11
Rachel sat opposite Neil Perry. ‘Can you tell me where you were on Tuesday the eighth of May, that’s last Tuesday, at eight thirty in the evening?’
He hadn’t been expecting this question. He didn’t speak for long enough, some slow process churning away behind clouded eyes.
‘My nan’s, I think,’ he said. Default reply.
‘You think?’ Rachel made it a question.
‘Yes.’ There was a little sore at the corner of his mouth, deep red, and he kept licking and picking at it.
‘Do you recall going to Bobbins, a public house in Coldhurst, that evening?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘Less than a week ago.’
‘I never went there,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’ Rachel said.
‘I only go to the King’s or the George or the Black Pig.’
‘But that Tuesday you went to Bobbins,’ she said, ‘you and your brother.’
‘We never.’ He gritted his teeth and rocked slightly and she could sense a growing aggression in him.
‘I am now showing Mr Perry a CCTV recording, exhibit JS18.’ She had lined up the footage so it began with the two men arriving outside the pub. She set it running and paused it before Neil Perry went inside.
‘That is you and Noel, am I correct?’
‘Yes,’ he said tightly.
‘And can you read the date and time at the bottom right-hand side of the screen?’
‘Yes,’ he said, sounding offended, as though she was casting doubt on his ability to read. Well – you never know.
‘Please would you read them out to me?’ Rachel said.
‘Why should I?’
‘For the recordings.’ She nodded at the machine recording the interview, the camera in the corner. ‘And so we can be sure that you understand my question and what I am suggesting.’
‘Eighth of the fifth,’ he read the date, then the time, ‘twenty twenty-five.’
‘Which was last Tuesday at twenty-five past eight, you agree?’
‘Yes.’
‘At this point you make a call on your mobile phone. Who were you calling?’
‘A mate.’
‘With no name in your contacts list on your phone?’ Rachel said.
A spike of something in his eyes, understanding perhaps that they had gone through his phone. Well duh. ‘Which mate?’ she said.
‘Don’t remember,’ he back-pedalled.
‘Let’s see if we can jog your memory,’ Rachel said. She pressed play. The film showed Greg Tandy with his phone, making eye contact with Neil Perry, standing up from his barstool. ‘Which mate?’ she said.
‘Don’t know him.’
‘You just rang him,’ she said.
‘No, not him.’
‘Who then?’ Rachel said.
‘Can’t remember, I told you.’
‘How come you followed him to the gents?’
‘I didn’t follow him. I needed a slash,’ he said, his eyes flinty, a spasm twitching across his forehead. He rubbed at the sore on his mouth.
‘Why did you arrange to meet this man?’
‘I never.’
‘For the benefit of the tape I am now showing Mr Perry a screenshot of the text from his mobile phone, item number PR46. Will you read it out, please?’
His face darkened. It was getting to him. Rachel eased back in her chair a little. This wasn’t about getting him riled up, no need to provoke. Just the steady, relentless presentation of evidence, exposing lie after lie.
‘Tomorrow 830 Bobbins,’ he said.
‘I put it to you that you set up a meeting with the man in the CCTV film, that you used your mobile phone to alert him to your arrival at the bar and that you then met him in the men’s toilets.’
‘No comment.’
‘That man’s name is Greg Tandy,’ Rachel said. ‘Ring any bells?’
‘No comment,’ he said.
‘We’ll be talking to Mr Tandy later, perhaps he’ll be able to tell us what you were meeting him for. Was it drugs?’
‘No comment.’
‘Several different illegal substances were found in your room. Were you dealing?’
‘No comment.’
‘I’m interested in what business you’d have with another man in a pub toilet,’ Rachel said. ‘Were you meeting for sex?’
He sprang to his feet. ‘Don’t you fucking say that.’
‘Neil, Neil,’ his solicitor said, ‘sit down.’
‘Fucking libel, that is,’ spit flew from his mouth, ‘fucking bitch.’ He sprang at her, face contorted, the tendons on his neck taut like wires.
His fist connected with her shoulder, spinning her round, throwing her to the floor. He came after her, the solicitor shouting.
Neil Perry kicked at her, she dodged the blow, scrabbled up, not far from the wall. Rachel threw an arm back, connecting with the alarm rail, the bell sounding shrill.
‘Fucking lezzer,’ he yelled, ‘you take that back, take it back!’ He was enraged, Roid Rage, giving him both strength and aggression. He caught her wrists, his hands rock hard.
‘Let go,’ the solicitor shouted, ‘Neil, Mr Perry.’
‘You take it back,’ he said, froth at the corners of his mouth.
‘Get your fucking hands off me,’ Rachel said. ‘Assaulting a police officer, you want that adding to the charge?’
‘You calling me a fucking queer?’
You’d rather be called a Nazi. ‘You could clear it up, fuckwit,’ she said. ‘What were you doing in the toilets with Greg Tandy?’
He grabbed her throat, his eyes glittered, she saw the crude drawings on his neck ripple and twitch. She could smell his sweat and another high chemical scent a bit like bleach. Behind him the solicitor ran to the door and opened it, calling out above the alarm.
Rachel, feeling the blood sing in her temples, raised a foot, and stamped down hard on Neil Perry’s. He grunted, but tightened his grip and moved closer, pinning her against the wall so she had no leverage to ram her knee into his balls. His breath was hot and meaty in her face. If he got any closer she’d bite his frigging nose off.
Her instinct was to claw at his hands, try to peel them away from her neck, but her training and experience had taught her that, especially with someone so strong, it would be futile. She needed to distract him from choking her by going for something soft and vulnerable – eyes, nose, groin. She saw dots dancing at the edge of her vision, felt the force crushing the cartilage in her throat, the pressure mounting in the back of her skull. She raised her hands, fingers bent like talons, and grabbed at his face. He reared back and his grip loosened slightly. Then he moved sharply, whipping her head forward then back, like a rag doll. Rachel’s head smacked against the wall, a wave of nausea washed through her, saliva thick in her mouth.
She went limp, deliberately, letting her body weight drag her down, him with it. He lost his balance slightly and had to let go. Rachel kicked out hard, her heel connecting with his kneecap, and Perry yelled in pain and staggered back.
‘Fucking bastard toe-rag,’ she said, her voice dry, grating.
She was up and swung out her other leg, catching the back of his foot and tripping him up. A burst of triumph gave her fresh energy as he landed heavily.
‘Knobhead.’ She drew her foot back, ready to kick him, to kick his face in, to turn his head to pulp, as several officers piled in and were on him.
Rachel stood panting. ‘That’s all on record,’ she said, clearing her throat, trying to make herself heard above the din of the alarm. ‘You’ve been framed, pal. You’ll not be getting the fifty quid, mind. What a spectacle.’ Neil Perry gave her a look of contempt but Rachel didn’t care, the case against him was growing and she was beginning to think they’d be able to nail him and his scumbag brother for Richard Kavanagh’s murder.
She turned to the solicitor, who looked shaken, close to tears. ‘Break?’ And then to the men hoisting Perry to his feet. ‘Put him back in the cell, will you. And turn that bloody alarm off.’