whoever had done it was made to pay. Given Duran’s connections in the Eastern European criminal world and what Kershaw had said about the Ukrainians in the flat at Park Grove and the broader Eastern European connection, it was easily possible that Duran might know, or could find out, something about what had happened. Why he wanted to help her, after she had been instrumental in putting him away, was another question. But it didn’t matter for the moment. She needed to find out more.
‘What sort of favour are you talking about?’ she asked, still watching Peters closely.
His expression gave nothing away. ‘You should speak to Mr Duran directly. He can tell you a lot more than I can.’
‘Speak to him? What, at Bellevue?’
‘Yes. If you’d like to go ahead, I’ll sort out the visiting order straight away. Visiting hours are from two until four. The car can collect you tomorrow at midday, if that’s convenient.’
FIVE
Duran’s driver dropped Eve outside Bellevue Prison, near Reading, just after one p.m. the following day. Built in the 1990s, surrounded by a series of high, faceless perimeter walls, it was a brutal, modern building, which stood out uncomfortably in the otherwise semi-rural landscape. She checked in at the visitor centre, which was next to the entrance, leaving her bag and personal belongings in a locker, then made her way to the main building, where she joined the shuffling, fidgeting queue of other visitors. The majority were women, either on their own or with children, the odd suited lawyer or other official visitor sticking out like a sore thumb in their sober work clothes amongst the colourful, noisy melee. The process was very slow and thorough and it was well over half an hour before she was shown into a small, brightly lit interview room. It was divided down the middle by a low wall and a glass partition, with a table and chairs on either side. She was pleased not to be in the main visitors’ hall down the corridor. She had no desire to be seen by anybody visiting Duran.
She had just sat down when the door on the opposite side of the room opened and Duran entered, followed by a prison guard. His appearance shocked her. When she had last seen him at the Old Bailey, he had been a tall, very striking-looking man, but she barely recognized him. His face was gaunt, with deep shadows under his eyes, and his skin had an unhealthy yellow tinge. He had lost a lot of weight and his shirt hung from his broad shoulders, his trousers also very loose. Instead of the brisk, forward thrusting walk she remembered, he stooped, moving slowly and uncertainly, almost shuffling, like an old man. For someone who had previously taken so much trouble with his appearance, who cared so much about every detail, it was particularly striking.
He sat down stiffly opposite her and folded his hands on the table in front of him. As her eyes met his, she felt the familiar chill. ‘Nice to see you, Eve. I’m glad you decided to come.’
The words came over clearly via the microphone, as though the glass partition wasn’t there, his voice deep and a little hoarse, the tone flat and measured and without accent, just as she remembered it. There was no smile, or change in his facial expression.
‘Forget the pleasantries,’ she said, suddenly impatient. ‘Let’s get to the point. You say I was set up.’
Duran gave a slight nod. ‘I can give you the evidence. It wasn’t hard to get …’
‘But I hear you want something from me in return.’
‘Always so direct.’ There was a pause while he unashamedly studied her. ‘You’re looking very well, Eve.’ There was a flicker of a smile, which felt like an insult.
‘That’s more than I can say for you.’
‘Prison life doesn’t suit me. But that’s not why I wanted to see you. Do you believe in justice?’
‘What sort of a question’s that?’
‘Humour me.’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘But you accept that the justice system is fallible?’
‘Are you trying to tell me now that you didn’t murder Stanco Rupec?’
Duran stared at her for a moment, his black eyes glassy, the dull glimmer of light behind them unreadable as always.
He gave a faint, weary sigh. ‘No. This is not about me. There’s a man here at Bellevue, who’s in for a crime he didn’t commit …’
‘That’s what they all say.’
Duran held up his hands and she noticed that even his palms had a yellowy tinge. ‘Not me. You need to hear me out. I did what I did and I’m prepared to pay the price, which is why I’m not bitter, at least not as far as you’re concerned. You were just doing your job. But Sean Farrell is not a murderer. He was stitched up, and the real killer’s walking around a free man.’
‘What’s any of this got to do with me?’
‘His case is being reviewed in a few weeks. He’s been through ten years of hell in this dump just to get this far. This is his one final shot to prove he’s innocent, or at least show that the investigation was flawed. He’s got some people working on his behalf, but they’re just skimming the surface. They need help. Unless something else comes to light very soon, his application will be turned down. And then that’s it for Sean. All hope gone. That’s not justice.’
His words spoke of passion but the delivery was flat and without energy. As far as she knew, he didn’t have an altruistic bone in his body and she couldn’t fathom why he was interested in somebody else’s cause.
‘Why do you care?’
‘Because I believe he’s innocent. I’ve talked to him at length in here, made some preliminary enquiries myself, and I’m convinced he didn’t do it. The police cocked up. This wasn’t the Met, I hasten to add, so you don’t need to defend them. It was somewhere out of London, in the Home Counties. They had him in the frame and they tried to make the evidence fit. They were just plain lazy and his lawyers were no better. They just wanted a quick fix, tick the box and move on. Problem is, they got the wrong man.’
‘Shit happens. It’s tough. More to the point, why are you bothering to get involved?’
He shifted in his seat and took a deep, rasping breath. ‘Because it interests me.’
‘Are you saying the justice system’s corrupt? Is that your angle?’
Duran inclined his head. ‘In some cases, without a doubt. In this instance, I suspect it was incompetence more than anything else, but they don’t give a flying fuck. Their necks aren’t on the line. They can go home at night to their families and their cosy little beds and put it all behind them. The only one who pays for their shoddiness, day in and day out, is Sean.’
She almost smiled. It was ironic hearing him take the moral high ground about the justice system, or its failings. He had been successfully dodging around it for years, but she let it go. He had a point, not that she would dream of saying so. Occasionally, she had seen at first hand fellow officers taking short cuts with cases. It was usually due to laziness, or over-work, or occasionally, as he said, incompetence. If it was true for the Met, who had the greatest number of murder cases to solve each year, it was even more so for a smaller, more rural police force, where murder was a much rarer occurrence. A murder investigation was always high profile and hampered by all the usual media focus and hype. Under the constant pressure to get a result as quickly as possible, errors might be made. Sometimes, it made even the best officers blind to what was in front of them. Although there was no excuse, it happened. But she reminded herself she was there to find out what he knew about her case. That was all.
‘As I said before, what’s any of this got to do with me?’
Duran inclined his head a little towards her, holding her gaze unblinking. The room was overheated and airless and she suddenly felt a little giddy. His dark scalp and forehead gleamed with perspiration and the whites of his eyes were bright yellow. He looked