‘When you don’t what, Scott? You see, I’m having trouble tying a few things up here. You’ve a history of lying to the police and—’
‘And I’ve paid the price for that. Jesus, please…’
‘You knocked a girl down and killed her, then just drove on.’
‘I panicked.’
‘Doesn’t change what you did.’
‘I was gone for a matter of minutes. I wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t know what to do. I turned straight around and drove back but by then…’
‘By then other folks had got to her. By then it was too late.’
‘It didn’t make any difference. She was already dead. I did it. It wasn’t my fault, but I did it.’
‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? That’s why you moved to Thussock.’
‘How could we stay in Redditch? She lived on the same street as us, for Christ’s sake. We knew her parents. I’d got people throwing paint at the house, people badmouthing me all over the place.’
‘Hardly surprising.’
‘I’m not going to argue. If I could turn back time I’d do it in a bloody heartbeat. My business went down the pan… I lost almost everything.’
‘Not as much as the family of that poor kiddie though, eh? Or the relatives of any of the people who’ve died round here recently either.’
‘I didn’t do any of this. I punched that guy in the face, yes, but I didn’t have anything to do with any of the others.’
‘Then who did? I tell you, Scott, it’s causing us some real problems. We’re a small rural force, and our resources are stretched as it is.’
‘Then stop wasting them on me.’
Litherland looked at him for a few seconds, weighing him up. ‘This killer,’ he said, ‘whoever he is, is a devious little fucker. He’s not leaving a bloody trace, you know. Not a single clue. No footprints, tyre tracks, fingerprints… So you can see why we’re following up every lead, and why you’re so interesting to us.’
‘This has got nothing to do with me,’ Scott sighed, exasperated, wishing he could find some way of convincing the detective but knowing he probably wouldn’t.
‘Sick little bastard, we’re dealing with here, Scott,’ Litherland continued, not finished yet. ‘I do hear what you’re telling me, but I can’t dismiss your involvement. You saw poor Shona’s body so you know how sick what’s happening here really is. These people have virtually been bled dry, their bodies mutilated. Excuse my language, Scott, but I think you can probably understand how bloody angry this is making me. I’ve innocent people being abused then murdered in my town, and I’m gonna put a stop to it.’
‘It’s horrific,’ Scott said, ‘but I don’t know how else to tell you… it’s got nothing to do with me. You can’t accuse me of—’
‘I’m not accusing you of anything yet. I’m simply pointing out my concerns and asking you to clear a few things up. Surely you can see where I’m coming from? I might not have all the forensics I need yet, but alarm bells are ringing as far as you’re concerned and you’ve said little to convince me otherwise. Look at it this way, the killings only started after you arrived in Thussock.’
‘It’s coincidental.’
‘Lot of coincidences, though. You’re the one who found Shona, Ken Potter died not far from where you’re working, you’re seen driving around on Saturday evening when Angela Pietrszkiewicz was killed and you’d already paid her for sex, you’ve confessed to beating the shit out of Graham McBride…’
‘It’s all circumstantial. It’s not even that, it’s just bullshit. I want my brief.’
Litherland stood up, pushed his chair under the table and collected up his gruesome, blood-spattered photographs. ‘Fair enough, Scott. I’ll have you taken back to your cell, then we’ll do this all over again when the duty lawyer arrives.’
15
PC Mark Hamilton couldn’t remember anything like this ever happening before. Not anywhere, and certainly not in Thussock. Born and raised in the town, he’d gone off to university then spent several years travelling before coming back home. He’d managed to get himself in (and out) of various dodgy situations whilst abroad and had seen more than his fair share of trouble in other postings around the country. He’d dealt with inner-city gangs, drugs traffickers, fraudsters, deviants – the whole gamut of shysters and bastards and society’s dregs. But not here. Not in Thussock.
Travelling had initially broadened Mark’s horizons and had made many of the people he’d left behind seem infuriatingly blinkered and self-obsessed. Being away from the town for so long, though, had also made him feel unexpectedly protective of the place. All his mates on the force thought he was out of his mind when he’d accepted the posting and come back here, but he knew what he was doing.
The crimes which had recently been committed in and around the town were unprecedented in their number and ferocity. The killings were wanton, brazen, indiscriminate, and apparently motiveless. He was glad they’d got that slimy fucker Scott Griffiths locked up in the cells. Cocky bastard. Hamilton had had his eye on that one since they’d first met at Ken Potter’s house. Sergeant Ross felt the same about him, he knew he did. There was something about Griffiths which just didn’t ring true. There was no denying he was a suspect. More to the point, right now he was the only suspect.
PC Hamilton walked down the high street, making a point of acknowledging all the faces he knew, and making even more of a point of acknowledging the few he didn’t. He stopped and talked to several folks, letting them drive the conversations, reassuring them that everything possible was being done when the topic of conversation inevitably strayed towards recent events, going as far as to discreetly tell one or two of them that they did, in fact, have someone in custody.
In reality, this morning’s foot patrol was little more than an impromptu public relations exercise. Thussock didn’t particularly need much policing at this time on a Monday, but Sergeant Ross had taken great pains to stress the importance of maintaining a visible presence until they were able to go public about Scott Griffiths.
PC Hamilton was thirsty. One of the things he liked most about foot patrols like this was the freedom. In uniform he could come up with a viable reason to go just about anywhere, and right now Mary’s café was calling to him. Mary McLeod could gossip with the best of them and she was always willing to share anything she’d heard on the grapevine. If she knew how he’d used the titbits she’d inadvertently dropped into conversation before now she’d have been mortified, of course, so he kept things light and informal. To Mary, PC Hamilton was still the snotty nosed little kid she used to have to shoo away from outside the café with his mates in the school holidays.
He made a beeline for the café, figuring that even if Mary didn’t have any information for him today, she’d almost certainly have a mug of tea and maybe even a bacon sandwich if he played his cards right. His stomach growled at the prospect of food. He’d been on his feet since they’d brought the suspect in for questioning, and he’d likely be out a few hours longer yet. He needed sustenance.
Strange.
The café was closed. The lights were off inside.
If there was one thing he knew about Mary McLeod, it was that she never closed the café. Running the place was more than a job to her; since her husband Derek had died it had become a way of life. She lived alone now and relied on her regular customers for company more than income.
Was she ill? Worse, was she… ?
His frustration quickly gave way to something more serious. Given everything that had happened over the last few days, Mark feared for Mary’s safety. Griffiths had fought with Graham McBride outside the chemist opposite. What if she’d seen them? What if Griffiths had caught her watching and done something to her? Hamilton hadn’t been on duty last night when McBride had been found. He didn’t know if anyone had seen Mary since. He cupped his hands around his eyes to see in through the window but it was too dark inside. He knocked the door then tried the handle. It was open.