Something Evil Comes Read online

  She studied him. ‘Mr Robbe, I was under the impression that Matthew Flynn was at some kind of party when he accepted the drugs he was charged with possessing. Are you saying the party was here? On school premises?’

  Robbe gave a reluctant nod. He leant towards her, his face earnest. ‘It caused a furore here, I can tell you. Claremont had had nothing like it in all its history.’ He pursed his lips. ‘And nothing since.’

  ‘Tell me about the party.’

  He shrugged. ‘Some of the pupils were having an end-of-academic-year get-together in the sixth form hub.’

  She frowned. ‘Matthew Flynn wasn’t a sixth former.’

  ‘No, but he and a couple of his friends wangled invitations.’ He sent her one of his few direct looks so far. ‘You know what the young are like. Things got a bit out of hand.’

  ‘There was supervision?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course, but … not constant. It was a very busy time for all the staff here.’

  ‘Were you involved in the celebration or its supervision?’

  He gave a vehement headshake. ‘Not at all, I’m glad to say.’ He leant on the desk, giving her a conspiratorial look, his voice low. She recognised in him someone who liked to gossip. ‘It caused the most almighty shake-up as you can probably imagine. A school like this can do without incidents of that kind: illicit substances, police! Heads didn’t exactly roll but …’ He hesitated. Hanson widened her eyes at him. He lowered his voice further. ‘All I’ll say is that certain staff who were viewed as “neglecting their duties” that night did not return for the next academic year.’ He sat back, arms folded, pushing down the corners of his mouth. ‘The school wanted to show parents and pupils alike that it didn’t and wouldn’t tolerate such a fiasco in future.’

  ‘What happened to those staff members?’ nudged Hanson.

  Robbe shrugged. ‘They left. They knew they had no future here and their references were good enough to get other teaching jobs.’

  Hanson looked down at her listed questions. ‘Tell me whatever you recall of Matthew Flynn.’

  He gave her a scandalised look. ‘I was shocked that he was involved. I really was. He was such a nice boy: pleasant, courteous, intelligent. No high-flyer, you understand. I’d say more of a slogger. We had Dominic his brother here a few years before, you know.’ He sat back, waiting for Hanson’s response.

  She nodded encouragement. ‘Really? What can you tell me about him?’

  Robbe was enjoying himself. ‘There was quite an age gap between the two. It was Dominic who was the high flyer in that family. He was also an arrogant, self-serving lout.’ He caught Hanson’s look of surprise. ‘I’ve had some good years here and I have a loyalty to the place but I have no problem speaking my mind on certain issues. I’m only part-time since I retired. Latin teachers aren’t that easy to come by these days so they asked me back. Plus, Mr Flynn is no longer involved with the school. When he was, you didn’t want to cross him.’

  ‘Really?’ repeated Hanson.

  He glanced at the door then leant towards her. ‘You’ll have noticed the school’s two new wings as you came in?’ She nodded. ‘Flynn contributed his own money to the cost of building them.’ He saw her surprise. ‘So did others, of course.’ He fussily pulled at his shirt cuffs beneath the tweed jacket. ‘Most of the pupils who come here are from money. The difference between them and Flynn was that Flynn thought his money entitled him to make demands.’

  ‘Demands,’ echoed Hanson.

  Robbe nodded, his voice barely audible. ‘He would doubtless deny it but once it was clear that Matthew wasn’t as smart as his brother, Mr Flynn requested that I, shall we say, “improve” on his son’s grades. When I refused his attitude was challenging to say the least.’

  ‘How?’

  Robbe considered the question. ‘Would you believe, verbally angry and physically threatening? That’s exactly how it came across to me.’

  Hanson was at a loss. ‘Why was it so important for Matthew to do well at Latin?’

  Robbe rolled his eyes. ‘No, no,’ he said testily. ‘I’ve always taught English and Maths here, in addition to Latin. There was never sufficient take-up of Latin for a full-time post.’ Whilst Hanson was absorbing this, Robbe stood. ‘As a part-timer I’m usually gone by now.’

  She nodded, reaching for her bag. ‘What was Mr Flynn’s response to Matthew’s involvement with drugs?’

  ‘Ha! Not bothered in the slightest. The school offered to find private counselling for the boy. The police had suggested something of the sort because of Matthew’s relatively young age and that he might need help to be more self-assertive. Flynn rejected that outright. He also took the same stance to what the school was offering, saying he already had something in mind.’

  ‘Which was?’ asked Hanson.

  Robbe shrugged. ‘He didn’t give any details. Between you and me he probably did nothing.’

  Hanson was back at the university and unsettled. Earlier she’d thought of ringing Ruth Grayson at Social Services, then reconsidered. If a busy person agrees to do you a favour by chasing up information, the last thing you should do is put pressure on her. Her phone rang and she dug it out of her bag. It was Watts.

  ‘How did you get on at Matthew Flynn’s school?’ he asked, without preamble as usual.

  ‘I know more about Brad Flynn than we did: a man who likes to get his own way and isn’t too bothered how he achieves it. A bit of a fixer, by all accounts.’ She told him about Flynn’s contribution to the funding of the school building project. ‘The teacher I spoke to was clear that Flynn felt that that gave him the right to demand his son’s grades be inflated.’

  Watts’s response was succinct. ‘Git.’

  ‘He also said that the police advised that Matthew undertake some kind of offence-related work to help him resist peer pressure around drugs. The school also offered help. Flynn refused both, saying he had a better idea, but what that was and if it was true, I don’t have a clue. Are you still there?’

  ‘I’m sitting outside your building. Fancy a quick trip to Birmingham Prison?’

  Watts waited at the first internal door for Hanson to be cleared by the officer inside the glassed-in reception, watched as he quasi-saluted her. Hanson was no more a stranger to this place than was Watts. She’d told him of a time she’d come here on a snowy January day suffering from flu because a judge had directed that she see one of its remand prisoners. The officer on duty had refused her permission to take medication inside with her. He’d relented on the medication then refused permission for her to take water onto the wing so she could take it when required. He watched her now, here on her own terms, belongings locked inside the Range Rover, carrying nothing but a notebook and pencil and asking for nothing. They walked on to the internal automated door. It slid open and they entered the holding area.

  ‘What’s your thinking?’ she asked.

  He kept his eyes on the officers high above them behind glass, their mouths moving. ‘Diana Flynn and Zach Addison had a thing going between them. If Matthew Flynn cottoned on to it, he might have challenged Addison somewhere other than the rented house and got more than he bargained for.’

  ‘I’ve had second thoughts about Matthew initiating aggression towards Addison,’ she said. ‘Addison is much bigger built.’

  ‘Remember what you told us? That Matthew Flynn might not always have judged social situations too well?’

  ‘True,’ she conceded. ‘But his other personal qualities don’t fit with him initiating aggression.’

  Watts gave her a direct look. ‘Like we talked about before, finding out that Addison was bedding his mother might have set him off.’

  She glanced up at him. ‘We need to know about Zach Addison’s capacity for violence.’

  Watts’s eyes were now on the still chatting officers. ‘Come on!’ he muttered.

  As if his voice had carried, one of the prison officers reached out a casual hand to a control panel and the door in front of
them slid open. Watts and Hanson continued on to where an officer was waiting.

  ‘Follow me, please,’ she said.

  They did, along walkways and up a flight of stairs. After a couple of minutes she left them inside a smallish office, equipped with little more than a table, four chairs and an empty bookcase. Hanson gave it a critical glance. ‘I’ve spent quite a few hours in here since I qualified. This is the room visiting psychologists and psychiatrists use to see prisoners.’

  Watts looked around. ‘Thought it had an iffy feel to it.’

  She gave him a sideways glance. ‘What’s the format when he arrives?’

  ‘I do the intros then you feel free to carry on. Addison’s agreed to talk to us because he thinks it might be in his best interests if he does.’

  ‘And is it?’

  ‘Haven’t decided. He doesn’t know about the forensic search of the house, by the way.’

  They turned as the door opened and Addison came into the room, the escort officer still at the door, her hand grasping the handle. ‘Ten minutes.’ She withdrew and the door closed on her. Addison gave Hanson a quick, searching look, his eyes settling on Watts.

  ‘Mr Addison, this is Professor Hanson who’s working with us on the Matthew Flynn case. She’s got some questions for you. Questions which might help us get to why Matthew Flynn was killed.’ Addison looked at her.

  She’d decided to be direct. ‘I want to talk to you about the sexual relationship between you and Matthew’s mother, Diana Flynn.’ In the silence she half-anticipated a ‘No comment’ response.

  ‘There wasn’t one,’ he said.

  Hanson held his gaze. At least he was talking. ‘Two minutes gone already, Mr Addison. If that’s how you intend to respond we might as well finish this meeting now.’ She was on her feet.

  Addison sent Watts a confused glance. ‘You heard the professor. What’s it going to be?’

  Addison looked down at the table. It was evident from the shadows under his eyes, his unshaven, sullen face that he was not happy with his current accommodation. ‘OK. What if there was? It wasn’t a big deal.’

  Hanson sat, eyes focused on his face. ‘It might have been a “big deal” for her son.’

  Addison looked from her to Watts and shook his head. ‘Whatever was between me and Diana was nothing to do with Matthew.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ said Watts. ‘That how you see it? He’s young, he’s just got a bit of independence from home, albeit shared with you and Graham and wham!’ His broad hand hit the table top. ‘Next thing he knows, his own mother and one of his housemates are playing patta-cake together.’ Addison said nothing.

  Hanson continued. ‘There was some kind of aggravation, a row between you and Matthew.’

  ‘No. There wasn’t.’

  She studied him. ‘Mr Flynn is very wealthy. Powerful. Did Matthew threaten to tell his father what he’d found out about you and his mother?’

  Addison’s face reddened. ‘I didn’t kill Matthew!’

  She gazed into his eyes. ‘Then tell us who did.’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ He pressed his lips together, then: ‘I had no reason to kill him. There was never any indication, any sign that he knew about Diana and me.’

  Hanson’s eyes stayed on his face. ‘That’s what you say.’ She paused. ‘We know that when Diana Flynn came to the house she brought flowers and that it annoyed Matthew.’ She leant towards Addison. ‘Annoyed because he guessed that his mother was bringing them for you.’

  Addison sighed, ran a hand through his hair. ‘You’re dead wrong. OK, OK, you’re partly right. Diana would make out that the flowers were for Matthew but it annoyed him because it was flowers. His old man used to make crafty digs about him.’

  Hanson frowned. ‘What kind of “digs”?’

  Addison shrugged. ‘You know. About him not having a girlfriend.’

  She glanced at Watts, then back to Addison. ‘You must have gotten to know Matthew a little during the short time you and he shared the house. Was there any foundation for those “digs” as far as you were concerned?’

  Addison shrugged. ‘I never got that impression of him.’

  ‘Do you know if he had a girlfriend?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not during the time I knew him.’

  ‘Did he ever mention someone called Honey?’

  ‘Honey?’ He frowned. ‘No, never. And I’m telling you: Matthew didn’t know about me and Diana.’

  They reached Watts’s vehicle parked several metres away from the prison entrance. He gazed across the road at its red-brick bulk. ‘OK, doc. Let’s hear it. Is he telling us the truth?’

  ‘I think he is. Whatever was going on or going wrong in Matthew Flynn’s life when he, Graham and Addison shared that house, I doubt that his mother’s relationship with Addison had any relevance. I don’t believe he knew.’ They got into the Range Rover.

  ‘One good theory gone west,’ said Watts. ‘Wonder if Brad Flynn knew what his wife was up to?’

  Hanson fastened her seatbelt. ‘If he did, what possible bearing might that have on his son being killed in the dreadful way that he was?’

  ‘Just talking to myself, doc. I haven’t got a clue.’

  FIFTEEN

  Hanson brought the morning meeting with her research students to a close. ‘Good work everybody for sticking to the submissions programme we agreed. Julian? Your closing date is the most pressing. Just six more days. Do you think you’ll manage it?’

  ‘A day in the computer lab plus a night and another day writing it up should do it.’

  ‘OK. Let me know if you need anything.’

  Watching them cram books and notes into their backpacks she reached for her phone now buzzing its way across her desk and checked the caller’s name. Oh, please, please. ‘Hi, Ruth.’

  ‘Got something for you, Kate.’ Hanson grabbed a pen. ‘Bless you. Tell me.’

  ‘A reference to a Matthew Flynn with the same birth date you gave me attending a drug support group.’

  ‘Ruth, you’re a lifesaver. Who ran it?’

  ‘It’s still ongoing. All I know is that it has no connection with Social Services nor the Probation Service. It’s called One Day.’

  ‘Where is it?’ She wrote down the address, a possibility sliding into her head. ‘Ruth, you wouldn’t happen to have a list of attendees of this One Day at the time Matthew Flynn was there?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Ten of them. Full names in alphabetical order with their dates of birth. Want a copy?’

  ‘Please. If you have the list there, is there a Callum on it, by any chance?’ There was a short silence. ‘Now, how did you know that? Yes, there is. Callum Foley.’ She gave Foley’s date of birth.

  Hanson smiled into the phone. ‘A lucky guess. Thanks, Ruth. I’m really grateful to you.’

  She ended the call, rang UCU and got Corrigan. ‘Hi, it’s me.’

  ‘Hi, me.’

  ‘I know who Callum is. The friend who went with Matthew Flynn to the tattoo parlour. His full name is Callum Foley.’ She gave the date of birth and repeated what she’d been told about the drug support group and its location.

  ‘Watts will sure as hell like this,’ said Corrigan. ‘He’s been looking for anything that plays up the drug connection, particularly one which connects Matthew Flynn with this Callum guy.’

  ‘When is he back?’ She heard a voice in the background.

  ‘He just came in.’

  ‘Tell him I think all three of us should take a look at this group. Let him know the details. How about I meet you there this afternoon?’ She waited.

  Corrigan was back in seconds. ‘Forty-five minutes suit you, Red?’

  Ending the call, Hanson went to the flip chart, her eyes tracking the growing list of facts and impressions she’d added over recent days, including Addison’s now admitted relationship with Matthew Flynn’s mother. From what she knew of Brad Flynn from her colleagues’ brief contact with him, plus a single source at their son’s school
, the consistent indications were that he was controlling, determined, probably ruthless in pursuit of what he wanted. Did that mean he would be equally ruthless in his response to events in his personal life? She frowned at the written information. If Flynn were to find out about his wife’s relationship with Addison it all pointed to his response being swift and aggressive. Trusting that Diana Flynn would have the good sense never to divulge it to him, Hanson added the basic facts they had about the drug support group, checked her watch and headed out.

  The address Ruth had given Hanson was an old, one-time library building facing onto a busy high street a couple of miles from headquarters. Corrigan had checked Callum Foley’s details on the police national computer: petty theft, drug offences. Walking through the main entrance with her colleagues Hanson knew from a glance at Watts’s face that he was hell-bent on wringing every bit of information from this lead. They came into a spacious central room where a spiky-haired woman with red, swaying earrings was seated at an inquiry desk. Watts reached inside his coat.

  ‘We’re here for One Day,’ he said.

  She smiled up at him, face serene. ‘Aren’t we all? We do a mindfulness course which I can recommend.’

  Face set, Watts showed his identification. ‘The drug group. Where is it?’

  Eyes widening at his change of tone, she pointed to a door ahead of them. ‘It’s in a separate building across the yard.’ Watts turned and they started towards it. Red-Earrings was on her feet. ‘No, stop! You have to wait here. The group still has another five minutes.’

  Watts turned to her. ‘Phone through now to whoever’s in charge over there and say that West Midlands Police want a word.’

  She glanced at her watch and picked up the phone, her eyes on them. ‘Jeremy? There are police officers here to see you.’ She nodded. ‘OK.’ She replaced the phone. ‘He’s coming. You can sit over there.’