Demand Generation

It must've been horrible

Three

“It must’ve been horrible for him.” — Francesca BoylePolice interview rooms are not intended to make people feel comfortable. They’re deliberately designed to be harshly Spartan in every conceivable way. The tables are cheap and tattily laminated, though firmly secured to the floor. The chairs are plastic, hard and uncomfortable. The acoustics are echoing and unforgiving, every sound jars the senses. And the rooms are always just that little too cramped. Just small enough to create a vague sense of claustrophobia — especially in someone with a good reason for wanting to be elsewhere.

And Isaac Church, Bailey could tell, really did not want to be here.

She looked across the table at the frightened young man opposite her. He was tall and lean. More filled out than the average gangly teenager, but not by much. In his mid to late twenties, she guessed. He wore olive-green cargo pants and a plain white v-neck t-shirt. His hair was medium length and had been gelled into a calculated unkemptness. A millimetre or so of carefully cultivated stubble covered an unblemished pale complexion that had seen less sun and more skin-care product than he would probably care to admit to.

He sat there, slumped in the uncomfortable chair. And he had The Look.

Bailey knew that look. In every murder investigation she’d ever been involved with, she had interviewed people with The Look. It was the look of fear, of confusion, of finding oneself suddenly, completely, and inextricably out of one’s depth. It was the look that said “this just can’t be happening” overlaid with the certain and dreadful knowledge that, actually, it was.

In a murder investigation, there were two types of people who got The Look.

Victims got The Look. Victims for whom, like most people, serious crime had previously been an abstract concept — for whom r**e, murder and casual thuggery was something that happened somewhere else, to other people. Victims whose comfortable lives had been shattered by the sudden and inexplicable slaying of an innocent loved one. Victims who found that violent death, previously only experienced at the reassuring distance of the newspaper headlines and television news, had burst with crimson brutality into the sanctity of their homes. Those who were the innocent collateral damage of murder and reprehensible mayhem; they had The Look.

Killers got The Look too.

Not the fully paid-up members of the criminal underclass, for whom murder was just a tool of the trade and arrest and imprisonment an occupational hazard. You rarely saw that look in their faces. Whatever terror the career criminal may have felt at the prospect of a life sentence, they kept it hidden, deep down. For them, arrest and interrogation was a time to display little more than a bored indignation at being held to account for their chosen trade.

But those who had led, if not blameless, then respectable lives before snuffing out that of another — they got The Look. Those who had, over the years, earned seniority in their careers and respect in their communities while cheating on their expenses and their spouses with impunity — coming to believe as they did so that consequences were for other, lesser, beings. Those who had one day found the continued existence of another human being to be a financial inconvenience or an emotional indignity, and had subconsciously assumed that murder would be just another quick fix. Those who found themselves in the unaccustomed position of being held to account, and for the most heinous of misdeeds. Those who sat on that uncomfortable chair in this small room behind that locked door, and realised with a sudden flood of dread that their future was going to be one of small rooms and locked doors for many, many years to come. Such people — cornered and suddenly very, very alone — they got The Look.

Bailey Troy looked across the desk at Isaac Church, and saw The Look. The question was, she asked herself, was he collateral damage or was he a killer?

The evidence so far was shaping up to make for a smoking gun, slam-dunk, open-and-shut case. This guy Church had got all bent out of shape over being dumped by a hot chick, and dealt with it by blowing her away. It was stupid, it was pointless, it was a completely inexplicable waste of two promising young lives. But it was where the evidence pointed, and it happened a thousand times a day all over the world.

But her instinct wasn’t backing the evidence.

Bailey knew from long experience that, if it came down to choosing between the evidence and her instinct, she would go with the evidence. Real life wasn’t like the movies. In real life things were usually, she had found, pretty simple and more or less exactly as they seemed. But she had also learned when to let her instinct off the leash for a while to sniff around. She was going to do so now.

She lent over to the recorder, pressed the record button, and recited the date and time.

“Detective Inspector Bailey Troy interviewing. With me is Detective Constable Finlayson.”

As she said his name, she turned briefly to look at the officer beside her. His bulk dwarfed her diminutive frame and dominated the small room. He was dressed in sharply pressed charcoal business trousers, an impeccably ironed white shirt, plain blue tie, light grey blazer. His face was clean-shaven, but mean and faintly chubby, his hair cropped close to his skull. Bailey guessed that he dressed that way each morning thinking that it made him look like a Secret Service agent — she imagined him practising talking into his cuff-link in front of the bathroom mirror. In fact, she thought, it just made him look like a gone-to-seed bouncer.

Constable Finlayson was, in Bailey’s opinion, a complete half-wit. She was trying to get him off her squad — giving him a constant stream of shitty jobs to goad him into applying for a transfer, while at the same time giving him a good write up at each formal review so that he would be accepted when he did. It was a widely used strategy known euphemistically as “packaging for export” and which, unfortunately, had not yet worked in Finlayson’s case. But he would serve his purpose today, she thought. He would sit there silently, his brain a docile thought-free zone, exuding just a hint of menace, and making up the required number of interviewing officers as stipulated by police procedure.

She returned her attention to Church. “Please state your name for the tape.”

“Isaac Church.”

“Middle name?” He shook his head. “Out loud please, for the tape.”

“No. No middle name. Just Isaac Church.”

“Date of birth?”

“April third.”

“What year were you born?” He told her.

“You understand that you’re under arrest for the murder of Francesca Boyle?”

“I didn’t kill her. I can’t believe she’s dead.”

“We’ll get to that. But you understand that’s why you’re here?”

“Yes. No. I mean — yes, I understand that I’ve been arrested because you think that I… That she…” His elbows were resting on the table. He dropped his forehead down onto his hands, closing his eyes. “I know that I’m here because you think that I murdered Francesca.”

“OK. Do you remember that I read you your rights? Do you understand those rights?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Good. I’d like to ask you some questions. You don’t have to answer them, but it would help me if you do. Are you OK to answer some questions for me, Isaac?”

“I guess.”

“Do you want to have a lawyer here when I ask my questions? You can have one if you want, I can wait until we get someone here for you.”

“What? Erm — no. No, I don’t want a lawyer. I don’t need a lawyer. Go ahead, ask your questions. I didn’t kill Francesca. I didn’t kill anyone.”

“As I said, we’ll get to that.” That was all the check-boxes ticked off for the tape. He was under arrest for murder, he knew his rights, he’d waived his rights to silence and to a lawyer. It was time to see what she could get from him.

“You said your birthday was in April, is that right?”

He nodded. “April third.”

“Aries,” she said.

“Sorry. What?”

“You’re an Aries. Your star-sign.”

“I guess. Yeah. Aries. I’m Aries, yes.” His forehead was still resting on his hands, his eyes still closed.

“Aries people are supposed to be headstrong and impulsive, aren’t they? Is that you, Isaac? Would people describe you as being headstrong and impulsive, do you think?”

“I don’t know. No, not really. I wouldn’t describe myself that way. I don’t think other people would, either. I guess you’d need to ask them.”

“Because killing Francesca was a pretty headstrong and impulsive thing to do, don’t you think? Murder is a pretty headstrong business. I think the killer must have been an Aries, don’t you?”

Isaac’s head jerked up. He stared straight at his interrogator. “Are you kidding me? You’ve pulled me in here because of my star sign, is that what you’re telling me? That’s your evidence?” Bailey saw the fear and confusion in Church’s expression take a step back, making way for a resentful indignation. As it did so, her instinct whispered a quiet I-told-you-so.

“We’ll come back to the evidence in a minute. First, tell me how you spent yesterday evening.”

“I finished up at Dakin Boyle around four. Headed home. Stayed there until this morning when I walked up the road to the Café sur la Colline and got arrested for murder.”

“A bit quiet for a guy like yourself on a Friday night, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah, well. My date had fallen through.” The reply was delivered with a measured sarcasm. In Bailey’s experience, suspects trying to prop up a flaky cover story did it with impromptu embellishments and wheedling assurances that it was all true. They did not deliver their story with a simple “this is it, take it or leave it”. Another point for instinct.

“You didn’t go out at all.”

“No.”

“Nobody came round.”

“No.”

“Nobody borrowed your car.”

“My car? No. The car was on the driveway all night.”

“What did you do?”

“Watched some DVDs.”

DVDs. Not so good, she thought. If it had been broadcast television, she could have grilled him about the programmes, checked his answers against the schedule, asked about the story lines. If he’d claimed to have been watching a streaming service, she could have got the logs from the streaming provider. But DVD watching was hard to verify.

“DVDs? Do people really still do that?” He smiled at that. Not what she had intended; careless. She didn’t want to make him comfortable.

“The boxed set cost me two hundred bucks back in the day,” he replied. “I need to get my money’s worth.”

“Fair enough. Which DVDs, what were you watching?”

“Star Trek. Next Generation. Series 3 to be precise. I watched the first disc, the first four episodes.” Bailey smiled inwardly. She had that same boxed set herself; it cost her $200 too. She scribbled a note to check which disc was in his DVD player. Time to probe a little deeper, see if he was really watching Star Trek…

“Tell me about the first episode that you watched. What happened?”

He sighed and rolled back on the chair, looking up at the ceiling. “Let’s see. Wesley accidentally lets a bunch of little nanites escape, and they start eating the computer. Somebody pisses off the nanites by trying to kill them, then Picard gets them all rounded up and sent off to a nearby planet, and they all live happily ever after.”

That sounded about right, from memory. Maybe he really did watch it. Or maybe he’s just a really avid Trekkie who had committed all the episodes to memory. Time to try another angle.

“Did you have anything to eat last night?”

“Pizza and beer.”

“Did you order in?”

He shook his head. “Beer from the fridge, pizza from the freezer. Pepperoni, to answer your next question.”

“So, in short, you went home and stayed there all night. Nobody saw you, and you didn’t see anyone. Nobody can vouch for you. You have no alibi at all for the time when Francesca was being murdered. Do I have that right?”

Isaac shrugged. “I guess so. I stayed home, I watched DVDs, I ate pizza, I drank beer. I didn’t kill anyone.”

Although she’d played it for what she could, Church having no alibi didn’t really help her much. An alibi could be checked out, could be broken. Inconsistencies could be uncovered. So far, the interview had given her nothing. But there was plenty more to cover.

“Do you own a gun, Isaac?”

“Yes. You know I do. It’s all legally registered.” This much was true, she had the details in front of her. “It’s at home in my gun safe.”

That, though, was not true.

“Actually it’s upstairs, bagged, in the evidence room. That’s why you were arrested by a chick armed with a latte and not by a swarm of police ninjas with stun grenades and assault rifles.” That, she thought, and the fact that the team were across town scaring the living s**t out of a house full of crack kiddies, and she wanted to move immediately.

Isaac smiled again. “It was a flat white, not a latte.” That was not the response of a murderer under interrogation. Another point to instinct.

“Tell me about the gun.”

“It’s a Glock 34 pistol. Similar to the Glock 17 you guys use, but modified for competition use. Longer barrel, slightly lighter trigger pull, a few other things. A nice gun.”

“You use it a lot?”

“I’m at the club most weekends. Shooting, training new members, hanging out.”

“Would you say you were a good shot with the Glock?”

“Good enough. I make A grade in competition, and I can hit a dinner plate at fifty yards pretty reliably. You?”

Bailey was, she would be the first to admit, a lousy shot. If she hit a dinner plate at ten yards she would feel pretty pleased with herself. She ignored the question.

“Your 34 — what calibre is that?” She already knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it from him.

“It’s a Nine mil.”

“Nine millimetre Parabellum?”

“That’s right.”

“Si vis pacem, para bellum,” she left the quote hanging in the air.

“Sorry?”

“It’s where the name Parabellum comes from. It’s Latin — if you seek peace, prepare for war. You’d be prepared for a little war with that Glock, wouldn’t you Isaac?”

He smiled and shook his head, as if it was an accusation he’d dealt with a hundred times before. “It goes to the range, then it goes in the safe. It’s a hobby, that’s all. I use the gun to make holes in pieces of cardboard.”

“Well somebody made war with Francesca Boyle last night. With extreme prejudice, and with a nine millimetre pistol. We recovered some nine mil shell casings from the scene. And we’ll be checking to see if they were fired from your gun.”

“And when you do, you’ll find they weren’t. My gun and I were both at home last night. Me on the sofa, the gun in the safe. You’re barking up the wrong tree.” Not a hint of doubt in his voice. Another point for instinct.

“Tell me again about where your car was last night.”

“Like I said, on the driveway. All night.”

“It’s a Mazda 3, is that correct?”

“A Mazda 3, yes.”

“Blue? A blue Mazda 3?”

“Blue, yes. A blue Mazda 3.”

“More specifically, it’s this particular blue Mazda 3, is it not?” She pushed an A4 photograph across the table at him. “For the benefit of the tape, I’m now showing Mr. Church a photograph taken by a red-light camera at the junction of Edmund Road and Strand Avenue, around one hundred yards from the premises of Dakin Boyle. The data imprinted on the photo shows it to have been taken at eight-oh-seven yesterday evening. Tell me what you see in the photo, Isaac.”

“It’s a Mazda 3.”

“It’s your Mazda 3, Isaac. Can you make out the registration plate?”

Quietly, “Yes.”

“Is it your registration?”

Bailey could see the fear and the confusion back in his face. This was the point where the murderer realises they’ve been cornered and tries for a desperate last-minute elaboration of the cover s********e just remembered fact to try to square away, however untidily, the new and inconveniently incontrovertible evidence. Or sometimes they will simply descend into panic, swearing profusely on their mother’s grave or some other convenient relic that it’s all been a big mistake.

Isaac’s voice was deathly quiet. He lifted his eyes and looked directly into hers, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. “I’m sorry,” he pushed the photograph back towards her. “But I can’t explain this. I went home after work last night, I ate pizza, I drank beer, I watched DVDs. I left my car on the driveway. It was still there this morning. I don’t understand how it could be in this photo.”

Bailey waited for him to say more. To elaborate, speculate, try to add some credibility to his story. But he said nothing more. Seconds ticked by.

A quiet tapping sound broke the silence. She turned to Finlayson and nodded towards the door. Finlayson lumbered up out of his chair, opened the door and stepped out, returning a few seconds later with a single piece of A4 paper, folded in half. He handed it to Bailey.

She opened it. A hand written note from Goff, one of the more useful members of her team. She quickly scanned the message, refolded the paper and placed it on the table.

She closed her eyes briefly to gather her thoughts, to assimilate this new information and reformulate her game plan. Then she nodded to herself, opened her eyes and looked across at the man who, until a few seconds ago, had been her suspect.

“No, Isaac. But I think I can. You’re free to go. Thank you for your help, I’m sorry to have put you to this inconvenience.”