‘Come on, Phillipa’ — the bald one poked the desk — ‘you know how this works. We ask questions; Benedict gets the chance to put his side of the story.’
‘For clarification of all doubt, Detective Inspector Morrow, my client will be answering every single one of your questions with “no comment”. So, if you want to go through the charade of asking them, go ahead and we’ll see how much of each other’s time we can all waste, shall we?’
Morrow patted DS Massie on the shoulder. ‘In your own time, Rhona.’
‘Where were you last Friday, Benedict, at around three in the morning?’
Benedict looked up at his solicitor.
She nodded at him.
He blinked at DS Massie, then forced out a strangled, high-pitched, ‘No comment.’
And that’s how it went for the next twenty minutes. Every single question, from ‘Why did you kill Liam Hay?’ to ‘Who was with you that night?’ and even ‘Do you like Star Wars?’ was met the same way: ‘No comment.’ Lucy had interviewed professional criminals who were less disciplined about it than Benedict Strachan was.
‘Now, are we all done, DI Morrow? Can my client read his statement?’
‘Urgh...’ Morrow slumped in his seat. ‘Might as well.’
‘All right, Benedict, like we practised.’ She reached into her pocket, produced a sheet of paper, and handed it to him.
Benedict cleared his throat and read aloud, sounding every bit as young and scared as he looked. ‘“My name is Benedict Samuel Strachan and last Friday morning I killed a homeless man. I did not know his name at the time, or who he was, but I now know him to be Liam Hay and I want to ex... express my deepest sympathy and regret to his family...”’ A huge sniff rattled out of the speakers as snot varnished Benedict’s top lip. ‘“I had no... no reason to do what... what I did. I am sorry. I never wanted to hurt anyone, but I have killed Liam Hay and I understand that I must face the consequences of my... actions.”’ He took off his glasses and scrubbed his sleeve across his eyes.
‘You’re doing fine, Benedict. Get your breath.’
He could barely speak now, rattling it out between sobs. ‘“I do not know why I killed Liam Hay, but in order to... save his family... save his family the trauma of a trial... I...”’ Staring at his solicitor as if she was asking him to swallow a rancid toad.
‘Almost there.’
‘“I wish to plead guilty to the murder of Liam Hay. I will not be making any... any further statements... or answering any further questions.”’
His solicitor plucked the statement from his trembling hands. ‘Good boy.’
Of course, DI Morrow and DS Massie tried to get him to ID his accomplice, or say where the kids had got the knives from, or where they’d ditched them, or why they’d stabbed Liam so many times... but Benedict Samuel Strachan wouldn’t deviate from ‘No comment.’
The next video file wasn’t any help — just DI Morrow and DS Massie, sitting opposite Benedict and his solicitor the next morning, trying to get him to say anything else and failing.
Lucy watched the first five minutes, then clicked the video through to triple speed, making everyone sound like chipmunks. She did the same with the last two sessions, then sat back in her chair, frowning at the blank screen.
Clearly Benedict hadn’t written that statement himself, so it was probably the work of his expensive-looking solicitor. Only, normally, when a family shelled out a small fortune for someone like that to represent their kid, or wife, or husband, the lawyer did everything possible to get them off. Even if it meant bending the rules, twisting the truth, and threatening all sorts of legal repercussions if the accused wasn’t released immediately.
So why had Benedict’s lawyer just sat there and encouraged him to read out an unforced confession? OK, so the investigation had the kid’s trainers with Liam Hay’s DNA on them — a quick scrub with washing-up liquid not being all that efficient at removing microscopic traces of blood. Probably didn’t want to throw out a brand-new pair of Nikes, or risk chucking them in a boil wash. And yes, they also had a whole bunch of circumstantial evidence against Benedict, and a witness statement from someone who’d been walking their dog down Brokemere Street that night, but surely a hot-shot solicitor wouldn’t have let that get in the way.
Why just let him confess?
She opened up the last chunk of footage again and when DS Massie did the introductions, Lucy copied down the solicitor’s name: Phillipa McKeever. Definitely heard of her somewhere before, but then if she was a high-flying criminal-defence lawyer, that wasn’t exactly surprising. Might be worth giving her a shout — see if she remembered anything about Benedict and the murder — but given her interview-room performance, the chances of Ms McKeever breaching client confidentiality were about the same as the Dunk buying a pair of red trousers, becoming best friends with a merchant banker, and joining the Conservative Party.
And the confession wasn’t the only thing... off about all this. The Benedict in the videos didn’t really match the picture she’d got from his answers to the St Nicholas College tests. You’d think a kid who’d written an essay like that would’ve been less terrified. More defiant. More like a cold-hearted little monster and less like a scared little child.
More like Allegra.
39
‘Thought you’d be in here.’
Lucy looked up and there was the Dunk, standing in the office doorway, holding two wax-paper cups that exuded the burnt-toffee scent of canteen coffee.
He eased the door closed behind him. ‘How’d you get on?’
‘Not sure. You?’
‘Dr Christianson’s not posted to any of his social media accounts since he took his leave of absence from the university. Before that: two, three tweets a day, half a dozen retweets, update on Facebook, couple of pictures on Instagram. After: tumbleweed.’ The Dunk put one of the cups on the desk, then produced a Penguin biscuit from his leather jacket. ‘Here, I definitely didn’t pilfer these, either. They... Eww!’ He snatched the biscuit back. ‘Nope. Your hands are filthy.’
‘Don’t be daft, they’re—’
‘Manky. No chocolate biscuit till you wash your hands. We’re not animals, Sarge.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with them. See?’ She turned her hands palms up to show him... but he was right. Every single one of her fingertips was covered in little black smears, as if she’d been squashing spider legs. A tentative sniff didn’t reveal anything. ‘OK, maybe they could do with a bit of a wash.’
‘Go. Before your coffee gets cold.’
Yeah... Might as well. In case it was something nasty.
She pointed one of the offending digits at her illicitly obtained printouts. ‘While I’m away, read that lot.’ Lucy left him to it while she headed for the ladies. No idea how she’d managed to get her fingers so dirty. It looked like biro, or something. But she hadn’t used one. Well, unless...
What if she’d spaced out again? Only this time Dr McNaughton hadn’t kicked it off with his horrible questions, which was worrying. Or maybe there was a biro on her borrowed desk, and she’d simply been fiddling with it, without realizing, while she’d watched the CCTV and interviews? That made a lot more sense.