‘She didn’t have to do it.’
‘Didn’t she?’ Zigic asked. ‘What would you have done in her situation?’
‘Took a guard hostage, fought my way out.’
She forced a smile and he managed an unconvincing chuckle in return.
‘Why do you think Sutherland wanted her to make the accusation?’ Ferreira asked. ‘Assuming we can even believe that part of the story.’
‘He says he loves her. Maybe he just wanted to make sure she wasn’t deported.’
‘Okay, let’s assume that’s right,’ she said. ‘Why Ainsworth in particular? Why not one of the guards? Sutherland and Ainsworth were supposed to be fairly friendly. What changed?’
Zigic considered it, feeling the hard ridges of the radiator cutting into his palms. ‘A guard would have been a much easier sell.’
‘Right. Ainsworth was Hammond’s golden boy from what we’ve heard. Even with a theoretically pretty credible report from Sutherland, he still didn’t entirely believe Josh was guilty.’ She spread her hands in a questioning shrug. ‘So why did Sutherland make life difficult for himself by trying to frame the most trustworthy member of Hammond’s staff?’
‘It’s got to be something personal,’ Zigic said.
‘We need to talk to Hammond.’
He checked his watch. Half past seven.
‘Find Hammond’s home address, let’s see if he’s any more forthcoming away from Long Fleet.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
‘I’m not usually a “first one up against the wall come the revolution” type,’ Ferreira said, as they pulled up outside James Hammond’s home. ‘But fucking seriously?’
‘Private-sector money.’ Zigic shrugged.
But it rankled him a little, too, seeing what keeping vulnerable women locked up in small cells for indefinite periods of time got you. A large stone cottage, five broad windows wide, with a thatched roof and four chimneys. His and hers Mercedes parked in the green oak garage and something sportier with a decal he couldn’t place, occupying the third bay. The houses around it were much the same. This was the village you moved to when you didn’t want mere middle-income earners as neighbours.
Ferreira stalked away from him along the pea gravel drive and by the time he caught up to her, she was banging on the front door with the side of her fist. Giving it the attitude of a bust rather than a request for assistance.
‘Best I lead, I think,’ he said.
She cocked her head at him. ‘Don’t trust my manners?’
‘He doesn’t like you.’
‘I’d worry if he did,’ she said, stepping back to allow him to fill the space on the doorstep between two deep red acers in lead planters.
James Hammond answered the door and even off duty he had a whiff of the managerial about him, dressed in chinos and a pink polo shirt, a cut-glass tumbler of Scotch in his hand.
‘You shouldn’t have come to my house,’ he said, making no attempt to hide his annoyance. ‘This is Long Fleet business and it belongs at Long Fleet. Make an appointment and I’ll see you tomorrow.’
He moved to close the door on them and Zigic shoved his forearm against the wood, holding it open.
‘We’re sorry to have to visit you like this, but it’s a matter of urgency and we’ll try not to keep you from your evening.’
Reluctantly Hammond let the door swing open again, but didn’t invite them in.
‘Do you really want to do this on your driveway?’ Zigic asked.
‘Fine.’ Hammond huffed, reached for a set of keys from a bowl on a console table and began to lead them towards the garage, up a set of exterior steps and into a large room, which covered the span of the building. It was set up like an artist’s studio, blank but primed canvases leaned up against the brilliant white walls, shelves of painting materials and brushes in tall ceramic pots. The works in progress were vibrant abstracts, impasto finishes and deep surfaces all bisected with spidery fault lines.
‘Your work?’ Zigic asked.
‘My daughter’s,’ Hammond said, full of pride. ‘She’s the artist.’
There was a faded orange-velvet chesterfield pushed up against one wall and Hammond waved them towards it. They sat as he pulled over a stool to sit on, awkward with his glass held in both hands between his thighs.
‘Have you charged Sutherland yet?’ he asked.
‘We still trying to figure out exactly what happened,’ Zigic told him. ‘But during questioning Nadia Baidoo told us that the accusation she brought against Josh was false.’
‘I bloody knew it,’ Hammond said bitterly. ‘I was sure he wasn’t like that.’
But you still sacked him, Zigic thought.
‘Why did she lie?’ Hammond asked.
‘She didn’t want to be deported.’
Hammond nodded. ‘The usual ploy then.’
‘You didn’t deport the other women who reported attacks?’ Ferreira asked.
‘It was case-dependent,’ Hammond said firmly.
‘And Nadia’s case wouldn’t have been compelling without the attack?’
‘I can’t recall the details at the present moment.’ He sipped his Scotch. ‘But she wouldn’t have been given leave to remain simply because she made an accusation against a member of staff, no. That would create a dangerous precedent. It would be tantamount to giving in to blackmail.’
Zigic didn’t believe him. From what they knew of Nadia’s case, her asylum status was based on her position as a dependant and the moment she reached eighteen and was no longer reliant on her mother, the law would have considered her safe to return to Ghana.
Hammond wasn’t going to admit that though and it had little bearing on their case anyway.
‘Can you remember who examined her after she was attacked?’ Zigic asked.
‘It would have been Sutherland,’ Hammond said, virtually spitting out his name. ‘Josh was the alleged perpetrator so Sutherland would have done the examination. There wasn’t anyone else.’
‘Nadia claims Sutherland concocted the allegation.’
‘Because he wanted to get her out of custody for his own use.’
Zigic winced at Hammond’s choice of words, apposite but brutal, and wondered if it was a comment on Sutherland or if Hammond’s role made it impossible to see those women as anything more than units on a balance sheet.
‘We assume that’s why,’ Ferreira
