The Telling Error (16 page)

Bryn Gilligan’s gatekeeper was his mother, Jennifer: a tough-looking woman with muscly arms and three small diamond earrings in each ear, who lived in a strange kind of bungaloid mansion: very flat – only one storey – but covering roughly the same square acreage as a large hospital might.

Simon was struck by the contrast with his own mother, her house, her behaviour. Kathleen Waterhouse, throughout Simon’s childhood, had refused to open the front door of their three-bedroom red-brick semi at all, let alone block it with her body to protect her son. Not that anyone had ever come to the house who posed a threat to Simon; apart from the parish priest, no one had come to the house at all.

Jennifer Gilligan’s aim in barring the entrance to her ultra-modern concrete-and-glass detached bungalow was not simply protective. She wanted to brief Simon before he came into contact with Bryn. ‘I don’t think he should be interacting with these people all day long,’ she said urgently, in a whisper. ‘Most of the time he’s in front of his laptop, and when he has to be away from it, he’s got his iPhone. Fine, if he were using them to communicate with friends, but he’s not! He’s spending all this time with people calling him names and telling him they hope he dies. It’s not doing him any good.’

‘No,’ Simon agreed. ‘It sounds … unhelpful.’

‘He doesn’t just read them, which’d be bad enough – he insists on answering every damn single one of them! He thinks if he engages with them, they’ll see he’s got a good heart, but the worst ones aren’t capable of seeing, because they haven’t got hearts at all! They want to carry on hating – it’s their hobby. Avoiding them, ignoring them, disconnecting – that’s what he needs to do. I’ve said all this till I’m blue in the face, and he nods and says I’m right, but nothing changes.’

Simon hoped she was just letting off steam, but feared it was more than that. As Jennifer’s forehead creased, and she opened her mouth to speak again, he knew what was coming. ‘You couldn’t …? I mean, I know you need to ask him about Damon Blundy … who he didn’t touch, by the way. I know my son. He wouldn’t harm any living creature, believe me. I’ve seen him run along the hall with a spider to throw it out the front door instead of killing it. But … if there’s any way you could talk to him about this horrible Internet obsession, I’d be very grateful. He might listen to you.’

Sam Komobothekra, in Simon’s place, would agree without question. As Sam himself had admitted, he was better suited to hand-holding than to police work. Charlie would say, ‘If I see him doing it while I’m talking to him, I’ll mention it – how does that sound?’

Simon found himself unable to respond directly to the question. Helping people to live happier lives wasn’t his job; solving murders was. He wanted to say, ‘No,’ but that would have sounded too harsh.

‘Can I come in?’ he said instead.

Jennifer nodded and moved aside so that he could pass. She pointed down the hall. Simon looked and saw the two of them reflected in the largest mirror he’d ever seen. It took up a whole wall. ‘Bryn’s in the kitchen. Straight down to the end, turn right, then left, straight along again – it’s at the far end of the house. Do you want me there or not?’

‘I’d rather talk to him alone if that’s all right,’ said Simon.

‘Fine. If he forgets to offer you a cup of tea, ask for one. He’ll probably forget. Oh, one thing.’

‘What?’

‘If he asks you what you think about what he did, what’s happened to him, whether he should be banned from sprinting for life, what’s your answer going to be?’

‘I’ll say I’m not here to discuss that.’ Simon saw that this wasn’t enough for her. ‘Or I’ll tell him the truth – I know nothing about competitive sport and what the rules should or shouldn’t be. I don’t have a view. I’ve never thought about it.’

‘If he tells you he’s changed and that he wouldn’t do it again, what’ll you say to that?’

‘I’ll say … that’s good – I’m pleased to hear it?’

Jennifer seemed to relax. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Maybe a positive response in real life’ll count for more than all the haters online. I hope so.’

The huge mirror, it turned out, was part of a collection. Simon passed at least twenty more, on his way to the kitchen. It was the Hall of Mirrors – not in Versailles but in Norwich.

Bryn Gilligan didn’t look up as Simon walked into the room. He was hunched in front of a laptop computer, tapping away at the keyboard. His pale ginger hair was wet, and he was wearing a grey towelling bathrobe. ‘Sorry,’ he said, looking up. ‘I meant to get dressed before you arrived, but …’ He nodded at the screen in front of him. ‘Are you on Twitter?’

‘No,’ said Simon, thinking that Bryn Gilligan was one of those rare people who looked much younger than he was. He would probably always have the face of a teenager.

‘Very sensible. I’d stay well away from it if I were you.’

Not much point giving him the warning he’s just given me, Simon thought. Bryn evidently knew his mother was right, but had difficulty putting the theory into practice.

‘So, you’re here to ask me if I murdered Damon Blundy,’ said Bryn, his voice taking on a hard edge. ‘Yes, I probably did.’

‘Pardon?’ Without asking permission, Simon pulled out one of the chairs from under the kitchen table and sat down.

‘I probably killed him. Let’s see: I’m an evil cheat and liar with no integrity; I don’t care about the rules, don’t care about anyone but myself. I took Blundy to task for misrepresenting me once, even though he was trying to stick up for me – September 2011. I was in crazy defensive mode, lashing out at anyone who mentioned my name. One of those people was Blundy, and I attacked him for defending me. It was a stupid thing to do, nearly as stupid as doping for years and thinking I wouldn’t get caught. Whoever killed Blundy did a stupid thing too – they’ll probably get caught.’ Bryn smiled. ‘It’s sounding more and more like me, isn’t it? The killer has my psychological profile.
And
I was here in the house on my own on Monday morning, so I’ve got no alibi – therefore, yes, I probably did murder Damon Blundy.’

‘Did you tweet or email anyone from that computer between eight thirty and ten thirty on Monday?’ Simon asked. ‘If you did, we can prove where those communications came from. If it’s a server in Norwich, two hours from Spilling, then you’re in the clear.’ Was it a server he meant or a router? No – definitely not a router.

Simon’s IT knowledge was limited. The other day, Charlie had laughed at him for not understanding what ‘the Cloud’ was. He glanced down at his watch. It was eleven. He was meeting Charlie for lunch at one. He needed to set off now, ideally. This morning he’d been up at four to fit in the rabbi and the surgeon. He’d left tired behind hours ago and was now approaching shattered.

Bryn was shaking his head. ‘I’m not in the clear. You might be able to prove that someone using my Twitter ID was tweeting all morning from this computer, this kitchen, this house, but how can you prove it was me? It could have been anyone who knew my password and felt inclined to defend me for a few hours. My password is “cheating1”, in case you’re wondering.’

‘Did you kill Damon Blundy?’ Simon asked, reeling a little. The density of Bryn’s self-loathing was making it difficult to breathe. Simon wished Sam were with him.

‘No, I didn’t. But as Twitter’ll tell you from dawn to dusk three hundred and sixty-five days a year, my word’s not worth shit. So … when you don’t immediately find your killer, you’ll think about me, and how I was here on my own the day Blundy was killed, and you’ll come back and arrest me. So why not do it now? I’d rather get it over with.’

‘I don’t believe you killed anyone, so I’m not arresting you,’ Simon told him.

‘You’re not arresting me
yet
,’ Bryn said knowingly. ‘And yet, I’m so arrestable – I don’t know how you can resist. You’ll be back, I’m sure.’

‘He is no less dead,’ Simon said, making sure to speak clearly.

Bryn frowned. ‘No less dead than what? What do you mean?’

Well, that was one test passed with flying colours.

He’s lied before, though, about his drug use … repeatedly, convincingly.

‘Who do you think might have killed Damon Blundy?’ Simon asked.

‘Keiran Holland,’ Bryn said without hesitation. He took a sip of what looked like cloudy apple juice from the glass beside his laptop.

‘You sound certain about that.’

‘No. I’ve no idea. You asked me who I thought
might
have done it. Keiran Holland’s a man without a shred of compassion in his soul. For all I know, he’s got a rock-solid alibi, but if he hasn’t … Lack of compassion, plus known hatred of Damon Blundy …’ Bryn shrugged. ‘If I were you, I’d have Holland somewhere very near the top of my suspect list.’

‘No Waterhouse?’ Detective Inspector Giles Proust looked disappointed. He pushed in between Gibbs and Sellers on his way to his desk as if they were inconveniently positioned items of furniture. Gibbs was familiar with the manoeuvre. Debbie often swept past him in a similar way, without looking at him.

‘Simon’s still with Bryn Gilligan,’ said Sam Kombothekra. ‘He wants to know if any kind of appointment diary for Damon Blundy’s been found from 2011.’

‘Not at the house,’ said Sellers. ‘There might be something on his computer, which is with the Tech guys. I’m going there from here, so I’ll ask. Why? Why 2011?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Sam. ‘Simon didn’t explain, just said he’s keen to see Blundy’s diary from that year if it’s around.’

‘He’ll have a good reason,’ said Gibbs.

Sam smiled. ‘One we won’t be able to work out, however hard we try,’ he said.

‘Have I interrupted the omnibus edition of a Simon Waterhouse tribute programme?’ Proust said icily, earning his ‘Snowman’ nickname, as he did reliably at least once a day. ‘Any chance the talking heads could talk about the investigation? What have we got from the scene? The killer took Blundy’s phone, we think, but did he leave anything? Any large helpful flakes of DNA?’

Sam shook his head. ‘It’s not looking promising, sir. The protective suit he was wearing has scuppered us, I think. The good news is, we’re better off when it comes to possible suspects.’

‘A lot of people loathed Damon Blundy,’ said Gibbs. ‘Many are household names: Bryn Gilligan, Jacob Fedder—’

‘Super-Rabbi Jacob Fedder?’ Proust asked. ‘Hasn’t he got better things to do?’

‘One of the many bees in Blundy’s bonnet was the circumcision of baby boys,’ Gibbs told him. ‘You know, like Jews and Muslims do. Blundy thought it was child abuse and should be illegal. Bad as female genital mutilation, he said in several of his columns. He didn’t say it tactfully.’

Proust snorted. ‘Some people like to make life difficult for themselves, don’t they? If I had a bonnet, I’d go to considerable lengths to avoid having that particular bee in it. So the rabbi was incensed, was he?’

‘Yep. So were lots of other Jewish and Muslim leaders – Fedder was the most vocal, but there were loads. They petitioned the
Daily Herald
, demanded that Blundy be fired. This was after he referred to “neurotic blade-wielding maniacs suffering from a collective obsessive-compulsive disorder, trying to appease an imaginary tyrant in the sky by lopping random body parts off their so-called loved ones”.’

‘I spoke to the
Herald
this morning,’ said Sam. ‘Off the record, I was told they were on the point of letting Blundy go when some equally determined free-speech enthusiasts started their own petition to save his column, even though many of them apparently despised Blundy as much as his detractors did. In the end, the free-speech lot won the day.’ Sam shrugged. ‘Despite being unpleasant and offensive, Blundy was one of the
Herald
’s main attractions. He shifted papers. Goodness knows why.’

‘No, Sergeant, goodness – as personified by you – has no idea why. Goodness of the unimaginative bog-standard variety looks at a man like Damon Blundy and can’t see the point of him at all.’

‘You liked his columns, sir?’

‘They weren’t written to be
liked
, Sergeant. Let’s get back to the Muslims and the Jews. We’re interviewing them, yes? All the … the main ones?’

‘Not yet,’ said Sam. ‘Once we’ve got our reinforcement personnel from Silsford, which should be within the hour, we’ll be interviewing everyone who’s ever publicly expressed antipathy towards Damon Blundy. It’s going to take a while. That same circumcision column that Gibbs quoted from ended with Blundy asking how readers would feel if he hacked off the earlobe of the little girl who lived next door to him and justified it by claiming it was a sacrifice to a goblin living on a cloud that only Blundy could see. The girl’s mother took exception and sold a hatchet-job-from-next-door-neighbour’s-point-of-view on Blundy to the
Mail
, accusing him of leading a promiscuous and debauched lifestyle, which he happily admitted to – this was after ex-wife number two and before he married Hannah.’

‘So stick the little girl’s mother on the list,’ said Proust. ‘Who else? Any family? I’m not pinning my hopes on Rabbi Fedder or Bryn Gilligan. Both strike me as bland and ineffectual from what I’ve seen of them on TV. Damon Blundy’s murderer might be insane but certainly isn’t bland.’