There were twenty or so people at the barbecue, mostly middle aged; Marcus’s parents and their friends. At one end of a large
patio a long table stood laden with food, and a tall man with steel-grey hair was tending the barbecue, wearing an apron bearing
the words ‘Danger. Head chef at work’. The cook was tanned and handsome, and something in his manner suggested that he was
used to being in charge.
Sitting on a sunlounger, eating a piece of steak without the benefit of cutlery, was a young man who bore a strong resemblance
to the self-appointed head chef. The boy looked bored, as though he’d rather be somewhere else. Even the proximity of a swimming
pool a few yards away from the patio did nothing to relieve his ennui. A couple of children were splashing each other in the
bright-blue water, but in spite of the heat, nobody else had ventured in.
Taking a suspect in for questioning in front of his family
and their guests wasn’t ideal but they’d probably have no choice. Wesley braced himself and emerged from the cover of the
house, making for the barbecue, because manners dictated that the suspect’s father should be informed of their intentions.
Gerry, meanwhile, approached the boy they assumed was Marcus and squatted down to have a word in his ear. If possible, they
wanted to keep everything discreet.
Wesley saw the boy’s expression change from boredom to horror. ‘I haven’t done anything,’ he said loudly, drawing stares from
the guests. ‘Dad!’ he called out like a frightened child.
The chef had emerged from behind his barbecue before Wesley could reach him and he was bearing down on Gerry with a face like
thunder. Wesley managed to come between them, apologising for the disturbance and assuring the father that they just needed
to ask Marcus some questions. But before the man could answer, he was joined by a woman in diaphanous red who seemed a little
unsteady on her stilettos.
‘What’s going on, Peter? Who’s that man with Marcus?’ Her words were a little slurred.
‘We need to talk to your son, Mrs Dexter,’ said Wesley, summoning all the charm he could muster. The situation could so easily
turn bad.
‘The police have already spoken to him,’ said the protective mother.
‘There are a couple of things we need to check. I realise it isn’t convenient to speak to him here because you’ve got guests,
so it would be best if he came with us to Tradmouth police station to have a chat. Just routine.’ He saw Mr Dexter put a reassuring
hand on his wife’s shoulder. ‘It
shouldn’t take long and a car will bring Marcus back afterwards,’ he added, thinking that if the interview went badly for
Marcus, there might not be an afterwards for quite a while. But there was no point in making waves.
The parents looked at each other. In view of Wesley’s manner, it would have seemed almost churlish of them to object, which
was his intention.
‘I’m coming with him,’ the chef said, discarding his apron. He looked at Gerry, a challenge in his eyes. ‘I’m over the limit
so you’d better be right about the lift.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Wesley.
The father barked orders at his wife to call their solicitor and one of the guests sidled towards the barbecue, preparing
to take over.
Marcus sat silently next to his father in the back of the car during the journey back to Tradmouth and Wesley made no attempt
to speak to either of them. He could see Marcus through the rear-view mirror and Wesley could tell that he was trying his
best to look unconcerned, as though being carted off to the police station was an everyday occurrence. But something in Marcus’s
eyes betrayed his nervousness.
Interview room three was vacant. It was the smallest of the interview rooms, windowless and claustrophobic. The table top
was dented and stained and the paint on one wall was peeling. Either Marcus would find these surroundings intimidating, Wesley
thought, or he would brazen it out and claim that the place was some kind of breach of his human rights, he wasn’t sure which.
Contrary to his expectations, the boy said nothing but sat staring ahead, possibly psyching himself up for a series of ‘No
comments’.
Wesley sat down beside Gerry and switched on the tape
machine, facing the boy, his father and the family solicitor, who had been waiting for them in the station reception. The
story Marcus had written had been placed in a clear plastic evidence bag and Wesley slid it over the table towards him.
‘Do you recognise this?’
Marcus took it and studied it closely for a while. Then he looked up. ‘It’s a piece of creative writing I did. Charles thought
a bit of storytelling would be good for our souls or something – that’s Mr Dickens; it’s not his name but that’s what we call
him. English teacher – Charles Dickens – get it?’
‘I get it,’ said Wesley, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the feeble witticism. ‘Why did you choose this particular
subject?’
‘Felt like it.’
‘Why did you feel like it?’ Gerry chipped in.
‘I don’t know. Just did.’
‘You had an argument with Barney not long before he died.’
‘Lots of people have rows.’ He suddenly sounded a little unsure of himself.
Wesley watched the boy’s face closely. ‘You argue with someone and then they die in exactly the same way as you describe in
your story. Surely you can see why we need to question you?’
‘I told that woman where I was that night.’
‘You mean Detective Sergeant Tracey?’ Wesley took Marcus’s statement out of the file in front of him. ‘You say you spent the
evening reading but your parents were out so you have no witnesses. That’s not really much of an alibi, is it?’
‘It’s the only one I’ve got. And it happens to be true.’
‘Did Carl Heckerty ask you to take part in the hunt that night?’
‘He was looking for volunteers but I didn’t fancy it, and I had a lot of reading to catch up on for uni. That’s what I was
doing, catching up on my reading. Coleridge and Wordsworth if you want the sordid details.’
‘You’ve taken part in the hunts before?’
‘It’s an easy way to make a hundred quid but, like I said, I had other things to do that night.’
‘What’s this about a hunt?’ Marcus’s father was leaning forward now, suddenly alert.
‘It’s no big deal, Dad. Nothing to worry about.’
This seemed to satisfy the father who sat back and folded his arms.
‘You have a car of your own, Marcus?’
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘If your car was out that night we can find out from our number plate recognition cameras. They’re dotted all around – most
people don’t realise that.’ Wesley was exaggerating the power of the police’s technology a little but he thought it was worth
a try. ‘We’re trying to find out how Sophie and Barney got to the hunt that night. We think somebody gave them a lift to Catton
Hall but we don’t know who it was yet.’
Marcus’s studied nonchalance suddenly vanished. He started to fidget with the empty plastic cup in front of him and he shot
a nervous glance at his father. ‘Er, can I have a word with my dad and Mr Dennis in private?’ he asked Wesley with a new humility
in his voice.
‘Of course.’
Wesley and Gerry left the room and stood in the corridor.
‘Think he’s going to confess?’ Gerry said in a loud whisper.
‘I think he’s going to confess to something. But I’m not sure that something’ll be murder.’
They left it another couple of minutes then re-entered the room. Marcus was sitting with his head bowed and his father’s protective
hand on his shoulder.
The solicitor wore an expression of exasperated resignation. ‘My client wishes to change his statement,’ he said.
The two policemen sat down and Gerry flicked the switch to re-start the tape recorder.
‘I wasn’t reading all night,’ Marcus began. ‘Sophie rang me and asked if I could give her a lift. She said her car was in
for a service and she needed to get to Catton Hall ’cause she’d told Heckerty she’d do the hunt. Honestly, I thought I was
on a promise. She never mentioned Barney would be with her.’
‘What did you feel when you found out?’
‘I was pissed off, but anyone would have been. She’d made a fool of me – not for the first time.’
‘But you still took her to Catton Hall?’
‘Yeah. She had the cheek to ask if I could wait and give her a lift back but I told her to get lost. I knew she was just using
me.’
‘And you didn’t like it.’
‘No, I didn’t. But I didn’t kill her.’ He shot a pleading look at his father. ‘I went straight home after I’d dropped them
off. Look, I’ve decided to tell you the whole story ’cause it’s the right thing to do.’
‘And because I mentioned our number plate recognition cameras, so you think we might have discovered your car was out that
night and thought the worst.’
Marcus didn’t answer and after a few seconds of silence, the solicitor enquired whether they were going to charge his client
or release him. This time it was Wesley’s turn to be evasive. He had another question to ask.
‘Are you a good shot, Marcus?’
The boy looked wary. ‘What do you mean?’
When Wesley repeated the question Marcus’s eyes flickered as though he was seeking an escape route.
‘I believe you help out with your father’s shooting weekends,’ said Gerry. ‘Helping all the townies get their aims straight
so that they don’t go back to London with their backsides peppered with shot. You must be an expert. Learn to shoot when you
were a nipper, did you?’
Marcus nodded reluctantly. ‘Yeah. But I never shot Sophie and Barney. I’m going up to Cambridge soon. Why would I risk everything
for them?’
‘Good point,’ the father muttered, only to be silenced by a look from Gerry.
‘Spur of the moment thing, was it?’ Gerry continued. ‘You saw them together and you realised Sophie was just using you, so
you lost your temper. Or did you plan it? You must have had the gun with you—’
The father spoke. ‘All our guns are locked away safely in cabinets and I keep the key. My son couldn’t have got hold of one
even if he’d wanted to.’
‘There must be spare keys for the cabinets?’
The father produced a key from his trouser pocket. ‘I keep the key with me at all times and there’s a spare in the safe in
my Neston office. And before you ask, Marcus doesn’t have access to the office and he doesn’t know the combination of the
safe. You’ll find no irregularities in our safety procedures. Ask any of my employees.’
‘Can my client make a fresh statement and leave?’ the solicitor asked wearily.
‘OK. But don’t leave the country will you, Mr Dexter,’ said Gerry, favouring Marcus with a smile that would grace a crocodile.
Paul returned to his aunt and uncle’s place. DCI Heffernan reckoned that under the circumstances it was helpful for them to
have a family member around to share the duties of the family liaison officer who, however well intentioned, was a stranger.
But now Paul was longing to be back to the incident room again. Although he was calling in at Tradmouth police station for
a few hours each day he felt that he was losing touch with the inquiry. And he wanted more than anything to get Sophie’s killer
put away. He had never before felt this strong, almost primitive desire for vengeance. But Sophie had been his cousin; one
of his own.
He hated it when Carole vanished up to Sophie’s room. He knew she sat there on his cousin’s bed, nursing Sophie’s clothes
and soft toys to her chest like precious babies, rocking to and fro, crooning the lullaby she used to sing to Sophie when
she was small. It broke his heart to see her like that and know that there was nothing he or anybody else could do to ease
her pain. His uncle busied himself with practical things and his own mother, Carole’s sister, bustled around making sure there
was always tea in the mugs and food on the table. But nothing could bring Sophie back.
It was coming up to five o’clock and his mother was in the kitchen preparing a salad for their evening meal. Whatever horrors
they had to face, they still had to eat, she said. Food had always been high up on his mother’s agenda.
He looked at his watch. It wasn’t too late to go back to the station, just to see if anything new had come in, and to see
Trish. He’d been disappointed that she hadn’t called him. For the past few days she’d seemed rather distant. Perhaps she didn’t
know what to say – some people were like that around death. Or perhaps she was reluctant to intrude on his family’s grief.
He was about to make his excuses to his mum when Carole appeared at the living room door. She looked pale and haggard, and
from the puffy redness of her eyes, he knew she’d been crying again. He stood up, took her arm gently and began to lead her
to the sofa. But she shook her head and handed him a DVD that she’d been clutching in her hand.
‘It’s Sophie’s party … her eighteenth,’ she said. ‘You remember?’
Paul nodded. He’d been there with Trish and he suddenly realised that some of their suspects must have been there too. Not
that he’d really been aware of them. Being so much younger, Sophie’s friends had kept to the large conservatory. His only
impression of them was the loud braying of the boys and the giggly drunkenness of the girls. Now he wished he’d taken more
interest. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.
‘I want to watch it.’
‘Are you sure?’ All Paul’s instincts told him that this was a bad idea; picking at scabs so they became raw and painful again.
Carole gave a firm nod so he took the disc from her and put it in the machine. The TV screen flickered into life and he found
himself looking at the faces he’d seen pinned up on the notice board in the incident room – the witnesses,
the suspects and the victims – as they pulled faces and performed for the camera.
There was Barney, kissing Sophie enthusiastically and when he spotted the camera he gave it a sly sideways look and waved
it away. There was Jodie Carter looking bored and downing a blue drink while talking to Dunstan Price, who was taking occasional
swigs from a bottle of lager. Marcus Dexter was sitting on the stairs with a brightly coloured drink in his hand and, from
the speed he was downing it, he seemed to be intent on inebriation.