Chapter 42
Walking into work, I was primed to bask in the glow of what has happened to Malcolm only to enter an empty office.
Gavin’s not at their desk and Brian is shut away filming his pish, which I have had to interrupt to pass a call through to him from woman of the hour, Heather Gray.
Answering the phone to her, I was surprised to discover she was actually lovely. Well, presented as lovely.
‘Oh, it’s you, the girl Brian’s raving about. I’m Heather, so delightful to finally talk to you. Could you transfer me through to him, please? I keep trying his mobile but he’s not picking up.’
If I was cleverer I would know how to patch her through to Brian and continue to listen in, but I’m not, so I make do with hearing Brian’s side only.
‘Heather – But – Heather – Heather – Will you stop shouting? – If you treat enough people badly it’s all going to catch up with you eventually.
It’s got nothing to do with me, and I am certainly not getting involved with those union folk again if I can help it.
– How would I know that? – This sounds like a you problem. ’
After it’s done he returns to his filming, sounding angrier than I’ve ever heard him before.
Sad that the chat about Malcolm I’d been looking forward to since I woke up is not going to materialise, I keep illuminating my phone on the headline ‘TV Presenter Denounces Own Show’, hoping Brian will emerge from his office or Gavin will walk in as I do so and I can start a conversation about it.
With nothing else to do, I wonder if Malcolm even knows all the social media posts I made on his behalf last night exist, or if he’s still out cold.
In the end, I posted everything incriminating I found across all of his platforms, my favourite being a screenshot of an email he sent his agent saying:
I cannot stand the primary audience of my work being the chronically unemployed, the ill, the elderly and the mentally deficient. I have had enough of being the face of squalid homes and slumlords. I HATE IT.
I hope he’s sleeping. Think how pleasantly he’ll remember those dreams when he can contrast them with the rest of his day, which I am certain will be harrowing.
In the kitchen, I put the kettle on to boil.
The bell above the door rings and I peek out, expecting to see Gavin’s arrival, get my phone prepped to show them, but it’s Detective Diane.
It looks like my day is going to be harrowing, too.
My blood fizzes and pops in my veins like the water bubbling in the kettle.
Whatever happens next is completely out of my control, and while that is terrifying, it is also thrilling.
‘Hiya, Diane. Fancy a cup of tea?’
The thought process of this decision causes her forehead to crease. We hear Brian say, ‘You give someone your best work and sometimes that’s not enough for them.’ After more deliberation than I have taken for life-changing choices, Diane says yes to the tea.
I bring through mugs, the steam from them billowing in the chill of the office. She’s taken the chair across from mine at my desk. Usually, I would butter people up with the fancy biscuits but it’s too early for that. I blow on my tea then take a sip, scalding the roof of my mouth.
‘Where’s your colleague?’
‘I don’t know, actually. They’re usually in before me. Brian probably knows.’ I’ve really done myself a sore one. I run my tongue over the point of contact with the boiling water; a flap of skin hangs over the raw flesh.
‘Did anyone mention we were trying to talk to you yesterday?’
‘Yeah, Gavin sent me a message.’
‘Do you have any idea what that would be for?’
Oh, she thinks I’m stupid enough to incriminate myself. My answer to this the blade of the spade making its first entry into the ground as I start digging a hole to throw myself into.
‘I have no idea.’
‘You weren’t worried?’
‘Well, I came where you could find me today, so I suppose that indicates no, nothing to be worried about.’
‘Do you know a David Sanderson?’
This stumps me. The bad deeds I’ve committed are plentiful but not so many I’ve forgotten anyone’s names. Whatever we’ve been talking about here is nothing to do with me. ‘That name isn’t ringing any bells.’
‘You might know them as Dave?’
‘The only Dave I know is a man in his fifties in Suffolk who sometimes sends me money for pictures of my feet.’ There, Diane. I bet you weren’t expecting that.
‘Well, then we’re actually both talking about the same person.’
‘Are we?’
‘Except David is actually a thirteen-year-old boy who’s been sending you money he stole from his mother. She wasn’t going to inform the police about his theft but did so because she was concerned you were a sex offender who took advantage of a child for financial gain.’
The tea no longer feels triumphant. ‘I absolutely did not. I thought he was a middle-aged pervert. I would never, ever have done any of it if I’d known he was an actual child.’ My pitch is elevated, outraged.
‘It’s OK, Ms Limond. The police in Sussex have reviewed the communication between you and David that his mother provided and it’s quite clear you had no idea he was underage. However, this is a formal notification that he is, and you should make no further contact with him.’
‘Absolutely. I’ll block his number this instant.
’ I swipe open my phone to reveal Malcolm’s face and swat away at it until it disappears and Dave can be blocked.
‘That’s that,’ I tell her, and wait for what’s next, because surely this is not all she has come here for.
Diane is a detective. Someone more junior could have told me off.
I do not offer up any conversation to prompt whatever else she is here for.
Instead we sit and sip our tea with the background noise of Brian, who is getting more and more irate.
‘I have given Fixer Uppers Go Under the Hammer some of their best footage. That’s not just me that said that but the producer, too.
So when I heard within the local property community that they invited some woman over me for gender diversity… what about knowledge diversity–’
Diane breaks. ‘Does he do that a lot?’
The filming is what she’s talking about, I know that. Still, I turn as if checking what she’s referring to. ‘Yeah, he’s trying to build his profile. Wants to be, I’m not even sure this is a real thing, a property influencer? Or a coach to people like him. People must like it; he gets decent views.’
The glare of Brian’s ring light casts weird shadows on the floor beside me when it’s on, makes a weird stripe on my computer screen. It disappears, and then there’s the clatter of Brian bumping into his tripod as he comes to us.
‘So, you pop in here every day now? I mean, I don’t mind, just so I know if I should be getting extra milk in for all your teas.’
‘Actually, I think this will be my last day visiting you here, Brian.’ She sips the tea, not bothered a bit to be drinking his hot drinks while she pesters him.
‘Wanting to chat to Jemma, were you? It’s always the quiet ones you’ve got to keep an eye on. She’s probably done a load of stuff you should investigate.’ This is undoubtedly a joke, but Brian’s delivery is off, frantic, he’s trying to deflect.
‘That’s how the saying goes.’ Diane smirks.
‘Look, there’s more of your lot on the street.
’ Two police cars have pulled up outside.
Four officers get out, fixing the caps on their heads.
When Diane turns to view them it reminds me of when I looked at Brian and his ring light, as if she was expecting them.
‘You go years not seeing a police officer on the street and then they all come at once.’
‘Like buses,’ I say, an obvious attempt to lighten things up while my heart is jackhammering in my chest so fast it might kill me.
Two officers position themselves next to the door on the street; two others come inside. Ting-a-ling goes the bell. I’m prepared as much as I can be for this. It’s off to jail I go.
Except it’s not me that the officers approach. ‘What’s all this about?’ Brian asks, retreating towards his office as if under attack.
Diane pops her tea down. ‘Brian, we know what you’ve done. We’ve collected enough evidence to arrest you for the attempted murder of Paula Homerton and the actual murders of William McAllister and Peter Smeaton.’
‘The what? No.’
I can’t watch. My eyes are locked on my dusty keyboard.
‘Brian, you know fine well what’s happened. You’re under arrest. One of the officers here will caution you and take you to the station for questioning.’
Diane’s words play out. Brian is told he isn’t obliged to say anything but it will be noted if he does.
‘This is all wrong. I would never kill anyone. I didn’t do this.
’ The handcuffs are placed around his wrists and he screams, ‘No. No. I didn’t do anything.
’ Me, a person certain of his innocence, can’t help but notice he’s being a bit over the top, like a guilty man trying to appear innocent.
As he’s led away, tears streaking down his face, he says, ‘Tell Leanne what’s happening and she needs to get me a lawyer.
’ He twists and turns his arms seeking a secret release that isn’t there.
Diane stays in the office. ‘Sorry about that.’ She collects both our mugs, takes them through to the kitchen as if this is her place of work and not mine.
She comes back wiping her hands on a piece of kitchen roll.
‘I understand that will have been quite a shock. We’ll need to talk to you, take an in-depth statement, but that can happen at a later date.
For now, all I need is for you to leave us details of any logins you have for Brian’s accounts: email, calendars, the pin for his phone. ’
Diane gives me a notebook and pen. My already messy writing is almost indecipherable from how much I’m shaking.
‘The office is going to be searched for any evidence that could assist in our investigation. You can take your things and leave. Someone will be in touch when you’re allowed back, but it may be a few days.’
I do as I’m told, get out onto the pavement. The inhale I take on this main road in Hamilton is the sweetest, freshest air I’ve ever breathed. Freedom.
Then I consider Brian experiencing the exact opposite, all because of me and my meticulous, fictitious record keeping and exclusive use of his mobile phone for all of my research, providing an extensive collection of data to back up the clues I’ve left.
The copy of Eat That Frog with Brian’s name inscribed inside it dumped near where Willie was found.
Brian’s business card tucked into Pete’s pocket.
Paula’s DNA all over the bull bars on the front of Brian’s car.
The hammer in the boot of Brian’s car wrapped in the bloodstained towel used to wipe it down after Harry’s death – although they haven’t connected him yet.
It’s at times like these that being a triangle pays off, and it’s why being a squiggle is a hindrance.
Brian’s mistresses might be able to poke holes in some of the stories, but who are the police going to believe?
Someone in a relationship with Brian or the cold, hard evidence? Poor Brian.
I call Leanne as requested and can hear the faint sound of a phone ringing nearby.
Looking across the road, I understand the call I hear is my call.
Leanne is folded behind the pillar at the entrance to the abandoned Italian restaurant.
We lock eyes as she answers and I tell her information she clearly already knows.
‘Brian’s been arrested, he needs a solicitor. ’
‘Thanks for letting me know.’
‘He was cheating on you the whole time.’
‘I know.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘I am now he’s locked up.’ Then she hangs up.