‘Time is ten thirty-five a.m. Interviewing Henry Nelson in connection with supplying Class A drugs to a minor, under caution. The witness has declined legal representation.’
Experience told Henry that lawyers were only interested in one thing: money. They trained for years to sit next to desperate souls who hoped they’d defend their rights to the letter: wrong. He looked at the detective, who was a classic dick-swinger, just as Carrie had told him.
In his cell, where he’d been for more than twenty-four hours now at the approval of the CPS, he’d been over and over his last conversation with her as she packed for Bali. His arrest was drug-related and so that told him that they had nothing on him for Monika. But it was only a matter of time before they pinned that on him as well.
‘I haven’t touched drugs in ten years,’ Henry said.
‘So the testimony of seven pupils of George Paget School is lies?’
Henry glared at the detective and Hunt smirked back at him. Carrie had been correct: the guy’s cheap suit and bad teeth made him look like a failure, but Henry could see that, underneath the mud, there was an enemy diving for pearls. He stood no chance in the war of words, and intended to say very little. He wanted to know exactly what they had on him. Testimony from kids was surmountable. He didn’t blame them. They’d say anything to please adults. They’d clearly been coached, whoever they are: Brandon Stand’s cronies, no doubt.
Hunt was a bedrock of the system. Sat in this small windowless room, on cheap plastic seats, he wasn’t looking for the truth. He was looking for a fall guy. Henry’s mouth felt dry. Denying basics like refreshments was a police tactic that was difficult to prove was done for malicious gain.
Hunt pushed a photo towards him. It was of a small clear plastic bag, filled with little blue pills. Those blue birds used to be his lifeline. He’d do anything for them. But not anymore. He’d heard that some bad shit circulated on the market these days and he was glad he was out of the game.
‘So, like I said, Henry, we have reason to believe that you supplied at least one bag of these to minors from George Paget School, with the intent to make a profit. Unfortunately, one of these little blue pills killed one of their students on Friday night: Brandon Stand.’
‘Yeah, I know Brandon, the school bully. I don’t deal drugs.’
‘He was the headmaster’s son.’
‘So what? He terrorised the younger kids and the headmaster knows it. He’s reported – he was reported – regularly but, surprise, surprise, nothing was ever done.’
‘Are you suggesting that Brandon deserved to come to harm?’
‘Not at all. You asked if I knew him, and that’s how I did, I’m giving you context. I never dealt drugs to school kids, or anyone. I haven’t touched an illegal substance since I was banged up, but you already know that. What else have you got?’
‘I don’t know why you would suggest that I know your comings and goings, Henry, this is why you’re here today. We rang you on…’ He checked his notes. ‘Friday. About an unrelated incident, as we thought then, and you told us that you’d last seen Monika Thorpe on Monday of last week, in fact exactly a week ago. What were you doing on Friday?’
Henry watched Hunt shuffle pieces of paper, flicking and fiddling, trying to catch him out. The mention of Monika ruffled him but he kept his composure. Hunt had dropped a crumb and was letting him stew on it: another police tactic he was familiar with.
‘I was at the gym, then I went to work, like always.’
‘And Friday night? Did you visit the recreational ground over near Coulter Park?’
‘No, I’ve never heard of it.’
‘So why would Brandon Stand’s friends implicate you in offering pills to them and suggesting meeting there?’
Henry snorted. ‘That’s bullshit and you know it.’
‘Look, Henry, it would be a lot easier if you just told us the truth. We have several pupils from George Paget telling us that you educated them in the use, handling, sourcing and cost of illegal substances. Can you tell us why that may be?’
‘Because you told them to?’ Henry said. His outward bravado was waning. He was tired, hungry, thirsty and desperately hostile toward the system that was about to stitch him up. He began to sweat and a wave of prickly heat spread over him. His back became sticky and he would kill for a gulp of fresh air.
‘How did you hurt your hand, Henry?’
‘At work, yesterday morning, on a tool. It’s fresh, you can see for yourself.’ He unwrapped the bandage and showed off his damaged hand. The swelling had begun to go down, and the blood had coagulated and stuck. It was a mess.
‘Wounds don’t behave in such a convenient manner in my experience, Henry. That could have been done at any time over the past week. What were you doing Tuesday night?’
Henry’s stomach sank to the floor. Here we go.
‘Nothing.’ His hand throbbed.
Hunt shuffled papers again and the noise was getting on Henry’s nerves.
‘Do you recognise this?’
Hunt showed him a photo.
‘It’s the field behind Grantchester, by the river.’
‘Indeed it is. Note that the witness positively identifies the dump site of Monika Thorpe’s body.’
‘What? What’s this about? What have you got? This is bullshit!’ He stood up but two thick hands, the size of bunches of bananas, pressed on his shoulders, and he realised that he’d have to keep his cool should he want to get out of this.
‘Look, I don’t know what you’re piecing together here, but it’s rubbish. Everybody who goes for a walk out of the city knows that field.’
‘Have you heard the name Grace Bridge?’
‘What?’ A tingling feeling crept up Henry’s spine. The colour drained out of his face.
‘We’ve been looking into your record, Henry. It’s protocol, don’t worry. But we notice that you changed your gym membership to the same one where Grace Bridge is a PT, shortly after the incarceration of your brother, Vincent.’
No, no, no…
‘I look out for her,’ he whispered. His voice seemed a million miles away from his body.
‘You “look out for her”. Hmm.’
‘I have nothing to do with Vince, he’s my half-brother anyway. What he did was vile. I wanted to make sure she was okay. He’s a low-life bastard, I have nothing to do with him.’ He felt himself descending into a dark pit.
‘Brother, half-brother. Potato, tomato. Bad apples falling from the tree, and all that. I guess that’s why the victim never made the connection? I trust she doesn’t know?’
Henry stared at him.
‘So, your relationship with Carrie Greenside is one of the reasons you’re here today. You fitted her kitchen too?’
Hunt was all over the place, as if he was digging into his body with a hundred knives all at once. Henry had no idea where the next attack would come from.
‘Yes,’ Henry replied. His throat constricted, making his voice crack.
‘You know who we’re talking about? The very close friend of Tony Thorpe. In fact, a bit more than that, eh?’ The detective smirked.
Henry felt sick. What the hell was he saying? He remembered that it was Carrie who recommended him for the job on the Thorpe home. No? Surely? Why? His head scrambled and fogged up.
‘So, we have Carrie Greenside’s car parked outside of your house, positively identified by a neighbour, around one a.m. and two a.m. in the early hours of Wednesday fifteenth of July. What have you to say about that?’
Henry stared at him blankly.
‘Social visit?’
Henry couldn’t speak. He’d called her, not knowing what to do… who to turn to…
‘Discussing kitchen worktops?’
Henry didn’t answer.
‘So, back to business. There were significant amounts of cocaine in Monika Thorpe’s blood from her toxicology report. We were wondering if you knew where she got it from. This is your opportunity, Henry, to describe the exact nature of your relationship with Monika Thorpe, because we’re searching your house and your van as we speak. You know how this works, Henry, I’ve read your file.’
‘It’s the husband you should be looking at, not me. He hit her and I saw the bruises.’
‘Hmm. So, Tuesday night. Where were you between the hours of eleven o’clock at night and three a.m. on Wednesday morning? I presume you and Ms Greenside were together?’