“Not during an interview,” Ngaire said. “When it was first built, I took the tour.”
“Nothing much has changed since then,” Harmond said. “We mainly use this for training purposes although it also allows us to get four people’s experience on one interview if it’s needed.”
Ngaire wondered which of the two was happening today. Since the debrief, Harmond had taken her under her wing, questioning her at length about her role in the case, then pointed questions about her career.
Harmond tapped on the pad in front of Ngaire. “If you want to have them ask a question, not on the list, write it down here first. If I approve it, you can speak it into the mic. Apart from that, keep the mic turned off. They don’t need to be distracted by us heavy breathing into their ears.
“They have earpieces that connect up?”
Harmond nodded. “If they’re working okay. Those are the smallest pieces, the most expensive part of the equipment, and the most likely to go on the fritz. I’ll test it out when the detectives first come in the room, but that’s the most proactive we can get.”
While they sat waiting for the interview room to fill, Ngaire stole glimpses of Harmond in the reflection off the darkened glass in front of her. Gascoigne was only just coming up to his Senior designation, but he’d spent eight years in the army before switching over to the police force.
Harmond should be younger, but perhaps she’d also chosen to police as a second career. Judging from the graying roots in her hair and the wrinkles that marred her face, she looked to be in the same age bracket. No wedding ring but she could be divorced, and children could have kept her off the job in either case.
An olive tint to Harmond’s skin placed her ethnicity in the bounds of anyone from anywhere. She could be a dark-skinned European or a light-skinned Polynesian. The tilt of her eyes might be Maori, or it could be Indian or even Chinese.
A female of mixed race, doing well with a career path that Ngaire desired for herself. There was no reason not to like Harmond, not to want to emulate her. Whether through allegiance to Gascoigne or confusion at the very different style of leadership, though, Ngaire had nothing pulling her toward the DSS and several things pushing her away.
Nothing like letting feelings get in the way of a learning opportunity. Ngaire shook off her doubts and concentrated on the room in front of her as the two interviewing officers walked in. Angel and Mona, the woman who had been tasked with researching the history of the warehouse lease. From Ngaire’s limited acquaintance, their names suited each one’s personality to a T.
Bob seemed smaller than he had in his home but also looked better, despite or maybe because of the recent surgery. Color flushed his cheeks instead of them settling into earthy gray. His lips were red, not palest pink, and his eyes were alert, darting all over the room.
Behind him was a man that Ngaire assumed was his lawyer. A dark gray suit and a white shirt made that a pretty safe bet. She didn’t recognize him, even though the roster of legal aid lawyers usually meant they rotated through the station house until every detective knew their name.
“Did the doctor say he was up for a standard interview?” Ngaire asked. If it followed the usual procedure for questioning, Bob Rickards could be looking at several hours before he got a break.
“Fit as a fiddle,” Harmond said, without turning her head from the room before them. “He’s making a remarkable recovery, considering that he was flat on his back dying a few days ago.”
While the detectives ran through their usual caution, Ngaire heard Harmond whisper something into her mic. Angel turned and gave a thumbs-up signal. The equipment was working, full steam ahead.
“Can you tell us what happened on the night of August 18, 1981?” Mona asked.
Bob looked at his lawyer, and for a split second Ngaire thought the entire interview was about to consist of ‘no comment’. Then the man inclined his head, and Bob shifted in his seat, rubbing at the skin behind his ear.
“I was at a warehouse in town,” he said. “Picking up my daughter from an event. We usually met there rather than at the venues, less traffic and we both knew where to head if we couldn’t get in contact.”
The interviewing detectives nodded, and Bob sighed, looking down at his hands.
“When I turned up there, I couldn’t see Shannon outside, so I parked the car and walked into the building. I didn’t like doing it, the place was practically falling down by then, but I figured that she’d popped inside to get out of the wind. It was bitterly cold that night, there was a twenty-degree frost the next morning. One of those weather forecasts that say, forty degree high with a wind-chill factor of ten.”
Even though the interview was being recorded, Angel and Mona made notes as they progressed. From a psychological standpoint, it reassured people that they were being listened to. From a legal point of view, they had some official record if the electronics system went bung.
“Did you find your daughter inside?” Mona asked. Ngaire realized for the first time how similar in complexion and build she was to Shannon Rickards. She stole a sideways glance at the DSS, well-played.
“I ran into some boys in there first. They were up to no good, taunting one of the tramps that sometimes camped out in there. At first, I ignored them and kept looking for Shannon, but then they got violent.”
“For the record, are the boys you’re referring to George Kenton and Jessie Collingwood?”
Bob Rickards nodded and at a nudge from his lawyer, said, “Yes.”
“What do you mean when you say they got violent,” Mona asked. “Please be as specific as possible.”
Bob sat back and chewed on his bottom lip. “They were taunting him, calling him names and such. Then I heard a shout and turned to see one of the boys was pushing at the man’s shoulder.”
“Was the tramp standing?”
Bob nodded. “The lad pushed him hard enough to force the old guy back a step then started to give him more lip.” On the table, Bob’s hand clapped together his forefingers against his thumb, reinforcing what he was saying.
“Did you know the man?” Angel asked.
“No.” Bob Rickards seemed indignant at the idea. He shrugged and shook his head. “He was just some old homeless guy. I don’t know if I’d ever seen him before and I couldn’t pick him out of a line-up to save myself. He looked old, but they all do, don’t they? He was male and smelled bad.”
Mona’s nose screwed up in sympathy. “What happened next.”
“Well, I went over there. I don’t know why really, except I figured that if Shannon was hiding inside the old warehouse, it was probably because these two had scared her into it. Otherwise, she just would have been right there, ready for me to pick her up.”
“Sorry.” Angel shook his head. “You went over there because you were concerned for Shannon’s safety?”
“No,” Bob grumbled. “I just mean, she had enough sense in her noggin to stay well out of it. In the meantime, I could hardly stand back and let them pound on some old guy who was probably half off his nut with gin or vodka. What sort of man would that make me, if I just let them beat him up?”
“I thought they were just pushing him?” Mona said.
Bob shifted in his seat, growing agitated. “It was evident that they were just gonna get worse. Otherwise, they would have just let him alone to start with. I’ve seen their type before,” he sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “If that lot could start a fight, they would. They like to pick on people. Makes them feel superior.”
Mona eased back and nodded. “So, you went over to stop them picking on him, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Bob agreed, relaxing back into his seat again. “Anyway, two on one isn’t a fair fight, and I thought they’d back off if I stepped up. Turned out to just make things worse, they started egging each other on.”
He coughed—one short bark, then a long bout, during which he bent double with a hand over his mouth. Ngaire leaned forward, feeling the wracking coug
h behind her own breastbone. When Bob finished, he pressed his palm against the tabletop for a minute, panting, before he raised his head.
“Do you need to take a break?” his lawyer asked but Bob waved him off.
When he started to speak again, Bob was slower, pausing to take long breaths in between small puddles of words. “When they turned their attentions to me, the old guy staggered back a few steps and sat down. That riled me up—that he didn’t even have the sense to leave while the going was good.”
After a moment, Bob began to drum his fingers on the tabletop. They beat out an urgent patter while he got his thoughts in order, then he yanked his hand back into his lap.
“The tallest boy. He was blond. He grinned and walked toward me. I backed away and said I didn’t want any trouble, but he kept after me all the same. After a moment, the other one moved around behind me, that was when I knew that I was in trouble. Even if I took on the one in front of me, the other would jump onto my back.”
“Were they saying anything?” Mona asked. “Or was it just from their body language that scared you?”
“I didn’t say I was scared,” Bob shot back. “Just wary. I knew that with the two of them coming at me, things could go down pretty nasty. I looked for my opportunity, and I took it when it came.”
“What opportunity?”
“I maneuvered so that the one behind me was up against the concrete wall. There was a broken window halfway down. I knew he wouldn’t be comfortable going there. When we were all standing in front, I made a fake lunge”—Bob jerked forward in his seat—“then threw myself backward. It caught the one behind me off guard, and he smashed the window with my full body weight driving him into the broken glass. Something caught him somewhere—he shrieked like he was dying.”
“Had the boys said anything to you by this time?” Mona asked. “This would have been what? A few minutes into your encounter?”
“They were saying stuff, but I don’t remember what. Insults, curse words, just the usual shit you’d expect from that lot.”
“Had they touched you physically in any way?” Angel asked, and Bob’s lawyer put a restraining hand on his client’s arm.
“I think we should take a break there,” he said. “My client’s just undergone surgery and isn’t feeling on top of things.”
“I’m feeling fine,” Bob said, throwing the hand off and crossing his arms to avoid the same touch again. “No, they weren’t assaulting me, if that’s what you’re asking. They hadn’t laid a finger on me, just on the old tramp.”
“If you’re implying that my client initiated this assault, then I’d like to remind you of the premise of defense of others,” the lawyer said.
“We’re not implying anything,” Mona said. “Just making sure that we correctly understand all the information. What happened next.”
Bob bristled. “You know what happened next. I kicked those boys to death and then ran away. I never thought for a second that Shannon would call the police and take the blame.”
“Take us through it step-by-step,” Mona instructed. “Just like you’ve been doing. You threw your weight back against one teenage boy.” She opened the folder in front of her on the table and looked down at the descriptions on the first page. “I believe that would be Jessie Collingwood. A sixteen-year-old boy. Does that sound right?”
“If you say so.” Bob shrugged and glowered down at the table. “I didn’t stop to get their names and ages at the time.”
“So, how did you go from pressing a teenage child against the broken glass to kicking them repeatedly and stomping on their heads until they both died?”
“It just progressed naturally,” Bob said. With his arms still crossed and him now leaning back in his chair, he resembled a teenage boy himself.
Mona persevered, “You said that you didn’t realize that your daughter Shannon would call the police and admit to the murders?”
“Yes, I said that.”
“Why did you let her?”
“As I said, I didn’t know.”
Mona cleared her throat and sent a stern look straight down the barrel at Bob Rickards. “When you heard that she’d confessed, why didn’t you step in to admit what you’d done at that stage?”
Bob shrugged and looked across at the mirrored wall. To Ngaire, it felt like he was staring straight into her soul.
“Mr. Rickards,” Angel said, trying to draw the man’s attention. “It’s a fair question, and we’d like an answer. Would you explain why you let your daughter be convicted and sentenced for a horrendous crime that you now say you were responsible for?”
“No comment.”
Even Bob’s lawyer looked surprised.
Mona glanced at Angel and raised her eyebrows, he gave her a short nod in return. “Mr. Rickards, please understand that your daughter Shannon has already been convicted and sentenced for the crime that you’re now confessing to. If you don’t have any compelling evidence to suggest that you are, in fact, the perpetrator of this crime, then we have no interest in spending more time on a case that has already been prosecuted successfully and closed.”
“Fine,” Bob said, leaning even further back in his chair. “You don’t need to believe me. It’s no skin off my nose.”
“If you don’t want us to reinvestigate this crime, Mr. Rickards, then why did you confess to us your involvement?” Mona was leaning so far forward now that her body crossed the center line of the table. Her eyes fixed on Bob’s and didn’t waiver. “If you’re not willing to talk us through this crime, then we’ll immediately suspend this investigation and charge you for wasting police time.”
“I told you what happened,” Bob said, his tone now mulish. “I threw my weight back on one boy, and then bounced off him and caught the other at mid-thigh. He went down like a brick, and I kicked him in the balls to keep him down.
“The other boy was screaming bloody murder because of a few cuts.” Bob’s lip curled up in distaste. “I kicked his ankles out, so he fell down, too. He landed onto the side of a broken beer crate and snapped his ribs.”
Ngaire wrote that down, frowning, but the DSS reached out and touched the back of her hand. “It’s in the pathologist’s report,” she whispered. “It’s part of the official evidence and was read out in court.”
“I kept kicking them to stop them attacking the homeless guy or me, and just kept doing that until they stopped moving. I ran out when I realized that the boys were dead.” He stared down at his fingernails. “Believe me, I never meant to cause that much harm.”
“Why did you let your daughter serve a prison sentence for your crime?” Mona asked. At that moment, in the dull lighting of the interview room, she looked identical to Shannon Rickards. As though Bob’s daughter had manifested in the room to ask her father the question that no one could understand the answer to.
“I told you what you need to know,” Bob said, turning his face away again. This time it was to the opposite wall, over his lawyer’s shoulder. “If you have any further questions about the crime itself, then ask away.”
Mona and Angel exchanged a glance, then she gave a covert glance at the DSS, even though she couldn’t see her. Harmond looked at Ngaire who shook her head. She had nothing further to ask.
“Call it,” Harmond said into the mic, and Mona nodded.
“It would be nice if somewhere along the line, something, in this case, made logical sense,” the DSS said. It took Ngaire a second to realize that she was making conversation rather than a blanket statement.
“The interview certainly didn’t add anything new into the equation,” Ngaire said. “Apart from saying there was a homeless man on the scene, although I’m sure that’s been considered before.”
“Considered and disregarded,” Harmond said. “The police did try to find witnesses at the time. They combed the usual haunts and put in feelers at the city mission, but no one came forward. The official advice was that the beds were fuller than normal because it was so bloody cold.”
“Still, there could be a potential eye witness out there somewhere.”
“If the bum’s not dead by now or so drunk his memory of the incident was lost to a blackout.” Harmond snorted. “Plus, there’s nothing to even hint at the fact that this mystery man exists outside of Mr. Rickards’ imagination.”
“What happens now?” Ngaire asked.
“We charge him,” the DSS said. “And work on the presumption that he did it because why else would he confess?”
“I had a case once,” Ngaire said slowly, taking care to form her words so they wouldn’t be misunderstood. “A man confessed to a murder that he hadn’t done. The guy thought he’d killed a girl. In other circumstances he might have been responsible, but in the end, wasn’t the murderer at all. Just one in a long line of assaultants that all culminated in her death.”
The DSS nodded, still keeping her eyes fixed on the interview room in front of them. “I heard about that,” she said.
She didn’t add anything else, praise or recrimination. Ngaire’s skin crawled in her curiosity at what opinions Harmond had formed. Perhaps, none. Just because the case had meant a lot to Ngaire, didn’t mean that others gave it more than a passing thought.
“I don’t think the same applies here.”
“No, I didn’t mean that. Just…” Ngaire trailed off, puzzled. She felt her nerves firing up, on edge and ready for a fight. The same old stupid problem that she battled but never won. A mind that thought wrenching her back into the past was the only solution every time the slightest problem struck.
“I meant that there can be all sorts of random reasons for someone to confess. Bob may have other beliefs that he’s holding to that aren’t right. We won’t know until he starts to tell us the truth.”
Harmond looked at Ngaire, her eyebrows raised. “And what makes you think that he’s not telling the truth?”
The question took Ngaire’s breath away. Where the hell should she start? Then she caught the upturn at the edge of the DSS’s mouth and the gleam of mischief in her eye. She laughed and rubbed at her twitching eyebrow, relieved.
The Only Secret Left to Keep Page 15