The First Cut (27 page)

She had been so sure it was Greg that she had opened the door without looking through the spyhole.

It hadn’t been her husband. And the rock that had formed in her throat as she had opened the door had grown in the hours since and was still growing. It was now so big she didn’t know how she could continue to breathe.

Inspector Broadbent was sitting across from her now but the interview was being led by a big man called Martin Webster.

‘You have no idea who Louise Bell is?’ Martin was repeating all his questions for emphasis.

‘I’ve never heard of her, and this picture doesn’t help. I’ve never met her.’

Martin had a box file in front of him. He pulled out a plastic bag with something inside it, turned it round and laid it in front of Nicky. ‘Is this your necklace?’

Nicky instinctively put her hand to her throat. Her necklace. It really did look like hers. She picked up the bag. The weight felt right, the thickness was as she remembered, but when had she last seen it? She couldn’t remember. ‘Yes . . . I guess so. Or one very similar. Where did you get it?’

‘The clasp is broken.’

‘It wasn’t broken when I last had it.’

‘This necklace was found clutched in the hands of Louise Bell when she was shot dead in her flat.’

‘That’s not possible. I . . .’ She saw the lawyer turn towards her, waiting. They were all waiting for her. She was the centre of attention. She had been wearing that necklace when she first went to Hayersleigh. She remembered with a vividness that was painful spending time getting ready in the bathroom before they left for the country that day. She had thought through her outfit, played out scenarios in her mind. So many different outcomes, except the actual one. She had put the necklace on because it made her feel young; she had put it on because Greg had given it to her, and she thought maybe it might stop her straying too far from the righteous path. She took a little bit of Greg with her on her day’s escape to the country—

‘Nicky?’

And the contrast between her arrival there and her exit – barefoot, injured, scared half to death, scaling walls and crawling on hand and knees in the dust like an animal – could not have been greater. Had she been wearing the necklace then? She had no idea. But it seemed pretty clear now what had happened. ‘I wore that necklace when I first went to Hayersleigh House.’ She couldn’t bear to even say his name. ‘I think it was taken off or I lost it there.’

‘Where were you on Thursday, twenty-fifth of August?’

‘Two days ago? I went to see my sister-in-law in Brockley.’

‘What time were you there?’

‘I went in the morning. I left there about midday.’

‘And after that?’

‘I was at home.’

‘All day?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anyone with you then? Anyone call on you?’

‘No.’

‘We’ll need your mobile phone to corroborate what you say.’

‘I didn’t have a mobile then.’

‘You don’t own a mobile?’ Martin was looking sceptical.

‘I had lost it before that and I didn’t get a replacement till I went back to work the next day.’

‘Do you own a gun, Nicky?’

‘A gun? Of course not.’

‘A shotgun?’

‘No.’

‘Are there guns at Hayersleigh House?’

Nicky paused. ‘Yes.’

‘How many?’

‘Two. They were locked in a gun cabinet.’

‘Did you ever see Adam using a gun?’ She paused, thinking of the moment he had looked down the gun sight at her. ‘Did you ever see Adam firing a gun?’

‘No.’

‘Louise Bell is Struan Clarke’s girlfriend.’ Jenny saw the shock on Nicky’s face. Impossible to hide, but possible to fake? If she was faking, she was bloody good at it.

Nicky shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

Martin snorted. ‘When you were interviewed by DI Broadbent only a few days ago you went to great lengths to change your statement, wasting hours of police time. Juries don’t like women who change their minds. What’s the real story here?’

‘I don’t know this woman!’

Martin got angry. ‘I don’t think you realize how serious a situation you’re in. This is being treated as double murder! Struan’s death could be taken as the result of an intruder break-in, but Louise? She was gunned down in her living room holding
your
necklace!’

Nicky felt fear then: a great immovable alarm. She was completely out of her depth, a piece of flotsam that events tossed from one disaster to the next before she could draw breath.

‘Your husband is Greg Peterson?’

‘Yes.’

‘Whose former wife was Grace Peterson. Murdered.’

‘Yes.’

Martin paused. ‘How long after her death did you and Greg get together?’

Nicky leaned back in her chair, sensing something particularly unpleasant was coming. ‘I don’t understand.’ But she did, completely. Now she was on the receiving end of the insinuations, the puffed cheeks of scepticism, the glances and pauses.

‘Oh, it’s quite simple. How long was it before you got together?’

‘Six months.’

She saw Jenny making a note. ‘Grace’s brother says it was four and a half.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘How soon after she died did you get married?’

‘Two years.’

‘What’s it feel like to spend your dead friend’s money?’ Nicky gasped but Martin didn’t let up. ‘Greg got the lot, didn’t he? And it was quite a lot.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘Patterns of behaviour are my point. Transgressions from what most people think of as decent. For example, your best friend is barely cold in the ground, but you go off with her husband. Did you always want him? Were you always jealous of her?’

‘No—’

‘Now you’re carrying on with Adam Thornton – husband knows, doesn’t know, who cares? You obviously don’t. Most people would think that a transgression from the norm. See the picture I’m painting for a jury? A woman not to be trusted. A cheat and a liar, doing things others find offensive.’

‘I am not and never have had a relationship with Adam Thornton. I went to his house to look at photos for a newspaper obituary. Not a bit of what you say is true.’

Jenny watched Nicky carefully. It wasn’t her investigation now, but she was sitting in anyway, because she was intrigued and part of her wanted to know how the supposed big shots at the Met handled a murder investigation. So far she wasn’t too impressed. She didn’t believe you got the best results by throwing your weight around, something Martin seemed keen to do.

‘As a member of the public do I have a right to see police notes on an investigation?’

And here she was, thought Jenny, straight back atcha.

‘Get real!’

‘Does my husband, Greg Peterson, have a criminal record?’

Martin slammed his hand down on his files. ‘I’m the one asking the questions here!’

‘Where’s my motive? I’ve got no reason to kill her! I’ve got no reason to kill him! I don’t understand how my necklace ended up at the scene!’

‘It doesn’t look good, Nicky, it sure doesn’t look good.’

‘We’ve been going a long time,’ the lawyer said. ‘Let’s have a dinner break.’

Jenny rose sharply and exited the room. She found Sondra waiting for water to drip into a small plastic cup from the gurgling water cooler in the corridor. ‘What’s happening?’ Sondra asked.

‘She’s giving as good as she gets. She’s a toughie, this one,’ Jenny said.

‘I just phoned the station. Adam was taken in for questioning from the house. He was still digging up that damned lawn. He’s got no alibi for the time of Louise’s murder. He’s being questioned now.’

‘Did he go willingly?’

‘Apparently so. Stunned, was the word I heard.’

Jenny leaned in closer to Sondra. ‘Why are you whispering?’

Sondra looked around guiltily. ‘I didn’t realize I was.’

Jenny smiled. ‘Don’t be intimidated by this lot.’

Sondra nodded and finished her water. ‘Do you think she did it?’ She was still whispering.

‘I think she’s capable, but there’s still no reason as to why. Struan could have been lured to the house, but Louise?’ She shook her head and pointed at the water cooler. ‘Can I have some of that?’ Sondra extracted a half beaker of water from the partially blocked machine and gave it to Jenny. She drank it as she watched Martin walk down the corridor humming an R&B tune. He handed Jenny several bits of paper and began rocking from side to side and circling his arms slightly as if dancing to a tune only he could hear.

‘I’ve got the details from Louise’s flat.’

‘OK, what have we got?’ Jenny asked.

‘Nothing, so far. We know the necklace was wiped clean, and we found no fingerprints we could identify apart from Struan’s, Louise’s and the mother’s. The bullet hasn’t given us anything either. We’ll have to wait for fibre samples. Either they’ve been watching a lot of
CSI
—’

‘Or they weren’t there.’ Jenny scanned the papers and handed them back to Martin.

‘Two steps forward, one step back.’ Martin smiled as he moved his feet forward and back. ‘We’ve got a warrant to search her house so we’ll see if we find anything interesting there.’

‘Let us know what turns up,’ Jenny replied. ‘It’s been a long day.’ She turned to Sondra. ‘I think we need to be getting back.’

‘The later you leave it the better,’ Martin added kindly. ‘The bank holiday traffic will be murder.’

They watched him dance up the corridor, his papers flapping as he went.

I
t was six a.m. when Greg woke up, his heart beating double quick with a sickening anxiety. Jet lag and a vicious hangover had pulled him from oblivion. The room wouldn’t straighten. He was so thirsty his tongue seemed cemented to the top of his mouth. The worst thing was that he had nothing to do. No work to keep him occupied, no audience to keep him in line. The abyss beckoned again.

An hour and a half later, when he pulled up in a taxi outside his house, he saw so many people he thought Nicky had already called the removal men and was on her way to a new life without him.

He was halfway through the front door before anyone thought to confront him.

‘Can I help you?’ a man on a mobile asked him.

‘This was my house, last time I looked,’ Greg snapped. He knew instantly it was the police. The manner, the practised ease with which they moved through the rooms – he’d seen it all before.

The policeman ended his call. ‘Husband’s here!’ he shouted down to the kitchen, then he turned back to Greg. ‘Step in here, please, sir,’ the man said, inviting him into his own living room.

Greg’s headache was pounding but no amount of ibuprofen and aspirin and something else the pharmacist had given him would make it go away. He was quick to anger today. ‘This is my bloody house!’

‘Just a minute, sir, if you would.’

‘Where’s Nicky? Where’s my wife?’

‘We’re undertaking a search of your house. We have a warrant.’

‘For fuck’s sake don’t you let ever let it go? What have I done now?’

The policeman looked surprised. ‘Nothing, as far as I know.’ He handed him a piece of paper on which floated words he couldn’t read, as another man came into the room.

‘Mind if I ask you a few questions?’ Greg waved his hand as it was easier than talking and watched a notebook being produced and flipped to a blank page. ‘Recognize this necklace?’

‘That’s Nicky’s. I gave it to her as a present.’

‘Where was your wife on Thursday, twenty-fifth of August?’

Greg shrugged. ‘At work, I’d guess. I was in LA.’ He heard the sound of footsteps in his bedroom above him. ‘What are you looking for?’

‘Do you own a shotgun, Mr Peterson?’

‘No.’

‘Does your wife?’

‘Of course not. Where is she?’

‘She’s been taken in for questioning over the murder of Louise Bell.’

‘Who’s that?’ The policeman didn’t answer. ‘What the fuck is going on? I have to see her right away.’

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. She’s still being questioned.’

Greg reeled through into the kitchen to see a policewoman pointing a long needle into the earth round the pot plants. ‘Who’s representing my wife? Why wasn’t I called?’

‘Sir, it would be best to go down to the station to get an answer to those questions. Do you know Struan Clarke?’

‘Who?’

Greg had had his personal possessions searched before. They’d crawled all over his flat the last time, insinuating, pulling apart his relationship with Grace, hunting for the murder weapon, asking their friends if their love was real. And like everything else in Greg’s life, the bad bits just got repeated, over and over again, like some terrible loop film on the aeroplanes he travelled on.

He felt nausea rising in his gut and raced for the downstairs toilet, barging past a man hunting through the medicine cabinet.

‘Don’t mind me,’ the man snapped as Greg retched and heaved. He’d kept so much from Nicky, but maybe his fear at revealing things meant he hadn’t noticed how much she was keeping from him. Jet lag pulled at him from every side. Maybe he’d met his match; maybe this was a great cosmic joke at his expense. He staggered back into the front room. When the police team left three hours later Greg was still fast asleep on the living-room sofa.

Nicky held out her hand for a taxi in a daze. The police had finally let her go as there was no evidence with which to keep her in any longer. She’d walked straight out of the front of the police station. She saw a taxi pull over and begin to coast to a stop, but she waved it away. She leaned back against a shop front and almost laughed. Where did she have to go? She realized she didn’t know whether to walk left or right, to home or away; she didn’t know whether home was a hazard or a haven. She put her head in her hands to stifle a scream. She hadn’t slept all night, she felt stiff and grubby and scared, and the rock in her throat wouldn’t be dislodged. She gulped down some fresh air and tried to control herself. She got into the next taxi.

T
roy pulled up in his car and stared at the house. Sunlight bounced off the white stucco. The houses opposite and either side had drawn curtains. Bank holiday weekend and just as he had hoped, no one was home. He locked the car and walked up the front steps.