Scene of Crime

by Jill McGown

  “He was a bit creepy,” Sarah said. “But to be fair to him, I think he was just photographing the birds. He’s got photographs of birds all over the walls.”

  Yes, Tom had seen them. “A bit creepy how?” he asked.

  She grimaced. “I don’t know,” she said. “He sort of looked at me a bit—you know. As if I was a stripagram or something.”

  Tom grinned. “Maybe he thought you were,” he said. “Kept waiting for you to rip your uniform off and sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to him.”

  “He’d wait a long time,” she said, with an involuntary shiver. “He’s got this big garden. It’s lovely, mind you—he’s a really good gardener. But he showed me where he was standing when he was using the camera, and how she couldn’t have thought he was pointing it at her, and all the time he was telling me about all these flowers, and saying this one was very good up against a wall, or that one preferred being in a bed with lots of others, and stuff like that. All nudge-nudge wink-wink stuff. Creepy.”

  “Did he say anything about Mrs. Bignall?”

  “Well—he cracked a joke about cold weather and blue tits, but other than that, he just said he didn’t know why she’d got it in for him. Maybe she just found him creepy, too. I wouldn’t blame her if she did.”

  “Did you know he had a record?”

  “No,” she said. “I didn’t think to check—it was just a neighbor’s dispute, really. If I’d known, I’d probably have taken someone with me. What sort of record?”

  “Well, the only thing that might qualify as creepy was a report that he was selling pornographic literature to minors in his Welchester studio,” Tom said. “If he was, he got rid of it before the raid.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me.”

  Tom nodded. “But you believed him that he hadn’t tried to photograph her?”

  She nodded. “I don’t think he knew what I was talking about at first. Did he have something to do with what happened to her?”

  “No,” said Tom, his voice thoughtful. “I doubt it. But—thanks.”

  He was sure Ryan Chester had burgled number 4 Windermere Terrace, but Lloyd thought there might have been a sexual motive, and burglary and sexual assault did often go hand in hand. If there was, it would eliminate Ryan as a suspect, because he was no sex offender. Watson wasn’t either, of course, but he seemed to be a bit iffy from that point of view; Sarah wasn’t the sort to get the jitters just because a man made suggestive remarks.

  The things that had been taken weren’t the usual souvenirs of a sexual assault—it was more often than not underwear and other personal things, but Lloyd was always saying that things weren’t always how they looked, and you never knew. If they got nowhere with Ryan, it might be worth keeping Watson in mind.

  In the meantime, he was going to have a word with the owner of the car that Ryan Chester had appropriated.

  Reg Hutchinson was not the muscled heavy Tom was expecting when he’d been told of his calling; he was fortyish, small, rotund, with a shiny face, gelled fair hair, and a three-piece suit. He was less than pleased about the police holding on to his car; as luck would have it, he was on holiday beginning that day, but he would have to rent a car if he didn’t get his own back after Christmas.

  “How long have you been doing this job?” asked Tom.

  “Three and a half years now,” said Hutchinson.

  “And what did you do before that?”

  Hutchinson looked suspicious, but he answered, after a fashion. “A bit of this and a bit of that,” he said. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Oh, just making conversation,” said Tom.

  Hutchinson shook his head. “My car gets nicked, and I get a detective sergeant wanting to know what I did for a living three and a half years ago? That’s not making conversation. What’s going on? And why can’t I have my car back?”

  Tom had checked up on him; Hutchinson didn’t have a record. But he behaved as though he did. “I’m afraid part of the proceeds of a burglary were found in your car,” he said.

  “Oh, you’re kidding me.” He sighed. “I’ll never get the bugger back, will I? It’s the break-in where that woman got killed, right?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t comment on that,” said Tom.

  “Do you think I had something to do with it?” he asked.

  Tom shrugged. “Anyone can report a car stolen. If you can tell me where you were at around eight-fifteen, I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “Eight-fifteen?” Hutchinson looked ill at ease.

  Tom grew interested. “Can you tell me where you were?” he asked.

  Mrs. Hutchinson walked past the small room, which had been turned into an office, where Tom and her husband were talking. Hutchinson got up and closed the door. “Well, I could,” he said. “But we promise our customers confidentiality.”

  “It’s up to you,” said Tom. “But your car seems to have been involved in a serious crime, so I can’t cross you off until I know where you were when that crime was committed, can I?”

  Hutchinson sighed. “I suppose I have no choice.” He opened the briefcase that was lying on the desk, pulling out a clipboard with a printed sheet on it, handing it to Tom. “The names and addresses, the time and duration of visit, and the amount paid,” he said, running his finger along the top of the sheet. “You can see where I was all day.” He looked shifty. “Will you have to check up on me?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Tom, who’d had no reason to think he should until Hutchinson had said that. “I might. Why—does that bother you?”

  “No,” he said. “Not really. Just try not to alarm them. I call on them because they’re behind with their repayments—my relationship with them is important if I’m to get any money out of them. And I do all right with the softly-softly approach, so I don’t want anyone messing it up for me.”

  Tom frowned. “Why would I alarm them? It’s you I’d be checking up on.”

  “These people are in debt up to their eyebrows. If they see you walking up the path, God knows what they’ll think you’re there for.”

  It took Tom a moment to work out what the man meant. He wasn’t used to producing this reaction in people; he had wanted a harder image, but he wasn’t at all sure he liked it now that he’d gotten it.

  “Look …” Hutchinson went over to a small safe, opened it, and took out a leather bag. “This is the money I collected,” he said. “You can count it—check that it tallies, that I really did call on all these people. I’d rather you did that than you went out and talked to them.”

  “No,” Tom said, handing back the schedule. “I’ll take your word for it. That’s fine, thanks.”

  Back in his car, he looked at himself in the mirror. Who was it who wrote a poem about seeing yourself as others saw you? He thought he looked all right. It was true that when he’d gotten home after having his hair cut his wife asked when he was getting the swastika tattoo, and he’d had to put up with remarks of a similar nature from his colleagues, but he’d put that down to people having to get used to the new look. The trouble with that theory was that Hutchinson had never seen the old look.

  And that worried him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “At 10:10 A.M.,” said Sergeant Finch. “Present are Detective Chief Inspector Lloyd and Detective Sergeant Tom Finch. Also present is Mr. Stanley Braithwaite.”

  Ryan couldn’t believe the time. They’d gotten him out of bed at six o’clock this morning, and he felt as if it must be lunchtime. Was it really only ten past ten?

  “Mr. Chester, I must remind you that you are not obliged to say anything, but it could harm your defense if you do not mention now something which you later rely on in court.” He put a bag on the table. “I am showing Mr. Chester evidence bag GS 1,” he said. “Do you recognize this item, Ryan?”

  Ryan looked at it. It was that rechargeable razor he’d been talking about earlier. “No comment,” he said.

  “Have you ever seen it before?”

  “No co
mment.”

  “You have already admitted having in your possession items which were stolen during a burglary on number 4 Windermere Terrace,” Finch said. “This was the only item which had not at that point been recovered from that burglary. I’ll ask you again. Have you seen it before?”

  “No comment.”

  Lloyd, true to form, was wandering around looking as though he was deeply interested in every poster, every dog-eared booklet that hung from the notice board, every crack in the plaster. Ryan knew that he was waiting for the moment when the interview took a turn he felt he could exploit. That was why making no comment was important.

  “Would you like to know what we’ve found your prints on, Ryan?”

  “Well, you haven’t found them on that razor,” Ryan said, despite himself, and received a gentle nudge from Stan.

  “A car,” said Finch. “A car that was taken and driven away without the owner’s consent from London Road last night at half past eight. And would you like to know where we found that razor? In the car that was stolen from—”

  “Yeah, all right,” said Ryan. “I’ve got the picture. The razor must have fallen out when—”

  This time it was no gentle nudge, and Stan’s foot caught him right on the anklebone.

  “Are you admitting that you took the car?” he asked.

  “No comment.”

  Carl had spent the morning calling people to acknowledge their phone calls, to tell them what had happened, and to find out what happened next.

  He still had to talk to the registrar and Estelle’s solicitor, and to this end he was sorting through the bureau drawer that contained birth and marriage certificates, insurance documents, wills, and the rest of the papers that documented a person’s life.

  But his mind kept going back to what Mrs. Gibson had said. The problem was that Estelle could very easily have known that Dexter worked for Watson, and woven a fantasy around that fact; he had no wish to set the hounds after some innocent hare. But it might be true, in which case something clearly had to be done about it.

  Okay, he thought, sitting back. Here’s the deal. As long as the police continued to think that Dexter and Ryan had something to do with the break-in, he needn’t do anything. Watson wouldn’t be active while the police were taking a deep interest, not only in Dexter, but in him as a witness. But if they came to the conclusion that Dexter had not been involved, then he would have to tell them.

  That seemed a reasonable compromise, he told himself. He would only be setting the police on Watson if he was absolutely forced to, and then even if Estelle had invented the whole story, he wouldn’t feel so bad about it.

  No comment, no comment, no comment. That was all Ryan Chester was saying, and Tom was growing more and more frustrated. He’d had his wife moaning at him first thing about his never being home, received a bollocking from his chief inspector, was accused of looking like a loan shark’s muscle by a debt collector, of all people, and had now had more than enough. Proper procedure was all very well, but why did only one side in this game have to stick to the rules?

  That’s all it was to people like Stan and Ryan—a game. Like having to answer questions without saying yes or no. Keep saying no comment and the chances are they won’t even be able to charge you: that was the advice people like Stan gave to their clients. A woman had died in that burglary, and he was sitting here playing this stupid game with this yob and his legal adviser. Well, all right, if they wanted to make a game of it, that was fine by him.

  He smiled. “All right, Ryan, I’ll ask you the easy questions—the ones you don’t have to phone a friend about.”

  Ryan looked wary; Stan glanced at Lloyd.

  “By my reckoning, London Road is about a ten-minute walk through the wood from the rear of Windermere Terrace. With your knowledge of the area, would you agree?”

  Ryan sighed. “Yes.”

  “Very good. Now, if you were running instead of walking—what do you think?”

  “Five, six minutes.” Ryan looked uneasy, but he had answered, which was something.

  “I agree. So let’s see how you do on this one. Five minutes from eight-thirty?”

  “Eight twenty-five,” said Ryan in a bored tone, looking down at the table and tracing the pattern on the Formica with his finger.

  “And at around eight-fifteen last night, someone broke into number 4 Windermere Terrace, bound and gagged Estelle Bignall, and threw a few things in a black plastic bag. That needn’t have taken more than about ten minutes, need it? She was very small and slim—it wouldn’t take very long to deal with her. So if that someone left number 4 Windermere Terrace at about 8:25 and ran, they would arrive in London Road at about eight-thirty. Right?”

  Ryan shrugged.

  “Now, Ryan—take your time. Your brother was seen running away from the scene, and has admitted being there. You have admitted selling items stolen from the house. Most of the rest of it was found on premises rented by your mother, and one item was found in the car that was stolen from London Road at eight-thirty. Now, you don’t have to answer the next question, but listen to it and the four possible answers before you decide.”

  “Chief Inspector,” said Stan.

  Lloyd could hardly accuse him of being aggressive this time, Tom thought, looking at Lloyd. And if he was in trouble again, he didn’t care. He’d had enough of this whole business.

  “Yes, Mr. Braithwaite?” said Lloyd.

  Stan sighed and shook his head. “Forget it,” he said wearily, and gestured with his hand for Tom to carry on.

  “Thank you,” said Tom. “The question is, Ryan, did you break into number 4 Windermere Terrace? Is the answer: A, Yes, I did; B, No, but my brother did and asked me to stash the gear; C, No, the man whose car I took must have done it; or D, No, my mother did it?”

  He saw Ryan glance at Stan, but he had outlined his reasons for offering that as a possibility; Ryan couldn’t complain about that. Stan let it pass, but predictably advised Ryan not to answer.

  “Okay, Ryan,” said Tom. “You’ve used your phone-a-friend lifeline. But before you decide what to do, don’t forget you’ve still got your fifty-fifty. Would you like me to take away two wrong answers? C is wrong because we know exactly where the owner of the car was all evening, and D is wrong because your mum was out doing an honest evening’s work, unlike you.”

  This time Stan cleared his throat and tried to look important, but failed miserably. “Chief Inspector Lloyd, are you going to allow your sergeant to continue to make a mockery of this interview?” he asked.

  Lloyd knew Stan as well as Tom did. Stan wasn’t offended by the tone of the interview—he much preferred it not to get heavy. He just liked to break up the questioning when he could. But Lloyd had said he wouldn’t back him up again if he stepped out of line; Tom sat back and waited to see what he did.

  Lloyd seemed to bring his thoughts back from the other side of the world, and smiled in a vague way at Stan. “Sergeant Finch’s style may not be mine,” he said, “but the answers are perfectly valid explanations, either one of which your client is at liberty to offer, if he chooses not to take your advice.”

  “But how can I pick one when the—” Ryan broke off. “No comment,” he said.

  Shit. Ryan’s ankle would be black and blue at this rate, thought Tom. He’d make sure they were sitting a lot farther apart in the next interview. “Is that your final answer?” he asked. “You’ve still got a lifeline left, Ryan.”

  Ryan looked up, his face faintly amused. “Ask the audience?” He shook his head. “No thanks, Mr. Finch,” he said, then nodded toward Stan. “He doesn’t believe me any more than you do, so I know what the answer would be.”

  “You’ve got a fourth option, Ryan,” Tom said. “You can tell the truth.”

  “I have told the truth. I found these things. But you want to get someone for killing Mrs. Bignall, and you’ve got me and Dex, so that’s all you care about.”

  “All right, Ryan,” Tom said. “You tell
me where you found the proceeds of the burglary, and in what circumstances, and I’ll listen.”

  Ryan looked back at him for a moment, unsure of what to do; he knew all the interviewing techniques, and was rightly suspicious of any sudden change of tack. But after some consideration, he nodded briefly. “All right.”

  “Ryan, you might want to—” began Stan No Comment Braithwaite, but Ryan waved his advice away.

  “I found them in the wood. In a black plastic sack. I couldn’t believe it. A sackful of Christmas presents. Some of them were even wrapped. It was like you said—I was looking round for Rudolph to turn up. Thought it must be one of these TV setups or something.”

  Tom didn’t believe him, but he humored him. “And what were you doing in the wood, Ryan?”

  “I was just out for a walk.”

  “Ryan,” said Lloyd, his voice quiet, forestalling Tom’s angry response, “Sergeant Finch has said he’ll listen to you, so you listen to me. We are not going to sit here and be told nonsense. Whatever you were doing there can’t possibly be as serious as what you are suspected of doing, so do yourself a favor. Forget the habit of a lifetime and just tell us the truth.”

  Ryan glanced at Stan, who shrugged.

  “Okay,” Ryan said. “I was after a car. I’d been asked to get hold of a Saab, and I spent all day trying to find one. I finally saw one parked in Eliot Way.”

  “The service road behind Windermere Terrace?”

  “Yes.”

  “So we pull up at the end of the road—”

  “We?” Tom said.

  Ryan sighed. “A mate was driving me round.”

  “Who? Baz?”

  Ryan ran a hand through his hair, and had an argument with himself about how much of the truth he should tell. “Yeah, all right, it was Baz. He drove me. But that’s all he did. He didn’t know what I intended doing.”

  “Oh, right,” said Tom, grinning at the official wording Ryan had used. “He thought you were just—what? Taking a tour of Malworth?”

  “Yes. That’s not against the law, is it? When I saw the Saab, I said I had something to do and he should just go home. So he did.”