Scratching through his stubble, he knew he had to probe one more question, even if he didn’t like the answer. So he drew the interview to a close by asking, “What’s your theory on what happened based on the evidence you gathered?”
Grimsby lit up like a firework, bouncing in his seat ready to tell his tale. “That Miss Payne was having multiple affairs. Mr Young was aware of this. Miss Payne had declared she was going to leave him. After a night of celebrity schmoozing, swanky-pants had tanked up on cocaine and alcohol, then walked in on his girlfriend having sex with another man. He waited until the other man left and she was asleep, then strangled her using the tie handles that he then discarded. He slept off the effort in the spare bedroom across the hall then awoke to call it in. Whether he has no recollection of the gruesome act isn’t a defence.”
Fletcher pondered that, tapping his pen on the pad and trying to match the act with who he had met. It did make sense. And he could see why the prosecution were pushing for a trial. But with no physical evidence on Jackson having been in the room, a jury couldn’t ever have convicted while there was reasonable doubt.
But he’d seen Jackson that night. He hadn’t even been able to lay a punch on him. He’d been wasted, falling over drunk. How would he ever have been able to carry out that brutal act and cover his traces?
Something niggled at him. “You said multiple affairs? What makes you think there was more than one?”
“We found a condom. In the bin of the ensuite bathroom adjacent to the spare room. Different DNA.”
Huh. “Why would she have used a condom with one man, but not the other?”
An arrogant smile pulled at Grimsby’s lips. “It’s not uncommon for women to relax their protection methods when inebriated. Maybe you aren’t aware of that, Mr Doherty.”
The look he gave over the threshold suggested he’d used his professional powers of deduction to guestimate Fletcher’s sexuality and that he obviously wouldn’t have the first clue about female birth control methods. He had three sisters. He knew too much about it.
Plus, he wasn’t an eejit.
“Why discard it in the spare room?”
Grimsby puffed out his chest, inhaling deeply. “My guess, that’s where she always did it. The night of her death, she’d already told Jackson it was over according to the interview with her friends. Maybe he wasn’t accepting it. Maybe she needed to do something to stick the knife in. So she did it in their bed hoping he’d walk in on them. Poor thing probably didn’t realise that Jackson had already found out she was cheating.”
“What makes you think he knew?”
“The condom. He found it. His fingerprints were all over that one.”
Chapter Nineteen
Revelations
Strong arms wrap around his waist, lifting him from the gravel. Blurry stars distort his vision, like spiders spinning webs in front of his eyes. A gentle voice speaks into his ear, but he can’t make out the words. Only that the voice is familiar.
Comforting.
Soothing.
An accent so delicate it’s like a serenade.
He allows himself to be seized, to be led away, to collapse against a rigid chest and rescued. It’s cold, until it isn’t anymore and he’s lowered into a soft seat within a warm box, heated air blowing around to rid him of the reticent shivers.
The distant chatter of voices drift in and out of his consciousness. Until the next thing he is aware of is being sunk into a soft bed with a big, comfortable, warm duvet enveloping him. One he knows intimately.
Like that voice that whispers sweet nothings to him.
“You’ll sleep well tonight.” Those words are pacifying enough to allow him the indulgence of compliance.
Wrapping himself in the duvet, he pleads for the dreams to beat away the demons that haunt his conscious soul.
A soft click of his door and he knows he’s alone.
He can’t fight the pull of sleep.
Not even when she screams.
Jackson could not keep waking up like this. Gasping for air, fighting to fill in the blanks and gripping the covers so hard they could’ve torn.
When would this nightmare end? Except these weren’t nightmares. They were suppressed memories that he wasn’t able to untangle when awake.
Gulping down the pint of water beside his bed, he forced himself to think. To delve back into that night. A sharp bang on his door soon halted his thoughts. He checked the clock. Fuck. He’d slept all through breakfast, all through lunch. It was hitting mid-afternoon. How much had he drunk last night? The pulsating agony around his eye socket told him the answer to that. He daren’t look at himself. The pain was enough of an indication as to how messed-up his face would be.
The knocks became louder. More insistent.
After kicking off the covers, Jackson clambered out of bed. At least he still had his boxers on. The ones he’d worn for several days now. He grabbed the discarded jeans from the floor and squeezed into them, hopping on the spot. That was when he noticed the stuffed bag beside his bed. His bag. Shaking off the feelings of gratitude, he traipsed over to the door and unlocked the several latches to tug it open.
“Fletcher.” He couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice. Or was it that he was more pleasantly surprised? He couldn’t be sure. He was a nice sight to wake up to. It was a shame Fletcher’s returning gaze didn’t suggest that he was having the same reaction to him.
To be expected, considering he resembled a sack of potatoes.
Fletcher didn’t say anything. Barely even a nod of recognition. He shouldered past him into the room, slid his bag off his shoulder and perched on the edge of the dressing table as though his own weight was too much to carry. He stared straight at the floor.
Jackson knew that stance. He closed the door. “Everything okay?” he asked, edging forward and searching for eyes to find his.
Fletcher burst out a laugh, which Jackson thought to be a tad rude. He should at least be in on the joke. So he backed off and headed to the kettle to attempt to make something vaguely resembling coffee.
“I need to know what happened.” Fletcher’s voice was low, almost inaudible.
Jackson kept his back to him. His tense shoulders would give away the sudden stab to his chest. Slamming the lid shut, he sucked in a breath and flicked the kettle on. “You and me both.”
“Tell me what you know, then. Your version.”
Jackson folded his arms across his bare chest and swivelled to face him. Fletcher widened innocent eyes—eyes that appeared weary, with dark rings circling the intoxicating green. He couldn’t have slept a wink.
“I thought that was the plan. Write my book.” Jackson shrugged, attempting to come across as flippant. He knew he didn’t.
“It is.” Fletcher scrubbed a hand down his face, the stubble against his palm like scratching pin pricks. “But before we delve into your past, I need to know. I need to know who I’m working for.”
“Me. Well, yourself.”
“And who are you?”
“I’ll tell you if you ever hang around long enough to listen.” The kettle clicked off. “Coffee?” He turned his back once again—to make the drink but also to hide his face. Maybe he had been avoiding saying anything. He was so used to deflecting difficult questions that he no longer knew how to share. He’d been burned too many times when he had.