Death Bed (13 page)

‘W
hat the hell’s going on? You said I’d be going home this morning. Where’s my things?’

Douggie sat down, sullen and belligerent.

‘Do you know a man called Robert Stafford?’

Geraldine held up a photo of Stafford. Douggie leaned forward slightly to squint at it for a few seconds.

‘No.’

Geraldine put the bag containing the broken pendant on the table in front of him.

‘Where did you get this?’

Douggie glanced at the chain which was clearly visible through the plastic.

‘Never seen it before in my life.’

‘It was in your pocket when you were picked up last night.’

‘So? What if it was? It’s not a crime for a man to get his girl a present, is it?’

‘Where did you get it?’

‘It’s mine.’

His eyes were guarded. He looked worried.

‘What’s the big deal? Give me my things. I never agreed to this. This is harassment. You’ve no right to keep me here. I want to go home. Now.’

He stood up.

‘You might as well sit down because until you’ve answered my question you’re not going anywhere, however long it takes. Where did you get this?’

‘You can’t keep me here.’

‘Where did you get it, Douggie?’

‘It’s mine. I didn’t steal it.’

‘No one said you did. Did I say he stole it?’

Geraldine looked at Sam.

‘No.’

Geraldine turned back to Douggie.

‘Where did you get it?’

‘I bought it.’

‘Where?’

‘I can’t remember. It was off some geezer in the pub. He was skint and needed some cash, so seeing as I’m a generous type, I - ’

‘This belonged to a woman called Jessica Palmer.’

‘Well this geezer must have stolen it from her then, because I didn’t. Tell you what, you can give it back to the woman if it’s such a big deal. I don’t want it anymore. Take it, have it, give it back to her, it’s broken anyway. And before you say anything, it was like that when I found it – when I bought it - ’

‘Jessica Palmer’s dead, Douggie. She was murdered.’

‘Oh fuck.’

His jaw dropped as he realised the implication of what Geraldine had just told him.

‘Look, I never had anything to do with anyone called Jessica, I just found the chain - ’

Geraldine leaned forward and spoke very slowly.

‘The piece of jewellery that was in your pocket last night belonged to a woman who’s just been murdered. That in itself places you as an accessory, at the very least. So unless you start talking, and tell us everything you know, you’re going to find yourself facing a possible murder charge.’

She leaned back slightly.

‘As it happens, I believe you when you say you didn’t kill her, but convincing a jury is another matter entirely. The chain was in your pocket, and you just admitted to us that it was your property.’

She paused.

‘You can see how it’s going to look, can’t you?’

Douggie slumped in his chair.

‘Alright, alright. I didn’t buy it off a bloke in the pub. I didn’t buy it from anyone. I found it. I was going to give it to my missus, but then I saw it was broken so I thought I might get it fixed for her. That’s why it was in my pocket and that’s the truth.’

‘Where did you find it?’

‘On the street. Your dead woman must have dropped it.’

‘What street?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘You have to do a lot better than that, Douggie.’

‘Look, I drink, alright? I don’t always remember what happens very clearly. I was walking along, I saw it on the pavement and I picked it up. That’s all I remember.’

When it was apparent Douggie wasn’t going to budge from his story, Geraldine ended the interview.

‘Shall we chuck him out, ma’am?’ the custody sergeant asked.

‘No, certainly not. Keep him in for now.’

‘Right you are, ma’am.’

He grinned suddenly.

‘He’s not going to like it, mind.’

‘Good. Don’t make him too comfortable.’

The sergeant laughed.

‘I’m afraid we only offer the best accommodation to our guests here, ma’am.’

While Geraldine was interviewing Douggie his flat had been searched. The only interesting find was a blood stained wad of kitchen towel in the bin outside, but Mrs Hopkins’ story that Douggie had cut himself on a bottle he’d accidentally broken checked out when hospital records confirmed her account.

‘You don’t think he could have cut himself deliberately to hide other blood stains?’ Sam asked.

‘I’m not sure he’s that clever – or quite so stupid come to that,’ Geraldine replied. ‘But get scene of crime officers in to check and send samples off for analysis. Come on, let’s have another chat with Douggie Hopkins, see if some more time in the cells has loosened his tongue.’

To her relief, Douggie seemed inclined to talk.

‘If I agree to tell you what happened, can I go?’ he asked as soon as he sat down.

Geraldine inclined her head.

‘But I won’t talk with anyone else here as a witness. This is off the record and I’ll only talk to one person. That way it’s your word against mine if I don’t want to testify to anything in court.’

‘That’s not how it’s done, Douggie.’

He returned her gaze levelly.

‘Then you might as well call it a day because I found the chain in the street, right? I can’t remember where. And that’s all I’m saying.’

He sat back in his chair and waited while Sam stood up and left the room closing the door behind her.

Geraldine turned to Douggie.

‘Go on then, I’m listening.’

‘This is off the record, right?’

‘Just talk, Douggie. Or are you determined to go down for a murder you didn’t commit.’

‘Alright, I found it in a car I’d been given to – dispose of.’

He was leaning forward and speaking very rapidly, in a low voice, as though he was afraid someone might be listening.

‘That’s the honest truth. And if you tell anyone what I just told you, you’ll have another murder on your hands because I’m as good as dead if this gets out.’

He bit his lip, visibly agitated, and then put his head in his hands.

‘No one is going to tell. This is between us,’ Geraldine assured him.

She wondered if her lies were any better because she was telling them in a good cause.

‘Now, about this car. Who asked you to get rid of it?’

Douggie shrugged without taking his hands from his face. Geraldine repeated the question. When Douggie dropped his hands from his face she could see he was genuinely scared. This was it, the lead they had been waiting for. All she needed was for him to say the name of the man who’d given him the vehicle in which Jessica had dropped the chain.

‘Who was it, Douggie? It’s that or a murder charge.’

He nodded, licking his lips.

‘This man approached me when I was walking home from the pub on - ’

He paused, thinking.

‘It was Sunday night. He said he’d give me - five hundred quid to get rid of a car for him, but it had to be done that night. No time to wait for the scrap – for the morning.’

He scowled.

‘I said I’d do it. It was only a car. It’s not a crime to destroy a car with the owner’s permission, is it?’

‘Maybe not. Go on.’

‘So I drove the car to – well, to this place I know. I didn’t want to do it, but this bloke, he’d scared the shit out of me and I couldn’t say no.’

‘Did he threaten you?’

‘He said he wasn’t taking any chances and he knew where I lived. The bastard had followed me home. He had it all worked out.’

He scowled.

‘And he damn near killed me, put his arm round my throat and almost choked me to death.’

‘Can you describe the car?’

He smiled.

‘Down to the last tiny detail of the trim, but it’ll be no use to you now. I torched it.’

He laughed nervously.

‘It was a black 7 series BMW… Lovely motor. Broke my heart to see it go like that. I’ve never done anything like that before - ’

His eyes flicked away from her face and back again, calculating how much she really knew. Geraldine sat, impassive, waiting for him to contradict himself with his frantic lies.

‘Anyway, he paid up alright. Two fifty in the glove compartment, just like he said, and – and that was it. Two hundred and fifty quid.’

‘You said five hundred just now.’

‘Did I? I meant two-fifty. I suppose you’re going to take that off me now.’

‘You’re even cheaper than you look Douggie. And the man? Who was he?’

‘Never seen him before in my life and that’s the truth. And I didn’t ask questions. I just did the job. He seemed like he wasn’t short of the readies.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘Well no, because the thing is, I only saw him twice, in the dark, and he was behind me all the time. I saw his shoes and they looked expensive and he had this posh voice. When I picked up the car I saw a figure in a hood disappearing up the road, but I never got a good look at him. He was too careful for that. But – no, that’s it. I never saw him again.’

Geraldine questioned him further, but either he genuinely had no idea who had paid him to destroy the car, or he was too scared to disclose the name.

‘How did he find you?’

‘I’ve no idea. He must have asked around.’

‘Who might he have asked?’

Douggie shrugged.

‘How the hell would I know that? He just appeared out of nowhere. It happens that way sometimes.’

‘I thought you said you’d never done anything like this before,’ Geraldine reminded him, but he didn’t bother to reply. Geraldine suspected he might be telling the truth when he claimed not to know the man, but he did know where he’d torched the car, and any lead was better than nothing.

T
hey took the M25 to Epping Forest with Douggie Hopkins in the back of the car, and SOCOs following in a van.

‘What’s this for?’ he had protested when Geraldine handcuffed him.

‘I’m hardly likely to do a runner, am I? I’m helping you. You should be rewarding me for my valuable information, not treating me like a fucking criminal.’

‘Just tell the driver where to go.’

‘I’ll tell you where to go as well if you don’t get these things off me. This is police brutality. I’m an injured man.’

‘Oh shut up.’

Douggie subsided, grumbling and cursing, and they drove the rest of the way without talking.

It was raining when they reached the outskirts of the forest. Geraldine hoped they weren’t being taken on a wild goose chase, but Douggie seemed to know which way to direct them as he led them deeper into the forest along narrow lanes. At last, they drove off the road into a clearing.

‘There it is.’

Douggie raised his cuffed hands to indicate the blackened shell of a car and they stared at the twisted metal in silence for a few seconds.

‘It was a real beauty.’

‘Not any more,’ Geraldine replied.

Douggie sighed.

They climbed out of the car and approached the wreckage. A metallic smell mixed unpleasantly with the stench of damp singed fabric and burnt rubber.

‘Don’t touch anything,’ Geraldine spoke sharply.

‘What’s to touch?’ Douggie replied. ‘And with what?’ he added angrily, shaking his handcuffs.

‘Take these fucking things off!’

Geraldine turned to see what had happened to the scene of crime officers who had followed them there, and saw them at the side of the clearing putting on their kit. There was no need to point out the ruined car to them. Leaving the scene of crime officers to their work, Geraldine returned to London, dropping Douggie Hopkins off on the Holloway Road.

‘Is that it then?’ he asked, nursing his injured hand and scowling.

‘For now.’

‘What about my things?’

‘You can go and pick them up from the station anytime.’

‘Thanks for nothing.’

He turned and slouched off without a backward glance.

The owner of the car was soon traced from the chassis number, a William Kingsley.

‘It’s only about half an hour’s drive if we’re lucky,’ Sam said. ‘More likely forty-five minutes. Geraldine, do you think this could be it? Have we got him? He doesn’t have form. I’ve checked. But it could be a crime of passion. He’s married. What if Donna Henry was his mistress and he wanted to silence her before his wife found out - ’

While Sam could barely contain her excitement that they finally seemed to be getting somewhere, Geraldine struggled to keep her face impassive.

‘Facts, sergeant, facts, not wild speculation. Let’s see what he has to say for himself before we go jumping to any conclusions.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Sam gave a mock salute, smiling.

William Kingsley lived in a small house in Northwood, North West of London. The neat, plump woman who opened the door looked about thirty-five but could have been younger.

‘Hello.’

She smiled at them readily.

‘Are you collecting the clothes for the old folk? I’ve got a bag put by, hang on a sec.’

‘Mrs Kingsley? We’re not collecting clothes.’

Geraldine showed her warrant card.

‘It is Mrs Kingsley?’

‘Yes. You’ll be wanting Bill?’

A man appeared in the hallway, tall and lean, with light gingery hair and moustache.

‘Who is it, Denise?’

‘It’s the police,’ his wife said.

William Kingsley frowned.

‘What is it? Only I’ve had a long day and I’m knackered.’

‘Mr Kingsley, you own a black BMW - ’

‘Used to. I sold it a couple of weeks ago.’

‘It’s registered in your name.’

He looked startled.

‘Oh shit, did I forget to send the slip off to the DVLA?’

‘Oh Bill,’ his wife said. ‘You promised you’d do it.’

He shrugged.

‘How could you forget? Now we’re in trouble.’

‘Don’t look at me like that. And stop being stupid. The police haven’t come here chasing my DVLA form.’

‘You said you sold the BMW?’ Geraldine checked.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Who did you sell it to?’

William Kingsley pulled thoughtfully at his chin.

‘I don’t really know who he was. Just some bloke.’

‘Some bloke. I see. Where did you meet him?’

‘I didn’t. That is, he came round. He’d seen the ad I put in Exchange and Mart and called up and came over to take a look. Actually, he hardly looked at the car at all, just listened to me start the engine and said straight away he’d take it. I mean, the car was only five years old and it was in great shape. I looked after it.’

‘What was his name?’

‘I never asked. He paid in cash and that was it really. Is it important then?’

‘Yes. We need to speak to the man who bought your BMW.’

Kingsley cleared his throat nervously.

‘He looked well-off.’

‘It would help if you could tell us everything you can remember about him, and then we’d like you to go along to the local police station and see if you can pick him out in an identity parade.’

He shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, but it was a few weeks ago now, and I only saw the guy for a few minutes.’

He frowned in an effort to recollect and then shook his head. ‘No, I can’t remember him at all, I’m afraid. I’m really not good with faces. My wife thinks I’ve got that condition, what do you call it Denise?’

‘It’s got some funny name. It’s basically face blindness,’ Mrs Kingsley explained. ‘Prosonosa or something.’

‘Prosopagnosia.’

‘Yes. That’s the one. Anyway, he’s terrible with faces.’ Geraldine turned back to the electrician.

‘Please try to remember, Mr Kingsley. Was he white or black? Fair or dark haired?’

‘Well, he was white with dark hair, I think, and - ’

He paused, struggling to summon up an image of the man.

‘You said he gave the impression of being well-off. What made you think that?’

‘Well, I suppose he had a posh voice and was well-dressed. He might’ve been wearing an expensive coat. I can’t remember what he was wearing, to be honest, that’s just the impression he gave, so I felt I could trust him. I mean, it didn’t occur to me to suspect his money was dodgy. If it had, I wouldn’t have touched it.’

‘Was he tall or short? Anything you can remember might be helpful.’

‘I think he was tall, about my height, though I couldn’t swear to it exactly.’

Geraldine frowned, thinking about Robert Stafford, tall and dark-haired but speaking with a distinct Northern accent.

‘Think carefully, please, Mr Kingsley. Can you remember anything else about this man, anything distinctive? His hairstyle, perhaps?’

The electrician shook his head helplessly.

‘Where’s the money now?’

William Kingsley frowned.

‘Well, some of it went on the bike. I had to get it fixed. And the rest - ’

He glanced at his wife.

‘Don’t look at me,’ she protested. ‘We’ve got to eat, haven’t we?’

‘Did he say anything else at all?’

William Kingsley shook his head.

‘If you remember anything else about this man, anything at all, please let me know, and in the meantime we’d appreciate your help in seeing if you can pick this man out at an identity parade. You never know, you might recognise him.’

He shook his head again.

‘I won’t.’

‘Well we’d like you to try anyway, and apart from work, please don’t leave home for the time being, and if you have to go away, make sure you let me know. We’ll expect you at the local police station tomorrow then.’

Despite his professed poor memory for faces, there had to be a chance he might recognise Stafford as the man who had bought his car. He might remember his voice.

‘I’m sorry to take up your time like this,’ she went on, seeing William Kingsley’s expression, ‘but I’m sure you want to help us in our enquiry into a serious crime - ’

‘What? Is it a murder or something?’

‘Yes, what’s this all about?’ his wife asked.

‘I’m afraid we can’t tell you.’

‘So you want me to go to the police station and look at a line-up, is that it? How long will it take then? What about my work?’

‘I’m afraid it will take as long as it takes, Mr Kingsley. I’m sure you want to co-operate with us.’

‘Oh William,’ his wife interrupted.

She turned to Geraldine.

‘Of course he’ll be there, Inspector. He’ll go down straight after work, won’t you?’

‘We should have the identity parade ready mid-morning, so we’ll expect you about ten-thirty. We want to get this done as soon as possible. One more thing, Mr Kingsley. Where were you on the night of Saturday the twenty-first of August?’

‘We always go out on a Saturday night,’ he replied.

‘The girl from next door babysits and we meet my sister and our friends in the pub,’ his wife chimed in. ‘It’s karaoke night.’

‘And after the pub closes?’

Mrs Kingsley looked puzzled.

‘We all go home.’

‘Does your husband ever get called out to work at night?’

‘Never.’

‘What do you think? Did Robert Stafford buy the BMW from him? Or is Kingsley himself the man we’re looking for?’ Sam asked, when they were back in the car.

‘I honestly don’t know.’

‘He says he sold his car but there’s no record of any kind.’

‘I don’t think Kingsley’s lying,’ Geraldine replied. ‘There’s nothing to connect him with Jessica Palmer and his wife seemed quite clear he was with her.’

Circumstances might point to William Kingsley but much as she wanted to believe they had found the killer, she didn’t think the electrician was their man.

‘So it’s back to Stafford,’ Sam said firmly. ‘Kingsley sold the car to a tall, dark-haired man.’

‘Who was expensively dressed and spoke with an educated accent.’

‘He could have remembered wrongly. Like he said, he sees a lot of people over the course of a week.’

‘Just our luck to have an eye-witness who can’t remember meeting the killer,’ Geraldine muttered.

‘Whatever. Lots of people are useless at remembering faces. But the rest of it could fit with what Kingsley and Hopkins told us.’

‘I don’t see Stafford in expensive clothes.’

‘Anyone can buy something that looks expensive. That’s neither here nor there. And as for the accent, didn’t Evelyn Stafford say her husband did impressions? He could have put on a false voice to hide his Northern accent.’

Geraldine had to admit the idea wasn’t utterly implausible, but it still didn’t feel right.