The atmosphere was about as tense as it could get. They had been waiting for a good few minutes; Jo Soulsby and her solicitor, William Oliver, on one side of the table, Detective Superintendent Bright on the other, all of them wondering what was keeping Daniels. Keen to get the interview underway, and growing increasingly angry, Bright looked at his watch and let out a frustrated sigh. He wasn’t prepared to start until he was good and ready to do so, but, a few minutes later – spurred on by complaints from Oliver – he picked up the internal phone and punched the number for the incident room.
‘Have you found her yet?’ he asked.
Oliver tapped the dial on his own wristwatch, making a show of his growing impatience. He was a small, stern-looking man in his late forties – Jo Soulsby’s friend and brief for over twenty years. He could have done without the delay, not to mention the ridiculous allegation against one of his dearest friends. He flinched as Bright barked into the handset.
‘Well, where the bloody hell is she?’
Oliver glared at him. ‘Superintendent, I have other clients to see. I think we’ve waited long enough, don’t you?’
Bright ignored him, his thoughts with Kate Daniels. She’d been acting out of character lately and he’d let it go. But her absence this morning with no notification – let alone explanation – was unforgiveable, a liberty too far. Even though he had a soft spot for her, he knew he’d have to pull her into line. Forced to proceed without her, he turned his attention back to the phone.
‘Get Carmichael in here, now!’ he said.
He hung up.
Daniels slipped quietly into the observation room. Through a two-way mirror, she could see that the interview had been going on for a while: statements, exhibits, crime-scene photographs lay on the table, along with plastic beakers and a jug of water she knew from experience would be warm.
Lisa Carmichael appeared to be savouring her first experience of sitting in with the guv’nor who was poised like a cheetah waiting for that split second when the moment was right to pounce. Oliver, on the other hand, seemed far from impressed. In fact, he appeared to find Bright’s approach extremely tiresome. Sighing loudly, the solicitor whispered something to his client, using his hand to shield his mouth, before replying on her behalf.
‘My client has already answered your question, Superintendent. Did she not just state that she has no knowledge whatsoever of how that photograph came to be in her bin?’
Bright moved on. ‘CCTV puts you on the Quayside shortly after midnight, Mrs Soulsby. Where were you between leaving the reunion and getting into a taxi at one thirty?’
He paused, inviting Jo to tender an alibi.
None was forthcoming.
Oliver intervened. ‘Can we just stick to the facts?’
Carmichael’s eyes flitted from Oliver to Jo and back again. She rested her forearms on the table so she could read over Bright’s shoulder, no doubt grateful that Daniels had been ‘inexplicably delayed’.
‘Mrs Soulsby,’ Bright continued, ‘we have a witness who will testify that you were in a dirty and confused state when you arrived home. Can you explain that?’
‘I can’t help you.’ Jo turned her head away, unaware of Daniels’ presence in the room next door. The two women were looking straight at each other on opposite sides of a party wall. Bright glanced at his notes and fired off another question, giving Jo no time to dwell on the last.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘the weapon used to kill Alan Stephens was found close to your office. Do you wish to comment on that?’
He relaxed back in his seat, using his steely eyes to intimidate Jo.
The silence in the room was deafening.
‘Superintendent!’ Oliver damn near exploded. ‘You can do better than that, surely? I asked for evidence! Have you found gun residue on my client or her clothing?’ He waited for Bright to respond. ‘No, I didn’t think so. Your question is irrelevant. I’ll let you in on a little secret: that gun was discovered closer to my home than it was to Ms Soulsby’s office. Are you going to arrest me, too?’
Carmichael was enjoying the battle. She was getting the lesson of her police career. Bright wasn’t in the least put off by Oliver’s sarcasm. Sensing her adulation, he loosened his tie and revved up for the kill, pushing a package in Soulsby’s direction.
‘Do you recognize this? It’s your coat. The one you took to the dry cleaner’s within hours of your ex-husband’s death.’
Jo chose not to answer.
‘Refusing to comment will do you no good in the long run, as you well know. This is your opportunity to set the record straight.’
Jo watched Bright pour himself a beaker of water. He took a sip, letting his comment linger a while in everyone’s mind. She was frustrated with all the questions. The man asking them was not someone she had much time for. And she knew the feeling was mutual – they’d never seen eye to eye. By reputation, he was apparently good at his job, a detective others – including Kate Daniels – tried to emulate.
Did he really think she looked like a killer?
Jo thought about this for a while. She had to concede that most killers she’d ever come across looked like your average person. They bore no distinguishing features, marking them out from the rest of society. Most went about their business just as she did: working, spending time with family and friends, eating, drinking, sleeping . . .
Suddenly very tired, she wanted the interview to come to an end so she could go home and climb into bed. She was innocent, and Bright had no evidence to prove otherwise.
‘I haven’t lived with him for years . . .’ Jo pinched the bridge of her nose, meeting her accuser’s eyes across the table. ‘You know that to be the case, Superintendent. What reason would I have to kill him?’
‘I’m coming to that,’ Bright said confidently, keeping his trump card up his sleeve for just a moment longer.
On the other side of the party wall, Daniels’ face was red with anger and frustration. She knew what was coming and cursed her guv’nor under her breath. She could remember sitting where Carmichael was now. Watching Bright in action that first time had seemed amazing. It felt like only yesterday, not some ten years ago. He was skilled at interviewing suspects, knew instinctively which buttons to press and how hard to press them. He’d taught her so much: how timing was almost as important as the evidence itself, spotting the precise moment to turn the knife. That was the key to getting a confession. Tripping the suspect up, forcing them to make the mistake that would put them inside for a very long time. But with all that was going on in his life, Daniels began to wonder whether he was losing his touch.
Couldn’t he see he was getting it wrong?
Despite the police surgeon’s assertion that Jo was fit to be interviewed, Daniels suspected she was still traumatized by the accident. Bright would make mincemeat of her and nothing Oliver could say or do would stop him. He was on the brink of asking another question when he was interrupted by a knock at the door.
‘Come!’ he yelled, glancing at Carmichael.
From her position in the observation room, it was clear to Daniels that they both expected her to come walking through the door. She grew anxious when Robson entered, carrying a package of some kind, which she assumed must be another exhibit, something vitally important to the case.
‘For the benefit of the recording, DS Robson has entered the room.’ Bright couldn’t mask his disappointment. He got to his feet, joining Robson in a corner. They stood with their backs to Daniels, talking in low whispers. She couldn’t see their faces, nor hear what was said, but their muted conversation didn’t last long.
Dismissing Robson, Bright took the package. As he turned back to the others, Daniels detected a familiar look – a triumphant look that put the fear of God into her. He approached the table and sat down, fingering the package in his hand before placing it very deliberately on the table, halfway between himself and Jo. This piece of drama was calculated in its intent, a classic method of raising the stakes and putting the suspect under pressure.
‘Mrs Soulsby, have you ever visited number 24 Court Mews?’
‘It’s Ms Soulsby . . . and no, I have not.’
‘Are you certain about that?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘So you have never been in Alan Stephens’ apartment before?’
‘That is what I said.’
‘Are you familiar with the term “provable lies”?’
‘You patronizing bastard! You know I am!’
Picking up the package he’d so carefully and theatrically placed in the centre of the table, Bright opened it to reveal an unremarkable and commonplace photo frame with a mounted picture of Alan and Monica Stephens inside. He held it aloft so that Jo and Oliver could see it clearly.
‘For the benefit of the recording, I’m showing Ms Soulsby exhibit FMD0811, a photograph . . .’ He paused for effect. ‘Have you ever seen this before?’
‘No.’
‘Any idea who the subject is?’
‘Alan . . . and his current wife, I presume.’
‘Explain to me how your prints came to be on this photo frame.’
Jo faltered, processing this. ‘They can’t have been!’
Jo stared at Oliver and shook her head. The solicitor remained poker-faced and said nothing. There was a short pause as Bright let the gravity of the information sink in.
In the viewing room, Daniels sat down. She felt so betrayed, it was hard to concentrate, even harder to accept what she’d just heard. The fingerprint bureau had produced the trump card: irrefutable evidence that Jo had visited Stephens’ apartment, if not on the night of the murder, then at some time in the past. She’d given Jo every opportunity to take her into her confidence. Whatever the reason for her silence, Jo had created yet another blindside for Daniels to deal with.
Didn’t she know that whoever knows the truth has the most power?
Bright was staring at Jo across the table, savouring his moment of victory, letting his suspect reconsider her position. He shuffled a few papers and stood up. As he walked away from the table, Jo appeared to relax a little. She obviously thought the interview was over.
Daniels knew it wasn’t . . . not in a million years.
‘In the past, you alleged that Alan Stephens raped you, is that correct?’
Bright said it matter-of-factly, as if he’d been talking about something inconsequential like the wintry weather outside. It was done for a purpose and left Jo visibly stunned. Turning her face away from him, she looked towards the two-way mirror separating the adjoining rooms. Looking hurt and betrayed, her anger was so near to the surface it very nearly brought tears to her eyes as she sensed Daniels watching the proceedings.
She turned back to face her accuser. ‘That’s a lowballer, Superintendent. Pity your lot weren’t a bit interested when it happened. I could have done with your support.’
Bright pushed a little harder, unconcerned with her distress. He was enjoying himself, playing to the audience, an audience of one. From the look of her, Carmichael sensed their suspect was near to breaking point.
‘You hated him, didn’t you?’ Bright waited. ‘DIDN’T YOU?’
In the observation room, Daniels flinched, urging Jo not to let him wind her up, wondering when Oliver was going to start earning his big fat fee.
As if he’d read her thoughts, Oliver suddenly spoke up. ‘That is quite enough! You’re now being hostile, Superintendent. My client needs a break.’
Jo was seething, struggling to keep a lid on her temper. Daniels noticed that her face had lost its colour and her lips had gone pale. They always did when she was angry.
Then she began to fight back. ‘You’re a bully, Bright – just like he was,’ she said. ‘Yes, I hated him. I hated him with a passion, if you must know. But there’s no law against that.’
She locked eyes with him across the table, holding his stare until he looked away. Bright placed the framed photograph back inside the envelope it had arrived in, smiling to himself as he did so.
‘This alleged rape sounds like—’
‘HE DID RAPE ME!’ Jo yelled.
‘Of that I have no doubt,’ Bright said, his tone more sympathetic. ‘That’s why you killed him – for revenge. Isn’t that the truth of it?’
Jo’s jaw hardened. She didn’t answer.
‘You were seen on the Quayside at the relevant time in a dishevelled state.’
‘Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know. I told you, I can’t remember.’
‘The murder weapon was found near your office.’
Oliver insisted they take a break.
Bright ignored him and rounded on Jo. ‘The victim is your ex-husband, a man you claim raped you and readily admit you hated. You deny being in his apartment, yet we discovered your fingerprints inside. I think you killed him and you’re pretending to suffer from a loss of memory because you have no other option. Josephine Soulsby, I will be formally charging you with the offence of murdering Alan Stephens, contrary to common law . . .’
Jo’s admission of hatred resonated in Daniels’ mind long after she’d left the observation room. She made off quickly down the corridor to avoid bumping into her boss. It didn’t surprise her that Jo hadn’t completely broken down. She’d vowed never again to allow herself to be bullied and had risen from the ashes of domestic violence a much stronger person. Today she’d proved that, giving as good as she’d received under extreme pressure.
The murder investigation team had their heads down as Daniels re-entered the incident room. Seconds later, she felt a light jab in the back. Turning round, she came face to face with Bright. He didn’t look best pleased.
‘You’d better have a good excuse, Kate. Going AWOL in the middle of a major incident is not to be recommended. You and I need to talk . . .’ He sighed, searching her eyes for a moment. ‘We’re going for a drink, if you’d like to join us.’
‘Think I’ll pass, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Suit yourself.’
As he stormed off with Carmichael in tow, Daniels picked up her bag and followed suit, slamming the door behind her, drawing the stares of the majority of those in the MIR.
Gormley approached Maxwell’s desk. ‘What was that all about?’
Maxwell shrugged his shoulders. ‘If you ask me, she’s losing it.’
Through the window, Gormley saw the Toyota racing away.