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“He had sealing wax in his vein? How did it get there?”
“A syringe. The problem is, we found the syringe at the first crime scene, underneath the body of the prostitute, Nicola Stapleton.”
“What? She did it?”
“We don’t think so. But we know Barry was at that scene, the house in Hume Crescent.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the blood on his jacket belonged to the prostitute.”
“You think he killed her?”
“Again, we don’t know. We’re trying to build up a clear picture of what happened. But if it’s any consolation, we don’t think he did.”
Reilly leaned forward. “Billy… son… we think he was made to watch her die. Not so much a warning, because there’d be no point warning someone before you killed them. We think it was done deliberately to place him at the scene to confuse us – send us off the scent, so to speak. Which is why we need to ask again, are you sure you knew nothing about Nicola Stapleton and your brother, and the house in Hume Crescent?”
“No,” shouted Billy. “I told you yesterday. I thought about nothing else last night. Everything you told me yesterday, it’s like we’re talking about a different person. Like it’s not my brother, just somebody who looks like him. As if he’d been taken away and somebody else was living his life.”
The room grew silent before Gardener spoke again.
“From what we’ve discovered, there was definitely a strong connection between them, but we don’t think they were having a relationship. Certainly not a man and wife relationship.”
“So, what was it, then?”
“We think he was controlling he
r. That he was her pimp.”
Billy’s jaw dropped. “No way. Not our Barry. Not a pimp. You’ve definitely got something wrong there.”
“We found her passport in his flat,” said Reilly.
“There you go again. You’re talking about someone else, not our Barry. You’re making out he was a fucking criminal, as if he was leading a double life and I didn’t know him.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“No. No way, I’m not having it,” said Billy Morrison.
“Then how do you explain her passport in his safe, the house in Hume Crescent, and the fact that he was paying her weekly visits?”
“Well there must have been something between them. Like you said yesterday, she was a prostitute. A man has needs. He was probably paying her for sex. Maybe they went on holidays together, that’s why he had her passport.”
“You said yesterday he never takes holidays.”
“Well you know what I mean,” said Billy. “Weekends away, that sort of thing.”
“When was the last weekend he took off?” Reilly asked.
That question took Billy by surprise. A pause followed before he admitted, “I can’t remember.”
“That’s because he didn’t,” said Gardener. “You told us he was a workaholic and he never took holidays. Everyone else has said the same thing. Everyone also agreed with another of your statements, that he did not have a woman, was never seen with one. And let’s be honest. He had her passport, so why would he keep it in a safe? We never found his in there.”
Billy Morrison had no answer. He was too busy ringing his hands together and running them through his hair.
“I know this is hard for you, Mr Morrison. We don’t like giving bad news to anyone, but we need your help. We need to find out who killed your brother. We have a number of good reasons for that. Not the least of which is to discover whether or not it’s an isolated case, or if your life is in danger.”
Gardener’s last sentence froze Billy. “Me?”
