It got everywhere. Under my nails. On my shoes. I dream about it sometimes.’ He looked up at me again. ‘I saved his life. I called the ambulance.’
‘You stabbed him.’
‘Not me. I found him. I helped him.’
‘You met him in the alley near your school and you stabbed him.’
‘Did DCI Gordon tell you about the forensics?’ Turner asked, his eyes intent. ‘Did he tell you about the knife?’
‘Yes. He did.’
‘Whose knife was it?’
It was a kitchen knife, an ordinary one with a serrated blade, the kind you might use for cutting up vegetables. Mrs Christie had identified it as one from her house, and cried as she did so.
‘It belonged to the Christies, but—’
‘And whose fingerprints were on it?’ Turner asked.
‘Ben Christie’s.’
‘Not mine.’
‘No. But there are ways of staging that.’
‘I didn’t have to. I never touched it. Did they find my DNA on it?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve read up on DNA. They can do amazing things these days, can’t they? A skin cell or two, that’s all they need to identify someone beyond doubt. And every contact leaves a trace.’
Edmond Locard’s maxim. It was the basic principle of all forensic investigation – that criminals left traces of themselves at crime scenes and crime scenes left traces on the criminals themselves. I wasn’t used to having a suspect quote it at me.
‘So they say. But—’
‘There was no trace of me on the knife. I never touched it. I never held it. I didn’t stab him.’
‘You said yourself you were covered in his blood.’
‘That was after he stabbed himself,’ Turner said dismissively. ‘That proves nothing.’
‘Why would he stab himself?’
‘You need to ask him that.’
DCI Gordon had done precisely that, over and over again. Christie had refused to say. All he had mumbled, over and over again, was that it wasn’t anything to do with William Turner, and no one had been able to prove him wrong.
‘You mean you don’t know? You were there.’ Along with two other teenagers who swore they’d seen Turner helping Christie, calling an ambulance on his phone, cradling his friend and comforting him.
‘I was too late to stop him. I tried. I saved his life. A suicide is a terrible thing.’
‘Says the man who doesn’t care if he lives or dies.’
‘Which reminds me.’ He took out his tin of tobacco again, opening it on his knee this time. ‘Almost time for another coffin nail.’
‘Will-i-am. I wish you wouldn’t call them that.’ The voice came from behind me and I jumped; I hadn’t heard anyone approach. A thin, withered woman stood in the doorway holding a cloth with gloved hands.
‘Mrs Turner?’ I stood up. ‘I’m DS Maeve Kerrigan. I’m here to ask some questions about what happened up the road.’
‘I don’t know anything.’ Her eyes were fixed on her son who was concentrating on his cigarette. ‘Don’t do that in here, William. You’ll drop bits of it everywhere.’
‘Then you can sweep them up.’ He winked at me. ‘Got to give her a reason to live, don’t I?’
Mrs Turner sighed. ‘You’re terrible.’
‘You love it.’
She squeezed the cloth in her hands, still watching him. It was as if I didn’t exist. I could see what William had meant when he said she didn’t notice anything that happened outside their home. DCI Gordon had been forthright about her. ‘She can’t imagine her boy doing anything wrong. She thought I was a bully and a liar. Little Willy never did anything to hurt anyone.’ A snort. In his opinion, Mr Turner had been fully justified in doing a runner before William was born. ‘She had money because her parents were very well off – they bought the house, for instance – but money isn’t everything, is it?’
I had agreed that no, it was not and Gordon had laughed. ‘It helps though.’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Well, Turner didn’t stick around to see his son. Maybe the boy would have turned out better if he’d been around. He had too much attention, that was the problem. He thought he was the centre of the universe because, for his mum, he is.’
‘Do you know Kate Emery, Mrs Turner?’ I asked.
‘Who?’
‘The lady who lives at number twenty-seven. She has a daughter, Chloe, who’s almost the same age as William.’
‘Oh. I know her a bit. Not properly.’ She was folding the cloth over and over, mindlessly. ‘She used to be a nurse.’
‘Once upon a time.’
‘She helped me with William once, when he was younger. He had a bad attack and I ran out into the street in a panic. She helped me before the ambulance came. She was nice then. But I don’t know her.’ She blinked. Her eyelids and the end of her nose were pink and looked raw, as if she’d been crying. She had none of her son’s looks, and I couldn’t imagine that she’d ever been attractive. Mr Turner had to have been a stunner.
‘You still haven’t said what happened,’ William Turner said. ‘Is Chloe OK?’
‘Physically.’
‘So that leaves her mum.’ A muscle tightened in his jaw. ‘Let me guess. She was stabbed.’
‘Why would you say that?’
‘Because you’re asking me about something that happened four years ago, that was thoroughly investigated at the time, as if it’s suddenly important.’
‘Well, it might be.’ I stood up. ‘I can’t tell you what happened at number twenty-seven yet. At the moment we’re still investigating. But I can tell you that we’ll need a sample of your DNA and your fingerprints.’ And while they were at it, I was going to apply for a warrant to search his house.
‘Am I a suspect?’
‘You said yourself you couldn’t remember if you’d been in the house. We need to rule you out.’ Or in. ‘That’s why we need your prints and your DNA.’
Turner nodded. ‘Then come back and get them. I have nothing to hide.’
‘We’ll see,’ I said, and left.
