A Perfect Likeness (35 page)

The paramedics arrived within minutes and worked around the WPC who’s hand Gabby refused to let go of.

‘We don’t have much time,’ a paramedic informed Deckman after taking him aside, ‘but cannot risk speed. Any jolt, bump, harsh braking etc. could be fatal for her. Can you lay on a lead car, Inspector? Would help clear traffic out of the way.’

‘Colin, get a car please.’

‘Guv.’

‘Er… Sir,’ said the WPC, indicating she was still holding Gabby’s hand.

‘Go with her to the hospital and keep me informed.’

Deckman sat alone in the interview room. He looked down at the sticky pool of blood lying in the centre of a well worn plain blue carpet. It was Gabby’s blood, a respected colleague. He picked up the translation that she had brought in. He opened it to the last entry and read:

Trish Lister ( ‘Date pending’ )

Marine security. Seems like a nice lady. Got on well. Good to talk to another woman, but that feeling comes back when I’m with her or when I see her around the marina. I am afraid I am not able to let her live and Tom is not sure about her anyway. Sorry, Trish, you are to be my next victim. Very Soon.

Deckman shivered. ‘Please, God, don’t let Gabby die.’ He turned to the first page and began reading Sylvia Page’s diary of murder. It was, he thought, the most horrific and graphic description of murders he’d ever come across. He turned to the page headed:

Victoria Campbell ( 28. 02. 08)

I was shocked when I first saw Victoria. It was as if I had looked in the mirror. It was me. And she was the me I’d always wished I could have been. I made sure we became friends. Secret friends. Met for coffee, shopped in Maxfords. I knew I had to kill her. My first female victim. I was excited, but how would it feel, actually doing it. It would be like killing me – committing suicide! I couldn’t wait any longer, the urge to kill was with me. I hate it, but I love it. I decided to kill her husband as well, just in case she had said something, but he was not there. It was good because I could then use their kitchen knife. She’d said he had used it to prepare vegetables for dinner. I thought his finger prints must be on it. I put on my latex gloves and waited for her to return with her passport and driving licence. We were going to compare photo’s. I gave her no chance. I struck hard and without warning. Oh, that feeling as I felt the knife go in. It was beautiful. Her eyes stared at me, asking me why? I told her it had to be, because she was the other me. The good, me. The me I wanted to be but never would. She dropped to the floor and I took her passport and driving licence. I left feeling satisfied once more.

Note 1: I felt good when her husband was found guilty of her murder. Just like I’d hoped.

Note 2: I so wanted to be Victoria. The chance came when I had to visit Spain for the girls. I booked in the name of Victoria Campbell and used her passport. No one knew, not even Edward. It was wonderful being a nice person, even if it was only for a short time. Thank you Victoria for letting me see what it was like to be a good person, rather than the horrible, vicious creature I turned out to be.

Deckman couldn’t move. Shocked, unable to comprehend the absolute evil that had plagued the mind of Sylvia Page since she committed her first murder as an eighteen year old Moscow student named Natasha Ramirova. He knew she would not be sent to prison. She would be dealt with under the Mental Health Act .

Fraser returned to the interview room and sat, without comment. He waited for Deckman to speak. A mood of melancholy had spread throughout the station.

‘Take a look at this, Colin, but beware, it’s not pretty reading. Our Miss Page has been a busy girl. Any news on Gabby?’

‘Not yet, Guv.’

‘Bring it up to the office when you’ve read it. I’ve got the original.’

‘Guv.’

Deckman briefed Chief Inspector White before returning to his office. He checked his watch as he closed the door. He needed a few moments of quiet. It was almost one hour since Gabby had been rushed out of the station and just three minutes since he’d last checked the time.

His hopes were immediately dashed when Sergeant Rexton opened the door and walked straight in, on this occasion without even bothering to knock. Deckman glared.

‘Yes, Sergeant, what do you want?’

‘Sorry to hear about the, er… little incident, Sir. Any news on WPC Gale?’

‘No, Sergeant, not yet. And, for God’s sake, it was a major incident. Your colleague is fighting for her life.’ He checked his watch again. Sixty-five minutes and still no word. ‘Was there anything else you wished to say, Sergeant?’

‘Yes, Sir. We’ve had a response from the Moscow police HQ.’

‘And?’

‘Well, Sir, I don’t know. It’s in Russian and I er …’

‘You don’t speak Russian, Sergeant? Neither do you know someone who does?’

‘No, Sir, on both counts.’

‘If it’s any consolation I don’t speak it either, but we do have the translator here at the moment. I think he’s grabbing a coffee in the rest room. Get him to take a look at it now.’

‘Yes, Sir. Right away.’

The phone rang and Rexton waited by the door. Deckman placed his hand on the receiver but didn’t raise it.

‘Thank you, Sergeant, you can shut the door as you go. The translation is urgent.’

‘Yes, Sir. Right. Thought it might have been the hospital.’ He still hesitated.

‘The translation, Sergeant, now.’

Rexton closed the door behind him and Deckman picked up the phone, hoping that it was news of Gabby.

‘Hello, Sir, it’s WPC Stockridge at the hospital.’

‘Hi, Judy. How is she?’

‘Not good, Sir. By the time we had reached the hospital, Gabby had lapsed into unconsciousness. The ambulance crew were wonderful, working on her all the time. She’s now in theatre. The surgeon says it’s fifty-fifty as to whether they can save her, and if they can there is a strong possibility she’ll never speak again. The operation could go on for two, three or four hours, depending upon what they find. Mr Gale is here, very distressed, understandably. Can I stay here, Sir?’

‘Of course, Judy, for as long as is necessary, but keep me informed.’

Fraser knocked once.

‘Enter, Colin.’

‘You’re not going to be too amused at Page’s solicitor, Guv. It’s old JC himself.’

‘Just who we didn’t want. Luck of the draw and the straws don’t get any shorter.’

Jackson Clunes was the most unpopular solicitor on the circuit. Loathed by the police, loved by the criminal. He preferred to be addressed as JC and got upset if he wasn’t. In his mid-sixties, the police, and many solicitor colleagues, considered it time for him to take a rest. Retirement. A slight resemblance to Rumpole in stature and looks, but had the most irritating high pitch to his voice when he got over excited. Which was often. He knew the law books as if he had written them himself, but he used his brilliance to the advantage of the criminal. He made a healthy bank balance working with barristers, guiding them in many cases, and getting villains off charges that should have put them inside for years. For some reason, Jackson Clunes had no wish to become a barrister. He never divulged why, not even to his son, also a solicitor.

‘You have to wonder what side of the law he sits on, Guv, but at the moment he’s sitting in the outer office. Do you want to see him now or shall I tell him you’ve just popped out for a pie and a pint? He’s had a long session with his Mr Page and now he’s ready to ‘squeak’.

‘Yes, best get him in. After which we’ll have another go at Mr Page.’

‘Hello, Mr Clunes,’ welcomed Deckman, knowing he’d got the meeting off to the wrong start, ‘sorry you have been kept waiting. It has been pretty hectic here today as you can imagine. Still, it has allowed you to have plenty of time with your client, I understand.’

‘It’s JC, Inspector, and it is just as well I can’t charge the police for wasting my time. I would be a wealthy man.’

Deckman didn’t bite, although he would have liked to and could have bitten deep.

Fraser, standing by the window, looked down at the car park spaces outside the entrance of the station, in particular the one reserved for the duty solicitor. It was filled, overfilled would be more appropriate, with a new Bentley Continental with personalised number plates.
If that’s not wealth,
he thought,
tell me what is. Tinted windows all round, and probably bullet-proofed as well, no doubt to protect him from the good guys.

‘My client,’ Clunes continued, ‘insists he has no case to answer and if drugs were being brought into the country it must have been by his employee, Mr Rawston, without either his or his daughter’s knowledge.’

‘How convenient for Mr Page that his employee took his own life,’ said Deckman.

‘No doubt police harassment drove him to it, Inspector. I will look at that possibility later and take appropriate action. I suggest, in the meantime, my client and his daughter, who I am also representing, are allowed to be released on bail to allow you more time to reassess your actions so far, in order to try and correct the mistakes you appear to have made.’

‘Your clients would love to be released on bail, Mr Clunes, as they would be out of the country within hours,’ said Deckman happy to watch the solicitor redden with anger at his refusal to use JC.

‘Why on earth do you say that, Inspector? And why do you insist on using my name incorrectly?’ he squeaked.

Deckman ignored the second question. ‘I get the impression that your client has been frugal with the facts of this case. Has he explained there is more to it than a simple drug smuggling issue? I doubt it very much.’ Deckman pushed a folder of information across the desk top. ‘It’s all in here. If you had come to me first you would have known.’

‘I don’t like your attitude, Inspector, and why do you insist on calling me Mr Clunes? It’s JC.’

‘Because, Mr Clunes, Sir, as I understand it, Mr Clunes is your name. Why do you pretend to be someone you could never live up to.’

Jackson Clunes was now fully primed in ‘squeak mode’. He was excited and angry, but Deckman continued despite Clunes attempting to interrupt.

‘Your clients are likely to be charged with many offences and I shall be applying to the Court for an extension of custody to ensure our ‘mistakes’, as you call them, are sorted out. We are now going to interrogate Mr Page and I’m sure you will enjoy learning more about your client, and his
daughter
.’

*

Edward Page sat next to his solicitor, less ruffled than he was at the end of his last interview. Whatever Clunes had said to him had brought about a remarkable change and his confidence had returned.

‘Mr Page,’ began Deckman, ‘I don’t know what you have told your solicitor, but I suspect it was far from the truth and mighty short on detail. By the time we’ve finished this interrogation he will be aware of everything and, I hope, feeling a little different towards you. I shall be objecting to any bail request for both you and your daughter, as you say she is. To the contrary, I shall be applying to the Court for an extension of two days before I need to charge you, or release you. The latter will not apply, Mr Page. I know that you will be charged on a number of counts. Retribution will be coming your way, in full.’

‘Not a good idea to make presumptions, Inspector,’ said Clunes. ‘A long way to go yet.’

‘We’ll see.’ Deckman placed two black notebooks on the desk. ‘This one,’ he said, placing the flat of his hand on top of the smaller of the books, ‘was found in the safe at the Star Boats office. Your office, Mr Page. And this one,’ he moved his hand across to the other book, ‘we removed from the small safe in Sylvia Page’s bedroom. Do you recognise them?’

‘No, I have never seen them before.’

‘This smaller one, and I’m sure you are aware of it, contains a list of dates, coordinates and times of delivery of your cocaine supplies dating from early 2005 and going up to the end of 2011. This one, however, is a little more special and I’m equally sure you have
not
seen it before, but stop me if you recognise any of these names, Mr Page.’ He read out all but two of the names as he turned the pages. Page did not interrupt.

Clunes watched his clients face lose more colour with each name.

‘I’m surprised you didn’t stop me, Mr Page as all these people were murdered by Miss Page. The first because he would not provide her with more cocaine and the remainder were all killed on the orders of you or your mafia organisation, including the two prostitutes she murdered here, in Draycliffe. And there are two more names, one of whom you would not know about. Victoria Campbell, who was killed for no other reason than she looked like Miss Page. The final name in the book is Trish Lister, who you have met as she works at the marina. She is not dead, but would be if Miss Page had her way. Instead, she attacked another woman, this morning, in this very room. Gabby Gale is one of my staff, a WPC who is now fighting for her life after having a jagged piece of a broken mug thrust deep into her throat. That wet patch there,’ he pointed, ‘was where another colleague removed a lot of Gabby’s blood.’

Jackson Clunes shut his eyes and his face creased in disbelief.

Deckman moved the books to one side replacing them with two passports. ‘This one belonged to Hilda Breckstadt, one of the murder victims.’ He turned the pages of the ‘black-book’ translation until reaching her name. ‘You have a copy of this, Mr Clunes, in the information pack I gave you. Let me read part of the entry Miss Page made under this name. “I have been instructed, by Edward Page to terminate Hilda because she has become too much of a problem and causing too many difficulties with our other prostitutes …” And this passport is in the name of Eva Kovacs. Another prostitute who caused you to have her killed. I again quote, “Edward Page thought it very close to the last termination, but if I thought it really necessary I should proceed. I would have done anyway. That feeling has returned and I must feed it.” And now, Victoria Campbell. An innocent Draycliffe housewife, murdered because Miss Page felt she should not be allowed to live. She then used her identity to travel to Spain to arrange the purchase of the six South American prostitutes. But you didn’t know she’d murdered Victoria or used her name to travel, Mr Page. It was her secret. It says so, here.’ Deckman tapped the black note book. ‘And now, Mr Page, this signal arrived a short while ago and its translation completed just in time for this interview.’ He directed his gaze towards Clunes. ‘It’s from Moscow. From Petrovka 38, the home of the Russian Criminal Investigation Department. I sent your client’s fingerprints over because we believe he was responsible for the recent murder of a Russian politician. Again details are in the folder should you find time to read them. The Russian police have confirmed that your client is not Mr Page as he claims to be, but is Yaroslav Andrekov, a senior mafia operator. He murdered the politician for killing his wife over thirty years ago. The Russian police have requested his extradition. Also in Miss Page’s safe we found the passport belonging to Victoria Campbell, a forged passport in the name of Sylvia Page and a valid one for Natasha Ramirova. The true identity of Sylvia Page, isn’t it Mr Andrekov? We’ve enough on you both to put you away for a very long time. And don’t get any thoughts of being sent back to Russia as we are aware the mafia have their fingers in the running of the prisons and we wouldn’t want to take any chance that you might be released as soon as you get back. Would we, Mr Clunes? Take him back to his cell.’