Chapter 44
She opened up her phone contacts, gazed at them for a moment, then pressed SEARCH.
Robyn Heaton picked up on the first ring.
‘It’s Sarah. Sarah Kellerman.’
‘Hi,’ Robyn said simply, as if she had been expecting the call.
‘Can we meet?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘Where are you now?’
‘Streatham. Not far from the station.’
‘Can you get to Brixton Hill?’
They met on the corner of a run-down housing estate just off the A23, a sprawling, brutalist maze of grey slate and PVC that looked incongruous, situated as it was at the end of a road full of white pillars and Edwardian charm.
It hit Sarah how the distinction between the haves and the have-nots was so pronounced in parts of London.
Some of these homes looked like the kind of portable cabins you saw on building sites.
‘Here,’ came a voice.
Sarah looked towards a large bin shed with a corrugated iron roof and metal bars.
Next to it was a recycling container with the words SHOES AND TEXTILES on the front, along with a selection of graffiti.
Robyn Heaton was behind the bins, and also behind the CCTV camera that faced them.
She was dressed to match her environment in a dark hoody and baggy jeans, her red hair tied back in a tight ponytail.
Sarah joined her.
‘Did you drive here?’ Robyn Heaton asked.
‘No. My partner dropped me off in Streatham and then I got the bus. He doesn’t know I’m meeting you,’ she added.
Robyn nodded. ‘Might be best if we keep it to ourselves.’
‘Of course.’
They both waited.
‘Christy Nicholls,’ Sarah prompted.
‘Yes.’
‘Were you part of the original investigation into her death?’
Robyn shook her head.
‘But you know the case?’
‘I know your man’s back inside.’
Sarah hesitated. ‘Do you know why?’
‘He spoke to a witness.’
Sarah nodded. ‘I’ve heard this witness wants to give new evidence.’
‘A retraction?’ Robyn’s eyes widened.
‘Not exactly a retraction. More like … an uncertainty. More like … someone having pressured her, perhaps.’
Robyn raised an eyebrow. ‘But not your client?’
‘I hope not. But that’s why I can’t talk to her.’
‘Very sensible.’ Robyn eyed her. ‘Are you asking me to speak to her?’
Sarah eyed her back. ‘I can find someone else to do it,’ she said. ‘It’s fine. It doesn’t have to be you.’
‘Best not.’
‘But thank you,’ Sarah said. ‘For … your help.’
Robyn looked down at her feet.
‘Can I just ask why you’re doing this?’
A pause. ‘I was on the burglary team.’
‘The one a few doors down from Christy?’
Robyn nodded. ‘I was new on the beat. I was seconded to the team for a while.’
‘Was there ever a suspect?’
Another pause. An incline of the head.
Sarah narrowed her eyes. ‘A female?’
Robyn nodded again.
‘Was she ever arrested?’
‘No. The SIO on the case was convinced it was Jamie.’
Sarah felt her stomach turning. ‘And that’s the way things went, I suppose?’
‘Yep.’
She paused. ‘This SIO … is he still on the force?’
‘Yep.’ Robyn stretched out the word, imbuing it with meaning.
‘Can you tell me who he is?’
‘Check the witness list.’
‘In Christy’s case?’
She nodded. ‘See who was first on the scene.’
Sarah raised her eyebrows. ‘The SIO in a burglary was first on the scene in a murder investigation? How does that work?’
Robyn shrugged. ‘Burglary in the same street. Could be linked. If the SIO’s in the area and thinks he can help, there’s every reason for him to be there.’
‘But?’
‘It’s all there in his statement.’
‘Right,’ Sarah said, her heart racing in anticipation. She must have already read the statement in question and not seen anything in it. But then again, you don’t know what you don’t know. ‘What happened to the female suspect in the burglary?’
‘That’s a very good question.’
‘You don’t know the answer?’
‘I think I do. But she won’t talk to me.’
‘OK.’ Sarah scratched her head. ‘Well, then—’
‘She might talk to you, though. Her name’s Phillipa Price,’ Robyn continued. ‘She frequents the night shelter on Acre Lane. There’s a hostel up there, too.’
Sarah nodded. ‘What does she look like?’
‘White. Forties. Looks older. A lot older. Long-time user of class A. Stick-thin. Long brown hair. She lived in Streatham in 2003 and has never moved far away. Everyone round there knows her.’
‘Thank you.’ Sarah turned to leave.
‘And Sarah?’
‘Yes?’
‘They’ve approved your request for a referral to the forensic archives.’
‘Really?’ Sarah turned back to face her.
Robyn shrugged. ‘They can’t in all conscience keep you out. I can tell you now, you’ll find out that there was a single source of unknown male DNA found on Christy’s top as far back as 2012.’
Sarah was too stunned to speak. ‘You mean … it’s not Jamie’s?’
‘It’s not Jamie’s,’ Robyn agreed.
Sarah frowned. ‘Is that why the clothing was destroyed?’
‘I don’t know. But the lab has retained some of the samples taken from her T-shirt and from under her fingernails. They are tiny extracts, but they can still be tested.’
Sarah felt a rush of optimism. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes, but don’t get your hopes up just yet. There’s no match on the PNC. There wasn’t then, and there isn’t now. I wouldn’t get hung up on that for the moment. Find Phillipa Price instead. Get her to talk to you. If she’s still alive, you’ll find her.’