But they’d be back.
Meanwhile, he had to keep busy. If he started fretting about what they might ask him and what he might say, he’d start to come apart at the seams. He couldn’t afford to do that. He had far too much to lose.
Jezza turned to the large cardboard carton that occupied half the floor space of the shed. It had a certain resemblance to a cardboard coffin. He couldn’t suppress a nervous snigger. What would that female cop have thought if she’d seen that?
He took down a craft knife and swiftly slit the adhesive tape that held the box shut. The top folded back to reveal a stack of MDF panels of different sizes. A packet of screws, dowels and hinges was taped to the side, along with a booklet of instructions. Under his expert hands, it would soon resolve itself into a cabinet that would provide the perfect storage for his collection of Bradfield Victoria programmes. He’d already downloaded a graphic of the club crest and had it made into a pair of stencils for the cabinet door.
Jezza sighed with contentment. Assembling the cabinet then filing his programmes. Here was something to take his mind off the craziness going on beyond his front door.
Everything was going to be fine.
21
It’s axiomatic that in order to read a crime scene, you have to know where the crime took place. That might seem insultingly self-evident, but appearances can be deceptive, especially if you’re dealing with a killer who can keep a cool head. Seeing beyond that mask is the hardest part.
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
Interview rooms in lawyers’ offices had nothing in common with those in police stations. Carol supposed she’d better get used to that. There was something to be said for her new circumstances – a comfortable chair, a plate of expensive biscuits, a mug of decent coffee, a couple of impressively dramatic paintings of coastal landscapes on the wall . . . Even a box of tissues, just in case. And not a trace of recording equipment anywhere.
She had no nostalgia for her former working environment, however. She just wasn’t sure this was somewhere she could comfortably use her skills. She glanced at her phone. Bronwen Scott was late. When Carol had called to say she was willing to have a further discussion, Bronwen had suggested meeting at her office during the lunchtime court recess, but Carol knew it was more than likely that something had cropped up in court that had encroached on the lawyer’s time. She’d give her half an hour, then she’d have to leave for her next meeting.
Carol shook her head, smiling at herself. Overnight she’d gone from having nothing but time to being a woman with appointments. In spite of her best intentions, she found she didn’t mind. She’d worked through her PTSD exercises before she’d left home and while she couldn’t say she felt entirely in command of herself, she thought she could handle a couple of meetings.
On that thought, Bronwen Scott bustled into the room. ‘Sorry, Carol. Tiny bit of hand-holding required.’ She let herself fall into a chair with an ‘oof’ of relief. ‘Thanks for coming in.’
Carol started to say something but Bronwen held up a hand and steamrollered over her. ‘I know you’re not committing to anything by being here, but I appreciate your willingness to even consider this.’
A tap on the door and a young man in shirtsleeves came in with a blue cardboard folder. ‘The Neilson summary,’ he said, handing it to Bronwen. He gave Carol a tight little smile and hustled out.
‘That’s John. He’s a trainee and he’s smart enough to know that volunteering on this will earn him a place in my good books.’
It was, Carol thought, precisely the sort of line people expected from Bronwen and she suspected that was the reason for its delivery. She nodded at the folder. ‘This is the case?’
‘Saul Neilson. Currently serving life for murder. He’s thirty-one now, sentenced when he was twenty-eight for a crime he allegedly committed when he was twenty-seven. He was a landscape architect, living in Bradfield but working for a firm based in Leeds.’ Bronwen opened the folder and passed it to Carol. The top sheet was a head shot of a scowling mixed-race man, brows drawn down over liquid brown eyes. There was nothing particularly striking about him, apart from his beautiful eyes. ‘That’s Saul.’
‘Looks innocuous,’ Carol said, non-committal.
‘He is. No previous, never been in trouble with the law, happy at work, no beef of any substance with any of his colleagues. Member of the local squash club, round about the middle of the ranking ladder. Owned a high-end mountain bike, went out at weekends with a couple of mates.’
‘Sounds like a model citizen.’ Carol flipped to the next page. ‘Until he was charged with the murder of Lyle Tate.’ She looked up. ‘Somebody’s parents had a sweet tooth or a poor sense of humour.’
Bronwen scoffed. ‘Or they were too thick to notice they were naming their lad after a bag of sugar. But, yes. Until he was charged with Lyle Tate’s murder, he’d not put a foot wrong.’
‘What’s so special about this case?’ Carol knew she’d find the answer in the file, but it was always helpful to hear what struck other people as important.
‘It’s a no body. They nailed him on circumstantial and the interpretation of the forensic evidence. He’s always maintained his innocence, his explanation is credible. What we need is to find a loose thread to pull so we can unravel the prosecution case enough to get him in front
