I tried not to look confused.
McStay seized the moment: ‘Peter is staying with Marion’s parents. Do you think they’d have him living in their own home if they thought for one second he could have been capable of killing their daughter?’
He got up, strode to the door and flung it open: ‘Better get back out there, son. Those bike thieves won’t catch themselves.’
As I made my way back out of Clapham police station, I recognised the rodent-like scurrying of her majesty’s press.
Amid the yapping throng surged my brother Fintan, now Deputy Crime Correspondent of the London-based Sunday News. If the Chief Crime Correspondent didn’t have a pension plan, he needed to get one, soon.
I followed the hordes into a large conference room, taking a seat near the exit. I wanted to see Peter explain himself. I wanted to see if his in-laws exhibited any kind of suspicion.
Within seconds, my identity had become a talking point among a group of photographers. Fintan joined their chat, clocked me and scuttled over, beaming.
‘I hear you found the body?’ he roared, confirming he’d no shame.
‘Jesus, would you not have some decorum, Fintan.’
‘Maybe we can help each other.’
‘I’m not talking to you.’
‘Come on, Donal.’
‘You know I can’t tell you anything.’
‘Fine. Fine. I wonder though, is a PC like you supposed to be nosing around a cordoned-off crime scene after the case has been taken over by a senior detective?’
A red warning light pinged on in my brain.
‘Well I am a police officer, Fintan. That’s pretty much what I do these days.’
‘Oh okay. It’s just … ah nothing, doesn’t matter.’
‘What?’
‘Well, you see that guy over there?’ he said, pointing to a large man cradling a cannon-sized Canon camera.
‘He’s a snapper, from the Standard.’
‘Bully for him.’
‘He said he took your photo earlier today, as you came out of the house on Sangora Road.’
My heart set off on a gallop.
‘And guess what? His editor likes it. Donal, you’re going to be on the front page of the Evening Standard. Imagine that! You on the front page? I’ll send a copy to Daddy. He’ll be made up.’
‘Oh Jesus,’ I sighed.
Fintan guffawed: ‘You, a lowly PC, sneaking around a live crime scene without DS Glenn’s permission? He’s a real hard ass, Donal. He’ll go apeshit.’
I’d already pissed off DS Glenn – the officer in charge of the case – during our first meeting last night.
‘They can’t just use my picture. I have rights.’
‘Afraid not, bro. It’s a public place. He can snap what he likes. Would you like me to have a word with him?’
‘Please,’ I sighed.
Of course I’d never know if any of this was true. Fintan spent his entire life finagling leverage.
He returned in less than a minute. ‘Sorted,’ he said, ‘you can relax. I told him you’re on an undercover job at the minute, and this photo could blow your cover. He’s on the phone to his picture editor now.’
He sat next to me. ‘You’ve got to be more careful, Donal. Seriously, someone like Glenn could have you consigned to uniform for life.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, wondering if that’s what happened to PC Clive Overtime.
‘Don’t mention it. You can buy me a nice pork salad for lunch.’
DS Glenn entered the room through a side door, followed by a bearded man in an ancient tweed jacket and a haunted, ashen Peter. Ten feet behind, clinging together, were a middle-aged couple who needed no introduction. Cameras whirred, clicked and sprayed like slo-mo machine guns.
‘Her people are from Kilkenny,’ said Fintan, shouting over the camera cacophony.
‘Who’s the tweed?’
‘Professor Richards, a forensic psychologist. He’ll be observing Peter, you know, his body language and all that, see if he’s lying.’
‘He’ll be able to tell?’
‘Glenn swears by him.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘It’s my job! Happily for me, you cops gossip like fishwives.’
Richards sat at the extreme right-hand chair at the top table. Glenn led Peter to the seat next to the Professor then sat Marion’s parents to the left, taking centre stage himself.
He explained who he was, then introduced the Prof, Peter, and Marion’s mum and dad, Mary and John.
The snappers continued to hose them down. Glenn pleaded for restraint. They eased off for fully two seconds.
As Glenn ran through the indisputable facts of the case, I took a good look at Peter, slumped, fumbling busily with his fingers, like a widow with rosary beads.
He looked impressive, handsome, if somewhat vain and self-satisfied. He had an unfortunate perma-smirk which had probably earned him more slaps in life than hugs. His slicked-back auburn hair owed much to Don Johnson and cement-grade gel. He could have been a lower-league professional footballer or a wedding DJ with a name like Dale or Barry.
My eyes drifted over to Mary and John. Mary embodied every Irish mum I’d ever known: small, tough, thick grey hair fixed fast into position, a fighter’s chin. Her face puce, her body bent with grief, she clenched rosary beads in one palm and John’s hand in the other. She didn’t look up from the table once.
I thought about my own mum. I really needed to make that call.
Marion’s dad John sat bolt upright like a guard dog, surveying the room, defending his family, defying the pain. I’d dealt with the parents of murdered people before. They usually split up in the end. The mum always blames the dad, even when she doesn’t want to. It must be hard-wired deep within mothers that the father’s primary role is to protect the family. Even in cases where the dad couldn’t possibly have done anything to save the child – like this – that sense of blame is there. I hoped John and Mary would make it.
Glenn summarised: ‘We would like to appeal to anyone who lives, works or who happened to be in the Clapham Junction area between five and seven p.m. last Monday evening to please call us with any information that may help us find this killer. It doesn’t matter how minor or trivial it may seem, if you saw anything unusual or suspicious, please call us. Finally, I’d like to warn people in London, particularly lone women, to be vigilant and alert.’
It was Peter’s turn to speak. He hadn’t written anything down.
He looked directly at a TV camera and said: ‘I’d like to ask the public to please help find Marion’s killer. Whoever did this is not human … they have to be caught …’ His already high voice reached castrato pitch, before cracking. He squeezed his eyes shut, then his head fell and he sobbed. The cameras swarmed in for the kill.
No one noticed Mary sobbing too, or John squeezing her hand.
Questions rained in from the floor: ‘Are there fears that a maniac is targeting women in their homes?’
Glenn: ‘I’ve nothing to add.’
‘Are