The Judas Tree, page 27
‘I didn’t phone Alastair Farrow last night,’ he said quietly.
She held him tighter. ‘I know.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Will sat in the interview room at the police station and tried to keep calm.
‘And where were you last night?’
‘I took the car out. Drove around a bit. My wife and I had a fight.’
‘Did you go and see anybody?’
‘No. Well, not really.’
‘Not really? What do you mean by that?’
Will rubbed his face hard. ‘I went to my father’s grave.’
There was a knock on the door of the interview room. A woman opened the door.
‘Can I have a quick word?’ she said to the two men. DC Fletcher leant forward and switched off the recorder then both men excused themselves.
When they came back in, they wore serious expressions, and the air about them had altered. ‘There’s been a development,’ DC Jones said, taking his seat. He waited for his colleague to sit down, then both men fixed their gaze on Will.
DC Fletcher leant forward, clasping his hands in front of him. ‘A body has been found. This morning by a security guard. Turns out the body belongs to Alastair Farrow.’
‘What?’
‘And he was found on your property in Battersea.’
‘I don’t understand—’
‘William English, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Alastair Farrow. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence …’
The man’s monotonous voice faded to nothing as Will’s mind settled on Farrow. He recalled the hatred in his eyes that day in the pub, how he’d stared at him coldly, remorselessly, truly believing he’d done nothing wrong. A voice in Will’s head wanted to tell the police they needn’t worry. That if Farrow was dead, it didn’t matter; he was a nasty piece of work who deserved it.
Did his lack of compassion make him a bad person?
What followed came in a blur. Will was led to the custody sergeant. He was searched. His clothes swapped for a tracksuit. DNA samples taken. Then more questioning.
He declined a solicitor.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ve nothing to hide.’
DC Fletcher opened his folder and picked up his pen. He pressed the button on the recording system, said the date, then checked his watch and said the time.
They covered the basics: name, address, contacts, work details. The detective didn’t look up, he merely asked the questions and paused, pen suspended, waiting for Will’s answers. Will found it difficult to think. His mind was foggy, drifting away from the room, trying to understand how Farrow had ended up dead on the floor of his studio.
Who had called Farrow’s home and pretended to be him? It had to be Luke. But surely he wasn’t a killer? Maybe it was someone in the pub. An enemy of Farrow. He had a vendetta and used Will’s name as a disguise. It crossed his mind that perhaps he – Will – was psychotic and had killed Farrow but had no recollection of it, like a sleepwalker? Maybe the memory of being at his father’s grave was an elaborate fantasy constructed by his subconscious mind. Was that even possible?
‘Can you answer the question?’
Will narrowed his eyes and forced himself to focus on the man in front of him.
‘I know you’ve answered some of these already, but your cooperation would be appreciated. Can you confirm how you know Alastair Farrow?’
Will nodded. ‘Sorry, yes. We were at school together. But we weren’t friends.’
‘You met with him recently?’
Will began to wander again. He saw himself driving through the outskirts of Camberley. Turning into the car park. Felt the warm buzz of the pub as he opened the door.
‘Answer the question,’ DC Jones said firmly.
‘We went for a drink.’
‘And this was following contact you’d made with him …’ The man looked back through his notebook, licking the tip of his finger to flip through the pages. ‘Through Facebook?’ He said the word Facebook as if it was something he’d never heard of.
‘Yes.’
‘And it was your idea to meet?’
‘I think so … It might have been him.’ Will trawled his brain to remember which of them had suggested meeting up. Why couldn’t he remember? He closed his eyes and thought hard, trying to sift his mind for the answer. ‘It’s hard to remember whose idea it was.’
‘If you weren’t friends, why did you contact him?’
‘Um, well, another boy … a man … from school … we bumped into each other at a friend’s house. I just …’ Will shook his head. ‘It’s hard to explain. I think it was nostalgia. I was having a few problems with my marriage …’ Will stopped talking as he watched the man scribbling. What was he writing down? That he was having problems with his wife? Why?
‘We’ve spoken to a Mr Mike Cherry—’
‘Who?’
‘The landlord of the Dog and Duck, the pub you and Alastair Farrow met at.’ He paused and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms and lifting his chin. ‘There are several witnesses who saw you fighting. When we spoke to the landlord, he said you attacked Farrow and threatened him.’
‘No, it wasn’t like that,’ said Will. ‘We had a row, but I didn’t threaten him.’
DC Fletcher consulted his notes. ‘Did you or did you not say: “I could fucking kill you?”’
Will had a flash of losing his temper and going for Farrow. He turned his hand over and stared at the scar which struck through his palm.
Everything was clear now.
He was going to prison for a murder he didn’t commit, the murder of the only person in the world whom he’d ever truly wanted to kill. Will almost laughed out loud at the irony. He placed his hand palm down on the table and pressed it hard against the wood. ‘I can’t remember the exact words. But I didn’t mean—’
‘And did you grab him by the neck?’
Will didn’t answer.
‘Can you answer the question, please. Did you grab Alastair Farrow by the neck in the Dog and Duck pub?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was your argument about?’
Will recalled his feelings towards Alastair that night, the rage that caused him to jump up and lunge for him, the overwhelming urge to put him down like a rabid dog.
‘The man was a bully,’ he said at last. ‘Alastair Farrow bullied me and I wanted him to apologise.’ He hesitated. ‘At least, I think I wanted him to apologise. I’m not sure what I wanted.’ Will’s mind was hazy. He took a long, deep breath which he let slowly out.
‘So you wanted Alastair Farrow to say sorry for things he’d done to you at school?’
‘I suppose so. Yes. I wanted him to least acknowledge that what he did was wrong.’
‘And did he?’
Will looked at the man whose pen was poised. When Will didn’t answer he looked up and they locked eyes. ‘Did he apologise?’
Will held his gaze for a moment or two as he was hit by an overwhelming urge to vomit. He shook his head slowly then looked down at the table. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘He didn’t. He said he had nothing to apologise for and that the bullying was no more than mucking about.’
‘And you left in such a state you left your credit card behind the bar?’
‘Yes. I cancelled it the next day.’
The man turned to a new page in his notebook. ‘The premises where the victim was found. What do you use it for?’
‘I used to run my photography business from it. I don’t use it now.’
‘Why not?’
‘I couldn’t make it work. Not enough business.’
‘Who knew the code to the door?’
‘The keypad?’
The man nodded.
‘Just me and my wife.’
‘So only you or she could have unlocked the door using the code?’
‘Was it open?’
‘Yes, it was. With no sign of forced entry. Whoever went in there with Alastair Farrow knew the code.’
Will’s heart pummelled in his chest. Everything pointed to him. But how? He thought hard, tried to sort through the chaos in his head.
Where did you fuck him?
In his mind’s eye he saw Harmony’s face fall, her eyes shining with tears, head shaking back and forth. Will’s head pounded. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his knuckles against his temples.
‘Why did you call Alastair Farrow’s house yesterday evening?’
‘I didn’t,’ Will said.
‘His wife said she spoke to you. Then Alastair Farrow spoke to you. Records show the call was made from your studio.’ The man flicked through his notes. ‘At four minutes past ten.’
Will shook his head.
The man stayed quiet.
‘I didn’t kill him.’
‘Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to kill Alastair Farrow?’
Will closed his fist over the scar on his palm. ‘Yes. Luke Crawford. Farrow bullied him too and he …› Will stumbled over his words.
‘He what?’
‘Alastair Farrow sexually assaulted him.’ Will hesitated. ‘Raped him. I witnessed it. I watched it happen.’
Will winced as he heard an echo of his voice crying out to Farrow.
I didn’t do it! Don’t hurt me. It was him, not me. It was Luke.
Alastair Farrow had looked at him with scorn, had shaken his head, blood running from the cut on his face, dripping from his jaw. Will pictured Farrow nodding at his friends. Watched two of them drag Luke over to him, Luke’s feet desperately scrabbling against the ground, his arms flailing, trying to wriggle free. Will had frozen – petrified – and watched Farrow advance on Luke, his face, neck, and shirt blooded as if someone had thrown a tin of scarlet paint over him. Will saw Luke’s face smeared with terror. He muttered I’m sorry, Luke over and over, too scared to move, to get help, to intervene. Farrow held his hand over Luke’s mouth to muffle his shouts and tried to force him onto the ground. Luke must have bitten him because Farrow yelled and hit Luke so hard that he spun and fell into the dark, loose earth. Will watched as Farrow pulled him up while yanking his belt open, grasped Luke’s hair with his hand, pulled his head back so hard Will feared his neck would snap.
‘He works at a law firm in the City. Luke Crawford.’
DC Fletcher wrote something in his notebook and showed it to DC Jones, who nodded.
Will scraped his fingers through his hair. ‘I don’t want to say anything more without legal representation,’ he said. ‘I’d like to call someone. I can still ask for that, can’t I?’
‘You can.’ The man sat back, closed his file, and formally terminated the interview.
Will was taken back to the custody cell and given a glass of water and a limp ham sandwich from a vending machine. He lay on the bed, hands behind his neck, and stared at the ceiling. He thought about Farrow again, about his wife and red-faced children, his balding head, the smug look he’d given Drysdale in his office that afternoon and the colluding smile Drysdale had given in return. Will turned over and hid his face in the crook of his elbow.
He’d tried for so long to forget the horrific details of that day and what followed. But lying there, alone in custody, those memories were crystal clear in his mind. He recalled waking the day after the attack on his friend. He’d sat bolt upright and looked across the room to Luke’s bed. With horror he saw it hadn’t been slept in. The grey blanket was tucked around the mattress, smooth, not a single wrinkle, as if it had been ironed on. Will dressed quickly then hared along the corridors, down the stairs, across the courtyard to the huge, intimidating refectory where the boys were gathering for breakfast. There was no sign of Luke. Will sat on the end of one of the long wooden tables and craned his head as each new group of boys came in, desperate to see Luke among them. Careful not to be spotted by any masters or kitchen staff, he pocketed two slices of bread and an apple to give Luke when he found him. All day he looked out for him. At lunchtime he snuck back to the woods, heart pounding, sweat creeping over his skin, in case Luke was still there, too injured to move. After supper, while he was sitting at his desk in prep, his housemaster, Mr Fraser, came in with an apologetic look on his face. His voice was tinged with regret as he told Will to go immediately to Drysdale’s office. Will still recalled the weight of his hand squeezing his shoulder, trying to reassure him.
‘Tell the truth and you’ll be fine, lad.’
When he’d opened the door to Drysdale’s office the man had looked terrifying, larger than a giant, his torturous cane resting on the desk in front of him.
‘Sit down,’ he barked.
Will sat on the chair opposite the desk.
‘There’s been an incident,’ Drysdale said. ‘Involving a boy – a friend of yours, I believe – Luke Crawford.’
Will’s heart started racing. Please be OK, he thought. Please be OK. He’d crossed the fingers on his left hand and slid them under his thigh.
‘He’s accusing one of the prefects of a very serious crime.’
Will stared at him.
‘Of course,’ Drysdale said. ‘We know he’s lying.’
Will began to shake his head.
‘And we all know he’s lying because this type of thing doesn’t happen at Pendower Hall. Farrow is one of our most respected members of school. He’s a stellar pupil, on track to do great things. His father was at this school and is a valuable benefactor. Alastair Farrow is everything a Pendower boy should be and he has assured me he hasn’t laid a finger on the boy.’
Will began to protest.
Drysdale rose to his feet and leant on his desk, glaring at Will with blazing eyes. He reached for his cane, picked it up, and came round to Will’s side of the table.
‘Boys like Crawford are easily confused. He’s a liar and always has been. In this situation, we know very well who’s telling the truth and who isn’t.’ Drysdale leant close to Will’s face. His breath sour with stale coffee and cigarettes. ‘If Crawford was, for argument’s sake, telling the truth, the reputation of this school would suffer. Now, I know you don’t want that any more than I do, do you, English? Of course you don’t. But Crawford insists you were there, so I am forced to ask you.’
Will stared at him, tongue-tied, unable to speak.
‘If you were, as he says, there, you would’ve seen that nothing untoward happened, wouldn’t you? If you do the right thing, if you tell the truth, then I’ll spare you the caning for missing prep and playing silly buggers with the Crawford boy. If you lie, if you repeat this accusation, I will make your life a misery. Do you understand? You’ll be outside my office every day for the rest of the year during afternoon break and I’ll suggest to Farrow that he might like your services for a bit of errand running. You and I know your father, and his church, would be most unimpressed to hear that his only son was involved in a scandal so sordid.’ Drysdale leant even closer to Will and laid his cane across Will’s lap, tapping his thigh lightly a few times. ‘You know what the right thing to say is, don’t you? I know you know what really happened. Pendower Hall doesn’t need any muckraking. It won’t do any of us any good at all. You appreciate this, English?’
Will’s eyes stung with tears.
Drysdale flicked his cane against Will’s legs again.
Finally, weak with fear, Will nodded.
‘Wonderful. I knew we’d get to the truth,’ said Drysdale calmly, turning to place his cane back on the desk. ‘And I’m glad we have an understanding.’ He walked over to the door of his office and opened it.
‘Farrow! Crawford!’
First Farrow came in, his face bandaged, his exposed eye piercing Will like a sharpened spear. Farrow positioned himself to the right of Drysdale’s desk as Luke walked slowly in. When Luke saw Will his face lit up. Will felt a surge of relief. Luke had been crying, his cheeks were even more sunken than usual, and his arms hung limply, but he was OK, he was alive. Luke started to mouth something at Will, but Will looked away, glancing first at Farrow, who glared daggers at him, then Drysdale, who’d sat down in his chair, hands on his chest, fingers drumming.
He heard Drysdale’s voice demanding Will tell his made-up truth.
Will knew what he should do. He should tell the real truth. Luke’s truth. He should tell Drysdale what happened beneath the Judas tree, what he saw with his own terrified eyes. He should stand up for his friend. But in Will’s world telling the truth never did any good. When he told the truth bad things happened.
Life isn’t fair, William, he heard his father’s voice say.
Life is ugly.
‘Luke is lying,’ Will said. ‘I was there. Farrow was mucking around and Luke cut him with my penknife. That was what happened. Luke is lying about the rest.’
‘No, Will! You know that’s not right. Please! Blood brothers, remember? I’ll watch your back, you watch mine? You said—’
‘Shut up, Luke!’ Will screamed, clamping his hands over his ears, tears burning his cheeks. ‘I hate you, don’t you understand? I hate you and I wish I’d never met you. I hate you!’
Then he’d pushed back from the chair, so hard it fell over, and ran from the room, ignoring Luke’s cries and Drysdale’s shouts for him to get back that instant.
It was the last time he saw Luke Crawford. Until Sunday lunch at Emma and Ian’s, that was, when Luke strolled back into his life and turned it upside down.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was Frank’s message on the landline voicemail that galvanised her. Will had been in custody now for approaching forty-eight hours. She felt desolate, worn out from trying to face the very real possibility that her husband was going to prison for murder.
‘Harmony, dear, it’s Frank. I’ve called a couple of times, but must have missed you. I hope you’re bearing up. I’ve made a cottage pie. It’s a bit large. Enough for eight, really, but maybe you could eat portions of it over a couple of nights. It’ll freeze well, of course. Anyway, I’ll bring it over on my way to work in the morning. If you’re not in I’ll leave it on the doorstep wrapped in a few carrier bags, with a packet of custard creams as well. And, oh dear, I just know he didn’t do it. As if he ever could. Keep strong and bye for now.’
