Nine O'Clock Bus To Brompton

by Kevin Fitzpatrick

  Don hadn’t liked Hoskins when they had first met, and the little man did nothing to endear himself to him now. Don chose to ignore the facetious remark and looked over to Johnson. He gave the detective the briefest of nods to confirm that it was indeed Steve Hoskins who was here for the interview.

  Rogan looked at the four men. “Right, gentlemen,” he said loudly. “As we all know, this is an informal meeting in which the Garda Siochana has no official involvement. The two English officers have no authority here in the Republic, no-one is under arrest, and, Mr Hoskins, you are free to leave any time you chose. I’m sure, Mr Horan, you’ll wish to have a few words before we start.” He looked over to the thin-faced man in the business suit who sat next to Hoskins.

  “Thank you, Sergeant Rogan, for making all that clear,” Horan spoke clearly and precisely with the merest hint of a cultured Irish accent. “My client is anxious to be of whatever help he can to the British police in their endeavours to solve his wife’s murder. He is adamant that he has no knowledge at all regarding this hideous crime; but, whereas he will freely answer all questions pertaining to his wife’s death, he reserves the right to decline to answer any questions that are irrelevant to that death or that may be self-incriminatory on his part. I presume we will be taking notes?” He paused and, receiving an affirmative nod from Johnson, continued, “So, maybe the pace of the interview could reflect this fact?”

  Johnson gave Horan his most engaging smile. “Only too happy to oblige, Mr Horan. My shorthand is a bit on the rusty side as well.”

  The two officers sat down opposite the lawyer and his client.

  “While you get started, I’ll see if I can find us all a cup of tea from somewhere,” said Rogan. He wandered across the room and out of the door as Johnson began the interview.

  Don recalled the short briefing on interview technique Johnson had given him on the flight:

  “Always start by asking questions that your suspect has no reason not to answer,” he’d said.” That will get him into the habit of answering you truthfully and make it harder for him to clam up when you ask something more pointed. Sprinkle the questions you really want to ask into in the middle of several others, to which you, ideally, already know the answer. Be aware of any change in his demeanour with these questions – it may indicate he’s started telling porkies.” And so, on it went.

  “Right, Mr Hoskins, if I could just begin by asking your full name, your date of birth, and your occupation.” Hoskins described himself as a self-employed advertising executive with a small firm in the West End of London. Johnson asked him a few brief questions about this employment and Hoskins happily supplied the answers.

  “Can you tell us, please, when was the last time you saw your wife?” Johnson asked eventually.

  Without hesitation, Hoskins replied, “Yes, certainly. It was last Monday afternoon; she drove me to the airport to catch my flight over here.” He stopped abruptly, his eye welled up, and he said in a small voice, “I can’t believe I’ll never see her again.”

  Fighting back the tears he looked over to Don. “You saw what we were like, Mr Barton. We loved each other. I could never do anything to hurt her. You have to believe me.”

  Johnson gave Don a discrete pre-arranged signal to ask, “What about this man she had an affair with, the one who wrote the letters?”

  Hoskins gave Don a puzzled expression, then slowly smiled as though he’d just realised something.

  “I wondered what she’d said to bring you to the house that night. So, she told you I’d found some love letters did she?” He gave a mirthless laugh. “That was one of the scenarios she used to employ in her professional life back in London – before she retired that is. She used to role-play the part of a cheated wife who then had to punish her husband for his infidelity.”

  “You mean her life as a prostitute?” asked Don. Johnson winced, inwardly at least.

  Hoskins looked fit to explode. He slammed his fist on the table, stood up and loomed threateningly over Don. “She was NOT a prostitute!” he yelled. “After that disgraceful invasion of privacy by that rag of a newspaper, your own Vice Squad carried out a full investigation of Suzanne’s business affairs – they even checked her tax returns. How many charges were brought? I ask you, how many charges? You tell him, Sergeant,” he glared at Johnson, “I’ll bet you know, even if he doesn’t.”

  Johnson decided to pour oil on troubled waters. “No, Mr Hoskins, you’re quite right; Mrs Hoskins had operated fully within the law. She was a sex worker but not a prostitute.”

  Hoskins sat back down, but Johnson wasn’t about to let Hoskins score points without some reply. He took the photographs from his case and placed them slowly, one by one, face-up on the table. “What can you tell me about these?” he asked.

  Hoskins sat back and looked pointedly away from the table. The solicitor, Horan, spoke up:

  “As previously stated, my client reserves the right not to answer questions not directly connected to the death of his wife.”

  “So, you’re saying that these pictures have nothing to do with Mrs Hoskins death?” said Johnson.

  Before Hoskins could reply, Rogan reappeared at the door. He was walking in front of a squat man in a white linen jacket who was carrying a huge metal tray containing a teapot, milk sugar, and several cups and saucers. “I presume we’d all like a cup of tea?” Rogan asked loudly. The man in the white jacket put the tray down on a nearby table and left the room without speaking. Rogan began pouring the tea.

  Everyone in the room visibly relaxed as the tea was served. Don noticed Hoskins’ hand was shaking slightly as he drank. Hoskins looked over at the young officer and said, “I’m sorry, Mr Barton, I know you’re just doing your job; I didn’t mean to sound offensive. But you see, Suzanne took very great pains not to be classed as a prostitute. Nothing sexual ever occurred between her and her clients. The fact is that she was raped when she was thirteen and couldn’t stand any form of intimate male contact.”

  “But you were married?” interjected Johnson.

  “My relationship with my wife was one of mutual respect and support. We comforted one another, but there was no sexual intimacy, ever.”

  “Are you a homosexual?” asked Johnson. Horan began to speak, but Hoskins silenced him with a wave of his hand.

  “No, it’s all right.” He looked back at Johnson. “I don’t mind admitting it. But I do nothing outside the law in my private life. The days of criminalising people simply for the way they’re made and the way they think is, thankfully, well behind us.”

  “Yes,” agreed Johnson, “the 1967 act did legalise homosexual contact between consenting males – but only if it occurs in private and if there are no more than two adults, each over twenty-one, present. These photos clearly appear to breach those conditions.”

  Horan, who had been making notes during this exchange, spoke up, “May I suggest we stick to the case in hand, Sergeant? My client has agreed to speak to you about the death of his wife; any discussion regarding other matters is totally outside the agreed parameters of this interview.”

  Hoskins looked pointedly over to Johnson and said, “Is there anything else you wish to ask me, or may I leave?”

  “I just need to know the reason you came here to Ireland at this moment in time.” He looked over to Horan. “I think you’ll agree that it is relevant to our enquiry to establish the whereabouts of the husband of a murder victim at the time of her death.”

  Hoskins went on to explain that he was Irish on his mother’s side and that he had several close relatives still living in that country. His uncle had been taken seriously ill last Sunday and was not expected to live. The following evening Hoskins has taken a flight to Dublin, but he was too late, his uncle died before Hoskins could see him.

  “I made several attempts to call home after I got here,” he said. “I assumed Suzanne was with friends when she didn’t answer. It wasn’t until Friday I found out she had been killed. I knew you’d be looking for me
, so I went straight to the police.”

  “Is that it, then, gentlemen?” asked Horan, making it clear he felt the interview had gone on long enough.

  “Just one more question,” said Don. “Where’s your car, the Jag I saw in the drive the night I came to your house?”

  Hoskins was visibly taken aback. “As far as I know,” he said,” it’s at home where it should be. Is it not there, then?”

  Johnson explained that the car was missing, and he asked if there was anywhere Suzanne could have left it, if she’d been using it. Hoskins insisted he had no idea of the whereabouts of the vehicle.

  Horan left Don and Johnson one each of his business cards and said that any further contact should be through his office. He and Hoskins then left the hotel.

  After they left, Rogan said to the two Englishmen, “Did you like that with the tea? I thought the time was ripe to come back in – and nothing calms people down like a nice cup of tea.”

  “So, you were listening outside all the time?” asked Don.

  Rogan roared with laughter. “Of course I bloody was, young Donald! Did you really think I’d be leaving you lot alone to play in my backyard? Now, that wasn’t going to happen, was it? Anyway, there’s no way I’m letting you two go back to London without having a taste of some real Guinness. There’s a little bar the lads use near here, and it serves the best porter you ever tasted. We’ll try a couple then I’ll get you back to the airport in good time for your plane.”

  “Oh, and by the way,” Rogan looked at Johnson. “You wouldn’t want to be caught going through customs with those pictures. It may be safer leaving them here.”

  “I thought you may say that,” grinned Johnson, handing over the envelope. “I guess there are people you wish to show them to?”

  “Your man’s an Irishman on his mother’s side. Should you request it, getting him sent back to England could be a problem. But this is Ireland, we might well understand someone murdering his wife, these things happen. But this stuff is something else again. One look at these and the Pope himself would sign the extradition papers!”

  The drive back to Dublin was uneventful, and Rogan took them to an ancient back street pub somewhere in the bowels of the city. He dismissed his driver with instructions to return and pick them all up at 5 pm. The publican recognised Rogan as they went in through the front door and he let them all into a discrete room at the rear of the premises. There was a handful of men in dark blue suits sitting around the room with drinks in front of them. Rogan acknowledged a couple of them before indicating a table for Don and Johnson to sit down.

  “Right lads,” he told them. “Your money is no good in here. You just have what you want, I’ll sort it all out later. My governor’s given strict instructions you’re not to leave here sober.”

  “Won’t they be closing at 2 o’clock, though?” asked Don.

  Even Johnson joined in the laughter that burst out in the room.

  “You’ve not been to Ireland before have you, Don?” was all Rogan would say on the subject.

  The three men then proceeded to steadily drink the afternoon away. Rogan was full of stories that he frequently punctuated with raucous laughter. Like most Irish people, he had spent some of his time in the past working in England. However, most of his family were in America. He even had a brother in the New York City Police Department.

  “Have you not been tempted to join him?” said Johnson.

  “Ah, Sergeant Rogan of the NYPD, it does have a nice ring to it,” Rogan mused. “I’d go in a shot, but Mary, the wife that is, has all her family here and she’d never leave them. Anyway, Dave, what did you make of your man, Hoskins?”

  “I suppose he might have been telling the truth,” Johnson replied slowly.

  “Yes, he might,” said Rogan. “And the price of Guinness might come down in the next budget.”

  The two men laughed. Don was perplexed. “If you thought he was lying, why didn’t you challenge him?” he asked Johnson.

  It was Rogan who answered, “If it wasn’t for lies, Don, you’d often not know where to look for the truth.”

  “Yes,” Johnson added, “and by challenging a liar, you put him on his guard. In fact, you may even be helping him get his story straight. No, it’s usually best to just let them run on.”

  Don looked at the two old detectives. “I’ve a lot to learn,” he said.

  “Sure, you’re not doing too bad for a young feller,” said Rogan. “We’ll make a detective out of you, won’t we, Dave?”

  “You never know,” Johnson replied. “Stranger things have happened.”

  They all laughed.

  Don did his best to keep his alcohol consumption at a manageable level and, mindful of the briefing they’d had from Partridge, he was guarded in what information about himself that he revealed to his garrulous host. Johnson, on the other hand, seemed to simply absorb one pint after another with no apparent effect, nor any change to his demeanour. The afternoon sped past.

  Don could still feel the effects of the Guinness as he walked through the Arrivals lounge at Heathrow. The journey back had been something of an anti-climax, and there had been no special treatment on the flight. Rogan had dropped them off outside the terminal building in Dublin saying, “You’ll be fine now, lads. No-one will be bothering you leaving the country.”

  Throughout the journey, Johnson had been strangely quiet, as though deep in thought. Don wondered if the booze had got to him after all. However, as they walked through the terminal building, Johnson took his wallet from his inside pocket and pulled out two twenty-pound notes that he handed to Don.

  “Here, Don,” he said. “You go outside and get a taxi home. I’ve got to check in with Special Branch and phone the governor back in Newbury. There’s no sense in you hanging around. Get the driver to give you a receipt and bring it in to me in the Incident Room around two tomorrow afternoon. If there’s any change, buy your wife a nice bunch of flowers – by way of an apology for spoiling her day off. We’ll make up our notes together when you come in. Go on now, get cracking. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Don shook hands with Johnson and went over to the taxi rank.

  It was just over an hour later he was pulling up outside his police house in Brompton. To his surprise, the house was in darkness and the curtains hadn’t been drawn.

  He paid off the taxi and went indoors with a strange feeling of foreboding.

  “Hello! Rose, I’m back,” he called.

  There was no reply.

  The living room was empty, and it was obvious that there had been no work done in the kitchen. Don went up to their bedroom, and his worst fears were realised.

  Rosemary had removed several items of personal clothing, and her suitcase was missing. A message had been written in red lipstick on the mirror above the dressing table:

  HOW COULD YOU BE SO CRUEL!!! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!!!!

  Don stared at the mirror for a full five minutes. The sense of foreboding he had been feeling on entering now gradually turned to one of dread. He knew Rosemary to be a level-headed woman, certainly not one given over to hysterical outbursts. What on earth could have occurred in the few short hours he’d been away to make her want to disappear and leave a message like this? Something had happened, that was obvious; but what was it? Don’s mind raced as he mentally ran over everything that had taken place in the past few days, and he drew a blank. His conscience was clear, he had done nothing wrong. So what was going on?

  There was only one thing for it. He needed to speak to Rosemary’s mother. She had been incredibly supportive in bringing about the reconciliation after his transgression all those months ago – and it was to her that Rosemary had almost certainly turned for comfort this time. But would Mum be so understanding if she thought Don had strayed again?

  There was only one way to find out.

  He picked up the telephone and, with a trembling hand, dialled the number.

  Chapter Nine

  Newbury Poli
ce Station

  It was Monday morning, and the Murder Incident Room was alive with activity. Uniformed and plainclothes officers, of all ranks and both sexes, were coming and going in a constant stream. They all looked busy, and they were all holding pieces of paper.

  The permanent staff were sitting around a large oblong table. Some were sifting and indexing the results of enquiries that were coming into the room; others were completing pro-forma documents to raise “actions” that needed to be taken. A uniform sergeant was sitting at the head of the table. He was equipped with three large wire trays, each of which was filled to overflowing. The sergeant sifted and organised all the information that came into the room. This would later be passed to Detective Superintendent Merryweather, the officer in charge of the investigation.

  The typing pool for the murder was situated just along the corridor from the main Incident Room, and it was here that Dave Johnson called into on his way to see the superintendent. There were four typists employed in the room, and the din caused by their machines meant that the door to the room had to remain shut.

  Johnson opened the door and stepped back to allow a plume of cigarette smoke to waft past him. Typists were always cold, so even in summer, the windows of their office remained firmly closed. The senior typist, Violet (known as Vi) was seated just inside the door. From this position, she was able to supervise the other ladies as well as monitor all comings and goings. All work coming into the room initially came to her desk, and she allocated it to the others as appropriate.

  Johnson was always impressed by the skill these women (or ‘girls’ as they were called) possessed. Although they each had their own preference, they were all proficient at audio as well as copy typing and could faithfully transcribe the most complicated of documents whilst holding a conversation – and smoking a cigarette.

  However, being an exclusively female occupation, typists were notoriously underpaid. It actually wasn’t unheard of for detectives, earning a small fortune on overtime and expenses, during an incident to have a whip round to give the girls a boost to their wages out of their own money.