‘Siobhan Perez,’ Copeland shouted as she ran across the small car park towards the woman who had her hand on the door of a blue Mini. The woman jumped back, her car keys firmly between her fingers.
Copeland did her best not to gasp. The foundation couldn’t conceal the red, scarred and fragile skin on the left side of Siobhan’s face. The twisted skin of her left eyelid looked heavy as it concealed her weeping eye.
Copeland held out her warrant card. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you,’ she said. ‘My name is DC Copeland. I’m with the Serial Crime Unit.’
‘Am I supposed to know what that is?’
‘We’re a specialist unit based in Greenwich. We’re making enquiries into—’ Copeland paused and turned her face buying herself more time. For the second time in less than an hour she was going to deliver the death message. ‘Your sister.’
‘I’m not really interested in hearing about my bitch of a sister, unless you’re here to tell me you’ve found her and she’s on her way to prison,’ Siobhan said furiously.
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ said Copeland. ‘Your sister was attacked on—’
‘Good. Hopefully she’s dead,’ Siobhan said, lowering herself into the car seat.
Copeland grabbed the top of the car door to stop Siobhan from slamming it shut. ‘Your sister was attacked with acid on Saturday night. She died in the early hours of Sunday morning,’ she said.
Copeland waited for any expression to cross Siobhan’s face. Shock, bewilderment, denial or even acceptance but they never came. She remained impassive. Copeland suspected that Siobhanwould have shown more emotion if she’d been listening to an electricity meter reading.
Siobhan stared back. ‘What are you expecting of me? For me to be sorry?’
Copeland bit the inside of her cheek, fighting the temptation to answer in the affirmative. ‘Look, I understand that your relationship with your sister was tumultuous but—’
‘Tumultuous?’ Siobhan scoffed, pointing at her face. ‘Look at me.’
‘I’m sorry for what happened to you. I just need to ask you a few questions and then I’ll let you get on. I understand your sister had breached her bail conditions by visiting you?’
‘She’s a psychopath and a narcissist,’ said Siobhan. ‘I’m a psychiatrist and you would have thought I’d have been able to see the signs in my own flesh and blood. The day before the trial, she turned up in my house.’
‘What do you mean, “in your house”?’ asked Copeland.
‘I gave a spare key to my nephew which she obviously took. I came home from work, and she was sitting there in my kitchen, drinking a glass of wine as though we were—’
Siobhan turned her face, her voice cracking for the first time.
‘What did she want?’
‘For me not to give evidence. To either not turn up at all or to stand in that courtroom and lie. Tell them it was someone else who threw acid in my face.’
‘What did she do when you told her no?’
‘Offered me money. A lot of money. Which was just like her. If she couldn’t manipulate you then she would throw money at the problem. I told her to get out. Threatened to call the police.’
‘And did she?’
Siobhan nodded. ‘I came to court every day, but there are all these rules, which meant I had to wait in the witness room until they were ready for me. I didn’t see her again until the day I gave evidence. She sat in the dock, looking at me as though I was a piece of shit and then she sat up there in the witness box, all fucking sanctimonious and acted as though she was the victim.’
‘Did you attack her outside the court last Friday?’
‘It was hardly an attack. It was just … she looked at me as though she was so sure she was going to get away with it and I just—’ Siobhan lifted up the central console, pulled out a bunch of tissues and wiped her weeping eye. ‘Thank God Mika was there to stop me.’
‘Mika?’ Copeland asked, her grip on the car door growing tighter. ‘Who’s Mika?’
‘She’s works in witness services. Victim support,’ Siobhan replied cautiously. ‘To be honest, I don’t know what I would have done without her. She’s been a godsend these past two weeks.’
‘And this Mika works here at the court?’ Copeland asked as she released the door, took her phone out of her pocket and went to her emails. ‘Come on,’ she said as she tapped repeatedly on the jpeg icon attached to Stanford’s email, desperate for it to open.
‘You won’t have much luck out here. The reception is awful. You’re better off inside.’
