Suspect

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘Three o’clock, Vic? Would that be all right?’

  ‘I was going fishing, but I’ll give it a miss.’

  ‘I’ll see you then, Vic. And thanks.’

  Pemberton and Larkin arrived outside Hadley’s smart semi-detached home a few minutes before three o’clock and decided to await Brennon. The Irishman arrived a couple of minutes later and emerged from his car with a briefcase. Pemberton left his car to greet his old friend.

  ‘He’s expecting us, is he?’ Brennon asked.

  ‘He is,’ said Pemberton. ‘But he’s not very happy about your involvement.’

  ‘At least we gave him fair warning,’ said Brennon. ‘Usually when I interview suspects, I turn up without warning. Catch ’em by surprise, that’s my motto. It works, most of the time.’

  They were ushered into the lounge by Mrs Hadley, an unsmiling woman with greying hair, but with a round, healthy-looking face.

  ‘I’ll call Vic,’ she said. ‘He’s down the garden, in his shed, repairing some fishing tackle. You go in and find a seat, he won’t be long. Then I’ll bring some tea for you.’

  When she had gone, Brennon said, ‘I think we should have gone to have a look at that fishing tackle shed.’ He grinned.

  ‘Later, perhaps? There’s hardly any point now. If he was going to remove anything that might have interested us, he’s had ample opportunity,’ suggested Pemberton but then Vic Hadley arrived, still dressed in his untidy brown sweater, brown corduroys and heavy brown shoes.

  Pemberton rose to his feet. ‘Vic, thanks for letting us come and talk. This is Detective Superintendent Brennon from Langbarugh.’

  Hadley nodded but made no effort to shake hands, then sat down in an easy chair, facing his inquisitors. He had a green-backed book in his hands, a diary, and also his official police notebook.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’m ready.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Pemberton began, with DI Larkin taking notes.

  ‘Vic, this is an interview for elimination purposes, a witness interview. There is no tape recording, it is not being done under PACE regulations. Now, you’ve been working with us on the current murder enquiry, and that means you’ve also got a good knowledge of the Langbarugh cases. You know the dates, times and places the murders occurred, and you know both police forces are looking for a black motor bike which is similar to yours in colour, design and registration details. We are seeking a man who dresses in motor cycling gear, black gear. You know that tyre marks found at the Green Tent murder scene were from the same make and type as yours, with the same tread pattern. You also know, and I must tell you, that you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but I know that you wish to be eliminated from our enquiries, Vic, and that means you’ll need to explain your whereabouts at the material times.’

  ‘I was fishing,’ he said. ‘I’m a keen fisherman, always have been.’

  ‘On every occasion there was a murder, then, you were fishing? At the material times? Alone?’

  ‘Yes, quite alone, even when Scott was killed. No witnesses, Mr Pemberton. Well, apart from ramblers and dog walkers and such, sometimes pottering past me along the river bank. I’ve no idea who they were and whether they noticed me. You know I always tell the truth. I have no witnesses I can call, gentlemen. None at all.’

  ‘Did you perhaps go somewhere else?’ asked Pemberton. ‘In addition to fishing? Before or after? On your motor bike?’

  ‘Since I went down with stress, I’ve hardly been anywhere. I used to go with Jean to the supermarket, shopping in town, out for a meal maybe and so on. Not any more, not even since moving to Rainesbury. My wife does the shopping, alone — I don’t go with her, not since my face got splashed all over the tabloids. I try to keep away from crowded places where folks’ll recognise me. If any of the Newton clan see me, they always take the opportunity for unpleasantness, name-calling, spitting in my face, that sort of thing. Brian never misses a chance to humiliate me if he sees me in a public place — he says he’ll get me one day. Too many other folks know me from those pictures in the papers and some were pretty bloody nasty in the things they said and did. They all said Newton was innocent when I knew he was raiding that bloody van and about to shoot Swanson. It’s no good arguing, sir, not with folks like that. They’ve got closed minds. So I keep my head down now, out of circulation I am.’

  ‘The motor bike enables you to be anonymous though?’ said Pemberton. ‘With your visor down, no one can recognise you. You ride it a lot?’

  ‘Right, I do get about. I prefer the bike to the car. Even in a car, folks can recognise me, but I don’t go riding around just for the hell of it. I go to work on the bike, I use it for leisure trips and I use it to get to the river bank when I go fishing. I park it under the railway bridge and walk the rest of the way, half a mile or so.’

  ‘So you’ve never ridden it to Middlesbrough or to Turnerville?’ put in Brennon. ‘Or to Pearle’s place?’

  ‘Yes, I have been to Turnerville, Middlesbrough and elsewhere. There’s no secret in that. I like touring. But look, gentlemen, I know the suspect bike’s like mine and I know the tyre marks at the green tent were similar to mine. But it wasn’t me. That’s the truth. Can you believe me? What else can I say?’

  By this stage, Brennon was opening his briefcase and removing his album of photographs. He passed the entire album to Hadley, saying, ‘These photographs were taken by our surveillance unit, Inspector. Turnerville is the location. You said you’ve been there. It’s a black motor bike in the photos, just like yours, Inspector — even the number plate is the same as yours. I’d say it was your bike.’

  As Larkin scribbled his notes, the burly inspector studied each one carefully, turning them over to note the date, time and place they had been taken, and said, ‘You bastards were trailing me. I thought it was the Newtons…but that’s right, that is my bike. That’s me. I won’t deny that. Why should I? I’ve no reason to deny it.’

  ‘You know where these were taken, Inspector?’ continued Brennon in his soft Irish brogue.

  ‘Turnerville, like you said,’ said Hadley. ‘I recognise some of the locations. I did have a ride over there recently — it was the day that Hardisty was killed.’

  ‘Can I ask why you were there?’ Brennon was studying Hadley’s body language, watching his eyes and his hands.

  Hadley lifted a book from the floor; it was his diary.

  ‘I keep a daily diary, gentlemen, as well as my official police notebook. The diary records my off-duty movements,’ and he turned over the pages until he arrived at the date in question. Then he passed the diary to Brennon for him to examine. ‘If you want proof, this might help. Contemporaneous records and all that. I went to Turnerville to buy some fishing tackle,’ he said slowly. ‘I wanted a new reel and some lines; there’s a very good tackle shop in Church Road. I was uncertain which day to go, kept putting it off because I didn’t fancy the trip, and then I got a call from a chap calling himself Lowe. A phone call. He said he had some information about the Millgate supermarket raid which would interest me, if I cared to meet him. God knows how he found me, I’m ex-directory. I told him I was finished with Millgate, I didn’t want to talk about it, it was all over so far as I was concerned. But he said it was important and that he lived in Middlesbrough and that he could tell me about Newton. I know Newton was a villain, you see, and I thought this chap might furnish me with some proof of his involvement, just to settle things in my mind — he said he’d read all about me in the papers at the time and believed my side of things. He said he would tell me about Newton’s past, something that would be useful, and so I said I was going to Turnerville that day. He suggested meeting there. He mentioned a café. Canter’s Café. I was happy to go along with that because it was a public place — you never know whether that sort of call is a set-up of some kind. Anyway, Lowe said he’d be there at seven o’clock and would recognise me. That afternoon, I went on my motor bike but when I got there, I found I’
d forgotten to take my wallet. Since I became stressed, I do things like that. Forget things. I forget where I put the car keys or my shoes or my pens and pencils… So when I got to Turnerville, I had no cheque book, credit cards or money, other than a wee bit of loose cash in my pockets, and that meant I couldn’t buy my reel. I didn’t fancy spending time in the shop when I had no money to spend. I only had enough cash for a coffee and a bun, and so, rather than ride all the way home and go back again later to meet Lowe, I hung around the town until my time to meet him. Those pictures are of me doing that, gentlemen, hanging around, waiting with nowhere to go. I went to the café as arranged, but Lowe never turned up. I’ve not heard from him since and I don’t know the chap. His name means sod-all to me.’

  ‘A set-up, Inspector?’ asked Brennon.

  ‘I get the feeling I am being set up for something, sir — people following me, those bloody Newtons never off my back, being watched. At least, I thought it was them. It might have been your shadows, but the Newtons have been at it for ages. Your lot might have frightened them off, eh? That’d be a laugh! But they’ll be back. They want to pay me back for killing Joss…they’re like that, evil, vindictive bastards, especially Big Brother Brian. He hates my guts and never misses a chance to say so.’

  ‘So then what did you do, Inspector?’ Brennon continued in his formal voice, not responding to Hadley’s comments.

  ‘I had a coffee and a bun and came home.’

  ‘And at home, what did you do?’

  ‘Came in, had something to eat, then went out. Fishing.’

  ‘And your wife, Jean, she will verify that?’

  ‘No, she’d gone to the supermarket, late night shopping. She’d left a note, my tea was in the fridge, ready to put in the microwave. I got back about eleven, I think — she was home by then. We had a drink of cocoa, talked a bit about our days and went to bed.’

  ‘And you can produce no witnesses to any of your excursions from home, Inspector?’

  ‘None of my own, sir. Your lot were witnesses surely, Mr Brennon, if they were taking photographs of me?’

  ‘Yes, we were keeping tabs on you. I’ll admit that — it was without Mr Pemberton’s knowledge, I ought to add. It was because of the bike. After the Pearle murder, we logged the number of every black motor bike we saw, and an alert uniform constable noticed your bike in Middlesbrough one day. He couldn’t stop you to quiz you, but took your number… We traced it to you, not realising you were a police officer at the time and decided to put you under surveillance. Then we found out who you were and where you were working, hence my liaison with Mr Pemberton. And hence this chat.’

  ‘There were people shadowing me before the Pearle job, sir. But your men’ll know I was not at the scenes of any of those crimes at the material times!’

  ‘No, I’m sorry to say that isn’t the case. You were not under twenty-four-hour surveillance, Mr Hadley. The killings happened when our teams were not with you. Can I ask if you were aware that we, the police, had you under our surveillance?’

  There was a long pause as the implication of this was studied by Hadley, who then said, ‘The short answer to that is no. Not you, not the police. Every time I thought I was being followed, I reckoned it was Newton’s mob, out for revenge, waiting to do something to me. That’s part of the reason for my motor bike outings, to lead them away from home, to puzzle them. I tried to lose them on occasions, thinking it was the Newtons. Look, both of you. I shot Joss Newton, I admitted that, and I did it to save a life. I have shot and killed a man, but I am not a murderer. I did not kill any of those three men. I want to clear my name, get myself off the bloody hook yet again, but how can I do that without witnesses?’

  His voice was weak now, without any of its former and usual force, and Pemberton wondered if this was symptomatic of his condition.

  ‘Can I keep your diary, Inspector? And your official pocketbook?’ asked Brennon. ‘We can use them to check your movements against our records. And can I come back to you if there are any queries?’

  ‘Sure, yes, I hope it’ll convince you that I’m telling the truth. That’s why I’ve always kept notes, to back up my words in case I was being set up for something. But if somebody is setting me up, I want to be in a position to fight back.’

  Pemberton had to continue, even though this visit might be pushing Hadley too close to his limit of current blighted mental patience or endurance.

  ‘Your firearms, Vic. We need to inspect them.’

  ‘I knew you would have to do that. They’re all secure and kept locked as the certificates specify. Come along, they’re in the spare bedroom.’

  It was a pointless exercise really — if Hadley was the killer, he would never keep the sawn-off shotgun in his house — but the search had to be done. In the bedroom, whose windows and doors were reinforced, they found Hadley’s collection of weapons. There were three shotguns, two of which were twelve-bores. One was a side-by-side, the other an over-and-under. The third was a single-barrel .410 and all were locked in one cabinet. As expected, none had a shortened barrel. Shortening the barrels of shotguns was illegal anyway; a sawn-off shotgun was hardly the sort of thing a police officer would keep in the house. His other weapons included two .22 BSA rifles, a .303 military rifle, a lightweight 9mm Steyr carbine rifle, two service Special .38 revolvers and a Star .45 automatic pistol. His shotgun certificate and his firearms certificate were lying on a cabinet in the bedroom. The two superintendents checked the documents to see that he was in legal custody of these weapons. There was also an array of cups and shields on shelves which adorned the walls.

  ‘Quite an armoury, Vic,’ commented Pemberton.

  ‘Shooting was my hobby, sir. Lawneswick Rifle Club, the County Clay Pigeon Shooting Association, the force rifle team, pistol championships…I was the force small arms champion for five successive years and I am allowed to hold these weapons because of my membership of various clubs.’

  ‘You’re very accustomed to handling guns, then?’ said Brennon. ‘Quite a good shot too, eh?’

  ‘The best, sir, when I was younger. Winner of all sorts of trophies. They were all legitimate targets, though, not people,’ he added wryly.

  ‘You’ve not been competition shooting lately, then?’ Pemberton put to him. ‘You didn’t mention this as part of your present activities?’

  ‘No, not since Millgate, sir. I’ve not touched a gun of any kind since then. To be honest, I’m not sure I want to handle a firearm again.’

  ‘But you’ve kept all this arsenal?’ pointed out Brennon.

  ‘I’m keeping them until my certificates are due for renewal, then I’ll make a decision whether or not to part with them. If I decide to give up competition and game shooting all together, I’ll either sell the weapons or surrender them. I might change my mind when I’m fully fit again. If I do give up guns, then it’ll mean giving up my post with the firearms unit.’

  ‘It’s easy enough to obtain a gun on the streets, isn’t it?’ Brennon changed the subject. ‘I mean, Inspector, if a villain wants to get himself tooled up, he can buy himself a gun, a revolver, pistol, sawn-off shotgun or anything he wants, for a few quid paid to the right person.’

  ‘No problem, sir. There’s a good trade in firearms, especially revolvers and pistols. Shotguns too.’

  ‘Sawn-off shotguns?’

  ‘Always in demand by villains, bank raiders and the like. There’s people who’ll shorten the barrels and reduce the stock to a handgun grip, sure, sir. But I don’t know who they are, that’s a matter for CID.’

  Pemberton knew that his teams were attempting to interview all those who dealt in this illegal aspect of shotgun work.

  They remained in the room for a while as Hadley unlocked the cabinets and allowed the detectives to handle the weapons. Each made a cursory check, matching their numbers against the certificates and examining them visually for signs of recent use. Pemberton was satisfied none had been used for the murders — but the shotguns, even thou
gh their barrels had not been shortened, would have to be examined by the ballistics specialists to clear them. Hadley understood and readily agreed — proof that his guns had not been used was a point in his defence. He handed over both twelve-bores against a receipt from Pemberton and they returned to the lounge.

  Brennon picked up the diary and said, ‘I think that’s all for the time being, Inspector. Thank you for being so cooperative.’

  ‘It’s in my own interest,’ said Hadley.

  ‘You really must get some witnesses to your movements, Vic,’ said Pemberton. ‘You know how important that is.’

  ‘Sure, but how can I find them if there weren’t any? Now, sir,’ he addressed Pemberton, ‘what about my work? You won’t want me in the office now, surely? A murder suspect?’

  ‘You are not a suspect, Vic! I want to emphasise that. You’re a witness, one of many who’ve been interviewed. I have no intention of banning you from the office, nor do I intend to suspend you from work for further investigation, certainly not on the evidence we have so far. There is nothing to implicate you other than some pieces of circumstantial evidence. I have to be very careful how I interpret that evidence. So come to work as usual in the morning. No one in the office apart from ourselves knows of our visit today, and we do need your help in finding the killer of Pearle, Scott and Hardisty.’

  ‘I will not be arranging any more surveillance of you and your movements, Inspector,’ said Brennon. ‘I’m not saying I entirely accept your reason for being in Turnerville that day, but at least you were honest enough to admit you were there.’

  ‘A good job I did admit it,’ and Hadley permitted himself a gentle chuckle. ‘That’s the value of not telling lies, not even wee ones. Now if I’d denied it, you’d have been down on me like the proverbial ton of bricks.’