I'd been standing by the telephone. I slumped into the easy chair alongside the low table and didn't speak for several seconds.
Eventually I said: "Is he being taken seriously?"
"North-West are taking him seriously. Apparently he asked to make a statement and it was all done with the duty solicitor present."
"Golly gosh. Do you want me to get over there?"
"No, he's not going anywhere, they've already charged him. I've said we'll collect him at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. I think you and I ought to go. OK? That'll give them time to have the initial interview transcribed."
"OK. Did he say how he killed her?"
"We might have a problem there," Gilbert replied. "His story is that when she struggled he put his hands on her throat to quieten her and she just went limp."
"Like they always do."
"Exactly. We'll have to check with the pathologist to see if it's a possibility."
"What about his movements? I don't suppose he went anywhere near Capstick that Monday morning."
"Suitably vague. He says he hid the body and went back for it one night. We'll find out more tomorrow. The good news is that Partridge gets his arrest to announce at the conference, and Dewhurst will think the pressure is off him."
"So you're not convinced?"
"I've an open mind. Are you?"
"No."
"Right. See you in the morning."
It doesn't say much for a person's lifestyle when they want to claim credit for a murder they didn't do. It's a poor reflection on society when, for a few individuals, being a convicted murderer or child molester is a step up the social scale. Terry Finnister was on my mind when I went to sleep that night. He wasn't in my normal library of bed-time reveries. I cursed him and thought about Annabelle, but that only caused me to wonder where she had been all weekend.
Poor old Gilbert was called in to brief Trevor Partridge, the Acting Chief Constable, so DC Mad Maggie Madison went to Workington with me.
We set off at eight, dodging the morning meetings. "I'll drive there,"
I told her. "You can drive home, unless you'd rather sit in the back with lover boy."
"Why not let him drive home," she suggested. "Then I could sit in the back with you."
I tut-tutted. "Any more talk like that, Margaret, and I'll have to report you for sexual harassment. You really will have to make an effort to control these animal urges."
"Why?"
"Buggered if I know. We could always forget Finnister and book into a seedy boarding house in Blackpool."
"Sorry, Charlie. It's the Holiday Inn or nothing."
"No, it's got to be a seedy boarding house, much more romantic. People don't have affairs at the Holiday Inn. They go there for six hours' sleep and fifteen hundred calories of breakfast down 'em. Stay in bed too long and you'll wake up with a Sanitised label round you."
Maggie said: "Can you imagine the expression on Finnister's face if we said: "Do you mind driving, Terence, old boy, while we have a session on the back seat?"
"Can you imagine the expression on my face?" I answered.
It was harmless banter. I'd known Maggie, and her husband, a long time. She was a figure of stability to whom I'd turned once or twice when times were bad; especially when my marriage collapsed. Nothing heavy, just someone to talk to. She was a good cop, and I think she regarded me the same.
We fell to talking about the job. The latest policy scare that someone had dreamed up was called Tenure of Office. The theory was that we'd all have to rotate jobs every few years. Five years in CID and then it would be back into uniform. Maggie thought I'd have some inside information about it, but I didn't. She said she'd leave if it came about. I didn't know what I'd do. We both agreed it was crazy.
We had a comfort stop at the services on the M6. At Junction 36 I said: "Let's take the scenic route," and swung off the motorway. In Windermere I said: "If we're taking the scenic route we might as well do the job properly," and turned on to the Kirkstone Pass road, round the back of Helvellyn.
The tops were shrouded in the usual mist as we dropped down into Patterdale. "They do good chicken legs in garlic there," I said, gesturing towards the pub.
"Sorry, Charlie, we haven't time," Maggie replied. She liked to play the mother hen with me. I accepted the roles.
"Just a thought," I said.
The proximity of the mountains made me melancholy. Having to drive by them was like leading a small boy past a sweet-shop window. I'd done a lot of fell-walking and a small amount of climbing over the years, but hardly any recently, apart from the brief excursion with Annabelle a fortnight ago.
"When things quieten down maybe we should resurrect the CID walking club," I suggested.
"CID boozing club, more like it," Maggie replied. "It was fun, though, maybe we should."
Thirty minutes later we breezed into the station and identified ourselves to the custody sergeant. "You're late," he told us. "We were expecting you an hour ago."
"Traffic was bad," I replied.
The sergeant passed me the detention sheet to sign. I noted that Finnister was in good health and bore no visible signs of bruising or other injury. I scrawled my name and the sergeant handed me a poly bag containing a few possessions. He removed a bunch of keys from a locked drawer.
"There's a transcript of the interviews for us, too, and I wouldn't mind a word with the detective who interviewed him, if possible," I said.
"Sorry, they're all out. The interviews are here, though." He retrieved a large manila envelope from another drawer. I could see from the bulge that it also contained a copy of the tape.
"Right, thanks. Let's go get him, then."
The sergeant unlocked a door on to a short corridor between the cells.
"Has he been fed?" I asked.
"The prisoner ate an 'early breakfast," he answered. "Full English, brought in from the take away next door. Should have set him up for the day." We were outside his cell. The sergeant slid the hatch to one side with such force that it startled me. "Wake up, Mr.
Finnister," he bellowed. "Your taxi has arrived."
The door swung open, leading us into a standard eight-by-six room, painted magnolia after extensive research, with a bunk down one side.
Finnister was invisible, huddled under the blankets. "Wake up, Terry, time to go," the sergeant called out, grabbing a handful of grey blanket and pulling it back.
The face he revealed was a death mask, little more than skin stretched over a skull. Finnister wore an expression like a snarl turning into a smile, as if, at the last moment, some great puzzle had been solved.
"Oh my God!" the sergeant mumbled, staggering back. "Oh my God!"
"Ring for an ambulance," I ordered, bundling him to one side. "Maggie …"
I yanked the blankets away. From his chest down Finnister was lying in a big black pool of blood. It couldn't soak away because of the polythene sheet covering the mattress, protection against drunks pissing the bed. Maggie put her hand on his throat, feeling for a pulse. I found the slashes in his wrist and tried to hold them closed.
"Find something to bind these with, Maggie," I said.
She shook her head. "Waste of time, I'm afraid, boss. He hasn't a drop of blood left in him to save."
It was their baby, so as soon as we decently could, we left them to it.
I collected the manila envelope and let Maggie drive us back. She drives with all the panache of the unimaginative, right foot hard down on one pedal or the other. Neither of us spoke much. I tried to read the interview notes, but concentration was difficult. Back at Heckley we played the tape in Gilbert's office.
The interrogation had been done with skill and patience. Finnister had freely volunteered the information that he had killed Georgina. The detective's tone was encouraging, and he had teased as much as he could from the prisoner about the details of the murder. When Finnister realised he was saying too much, he clammed up. Otherwise it didn't tell us anything we didn't already know. Maggie made two coffees, and a tea for me, while we were listening.
"Thanks, Maggie, you make a good cup pa Gilbert said, taking a sip.
"That's sexist," I declared.
"No it's not. It's appreciation. So what do you think?"
I took my time before replying. Then I said: "We were late. I decided to take the picturesque route, through Patterdale. I think that if we'd been on time we'd have a prisoner in the cells now."
"In which case," he replied, "Finnister would probably have topped himself on our premises, and we'd be taking all the flak."
"If he'd had the means. We might have looked after him better."
Gilbert said: "If you'd been on time. If we'd found whatever he used to cut himself. If your aunt had balls she'd be your uncle. It's not our fault, Charlie. It's not anybody's fault but his own. He'd have done it sometime, somewhere, however hard we'd tried to look after him."
"OK, you're right," I said. "But I don't think we've done him any favours over the years. It would only have been common courtesy to have been on time."
"No it wouldn't. He probably hadn't been told what time you were supposed to be there. Anyway, I have no qualms about not extending common courtesy to self-confessed child killers."
"Nor have I, but I don't think he did it."
Gilbert tapped the rim of his cup with a fingernail. "No, I thought you didn't. So why did he confess?"
"It's common enough. Why do we do anything? Why did I join the police?"
"What about you, Maggie?" "I'm not sure, sir, but I have my doubts."
"Mmm. So the book stays open." Maggie and I nodded.
"That'll please the Acting Chief Constable," he said, with the slightest hint of a smile.
Maggie volunteered to tell Dewhurst the latest developments. Just the bare facts, before he read about it in the papers. Down in my own office I rang Sam Evans, the police surgeon, to tell him I'd swished my hands round in someone else's blood. I'd washed them thoroughly immediately afterwards, and had no cuts or contusions, so he was able to reassure me. Normally we try to wear gloves in situations like that. I knew I wouldn't feel comfortable until I'd had at least one hot shower.
"Thanks, Sam," I said. "Try to keep out of paintbrush shops."
It was a private joke. I'd met Sam about ten years previously after I'd fallen down a fire escape. When I admired the watercolours on the walls of his surgery he told me that his wife, Yvonne, had painted them. Unfortunately she'd suffered a slight stroke, leaving her with a tremor in her left hand, which was doubly sad because she was left-handed, and could therefore paint no more.
The pictures were typical of an amateur, tightly done and over brushed but the talent was obviously there. "Why doesn't she paint right-handed, then?" I asked.
"I've suggested that, but she says she can't."
"Would you like me to show her how? I'd be glad to."
"Are you a painter, too?" Sam enquired.
"Well, I went to art school."
"Great! That would be splendid. When will it be convenient?"
I went round a couple of nights later armed with a large sheet of rag paper and the biggest sable brush available, purchased at massive discount during my student days. One of the secrets of watercolours is to use only the finest materials. I showed Yvonne how her pictures could be improved using a much looser, big-brush technique, and suggested she start by repainting all her old works. Using the wrong hand was a good way of enforcing this new discipline. Now she makes a steady income from art club exhibitions. I told Sam to buy her a size 12 pure sable brush, and specified the make. Poor old Sam breezed into the artists' suppliers and asked for one. He nearly had a cardiac arrest when the assistant said: "That will be ninety-five quid, sir.
Shall I wrap it?"
Our gossiping was interrupted by the other phone ringing. I said goodbye to Sam and hello to the new caller.
"It's Van Rees here, is that Inspector Priest?" said the voice on the line.
"Hello, Professor. Charlie Priest speaking. What can I do for you?"
"It's more what I can do for you. Could you possibly get over here, quickly as possible? I've found something that you'll be interested in."
It was going-home time; I was tired and hungry and he was fifty miles away. "Can't you tell me over the phone?" I asked.
"It's something I want to show you. Put your coat on, Inspector, and point your car in this direction. You know I wouldn't call you out for nothing."
"I'm on my way. In fact… that's me knocking on your door right now."
I hit all the rush-hour traffic, so it was an hour and a half later that I knocked on his door.
"Come in, Inspector Priest. Sit down, please. Coffee?"
"Thanks. I could murder a cup of tea."
"Ah, murder. How we devalue the wickedness of the deed by everyday use of the word. Milk and sugar?"
"Just sugar, please. Do you ever go home, Professor?"
"Yes, of course, when I have to. But what could I find at home as fascinating as all this?" He gestured with the hand holding the teaspoon, splashing brown drops on to the papers on his desk.
I gave an inclination of the head, as if agreeing with him. He wasn't the type to be interested in football on the telly or to have a kind-hearted au pair.
I had a few sips from the mug he'd pushed across to me. It was coffee, with milk but no sugar. "Mmm, just what I needed," I lied. "Now, what do you want to show me?"
He produced two ten-by-eight photographs from a folder. They were black at the bottom and white at the top, with a jagged line between like a badly sharpened saw-blade.
"What do you think of those?" he said, triumphantly.
I studied them for a few seconds, then said: "You've taken up minimalist photography and want my opinion. Is that it?"
He peered over the tops of the pictures. "You're holding that one upside down," he replied.
I asked him to explain. When he'd finished I borrowed his sugar and put four spoonfuls in the coffee champagne would have been more appropriate, but this would do.
"Well done, Prof," I said, trying to hide the hotchpotch of emotions that was bubbling over inside me. "Well done!"
I used his phone to ring Luke's home number. He was about to go out, as soon as he'd decided which earrings to wear.
"Luke, how long would it take to run off copies of all my reports of interviews with Miles Dewhurst?"
"Oh, about five minutes."
"Good. Any chance of you calling in at the station and doing it, please?"
"What, now?"
"Mmm."
"Er, yeah. No problem, Charlie."
"Thanks. Leave them on my desk, I'll collect them in a couple of hours."
On the way back I saw a fish and chip shop and swung into a vacant parking place. I was about to order when I remembered where my hands had been earlier in the day, and didn't feel hungry any more.
"Er, I'veer changed my mind," I said to the bewildered lady, and left empty-handed.
The reports were on my desk, as arranged. I took them home to read in bed, but not before I'd had a hot shower and a bowl of cornflakes, consecutively.
Ashurst Construction have premises on a bustling new trading estate in Stockport, Greater Manchester. Mr. Black, their managing director and chief designer, welcomed me into his office at nine o'clock on Tuesday Morning. I'd made the appointment earlier by ringing him at home.
"Sit down, Inspector. Can I order you a coffee?" he said.
"No thanks, Mr. Black, I'd rather get straight on with it and I'm sure you're very busy."
"Busy's the word. Still, it's preferable to the alternative. How can I help you?"
"First of all, could you tell me in a sentence what you do here and how well you know a company called Eagle Electrical."
The genial expression slipped from his face. "Ah, yes," he said. "The little girl. I read that you'd found her body. Dreadful. Dreadful."
"Eagle Electrical…" I prompted.
"Yes, well, to answer your question, we are in the business of renovating property. Trading estates like this one, nursing homes, blocks of flats. We do a lot of work for local authorities. Eagle Electrical have supplied us with materials, and sometimes we've found it more expedient to subcontract the labour to them, too. Smaller jobs, though; we have our own teams of craftsmen. We use Eagle and others in preference to losing a contract."
"So how well do you know Mr. Dewhurst?" I asked.
"Miles Dewhurst?" He pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders. "I … know him, that's all. He comes in here about once a month looking for business. They haven't had a substantial order from us for quite a while. We try to put some stuff their way, to keep them floating. It's not in our interests for them to go under."
"You think it might have come to that?"
"I really don't know. We're OK, but a lot of smaller firms are still failing in spite of all the talk of a recovery."
"Could you tell me when you last saw Miles Dewhurst, Mr. Black?" I asked.
"Yes. The morning his daughter disappeared. I'd presumed that was why you were here."
"It is, but I need to hear it from your mouth. Is there any documentary proof that he was here that morning? You know what we say, sir: to eliminate him from our enquiries."
He appeared quite eager. "Well, yes, there is. It just so happened that he had a puncture in our yard. Very embarrassing for him he drives one of those macho off-road vehicles. Something had gone through one of his sidewalls; ruined the tyre. Our mechanic took it round to ATS Tyres and had a new one fitted."
"Took the wheel there or the whole vehicle?"
"The vehicle. He put the spare on and drove it there. Miles stayed in here with me. Only took half an hour. We put it on our account, so it's in the books, somewhere."
"Good. Thank you. When it's convenient would you mind making a recorded statement in a local police station — everything you've just told me?"
"No, not at all' "I'll fix something up, then. Now, could I possibly have a word with the mechanic who took Dewhurst's car to the tyre depot?"
Nigel and Sparky were in deep conversation when I entered the office.
Nigel was saying: "So why was Prince Charles wearing this ginger hat with the tail down the back?"
Sparky rolled his eyes in a so-help-me gesture.
"Because," he said, emphasising with a stab of the finger, 'because the Queen said: "Where are you going, Charles?" and he replied:
"Heckmondwike," and she said: "Wear the fox hat."
"Don't let Mr. Wood hear you telling royalist jokes, David," I said, endeavouring to keep a straight face.
"No, boss, it's not a joke. It's a true story."
"So what's a fox hat got to do with Heckmondwike?" Nigel asked.
"Never mind that," I interrupted. "Where is Mr. Wood?"
"Summoned to Division," said Sparky. "Apparently we've overspent on handcuffs."
"So that means…" I stretched my arms wide, 'that I'm in charge. OK, boys and girls, gather round and Uncle Charlie will tell you a story."
When I'd finished, there were smiles all round. I slid my diary, open at a list of phone numbers, across to Nigel and pointed at the phone.
"C'mon, Nigel, do your stuff," I said.
He drummed his fingers on the handset for a moment, gathering his wits, then picked it up and dialled. After a few seconds he gave us a nod and settled back in his chair.
"Mr. Dewhurst?" he asked. "Oh, good. It's DS Newley here, from Heckley CID. Is it convenient for you to speak? You're not doing eighty on the motorway, are you?… Fine, fine. You've heard the latest developments, I presume? Yes… we've mixed feelings here, too."
Nigel placed a hand over the mouthpiece. "He's at home," he hissed. He resumed the conversation; "The fact is, Mr. Dewhurst, we'd like to do a formal interview with you here at the station. As you know, it's a sad fact that in a case like this the closest members of the family always fall under a certain amount of suspicion. We need a taped interview describing your movements on the weekend in question; tie up a few loose ends, so to speak… Yes… Yes, I suppose it does seem rather pointless to you… How does four thirty, here, sound?… Oh, good. We'll see you then, Mr. Dewhurst. Thank you for your cooperation. Oh, there's just one other thing. It's normal procedure for a solicitor to be present. Would you like me to arrange the duty solicitor or will you bring your own?"
Nigel replaced the phone and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "He's bringing his own solicitor," he sighed.
Nigel had managed to squeeze all the key words into the conversation: under suspicion; taped interview; solicitor present. I said: "Well done. Now, let's go to the pub and discuss tactics over a Steinberg's pork pie. I'm famished."
These days we can't afford to have anybody manning the front desk. The public are expected to ring the bell for attention. We were looking out for Dewhurst, though. He arrived fifteen minutes late, in the Toyota, accompanied by Mr. Wylie, his solicitor. The arrogant sod parked in the spot marked HMI again. They were shown into interview room number one, my lucky room.
Nigel and I joined them immediately. We noticed that Dewhurst's concession to grief was a black tie and matching cufflinks. His designer stubble was as well groomed as ever, but he looked gaunt under his tan. Or was it worried?
"Thanks for coming," I said briskly. "This shouldn't take long."
When we were seated, us on one side of the table, them on the other, Nigel said: "This is a taped interview with Mr. Miles Dewhurst." He gave the time and date and went on: "Could I ask those present to identify themselves. I'm Detective Sergeant Newley…" He pointed to each of us in turn.
"DI Priest," I said.
"Miles Dewhurst," in an irritated tone.
"Oh, er, I'm Mr. Wylie, senior partner with Dean and Mason, Mr.
Dewhurst's solicitor."
I said: "Thank you, gentlemen. Mr. Dewhurst, you are no doubt aware that you have been under a certain amount of suspicion. I have to tell you that in spite of recent developments that suspicion still exists.
It is my duty to inform you that you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but anything you do say may be put in writing and given in evidence. Do you understand what I am saying, Mr.
Dewhurst?"
His indignation was on the verge of boiling over. He gathered himself together, considering whether to appear affronted or cooperative. Mr.
Wylie's hand reached out and fell on his arm. "It's all right, Miles," he said. "Mr. Priest is just doing it by the book."
I repeated the question: "Do you understand the caution, sir?"
He nodded.
"For the tape, sir."
"Yes. I understand."
"Thank you."
Nigel took it up, as per the game plan. "Mr. Dewhurst, could you briefly describe your movements on the Friday before Georgina's disappearance?"
He shuffled and cleared his throat. "Er, I had some appointments through the day. I'd have to look in my diary to be precise."
"That's good enough. And in the evening?"
"Well, after work I picked Georgina up from the child minder's and we went to fetch Mrs. Eaglin, her grandma. She'd prepared a meal for us.
Afterwards we all come back toHeckley."
He was talking. That was what we wanted. I said: "And what did you do Saturday?"
He sat back in his chair, making himself more comfortable. These were easy questions; no problem.
"Saturday morning I worked. Paperwork in the office."
"At the factory or an office at home?"
"The factory. I went straight from there to the golf club. Had a sandwich and a round of golf."
"Where do you play, sir?"
"Brandersthorpe."
Best in the area. You could buy a small car with the membership fee. I said: "And in the evening?"
"Watched a kids' video with Georgina. Watched grownup TV and had a couple of beers after she'd gone to bed."
He was relaxing. Now it was Nigel's turn again. "And on Sunday?" he said.
Dewhurst stretched his arms forward on to the table and interlocked his fingers. He stared at his hands as he spoke:
"Golf in the morning. Home for lunch. In the afternoon I watched sport on the box. Mrs. Eaglin and Georgina went to the park to feed the ducks. Afterwards we took Mrs. Eaglin home. Georgina and I left there at about seven and went for a pizza. It's… it was her favourite."
"Which brings us to Monday morning," I said.
Dewhurst pushed himself upright. "For heaven's sake, Inspector. We've been through this a dozen times…"
He was getting cocky. He thought he'd survived the worst we had to offer. "We'd like it down on tape, if you don't mind, sir. And you are still under caution, of course." No harm in reminding him.
He folded his arms and addressed the table, speaking in short sentences as if addressing an idiot. "I dropped Georgina off at the bus station.
I bought a paper. I didn't see Georgina on to the bus because I was double-parked. Then I did my day's work. I came home to find you in my house." He looked up and our eyes met briefly. I felt like Rikki-tikki-tavi, nailing Nag the cobra.
"Thank you. Could you expand on your movements after you left the bus station, please?"
"If you insist, Inspector."
I did, I most certainly did.
He went on: "I drove round the one-way system and headed out on the Manchester Road. I had an appointment at a company called Ashurst's, in Stockport, at nine o'clock. It was about ten past when I arrived. I had a puncture in their yard and had to cancel my next appointment.
After that I think I went to Heaton's in Kidsgrove, but again I'd have to check my diary to be sure."
"A puncture?" I said, raising an eyebrow like a bad thespian. "That was unfortunate. Were you in the Toyota?"
"No, the Patrol."
"So who repaired it for you?" I asked.
"Really, Inspector. Is all this necessary? It's my daughter's murder you're supposed to be investigating; not who repaired a puncture for me!"
"OK, let me put it another way. Were you anywhere near Capstick Colliery on that Monday morning?"
"No. Most certainly not!"
"Thank you. In that case is there any way in which you can verify your whereabouts?"
He gave a big sigh and sank back in his chair, saying: "I'm sorry, Inspector. I didn't realise what you were getting at. The mechanic at Ashurst's put the spare on, then took the Patrol to the local tyre depot, ATS Tyres, and had a new one fitted. Mr. Black, MD at Ashurst's, kindly offered to put it on their account. It should all be in their books, somewhere. I wasn't given any of the paperwork."
Wylie, the solicitor, decided to earn his fee. He smiled and said: "I must say, Inspector, you had me wondering where your questions were leading, but I'm sure my client has given a satisfactory account of his movements. Both Ashurst's and the tyre depot will have details of the transaction."
"No doubt," I agreed. "So let's get this clear, and I would remind you that you are still under caution. You went to Ashurst's and had a puncture. Their mechanic took the Patrol to ATS Tyres and had a new one fitted. When it was returned to you it had five good tyres with the spare in its proper place under the back of the vehicle. Is that what happened?"
"Yes."
"You're certain of that?"
"Well, yes."
"Have you or anybody else removed or touched the spare since then?"
"No."
"Has the vehicle been in for a service?"
"No."
"Good." When I'd entered the interview room I was carrying a folder.
So that it didn't cause a distraction, I'd placed it on the floor, leaning against the leg of my chair. Now I reached down and retrieved it. "In which case," I said, 'perhaps you could explain this." I removed the two black and white prints that Van Rees had given me and shoved them across the table.
Wylie leaned forward, interested. Dewhurst looked scared. "I… d-don't understand," he stuttered.
"Let me make it easier for you then, Mr. Dewhurst." I had a pair of scissors in the folder. I used them to cut across one of the prints, as close as possible to the jagged saw-teeth. I placed the cut-down print over the first one.
Dewhurst kept silent, his face a mask of fear and contempt. Wylie said: "I'm afraid you've lost me, Inspector."
"I'll explain, then. This one' — I indicated with a finger' is a photograph of the black plastic bag in which poor Georgina's body was found. It's the type that comes in a continuous roll. You just tear them off at the perforations, as required. This other one' — I pointed again 'is the next bag on that roll. The edges are a perfect match, as you can see. It was removed from under Mr. Dewhurst's Nissan Patrol, wrapped round the spare wheel." I turned to Dewhurst: "Would you care to explain how it came to be there, sir?"