worse when he’s under pressure.
‘Did you masturbate while you watched her?’
‘N-n-n-n-no.’
‘Is that why you stole her underwear from the clothesline?’
His fists are clenched and shoulders hunched. I can’t see his eyes. ‘She called me a p-pervert. She’s the one t-t-to talk.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I seen her d-do-doing stuff.’
‘You saw her with men?’
He nods.
‘Was she with anyone that night?’
‘Yeah,’ he says defiantly.
‘In the bedroom?’
‘D-d-downstairs. He was lighting candles.’
‘Did you see his face?’
‘I saw his shadow.’
‘Did he have a car?’
Tommy hesitates. ‘Aye, I guess.’ He can’t remember.
‘How long did you stay watching?’
He shrugs.
‘What time was this?’
‘Don’t have a watch.’
‘Were you still here when Harper came home?’
He shakes his head. A strong gust of wind shakes the trees and a leaf spins and falls, landing on Tommy’s shoulder. He brushes it away. On the rooftop a weathervane spins back and forth.
‘Tell me, Tommy, did you ever try to get into the house?’
He looks at me, puzzled.
‘Did you ever try to open a window or test if the doors were unlocked?’
He gives me a slow shake of the head.
‘Did you imagine going inside?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘Did you watch Harper?’
‘No!’
‘Why not?’
He lowers his gaze, his cheeks colouring. It’s more than just embarrassment.
‘Did you love her, Tommy?’
His face twists in embarrassment.
‘Did you ever tell Harper how you felt?’
‘N-n-no.’
‘Why not?’
‘Sh-sh-she’d laugh at me.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘They always do.’
10
Veronica Cray is pacing her office, her eyes electric with excitement. ‘It’s him,’ she says elatedly. ‘Rule number bloody two! If it’s not family it’s the neighbour.’
‘It wasn’t a confession,’ I remind her.
‘He lied to us.’
‘That doesn’t make him guilty.’
‘He had the motive and the opportunity.’
‘But not the intellect.’
‘How bright do you have to be to stab a woman thirty-six times?’
‘He barely left a trace.’
‘He left DNA in the house.’
‘He
found
the bodies.’
Her temporary office is small and windowless with a filing cabinet, a desk and computer. One wall is covered in press clippings about the farmhouse murders and a satellite map showing the various buildings and surrounding fields.
The incident room is visible through the vertical blinds. Detectives are cradling phones and peering at screens. The abiding atmosphere is one of anxiety, stress and fatigue. The longer the investigation goes on, the higher the mountain of detail and the harder it becomes to check and cross-check. Things get overlooked. Missed.
One entire wall contains cardboard box-files with hard copies of every interview, statement, telephone record and tip-off – twelve thousand documents in all.
Cray is still arguing. ‘Garrett has a history of sexual deviance.’
‘Not a long history.’
‘Folks have complained about him for years. He prowls the streets, jumping out at women … stealing underwear.’
‘He’s antisocial and degenerate, but that doesn’t make him a killer.’
‘You’ve said it before, Professor, killers rarely emerge from nothing; there’s a progression. They peep through windows. They steal underwear. They flash their bits at schoolchildren. They practise. They train. And eventually they graduate from sexual deviancy to the Premier League.’
‘This was too sophisticated a crime, too shrewd, too smart—’
‘He hacked her to death.’
‘Look at the aftermath – the way he cleaned up. The killer didn’t panic. He took his time. What about the candles and Bible? Tommy Garrett wouldn’t know a pentagram from a mammogram.’
Cray grunts dismissively. ‘People only think he’s slow. Tommy Garrett is rat-cunning. At sixteen he was knocked off his bike. Got an insurance settlement. Claimed he couldn’t even shower by
‘Did you masturbate while you watched her?’
‘N-n-n-n-no.’
‘Is that why you stole her underwear from the clothesline?’
His fists are clenched and shoulders hunched. I can’t see his eyes. ‘She called me a p-pervert. She’s the one t-t-to talk.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I seen her d-do-doing stuff.’
‘You saw her with men?’
He nods.
‘Was she with anyone that night?’
‘Yeah,’ he says defiantly.
‘In the bedroom?’
‘D-d-downstairs. He was lighting candles.’
‘Did you see his face?’
‘I saw his shadow.’
‘Did he have a car?’
Tommy hesitates. ‘Aye, I guess.’ He can’t remember.
‘How long did you stay watching?’
He shrugs.
‘What time was this?’
‘Don’t have a watch.’
‘Were you still here when Harper came home?’
He shakes his head. A strong gust of wind shakes the trees and a leaf spins and falls, landing on Tommy’s shoulder. He brushes it away. On the rooftop a weathervane spins back and forth.
‘Tell me, Tommy, did you ever try to get into the house?’
He looks at me, puzzled.
‘Did you ever try to open a window or test if the doors were unlocked?’
He gives me a slow shake of the head.
‘Did you imagine going inside?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘Did you watch Harper?’
‘No!’
‘Why not?’
He lowers his gaze, his cheeks colouring. It’s more than just embarrassment.
‘Did you love her, Tommy?’
His face twists in embarrassment.
‘Did you ever tell Harper how you felt?’
‘N-n-no.’
‘Why not?’
‘Sh-sh-she’d laugh at me.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘They always do.’
10
Veronica Cray is pacing her office, her eyes electric with excitement. ‘It’s him,’ she says elatedly. ‘Rule number bloody two! If it’s not family it’s the neighbour.’
‘It wasn’t a confession,’ I remind her.
‘He lied to us.’
‘That doesn’t make him guilty.’
‘He had the motive and the opportunity.’
‘But not the intellect.’
‘How bright do you have to be to stab a woman thirty-six times?’
‘He barely left a trace.’
‘He left DNA in the house.’
‘He
found
the bodies.’
Her temporary office is small and windowless with a filing cabinet, a desk and computer. One wall is covered in press clippings about the farmhouse murders and a satellite map showing the various buildings and surrounding fields.
The incident room is visible through the vertical blinds. Detectives are cradling phones and peering at screens. The abiding atmosphere is one of anxiety, stress and fatigue. The longer the investigation goes on, the higher the mountain of detail and the harder it becomes to check and cross-check. Things get overlooked. Missed.
One entire wall contains cardboard box-files with hard copies of every interview, statement, telephone record and tip-off – twelve thousand documents in all.
Cray is still arguing. ‘Garrett has a history of sexual deviance.’
‘Not a long history.’
‘Folks have complained about him for years. He prowls the streets, jumping out at women … stealing underwear.’
‘He’s antisocial and degenerate, but that doesn’t make him a killer.’
‘You’ve said it before, Professor, killers rarely emerge from nothing; there’s a progression. They peep through windows. They steal underwear. They flash their bits at schoolchildren. They practise. They train. And eventually they graduate from sexual deviancy to the Premier League.’
‘This was too sophisticated a crime, too shrewd, too smart—’
‘He hacked her to death.’
‘Look at the aftermath – the way he cleaned up. The killer didn’t panic. He took his time. What about the candles and Bible? Tommy Garrett wouldn’t know a pentagram from a mammogram.’
Cray grunts dismissively. ‘People only think he’s slow. Tommy Garrett is rat-cunning. At sixteen he was knocked off his bike. Got an insurance settlement. Claimed he couldn’t even shower by
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