He and Kim close the door behind them and walk in silence along the corridor. At the turn of the stairs up to the second floor, Kim says, ‘What’s in her undies that she doesn’t want us to look at?’
Would Kim know the meaning of her clothing, Davy wonders, in the way Manon would? Not the clothing sent to forensics – well those, yes, as well – but her clothing in general: the colours, the price bracket, the shop they came from. These were all markers that Manon could ‘read’. He’s not sure Kim is feminine in that way. Oh Lord, is he being sexist? Not feminine then; judgemental. Manon was master of the snap judgement, which often contained a kernel of truth.
The clothes Judith Cole has changed into are smart and unadorned: navy cardigan with a funny wavy edge and no buttons, very white T-shirt, so white it could have come straight from the packet. Dark, well-cut jeans. Everything new-looking. The blood-stained clothes, from what he could tell beneath the dark burgundy discolouration, were in a range of colours he would describe as light brownish, though he’s aware that there are more sophisticated words for it. Mushroom? Apart from her jeans, which were white – before she cradled a stab victim, that is.
Judith Cole is well turned out, that much he can see as he returns to interview room one and sets his pad down on the table.
‘Is my husband still downstairs?’ she asks. He hasn’t set the tape yet.
‘He is, yes,’ says Kim.
‘There’s really no reason for him to stay. Our house is only a five-minute walk from here.’
Kim remains silent. She told Davy earlier she likes to create discomfort in interviews, said it provides the space for confession. Davy’s acute sense of embarrassment can barely tolerate this.
‘I can’t see what help he would be; he wasn’t even there,’ Mrs Cole adds.
‘Right, here we go,’ Davy says, as the long beep rings out from the recording device.
He lists the date, time and people in the room.
‘Mrs Cole, you live on Snowdonia Way, is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
She confirms she’s 44 and works in insurance, is married to Sinjun Cole, which she spells more than three times for Davy who cannot understand why she seems to be spelling out ‘St John’. Eventually she does it so aggressively, he drops the subject. The Coles have 12-year-old twin boys attending Hinchingbrooke School, situated opposite the crime scene and adjacent to Snowdonia Way.
‘Did you know the victim, Jon-Oliver Ross?’ Davy asks.
‘No, I’ve never seen him before.’
‘Can you describe what happened when you came across the victim?’
‘Yes, I was facing the park and he was walking towards me. I saw him swaying, really weaving from side to side and I thought he was drunk, so I started to think of ways to avoid him but then he fell, right there in front of me. Something about the way he fell – his legs literally went from under him – I knew it wasn’t right. I could see he was ill. I rushed over to him and saw the blood coming from his chest. He was awake but he was panicking. He was really very distressed. I had his upper body in my lap. I called the ambulance on my mobile and I held him, which is why I got so soaked in his blood.’ She puts a hand gingerly to the side of her face. ‘His eyes were rolling back in his head, his chest was going up and down. I was trying to comfort him, saying, “Help is coming, hang on in there, stay awake,” that sort of thing. He whispered something which I didn’t hear so I put my head next to his mouth and he said, “Sass”.’
‘Sass? S-A-S-S?’ says Davy, pen poised on his notepad, not wishing to open up another spelling debacle.
Mrs Cole shrugs. ‘I couldn’t understand it either. Perhaps it wasn’t even a word, more like an exhalation. But he repeated it. I wondered if he was trying to say “mass” if he was religious – a Catholic. But he said it again, “Sass”. A name, perhaps?’
‘And why were you in the woods at that time, Mrs Cole?’ asks Kim.
‘You can call me Judith,’ she says with a wrinkling of her nose, which Davy supposes is intended to be friendly. ‘I was taking the dog out for a walk – I crossed Hinchingbrooke Park Road with the intention of going to the open ground where I can let him off the lead. He can run about there.’
‘And what was your dog doing, when you were seeing to the victim?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Where was the dog?’ repeats Kim.
‘Sorry, I don’t understand what you’re asking me,’ says Judith, shifting in her seat.
‘It’s a simple question. You drop to your knees to cradle a dying man. Where’s the dog?’
‘Oh, right, well, I didn’t really notice. I suppose he was snouting around the verges somewhere, you know what dogs are like. Sniffing tree roots, that kind of thing.’
‘We didn’t see him at the crime scene. The dog. Did you lose track of him?’
‘No, no, I didn’t lose him. He’s back at home. My husband must’ve taken him – picked him up, I mean.’
She has flushed. She flaps at her cardigan to cool herself down. Is she of an age for a hot flush? Davy isn’t versed in such things.
‘I’m not under any suspicion, am I?’
‘Why d’you ask that?’ says Kim.
‘Only, you’re talking to me as if I were a suspect.’
‘No we’re not.’
‘Why are you asking me all these questions when I’m just an innocent bystander?’
‘You were the last person to see the victim alive,’ says Kim. ‘That makes you a significant witness.’
Day 1
15 December
‘Time, everyone – time is of the essence,’ Davy says to the 8 a.m. briefing – a semi-circle of grey-faced detectives who haven’t been to bed. Priorities—’
Harriet coughs.
Davy looks at her, flushes; steps aside.
Harriet’s voice is loud and strong. ‘Jon-Oliver Ross,’ she informs the team. ‘Thirty-eight years old, of Holland Park, west London. Wealth manager to high-net-worth individuals at a private bank called Dunlop & Finch. This victim was well-to-do, probably well connected. First priority while we wait for forensics is his journey to Huntingdon. Did he come by car or train? I want CCTV off the stations including King’s Cross. Did he travel alone or did our perp mark him? There will be a lot of financial work on this one and yes, I’m looking at you Colin Brierley.’
Colin is MCU’s resident nerd – an expert in technology, the police investigations database HOLMES and the minutiae of financial records. Colin can tolerate vast panoramas of tedious detail, where others glaze over and lose not merely their thread but the will to live. Colin, though, has a childish excitement about the more inanimate side of police work. He doesn’t like to leave the office and so is handed laptops and iPads, phone records or reams of bank statements and he can sit and sit, drilling down into them with a kind of prurient glee. Colin is also the least politically correct man in East Anglia, and for this accolade he has seen off stiff competition.
Harriet has finished and the silence gives space for a discussion, so Davy says, ‘Who or what is Sass?’ Just to open it up, really.
‘Person who killed him?’ says Kim.
‘Judith Cole might have killed him,’ Davy says.