by Gavin Smith
“Look, let’s lay it all out. Ok, Firth happened to have a history with Murphy, but Murphy was the aggressor in all of these so far un-statemented witness accounts. Then Firth, who lives ten minutes walk away, happened to appear at the scene along with dozens of other rubber-neckers hours after the event. Yes, Firth has one conviction for a serious arson attack – that’s not a pattern and it doesn’t help that he has acrimonious history with your sergeant and a broken limb as a result – debatably, anyway.
“We have no eye witness evidence of Firth committing the deed. We have no forensic evidence of any sort; not yet anyway, and probably not today or tomorrow or maybe even this week. We can’t positively say it wasn’t Murphy himself or Christ knows who else from his murky past. The list goes on. If Murphy was murdered too, and that’s a big ‘if’, we’re a long way from saying how and by whom. House to house is incomplete so we can’t rule out the possibility of someone else’s cretinous enemy picking the wrong address…..”
“Yes, and Lord Lucan could have faked Marilyn Monroe’s suicide to cover up JFK’s gang-bang with Elvis and Shergar,” exclaimed Harkness, immediately regretting it.
“Rob,” growled Brennan, “shut it.”
“As I was saying,” continued Stewart, slipping off her spectacles and spreading her hands evenly across her neat paperwork. “You could choose to waste more time interviewing Firth but we all know from his antecedents that he’ll say nothing unless it suits him to do so. Gents, you might not think I’m helping, but look at it this way. If you bail him for a week, you might find yourself with some compelling evidence to hit him with at your leisure – or you might rule him out and move on to a better suspect. If you keep him and wind the clock down, even if you get a magistrates’ extension past the middle of the week, without dramatic new evidence or some stunning confession, you’ll still fall well short of the charging threshold.”
Harkness examined the faces of his fellows, allowing the outrage to simmer, looking for a cue or an ally. Newbould slumped, too jaded to react. Brennan listened and scribbled, occasionally glaring at him. Biddle yawned and examined his yellowing nails. Slowey paid close attention, impassive, occasionally nodding approvingly at sound points of logic.
Harkness knew he was about to indulge an appetite for unreasoning anger. He desperately needed to turn Firth’s heart inside out and bring this case home for reasons he didn’t want to fathom. More than that, he was too tired to keep the heavy freight of frustration strapped down and had to let something slide.
“The bottom line is it’s all just too circumstantial at the moment,” Stewart continued. “If you’re all honest with yourselves, you’ll admit that juries are becoming more and more exacting. They’ve all watched CSI Barnsley and think we’ve failed to prove an offence if we haven’t produced ten types of forensic evidence and a 3D multi-visual re-enactment of the crime scene presented by Troy McClure. A little knowledge is a jolly bad thing for us, but the days of convictions based on logic and circumstantial evidence are over….”
“For Christ’s sake,” shouted Harkness, bolting upright and toppling his chair over backwards. “We’ve got four bodies in the morgue, two of them minors. We’ve got a compulsive fire-starter with means, motive and opportunity banged up in our cells on our terms ready to be worked on.”
“Sergeant,” interrupted Stewart, loudly then softening, “I’m sorry, but even by your logic, Firth is not an indiscriminate killer. Quite the opposite, in fact”
“Write it up any way you want, just please don’t let this murderous bastard saunter out of here if any part of you acknowledges what he is.” He raised his hands placatingly and stooped to pick up the chair, mortified at his own loss of control.
“Rob, get your arse out of this room and into my office and you bloody wait there for me,” said Brennan, softly.
“It’s alright,” said Stewart. “It’s perfectly understandable. Your officers are clearly very committed.”
“It’s alright with you, petal, but it ain’t alright with me.”
The world must has been nudged off its axis, thought Harkness, gathering his thoughts in the canteen, the DCI’s private and sustained bollocking still echoing through his mind. Days earlier he’d been the golden boy, glad-handing his way through a department that would one day be his to run; now he was losing his grip on professional detachment and half-way to being seen as a lunatic liability.
The case itself had seemed so straightforward, means and motives clear enough, decisive evidence pending, subject to the odd kink that could be hammered into shape by ethical if discrete means. Now the adroitness he’d made much of in his promotion board was deserting him, his instincts suddenly fallible. The clock on the wall insisted it was half past nine but it felt more like high noon, as if yesterday’s cloying heat had folded in on itself rather then ebbed.
“We do not speak our brains, Rob. Not unless we’re fucking idiots.” Brennan had said, jabbing his point home with an inky finger. “Otherwise, what do you think I’d have said to the silly bitch with her pedicures and epicures and airs and silly fucking Calvin Stein goggles. I’d have ended up in the papers and probably on a register an’ all.
“You get stripes, that means more not less professionalism. If there’s a grown-up reason why you shouldn’t be here right now, tell me. If not, get out of my sight and go and choke your medicine down.”
Harkness’s medicine had been to personally arrange for Firth to be bailed out and then to convey him safely home with the compliments of the constabulary. He would stomach it; he would have to. It was a deliciously cruel test of professionalism. But he didn’t have to like it.
Nor did he have to rush it. Given that a full team was now taking care of humdrum admin and forensic essentials, and no other compelling suspects had presented themselves, he could spare the time to take Firth home and make sure he stayed there. Not that he could stop him leaving, but he had a bona fide, professional interest in where he might go if he wandered, slowly and limping. All of which the DCI had no doubt foreseen.
In the opposite corner of the canteen, two uniformed cops from Volume Crime hunched over a round table, one filling in tape labels, the other meticulously plotting out an interview, both working their way through an early elevenses of crisps and chocolate. He knew the interview planner; Nigel Tomkins, a big man with a heart who took every misdemeanour personally enough to want to grind honesty out of his suspects, hence his reputation for lengthy interviews and the sobriquet of ‘Two-Tape Tomkins’. The other cop looked new, no doubt there to watch, learn and do the admin, if Tomkins let him.
“That’s a beautiful plan. Anyone I know, Nige?” asked Harkness, sauntering over and affecting diffidence.
“Rob. Moving up in the world?”
“And down again swiftly on current form.”
“Still talking to us lesser peons then?”
“Course I am. Might need to exploit you again sometime.”
“Dingbat called Braxton, if you must know. See you left an expression of interest on the custody record.”
“You got me.” Harkness held his hands up and drew up a chair. “What do you know about yesterday’s murders?”
“Nothing. I was camping in Wales.”
“Even better. I can give you my totally biased version and you’ll have nothing to measure it against.”
“Before you get carried away, Rob, or Sarge, or whatever you are now, we’re supposed to be dealing with affray and police assault, not multiple bloody murders.”
“And that’s not changed. It’s just that your suspect went booloo when he saw our suspect and that’s a connection that needs exploring in a very thorough interview. Might be relevant, might not, but I need an investigator of exemplary qualities to winkle the truth out of this guttersnipe………..”
“Alright, enough blather already. We’ll do it,” said Tomkins, including his admin assistant who nodded without looking up. “But it’ll cost you.”
“Ok. If you can get
me something worthwhile, I’ll get you both on the enquiry team and off shift for as long as it takes to bottom it out.”
“Done. I was only going to ask for a bag of doughnuts.”
Harkness felt dismayingly like an underpaid limousine driver for some dissolute celebrity. Determined to keep his lips buttoned, his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the sluggish traffic, the presence of Firth, reclining with his plastered leg outstretched on the back seat, nevertheless gnawed at him. Any minute now, he’d have to open the door for him again, hold his crutches, help him up, accord him a degree of civility and refrain from wringing his neck.
It might have been a relatively painless chore. The wheels had been well greased in the custody suite. Bailing even the lowliest shoplifter after an unproductive night in the cells would elicit scholarly arguments about expeditiousness and proportionality from sergeants doing their grudging stints in the cells while still fresh from promotion exams. Yet this time he’d been prompted for nothing more than a convenient return date, with the nodding approval of the Chief Superintendent from the back office where she occasionally installed herself to glad-hand the troops.
Firth had been duly produced, alert but stubbornly impassive even when told he was to be bailed. Could he really have been expecting anything other than a long day of badgering interviews? Harkness had avoided eye contact, but he needn’t have worried as Firth’s gaze remained fixed in the middle distance. He’d made one brief show of emotion; melodramatically raising his hands to be cuffed before exiting the barred gate, only to grin broadly and drop his arms just as Harkness began to explain that he was in fact no longer in custody. The game hadn’t ended, Harkness had told himself; this is half-time. Firth couldn’t hope for a win or draw in the second half.
The mass return to work seemed to be a tardy affair. Even at 1030, what should have been a ten-minute drive to Pemberton Court had so far taken twenty minutes. Harkness inched the ancient pool car up Yarborough Road, one more link in a chain of jaded commuters, oppressed by weather that had long outstayed its welcome. Harkness had to speak. The stewing silence suited Firth but was giving him a headache.
“You’ve played it well, Nigel, I’ll give you that. Play the system, wind the clock down, take the free advice, make the most of whatever luck comes your way. Can’t say I’d do anything different in your shoes.”
Firth met his eyes in the rear-view mirror of the pool car but said nothing.
“Here’s something new for you to chew on: I actually feel sorry for you. Murphy was a shitehawk whichever way up you look at it. Punishing him is at least understandable. And I’ll grant you that even with the Byron Street job, you had your reasons. I’m talking about sexual inadequacy and a big, fat, childish tantrum, but reasons nonetheless. Daphne, was it? Yep, I thought so.”
Firth frowned and stared into the footwell. A hit, a veritable hit, thought Harkness.
“But this time, to murder the man’s family. I mean, Christ on a bike, that’s heavy weather, even for you. You’re the twisted fire-starter; I know you’ve got a reputation to think about, but you’ve got your code, your reasons, your pretexts. You’re lethal but you’re not psychotic; I’ve read the psychiatrist’s report.”
The muddy stream of traffic surged forwards by more than one car length, causing a surprised Harkness to jerk the clutch out before his right foot, curled up and going numb beneath the cramped dashboard, could stab enough power out of the unwilling engine. Firth emitted an involuntary gasp as his injured leg was slapped backwards and forwards against the back seat of the bunny-hopping car.
“Oops. Sorry about that. At least I got you to open your mouth. Where was I? Oh yes. You’ve got ways of justifying things so you can sleep at night. Like prison algebra: ‘a’ does ‘b’ to me so I get to do ‘x’ and ‘y’ to ‘a’ and the sum works itself out. But, oh dear. Turns out you’ve killed three people who’ve done nothing to you. And two of them were kids.
“Suzanne – that’s the name of the woman you killed - was certainly knocked about by Murphy, and you know what that’s like. He might have had a go at the kids too. Perhaps even in that special way you know all about. So get your brain wrapped around this fact, Nigel: Not only were all three of your victims innocent of any transgression against you, but they were also fellow sufferers at Murphy’s hands. I’d give you a round of applause but I’m a strictly ten-to-two man behind the wheel.”
Harkness stabbed at the brake pedal with his still tingling right foot, causing Firth, still bent forwards as if touching his leg could magically dispel the pain, to bounce his forehead off the seat in front of him.
“Polo?” asked Harkness, racking the handbrake and turning to offer Firth a mint from a packet that could have been in the car since the nineties. Firth responded by turning and spitting vehemently out of the half-open window. Judging by the pallor of his face and the grinding of his jaw, maybe he’d coughed up some of his own vitriol.
“Still, you’re an uncommonly bright lad, Nigel, and you may well have heard of ‘transferred malice’ as a legal concept. So the fact is this: regardless of who you intended to hurt, if anybody at all gets hurt, you’re just as screwed.
“Course, Nigel, could be you were sending a message. Maybe you thought, what with nice modern houses having smoke alarms and whatnot, you’d give the bastard a few grand’s worth of property damage to worry about and everyone would escape with minutes to spare.
“The trouble is, young sir, that your Marcel Marceau act in interview helped you not one jot. If damage was all you had in mind, then you’re minutes away from losing your chance to get a credible account on the record. ‘No comment’ makes you a squirming murderer ‘cause nobody knows any different. But if you haven’t got the backbone to say nay to a lawyer who’s more interested in his fees than your welfare…..
“Fuck you,” bellowed Firth, those two words the finalists from a thousand auditioned thoughts.
“Thar she blows,” laughed Harkness, with more genuine satisfaction than he’d expected.
“This is good, Nigel. We’re engaging now. But if you keep chattering away, I won’t have chance to finish my story. Do you see? I thought you would? Where was I?
“Ah yes, my favourite scenario. You leave the pub. Murphy follows, spots you and gives chase. You get the better of him on the bridge and push him to his death. He’s a stocky bugger but you’re no shrimp yourself and you survived prison, despite being a borderline nonce – and it wasn’t on his terms any more, flailing about in a tiny cell with cuffs and a uniform and back-up just a whistle away.
“You could make an argument for self-defence, but that window’s closing; I refer you to my point about ‘no comment’ interviews. He made quite a mess by the way. On impact. Like somebody picked up a concrete bridge and hit him with it.”
Harkness nudged the car along by another car-length, finally making out the temporary road-works ahead of them. Five tanned men with fluorescent tabards over bulging biceps and beer-guts protected a small hole in the road; two of them occasionally swivelling ‘stop-go’ poles at either end of their vast enterprise, one drilling pneumatic holes through Harkness’s tender forebrain, and the other two drinking tea and scratching their testicles in a touching display of mirroring.
“Look at these bozos, eh Nigel? Working slobs, sweating their lives away on futile tasks they’re doomed to repeat ad infinitum, just for a bit of vulgar money. Are you above and beyond all that, somehow? You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you? But it doesn’t quite work, does it? This serenity’s just a mask, your way of pretending you know something the rest of us don’t.”
Firth had wedged his head against the rear window frame and closed his eyes, retreating and keeping control.
“Nice try. Maybe you could block your ears up. I’ll lend you some gum. Come on, admit it: It’s good to talk. Really nice that we can open up to each other and have these chats. Back to the bridge then.
“You think you’ve killed him. You can’t be sure, but i
t doesn’t look too survivable, even in the dark with all that undergrowth. Maybe the tramp whose home Murphy wrecked on the way down screamed out the right kind of shock and awe. So you’re rattled, desperate, maybe still human enough for a spot of anguish, maybe more than a little confident that the power of retribution is finally yours to dispense. Just so you know; he didn’t die right away, it took hours and involved paralysis, pain and terror.
“Yet still you destroy his home; it wasn’t enough to kill him, you had to wipe his home and family off the map. That is cold-blooded. I’d love to be in court to watch the jury’s faces when that’s spelled out to them. They don’t like collateral damage, you know. You kill someone who somehow had it coming, that might not upset them too badly; but you get indiscriminate with you’re killing, well they sit up and realise it could have been any one of them. Once that barrister gets a bit of empathy going…..”
“You’re wrong, you know.” Firth didn’t seem to have moved or opened his eyes and it took Harkness a second to realise he wasn’t listening to his own inner monologue.
“Brilliant. You’re engaging.” His bid for a confession was desperate, self-serving and evidentially toxic, but he was committed now. He couldn’t hope to use any of it formally, but if he could make Firth jump tracks, he wouldn’t need to. “So, tell me how it was then. Help me get it right.”
Firth laughed, surprising himself, as if he couldn’t remember when he’d last heard the sound.
“What’s funny?”
“You. This. All of it. All your talk. All your sweat. All your protect the public bollocks. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. That’s not what you’re interested in now. And you’re still wrong. Most of what you say – just talking to yourself ‘cause it means shit to me.”
“So tell me how. So don’t put up with my bullshit. Correct me. ”