The Bad Things (16 page)

Rogers flipped over a few more pages. ‘Nikki Adams. She said she was in all evening but didn’t hear anything. Said she was watching television and went to bed early.’

‘Anyone else nearby?’

‘Nope.’

‘What was this Nikki Adams watching?’

‘
Emmerdale
.
Holby City
, and a documentary about dolphins.’

‘The sainted Attenborough?’

‘Probably.’

‘Check it out, just in case.’

Rogers looked at Kate reproachfully. ‘I will.’

She shook her head. ‘Of course you will, sorry. No reason why her story shouldn’t be kosher, but better to be safe.’ She sighed. ‘So we’re not getting anywhere, are we?’

‘Nope.’

‘Okay, look.’ She tapped her pencil on her front teeth. ‘We need some bodies to go round the campsite again. I can’t believe that everybody there was so involved with each other or their TVs. Somebody, somewhere had to have heard something.’

Rogers got up wearily. ‘I suppose you want me to go now. I’ll take Eve and John, shall I?’

The two officers in question heard their names and looked up from their computers.

‘Thanks…yes, it’ll save them from the cranks and the nutters who’ll start to ring as soon as the press conference finishes.’ A thought struck her. ‘No. Don’t go just yet. Wait till after the conference. I might come with you.’ She smiled at Rogers, ignoring the resigned – or was it horrified? – look on his face. ‘Come on, Steve, it’ll be fun.’

‘Fun? If you say so. But I thought elevated coppers like you didn’t sully themselves with grunt work?’

She gathered up her papers. ‘I like to keep my hand in, Steve, you know that. I spend enough time dealing with paperwork and our own nutters.’ She pushed away the thought that perhaps the other reason she wanted to go out with Steve and the uniforms was to avoid getting home too early and having to speak to Chris.

‘It’ll be nice to have you along…Ma’am.’

Kate grinned, then looked at her watch. ‘Now, it’s time to go and face the wolves.’

16

Alex wished she’d never had the idea of interviewing Jackie Wood.

The wind off the sea was like a knife slicing through her clothes and scraping across her skin. The sun was going down over the water and threw ribbons of orange light across the grey canopy of sky. She hunched herself against the ever-present wind as she made her way through the sand dunes. How much more damage had she done to Sasha now? And what was she doing, handing herself over to the cops like a sacrificial lamb?

And DI Todd. There was a coincidence. She had changed, though, since she last saw her in that stifling courtroom. She remembered the police officer as a shy young woman with long black hair. No make-up. Not at all stylish. Now she had lost the soft lines of youth and was all angles and armour.

The sun had disappeared from the sky and the gloom pressed its heavy weight on her. The sound of the sea filled her head. Powerful; rushing onto the land, then sucking back out, pulling pebbles, rocks, detritus with it. She imagined the sea meeting the horizon, merging into a uniform grey. It was infinite, timeless, problems tossed on the waves.

Fingerprints, DNA, the whole bloody lot. How much had she compromised herself? She had an uneasy acceptance of DNA databases – useful for solving cold cases, or even those that weren’t so cold – but could they be trusted? Who knew who could have access to the information and how it could be manipulated?

She reached the concrete prom, with its line of jaunty beach huts with prosaic names such as ‘Victoria’ and ‘Albert’ and ‘Sailor’s Rest’, and then round to Jim’s Café, her way lit by the sodium lights on the road above.

Ed Killingback was sitting at one of the tables in front of the closed shutters of the café. There was a white light around him, like a halo. He looked about thirty, with dark brown hair that was in need of a cut – not that she could talk – and a rather smart pea coat that was doing the business because he looked warm. Alex knew her face was pinched against the cold and her lips were probably blue.

‘Hello,’ she said, as she sat in one of the chairs opposite.

‘Hi.’ He gave a wide smile and his eyes, a clear and piercing hazel, crinkled at the corners. If she hadn’t felt so tired and worn out she might have thought he was flirting with her. ‘Lucky I had a torch.’

‘Sorry. I know I’m late. I—’. She stopped. Never apologize, never explain. ‘I’m here now.’

Ed flipped over the cover of the notebook in front of him and took a pen out of his pocket. He looked at her again. ‘I do admire your work in the
Saturday Magazine
,’ he said, earnestly.

Alex rolled her eyes.

He laughed. ‘Pretty cheesy, huh?’ He had the grace to look embarrassed.

‘Pretty cheesy, yes.’ She smiled to take the sting out of her words. ‘But thank you. If you really do read it.’

‘I do. Honestly.’ He shuffled in his seat. ‘Sorry, I haven’t got long. There’s a press conference in about half an hour and I really need to be there.’

Alex’s heart sank. Bloody hell, the press conference. The shit was really going to hit the fan now. She was glad she wasn’t going. She’d been on the sidelines of enough of those when the twins had gone missing, when Jackie Wood and Martin Jessop were arrested, when they were sent down. She’d avoided the press when Jessop killed himself by taking Gus away on his first holiday abroad.

She shrugged; the scene with Sasha suddenly coming back to punch her in the stomach. ‘Don’t let me keep you,’ she snapped. ‘You’ll probably do just as well going there, getting it straight from the horse’s mouth. See how far they’ve got in their investigation.’ She almost told him to run along, but bit the words back. That was just a bit too patronizing.

He looked straight at her. ‘Call me Ed. And I didn’t mean to irritate you, I’m sorry.’

What was she doing sitting by a café shut up for the night; on a deserted beach with a thirty-something journalist? Probably losing her marbles, that’s what.

‘So,’ she said, ‘what do you want to know? Not that I might tell you, you understand.’

‘Okay,’ he said, drawing out the word. ‘You found Jackie Wood’s body, didn’t you?’

‘Where did you get your information?’

‘Sources,’ he said.

‘What sources?’

‘Come on, you don’t expect me to tell you that, do you?’

She looked out to sea. It was inky black now, and stars were just beginning to appear. She felt restless. ‘I wish the café was open. I could do with a cuppa.’

He just smiled again, his pen hovering over pristine paper. ‘So?’

‘Look,’ Alex said, suddenly impatient, ‘I don’t know what you want from me.’

He leaned across the table. ‘Just a story I can use. Something no one else has got. Come on, I can help you. If you tell me what happened – on an exclusive basis, naturally—’

‘Naturally.’

He didn’t notice her sarcasm. ‘Then I can tell your story. The true story.’

She sighed, feeling old. ‘Don’t you think I know how this works?’

‘What?’ he said, seemingly without an ounce of guile.

‘I tell you my story, you write it up to fit the story you want to tell, and bingo, more lies are disseminated. Let me tell you, Ed,’ she emphasized his name, ‘you might like my writing, but I sure as hell don’t like
The Post
’s.’

‘Not the point, Alex – I write a good story and I don’t make it up.’

‘Maybe not. But then when the subs get hold of it, the story’s mangled out of all recognition.’ She knew very well that that happened; it had happened to her on more than one occasion to her cost. Irate interviewees on the phone. Telling them it was a sub-editor who changed the copy wasn’t much of a get-out clause. They didn’t want to know. Her name had been on the story, therefore, she was the one to blame. And she could understand that point of view. None of which was going to help her now.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘Yes, I found Jackie Wood’s body. I’d gone to interview her for a piece in the magazine I write for and found her dead in the caravan.’ She swallowed hard, keeping her voice on an even keel. ‘And that’s all there is to it.’

‘But she had served time for being involved with the murder of your niece and nephew. How easy was it for you to decide to interview her? And were you hoping she might tell you where they had buried Millie?’

She laughed, shaking her head. ‘No, no, no. That’s it, Ed. No more. Besides, you’re now presuming she really was guilty and knew where Millie is buried.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Time for your press conference.’

He shut his notebook with a snap. ‘You’re probably right. But I’m not going to give up, you know. I told you, I’ve been following this case for years. I’ve done my research and I know there’s more to all of this than meets the eye.’

‘All of what?’ Alex asked sharply. Too sharply. His interest was immediately piqued.

‘Martin Jessop and Jackie Wood being done for the murders. It was all too neat, too tidy. Police accepted everything that was put in front of them. Don’t you think?’

‘A judge and jury found them guilty.’

‘And Jackie Wood has been let out due to the old prof being found useless. And now they’re both dead, and the dead can’t tell tales, can they? Anyway,’ he stood, ‘you’re right. I’d best get to the presser. But I really would like to talk to you again. Please.’

It was then she asked the question that had been burning at the back of her mind ever since he’d called her. The question she knew she shouldn’t ask, had stopped herself asking, but which tumbled out of her mouth like a stream of vomit. ‘You said Martin Jessop had another lover; a secret lover. How do you know?’

He put the notebook in the inside pocket of his coat, then swept his fringe away from his forehead. ‘That can be for next time, can’t it, Alex?’

She watched as he strode away, his feet crunching over the stones.

17

Kate drew her shoulders back and breathed. She hated doing press conferences – the feral, eager looks of anticipation on the faces of the journalists, all waiting to jump in with the smart-arsed question, all wanting to find a line, an angle. Then there was the clicking of cameras, being blinded by the flashlights, the banks of microphones in front of her. At least this time she didn’t have to guide a grieving family through the process. That was the worst. Hollow-eyed parents clutching soggy handkerchiefs and each other. Relatives slack-jawed with the horror of it all. Often they put the relatives through the rigour of the conference if they had the slightest suspicion they might have been involved in the crime. It felt like a form of medieval torture for all involved.

It had been like that fifteen years ago, when they had paraded Sasha and Jez Clements in front of the cameras. So many pictures of the twins – in their best clothes, in fancy dress, with ice cream smeared around their grinning mouths – had been pinned to the boards behind the couple to bring home the point that two little children who had everything to live for had gone missing. Kate had been a bystander then, but she could remember the words of the DCI at the time, how he’d told the officers helping with the presser to watch the couple carefully, see how they reacted. And to watch any friends of the family.

Medieval torture.

‘Ma’am?’

Kate was brought back to the present by the press officer, Helen Grant, sent from Martlesham to orchestrate proceedings. Kate didn’t much like her – Helen enjoyed making the press wait for information, feeding them misleading stuff and generally being as obstructive as she could possibly be. Although Kate didn’t exactly love the media – far from it – she did like to keep them onside because you never knew when they could be useful.

‘Yes, Helen, I’m ready.’ She tried to keep the dislike out of her voice.

‘Good. I’ll go in first, shall I Ma’am?’

Was she imagining it or was Helen being overly deferential, almost mocking?

‘Thank you, Helen, if you would.’ Two could play at that game.

Helen looked at her. ‘You know I think we’re going with this too early, don’t you? We haven’t got much to give them that they don’t know already.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ Kate replied smoothly. ‘But there has been a lot of public interest and her name is out there, so I think we should confirm that it was Jackie Wood who was murdered.’

‘Which could lead to a whole lot of trouble for us.’

Kate marshalled her patience. ‘Maybe, but as I said, the name is out there, and there was no next-of-kin to tell. We’ll get more coverage if we just give them a little bit – it’s the drip-feed of information to the press that’s most helpful to us.’

‘Ma’am, Kate, I think you should be careful here – it’s a very sensitive subject. Questions will be asked.’ She pursed her lips, which Kate thought made her mouth look like a cat’s arse.

‘Questions?’ The woman was infuriating. As if she didn’t know it was an awkward situation. She didn’t need to be reminded of it, especially by Helen Grant.

Helen sighed, as if she were having to explain to a child, and it made Kate want to strangle her. ‘You know the tabloids will go mad with the fact that a woman convicted in connection with the Clements twins’ murder had been living back in the community,’ Helen said. ‘And not just any community, but where she used to live and where the Clements family lives. Imagine the
Daily Mail
headlines, for pity’s sake.’

‘I am imagining them, that’s the trouble. And if we even try to wriggle out of it or cover it up, then we’ll be in a worse situation than we are now.’ She didn’t have time for this.

‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Cat’s arse mouth again. She pushed open the door of the conference room and disappeared inside.

Kate wondered whether she ought to take up yoga – all that deep breathing and concentration on ‘mindfulness’ – would surely help in situations when she wanted to scream. Loudly.

‘Detective Inspector?’

Kate jumped as a man stepped out of the shadows. Jez Clements. He looked unkempt, his uniform grubby, shoes dusty. There were bags under his eyes and his skin was taut across his once-handsome face.

‘Sergeant?’