Aftershock

Thirty-nine

Becky Stallings glanced at her watch as McGurk stepped into the incident room, transferred from the golf club to divisional headquarters at Torphichen Place.

‘Sorry, boss,’ he said. ‘I had a call to make before I came in.’

‘Ah,’ said the inspector. ‘I was beginning to think you’d had an unexpectedly late night.’

He smiled ingenuously. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

‘Nice meal?’

‘Yes, it was. I kept the receipt, though.’

‘God!’ Stallings gasped. ‘I put you in the way of a date with a nice girl and you want to put in on exes. You Scots guys, you’re amazing.’

‘That’s often said, Becky. Any developments?’

She nodded. ‘Some. The boys at the lab have been putting in overtime. They found a hair on Weekes’s jacket that’s a match for the victim.’

‘Have you charged him yet?’

‘It’s not as easy as that. That jacket’s three years old. Sauce checked the bar code with River Island and they confirmed it. He could have picked up that sample a while ago, so it doesn’t help us place him at the crime scene.’

‘What about the DNA traces that were found there? Does he match any of them?’

‘No, that’s a blank.’

‘So what’s our next move?’

‘We’re going to re-interview him, but he’s got a solicitor on the case now, and she’s insisting on being present. Her name’s Frances Birtles. Do you know her?’

‘Frankie Birtles? Also known as Frankie Bristles. Oh, yes, we all know her. She’s a hard case.’

‘I was afraid of that. That’s how she struck me, and it’s why I’m not getting excited about the jacket. We could try and bluff him, hit him with it, hard, but we wouldn’t get far: she’d be on to us straight away.’

‘We could lean on his behaviour,’ McGurk suggested, ‘his admission of stalking Lisanne and Sugar, and the threat Mae heard him make. Female lawyer: even Frankie might not be too impressed by that.’

‘He’s already backed off that. His brief’s already told me that any statements made at his first interview were under duress and are withdrawn.’

‘Duress, my arse.’ The sergeant laughed.

‘She’s saying more than that, though. She’s claiming he felt under career pressure, and that he was telling us what he thought we wanted to hear, to protect his job. No, Jack, we’ll interview him, but then we’ll have to turn him loose, maybe even return him to duty if she pushes it.’

‘I don’t think that’s going to happen.’ McGurk was still smiling.

‘What’s with you?’ said Stallings. ‘You didn’t score, did you?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’ He reached into his pocket, took out a small, clear evidence capsule and laid it on the inspector’s desk. ‘Lisanne gave me that last night,’ he said. ‘It was a present from Theo, on the day that Sugar was murdered. I’ve just been to see John Dean. He confirmed that his daughter had an identical necklace to that one. It was a Christmas present from Weekes, when they were going out. She liked it: after they broke up it was the only thing from their relationship that she kept. She wore it all the time, and she had it on the last time her father saw her, when she left for work on the day she was murdered.’

Stallings stared up at him, her mouth slightly agape. ‘Jack,’ she murmured, ‘you have made my morning. Let’s go and talk to PC Weekes.’

‘And will we do his lawyer the courtesy of telling her what we’ve got?’

‘Nah, I’m out of courtesy. She can find out at the same time as he does. Come on. They’re both waiting for us in the interview room. The custody officer told me that Weekes is in a foul mood after his night in the cells. Let’s go and make it worse.’

She led the way downstairs, to the interview room at the back of the building.

Theo Weekes was seated at the table, beside a fair-haired woman, power-dressed in a pin-striped trouser suit. He glared up at the two detectives as they entered: his eyes were bloodshot and the dark outline of an incipient beard covered his chin.

‘You’re fucked,’ he said, glaring directly at McGurk, ignoring Stallings. ‘This is going all the way when I get out of here. The Federation’s going to crap all over you, pal, and so am I.’

‘If that was a threat,’ the sergeant replied, ‘I would think better of it, if I were you. Remember Byron? I’m even bigger than him, so Lisanne tells me.’ Weekes started out of his chair, but his solicitor seized his arm in a surprisingly strong grip. ‘Morning, Frankie,’ he continued. ‘Long time no see. What do you think of your client so far?’

‘I think he’s standing up to his ordeal very well, Jack,’ the lawyer said. ‘I know what’s going on here. You’ve got another dead artist on your hands, and you’re desperate for a quick result, so desperate you’re prepared to throw one of your own to the lions.’

‘Trust us,’ McGurk told her, ‘we didn’t throw this guy anywhere. He jumped into the den, aided only by his blind stupidity.’

‘Let’s get on with it.’ Stallings switched on the tape, as she and the sergeant took their seats. ‘It’s nine twenty, this is interview room two in the police office at Torphichen Place, I am Detective Inspector Rebecca Stallings, accompanied by DS Jack McGurk, and we are about to interview Police Constable Theodore Weekes, represented by Ms Frances Birtles.’

‘Fine,’ said Birtles, ‘that’s the formalities over. Now maybe you’d tell us for the record why a serving police officer with an exemplary record has been held overnight in these atrocious conditions.’

‘Because he’s a murder suspect,’ the inspector snapped, ‘and before we go any further, let me tell you something. I’m new to this force, so I don’t know your ways, but this is my interview, this is my nick, and we’re playing by my rules. Those say that you’re here to advise your client, and that’s all. That means that I ask the questions and he answers them.’

‘I’m answering fuck all,’ Weekes growled.

‘Okay.’ She glanced to her left. ‘Jack, charge him.’

‘Hey, wait a minute!’ Birtles exclaimed.

Stallings shrugged her shoulders and began to rise. ‘That’s what’s going to happen anyway. I’m not going to waste time on him.’

‘My client will be co-operative. Won’t you, Theo?’

As Weekes nodded, fear replaced ebullience in his eyes.

‘On that basis,’ the inspector went on, ‘I’ll tell you what we’ve got. Last night we recovered clothing from the home of PC Weekes’s ex-wife. This included a canvas jacket, which, we believe, he was wearing when he arrived there on the day of Sugar Dean’s murder. From that jacket we recovered hair samples that match the victim’s. You don’t deny you were wearing the jacket that day, do you, Theo?’

‘No, but. .’ Frankie Birtles laid a hand on his arm, then leaned close to him and whispered. He nodded again.

‘My client points out,’ she said, ‘that he owned the jacket in question during his admitted relationship with the victim, and that he had not worn it regularly since. Is that the extent of your forensic evidence?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Then will you please stop auditioning for the role of Widow Twanky, cancel this pantomime, and let my client return to his duty as a police officer?’

‘We would do,’ McGurk drawled amiably, ‘if it wasn’t for this.’ He took the necklace, in its packet, from his pocket and held it up between two fingers. ‘Sugar Dean’s father identified it this morning as his daughter’s. It was the one thing she ever had from your client that she valued, and she was wearing it when she died. Later that day, Theo gave it to his ex-wife, as a present.’ He paused. ‘And by the way, Frankie: wrong pantomime. From where I’m sitting, Becky’s Cinderella, and you are most definitely one of the Ugly Sisters.’ He switched his gaze to Weekes. ‘Okay, Buttons,’ he said, ‘talk your way out of this one.’

The effect was dramatic. The man slumped back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the tiny trinket. His eyes filled with tears and, slowly, they began to run down his face.

‘Can I have a minute alone with my client?’ Birtles asked quietly.

‘You can have all the time you like,’ Stallings told her. ‘It gets deadly serious from here on in. We don’t have the gun, but with that thing there, I don’t reckon we need it. Let us know when you’re ready, but be in no doubt about this. When we come back in here, we won’t accept anything less than a full and truthful account of what happened that morning.’