‘Of course she does.’ Brook pulled Russell’s laptop from the plastic and turned it on.
‘Why are you turning that on? There’s nothing on there. You said yourself.’
‘
The files on here were wiped but the software wasn’t touched,’ answered Brook.
Yvette looked at him, processing the information. ‘I don’t understand.’ Her eyes suggested otherwise.
‘Don’t you?’ The software loaded and Brook flicked his eyes around the desktop. ‘Word, Recycle Bin, Help – and an old web browser. Is that all that’s on here?’ Yvette didn’t reply. Brook clicked on the browser icon.
‘It takes ages to load,’ she said with a faint smile. ‘It’s really old.’
Brook nodded. ‘I know,’ he said softly. He turned to face her. ‘But only yesterday you told us Russell was a film buff, that he spent hours filming and watching his films on a laptop.’
‘I. . . er, that’s right.’
‘On this?’
No reply.
‘I don’t think he watched films on this piece of junk, did he?’ Yvette didn’t answer. ‘He had another laptop.’ Still no reply. ‘An expensive one capable of uploading and watching films.’
Yvette stood up and smoothed down her robe. ‘No, he used that one,’ she said airily.
‘Then show me the software,’ said Brook.
‘I don’t know about that stuff.’
‘I think you do. Where’s the other laptop?’ said Brook. ‘And more importantly, where is Russell?’
She glared at him briefly before returning to the kitchen to pour two coffees. She placed one next to Brook with a coquettish smile. ‘You did say no sugar.’
Brook’s face was like stone. He swung his own laptop case from his shoulder and turned on his machine. He cued up the
last Deity broadcast as Noble had shown him and swung the screen round to face her.
She glanced at the screen but didn’t react. A moment later, Brook paused the broadcast on the picture of the hanged boy. Yvette’s eyes widened. ‘No, no, no!’ she screamed and threw her coffee cup at Brook, who just managed to duck in time, though hot coffee scalded his hand. ‘Leave us alone!’ she wept, and leaped towards the front door. Brook had anticipated her and blocked her way so she turned and headed for the back door. Brook declined to follow, instead pulling out a handkerchief to cover his burning hand.
A few seconds later he heard more screaming, and a struggling Yvette was being restrained with some difficulty by Noble and PC Patel.
‘Yvette Thomson. You’re under arrest for the murder of Russell Thomson.’
Brook plucked the nearly new toothbrush from the cup and dropped it in the evidence bag. He jogged back down the stairs where Don Crump was waxing lyrical about his antipathy to early mornings.
‘It’s Sunday, for Christ’s sake – middle of the night too, I mean, fuck me . . .’ He stopped when his colleagues’ eyes were drawn first to Brook on the stairs and then to their tasks. Crump turned to Brook, who handed him the evidence bag.
‘What’s this?’
‘Yvette Thomson. DNA profile, please.’
‘Is that all?’
‘No. You can clear Russell’s room of all the artefacts. I want them bagged and tagged,’ said Brook, over his shoulder.
‘What about his DNA? SOCO already looked, remember.’
Brook
turned at the front door. ‘You may have to separate it from other samples,’ he said, ‘but I’d try Mrs Thomson’s bedroom.’
Crump rolled a lascivious eye to colleagues and in his best Kenneth Williams accent, said, ‘Ooh, Matron!’
Cooper scrolled through all the texts on Yvette Thomson’s phone as Brook and Noble looked on.
‘Since the students went missing, Yvette’s sent him fifteen texts. All asking where he is and when he’s coming back and all increasingly desperate. All unanswered as were the thirty calls she placed to his mobile number. If she’s faking it, it’s pretty impressive.’
‘Anything else?’
‘You want to see her snapshots?’
‘Why not?’ said Brook. ‘We might get a better likeness of Rusty.’
Brook placed the evidence bags and photographs on the table and turned on the recorder to announce the time, date, his own name and those of Noble, PC Patel and the duty solicitor, Roger Sands. Yvette Thomson sat perfectly still and stared into space. She seemed to be in a state of shock. ‘State your name for the record, please.’ No reply. ‘Yvette.’
The solicitor touched her arm and Yvette looked up. She roused herself to think. ‘Yvette Gail Thomson.’
‘Have the charges been properly explained to you?’ said Brook.
A pained expression infected her features. ‘I did not kill my son,’ she answered.
‘But you accept that he is dead,’ said Brook.
‘Don’t
answer that,’ said Sands.
Brook shot him a malevolent glance and picked up a picture of the hanged boy taken from the Deity broadcast and pushed it towards her. ‘Is that your son?’
‘You don’t have to say anything, Miss Thomson,’ said Sands. ‘They have no evidence.’
‘Is that your son, Yvette?’ persisted Brook. ‘Look at it.’
She darted a glance at the photograph then closed her eyes, forcing tears on to her cheeks. After several minutes of silence she finally answered. ‘Yes. That’s Russell.’
‘Not Rusty.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Every time you referred to your missing son before this morning, you called him Rusty.’
‘Well, I could hardly call him Russell, could I? Out of respect.’
‘So Rusty is not your son.’
‘Miss Thomson, I advise you . . .’ began Sands.
‘No.’
‘He’s your lover.’
‘Miss Thomson . . .’
She hesitated but then said proudly. ‘Yes.’
‘Miss—’
‘Keep quiet,’ spat Yvette at Sands. ‘I’ll shout about our love from the rooftops if I want.’
Brook smiled at Sands. ‘How long has Rusty been your lover?’
‘Four years.’
‘And Russell died three years ago, is that right?’
‘When we – I – lived in Wales, yes.’
‘Near Denbigh?’
‘Briefly.’
‘So you met Rusty the year before your son died.’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
Yvette smiled with remembrance. ‘On the beach at Rhyl. Me and Russell were having a day out in the holidays. Rusty, this beautiful young man, just walked up to me with a strange smile on his face and sat in the sand next to me. I’ll never forget what he said to me. He said, “I’ve found my soulmate.” And he had.’
‘Where was Russell when this was happening?’
‘He was having a ride on a donkey.’
‘This would be in 2007.’
‘If you say so.’
‘When Russell died the year after, how old was he?’ The tears started again. ‘Fifteen.’
‘And how old is Rusty?’
Yvette shook her head. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘You don’t know?’ said Brook, surprised.
‘Older.’
‘Well, how old was he when you met him?’
‘Four years younger than he is now,’ she sneered.
‘You’re telling me you don’t know how old your lover of four years is?’
‘Twenty? Twenty-five? Maybe older.’
Brook took a sip of water. ‘I find it incredible that you don’t know.’
Yvette shrugged. ‘It never came up. We were in love. It wasn’t important.’
‘Never came up,’ Brook repeated. Then: ‘You’re an orphan, Yvette. It must’ve been tough so I’ll try not to judge.’
‘What
does that mean?’ she growled at him.
‘It means that everything that happens is all about you, isn’t it? What you want. What you need.’
Yvette looked down at the floor, searching for a rebuttal.
‘I . . .’ She shook her head.
‘What about Rusty’s real name? Did that come up?’
Yvette took offence at Brook’s tone and replied icily, ‘He said it was Ian.’
‘Surname?’
She shook her head, shamefaced. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you ever see any ID – passport, birth certificate, driving licence?’
‘Nothing.’
‘How about credit cards?’
‘Rusty has no use for money. He says it imprisons those who have it.’
‘Does he? So you have no idea if his name is really Ian.’
‘No.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘Rusty said he didn’t exist before he met me. He really loves me, you see.’
‘Why did you kill Russell?’ asked Brook.
‘I didn’t kill him,’ replied Yvette firmly. ‘He killed himself.’
‘But he was your son and you didn’t report him missing. Why?’
‘He wasn’t missing. He was dead.’
‘Then why didn’t you contact the police to identify his body?’
‘Because . . .’
‘. . . they would’ve asked why you didn’t report him missing,’ said Brook before Yvette could answer. ‘Your son has not had a decent burial. He has no grave to mark his passing. How do you feel about that?’
‘Terrible,’
she replied. ‘What mother wouldn’t?’
‘Then why allow that to happen?’
‘I didn’t see the point of it,’ she snarled at Brook.
‘No use crying over spilled milk?’ suggested Brook. No reply. ‘Why did Rusty kill him?’
‘Russell committed suicide. He did it of his own accord. Ian – Rusty – told me.’ She began to cry. ‘Russell was depressed. He was being bullied. Rusty just . . .’ She closed her eyes, forcing more tears down her cheeks.
‘What? Encouraged him?’
She nodded. ‘I didn’t know, I swear. Rusty told me later. He said it was for the best, that Russell would always be unhappy. He said he realised as soon as he met him that Russell was a soul in torment. Rusty – Ian – was just waiting for the right time to . . .’
‘. . . help your son end his life,’ said Brook.
She hung her head. ‘Rusty’s very persuasive. He could charm the birds out of the trees. He was Russell’s friend, he supported him. He said it was for the best, best for Russell too. He was too sensitive to live; he’d always be in pain. That’s how he put it. He said I shouldn’t say anything. If the police got involved or found out who Russell was, then they’d make him a scapegoat and put him away, and . . .’
‘. . . you’d be alone again.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why couldn’t they identify his body? There wasn’t even a dental record.’
‘I took him to the dentist when he was small. The first time, he screamed the place down, wouldn’t let the dentist near him. Nothing worked. I told you – he was sensitive, see?’ She shrugged. ‘I looked after his teeth best I could from then.’
‘But
why did nobody else know who Russell was or report him missing?’
‘We’d just moved into the cottage two days before. Nobody knew us.’
‘And that made it the right time for Rusty to carry out his plan,’ observed Brook.
Yvette looked down at the table. ‘We’d had to leave Prestatyn because Russell was being bullied. We hadn’t even started the new school. Only the landlord knew I was in Denbigh and he never saw Russell. They’d gone out for a walk together. My two lovely boys.’ She smiled wistfully, then her face hardened as she looked at the picture of the hanging. ‘We left at the end of the month. Me and Rusty. The school weren’t going to fret over a boy they’d never seen. Besides, if anyone asked, Rusty had become my son.’
‘So your son, Russell, just ceased to exist,’ concluded Brook. ‘Why not just send Rusty to the new school instead of Russell?’
‘I couldn’t live there after what had happened. What sort of person do you think I am?’
Brook glanced up at Noble’s expression of disgust. PC Patel was trying to keep a poker face. ‘So you moved away again.’
‘Yes.’
‘And got rid of all the pictures of your son.’
‘Rusty said I had to, if he was going to take Russell’s place properly. He had to become him in every way. He was very good at it. He dressed like him, talked like him, picked up all Russell’s mannerisms, pretended he was shy and nervous . . .’
‘. . . but he was far from that,’ said Brook. ‘He changed your son from victim into bully. He couldn’t help himself, could he? How ironic. He became just as much trouble to schools as Russell had been; only this time others were on the receiving
end of
his
viciousness. And instead of verbal taunts and threats he used the computer.’
‘There were some issues, yes.’
‘Issues with your new son’s behaviour that meant you had to keep moving around as much as before.’
‘We didn’t mind as long as we could be together, don’t you see?’ pleaded Yvette.
‘Perfectly. You were so desperate and needy that you allowed your lover to kill your son.’
‘You’re making me sound like a monster.’
Noble snorted from his position at the back wall.
‘Am I?’ said Brook, flashing Noble an admonishing glance.
‘You know you are. You’re twisting everything. And I’m not stupid. I know that’s how it looks but I’m really not. I was a good mother but Russell was dead,’ explained Yvette. ‘Don’t you get it? I didn’t know it was going to happen, but it did. There was nothing I could do to bring Russell back.’
‘If there had been, would you have done it?’
Yvette fiddled with the hem of her skirt and absorbed the question. ‘Of course.’
‘Even if it meant standing up to your lover?’
‘I’m a mother,’ insisted Yvette. ‘I would have done anything to protect my son.’
Brook was silent for a moment. ‘Let’s move on to your relationship with Len Poole.’
‘What relationship?’
‘You tell me,’ said Brook. ‘There’s no reason to hide things now, is there?’
Yvette stared at him for a few minutes before coming to a decision. ‘I suppose not.’
‘Start by telling us when you first met him.’
‘I
was fourteen. He was at the orphanage.’
‘St Asaph’s School for Boys and Girls?’
Yvette smiled. ‘Girls? I was never a girl. I was a woman. Everyone could see that. Len noticed me as soon as he arrived. He appreciated me, bought me little gifts and gave me money for clothes.’
‘In return for sex.’
‘Don’t be disgusting,’ she yelled, standing up. ‘Do you think I’m a whore?’
‘Sit down, please,’ ordered PC Patel, placing her hands on Yvette’s shoulders and pushing her firmly back into her chair.
‘No,’ said Brook steadily, when she’d calmed down. ‘Far from it. You were under age. Len was an adult. He had a duty of care. Anything you felt pressured to do with him, no matter how severe or gentle that pressure, was the result of his criminal behaviour.’