Anni stood up, handed her a card. ‘If you think of anything else, please call.’
Chrissie Burrows took the card without looking up.
With a uniform stepping in to take a statement from the distraught teacher, Anni went on to question Geraint Cooper. Relieved to be out of that hot room.
The police had requisitioned the nurse’s room for questioning and he was waiting for her there. At least it was slightly cooler than the classroom. Geraint Cooper was black and, she surmised, in his mid to late twenties. Neatly dressed, he sat with his hands in his lap. Anni didn’t believe in jumping to conclusions, and certainly not in stereotypes, but from his demeanour and attitude, she was sure Geraint Cooper was gay.
She sat down opposite him and introduced herself.
‘Mr Cooper, I’m DS Hepburn.’
They shook hands. She felt from his loose grip that he was shaking slightly.
‘I’ll try and make this as painless as possible,’ she said with a small smile. ‘You were at Claire Fielding’s last night along with Julie Simpson and Chrissie Burrows.’ Not a question, a statement.
He nodded.
‘What time did you leave?’
‘Around ten. Something like that.’
‘And where do you live?’
‘Dutch Quarter. Just up the road from Claire.’ His voice caught as he said her name.
‘How did you get home?’
‘Walked.’
‘And what would you say the mood was like when you left?’
He shrugged. ‘We were all having a good time. A good laugh.’ He looked straight at her. ‘Claire was enjoying herself. We all were.’
‘No arguments, nothing like that?’
He looked as if the question offended him. ‘No. Just having a laugh.’
‘And it was a baby shower?’
He nodded. ‘A baby shower. We brought our presents, opened some wine, had a laugh. God knows, she needed it.’
‘Claire? Why d’you say that?’
He sat back, his body language defensive, arms wrapped over his chest. ‘Because of
‘You mean Ryan Brotherton?’
He nodded.
‘What did he do?’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard all about it by now.’
‘Tell me again.’
‘He didn’t want the baby. Wanted her to get rid of it. She wouldn’t. She dumped him.’
Anni waited. He said no more. ‘And that’s it?’
He nodded, arms still wrapped tightly round his chest.
She changed her approach. ‘When you left, at around tenish, did you see anyone suspicious hanging about?’
He said nothing, thinking.
‘Either outside the flats, in the street, or even inside, on the stairs. Anyone. Anywhere.’
He sighed. His arms dropped, his posture relaxed. ‘I’ve been thinking about this all day. Over and over in my head. Trying to think…’
‘And was there? Anyone?’
He sighed. ‘No. No one. Sorry. I wish there had been.’
‘That’s all right. And Julie Simpson was still there when you left?’
He nodded.
‘Didn’t she have to get back home?’
‘Said she’d help Claire clear up.’
Knowing the answer, she asked the next question anyway, to check that the stories matched. ‘And were you the first to leave?’
He shook his head. ‘Chrissie went first. She had the furthest to travel. Wivenhoe way.’ He looked at her pointedly. ‘She didn’t drink too much. Didn’t want to get pulled over.’
Anni smiled again. ‘I don’t care about that. I’m just trying to find who killed Claire and Julie.’
He nodded, as if accepting that. ‘Well I think we know who did that, don’t we?’
‘Do we?’ Anni leaned forward slightly. ‘Who would that be, Mr Cooper?’
Geraint Cooper looked her square in the eyes. Anni realised that he was shaking not from nerves but from anger. ‘Well it’s obvious, isn’t it? Claire’s ex. That bastard Ryan Brotherton. He killed her.’
16
DS Clayton Thompson glanced quickly round. No one about. No one following him.
He had left the station and walked down Headgate towards the town centre. The shops were thinking about closing, and with the night drawing in, the bars and restaurants in front of him along Head Street were becoming alluring. He felt their pull on him now, even on a weekday.
Clayton still liked nothing better than to hit a few bars on a night off with his mates, see what he could pull. He thought he would have had enough of it after years in uniform, clearing up on weekend nights when the town-centre pubs were swarming with squaddies from the garrison, hitting on town girls and students, hungry for anything they could get a hold of, ready to fight for it if necessary, but he hadn’t. He looked back fondly on those times; it was good, uncomplicated fun. Bash a few heads together, a few free drinks or whatever else was going.
And it wasn’t all one-way traffic with the squaddies: Clayton had seen plenty of predatory middle-aged women, their bodies squeezed into clothes designed for teenagers, desperately trying to remove the wedding rings from fattened fingers, as if that mattered, bar-hopping in the hope of attracting a young, fit squaddie for the night. In his uniform days he had been called on to break up plenty of fights as young men, having failed to get off with anyone their own age, fought over these women, the women themselves turned on at the sight, thrilled to be a trophy for the winner.
And if they failed to get off with a squaddie, he remembered, a smile crawling across his face, a copper would often do.
But alluring as that was, he had to ignore the memories, the pull of the bars. It would be so easy just to sit there, have a few beers, let it wash away. But he couldn’t. Things had become serious. He had to take action. And he needed privacy for the call he was about to make.
He took out his mobile, dialled a number from his address book. It was a number he hadn’t used for quite a while, but he hadn’t deleted it. He had thought it might come in handy some time. One way or another.
He had lied to Phil when he told him he was following up a lead. Nothing personal, but he had no choice. This was damage limitation. This was his career at stake. He hadn’t gone to look into anything. He had just been walking round the town centre trying to sort everything out, work out what to do next. Whatever he did, he had to tread carefully. Make sure any move he made left him protected.
He turned off the main road, ducked down Church Walk, all boarded-up shops and lock-ups, headed towards the church and the graveyard, ignoring the teen goths and the drinking school gathered by the rusted old gates. The trees and tombstones looked desolate against the darkening sky. It was like the backdrop for some cliched old Hammer film.
The phone was answered.
‘It’s me,’ he said.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. He waited.
‘I knew you’d call,’ a voice said eventually.
