She let out a triumphant laugh as the printer whirred into life and stood with her fingers poised above the tray, waiting for it to spit out the paper, her whole body screaming anticipation. Zigic sugared his coffee and rattled around in the biscuit tin, found nothing substantial enough to see him through the late-afternoon slump.
‘There’s a salad on your desk,’ Ferreira said, glancing over her shoulder. ‘Chicken and couscous. It was all they had left.’
He went and fetched it, took a couple of forkfuls but was too eager to see what she was so excited about to sit and eat it at his desk. When he came up behind her she was tacking a photograph to the murder board.
‘Where did you get that?’
‘Caitlin. She had it on her phone.’
‘And she just gave you it?’
‘I persuaded her it’d help get him home.’
Nathan. A full-face shot, taken in Julia’s kitchen as he sat at the painted wooden table with the red-spotted oilcloth cover, a slice of heavy chocolate cake on a plate in front of him, the rest of it, still bearing multicoloured candles, just to the left.
He was young for his age, cherubic looking, with freckled cheeks and bright, green eyes under thin, auburn brows. His hair was dark brown, though, far too dark for the rest of his colouring.
‘They’ve dyed his hair,’ he said.
‘Yep. Trying to change his appearance. What does that tell you?’
Zigic took the picture down and gestured for her to follow him back into the office, closed the door behind her.
‘What?’ she said. ‘Do you know who he is?’
‘No, but we can’t do anything with this photo.’
‘Why the hell not? We need to find him, our best chance is putting this out there.’
Zigic told her to sit down and she flopped into the chair like a grumpy teenager, kept her annoyance on show as he explained about the meeting with Rachel, the threat which had come through Riggott and which they couldn’t ignore.
‘And what if he saw something completely vital to our investigation?’ she asked. ‘We’re losing valuable time. We need to talk to him.’
‘We’ll get a chance,’ he said, hoping it was true. ‘But for now he’s off the table. And if we don’t find something to suggest this is a hate crime very soon it’s going to be kicked over to CID. So we need to focus on that for the time being.’
She held her hands up. ‘Fine.’
‘Did you get anything else out of Caitlin?’
‘Eventually, yeah. She didn’t want to admit it but I got the impression something was going on between Dawn and Matthew Campbell.’
‘She said that?’
‘Not explicitly but when I asked about how friendly they were she said Matthew isn’t allowed around there any more. I asked why, she wouldn’t answer. I pressed her and she clammed up.’
‘Doesn’t want to rock the boat at home?’
‘Or implicate either of her foster parents,’ Ferreira said. ‘She’s in a decent place, the school are happy with her. I’d try to preserve my security in her position, wouldn’t you?’
‘Up to a point, yeah.’
‘I was going to talk to him at work.’ She smiled. ‘They hate that, always puts them on the back foot, right?’
‘Where does he work?’
‘Girls’ school in town. And apparently he stays late a lot.’
‘Handy, that.’
Wahlia’s face appeared at the glass panel of the office door and Zigic told him to come in.
‘What is it, Bobby?’
‘The neighbour’s surfaced.’
Luke Gibson was a short, wiry guy, sporty looking in tropical board shorts and T-shirt, a shark’s tooth strung on a leather thong necklace. Mid-thirties maybe but his skin was deeply creased and weather-beaten from spending a lot of time outdoors. It fitted with his claim of being away in the Peak District for a few days’ cycling with friends.
He’d blurted that out as they entered the interview room. Nervous, and perhaps a little claustrophobic Ferreira wondered, seeing how his eyes strayed to the thin, high windows which gave only the slimmest sight of blue, and how reluctant he was to sit down at her invitation.
As she explained the process he nodded jerkily. Agreed to everything, stated his name and told them he was happy to help. More than happy to cooperate.
‘Why did it take you three days to come forward?’ Zigic asked.
‘The boys have a strict no-phone policy,’ Gibson said. ‘Part of the fun, you know, we get away from work. Return to nature. I only turned it on this morning because I was expecting an important email about a job. There were dozens of calls and messages about the house, I couldn’t believe it.’
‘You’ve the seen the damage?’ Ferreira asked.
‘I should have come here first, I know that. But I thought it was a wind-up.’ His cheeks flushed through his tan. ‘That bloody cooker, I’ve been on at the landlord about it for months.’
‘You’ll have records of your complaints?’
‘Of course. You have to keep full records when you’re renting, you get ripped off something chronic otherwise.’ Then it struck him. ‘Wait a minute, you don’t think I left the gas on deliberately?’
Neither of them answered.
‘Why would I do that?’ he asked, looking between them, eyes wide with panic. ‘I wouldn’t. Not deliberately. Why would I?’
‘Dawn was murdered,’ Zigic said. ‘Holly’s dead. And the explosion from your house has contaminated the crime scene.’
Gibson’s face went slack and he stammered through the same denials again. More panicked than guilty Ferreira thought, but he’d had plenty of time to prepare himself for this moment and maybe he’d decided dumb incredulity was the best option.
‘I can’t believe this.’ His fist closed around the tooth on his necklace. ‘I would never do anything to hurt anyone. Let alone Dawn and Holly. They were lovely people. I can’t believe anyone would want to hurt either of them.’
‘How well did you know Dawn?’ Ferreira asked.
‘I moved in about eighteen months ago, she was welcoming, a good neighbour. I didn’t know anyone here so it was nice to have someone friendly next door.’
‘So you were close?’
He caught the insinuation, gave her a withering look. ‘I’m gay. And before you ask, I’ve got records of that too, Detective.’
Zigic asked where he was on Thursday.
‘I left here just after eight in the morning. We’d arranged to meet at a pub in Matlock for lunch and a few beers before we went on to the cottage. The owners wouldn’t let us take it until four so we had lunch at a pub in the village, then we checked in to the cottage, went out for a ride in the evening. Back to the pub until chucking-out time.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know what else to tell you.’
‘There are people who can corroborate this?’ Zigic asked.
Gibson nodded. ‘My friends, yes. And the landlady. I put down a deposit online and paid her the balance when we checked in. With my card. I’ve got the receipt somewhere.’
He lifted a leather messenger bag onto the table, pulled out a couple of cycling magazines and a thick paperback with a cracked spine, his iPad snug in a suede case, before coming up with his wallet. ‘There. See.’
Zigic checked the receipt, made a note of the cottage’s name and handed it back to him. ‘So, you left just after eight on Thursday morning. Did you see anyone hanging around Dawn’s house at that point?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I was in a rush.’
‘What about otherwise?’ Ferreira asked. ‘People hanging around? Hawkers? Anyone who seemed out of place?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m not the right person to ask.’
‘You live next door and you work from home. You must have seen something.’
‘I spend eight hours a day staring at my computer screen. I don’t have the time or the inclination to monitor my neighbours’ lives.’
‘You design websites, is that right?’
‘Among other things,’ he said. ‘Online brand development, platform building, reputation management. Whatever I can do on a computer that pays the bills.’ He gave her a self-deprecating smile. ‘I set up Holly’s blog for her.’
‘Holly had a blog?’ Zigic asked. ‘What was she using it for?’
‘She wanted somewhere she could chart her recovery, talk about what was going on with her. It was a way to stay in touch with the world, I suppose.’
Ferreira thought of her visit to the house, Holly sitting up in bed, laptop open on a pillow across her thighs. She tried to remember what was on the screen but it was so long ago and she’d ducked out of there so quickly.
‘Do you want to see it?’ he asked.
‘We do,’ Zigic said.
‘I don’t know if it’ll help.’ Gibson opened his iPad case, swiped and tapped a few times then slid the screen across the table to her, the blog’s header dominating, a beach under blue skies, the typeface like letters scratched in the sand. ‘Hol on Wheels – that was her idea. She had a very dark sense of humour.’
Zigic gave it a cursory glance before passing it over to Ferreira and she spent a minute scanning it as they talked, longer than she meant to but this was her first real contact with the dead girl. She found herself pulled in by Holly’s voice as she scrolled down through the posts, lots of them short and sharp, the usual teenage obsessions with music and films peppered with keen observations and funny asides, but as she went further back, through the summer and spring, she found links to blogs about assisted suicide and dignity in death, impassioned calls for change to the right-to-die legislation.
Zigic was pressing Gibson about his daily routine, where in the house his office was, did the computer face a window, surely he had a good view of the driveway from there?
When there was a lull Ferreira chipped in:
‘Have you read these posts, Luke?’
‘Yes, I keep an eye on it. She got hacked a few months ago and I had to get in there and fix the problem for her.’
‘Hacked by who?’ Zigic asked.
‘One of those cyber-terrorist groups,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t a personal attack. They took down thousands of sites in a few hours. Loads of people were affected.’
Ferreira jumped back to the last blog post Holly had written. Two days before she died, a piece about the portrayal of disabled people on television. It was too long to read in detail just then but her eye was drawn to the comments at the bottom. Five of them. Three had profile photos and names attached, people thanking her for such a thoughtful post, wishing her well.
The other two were anonymous and dripping with bile.
‘“Who wants to look at a fucking spazz like you on TV,”’ she said read. ‘“You crippled bitch, I hope you die in your own shit.”’
Gibson groaned. ‘I thought we’d sorted that out.’
‘What do you mean? Was she getting hassle?’
‘Everyone gets hassle online. You put your head above the parapet, have an opinion, be politically engaged – hell, just be female – and the trolls come out.’
‘How long has this been going on?’
‘Since the beginning.’
‘And you didn’t think to report it?’
He looked stunned. ‘Report some mean comments on a blog? You’d have charged us with wasting police time.’
‘It’s a hate crime.’ Ferreira’s hands came down flat on either side of the iPad. ‘Did you know Dawn was being harassed?’ He shook his head. ‘We’ve had a file open since her car was vandalised last December. They sprayed “Cripple” on the side of it.’
‘I didn’t know about that other stuff,’ Gibson said quickly. ‘Dawn didn’t mention anything about it. Neither did Holly. If I’d had any idea this had moved into real life, I’d have insisted she made an official complaint.’
He was panicking and Ferreira realised she’d snapped at him with no good reason, just because he was the person in front of her to take it. She smoothed her hand over her hair, forced herself to stay silent for a few seconds, seeing the black spray paint on the side of Dawn’s people carrier again, how thickly it was laid on, thinking about the anger in the finger holding down the nozzle.
‘Luke, this is very important,’ she said. ‘Did Holly have any idea who was behind these comments?’
‘I didn’t talk to her about it. I didn’t think I needed to. She grew up with this online stuff, she knew to be careful. I told her to fix her security settings so the spam filter would block anonymous comments but for some reason she didn’t.’
‘Was she worried about it?’
He slumped in his seat, fists pressed together on the table, one thumb rubbing the knuckle of the other. ‘I don’t know. I think she would’ve said something if she was. But you have to understand, Holly was fearless. You must know about the accident – do you think a girl who climbs a sheer rock face is going to buckle because some piece of shit leaves a nasty message on her blog?’
‘Did you know her before the accident?’ Ferreira asked.
‘No. I moved in a few weeks before she came home from hospital. I didn’t really know either of them then. But you only have to look at how she dealt with it to see she was made of stern stuff. I couldn’t have kept going like that, paralysed, could you?’
‘She sounds like an amazing girl,’ Ferreira said, not wanting to answer him, not even in her head.
‘She was and she deserved better than this.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I should have said something to Dawn about it.’
‘Wouldn’t Holly have told her?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Gibson said. ‘But surely if she did, Dawn would have told you about it. You were dealing with the harassment. Why wouldn’t she have mentioned it?’
It was exactly what Ferreira was wondering. All of those followup calls she’d made when Dawn couldn’t wait to put the phone down, all of those missed opportunities and one word could have stopped this. Dawn didn’t know. It was the only explanation.
‘Were they close?’ she asked. ‘Dawn and Holly?’
There was a minute pause before he answered and she read the complex expressions which ticked across his face before he spoke: guilt, reluctance, embarrassment.
‘What kind of question’s that?’
‘A very important one.’
His fingers twitched inside his cupped palm.
She could see the knowledge he wanted to share, as clear as if the words were written on his parted lips, fighting against the hard-wired, constantly reinforced belief that you should never speak ill of the dead.
‘When I first moved in Holly was much more outgoing. I mean, she actually went
out
. Only once or twice a week but Dawn would put her in the car and they went places. This day centre or something, shopping even. But that all stopped at the end of last year.’