‘My colleague?’ I repeat, trying to smile, avoiding alarm.
She leans over the counter, pointing right. ‘Down there, Miss Bailey’s classroom.’
I fly down the long corridor, past lockers and posters and summer anoraks hanging on pegs. As I near the bottom, the stencilled mantra comes into focus once again.
MISS BAILEY YEAR 2. WORK HARD! BE KIND! HAVE FUN!
Tell lies.
I knock, then open the door. A sea of sweet faces turn to gawp at me, in among them a woman in denim dungarees who looks about twelve, but who must be in charge. ‘Miss Bailey?’ I say.
‘She’s gone with the lady to show her our totem pole,’ announces one eager beaver. ‘Have you come to see it too?’
I make a face that suggests I have, then look at the child-woman for confirmation.
She points a finger at the ceiling. ‘Upstairs in the Nurture Room. Is everything OK?’
Another reassuring smile, and then I’m back in reception within seconds, frantically shushing the receptionist as she loudly apologises for not seeing them when they came past. I kick off my shoes, not wanting to make a sound on the stone stairs, then take two at a time up the first flight, stopping dead on the landing at the sound of muffled voices up ahead.
As lightly as I can, I take another step, then another, until finally every word is clear.
Threat after threat, echoing beautifully off the cinder block walls.
‘We don’t have time for this, Serena. Trust me, you just need to come now. It’s for your own safety.’
A laugh thick with venom. ‘Safety! I haven’t felt safe since the day I met you. And as for “trust you” – I seem to remember you saying that to me ten years ago. Worked out well, didn’t it?’
‘It worked out very well for a long time. It made my career and you got to keep yours. But we don’t have time for reminiscing. They’re coming for you. We have to go.’
My phone is on silent but I need to record what’s being said. I turn it up to full volume, praying that Parnell doesn’t choose this moment to call me. Or worse still, bloody Jacqui, ranting about the cost of kids’ football kits.
‘And then what’s going to happen?’ Serena’s crying now. ‘I go on the run? Well, let them come. I don’t care anymore. Whatever they do to me, it can’t be as bad as this. And maybe it’s time they found out who exactly they’re employing. Protect and serve? Protect and serve yourself, that’s all you ever do.’
‘I’ve protected you. I’m protecting you now. And no one’s going on the run, Serena. We just need to get you away for a few hours while we work this all out.’ Dyer’s voice gets lower. She must have stepped further into the room. I move up another stair, tailing her. ‘Look, what they’re suggesting is madness. They’re just fishing. There’s no way they can link you to Holly Kemp’s murder, but we . . .’
‘Of course they can’t fucking link me! I’ve never met the girl, never laid eyes on her.’
Dyer’s voice is calm as dawn; a mother soothing a tantrumming child. ‘Listen to me, Serena. We just need to know that you’re going to stick to the story, and right now you’re in a state and we don’t trust you to do that. We need to get you away, that’s all, quieten you down.’
‘We? Who’s we?’
‘There’s a friend of mine outside. Simon Fellows. You don’t know him, but he has a vested interest in you too.’
‘No way am I going anywhere with you, or anyone else.’ Terror in her voice. A realisation of just how quiet they intend to make her. ‘I’m staying right here. And when they come, I’m telling them the truth.’
A pause, the sound of footsteps, then something being torn from the wall.
‘Well then, I’m just going to have to show Simon this photo of Poppy, aren’t I? Trust me – and you can really trust me on this one, Serena – if you think you didn’t feel safe before, you’ll never know a day’s peace again unless you come with us now.’
I’ve heard enough. We have enough.
I race up the last few stairs onto the landing, staring straight ahead into the open-plan ‘Nurture’ space. Serena’s facing me, open-mouthed. Dyer turns to see what can possibly have turned her so anaemic, so quickly. Her eyes meet mine for one second, then dart behind.
She’s thinking of making a run past me.
Part of me wills her to try it. It’d actually give me great pleasure to slam her to the floor or even watch her get to the bottom of the stairs, thinking she’s got away, only to meet Parnell and the cavalry who surely – surely – must be here by now.
She doesn’t try it, though. She doesn’t do anything except shake her head and smile – regret, respect, and I could be wrong, but a little bit of relief, maybe?
‘Game’s over, ma’am,’ I say, my cuffs in one hand, my phone in the other. ‘Turns out you were wrong – we’re not cut from the same cloth after all.’
And it’s there and then that I realise we really aren’t, for two very simple reasons.
I’d never threaten a child.
I didn’t get myself caught.
29
‘She called herself a “talent spotter”. Made me feel like she’d seen something in me, something special, when all she’d seen was my address and an easy target. She knew I was desperate and she milked that desperation for years to further her own career. Acting like we were friends, equals. Like I had a choice. But I never had a choice, not in any of it.’
A tap has been turned on, and over a decade of bad decisions are spilling out of Serena Bailey; an oozing torrent of self-pity, spreading like an oil slick across the carpet of Interview Room Three.
‘For the tape, Serena, can you confirm that the person you’re referring to is Detective Chief Inspector Tessa Dyer.’
‘Yes, but she wasn’t chief inspector then. She was a sergeant. An ambitious one.’ Her face sours on the word ‘ambitious’, as though it’s the preserve of bullies and despots and comic-book supervillains.
I’m in the viewing room. Steele’s sitting to the left of me, dour-faced and round-shouldered with exhaustion. Parnell’s perching on the edge of the table, shaking his head almost constantly. I’d fought hard to interview Serena myself, arguing that I’d earned it, deserved it even, given I’d been calling out her bullshit longer and louder than anyone else. But it’s for this precise reason that Steele put the kibosh on it. And she’s right, I can see that. This isn’t the time for pitted wits or the standard suspect-cop arm wrestle. What we need now is a chronicle – a detailed account of the events that led us all to this trainwreck.
And ‘Fair and softly goes far,’ insisted Parnell, which means there’s no better person for the job than the one currently sitting across from Serena: Renée Akwa – whose approach to interviewing suspects is similar to that of winding a baby; gentle, consistent, reassuring and results-driven.
‘I met her for the first time in a room exactly like this.’ Serena pulls at the skin on her neck, unburdening herself to a bottle of water on the table. Renée’s given up on trying to maintain eye contact. It isn’t necessary, anyway. All we need are her words. ‘It wasn’t even her who arrested me. She’d had nothing to do with the raid. But obviously the guy who brought me in – I don’t remember his name – must have told her they had someone in custody from the Stockmoor and she saw an opportunity.’