Death's Privilege (14 page)

When I found out about the poisoned cocaine, I did everything I could to stop her taking it. We were very close and I was devastated when I found out she had died. We were in love. I am not willing to tell you who gave her the cocaine as I do not want to risk my safety or the safety of my child by telling you.

I am Eamon. Sheila’s family do not approve of her lifestyle. She decided it was best that she save my number under a man’s name. I told her to save me as Eamon and she asked me to call her Roxy.

With regard to the charge of possession of Class A arising from the warrant conducted at my house, I do not know the owner of the cocaine found in my sofa. I no longer take cocaine, or any other drug, and would never expose my child to their effects.’

Mr Bells put the statement on the desk and slid it to Sarah. ‘Signed and dated at the bottom.’

Sarah skimmed it to verify the content. ‘Do you confirm these are your words?’

Moretti nodded first and wiped tears away from her cheeks. ‘Yes.’

‘Okay. I’m seizing this as exhibit SG/04 and I’ll give your solicitor a copy of it after the interview. You are now under arrest on suspicion of being concerned in the supply of a Class A drug. Your rights and entitlements remain the same and, I must remind you that you are still under caution. I have some further questions for you, Sally-Anne. Who gave Sheila the cocaine?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did they know it was poisoned?’

‘No comment.’

‘If there’s someone targeting people with poisoned drugs, it’s important that we know.’

‘No comment.’

‘Who told you it was poisoned?’

‘No comment.’

‘We’ve examined Sheila’s phone. On it are numerous volatile text messages from Eamon, who you accept is yourself, referring to arguments with Sheila. Tell me about your relationship?’

‘No comment.’

‘Some of those messages refer to threats to kill. Why did you threaten to kill Sheila?’

‘No comment.’

Mr Bells rolled his eyes and bit his lip. It seemed Moretti had omitted certain details from her consultation.

‘You also mentioned that Sheila knew who your friends were, who were you referring to?’

‘No comment.’

Sarah wasn’t getting through. The tone of this interview was different to the first. Moretti had been bursting to talk and, now she’d said what she wanted to say, she was staying quiet. Sarah went through the rest of her questions and received the same answer throughout. ‘I have no further questions for you. Do you have anything you want to add or clarify?’

‘No.’

‘In that case, the time is 10:02, and I will turn the tape off as the interview is over.’ Sarah pressed the button and the whirring stopped. ‘We’ll just get the tape labels signed up and I’ll get you back to your cell.’

‘I’ll grab you a photocopy.’ Dales took the prepared statement from Sarah and left the room with Mr Bells.

Sarah led Moretti to cell six.

‘What’s going to happen to me?’ Moretti's eyes were still red with tears.

‘That’s not my decision. We’re going to head upstairs and discuss it.’

‘You won’t keep me here, will you? I will be allowed out today?’

‘I can’t imagine you’ll be staying with us much longer. Again, it’s not my call, so I don’t want to promise.’ Something bugged her. One more question needed to be asked before the cell door closed. ‘Why did you do it? Why tell me?’

‘Because it can’t go on. It was never supposed to be like this.’

Sarah looked back along the corridor towards the bridge, knowing she should advise her not to talk about anything without her solicitor present.

‘You’re new here. You act new, talk new. I can tell. We’re all able to tell. Look, I know how I was with you this morning, but you get it, right? I was thinking of my kid, you know. You seem sweet. Got any kids?’

‘I don’t think—’ Sarah was caught off guard by Moretti's frank conversation.

‘Never leave home without telling them you love them. Things out here work in a delicate balance.’

‘What’s out of control, Sally?’

She gritted her teeth and formed fists in frustration. ‘That’s your game; you won’t find out from me. I need to get out of here and pick up my son. I need to know he’s safe.’

‘Safe from who? If you think your son is in danger, I need to know about it.’

‘And make it worse? I don’t think so. Sheila was a good woman, you know. Yeah, we argued. I said some things I shouldn’t have. She did things that triggered my nasty side on occasion, but in truth, she never had a bad word to say about anyone. Her family put her through hell.’

‘Sally-Anne, tell me who’s involved.’ Sarah knew she wasn't about to spill the beans whilst stood in a custody centre, but any detail Moretti gave away could help figure out what happened.

‘I’ll take care of it.’

‘Taking revenge will only land you behind bars.’

‘This won’t be revenge; this will be justice.’

Moretti was bailed for being concerned in the supply of Class A drugs to Sheila Hargreaves. She’d made shrewd admissions, guilty knowledge rather than guilty acts. Moretti knew more than she was letting on to and, at this stage at least, it was hard to tell how honest she was being. She had a violent side, going by both the texts and her own admission after interview. Sarah didn’t buy the claim she was off the drugs. As well as that, for someone that was so in love, Moretti had stayed remarkably calm about it all when they’d first knocked on her door. It would take an incredibly strong resolve for a former addict to be around other users and not slip back into old habits.

Joel worked his skin cream between his fingers before rubbing it into his neck and up onto his cheeks and forehead. He wiped the condensation from his bathroom mirror and made sure he’d not left any residue on his face. He was a long while from having to check for wrinkles; his skin was dark, smooth and blemish free.

He wrapped a white cotton towel around his waist and left the bathroom. The draught in his bedroom caused him to shiver and he closed the window, one hand holding up his towel so as not to expose himself to the neighbours. It wasn’t yet dark out, but it was getting there. Joel strapped on his Breitling—a gift from his uncle—and checked the time. 18:30. Still early.

He looked at the clothes on his hanging rail. Since joining CID, he’d kept his office wear to the left and his casual clothes on the right. Being in uniform had made things a lot easier—fewer pre-coffee decisions to make in the morning. Joel eyed up his options.

Red’s a bit much for dinner. Wore the pastel green last time. White for an Italian restaurant? Not sure that’s a smart move.

He settled on blue. Clean, relaxed and perfect with a sharp, single-breasted grey blazer. Everything in his wardrobe was pressed and hung within minutes of it leaving the dryer, available for early-morning calls into work or late-night calls of a different kind. He slipped it on and buttoned it up. It was getting a little tight around the chest and shoulders. He dropped the towel, slipped on his grey trousers, and tucked in his shirt.

He wondered how Hayward was spending his night. Shouting at the TV with a face full of Chinese takeaway most likely. Hayward was an odd choice for a tutor. He had a clear disdain for the current state of policing, and in the short time they’d been together, Joel had seen more bad practice than good. It wouldn’t be long till he was free, and had a little more leeway to work cases his own way.

Joel’s thoughts moved to Enderson’s parents, who’d be having a very different evening. Coming to terms with losing a son was bad enough, to suicide more horrific still, but, if while dealing with that, to learn he was murdered must be truly devastating.

He kissed the picture of his mother on the bedside table. It kept him grounded, reminded of what was important in life and that, in his chosen profession, whenever he left the house, there was no guarantee of coming back. Thinking about the Enderson family made him reflect on his own and, despite his own life being far from perfect, be a little grateful for his blessings.

Joel put on his jacket, took one last look in the mirror and headed out to meet tonight’s date.

Sarah wondered why Sally-Anne had made any admissions at all. Continuing to answer no comment and ending the first interview would have avoided a possession charge just as well. The only reason Sarah could come up with related to her warning. Had Moretti told her about the drugs to keep her own nose clean, whilst telling Sarah that Sheila’s death was far more sinister than it’d first appeared?

Either way, it could all wait. She’d just brushed her teeth, applied her night cream and was preparing to get into bed next to her husband for the first time in a long while. Mark was downstairs watching TV. She got undressed and slipped on her silk nightwear. She gathered up her clothes from the floor and went back to the bathroom. As she lifted the laundry basket lid, she noticed a small white envelope poking out of her trousers. She’d stuffed Leilani’s note into her pocket before heading out on the warrant and it’d stayed there all day.

Sarah got into bed and pulled the duvet over her. She sunk into her memory foam mattress—the best domestic decision she’d ever made—and opened the envelope. It was addressed to
Detective Sarah.
The message gave the account number and sort code for the unauthorised transactions made from Leilani’s account. 4075462 61-23-90. Numbers Sarah recognised. Numbers on a note stuck to her fridge door. Numbers for her husband’s business account.

She heard his footsteps coming up the stairs. She put the note face down on the bedside table as he walked into the bedroom.

‘What’s that?' he asked.

‘Late-night revision.’

Mark unbuttoned his shirt and removed his belt. ‘That’s dedicated. You okay?’

Sarah lay on her back, unable to move. Not the welcoming reaction he probably expected from his wife, but the only one she could muster. ‘Just tired.’

Mark undressed down to his boxer shorts and got into bed. Sarah continued to lay still as he put his arm over her chest. His fingers tickled her arm the way she liked, the way he’d always initiated sex since the first time it’d worked all those years ago. ‘Too tired?’

Thirteen

‘I wondered how my daughter got that dress. When they showed me the photograph, saying that was the dress they’d taken from her body, I thought they’d made a mistake. Sheila doesn’t wear Prada. She always had a dowdy look, you know the sort they tend to have. But it’s true, here it is, this is the last dress she put on.’ Mrs Hargreaves held the photo of the crumpled dress in her wrinkled hands. ‘They gave me this photo as a record of her things they’d be holding on to, but I don’t see that dress as being hers. I can’t picture her in it. We’ve decided to keep her room as it was. Everything is up there as she left it. There’s not much; she’d only recently moved back in. I told your colleague that we hadn’t been in touch for years.

‘We didn’t approve of her lifestyle and I don’t apologise for that. Doing what she did is a sin. We sent her to university, paid for it all, tried to give her the best start in life. Wanted her to get an education, a good job, marry and raise a family. She chose to be friendly with women instead. You have no idea the embarrassment it caused us. How she could do that after everything we did for her?

‘Her father wanted us to talk. He missed her dearly, as did I you understand, I’m not one of those cold, heartless mothers you see these days. More concerned with their careers than their children. I just knew that there couldn’t be any real reconciliation until she turned away from that lifestyle and saw reason. I accepted her back. And it was nice to have her. She was working in a bank, nothing special, just counter work, but it was steady. She was living in Osbasten, only renting and had done some travelling, which was nice, but mostly in America on those package holidays. But, overall, it was nice to have her back.

‘When your colleagues came and told us it looked like she’d killed herself, I told my husband straightaway I’d been all right along. That’s a sin too, you know, suicide. Not many people know that; they think their lives belong to them, but they don’t. Sheila rejected God’s gifts the same way she’d rejected ours. This was the only place a life like hers is apt to lead.’ She looked at the photo in her hands. ‘She’s down there dancing in a dress just like this right now.

‘Now, you asked about her spending. She earned a reasonable amount and, with no children, had little to spend it on. You’d think she’d have savings, some sort of investments, but she had nothing. Where it went, I don’t know. Up her nose? On this dress? I dread to think what else. She was a blessing when she was born. Look at this photo of her on the wall. You can’t believe that little girl, smiling in the sunshine, in a beautiful pink polka-dot dress grew up just to die like this.

‘Here are the bank statements you wanted. There isn’t much post. Here’s the form your colleague left, I’ve signed it. I don’t want to know what else you find. I’ll take you upstairs to her room.’

Sarah and Dales followed Mrs Hargreaves up the stairs. Mrs Hargreaves opened the door, leaving the photograph outside before going in. On the far side of the room was a large painting of baby Jesus being cradled by his mother.

There wasn’t much to search. Sheila’s clothes were plain and simple; nothing else matched the black dress. Her bookshelf was mostly chick lit and books that had been turned into movies, all sporting their original covers. No notes, no photos, no journals.

‘Don’t see many collections like this anymore.’ Dales held a handful of fashion magazines he’d found in her bottom draw. Elle, Marie Claire and their sisters filled the space between her socks and underwear.

‘Some people prefer the physical pages in their hands rather than reading online. Like with books.’ Sarah tried to ignore Mrs Hargreaves watching her every move.

‘There’s no Internet in this house. My husband stumbled on some things on there that shows you why the world is the way it is. We protected her from it too; she wasn’t allowed a computer.’