A Cold Cold Heart

by John Nicholl

  She smiled. ‘You’re going to love this.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘He’s remanded in Swansea nick after breaking the conditions of an injunction.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘It only happened yesterday.’

  ‘Who dealt with it?’

  ‘Child protection.’

  ‘So, the dates fit. He could have killed her.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s possible.’

  ‘Well, at least he’s not going anywhere, small mercies and all that.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  Grav opened a metal filing cabinet and took out a notepad. ‘Come on, let’s pay the scrote a visit. You can do the driving. I didn't get much sleep last night; my back’s fucking killing me.’

  ‘I’ve got some painkillers in my bag, if you need them?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, you’re all right, I took some before leaving the house. I mustn’t overdo it. They play havoc with my stomach.’

  ‘Are we going to interview Spencer at the prison?’

  ‘Yeah, we’ll have a quick chat with him and bring him back here to question him on tape, if we think there’s anything in it. I’ll give the nick a quick call en route and tell them to expect us. Let’s see what he’s got to say for himself and proceed from there.’

  Kesey picked up her wax jacket. ‘The way I see it, the butt hadn’t been on the riverbank long – it was relatively fresh, we know that. It would have been significantly more degraded, if it had. Spencer may have killed her, he may have been an accomplice or, at the very least, he was there at the scene of the crime shortly before, or very soon after, she was killed.’

  Grav followed on as they approached the lift. ‘You’re not wrong, love. I couldn’t have summarised the situation better myself. Let’s hope the bastards had a vasectomy. If he has, we’ve got him.’

  14

  It took Kesey just over an hour to drive the approximate forty miles to HMP Swansea in the Sandfields area of the sprawling Welsh seaside city. She parked the Mondeo in Oystermouth Road, directly below the high Victorian granite walls, and the two officers hurried to the main entrance as the grey skies filled the air with icy drizzle that threatened to turn to snow at any minute.

  The enthusiastic young guard on the main door checked the officers’ names against a list of expected visitors and waved them through almost immediately, rather than engaging in the potentially lengthy security procedures that could accompany such visits.

  DI Gravel led the way through the prison’s familiar corridors to interview room two as instructed, and they waited while a less than enthusiastic prison officer escorted Peter Spencer from the remand prisoners’ unit.

  The police officers remained seated behind a small rectangular table when the two men entered the starkly lit room a short time later. Grav glared at Spencer, introduced himself, gave DS Kesey time to do likewise, and gestured for him to take a seat opposite them.

  As Spencer sat in brooding silence, Grav turned to the guard who was still standing a few feet to their left. ‘We don’t need you to stay, thanks, mate. I’ll give you a shout when we’re done.’

  The prison officer approached the door and spoke without looking back. ‘Okay, ring the bell on the wall behind you when you’re finished. I’ll need to get him back in his cell.’

  Grav rested his palms on the grimy table and stared directly at Spencer, who held his gaze for a moment before suddenly looking away. ‘I hear you’re not particularly enjoying your stay at the tax payers’ expense, Peter. Aren't the facilities up to your exacting standards? Five- star for the criminal classes.’

  ‘I’m only here because of my fucking solicitor. The man’s a git.’

  Grav sneered. ‘Oh, give me a break. You’re a nasty little slimeball. A waste of fucking space. It’s about time you were banged up. You’ve avoided justice for long enough.’

  Spencer looked ready to explode. His eyes popped. ‘That cunt Turner caused all this shit. He told me to threaten the missus to shut her up; he told me to threaten my own fucking kids, and then, he didn’t even bother turning up at the police station when it all went tits up. What the fuck’s that about?’

  ‘Are we supposed to believe that crap?’

  ‘And that bitch social worker persuaded Tina not to drop the case. She always drops the fucking case. It never gets this far.’

  Grav laughed, head back, mercury fillings in full view. ‘I’ll have to find out who this social worker is and thank her personally. I’d like to shake her by the hand. I like her already.’

  ‘I want to make a formal complaint about Turner. He stitched me up. I want his fucking job.’

  Grav shook his head dismissively. ‘We don’t give a toss about Turner. He’s not our problem. If you want to make a complaint, talk to the Law Society. We’re here to talk to you about something else, something a lot more serious.’

  Spencer winced, hunching his back and making himself smaller. ‘I’ve been charged. I’m waiting to go back to court. I’ve got fuck all else to say.’

  Grav relaxed in his seat and focused on the prisoner with veined, bloodshot eyes, as Kesey took the lead, speaking in soft Brummie tones that contrasted dramatically with the inspector’s brash approach. ‘Where were you last Sunday night and early Monday morning?’

  ‘I had a few pints in the White Horse and went back to my mother’s place at about ten o’clock to crash out. I picked up a curry at that Chinese in King Street. Plenty of people saw me, if you want some names. It’s not a problem.’

  ‘Did you go out again?’

  ‘Not until Monday morning. What’s it matter?’

  ‘What time Monday morning?’

  ‘About eleven o’clock. Maybe a bit later. I felt like shit.’

  ‘Can your mother confirm that?’

  ‘She was staying at her sister’s place. There was just me and the dog.’

  ‘So, you haven’t got an alibi?’

  ‘Alibi? Why the fuck would I need an alibi? I didn’t go anywhere near my missus if that’s where this is going.’

  ‘Have you had a vasectomy, Peter?’

  He looked puzzled. ‘What the fuck are you asking me that for?’

  ‘Just answer the question. Being obstructive won’t achieve anything. We can always check your medical records, if we need to. You’re just going to piss off my DI even more than you already have.’

  ‘All right, yes, I’ve had a fucking vasectomy. Are you happy now? The missus didn't want any more kids. The GP arranged it. There’s no crime in that, is there? What’s the problem?’

  She hid her excitement as best she could. ‘And do you smoke, Peter?’

  He sat up in his seat as his desire for a nicotine hit became virtually unbearable. ‘Yeah, I’m fucking gagging. Some big bastard nicked the last of my fags.’

  ‘You smoke, don’t you, boss?’

  Grav met her eyes. ‘Yeah, cigars. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Perhaps Mr Spencer could have one when we’re finished, what do you think? Have you got one to spare?’

  Grav took a packet of five from the inside pocket of his tweed jacket, opened it slowly, and peered in. ‘I’ve only got three left.’

  She smiled. ‘You could spare one, couldn’t you, boss?’

  He paused. ‘Maybe, if he fully cooperates.’

  Kesey turned her attention back to Spencer, who resembled a hungry mongrel begging for a treat. ‘Do you ever walk on the riverbank, Peter?’

  He tensed as the interview took another unexpected turn. ‘What the fuck are you talking about ? Where’s this going now?’

  ‘It’s a simple enough question. Do you ever walk along the bank of the Towy near Caerystwyth?’

  He stared into space for a few seconds before responding. ‘I used to do a bit of fishing. Sewin, salmon, bass, that sort of thing. And I had a fucking licence, if that’s what you’re wondering. Poaching’s not my thing. You can’t get me on that one.’

  ‘When was the last t
ime you went fishing?’

  He shook his head slowly, once to the right and once to the left. ‘It was fucking years back. Why’d you ask?’

  ‘How many years are we talking? One, two, three, more?’

  ‘More, fucking more. I haven’t been fishing since the first kid was born. I lost interest. What the fuck does it matter?’

  Kesey paused briefly before asking her next question. ‘So just to be clear, you’re claiming you haven’t been on the riverbank more recently?’

  ‘No, I fucking well haven’t. How many times do I need to say it?’

  She pressed her lips together. ‘Do you need time to think, Peter? Take your time. No pressure. This matters.’

  ‘I haven’t been near the river. You can ask me the same fucking question for the rest of the day, if you want to, but the answer’s not going to change. I have not been anywhere near the fucking river, not for years. Is that clear enough for you?’

  Grav moved with surprising speed for a man of his age and fleshy build, crashing a palm down on the table and causing Spencer to retreat in his seat. ‘You’re lying to us, Peter. That’s never a good idea; I’m not a forgiving man.’

  Spencer was close to tears now, twitching like a junkie in need of drugs. ‘I want to go back to my cell.’

  Grav reached out, grabbed him by his shirtfront, and dragged him across the table. He held him there, with their noses almost touching, relishing the up -close and personal fear in his eyes, before throwing him back in his seat.

  ‘I want to go back to my fucking cell.’

  Grav stood, formed his right hand into a tight fist, and winked at Kesey who grabbed his arm and pulled him back. ‘Let me talk to him alone, boss. There’s no need for all that. He told us about the vasectomy. He’s not being uncooperative. You’re not, are you, Peter?’

  ‘No, I’m fucking well not!’

  Grav stood there, panting hard, his blood pressure slowly reducing from its dangerous high. ‘You talk to the bastard; I need some fresh air. His stink’s starting to get to me.’

  Kesey waited for her boss to leave the room and close the door behind him, before speaking again in breathy, urgent tones. ‘It would be a really good idea to tell me everything before he comes back, Peter. I can only control him for so long. He’s got one hell of a temper – he’s handy with his fists. I’ve seen him give people a serious hiding before now.’

  ‘The man’s a fucking maniac.’

  ‘I’d advise you to start talking. He’ll come back. There’s no way of avoiding it. He always comes back.’

  Spencer was close to panic now, his voice betraying his emotions. ‘I don’t know what the fuck the two of you are talking about. Have I had a vasectomy? Do I smoke? Have I been near the fucking river? I’m here for giving my missus a few slaps. What the fuck’s that lot got to do with anything?’

  ‘Now, I want you to think carefully. I’m going to ask you one last time. Have you been on the bank of the Towy, anywhere between Caerystwyth town and Johnstown Railway Bridge recently?’

  He shook his head frantically and shouted, ‘No, I fucking well haven’t,’ as Grav listened outside the door.

  ‘Is that your final answer? You’re absolutely certain?’

  He replied in the affirmative as Grav burst into the room. ‘Then how do you explain the fact that a cigarette butt with your DNA on it was found there by DS Kesey? A fresh butt. Thrown to the floor and discarded not long before you were banged up. Can you answer that one for me before I punch your face in?’

  Spencer cowered in his seat. ‘It’s a fag butt. Just a fag butt. What’s it fucking matter?’

  Grav lowered himself back into his seat and leaned towards the prisoner. ‘Oh, it matters, Peter, because it was found immediately next to the body of a murdered girl. Can you explain that for me? Now would be a good time to start talking – I’m not a patient man.’

  Spencer stared open- mouthed, attempting to register and compute the unfathomable. ‘That can’t be. I haven’t been anywhere near the fucking place. It’s got to be a mistake.’

  Grav laughed dismissively. ‘Oh, I think I’ll trust the DNA results. They tend to be a lot more reliable than lying gits like you. If that’s the best you’ve got, you’re well and truly screwed.’

  ‘I want a solicitor. I’m saying fuck all else until I’ve got a solicitor.’

  ‘Have it your way. We can talk more at the station.’

  ‘I’m going nowhere.’

  Grav reached out and grabbed Spencer’s sleeve, clutching it tightly and not letting go. ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence, if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  Spencer was weeping now, the tears running down his pasty, sun-deprived face. ‘This is fucking m -mad. I haven’t done anything. I’m innocent. I didn’t touch the bitch.’

  The DI glared at him with a look of undiluted disdain. ‘Put the cuffs on, Sergeant, nice and tight until the bastard’s squirming. Mr Spencer’s going to join us in Caerystwyth Police Station. I’ll just sort out the necessary paperwork, and we’ll be on our way.’

  15

  Grav hurried across the car park at Caerystwyth, dragging Peter Spencer towards the cells, as Laura Kesey locked the car and followed close behind. Their prisoner had said very little during the journey – beyond repeatedly protesting his innocence with increasing desperation, as his words fell on predictably deaf ears.

  The DI opened a cell, flung his prisoner inside, and stood at the open door. ‘You may never see the outside world again. A whole life sentence without any chance of parole. Tina shacked up with someone new; your kids calling him Dad. How do you fancy that?’

  ‘I haven’t fucking well done anything.’

  ‘It might be an idea to start cooperating before I throw the book at you. You’re going down, Peter. It’s just a matter of for how long, and what happens when you get there. It would not be a good idea to piss me off more than you already have. You’re still a young man. A whole life sentence could be a very long time.’

  Spencer retreated to the very back of his cell that stank of stale urine. ‘I want a solicitor. I’m saying fuck all else until I get a solicitor.’

  Grav slammed the door shut, peered through the open hatch, and grinned. ‘And which particular legal genius did you have in mind? I’m assuming Charles Turner won’t be required, given your recent slanderous claims. He may well be suing you for the little you’ve got left.’

  ‘It was the truth, nothing but the truth. Get that into your thick head.’

  Grav grinned. ‘Of course, it was. You’re a fucking comedian.’

  Spencer kicked the wall hard and yelped. ‘Just get me someone else, anyone other than Turner; I’m going to have that fucker’s job.’

  Grav raised his hand to the side of his head in mock salute. ‘Yes, sir, anything you say, sir. I’ll contact the duty solicitor as soon as I’ve had a bite to eat and a nice cup of tea. They’re usually next to fucking useless, but we’ll hang on and make a start once they arrive. Anything to please a valued guest like yourself.’

  ‘You do that, you snarky bastard.’

  ‘You’re a killer, Peter, and I’m going to prove it. You’re going down for a long, long time.’

  Spencer glared at the cell door, lost in a sea of despair, as Grav turned and walked away. ‘I haven’t done anything. How many times do I have to tell you? I haven’t fucking well done anything.’

  The two officers sat opposite their prisoner and an exhausted- looking duty solicitor in a badly creased business suit, who couldn’t have appeared less enthusiastic if paid to. ‘Put the tape on, Sergeant. I think we’ll make a start.’

  Kesey reached out and flicked the switch. ‘It’s done, boss.’

  ‘It’s five twenty- five p.m. on Thursday the eleventh of January 2001. I’m Detective Inspector Gareth Gravel, also present is Detectiv
e Sergeant Laura Kesey, the interviewee, Mr Peter Spencer, and his solicitor, Mr Jeremy Ward. I need to advise you, Mr Spencer, that you are still under

  caution. Anything you say could be used in evidence against you if the case comes to court at a future date. Do you understand?’

  Spencer nodded his reluctant confirmation.

  ‘For the tape please, Mr Spencer, we need to hear you say it.’

  ‘I’m not a fucking idiot.’

  ‘So, you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  The DI took a glossy colour photo from a cardboard file and pushed it across the table. ‘Take a good look at that, Peter. The young lady was found murdered, on the bank of the Towy near Caerystwyth, on the eighth of this month. She’d been raped and strangled. We have very good reason to believe that you killed her.’

  Spencer glanced at the photo and quickly looked away. ‘No fucking way! That’s got fuck all to do with me.’

  ‘The killer’s had a vasectomy. You’ve had a vasectomy, haven't you, Peter? You told us that yourself.’

  ‘You know I fucking well have, but that doesn’t mean I killed the bitch. I’m not the only man in Wales to have had the snip; there must be loads of us.’

  Kesey placed a clear plastic evidence bag, containing a single cigarette butt, on the table. ‘This was found close to the victim’s head. It has your DNA on it. Please explain.’

  ‘How many times do I have to say it? I haven’t got a fucking clue how it got there. It’s a fucking stitch up.’

  Grav leaned towards his prisoner. ‘You’re going to have to do a lot better than that. It didn’t materialise out of thin air.’

  ‘I haven’t been anywhere near the river, not for years. I haven’t even been in that part of town. Either it’s a mistake, or someone put it there.’

  The DI handed him the second photograph and watched his reaction. ‘What size feet have you got?’

  Spencer stared at the image of a faint footprint in the dark river mud. ‘That’s not mine. No fucking way is that mine.’