‘Earned hard,’ Manon says.
‘Very much so. Ross just landed a mega client, Xi Ping. Chinese billionaire. He’s signed with Dunlop & Finch for all kinds of wealth management, setting up shells in Panama, buying London properties, a portfolio of investments. That client alone would bring him a bonus of ￡3million.’
‘How many clients did he have?’
‘Ten, maybe fifteen. One of them was a Libyan guy, member of Gaddafi’s cabinet, who bought some hotels in Scotland.’
‘What did Ross actually do?’
‘Investment fixer. Middle man. He arranged everything when these billionaires came to London looking to put their money into a safe economy: made sure there was a limo and champagne all the way – viewings of Kensington mansions via posh estate agents, or incorporation of shells by dodgy lawyers in Nevada, or tax status in Turks & Caicos. He greased the wheels. Anyway, his mate Giles has given a statement saying Ross was frightened of Fly.’
‘You what?’ she says. ‘Frightened of Fly? It’s literally impossible to be frightened of Fly.’
Mark, through another mouthful, reads. ‘This is verbatim from Carruthers’ statement. “He wanted to see his son but there was this teenager hanging around the child who was, well, ‘menacing’ was the word Jon-Oliver used.”’
‘Menacing?’ she says. ‘And they’re talking about Fly? My Fly?’ Her eggs arrive but she can no longer stomach them. ‘I can’t think of anyone less menacing than Fly. Barely audible sometimes, yes. But seriously, he’s the most gentle boy I know.’
‘You may not know him as well as you think you do.’
This seems to be everyone’s narrative – that she doesn’t know Fly.
Eventually, she says, ‘Doing anything nice tonight?’
‘Nope. You?’
‘Supposed to be going round to Bri’s to watch Jools Holland’s Hootenanny. Not sure I can be fucked, to be honest.’
Davy
At the front of the main major crime room Davy coughs into his fist, but no one stops talking.
He can smell brewing coffee, reminding him he’s tired – of the office lighting and the broad white desks. Behind him, Harriet claps – just once, and not even that loudly. Everyone snaps to attention.
‘Thanks everyone,’ he says, more uncertainly than he’d like. ‘So to update you, we have had forensic analysis back from Videotrue on the CCTV of the footpath close to where Mr Ross’s body was found. The analysis shows a red colour on Fly Dent’s hand, which could be blood where he is holding, or has held, the murder weapon.’
He stops. His face is prickling with something like an allergy. He’s done this enough times. Why’s his nerve giving way this time? He’s put away plenty of murderers, heard plenty of desperate tales, sob stories, people with no luck, no money. No love in their lives.
This one’s different.
Colin is eating an apricot Danish. Kim Delaney is looking at the whiteboard that’s just behind him. Harriet is watching him, her arms folded. He can’t throw his voice to the room, can’t lift his chin. He’s ashamed of his main-lines-of-enquiry list, of his badge, of the dirty job he’s got to do. He is alone, up here at the front. Is he alone in fitting up a child because the boss wants it tidy? He recalls Manon shouting, ‘You’re not up to the job, Davy. You’re not!’
He swallows, then says, ‘We are prioritising cardiovascular pathology reports to back up Derry’s, the timeline of Jon-Oliver Ross’s travel to Huntingdon, witness statements. Non-sensitive documents – Colin, I’m directing this at you – like phone records, historic bank work, emails, they need to be moved out of the way, into the general folder on the O drive. Finally, I want to talk to you about the press. We do not want Fly Dent’s name or age to come out in relation to this homicide, OK?’
‘They already know a 12-year-old has been arrested,’ says Kim.
‘Yes, but there are comprehensive reporting restrictions all over this case. Please be mindful of that everyone, OK? Can I also remind you that it might be New Year’s Eve, but it is still a full working day and this is a murder investigation, so no sneaking off early everyone, OK?’
Three weeks in
5 January
Manon
Head down, scrutinising the tarmac and moving forward only when she has examined every inch, just as she was trained at Shotley in the art of hands-and-knees search. The best she can manage in her current unwieldy state is a stooped-shuffle search, wearing a headscarf that must make her appear from a distance like a bowing babushka. Tiny lumps and bumps, the weeds, a crisp packet, mud. Focus, focus on finding blood spots.
She planned on tackling it this morning, in the to and fro of coffee and cereal. Told herself just to come out with it. ‘So, the pills and booze, Ellie? What’s all that about?’ But in the event, she bottled it; hadn’t the courage for a confrontation, Manon being more the type to fester in silence. She enjoyed festering in silence: people falling below the standards she silently set for them. Besides, Manon felt sure Ellie would brush her off, tell her it was none of her business and perhaps she was right. Blood spots. Focus on the blood spots.
This morning, in the kitchen, as Manon bolstered herself to say something, she watched as Ellie bustled about in her nurse’s uniform, getting Solly food and a drink, standing and eating a bowl of cereal herself while reading something on her phone. Then Ellie put the phone down on the counter and pounded up the stairs to her bedroom. Manon quickly picked up Ellie’s mobile and looked at the screen.
‘Mummy phone,’ said Solly, and Manon looked him in the eye, a finger to her lips.
Don’t worry, we’ll talk about it later.
The contact was named ‘G’.
Who is G? She is turning this over again now, looking at tarmac but failing to focus on the blood spots. Gerald, George, Gino – she can’t think of anyone whose name begins with G.
While she gazed at the text in confusion, half an eye on the toddler truth-teller in the corner, the screen had dimmed and locked. Manon didn’t know Ellie’s passcode. ‘Shit,’ she whispered, quickly replacing the phone on the worktop as Ellie re-entered the kitchen.
‘What are you doing?’ Ellie said, looking at Manon’s hand and its proximity to her phone.
Solly chose that moment to fling his bowl of Weetabix off the table and they were both distracted by picking up clumps of what felt like wet papier maché, and wiping him down.