‘I thought it was all fruit skewers and soya milkshakes these days? And anyway, it’s a myth that Masters was quiet, if you believe Jacob Pope. “Always mouthing off”, remember?’
‘That happens sometimes, the personality change. Once they’re convicted, the mask can come off. They can be themselves. Voice all the stuff they felt they couldn’t before.’ He glances at my phone on the armrest. ‘How far now?’
‘Zero point four km.’ Not long to get our ducks in a row. ‘So how are we playing this? We can hardly accuse him of anything based on a bit of pub conjecture. I’d be wary of even implying anything.’
‘We’re just gauging his reaction, that’s all. Doing the same spiel – we’re revisiting the case, checking the facts, fresh pair of eyes. All that jazz.’
‘You make it sound like we’re selling him a line.’
He doesn’t answer, slowing and taking a right. ‘This is it, Gifford Way. Keep your eyes peeled for number seventy-eight.’
Gentrification hasn’t yet reached Brandon Keefe’s neighbourhood, the part some call North King’s Cross and others call ‘The V’, its shape formed by the convergence of the Caledonian Road – known locally as ‘The Cally’ – and York Way. The prevailing narrative is that ‘The V’ is a warzone, an area rife with social problems; drugs, violence, feral youth, ya-di-ya-di-ya, when, of course, what it’s actually rife with is hordes of ordinary decent people living ordinary decent lives.
Although maybe not at 78 Gifford Way.
A guy, not Brandon Keefe – unless the past six years have been profoundly unkind – opens the door and eyes our warrant cards with the kind of dispassionate disgust shown by someone who likes to think of himself as an ‘enemy of da state’, even throwing in a gold-toothed yawn for good measure. He shouts, ‘Brandon. Cops,’ up the stairs, then swaggers – a painfully practised gangster-glide, complete with false limp; the ultimate illusion of toughness – back down the hall to the kitchen, where he appears to be marinating chicken.
Thug life, with a squeeze of lime.
Keefe appears barefoot on the bottom stair within seconds, tying his long brown hair into a spindly top-knot, his expression wary but unsurprised. While the years haven’t been unkind, as such, they sure have been different. No longer the apple-cheeked cherub resplendent in university cap and gown, whose photo accompanied the Mail piece, this Brandon Keefe looks like his heart never left Woodstock. A thin, almost concave figure in frayed, flared jeans and a white linen shirt unbuttoned three buttons too far.
And beads. Rivers of hippy beads trickling down to his navel.
‘I’ve seen the news,’ he says heavily. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any point asking what this is about?’
Parnell speaks before I can. ‘We want to talk to you about Christopher Masters, Brandon.’
A mirthless laugh. ‘Who doesn’t? That’s all anyone ever wants. The media lost interest after a while, but it doesn’t stop every other sticky-beak asking, “What was he like?”, “Did you suspect anything?” Well, I tell them, “He was fine” and “No, I didn’t” and I dare say I’ll tell you the same.’ He turns on the stair. ‘Still, you might as well come up.’
We follow him up an uncarpeted staircase, where the walls are covered with posters advertising clubs that closed decades ago. Keefe’s hovel is on the right. The floorboards tremor with the sound of hip hop from downstairs.
‘Sorry,’ he says, stamping his foot – universal code for ‘turn that fucking thing down’. ‘It’s because you’re here. He’s actually an OK bloke, but his brother got sent down earlier this year – a terrible miscarriage of injustice, apparently – so you aren’t exactly his favourite people.’ He does a 360, sweeping an arm around the pigsty of a room with the air of the dissolute thespian. ‘Anyway, sit yourselves down. I can offer you the armchair, although Nimbus might have something to say about that, or there’s the bed or the bongos.’ Nimbus, a fluffy white cat, stretches her claws and says nothing. Keefe walks over to a loaded clotheshorse. ‘And if you don’t mind, I’m going to pair my socks while you ask whatever it is you have to ask. I get quite stressed talking about Chris, even after all this time, so it’s better if I have something to do.’ He smiles. ‘And I’ll need socks for church later.’
The mention of church brings a few things into focus. A book, I Hear His Whisper, on a nightstand, next to a statue of Jesus and some loose change. A wooden cross on the wall, the centrepiece among a collage of photos – Keefe in various bear-hugs and headlocks with two burly, smiling men.
‘My big brothers,’ he explains, catching me looking. ‘My best friends, really. I’ve opened my heart to God and the goodness of others in recent years, but they were the only people I trusted, apart from my parents, after that debacle with the newspaper.’
‘We’ll come back to that.’ I pull up a bongo. I don’t fancy my chances against Nimbus and there’s something odd about sitting on a strange man’s bed, even with Parnell leaning against the wardrobe. ‘First, we want to go over a few things. Things you won’t think are relevant. Things that probably aren’t relevant. But we owe it to Holly Kemp to try and get as clear a picture as possible of what happened to her, OK?’ He shrugs, tossing a pair of socks into an open drawer. ‘So how long had you worked for Masters before his arrest? And how did you come to work for him?’
‘Around six months. I’d just graduated with a First in Art History, which I soon realised qualified me for nothing, and I needed money fast. See, there was this girl I was keen on – really keen – and she wanted to go travelling and I was working up to suggesting we go together. I didn’t have time to be going through lengthy interview processes and I didn’t want to commit to anything long-term, so I lowered my expectations. Thought some money was better than no money.’ He talks quickly, almost harried, matching and balling socks with lightning efficiency. Anything to avoid eye contact. ‘Anyway, I saw the ad on Gumtree and I went in to see Chris. He said he was getting more and more renovation work and he needed someone to keep the shop ticking over. We talked for about twenty minutes and he offered me the job on the spot, subject to references, of course. I said I’d get back to him because I had another interview the next day. I got offered that job too. Data entry stuff.’ He finally stops moving, turning to face us with just about the saddest expression I’ve ever seen. ‘Do you know why I took Chris’s offer? I could leave at 5 p.m., whereas the other job was 5.30 p.m. Wanting to get to the pub half an hour earlier ruined my life.’
It’s terrifying, the frivolous decisions that have earth-shattering consequences. You see the sliding doors in every case. The way grief could have been avoided if only the planets had aligned differently. If only fate had played fair.
If only the bus hadn’t been delayed, the girl wouldn’t have got bored waiting and accepted a lift from that guy who’d always slightly given her the creeps.
If only the guy hadn’t had one more pint to stop his mate from texting his ex, he’d have been tucked up in bed by 11 p.m, instead of walking into the path of a fatal mugging.