Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Eleanor Belov had two lawyers with her—an older man named Douglas Fairweather, and a slimy-looking junior solicitor who nobody even bothered to introduce by name. Logan just tagged him in his mind as The Boy and left it at that.
Logan took one of the empty seats on his side of the table, facing Eleanor directly. The Boy, who had remained standing, then moved to pick up the one remaining empty chair.
Jack placed his index finger on the plastic seat, pointing down, pinning it in place. He stared impassively at The Boy, then flicked his gaze into the corner of the room, directing him to go stand over there and shut up.
The older solicitor gently cleared his throat, and The Boy did as he was told.
Logan had never come across Douglas Fairweather before, probably because none of the people he’d previously arrested would be able to afford his fee.
He looked like the sort of man who had been sixty-three years old for the past three decades, and would likely remain that age until someone eventually drove a stake through his heart while he slumbered in his crypt.
He was slim, unhurried, and dressed in a charcoal suit that had likely cost a lot of money at some point in the previous decade, and which he clearly had no intention of replacing until it fell off him in tatters.
His face was blank, giving nothing away. Logan didn’t think he was necessarily trying to hide anything. More likely, he just didn’t consider anyone else in the room important enough to share his thoughts with.
He had scrutinised every inch of Logan when the DCI had entered. Then, his gaze had moved slowly around the room, cataloguing everything with the quiet efficiency of a man who liked to know where the exits were, and how to make sure that he would be the first to reach them.
He had introduced himself just as efficiently, giving his name and nothing else. Then, he placed a legal pad on the table in front of him, uncapped a fountain pen, and waited.
Logan had spoken to a lot of lawyers over the years. Some blustered. Some threatened. Some leaned across the table and got right in your face about it.
Douglas Fairweather, he suspected, had never leaned across a table in his life.
Eleanor Belov wasn’t giving away any more than her solicitor was. She looked relaxed, with her hands clasped lightly in her lap, and a contented wee smile on her face, like she was at a family brunch, not a police interview.
She was dressed in a pink velour tracksuit, but not the same pink velour tracksuit she’d been wearing when Logan had visited the house. This one was a different shade, with purple piping on the sleeves that clashed with the orange tinge of her fake tan, and the yellow of her painted fingernails.
It was right enough what they said, Logan thought. You couldn’t buy class.
‘Thanks for coming,’ he began. ‘You got your prints done OK?’
‘Voluntarily,’ Fairweather said, before Eleanor had so much as a chance to nod. ‘We’ll have that noted.’
Behind him, standing in the corner, The Boy wrote in a leather-bound notepad.
‘Of course. We appreciate it,’ Logan said. ‘And the wallet address, too. I’ve passed that on.’
‘We don’t see why—’ Fairweather began, but Eleanor tutted and rolled her eyes, silencing him.
‘It’s fine. Whatever. Happy to help,’ she said.
She didn’t just seem relaxed, Logan realised. She was relaxed. It was as if this whole thing—the murder of her husband, being brought in for interview—wasn’t putting her up nor down.
What he couldn’t yet figure out was what that meant. Innocent? Guilty? Rich enough that she thought the two were interchangeable?
He’d soon see about that.
It was interesting, though, he had to admit. There was nothing forcing her to give up her wallet address. She could very easily have kept that from them at this stage, but she’d readily shared it, which meant she wasn’t afraid of the money trail, or where it might lead.
Logan took a few seconds to run through the formalities, and started the tape. She wasn’t being interviewed under caution at this stage, he said, framing it instead as an informal chat to help them with their inquiries. She’d confirmed she was happy to go on record, and then they’d begun.
‘Where were you on the night Victor was murdered, Eleanor?’
Logan heard the scribbling of The Boy’s pencil. He’d half-expected some reaction from Fairweather, but the older lawyer hadn’t so much as blinked.
Then again, some species never did.
‘I was at home. With my son. You saw me there,’ Eleanor replied. She spoke brightly, like there was a laugh riding on the ripples of her vocal cords. ‘Remember?’
Logan confirmed he remembered, but pressed on. ‘I meant earlier in the evening. Between the hours of four and six-thirty?’
‘At home,’ Eleanor reiterated. Nothing changed about her voice or her demeanour. ‘I was at home all day.’
‘That’s interesting,’ Logan said, but he left it there. ‘What about Victor’s brothers? Would they be able to corroborate that? If they hadn’t legged it, I mean.’
‘Yeah. They would.’
‘Do you know where they are, by any chance, so I can check that with them?’
‘No. I don’t.’
‘No idea?’ Logan pressed.
‘That’s what she said,’ Fairweather interjected. ‘My client is not responsible for your failure to track down your persons of interest.’
Something that wasn’t a smile but might vaguely resemble one in the right light crept across Logan’s face.
‘Of course not. But, you know, family. I thought maybe they might have kept in touch.’
‘They’re not my family,’ Eleanor said. ‘I mean, technically, yes, but I don’t like them, they don’t like me.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘Because they’re horrible pricks.’
‘Fair enough,’ Logan conceded. ‘Having met them, I can’t really argue with that.’
He thought of what Ben had seen. Two burly masked men bundling Bosco into their van.
‘You sure they’re not back in town, though?’
‘You tell me,’ Eleanor replied. ‘I have no idea where they are.’
‘Do you think they killed Victor?’ Logan asked.
Fairweather clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. ‘My client isn’t about to speculate upon—’
‘Maybe. I don’t know,’ Eleanor said, talking over him.
The lawyer didn’t flinch or react in any way. He just sort of went dormant again, like his aborted interjection had never happened.
‘What about Kendrick Crichton?’
Eleanor shrugged. ‘What about him?’
‘I don’t know,’ Logan said, sitting back in his seat. ‘You tell me.’
Something about her expression changed then. Just subtly. Logan couldn’t work out how the mechanics of it had shifted, but she no longer looked quite so unfazed.
‘They were friends.’
There was a subtle but noticeable stress on that last word.
‘Victor and Kendrick, I mean.’
‘Not his brothers?’ Logan asked.
Eleanor’s headshake was a quick, urgent thing. ‘No. God, no.’
‘And by “friends,” you mean…?’
She looked away, then met his eye again and nodded.
‘How long?’
‘Since the start,’ Eleanor said. ‘I mean, it was going on from the start. When me and him got together. Longer than that, actually. Before. Ages before.’
‘To be clear.’ Logan leaned forward again. ‘You’re saying that Victor Belov and Kendrick Crichton were in a romantic relationship?’
Eleanor almost seemed amused by that. Almost.
‘I wouldn’t call it romantic, exactly.’
‘Sexual, then?’
She nodded.
‘For the tape, please,’ Logan prompted.
‘Yes. It was sexual. They were having sex.’
‘Victor was gay?’
‘Bisexual,’ Eleanor corrected.
‘And that didn’t bother you?’
She shook her head, then remembered the recording. ‘No, it didn’t bother me.’
‘You weren’t, you know, jealous? Angry?’
‘I didn’t care,’ she replied, and the indifference with which she said it was pretty compelling. ‘I was relieved, in fact. Made life easier, if anything. We knew where we stood.’
‘Which was where?’ Logan asked.
Eleanor shifted around in her seat. It was the most uncomfortable Logan had ever seen her. The Boy glanced at her from the corner, like this was a new one on him, too.
‘Marrying him was a mistake. It was a stupid rebound thing. By the end, though… I felt sorry for him, I suppose. If his brothers found out what he was, what he’d been doing, they’d have… God, I don’t know.’
‘Killed him?’ Logan asked.
She shrugged, like she didn’t know. Like it was a possibility.
‘I can’t imagine they’d have been best pleased with Kendrick Crichton, either.’
‘Yes, well, you can go right ahead and ask them that, should you ever find them,’ Fairweather said, in a tone that made clear he wasn’t going to tolerate this particular line of questioning much further.
Logan drummed his fingers on the tabletop, considering his next move. The Boy watched the hand from the corner, as if mesmerised by it. Fairweather, meanwhile, had returned straight back into standby mode.
‘Was Victor dealing drugs?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Eleanor countered, like she’d had the answer ready to deploy at a moment’s notice.
‘You said he wasn’t a good man. When I spoke to you at your house.’
She shrugged. ‘He was fine.’
‘You seemed to think otherwise at the time.’
Eleanor sighed. ‘He had anger issues. I think he probably was involved in drugs stuff.’
‘Speculation on my client’s part, not an admission of prior knowledge,’ Fairweather stressed.
‘CID is convinced of it. They reckon he was a big player,’ Logan said.
‘Then you’ll have to talk to them,’ Eleanor replied.
‘It doesn’t bother you? The possibility? You with two young kids in the house?’
That got a reaction. For the first time since she’d sat down, something real and raw flashed across Eleanor’s face.
‘Keep my kids out of this. My kids are fine. They’re great. I look after them. I love my kids.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ Logan assured her. ‘I wasn’t doubting that for a second. But, OK, taking Victor out of it. His brothers. That the sort of people you want around your children? People who, you admit yourself, may be capable of murder.’
‘Nobody admitted anything of the sort,’ Fairweather said.
‘She didn’t deny it, though. She just shrugged. That’s a “maybe” in my book,’ Logan shot back.