Aiden laughed, then became serious. ‘I suppose you could tell Sue the truth, if it would ease your conscience.’
‘No way. I don’t want to get her hopes up and she’d ask too many questions. It’s better to keep it simple and contained.’
Aiden leant on the table and looked serious, his hands clasped together doing the twiddly thumb thing. ‘But you need to go out with her, Billie, because you’re right, the clock’s ticking for the appeal but at the same time, we have to be sensible and decide how long we can keep this up for, regardless of Stan’s morale.’
‘I know, don’t you think I’ve realised that?’ Billie was studying the dregs of her tea and wishing the tiny specks of black at the bottom of the cup would tell her the future, or at least what to do.
‘The thing is, Aiden, I don’t think she will ever confess to lying about what happened… why would she, why would anyone? And as much as I wanted her to be the devil’s spawn, she’s not, is she? She’s just a mixed-up, lonely woman who has now unwittingly befriended her attacker’s girlfriend. With every day that goes by I feel like I might as well bang my head against the wall for all the good I’m doing. And the irony is, I’m not actually helping Stan, I’m really helping Kelly.’ Billie flung herself back against the booth and shook her head. ‘What a bloody mess!’
Sighing, Billie rubbed eyes that desperately needed a good night’s sleep, like her brain, which needed to switch the fuck off and wake up sometime after Christmas and New Year.
‘Billie, I get it, I really do and, like I told you when we met, I’m not a shark who’s after Stan’s money. I will call time on this soon. I have a feeling it’s inevitable but before I do, let’s give it one more shot.’
Aiden took Billie’s hands in his and gave them a squeeze, continuing. ‘I agree that it’s unlikely she’s going to come out and confess because if she does, she’s in deep trouble. But then again, it’d be your word against hers and your connection to Stan would pour cold water on all of it. The only hint of something suspicious is this windfall she says she’s had, so let’s focus on that. It could be bullshit but it’s worth following up on. That’s why I want you to go on this night out, get her paralytic drunk to see if it loosens her tongue. Let her buy you a new outfit too… and when you are in her flat you can have a mooch about. It’s the only place Tom can’t get to, so you can be our girl on the inside.’
‘But what will I look for? A signed confession written in blood?’
Aiden laughed. ‘That would be perfect but I was thinking more about a diary, letters, maybe even a spare mobile, you know, a cheat phone… anything you think is suspicious. You said she’d had a windfall, so look for bank statements that show a large deposit or maybe a paying-in book. If she lives on her own it’s unlikely that she’ll be privacy-conscious and might leave stuff lying about.’
‘Okay, I’ll do it, but if I don’t find anything and she won’t tell me what she’s up to, I’m not carrying on indefinitely. It will kill me having to tell Stan because he’ll see it as giving up, and then he’ll have to face serving out his sentence…’ Billie felt herself welling up at the thought of Stan’s face and that dreadful prison.
Aiden intervened. ‘No, I’ll tell him. It will be my call. I’d rather it came from me. I’m detached. Well, I’m supposed to be, but you know what I mean.’
Billie gave him a grateful smile. ‘So, you really are a big softie on the quiet. Who knew?’
Aiden shrugged, the corners of his eyes betraying a smile.
‘Can I ask you something though and I need you to be honest?’ Billie watched Aiden closely while she spoke. ‘Do you believe Stan, still, after everything I’ve told you about Kelly?’ She held her breath.
‘Yes, I do.’
Billie felt her whole body relax. Then another question. It had to be asked. ‘Why?’
Aiden turned slightly to retrieve the carrier bag of shopping that lay on the seat beside him. ‘Because I just don’t believe that the Kelly you know is the real one. I don’t like the person I heard about from the various witnesses who knew her before but most of all, there are always two sides to a story and in this case, I’m inclined to think that Stan’s version is the truth. And I am a betting man by the way, and my money’s on him.’
There was something in Aiden’s tone that told Billie the conversation was closed, that he’d passed judgement and that was enough, no need to expand. So she followed his lead, shuffled along the bench seat then stood. The meeting had drawn to a natural close. As they made their way to their respective cars and passed the kiosk selling lottery tickets and scratch cards, Billie averted her eyes. No way was she going to buy one because – unlike Aiden – she wasn’t quite so confident that she could choose a winner.
27
Stan winced as he lowered himself onto the bed and tried not to grimace otherwise his lip would split again. With one arm wrapped around his ribs for protection he tried to get comfortable and prayed the paracetamol the doctor had given him would kick in soon.
Kick,now there was a word. Stan had known since the first day that a good kicking was inevitable and the odds were further stacked against him as soon as the nonce next door and a few other sex offenders were moved to another wing or jail. And now the other inmates had nobody else to pick on or amuse themselves with, their attention soon turned to him. He’d done everything to avoid it. He never lingered in the bathroom; he was quick when he took his bedding and clothes to the laundry and kept himself to himself when he queued up for meals or walked around the yard during his thirty-minute break. Every second spent outside his cell was fraught with danger and the thought of it was enough to bring on a panic attack, but Stan forced himself to do it, he had to otherwise he’d starve, stink and seize up.
They got him on his way back from speaking to Billie. At least in the moments before they jumped him, Stan had felt marginally happy and pain-free as she described, under duress, how much Iris had enjoyed the Christmas markets and seeing the giant Santa on the town-hall roof. After that it was a blur. He preferred not to think about the feet that kicked and the fists that punched or the names he’d been called because that sliver of sanity, that fragile thread that he held onto was about to snap.
During his nightly periods of sleeplessness, when a blanket of gloom began to slowly suffocate him, Stan lay in the darkness of his cell and swallowed down hysteria, avoiding the temptation to scream out his frustration. Oddly enough, it was during the day when tiredness and boredom enveloped him that Stan managed to sleep, even amongst the noise out on the landing that competed with the screams in his head. When he day-slept it was like a drug-induced coma, total oblivion, and probably the only thing that kept Stan borderline sane. That and having The Professor for a cellmate.
The bespectacled slip of a man who had shuffled into the cell one afternoon, barely making eye contact and saying almost nothing for twenty-four hours was as unlike Doog as it was possible to be. He was unassuming, polite, and for want of a better word, a bit of a boffin. When they finally managed a conversation Stan learned that Quentin (there was a name he needed to keep to himself) was in for growing cannabis with intent to supply. It seemed that amongst his friends, many had creaking bones, or other age-induced ailments that responded well to the poultices Quentin made in his kitchen from the plants he grew in the cellar. Stan could only assume that being in his eighties was responsible for Quentin ending up on the vulnerable wing and all things considered, they’d both got lucky.
A slight cough and the sound of paper scrunching broke into Stan’s thoughts, a minor irritation and one he could cope with, the lesser of all evils.
‘Still no better then?’
Stan groaned as he turned tentatively on his side. ‘Nah, mate. To be honest I think it’s getting worse because I’m stiffening up now. I could do with some of your magic cream though. I reckon that’d sort me out.’
A chuckle from Quentin. ‘Oh without a doubt. I’d have you right as rain in no time, young man.’
Stan smiled. Quentin spoke so well, like the useless barrister that had told him, via a twitchy, nervous solicitor that his appeal was a non-starter unless some earth-shattering piece of new evidence came to light. So that was that. Billie was his last hope and after a brief and to the point conversation with Aiden the previous day (lingering on the phone was to be avoided now), it was looking like the plug was about to be pulled on their investigations. Stan appreciated his honesty though and the fact that Aiden was also looking out for Billie who, it seemed, was running out of steam too. Dragging his mind away from his family who he would be seeing later that day for their last visit before Christmas, he focused on Quentin who he found even more fascinating than anything on telly.
