Catalyst (17 page)

This time, sitting across the table from them in the interview room, next to the prisoner, was a very large man with a prominent stomach in a crumpled, albeit expensive, grey pinstriped suit, white shirt and grey tie. His face was round and ruddy and what hair he had was parted low on one side and stuck to his head in a classic comb-over.

The room itself was reasonably large and not unfriendly, with a carpet and comfortable chairs, and brightly lit by a number of spotlights set into the ceiling panels. On the wall next to the table where they sat was a large mirror which, from the other side, was a window.

Jo switched on the recorders. “Interview started at nine-thirty,” she said. “Present, Mr Alex Anderson, Mr Clive Granville – solicitor, Detective Chief Inspector David Gerrard and Detective Sergeant Jo Cottrell. Also in attendance, Constable Simon Long.”

For the second time in the space of twelve hours, they listened to the man tell his story.

“You need to know,” he began, “that I am
not
Alex Anderson, a carer with Social Services. My name is James Philip Lorimar; I am an Investment Manager with a company called Germaine and Rolland.”

David's eyes blazed.

“Are you saying that you sat in that chair last night and told us a pack of lies until after midnight?”

“No, I'm not,” said Lorimar. “The story was correct, but I withheld my true identity.”

“Please don't try to be funny with me, Mr… Whoever. I don't fair well without a good night's sleep at the best of times. Now just tell us the real story.”

“As I said, I am currently employed as an Investment Manager at Germaine and Rolland on Canary Wharf. I joined them three years ago as an Analyst prior to which I was in active service in Afghanistan where I was a close friend of John Deverall, Alma's only son.”

“This will check out, won't it?” asked David. “I am not in the mood for any more works of fiction.”

“I promise you it will – and all that follows. We – John and I – were both in the SAS operating as lead marksmen – snipers – out of Bagram. On our way back from a hit, our patrol was involved in an explosion and John was fatally wounded. Before he died, he told me about his mother; how he had had a major falling-out with her over his role in the war. She was horrified that he was, as he said she put it ‘a hired killer shooting people who were looking the other way'. They had an enormous row and she completely disowned him; he hadn't seen her for well over a year.

“It was clear that the knowledge that he would never be able to make it up with her was more upsetting for him than the closeness of his own death. He made me promise, just minutes before he died, that I would check that she was alright and keep an eye on her.”

He faltered briefly in his story.

“Go on,” said Jo.

“To my shame,” he said, “I left the Special Forces shortly after John's death, but it was well over two years before I visited her. It wasn't like I was at the other end of the world, either. So no excuses – I just simply never got round to it.”

“But you did eventually go to see her?” asked Jo.

“Yes. I actually visited the estate on several occasions before meeting her and, I tell you, it was a real eye-opener. God knows how you can let people like that get away with it.” His demeanour changed quite dramatically, just like the previous evening, when he got on to this subject. “They really hounded her. I had a couple of skirmishes with the bastards myself.” He paused a few moments to regain his composure. “But it was a while before I actually went to see her. I wasn't quite sure how to break the ice, but in the end I just knocked on her door and introduced myself. She seemed really pleased to meet me – because of John, of course. I told her how much he regretted their quarrelling and she cried a lot. Then I went back to see her about once a week after that.”

“Why did she tell the neighbours that you were a carer?” said Jo. “Why didn't she just tell them the truth?”

The man laughed. “I said everyone would think she had a toy boy, and she got quite serious as if she was really worried that they would. So, jokingly, I said, ‘Okay, just tell them I'm from Social Services' and apparently she did. So that's what we told everybody. She seemed more comfortable with that.”

“And then?” asked David.

“The rest of the story's the same as before. I made up a name for the carer for when I did things like paying the rent and collecting her pension, and I gave the same name to the undertaker when Mrs Deverall died just to keep the separate identity. It was based on John's middle name – Alexander. I just split it up and added ‘son' – Alex Anderson. It was sort of symbolic and Alma seemed to take some comfort in that.”

He paused, as if waiting for any more questions. David and Jo were silent.

“About the gun,” he continued. “I guess old habits die hard. I know I shouldn't carry it, but frankly, once I started going onto that estate, it seemed like a good idea anyway. But I never have it loaded and I'd only ever use it to frighten, certainly not to kill.”

“Where were you on the evening of Saturday, 7
^th
of May, Mr Lorimar?” asked David.

The man smiled. “Saturday evening, let me see. Usual riotous weekend stuff, I expect. Concert on BBC2, followed by
Casualty
on one, then news and
Match of the Day
. Except was that after the end of the season? If so, probably reading or listening to CDs – or both.”

“How can you be that sure? Are you trying to tell us you do the same every Saturday? I'm afraid I don't believe you.”

“Just about every night, Chief Inspector, not just every Saturday night.”

“A bit different from the excitement and camaraderie of conflict. Is that normal for someone leaving the Special Forces?”

“It is for people in my line of work. Snipers are notorious loners, anyone will tell you that. We're seen as sort of vermin in the forces, even by our own side. Not really cricket, is it, shooting people who are looking the other way, as Alma put it? Until, of course, they're pinned down somewhere and suddenly we get the call and we're heroes when we get them out. Then as soon as it's over, we're back to being scum again.”

“I see,” said David, “So what do you do for relaxation? You're not a sniper now; I can't believe your colleagues at Germaine hold that against you.”

“No, of course not, but it's just what you become. I do go out for a drink with them occasionally, most often on a Friday after work. And I go four or five times a week to the gun club. Quite a number of ex-service people are members there.”

“Except they won't talk to you, I expect, because of what you did.”

“Actually, I forgot to share that detail with them.”

“So coming back to the Saturday in question, is there anyone who can corroborate your story, Mr Lorimar? Someone who will confirm that you were there? A companion, for example; who lives with you and enjoys the same TV programmes?”

“No, no-one. But you'll find that's the same every night, Chief Inspector.”

David remained silent and the man sat back. His solicitor nodded wisely in silent support.

“That's a great story, Mr Lorimar,” said David. “I am right in calling you Mr Lorimar, am I? You don't have any other names up your sleeve?”

The man smiled and nodded. “No, Lorimar it is.”

“But what I can't understand is why you gave us all that crap last night about Mr Anderson. All this would sound fine if it wasn't for the fact that, twelve hours ago, you sat in that same chair and lied through your teeth!” His voice was rising. “So, come on, Mr Lorimar-hyphen-Anderson, why not complete the tale for us and tell us how you exterminated the Brady boys, rather than hold it back for the next episode when you reveal that you're actually Spider Man in a baseball cap!”

He could sense, with some satisfaction, that Clive Granville was bristling at the man's side.

“Chief Inspector!” he began, voice raised with indignation on behalf of his client. “I really don't think… ”

The man interrupted him.

“I don't know why I told you what I did last night,” said the man, very calmly and clearly unfazed by the rising anger of the DCI. “Ever since I started visiting Mrs Deverall, I've been playing the part of her carer in different situations, so I guess it just felt natural to keep doing it. It was clearly wrong of me. But apart from that, what I've told you on both occasions is true except for the reason why I got in touch with her in the first place. It wasn't because of the Social Services, it was because of a favour to a dead friend. And bear in mind, I had no idea when you collared me last night in the cemetery that it was anything to do with a murder. I had nothing to do with the death of those people and I don't want any complications. What you've heard today is true.”

“Have you ever been with the army in Northern Ireland, Mr Anderson?” asked David.

“Lorimar,” the man corrected him. “Yes, I did have a spell there; that's where I first met John Deverall, in fact. Why?”

“Had you ever met Mrs Deverall before?”

“No, I told you, the first time I met her was about nine months ago.”

“And how close a friend was John Deverall?”

“Pretty close. Well, as close as anyone else in the circumstances. You get thrown together – it's not like you clock off and go home every night, you know. You're with people 24/7. So you're going to get close to the guys in your outfit, aren't you?”

“Would you say closer than you were to other soldiers in your outfit?”

“Yes, probably, because of the specialist work we did. There were just the two of us doing that in our squad. As I said, a lot of the guys don't really approve of what we do, so snipers do tend to stick together.”

“What are the names of your parents, Mr… ” he pretended to check his notes “… Lorimar.”

“Chief Inspector,” interrupted the solicitor, “my client has fully cooperated in giving a complete version of his story; he has, in my view, satisfactorily answered your questions; and he clearly regrets giving you false information last night. You don't have anything to link him with these killings, and because you don't, you seem now to be asking him almost random questions.”

David listened politely to the solicitor's comments. “Nevertheless, Mr Granville, I'd like your client to answer the question. You can hardly claim it's difficult or incriminating. So, what are the names of your parents – their full names?”

“
Were
the names,” the man corrected. “They are both dead. James Allan Lorimar and Alice May Lorimar.”

“Did John Deverall know their names, do you think?”

“I've no idea. Why?” The man, who had been totally relaxed throughout, now seemed confused and a little uncomfortable.

“Yes, where is this going?” asked Clive Granville.

“Because I'm still having difficulty in understanding how you came to know the full names of both John Deverall's parents, particularly his father, and – more to the point – why you don't remember how you know.”

“I really don't see the relevance in this,” said the solicitor.

“I'm not sure of the relevance myself, yet. But put yourself in my position,” said David, looking at a point in space between the two men opposite. “A man deliberately draws attention to himself in a crowded pub, openly challenges the three most feared toe-rags on a very tough estate, lures them away from habitation and executes them. Motive for the killings is almost certainly revenge. Now I'm sure you're aware of an important statistic associated with crimes like this, which is, the best chance of solving them is within the first forty-eight hours. After that, it becomes exponentially more difficult.

“Well, nearly two weeks have passed now and I am under enormous pressure to come up with a result in one of the most dramatic and highly publicised murder cases in recent years. And, based on that aforementioned statistic, it's not looking too promising. Or it wasn't!” He paused. “Then suddenly, we have a person,” he continued, indicating the prisoner, and turning his eyes to look directly at him, “who carries a gun, is an expert marksman, befriends a victim of the Bradys, and sees her take her own life rather than go back to face them. A man, in fact, who seems to have several identities. You do see where I'm going with this, don't you?”

No-one immediately volunteered to fill the silence that followed. Eventually, it was the solicitor who spoke, politely this time.

“Chief Inspector, would it be possible if I could have a private word with my client?”

“Interview suspended at 10:23 am,” said David, by way of an answer, stopping the two recorders. “Let's reconvene after lunch at, let's say, one o'clock.

Jo stopped off in the Operations room to brief the team while David went through to his office where his boss, Detective Superintendent Allan Pickford, was waiting for him. Alan was a little over six feet tall, slim and straight-backed, with an almost military posture. His face seemed to be fixed in a permanent frown, which was a contradiction to his friendly and supportive management style. He introduced Jane Duncan of the CPS, who was waiting with him.