Michael joined up to get away from home,’ Mandy said after a few drags on her cigarette. ‘Although I’m pretty sure his mum died three or four years back. Whatever, Danny’s not a kid any more. He needs to get a life of his own. Michael’s older and they had different dads, so there’s only so much Michael feels he has to do for him. And I very much doubt that includes letting him chief his car.’

‘I need to speak to Michael,’ said Grace. ‘Skype him if possible.’

Mandy shrugged. ‘He’ll only get so much Internet access a week. And that’s only when he’s on base.’

Grace fished in her bag for a card. ‘I understand. But is there any way you could get word to him, ask him to get in touch with me?’

Mandy dropped the remains of her cigarette on the ground so she could take the card and tuck it away. She slipped off the table, sliding her flip-flop over the cigarette to extinguish it. ‘Leave it with me,’ she said, picking up the butt and then looking directly into Grace’s eyes. ‘Danny’s
not a bad lad, not at all. But his mum –’ She pursed her lips in distaste as she walked over to the rubbish bin. ‘Poor kid never stood a chance.’

As Grace hurried back to her flat, she thought about what Danny had said about his mother being ill. Her first impression of him had been that he was poor and undernourished. He’d said in the police interview room that ‘these places’ reminded him of when he was a kid, and that he’d had to leave school to look after his mum. She’d naively assumed that ‘these places’ meant a hospital, that his mother had been disabled or chronically ill. But what if she’d missed the most vital clue of all? Polly and Rachel had both been drunk. Rachel had been violated with a bottle of vodka, Roxanne with a discarded wine bottle. She’d always believed that booze was in some way an important thread in this case. What if Danny’s mother had been an alcoholic?

Instead of going up to her flat, Grace got in her car. Danny was at the police station so it would be safe to take another look at where he lived. She wanted to focus her thoughts, and she hoped maybe there’d be something about that carefully tended, worn-out little house that would speak to her.

The main car park in Wivenhoe was full, so she left her car on a side road and took the path through the woods that she and Lance had followed with Jessica the day before. Even though the night’s rain had fed the parched undergrowth, Grace found the trapped air beneath the trees claustrophobic and was glad when the path emerged into a small clearing where three cars were parked. She had not
noticed it before when she’d cruised around the block with Lance, but she found that it opened directly onto Rosemead Avenue. Close by was a little row of garages from where she could see Danny’s house. She asked herself what kind of life he lived there, what kind of childhood he’d had. A boy who loved reading yet had given up his education to care for his mum was someone who might plump up a pillow and slip it comfortingly under a woman’s head. But Grace had seen too many chaotic families with kids both scared of and protective of erratic, neglectful, addicted parents to think that could be the whole story. If Danny had grown up forced to take responsibility for a parent lost to substance abuse, might he also be capable of punishing a woman for being drunk by pushing a vodka bottle into her vagina?