Jayne put down Sean Martin’s book. She’d tried to stick with it, but knowing so much more about the real story made it too nauseating to read, the words too hollow.
The house had been devoid of activity since she’d arrived. If news had reached Sean about Peter Box’s allegations, it hadn’t created any obvious panic.
Her mind drifted back to what Peter Box had said, and she wondered how much like Peter she was. He’d brought an end to someone’s life, whatever reason he gave. She had too, in a different way, but that didn’t stop her feeling some guilt, however much she convinced herself that she wasn’t to blame. What she did to her last serious boyfriend always came back to her whenever it seemed that her own life was starting to go somewhere, as if Jimmy’s final moments would forever haunt her.
Whatever Jimmy had been, he hadn’t deserved to die. He should have been imprisoned, yes; alone, certainly; but not dead.
She didn’t blame herself: she understood how his abuse had weakened her to the point where she couldn’t see an alternative but to stay with him. She’d hurt many people who didn’t deserve to be hurt, like Jimmy’s parents and brothers, and his friends. They could never truly understand how she felt when she was with him, what it was like to be with Jimmy, which made it even harder for them.
She dreamed of a reset button, so she could go back to before that day – right back to the first time he abused her – and make herself leave. She wished she could stop her past self from buying into his promise to be better, from feeling bad about his tears.
She wondered how many of those thoughts plagued Peter Box. His shame was that he’d been a coward all those years ago, because if he’d had the courage to speak up a lot of women would have been saved.
She was jolted from her thoughts by the arrival of a car that parked outside Sean’s house. As she saw the occupants, she smiled. Things were starting to happen.
DI Murdoch fought the urge for a cigarette as she stepped out of her car.
‘Let me do all the talking,’ she told DC Richards. She’d brought him along to distract Sean, divide his attention between them. ‘If he’s got any questions, leave them to me. This is my show.’
‘Understood, ma’am.’
There was one car on the Martins’ driveway, a Hyundai. In this location, poorly connected and far from town, she’d expected two cars.
Her knock on the door sounded loud in the quiet village. After a few seconds, Sean Martin opened the door, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
Murdoch lifted her lanyard. ‘We need to have a word with you.’
He looked from Murdoch to Richards, and then back again, his body blocking entry into the house. ‘I don’t speak to the police without a lawyer present. I went to prison for a murder I didn’t commit, so forgive me if I’m too cautious.’
Murdoch tried her hardest to remain civil, although she knew her smile was thin when she said, ‘I bet I can read all about it in your book, but I’m not here to arrest you or interrogate you, Mr Martin. I’m here for your benefit.’
His look of defiance faltered. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’d rather talk indoors.’
He held his ground for a few more seconds before he relented and stepped aside. Murdoch made sure she neglected to wipe her feet as she went through to the living room and sat down. Richards took a seat on the sofa opposite.
‘You might want to speak to your lawyer before you decide what to do,’ Murdoch said. ‘But you will need a different lawyer to the one you used in your appeal.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You used Pat Molloy last time, but he’s gone missing.’ Murdoch noticed that there was no widening of the eyes, no effort at looking surprised. It was almost as if he had steeled himself to not react. ‘A client of his colleague, Dan Grant, is making allegations against you in court, and we need you to defend yourself, to rebut what’s being said. That’s why I’m here.’
Sean did react to that, his brow furrowed, confusion in his eyes. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘You know Peter Box?’ she said. ‘Yes, of course you do. He used to go out with Trudy’s sister, years ago.’
Sean leaned against the doorjamb, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets, tension showing in the veins of his forearms. ‘Yes, like you say, I knew him years ago. I read that he got himself into trouble. I haven’t seen him since… well, before I was locked up.’
‘Peter’s in a lot of trouble, because he’s accused of murder. His defence involves throwing some blame your way.’
‘I don’t understand. What have I got to do with whatever he did?’
‘It’s not that murder he’s talking about. I don’t have all the details because it’s happening as we speak, but it’s connected with some older murders. He’s saying he lost control because of things you did. If you don’t stand up for yourself, it’ll become the new truth. It will hit you hard, what with your book coming out and all.’
‘Why is he saying this?’
‘Murderers say desperate things, but do you want whatever he’s going to say to become what people remember?’
‘Which murders?’
Murdoch detected nervousness in his voice, his query tentative, not a protest. ‘A woman called Claire Watkins.’ Murdoch watched him carefully. His breathing had quickened but his expression remained impassive. ‘Did you know Claire Watkins?’
He faked nonchalance with a shrug, glancing at Richards before turning back to Murdoch. ‘Didn’t she go missing years ago? She lived on the next street to Trudy. I used to talk to her sometimes.’
Murdoch concealed her joy at the response. In her pocket was the copy of the police notebook, his lie jotted down. She thought about confronting him there and then, but she stuck to her plan. Let him give his account under oath, all of it recorded, ready for it to be thrown back in his face.
‘It’s crazy, I know,’ she continued, ‘but if you don’t come to court tomorrow to contest it, Peter Box’s story will be reported as the truth. You need to show that it is what it sounds like, a story to deceive the jury.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I know that you’re all for the innocent being freed, but it’s important that the guilty are convicted too. The system has got to work properly.’
‘Do I have to give evidence?’
‘That’s up to you, but if you don’t come, well…’ She held out her hands. ‘Everyone will know you had the opportunity to rebut it but didn’t.’
‘I have to decide by tomorrow?’
‘If you need more time, let me know, but the judge wants to do it tomorrow.’ A tilt of her head. ‘Any reason why you can’t come tomorrow?’
Sean stared straight ahead before pushing himself away from the doorframe. ‘Tomorrow is fine. Thank you, Inspector.’
Murdoch got to her feet, Richards with her, and sidled past him. ‘Get there for nine thirty to speak to the prosecutor. I’ll take a statement from you in the morning.’
Sean stayed silent as she headed towards the door.
Once they were out in the fresh air, the cottage door safely closed behind them, Richards said, ‘That was awkward.’
Murdoch allowed herself a smile. ‘Exactly as I wanted.’
Sean Martin watched the car pull away and sat down with a slump. He looked around the room at the life he’d rebuilt. He was about to lose it all. All that he’d achieved since he’d come out of prison gone, lost in the ramblings of Peter Box.
The reminder of prison made him cover his eyes. He couldn’t go back there. The hours just seemed to stretch, his life mapped out by the track of the sun across plain grey walls. He’d been on the protected wing because he’d been convicted of killing a child, the rest of the prisoners hoping to get at him if there was ever a lapse in security, someone whose life had amounted to little eager to make a name by killing him.
He couldn’t go back.
He unlocked his phone, his finger poised over the list of contacts, knowing that the call he was about to make could tear them apart.
But there was no shying away from it.
He pressed the phone symbol next to Trudy’s name, her profile picture filling the screen.
She answered on the second ring, the noise of the supermarket behind her. How mundane was that? Food shopping when their life together was about to crumble.
His voice had a croak when he said, ‘Peter’s talked.’
She fell silent for a few seconds, the air filled with the bustle of people in the food aisles. ‘What’s he said?’
‘Everything.’
Another pause, and then, ‘I know what to do.’