The senior detective opened a brown folder which had been on the table in front of him. “Look, Michael. We’ve had further analysis of the comparisons between your voice and the voice on the tape, and the experts have told us that either the person on the tape is you, or there is a million-to-one chance that it could be someone else with a voice exactly like yours. So what I’m wondering is, are you the man who has killed eleven children and has asked his girlfriend to provide him with an alibi for all three incidents, or are you the man who has wasted police time by sending us this recording and thereby diverting us from the real investigation? Because at this moment I’m not considering any third possibility.”
“If I could just say something on behalf of my client?” It was the first time Gordon Giles had spoken out loud in the course of the interviews. “If, as you say, the experts tell you that it’s a million to one that there could be someone else out there with a voice that’s identical to Michael’s, that means there are probably at least sixty people in the UK alone, and obviously a huge multiple of that worldwide, who could have recorded it. So Michael is one of some sixty British people who fit your description.”
“Yes,” said Collins, hardly missing a beat, “but probably none of the other fifty-nine can be placed about a mile from the first incident, less than half a mile from the second incident, and maybe four hundred yards from the third incident.”
“Nor can I,” said Michael. “Apart from anything else, I was in Brighton when the murders underneath Kingston Bridge happened.”
“So you say,” said Bailey.
Once again, Giles intervened. “And so Miss Parsons has no doubt corroborated.”
The four sat in silence for a few seconds, and Collins seemed to be about to start on another line of questioning when there was a knock on the door and a young plainclothes detective entered the room and whispered in Bailey’s ear.
“For the tape,” said Collins, “Detective Constable Squires has just entered the room and is consulting with Superintendent Bailey.” As she was speaking, the young detective handed Bailey another USB stick, which he plugged into a port on his laptop.
“May we know what’s going on?” asked Giles. “Is this another recording?”
“It’s a copy of some material we’ve just recovered from the Hand-Cutz production house where your client works,” said Bailey. Now he was staring at the screen, and Michael could see from the reflection in his spectacles that he was watching a moving image. “It was handed over to us by the team from Matterhorn Productions, which has been making the documentaries about the Madman. It seems that this is from the material they shot on the very first Sunday, just after the incident in Brighton.” Bailey was still using the controls on the laptop’s keyboard to scroll through the video and was conferring in whispers with Collins as he did so. When he reached the point he was looking for, he half closed his eyes and seemed to smile.
“I repeat,” said Giles, now more stridently than before. “May we know what is going on?”
Bailey pressed the pause button and looked again at Michael. “Please, can you remind me again what you said you were wearing on the afternoon of the Brighton incident? When you say you went out with Alison to find something to eat?”
Michael thought for a moment. It was clear that the police had found something they believed to be significant, and he was anxious not to make a mistake. “Yes, it was a blue shirt and khaki cargo trousers. I’ve told you that already.” He looked at Giles, who shook his head. Neither of them had any clue about the significance of the question.
“Then can you tell me who this is?” Bailey’s expression was triumphant as he turned the laptop so that the screen faced Michael and his lawyer. The image had been frozen into a still frame and showed a young man, taken from the right-hand profile and just behind him as he walked away. The man was wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt, and anyone seeing it for the first time would have bet a further million to one that they were looking at a picture of Michael. The time code in the corner of the screen indicated a clock; it was 11:25 in the morning, which was just about forty minutes after the children had been thrown into the sea.
“Michael Beaumont,” said Bailey. “I am now charging you with the murder of James Mitchell in Brighton on the tenth of May this year. Once again, you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you fail to mention when questioned anything that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be used in evidence against you.”
Immediately Gordon Giles rose to his feet and placed a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “My client has nothing further to add at this time.”
FIFTEEN
With all the furor going on at the front desk and in reception as a new pack of journalists gathered in the car park at the front of Greenacres, no one was available to go to sit with Rose to ensure that she was distracted from watching the television. The stroke must have been very serious and very sudden, according to the doctors who examined her later, because otherwise there was no way to understand why Rose would not have reached for the button to summon assistance. By the time they found her she was in a coma and lying in a position in her bed which indicated that she may have been writhing in pain for some while before she lost consciousness. The TV on the wall was tuned to twenty-four-hour news.
Journalists banging on the outer doors of the care home would not believe anyone from the staff who told them that Rose Beaumont had been taken ill and would not be giving interviews or making a statement about her grandson. Even when the ambulance arrived with sirens blaring and lights flashing, the most implacable declined to accept that what they were being told was true. Several resorted to asking any staff or visitors going in or out whether they had ever met Michael, his grandmother, his girlfriend, or anyone else remotely connected to the Beaumonts.
Management at Greenacres was in a state of shock after learning that one of their residents could be associated in any way with the murderer who had become known as the Madman, and now they wondered who should be informed about Rose’s condition. It was well known that Esme had been especially close to Rose, but she had not been on duty when news of Michael’s arrest began to circulate. She changed her plans and agreed to come into Greenacres the moment she received a call from the welfare officer Edwina Morrison.
Rose had been admitted to the intensive care unit at St. Thomas’ Hospital, and Mrs. Morrison suggested that in the absence of any available next of kin, Esme should go there and stay close to her bed in case her friend might wake up and wonder where she was. Mrs. Morrison quickly wrote out a letter on headed notepaper authorizing St. Thomas’ to allow Esme access. She also had the presence of mind to warn them that their incoming patient needed to be protected from the press.
“Obviously I need to let her grandson know,” said Mrs. Morrison, “but I can’t imagine that he’s been allowed to keep his telephone, and I don’t have names or numbers for anyone else.”
Esme thought about what Rose had told her a few days earlier about the middle-aged woman who came to visit from time to time—the woman she had identified as Mrs. Rawlinson. She was about to mention her to Mrs. Morrison, but then changed her mind. “I don’t think there is any other family—or at least no one I know of.”
“It’s difficult to believe that he could be capable of something like this, but then I suppose that if the bad people had horns and a tail, we wouldn’t need detectives to try to catch them.”
Esme shook her head. “I don’t know much about anything, but one thing I do know is that unless they’ve caught that boy red-handed, nothing’s going to persuade me that he has done those terrible things. He’s a lovely, lovely boy. He’s so kind to his grandmother, and that new girlfriend of his is very nice, too. I made them cake!”
“Well, I’m sure the police know what they’re doing, Esme,” said Mrs. Morrison, her words clipped and clinical. “But anyway, our duty is quite clear. We need to take care of Rose’s interests as best we can, and that means bein
g there for her when she wakes up and doing what we can to keep the newspeople away from her.”
Esme readily agreed and set off for the hospital.
* * *
Gordon Giles had remained at the police station awaiting instructions from his client and spent the time on the telephone trying to raise one of the senior partners from his law firm to seek advice. It was a measure of Mr. Giles’s junior status that he had been the on-duty defense solicitor for what should have been a quiet weekday evening in central London. At only twenty-five years old, the most serious thing that the young lawyer had come across in his short career was assault and battery while under the influence of alcohol, and he was terrified of putting a foot wrong. Everyone he tried to call was either out at dinner or the theater, and so when the officers told Giles that his client wanted to see him, it was with some trepidation that he stepped into the holding cell.
“I just cannot believe that this is real,” said Michael. He was sitting on the bed, and Gordon Giles had pulled up an upright chair. “It’s like a nightmare. Like something out of a horror movie. Stuff keeps happening that I can’t take in.”
Gordon Giles chose not to reflect on the thought that he was sitting next to a man who might be the most famous mass murderer of the last three decades and decided instead to assume that his client was innocent and would need a good defense. He took a deep breath and plunged in. “I can completely understand that, Michael, but we’d be better off using our time to talk about a few practicalities. What, for example, is going on with that piece of video from the day of the second crime in Brighton? Is there any way that that could have been you?”
“No,” said Michael firmly. “I agree that the bloke in the video looks a bit like me, but I’ve spent the last two hours thinking how they could possibly have taken those pictures. As I told the police, I know that I was wearing my khaki cargo pants and a blue T-shirt on that day because Alison and I noted that so many other people seemed to be wearing the same things the Madman had been described as wearing.” Michael paused to recall the possibilities he had considered during his time alone in the cell. “Obviously I do own blue jeans and some white shirts, so either someone has taken some pictures of me at another time and somehow they’ve been mixed up, or there’s someone out there who looks remarkably similar to me.”
“When you say ‘mixed up,’ do you mean accidentally, or do you think it’s possible that someone is trying to throw suspicion onto you?” Michael looked up at Giles, his face expressing inquiry. The lawyer continued, “I know that sounds unlikely, but after all, there were a number of people at the production company who told the police that the voice on the tape sounded like yours. Is it possible that a person in there—someone you work with—has doctored the tape, or whatever you do to tapes, to make it look as though you were there at that time and dressed the same as the killer?”
“But honestly, who would do that? Of course it’s possible, but who would do that? It’s not like a practical joke…it’s life and death.”
“I don’t know,” said Giles. “Maybe it started as a practical joke that got out of hand? Maybe the real killer? I haven’t got a clue, but if you say you weren’t wearing those clothes on that day, there are very few other possible explanations.”
The pressure which Michael had been feeling inside his head since his arrest was showing no sign of reducing, and he pushed the palms of his hands hard against his temples but obtained no relief. He was about to ask what was going to happen next when the door of the cell opened, and Sergeant Mallinson asked the lawyer to step outside for a moment.
“I won’t be a minute, Michael,” said Mallinson affably, “I just need a quick word with Mr. Giles.”
Alone again, Michael began to pace the cell. He walked its length, and then its breadth, ten feet by six feet, and for a moment he recalled the scene in the classic film Papillon when Steve McQueen was kept in the dark in an underground cell for years on end. He had paced out the dimensions and eventually knew he was losing his mind when he lost count and bumped into the wall. The moment of distraction was quickly gone as Michael tried to concentrate on the recent conversation with the lawyer. What possible explanations could there be? Surely it was inconceivable that someone had put footage of him taken at another time in among the footage shot that Sunday afternoon? And yet of course it would be so easy to do, and now he remembered that he had told the director from Matterhorn that he had been in Brighton at that time. Then Michael turned his mind to the matching voiceprints. The spectrograph showing the highs and lows of his voice matched exactly those on the tape from the Madman, and he had been present himself when the two had been played together. As he struggled for another explanation, he realized that an expert sound technician would be able to distort the recording of two voices which were similar to make them seem like a match. He began to rack his brains about who would wish to do such a thing. Surely only the killer himself, or someone else who intended him great harm. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the key turning in the lock and the steel door opening. Michael registered that it was Mr. Giles returning, and one look at the expression on his face made clear that something else had happened.
“What is it?” said Michael. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Whatever it is, it can’t be any worse than what has happened already.” For a few further seconds Giles said nothing, as if wondering how to express what he needed to say, and then Michael understood that there was indeed something which would be worse than what had already happened. He guessed at what it was the second before Giles spoke again.
“Your grandmother has had a stroke.”
“Oh my God.” Dreadful though the words were, they were not quite as dreadful as the ones he had feared. Nevertheless Michael felt poleaxed. Unable to move, and yet unable to remain still, Michael literally did not know where to put himself. He stood up straight, then sat down, and then stood up again. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. It’s a nightmare. They’ve scared the living hell out of her. That’s what they’ve done. The bastards have damn near killed a harmless old lady.” Michael began pacing fast, turning swiftly at each extremity of the cell, ten by six, six by ten, and now he felt a primordial scream welling inside himself and brought his arms up and clasped his hands together behind his head, squeezing his skull between his forearms. “I have to see her,” he said, his voice muffled by the sleeves of his jacket.
Gordon Giles had never seen another human being in such distress, and he reached out to touch his new client on the shoulder. “I’m afraid they won’t let you, Michael. I’ve asked already. Basically they say that half the world’s press is camped outside the police station here, and the other half is camped outside St. Thomas’ Hospital. They just can’t make it possible to get you there and back safely. They told me that her condition is serious but stable, which means that nothing is likely to happen overnight. I’ll get one of my more senior colleagues here in time for the hearing in the morning, and we’ll ask the judge to allow you to visit her.”
It was a full ten minutes before Michael was able to speak again, in which time he did his best to absorb and process his situation. His overwhelming emotion was still incredulity—just a few hours ago he was looking forward to the weekend and wondering what he and Alison would do together. Now every important thing in his life was being dismantled before his eyes, and he seemed to be helpless to do anything about it. Suddenly a shudder passed through Michael’s body; he realized that he was freezing cold. He looked up and saw that his lawyer was gazing back at him with an expression which might have been sympathy.
“What’s going to happen next?” asked Michael.
“You’ll stay here overnight, and they’ll have to put you before a judge in the morning. You won’t need to plead or say anything other than confirming your name and that you understand the charges. I haven’t been able to raise anyone else in my law firm, but as soon as I do, I’ll get someone down here who will know how best to put the case to the ju
dge that you need to visit your grandmother.” Michael’s sudden rush of gratitude was out of all proportion to the kindness. He could feel the tears forming in his eyes, but merely nodded to show that he understood.
* * *
It had been made very clear to her that she would not be allowed to speak to Michael before she left the police station, but nonetheless Alison begged to be allowed to see him—even if it was through glass or across a room. There was never going to be any possibility, and so after she had given her account of events to Detective Superintendent Bailey and Detective Constable Collins, they said that she could leave the station.
“But Michael will need to appear in court in the morning for the charges to be put to him and for a bail hearing,” Bailey explained. He told her that if she wished to, he would arrange for her to be taken discreetly into the back of the public gallery.
“What about fresh clothes?” Alison asked. “Will I be able to bring something for him to wear in court?”
Bailey responded that Michael’s apartment was being searched but that he would make arrangements for her to be allowed access. “DC Squires will be there by the time you arrive,” he said. “In particular, of course, you won’t be allowed to touch or remove any of the clothes Michael was wearing or might have been wearing on the days we’re concerned about.”
Arrangements were made for Alison to be driven out of the police station in the back of an unmarked van so that she could avoid the media. She remained out of sight for the entire journey to Kingston, and when they arrived she found that the whole of Old Bridge Street had been closed off with yellow and black police tape, and she was able to duck out of the van and into the entrance leading to Michael’s apartment without being spotted by watching cameras. She was met at the door as promised by Detective Constable Squires and immediately became aware that there were three or four other officers, each of them dressed from head to foot in white overalls, spread out in various rooms. They seemed to be opening and closing drawers and cupboards.
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