She swore at herself, rushed back inside and searched the kitchen cupboards until she found a jug, filled it with cold water and went into the workshop.
‘What are you doing?’ Julia asked.
Ferreira opened the door of the wood burner and threw the water onto the surging flames. They died down in a fizz and a puff of ash she managed to mostly escape, only the slightest dusting hitting her knees, speckling the grey fabric.
Julia shook her head sadly. ‘That wasn’t necessary. We’ve got nothing to hide.’
‘You might not have,’ Ferreira said. ‘But you’re not the only person who lives in this house.’ She nodded towards the kitchen, the burnt smell from there mingling with the smoke from the just-extinguished fire. ‘I think your cake needs to come out, by the way.’
Slowly she rose from the chair, moving so awkwardly that Ferreira put a hand out to help. Julia ignored it and finally got to her feet, went through to the kitchen, shuffling in her fur-lined boots.
Ferreira turned her attention to the chair, slipped on a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and patted the mismatched seat cushion, checking for knife-shaped bulges, turned it over and patted it again before throwing it aside. She worked her hands down the inner crease of the chair, hating the smell of it, repulsed by the prickling sensation coming through the worn fabric. What the hell was this thing stuffed with? Around the back she found a long, narrow gash, and got her answer. Some kind of hair. She prodded around with her fingertips, nothing in there either.
There had to be some reason Julia was reluctant to abandon this room.
In the kitchen she was standing over the ruined chocolate cake, shoulders slumped, head hanging, so thoroughly defeated that Ferreira wasn’t sure how much longer she’d manage to hold herself upright, clinging onto the worktop like that.
‘Maybe you should sit down,’ she said. ‘Minimise the stress on your baby and all that.’
‘As if you care,’ Julia snapped.
‘I appreciate what a difficult thing this is to go through.’
‘Oh, you do, do you? How many times have you been subjected to this kind of – of – violation?’
‘We have to follow the evidence, Mrs Campbell,’ Ferreira said wearily, sick of being the bad guy when she was just doing her job.
‘Nathan tried to help. Calling the police makes him less likely to be guilty if anything. But you refuse to see that.’
‘He ran,’ Ferreira said.
‘He was scared.’
Julia gasped, doubled up, her hand going to her stomach. Ferreira took her by the shoulders and guided her over to the table, lowered her into a chair.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Leave me alone,’ Julia said, through gritted teeth. Her face was flushed, perspiration rising on her forehead.
‘You’re not going into labour, are you?’
‘Just get out.’
‘Maybe you should call your husband,’ Ferreira said, lifting the phone from its dock. ‘This is a big thing to go through without support.’
The colour drained instantly from her cheeks. ‘I don’t need support, I just need you all to get out of my home.’
‘It takes as long as it takes, Mrs Campbell.’
Ferreira’s mobile started ringing and she went outside to answer, not wanting to talk to Zigic in front of Julia. The plastic-suited man under the apple tree was bagging up scoops of ash; Jenkins was at the far end of the garden, moving towards her colleague who waved her over from the doorway of the fairy-tale shed.
‘Anything?’ he asked.
‘Not yet, but I’m pretty sure we’re in the right place.’ She glanced back in through the kitchen window, saw Julia stroking her stomach, talking to it. ‘What about you?’
‘Rachel brought Nathan in,’ he said. ‘The knife was still in Dawn’s body when he went into the house on Saturday night – the killer must have gone back and removed it later on.’
Ferreira put her hand to her head. ‘Hang on, are you sure he’s telling the truth? Because that doesn’t make any sense.’
‘He could be lying, but why?’
‘Because he killed her.’
‘I don’t think he’s intelligent enough to come up with that kind of lie.’
‘No, but Rachel is.’
‘It wouldn’t help her. It doesn’t change anything. He’s admitted to being at the scene. If she was trying to keep him out of trouble she’d have told him to lie about that.’
‘You know what this means then,’ Ferreira said. ‘Whoever killed Dawn knew the alarm hadn’t been raised and they knew Holly hadn’t been found, but they still walked in there and took the knife. They didn’t care what happened to her.’
‘That rules Warren and Fletcher out but everyone else is still in play.’
‘It’s more than that, surely. Killing Dawn and walking away is one thing, going back into the house and doing nothing to help Holly, it’s beyond callous. They must have been happy for her to die too. That’s pure hatred.’
‘I don’t know,’ Zigic said. ‘All the men we spoke to had no idea Holly was even in the house.’
‘That’s what they said anyway.’
‘It was the same story from all of them, meaning it’s most likely true.’
A shout went up from the shed and she started across the lawn.
‘Hold on, I think we’ve got something,’ she said, holding the phone to her ear as she ran.
Jenkins was inside now, her assistant standing near the door, looking mildly perturbed at how she’d taken over. Behind her Ferreira could see a mess of gardening equipment, two lawnmowers, shelves stacked with paint tins and boxes of fertiliser and weedkiller, rags and plastic pots and lengths of knotted rope, everything thrown in at random, covered in cobwebs and dust.
‘What is it?’
‘Your knife,’ she said, stepping back to let Ferreira see what they’d found.
The perforated silver handle and the six-inch blade, both covered in dried blood, scraps of flesh on the blade where it had been pulled out of Dawn’s two-day-dead body. It was wrapped in grey fleece fabric, a strand of grosgrain with a toggle on the end lying across it.
‘Gotcha,’ Ferreira said, smiling slightly. She’d felt sure that something was amiss in this house from the moment Julia invited them inside, read lies behind her strained good manners and secrets in the locks on the bedroom windows, and now here they were holding concrete evidence that her instinct had been well founded. ‘Is that a hoodie it’s wrapped in?’
‘Looks like it.’ Jenkins squatted down and plucked at something with a pair of tweezers, dropped it into an evidence bag and brought it out into the sunlight, held it up for Ferreira to see: a single strand of brown hair with a complete root. ‘We’ll get DNA off that, no problem.’
Ferreira took it from her and squinted at it, turning the bag until she found the right angle. ‘Is it just me or does it look ginger towards the root?’
Jenkins checked. ‘No, it’s not just you. That’s a natural redhead’s hair.’
‘Are you hearing this?’ she asked Zigic.
He swore. ‘She’s taking him out of the station.’
The phone went dead in Ferreira’s hand.
Zigic bolted down the stairs, taking them two at a time, slammed through the stairwell and shouted for a couple of uniforms to follow him as he made for the reception area, the men at his heels. They burst out through the main doors, onto the brown brick steps.
‘Rachel, wait!’
She glanced across her shoulder and pushed Nathan on towards her car. The remote locks popped. She told him to get in the car; a firm, low voice which sent him running.
‘I need to talk to him,’ Zigic said.
Nathan scrambled across the driver’s seat and hit the locks, looked out with an expression of absolute terror as one of the pursuing constables skidded to a halt at the door.
Rachel kept walking. ‘We’re done.’
‘No, we’re not.’
‘He’s answered your questions.’
Zigic caught up to her, spun her around by her arm. ‘I’ve got more questions for him. And you’re going to bring him back inside so I can ask them on record.’
‘Get your fucking hand off me,’ she growled, and when he did she stepped closer, into his face. ‘I didn’t have to bring him here and I don’t have to take him back in.’
‘You seriously want this kicking up to your boss?’ Zigic asked. ‘You’re obstructing a murder investigation.’
‘My boss doesn’t give a shit about your investigation.’
‘We’ve found the knife,’ Zigic said. ‘At Julia’s house, wrapped up in one of Nathan’s hoodies. So you are going to let me question him.’
A flicker of panic punched through her resolve and she looked away at the uniforms, one standing by the car, the other at her back now, ready to grab her if she made a move.
‘You’re not going anywhere, Rachel. Neither of you are leaving this station until I’m satisfied that Nathan didn’t murder Dawn Prentice.’
‘He didn’t,’ she said. ‘Jesus Christ, does he look like a murderer to you?’
‘No, he looks like a witness but your attitude is making me wonder about that.’ Zigic lowered his voice, aware that they were drawing attention from a couple of civilians waiting around on the steps. ‘What are you scared of, Rachel? If he’s innocent there’s no problem, is there?’
Her jaw clenched.
‘He saw more than he’s saying. Just let me talk to him again, okay? I know he can help us.’
She shook her head and started towards the car but found herself blocked off by PC Hale, standing with his hands spread wide. It was supposed to be a calming gesture but she was angry beyond the soothing nuances of body language.
‘Shift it.’
He held firm. Feet planted wide. A foot taller than her, six stone heavier.
Rachel turned back to Zigic.
‘Tell him to move or I’ll move him myself.’
‘If you take another step he’ll be forced to restrain you.’
‘You’ll regret trying it,’ she said and Zigic wasn’t sure which of them she was talking to.
She turned a slow circle, assessing the situation.
‘If you want to force your way out of here you can. But I promise the first thing I’ll do is release Nathan’s photo to the press. He’s going to be everywhere. Local news, national news, social media – his face will be seen across the whole country.’
Rachel stared at him, eyes blazing, small body stiff with rage and still he wasn’t sure whether he had her, not until she thumbed the key fob, unlocking the car doors, and gestured for Nathan to get out.
‘I hope you’re happy being a DI,’ she said. ‘Because this is
it
for you.’
They went back inside, up through the grey-washed stairwell with its smell of sweat and aftershave and bitter coffee, up to the Domestic Violence unit’s insulated silence. Rachel walked into the lounge with Nathan, who sat down obediently, didn’t look at her, just stared into space, shivering slightly even though it was a steady seventy degrees in there.
Zigic called Riggott and debriefed him quickly, watching Rachel through the observation window as they talked, seeing her making an urgent phone call he guessed was to her own boss – trying to drum up some more weight to drop on their shoulders. From the expression on her face Zigic doubted she was getting it.
The lift doors opened and Riggott stepped off into the thickly carpeted hallway, hard faced and determined looking. He rapped on the observation window and waved Rachel out.
‘Quite the little scene youse two made out there,’ he said. ‘Thought you were after keeping a low profile, DI Baxter.’
‘If you trained your officers better it wouldn’t be an issue.’
Riggott drew himself up to his full height. ‘We’ve been very indulgent with you. Now would be a good time to stop fucking us about and explain exactly what your boy there’s been on with.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t.’
‘We’ve got enough to charge him with murder,’ Zigic said. He’d bluffed her once before, out at the knothole, but this time he felt more certain about the threat. ‘We’ve found the murder weapon wrapped in his clothing, he’s admitted being at the scene.’
‘You’ll be making a mistake.’ Rachel looked between the two of them, lips pursed, the skin around her eyes tight. ‘If you charge him and he goes into a young offenders’ institution he’s as good as dead. He isn’t even safe here.’
‘What on earth do you think’s going to happen to him in a police station?’ Zigic asked.
A man’s voice came out of her phone, surprisingly high and light with a cultured Liverpudlian twang, and he realised she’d had it on speaker the whole time. ‘Tell them, Baxter.’
‘ACC Fallon?’ Riggott asked.
‘This information goes no further than you and DI Zigic,’ Fallon said. ‘Any breach will result in disciplinary action and criminal charges. Needless to say your careers will be over and I’ll make sure neither of you see a penny of your pensions.’
He put the phone down at his end but Rachel held onto her mobile, pressed it to her bottom lip as she met Zigic’s expectant stare. Part of her still didn’t want to talk, not after so long, not after all the evasions and lies, but her boss had given the order.
‘Come on, Baxter,’ Riggott said, saccharine sweet. ‘You’re among friends now.’
She steeled herself. ‘Nathan’s a protected witness.’
‘A witness to what?’ Zigic asked.
‘In May this year his mother was murdered by her boyfriend. Beaten to death with a hammer in her living room. Nathan saw everything, so did his brother Tyler.’
That explained a lot, Zigic thought. The boy’s reticence and twitchiness, the sense of emptiness in his dark green eyes when he talked about seeing Dawn’s body.
‘The boyfriend is Sean McCarthy.’ Rachel said it as if it was significant but the name meant nothing to Zigic. ‘Okay. He’s the cousin of Cain McCarthy, drug dealer, gun runner. Merseyside’s gangster number three by our reckoning. We’ve been after the family for a long time.’ She frowned but it seemed forced. ‘Sadly for the boys their mother’s murder provided us with leverage to bring Sean over.’
‘This bloke isn’t going to sell out his entire family to avoid a short stretch,’ Riggott said incredulously. ‘What’s he looking at for murdering his girlfriend? Ten years, five served. Any hard man worth his salt can do that.’
‘Ordinarily, yes.’ She smiled with genuine pleasure. ‘But our Sean is looking at a five-to-ten-year stretch in a prison controlled by a rival family. The McCarthys are up-and-comers and they’re smart. Their boys don’t get caught. Consequently, no protection for Sean when he’s banged up. He’ll be lucky to last a week. If he wants to survive he has to give us what we want.’