Cruel Acts

‘The victims’ families will read it.’

‘True. But they don’t love us anyway.’

Derwent didn’t reply, because it was true. That was one very good reason why we had decided to do places before people.

I concentrated on the directions DCI Whitlock had given us, aware that if Derwent took a wrong turning it would be my fault. The roads got narrower as we came closer to the Greys’ home, and Derwent slowed down. The slackening speed of the car seemed to mirror my reluctance to get there.

‘They’re angry. Very angry. They won’t trust you and they definitely won’t help you,’ Whitlock had warned us. I liked to make my own mistakes, instead of inheriting the results of other people’s poor judgement.

‘That’s it up there.’ I pointed to the right, where a white, thatched building stood in a gravelled yard. It was a barn conversion, half-timbered and sagging under its heavy roof. It appeared ancient but well looked after.

‘Big, isn’t it?’

‘They’re well off. She’s a retired GP and he was a management consultant.’ I hesitated, waiting for him to turn the car through the gate. ‘Remember what the boss said. We need to be on our best behaviour.’

‘I know you’re not implying I would do anything else.’

‘I wouldn’t dare.’

Derwent parked beside a battered Volvo and a newish BMW. ‘Let’s see those convent manners, Kerrigan. I’m counting on you to charm them.’

Charm was not going to be enough, I thought, on edge as Derwent rang the doorbell.

The car had been loud on the gravel, so they had known we were outside. Even so, it took a long time for anyone to come to the door. When it opened, an elderly man stood in front of us. He was leaning on a stick.

‘Mr Grey?’

A nod.

I introduced myself and Derwent. ‘Thank you for agreeing to speak with us.’

‘We had no choice.’ He stepped back and disappeared into the house, leaving us to shut the door and follow him into a huge double-height room with a brick fireplace at one end and a kitchen at the other. A slim, pale woman sat on one sofa, her face tight with tension. Mrs Grey, I guessed, and corrected myself: Dr Grey. She stood up as we approached, but her eyes followed her husband, not us. He had a dragging walk, one foot sliding along the ground as he moved.

A second man stood by the fireplace, his hands in the pockets of immaculately pressed chinos. He had the ruddy complexion of a man who spends a lot of time on golf courses, and his hair was slicked back from his forehead. I knew before he spoke that he was going to have the sort of plummy voice that made my hackles rise.

‘Hi. Tom Mitchell.’ He leaned across and shook hands with Derwent, sketching a wave in my direction. ‘I was Sara’s fiancé at the time of her disappearance.’

‘Please tell us’ – Mr Grey sat down with a grunt of effort – ‘what exactly this charade is supposed to achieve? You’re investigating Sara’s murder all over again so you can prove that Leo Stone did it.’

‘We’re examining every aspect of the previous investigation to make sure we haven’t overlooked any details,’ Derwent said.

‘And if you have?’

‘Then we’ll advise the CPS accordingly.’

‘What a waste of everyone’s time,’ Mr Grey spat. ‘An exercise in reinforcing a set of errors that should never have been made. A cover-up for your friends, so no one realises they framed an innocent man.’

‘There was a considerable amount of evidence that suggested Mr Stone was your daughter’s killer,’ I said tentatively.

‘That’s what you wanted everyone to believe.’

‘The fact is that no one knows who took my daughter.’ Dr Grey’s voice was low and precise. ‘No one ever traced the person who killed her. I’m absolutely sure of that. We’re asked to believe that Leo killed her purely because her body was left in the same area as Willa Howard. Well, I’m sorry. It isn’t convincing to me and I don’t think it would have convinced the jury if they hadn’t broken the law to find out more about Leo.’

Leo. ‘Are you in contact with Mr Stone?’

‘Not directly. We get messages from him.’

‘Written messages?’

‘No. His son Kelly is in touch with us. He passes on communications from Leo.’

‘What sort of communications?’ Derwent asked and Dr Grey glanced at him before she answered.

‘He’s very grateful to us for our campaigning on his behalf. I always say it’s in our interests as well. We want Sara’s real killer to be located and punished. He shows tremendous empathy to us in our difficulties. Kelly, too. He’s quite remarkable.’ Dr Grey took out a handkerchief and pressed it under her eyes. ‘They want us to get justice for Sara’s sake, not just because Leo is incarcerated. I can’t believe that after all this, you’re pursuing him again.’

‘What would you prefer us to do?’ Derwent asked.

‘Find the real killer, of course.’ She flung out a hand in irritation. ‘Your stupid colleagues wasted weeks bothering Tom and his friends, even though he wasn’t in the country when poor Sara disappeared. He couldn’t have been involved and we said so. But they didn’t listen. They were utterly determined to make him into a killer. They wanted to turn us against him but we didn’t listen, did we, Tom?’

‘No. And I was very grateful.’ Tom looked from me to Derwent and back again. ‘I’m not going to tell you how to do your job but I can save you a lot of time if you’re drawing up a list of suspects. I wasn’t involved.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Derwent’s voice carried the slightest overtone of I’ll-be-the-judge-of-that.

‘The fact is,’ Dr Grey said again, ‘your colleagues struck lucky when they found Sara’s body. They saw an opportunity to make Leo take responsibility for Sara’s death as well as the other girl’s. Far easier than looking for a second killer.’

‘But the two bodies were left in much the same way,’ I began.

‘A dead body is a dead body, especially if it’s left outside. There was nothing left of her. She was eaten, Detective. Animals took her flesh. Her face. Her hands. She was utterly decomposed. Have you read the pathologist’s report?’

‘I’ve spoken with the pathologist who is working on this case now.’ In the face of Dr Grey’s anger I felt like a badly prepared student. I should have read Dr Hanshaw’s report as well as talking to Dr Early.

‘They didn’t even find all her bones. The small ones disappear. They were missing twenty-three bones – vertebrae, toes, fingers. Bones that I made.’ She stopped, choking with emotion, the mother in her elbowing aside the rational scientist who believed in facts above all. ‘I blame them for not finding Sara’s killer. I don’t think the original investigation was adequate in any way. I do not believe that Leo was involved in the slightest, with either murder. I will not help you to lock him up again.’

‘That’s not our aim.’ I really hoped Derwent wouldn’t contradict me. ‘Our intention is to review the evidence and make sure the correct person is prosecuted for murder. If the evidence leads us towards Mr Stone, we’ll know that the original investigation was sound. If it leads us away from him, please believe me, we’ll follow the facts. We don’t want an innocent man to be behind bars. We want justice for your daughter too, and we’ll work as hard as we can to get it.’

‘I gather from DCI Whitlock that Sara’s possessions are here,’ Derwent slid into the quiet aftermath of a speech that I was both proud and embarrassed to have made. ‘Is it possible for us to look at them?’

‘I suppose so,’ Dr Grey said heavily.

‘I’ll show you.’ Tom Mitchell started towards the stairs that led up to an upper floor. He moved quickly, full of nervous energy. I caught a flash of gold from his left hand as I followed him: a wedding ring. ‘It’s all boxed up, I’m afraid. But the police went through everything. They couldn’t find anything in Sara’s life that would have made someone want to harm her.’

He led us into a room that should have been a bedroom but it had no furniture in it. Boxes piled on top of boxes filled the space instead. The room smelled musty and he pushed open the window.

‘She’d moved out, you see. There was nothing here. All her things were in our flat. I kept everything for a long time. I didn’t want to clear Sara out of my life, I suppose. But in the end I had to. She wasn’t coming back. Barbara – that’s Dr Grey – didn’t want to unpack it so it ended up here.’ He stood in the middle of the room and looked around, his posture somehow conveying bafflement and longstanding grief. ‘Not much, is there? Not for a whole life.’

I felt unexpectedly sorry for him, and angry with myself for my reverse snobbishness. Bad things could happen to wealthy, privileged men who wore Ralph Lauren cashmere jumpers and inherited signet rings, the crest softened and blurred by time. Life wasn’t easy for anyone who mourned, whether they were rich or poor.

‘What do you think happened to her?’ I asked, taking advantage of the fact that the door was closed.