My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (12 page)

Then he calmly entered the house, walked straight into the downstairs loo.

And threw up.

His eyes opened.

He watched the ceiling orbiting him and relived the moment when two police officers had arrived on his doorstep the evening after the crash; the look on his wife’s face when they’d told her why.

Your vehicle carries damage consistent with reports of a hit and run not far from here.

He hadn’t bothered denying it. They’d already inspected the car; he hadn’t had time to send it for repair. Jodie had been hysterical.

They’d taken Matt in. Questioned him.

Told him the kid had died.

The ambulance crew had been minutes too late … time Matt had wasted before driving away.

Fifteen years old.

Events he couldn’t change.

He grabbed his mobile, fumbling with the electronic lock, selecting the number still stored under ‘Home’.

‘Hello?’ Her voice was croaky. He’d woken her.

‘Jodie. Get Tom and Rebecca.’

‘Matt.’ She was annoyed. ‘You can’t keep doing this.’

‘Just … for a minute.’

‘It’s gone midnight. They’re asleep.’

‘They’re my kids, too.’

He heard her telling someone else to leave it; to go
back to sleep. ‘They stopped being your kids the day you left that boy lying in the road.’

Tears formed. ‘Jodie …’

‘What if it had been one of our children, Matt?’

‘Please.’

The line went dead.

23

‘Mrs Watts?’ Hawkins held up her badge to the woman holding a small child in the doorway. ‘I’m DCI Hawkins, and this is DI Maguire. Sorry to intrude on your weekend. We’re here about Samantha.’

‘Okay,’ Nicola Watts responded slowly, as if she hadn’t really understood. ‘But I have to go soon. Collect my older one from his grandparents’. They’re going away.’

‘That’s not a problem,’ Hawkins told her. ‘We don’t need much of your time.’

She studied Watts, who must have been in her mid-twenties, the same as her recently deceased friend. Her dark hair was gathered in a ponytail and, although she wore no make-up, her skin was immaculate. But the woman’s youthfulness was under attack, not just from the challenge of two young children but now from bereavement as well. She looked exhausted.

Mike reached for the chair’s handles and began to rotate his boss.

‘Don’t worry about the step.’ Watts’ voice stayed flat. ‘My partner’s mum’s in a chair. We have a ramp. Go round the side and I’ll let you in through the kitchen.’

‘Thanks.’ Hawkins stopped herself from explaining
that the wheelchair was only temporary, acknowledging at last that nobody cared except her.

Watts disappeared inside, still holding the child, closing the door with her back.

As Mike pushed her towards the side gate, Hawkins marvelled at the Watts’ front garden: rampant weeds strangling skeletal plants that looked as if they’d once been well tended, and a small pond full of sludge. Either Watts’ family had bought the house from people who liked gardening a lot more than they did, or looking after two young kids had proved more difficult than they’d anticipated.

They reached the corner, negotiating the narrow gate and heading for the shallow concrete ramp grafted neatly on to the path. The back garden was unkempt, too, except for the recently mown grass area, housing an enclosed trampoline to one side, plethoric toys everywhere else.

Nicola Watts was at the door when Maguire rolled Hawkins level with the threshold. Behind her the kettle was just coming to the boil, while her infant had been deposited in a plastic high chair and was now banging a plastic spoon against the attached table.

Being fair, Watts looked remarkably composed for someone who’d only known about her best friend’s murder for a couple of days. But the timing of their arrival wasn’t coincidence. Family liaison officers would have been sent to inform next of kin, in this case Philips’ brother, but friends generally found out on the
grapevine or via media reports. Sam’s death had been widely reported the previous day, so if Watts had known since then, it was actually good news, because grief did strange things to the bereaved. Usually, if it was someone close, the person being informed wouldn’t be much use to anyone for a while immediately afterwards, at least until denial and anger had played themselves out. Conversely, if you left it too long, they were often too dejected to assist. Typically, however, there was a short window of clarity once the initial shock had passed, when the newly bereft were inclined to get things in order for the inevitable numbness they somehow knew was on its way. The window usually incorporated a desire to see justice done by helping the police with their inquiries. Hawkins was hoping she had accurately estimated when this would occur.

Watts helped manoeuvre Hawkins inside, and Mike parked her across the utility room doorway, next to a huge scribble made in black marker pen on otherwise elegant wallpaper. He settled on one of the leather-effect bar stools as drinks orders were taken.

‘So’ – Watts poured boiling water into the first mug, failing to hide the tremor in her voice – ‘have you arrested someone?’

‘Not yet.’ Hawkins watched her mash the teabag. ‘We’re still investigating. That’s why we’re here; Sam’s brother tells us you were her best friend.’

Watts looked round, with an expression half pleading for the subject to be left alone, but she found an
answer. ‘Yes. We’d known each other since primary school.’

Mike took over. ‘We know it’s hard, Nicola, but the more you can tell us about Sam, the more chance we’ll catch whoever did this.’

‘I realize that.’ Watts added milk and passed a mug to Mike. ‘I just want to understand
why
.’

‘Hopefully, we’ll know soon.’ Mike took his mug, thanking her. ‘What was Sam like?’

A smile flashed across Watts’ face, as if memories of her friend momentarily eclipsed the fact that she’d been murdered only forty-eight hours ago. But it was replaced instantly by a look of despair, and sorrow contaminated her voice. ‘Sam was just … such a laugh. Whatever she thought of someone they’d know, but if she liked you, she was the best mate you could –’ She broke off, crossing her arms and staring out of the window for a moment, slowly shaking her head.

Hawkins and Maguire exchanged glances, giving her a moment. But they all responded to the clattering sound.

‘Amelie, please.’ Watts bent to retrieve her daughter’s spoon from the corner into which it had been launched, wiped it and gave it back. Amelie looked at it for a second before she threw it into the same corner and burst into tears.

The two detectives sipped their drinks politely until their host had pacified her child.

At last she straightened. ‘Sorry, she’s teething.’

‘No problem.’ Hawkins was pleased that the woman had such an effective distraction from recent events. ‘You were telling us about Samantha.’

Watts drew a long breath. ‘Look, I loved Sam, but I won’t try to tell you she was everyone’s cup of tea, because she wasn’t, especially since … you know, the whole thing with Brendan.’

‘We know about Marsh,’ Hawkins said. ‘Did she come to you after the attack?’

‘Yeah. I tried to help, but I can’t … imagine what it must be like. Rape, I mean. Sam was just, destroyed.’ Watts tilted her head up, blinking back tears. ‘I told her to report him, but she wouldn’t do it. She had a reputation for flirting with the male teachers – not just him – and sometimes she’d lie about stuff for no reason, so she was convinced they wouldn’t believe her. But I knew her well enough to know she wasn’t lying about this. The next few months were awful. She dropped out of school and started sleeping around, drinking and taking drugs; but none of it was her.’

She stopped, but Hawkins stayed silent, encouraging her to go on.

Watts took the hint. ‘She started treating people badly, just so they’d leave her alone, but every time Sam upset someone she’d just end up more depressed. It didn’t stop, though; she even came on to my husband, and when I forgave her she broke down. That was her lowest point, when she said she couldn’t stand it any more. That’s when she tried to kill herself.’

Hawkins nodded. Philips’ suicide attempt was on record because she’d needed emergency medical attention at the local hospital, to repair the damage to her wrists.

Mike asked, ‘Why do you think she failed?’

‘I suppose she didn’t really want to die.’ Watts looked from Mike to Hawkins. ‘Isn’t that what they say?’

‘You think it was a cry for help.’

‘I suppose so. But whatever help she wanted never came. And after that she was just … different, sort of cold and emotionless. I guess that’s what led her back to Brendan.’

Hawkins leaned forwards. ‘
Led her back?
’

‘She started talking about him more and more. At first I thought she wanted to see him again, like some weird dependency thing. Infatuation – I guess that’s how she framed it to him. But I never expected …’ She paused. ‘You have to understand, she was so messed up; otherwise, she’d never have been able …’

Hawkins finished her sentence. ‘ … to kill Marsh.’

Watts looked at her, nodding.

‘I’m sorry to ask’ – Hawkins knew they were testing Watts’ composure – ‘but can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Sam?’

Watts thought for a moment. ‘She fell out with people here and there, but just over petty stuff; nothing that could have led to this.’

‘What about ex-partners? Was there anyone steady?’

Their host shook her head. ‘No one serious. The
only guys she told me about were flings, and that was for a long time before she went down.’

‘Were any of these flings … intense?’ Hawkins phrased her question with care.

‘I didn’t think so at the time.’ Watts’ stare dropped towards the floor. ‘She never mentioned any violence, if that’s what you mean, but after this week I don’t know
what
to believe any more.’ She was clearly fighting distress.

Hawkins decided to move on. ‘Did you ever meet any of Brendan Marsh’s family or friends?’

‘No. Why?’ Watts regarded her briefly before answering her own question. ‘You think it was one of
them
?’ Her gaze floated away, as if the prospect genuinely hadn’t occurred to her.

‘It’s possible,’ Mike said. ‘So is there anyone we should talk to?’

Watts thought for a moment. ‘I really don’t know. Like I said, I never met them.’

He pressed. ‘Did Sam?’

‘I don’t think so.’ She sighed as she looked at her daughter, who had started crying again. ‘You don’t mind if I feed her, do you?’

They waited while she buzzed around the kitchen, mixing various types of anaemic mush in a bowl, negotiating as much of the results as possible into Amelie. The majority of it didn’t stay there long, and Hawkins watched the woman’s frustration build, deciding to
pursue her second intuition quickly. Before they outstayed their welcome.

She asked gently, ‘How did Sam deal with prison?’

Watts looked up, the spoon mid-approach. ‘Better than I expected. She always hated being confined, so I thought she’d fall apart in there. But, like I said, she’d changed; and prison just made her harder. I barely recognized her on my last couple of visits, but a while after that they stopped her privileges and I couldn’t go any more.’

She shuddered. ‘The worst part is that I hadn’t seen her for months. I’d heard she was due for release, but I didn’t even know she was out.’

Hawkins dug, aware that their window was closing. ‘Why were her privileges stopped?’

‘For fighting, I think.’ Watts extended a trembling hand to wipe her daughter’s mouth. ‘She was pretty bashed up the final time I went, but all she’d say was that someone had kicked off.’

Ten minutes later Mike loaded the wheelchair into the boot of their unmarked Astra while Hawkins sat in the passenger seat, using her mobile to find the number of Holloway Prison.

They’d made their exit shortly after Watts’ revelation regarding her late friend. Hawkins’ original plan for the afternoon had been to focus on Sam’s previous partners, followed by Marsh’s family and friends, and to
assist the investigation team in tracing them and setting up interviews. Considering it had been six years since his death and Philips’ subsequent incarceration, it wasn’t surprising that some of them were proving hard to trace.

But her instincts, which said that greater progress would be made by talking to those who knew the victim personally first, had served her well. If there had been hostilities between Philips and her fellow inmates, as it now appeared there had, it became much more likely that one of them had contracted a hit on their adversary shortly after her release. Which also meant that the police needed to pursue this new line of inquiry before Philips’ former fellow inmates had time to think about it and decided to clam up.

What worried Hawkins was that Amala Yasir, normally one of her most thorough investigators, had already spoken to various contacts at Holloway.

Yasir would have asked about any antipathy between Philips and her peers. Which meant either that the sergeant had forgotten to mention Philips’ violent tendencies.

Or that Amala purposely hadn’t been told.

24

Hawkins pushed herself up on the wheelchair’s armrests to peer over the second-floor windowsill. She looked down at the tidy flowerbeds and manicured hedges intersected by raked gravel paths with wooden seats; there was even a conservatory. The gardens were certainly well tended, but really there was nothing remarkable about the medium-sized park except its location.

Slap bang in the centre of Holloway Prison.

Unfortunately, the same cathartic appearance didn’t apply to the rest of the place. Its interior walls were all the same depressingly clinical off-white, and every face scowled. At least the recirculated air in this section smelled fresher than it had near the cells, where five hundred female bodies were crammed into a space that wouldn’t have contained more than a fifth of that number outside.

And people wondered why violence was a way of life inside.