Jayne was looking in the fridge for wine as Dan put the takeaway cartons on the kitchen surface. She smiled when she saw a bottle of white on its side at the bottom.
‘You always get the good stuff,’ she said, pulling it out.
‘Not too much of that. I’ve got a murder trial starting tomorrow, remember.’
‘Yeah, and we’ve got to update each other. What do you suit-and-tie types call it? Debrief.’
He laughed. ‘What about my trial preparation?’
‘Come on, I know you. And what is there to prepare anyway? You told me the defence case was all about pulling apart the prosecution case. If you don’t know the holes by now, you never will.’
‘And what progress are we discussing? I’ve found out that the cop who arrested him thinks Sean’s guilty. How far does that get me?’
‘Don’t forget Rosie’s mother. She’s convinced, and I’ve got details of Rosie’s friends too. They might tell me something useful.’ Jayne lifted out the bottle. ‘Shall I pour?’
He was about to object, but when she raised her eyebrows, he said, ‘Okay, get it open.’
Jayne collected a couple of glasses as Dan spooned the food onto plates.
As they ate, Jayne asked, ‘Is there any CCTV in Lizzie’s case?’
‘Quite a bit, but it’s just cameras sweeping the town centre and dotted along the canal. I asked for the hour leading up to when Lizzie left the pub and the hour after.’
‘I thought the prosecution didn’t have to hand over the stuff they aren’t using unless it undermines their case.’
‘Yes, usually, but I persuaded a judge to order the prosecution to hand it over. The CCTV might show other witnesses, for example, and there’s no more reliable eyewitness than a camera.’
‘And you’ve watched it?’
‘I have, and it never gets interesting. Six cameras, two hours from each. I did a camera a day, just to stay fresh.’
‘Perhaps we should look again, now that Sean Martin has come into the picture?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘There’s a link between Sean Martin and Peter Box. According to everyone, Sean Martin killed Rosie by the same canal.’
‘According to everyone except a jury of twelve people who heard all the evidence.’
Jayne stopped eating for a moment. ‘Are you telling me that juries never acquit people who really did it?’
When he didn’t respond straightaway, Jayne added, ‘And you can include me in that answer if you like.’
‘You know I don’t think you’re a killer. The jury got it right.’ He shrugged. ‘But yeah, I get your point. The jury will find it easy in this case though. After all, how did Peter’s blood end up on her heel?’
‘Maybe he was trying to save her from Sean Martin and got caught up in the fight, and now he’s scared? Scared of Sean? Scared of people not believing him, because it sounds far-fetched?’
‘There’s your problem: it is far-fetched, and I can’t invent a scenario. It’s got to come from Peter, and right now he’s not telling me anything.’
‘Shouldn’t we still look though? You’ve always banged on about the burden of proof, that it’s about creating doubt. You don’t have to prove that Sean Martin killed Lizzie Barnsley, or why he would have done. If you can prove that he did kill his stepdaughter and that it’s possible he killed Lizzie, you’ll have something.’
He shook his head. ‘I see where you’re coming from, but it’s a waste of time. We’re doing this to explain Peter’s silence, nothing more.’
‘I can watch the CCTV, if you want. You can do whatever you need to do.’
Dan sighed. ‘Okay, if it makes you feel better.’ He pointed with his fork to a brown envelope on a cushion next to the papers he’d been going through earlier that day. ‘The discs are in there.’
Jayne skimmed through the discs and loaded the first one into the DVD player. They settled on the sofa, silent as they finished their food, both staring at the screen.
She glanced across at Dan as he watched it, his eyes fixed on the footage, just a grainy image of a badly lit empty street. The camera turned regularly to one of the four static positions, every fifteen seconds, and occasionally the operator would spot something and the camera would zoom in: a small crowd of people outside a taxi office or a group crossing the road in fancy dress. The camera would always linger on groups of young women dressed in clothes that were unfeasibly skimpy for a cold night in December.
Despite the mundane footage, Dan’s gaze was intense, always looking out for a detail he might have missed.
As they finished their food, their plates on the floor, Jayne said, ‘You’re right, it’s dull, but you’ve got to remember that I spend my time hanging around outside peoples’ houses, waiting to photograph cheating spouses.’
‘We’ve many hours to watch before we finish.’
‘Yeah, but here it’s warm, with toilet facilities, so I’ll get comfortable.’ She swung her legs onto the sofa and laid them across Dan’s lap. He raised his glass before they both turned back to the television.
Jayne suppressed a smile. It felt good to share an evening with someone, even though it made her feel needy. She’d promised herself that she would never rely on a man again, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the warmth of another human being.
They’d been watching for around thirty minutes, Dan’s arms across her legs, when he said, ‘You seen anything yet?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m worried that it might catch me stumbling along the street.’
‘A wild night?’
‘Just another one that I can’t remember.’
He tipped his glass towards the screen. ‘This is the bit you need to watch.’
‘Why, what is it?’
‘Just watch.’
The camera did its usual pan and settled on the bright lights of a pub car park, the cobbles gleaming. A figure tottered into the car park, walking quickly on high heels. Someone confronted her, a man, his body tensed. The camera zoomed in closer, the operator spotting the danger. They argued, both waving their arms.
Jayne gasped as the man lashed out with his fist.
The woman went to the ground, her handbag spewing cigarettes and tissues onto the cobbles. Some people intervened, pushing the man back. The woman picked herself up, her heels wobbling, before she shouted at him, her finger pointed.
He started towards her again, but the group of people moved to block his way. The woman turned and rushed out of the car park, wiping her nose, her hair dishevelled. Someone made as if to go after her but was called back to the group.
‘That’s Lizzie Barnsley,’ Dan said. ‘Her boyfriend is the bully. The police have this part as an exhibit, with Lizzie highlighted.’
Jayne sat up, swinging her legs off Dan, the warmth of the evening disappearing fast. This was a murder victim living out her last moments. Jayne was transfixed as Lizzie headed away from the bright lights, towards a street leading to the darkness of the canal towpath.
The man was being pushed back, his arms out and by his side, his anger obvious. Some of the women in the car park were shouting at him, jabbing their fingers, before being pulled back by some of the men in the crowd. After a few minutes, the darkness acquired a strobe effect as a police vehicle pulled into the car park, lights flashing. Two officers got out of the car and went over to him.
‘There’s his alibi,’ Dan said. ‘The boyfriend never left the car park and was taken away by the police. The camera stayed focused on him, and I understand why, but it meant that Lizzie was allowed to disappear into the darkness.’
Jayne stared at the screen. It was a terrible reminder that her evening was about more than food and wine. ‘We might still see something though. Perhaps a particular vehicle circling. We know what we’re looking for now, because we know Sean’s car. A black Hyundai Tucson. I’ve got the reg number in my notebook.’
‘And there’s plenty more hours to look at.’
They both settled down to watch another hour of footage, Jayne’s attention focused on the screen, always watching out for headlights, but her mind went back to Sean Martin’s car on the drive. The black car. The number plate. The memory niggled her but she couldn’t work out why.
Twenty minutes later, it came to her. The date. The car had been a new one. That’s what had struck her, how Sean Martin was doing well for himself, a brand-new car outside that desirable cottage. But it was April. The plates last changed in March. The murder was during the opening minutes of the New Year. Whatever he had been driving when Lizzie died had been replaced.
‘Hey, Dan.’
No answer.
She looked across. He was slumped to one side, his eyes closed, his breathing regular and deep. He looked cute, different from the man he tried to be in the courtroom. He seemed softer, more vulnerable somehow. She thought about waking him, but that could end up with her going home, and she didn’t feel ready for her own cold bedroom and worn-out duvet.
She tiptoed out to fetch a blanket from the cupboard by his bedroom; she’d spent a few nights under it herself when working on other cases. She turned off the television and smiled to herself as she put the blanket over him.
His bedroom was just along the hallway. If he wasn’t sleeping in there, it was a shame to waste it.
She closed the door and slipped under the covers once she’d stripped down to her T-shirt and knickers. His pillows smelled of him; the light musk of aftershave mixed with whatever fabric conditioner he used, and a soft scent that was just Dan.
She pulled the thick duvet around herself. It felt good to be working again.
Trudy raised the wine glass to her lips. It was cold, the liquid faint yellow in the light that strained from the bulb over the back door. The bottle was nearly empty, and she was already feeling the sway that told her she was drunk. That’s how she preferred to end her evening sometimes. To blot things out.
She was sitting in a garden chair, a blanket around her shoulders, her feet propped up on a log. The hills behind their cottage were in darkness, just the edges in silhouette against the starry sky, a half-moon casting very little glow.
Sean had gone to bed, the steady stream of beer he’d put away during the evening sending him to sleep early. She preferred to drink in solitude, so that she could be away from his self-pity, his finger pointing and ranting. Booze didn’t suit him, and he always looked back when he had too much. Their lost years, he called them.
She didn’t go along with those thoughts. The years spent inside were his. She didn’t have to count her own years alongside them. She’d lived those her own way, waiting outside while the world turned against him, but still her life had carried on.
She raised her glass to the stars. Leave the self-pity to him; she’d learned how to rise above that. She preferred the gentle glow of the booze and the uncertainty of where it would take her. Sometimes it was to laughter, thinking back on happier times, or at least her version of them. Other times, it was to darker memories, but she tried to shut those away.
The visitor earlier that day had unsettled her. Dan Grant. He’d come to her house, and that was the problem. Her eyes narrowed as the glass went to her mouth.
They’d built a life in the hills. No one was taking that away.
She huddled under the blanket a little more. Her mood was taking her back. She didn’t want that. She knew where it led and what it meant, but at times it was hard to stop.
A smell could do it. Stale cigarettes and booze, or a certain hairspray.
She snapped her eyes open. She was letting herself sink. She didn’t want that.
She threw the wine on the grass and tipped out the rest of the bottle. It was time to end the day.
She slammed the door as she went inside, the blanket left behind.