“Oh?”
She moved aside to let him in.
Harkness
stood firm. “We may need to interview your parents at some length and we need
to make sure it’s ok to use your house. A nicer place than the police station,
after all.”
“Yes.
That seems sensible. But my family’s complicated. If they’re all here, it won’t
be a tranquil setting for anything.”
“And
I need to speak to you. Private would be best. I don’t want to trouble your
family more than needs be.” Harkness gripped his binder and studied her.
Frowning,
she closed the front door behind her and motioned towards a passage leading to
the back garden. Harkness briefly considered allowing her to lead, but she’d
abruptly traded her soft, feminine edges for something more waspish and
resolute. Following her pointing fingers, he led her to the back garden where
he found a plastic chair in the shade of curtains that hung motionless on the
line exhaling musty perfume.
They
regarded each other without haste, her over red-tipped fingers interlocked over
crossed knees, him over the notebook he’d placed a finger in but didn’t yet
want to open. She seemed about to speak, thought better of it and studied her
cuticles. He prepared to lead off in the same old dance; the prosecution
lunging, the defence parrying. Walk ten paces, turn and fire, in the knowledge
that your opponent has been rooted to the spot, studying your gait and drawing
a leisurely bead.
“Firth,”
he proclaimed.
“Firth,”
she echoed, without surprise, acknowledging terms.
“Nigel
Firth is a suspect in this matter.”
“I
know.” How did she know? She was bound to find out, but this soon?
“And
you represent him.”
“You
know I can’t talk about that, but basically, yes. In a certain capacity.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning
that I don’t do crime these days.”
“Unlike
your client.”
“Tell
me you’re not really trying to get an easy rise out of me. I thought that only
happened on TV. ”
“Mea
culpa.” Harkness raised his hands and attempted an ingratiating smile. His
burned skin still smarted and would permit no more than a sickly smirk. “But
we’re both in a similar game, aren’t we? Trying to beat the whole table without
giving our best cards away.”
“Christ
Jesus, you do think you’re on TV.” She shrugged and leaned forwards. “I’m not
sure what you’ve found out about Nigel and it seems you’re not about to tell
me. But let me tell you two things for free.
“First,
I know he had history with my parents’ next-door neighbour, but that doesn’t
make him unusual. The man was a pig, despite the fact that neither his superiors
nor yours seemed willing to do anything about his antics. Second, if you want
some quo, you have to give me some quid.”
“Ok.”
He shrugged inwardly. “Firth is in custody on suspicion of the murder of Dale
Murphy’s wife and kids. Murphy himself is missing. We know you’re representing
Firth in a civil claim against Murphy. And so…”
“And
so I’ve become more interesting than my eye-witness parents. How do you know
about my connection with Firth? You have heard of legal privilege, I take it?
Come to think of it, how do you know where I live?”
“And
so I’ll need to take your statement. Covering your relationship with Firth. His
grudge against Murphy. What he said about it. What he said he would
do
about
it. And so forth.”
“Just
hold on a second.” She felt the hot dappling of blood in her cheeks and the
rough edges of moulded plastic under her clenching fingers. A withering defence
was called for, but she knew she was about to emulate her brother and seek
solace in a neat, orderly sequence.
“First.”
She flicked out a finger and surprised herself by rising to her feet, taking
the floor, building up a head of oratorical steam. “Legalities. You may recall
Magna Carta. Acts of Parliament. Codes of Practice. The Law as a proper noun.
Client-solicitor confidentiality is all but inviolable. I can’t tell you about
communications with my client. You shouldn’t have rummaged through my correspondence
with him.”
Harkness
had opened his notebook and his chewed biro was jotting at a leisurely tempo.
“Second.
You use the term ‘in custody’ to cover a multitude of procedural sins. He is in
fact in hospital, having been arrested on spurious grounds and in a manner
resulting in serious injury to him. In fact, it seems plain that the police’s
actions against Nigel – by which I mean your actions - will no doubt bear
further investigation.
“Third,
I don’t represent Nigel in a criminal capacity. But if he chooses to seek my
advice on any aspect of today’s events, I’ll be happy to oblige him.” She
paused, hands on hips, breathing deeply.
“That’s
nice, dear. Would either of you care for a nice cup of tea and an almond slice?
The kettle’s on.” Mrs Jennings had appeared at the patio door, wiping her
hands on an apron, smiling evenly at both combatants.
“That
would be absolutely lovely, Mrs Jennings. Two sugars, please.” Harkness felt Sharon’s glare and shrugged theatrically. With luck, she’d keep betraying herself.
“Not
now, mum.” She snapped.
“I’ll
bring enough for two,” Mrs Jennings retreated indoors, smile undimmed. “It’s
lovely weather for afternoon tea.”
“So.
Where was I? Oh yes. The short answer is no, I won’t be providing a statement.”
“But
any solicitor is allowed to breach confidentiality in order to prevent further
serious offences occurring. The ‘gloating rapist’ scenario.”
“Thanks
for the lecture. If you’re trying to elicit hints about my conversations with
Nigel, I’m afraid I’ve calmed down and got a grip on myself. I’ll just say that
nothing in my dealings with Nigel has led me to conclude he’s any danger to
anyone. So, unless a judge compels me, I’ll be keeping Nigel’s confidence.”
“So
you’re surprised about his arrest.”
“You
don’t give up, do you?” She sagged back into the chair and allowed herself a
brittle laugh. “Yes and no. Next question.”
“Can
we start again? We got off on the wrong foot and it’s probably my fault.”
Harkness slammed shut his notebook and laid it on the table.
“You
change your interview strategies more often than you change your socks,
sergeant.” She reclined, gently nibbling her thumbnail.
“Yep.
I’m good, bad and mediocre cop in one lanky package.”
“Well
there certainly appears to be enough room.”
“Here’s
the thing.” Was she flirting or mocking? It didn’t matter. Bantering was an
improvement on bickering. “I went to a post mortem today. A young woman called
Suzanne Murphy and her two children, both under ten but old enough to know what
was happening to them. All three burned to death.
“And
she’d been knocked about. A life of drudgery and suffering snuffed out by an
arsonist in a few very long minutes of terror. Dale Murphy is nowhere to be
found. He might have done the deed, but that just doesn’t fit. He might have
been murdered somewhere else. But either way, he was the one with enemies.
“One
of those enemies was a convicted arsonist who lived nearby. That arsonist held
a big enough grudge to hire you to sue the arse off Murphy. That arsonist may
have come to blows with Murphy in a pub last night. That arsonist was surveying
the crime scene today. That arsonist had something to hide and ran. That
arsonist is your client. This is not a game.”
“You
don’t have to lay it on that thickly. What exactly do you suppose I can do? What
do you think I can tell you?”
“You
need to give me something. Firth could have hurt your family too. At the very
least, you need to give me a statement explaining where you fit.”
She
frowned, chewing the thumb-nail vigorously now.
“But
I haven’t lived at my parents’ house since before the Murphys moved in. And
I’ve hardly visited since I found out where Murphy lived…..”
She
reeled as if she might draw the words back.
“So
when did you make that connection? Did Firth tell you or did you tell Firth? How
many people did you tell?”
“No.
Not without a court order.”
“Did
you give him that address?”
“I’m
not going to answer that.”
“What
on earth were you thinking?”
“I
said I’m not going to answer that. I’m not bloody stupid. Take that any way you
want.”
She
pressed a hand to her temple and fixed her eyes on the ants milling around the
cracked brickwork of the patio, envying them their lives of consuming purpose
unburdened by thought. Of course she knew that her parents’ latest neighbour
was also the subject of one of her many cases. Lincoln wasn’t that big a town.
Yet she’d allowed herself to be goaded into the appearance of guilt. It was
time to go on the offensive again.
“You
want a statement? Fine. It’ll say who I am. Who my parents are. Where they live.
My job. Who I represent. My bra size and favourite colour too, if you’re
desperate for detail. But that’s it. And you might try a more honest approach
next time.”
“Yes.
I might.” He rose to his feet to jolt the knots out of his back. “But this is a
murder investigation. I just haven’t got time to stick in a production request
and wait a fortnight.”
Her
head was shaking gently, chin raised, eyes downcast.
“Ok.
I might have been – no, was – wrong to mess you about. And look at it this
way.”
He
glanced at his book, unused to interviewing anyone without its comforting
bullet points, thought bubbles and crazed doodles.
“If
I’m right about Firth, he needs to be stopped or he will kill again. No
appeals, no due process, just charred flesh on a slab.” He winced – that was
too pungent. Perhaps the devil’s view would sway this advocate.
“But
let’s say he’s innocent. Either way, I need to know. The worst thing about the
good old, bad old days wasn’t the number of patsies the cops squeezed
confessions out of. No, far worse was the number of murderers who roamed freely
because the cops wasted their efforts on easy targets. If you could change
that….”
“Can’t
you sit down?” she urged, hearing the clinking of porcelain on a tray. “It
doesn’t feel much like an appeal to reason when you’re looming like that.”
“Its
orthopaedic rather than melodramatic but you’re right.” He wedged himself back
into the chair.
“I’m
onto you, sergeant,” she said, sliding her chair to make room for the enormous
tea-tray gliding towards them on the outstretched arms of her mother. “I know
your secret. You bore your victims into submission.”
“Excuse
her manners, officer. Lovely girl but always too much to say for herself.”
Marjorie
placed a thoughtfully arranged tea service centrally on the garden table with
barely a clink or rattle. A fat teapot squatted snug under an embroidered cosy,
its handle angled towards Sharon. Milk and sugar were on Harkness’s side.
Between the two fine china cups on matching saucers lay a dozen almond slices
fanned out on a doily.
“Do
I really own a tea cosy? And china?”
“No
dear. As I said, I brought a few essentials from the house. I’ll leave you to
it, then, officer.” Marjorie paused only to smooth the spotless napkins before
retreating to the house.
“You’re
an enforcement of the law. Her Majesty’s law of the land,” proclaimed the
figure who had trailed Marjorie silently into the garden, stooping his
shoulders and fluttering spatulate hands at his chin as if that could hide his
six foot frame and fizzing corona of curly, grey-speckled hair.
“I
didn’t do anything didn’t see anything saw nothing at all. Regarding noisy
nuisance neighbours all quiescent now. In case you ask legal questions. Do
what I’m told now after formal legal complaining. No actionable erroneousness.”
“It’s
alright, JJ. He’s not here about you,” said Sharon, finding a soothing tone and
smiling widely. “It’s all to do with my work. My office work. Ok?”
Harkness
focussed his attention on the tea service. He didn’t have the measure of this
new family member and silence was the safest option.
“Ok,
SJ, ok. Still not seeing anything but holding and keeping my peace pipe and
minding my q’s and t’s.” The voice thickened to the point of hysteria, stage
laughter without a finale.
“Be
a good boy, now, Jeremy. Stop wasting the policeman’s time. Your father needs
your help,” instructed Marjorie, standing tall, voice flint-edged now.
Jeremy
jabbed a hand into his jaw, jolting his head towards the patio door and
stumbling back into the house. His ribs heaved under a skinny, thrash-metal
t-shirt as he chuckled or sobbed to himself.
“Just
shout if you need more tea. I’ll listen out.” Marjorie followed Jeremy,
diminishing again into her chosen role, voice emollient.
The
curtains shadowing them hung limp again, sails craving a propelling breeze.