He grins. ‘I know what this is about, you know. It’s about that Holly Kemp.’
His eyes glint with the glory of having the upper hand for once. When your life revolves around being told what time you can eat, shit and sleep, the power must be intoxicating.
Dyer speaks suddenly. ‘Clever old you, Jacob. Although seeing as the Governor told you the reason for our visit, I’m not exactly bowled over by your powers of perception.’
I’d almost forgotten she was here. When she’d said ‘take the lead’, I assumed she’d be on percussion, at least. Up until now, I’ve been standing at the mic, solo.
Pope’s just as surprised. ‘Oh, so she speaks then? Detective Chief Inspector Tessa Dyer. Chris always said you were a hard bitch.’
Dyer smiles at the compliment. I smile inwardly at the ‘Chris’.
Not Christopher. Not Masters. Not ‘that bastard’.
Chris.
An in.
Pope folds his arms high across his chest, his biceps like battering rams. ‘You know, Dyer, I don’t have to talk to you if I don’t want to. And I’m missing Association for this, so I’d be a bit more pally if I were you, like your mate here.’
Association: the two-hour window where inmates are allowed to mingle; playing pool, having chats, having full-scale brawls if the wrong slur is thrown.
Dyer looks at me, jerking her head towards Pope. ‘And to think, that PO said he was a good boy.’
I look at Pope, jerking my head towards Dyer. ‘And to think, she said it was a waste of time coming to see you. Said you’d be all hot air, just desperate for company. But she’s wrong, isn’t she? Chris told you something about Holly. You might have found him annoying, banging on all the time, but you were friends, weren’t you? Initially, at least.’
I hope I’m right about this. And I hope against all hope that Dyer doesn’t mind being made the stooge – that I’ve read this right, cast us in the right roles.
It feels weird without Parnell. Like tangoing with a new partner.
‘Friends? Let me tell you something, I’ve been locked up for nearly two years now, and I’m still working out what the word “friend” means in here. We chatted, OK, passed the time, played a few cards. He taught me ten-card rummy, although he didn’t teach me how to win. Still say those cards were rigged, the wanker.’
‘But you didn’t kill him over a card game.’ I open my notebook. ‘I couldn’t take it, listening to him, what he did to those girls. Which girls, Jacob?’
He hesitates, head tilted. ‘OK, what’s it worth? ’Cos I want Enhanced Status.’
‘Ah, come on, mate, reason with me here.’ The ‘mate’ tastes like grit but it feels right to throw it in. ‘You killed another prisoner. Enhanced Status, extra privileges, that’s going to be a long road, I’m afraid. We’ll see what we can do but . . .’
‘I want extra visits for my mum and more time out of my room.’
‘We’re going.’ Dyer pushes her chair out. ‘Thanks for your time, Jacob. Enjoy the next thirty years.’
Pope’s hands are on the table, long fingers splayed. He stares at them for what feels like a century, weighing things up. Dyer’s on her feet. I fiddle with my notebook, playing for time.
It pays off.
‘You’ll see what you can do, right?’ I neither ‘yay’ nor ‘nay’ but something in my neutral face reassures him. ‘Look, first he says he did kill her, then he says he didn’t. Reckons he only said he did to wind you up.’
Dyer sighs, one eye on the door. ‘Yeah, we know that, Jacob. He’d been playing that game for years. But we came here for detail. If you don’t have any . . .’
He puts a finger to his lips, shushing her. ‘So I say to Chris, “Seriously, mate? Holly Kemp was seen on your fucking doorstep and then she goes missing. Bit of a coincidence, nudge nudge.” But he says, “That bitch made that up.” ’ Serena Bailey, presumably. I think about clarifying before deciding it’s not fair to introduce her name to this animal. ‘Then a few weeks later, we’re watching TV – the weather, although God knows why – and that one with the long blonde hair and the massive tits comes on, and he leans over and says, “Looks a bit like Holly, doesn’t she? Only her tits were fake, which was a bit disappointing.” And then he starts going on about how they felt, how they stayed rock-hard, pointing upwards, even when he knocked her on her back.’
Dyer sits down again, her mouth pursed, contemplating something. Eventually, ‘Did Masters ever talk about friends, people he was close to on the outside?’
It’s not the question either me or Pope are expecting, although it’s a good one. We need a name – a friend, a relative, a business associate, anyone who gives Masters a reason to be passing through Cambridgeshire.
‘He talked about his ex-wife a bit, his kids – “my girls”. Don’t recall no one else. Doubt he had many friends. Independent sort of a bloke – I mean, fiercely independent. Went mad if you told him one of the crossword clues, you know what I’m saying? Wanted to do it all himself.’
Dyer says nothing. My cue to take the lead again.
‘So this stuff about Holly, why didn’t you say anything at the time?’
‘What, grass? You don’t do that in here, darlin’. You might smack someone around the head with a cue ball, but you don’t grass them up.’
‘But when you killed him? Surely all bets were off then?’
He shrugs. ‘Look, they asked me why I did it and I told them – because I was tired of fucking listening to his sick fucking stories. Subject closed. No one asked for any details and I certainly wasn’t giving them.’
‘And yet along we come and you can’t be more helpful.’
He gives Dyer a sour look. Me, a smile. ‘Along you come, what was your name again? Cath? Well, what can I say, Cath? You don’t get to talk to many pretty young girls stuck in here. Gotta make the most of it.’
I offer a small sweet grin, placing my hands together on the table. ‘Unfortunately, Jacob, not having access to pretty girls is the price you and the likes of Christopher Masters pay for killing them. Although at least you’ve got your fan club, eh?’
‘The likes of? Do not put me in the same category as that bastard.’ The gangster patois slips as quickly as his smile. ‘Big difference between me and Masters.’
‘A difference in body count, sure.’
He’s agitated, pumping one fist on top of the other. One potato, two potato, three potato, four. ‘Crime of passion – there’s your big difference. His victims had done nothing to him, nothing, whereas she’d disrespected me, told lies. And do you have any idea what my bosses would have done to me if they knew I’d been sleeping with the enemy? I didn’t have any choice. It was the only way to prove I was still one of them.’ He honestly believes his own spin. ‘And I was drunk.’
I stare at him, at the perfect skin, the grass-green eyes, at the sandy hair running a little too long, all the better to run your hands through.
He’s repulsive.
‘You were drunk?’ I repeat, lip curled. ‘Do you know the last time I used that excuse, Jacob? I’d had one too many mojitos and told a colleague his ex-girlfriend was boring. You’re a fucking disgrace and I hope you never see the light of day again.’