Greenwich Park, Katherine Faulkner [ereader android .txt] 📗

I look up to see a guard standing in one corner. I hadn’t even noticed him come in. I pull my hand away.

‘It’s all right,’ I tell him. ‘It’s going to be all right.’ But the truth is, I don’t know if it is going to be all right. I really don’t.

When he has calmed down, I lean again into the little holes in the glass.

‘Rory.’ He looks up. ‘I need to know what happened.’ I hold his gaze, to be sure he understands. ‘I need to know everything.’

And so, he tells me.

He tells me about the interview room. The female detective, her hair pulled back from her face. How she had watched him with her dark brown eyes as she spread out six photographs on the table.

Despite the blurry focus, the graininess of the half-light, there was no mistaking what they showed. The purple sign of the cheap hotel visible in the corner. A mane of dark hair, his hand buried in it. The florid milky pink of his face under the glare of the flash. His eyes red, like a rabid dog’s, where the flash had gone off in his eyes.

Her voice was clear, devoid of emotion, like a recorded message.

‘Do you recognise the individuals in these photographs, Mr Haverstock?’

Yes, he did. It was him and his secretary, Lisa Palmer.

He’d known they would find the pictures as soon as he’d heard they were searching the offices. They’d ordered Daniel to hand over the code to the safe. Daniel had refused, said the safe was private. But they’d shown the warrant, threatened to charge him as an accessory. Terrified, he’d agreed.

The detective leaned forward, nudging the photographs closer towards him with her fingertips.

‘How did these photographs come to be in your possession, Rory?’

He didn’t know, he said. Lisa had put the envelope on his desk one day, saying someone dropped them off while she was out at lunch. She hadn’t seen who. The police nodded, then. Told him that Lisa had confirmed the story, had told them she did not recall ever seeing the person who had dropped off the envelope, that she had no idea what the contents were. Luckily, though, the detective said, they had obtained fingerprints from the envelope. Fingerprints which were a match for an individual whose DNA profile was held on the database. That person was Rachel Wells.

DCI Betsky pulled out another piece of paper from the same folder, spun it round and slapped it down in front of him.

‘For the tape, the witness is being shown item KXG-09. An email you received from the email address RRH078147@gmail.com. Do you remember this email, Rory?’

He did. The address hadn’t meant anything to him, except the first three letters, his initials. He had assumed someone was mocking him.

Hope you enjoyed the photos. Looking forward to your birthday drinks. Hope no one causes a scene. PS – I’ll be the one in red.

He still had no idea who it was, he told them. Not when he got the email, anyway. But then, that evening, when he’d walked into the kitchen, he had seen a girl, a stranger, in a red dress. Even without the dress, he thinks he would have known.

Lisa on her left. Serena on her right. Rachel was grinning. She had been laughing at him. Before he had known what was happening, there had been glass everywhere, blood dripping into golden pools of champagne. It had taken him a minute to realise the blood was even his.

DCI Betsky spun round another sheet of paper.

‘For the tape, the witness is being shown item KXG-10,’ she said. ‘This is an email you received the day after your birthday dinner, at 8.37 a.m., from the same email address.’

Enjoyed your dinner. Seabass was sublime. Nice house. No idea you were so rich! So price has just gone up. £100k, sooner rather than later. See you on Bonfire Night. Bring half. Unless you want to end up as the Guy.

The atmosphere in the room changed then. He felt his lawyer stiffen, push her glasses up her nose. The detective leaned in towards him.

‘You were being blackmailed, weren’t you, Rory? Rachel was threatening to ruin your marriage. She was threatening you physically. Wouldn’t you agree? What did you do after you received this email?’

He hardly needed to reply. They pulled his bank records, of course. A withdrawal dated 4 November, the day before Helen’s bonfire party, for £50,000. From the company’s account in the Cayman Islands. And CCTV photographs of the Greenwich Park branch of his private banking provider, showing him, Rory Richard Haverstock, organising the Cayman withdrawal and leaving the offices with a large white Jiffy bag containing the cash.

So yes, he admitted that he had taken the money. And yes, he’d been planning to give her what she wanted. He had wanted it to go away. He hadn’t wanted his wife to know.

Rory looks at me, his eyes pinched and raw.

‘I’m sorry, darling,’ he says. ‘I’m so sorry.’

For some reason, his tearfulness makes me angrier than ever. I shake my head. ‘Keep going,’ I tell him, my teeth gritted. ‘I mean it, Rory. You tell me everything. Or I swear to God I will walk out of here, and never come back.’ He nods, still staring at the floor. Takes a breath.

DCI Betsky didn’t flicker. ‘On the night of November 5th,’ she continued, ‘did you give the money to Miss Wells?’

He hadn’t, he insisted. He hadn’t even spoken to her. He went to look for her, later in the night, but she must have left. He couldn’t find her anywhere. He didn’t know what to do.

‘So what did you do?’

He did nothing. Just went home, hid the cash in his study.

‘You didn’t seek her out?’ DCI Betsky’s eyes narrowed. ‘This woman who was threatening to destroy your marriage? A woman you’d gone to the trouble of withdrawing £50,000 in cash for?’

He did seek her out, he insisted, sweat blooming on his forehead. He just couldn’t find her.

‘How interesting. You