Bethany said that barely a week had elapsed between Sean leaving and the Facebook message, supposedly from Canada, promising to send cash. Not enough time to get a new passport.
‘Anyway, I messaged back to thank him for the cash and said I’d pay him back some day.’
‘But by now you knew it wasn’t really Sean you were talking to,’ said Cassie.
‘The message didn’t sound like him: the spelling was far too good.’ Bethany pulled an awkward shrug. ‘I’m not stupid. Even if he was making big money off dealing steroids, who hands over £150k just like that?’
‘True. What did you think had happened to him?’
‘I thought that he was dead.’ She picked a fragment of chipped polish off a nail.
‘So who did you think sent the cash?’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? The people who killed him. My guess would be whoever he was buying the steroids from. They didn’t want me going to the cops and £150k probably wasn’t a big deal to them if it meant me keeping my mouth shut.’
Cassie thought that sounded feasible. ‘And you never told anyone this, until now? His passport sitting there, the cash arriving from Canada . . . ?’
Bethany folded her arms. ‘Look, I’ve had a difficult life. My mother put me into care when I was six and I was brought up in a string of foster homes. I won’t give you the whole sob story but I’ve had to make my own luck in life and I’ve done pretty well for myself. Why should I lose that flat just because he got himself in trouble? It wouldn’t have made no difference if I did tell the cops – they’d have taken the money and probably still not found his killers.’
Bethany’s self-absolution sounded like something she’d honed and polished over the years.
‘Do you remember the name of the account the cash came from?’ asked Cassie.
She nodded. ‘It was N. Toussaint. Ms N. Toussaint.’
Cassie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘A woman?’
‘Yeah, but the account was probably opened with a stolen ID.’
Despite her steady vodka intake, Bethany appeared to have sobered up during their exchange. Or maybe it was the act of confession that had steadied her. Did she have a conscience after all?
‘You said you wanted my advice,’ Cassie reminded her.
Bethany met her gaze. ‘If it was you . . . would you tell them? The cops, I mean?’
Cassie pulled an awkward affirmative shrug. ‘Yes, I would. Sooner or later, they’re going to access your bank statements and work it out for themselves. If you take the lead it might persuade them that you had nothing to do with Sean’s death.’
Finding it hard to decipher the expression on Bethany’s face a thought popped into Cassie’s head.
Whether that’s true or not is another matter.