Good Girl, Bad Girl(99)

Lenny is growing impatient. “Who impregnated Jodie?”

Ness blinks at her before realizing that he’s only told us half of the story. “The fetal sample showed a commonality of twelve and a half percent—so you’re looking at the uncle, Bryan Whitaker. Like I said—you’ll need to test him to be absolutely sure.”

I glance at Lenny. Her fists are clenched. Bloodless.

“He was home that night,” I say. “Jodie could have confronted him—threatened him with blackmail.”

Lenny grabs her coat from a hook on the wall and opens the door, yelling, “Antonia, I want a car. Now!”

We’re moving. Lenny projects her voice across the incident room. “Edgar, you’re with me. Monroe. Get me a search warrant for the Whitaker house and car. I want everything we have on Bryan Whitaker. Sexual complaints. Rumors. Whispers. We need his phone records and Internet search history.”

I’m in the corridor with Lenny ahead of me. Ness has been left behind. Lenny looks over her shoulder.

“Where do I find Whitaker?”

“He’ll be at the memorial service.”





53




* * *





CYRUS




* * *



Bryan Whitaker is arrested in the parking area of the Corpus Christi Catholic Church as the memorial service ends. Mourners are slowly filtering through the doors, many of them dressed in yellow hats and scarves or carrying yellow balloons.

Lenny dispenses with the handcuffs and offers Whitaker a phone call, which he uses to call his wife rather than a lawyer, a poor decision. Felicity is still inside, comforting Maggie or shielding her from sympathizers and reporters.

“I don’t understand what this is about,” Whitaker says from the rear seat of the police car. “What am I supposed to have done?”

“You’ve been read your rights,” replies Lenny.

“What am I being charged with? Aren’t you supposed to tell me?”

“You’ve been arrested on suspicion of murder.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Lenny ignores his subsequent questions and protests, but lets him keep talking, enjoying his frustration.

We’re nearing the police station when she turns and looks over her shoulder from the front seat. “Are you a religious man, Bryan?”

He doesn’t answer.

“There’s a passage in the Bible. The Gospel of Matthew if memory serves. ‘If anyone causes one of these little ones, those who believe in me, to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.’?”

“I would never hurt a child.”

“You love them, I know, all the nonces say that.”

Whitaker’s face alters, twisting out of shape, and his fists clench and unclench.

Lenny doesn’t press the issue. Instead, she puts him in an interview room and lets him marinate for a few hours in a toxic slurry of fear and uncertainty.

In the meantime, a search warrant is issued for his house, where laptops, tablets, and mobile phones are seized. Felicity Whitaker is brought to the station, entering through a rear door. Although she’s not under arrest, everything about her body language seems to be weighted down like she’s a deep-sea diver wearing leaden boots, walking along the ocean floor.

“Can I get you something?” I ask as she waits to be questioned in a “comfort room” normally set aside for sexual assault victims.

“No, thank you.”

I bring her a cup of tea anyway. She leaves the teabag dangling inside as she holds it with both hands to keep it steady.

“How long will this take?” she asks.

“I don’t know.”

She’s nursing a leather handbag, touching it occasionally like she’s petting a cat.

“Do you want to be left alone?” I ask.

“No. Stay.” She sips her tea. “I’ve never been to a police station. I mean, I’ve seen them on TV. I used to love The Bill and Inspector George Gently. Crime dramas, you know. I like a good detective story.”

“Are you very good at picking the villain?”

“Hopeless. Half the time they don’t give us a chance, do they? They make it someone so unlikely.” Her hands are shaking. “I’m sorry Bryan shouted at you. He didn’t mean to be rude. What’s this about?”

“Jodie was pregnant.”

“Yes, I know, but what’s that got to do with Bryan?”

“On the night she went missing, did Bryan go to the fireworks with you?”

“No. He had an AA meeting at the Methodist church in Sherwood. He goes every week. He’s been sober for nearly nine years.”

“Was he a bad drunk?”

“He never took it out on the kids.”

“What about you?”

She sighs. “We’ve been married a long time. Some arguments are worse than others.”

“What time did you get home that night?”

“Nine thirty. I was a bit tipsy. Maggie kept filling my glass with champagne.”

“Did you see Bryan?”

“I heard him come home. I was in bed.”