Inspector Michael Doyle, the officer in charge of the Donna Joy case, wanted to meet in Pizza Express in Pimlico at 8 p.m., which seemed a bit irregular, although I was glad of the neutral venue, relieved that I wouldn’t have to go back to the Belgravia station interview rooms. I’d already lied to a police officer once this week, and hopefully the informality of a Pizza Express would make things easier. Besides which, I hadn’t eaten all day and I was starving.
Doyle was in his forties with dark hair and shrewd eyes, which seemed predictable enough for a senior police officer. That he was eating a salad and sipping tea that smelt herbal was more of a surprise.
‘I’m Francine Day,’ I said, extending my hand.
‘Michael Doyle. Thanks for coming.’ He nodded his head in invitation for me to take a seat.
‘If this was a cop show we’d be in a greasy spoon eating a fry-up,’ I said, trying to get the meeting off on an easy-going note but Michael Doyle looked as if I had offended him.
‘My boss just took early retirement. Forty-nine, heart disease and diabetes. The whole department is on a health kick,’ he said raising a brow.
I ordered a coffee from the waitress, wondering if I could be out of there before it even came.
‘So what did you want to discuss?’
The light was bright overhead and I wished we had a more tucked-away table. When I had called the number that Sergeant Collins had given me, I’d decided that this was the right course of action. My first port of call could have been to tell Martin about Alex, but as he was staying with the Coles, I wasn’t sure that was wise, especially as his behaviour at the hotel showed he was unpredictable and on the edge. I could have called Matthew Clarkson, Martin’s defence lawyer, but as I didn’t know him I wasn’t sure if I could get information out of him in return for what I was about to share.
I sat back in my chair and watched Doyle wait for me to say something. I wondered whether training at Hendon involved a psychiatric evaluation of guilt. I had recalled a TV show about a doctor who specialized in deciphering body language and I wondered what Doyle could read from me now.
‘I don’t know how much you know about the work that I do,’ I began.
‘As a divorce lawyer?’ he said, taking another swig of tea. ‘I can guess. I have some experience.’
I smiled back, knowing that I had to tread carefully. Half the coppers I’d ever met were divorced. If his wife had got the house and his kids, then Michael Doyle probably didn’t like people like me. Cops in general didn’t like lawyers anyway, which put me on the back foot.
‘I deal with a lot of high-net-worth individuals and the dissolution of their marriages,’ I said carefully. ‘That brings an added dimension to my work, we get involved in forensic accounting and other investigative areas that might not be necessary with more regular divorces.’
‘And …’ he said, making a circular motion with his fork.
‘Several weeks ago, I asked a colleague to look into Mrs Joy’s personal affairs. It’s fairly standard practice in high-end divorce settlements when we’re trying to work out the fairest financial result for our clients.’
‘How the other half lives, eh?’
‘My investigator found evidence that Mrs Joy was in a relationship. He discovered that she was involved with Martin Joy’s business partner, Alex Cole.’
‘I know,’ said Doyle, spearing a tomato.
My jaw dropped. ‘You know?’
‘Lots of Donna’s friends have got in touch with information they think might be useful.’
‘What have they said?’
Doyle pulled a face but didn’t immediately respond.
‘Someone witnessed a romantic episode between Mrs Joy and Mr Cole,’ he said finally.
‘Which means what?’
Doyle fixed me with a steely stare which told me he wasn’t going to give out any more information there.
‘You are going to interview Alex Cole, aren’t you?’ I said, already feeling my heartbeat speed up.
‘We already have.’ Doyle dabbed the side of his mouth with a napkin.
I gawped at him, feeling blindsided again.
‘And what did he say?’
‘Miss Day, you are Mr Joy’s divorce lawyer and this is a police investigation,’ he said, his warning to butt out not even thinly disguised.
‘But I’m here, trying to help your investigation,’ I said, struggling to recover my poise.
Doyle gave a soft sigh. ‘Alex Cole was with his wife on Monday evening. They went for dinner and returned home.’
‘So he has an alibi.’
His patience clearly wearing thin, Doyle scrutinized the remains of his salad as if it were the slightly preferable option to continuing his meeting with me.
‘OK, so can you tell me why my client was arrested when you clearly have no evidence that any crime has been committed?’
Doyle sighed, again.
‘Miss Day, I didn’t have to see you. I’m sure you can talk to Mr Joy’s other legal team if you want to know anything else.’
‘If you know I’m going to find out from Mr Joy’s criminal solicitor why don’t you save my phone bill and just tell me?’
Doyle released a puff of breath as the waitress brought over my coffee.
‘What is it you want?’ he said finally.
‘I need to know what’s going on. I need to know why my client was arrested, when there are certainly other people you should be interested in.’
His face remained stony.
‘I still don’t see what this has got to do with you,’ he said. ‘Presumably the divorce is on hold given Mrs Joy is not likely to turn up in court?’
He had a point, but I had an answer ready.
‘I appreciate you probably couldn’t care less about a bunch of lawyers, but this is about my business and we need to know what – and who – we’re dealing with. I know any reputational damage to our chambers is none of your concern, but …’
He nodded.
‘You don’t want to carry on defending Martin Joy if he’s guilty as hell, right?’
Not exactly what I meant, but if it got me the information I needed, I was prepared to play ball.
‘So, is he?’ I asked. ‘Or rather, can you prove he is?’
Doyle put down his napkin and looked at me.
‘Let me put it this way: Donna Joy has been missing for ten days,’ he said. ‘There’s been no activity on her social media accounts that she previously used regularly. Her phone, her bank cards haven’t been used. We can’t assume she is safe, unless we have evidence to tell us that she is. If anything has happened to Donna Joy we want to find that out as soon as possible as well as who was involved.’
‘I think we are all agreed that we want to find out what’s happened to her.’
‘Then how about you help me out, Miss Day?’
I shrugged non-committally. ‘If I can.’
‘Donna claimed unreasonable behaviour when she filed for divorce,’ continued Doyle. ‘Her sister Jemma Banks has been helping with our enquiries. She says that Martin had quite a temper. Were you aware of any episodes of domestic violence in their marriage?’
‘Have you never heard of legal privilege?’ I said, looking over the top of my coffee cup.
Doyle responded with the whisper of a smile. ‘I know you don’t have to tell me anything. But I don’t need to be having this conversation with you either.’
I let him wait, which also gave me time to think.
‘There was nothing of that nature,’ I said finally. ‘No threats, no violence. It was a marriage gone stale and there were the usual mutual frustrations, but he never laid a finger on her.’
‘To your knowledge.’
‘I would have heard,’ I said plainly.
‘Well, we’ve heard otherwise,’ said the policeman.
That stopped me from breathing. I could feel my emotions spiralling, my need to push for more information overcoming my sense to pull back.
‘From whom? Her lawyer? Her sister?’
It was Doyle’s turn to shrug. He clearly wasn’t going to reveal that little detail.
‘Quid pro quo, Inspector: why did you arrest him yesterday?’
‘Quid what?’
‘Come on. I told you something, now it’s your turn.’
He remained silent.
‘Come on Inspector, you know Mr Joy’s legal team will tell me this, it’s not a secret.’
He pushed his plate to one side and looked at me.
‘Martin Joy had a suspicious-looking cut on his hand when we interviewed him. He said it was a bike accident but officers said the bike looked brand new. Unused.’
‘I’m not sure it’s possible to tell that …’
‘Cadaver dogs searched Donna’s flat yesterday,’ he said after another pause. ‘We discovered traces of blood.’
I felt a thickness in my throat and took a breath to compose myself.
‘Where?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
‘On the bed. In the bathroom.’
‘Menstrual?’
Doyle smiled.
‘That’s what Martin Joy said.’
I felt weak and cold, as if my own blood was slowly draining away.
‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ said Doyle. ‘Menstrual blood contains traces of endometrial tissue which we’ll discover from forensics. If it’s not menstrual blood, then we have to consider the possibility that something happened at the house that night.’
‘Can you tell how long it’s been there? I mean if it is Donna Joy’s blood, can it be dated to a specific night?’
Doyle smiled again, sensing my discomfort, presumably interpreting it again as evidence of Martin Joy’s divorce lawyer losing faith in her client.
‘Clever chaps, these forensic guys,’ he said. ‘Have to see what comes back from the lab.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘But you haven’t answered the main question: is Martin Joy guilty? Did he kill his wife?’
‘You’re right, we don’t have the evidence right now, but if you’re asking for gut feel based on my experience, Miss Day?’
I nodded, feeling dread fill my chest.
‘I’d say he was as guilty as sin.’