At one point, about halfway through recording her statement, Dillon abruptly stood up and walked out of the interview room, his square jaw set tightly. Miller, who was halfway through a sentence at the time, had no idea why he had left so suddenly. She assumed that he needed to communicate urgently with one of his colleagues. She thought that Dillon’s conduct was extremely rude, but based on her limited experience of the man she concluded it was probably typical of him.
In truth, Dillon had left because he was on the verge of losing his temper with her, and that would have been highly unprofessional, especially as the interview was being taped.
He returned to the sparsely furnished room five minutes later, having regained his composure. He offered no explanation for his absence and continued the interrogation expertly.
In a nearby room, Bull and Flowers were conducting a similar interview with Julie Payne. She was faring much better than Terri, having been less antagonistic at the scene. During the interview she spoke candidly, holding nothing back. It soon became apparent that she had been an unwilling accomplice. At the end of the interview, Steve arranged for the locals to drop her off in Hanbury Street so that she could collect her car. She promised to contact them if anything new came to light.
◆◆◆
By the time they pulled up outside the apartment block where Terri lived, the cool bag had been sitting in her living room for over six hours.
“Nice place, I suppose, but not my cup of tea,” Flowers said, addressing Miller’s reflection in the rearview mirror.
“Couldn’t afford it anyway, kiddo, not on what they pay us,” Paul Evans said as he opened his door.
In the back, Miller was smarting about her replacement clothing: an ill-fitting, all-in-one paper suit and cheap black plimsolls that were two sizes too big. She looked like an escaped convict. “I’ll sue you if anyone sees me looking like this,” she threatened the back of Flowers' head as the detective switched the engine off.
The rear child locks were on so Evans had to open the rear door to let Miller out. “There you go, Miss Miller,” he said.
Terri slid out of the Astra in silence. She prayed the concierge would be busy in his little office and the foyer would be deserted. She would simply die of embarrassment if anyone she knew saw her looking like that. As she reached the halfway point between the car and the foyer, a black Porsche 911 convertible, its engine purring, glided to a halt next to the Astra. Cursing under her breath she raised her hand up to shield her face and increased the length of her step. “Hey Teresa, nice threads!” the driver shouted, studying her strange attire with amusement.
Tears of anger pricked Miller’s eyes, and she thought she would simply die of shame. “I told you we should have used the back entrance,” she complained, keeping her head bowed. “This is so embarrassing.” Walking as briskly as she could without making her discomfort too obvious, Terri ignored the Porsche driver and focused on reaching the entrance.
Kelly glanced back inquisitively. The man sitting behind the wheel of the sports car was in his late twenties and deeply tanned. Not a single gelled hair was out of place. He wore an expensive blue silk shirt with matching red tie and braces. A thick gold bracelet dangled from his wrist as he waved at the reporter. “Cute,” she said approvingly.
“What? Him?” Paul Evans asked, surprised.
“No, silly, the car,” Kelly corrected him with an impish grin. Compared to the five-year-old Renault that she owned, the Porsche was positively sex on wheels. As for the driver, well she had her heart fixed on a real man; not some jumped up yuppie. She would leave that sort to the Terri Millers of this world.
“Do you know that bloke in the car then, Miss Miller?” Evans asked as he caught up with Terri. She ignored the question. “Look, he’s waving at you. Don’t you think you ought to wave back?” he persisted.
“Oh, shut up!” Terri snapped at him. She had never been so humiliated in all her life. As they reached the communal entrance Evans dropped back a tad, falling into step with his colleague.
“She doesn’t seem particularly happy, does she?” he whispered to Kelly.
Kelly raised a finger to her lips and made a shushing sound. “We don’t want to upset her ladyship, do we?”
“I heard that,” Terry shouted without looking back. “And don’t think I don’t know that you’re enjoying this.”
◆◆◆
“Hello, Mrs Phillips. This is Detective Chief Inspector Jack Tyler. I’m the officer in charge of the investigation into your daughter’s murder.” He wondered if he still would be, come the end of the day. The way things were going, it was far from being a certainty. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but there’s been a development that I think you should know about.”
This was the first time they had spoken, and Jack wasn’t looking forward to the impending conversation. In fact, he was dreading it. After all, what could you possibly say to someone who had lost a loved one in the most brutal of circumstances? ‘I’d like to offer my sincere condolences for your loss,’ seemed woefully inadequate. For him, talking to the recently bereaved was one of the most difficult aspects of his job. Compared to that, a week in the witness box, being grilled by even the most ruthless and aggressive of defence barristers, seemed like a walk in the park.
Kelly had developed a good relationship with Rita, and had been keeping the elderly lady up to date on the investigation’s progress, but it wouldn’t be right for Rita Phillips to hear this particular piece of news from
