‘He was the last person to see Debbie Hall alive, sir,’ commented DC Brightman from the rear. ‘That’s usually sufficient justification for bringing someone in for questioning.’
‘I agree. That applies to normal circumstances, but in this case, I need to tread rather more gently, rather more warily. I believe we’re up against a formidable killer, a criminal with brains and cunning.’ He paused for effect. ‘Clearly, that barman, Eddie Brodie, will have to look at Dawlish in the flesh to confirm he was the man he saw with Debbie last Sunday evening, but we can arrange that through an identification parade when he’s in custody. Now, I am sorry if I seem to be dithering on this but I’m not. I do have very good reasons for this course of action. For the tailing exercise, I need a succession of teams, experienced in covert shadowing techniques and able to take good photographs. We need to watch Dawlish until I am ready to bring him in and to report on his movements and contacts. Paul, can you see to that? Have a pair of detectives pose as guests in the hotel if you think it’s necessary.’
‘Sure, I’ll see to that, sir.’
‘The next thing to bear in mind is the precise role of James Browning. I do know that he and Dawlish were friends and there is a possibility they were both involved in the killings, although I’m not sure in what way. Maybe one drove the other to the scene and took no further part in the actual rape or murder? At this stage, no one can place either of them at the exact scene of any of the Sandal Stranglings, let alone that of our own Debbie Hall. That is something we must do; to get the killer convicted, we need to place one or other at the scene of all the crimes, and from our own point of view, at the scene of Debbie Hall’s death. Don’t forget that Dawlish and Browning were both in town around the time of Debbie’s murder, but to date, we can’t place either of them precisely at the scene. But, I have to ask this — and I would ask you to consider this during your enquiries — was Browning really involved in these killings? Are we looking at two multi-murderers with the Sandal Stranglings as just one of their lines of activity? Or is Dawlish innocent? Or Browning? Could one be committing the murders during their outings on MG rallies without the other realising? You’ll begin to appreciate that this is a very complex case, ladies and gentlemen, and it needs to be most skilfully handled. Now, Detective Sergeant Browne, you’re looking into Browning’s movements?’
‘Yes, sir,’ and a hand appeared above the heads of the assembled detectives to indicate his presence.
‘Any developments, Tony?’
‘Just confirmation of what we thought already. Browning seems to have led a very unobtrusive private life. Apart from his trips to the vintage car rallies, he does not appear to have had a very active social life. From what I can gather, from people like his landlord, his workmates and neighbours, he seldom went out with other people. Parties, pub trips, outings to the theatre from work, none of those seemed to interest him. It means, unfortunately, that we have traced very few people who can tell us what he did in his spare time. We’ve quizzed the prostitutes and members of the gay scene in and around Harlow Spa, but they don’t know of him. What he did at weekends and in his leisure hours is therefore something of a mystery. All we can determine is that he went home from work on a Friday evening and came back in on a Monday without regaling his workmates with tales of his weekend activities, apart from his motor rallies, that is. He did tell his office mates about those outings, going on at length about the smart cars he’d seen or how he’d won a rosette or something. He seemed to come alive when he talked about the car and his outings in it.’
‘Did he ever take anyone for a ride in it?’ Pemberton asked. ‘Friends? People from the office?’
‘No, it wasn’t often he brought it to the office. Perhaps the only time he’d fetch it to work was when his official car was in for servicing or repair.’
‘And none of his diaries give a hint about his other weekend activities?’
‘No, sir, nothing.’
‘And there’s nothing in his personal papers which would suggest he and Hugh Dawlish were involved jointly in any way with those killings?’
‘Not a hint, sir, no. Nothing. The only extra diary notes for those outings would be if his car won something or had to have something done to it, like a puncture repaired or oil check. He kept very meticulous records of that kind of thing.’
‘Thanks. Well, keep asking around, keep digging, Tony. Somebody, somewhere, must know where he went or what he did when he was not steaming about in his old car.’
Feeling that the enquiry had produced a new impetus, Pemberton dismissed his teams; it was not yet eight o’clock but he said those who had finished their work might leave early if they wished. Tomorrow was an important period for their enquiries; tonight, the night duty teams would update all the records in the incident room and deal with any overnight problems while Inspector Larkin went off to arrange the surveillance teams. As Pemberton was in his office, preparing to leave for home, Lorraine rapped on the door and came in. As there was no one else present, she kissed him tenderly.
‘What’s that for?’
‘Nothing. I just felt like it. It’s a been a successful day, and I thought I’d kiss you in celebration — that’s if you really want me to have a reason!’
‘Then I hope we can have further successes,’ and he kissed her too, full on the lips.
‘I came to see if you’re ready to go home,’ was her next comment.
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘So what are we doing tonight?’
‘I’ve got to go through all the material we’ve gathered about Dawlish and Browning,’ he said. ‘I want to see if I can produce sufficient evidence to incriminate Dawlish before I interrogate him. It means a lot of reading!’
‘How long will that take? To assess the evidence, I mean.’
‘Dunno. A couple of hours maybe. Why are you asking?’
‘I was wondering about a walk, some fresh air, before we settle down for the night. Maybe a meal in a pub somewhere?’
‘Sure, so long as I can make the time for my reading.’ As he spoke, Detective Inspector Kirkdale tapped on his door.
‘Sir,’ he said, ‘do you need me for the weekend?’
‘Not if you can leave your file behind; we might want access to that.’
‘Sure. It’s our wedding anniversary on Saturday — I thought I’d take my wife out, then return here on Monday morning. You seem to have got it almost wrapped up, Dawlish has walked right into your net, a perfect end to an enquiry, I’d say.’
‘My net has a lot of holes in it, Gregory, which I hope to patch up this weekend. But yes, do as you say. You’ve left a contact number if there’s a panic of any kind?’
‘Yes, on the noticeboard. Okay, see you Monday morning.’
And so the staff of the incident room began to prepare for the weekend. Being a murder enquiry, it could not and would not close until it was over; Pemberton and all his officers would be working tomorrow and Sunday, but the tempo did tend to change due to offices and factories being closed, and people taking time away from their homes. Many sources of enquiry tended to dry up. Pemberton informed Larkin that he was going home; he’d be available by telephone if he was required and would see them all tomorrow morning at eight.
Having left the incident room slightly earlier than normal, Pemberton and Lorraine had time to hurry home to get washed and changed, then decided on a walk beside the River Raine. A few minutes’ drive from home, there was a convenient car park, one exit of which led through a turnstile into the riverside walk; the path then led through picturesque woodlands before emerging at a delightful inn on the banks of the Raine.
There the river was broad and slow-moving, a mecca for rowing boats and canoes, a place of calm laced with the interest of observing people at play. Mark reckoned they’d be able to enjoy their stroll in the light of the June evening, have a meal and be back home by eleven or thereabouts — time enough to complete his brief fact-finding exercise.
At
this time of year, before the holiday season began in earnest with the closing of the schools, the riverside walks and inns were moderately quiet and they had no difficulty parking their Vauxhall. By eight fifteen, therefore, they were strolling in casual clothes beside the water; a moorhen, known hereabouts as a waterhen, and her chicks swam before them, the mother bird fiercely protecting her brood against the threat presented by humans, a pair of dragonflies buzzed across the reeds like miniature helicopters, and a pair of mallard swam leisurely with the flow of water as a young man and his girl, in a flimsy canoe, laughed and rowed upstream. A summer scene of gentleness and a world away from thoughts of murder and rape.
Pemberton, holding Lorraine’s hand as they strolled along the wide footpath, walked in silence. Although the scene was one of pastoral calmness and gentleness, Lorraine could see he was preoccupied with other matters.
‘You’re thinking about Debbie Hall, aren’t you?’ she ventured after a time, feeling he would like to discuss his thoughts.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I should be admiring the scenery or wondering what that bird is, the one that’s singing in those bushes…’
‘A willow warbler,’ she said. ‘A summer visitor, perhaps the most numerous of all the birds that come to us during the warmer months.’
‘You know about all sorts, don’t you?’ There was a hint of jealousy in his voice.
‘I believe there is a big, big world beyond the boundaries of police work and crime detection.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘For the whole of your working life, Mark, you’ve been so wrapped up in your career that you’ve ignored other things. There is room for both, you know.’
‘Yes, I know. I’ve tried in the past, tried to get involved in things, but work has always intruded. Crime has always dominated my off-duty moments too, interrupting my leisure time, like now. Here we are, two people in love walking beside one of the prettiest rivers in the country with interesting wildlife all about us, and all I can think about is murder and rape!’
‘You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t think about your work,’ she reassured him. ‘Your work is especially demanding — you can’t switch off and forget it like a factory worker on a production line is able to do. I’m sure the fellow who produces genopolators by the score on a chain belt doesn’t worry about his work when he’s having his well-earned pint at the working men’s club. But your work is different, Mark; you can’t detach yourself from it. And you shouldn’t detach yourself from it. People depend on you; society needs to have its criminals caught, even if it means people like you never resting—’
‘Criminals are puzzling people,’ he said suddenly. ‘To some extent, I can understand what motivates robbers, burglars, and thieves. They’re greedy — they want money without having to work for it and they don’t mind hurting others in order to get it, but murder? It is very difficult for me to understand how one human being can deliberately kill another, especially a weaker one, just to satisfy some urge or lust.’
‘You shouldn’t try to understand criminals, Mark. Your job is not to understand them, it’s to enforce the law. There are others whose work is to understand criminals and decide what to do with them.’
‘But police officers must understand them if they are to catch them,’ he said, stooping to pick up a stick and toss it into the water.
‘You’re referring to Browning?’ she smiled.
‘Dawlish, I think, but Browning does seem to have been a strange person.’ He paused to retrieve the stick which had floated into the bank and tossed it further out to stream. ‘Almost a non-person in fact. If what his workmates have said is true, he was good at his job, very efficient and reliable, and yet when he was away from work, he ceased to exist — it’s almost as if he was not in this world when he was away from his job — unless he was messing about in his little red car. Apart from those two aspects of his life — not forgetting his occasional trip to see his father — he was unknown. It’s almost as if he didn’t do anything at weekends; he never talked about his weekends when he got back on a Monday…’
‘He worked for charity, Mark,’ she reminded him. ‘I seem to recall that he did work for various local charities — I’d like to bet that’s what he did at weekends, quietly, unobtrusively, diligently.’
‘You mean spending time in some charitable institution?’
‘People who work for the Samaritans never talk about it, do they?’ she reminded him. ‘Or those who help out at hospices or hospitals, nursing homes and similar places. Helping the disabled or handicapped. They don’t boast or gossip about it. It’s something they do because they want to help others.’
‘That’s hardly the activity of a suspected murderer!’ Pemberton said, puzzled.
‘But Browning wasn’t an ordinary man, Mark; we know that.’
‘He’s an enigma, for sure!’
‘Have the various local charities been approached?’ she asked him. ‘There must be hundreds, ranging from Red Cross to Age Concern via Cancer Research…’
‘I don’t think any of them have been approached about the possibility of him helping out at weekends,’ Pemberton admitted. ‘I must admit I never gave it a thought…’
‘If we want to know where he was at any given weekend, then surely we must ask at such places?’ she stressed.
‘You’re right!’ He now felt as if he was inefficient, allowing that to escape his attention, but she squeezed his hand.
‘Come along, time to eat. Let’s find a nice table overlooking the river…’
The Black Otter was a large seventeenth-century inn which was once the haunt of salmon fishermen and otter hunters. Now it was favoured mainly by tourists, day-trippers and sailing enthusiasts. Rich with oak furnishings, dark smoked beams and inglenooks galore, the central portion had retained its character in spite of several modernisation schemes and the addition of extra bars and a dining-room. Mark and Lorraine made for the old bar, the original with its dark interior and tiled floor. But even as he entered, he halted.
‘Over there,’ he said, indicating with a nod of his head the far corner. ‘Don’t make it obvious you’re staring…’
‘What?’ She had no idea what he was trying to tell her, but the noise of the chatter from the assembled customers meant their exchange was not overheard.
‘Detective Sergeant Gary Watson and Detective Constable Gillian Barber…assigned to tail Dawlish! That table in the far corner…’
‘That means he must be here,’ whispered Lorraine.
And so he was. Seated at another table in one of the inglenooks was a dark man with a girl; having seen the photograph recovered from Browning’s garage, they knew, beyond all doubt, that this was Hugh Dawlish.
Chapter Sixteen
‘Don’t acknowledge Watson and Barber.’ Pemberton spoke softly as he turned towards the bar, adding in a normal voice, ‘What would you like to drink before we eat?’
‘A dry white wine,’ she smiled. ‘There’s a table for two near the side window. It’s the only one left. Shall I go and claim it?’
‘Do that, and I’ll bring the menu across.’
When Pemberton joined Lorraine, he was pleased that the table offered a good view not only of Watson and Barber, but also of Dawlish and his girl companion. He noted she was about twenty-seven or eight with elfin features bearing more than a hint of freckles, and she had short, bobbed hair which was dark brown. On top, she wore a pink blouse but he could not see whether she had on a skirt or jeans, or what kind of footwear she was wearing. Dawlish was tucking into a giant plate of chicken and chips, while she appeared to be enjoying a trout salad. Having settled at his table and assimilated the surroundings, Pemberton was able to establish brief eye contact with Watson — he and his policewoman colleague had had to be content with a sandwich apiece, something they could either take with them or discard if they had to leave quickly.
After Pemberton and Lorraine had studied the menu and placed their orders, Pemberton said, ‘I’m going to the loo,’ and she
knew Watson would follow him out of the bar.
He did. After ensuring that the Gents was deserted and that they could not be overheard, Watson said, ‘It’s Dawlish, sir, as I’m sure you realised.’
‘I did. The photo’s a good likeness. So who’s he with, Gary?’
‘A prostitute, sir, from the town, name of Denise Alderson. We got the tip from another tail; we picked him up on the last mile here. His MG’s in the car park. We’re confident he has no idea he’s being tailed.’
‘I’m relieved about that! I’m here off duty, by the way — it’s just by chance we picked this pub. Can you cope if he takes her off to the woods and tries to kill her?’
‘Yes, sir, we’ve a full stake-out. We’ve two teams in the woods behind the Black Otter and another in the car park, ready to follow him if he leaves by car. I’m in radio contact with Control, a throat microphone. Control know you’re here, by the way — we’ve reported that! You can’t go anywhere…’
‘It’s part of the job!’ He grimaced. ‘But I’m pleased you two are with Dawlish — it would have given me something to think about if I’d found him here without any back-up troops! So where did he pick the girl up?’
Confession (The Mark Pemberton Cases Book 3) Page 16