‘But-’
Anni appeared at the end of the room. ‘Boss?’
He looked between Anni and Marina, torn. ‘Marina…’
‘Later,’ she said, using the distraction as an excuse to leave. ‘We will talk. Later. Promise.’
And she was across the room, out of the door.
Phil watched her go, then caught sight of Anni, still waiting in the doorway. He shook his head once more, went to see what his DC wanted.
68
Phil stood outside the interview room. Flattened himself against the wall. His head was spinning, everything spiralling and pinwheeling, making him feel nauseous and giddy. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply. Tried to clear his mind of everything that was going on around him, jettison the lot, narrow his attention down to just one thing. One person. One objective.
Getting Sophie Gale to talk.
Brotherton’s interview had been big, but this was even bigger. The biggest so far.
He took a deep breath, then another. Willing his heart rate to slow as he did so. Calm. Concentrated. Focused. Not an angry man wanting to avenge the death of a colleague. Not a grieving friend. He couldn’t allow any of that to spill over in the room. There would be time enough for that later. For now, he was a professional with a job to do.
He checked the file under his arm, flicked through the pages once more. Paid close attention to the paper that Anni had given him. Then he closed the file, opened the door, went inside, closed it behind him.
Sophie Gale sat at the table, staring straight ahead. She was sitting upright, not slumped, as he might have expected, her hands on the table in front of her, crossed at the wrists. Her hair hung down lank at either side of her face. She didn’t look up as he entered. The only sign that she acknowledged his presence was a double blink.
He sat down in front of her, put the file on the table, looked at her. And was surprised at what he saw. What glamour she’d had was now gone, her cheap sexual allure dissipated. Her face was blank, white, her eyes inexpressive, like a death mask. She wasn’t even looking at him, just staring in his direction.
Phil studied her. His first reaction would have been that she was in shock. But that didn’t seem right; he didn’t get that feeling from her. He got no sense of the emotional imbalance that shock often engendered. He looked at her once more, deep into her eyes. And found a spark there, a dark, burning spark. He sat back, understanding. She had no more need to pretend. The masks she wore, the ones that had fooled Brotherton and Clayton, were no longer necessary. She had stripped them away, leaving only her death-like face on view, her rage-fuelled inner core still driving her.
Now, thought Phil, he had to find the reason for that rage and work with it. That would be the only way to get answers about what had happened, to work out what was going on, to find the baby and stop a murderer.
He took a second or two to compose himself; then, aware that the custody clock would start ticking with his first question, he started. First he introduced himself to the tape, then he introduced Sophie; he remarked that she had waived the right to legal representation at this stage.
‘So what happened, Sophie?’
No response, just those same staring eyes.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘you killed Clayton. Clayton Thompson. Why?’
Nothing.
‘Did you have an argument? A fight? Did he… did he try to come on to you?’
A slight reaction, a twitch of her lips, then nothing once more.
Phil sighed. ‘Come on, Sophie, help me out here. How can I understand, how can I try to help you if you won’t let me?’
He waited, sure that his words would get a response, one way or another. He was right.
‘You can’t.’ Her voice was small and empty. It perfectly matched the expression on her face.
‘What d’you mean, I can’t? I can’t help you or I can’t understand you?’
She shrugged. ‘Both.’
His voice dropped low, talking like a counsellor or a friend. ‘Why? Tell me. Make me understand.’
She sighed. ‘It’s too late for that.’ She shook her head, her lips lifting in an approximation of a smile. ‘Too late.’
‘For who? For what?’
‘It’s always been too late.’ Her head fell forward, her hair forming a curtain between herself and Phil’s questions.
Phil tried a new approach. ‘Why Clayton, then? Hmm? Why my DS, why him?’ He mentally pulled back. Kept his rage and guilt in check. ‘Why not Ryan Brotherton or… I don’t know. One of your earlier clients. Why Clayton?’
She put her head up once more, her eyes still staring straight ahead. She seemed to be giving the question some thought. ‘Because… because he stopped helping me.’
‘Helping you? Helping you to do what?’
‘To…’ She shook her head, looked away. He had lost her once more.
Another change of approach, Phil thought. He opened the file he had brought with him. This one wasn’t for show. This one had facts and details in it. ‘Sophie Gale,’ he said, reading down the first page. ‘Real name Gail Johnson. First came to our attention six years ago, when you were arrested for soliciting. You came to an agreement. Became a paid informant. Then you gave it up and disappeared. Why?’
‘Got sick of the life.’
‘Fair enough. Then you turn up again with Ryan Brotherton. And he’s wanted for questioning in relation to a murder inquiry. At first we think he may be the killer. There’s a lot of evidence to suggest that. Hell of a lot. But it’s not him, is it?’
No response.
‘No. It’s not. But it does look like someone has gone to a lot of trouble to get us interested in him. Now why would that be?’
No response.
Phil sat back, looking at her again. ‘You like magic, Sophie?’
Her eyes met his. She looked confused.
‘It’s not a trick question. D’you like magic? Illusions, I mean. Not like Harry Potter and stuff.’
She shrugged. ‘S’pose so.’
‘Thought you might. You know how magic works? You don’t have to answer, I’ll tell you. Misdirection. If a magician’s very good, he gets you looking where he wants you to look, seeing what he wants you to see. You don’t see what he’s really up to. You don’t see the coins being tucked away and palmed, ready to be pulled out later, the cards placed where he wants them. The things up his sleeve. Just what he wants you to see. Right?’
Another shrug.
Phil leaned forward, his words hard, his voice soft. ‘And that’s what you did with us, Sophie. You got us looking at Ryan Brotherton. Got us thinking that he was a murderer. Looking for connections with all the other victims, not just Claire Fielding, throwing doubt on his alibi, making yourself out to be a poor little battered wife-in-waiting. Scared of the big bad man. All the while you were playing him. And us. Covering for the real killer, making us miss the real connections. Misdirection.’
She said nothing, but the set of her jaw had changed. Phil wasn’t sure, but he sensed that she was taking pride from his words.
He was pleased that what he was saying was having the right effect. ‘Regular little Paul Daniels. Except it all went wrong, didn’t it? That last one, that wasn’t mean to happen, was it? Not so soon. Certainly not while we had Brotherton in custody and could give him a watertight alibi.’
He studied her face once more. She took his words in, processed them. Clearly not happy with what he was saying.
‘Now we know it isn’t you. Because you were here when the last one happened. But we do know that you know
