Evil Intent (33 page)

‘But you
have
withheld information,’ Cowley went on. ‘Already. You have deliberately misled us about your relationship with Jackson.’

She shook her head. ‘I told you the truth. Leo and I are friends, not lovers. What does his private life have to do with your investigation,
anyway
?’

‘We’re the ones asking the questions,’ Neville Stewart reminded her.

‘To your knowledge, was Leo Jackson with Oliver Pickett on the night of Jonah Adimola’s murder?’ Cowley demanded.

‘I would prefer not to answer.’

Cowley didn’t pause. ‘Had Jonah Adimola found out about Leo Jackson’s little…proclivities?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Is that why you and Jackson went back to the church that night to meet Adimola?’

‘But we didn’t! I’ve said all along that I went home. Leo walked me home.’

‘I know what you’ve said, Mrs Cherry,’ the sergeant sneered. ‘But now it’s time to tell the truth. Did you and Leo Jackson return to the church? Did Jonah Adimola demand money to keep Jackson’s secret, or threaten to make it public?’

‘That’s absurd,’ Frances protested, unable to believe what she’d just  heard.

‘Did you, in fact, kill Jonah Adimola?’

There was a moment of horrified silence as the question hung in the air. ‘No,’ said Frances quietly.

‘Did Leo Jackson kill Jonah Adimola?’

‘No.’ Her voice rose. ‘No.’

Triona stepped in. ‘You are distressing my client, Sergeant. I would like to ask for a pause in the proceedings.’

Cowley scowled and looked at Neville. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’

Unexpectedly, DI Stewart failed to back him up. ‘Miss O’Neil is right.’ He made a statement into the tape recorder to the effect that the interview was being terminated, and switched it off.

‘What was that all about, Guv?’ Cowley demanded when they were alone. ‘Why did you stop it? I had her. She was about to admit it – I just know it.’

‘I disagree, Sid.’ Neville shook his head. ‘She was genuinely shocked. She had no idea what our questions were leading up to.’

‘Oh, I think she did. I think she knew exactly what we were getting at. She was just shocked that we’d figured it all out.’

‘It’s time,’ said Neville, ‘to talk to Evans again.’

‘Evans?’

‘Yes. I think we’ve been interviewing the wrong person. It’s time for us to pull Leo Jackson in.’

Neville knew, without being told, why Evans hadn’t insisted on arresting Leo Jackson at the same time that they arrested Frances Cherry. With all
the charges of institutional racism floating about these days, one had to be extra careful. And it was, thought Neville, quite right that it was so: he’d been in the force long enough to have seen some pretty obnoxious
attitudes
– often quite overtly expressed – amongst the people with whom he worked, and those attitudes had resulted in a lot of arrests that should never have been made.

He didn’t envy Evans the sort of decisions he had to take, constantly walking a tightrope of political correctness without a safety net. Evans would be the one whose head would be on the block if they made the wrong move.

Not unnaturally, Evans might take some convincing.

‘He’s just come back in from the hospital,’ Evans’ secretary told them. ‘He’s been there for most of the day.’

‘We can see him, then?’

‘Not straightaway. He’s in a meeting. But if you’re lucky, he’ll see you before he goes back. I’ll do my best.’

‘You’re a star,’ Neville told her.

‘It’s important,’ Cowley added.

She shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen anyone more besotted with a baby than he is. It’s really quite sweet. He’s just brought in a whole stack of new photos.’

They cooled their heels for what seemed like hours, eventually going back down to the canteen for tea. At last, though, Evans’ secretary rang on Neville’s mobile to say that he would give them five minutes, if they could get upstairs immediately.

Evans was obviously in a hurry to get back to the baby; he already had his coat on when they arrived, and didn’t offer them a seat. ‘What is it, then?’ he said impatiently. ‘How are you getting on with Frances Cherry?’

Neville told him as quickly as he could about the latest developments: the
Globe
story, Frances Cherry’s reluctance to answer their questions
arising
from it. ‘I’d like your permission, sir, to arrest Leo Jackson,’ he
concluded.
‘In my opinion, he holds the key to this.’

‘Hmmm.’ Evans stroked his monumental chin, and it was obvious to Neville what he was thinking. ‘You’re sure it’s necessary to arrest him?
Couldn’t you just question him again?’

‘I think it’s necessary,’ confirmed Neville. ‘Besides, if the
Globe
story is even anywhere close to being true, there might be criminal charges arising from that. It’s pretty nasty stuff, sir – coercive sex, practically rape. Once we get this other business sorted out, we’ll have to look into it.’

Evans didn’t look very happy at the prospect. ‘Well. All right. But…be careful. You know what I mean.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And what about Frances Cherry? Do we need to keep her any longer, or has she told us everything that she’s going to tell us?’

Cowley jumped in, forestalling Neville. ‘She’s being very
uncooperative,
sir. And worse than that. She’s obstructed our enquiries. Wasted our time. Withheld vital information. And I think – I’m sure – that she knows more than she’s telling.’

Evans’ piggy eyes swivelled to Cowley. ‘You think we should keep her here?’

‘As long as we can. Until she tells us what she knows about Jackson.’

‘Hmm. I don’t suppose it will hurt her.’

‘After a night in the cells, she might be a bit more inclined to co-
operate,’
Cowley asserted. ‘We might even be able to charge her with perverting the course of justice, if not aiding and abetting.’

‘All right.’ Evans was already halfway to the door. ‘I really must go. Keep me informed.’

Arresting Leo Jackson was, they discovered, much easier said than done. When they arrived at the rectory, just as it was beginning to get dark, they found the door surrounded by wet and peevish journalists.

‘He hasn’t been out all day,’ one of them told the policemen. ‘Won’t come to the door. Doesn’t answer his phone.’

‘How long have you been here, then?’ Neville asked.

The man consulted his watch. ‘Since about half six this morning.’

‘And you haven’t given up?’ Cowley shook his head in disbelief.

‘He’s got to come out some time, doesn’t he?’ he man said reasonably. ‘He can’t stay in there forever.’

‘You’re certain he’s there?’ Surely, thought Neville, the journalists must have taken loo breaks, or gone off to get something to eat at some point.

‘He’s there, all right. We’ve been watching in shifts. He can’t have got out without someone seeing him.’

Cowley didn’t bother with the bell; he rapped smartly on the door and called out, ‘Leo Jackson, it’s the police. Please come to the door.’

The journalists perked up and trained their cameras on the door.

There was no reply, no sound of approaching footsteps. Nothing but silence. Neville stood back and looked up: the house was in darkness,
curtains
undrawn and lights unlit.

‘You’re sure he can’t have got out?’ Neville asked again.

‘Sure as sure,’ confirmed the patient journalist. ‘He’s in there.’

Cowley repeated his shouted command, this time ringing the bell as well.

Still no sign of life.

The two policemen withdrew a short distance to confer. Cowley was in favour of breaking the door down.

‘You must be joking,’ Neville said. ‘In full view of those cameras? After what Evans said about being careful?’ He could see the newspaper
headlines
already.

‘Yeah, Guv. I guess you’re right.’ Disconsolately he chucked the remains of his latest cigarette into a puddle; it went out with a satisfying sizzle.

Tears of frustration and empathy for Frances stung Callie’s eyes as she scooped food into Bella’s bowl. She still hadn’t heard anything from Mark. When he did ring, she decided, she would give him a piece of her mind. What kind of friend was he, to leave her in the dark like this?

When the phone went, she snatched it up, indignation boiling over, ready to accuse him of heartless neglect. But the caller was Graham,
ringing
to report on his visit with Frances. ‘They let me see her,’ he said. ‘For a few minutes.’

‘How was she? How did she seem?’

His sigh was audible down the phone line. ‘She was very pale. Very quiet. She wouldn’t tell me anything about the questions they’ve been
asking 
her, but she did say that she was being well treated. That’s something, I suppose.’

‘When are they going to let her come home?’ Callie demanded, concern for her friend sharpening her voice.

‘I wish I could tell you. She doesn’t have any idea.’

‘Let me know when you hear anything.’

‘Yes, of course.’ He added, ‘Thanks for your help with the clothes, Callie. I really appreciated it. So did Fran.’

Then the doorbell rang. It was Mark, there in person.

Callie’s anger evaporated at the sight of him, his umbrella streaming with water and his shoes soggy. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to ring,’ she said feebly. ‘Why didn’t you ring?’

‘I wanted to come instead. To explain what’s going on.’ He propped his wet umbrella in the corner and stooped to unlace his shoes, then stepped out of them with a grimace.

‘Tell me.’

‘It’s taken me all day to catch up with Neville Stewart. I kept missing him.’

‘Tell me,’ Callie repeated.

He looked at her levelly, as if assessing her readiness to hear it. ‘It’s not very good news, I’m afraid.’

Biting her lip, she steeled herself for the worst.

‘She won’t be going home tonight. It seems that she isn’t willing to answer their questions. So everything has ground to a halt.’

‘But they can’t keep here there indefinitely, can they?’ Callie asked. ‘Even
I
know that. If she’s not charged with anything, they have to let her go.’

‘Thirty-six hours,’ he said. ‘That’s as long as they can hold her, without going before a magistrate.’

‘But that’s tomorrow evening!’ she realised. ‘Another twenty-four hours! Surely they won’t keep her locked up for another whole day!’

Mark shook his head. ‘They might not. But they can if they want to. And just between us, Callie, I think they want to.’

Returning to the station empty-handed, without Leo Jackson, Neville decided that they’d have one more session with Frances Cherry that
evening. It was as unproductive as he had expected: she now refused to say anything, and after a short while, at Triona O’Neil’s request, he called it off.

Triona, he thought, must know as well as he did the game that was being played. If Frances Cherry wouldn’t talk, they would hold her as long as they could, until the very last minute of their thirty-six hours had run out. He wondered whether Triona had explained that to her client. Perhaps Frances Cherry just didn’t care.

It had been a horribly long day, emotionally and mentally draining; Neville was knackered. As Frances and Triona left the interview room, he hurried out of the station and got into his car. Instead of heading towards home, though, he pulled the car up close to the station entrance and waited.

A few minutes later she came out, alone. Under an umbrella, looking round for a taxi.

Neville leaned across and opened the passenger door. ‘Get in,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you home.’

‘Are you mad?’ she hissed at him. ‘I shouldn’t even be speaking to you. You know that. We could both land in deep trouble.’

‘Get in,’ Neville repeated. ‘Five minutes, then. That’s all I ask. Just talk to me for five minutes. I promise I won’t even mention your client.’

She closed her umbrella and climbed in, glaring. ‘You have a lot of nerve,’ she snapped, as he navigated the car on to a quiet side street and parked it. ‘After what you did to me, you bastard.’

‘Today?’

‘Nine years ago.’

‘What
I
did to
you
?’ He stared at her in the faint yellow light of the street lamp. ‘You’re the one who left
me
, Triona. You walked out of my life. I came home one day and you’d packed up and gone. No note or anything. Just gone. End of story.’

‘Yes, I left you.’ The seconds ticked by before she added, almost
inaudibly,
‘But you didn’t come after me.’

‘I didn’t even know where you’d gone!’

‘You could have found me. If you’d wanted to.’

Neville swallowed a lump in his throat. ‘Just as a matter of interest, where did you go? Was there someone else?’

‘Not then. Not really.’

‘Then why did you leave me?’

She picked at a loose thread on the sleeve of her raincoat. ‘I think you know the answer to that. We didn’t …want the same things.’

Even now she couldn’t say it, and he wouldn’t either. She hadn’t said it then, but he’d known.

‘Did you find what you were looking for? With someone else?’ His voice sounded surprisingly detached.

‘Didn’t you know? I married a colleague, another solicitor, a few months after that.’ She was equally clinical, as though she was talking about someone else, about a distant acquaintance. ‘It didn’t work out. It lasted for six years. But it didn’t work. It was a mistake from the beginning.’

He
hadn’t
known. In fact, he’d never heard another word from or about her since that grim October day. For months he’d expected to run into her somewhere, in court or at a party, but it had never happened.

‘And now?’ he said, knowing he had no right to ask but unable to stop himself.

‘I’m happily single,’ she said firmly.

‘No one special?’

‘God, no. I’m through with all that. My work keeps me busy enough.’

‘After this…after all this is over,’ Neville heard himself saying. ‘Could we get together for a drink? Dinner, maybe?’