Witness - [18]

‘That’s very good. Anything else? Clothes, hands?’

‘I only saw his face. He braked, I jumped back, there was this moment-’ her voice shook and her mouth felt dry – ‘we were just staring at each other, both shocked.’ She recalled the way he glared at her. ‘And then he drove on.’

‘And the other man?’

‘I barely registered him. I could tell there were two people in the car but I only saw the driver.’

Joe shifted in his seat. Typed a bit more into his laptop. Then he explained that he’d like her to try and identify the man she saw but she would have to do that at the police station. It was important to make sure it was done above board, the right checks and balances. ‘Someone else has to do it, I’m not allowed.’ He smiled. ‘Make sure I don’t tip you the wink.’

Fiona felt uneasy. ‘I don’t know.’

‘We could pop along now,’ he said quietly. ‘No fuss, no complicated arrangements. Be back within the hour.’ His eyes were greeny grey, the colour of shale, of bay leaf.

Later she thought he had planned it like that, making it easier to do because she wouldn’t be anticipating it, wouldn’t have a chance to get cold feet.

Still she hesitated. ‘But if I…’

He read her mind. ‘You find it’s too much, I’ll bring you straight home.’

She agreed. Wanting to be brave, wanting to impress him. Pathetic, she told herself.

The drive took only ten minutes and when they got to the police station it was all set up. Joe left her with a jovial, whiskery man and a younger woman. There was a monitor for her to watch and a camera would record Fiona’s reactions for evidence.

‘What we have are eight video IDs,’ the man said. ‘I’d like you to watch them, all of them, and only at the end tell me if the man you saw driving the BMW is among them and which number he is. You can look again at any of the images and we can freeze them for you too, if you ask. You can’t ask me any questions and please take your time. Is that all right?’

It was and the woman set the camera going.

They were like moving mug-shots, Fiona thought to herself, the men looking straight ahead then turning this way and that for the profiles. The men were all white with short hair. She saw him, number four, with a lurch of recognition. Then did as instructed and watched the rest. None of the others came close. ‘Number four.’ Her voice sounded dusty. ‘That was him.’ The man put number four back on the screen. He had large, dark eyes. A sensuous mouth, the sculpted face. Dress him in ringlets and kohl, pantaloons and a frilly shirt, and he could be Captain Jack in Pirates of the Caribbean.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Completely.’

‘Thank you.’

The woman stopped filming. Then Fiona had to answer several questions and her answers were recorded on forms: when and where she had seen the man, how close she had been, whether her view had been obstructed and so on.

Joe met her afterwards. He had already spoken to the man conducting the identification.

‘How did I do?’ Fiona asked.

‘Very well,’ Joe smiled. ‘You identified Sam Millins. He’s known to us already and his name is high on the list for this inquiry.’

She soaked up his air of satisfaction. She wanted to please him. ‘Were there other witnesses?’ she asked.

Joe nodded. ‘One, so far. We hope there will be others.’

‘In the paper, they talk about people being afraid to talk to the police.’

He sighed. ‘That’s our biggest problem.’

She told him about Carmen Johnson: how the new mum turned Fiona away, unwilling to be associated with her.

After Joe had dropped her home, Fiona found herself wondering about him: whether he was married and had children, what he did outside work. And whether she would see him again.

CHAPTER TEN

Cheryl

The tradition was to celebrate the one who had passed for nine nights. No one seemed to know why it was that number, not even Nana who usually couldn’t shut up about the old country customs back in Jamaica.

The Macateer house was full of people. Some had come up from London and Bristol and Birmingham, branches of the family Cheryl didn’t even know. It wasn’t just for family either, everyone in the community turned up. No invitation needed. Some nights it was hard to figure out how they would all fit in: it wasn’t a big house. But they did and the food and the drinks kept coming. Plates of fried chicken and fish, curry and patties, rice and peas, loaves of white bread and big, fat sponge cakes.

The place was noisy with chatter and laughter, got raucous as the evenings deepened and more rum and Red Stripe was consumed. People sang old tunes, hymns, gospel, some nights they’d put music on and dance. Cheryl wondered how Auntie Paulette and Nadine and the others could stand it. Didn’t they want to grieve in peace?

‘That come later,’ said Nana, ‘after the funeral. All the time in the world they have then.’ She was up most nights, sitting beside her friend Rose, slipping to the kitchen to clear up paper plates or wash glasses. With so many there of Nana’s own age Cheryl saw her in a different light. She was the most outspoken, prickly even. She’d say a thing and then there’d be a pause and someone would cut their eyes at her but Nana would stand her ground. Little things or big, it didn’t seem to matter. She was loudest of all talking about what had happened to Danny and how shameful it was that people were running scared, keeping quiet. ‘Like a new set of chains, slaves to fear,’ she pronounced one night, just as Cheryl was preparing to head back home to put Milo to bed. Late already and Milo grizzling in her arms. Rose nodded at Nana’s words but other people murmured, disliking the sentiment. There were people in the room linked to Carlton, though neither he nor Vinia had been down. Auntie Paulette kept saying she didn’t want anyone at the funeral that was part of the gangs but the gangs weren’t a fixed thing. Not like joining the gym or enrolling at college. No membership cards or contracts. Some people were there for life, or death, calling the shots and making the money, but the younger kids might run an errand now and then, hide a gun or deliver a package. Might do a favour for a friend or a cousin and never a thing more. Others would start their own operation, something small that wouldn’t disrespect the main players. Most of the people in the room had a notion who’d killed Danny Macateer. And Cheryl knew for sure. Even though she hadn’t seen them fire the gun. It sat inside her like something rotten, a clump of dirt making her sick.