He had left so abruptly – rudely – that he wasn’t surprised. Instinct had taken over – he just wanted to be away. Still, he paused now. She was his boss after all. She stood in the doorway beckoning to him, as if keen not to be seen by the neighbours. Suppressing his irritation, he slowly climbed the steps, until he was standing in front of her. Why did he feel like he’d been summoned to the headmaster’s office? He’d done nothing wrong.
‘A word before you go.’
To Lloyd’s eyes, Harwood suddenly seemed much more cold-eyed and in control than she had been even five minutes ago. Something of the steely professional was returning, in spite of her obvious intoxication.
‘We’ll forget today ever happened. It’s business as usual from now on.’
She chose her words carefully and delivered them with emphasis and conviction. Lloyd could feel himself getting sucked in once more.
‘I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,’ she continued evenly. ‘And it would be a shame for our close working relationship to be compromised in any way, wouldn’t you agree?’
Lloyd nodded, though he was feeling the very opposite. Perhaps Harwood sensed this for now she leaned closer, her lips almost brushing his ear.
‘Don’t turn on me, Lloyd.’
Then she retreated, shutting the front door firmly behind her.
Driving home, Lloyd cursed himself for his stupidity. Why had he ever got involved with Harwood? Was he really so stupid as to have thought that he could come out of this thing unscathed? It had seemed so simple at first, but now he could see he’d been a fool. Had he come to believe his own hype – the Teflon kid who sailed through life climbing ever upwards, never a mark against his name? There was a joke that followed him everywhere – a joke that infuriated him by its knowing racism – that he was ‘whiter than white’. The goody two shoes, flawless in his prowess and reputation. Lloyd knew it made him unpopular, but oddly it was a badge he clung to now, reminding himself that it meant he was better and more committed than those other jokers. Had he thrown that all away now?
Parking up, Lloyd walked to his front door. The lights were on in the living room, which meant his father was still up. Lloyd felt a flash of irritation – why did he insist on staying up so late? – then a wave of shame. Why should he criticize his dad when it was himself he was furious with?
‘How was your day?’
Caleb turned to his son, switching the TV off immediately. It was as if he’d been waiting for Lloyd – waiting for some company – all day and was now seizing on it eagerly. His siblings never visited, work friends no longer called round, which meant that like many old people his father was alone for most of the day. Lloyd had tried to encourage him to enrol in clubs, he’d even tried to get paid help to visit at one stage, but his father had pooh-poohed the idea. He didn’t have anything to say to new people, he said. He just wanted to spend time with family. Which in practice meant Lloyd.
‘Usual,’ Lloyd replied casually.
‘You sure? You look… a bit beaten up, son.’
Lloyd shrugged.
‘A few issues at work. No big deal.’
‘Problems with a case?’
‘No, just… staff issues,’ Lloyd answered.
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘Thanks, Dad, but to be honest, I just want to go to bed – I’m bushed.’
Caleb said nothing and Lloyd stayed where he was, as if awaiting his father’s permission to leave.
‘You can confide in me you know, son. I know I haven’t always been easy on you, but… you can talk to me. I’d like to talk.’
Did Lloyd imagine it or was there a slight quiver in his dad’s voice? Did he really feel that lonely? That shut out by his own son? He stole a look at his father, who dropped his eyes to the floor quickly.
Lloyd stayed for a few minutes more, chatting about this and that, then took himself off to bed. The truth was, he really didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to dwell on his reckless foolishness in getting into bed with Harwood. Which of course only made him hate himself more.
Today he felt like a failure, both as a police officer and as a son.
80
Sanderson wondered if she was staring into the eyes of a killer. He met her gaze, then looked away quickly, settling instead on Helen, who sat across the desk from him.
Andrew Simpson had been visibly unnerved to find police officers waiting for him in his office when he returned to close up for the day. During Sanderson’s first visit, he had been confident, precise and helpful – now he was on his guard. This no longer felt routine.
‘How well did you know Roisin Murphy?’ Helen asked, skipping the niceties.
‘I don’t know her.’
‘But you were her landlord?’
‘That doesn’t mean I know her though. Most of my business is done online, I meet the clients once, then sign the contracts and that’s it.’
‘No more contact.’
‘Not unless they’ve got a serious complaint. If it’s minor problems – leaks, boilers, what have you – it’s handled by my men.’
‘Men like Nathan Price.’
‘That’s right. I was very surprised to hear he’d been arrested and charged with underage -’
‘We’re not here to talk about Nathan Price. We’re here to talk about you, Andrew.’
Sanderson suppressed a smile. She loved watching Helen when she had her game face on. Because she was tall, athletic and pretty, people thought she would be genial and pleasant – and often she was. But there was a steel within Helen and an unwavering focus that unnerved people under interrogation. They could find no way to distract her, no purchase of any kind with which to drag the interrogation to areas where they felt more secure. She looked at you with such intensity and such purpose – Sanderson had seen many a criminal give up the ghost before they had even begun.
‘So for the record you only met Roisin once?’
‘Once or twice,’ Andrew conceded, fingering his tie.
Helen nodded, writing this down in her notepad. The subtle shift from ‘once’ had been noted.
‘And Isobel Lansley?’
‘Same.’
Monosyllabic now – that was a good sign. A sign that they had him boxed into a corner already.
‘What percentage of your tenants are female?’ Sanderson asked, finally entering the fray. She had let Helen put the wind up him, but it was her lead and she wanted to direct the conversation now.
‘I couldn’t say.’
‘Hazard a guess,’ Sanderson responded.
‘I don’t know – fifty to sixty per cent.’
‘We have a court order here allowing us full access to your tenancy lists.’
Andrew Simpson stared at her.
‘So when we look through your records, you’re confident that roughly fifty to sixty per cent of your tenants will be female?’ she repeated.
Sanderson caught the swift glance Andrew Simpson shot at the CID officers outside, who were meticulously leafing through his filing cabinets. His anxious secretary stood over them, all at sea at this sudden and unexpected intrusion.
‘Maybe not fifty to sixty per cent,’ he eventually replied. ‘It’s hard to remember off the top -’
‘How many?’ Helen interjected.
‘About ninety per cent or so.’
Sanderson shot a look at Helen, but her boss didn’t react. The phrase hung in the air. Then with a very slight nod of the head, Helen gave Sanderson the licence to proceed.
‘About ninety per cent. Possibly even a touch more, I’m guessing,’ Sanderson continued. ‘That’s statistically highly unlikely if they are randomly selected. Why are so many of your clients female?’
The ‘your’ was slightly louder than the rest of her sentence.
‘Because they’re less trouble. They are cleaner, more organized, more reliable -’
‘Not always,’ Sanderson shot back. ‘Pippa Briers left you in the lurch, didn’t she?’