Dying Eyes (14 page)

Brian rested his hands against the desk. Wet soil dripped from his shoes. “So, take a look at those pictures and tell me, is that not you, Mr. Walters?”

Walters stood rigidly. He dropped the documents in his hands onto the desk. His mouth struggled for words. “I…‌I…”

“Well?”

Luther shook his head. “This has to be a mistake. It has…‌Michael?”

Walters’ glance back at his boss said it all. He could hide things from some people, or try to, but there was no hiding it from the man he had been best friends with for years. He turned back to Brian, in slow motion. “I‌–‌”

“You can save your talk for down at the station. We’re arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Nicola Watson. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence.”

Brian slipped the handcuffs around Michael Walters’ wrists. Two more police officers appeared at the door.

“I’ll be in touch, Mr. Luther,” Brian said. “If you want to keep this on the low, you might want to make a few excuses. It might be a while before you see your man again.”

Luther stared on as Brian took Michael Walters through the door. Michael Walters didn’t look back at Luther, nor did he say another word. He just walked, mouth closed and head high, as Brian and the other officers led him towards the police car.

Chapter Seventeen

Michael Walters’ eyes hazed over as he watched recorded clip after recorded clip, the starring role in every one of them. The routine was the same. The times were the same.

Arrive, shake the pimp’s hand, disappear inside, repeat. All the same, except for the night of the murder. All the CCTV evidence, removed by this man.

“We found it strange from the off.” Brian circled Walters. “Y’see, at first, we thought that we’d found ourselves a little CCTV blind spot. But we did a little digging and it turns out the local council‌–‌God bless them‌–‌have outsourced CCTV in certain parts of the city. It just so happens that the company they outsourced to shares a building with…‌Come on, let’s have a drum roll here…‌BetterLives!”

Walters clenched his fists. DI Lawrence had scanned his fingers for a potential match inside the crime scene. He’d refused legal advice, adamant that he could fight his own battles. They almost had him.

Brian stepped around Walters as Price watched, clicking his pen. He liked it when Price believed in him and let him do his thing. It was very redeeming, to say the least.

“So when my good friend and colleague found this information out, he took a trip to the archives with a nice search warrant, only to find that the CCTV from the night of Nicola Watson’s murder was missing.”

Michael Walters slowly shook his head. He clasped his hands together in front of his face.

“But it gets better. When my friend asked to see the CCTV covering the main door leading to CityWatch offices, he only found a shot of you walking in there the morning after the murder, then leaving with a DVD moments later. Coincidence?”

“I don’t believe it,” Michael said quietly. “I don’t believe it.”

“Why did you remove that DVD, Michael? Why that one and no others? If you’ve got a filthy habit of seeing prostitutes, why remove a DVD from the night of the murder and not the other weeks? A bit sloppy, no?”

“I didn’t remove that DVD,” Michael said.

“Oh really? So, what‌–‌you just paid a casual morning visit to CityWatch offices? Catch up for a gossip with some of the guys? What was it?”

Walters took a deep breath and sipped his water. He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t removing a DVD from that night. I work part-time with CityWatch and there was a problem, so I had to go down there.”

Brian smirked. He’d have to remember to contact CityWatch for any records of Michael Walters. “Right. A problem. Convenient. So if we searched your home, which we are in the process of getting a warrant for, and if our officers searched the BetterLives offices, which they will be doing very soon, they wouldn’t find that missing CCTV DVD, would they?”

Walters looked Brian directly in the eyes. “No.”

“You see, this is how it looks. I think you lurked around Nicola Watson at work. Hell, maybe you had a relationship with her. Or maybe she had a relationship with someone else at your workplace. I think she was waiting to go home that night, and I think for whatever reason, you couldn’t get your kicks from a whore, so you took her for a ride, and you raped her, and you killed her.”

“I’m not in a relationship with Nicola Watson,” Michael said. “I barely remember her. There’s a lot of people at‌–‌”

“And then I think you washed her, scrubbed her down, removed all traces of yourself, and dumped her in that brothel when you’d finished with her, where you knew some lowlife could take the blame in your place. Then you removed the DVDs, forgetting you’d visited in the past, and hoped for the best.”

Michael glanced at Price, who sat tall and silent but ever so present. Brian leaned back in the chair opposite Walters. His circling performance had run its course. Walters was speechless.

“Are you sure you don’t want to pursue any legal advice now, Mr. Walters?”

Michael Walters removed his glasses and rubbed his eye. A sigh respired from his chest, and he collapsed onto the table. “I visited prostitutes lots of times. Maybe ten, maybe twenty, over the last few months.” The way the words suddenly cut through his self-imposed silence was as if he was possessed, a demon speaking from within. “I was in a bad place. I‌–‌I know it’s bad, but I…‌Okay. I tried to remove a DVD recording of me visiting Foster Road from some weeks ago, because I heard news of journalists buzzing around. I panicked, and I guess I got the wrong DVD. I didn’t visit any prostitutes that night. It’s a coincidence.”

“You’re forgetting something, Michael. We have eyewitnesses who claim they saw a black car matching the one in the CCTV footage. We have stills from further down the road of a similar vehicle arriving at the same time as it always does on a Monday. Good theory, but it’s taken you a while to come up with that one, so excuse our skepticism.”

Michael, still in a trance, was shaking. “I couldn’t risk it coming out. The hooker storyline. So I tried to get rid of it. I thought it’d worked‌–‌I thought I’d done it‌–‌but clearly not now. I just wanted to do the best for BetterLives. I thought that was the right thing to do for the city.”

“I’m sure you did, Mr. Walters. I’m sure you had the interests of the city in mind through every second of strangling her.”

“I didn’t see any prostitutes that night. It was New Year, for God’s sakes. I had better things to do at New Year weekend.”

“Like?”

“I was at a BetterLives get-together. Some fundraiser thing. Just a few members of staff. Mainly big public figures. Maybe a few smaller people, too.”

Brian sighed. “And can anybody confirm your attendance at that party?”

“Sure.” Walters licked his lips. “About five or ten people.”

Walters listed seven names, and Brian jotted them down. “Get on the phone to them,” Brian said to DC Peters, who shot out of the room obediently. “You say you were at a party until what time?”

“Probably around twelve, one-ish. Late enough.”

Brian slapped the photograph of Walters getting out of a car and walking towards a petrol station onto the table. “Then explain to me why you’re getting petrol at eleven-thirty.” His very own “ah” moment. Jeeves would be proud.

Walters stared at the picture, his eyes growing ever more restless. “I suppose I left earlier than I thought,” he said. “Ah, that’s right. I went to fill up and then I went back.”

“McDone,” DC Peters shouted. “A Mr. Stanton has confirmed that Walters was at the BetterLives function that night.”

Brian scratched his head. He wasn’t letting Walters go just yet. “Did he say when he left?”

“Around one, he says. But he’s not sure.”

Price shifted in his chair and looked at his watch, his face growing ever more purple. “Get us a meeting with the alibis arranged. I want to know more about Walters and his actual whereabouts that night.”

Peters walked back out of the room. Walters sat upright, his controlled manner restored. “Why did you go for petrol?” Brian asked.

Walters’ eyebrow twitched. “Because I needed to fill my car up.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Price said. It was the first time he’d spoken throughout the entire interview. “We’re done here.”

Walters threw his rucksack over his shoulder. “If there’s anything else I can help you with, officers, I’d be delighted to, but I really need to get back to work right now.”

Brian stared on, speechless, as he watched Price allow Walters out of the room.
What the fuck was he doing?

“He’s got no concrete alibi, Price.”

Price slapped his hands together. “I know you want it to be him, and I did, too, but people saw him at that party. And I just now got the prints back from the flat on Foster Road. There’s no trace of Michael Walters, Brian. Sounds concrete enough to me.”

“DI Price, DS McDone.” DC Peters held a paper in his hand. “I’ve contacted CityWatch. They do have Michael Walters on record for doing various technical assistance jobs.”

Price shrugged his shoulders at Brian.

“Don’t you think it’d have been better if we’d at least kept him in here for a while? He could go back and do anything now. Hide evidence. Anything.”

“We could’ve kept him in here, but that’d be a bad idea for…” Price wiped his mouth. “He’s got an alibi, McDone. His prints didn’t come up at the flat. Let it go.”

Brian’s hands tingled, tension mounting in his chest. “I cannot believe this. Go on‌–‌a bad idea for who? You might as well say it, Price.”

DI Price was frowning at Brian. “It’s a bad idea for us. To fuck up again. And it’s a bad idea for your reputation, if you want to keep any more of it.”

Brian laughed. “Don’t bullshit me. I know exactly what you meant to say. You’re worried about BetterLives. Worried about the great fucking hope of Preston being tarnished. Worried about what the press would say about us if we damaged them. Whose payroll are you on, anyway?”

Brian regretted the last words almost instantly, but it didn’t matter anymore. He knew what was coming. He might as well cross the line. He’d pretty much crossed it already.

Price’s face was completely inflamed, his head dripping with sweat. “Excuse me, Detective, but was that a formal accusation against me or just a snide remark?”

Brian tossed his papers to one side. “I just don’t know where your interests lie.”

Price stood in Brian’s way as he tried to get out of the door. “If you leave this room, Brian, understand that you don’t walk back in again. You walk out of this room, you walk away from the case, and you take another big fucking step towards anonymity.”

Cassy, approaching the door of the interview rooms, stopped herself when she saw Price and Brian standing off. She backed away slightly.

“What’s my alternative?”

Price’s eyes twitched. “You re-assess. I’m doing this for all of us, Brian. I’m doing it for the police, for the parents, for all of us. Get the boyfriend back in if you want to. Just stay away from BetterLives for the time being. There’s no evidence that anything happened there, not yet. Sure‌–‌question their staff like you did, give them a few questions‌–‌that’s fine. But no more of this charging in bullshit. It’s reckless.”

Brian’s body totally deflated. “Then I’m going to walk out of this door, because clearly you don’t know what’s best for the case.” He shoved past Price and towards Cassy, who watched the pair, wide-eyed.

“Remember what I said,” Price shouted. “You walk away from this room, you walk away from the case.”

Brian let the words buzz around his head as he stormed out of the office’s heat and towards the front door. He needed to get out. He just needed to get out.

“No fucking fingerprints,” Brian muttered, to himself more than anybody. “Anyone ever heard of a pair of gloves in the middle of winter ‘round here?”

Stephen Molfer trundled through the office with his narrow mouth grinning away as it always did. Today was not a day for his jokes. One word, and…

“Been kicked off the case yet, Brian?”

Brian stopped and squared up to Stephen, who struggled to keep the grin on his face. “Stephen, fuck off,” he said, before disappearing out of the offices to a chorus of “Oohs!”

Chapter Eighteen

The phone rang a few times that evening, but Brian couldn’t be arsed with it. It’d probably be some do-gooder from work. Somebody trying to interfere or tell him what they thought was good for him, like they always did. He kicked his shoes off and flopped onto his bed. His hair was greasy as a deep fat fryer as he rubbed his fingers through it. He stared at the TV set, moving images flickering across the screen and the slight hum of white noise cutting through the room.

He picked up the phone. He had to ring Vanessa. He just had to talk to her. To see her. Maybe if he could just get it through to her that he was sorry for everything. Sorry for all the bullshit and the outbursts. Sorry for what he’d put them through. Maybe things could be okay.

He dropped the phone back to the floor and squeezed the bridge of his nose. It was no use. She’d just kick off‌–‌start going on about Davey and her rights as mother,
blah blah, all that bullshit.
Brian held the photograph between his fingers. The BetterLives car. There had to be some other link, something he was missing. But even if he found it, Price wouldn’t let him go anywhere near them.

Walters’ face as he left the station, slithering away. That soft handshake. Those shifty eyes.

Brian looked over at the bathroom door. His arm tingled. He needed to do it. He needed a release. He couldn’t think straight if he didn’t.

He walked to the bathroom and sighed at the fresh razor blade sitting beside his toothbrush. He just needed a release. One little release…

He rolled his sleeve up and reached for the razor blade. His arm begged the metal to make contact.
Kiss me, razor blade. Free me. Release me.