Bleed For Me

‘Who was he?’

‘Fuck knows!’

‘But you saw him.’

‘Not up close. He was mid-thirties, maybe older.’

Ancient.

‘What sort of car was he driving?’

‘A Ford Focus. The five-door two-litre estate. Silver.’

‘You remember the number?’

‘Yeah, I tattooed it on my foreskin so I wouldn’t forget.’

Danny laughs and decides he’s going to remember the line and use it on his mates in the workshop.

‘Would you recognise the driver again?’

‘I’d recognise the car. I’m good with cars.’

No longer anxious, Danny picks up a butter knife and begins scraping a speck of dirt from beneath his thumbnail. He has a habit of nodding his head as though he’s agreeing with himself.

‘This day you watched and waited, what happened?’

‘The old dude made Sienna duck down. I figured he wanted a blowjob, you know, but they just drove off.’

‘What about last Tuesday - did you see his car?’

‘Nah. I just dropped her.’

‘So you didn’t see the guy who picked her up?’

Danny shakes his head.

‘What were you doing at Sienna’s house next morning?’

Danny hesitates for a beat too long. I don’t give him time to make excuses.

‘Listen very carefully to me, Danny. I’m happy to let your secret life stay secret, but not if you lie to me.’

He looks at me sheepishly.

‘I tried to call Sienna, but she wasn’t answering. I was driving home from my mate’s place and I went by Sienna’s house - hoping I might see her. Place was crawling with coppers.

‘Why did you run?’

His shoulders rise and fall. ‘I didn’t want to get involved.’

The age-old story.

Danny lets out a low, whistling breath. ‘They said her old man had his throat cut. Never seen a dead body - not one like that. What did he look like?’

Outside: darkness. The wind has freshened and a beech tree groans in protest from a corner of the garden where the moon is hiding in the branches.

Monk leans on the car. ‘Get what you wanted?’

‘Sienna was seeing someone else. Somebody older. There must be evidence: emails, text messages, letters . . . we have to search Sienna’s room.’

‘It’s been searched,’ says Monk.

Yes, but her laptop was missing and her mobile was damaged in the river. We’ll need to retrieve her messages from the phone company database and her Internet server.

‘Sienna does some babysitting for her drama teacher, Gordon Ellis. According to Helen Hegarty, Ray saw this teacher kissing Sienna in his car when she was being dropped home. He made a complaint to the school.’

‘When was this?’

‘In the week before the murder. Ellis could be the person Ray Hegarty was arguing with outside his house. You should find out what sort of car he drives.’

Monk scratches his unshaven jaw with his knuckles. ‘The boss is going to say you’re muddying the water.’

Is that what I’m doing?

‘I’m trying to understand what happened.’

‘What if she’s guilty?’

‘What if she’s not?’

Monk seems to think carefully, as though taking a conscience vote. He’s a family man who worries about his own children. He’s also a realist and knows how the truth can be manipulated, ameliorated and negotiated away at every stage of an investigation and trial. That’s the reality of modern policing. Overworked, underpaid and unappreciated, investigators are forced to cut corners and paint over their mistakes. Usually, with a little luck, the facts fall into place and the right person goes down. And even if the system fails, detectives can normally sleep peacefully at night because the defendant was probably guilty of something equally terrible. Truly innocent people very rarely go to jail. That’s the theory. It’s normally the practice. Then someone like Sienna Hegarty comes along.

On the drive home I listen to PM on Radio 4, Eddie Mair analysing the events of the day.

Jury members broke down in tears today as they were shown photographs of a Ukrainian family including three young children who perished in a fire-bomb attack on a Bristol boarding house.

Two of the children, Aneta and Danya Kostin, aged four and six, were found huddled in a second-floor bedroom. Their eleven-year-old sister Vira perished on the first-floor landing, near to where their parents’ bodies were discovered. All were overcome by smoke after petrol was allegedly poured through the letterbox and petrol bombs were thrown through the windows.

Neighbours told Bristol Crown Court of hearing windows breaking and seeing a white Ford transit van leaving the scene moments before flames were spotted on the ground floor of the building. A forensic expert also presented fingerprint evidence linking one of the three accused, Tony Scott, to a petrol container used in the attack . . .

I turn off the radio. Crack the window. The cold air helps me concentrate.

Parking the car outside the terrace, I walk down the hill to the cottage and sit outside on a stone wall in the shadows of low branches. The lights are on downstairs. A TV flickers behind the curtains.

Something pushes me up the path. My finger hovers over the doorbell.

Julianne opens the door a crack. ‘Hello?’

‘Hi.’

‘Is everything OK?’

‘Fine. I just thought I’d drop by. How are you?’

‘I’m good.’

There is a pause that stretches out in my mind, becoming embarrassing.

Julianne opens the door wider. ‘Do you want to come in?’

I step past her and wait for her to close the door. She’s been watching TV, but the sound is now turned down.

‘Where’s Charlie?’ I ask, glancing up the stairs.

‘Babysitting.’

‘Who is she looking after?’

‘A little boy in Emma’s class.’

Julianne curls up in an armchair by the fire. A book lies open on the armrest. A cup of tea is empty on the table next to her.

‘How was your date with Harry?’ I ask.

She holds up her hand and rocks her palm from side to side. ‘So-so. I discovered that he’s rather controlling.’

‘How?’

‘I asked for the dessert menu and he made such a fuss.’

I feel a stab of guilt. ‘That’s very odd.’

Julianne pushes hair back behind her ears. ‘I doubt you came here to talk about Harry.’ She smiles and effortlessly takes repossession of my heart.