‘Dyer dumped Holly’s body?’ Parnell voices what Steele and I can’t bring ourselves to say. ‘I mean, it’s circumstantial again, but it’s a pretty strong conclusion.’
‘But why would she. . . .?’ My brain fizzes, thoughts whiplashing in ten different directions. ‘It’s one thing cleaning up after Fellows in terms of derailing the investigation, but this . . . why?’
Steele’s fist is pressed to her chin. ‘Well, Dyer’s not going to be in a rush to tell us, so let’s see what Fellows has to say. We can use this as leverage: tell us the full extent of Dyer’s involvement and you might – might – just get out of prison in time to have a few years left on your free bus pass.’ The thought’s a sickener, but if it works . . . ‘First though, get on the phone to Papworth. We need confirmation that Paul Dyer was in that hospital late February 2012. The exact range of dates, OK, because we don’t know exactly when Holly’s body was dumped, although within a day or two of her going missing is obviously a safe bet.’
I get on the phone to Papworth.
An hour later, they call back. It’s confirmed – the seventh of February 2012 until the ninth of March, 2012.
Holly was never seen again after February 23rd.
Dyer’s husband was in that hospital.
31
I know before we walk in, we’re either going to get raw hostility or stage-managed charm. To be fair, they’re the two approaches we’ve been weighing up ourselves, eventually settling on a blend of both with one additional ingredient whisked in: belittlement. We need to make it clear to Simon Fellows that while he might be a ‘big fish’ in his own swamp, here, in this interview room, with its sludge-green walls and cruel fluorescent lights that show up every blackhead, every blood vessel, he’s just a bottom-feeder like all the others. The dental work might be a cut above and his woodsy cologne, I’ll admit, is an improvement on the usual bouquet of fags and BO that we often find ourselves inhaling, but where it counts, he’s no better. He’s just another longtime native of the sewer.
Parnell starts the recording. Fellows smiles the whole way through.
‘For the tape, it is Tuesday 17th July, 2018, and the time is 20.02. Present are DS Luigi Parnell, DC Cat Kinsella, Simon Fellows and Lorna Bickford-Jones, Mr Fellows’ legal representative. In accordance with the Home Office Circular 50/1995, I am obliged to inform you that this interview is being remotely monitored and the custody record has been endorsed with the names of the officers monitoring. I also need to caution you that you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’
Fellows nudges his brief. ‘It’s just like on the TV, isn’t it?’
‘Eight o’clock – long day, huh?’ I say, as casual as a colleague at the end of a hard shift. ‘Are you feeling OK, Simon? Did you get something to eat?’
‘I got something, yeah. Couldn’t tell you what it was though.’
‘Not exactly La Trompette,’ Parnell says with undisguised pleasure. ‘By the way, you didn’t mention you kept an office there. We’ve got a search team over there right now.’
‘Have you?’ He adjusts his cufflinks, eyes lowered. ‘Well, if they’re stopping for a late supper – ’cos I’d say searching’s hungry work – I recommend the baked lobster tails and the tarte tatin for afters – best in London.’ He looks up. ‘Of course, what I’d really recommend is saving yourselves the overtime bill. You’ll find nothing.’
‘Ah well, that’s our funeral,’ I say, giving a light shrug. ‘And maybe we’ll find nothing at your house, your yard, at your mum’s place, at Erik’s son’s flat in Cambridge, at Erik’s daughter’s house – in Kelsey’s room . . .’ I take no pleasure in the idea of a little girl’s bedroom being ransacked, but it rattles him, so job done. ‘We’ll have fun looking, though.’
‘What exactly is it you’re looking for?’ Fellows asks.
I laugh awkwardly. ‘God’s honest truth, Simon – I don’t really know. I’m pretty low on the payroll here, they don’t tell me that much. I suppose the gun you used to kill Holly Kemp would be nice, but I doubt we’re going to find that tucked away in a cupboard behind a load of board games and unwanted Christmas presents, are we? And anyway, without a bullet to match it to . . . you were careful, well done.’
‘Anything that connects you to Holly Kemp,’ Parnell takes over. ‘And Jacob Pope, of course, and Arlo Rollins – the men you ordered to clean up after you.’
‘Er, can we stick to Holly Kemp, please. My client won’t be answering questions about any other charges at this time.’
Parnell levels one slow blink at Bickford-Jones then carries on. ‘Understand something though, Mr Fellows – and I’m sure you do, because your type always knows the law inside out, even if you don’t respect it – we don’t need a smoking gun, pardon the pun. Sure, it’d be handy, very handy, but after this afternoon’s events, we’ve got more than enough circumstantial evidence to make a very strong case.’
‘Basically, the cherry on the cake would be nice,’ I add. ‘But our cake’s fine without it. Lovely and rich. Completely satisfying.’
Bickford-Jones gives me a blasé stare. ‘The ingredients of this cake, please?’
‘Well, quite apart from the fact that your client categorically denied knowing Holly Kemp, despite one witness stating that she named him as a man she was scared of, and another witness implying that she was in some sort of business arrangement with him . . .’ It’s a stretch but not a lie, and Parnell would be all over it if he thought I was pushing my luck, ‘. . . we now have numerous calls and texts – previously deleted texts – between your client and Tessa Dyer, where they discuss Holly Kemp.’
‘These texts,’ says Bickford-Jones. ‘Does my client make any reference to being involved in Holly Kemp’s death?’
‘Well, let’s see, shall we?’ I pull the relevant page from the file. ‘Tuesday 10th July, 7.15 a.m. – Tessa Dyer to your client: Not official yet but HK remains found. Answer your fucking phone. Then Friday 13th July, 9.59 a.m. Tessa Dyer to your client again, and this would have been moments after DCI Kate Steele, our SIO, made a call to Dyer to ask for her thoughts on your client’s name cropping up: Get out of house, police on way over. HK mentioned you to an old flame. You’ll have to be interviewed, can’t contain that. Need to brief you tho. CALL ME. And earlier today at 13.22, not long after DCI Steele indicated to Tessa Dyer that we’d be arresting Serena Bailey – this is your client to Tessa Dyer: Got ur msg. Meet u there. We need to sort this one, couldn’t give shit about ur conscience. Forensics are still working on the phones, but I have more if you want me to go on?’
‘Tell me, how did you plan to “sort” Serena Bailey?’ asks Parnell, all feigned curiosity. Fellows smirks, shaking his head. ‘For the tape, Mr Fellows is smiling at the question.’