‘Anything to say to that?’ Tomek asked.
‘I didn’t post those comments. They weren’t from me.’
‘You work at the library. You’re the only one with a connection to Angelica. You’re the only one who’s stalked her on every platform imaginable, and when she blocked you on the rest and got a restraining order against you, you thought you’d harass her on her blog, her little corner of the Internet. Sound about right?’
Shawn slammed his fist against the wall. ‘I didn’t fucking post those comments!’
‘How can you prove it?’
The man’s face contorted in anger.
‘Got CCTV in the library we might be able to take a look at?’
‘Of course not. It’s a fucking library. Barely enough money to keep us going as it is. Besides, no one wants to steal fucking books.’
‘So no CCTV then?’
‘No, all right? No, we don’t have any fucking CCTV.’ Another slap on the wall. ‘But I didn’t post those comments, and I didn’t have anything to do with Angelica’s murder. Because if I did, you’d of found my DNA on her, but you haven’t, have you? You haven’t got a single strand of concrete evidence that points to me. Now, if that’s all you got, then I’d like to get back to my job please, and don’t ever come back to my place of work again. You hear me?’
‘Or what?’ Tomek asked as Shawn threw the chair behind him and towered over him. ‘You’ll kill me, too?’
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
The interview with Shawn Wilkins had gone nowhere. Tomek hadn’t got the result he’d been hoping for – a confession of some kind – and by the end of it, Shawn had threatened to lodge a formal complaint with the Independent Office for Police Conduct following Tomek’s behaviour and what Shawn had branded as “harassment”. After being convinced otherwise by Rachel, who’d stroked his ego (and his arm) a tad, Shawn had stormed out of the station and headed back to the library.
When he returned to his desk, Tomek found Oscar sitting in his seat. The constable was deep in conversation with Anna, discussing the stalker’s behaviour. As he arrived, Oscar explained that the uniformed officers who had been sent to the library to conduct a sweep of the place had confirmed that no CCTV was kept on the premises for longer than forty-eight hours, and that there was no way of discovering who’d accessed the computer and what they’d viewed. It seemed then that there was no tangible, physical evidence that could be used to charge Shawn Wilkins. It had been that way from the start. Nothing concrete. The killer had done such an exemplary job of killing Angelica and cleaning the crime scene without leaving a trace that it had left Tomek and the team fumbling about in the dark.
Tomek still carried the burden of the investigation on his shoulders. Even though it had officially been moved across to Victoria, he still saw it as his own. He’d started it, and now he wanted to finish it. The only problem was the toll it was taking on his body. He hadn’t been eating properly. He’d skipped a handful of dinners and lunches, as he’d wanted to work through without breaks. He hadn’t been sleeping properly either, his mind showing him images of Angelica’s angel wings every time he closed his eyes, and as he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror before leaving that day, he realised for the first time the effect it had been taking on his hair and beard. What was once an immaculate, almost pitch-black head of thick hair, and a dark, striking beard, had now become soiled with a few greys. Disaster.
On the way home, he stopped off at the supermarket and purchased some hair and beard dye. That was his evening sorted – after Kasia had gone to bed, of course. He wouldn’t be able to handle the ridicule and abuse he would no doubt receive if she saw him. Him, a forty-year-old man, dyeing his beard and hair? What was the world coming to? She would tell her friends, and then they’d tell their other friends, and eventually his secret would be out to all the parents and the teachers.
But his plans for the evening were threatened by the figure standing outside his house, wearing a long, thin coat, and holding a cigarette in her hand.
‘When did that start?’ Tomek asked, pointing to the stick of tobacco.
Abigail blew a large plume of smoke into the air. ‘About the time I found out I was going to be the editor. Promotions aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.’
You can say that again.
‘What are you doing here, Abigail?’
‘Full name, eh? It’s like that, is it?’
‘Answer the question.’
She took another long drag of the cigarette and let it fall from her mouth as she spoke. ‘I wanted to see you. I was hoping we could have a chat.’
‘Not in there,’ he said, gesturing towards the living room window on the first floor. ‘Not after last time.’
‘Fairs. Where then?’
Tomek raised his hand, rattled his car keys, and unlocked the car. Behind him, the orange lights flashed and a small beep sounded. Seconds later, they were inside.
‘I tried calling you,’ she said, shutting the door behind her.
‘Have you?’
He knew she had. He’d seen the countless phone calls and had ignored them – some, at least. The others had arrived while he’d been in interviews or out in the field.
‘I’ve been busy,’ he said.
‘Is that how it’s going to be?’ she asked, accusation in her tone. ‘I call and you ghost me? I call and you pretend I don’t exist?’
‘I said I was busy, not that I’ve wiped you from my memory.’
‘That’s the way it feels,’ she said, gradually becoming more and more incensed. Meanwhile, Tomek kept his voice cool, measured. They were in a confined space, and while nobody would be able to hear them, he wanted enough room to defend himself if things became… physical.
‘I seem to remember I was the one who wanted space, Abi. What does space look like and mean to you?’ He pulled out his phone and loaded the call log. ‘Because right now I’m seeing fifteen phone calls in the last three days and you standing right outside my front door. That doesn’t seem like giving me space.’
To that, Abigail had nothing to say. The smell of smoke leached off her clothes, breath and skin, and Tomek could sense it seeping into the fabric of his seats, staining the inside of his car. He wanted to wrap this up.
‘Plus,’ he continued, ‘what’s this I hear about you going behind my back and asking Martin for information – information he wasn’t primed to give – about my case?’
‘You… you asked for space. And… and that was me giving you space. I didn’t want to hassle you with it.’
‘No, you went one step further and undermined me with Victoria and Nick. Now they’ve brought Victoria back in and reduced me to deputy SIO. That’s interfering with my life on a whole different level.’
‘But it’s my career,’ she said, sounding almost defeated.
‘And it’s mine, too.’
She looked at her lap and began digging her thumb in her palm. ‘Where do we go from here?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I mean, about work. I’m still going to need to come to you for information, and you’re still going to need to come to me for support.’
Tomek inhaled deeply, composing himself. He couldn’t believe he was hearing this. There she was, sitting there, playing with her thumbs, acting all innocent and coy, concerned about how this would affect their working relationship, how it would affect her career.
‘Let me make this easy for you then, Abigail. Nice and easy. You and me – done. We’re over. No more coming round for sleepovers, no more dinners, no more sex. We’re through. And as for our professional relationship, nothing changes. Though I think for the foreseeable future, we should avoid working with each other as much as possible. And if you ever come round my house unannounced again, I will make life very difficult for you.’ Tomek leant across the car, reaching over her lap, and opened the door for her. ‘Goodnight Abigail,’ he continued. ‘Enjoy your evening.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Tomek had stayed in the car for another twenty minutes, breathing, thinking, controlling his temper, until the rumble in his stomach became so loud and so aggressive, and the stomach pains so agitated, that he had been forced to go upstairs in search of food. Fortunately, he found Kasia in the middle of making beans on toast, and when asked if he’d like some, he told her he could murder some. There was something so delightfully simple about beans on toast that excited him and his stomach. Perhaps it reminded him of his childhood. Or perhaps it was the crunch of the lightly toasted bread, the sweetness of the unhealthy dose of tomato sauce, and the saltiness of the melted cheddar sprinkled on top. Either way, it was one of the best meals he’d had in a long time, far surpassing the meal they’d had to celebrate Abigail’s promotion.
Tomek was still thinking about it as he entered the office the following morning. In fact, he’d even thought about having the same for breakfast. The only problem was, now that his favourite café, Morgana’s, had recently closed following a human trafficking investigation, Tomek was in search of a new establishment to indulge in the delectable delights of greasy bacon and double heart attack specials. Instead, as he entered the office, he was greeted with a depressing sachet of Quaker Oats in his desk drawer, a relic of a historic dieting phase he’d gone through several years before. No matter how many times he tried to eat healthily, it never worked. The only thing stopping him from putting on serious weight was his daily run along the seafront and recreational sports activities on the weekend – though most of those had fallen to the wayside in recent months.
‘That’s a sad-looking bowl of porridge,’ Chey said as Tomek returned to his desk, reluctantly, with the bowl of food burning his hands. ‘Looks like a dog just threw up.’
