Rebecca stared wide-eyed at him for several long moments.
Then she burst into laughter. She was laughing so hard that tears trickled down her face.
“Oh my God!” She exclaimed. “That’s amazing. I mean, you have those bags, right? You have the loot all neatly bundled up inside?” She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. Her frivolity suddenly crashing to deep menace. “When I walk out of here, I can’t wait to find out how many other innocent people you have harassed and nicked, because the media tempest that is going to generate will hurt you, Detective.”
Her solicitor was now incandescent. “Just to be clear, Detectives. You don’t have this alleged money. Or the bags. Or witnesses or evidence that place my client and Mr Crawford together. Or, indeed, place her at the scene of Mr Kline-Watson’s murder, other than she was seen earlier that day demanding to know where her partner was. That has been her crime – caring about the man she loves. Nothing more.”
The rest of the interview went downhill from there.
Harry Lord was sitting up in his bed when Garrick entered the private room. His leg was in plaster and the bandage around his head looked almost comical. His arm was held in a plastic sling, but despite it all, he was grinning.
“You’re not the only one who can make it on the news!” he cried with pride. “Have you seen it?”
“I was there, mate.”
“Some students filmed it all on their phones. Wham! I went over that car like the Six Million Dollar Man!”
Garrick forced a laugh. His encounter with Rebecca had dampened his spirits more than he could even admit to Chib. And his head thumped incessantly. The migraine had reached such intensity that during the drive to the hospital, the headlights from oncoming traffic felt like needles stabbing his eyeballs.
“Except they rebuilt Steve Austin as a state-of-the-art robot,” he said, recalling the vaguest childhood TV memories. “The best we can do for you is a bit of Lego.”
“Well, the wife loves it. You just missed her. I tell you what, if you ever need your love life spicing up, just get hit by a car.”
“Your relationship advice is second to none. At least the students knew how to use their phones. None of them wanted to try out CPR.” He raised a plastic bag he was carrying. “I bought you a get-well-soon prezzie. Something I know you’ll find useful.”
Harry eagerly snatched the bag and opened it as Garrick sat on the chair by the side of his bed and plucked a few grapes from the obligatory fruit Harry’s wife had left behind.
“Oh. Brilliant.” Harry raised the bicycle crash helmet Garrick had bought from Halfords on his way down. Harry pretended to throw it at Garrick and both men howled with laughter.
Garrick looked around the Kent and Canterbury Hospital room. “Not a bad hospital this one.”
“Yeah. I think it’s the only one down here I haven’t spent a night in.” Harry’s career had seen him collect several injuries, including a minor stab wound. But this latest one had taken first place in his injury leader board. His voice dropped in horror. “You don’t think they let any of those students practise here, do you?”
“I think that’s a distinct possibility. As Crawford burned off with you on his bonnet, all I could see was his ‘I love K+C’ bumper sticker.”
Harry raised the sheet and glanced at his crotch. “I’m amazed they haven’t accidentally snipped my balls off then.”
“Don’t worry,” Garrick assured him. “They do micro-surgery at a completely different university.”
Harry plucked a grape and threw it at Garrick’s head. “You’re a bastard, sir.”
“Privilege of rank.”
“You got him yet?” Harry said, suddenly sober.
Garrick shook his head. “He’s a rat alright. Gone to ground, but we’ll collar him,” he added with optimism he didn’t feel.
Harry became reflective. “He was really bloody frightened. I saw his face, right until I nutted the windshield. Wide eyes. Petrified.”
Just as he had been at the hotel, thought Garrick.
He told him about Rebecca Ellis’s scathing rebuttal. He had to admit, some parts were tenuous, but the main thrust of her allegations felt right. Or at least they didn’t feel wildly wrong. He recalled Drury’s warning about Rebecca being the type who peppered lies with just enough truths.
Terri Cordy had been uncooperative since coming down from London. He had intended to interview her next, but after the shambles with Rebecca, all Garrick wanted to do was sleep and approach things with new zeal in the morning. He was still convinced that, in the absence of Oscar Benjamin, Huw Crawford would unlock everything.
He told Harry about how Rebecca had responded when he revealed Hoy’s identity.
“She doesn’t believe it’s Terri?”
“Should found the very idea laughable. Said she might have studied art in uni, but she had no skills. The Met who arrested her searched the flat. They found some paints, brushes and a couple of small canvases.”
He showed the photographs they had sent through. Two depicted bowls of fruit and another of her sleeping baby.
“These were watercolours. Hoy’s stuff is oil on canvas. The second issue is obvious.”
Harry scrolled through the pictures, then nodded. “She’s bloody good.”
They may not be professional quality, but at least they were not the abstract mess Fraser had been peddling.
Harry passed the phone back. “You’ve got a
