‘I need you to give me access to the group, okay?’
With a trembling hand Ruby opened her phone’s case and keyed in her code.
‘For Josh,’ she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Ferreira was prowling up and down the rows of desks, to the board and back, pausing occasionally to look across Parr’s shoulder as he typed up the witness statement about the Paggetts’ kidnapping plans, then over Keri Bloom’s shoulder as she reviewed the CCTV footage from around Portia Collingwood’s house.
She didn’t linger very long there, Zigic noticed from his office window.
Collingwood wasn’t out of the frame as far as he was concerned, but there was no denying the increased likelihood that it was the Paggetts who had something to do with Josh Ainsworth’s death.
The problem was, as certain as Ferreira was, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that they were innocent. They were angry and nasty and had a long history of criminality, but somehow he couldn’t buy the idea of such an inept kidnapping.
Hanging around the village when they were so distinctive-looking, running a harassment campaign targeting Long Fleet staff … they were putting themselves so thoroughly in the frame for any act of violence against Josh Ainsworth that they couldn’t possibly have been planning to go any further.
Even explaining how it would all work at a barbecue. What kind of kidnapper did that?
Then going out – that very same night – and doing it.
No. Nobody was that stupid.
They were smart enough to insist on having solicitors called before they would speak anyway. Both were stuck down in the cells right now, waiting for them to arrive. Usually a brief stint on a hard bench, behind a heavy door sharpened a suspect’s mind. The Paggetts had been there before though; they’d been locked up plenty of times, both with several short stretches inside to their names, and he doubted that an hour in detention would rattle either of them.
Zigic went out and made himself a cup of tea, saw that Ferreira was back at her desk, focused now as she tapped away.
‘Something interesting?’ he asked.
‘Ruby Garrick has just opened up their private Facebook group for me.’
‘I thought Asylum Assist was a campaign group,’ he said curiously. ‘What are they going to achieve if what they’re doing is private?’
‘No, this is a different one. Anglia Migration Support,’ she said.
They’d already gone through the screenshots Garrick gave her, found a lot of unpleasant chatter in the aftermath of Josh Ainsworth’s death, far too much gloating for a bunch of moral guardians, Zigic had thought, but nothing they could actually use against the Paggetts. And none of it pre-dating the murder.
He pulled up a spare chair.
‘I could just send you this,’ she said, shuffling aside slightly so he could see the screen.
She was scrolling so fast he couldn’t see how she was taking any of it on board, but maybe it was an age thing. He’d found his ability to deal with the blare of information from social media wasn’t as sharp as hers, mainly because he never used it.
He glanced away as Bobby Wahlia passed behind him going into Adams’s office with a file in his hand. He’d been in and out of there all morning, blinds drawn at the internal window, no noise escaping, as if their conversation was so delicate that it could only be conducted in hushed tones.
Something was coming, Zigic thought. No other explanation for it. The office was radiating a kind of contained energy, almost pulsing with it.
‘Shit,’ Ferreira exclaimed.
‘What?’ His attention snapped back to the screen.
She pointed to a comment with Michaela Paggett’s name next to it.
‘That,’ she said.
He read the comment, then went through the rest of the conversation. ‘Did Ruby Garrick mention this?’
‘No.’ Ferreira frowned. ‘I suppose she might not have seen it.’
‘She’s the admin, right?’
‘Doesn’t mean she’s monitoring every single conversation in the group. And it’s pretty well buried in there.’
Zigic stood up. ‘Let’s see what Mrs Paggett’s got to say about this.’
‘Her solicitor arrived about twenty minutes ago,’ Ferreira told him. ‘That’s plenty of time, isn’t it?’
They went to the interview room where Michaela sat slumped next to a middle-aged man in a black suit and a blue shirt, his thin greying hair plastered to his ruddy scalp with perspiration. Michaela eyed them as they entered, didn’t shift or straighten in her seat, made none of the usual attempts to appear pulled together or upright. She was more comfortable in these rooms than most people, remaining unfazed by the process of setting up the recording equipment and stating her name, when she was prompted, in a flat and emotionless voice.
‘On the evening of Dr Ainsworth’s murder, you attended a barbecue at your sister’s house, is that correct, Mrs Paggett?’ Ferreira asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And you told Detective Inspector Zigic and myself that you and your husband were there until the early hours of Sunday morning, didn’t you?’
‘I don’t think I gave you an exact time,’ Michaela said, pulling a confused face at them. ‘I believe I told you it was a late one, but as I didn’t take particular note of the time myself, I wouldn’t have given you a time.’
She was contradicting herself already and Zigic realised that underneath the surly demeanour and the supposedly relaxed body language she was worried.
‘Would you like to tell us what time you left now?’ Ferreira asked pleasantly. ‘Make a stab at it?’
‘Late,’ Michaela said shortly.
‘You seem to be having trouble remembering your precise whereabouts for the evening in question,’ Ferreira said. ‘Fortunately, we have two witnesses from the party who can say with certainty that you and Mr Paggett left the barbecue around eight p.m.’
‘No, it was later than that.’
‘Our witnesses also state that you’d been drinking quite heavily, so perhaps it’s only to be expected that you can’t remember the details of your movements on the night Josh Ainsworth was murdered.’
‘We weren’t drunk,’ Michaela said defiantly. ‘I was driving, so I only had two small
