Aftershock

Ninety

‘You were right, Mr Colledge,’ Stallings conceded. ‘We should have used the airport facilities. I’m afraid this isn’t the nicest interview room in Edinburgh.’ She sniffed the air. ‘I’ll swear I can still smell Theo Weekes in here.’

‘You had him in here?’ Davis asked. ‘In this room?’

‘Yes indeed,’ said McGurk. ‘We gave him quite a grilling, didn’t we, Inspector?’

‘Not quite the thumb-screws but, yes, he had a very detailed interrogation.’

‘And yet you didn’t charge him with murder,’ Michael Colledge remarked.

‘Again, sir,’ Stallings explained, ‘we don’t lay the charges, the fiscal does.’

‘I am aware of the differences between Scottish and English criminal procedures.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Of course you are, you being a barrister. But the same rule applies on both sides of the border, the basic one about being innocent in the absence of proof of guilt. Weekes was charged with what we know he did, but we were a step or two short of doing him for killing Sugar.’

‘What did you lack?’

‘A murder weapon for one. An eye-witness for another. We could prove he was there, but not that he shot her.’

‘But he was your only suspect, right?’

‘At this moment. . probably. That’s one reason why we needed to talk to your son.’

‘You don’t think I killed her?’ the youth exclaimed.

‘Don’t get excited,’ McGurk told him. ‘Let’s get that formality out of the way. Did you?’

‘No! I did not.’

‘Where were you at half past eight on the last morning of the school term?’

‘Probably cleaning my teeth after having a shower.’

‘Did anyone see you?’

‘Warty Armstrong, one of the lads.’

McGurk smiled. ‘I don’t suppose he was christened Warty.’

‘Sorry, Warren.’

‘He’ll confirm your presence in school at that time, you’re sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Fine. See? I told you it was a formality.’

‘Does that mean we can go?’ Davis asked.

‘Not quite. We need to ask you about Sugar. How well did you really know her?’

‘Very well. We were. .’ He stopped. ‘I don’t know how to put it without sounding silly.’

‘Just say it as you feel it,’ Stallings told him. ‘We’ll tell you whether it sounds silly or not.’

‘Okay, we were in love.’ He glanced sideways at his father, as if to gauge his reaction, but he was impassive.

‘Nothing silly about that,’ she retorted. ‘So am I. Sergeant McGurk might be too. Did Sugar ever talk to you about her life before she met you, about people she knew, people she didn’t like, people she might have been afraid of?’

‘Only one.’ The young man’s answer was almost a growl. ‘That man Weekes. Sugar wasn’t afraid of him. . she wasn’t afraid of anything: you could see that in her work. . but he upset her.’

‘Are you sure about that?’ McGurk asked. ‘She had no enemies, no rivals?’

Davis looked at him, with a hint of scorn. ‘Creative people don’t have rivals,’ he said. ‘Colleagues, more like. We all do our own thing, in our own way. Each one of us is unique. As for enemies: you didn’t know her, or you’d know how laughable that idea is.’

‘Apart from Weekes?’

‘Apart from him, although I don’t know if you’d call him an enemy. He was somebody from her past who wouldn’t let go.’

‘Did she talk to you about him?’

‘She told me all about him. She told me that they had been engaged once, but that she had chucked him.’

‘Did she tell you why?’

He nodded. ‘He gave her a dose, the bastard. He’d been two-timing her and he passed on a disease he’d caught off some slag. She told him it was all over, but he wouldn’t go away. There wasn’t a week went by without him phoning her. She told him to stop, but he didn’t and she was too nice to do anything about it.’

‘Did she tell you what his job was?’

‘No, she never mentioned it. I never knew until Dad told me. He must have been good at it, though, because he followed her. More than once, she’d see him at places she’d gone, or she’d see his car parked near hers.’

‘When you were with Sugar,’ Stallings asked, ‘were you ever aware of him following you?’

‘No, but he must have done, because he knew about us.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, because of that time at the Gyle.’

‘Weekes told us that Sugar agreed to meet him there,’ said McGurk. ‘Is that true?’

The young man gasped. ‘That’s bollocks!’ he exclaimed. ‘She went shopping there one day; she had just parked and he pulled into the bay right beside her. He jumped out of his car and came straight up to her, shouting at her.’

‘Shouting what?’

‘Stuff about me, about the two of us. She said he called her a fucking cradle-snatcher, and said a lot of other obscene stuff, about her and me. He told her to stop seeing me, or else.’

‘Or else?’

‘That was what she said he said. That was when she lost her temper; she told him that the two of us were going to France for a month, and that she was looking forward to having safe sex for the first time since she’d met him. Then she told him that he could fuck off, got back in her car and drove away.’ He paused. ‘When she told me about it later on, she was still shaking with anger. It’s the only time I ever saw her like that. Weekes killed her. I don’t care about proof; I’m telling you, he killed her.’

‘But, Davis,’ Stallings began, ‘after that, when Sugar didn’t appear in France, weren’t you worried?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I wasn’t. It never occurred to me that anything could have happened to her. To tell you the truth, once I’d had a few days to think about it, I began to wonder whether she still felt something for him, after all. If people can get so worked up about somebody, doesn’t that mean that deep down they care about them? I read that somewhere, in a psychology book.’

‘Maybe. But if it’s any consolation, there’s no evidence of that in Sugar’s case.’

‘In a way,’ said Michael Colledge, ‘that’s good to hear. I’m sure Dave will take some comfort from it.’ He gazed at the detectives. ‘That covers everything, does it not? I don’t want to rush you, but I have to get back down south. The House is still in session.’

‘There is just one thing I’d like to revisit,’ Stallings replied. ‘Davis, can I go back to the time when you discovered that Sugar was dead? Tell me once more, please. When was that?’

‘Yesterday, when I called Mr Skinner. He told me.’

The inspector straightened slightly in her chair. She looked from son to father. ‘At this point, gentlemen,’ she said, ‘the interview must proceed under formal caution. Davis, I have to advise you that you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

‘What the hell?’ Michael Colledge exploded. ‘What is this?’

‘It’s necessary, I’m afraid, sir. There are matters we have to raise. Davis, when you were in Collioure did you ever go on the Internet?’

‘Yes,’ the young man blurted out. ‘I used a café.’

‘Inspector,’ his father intervened, ‘I must insist on a few words in private with my son.’

‘I’m not going to allow that. At this point, sir, you’re here as his legal adviser, at my discretion.’

‘Then this interview is at an end. Come on, Dave.’

‘You can go, Mr Colledge,’ said McGurk. ‘He stays.’

‘Have you any idea who. .’

‘Please, sir.’ The sergeant sighed. ‘Don’t insult us by finishing that sentence. Davis,’ he continued, ‘the Internet access you mentioned. Was it one of those places where anyone can walk in off the street?’

‘No,’ the young man replied, carefully and quietly. ‘The guy was fussy; he made you sign in and give your passport number every time you logged on.’

‘Yes; apparently he has a fixation about paedophiles using his kit and him getting the blame. Your name and passport number are both in his book. You used the place five times; three of those were during your first week there, on the Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. The other two were on Monday and Tuesday of last week. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you do when you were on line? What did you look at?’

‘Just stuff. YouTube, music sites.’

‘Did you send any emails?’

A brief frown registered on Davis’s forehead. ‘I sent three to Sugar, the week before last, asking where she was.’

‘Are you sure you didn’t send four?’

His face reddened. ‘Sorry. Yes, I sent another last Monday. It wasn’t very nice. I was angry with her by that time.’

‘Was that before you visited the BBC website?’

‘What?’

‘You heard him,’ said Stallings. ‘Was it before?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Davis, you’re a bright guy, but maybe not as bright as you think. Web browsers leave a history. Our French colleagues looked at the terminals in your café on the days you were signed in. Last Monday somebody logged on to the BBC News page that reported the discovery of a woman’s body in Edinburgh. The next day there was a session in which someone logged on to the Evening News website and then to the BBC again, to a report which said that the body had been identified as that of Sugar Dean.’ The young man’s head was bowed: his father was silent, gazing at him. ‘Why did you lie to us?’ the inspector asked.

‘When?’

‘You told us that you learned of Sugar’s death yesterday, from Mr Skinner. Davis, the café owner has said that at the end of your last session, you left in a highly agitated state.’

‘I’d had a big bet on a horse. I lost a lot more than I could afford. It must have been somebody else who was looking at the BBC.’

‘You were the only British user of the café last Tuesday. Most of the others were French; the rest were German and Czech.’

‘Tough. One of them must have spoken English.’

‘I have to point out,’ Michael Colledge murmured, ‘that you have no evidence of prior knowledge of Sugar’s death.’

‘How many juries have you known in your career, sir,’ asked the inspector, ‘who wouldn’t have accepted those circumstances as proof? But let’s leave that to one side,’ she went on. ‘Next morning, Davis, you left Collioure. You’ve told us that you went to Holland, to frolic among the sex workers of Amsterdam. We know that you flew there on Thursday. How many nights did you spend there?’

‘Three. I took the train back to France on Sunday, overnight.’

‘What was the name of your hotel?’

He blinked. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. I don’t believe you were ever there.’

‘That’s preposterous,’ Michael Colledge shouted, but Stallings could see uncertainty and fear in the little MP’s eyes.

She pressed on. ‘This is what I think happened,’ she said. ‘You never went to Amsterdam. Instead you crossed to the UK last Thursday, as a foot passenger on an overnight ferry. You did that rather than fly, to avoid airport security and to avoid leaving your name on a flight manifest. When you landed in Britain, you probably discovered that we had a man in custody in connection with Sugar’s death. Maybe that threw you a bit, but as soon as his court appearance was reported by our national broadcasting organisation, you knew that he was out on bail, and you knew who he was: Theo Weekes, the man you believe killed Sugar.’ She looked at him. ‘Care to comment?’

‘No comment,’ he answered.

‘Noted. So you headed north, having turned some of your euros into sterling, not using your debit card. We think you came by bus, and reached Edinburgh on Saturday. You knew where Weekes lived; the papers told you that. You know your way around Edinburgh, so you took a bus out to the west of the city. You probably hung about for a while, watching from a distance, getting the lie of the land. While you were there, John Dean arrived. You may well have seen his altercation with Weekes; if you did, it would have left you in no doubt about what your man looked like. The police turning up didn’t help you, but you were patient enough to wait. After a while, another man arrived, got out of his car and banged on Weekes’s door until he answered.’

‘Inspector,’ Michael Colledge intervened. She held up a hand to silence him, and continued.

‘That was when you made your move. You took the path that leads to the back of Weekes’s place. He had gone inside; the back door was open, and you waited, until the shouting inside had subsided and until you heard the front door slam. Then you went inside. When Weekes came into his kitchen, you were there, with a big diver’s knife that you had bought for the purpose. You stabbed him with it. He didn’t have a chance to defend himself, for you were all over him with the blade, stabbing any part he didn’t shield, and slashing at him. He staggered away from you, into the hall, and eventually went down, on to the carpet, where you cut,’ she made a sudden, violent movement, ‘half-way through his neck, causing the blood to gush like you’d struck oil. You stuck the knife in his eye for good measure, and that was that. You’d taken revenge for Sugar.’

‘Inspector,’ the politician repeated. His face was chalk white. ‘You can’t be suggesting my son did that. I’ll have your job, woman.’

Stallings picked up a bound folder from the table and tossed it to him. ‘That’s what he did,’ she told him. ‘Those are photographs from the crime scene and from the post-mortem. The autopsy report’s there too. Take a look.’

‘Brutal, I’m sure,’ said Colledge, ignoring it, ‘but not proof. Evidence, please, Inspector, Sergeant.’

‘We really don’t want to fuck up your son’s life,’ McGurk told him, sadly and sincerely. ‘I wish we didn’t have any. The trouble is, we do.’ He stood, and stepped over to a video-player and monitor, set up in a corner of the room. He pressed a button and a series of jerky images appeared on screen, people, some descending from a bus, some waiting, some stepping on board. A second bus appeared: more passengers stepped off. McGurk pressed a remote and froze the image of a tall young man. He wore a baseball cap, with the letters FDNY, cut-off jeans and a pale blue T-shirt, and carried a rucksack over his shoulder. ‘You, Davis,’ he said.

‘That could be anybody,’ the Shadow Defence Secretary exclaimed.

‘But it’s him.’ He ran the tape again, until he froze it at a second image. The same young man, same baseball cap, but wearing a black T-shirt and denim shorts. ‘And so’s that,’ he said, then reached down, took a clear plastic bag from under the table, and held it up: it contained two items of bloody clothing. ‘The first of those shirts was found yesterday, in a bin in George Street. The denims turned up this morning, in a skip behind a building in York Place. That’s Weekes’s blood, and in both garments we found some DNA traces that weren’t his. I’ll need a sample from you, Davis, but we both know what they’ll confirm, don’t we?’

The boy, for that was what he had become, stared stonily ahead.

‘You’re left-handed, aren’t you?’ McGurk asked him.

‘Yes,’ his father replied for him.

McGurk turned over a print that had been lying face down on the table. It showed the painting that Davis had created in Collioure, the one in which he held a gun. . in his left hand. ‘He caught the inter-city bus out of town on Saturday night,’ he said to the MP. ‘We have a witness who places him at the bus station, then there’s the driver. Ferry across the Channel, train back to Collioure and it all looks as if he’s been in Amsterdam getting his end away, just like the story he made up.’ He resumed his seat. ‘I’m sorry, kid.’ He sighed. ‘I really am.’

‘I’m not,’ the younger Colledge replied harshly. ‘Weekes is dead, and that’s all that matters to me.’

‘But, son,’ said Stallings, ‘there’s no evidence that he killed Sugar. In fact, we don’t believe he did.’

‘That doesn’t matter either!’ he retorted. ‘Even if he didn’t, if someone else did, don’t you think he thought about it? He was an animal, an evil bastard, Sugar told me. He deserved to die, and I’m glad I killed him.’