‘It was just a laugh?’ repeated the lawyer, ‘no further questions.’
Susan Fitch told me that Golden Boots had no real motive for killing Gemma Carlton. She’d said it was the big flaw in the Prosecution case, but their barrister never even bothered to counter that. He didn’t just admit there was little motive. The way he portrayed it, motive was meaningless when dealing with someone as disturbed as Golden Boots. ‘We may never reach an understanding of the motive of this spoilt footballer for this violent act,’ he told the jury. ‘Was he slighted in some way by the young girl he had slept with, then discarded, as if she was little more than a piece of meat? Had she flirted with a teammate and made him jealous, did she gossip about his bedroom performance, leaving him open to scorn or ridicule, did she fail to comply with some degraded sexual request? We may never know but it is enough for us to realise that here is a man who has been denied nothing since the day he first signed professional terms as a footballer. He thinks he can have anything he wants, whenever he wants it. It is the Prosecution case that Gemma Carlton, in some way, however slight, managed to annoy, offend or irritate a man with a long history of casual violence, often against women, to such a degree that she became the victim of an assault that led to her death. He even managed to retain the presence of mind to don gloves before carrying out this heinous act of strangulation on his innocent victim, driving her out into the woods and dumping her body as if it were refuse.’
After that little speech, I sensed that Golden Boots was irretrievably fucked.
37
I was as certain as I could be that Golden Boots was going to be convicted of the murder of Gemma Carlton. Everything stacked up; the evidence all pointed to him as the killer; he’d slept with her, she’d been rebuffed and slagged him off, he’d argued with her, she was seen at his party that night and the DNA proved she’d been driven out to the woods in one of his cars, either by him or someone who was protecting him. The presence of her purse and mobile phone in his house was the final piece of evidence in the Prosecution’s favour but, every time I thought about it, I kept feeling the whole thing was just a bit too easy.
I know I shouldn’t have cared. I was off the hook, but I was thinking like Austin now. I didn’t want the man who had done this to be walking around the streets of our city while the wrong guy did time for Gemma’s murder. I thought about it all for a while and suddenly remembered the CCTV footage of Gemma in Cachet with that other girl before they met Golden Boots. We’d never had a satisfactory explanation from Gemma’s best friend for her absence from the party on the night her flatmate died. Louise Green had said fuck all to the DC who’d interviewed her, according to Sharp, and wasn’t very forthcoming when Kevin went to see her either, but I wondered if he had been asking her the right questions.
There was no particular reason why I found this whole thing unsatisfactory. I certainly had enough on my plate already but, like it or not, I was involved in Gemma Carlton’s case, which was probably why I found myself instinctively turning my car into the small street of terraced properties that housed the student digs Gemma had shared with Louise Green.
The girl who answered the door was not unattractive, but clearly thought she was. You could tell by the baggy sweater she wore, which did its best to disguise whatever curves she had. The leggings were shapeless too, like pyjama bottoms. She wasn’t much older than eighteen, but she looked like she’d given up already. Maybe it was the effect of sharing a flat with two very attractive girls like Gemma Carlton and Louise Green. She was telling the world she wasn’t interested in being pretty and girly, so there. She looked like the kind of lass who wrote long heart-felt poems late at night when she was alone but never showed them to anyone.
‘I’m here for a quick word with Louise,’ I told her and she turned away from me without a word, called her flatmate’s name up the stairs then left me standing on the doorstep.
Louise Green eventually padded down the stairs to greet me, a look of trepidation on her face. ‘What is it?’ she asked, before she stepped down off the bottom step.
‘I’d like a word if I may, about Gemma,’ I explained.
‘But I’ve already been through it all,’ she said, folding her arms across her chest defensively. She was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt but was still wearing full make-up, and her hair had been straightened. ‘Are you with the police?’
I didn’t confirm or deny it, I just said, in an authoritative voice, ‘I’ve been in the court all week. I just have some questions for you about the night Gemma died. Is it okay if I come in?’ and I crossed the threshold before she could reply.
‘Alright,’ she said doubtfully, ‘we can talk in my room.’ I guessed she didn’t want the mousy friend listening in, so I followed her up the stairs. She led me into a tiny room with a bed, a desk and a wardrobe, but not much else. There were piles of clothes on the bed, but little evidence of study.
‘I’ll make us a brew,’ she suggested, ‘tea or coffee?’
‘Tea’s fine, thanks; milk, no sugar.’
While she was gone I looked around the room, but there was nothing of any note. I walked over to the window and stared out at the rooftops. It was a grey day with ominous-looking clouds hovering. A moment later I heard the back door open and watched as Louise Green came out in a hurry. I noticed she had her coat on and she didn’t look as if she was putting the rubbish out. She dashed out through the back gate and was gone.
‘Fucking bitch,’ I said aloud and I turned to go after her, only to find the slight, mousy-looking girl waiting for me on the landing. She gazed at me intently.
‘You the police?’ she asked me, ‘or some sort of private eye?’
‘Private,’ I said. I should have knocked her out of the way and shot down the stairs after Louise Green but there was something about the way this girl was looking at me, with a combination of interest and nervous hesitancy, that made me wonder if I might actually get more out of her. She looked like she had something to say.
‘I’m David, by the way. My mates call me Davey,’ and I held out my hand to her. She shook it limply.
‘Theresa,’ she told me.
I smiled at her, ‘I popped round to ask your mate there a few questions but she went to put the kettle on and… well it looks like she isn’t coming back.’
‘I’ll make the tea,’ she said and I followed her down the stairs. ‘You won’t get anything out of Louise,’ Mousy told me, ‘she’s too scared.’
‘Scared of what?’
‘Taking the blame.’
‘What for?’
‘Everything she’s been up to with Gem,’ she looked like she couldn’t wait to twist the knife into the girl who ran out on me.
‘You mean the drugs?’ I offered.
She didn’t want to put it into words. ‘All of it; being out every night, not bothering with essays or studying, going to the clubs where the footballers hang out all the time, not coming home after, all of that.’
When we reached the cramped kitchen she took two clean mugs from a cupboard and made tea. We sat at a small table opposite one another.
‘Must have been lonely for you if they were never around.’
‘I didn’t care.’ And I realised I had the chance to exploit this girl’s loneliness and isolation.
‘So it was Louise leading Gemma astray then? Not the other way round, like some people are saying?’
‘Who’s been saying that? Gemma was really nice,’ she took a reflective sip of her tea, before adding, ‘at first.’
‘Until all Louise wanted to do was party.’
‘She just wants to get drunk and be with boys the whole time. I didn’t. I came here to get a degree. Gemma was the same to begin with but she only really moved out of her parents’ house because they were strict with her. They didn’t like her going out, always wanted her home early, you know.’ It sounded like the classic case of a girl who hadn’t been allowed to do much suddenly finding herself off the leash and not knowing when to stop. ‘And Louise can be so…’