Sandra smiled and said nothing.
“Did you single out Alan Matthews? Or was he selected at random?”
“My client has no idea what you’re talking about and categorically denies involvement inanyacts of violence.”
“Perhaps, then, she could tell me where she was between the hours of nine p.m. and three a.m. on the twenty-eighth of November,” Charlie butted in, determined to keep up the pressure.
Sandra looked long and hard at Charlie, then said:
“I was at an exhibition.”
“Where?” barked Charlie.
“In a converted warehouse just off Sidney Street. Local artist, a living installation where the punters are part of the art and all that stuff. It’s all bollocks, of course, but people say the artist’s going to be worth something, so I thought I’d take a look. And here’s the funny bit. I’m no good with technology, but the boy knows his stuff and he tells me the whole thing was streamed live on the Internet. You can’t fake that kind of thing—you’re welcome to check it out. And if you still have doubts, you can confirm my alibi with some of the other guests who were present. The CEO of Southampton City Council was there, as was the Arts editor from BBC South—oh, and I nearly forgot... the president of the Association of Chief Police Officers too. What’s his name—Anderson? Buck-toothed guy who insists on wearing that awful wig—you can’t mistake him.”
Sandra sat back in her chair and looked at Charlie, then turned to Helen.
“Now if we’re all done here, I’d better be off. I’ve an evening engagement that I’m very keen to keep.”
•••
“What the hell are you playing at, DC Brooks?”
The days when Helen used to call her Charlie seemed a long time ago now.
“What on earth possessed you to pull her in without checking if she was a remotely credible suspect?”
“She still is. She has motive, opportunity—”
“And a cast-iron alibi. She made us look like idiots in there. So stop running errands for Superintendent Harwood and start doing your bloody job. Find out who killed Alexia Louszko.”
Helen marched off. They’d have to check Sandra’s alibi, but Helen had no doubt that she was telling the truth. It was too good an alibi to be made up. She could have hired others to kill Matthews and Reid, of course, but was it credible that she would give a lone woman the job when she had an army of men to do her bidding? No, it didn’t stack up.
The day had started badly and was getting worse. For the first time in her career Helen had the distinct impression that her colleagues were working against her, rather than helping her. This case was weird and difficult enough without Charlie and Harwood leading her down blind alleys and constantly moving the ground beneath her feet.
The truth was that they had got nowhere. Two lives had been destroyed; more would follow. And there was not a thing Helen could do to stop it.
36
Angie had got used to holding court. She had been given a week’s leave from Zenith Solutions and had been making the most of it, receiving friends and relatives at home, rehearsing the whole horrid incident over and over again, embellishing it when the mood took her. But even Angie was growing tired of telling her story now, so she ignored the persistent ringing of the doorbell. The curtains were closed, Jeremy Kyle was on and she had a cup of Mellow Bird’s on the go.
The doorbell rang again. Angie turned the volume up. Who cared if that confirmed her presence in the house; she didn’t have to open the door to anyone she didn’t want to. The bell stopped ringing and Angie smiled.
She concentrated on the show—the DNA results were about to be revealed. She had joined the program too late to know what the participants’ conflict was about, but there was always a punch-up when DNA results were revealed. She loved this part of the program.
“Hello?”
Angie sat bolt upright. Someone was in the house.
“Are you there, Angie?”
Angie was off the sofa and searching for a weapon. A heavy glass vase was the best she could do. She raised it above her head as the living room door opened.
“Angie?”
Angie froze, her fear dissipating into surprise. The woman’s scarred face was instantly recognizable. Emilia Garanita was a minor celebrity in Southampton.
“I am so sorry to intrude, but the back door was unlocked and I amdesperateto talk to you, Angie. May I call you Angie?”
