he turned.
‘What did you think of Romola Garai?’
‘What?’ he said, startled.
‘Briony,’ he said.
Brotherton’s face was blank. He looked to Sophie for help, but she was as lost as he was.
‘Romola Garai,’ Clayton continued. ‘She played the adult Briony. The lead character in Atonement .’ He smiled. ‘Thought you might have remembered that. I mean, you only saw it last night.’
He left, following Phil across the yard to the car.
‘That’s my boy,’ said Phil when Clayton caught up with him.
‘Thank you, boss. Everythin’ I learned, I learned from you.’
‘You like Atonement , did you?’
Clayton smiled. ‘Never seen it. Saw some pictures of that Romola Garai in Nuts . Thought she looked hot. Remembered what film she was in.’
Phil’s turn to smile. ‘So there is some value in those magazines after all.’
They reached the Audi, got back in.
‘So what d’you think, boss? Dirty?’
‘Hard to say. Something’s not right. He’s big enough to do it and he’s got previous. And from the way he responded, there seemed to be some unfinished business between him and Claire Fielding.’
‘He didn’t seemed too upset about her death,’ said Clayton.
‘He didn’t.’
‘And he was lyin’ about where he was last night.’
‘They all lie to us, Clayton. Haven’t you worked that out yet?’ He put the car into gear. ‘Back to Colchester.’ He thought of Marina. She would be at the station by now. He felt butterflies at the thought, tried to immediately tamp them down. He had work to do.
Clayton looked back at the office, then round again. He groaned. ‘Not Glasvegas again . . .’
‘No,’ said Phil, thinking. ‘About time you developed some taste, I think.’
Clayton’s eyes brightened. ‘Yeah?’
‘How about some Neil Young?’ Phil knew his DS would have never heard of him, but after the last admonishment he wouldn’t dare to argue. ‘A classic. Something to get the old brain cells working.’
Clayton shook his head. ‘Kill me now,’ he said under his breath.
Phil took a perverse and childish satisfaction in putting Clayton in his place.
They drove back to Colchester as fast as they could.
11
M arina bent over the washbasin and vomited again. One hand on the porcelain, one holding her hair away from her face.
‘Oh God . . .’ Her voice broken, riding out the waves of nausea, crying as she spoke. ‘I can’t . . . can’t do this . . .’
She gasped, breathed hard, waiting to see if there was to be any more. A deep breath in. Held and let go. And again. She sighed, eyes closed, listening to her body. That was it, she felt. No more. There was nothing left inside her to come out.
Opening her eyes, she ran the cold tap, splashed her face, the water disguising the tears, and straightened up, running her fingers through her hair, looking at herself in the mirror. Her eyes more haunted than ever. More fearful.
And with good reason, she thought.
Her hands went automatically to her stomach as she tried to control her breathing, will herself to calm down.
So, she thought. She was one of those women who were sick. And she knew the cause: the photos. She had been shown into reception at Colchester’s main police station on Southway. The duty sergeant had rung through; DCI Ben Fenwick had come down to greet her. He looked exactly the same. Smart suit, hair greying but neatly cut. His features were symmetrical and pleasing to look at, but somehow avoided being handsome. Marina assumed this was because he was too bland.
He came towards her, hand outstretched, smile in place, reminding her once again of the overeager head boy, welcoming newcomers to the sixth form. She felt sure he had done that.
‘Marina,’ he said, shaking her hand, moving her forward. ‘Welcome back. Come through. Let’s walk and talk.’
They went through the double doors, Fenwick striding urgently. ‘You know,’ he said without breaking stride,
‘What did you think of Romola Garai?’
‘What?’ he said, startled.
‘Briony,’ he said.
Brotherton’s face was blank. He looked to Sophie for help, but she was as lost as he was.
‘Romola Garai,’ Clayton continued. ‘She played the adult Briony. The lead character in Atonement .’ He smiled. ‘Thought you might have remembered that. I mean, you only saw it last night.’
He left, following Phil across the yard to the car.
‘That’s my boy,’ said Phil when Clayton caught up with him.
‘Thank you, boss. Everythin’ I learned, I learned from you.’
‘You like Atonement , did you?’
Clayton smiled. ‘Never seen it. Saw some pictures of that Romola Garai in Nuts . Thought she looked hot. Remembered what film she was in.’
Phil’s turn to smile. ‘So there is some value in those magazines after all.’
They reached the Audi, got back in.
‘So what d’you think, boss? Dirty?’
‘Hard to say. Something’s not right. He’s big enough to do it and he’s got previous. And from the way he responded, there seemed to be some unfinished business between him and Claire Fielding.’
‘He didn’t seemed too upset about her death,’ said Clayton.
‘He didn’t.’
‘And he was lyin’ about where he was last night.’
‘They all lie to us, Clayton. Haven’t you worked that out yet?’ He put the car into gear. ‘Back to Colchester.’ He thought of Marina. She would be at the station by now. He felt butterflies at the thought, tried to immediately tamp them down. He had work to do.
Clayton looked back at the office, then round again. He groaned. ‘Not Glasvegas again . . .’
‘No,’ said Phil, thinking. ‘About time you developed some taste, I think.’
Clayton’s eyes brightened. ‘Yeah?’
‘How about some Neil Young?’ Phil knew his DS would have never heard of him, but after the last admonishment he wouldn’t dare to argue. ‘A classic. Something to get the old brain cells working.’
Clayton shook his head. ‘Kill me now,’ he said under his breath.
Phil took a perverse and childish satisfaction in putting Clayton in his place.
They drove back to Colchester as fast as they could.
11
M arina bent over the washbasin and vomited again. One hand on the porcelain, one holding her hair away from her face.
‘Oh God . . .’ Her voice broken, riding out the waves of nausea, crying as she spoke. ‘I can’t . . . can’t do this . . .’
She gasped, breathed hard, waiting to see if there was to be any more. A deep breath in. Held and let go. And again. She sighed, eyes closed, listening to her body. That was it, she felt. No more. There was nothing left inside her to come out.
Opening her eyes, she ran the cold tap, splashed her face, the water disguising the tears, and straightened up, running her fingers through her hair, looking at herself in the mirror. Her eyes more haunted than ever. More fearful.
And with good reason, she thought.
Her hands went automatically to her stomach as she tried to control her breathing, will herself to calm down.
So, she thought. She was one of those women who were sick. And she knew the cause: the photos. She had been shown into reception at Colchester’s main police station on Southway. The duty sergeant had rung through; DCI Ben Fenwick had come down to greet her. He looked exactly the same. Smart suit, hair greying but neatly cut. His features were symmetrical and pleasing to look at, but somehow avoided being handsome. Marina assumed this was because he was too bland.
He came towards her, hand outstretched, smile in place, reminding her once again of the overeager head boy, welcoming newcomers to the sixth form. She felt sure he had done that.
‘Marina,’ he said, shaking her hand, moving her forward. ‘Welcome back. Come through. Let’s walk and talk.’
They went through the double doors, Fenwick striding urgently. ‘You know,’ he said without breaking stride,
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