‘In 2012 Jemma and her husband and daughter were livingat Devey House with Jemma’s dad and Marianne. On the night of 8 November, Jemma and hubby get back to find an ambulance and a police car pulling up at the same time. Marianne had managed to reach her phone and call – well, whisper – for help. And here was the funny thing: she named who’d done it to her within seconds of them all arriving: “Oliver”, she whispered, in response to Jemma asking who’d done it. And Jemma knew who she meant, or thought she did. Her exboyfriend was called Oliver. He was a psychotherapist, having previously been a fireman and given that up. Mayo – that’s it. Oliver Mayo. And according to Jemma and also Marianne, she didn’t know any other Olivers. But Oliver Mayo, it turned out, couldn’t have been the one. He was in Cambridge, where he lives, doing therapy with a patient, or whatever they call it.’ Brodigan’s delivery made it clear that he had no time for such things.
As Brodigan had been speaking, Simon had felt something was out of kilter somehow, and now he realised what it was: this bloody room. It was worryingly quiet – no human voices apart from his and Brodigan’s, only the hum of dozens of machines. It was a hellscape: rows of desks and screens; automatons, supposedly human, tapping away at keyboards, no one looking at each other, no chat, no one throwing balls of paper or swearing loudly.
Was this really how Dooper wanted it to be?
‘Like I said, no one could think of any other Olivers that Marianne might have been referring to,’ said Brodigan. ‘Jemma asked her. “My Oliver?” she said. And then, according to Jemma and hubby and everyone else who heard it, the paramedics and everyone, Marianne frowned, as if Jemma had got it all wrong. She had almost no strength left in her by then, but she started trying to shake her head. She whispered, “No,my…my…”I mean, I wasn’t there, but I’ve heard the same story from five people at least. Jemma says she’s sure Marianne was trying to say, “No,myOliver.”’
‘Why would Jemma’s ex want to murder Marianne?’ Simon asked.
‘Jemma said he definitely wouldn’t – wouldn’t harm anyone, she was adamant.’
‘What about Marianne’s husband? Where was he?’ It was supposed to be always the husband, though Simon’s own experience of murder cases didn’t bear this out.
‘Gareth Upton was in London,’ said Brodigan. ‘Like Jemma and Paddy Stelling, Mr Upton stayed overnight in London every Thursday. For work, in his case. Thursday and Friday were his two days in the office. He’d made it in to London where Jemma and Paddy hadn’t – he’d gone in on an earlier train that miraculously reached its destination. Lots of witnesses corroborated his whereabouts too.’
‘The baby, Lottie Stelling – where was she when the attack happened?’ Simon asked.
‘Asleep upstairs,’ said Brodigan. ‘Which means much further from the violence than it would be in a normal house. The staircases at Devey House are long and steep and go round several corners. Little Lottie slept through the whole thing, thank goodness. There were no loud noises to wake her. Oh, and that was the other interesting thing: no one broke in. There were no windows smashed, no broken panes of glass in the door, no busted locks. Whoever did it, Marianne Upton let them in and drank wine with them. Nearly a whole bottle had gone. Jemma swore that same bottle had been in the fridge, unopened, when she and her husband had set off for London. There were two washed-up wine glasses standing neatly by the sink, alongside the attempted murder weapon, which had been cleanedequally thoroughly: a sharp knife from a block in the kitchen.’ Brodigan took a sip of his coffee. ‘Killer was careful to leave no trace of himself. Locked the front door on his way out and posted the Chubb key back through the letterbox.’
‘So Marianne’s lying on the floor spouting blood from her neck while he’s washing up?’ said Simon, trying to picture it.
‘Must have been, yeah. Thankfully she had her phone on her, in a pocket. Wouldn’t have been able to call for help otherwise. We assumed she waited to ring till he’d left the kitchen, no doubt thinking and hoping he’d left her for dead.’
‘Even if they drank wine together, that doesn’t mean she knew her attacker,’ said Simon. ‘Someone interesting could have knocked on the door and been invited in. Any security cameras?’
Brodigan shook his head. ‘Marianne was against them in principle – both before the attack and, crazy as it sounds, even more so after it. I did everything I could to persuade her to change her mind, but she stood her ground. “I refuse to act like a victim”, she said. “Do you really think those things make anyone safer, or feel safer? They do the opposite.” There was no arguing with her. I did wonder at the time …’
‘What?’ said Simon.
‘If she had some secret … you know … dalliance, or something, going on,’ said Brodigan. ‘I couldn’t think of any other reason why an intelligent person, obviously wealthy and with a house that size, would refuse such a basic security precaution. You know, unless there was someone coming and going from the house, shall we say, whose visits needed not to be caught on camera.’ Brodigan shrugged. ‘For what it’s worth, I was convinced she knew him, whoever he was. Knew him well. And yeah, I was always sure it was a bloke, despite the thorough washing-up job that had been done in the kitchen, because Marianne always said “he” when she talked about the personwho’d attacked her. When I pointed it out to her, she said, “It’s a generational thing. I am officially old. When we old people mean ‘any old bod’, we say ‘he’.” She said it like it was true. The rest of the time, she spoke like she was obviously lying and wanted me to know it. Gloating, almost.’
‘How d’you mean?’ Simon asked.
‘She trotted out the same lies multiple times,’ said Brodigan. ‘Always with a confident smile on her face: she couldn’t remember saying Oliver had done it; if she’d said that, she must have been delirious; no, she’d let no one in that night; she hadn’t seen the face of the person who’d come up behind her; she hadn’t been aware of anyone lurking in the house; she’d drunk some wine alone, but had no visitors. Just lies on top of lies, in that goading tone that says, “You can’t prove I’m lying and we both know it.” According to her, one minute she was watching television in the lounge, and the next she was coming round on the kitchen floor, covered in blood. No memory of anything that happened in between.’
‘What about the physical evidence?’ asked Simon.
‘Oh, we found fingerprints and DNA from all the people who couldn’t have done it.’ Brodigan sounded irritated. ‘Gareth Upton, all the Stellings. Oh, and Oliver Mayo too. He and Jemma had broken up years earlier but apparently he was still a regular visitor to the house. Not quite sure how that worked, but then again, they’re different from us, aren’t they?’
‘Who?’ said Simon.
‘Posh people.’ Brodigan sighed. ‘Though I’m sure most of them aren’t quite as determined to protect their would-be killers as Marianne Upton was. She didn’t like me defining it that way – as attempted murder. One time she snapped at me, “This has nothing to do with murder. What happened was the opposite of murder!” And if you’re about to ask what she meantby that, I’m afraid I can’t help you. Made no sense then, and makes no sense now, eleven years later. If only she’d listened to me and installed those bloody security cameras.’ Brodigan sounded angry, suddenly. ‘It’s not the opposite of murder this time, is it?’
‘What do you mean? Are you saying …’ Full of disbelief that he was even asking the question, Simon said, ‘Has … something happened to her?’ at the exact moment that he saw Brodigan’s eyes widen. No, he’d had no idea. Yes, Brodigan had only just realised Simon hadn’t known and that something else, not the murder of Marianne Upton, must have brought him here.
10
Monday 30 October 2023, 7.45 p.m.
JEMMA
‘Can this be quick?’ I ask DS Sam Kombothekra. I’ve been moved to a different interview room. This one has more natural light and smells fresher, thank God. Unfortunately, the improved aesthetic can’t make up for the fact that I’ve been here too long already, and now all I want is to get back to Lottie, check she’s okay. Has she had dinner? What will Paddy have given her? Something easy and unhealthy, no doubt.
‘It’s up to you whether it’s long or short.’ DS Kombothekra smiles at me. ‘You’re here voluntarily and you’re in charge. So …’
‘It’s just that … my daughter, Lottie—’ I break off, frustrated by the part I can’t say: that I need him to leave me alone so that I can carry on trying to work out what it means that Marianne has been in my laptop diary file and changed the spelling of Ollie’s name throughout. Did she read it all, including the part where I outlined my plan to have her killed? Did she get as far as my much better plan: to come here, to the police, in order to make sure I didn’t go through with it?
Of course she did. She’s read it all, every last word.
