Destroy Me by Karen Cole (read people like a book TXT) 📗

knowledge. I called her at about eight o’clock the night she died,’ he says. ‘That was the last time I spoke to her. The last time anybody spoke to her – apart from her killer, of course. She said she was going to have a quiet night and watch a film on Netflix.’

‘And do you know if the police have any leads?’ My mouth is dry, waiting for his answer.

‘Not really,’ he wipes his nose and glares at the coffee table. ‘They don’t tell me much. They treat me as if I’m a suspect.’

You and me both.

There’s a pause. Adam frowns and stands up abruptly. ‘Right,’ he looks at his watch again. ‘Well, it’s been nice to meet you, Catherine. Thank you for this photo. Let me know how you get on.’

Thirteen

Outside Adam’s flat I wipe away the tears of anger and fear that are welling up in my eyes. I can’t imagine what kind of pain and terror Charlie must have experienced in those last few hours of her life. Did she know she was going to die, or did she keep hoping and clinging on until the last minute? It doesn’t bear thinking about. One thing is clear – whoever killed her is dangerous and it’s more important than ever that I find out who it was.

Adam obviously believes, or at least is pretending to believe, that the man that lives in the flat upstairs could have murdered her. And I wonder if the police have been looking into him as a suspect. Surely, they must have at least interviewed everyone in the building. But have they missed something? I ball up the tissue in my hand, shove it in my pocket, take a deep breath and climb the carpeted stairs to the first floor and flat four. There’s no answer when I ring the bell, so I thump loudly on the door until it flies open. Loud rock music blares out and a thin, young man eyeballs me suspiciously.

‘Ben Wiltshire?’ I shout over the music.

‘That’s me,’ he says. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Er . . . I’m Catherine Bayntun. I flash my press card. Hopefully, he won’t notice that it’s out of date. ‘I’m from the Wilts and Gloucester Standard. I just want to ask you a few questions about the death of Charlotte Holbrooke.’

‘No journalists,’ he says, shaking his head firmly as he starts to close the door.

‘I can pay you for your time,’ I say desperately.

He opens the door again just a fraction. ‘How much?’ he asks.

I rummage in my purse. I have sixty pounds cash in there. I hold it out to him, and he grasps it eagerly.

‘Can I come in?’

‘Sure,’ he steps back to let me in.

His flat is the same layout as the downstairs one, but the walls are plain white and the furniture is bland – Ikea standard. From what Adam told me, I’d expect it to be a dingy, sordid drug den, but in fact, it’s quite clean and tidy, if rather bare, and the large windows let in a lot of light. In the living room the music is deafening, and I put my hands over my ears.

‘Sorry,’ he says, and he presses a button on a remote and the music stops.

‘Thanks, that’s better.’

Now I can hear myself think I examine him more closely. He has a stubbly brown beard and a solid covering of tattoos on his neck and arms. At a guess, I would say that he can’t be much more than twenty-five, but he’s stringy and haggard-looking and there’s a dull, disillusioned look in his eyes that you’d expect from a much older man.

Aside from his skinniness and his eagerness to accept my cash, there are no obvious signs of drug addiction. He seems with it, and his hand is steady as he moves a PlayStation controller from the one chair in the room. ‘Take a seat,’ he says, and I hover uncertainly.

‘Where will you sit?’ I ask.

‘I’m sorry – I don’t get many visitors,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

He fetches a chair from the kitchen and sits on it back to front, legs straddled, hugging the back rest and gives me a direct, challenging look.

‘Well. What do you want to know?’

Did you kill Charlotte Holbrooke? I think. Did you murder my friend just so that you could get high?

‘Did you know Charlotte Holbrooke well?’ I ask out loud.

He jiggles his leg. ‘You could say that, yeah.’

‘What was she like?’

He gives a deep, sad sigh. ‘What can I say about Charlie?’ he says. ‘She was one of a kind. I’ve never met anyone quite like her.’ He winces in what looks like genuine pain and to my surprise his eyes fill with tears.

‘How do you mean?’ I ask gently.

He taps his fingers on his knee. He doesn’t seem to be able to keep still. ‘She was an angel, that’s all. If it weren’t for her, I’d still be on the streets. In fact, I’d probably be dead by now.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yeah. I was fucked up when Charlie found me. There’s no doubt about that.’

He stares down at the carpet.

‘How did you meet her?’ I ask.

He turns to look at me. ‘It was about two years ago. I’d just been kicked out of my flat and I had nowhere to live. I was mainly couch-surfing and staying in hostels. Anyway, I was sleeping rough in Cheltenham and I got talking to Charlie. She said she had a place empty and that I could use it if I wanted—’ He breaks off. ‘Why aren’t you writing any of this down?’

‘I’m recording it on my phone,’ I say.

He looks dubious. ‘Well, I don’t want you misquoting me.’

‘I won’t, I promise.’ I’m wondering what brought about this change in Charlie. True, she was always generous, but the Charlie I knew was more interested in having a good time than in charities and causes. Plus, it seemed reckless, even for Charlie, to invite someone she didn’t know into her home.

‘I thought there’d be a catch,’