Читать книгу The Verdict - Olivia Isaac-Henry - Страница 20

I hunch next to the door and listen as two sets of footsteps ascend the stairs, one a dull thud, the other a light, barely audible tap. The last time I’d been interviewed by the police, over twenty years ago, I had the arrogance of youth on my side. Now, my heart’s pounding and my palms are clammy.

As they come closer, I can hear panting and pauses. Finally, I open the door to a man in late middle age, with a heightened complexion and moist brow, his gut spilling over his trousers. The other is young, slim and slight. Barely out of breath, she’s obviously been slowed down by her boss. They introduce themselves again.

Warren has a northern twang, too soft to identify any specific location. Akande is a South Londoner, trying to sound Home Counties. She has eyes the shape of a cat’s, sharp and sly. The dislike is instant and mutual. My instinct is to slam the door in their faces, but I have little choice other than to invite them in.

‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ I ask.

Warren looks at my glass of wine. It’s late on a Friday night. He can’t normally work these hours. A glass of wine would be his preferred option, or perhaps a pint of bitter. He sees me watching him.

‘Just water, thanks,’ he says.

‘Nothing for me,’ Akande says.

‘Take a seat,’ I say as I head to the kitchen.

I watch the detectives’ reflections in the window above the sink. Neither has sat down. Warren is standing where I left him and Akande is moving about the room, looking at my small collection of books, then at my phone on the table. She looks at Warren expressively. He doesn’t react. Perhaps he’d be more interested if she found the one stuffed down the side of the sofa, a poor choice of hiding place. They have no right to take it, no warrant has been produced. But other than love cheats, who needs a secret phone?

I’ve been away from them too long. I fill the glass and return to the lounge.

‘So, you’re from Surrey,’ I say on my return. ‘How can I help?’

My voice sounds strained, my words contrived.

I should have been bold and said, ‘I suppose you’re here about Brandon,’ or, ‘If you hadn’t contacted me, I’d have contacted you.’ My breezy manner won’t fool them. They deal with liars every day.

‘I don’t know if you follow the news,’ Warren says. He’s still a little breathless from climbing the stairs. ‘And perhaps you don’t get the Surrey news up in London, but I understand you used to live in Guildford.’

‘A long time ago,’ I say.

‘At 72 Downs Avenue, owned by a Mrs Jennifer Pike.’ He observes my confusion. ‘Perhaps you knew her as Genevieve D’Auncey.’

A swish of silk. The scent of lemon and cinnamon.

‘Yes, of course. It was very sad.’

Again, my words sound forced, like lines learnt and repeated.

‘You shared the house with four other lodgers. Gideon Risborough, Alan Johns, Lucy Moretti and …’ He pauses. ‘Brandon Wells.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What do you remember about Brandon?’

‘It was a long time ago.’

‘Anything?’

‘He left suddenly. Genevieve’s sister thought he’d stolen some money.’

‘Are you aware that, in 1995, his parents contacted the police and reported him as a missing person – his last known address being Downs Avenue?’

‘You know, I’d forgotten until you mentioned it,’ I say. ‘But, yes, a man did come and speak to me. I can’t remember his name.’

‘Lancaster,’ Akande says. ‘Michael Lancaster.’

‘It could have been.’

Corduroy trousers, blue parka; he waited outside my house, not two streets from here.

‘Do you recall what you told him?’ Akande asks.

‘I don’t know if I had anything to tell. Brandon’s leaving, well it was all overshadowed by the whole thing with Genevieve.’

‘Brandon never told you he was going, even though you were close?’

‘Who said that? We weren’t close. Not at all.’

‘He told a friend he was seeing a girl in the house. Her description matched yours.’

I don’t reply straight away. Akande waits.

‘I don’t recall Brandon having any friends. I can’t remember meeting any. He just hung around with people in the house.’

‘So, when you say you weren’t close at all …’ Akande says.

‘I wouldn’t have expected him to remain in contact after he left, even if he hadn’t stolen that money.’

‘You hadn’t argued.’

‘We had nothing to argue about.’

Warren looks unconvinced. ‘There were no conflicts – what about the male occupants of the house?’ He refers to his notebook. ‘Alan Johns and Gideon Risborough – did Brandon argue with them?’

‘I really can’t remember. Why are you asking me all of this?’

Warren looks to Akande.

‘A body’s been found on the Downs, less than a quarter of a mile from the house you shared. We believe it to be Brandon Wells.’

A dull thud lands in my guts. However much I expected this, it’s a shock, hearing the words from a policeman. The identity of the body is no longer confined to website supposition and all hope that the past week was some surreal nightmare is erased.

‘It can’t be him,’ I say.

‘Forensics are sending DNA confirmation, but we’re pretty certain that the body discovered is Brandon Wells.’

I place my hands on the back of the sofa to support my weight. What else will Forensics find?

‘Do you know how? I mean, what happened to him?’ I ask.

Warren looks at me hard, trying to gauge my reaction. ‘We’re undoubtedly looking at a homicide, though we’re not releasing further details at the moment. But you can see why we need to talk to all the people Brandon knew from that time,’ he says.

‘Have you spoken to the others?’

‘Both Mr Risborough and Mr Johns are on holiday in Italy, with their families.’ Does either of them notice me wince? ‘But we’ve spoken to Lucy Moretti. Was there anyone else living in the house back then?’

‘Only Genevieve.’

‘We’re also trying to find any photographs from that time,’ he says. ‘I don’t suppose you have any?’

My nose burns in memory of the acrid smoke from the small bonfire we made, fulfilling our pact to destroy all records of the time. The thought of current social media existing back then makes me shudder. Whenever I saw Sam posting on Facebook or whatever the hell kids use these days, I used to say, ‘You’re only seventeen. You don’t know when you’ll want that information to disappear.’

He’d laugh at me. ‘Why would I want it to disappear?’

‘Ms Winter?’

Warren asked me a question – what was it?

‘Sorry … I …’

‘I asked if you had any photographs from that time,’ he says.

‘No. I didn’t own a camera,’ I say.

‘Unfortunate.’

‘Do you recall exactly when Brandon left?’ Akande asks.

‘You know what happened to Genevieve?’ I ask.

Akande nods.

‘There were so many people coming and going,’ I say. ‘Everything was muddled. I was working hard, seeing friends, trying to find somewhere else to live. I can’t be sure when he moved out. I think it was Genevieve’s sister who noticed he’d gone.’

Akande glances towards Warren. He runs his fingers around his collar and takes a deep breath. ‘A friend in London heard from Brandon in the fourth week of August,’ he says. ‘Brandon was going to move into his place over the bank holiday weekend, but never turned up. The friend didn’t think anything of it at the time, thought Brandon had changed his mind. We’ve worked out this was Saturday 27th August 1994, the last definite contact we have from Brandon. Twenty-three years later his body is found buried on the hillside opposite Downsview Villa.’

Warren continues to study me.

‘I still can’t believe it’s him,’ I say. ‘No one wished him harm. And if they had, he was a big lad – he could take care of himself.’

The detectives exchange glances. I’m being played. I must stay calm.

The stairs creak and I realise Audrey’s awake.

‘Excuse me,’ I say to the detectives.

I leave the lounge and meet her on the small landing. She’s wrapped in my dressing gown, which is far too big for her. I rarely see her like this, without the armour of tailored clothes, her face free from powder and lipstick. She looks small and vulnerable.

‘I thought I heard voices,’ she says. ‘Is anything the matter?’

‘It’s nothing, Mum. Just some trouble across the road – kids. Go back to bed.’

‘Really, I don’t like you living here, Julia. It’s dangerous.’

‘Please, Mum, it’s not a big deal. Get some sleep.’

When I return, Warren and Akande are whispering to one another. They stop when I re-enter the room.

‘I wasn’t aware you lived with your mother,’ Warren says.

‘She’s just staying over,’ I say.

Something about her presence has made him uncomfortable. Perhaps he’s reminded of his own mother, because his tone’s almost apologetic as he explains, ‘You see the significance of where he was buried – not four hundred yards from where he lived. It’s unlikely he left then somehow ended up back there.’

‘I suppose so,’ I say.

‘It’s more probable he was killed while still living there,’ Warren says.

‘But what happened to his stuff?’ I ask.

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’

‘And he took that money.’

‘Someone took the money,’ Akande says.

‘You see where this leaves us?’ Warren says.

‘Not really.’

‘Brandon was killed while he lived at 72 Downs Avenue by someone who had access to his room.’ Warren pauses. ‘And perhaps Mrs Pike’s money.’

‘Which suggests someone living in the house,’ Akande says.

She allows the words to hang between us.

‘That’s not possible,’ I say. ‘Someone would have noticed.’

‘You’d think,’ she says.

‘You said yourself, the house was in confusion,’ Warren says. ‘All sorts of people coming and going.’

‘No one in the house would have wanted to harm him,’ I say.

‘Who else had the opportunity to clear out his room?’ Akande says. ‘We really do need to get to the bottom of any disagreements.’

‘Honestly, I can’t remember any.’

‘Three boys and two girls living in a house and there were no conflicts, no jealousies?’ Warren says.

‘Nothing major.’

‘What about minor?’

‘I …’

‘Don’t remember?’ Akande crosses her arms.

‘It was over twenty years ago. What can you remember from back then – were you even at primary school?’

Akande opens her mouth to reply, but Warren gets in there first. ‘Did you know, Ms Winter, that Mrs Pike had been giving Brandon money?’

I tear my gaze from Akande’s sneering face and back to Warren.

‘She let him off the rent, because he wasn’t working,’ I reply. ‘She took a shine to him.’

‘Was there any resentment about it?’

‘Not from me.’

‘Ms Moretti recalls a good deal of resentment,’ Warren says.

‘Memories vary.’

‘They certainly do,’ Akande says under her breath.

‘One more thing,’ Warren says. ‘You left Guildford in September that year. Not just the house but your job too – why was that?’

How did they discover so much in such a short space of time?

‘The whole thing with Genevieve shook me up. I just wanted to get away and forget about everything.’

Akande raises her eyebrows.

‘You know, it’s getting late,’ I say. ‘And I’m not sure how much more I can tell you.’

‘We’re pretty much done,’ Warren says. ‘Just one more thing – your phone.’

‘What about it?’ I say too quickly.

Akande notices and looks at my mobile sitting on the table. They can’t know about the other one, though it’s less than three feet away.

‘Can we get your number please?’

I breathe again. ‘Of course,’ I say and recite my number.

Does my voice tremble? Do they notice?

‘Thank you,’ Warren says. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

I don’t close my door until I’ve heard them descend all the stairs and the front door shuts.

I knew the police would contact me. I should have been better prepared.

My landline starts ringing. I dive to answer it.

‘Hello.’

Nothing.

‘Hello,’ I say again.

The line goes dead.