‘When I left, she was wearing some sort of leggings. Blue. And a T-shirt.’
‘What colour?’
He thinks. ‘Pale yellow? With some sort of logo on the front? To be honest, I really wasn’t looking. Half the time I couldn’t even tell you what my wife –’
He stops. Checks himself. Takes a breath.
McHugh pretends not to notice. She flicks back through the file. ‘According to this, the victim was wearing a white cotton sundress when she was found. You’re sure that couldn’t have been what you saw?’
He’s shaking his head. ‘No. Absolutely not.’
‘So she must have changed her clothes after you left and before the killer arrived – that’s your position?’ She sits back. ‘Because I have to tell you, a jury’s going to have trouble understanding why anyone would bother getting changed at that time of night –’
He leans towards her, his eyes intent. ‘But that’s exactly it – she didn’t. He did. Gavin Parrie. He assaulted her and killed her, and then he changed her clothes. He had to make absolutely sure the only DNA they’d find was mine.’
So we’re back to that, she thinks, her heart sinking. The Roadside Rapist’s Revenge.
But her client doesn’t appear to notice the sudden chill in the air.
‘You do know, don’t you,’ she begins slowly, ‘that this case would be a whole lot easier to defend if you had had sex with her.’ He looks up and she continues quickly. ‘I mean, we’d still have trouble explaining the massive coincidence of her killer arriving on exactly the same night, but at least the forensics –’
‘It didn’t happen,’ he says quietly, holding her gaze. ‘I love my wife.’
And he does. She’s never seen emotion expressed so painfully in a man’s face. He might want to lie, but he won’t. He can’t.
‘OK,’ she says, picking up her pen, brisker now. ‘Anything else?’
He swallows. ‘Can you see if you can get access to the PM?’
She starts shaking her head.
‘I know – I know – it’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.’
‘OK,’ she says, after a moment. ‘I can speak to Gallagher. What do you want to know?’
He sits forward a little. ‘See if there was anything missing on the body – jewellery, earrings – Parrie has a thing about earrings. And if any of Smith’s hair had been cut or pulled out.’
She frowns. ‘No one’s mentioned anything like that –’
‘It’ll be there,’ he says doggedly. ‘It has to be. Parrie won’t have been able to stop himself.’
She takes a deep breath. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in all these years, it’s that juries hate conspiracy theories. Lead balloons are buoyancy aids by comparison. You must know that.’
He gives her a despairing look. Perhaps so, but it’s all he has.
‘OK,’ she says, suppressing a sigh. ‘Talk me through how it would have worked – as a police officer.’
His eyes flicker with something like hope, and she realizes suddenly that he must have thought she didn’t believe him. All this time, he’s been assuming that even his own lawyer thought he was lying.
‘Parrie knows all about DNA,’ he says. ‘He was always incredibly careful never to leave biological trace. And he had way more time to clear up with Smith than he did with any of the previous victims. He didn’t dump her body at Walton Well until nearly 1.30 – he could have been in that flat for more than three hours. Plenty long enough to clean up the scene, wash the body, change her clothes.’ He shrugs. ‘That’s what I’d have done, if –’
If you’d killed her.
The words hang in the air like nerve agent, paralysing her brain.
She pulls herself together. ‘What about the electronic tag – how did he get round that? You’re suggesting he managed to disable it somehow?’
‘Well, did he?’ he says quickly. ‘Those things do malfunction. Not often, but it does happen. Have you checked?’
‘No, I haven’t. I will, of course, look into it. But it’s a risk – what if all it does is confirm he was miles away at the time and couldn’t possibly have done it? We could just be gifting him a gold-plated alibi.’
‘Yes,’ he says quietly. ‘I do know that.’
‘And what about the forensics?’ she says. ‘I get it that he’d have made sure not to leave his own DNA. What I don’t get is how he came by yours.’
He’s clearly had a lot of time to think about this. He sits forward, eager now. ‘The fact that they found my DNA on her body is the best proof we have that I didn’t kill her.’
She stares at him. ‘Sorry – what?’
He holds her gaze. ‘Everything I just said about Parrie also applies to me – only more so. I know about forensics, I know how murder scenes are processed. Why on earth would I have been so stupid as to leave my DNA all over that flat? All over her? I don’t know how he did it – I don’t know where he got it – but it was Gavin Parrie who put my DNA there.’
She leaves a pause, lets him sweat. And he is. There’s a sheen of perspiration beading his forehead.
‘That’s not quite true, though, is it, Adam? That the same reasoning that applies to Parrie also applies to you?’
He frowns, the zeal curdling in his face. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re saying that as an experienced police officer, you’d have cleaned up the scene, changed her clothes, washed the body, right? But you said yourself, all that takes time. And you’re right, if it was Gavin Parrie, he had plenty of it. But you didn’t, did you? You couldn’t stay there all night – you had to get home, see your wife, establish an alibi. You’d have had an hour in that flat at the most. Nowhere near long enough.’
He’s still frowning.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, gentler now. ‘I’m just being devil’s advocate. But I am worried that if we use that argument, all they’ll do is turn it against you. They’ll
