at it carefully. “This is a register of Jo Turing’s phone calls. Where did you get this, Drew?”
“That’s not important.”
“You know this is inadmissible,” DI Marshall said.
“Of course I do. But it will be if you request your own copy,” Drew pointed out.
DI Marshall nodded. “Please continue.”
“Brett Besson and Jo Turing met two days before her death. You can see that from their texts.”
“Allegedly met,” DI Marshall corrected Drew.
“Okay, allegedly met. You can subpoena the security footage from the bar where they met or check Jo Turing’s credit card activity for that day. I’m sure you’ll find proof. Then, Brett Besson made a call to Jo Turing on the night of her death. The call lasted less than a minute. A few seconds later, she texted him her address. It stands to reason that they’d arranged to meet again, and this time, he was coming to her place.”
“Not an unknown occurrence for siblings,” DI Marshall muttered.
Drew glared at the man but didn’t rise to the bait. “Brett Besson shared a room at the Intercontinental House Hostel with a Swedish student named Swen Persson. Swen had rented a car for the duration of his stay, a silver Nissan Sentra. This is the registration number,” Drew said, pointing to a number on the printout from the rental company. “I’ve checked with the car rental agency, and the vehicle is still in circulation.”
DI Marshall shrugged. “All right. What makes you think this was the car that struck Jo Turing?”
“Swen said that on the morning after Jo’s death, the car was parked in the wrong place and was suspiciously clean.” DI Marshall’s eyebrows rose comically, but he didn’t interrupt. “We believe that Brett Besson borrowed his roommate’s car without permission and drove it to the address Jo Turing had texted him.”
“That doesn’t mean he killed her.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Drew agreed. “Jo Turing was struck by a car at approximately 10:35 p.m. At 11:05, Brett Besson had the car cleaned at this twenty-four-hour carwash, which is only a ten-minute drive from Jo’s residence and on the way back to the hostel.”
“So, what was he doing for the other twenty minutes?” DI Marshall asked.
“Probably driving around to make sure no one was following him, and he was in the clear.”
“All right. Do you have anything else in that folder?” DI Marshall asked, a smile of amusement tugging at his lips.
His expression seemed to annoy Drew, but he didn’t remark on it and continued laying out his evidence, piece by damning piece. He pushed another sheet of paper toward Marshall. “This was taken by a CCTV camera located just up the street from the carwash at 11:15, just after the driver left the carwash.”
“This man is wearing a cap that obscures most of his face,” DI Marshall said. “For all you know, this is Swen what’s-his-name returning to the hostel after a night out.”
“It could be, yes, but the driver is wearing a ring that belongs to Brett Besson and which anyone who knows him would have seen him wear.”
“So, how can you be sure Swen didn’t borrow Besson’s ring instead of Besson borrowing Swen’s car?” DI Marshall asked.
Now he’s just being an ass, Quinn thought angrily, and hid her face in her cup of lukewarm tea to hide her expression.
“Swen Persson had no reason to kill Jo Turing. They had never met. They’d had no communication,” Drew said.
He was beginning to lose his patience, but DI Marshall was calm and cool, his expression difficult to read. He turned to Quinn and studied her for a long moment. “Mrs. Russell, did your brother do or say anything in the days preceding Jo Turing’s death that would lead you to believe he meant her harm?”
“Brett had come to London to beg my forgiveness. He wished to make amends for what he’d done to me. He kept insisting he’d make it up to me.”
“I see, and what did Ms. Turing do that would inspire him to bump her off?”
“Jo had begun sending nude photos of herself to my husband and inviting him to have sex with her.” Quinn nearly choked on the words. Her face burned with humiliation, and she wished she had taken Drew’s warning more seriously. If this case ever came to trial, every sordid detail of their lives would be revealed, examined, and possibly written about in the press.
“And was your husband receptive to her advances?” DI Marshall inquired.
“No, he was not.”
DI Marshall looked dubious but continued. “Was Brett Besson aware of what your sister was