She turned to Richard. ‘You heard from the lab?’
‘There’s no trace of fibres in the ashes. All they’ve found is residue from the videotapes.’
She swore. She’d been sure that that was where the missing clothes had gone. ‘I’m applying for warrants then. Search and arrest. The Lemon’s given me till the end of the day. Let’s hope Dean Hendrix will give us something we can use.’
‘He’s in room one,’ Richard told her, ‘and the trainer’s a match.’
A moment of relief. At least they were making some progress.
‘Plus they recovered a knife.’
She frowned. How did that fit? Two knives. His print at the scene but he couldn’t have done the stabbing. She closed her eyes for a moment.
‘You want a coffee?’
‘Yeah, no – tea.’ She was wired enough. ‘What have we got? We know Dean didn’t use the weapon but we know he was at the allotment.’
‘Egging her on? Restraining Matthew for her?’ Richard suggested.
‘Could have just gone pear-shaped. Dean doesn’t get chance in the commotion so Lesley stepped in? And Dean could have got rid of the knife.’
‘And the one he had with him?’
‘Maybe they had one each? Lesley got to strike first. Dean obviously likes to be tooled up. Probably feels naked without one.’
DS Shap came over. ‘The guy you wanted the background on, boss. Ronald Prosser. They were also looking at him for distributing obscene materials. Charges were dropped. He was released last week.’
‘Drugs and porn, you see a link to Mr Tulley with either of those?’ Janine a Richard.
He shook his head.
‘Can’t tell by looking, can you?’ She was hit by a wave of fatigue. ‘Get us that tea, will you? And a fudge brownie.’
A noise startled old Eddie, still sitting in his chair; woke him up. His head jerked back. The swill of fear coursed through him. He gasped. Listened. But there was no sound of intruders. His senses reassured him that he was alone in the house. Silly bugger, he chided himself. All this talk of murder getting to him.
He had woken earlier, near to daybreak, stiff and chilled. Dreams of the war, of killing, clogged his head. He’d done his duty, fought and killed and it had left him a lesser man, a damaged man. He wondered what the lad who killed Matthew Tulley felt? Remorse? Terror? Shame at what he had done or just fear of being caught?
He had made the trip upstairs to relieve himself. He contemplated going to bed but an early dawn was breaking so he had sat by his bedroom window instead and watched the light spreading over the allotments, saw the soft grey haze lift and give way to colours, heard the cacophony of birdsong fill the air. His favourite time of day.
Came from years back when his dad had taken him fishing. Leaving in the dark and walking all the way to the River Mersey. Never caught much, not many fish could survive the muck and waste that the factories and mills discharged into the river. It was his clearest memory of his dad, that was. Never said much, just the odd comment; teaching him the way the current worked, the names of the birds, even the stars when the night was clear. Cygnus the swan, the Plough, Orion with the row of stars for his belt, Cassiopeia the giant W.
Coming home Eddie would get tired, struggling to keep up and his dad would put the tackle down and swing him up onto his shoulders. Carry him back, big as a giant.
There was a pain in Eddie’s head now. An awful pain. He tried to rise from the chair but he couldn’t. He looked up and the sky was filled with stars, more of them than he had ever seen. Glittering and shining and rushing towards him. He could feel his dad swinging him up, up high and Maisie laughing, her breath hot on his face and the pain falling away as he span round and round and soared among the stars.
There was an art to running an interview, building up the pressure, asking the right questions at the right moment, wrong-footing or confusing the person so they would make a mistake and give you a glimpse of the truth. It was a duel; she was good at it, quick to spot the body language, the tiny clues pointing to lies and half-truths. She was assertive, forceful but not aggressive; she used the power of her intelligence rather than the threat of violence to catch her quarry. And when the chase was on it was both exhilarating and exhausting.
Dean looked bewildered and on edge when Janine first saw him. His solicitor sat by his side and Richard made the formal introductions for the recording of the interview.
‘Can you tell us where you were on Saturday morning, Dean?’
‘Oldham, at my mate’s,’ his breath caught in his throat, ‘Douggie’s.’
‘I was sorry to hear about the accident. You were good friends?’
He looked away, Janine saw his Adam’s apple bob, realised how hard he was struggling to hold it all together.
‘When were you at Matthew Tulley’s allotment?’
‘Never,’ he said quickly.
‘Don’t lie to me. We’ve forensic evidence that puts you at the scene of a particularly nasty murder. I think you’d better consider your replies very carefully.’
‘What evidence?’
‘Hard evidence, Dean, and only you could have left it there.’
His eyes darted away again.
‘And you know what also interests me?’ Janine went on. ‘Matthew Tulley had his belly slit open, top to bottom. You’ll know about that, won’t you? What it feels like to carve someone up like that?’
‘I didn’t do it,’ he burst out.
‘You were there.’
‘Just to give Mr Tulley something.’ An admission. Janine caught Richard’s eye. He signalled back – keep going.
‘Go on.’
‘A tape that’s all.’
‘You knew Mr Tulley?’
‘Only because of the videos. I’d collect them from him and bring back a master copy. He wanted his dirty stuff editing. Look at the tape – you’ll see.’
Janine nodded. He knew more, she was sure. ‘What happened Dean? Saturday morning. You weren’t in Oldham.’
Christ! Knocking at the door broke her concentration. Richard sighed with exasperation. Janine excused herself and went to the door, ready to haul someone over the coals for barging in.
‘Sorry, boss.’ Butchers spoke before Janine got chance, lowered his voice. ‘The video they found with his stuff – it’s filmed at the Tulleys’ place.’
This she had to see.
Shap started the VCR. There was a soundtrack playing, an instrumental of Cry Me A River, a haunting melody. The camera was taking the viewer through the shrubbery and up to the Tulleys’ front door.
‘Dean Hendrix said he ran errands for Tulley – getting tapes edited. Claims that was why he went to the allotments,’ Janine told them.
Butchers took a call. ‘The warrants, boss. Search and arrest. They’ve both been granted.’
A title sequence. Lust Beyond Boundaries. Oh, please! thought Janine. Though what had she expected? Pirated copies of Disney? ‘Maybe Lesley stumbled on Matthew’s home-made porn collection. Went for him in a fit of jealousy?’ she said.
‘Could explain the contact with Ronald Prosser,’ Richard pointed out.
‘Anything else, here?’ She encouraged them to think like detectives – what could they learn? ‘What about the tape, the quality?’
‘Not as shaky as some,’ said Chen.
‘Yet,’ Shap said quietly.
There was a burst of laughter, swiftly suppressed.
‘Maybe using tripods?’ Butchers said.
‘Been edited,’ said Shap, ‘more than one camera, soundtrack added.’
Janine recalled the flight cases, photographic gear in Tulley’s study. ‘And that backs up what Dean Hendrix has been telling us so far. I think I’ll leave this to you lot. Easy on the popcorn.’ She had seen this sort of thing before, as a result of the job, but watching it made her toes curl and watching with a room full of men just added to the discomfort. Janine moved to go.