‘Because it might be a way to stop whoever is behind this.’
‘Or,’ says Elliot, darkly, ‘you could be giving them exactly what they want.’
27
Martin Butterworth is a hulk of a man, with eyes and hair the colour of dirty dishwater and an unhealthy pallor that comes from years inside. Saunders is almost six foot, but this man must be at least three inches taller. The top of the doorway skims his head and his wide shoulders take up the whole space. I don’t normally scare easily but I’m suddenly glad I brought Saunders along with me, and I realize, if this is our guy, how terrifying it would have been for his victims to be confronted by this beast.
‘Yeah?’ He stares at us, his eyes flickering from Saunders to me, then back to Saunders.
I show him my identification and introduce us. ‘Can we have a word?’
He scowls and steps back into the grotty hallway. ‘Look, I’ve only been out of the nick a few weeks. I’ve kept myself out of trouble. I’m still on probation.’
‘We won’t be long. We just need to ask you a few questions, and surely it’s better to do it here rather than down at the station.’
He stares at us in silence, obviously hoping to unnerve us, but I’ve met his type before. He’s clearly a bully and a thug. But a killer? That remains to be seen.
Martin turns and stalks off down the hallway. We take this as an invitation and follow him into a small front room. It’s sparsely furnished with a torn leather sofa and an armchair. He plonks himself in the chair and we take the sofa. It’s a very similar set-up to where his sister, Lorraine, lives, a few streets away. He doesn’t offer us tea or coffee, not that I would take it. The carpet under my shoes feels sticky.
He lights a cigarette without asking if we mind, or if we even want one. I’m disappointed to see they’re just the general kind. No menthol cigarettes for him.
‘So, what do you want?’ He leans back in the chair and lets out a puff of smoke.
‘Do you ever smoke any other kind?’ I ask him.
He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and stares at it. ‘What do you mean? Like a different brand?’
‘Like the menthol kind?’ Saunders asks.
He shakes his head. ‘Nah. My dad did but he’s long dead.’
I wonder if he’s lying. Lorraine definitely said her father and brother. It’s not nearly enough to go on right now.
‘We understand your sister, Lorraine, lives in Hanham Street?’ I ask.
He nods.
‘Have you visited her since you got out of prison?’
He frowns. ‘Yeah, just the once.’
‘And when was this?’
He sits forward in his seat, his eyes narrowed. The cigarette burns in his hand, the ash falling onto the brown carpet. ‘Uh, dunno, probably when I first got out. About three weeks ago. But it didn’t go well. She’s a judgemental bitch.’
I ignore this. ‘And did you meet her upstairs neighbour, Trisha Banks?’
He takes a puff of the cigarette and flicks more ash onto the carpet. ‘No, I can’t say that I did.’
I turn to Saunders who is watching Martin Butterworth in silence but I can see his mind ticking over. And then he uses the oldest trick in the book. Clearing his throat, he asks Martin if he can use his bathroom.
Martin looks suspicious. ‘It’s upstairs.’
Once Saunders has left the room, I say, ‘Do you live here alone, Martin?’
‘No. With a mate.’
‘Can I take his name?’
‘Shane Long. But he’s out at the moment. Working.’
I write this down. ‘And are you working at the moment?’
‘Bit hard for an ex-con to find a job,’ he says, leaning forwards and stubbing out his cigarette on an old newspaper.
‘There are organizations that help –’
‘I know all that,’ he cuts in coldly. ‘Where’s the other copper? He’s been a long time in that toilet.’ He stands up, almost filling the small room. I hold my nerve and continue sitting down.
‘I’m sure he’ll be back in a minute.’
‘I need to get on. There’s nothing else to say.’
I stand up, too, so that I’m facing him. ‘Do you know that a woman was murdered in the bedsit above your sister’s on Monday?’
His face closes in on itself, his jaw tight. ‘No, I didn’t. I haven’t spoken to my sister since I saw her. You do know I went to prison for armed robbery, right? Not murder?’ He folds his arms across his substantial bulk and lifts his chin. His sludge-coloured eyes narrow, challenging me.
‘I know. But can I ask where you were on Monday?’
‘I was here. All day. And all night.’
‘Can anyone vouch for that? Was Shane here with you?’
‘Shane was out working during the day and at night he was at his girlfriend’s.’
So he has no alibi. We need far more than that, of course. It will be interesting what Forensics and the pathologist come back with. We already have his DNA on the system from his armed-robbery conviction.
‘Thank you for your time,’ I say, and he looks surprised, as if expecting that I’d arrest him there and then. I can hear Saunders thundering down the stairs and heading into the hallway. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up at the thought of Martin behind me. There is something dark, unsettling about him.
‘You took your time, mate,’ says Martin, gruffly, as Saunders joins us.
‘Sorry,’ says Saunders. ‘Dodgy kebab last night.’
I try not to smile as Martin hurries us out and shuts the door on us without saying goodbye.
‘Well?’ I say, as we walk to my Audi.
‘I had a bit of a nose about. One bedroom was quite tidy and the other was a bit of a mess. I don’t know if it was Martin’s but there was a desk shoved up into the corner of the room and on it …’ He looks back over his shoulder as though Martin might be following us. He reaches into his pocket for his phone. ‘I took a photo. But look …’
By now we’ve stopped alongside my car. It’s too cold to be standing on the pavement. The February wind whips at my hair and coat. It’s not until we’re in the car that I take his phone.
It’s a photo of a messy desk, but among all the paraphernalia is a penknife … and a photograph of a woman with the eyes scratched out.
28
Elliot has bought Emilia a personal alarm from a company that Trevor recommended and has instructed her to have it on her constantly. ‘Keep it within touching distance at all times,’ he’d said, when he presented it to her yesterday, sending chills through her. And it strikes home again how serious this is if even Elliot is forced to admit there’s reason to worry. She can feel the weight of the alarm now, tugging down the hem of her denim jacket, as she walks to the café in Kingston where she’s arranged to meet Gina Osbourne. It’s Tuesday after the hoax call, a gorgeous late-spring day, with the sky so clear it looks like a sheet of glass the colour of forget-me-nots. Next week they’re due a heatwave, according to the Meteorological Office.
Emilia takes a deep breath, enjoying the scent of newly bloomed hyacinths, as she makes her way down a residential street full of 1930s houses where she’s parked her car. She’s relieved to be out. Elliot has been a little short-tempered ever since Saturday. He refuses to go into the office, wanting to work from home. Every time she leaves the house he wants to know where she’s going and who she’s seeing. It’s like being married to a possessive husband and Elliot’s never been like that. The only times she sees him irritable or stressed are when he’s worrying about something that causes his anxiety to flare up: flying, giving presentations, or having to stay away from home for too long. And she knows all this is getting to him as much as it is to her, because he wants to protect her. To protect all of them.