He has got nicotine patches. And nicotine gum. He hasn’t tried out either yet, but at least he’s showing willing. Surely buying the patches and the gum goes some way to cancelling out the entire pack of fags he has already puffed his way through today. Yeah, right. Who’s he kidding? And it’s only mid-afternoon. Probably just as well you can no longer light up in the workplace or he’d have smoked even more. In July 2007 it became illegal. Back then, Ian was only on about ten a day. Now he’s closer to forty. Two whole packets. Jo’s right. It’s costing them a fortune for him to kill himself.
He could do with a smoke now as he observes the Harry Tomlinson interview. No doubt about it, Tomlinson is a sick prick. His diary entries attest to his obvious fetish for young female students in general and his obsession with Sasha Spencer-Lyles in particular. He also had a whole load of child pornography on his computer. He was Millie’s physics teacher, too – Ian checked with Millie and Jo. Tomlinson won’t be teaching physics to her or any other youngsters again, which is a relief. If he does go down for Josh’s murder, he won’t last a week in prison. They hate kiddie fiddlers inside.
Strictly speaking, Ian shouldn’t be here, listening in from the viewing quarters. The superintendent is standing next to him, behind the one-way glass, eyeballing him from time to time, no doubt to remind Ian that he has work to do and that this is not his case anymore. It’s Helena’s. DI Helena Baker. His deputy SIO when he was in charge. Helena is dogged in her pursuit of the truth and justice. She never seems to be tired, never gets emotional and she’s super-efficient. She’s got a rep as a bit of a ballbreaker, but she wouldn’t be where she is now if she wasn’t. She’s the same rank as he is, but she’s at least four or five years his junior. He can’t fault her or DC Gail Ward, who are conducting the interview. They’re doing everything by the book.
Helena is flicking through some photocopied pages. ‘Mr Tomlinson,’ she says. ‘According to your diary, you had a three-month relationship with a fifteen-year-old, which ended six months ago. You refer to her as “R” in your diary. Can you tell me who “R” is?’
Tomlinson just looks at her. Ian has to admit, he’s a good-looking bastard. Tall (his legs barely fit under the table), muscular (with an unnecessarily tight T-shirt, no doubt to showcase his biceps and triceps), blond with a spiky goatee that Ian imagines is a failed attempt to look a little older than he is (twenty-five). Creepy, though. It’s the electric blue eyes. The stare. The silence. Ian can’t see Tomlinson’s feet. He wonders what size they are. You never know, they might be disproportionately small for his height and build.
‘What does “R” stand for, Mr Tomlinson?’ Helena repeats.
Tomlinson is not ruffled in the slightest, or at least that’s the impression he gives. Ian suspects it’s an act. A mask that will drop eventually. The soulless interview room, with its furniture bolted to the floor and lack of natural light, was purposefully designed to make suspects crack.
Millie told Ian that a lot of girls at South Lydacombe had a crush on Mr Tomlinson. Ian supposes the pervert tried to use that to his advantage. He couldn’t get Sasha Spencer-Lyles to fall under his spell, though. Not that she made a much better choice with Joshua Knoll.
Just when Ian wonders if Tomlinson is going to answer at all, he says, ‘I didn’t write that diary. Myex-girlfriend is stitching me up.’ He emphasizes the ‘ex’.
Helena riffles through more pages. ‘I have some homework here,’ she says, ‘that you marked for Sasha Spencer-Lyles. You gave her a glowing comment and an excellent mark.’
‘So?’ Tomlinson says. ‘She’s a good student.’
He might not be able to see where Helena is going with this, but Ian can.
‘So, I’m no expert, but the handwriting looks very similar to the scrawl in the diary. What do you think, DC Ward?’
‘The same, I’d say,’ Gail agrees. ‘Almost illegible.’
‘I mean, we could get handwriting experts to confirm you wrote the diary or you could save us some time here,’ Helena continues.
‘Notch up some Brownie points,’ Gail chimes in.
‘Or are you going to pretend yourex-girlfriend marked your pupils’ homework, too?’
‘It’s pure fantasy,’ Tomlinson says. ‘There is no “R”. I made her up. All right?’
Tomlinson is clearly a natural-born liar, but Ian is inclined to believe him on this. His bullshit detector was flashing madly when, at Helena’s request, he read the diary to share his thoughts with her. (Helena was obviously just being nice. Ian knows she made up her own mind about it before she pretended to ask for his opinion.)
‘It’s a badly written young teacher / submissive schoolgirl fantasy,’ Ian had said. He didn’t add that Tomlinson had probably penned it as a quick, one-handed read. Ian was glad he was holding photocopies of the diary and not the original.
‘Well, quite,’ Helena had agreed.
Ian hasn’t been able to get that song by The Police out of his head since.
‘So you did write the diary?’ Gail asks now.
‘So what? There’s no crime in that, is there? There’s no crime in indulging in sexual fantasies, is there?’ He glances at the duty solicitor, as if to check that. The solicitor gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head, which Ian doesn’t know how to interpret. Tomlinson doesn’t seem to know either. His eyebrows have formed a deep groove when he turns back to glare at Gail and Helena.
‘I’d like to read an extract from your diary out loud, if I may,’ Helena says to Tomlinson. ‘It says here: “I can’t get Sasha out of my head. I’m sure she knows it. She’s a prick-tease. Always wearing make-up and smelling good, her school skirt hitched up way above her knees, flicking her shiny hair when she realizes I’m looking at her. What she’s doing with Joshua Knoll is beyond me. She needs a real man. I’d show her what a real man is. I doubt she’s a virgin, unfortunately, but I could show her how a real man fucks. I just need to get Knoll out of the picture.” Mr Tomlinson, would you please explain to DC Ward and me how you planned to get Joshua Knoll “out of the picture”, as you phrase it in your diary?’
‘I didn’t … I’d forgotten … I don’t know what you’re implying …’ Until now, Tomlinson has been unfazed. But now he’s clearly rattled. Well done, Helena! Tomlinson glances at his solicitor. ‘No comment,’ he mutters, lowering his head.
‘It’s an unfortunate choice of words, given the circumstances, wouldn’t you agree, Mr Tomlinson?’ Helena says.
‘An uncanny coincidence that you wanted Joshua Knoll out of the way and a few months later, he was found dead,’ Gail says. ‘Do you know Buryknoll Wood very well, Mr Tomlinson?’
Tomlinson pales. ‘I go for a wander in the woods sometimes, but I had nothing to do with that kid’s murder,’ he protests. He looks from one police officer to the other. ‘You have to believe me!’
‘Mr Tomlinson, do you remember where you were on Wednesday the twenty-eighth and Thursday the twenty-ninth of August?’
