Never Forget (27 page)

‘W
e’re here,’ said Pierre. ‘You OK? You haven’t said a word in ages.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Looks like someone’s in. There’s a car on the driveway.’

I perked up as I looked up and down the street. I had a feeling I’d been in the road on another occasion, which wasn’t unusual in itself, as that happened a lot when you were dealing with criminals: you tended to end up in the same streets and houses. This wasn’t one of our usual haunts. It was a fairly wide avenue, trees on either side, room for long driveways complete with off-road parking and not a speed hump in sight. Not many of them left in the southeast. Every tiny plot of land had at least two semi-detached houses squeezed on to it; every reasonable-sized house within two miles of a town centre with a London train link was converted into flats. That was what it often felt like. The race was on to force people to live within an arm’s distance of each other. It wasn’t healthy – unless you were the one selling the land or the houses.

‘I think I’ve been in this road before, Pierre,’ I said as I opened the door. ‘Can’t think why I was here. It’ll come to me later.’

We made our way to No. 86, admiring the gleaming black Audi with personalised numberplates feet from the front door. The upstairs windows hinted at two front double bedrooms, and the whole house gave the impression of being pretty well kitted out inside, too. I was forming a picture of
Sophie Alexander in my mind, and wasn’t disappointed when she opened the door to us.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked, one hand on the side of the door, the other on her hip. A gold charm bracelet dangled from the arm poised on her tiny waist. Other than that, she was very plainly dressed in a white fitted shirt and black jeans. Her understated mode of dress served to accentuate the fact that she was a very attractive woman. Her hair seemed to do as it was told, unlike my own, which was still protesting at the soaking it had got outside my house on my return from Birmingham, despite having been treated to salon shampoo and conditioner that morning. How could hair sulk? Mine seemed to be managing it very nicely.

‘We’re police officers, and we need to come in and talk to you about Tony Birdsall,’ said Pierre.

‘Anthony?’ she said. ‘You’d better come in, then. Is he OK?’

Without waiting for an answer, she padded along in her bare feet, leading us into an impressive room at the rear of her home, which seemed to span half the width of the house. The windows overlooked a neat, if in my opinion very boring garden consisting mostly of lawn and fence. The focal point of the room was a grand piano. As if to invite comment, in case we missed it, Sophie stood with her back to it,
gold-adorned
arm resting lightly on its top. Just to make a point, neither Pierre nor I said a word about the elephant in the room – well, the bits of its anatomy hacked from its dead face, anyway.

‘Tony Birdsall, or Anthony as you call him, is a friend of yours?’ Pierre asked.

Sophie gave a silent laugh. For some reason, that annoyed me. ‘We go back years. I used to sing in one of his clubs in Spain.’ She walked around the piano and stood behind the stool.

Fucking hell, don’t sing, I thought. This enquiry is already weird enough.

‘When was the last time you saw him?’ Pierre continued, not at all put off by the theatrical neck- and shoulder-rolling going on before our eyes.

‘Let me see. He stayed overnight. I think it was a couple of weeks ago now.’ Her hands went down to her sides, smoothing her flawless shirt over her hips. ‘I can check my diary, if it would help.’ She crossed the room and bent down to pick up an expensive-looking handbag from the floor. It was probably worth more than everything I was wearing, including my sister’s St Christopher. I watched her rummage for a couple of seconds and then pull out a small red pocket diary. Her red-polished nails whipped the pages over until she found the date she was searching for. She shot a dark look at Pierre and said, ‘Here you are, officer. 22nd September. “Anthony 7.30pm”.’

My colleague reached out and took the notebook from her, reading the words aloud once more while nodding in agreement. ‘Can I ask why you would write down when Tony visits you?’ Pierre asked. I already thought she was a prostitute, I had to admit. She gave the impression of spending all day draping herself over the furniture – the very expensive furniture – and she kept a written record of when men stayed the night. Unless she was keeping a tally for some reason, I couldn’t see why she would make an appointment.

‘We have a very casual relationship,’ came Sophie’s reply, a coy smile creeping its way across her lips. She moved around the piano towards the window, pausing with her hands on her hips, turning so that her profile was illuminated by the sunlight.

If I’d known Pierre better, I would have told the silly preening cow that she was wasting her time – both Pierre and I preferred fellas. I didn’t want to embarrass him, though, so I said nothing.

‘Can we sit down?’ said Pierre. ‘It would be easier to talk.’ I translated this as his way of saying he’d had enough of her dramatic wanderings too.

Sophie glided over to a white leather armchair, perching on the edge, hands on her knees. We took our seats on the matching sofa.

‘What kind of casual relationship?’ I asked.

Her eyes flickered towards me, before returning to Pierre. ‘Just because we have a son together, it doesn’t mean that Anthony and I have to live in each other’s pockets.’

I did a mental double-take. ‘You have a son with him?’ I asked.

She continued to direct her answers to Pierre. ‘Yes, Joel. He’s seven years old. He lives here with me and Anthony comes over from Spain to see him six or seven times a year. He’s at school at the moment, of course. That’s why I make a note of Anthony’s visits: so that Joel and I don’t make any other engagements.’

The room we were in was adorned with photographs of Sophie. She was in every one of them and I estimated there to be about twenty-five strewn on the piano, tables, walls, everywhere I looked. Some of the pictures contained images of her with another adult, usually male, but there was no hint that a child resided anywhere in her house, or her heart.

‘Did you and Anthony go out at all over the evening or night of the 22nd of September?’ Pierre asked.

‘No, no, we didn’t. It was about eleven the next day when he left. I remember that because he had to meet someone at noon and he was running late. Before you ask, I don’t know who he was meeting or where he went.’

‘Is there anyone else who can verify that you were both at home on that evening?’ Pierre asked.

‘Joel, of course, but he went to bed not long after Anthony arrived. And there’s the security system. It records anyone going in or out of the front, rear and garage doors. The windows are alarmed so, before I go to bed, I set the system. I seem to remember we went to bed quite early. We hadn’t seen each other for some time.’ She put her hand up to cover her mouth, I suppose in an attempt to appear embarrassed.
Bit late for that. She should have shown more humility when it came to poncing about at the piano.

I left her flirting mercilessly, not to mention pointlessly, with Pierre while I made a phone call to technical services at police headquarters to see if someone could come out and download the hard drive of her complicated security system. Short of seizing the whole thing, Pierre and I couldn’t copy the footage we needed without risking wiping it clean.

One thing was for sure: if the CCTV was genuine and showed Birdsall arriving at 7.30pm on the 22nd and not leaving until well after the time of Daphne Headingly’s death on the 23rd, coupled with a download from the security system proving the windows were locked and alarmed all night, he was out of the running for this murder.

I still had a feeling, though, that Birdsall was not a totally innocent man.

D
ownloading the CCTV and the information from the security system had taken all morning. By the time Pierre and I had got away from Sophie with all that we needed, taken the footage back to the nick and begun to watch it, I had little time to get to my meeting with Freya Forbes. I wasn’t too sure what she’d be able to say to put my mind at ease over the whole sorry saga, but it felt like an unresolved issue that needed putting to rest.

As I packed my stuff to leave the office, I put in a call to Wingsy. ‘You alright, Wingnut?’ I said, ‘How’s the interviewing with Birdsall going?’

He took a deep breath before saying, ‘Slow. I’m
cream-crackered
’cos I didn’t get a lot of sleep. Poxy prisoner got his eight hours but I’m done in.’

‘Never mind about you. Working restrictions mean nothing to us, so shut up and listen. We’ve been to Sophie Alexander’s place. What a dozy tart she is.’

I heard Wingsy chuckle. ‘You hit it off, then?’

‘I let Pierre do the talking. He’s a lot more tactful than me. Anyway, the point is, not only does she alibi him out, she’s got some all-singing, all-dancing security system. He’s on the CCTV coming and going at the times he said. We still need to check he didn’t leave at some point in between. Sorry, mate, but it’s not looking as though he murdered Daphne Headingly. More to do, though.’

The line went silent.

‘Wingsy?’

‘Nin, there’s something else.’

‘Go on, mate.’ I detected a shift in his tone.

‘I’m just stepping out of the office to speak to you in private.’ The sounds of hurried footsteps and a creaking door implied he was on the move. ‘After the last interview with Birdsall, I couldn’t find a jailer to put him back in his cell so I took him down the corridor myself.’ His breathing had got faster. I was having to put my free hand up to my other ear to block out any other sounds. ‘Thing is, doll, as I went to leave him in the cell, he turned to me and said, “Nina Foster ever wonder why Jake Lloyd left it so long before he sent her those photographs?”’

Was there anyone in England who didn’t know something personal about me?

‘What did you say to him?’ I asked.

‘When I asked him what he knew about it, he said it was in the local
Echo
,’ said Wingsy. ‘Nina, are you still there?’

‘Yeah, yeah, sorry – just trying to make a connection between him and Lloyd. Other than the three dead bodies, I mean.’

‘Listen, Nina, I’ve got one more interview to do with him and then our PACE time with him is gonna run out. He’ll be off to the Magistrates’ Court for an extension on his custody time. Before that happens, in case it’s not granted, I’ll ask him about the photos and if he had anything to do with them being sent to you. His brief may object, but I’ve put a note on his custody record about what he said to me off tape, so I’ll give him a chance to comment on it. You know, the usual bollocks to show he was given a fair opportunity to deny it. I’ll let you know what he says.’

‘Thanks, you’re a mate.’

I hung up and threw my mobile up and down a few times, catching Pierre’s eye. ‘You OK?’ he asked me from the alcove housing the viewing equipment. He had paused the CCTV footage to observe me wandering between the deserted desks of the Incident Room.

‘Was thinking I should get down to the court to see Freya Forbes. I have a couple of questions for her about something.’

‘You want me to come along? I could do with a break.’

I shook my head and reaching for my bag, said, ‘No, cheers. Won’t be long.’ I glanced at my wristwatch. ‘Should still have time to go to Charles Bruce’s house on the way back.’

‘Ring me and I’ll meet you there,’ he said tilting his head to one side. I clocked him glance down at my hands. I’d come to a stop behind an office chair, grabbing its back so tightly my knuckles were white.

Releasing my grip, I made towards the noticeboard where the car keys were kept. The empty hooks adjacent to the list of car registration numbers indicated a lack of vehicles.

‘No job cars so I’ll take my own,’ I said as much to myself as to Pierre.

‘Then come back here before you go to Bruce’s. Don’t use your personal car to go to his house,’ warned Pierre.

‘I appreciate your concern, Pierre, but it’s not as if I haven’t been followed for most of my life and have God knows who coming to my house – ’ I broke off, realising what I’d said.

‘Who came to your house?’ He put the remote control for the monitor down and stepped around the desk separating us.

‘No one. When I got back from Birmingham the other day, I thought that someone was watching me and a car drove off. It could have been anyone at all. With everything that’s happened, I guess I’m overreacting.’ I paused, taking in his expression. ‘You don’t look as though you believe me, Pierre.’

‘I think that you ought to report it.’

‘Report what? A car drove past my house. It’s a fairly busy road. It doesn’t make rush hour a crime spree. I’ll call you when I’m done at the court. But thanks.’

I walked out and left him standing in the office in front of a frozen image of Sophie Alexander in her own hallway, long lacy nightie billowing behind her. Stupid cow.

I made my way towards the town centre to meet with the forensic scientist. I would happily admit to myself that I’d pinned all my hopes on her telling me I had nothing to worry about. Deep down, I knew that my fears were not going to be laid to rest.

I
drove through the busy lunchtime back streets to the front of the Crown Court, an antiquated building of historical importance but in practical terms able to deal with very little the modern world had to throw at it, such as how to get more than two people through security at a time. Not an easy task for the security team first thing in the morning, or after lunch when the jury, witnesses and legal teams returned en masse.

Walking towards the building, I felt a sense of dread, threatening to knock me further out of kilter than I’d thought possible. I’d tried to block Jake Lloyd and his twisted behaviour from my mind. Easier said than done when I knew that some of the blood on his clothing had been identified as mine, and that he’d somehow got hold of exact replicas of the items my sister and I were wearing at the time of our kidnap. I had been trying to push the thoughts down as they’d risen up in my mind but sometimes they managed to clamber over the edge of the pit, heading for daylight.

As I made my way up to the main doors, a huddle of six people came towards me. It was made up of two women in their early twenties, one woman in her late forties and three men of approximately fifty years of age. The two young women were clasping each other’s arms and crying, two of the men were speaking in hushed tones to each other, and the older female was shaking her head in disbelief. They had all the hallmarks of half a jury.

Sauntering down the steps behind them was the unmistakable form of Harry Powell, my former detective
sergeant and the family liaison officer for Amanda Bell’s loved ones. At six foot six, with a shock of red hair on top of his rugby player’s build, he would never have made a surveillance officer. As he ambled down the concrete steps, hands in his pockets, he saw me looking at him. He broke into a grin – a grin minus a top front tooth.

‘Harry, good to see you. Long time no see,’ I said. ‘I didn’t get the chance to catch up with you on Op Guard.’

He stopped in front of me as I began to mount the steps. Then he seemed to realise that standing three steps or so below me would benefit both our necks, and moved down a few steps until we were at eye level.

‘Nina, how are you? Looked out for you but our paths didn’t cross,’ he said.

‘That jury from a job of yours?’ I asked tilting my head in the direction of the disappearing six.

‘Yeah. They found the defendant guilty of murdering his wife. Took them three days. Then they found out he tried to strangle a former girlfriend too and heard all his previous convictions for violence, having sex with his own daughter, that kind of thing. Judge took a majority verdict of ten to twelve in the end, before they knew all this, of course. Can’t have the truth getting in the way of the English justice system.’

‘Who do you reckon the two were that doubted his guilt?’ I asked, having a good idea myself anyway.

‘I’m going with the two sobbing women, but I could be wrong.’

‘You weren’t near Court Seven, were you? I’m due to meet a forensic expert in there.’ I ruled out Harry as having been in Court Seven, since his jury had been out for three days.

‘I was in Court Eight but I’ve got no idea if they’ve finished for the morning. Are you meeting Freya Forbes, by any chance? Only ask because I saw her earlier.’

‘As it happens, I am.’

‘She’s great. She gave evidence on a job of mine a couple of months ago. She wiped the floor with the defence. Heard you’re seeing Bill Harrison, by the way. Good one.’

‘How on earth can you possibly know that? And, changing the subject, how did you lose your front tooth?’

‘Rugby.’

‘Playing or watching?’

‘Playing, you cheeky cow.’ He laughed, running his tongue into the gap. ‘Got to go, Nina. Promised the kids I’d take them to the cinema tonight. It’s my eldest’s birthday and this is my twelfth consecutive day on duty. Trial over-ran and I had to work the weekend. Take care.’

‘You too, Harry.’ On another occasion I would have taken the chance to ask why the defendant in Harry’s trial hadn’t had his previous convictions brought up in the court as part of the bad character evidence. This was the part where the jury got to hear about what a loathsome shit the defendant actually was and how we’d all danced this merry dance with him before. I made a mental note to email Harry and ask. I was a nosy sort. It went with the job. I also wondered why he hadn’t been wearing a mouthguard, but that was Harry’s problem.

The momentary distraction had taken my mind off my meeting with Freya. As I made my way to the main court entrance, my mobile rang. I paused at the door to answer it, waving at the security guard as I did so. He waved back. We’d gone out for a drink once. I couldn’t remember his name. I always called him ‘Handsome’ whenever I had to go to court. Laura always found it hilarious.

‘Nina,’ said a voice I recognised as Freya’s, ‘I’m by the entrance.’

I squinted through the ten-foot-high, thick glass door. Handsome caught my eye and winked at me.

‘I’m out here, Freya,’ I almost shouted, partly in panic because I really didn’t want her being intercepted by the security guard, and partly because I didn’t want to go in there either. I didn’t need it today.

‘I can see you,’ she said, and a petite blonde woman came into view. I saw her wave at me with her free hand, struggling to keep her briefcase shoulder strap in place. I heard her say goodbye to Handsome as she emerged through the tinted glass doors.

‘Nina. Great to meet you,’ she said extending her hand to shake mine.

‘And you too, Freya. Have you time for a coffee or a drink?’

‘Tea would be great.’

A few minutes later, we were seated at an oblong wooden table, on cheap plastic chairs, gripping mugs of weak tea.

‘It’s horrible in here,’ I said, glancing in the direction of the gurning fat man behind the counter. I was grateful that the till blocked my view of whatever part of his lower region he was fondling.

‘Yeah, it’s dreadful, but thanks for the tea.’ Freya smiled at me. ‘Right, where to start? I’ve examined the clothing. The authenticity of it is being researched by your own department, as you’re probably aware.’

I wasn’t aware of this, but I let it go. Clearly we weren’t taking Stan’s word for the destruction of the clothes after all.

She continued. ‘The traces of blood on a man’s shirt were your blood.’

I must have made an involuntary sound, as I was aware that someone in the deserted café took a sharp intake of breath and it hadn’t come from Freya or from the same direction as the behind-the-counter scratching. She studied me for a couple of seconds before picking up her tea, then changed her mind and put it back down again. She leaned closer across the table and said, ‘In theory it’s possible to age blood but, in practice, it’s not so easy. Ageing blood is like the Holy Grail of forensics. Blood appearing dark or ingrained at a crime scene is thought of as “old blood”, if you see what I mean?’ She nodded encouragingly at me before adding, ‘But blood on clothing is even more difficult. Research has been
done into the ageing of blood, and for relatively fresh blood there have been some results. However, when we go into decades, then these ideas aren’t any use, as they’re untested.’

I watched Freya glance down at her cup and then in the direction of the bloke behind the counter, who was now picking his nose. I was glad we’d decided not to eat here.

I gathered from her change in eye contact that something else was to come. Something I probably wasn’t going to like. I was correct.

‘Nina, the blood came from you, within the last ten years or so.’

I sat still; only my brain was moving, and even that very slowly. ‘Where would he have got my blood from?’ I said, and began thinking about ridiculous scenarios such as my doctor taking a blood test and Lloyd getting a job as a surgery courier to take it to the hospital; or Lloyd breaking into my house, drugging me and taking a blood sample in the night. Crazy theories which made no sense.

‘It is just traces – not a significant amount. Ever cut yourself badly in public?’ Freya asked. ‘Or had a nosebleed?’

I started to shake my head but then a memory came into my mind of falling on my face at the ice rink some years ago. I’d kept falling over and finally called it a day when, after one particularly violent fall, I’d thought I’d broken my nose. At the time I had been seeing stars, so I couldn’t recall who was there but several people came to help as there was so much blood. I had heard Jake Lloyd say himself, in his police interview, that he knew I’d gone ice-skating and had seen me injure myself.

‘About eight years ago I fell on my face while ice-skating and my nose exploded,’ I muttered, more to hear the words out loud than to inform Freya. I remembered it was eight years ago because I’d been dumped by a Bacardi Breezer rep. Not only did he walk out on me, but the break-up ended my relationship with discount alcopops. I took solace in
ice-skating
for about five weeks until I met a plumber.

The sound of chairs being scraped across the lino flooring and the faint whiff of body odour indicated that the owner was moving around in preparation for closing up his eatery.

‘Nina, court’s adjourned for the day. I have to get the train home soon but I’m here again tomorrow; the defence may want to ask me some questions before the trial continues. Feel free to call if you want to meet up again or ask anything else,’ Freya said.

‘Thanks very much. I’ll walk with you to the train station,’ I replied, pushing my untouched drink to one side and putting my jacket back on. I followed her outside, listening to her chatting about train times and the rising cost of tickets. I thanked her for seeing me and waved her off in the direction of her platform, shivering in my unsuitable summer jacket on the way back to the car.

October had brought with it a drop in temperature.