The Waiting Game (26 page)

The duty solicitor was a stout, middle-aged woman with frizzy grey hair dressed in some horrible, brightly coloured flowing dress that made her look like a hippy instead of a professional. Nathan hated her instantly.

Hated her more when she asked him – right out – whether he’d killed Chloe. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty? And this was the person being paid to protect him!

She asked him to call her Sarah but he refused, insisting on Miss Welsh (no rings on her fingers so no need to embarrass them both by asking if it was Miss or Mrs). He wondered what sort of woman would choose a job like this, working in prisons and police stations, representing the worst of society?

The two detectives interviewing him were women, too. Almost
made him wonder if it was some sort of conspiracy. Maybe this is what they did whenever the murder victim was a woman and the suspect was a man. They tried to intimidate the man by surrounding him with the sort of women no right-minded man would ever want to be around.

He’d lost track of how long they’d been asking him questions. Going back over the same thing again and again, trying to trip him up, get him to admit he’d killed her. Then a sudden change of direction that threw him off-guard.

‘Did you believe her?’

The blonde detective with the blue eyes like ice.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘Did you believe Chloe when she said someone had been in her house?’ the blonde said.

‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘She must have been very scared.’

‘She was,’ he said. ‘Especially when you lot refused to take her seriously. She was lucky to have me, I can tell you. The only person who believed her.’

‘Because you knew she was telling the truth,’ the detective said.

‘That’s right.’

‘And you knew she was telling the truth because it was you, wasn’t it?’ the detective said. ‘You were the person Chloe was scared of. Only the poor girl didn’t realise it.’

He glanced at Miss Welsh but she remained stony-faced, not giving any indication of what he should say. As if she didn’t realise
that’s what she was being paid to do. Useless.

‘Of course I wasn’t,’ he said. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

They couldn’t know. He’d gone over every detail, never once left any trace of himself in the flat. Yes, they’d probably pick up traces of DNA if they looked hard enough. But Chloe was his friend. He was in and out of her flat all the time, helping her with stuff, dropping around for chats and cups of tea. Normal things that normal people did when they were friends.

He was about to explain this when the other detective, the pretty dark-haired one, opened the envelope on the table in front of her and pulled out a sheet of paper.

‘Could you explain this?’ she asked.

‘Please tell my client what you’re showing him,’ Miss Welsh said.

But he already knew. His car. Parked outside Hither Green station. The same place he parked it every time he went over there at night-time. Far enough away from her house so no one would make the connection.

Except now someone had.

‘Mr Collier?’

The tightness started across his chest, throat closing. He grabbed the edge of the table in front of him, tried to remember the techniques the doctor had spoken to him about. Deep, slow breathing, counting numbers – one, two, three, close your eyes and focus.

‘And these other images. All taken from a CCTV camera
outside Hither Green station. If you’d care to open your eyes and look at the date and time in the bottom right-hand corner of each image, you’ll see it correlates with the different nights Chloe reported that someone had broken into her house.’

One, two, three. Focus.

All he’d ever wanted was for her to notice him. To see beyond the fat to the person inside. The lovely person he knew was in there, just waiting for someone like her. Waiting his whole life and hadn’t even known it until she’d turned up that afternoon. Standing in the doorway like an angel.

‘And this one here from Sunday, twenty-fourth October. The night Chloe was killed.’

One, two, three.

‘I didn’t do it.’ Shouting too loud. Couldn’t help himself. ‘I loved her. I’d never do a single thing to hurt her. It was Carl Jenkins. He’s who should be sitting here, not me.’

The tension eased. Suddenly, he could breathe again.

‘I didn’t kill her. I swear to you.’

‘So how do you explain these?’ the pretty one asked.

‘I was keeping her safe,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I drove over there, went past the house just to check she was okay. She was scared and no one else wanted to know about it.’

‘You’re lying,’ the blonde one said.

‘DCI Cox,’ Miss Welsh spoke up. About time. ‘Can I please have a few minutes to confer with my client?’

The blonde nodded, spoke into the tape recorder and switched
it off. A moment later, the two detectives left.

Miss Welsh cleared her throat before speaking.

‘Nathan,’ she said. ‘I think it’s time you told me the truth.’

Ellen spent the night on the sofa. She woke early, showered, got dressed and went across to her parents’ house for breakfast with the children. Managed to endure her mother’s running commentary on how tired Ellen looked and how she had to stop pushing herself too hard, before finally ushering the children out the door to school. Right after that, she got into her car and drove to Bromley, six miles south of Greenwich.

The house she wanted was on a quiet road behind North Bromley train station. A standard, three-bed Victorian terrace midway down a row of identical houses. Ellen found a space nearby and parked up.

The house was well-maintained with a pretty front garden full of plants Ellen didn’t recognise. A young woman in a wheelchair
was in the garden as Ellen approached, pulling weeds from a bed underneath the front window.

‘Louise?’

The woman swung her chair around and looked up at Ellen, using her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

‘DI Kelly?’ she said. ‘Bang on time. Come in.’

Ellen followed the woman up a ramp into the house.

‘It’s divided into two flats,’ Louise explained. ‘I get the whole lower floor. Which is as much as I need, quite frankly. Coffee?’

‘Yes please.’

Inside, the flat was every bit as pretty as the outside: vintage furniture, stripped wooden floorboards and lots of colour. The living area was all open-plan, kitchen and dining table at one end, living area at the front of the house. Ellen sat on what she thought was a Parker Knoll straight-backed armchair and watched Louise move around the kitchen, preparing the coffee.

‘I’d almost given up on you lot,’ Louise said, coming across the room with a tray balanced on her lap.

‘Want me to take that?’ When Louise nodded, Ellen took the tray and put it on the big square wooden coffee table.

‘So,’ Louise said once the coffees were sorted. ‘What have you got for me?’

‘It’s like I explained on the phone last night,’ Ellen said. ‘I think I might have found a link between what happened to you and another case I’m investigating. I don’t want to say too much just yet. But would you mind if I asked you a few questions
about what happened?’

She watched Louise take a sip of her coffee as she seemed to consider what Ellen had said. She was a pretty girl. Blonde, like Chloe, but with more substance to her. A steeliness that told you she wasn’t someone to be messed around with. Ellen wondered if she’d always been like that or if it was something she’d had to develop to deal with everything she’d been through.

‘I don’t mind answering questions,’ Louise said. ‘But I do mind being lied to. If there’s a connection, or even a possible connection, can’t you just tell me what that is?’

‘Jim O’Dwyer’s name has come up in connection with a stalking case,’ Ellen said. ‘I can’t say more than that. I’m sorry.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Louise said. ‘I was so sure I’d got it wrong.’

‘What do you mean?’ Ellen asked.

‘I don’t think – at least, I didn’t think – Jim did this to me,’ Louise said. ‘I told your lot that at the time. They wouldn’t believe me, though. Made him out to be a right psycho. Made me out to be some poor little victim being terrorised by her big bad boss. It wasn’t like that. I don’t think so. If that’s why you’re here, I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. And mine.’

The relief was huge but short-lived.

‘I read your statement,’ Ellen said, remembering everything she’d read late last night. The witness statement, signed by Louise Jamieson, in which she’d stated that she believed her boss, Jim O’Dwyer, was the person who’d driven into her.

‘I was doped up when I signed that,’ Louise said. ‘Doped up
and probably suffering PTSD. I’d just found out my bloody back was broken, for Christ’s sake. That detective, right? All he cared about was getting a conviction. Didn’t give a shit about actually trying to find out who really did this.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ellen said. ‘Some detectives can get like that. I’m not one of those. Jim’s name came up in an investigation that, right now, isn’t making a lot of sense. I’m trying to work out if he’s really a suspect or if we’ve been given his name because someone has a grudge against him.’

‘I was so excited when I got the job with Jim,’ Louise said. ‘I’m sure it sounds weird to you, but I really wanted to be a plumber. I saw it as a chance to work for myself. I’m not academic, always knew uni wasn’t an option. Plumbing, it’s a career, isn’t it? I know you don’t see many women plumbers but I thought I could turn that to my advantage. And I did at first. I was good at it. It was fun and Jim was a great boss. He’s a pretty cool guy. Except I was only with him about four months when it all started going wrong.’

‘What happened?’

‘Weird things,’ Louise said. ‘Someone scratched my car. But that happens. It was nasty, though. Whoever did it scratched the word ‘bitch’. I was upset but more angry than anything else. My front headlights were smashed and I started to wonder if it was personal. Then the e-mails started. Nasty notes, calling me a bitch and other stuff too. I kept them all, showed them to the police. They only really did something about it after I was hit.

‘Why were they so sure it was Jim?’

‘My fault,’ Louise said. ‘When stuff like that happens, you become paranoid. I’d already been to the police, you see. I gave them his name. I couldn’t think of anyone else and it seemed too much of a coincidence that it only started after we were working together. And the police seemed so sure. It was the e-mails, you see.’

‘What about them?’ Ellen asked.

They were sent from a Gmail account,’ Louise said. ‘
[email protected]
. I remember showing it to Jim and both of us thinking it was a bit freaky. You know, that someone had used his name. The thing is, when the police looked into it, turned out whoever set up the account hadn’t just stolen Jim’s name. The account was actually registered to him. Name, address and date of birth. All there.’

‘So when you heard that, you assumed it was him too?’

Louise frowned. ‘I didn’t know what to think. I thought I knew him pretty well. It was never like that between us. I’m gay, for starters. Jim knew that, never seemed bothered by that. Besides, I wasn’t his type.’

‘How did you know that?’

‘I just did,’ Louise said. ‘I mean, you get a vibe, don’t you, when a guy’s interested. I never got that vibe from Jim. Not a single hint that he felt that way about me.

‘And when he came to see me in the hospital, he was so genuinely upset. He wasn’t faking that. Unless he’s a complete psycho.
Look, I’ve really thought about this. Think about little else, if I’m honest. At first, yes, I thought it was Jim. But you know what? The more I think about it, the more certain I am that he didn’t do this to me. If you really want to prove you’re different from your colleagues, then find the person who did.’

Outside, Ellen sat in her car for a long time, self-loathing washing over her in waves. Louise Jamieson. Pretty, level-headed Louise. Unwilling to take the easy option and lay the blame for her tragedy on someone who didn’t do it.

Ellen knew what she had to do. She couldn’t put it off any longer. She took her phone from her bag, found Jim’s number and called him. Doing it now, before she found another reason to put it off.

‘Hush little baby don’t say a word,

Mama’s gonna buy you a mocking bird.’

She’s lit up by the white light. It surrounds her, like a halo. And she’s singing the song her mother used to sing to her. The same song she sang for him once. When she told him about her mother. How close they’d once been.

‘Like me and my mum,’ he murmurs.

She smiles.

‘Exactly the same.’

She looks so happy. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her so happy.

He wants to be with her. To step out of wherever he is into that bright, white, shining light. He puts his hand out but even though she’s there, right in front of him, he can’t reach her.

And suddenly she’s fading.

‘No! Don’t go. Please, Chloe. Don’t leave me.’

She’s still singing but her voice, along with everything else, is moving, drifting further away.

‘Collier!’

Hand on his shoulder, shaking him. Paul Herring’s little ratty face in front of him. Chloe gone. The medication made it difficult to wake up. But Herring was there and the fear of what he’d do to him gave Nathan the strength needed to focus.

‘Sorry.’

‘Second time tonight you’ve woken me,’ Herring said. He was still holding Nathan’s shoulder. Face pushed up close, his breath sour when he spoke.

‘Don’t let it happen again.’ The pressure on his shoulder increased until he cried out. That seemed to please Herring, who smiled. ‘Fucking wake me again and you’ll be sorry.’

He let go then, bunk-bed rattling as he climbed up onto his own bed. Nathan lay still, barely daring to breathe, listening to Herring shift around until settled. When Herring finally stopped moving, Nathan stayed on his back, even though the position was becoming uncomfortable. He was so big that whenever he moved, the bunk-beds shook, causing the metal frame to rattle loudly. Herring didn’t like that.

The need to go back to sleep was strong, the drugs fooling his body it was okay to relax. His eyelids were heavy, kept drifting closed. It took everything he had to force them open each
time that happened.

Somewhere, a man started screaming. Nathan wondered if it was the same man as last night or someone else. From his limited experience so far, all men sounded the same when they screamed.

Above him, Herring shouted at the screamer, called him a fucking pansy and told him to shut the fuck up. Some of the other prisoners started up as well, until it seemed as though the whole place was alive with the noise of it all.

He couldn’t bear it. Put his hands over his ears, trying to block out the noise, but it made no difference. And even as he did this, and listened to the pitch in Herring’s voice rising the more he shouted, even while all this was happening, his eyelids still started to droop.

His bladder was full. Tight and aching from the pressure of what was inside it. Thinking what Herring would do to him if he wet the bed made it worse. He put his hands between his legs, pressing against his penis, praying for the control he’d need to get through the night.

And when that didn’t work, when he felt the first trickle of damp through his pyjama bottoms, the moment of blissful relief when his bladder relaxed and the damp turned to a warm puddle as the liquid burst forth, and over him, when he felt the bunks shifting, saw Herring’s feet hanging down as the room filled with the smell of it, Nathan Collier opened his mouth and started screaming too.