Ask Me No Questions Read online

  Either way, it was a long walk, there was no doubt about that. Even getting from the club to here must have taken Gabriella at least half an hour, and that was walking in decent shoes, not high heels.

  Kate looked around her; there was nobody else in sight. She could hear cars on the road running parallel to the common, but apart from that, nothing. It had probably been the same on Saturday night. Nobody to help her if she’d called out. Nobody to come to her aid. And nobody to help Kate either, come to that.

  She knew what her own husband would say. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’ he would shout. ‘Why did you go somewhere you knew would be dangerous? It’s like you’re trying to get hurt.’ Those were the days when he actually gave a shit about what she did. Now if she told him, he’d probably just shake his head slowly, looking at the ground.

  ‘I can’t always be worrying about you,’ he’d said the last time they’d spoken. ‘It’s exhausting.’

  And then, just like that, he’d stopped. Like he’d flicked a switch and it had gone. No more worrying. No more caring. Kate wished it was as easy for her.

  Maybe her husband would be right; maybe she was being a bit silly, walking out here alone at night when her police officer self would warn any woman against doing the same. She bristled inside, suddenly annoyed. Why is it always the responsibility of a woman to censor herself, to limit where she walks and when? To keep away from dangerous spots where men might attack her? Surely it should be the job of the police force, her beloved police force, to make sure women were safe, no matter where they were. To make sure vulnerable women like Gabriella could be silly and foolish and drunk and not get attacked. Why was it Gabriella’s fault, when in reality it was the fault of the person who had attacked her, and that person alone?

  Kate sighed. Sometimes things were too exhausting to contemplate; society appearing too damaged to even start to try to change it. The wind whipped across the grassland, pushing her hair into her eyes and her mouth. She increased her pace, keen to get the fool’s errand finished.

  The trees were closing in over the path again, and Kate consulted the map in her pocket, hastily scribbled before she left the office. The crime scene should be up there, on the right, and she walked a few paces further, trying to see into the undergrowth. Off the path, the trees quickly took over, the glow from the streetlights unable to penetrate the gloom. But sure enough, flapping in the breeze, Kate could see the blue and white tape marking the edge of the crime scene, then the red of the inner cordon. These were the areas Kate knew the SOCOs would have searched thoroughly, recording and photographing every scrap of potential evidence found. But Kate knew they hadn’t found much of note so far; nothing to help them pinpoint any definite suspects.

  So, they had a few possibles. She ran through the names in her head, people with reason to be angry. The husband, certainly. He can’t have been pleased to know his wife was with other men.

  And maybe Ryan Holmes, the slighted boyfriend with a flimsy alibi and twitchy demeanour. Steve Morgan? She didn’t like him, but that was no grounds for arrest. The distant identical twin. Weird, certainly, with a recent argument in their past, but was that a motive? Harry Becker. Violent past, same as Thea, but why? Why would any of these people want to attack Gabriella, and what was the proof linking them?

  Kate wondered about the psychology of Gabriella’s attack. In the cold, at that time of night, the offender would need to have been determined and resolute to follow her all this way. Had they planned to kill her? Had they known this was where Gabi would walk?

  Or maybe Yates’s theory was correct: it had been an opportune moment for a violent mugger. Maybe Gabriella had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Kate ran over the actual evidence in her head, then sighed. They had blurry CCTV footage of a man following her and a muffled 999 call. Kate looked away from the crime scene towards the road, then back at her map. The phone box was up there; she’d have a quick look before she went home. They had the doctor’s opinion of a left-handed attacker, and a raft of forensics they were still waiting to hear back on. Perhaps that would help. She hoped it would.

  Kate retraced her steps to the path, then stopped. She felt something hard underfoot, caught in the tread of her boot and lifted it to have a look. She picked at it with her finger. It came away from the mud, and she held it in her hand, rubbing the dirt free.

  It wasn’t a stone as she’d assumed, but a silver button. She cleaned the muck away, holding it up to the light, noticing the intricate decoration, a purple stone in its centre. It was small, no more than a centimetre across, but it was undoubtedly pretty, and probably quite unique.

  Kate looked back to the crime scene. She’d found it well outside of the cordon, so it wouldn’t have been picked up by the SOCOs and probably had nothing to do with the investigation. It could have been lost this morning by someone completely unrelated. Some woman walking to work, now annoyed, a big gap on her shirt or her coat.

  Kate shivered. It was too cold to be standing here deliberating. She popped it in her pocket and walked towards the road, arms swinging, trying to generate some heat in her bones.

  The path came to an end by a main junction of Hill Lane. At this time of night, just past 9 p.m., it was busy, the traffic lights rotating through their signals, music blaring from the pub opposite. Kate wondered how much traffic there would have been late on Saturday night. Would anyone have noticed someone using the phone?

  The box itself was boring and indistinguishable, apart from the blue and white tape marking it off. One side of the box was covered with an advert, blocking sight of the road, another pane of the door covered with the white spider webs of smashed safety glass.

  Kate looked across the road at the pub. She wondered about their CCTV. Had anyone asked? The pub looked welcoming; her body needed the warmth. Her mouth already anticipated the glass of cool white wine to help her forget the day.

  It wouldn’t hurt to go and find out, she said to herself, and hurried across the road.

  14

  Thea looked up from the television when she heard the knock on the door. Three loud thuds, as before. Slow, even, deliberate.

  Since she’d got home from the hospital, she’d been restless and fidgety. She’d started her search of the house again, but quickly grown bored, unable to concentrate, desperate to call Harry but knowing she couldn’t. He was out at something for work; he’d said he would give any excuse to get out of it but she didn’t want to be that person to him, not at the moment.

  She heard the knocks again. She hesitated, then pulled herself up from the sofa.

  Mortimer was standing in the doorway, one shoulder resting on the frame, his body at a slant. He peered at her, his eyes half closed, and held up the bottle of wine in his hand.

  ‘I brought this,’ he slurred, and Thea sighed.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.

  She managed to steer him to the sofa at the edge of the living room, and took the bottle of wine out of his grip. He smiled lopsidedly at her.

  ‘You look so much like her,’ he said, his accent dry and lazy.

  ‘That’s the whole point about identical twins,’ she said in a monotone. ‘We look alike.’

  ‘Yes, but still.’ Mortimer paused. ‘I don’t normally drink.’

  ‘No kidding,’ Thea said, looking at the label on the bottle of red. It was a Castelli Martinozzi and a good year at that. She went to the kitchen and got two wine glasses, opening the bottle and pouring two generous measures. She walked back into the living room and handed one to Mortimer, sitting down next to him on the sofa, pulling her legs up underneath her.

  ‘You even sit the same,’ Mortimer muttered, taking a sip of the wine.

  Thea didn’t say anything, just put the glass to her lips. The wine was smooth on her tongue and she appreciated the distraction, enjoying the rich flavours. She watched him. He was dressed in the same clothes as earlier – black shirt, black jeans, black coat now discarded
on the arm of the sofa – but his hair was messy, his shirt creased. His body had a loose air to it, like everything wasn’t screwed on straight.

  ‘I’m sorry I was rude to you at the hospital,’ Mortimer said. ‘It wasn’t your fault. It’s just your sister is so …’

  He stopped, holding himself back.

  ‘Infuriating? Difficult?’ she said.

  ‘Both of those.’ He laughed softly to himself. He seemed calmer now. ‘We’re married, but nobody knows the slightest thing about me. I haven’t met any of her friends.’ He pointed a wobbly finger at Thea. ‘Her family.’

  ‘How long have you been together?’ Thea took a big mouthful of wine, suddenly more in the mood to binge than savour. But she was enjoying sitting here; she liked his company. Despite his drunkenness, and she suspected he hadn’t had much to get himself in this state, she felt reassured by his presence.

  ‘We met six months ago, been married for three. It was a spur of the moment thing. We were away in Vegas and she thought it would be funny to get married. She was drunk and beautiful and I thought, why not? Life would never be dull married to Gabriella.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Thea muttered.

  ‘She made me see things differently,’ Mortimer carried on, seeming to want someone to talk to as much as Thea welcomed the distraction. ‘Gabi came along and she made me laugh. Marrying her felt right. Even though it was so unlike anything I had ever done in my life. It was good to do something so insane, so spontaneous. I looked at her, and thought, why not? What could possibly go wrong?’

  He stopped and looked at his glass of wine.

  ‘What if …’ He looked at Thea, and his stare was unwavering, his eyes solemn. ‘What if she doesn’t wake up?’

  Thea shook her head, staving off the wave of panic she’d been barely keeping at bay herself. ‘She’ll be fine, she always is.’

  Mortimer nodded slowly. ‘I feel so stupid. I shouldn’t have let her leave. I should have tried harder to track her down. I just thought she needed space, and she’d come back to me. But then I found out about her and this guy …’

  Thea stopped him. ‘What guy?’

  ‘This Holmes guy. Part of that club in town. She and him were together. I saw them, last Saturday night, leaving the club.’

  Thea frowned. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, they walked somewhere, must have been to his place. I was so fucking angry.’ He shook his head. ‘Fuck,’ he said quietly. ‘What a fucking mess.’

  Thea took another mouthful of wine, looking down at the glass, surprised to see it empty. She could already feel the alcohol going to her head, hitting her empty stomach and making her dizzy. She reached over and took his hand. It felt soft and comforting.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ she said. She looked down, his long fingers entwined with hers. ‘Gabriella, she …’ Thea paused. ‘She does what she likes. She’s selfish, she’s inconsiderate, she acts on impulse. She doesn’t always think straight. But she loves you, I’m sure of it.’

  She looked up quickly. Mortimer was still staring at their interlocked fingers, his thumb stroking the top of her hand, his hair falling over his face. He looked sad and wounded and beautiful.

  ‘She wouldn’t have married you if she didn’t love you.’

  He looked up at her and their eyes met. Their faces were barely inches apart. Then, without thinking, she leaned forward and touched her lips to his.

  Mortimer jumped back, as if electrocuted. ‘Shit!’ he said. ‘Shit. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t be here, I’m so sorry.’

  He picked up his coat and ran from the room, pulling open the front door and disappearing into the night. Thea touched her fingers gently to her lips.

  She’d missed that. She’d missed kissing a man who loved her. But this man didn’t love her; he loved the woman lying unconscious in hospital. And now she’d made everything worse. So much worse.

  Wednesday

  15

  ‘I can see why she married him,’ Briggs muttered. Kate frowned but said nothing, silently agreeing with his judgement.

  Rain was battering the tiny Skoda, the wipers struggling to keep up with the deluge. They’d been unable to find the place at first, cruising slowly down the empty streets, tall hedges lining the road, each house hidden behind gates and long driveways. None of them had numbers, only names, so they had to squint through the rain at each one, eventually finding Mortimer Breslin’s residence at the end of a cul-de-sac.

  Kate looked up at the house. It was two floors, and immaculately maintained: the plaster was crisp and white, the driveway charcoal tarmac. Perfectly trimmed shrubs lined the outside of the property. Their car was the only one on the driveway; the house seemed empty and dark.

  ‘Why do we know so little about him?’ Kate asked, and Briggs tapped at the ancient laptop, connected into the network via his mobile phone.

  ‘There’s nothing much on the PNC. Just that he lives here and has a black BMW 5 series registered in his name.’ He pressed a few more keys, then looked over at Kate. ‘Oh, but look at this.’

  She shuffled over in her seat as he turned the screen around to face her. ‘Red light jump?’ she replied. ‘Bassett Avenue, nineteenth of January, eleven oh five p.m.’ Kate looked up at Briggs with a smile. ‘So he was in the area that night,’ she said and he nodded. ‘Come on, let’s see if he’s in.’

  They pushed the car doors open then ran to the house, the two of them cramped under the porch trying to keep out of the rain. Kate rang the bell and they heard it echo down the hallway.

  When there was no answer, Kate left Briggs by the door and pressed her nose up against the glass of the nearest window. It was obviously the living room, with dark brown sofas, a modern-looking coffee table and a massive television on the wall.

  ‘What can you see?’ Briggs asked, joining her at the window. He peered inside. ‘It doesn’t look like anyone actually lives here,’ he said, wiping the rain from the window and looking again.

  Kate felt a drop of water find its way under the hood of her coat and trickle down her neck. She turned and stalked back to the car, shutting the door with more force than was necessary. This was the first decent lead, and they couldn’t find the guy. She picked her phone out of her pocket and dialled, watching Briggs continue his nose around the house.

  ‘Boss?’ Yates said as she answered the phone. ‘Have you got him?’

  ‘Nobody here. Did you find anything on the pub CCTV?’ Kate asked, hoping for another connection to Mortimer Breslin.

  Kate had dropped by the office first thing to pick up Briggs and set Yates to work on the file as soon as she could. The landlord had been more than accommodating the night before, dashing off to find the right bit of footage and emailing it to Kate while she sat at the bar, free glass of Sauv Blanc in her hand.

  ‘Yes, but …’ Yates sounded reluctant and Kate sighed. ‘It’s hard to make much out. The camera’s pointing the wrong way, and it’s old, the quality is terrible.’

  ‘Can you see anyone or not?’

  ‘Not really. There’s a bloke in shot, and it could be the same man from before. It’s hard to tell for sure.’ Yates paused. ‘But …’

  ‘What?’ Kate snapped, irritated.

  ‘I went back to the club CCTV and I think I’ve got something.’

  Kate waited, trying to quell her excitement.

  ‘It’s the overhead camera from the main bar,’ Yates continued. ‘Ryan Holmes is there, and he’s with Gabriella. And they’re fighting.’

  ‘Physically?’ Kate asked as the car door opened and Briggs threw himself back inside, showering Kate with water from his coat.

  ‘Mainly just shouting. But yes. Neither of them are happy.’

  Briggs gestured to Kate, showing her the screen from his phone. It was the daily update from the hospital, but today’s was more interesting than usual.

  Kate went back to the call. ‘Rachel, we’re going to head to the hospital, the husband’s there.’ Briggs started the engine
and reversed the Skoda out of the driveway at speed. ‘Keep going with the club CCTV. I want more on Ryan Holmes before we interview him again.’ She hung up the phone before Yates could complain. Kate knew she’d be cross-eyed from staring at the screen already, the pile of DVDs from Heaven hardly dented.

  Kate strapped herself in as Briggs hurtled towards the hospital. She felt some of the jigsaw pieces starting to appear. She couldn’t narrow it down just yet, but she knew one of them could be the break they needed.

  16

  Harry knew he shouldn’t be there. He was late for work, his boss had already left him a shitty voicemail and something inside him was telling him to stay away. But there he was, back at the hospital. And as Harry rounded the corner into the ward, he realised his gut reaction had been correct.

  The man sitting at her bedside stood up as Harry approached, and held out his hand.

  ‘Mortimer Breslin,’ he said. ‘And you must be Harry.’ The man was almost his height, but had something about him that Harry had been trying to emulate his entire life. His confidence was natural, his posture relaxed.

  Harry shook his hand, nodding.

  ‘I’ve heard all about you,’ Mortimer said, and Harry laughed nervously.

  ‘That can’t be good,’ he replied.

  ‘The neighbour, right? You grew up together. Gabi talked about you all the time.’

  ‘She did?’ There was an awkward pause between the two men. ‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said. ‘But I don’t know who you are at all.’

  The man shook his head, embarrassed. ‘No, not many people do, it seems. I’m her husband.’

  Even before he said the words, deep down Harry had known. He felt the blood drain out of his face, his limbs heavy. He smiled and went through the proper things he was supposed to say, then he turned and started to walk away.