Under a Dark Cloud Page 12

  She holds it in her hand for a moment. When Amy first gave it to her, she’d been confused as to what it was. What had her sister found? A scratchy CCTV file of Robin in a petrol station, talking to a man she recognised as Trevor Stevens. The man that killed Robin’s sister. Who then died, moments after this footage was captured, in a fireball of a car accident, merely a mile down the road. Robin’s encounter with Trevor Stevens minutes before his death has never been mentioned, but Liv knows that this memory stick could open up a can of worms.

  She fastens it back into place and returns the drawer into its hole. Now is not the time to dig this up again, she resolves, one hand on her bump as the baby kicks.

  She has done without Robin in her life this far; she doesn’t need him now.

  She groans, feeling the physical pressure on her bladder. Then she stands up wearily and walks to the toilet again.

  20

  Friday

  Robin races up the A33, cursing himself for leaving Reading last night. But he hadn’t wanted to spend another night in that dratted Travelodge. He’d been desperate for his own bed, then, ironically, waking up at five a.m. on Freya’s sofa, with a crick in his neck. It’s not the first time he’s slept there, and he guesses it won’t be the last.

  He left before he saw Freya, hurrying back to his house for a shower and change before hitting the road. He’s already tried to call Craig, but she’s not responding to his voicemail.

  He puts the radio on to distract himself, but it doesn’t work. The news is playing out, and the top story is the death of prominent TV presenter and personality Dr Simon Sharp.

  ‘Cause of death is as yet unconfirmed, although sources report Dr Sharp died in suspicious circumstances, related to the storm on Tuesday night. As yet, no arrests have been made, but pressure is mounting on the Chief Constable of Thames Valley Police to make a statement.’

  Robin swears under his breath and switches it off.

  In the silence, his mind turns to the news that Freya imparted last night. So, Olivia Cross is pregnant. When Freya told him, his head instantly went back to that night in October last year. When he’d woken up, head fuzzy, stomach rolling. He tried to remember how Liv had been towards him. She said nothing happened, but had she been lying? Had they slept together? All he can remember is the woolly fug of his hangover.

  He knows he needs to go and see her. To find out properly.

  But what if it is his? The thought that he could be a father so unexpectedly makes his brain hurt. He’s not ready for that – for the responsibility, the expectations, the lack of sleep. But it doesn’t freak him out as it had in the past.

  He’s had another text from Liam that morning, his brother-in-law up for his usual early-morning bike ride. He remembers his words, all those years ago, after the twins were born.

  ‘Things change for the better, Robin,’ Liam had said, eyes half closed from tiredness, three days’ worth of stubble on his chin. ‘We have different priorities now. Nothing else matters but these little guys.’

  And look how that turned out, Robin thinks with a sting.

  He shakes his head. He can’t think about this now. First the A33, then back to the Royal Berkshire Hospital.

  He calls Craig again.

  ‘Butler, I can’t constantly be updating you on the case,’ she snaps when she answers.

  ‘Please, tell me what’s going on. I know the pressure you’re under—’

  ‘You bloody well do not,’ she interrupts. ‘You ever been SIO on a celebrity’s murder? I’ve never known press interest like it.’

  ‘Please, DI Craig.’

  She sighs. ‘Are you at the hospital?’

  ‘ETA ten minutes.’

  ‘Meet me in the café at eight.’

  * * *

  When Robin gets there, DI Jo Craig is already sat at a side table, two coffees and two slices of toast and scrambled eggs in front of her.

  She pushes one of the mugs across to him. ‘I thought you’d want this. And you’ll have to put up with me talking with my mouth full, I’ve been here since half six.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he replies, ‘for both the coffee and agreeing to meet me.’

  ‘I’m only showing you this to get you off my back.’ She pushes a file across the table. ‘And I hope you’ve eaten already, because it doesn’t make for pretty reading.’ Robin opens it. Colour photos of Simon Sharp’s autopsy greet him: jagged wound edges on his neck, the inner workings of blood vessels and tendons exposed.

  ‘That’s what killed him,’ Craig says, eggs balanced on her fork. ‘Exsanguination following a knife wound to the neck. Full-thickness lacerations on the right-hand side, severing the carotid, most likely inflicted by the penknife we found at the scene. Massive blood loss in minutes.’

  ‘What about these?’ Robin asks, pointing to smaller slashes at the front of his neck.

  ‘Penetrating stab wounds, not deep. We’re guessing hesitation marks.’ She puts another forkful in her mouth and continues, her speech muffled. ‘Bruising on his upper arms, here—’ She pulls out one of the photos and points for Robin. ‘And some larger ones on his lower flank.’

  ‘These look like fingertip bruises,’ Robin observes.

  ‘That’s what I thought. Like someone’ – she looks at him pointedly – ‘was holding Sharp tightly by his upper arms.’

  ‘Any other defensive injuries?’

  ‘Apart from the bruising, no. Stomach contents approximate some kind of sandwich, consumed just before his death.’ Craig pushes the rest of her breakfast aside, appetite obviously lost. ‘We’re still waiting on approval for a full examination of Dr Mason.’

  ‘To look for any corresponding injuries?’

  ‘Right. Although we have his clothes at the lab. Results back today.’ She pauses as her mobile starts to ring. ‘That might be them now.’

  Robin waits as she answers the call, drinking his now cold coffee. From what he saw in the van, the PM results are pretty much as he expected, but to have it confirmed in such stark terms is sobering. He flicks through the remainder of the photos. It’s hard to reconcile the charming man he watched on the television last night, full of life and enthusiasm, with the cold dead body on the slab. His skin in the photos isn’t golden and tanned in the American sunshine, but dove grey and rubbery. His bright blue eyes are glassy and dulled. Death has stripped everything from him.

  Craig hangs up and Robin looks at her hopefully.

  ‘That was Grey,’ she confirms. ‘Finn’s doctor is coming down to talk to us.’

  Robin frowns. That can’t be good.

  Craig continues, ‘Grey confirmed that all the blood on Mason’s and Sharp’s clothes comes from the victim. No other sources.’

  ‘Have you found the cameras yet? The ones from inside the van.’

  ‘No reports yet, sorry.’

  ‘And the tests on the knife?’

  ‘Still waiting.’ She looks up, then waves as a tall figure comes into the canteen. He collects a coffee and joins them at the table.

  ‘I can’t be long,’ he says. He extends a hand to Robin. ‘Dr Blackstone. We haven’t met.’

  ‘DS Robin Butler.’ Robin shakes it. His hand is cold and bony. Everything about the doctor is grey: grey hair, brushed back from the temples, grey suit. He reminds Robin of an actor in an old black-and-white film: he has a proper old-school air about him.

  ‘Finn’s best friend,’ Craig clarifies. ‘Not here in an official capacity, but you can talk freely in front of him.’

  The doctor nods sternly. ‘I’ve done as you asked, DI Craig, and my assessment today is the same as when Finn came in on Wednesday.’ Robin looks from Blackstone to Craig, confused. ‘Finn Mason is not fit to be interviewed by the police.’

  Robin scoffs. ‘Of course he’s not.’

  Craig glares at Robin but stays silent.

  The doctor continues, ‘Yes, he has the ability to understand the nature and purpose of the interview and to appreciate the significance of bei
ng questioned by the police.’ He takes a sip of his coffee, regarding them with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. ‘But his current mental and physical state means that there is no way he can be accurate or tell you the truth.’

  Craig glances to Robin. ‘Is he faking?’ she asks.

  ‘Piss off!’

  But the doctor ignores Robin’s outburst. ‘No, I very much doubt it. Initial results from the MRI on Finn’s brain shows swelling in the prefrontal cortex, which would tie up with his memory problems. He can’t remember what happened, even if he has the correct functional ability to tell you.’ Blackstone finishes his coffee with a flourish. ‘The craving for alcohol alone affects his reliability and makes him mentally vulnerable. So no, detective, you can’t interview him.’

  With a final nod, he leaves them alone.

  Robin turns to Craig. ‘Really?’ he asks, disbelieving. ‘You honestly thought the doctor would say yes?’

  She sighs. ‘No, of course not. But the medical opinion gets my chief off my back.’ Her phone starts ringing. She pushes her chair away from the table and stands up.

  ‘Here he is now. If you’ll excuse me, Robin, I need to speak to my DCS before he has a coronary.’ She looks at him sympathetically. ‘Go and be with your friend, Butler. Step away from being a copper for a change.’

  Robin watches her go. He finishes his coffee, then, his stomach growling, he picks up the leftover slice of her toast and eats it quickly. He hasn’t had time for breakfast either.

  He does as he’s told and walks up the stairs to the ward where Finn is being treated. He moves slowly, in no rush, keen to digest the information about the case.

  It simply isn’t possible for him to stop being a copper. It’s built into his bones; nearly twenty years of police work has it hardwired into him. And he knows it isn’t looking good for Finn.

  He has motive: the argument with Sharp in the days before the storm. Means: the penknife found in the van. And the opportunity: he was the only other person there. Post-mortem confirms Sharp’s death was most likely an unlawful killing, and Finn’s own confession in the van gave the likely culprit.

  What else could Robin possibly do?

  The policeman guarding the room allows Robin through as he shows his warrant card. Finn’s asleep, but Josie’s still by his bedside, holding tightly to his hand. She looks up when she sees Robin come in.

  ‘Josie,’ he says gently. ‘Have you had any sleep?’ She looks exhausted.

  ‘Not a lot,’ she admits.

  ‘Any change?’

  ‘No. His confusion is getting worse, if anything. I’m so glad you’re here, Robin.’ Josie looks back to Finn. ‘Do you mind staying with him for a bit? It’s just… I’ve been here all night. I need a break.’

  ‘Of course, you go. I won’t leave him.’

  Robin watches Josie stumble off down the corridor. He studies Finn’s face. Next to him the monitors beep; a clear bag of something drips steadily into his arm. Finn looks so helpless, Robin finds it impossible to believe he’s a murderer.

  Finn stirs and opens his eyes. Robin notices the same slightly cross-eyed look, the twitch of his eyeballs as he tries to focus. His upper eyelids droop slightly, making him look half asleep.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ he croaks.

  ‘Gone to get some tea, mate,’ Robin says. ‘She won’t be long.’

  Finn sits himself up then pauses, staring into the middle distance. His fingers play with the edge of the blanket on the bed. This man here has nothing in common with Robin’s quick, vibrant friend. This man is dulled, his mind absent.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Robin asks after a pause.

  Finn stares at him, squinting to focus without his glasses on. ‘Terrible,’ he replies. ‘Do you know what’s going on, Robin? Mum said…’ His voice trails off, as if he’s lost track of what he was going to say.

  They hear movement in the corridor, and Robin sees Craig’s face peer through the window in the door.

  Robin gets up. ‘I’ll be back in a moment, Finn.’

  He goes outside, where Craig is arguing with Josie.

  ‘I don’t want you in there,’ Josie is saying, trying to block Craig’s entrance into the room. ‘You’re only going to confuse him.’

  ‘Mrs Mason…’ Craig stops, her arms folded.

  A bad feeling runs through Robin’s body. He knows exactly why she’s there.

  He looks at the detective inspector. Her face is solemn but resolute. ‘You don’t need to do this now, DI Craig,’ he says quietly. ‘Finn’s not going anywhere. The clock won’t start until he’s in custody, you know that.’

  Craig shakes her head. ‘DS Butler, do not interfere.’

  ‘Give it more time. Look for different evidence. Finn can’t have done this. He can’t have.’

  The look on Craig’s face is pitying, and Robin hates her for it. ‘You know as well as I do, we have more than probable cause already. Even if the confession is inadmissible—’

  ‘Which it is.’

  ‘There was no one else there. The van was locked. The cause of death is clear.’ She stops. ‘There’s nothing to show any other involvement in Dr Sharp’s death, except Finn’s.’

  ‘But what about the drinking? What about the LSD?’ Robin tries. He told both Craig and Josie yesterday about their discovery in the lab and in his flat, the clear liquid now confirmed as vodka. Josie was confused; Craig was indifferent.

  ‘You know as well as I do,’ Craig replies, ‘that intoxication – voluntary or otherwise – is a weak defence. And anyway, that’ll be for his lawyer to decide.’

  ‘So why do it now?’

  She stops, looking down at the floor. Robin can tell she’s as unhappy about it as he is. ‘I’m getting pressure from above, Robin. You know how it is.’ She’s appealing to his knowledge of working cases like this. ‘The press are having a field day. My detective chief super wants an arrest.’

  ‘So, it’s PR, DI Craig. No more than that,’ Robin growls.

  ‘No, Butler. We have our man. I know it.’ She points through the glass at Finn. ‘Even he knows it. And it’s time you faced facts. Your best mate committed murder.’

  She pushes past him and opens the door into Finn’s room. Josie goes to protest, but Robin puts his arms round her shoulders.

  ‘I’m sorry, Josie,’ he says, and she turns, clutching his hand.

  In the hospital room, DI Craig stands next to Finn’s bed. He looks up at her.

  ‘Dr Finn Mason?’ Craig says, and he nods. He looks at Craig, then to Robin and Josie, his face puzzled. ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Dr Simon Sharp on Wednesday the nineteenth of May.’ Finn’s mouth drops open. Still in Robin’s arms, Josie makes a small noise, halfway between a gasp and a sob. ‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ Craig stops. ‘Do you understand?’

  Finn blinks. ‘Simon’s dead?’ he says.

  Josie starts to cry, and Robin wraps his arms around her, holding her tight.

  His best friend – his oldest friend, the one person who knows him better than any other, who he spent his entire childhood with, who he would trust with his life – has just been arrested for murder.

  And Robin hasn’t a clue what he’s going to do about it.

  Part 2

  21

  Freya watches the press conference on her monitor, open-mouthed. A detective chief superintendent she doesn’t know is standing on the podium in front of a large blue backdrop, reading from a statement. Lights and cameras flash; the room is full to bursting with journalists and photographers.

  ‘While I am not at liberty to share the identity of the man at this time, I am pleased to confirm that someone has been arrested in relation to the murder of Dr Simon Sharp and is currently helping us with our enquiries.’

  ‘Helping, my arse,’ Mina observes next to her. ‘No doubt in their minds, the
y’ve got their man.’

  The coverage has cut to a video of Simon Sharp: a hastily knocked-together montage, his handsome face smiling out of the screen in slow motion, while sad music plays. Freya scowls. Finn has no chance of a fair trial if this is how the media are pitching it.

  She checks her mobile again. No reply from Robin; he must be distraught.

  ‘Any progress?’ Josh asks, coming up behind them.

  Freya flicks her screen back to the search. There aren’t many homeless shelters in the area and she has contacted them all, sending round photographs of their John Doe and his identifying marks.

  ‘Nothing so far,’ she directs back.

  ‘Can we put an appeal out on the news?’ Mina asks.

  ‘Awful way to find out your loved one is dead,’ Josh replies. He sits down in the seat next to them, stretching his arms above his head; Freya gets a nice waft of something manly, an aftershave she likes. ‘But better than never finding out at all,’ he adds, and she has to agree with him. ‘Let’s wait to hear first.’

  Freya flicks to one of the photographs of the victim’s tattoos, and as she does so, Josh leans forward.

  ‘Go back,’ he says.

  She moves away from the rose surrounded with thorns on his upper arm, to his hand, where five small dots laid out like a dice mark the space between his thumb and first finger.

  ‘You’ve tried searching the PNC for his tattoos?’ Josh asks.

  Freya nods. ‘No matches.’

  ‘How about contacting the prisons directly?’ He taps the image on the screen. ‘These dots often represent time inside. Start with Winchester, see where you end up.’

  Freya’s annoyed with herself. She should have realised that; she’s really not operating on all cylinders at the moment. ‘Yes, Sarge,’ she says.

  ‘Mina – keep going with the CCTV. I want those boys’ movements on tape.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge,’ Mina replies, with a grin.

  ‘I’ll go and see the parents and check if they confirm their stories.’ He gets up, then turns round, taking in their smirking faces. ‘And enough of the sarcasm,’ he grumbles.