“And with the change? He still didn’t talk?”
“It would seem the advice was to remain quiet. Jackson wasn’t to say anything about anything. We had to formally charge him and take him to trial. So we tried with the evidence we had. He was held in Flaymore, for his own protection, and not granted bail while we put our case together.”
“Which was?”
“Voluntary manslaughter. We believed—believe—that he strangled Tallulah Payne in a fit of rage whilst heavily under the influence of drugs and alcohol.”
“Did you do a toxicology report?” Fletcher knew watching CSI reruns would work in his favour one day.
“On her, yes. Traces of cocaine and alcohol present. Nothing to suggest that was out of her normal range.”
“And Jackson?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you test Jackson for the drugs and alcohol you claim he had taken?”
“As is standard on arrest, he was tested for drugs before being admitted into Flaymore. He came back negative. But we have witnesses to prove he had drunk an excessive amount and taken recreational cocaine on the night in question.”
Fletcher knew he had. He’d seen him that night. But he still had to question the proof. “Which witnesses?” he asked, hovering the pen over his notes.
“Kris Sharpe. Among others. He was at a star-studded awards ceremony. He wasn’t trying to conceal his intake.”
“So there was no point testing him on the day?”
“Because he was detained. Not arrested. It is only on charge that we can take samples. Which we did as soon as we could.”
“Okay…” Fletcher scribbled a few notes. “So anything that might have been in his system, could have been flushed at the point of testing?” He tapped the pen on the pad, chewing his bottom lip in thought.
Jackson’s whispered plea echoed though his mind. Why wasn’t he able to remember?
Grimsby breathed in, a noticeable change in his demeanour. As though he didn’t want to admit the next part. “Yes. But that wasn’t our case to build. That is the defence’s case, should they have tried to build one. Which they didn’t.”
“Because you couldn’t get it to court.”
“Exactly. We gathered evidence from the deceased, as is standard.”
“So if Jackson had been compromised, say, been drugged himself, which would make sense if he can’t remember what happened, then there’s no physical evidence of that?”
Grimsby stared. “No,” he said. “But he didn’t declare, in interview, that he wasn’t able to remember. He said ‘no comment’.”
“And it’s up to a defence to make that case?” Fletcher wanted to keep on this route.
“Yes.”
Fletcher scrawled more notes, more questions, more musings which made his head hurt. No wonder this was a tricky situation for all. He guessed the next port of call was Jackson’s defence team. But first, he needed to know what the police thought they knew.
“So can you tell me what evidence was found? That led to his arrest and your case of voluntary manslaughter against Jackson Young. Fingerprints, DNA?”
“Mr Young’s fingerprints were found on the scene. Door handle, bed post, all over really.”
“But he lived there. So that would be expected.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so Miss Payne. What was the evidence on her?”
“Miss Payne died of asphyxiation caused by strangulation, the bruising suggested this was by rope. Probably the tie handles from the canopy netting over her bed as that was ripped and the ties never located. She was found in the same position that she died. The body hadn’t been moved.” Grimsby stroked down his tie, inhaling a fierce breath, nostrils flaring. “If Mr Young is telling the truth and said he found her that way, he hadn’t attempted to turn her over or try to resuscitate her.”
“But she was dead on discovery. That would seem futile at that point, no?” Fletcher drew his eyebrows in.
“Any normal person would at least put their hands on their loved one and check.” Grimsby arched an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you think, Mr Doherty?”
“How do you know he hadn’t?”
“The only bruising found on her was consistent with someone on top of her, knees crushing into her back whilst tightening a rope around her neck. If she had been moved or touched after death, more bruising would show up on the body. It didn’t.”
Fletcher wrote that down. Why hadn’t Jackson touched her? He needed that clarified if he planned to explain his state of mind.
Grimsby leaned forward. “You might also be interested to know, we found semen,” he said, a slight smile tugging on his lips. “On the bed sheets and inside Miss Payne.”
“Jackson’s?” Fletcher swallowed.
“No. And no matches to anyone on our database. But there were no signs of a struggle, suggesting the sex had been consensual. Whoever it was, Miss Payne hadn’t been opposed to it not being her boyfriend.”
Fletcher blinked. “She was having an affair?”
“Likely. Which gave us a possible motive. Hence, Jackson Young became suspect number one.”
A dozen things ran through Fletcher’s mind at that point—Jackson’s plea that there was more than one innocent party in all this, that the world needed to hear who was really to blame, that Kris might somehow be involved. Was he referring to the fact he had known Tallulah had been cheating on him? Had it been with Kris? He'd certainly seemed broken about her death and had kept his distance from Jackson ever since.
Keeping quiet about knowing any of that could almost seem plausible. If Jackson had admitted he knew there was something going on between his girlfriend and his co-star, it gave the authorities an instant angle to pursue—the jealous boyfriend acting out a crime of passion.
Fletcher could almost understand why Jackson had remained mute.
But where did Kris come into all this?
“Did you take witness statements?” Fletcher asked, voice shaky.
“Of course. Friends and family all declared that Tallulah and Jackson had a volatile relationship. That Jackson’s temper had flared a few times previously. They had argued that night, some believe that was over Miss Payne trying to end the relationship. She then left the awards ceremony alone after an argument with Mr Young inside the venue.” Grimsby flipped through his file, scanning the typed notes from the witness statements. “There was also an altercation outside the venue with a…”
“Me.” Fletcher added that before this could get any more awkward.
Grimsby looked up, holding Fletcher’s gaze, then cocked his head. “A journalist.”
“I was there on a gossip mission. He tried to hit me. That’s all I know.”
“Should this have gone to trial, the prosecution would have called you as a witness. So don’t leave the country, Mr Doherty, we’re still working on getting this through.”
Fletcher nodded, slow and deliberate. If there was any reason not to get this to a courtroom, it was that. How could he stand up there and be a witness to the prosecution against a man he was now working for?
For a man who he was helping to remain hidden.
For a man he’d helped into bed.