Good Girls Don't Die (6 page)

Ivo was happy. This was the moment he loved best, when all the cowboys were gathered around the campfire watching sparks fly in the dark and telling tall tales about past adventures. This first evening – before the death knocks and doors slammed in your face, before the news editors started demanding more, bigger, better, before the lethal rivalry and betrayals got properly saddled up – was always the sweetest. Even without a drink in his hand, he was happy. Most of the old faces had now turned up. Funny how they always nosed their way to the same hotel. Few newspapers these days ran more than a couple of foreign desks, and they let fresh-faced kids who thought they were immortal run around in war zones, but crime would sell for all eternity, allowing him and his colleagues to keep tight hold of their expense accounts. His little ferret chum back in the office would have to go on yearning for Ivo’s job for a good while yet.

Beside him, in the bar of the Queen’s Hotel, sat Roxanne Carson. She was a good girl, the kind who would no doubt
also be setting her cap at his job. She’d called right away to tip him off that a member of the public had rung her paper with the news that the police had made an arrest. This public-spirited informant was soon encouraged to divulge that she lived in the flat next door to Dr Matt Beeston, a university lecturer, who’d been taken away by police late that afternoon. Moreover, the informant wasn’t surprised: when pressed, she’d volunteered that her neighbour didn’t put his rubbish out on the correct days, and when he did, none of it was in the proper recycling bags.

Despite a barrage of calls to Hilary’s mobile, all she would say when Ivo finally got through was that a twenty-six-year-old man was helping them with their enquiries. Which was fine and dandy so far as he was concerned. He’d impressed on Roxanne the first rule of journalism: you don’t share. Or only with him, anyway. So, with any luck, the
Courier
would be the only national to lead tomorrow with the man’s identity. And a little more besides.

It was the work of moments to rummage around on Facebook and Instagram and then follow up with a few cold calls, enabling Ivo to put together a new and unexpectedly juicy story on Dr Beeston. Tomorrow’s edition would carry photos of Matt partying, captioned with quotes from female students about the randy lecturer’s ‘relaxed’ and ‘unstuffy’ style of teaching.

The academic’s frolics had been so accessible that Ivo had still had time to spare for a bit of digging into the Ice Maiden. A few more calls and emails had thrown up some unexpected background, and when Roxanne had arrived
promptly at the hotel, he had probed gently to see how much she knew about her friend. She was either the soul of discretion (which he doubted) or DS Fisher had understandably chosen not to divulge the full story (which made his research all the more valuable).

Accepting the first of several drinks, Roxanne had been keen to offer further tributes to the power she hoped to impress and from which she hoped to extract favours in return. One nugget – that Polly’s father had recently had treatment for cancer – he filed away: it wasn’t news but would make a good inside follow-on in the absence of harder copy. The other – that in Polly’s final CCTV images she’d been too pissed to walk straight – was pure gold. There’d already been talk at the
Courier
about running a summer campaign on the shame of Britain’s underage drinking culture, and this would play straight into it. What was the statistic? That British girls were the hardest-drinking teenagers in the western world. What with the different health angles, demands for action from MPs and local councils, haranguing the drinks industry, and a few first-person celebrity tragedies, they could spin it along for weeks – right through the August silly season when news stories could be hard to find. Odds were that Rachel Moston, too, had been drinking, in which case her murder would keep Ivo right at the heart of a crusade claiming to protect these young women from themselves. Result!

And while Ivo had already scanned both Polly and Rachel’s social media sites, Roxanne had been able to insinuate herself into some of the conversations the girls’ friends
were having on Twitter and Facebook. Nothing usable yet, but at least she’d wormed her way in there. She’d also befriended some kid who worked in the campus bookshop, who was in a good position to keep watch and listen. According to him, the university authorities had already instructed people not to speak to the press except through the vice principal’s office, but this kid had known Polly, wanted to help find her, and promised to keep Roxanne informed. The fact that he’d turned down Roxanne’s offer of a hundred quid was only to the good; it meant he wasn’t likely to ditch them for a higher offer from elsewhere.

Roxanne had also finally – what on earth did they teach ’em on these fancy journalism courses? – checked in with Polly’s parents, who’d been too shocked by the murder of one of their daughter’s fellow students to give more than a brief statement, but at least Roxanne had not blabbed it to every other reporter in the bar, and it had beefed up his story very nicely.

He observed her now, leaning forward in her chair, drinking in the banter and scurrilous gossip. Her eyes shone and her mouth hung open a little. She was a ripe little thing. Not that he fancied her himself. He no longer had the energy to take on someone nearly half his age, and two ex-wives were quite enough, thank you very much. He wasn’t sure whether she realised how hard these beer guts around the table were trying to impress a pretty girl. She caught him watching her and gave a tiny smile: she knew, all right. Good. He needed her to be clever, just not so clever that he had to worry about her loyalty. Before she left tonight he’d
dangle some catnip to keep her keen. He could surely wangle her a few shifts on the paper, maybe even let her feast her lusting eyes on the Young Ferret’s job.

Now Fleet Street’s finest were bragging about the goriest stories they’d each covered and speculating on where Polly Sinclair might be found. Manacled in a cellar? Chopped up into little pieces and fed to the pigs? Abducted by aliens? You could be sure the police had already had at least ten calls from eyewitnesses who’d seen the spacecraft land and take off, and would receive a dozen more. As the gang got louder and more raucous, the bar staff began to look anxiously in their direction as other guests, picking up the gist of their laughter, shot pointedly disgusted glances towards them. But this lot didn’t give a toss. It just egged them on. If what they wrote was so repugnant, how come circulation figures inevitably rose whenever the papers led with a particularly brutal or salacious crime? Punters loved it.

Ivo polished off his mineral water and sat back, letting his mind wander. It would soon be time for the ten o’clock news on the telly, and he’d have to watch to see if they fitted in coverage of the murder. That would probably depend on whether the current British hopeful had got knocked out of the latest tennis. Meanwhile, he thought about the twenty-six-year-old man helping police with their enquiries. If they had him bang to rights, then he’d likely be charged tomorrow and the whole thing would be
sub judice
, so they might as well all shut up shop and go home. Just as well he’d got his story in when he did. But he hoped Keith hadn’t bagged his man this easily. If there
was
a serial
killer on the loose, then finding a couple more bodies first would be much more fun. Ivo hated the summer air conditioning back in the office, and would far rather hang around Colchester for a while yet.

The police had not picked up Dr Beeston until the end of the day, so would more than likely hang on to him overnight to soften him up a bit. Ivo thought about being locked up in a cell. It had only happened to him once – which was a miracle when you thought about it – but he’d never forgotten it. The twenty-six-year-old would have eight hours for it to sink deep into his bone marrow that he’d lost control. He’d have to piss four feet from where he laid his head. They’d have taken away his phone. No one was going to bring him a cup of coffee or a clean shirt just because he wanted one.

If he’s not guilty, Ivo figured that he’d start off thinking it’ll be all right; he’s innocent, it’s just a stupid mistake. All he has to do is explain and they’ll shake his hand, thank him for his time and let him go. After all, he’s got a Ph.D. and clean fingernails. Miscarriages of justice don’t happen to people like him. But ever so slowly he’ll come to understand that, in the cells, there are no ‘people like him’; there are just those waiting to be locked up and those waiting to do it. It’ll finally dawn on him that no one’s going to let him out until they decide it’s what
they
want to do.

Ivo thought about the many versions of the story he’d heard at meetings.
My last drink was when I woke up in a cell. My last drink was once I realised I’d lost control of my life.
It was a good lesson and he wished he’d learned it a whole lot
earlier than he had. He thought again of what Roxanne had told him about the last images of Polly Sinclair stumbling drunkenly away from the Blue Bar. Poor kid. It was shame that she’d make the front page only to become yesterday’s fish and chip paper. As for Dr Beeston, little did he know but, regardless of whether or not he was guilty of Rachel Moston’s murder, the poor sod’s nightmare at the hands of Ivo and his esteemed drinking colleagues around the table here was only just beginning.

Grace let herself in, slung her keys and bag on the kitchen worktop and looked around the new-build flat on the edge of Colchester that was now her home. All the rooms were just that bit too small. Varnished wood, beige twill carpet and cream walls. She hadn’t yet found anywhere to store a suitcase, ironing board or vacuum cleaner; the doors of the fitted cupboards barely closed over a coat hanger, and even the dishwasher was pint-size. Not that Grace had had the chance to spend much time here since she moved in six days ago. Wearily she surveyed the unpacked boxes that lined one wall of the compact living room, but they could wait: it was nearly midnight and she’d have to be back at work for six, ready for the strategy meeting for Matt Beeston’s interview.

There’d been a real buzz in the station as she’d left. Having someone in the cells, even if few were yet fully convinced of his unquestionable guilt, was energising, and there was an elated, purposeful air to the place that felt good to be a part of. More than a part: she and Lance had
gone to Matt’s equally compact modern Colchester flat to make the arrest. He’d answered his door wearing a football shirt and baggy shorts. Although they’d bagged up some of his other clothes and shoes, they hadn’t let him change, so he’d had to sit in the back of the car in his shorts and flip-flops, looking every inch the nervous teenager. She and Lance might not be that much older, but they intended by their manner to impress upon him that they were already a world apart in terms of their authority.

They’d taken a quick look around Matt’s flat. It was sparsely furnished, with little in the way of proper furniture; he’d made do with piling stuff on the floor or cramming random possessions into tattered cardboard boxes. Nevertheless, it was spotlessly clean: he either had a regular cleaner or a good reason to apply the bleach.

Bringing him in through the back entrance, Grace knew that the sudden bustle in the corridors was due to people curious to catch a first glimpse of the suspect, and she wasn’t immune to a little vanity in being seen to be the DS escorting the prisoner into custody. Most murders were messy domestics, tragic but hardly glamorous; this killing was different. Even without knowledge of the carefully positioned vodka bottle, it had snagged the imagination of those within the station. And, with Polly yet to be found, there was still everything to play for.

Matt was booked in and passed fit to detain. He wanted his own solicitor, which caused a delay, by which time, under the rules of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, he had to be given food and then eight hours of
uninterrupted rest. Duncan had no need to spell out to the custody sergeant that they wouldn’t be too fussed at any further delay that might leave the ex-private schoolboy helplessly kicking his heels in a stale cell overnight while they gained more time to chase forensic results, check facts and follow up the list of Dr Beeston’s past and present students.

Simon Bradford, the law faculty dean, had now admitted that the young lecturer had received an
unofficial
warning from his departmental head over lack of judgement and inappropriate socialising with female students. The dean had nevertheless vigorously defended his own earlier lack of transparency, citing confidentiality issues and university protocols. It was a smokescreen, and both sides knew it; furthermore, in the interests of damage limitation, he had then solicited a public acknowledgement – to which Grace refused to agree – that the university had, from the start, been fully supportive of the police investigation.

Grace had tried not to let her anger at the dean’s hypocrisy consume her – she knew it was fuelled by baggage from her past – but now she felt the silent walls of her flat close in on her, echoing the bitter hours she’d spent trying to make sense of the malice she’d faced in Kent. Her persecutors, too, had justified their lack of mercy by an appeal to loyalty and comradeship, by fealty to uniform. Had the university, in protecting its reputation, shielded a killer?

Trying to shake off these bad thoughts, she went to open the fridge. There was nothing much in there, and it was too late to start ordering takeaway, even if she fancied it: by the
time it arrived, she’d be too tired to eat. She had a couple of bottles of wine, but, after this morning’s hangover, she wanted to keep her head clear. She took out a bottle of fizzy water and leaned against the counter, glad of its reviving freshness. She made herself focus on what would happen tomorrow. It was unlikely that Keith would put her, untested and new to the team, in the interview room with Matt, even though she’d done the Tier 3 training and successfully led several key interviews in Maidstone. More likely it’d be Duncan and Lance who’d question him, while she watched the feed with Keith, ready to double-check Matt’s statements and follow up any new information he let drop.

She liked interviewing, had even been commended for it in past cases, but she also liked being able to observe. She couldn’t always put her finger on exactly what it was she reacted to, but she trusted herself to pick up on little gestures, silences, glimpses of fear, guilt or shame. Putting into words what her jumble of subliminal insights might mean for an investigation wasn’t always easy, either. Colin used to tease her about it in those early, honeymoon days at Maidstone. Just spell it out, he used to say. And Jeff and Margie once left a set of those wooden nursery-school blocks, with a letter of the alphabet on each face of the cube, on her desk. The latest high-tech aid, ma’am, they told her: she might find them useful when she wrote up her case files. And until everyone tired of the joke, she had used them a few times to spell out obscenities which she left on their desks.

The happy memory was painful, but it seemed like she
just couldn’t shake herself free of the past tonight. She gave in, letting herself recall the laughter they all used to share in the pub: her, Trev, Margie and Jeff each taking turns to buy a round, Trev on tomato juice if he was in training for a big race; or she’d watch him relax and mellow over a double Scotch if the pressure was off, giving her that special look that suggested they wouldn’t stay too late tonight … Quite often Lee was there, too, Trev’s cycling teammate, the hero, the champion. She still didn’t understand how she could’ve been the only one to notice how jittery and short-fused Lee had become. Trev had refused to listen, claimed she simply didn’t get that the man was busting his arse in order to win; told her that riding at Lee’s level wasn’t fun, it hurt, it stressed him out, to leave the guy alone. And so she’d backed off, willing to trust her husband rather than her own instinct.

And where had that got her? Alone here now in this anonymous flat, weary and tired of this endless state of delayed shock and hurt and disbelief. She promised herself that one day she would expunge the memory of them jeering as she’d come down the steps from the magistrates’ court. Only a narrow path had been shovelled through the filthy snow, leaving her little choice but to walk past the group huddled around Trev. He had his back to her and did not look round. His neck was slightly reddened where the unfamiliar collar of his new suit had rubbed against his buzz cut. Only two of them had actually jeered; no prizes for guessing which clowns they were. Margie, pulling at her scarf, had glanced in Grace’s direction and given an
apologetic shrug: it was easier to stick with the others. Jeff had stared at her belligerently but made no sound, and even Colin, her boss, just gazed expressionlessly over her left shoulder into the leafless branches of a tree across the road. The minicab she’d ordered was waiting and she’d dived into the overheated sanctuary of the frayed back seat. As it had pulled away, she recalled the phrase that had come to mind: if you’re walking on thin ice, you might as well dance.

Well, she was trying her damnedest but she’d never been that much of a dancer. She felt too angry, though whether at herself, or at Trev, or Lee, or her former colleagues – or right now, at the dean of the law faculty – she wasn’t entirely sure. She was alone now because she had done what she believed to be right. Wasn’t that why they’d all joined the police in the first place? If only she could convince herself that telling the truth, trying to do the right thing, hadn’t been the worst mistake of her life.

Grace turned off the light in the paltry kitchen. Maybe it was just as well that Keith wasn’t likely to put her in the interview room in the morning: she was in no fit state to attempt to read Matt Beeston’s mind.

She undressed in the box-like bedroom and went to take a shower. As the hot water poured over her shoulders, she thought of Matt in his cell, lying alone on a thin plastic mattress with the choice of facing a graffiti-covered wall or a metal toilet bowl. Would she be able to tell from his face tomorrow morning whether or not he’d spent the night thinking about what he’d done to Rachel Moston, about
how he had laid her out so carefully on the inhospitable ground and then violated her with a half-empty bottle of cheap Polish vodka?

She turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. Wrapping herself in a towel, she faced the steamed-up mirror and wiped away a patch of condensation above the sink, ready to brush her teeth. Meeting her reflected eyes, she caught a glimpse of how she felt others must see her: a plain face, serious, wary and tired. She spat out the toothpaste, dried herself off and went through to the bedroom, put out the light and settled down to listen to the unfamiliar night noises.

Even with the window open, the building felt stuffy. She’d watched similar blocks of flats being built, and there never seemed to be any natural materials on site: no bricks, wood, stone or slate. It was as though this whole place was constructed of plasterboard, metal, plastic, cables, glue, grout and mastic, while she longed for shelter, for something solid and enduring. The blue-painted brick and gravel of the little suntrap yard of Polly and Jessica’s house came to mind. Perhaps she should look for something like that to rent once this short lease expired. Though whether she’d want Pawel Zawodny as a landlord was another matter.

Grace realised she wasn’t ready to sleep. Her mind was churning, and all thoughts led back to the investigation. Or to Trev, which was worse. She settled herself comfortably, stared up at the ceiling and gave herself permission to review the week properly, day by day. It seemed as though every piece of the investigative jigsaw had already
been considered; one or two slotted together, but it was far from clear where they fitted into a bigger picture. As she waited for a distant car alarm to fall silent again, a connection she’d missed earlier suddenly jumped into her head: when the young man in the campus bookshop this afternoon had given his name – Danny Tooley – she’d failed to recall that she’d come across it before.

She got out of bed and padded through to the living room to fetch her laptop. Back in bed, she piled up her pillows behind her, crossed her legs and settled it open on her lap. The screen gave out all the light she needed. She’d already trawled through Polly Sinclair’s Twitter account on Monday and, though she hadn’t checked out everyone, she had found that Polly was linked to over two hundred people. And, yes, she was correct: the list of followers included Danny Tooley. Now she clicked onto his account and found he followed seventeen women and six men. Rachel Moston was not amongst them, but nearly all of them also appeared in Polly’s lists. Polly was the first person he’d followed and he had favourited several of her tweets. He had never sent a single message to anyone and, apart from Polly, who’d followed him back, his only followers appeared to be automated bots, except for the last person on the list – Roxanne Carson. Grace was about to follow Roxanne herself, so she could keep tabs on her, but remembered that she’d have to log it with Keith as the senior investigating officer and decided it was too much trouble.

Grace checked out Facebook. Danny had opened an account, but never posted to it and had no friends. It was
enough, however, to allow him limited access to other accounts.

She wasn’t sure what it all meant. There was certainly nothing to connect him to Rachel Moston, the murder victim. And it didn’t really give Grace anything new: Danny hadn’t hesitated to tell them that he and Polly had been friendly. All the same, his activity on social media sites made it clear he rather liked Polly, and that it would appear to be pretty one-sided, which meant he might well know more about her life than he’d been willing to let on. She hoped he hadn’t decided to trust Roxanne with what he knew rather than the police.

She wished she could talk to Roxanne, find out what Danny had said to her, what Roxanne had made of him, but she’d have to clear that with Keith first, too, and he’d almost certainly say no.

She closed her laptop and slid it onto the floor. Maybe she could sleep now. It was late and she had to be up and alert in – shit! – less than five hours. There was no breeze, but at least a few distant traffic sounds drifted in through the open window. They were all double-glazed, and she didn’t want to think about what it would be like to sleep here in the winter when they were shut and she was sealed in. She listened to the building noises, sure there was an inaudible background hum that made the air reverberate uncannily. Her thoughts drifted. Did Danny Tooley have a crush on Polly, or was he maybe even stalking her? But then why was Rachel Moston dead? With that thought bouncing around her skull, Grace finally fell asleep.