27

There was no peace like concentration.

Sarah had briefed Fedden. She’d told him about Stephenson’s sudden interest in community work following the night of the great storm and about his landlord’s complaint about the removal of the carpet from his home. Under the circumstances Fedden had agreed it might be worth getting a proper look at Morville Park.

Sarah made the arrangements and texted Elaine to meet her at the park the following morning.

An hour later, Fedden put his head round her office door. The warrant on Marley’s flat had been executed and Marley had been rearrested.

Sarah drove steadily across London, tracking east through side roads. The neighbourhoods changed as if London were not a city but rather a coalescence of villages, transforming within yards as she crossed invisible boundaries. Here were religious Jews walking with their children on their Friday-night excursions; then wide leafy streets, eighteenth-century houses, people relaxing outside a pub with a collection of glossy dogs. The neighbourhoods got poorer. On the left, a girl in high heels and bare legs standing in the early-evening light hoping for a punter. On the right, Astro pitches and groups of lads playing football under eerie white light.

Fedden had asked that Sarah lead Marley’s interview with Steve but she wasn’t sure who the idea had come from. She hadn’t worked with Steve since they’d interviewed Lizzie Griffiths. Was it Steve himself who’d suggested they should suddenly do so again? Or had the news about Stephenson been so decisive as to finally swing Fedden’s vote in her favour? In any case, she wasn’t unhappy. She remembered how well she and Steve had understood each other in interview. He had always known the moment to speak, the correct emphasis, the right tone. And she relished the task ahead, which was, if difficult, straightforward: they needed to squeeze Marley into giving up everything she knew about Brannon’s plans. As she started to drive over the speed bumps that broke up the approach to Caenwood police station, she experienced a rush of adrenaline tinged with something like the nervousness that she imagined athletes felt before they ran a race worth winning.

The custody suite was busy: prisoners and police waiting on the bench, a detention officer taking fingerprints in the side room, officers moving back and forth with bags of evidence. Marley was all front: leaning on the custody desk, sticking her commendable arse out. She was wearing a wide-brimmed black hat from which her golden frizz escaped stylishly, and was chewing gum as loudly as if it were a performance art. She also wore black-and-white ankle-strap heels, a very short skirt and a cropped top that showed her flat stomach. Lee and the custody sergeant – a short, feminine-looking white bloke with a square head, a dimpled chin and the hint of soft breasts beneath his shirt – seemed to be working according to unofficial police standing orders by responding to Marley’s behaviour with impenetrable boredom. A young man was led past Marley towards the male cells and she high-fived him.

‘Safe!’

‘That gum?’ Sarah heard the custody sergeant say.

Marley spat it into her hand and stretched her arm out to offer it to Lee. He held out a small evidence bag with disdain and she placed it slowly inside and pouted at him.

Steve walked up beside Sarah. ‘Come on,’ he said quietly, tapping his shirt pocket.

They smoked outside in the yard. It was almost like old times.

Steve took Sarah through the arrest.

‘We got a couple of wraps of cocaine in her bedside drawer. So we nicked her for the Class A and assisting an offender.’

‘Have we got the phone work?’

Steve nodded, inhaled his cigarette and threw the stub on the floor. ‘Yes. The phone linked to Brannon called Marley from a park in Haringey. We haven’t had time to check CCTV at the location yet. Now the phone’s left London, as you know.’

Sarah remembered briefly how often they had stood on that low roof outside their old office talking about their various investigations and smoking too much. She remembered how the crow had jumped about hoping for food. They’d been good times.

Steve said, ‘She’s put herself on offer for him.’

‘Have you read the intelligence on her, what the two of them went through together when they were children?’

Steve nodded. ‘I know why she’s doing it, but I don’t feel sorry for her.’

There was a pause.

Sarah said, ‘I believed her when she said she didn’t know he’d killed Georgina when he went to her straight after the murder.’

‘Perhaps we can work on that, on how he’s let her down.’

‘You dropped any hints about how much time she might be serving?’

‘Yes, she’s giving the couldn’t-give-a-fuck routine, but I think she’s bricking it.’

Sarah stubbed her cigarette out on the wall. ‘Good.’

As soon as the interview preliminaries were over, the solicitor intervened.

‘Marley has made it clear to me that she’s very keen to assist the police in finding Mark Brannon. She is motivated by her concerns for the welfare of Mark’s daughter, Skye.’

Sarah took off her reading glasses and considered the solicitor. He was thin, wore jeans and trainers and looked as though he might still be in his twenties. An idealist, she guessed. Anyone his age with a decent law qualification had to be to choose to work in criminal defence. Advising Marley was probably his biggest professional shout to date, and the responsibility of it seemed to be leaking into his pale eyes. She wondered if he believed his client.

‘Thanks for that.’

She looked across at Marley, who was drawing her bottom teeth slowly down her top lip. First things first. They’d get back to the lawyer’s offer of help, but not yet. This was the time to squeeze.

‘Marley, I first met you two days ago when I came to your flat looking for Mark and Skye. You said to me then that you didn’t know that Mark had killed Georgina. You hadn’t been helping him to avoid arrest.’

When Marley didn’t answer, Steve placed the mobile phone in its evidence bag on the table. He did it without drama, and Sarah remembered how he had always known when she wanted him to do something and how to do it.

She said, ‘Exhibit LMC/4, your mobile phone that was returned to you after your arrest in the early hours of 17th July. A download has shown one call made to you by a prepaid unregistered mobile phone linked to Mark Brannon.’

Marley kissed her teeth, but there was anxiety behind her disdain.

Sarah said, ‘You knew Mark was wanted. You knew he’d killed. Did you speak to him? Assist him?’

‘I tried to persuade him to hand himself in!’

‘If you’d told us about the phone, we could have cell-sited it.’

‘You still can. He doesn’t know you know about it.’

‘What did he say to you?’

‘He just talked about how he was feeling, about how hard it is. He said it was all the police’s fault and that I shouldn’t worry. He’d never hurt Skye.’

Sarah leaned back in her chair. ‘The phone he called from has been cell-sited going up the M6.’

‘He’s got mates up there. People he’s worked with. I can give you names.’

Sarah rubbed the back of her neck, as if something pained her there. ‘I know you and Mark went through a lot together. I know you want to stick by him.’

‘I was just talking to him. I didn’t help him. It’s not assisting.’

‘I notice you’ve got your story very straight.’

Marley looked between Sarah and Steve. Steve put his biro in his mouth, cigar-style, and affected an American accent. ‘I love it when a plan comes together.’

The solicitor began to protest, but Steve dismissed him with a wave of his hand. ‘It’s The A-Team. Bit before your time.’

Marley had jumped in. ‘I know what it is.’

Steve said, ‘I think your cousin fancies himself as Hannibal Smith.’

Sarah said, ‘What Steve’s saying, Marley, is that Mark’s been using you.’

‘What do you mean? I’m helping you. I’m willing to give you names, addresses, everything.’

‘Skye’s life is in danger and you’re playing games.’

‘I’m trying to help!’

‘No, you’re not.’

The solicitor tried to intervene. ‘Why don’t you just take the information my client is offering and act on it?’

Sarah ignored him. ‘It’s too neat. That burner he’s using. It’s only dialled one number, your number, the number the police know—’

‘He made a mistake! He was lonely, wanted to talk to someone.’

‘And having made that mistake, he’s not noticed he’s done it, and that phone – which has been switched off apart from the call to you – is now switched on and helpfully making its way up north. We can get a cell site on it. After two days successfully hiding from us, suddenly Mark’s become an idiot.’

Marley looked caged, backed up, as if they had captured one of those fierce, untrusting cats that scrape their survival on scrubland. Sarah had an intimation of her, of the kernel of something desperate inside.

‘You’ve stood by Mark, you always have. You two have been through a lot together.’

Marley’s eyes were darting about as if the answers were sprayed over the walls in indecipherable script.

Steve spoke reflectively. ‘Maybe it’s not The A-Team. Maybe Mark’s watched The Bourne Conspiracy once too often. You know, that bit where he drops his mobile phone in someone’s pocket and they follow the phone instead of Matt Damon?’

Sarah said, ‘By the time we can’t find him in Manchester it’ll be too late. The evidence against you by then will be overwhelming. You’ve been nicked and asked to tell the truth, but you’re still lying.’

Steve said, ‘Are you really going to stick by him to the bitter end?’

Sarah said, ‘I don’t think you’re a heartless person. Have you really considered the possibility that he might kill Skye? Have you thought of her stabbed to death like her mother?’

Marley’s mouth was clamped tightly shut. She shrugged as if none of this really concerned her, but she also drew her nails across the surface of the table, seemingly unaware of what she was doing. Sarah reached her hand across into Marley’s eyeline, drew her gaze up.

‘Do you honestly trust Mark not to hurt Skye?’

Horror flickered across Marley’s eyes. She shook her head.

Steve said, ‘We’ll stop the tapes for a minute.’

Sarah had a sensation inside her chest like galloping horses. Somewhere, dead or alive, Skye was with her father. Steve went to put Marley briefly back in her cell. Sarah remained in the interview room with the solicitor.

With no impression of hurry, he opened his notepad. He popped the nib on his biro. Sarah tried to calm herself. Her urgency might be the very thing that stopped her communicating. She wondered if the brief was realistic enough to know that his client’s best interests lay in playing ball.

‘Do you need a coffee?’

He shook his head.

She understood: her friendliness might be treachery. She was the enemy, the person who would harm his client. This was the singular honour of the defence lawyer: to protect his client to the utmost no matter what the circumstances. His heart might be crying out to find Skye, but his duty was to stand by Marley.

Sarah ran her fingers through her hair.

‘I’m not sure Marley really understands what she’s done.’

He looked at her warily. ‘I can’t comment.’

There was a pause. Sarah said, ‘I’ll lay out the police position, OK?’

‘OK.’

She pinched her bottom lip for a second while she thought it through.

‘Marley and Mark Brannon were raised in an abusive household together. It’s not surprising that she’s loyal to him, whatever happens. That’s mitigation, of course, but it’s nowhere near enough to stop her going to prison. What I’m saying is that Marley’s loyalty to Mark Brannon mustn’t be yours. Mark’s not your client: Marley is. Mark’s getting her into a lot of trouble and it’s your job to help her.’

‘I won’t help her by making her look guilty.’

‘I get that. But look at the evidence: that phone’s called no one but Marley. It’s a set up, an attempt to misdirect the police and Marley’s assisting that attempt. She needs to hurry up and tell us the truth about what was said during that phone call and who she spoke to.’

‘Don’t try to pressure me. I wasn’t born yesterday.’

‘Yes, you can hope she squeezes in under the wire of “too difficult to prove”. But do you honestly think a jury will look kindly on her if she could have saved Skye’s life and didn’t—’

He raised his voice. ‘I won’t comment on my client’s instructions.’

He was feeling it: that much was clear. She needed to give him space to come to the right decision.

‘I’ll finish telling you how we’re seeing it, then you can have a talk to Marley.’

He popped his pen again, looked down at his pad, clearly keen to have something to write.

‘Our priority is to find Skye alive. Right now, Marley’s only a small part of a much bigger picture and she’s got leverage because she can help us. The moment Skye is found, all that changes. The leverage is gone, and if Skye’s dead and Marley didn’t help, then trust me, our perspective will change. We’ll have a lot more energy to focus on her. You can count on that.’

All Marley’s bravado had gone. She sat hunched up in her chair. Perhaps she’d looked like that when she was taken into care aged nine – fearful and small.

‘I didn’t speak to him,’ she said, chewing her nails down to the quick. ‘It was someone else, someone I don’t know. He said I was doing Mark a favour by answering the phone. I didn’t need to know anything else about it. I asked him if the police were going to nick me and he said, “If they do just say Mark talked to you about how he’s feeling, then you’re not assisting.”’ An anxious frown was etched between her eyebrows. ‘I did ask the man about Skye and he said she was fine. Mark had promised he wasn’t going to hurt her.’

Sarah left Steve charging Marley. They’d agreed with the solicitor that after she’d been bailed to court, Marley would sit with Steve and talk through everything she knew about Brannon. It would take a while, because any detail might be helpful. Sarah would update Fedden and then go home for her early start in Morville Park.

There was a mug on the table in the canteen, and Fedden pushed it towards Sarah when he saw her entering.

‘I ponced some coffee from main office,’ he said. ‘Good enough for you?’

‘Yes. Thanks.’

‘I won’t keep you. What’s your instinct on Marley? Is she telling the truth?’

‘Unfortunately, I think so, yes. She doesn’t know anything. She’s never even spoken to Brannon. Someone else called her from the phone. The information she gives Steve about his associates may be useful, but I doubt it. Brannon’s been very careful.’

‘I’ve sent officers to follow the phone up to Manchester. We might be able to nick the people who are helping him. My guess is they’re attached to the Youngs. Brannon probably knows stuff they don’t want sharing and so they have to show willing.’ Fedden glanced at his watch. ‘You need to get some sleep.’

‘I’ll rejoin the search as soon as I can.’

‘Don’t worry about that. Just keep Egremont tidy.’

Every traffic light seemed to be turning red at her approach. She waited for them to change with the patience of concrete. This was the secret weariness of police work, the running on empty that you had to simply endure.

London was proceeding around her. That was what she observed as she sat in her car, not even noticing the lights had changed until someone behind her honked his horn. She pulled into the two lanes of traffic stop-starting along the Euston Road. Something was bothering her. Finally her brain fished it out of her exhaustion and presented it to her: that chance meeting in the sushi place. Caroline’s smile and her laughing eyes. The traffic stopped and she rested her forehead on the steering column in sheer frustration at her own rudeness.

She turned off through back streets that ran between the railway lines, conjuring the algorithm that would avoid the traffic and take her home.

She’d found her way to the Turkish mini market. The owner was outside winding in the awning. A flicker of recognition crossed his face.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘but be quick. We’re closing.’

But she wasn’t quick. She lingered in front of the fridges, dawdled by the breads and cakes. She wasn’t hungry. She didn’t need anything. Daisy wasn’t at home waiting for a treat. The house would be empty and silent. She threw a clear plastic pack of leathery fresh pasta into her basket and made her way towards the till. The man was waiting for her, impatient to close. She put her basket on the counter. He said, ‘No point coming in here on the off chance. You’ll have to ring her.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Yeah, all right.’

He rang the pasta into the till. Sarah handed over a twenty-pound note.

‘Look,’ he said, fishing out the change. ‘You can’t count on bumping into her. Particularly at this time of night. If you want to see her, you’ll have to call her. Have you still got her number?’