Martinu clutched at the straw. ‘Maybe I did. It was dark when they came. I might not have seen exactly who was where.’ It sounded weak, unconvincing.
‘I don’t think so,’ Paula said gently. ‘I think the priest was just a handy scapegoat. Not a very clever move, to try to frame someone who knows your own little secrets.’
Martinu flushed a dark red. ‘He’s a liar.’
‘You don’t even know what I’m going to say.’
‘It doesn’t matter, it’ll be a lie. He’s trying to smear me, to make out like I’m the guilty one, the liar.’
‘To be honest, Jezza, we don’t need Father Keenan’s testimony to work out that you’re a liar. And besides, the material on your computer reinforces what he told us. You lied about who delivered those bodies.’
‘Is there a question in there, Inspector?’ Cohen was trying belligerence now, but his manner was too languid to be entirely convincing.
‘No, but there is one coming. You leave us with two options, Jezza. Either you committed these murders yourself—’
‘I never,’ he shouted. ‘I’m not a killer.’ He slammed his hands down on the table. ‘I never killed anybody.’
‘Either you committed these murders yourself or you’re shielding the person who did,’ Paula continued, apparently unperturbed. ‘Which is it?’
Martinu looked at the table. ‘I did not kill those people.’
‘Then who are you covering for? Whoever it is, they clearly don’t give a damn about you. They’re happy to let you sit here, hour after hour, carrying the can. You let yourself be used when you dug those graves, and you’re letting yourself be used again now.’
Cohen leaned over and murmured something in Martinu’s ear. He nodded and straightened up. ‘No comment.’
‘A bit late for that, Jezza. You’re already condemned out of your own mouth. Illegal burials. Aiding and abetting a murderer. You’re going to jail, Jezza. For a long time. Maybe a life sentence. Say goodbye to fresh air and fresh vegetables and the boardroom at Bradfield Vic and spying on teenage girls in their underwear. And for what? For somebody who’ll stay in the shadows and watch you twist in the wind.’
He clenched his fists tight and glared at Paula. ‘No comment,’ he ground out, his lips tight over his teeth.
Paula let the silence grow. She could almost feel a crackle in the air from the electricity between them. Then she glanced casually at Cohen. ‘Is it the same person who’s paying for your expensive lawyer and his expensive suit? Because I don’t usually see Mr Cohen in here defending working-class lads like you. He doesn’t usually get out of bed for anyone who lives in a house worth less than a cool million. Who are you shielding, Jezza?’
He blinked furiously, as if on the point of tears he’d die before shedding. ‘No fucking comment.’
‘Is it Mark? Your generous cousin Mark who takes you to the boardroom at Victoria Park? Your helpful cousin Mark, who lent you the money to buy your little slice of paradise, complete with its unorthodox fertiliser?’
Martinu stiffened, gripping the edge of the table white-knuckled.
Paula waited. Then said, ‘Not got a “No comment” for me this time?’
‘This. Is. Nothing. To do. With Mark.’ He spat the words out.
‘I don’t believe you, Jezza. I’m not seeing anybody else in your life that you’d protect like this. I’m giving you a chance now to save a bit of your skin. I can’t keep you out of prison, but if you help us now, we can find a way to keep your jail time as low as possible.’
Again, Cohen leaned into his client’s ear. He put a hand on Martinu’s arm and gave it a squeeze. Martinu looked away, and this time when he met Paula’s eye, there was something like a plea there. He sighed. ‘No comment.’
‘You leave me no choice, Jezza.’ Paula’s voice was a caress. She stood up and casually said to Karim, ‘Charge him,’ before walking out of the room.
She made it to the women’s toilet before she started shaking from the release of tension. Every time she came up against the moment in an interview when she knew she’d found the answer, it was the same old story. The cold sweat running down her body, the racing of the pulse and the clenching in her guts. She’d seen colleagues come out of the interview room punching the air and doing little victory dances. She’d seen Carol Jordan walking away as if she’d done nothing more momentous than the weekly shop. But for Paula, every time was a starburst of debilitating relief that she could still knock an interview out of the park. She leaned her forehead against the wall, breathing as rapidly as if she’d run up too many flights of stairs and wondered how many more times she could do this before she ended up as damaged as Carol Jordan.
44
It’s always tempting to wait for more information when you’re preparing a profile. But criminal investigations proceed piecemeal and it’s very rare that you get all the pieces for your particular jigsaw. Sometimes you have to work with what little you have.
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
The rising sun was a dim red ball behind a bank of cloud. A thin north wind brushed the surface of the sea into stiff waves. Carol savoured the salty air as she walked along a narrow path behind low sand dunes. Not another living soul in sight, not even an early morning dog walker. The peace and the view were scant compensation for being the tool of Vanessa’s vengeance.
She’d arrived in the tiny Northumberland coastal village under cover of darkness and scoped out the address Stacey Chen had pulled out of the Land Registry records. Carol wasn’t sure how she’d narrowed down the dozens of seaside properties that must have changed hands around the right time, but there it was on the record. Cove Cottage, owned by OTG Holdings. OTG – the initials of Oliver Tapsell Gardner.
I can’t find anything on OTG Holdings,
