by M J Johnson
But this time its meaning was crystal clear.
He muttered Geoff Owens' name under his breath, in a flat, passionless tone.
Despite any assertions made by the police to the contrary, Geoff Owens was the only person it logically could be. Gil could see this.
From that moment, Gil behaved like a man in a trance. He took his jacket from its peg in the hall and put it on.
"Stay here," he told Spike. The poor dog was unusually agitated by the sight of his master getting ready to leave the house.
The Skoda was parked on the drive. Gil hadn't liked using the garage much after it had been the focus of so much forensic scrutiny. In fact, whenever he stood inside its four walls he immediately felt anxious and trapped.
He started the engine, turned on the headlights and exited the drive; giving no thought for the plain-clothed policeman he knew must be out there somewhere.
19
The drive to the village of Speldhurst took less than twenty minutes. He took the A21, came off at Tonbridge, headed through Southborough, then turned off for Speldhurst.
He knew the way. For nearly two years after Julia's death he had been compelled to make this journey quite regularly. Sometimes he'd parked in the woodland a discreet distance from Owens' cottage where he'd sit for an hour or so. At other times he had merely driven past the cottage. He had never understood why, particularly since Owens was in prison at the time. But while the thing lasted he'd been utterly compelled to do it.
Gil had made reference to these nocturnal visits in his journal only once:
… I suspect they must have had something to do with the arbitrary nature of existence and the devastating impact one single moment, bad timing and sheer error of judgement can have upon so many lives …
He had never spoken directly to Owens. They had each, of course, observed the other, at the inquest and at Owens' subsequent trial, but there had been an almost tacit agreement never to approach. Neither man could have said anything the other would ever want or hope to hear.
Gil made no attempt to hide his presence now. He left his car on a weed-infested patch of tarmac on the short neglected driveway which led to a badly dilapidated, pre-fabricated garage. The wretched building stood about ten yards to the side of Owens' cottage. The main building was itself in need of renovation, and had deteriorated considerably through neglect since the days of Gil's first visits. The ground about the cottage told of Owens' former livelihood as a landscape gardener, with rusting machinery, old railway sleepers, mounds of stone, brick, slate and other materials, partly hidden beneath bramble bushes and overgrown vegetation.
Owens had failed to be consistent at anything since the accident, and now his cottage, sited on one of the back lanes of the village and standing alone in a depression at the base of two small hills, was in chronic disarray.
As Gil stepped from the car an owl hooted, and somewhere in the darkness of the surrounding woods a small creature shrieked before all lapsed into silence again. The night was icy and still, eeriness seemed to ooze from the cottage. Every window was illuminated and light spilled from the hall through the open front door.
Gil didn't even hesitate. A few weeks ago, before Felix and Kate, before Chilvers or Spike's poisoning, he wouldn't have left the safety of his car. He no longer cared; he was here for closure, whatever the cost. As he reached the garage he saw one of its doors was slightly ajar. He noticed, without displaying any emotion, that it contained a car very like the one he'd seen on Sevenoaks High Street.
Despite finding it difficult to think straight and engage in any clear or rational thought, Gil appreciated he was meant to see this. That it was all for him, meticulously arranged, like a piece of performance art. He didn't linger at the garage. He was being drawn, as if by magnetism or some other force, towards the front door. Alongside the garage he passed a neatly-stacked pile of timber, out of place in the shambolic chaos surrounding the cottage.
If Gil heard the car stop behind him and the police officer call out his name, he gave no indication of it.
Nothing could make him stop now.
He reached the front door, a solitary, forlorn figure, accentuated by the light spilling from the hall and stairwell.
"Mr Harper, please, wait … DCI Mullings is on his way!" called the policeman.
Gil paused. His head inclined briefly at the mention of Mullings' name.
Then he walked into the cottage.
20
"Fuck," mouthed the police officer under his breath. It would be at least ten minutes before back-up arrived; waiting didn't seem like an option. At that moment he was grateful that due to the brutality of the Blatts' murders he was carrying a gun. He withdrew it from its holster, checked the safety catch and followed the path Gil Harper had taken.
When he reached the front door he saw that Harper had almost ascended the flight of stairs ahead and was just turning right onto the landing. He decided against calling out again. He cautiously entered the hall. It was an advantage that everywhere was so well-lit. The two rooms right and left of the hall had their doors wide open. The policeman took no chances as he checked both these rooms before resuming his pursuit.
As he began to climb the staircase the officer became aware of water dripping onto the worn-out stair carpet from the landing above. The further up he went, the wetter it became. The water was not clear, appearing brown against the muddy green colour of the carpet. There was too the sweet metallic smell he always associated with blood. It caused the hairs at the back of his neck to rise.
The police officer reached the top step and turned right. Gil Harper was less than ten feet away, standing completely still, staring into a room through its open door. Judging from the sound of taps running and the amount of water swishing around his feet it was a bathroom.
The policeman approached tentatively.
Gil's face was devoid of readable emotion. But the officer noticed that tears were freely flowing down his cheeks.
When the policeman was almost level with him, still taking no chances, he suddenly sprang forward to check the room. "Christ!" he gasped. His free hand flew involuntarily to his mouth.
It was indeed a bathroom. Lying in its overflowing tub with both taps open was Geoff Owens; his eyes wearing the dull, filmy stare only the dead possess. One arm had floated above the water and was dangling palm-up over the edge of the bath; the lacerations to the wrist were deep and the flesh had drained parchment white around the wounds.
There was nothing that could be done, except turn off the taps, get Harper out, and help preserve as much evidence as possible.
21
From the dark interior of a police car, Gil watched with hypnotic fascination as evidence gatherers, like bees around a hive, secured the crime scene. Although he couldn't stop shaking, he was not quite as distraught as he had been when he'd come upon Owens' reclining corpse, bloodless and still, an alabaster statue in the overflowing tub. Mullings was amongst the first to arrive at the crime scene and they had spoken together briefly. Later, Gil retained only the haziest recollection of this meeting.
Shortly afterwards, Gil was taken to Maidstone Police Station, where he spent a good deal of the remaining night.
The experience was considerably different to his first visit to Maidstone Police Station, when he'd been suspected of running down Michael Chilvers. This time, he was regularly asked if he was okay and taken to the canteen for rests and cups of tea. PC Amy Shaw, who had sat with him throughout the night Kate and Felix were murdered, was assigned to him again. It was comforting to have a friendly face at his side.
A doctor was called out to examine him and presented him with a pill, which he dutifully took without any resistance. Whatever the medication was, it certainly worked, and after a short time he felt far less emotionally fraught. In due course, he was able to answer questions and went on to give a statement.
22
It was 6 am when Mullings and Jackson left the incident scene in Speldhurst.
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br /> It had been a demanding night and DCI Mullings did not look entirely at ease with himself. He sensed he was out of step with a prevailing view amongst his colleagues that the case, bar a few loose ends, was over. Indeed, Mullings, as the person with overall responsibility, could not recall working on such a case before, or one that had caused him quite so many sleepless nights. Yet, despite these frustrations, he retained powerful misgivings about the conclusions everyone now seemed so eager to embrace.
On the journey to Maidstone with DI Jackson, Mullings confided, "It's too damned neat, too perfect."
Jackson's eyes remained implacably fixed on the road ahead. He volunteered no opinion.
DCI Mullings took this to mean that his young colleague did not intend to be drawn in. They had finally been given a break; let sleeping dogs lie.
Mullings used the next minutes, spent in silence, to review the recent developments in the case. There had been a confession, at least something closely resembling one, comprehensive and detailed. If this was true, then Geoff Owens had recorded his nefarious activities on a laptop, a piece of equipment nobody had previously known about. The account was written intermittently in a diary format and it described in detail the surveillance of Gil Harper, the opportunistic break-in of Harper's home and the acquisition of the diary and security codes. It went on to record the poisoning of the dog and how Michael Chilvers had been run down using Harper's car. Then, perhaps more significantly if this vengeance driven account was to be upheld, it described in chillingly casual detail the murders of Kate and Felix Blatt.
It was a factually plausible account that covered exactly two months, from 5 January right up to 5 March. The last entry had been written approximately an hour before the final voice text was sent to Gil Harper, and included the following:
… Since the accident that robbed me of my two beautiful children and drove my wife to take her own life … the only way I could carry on was by knowing that one day I'd set things right with Harper. I never accepted that judge's verdict. How could I be responsible for everything? How is it possible for two cars to collide but for only one driver to be to blame? They said I was drunk which is rubbish …
After a while, DCI Mullings spoke again. Jackson presumed that the words were directed at him; his senior officer was in fact merely thinking aloud. "But it still couldn't have been Owens on the M25," he said. He was referring to the fact that Geoff Owens had an alibi over the Christmas period, when he'd spent ten days with his sister and her family in Hastings.
"Alibis have a habit of falling apart once the solid evidence stacks up," replied Jackson.
"That's always a possibility," replied Mullings, "But if he had done it, don't you think he'd have mentioned it? Owens was pretty candid on the laptop about everything else."
"Perhaps the answer is we'll never know. I mean, maybe that particular incident was down to Michael Chilvers after all?" said the younger man, with an air of impatience.
"None of the prints on the paint-can matched either man, Owens or Chilvers. But, I don't know … Chilvers had an impetuous nature, if the paint really was down to him, then I'd be surprised not to find something, wouldn't you?"
Jackson shrugged his shoulders and grunted.
Mullings, unperturbed by his colleague's offhanded response, went on, "But imagine the planning and co-ordination required … whether it was Chilvers or Owens on that road? They'd have needed to pursue Harper all the way from Somerset! Not an easy feat."
"Perhaps it was a joy-rider then, after all!" said Jackson.
"If so, it was an enormous coincidence, don't you think?"
Jackson said nothing.
Mullings closed his eyes while he turned over in his mind the statement he was about to make. His eyelids remained shut as he said, "There is of course always a possibility … that our killer wasn't Owens."
The silence afterwards seemed to be electrically charged.
Mullings predicted the younger man's reticence would prove to be an accurate gauge of opinion amongst his colleagues. After all the bad publicity the investigation had attracted, it wouldn't be hard to picture the top brass's eagerness to kiss it goodbye. Mullings, a lifelong church-goer, a man whose life was founded on faith and belief, suddenly found himself in the position of heretic.
Then, after what seemed an interminable silence, Jackson stated categorically, "We've got Owens' confession."
Mullings pursed his lips. As he sat shrouded in the dark of the passenger seat, he knew that if he persisted with this he would be out on a limb. Jackson's view would remain the unshakeable position of most of his colleagues, and it could be taken as read that at the senior management end a huge corporate sigh of relief would be heard. There would be no burning desire to challenge the authenticity of the laptop account; in fact, even Mullings found the arguments in its favour compelling. He wanted to believe, but then, he had a policeman's nose; something just smelt wrong.
As for Jackson's opposition, it wasn't personal. He was only doing what politicians the world over did instinctively. He was simply distancing himself from any perceived errors it must now be assumed were made, during an investigation that had allowed an obvious suspect a free rein to commit three murders.
Mullings considered the matter too important to let it drop, "Don't you think it's a little unusual to be handed so many answers in one go? The difficulty all along has been a lack of physical evidence. Up until a few hours ago we had nothing, absolutely nothing, on Geoff Owens. Suddenly, we have the car, the knife, boots, clothing … even Harper's driving licence … as well as a laptop confession linking him with all three murders!"
Jackson came back at once, "Owens wanted to rub our noses in it, let us know how clever he'd been, show us what meticulous planning he'd done. It sounds to me like you just don't want to accept he wrong-footed us!" There was a detectable note of anger in his voice as he reiterated, "We have his confession!"
"No!" stated Mullings emphatically, "We've been given a plausible, and I daresay authentic account, but we're having to assume it was Geoff Owens who wrote it!"
"I think that's very unlikely … I mean, what would be the point?" enquired an incredulous Jackson. There was a pause, then he added "And there's nothing, no evidence, to suggest Owens didn't take his own life!"
Mullings made no reply; he merely nodded in the darkness.
23
Friday the sixth of March was the London first night for Verdi's Macbeth.
As soon as she heard, Sally dropped everything, abandoning her links with the production at the very last minute. It didn't matter, as far as she was concerned her feelings for Gil far outstripped any ambition she possessed.
Sally's colleagues were supportive and understood completely. And Klaus was expressing the views of just about everyone in the company when he assured her, "Don't you worry about us, darling. That lovely man of yours needs you far more than we do. Anyway, you've done everything … the cozzies look marvellous! No, darling, it's all over now, bar the fucking songs!"
Just as before, Gil could be difficult and short with Sally at times and often gave her the impression she was in his way. Megan continued to provide stalwart support to both of them, and without her, the relationship might not have survived the particularly dreadful days that followed Geoff Owens' shortly to be confirmed suicide.
There were days when Gil went off alone, not even taking Spike. He would sometimes return hours later, offering no explanation of where he'd been; the state of his footwear suggesting walks over muddy tracks. The former intimacy between Gil and Sally had all but ground to a halt. Apart from an undemonstrative kiss at bedtime and the fact they shared a bed, they might have been close friends. For Sally, shedding a tear on Megan's shoulder remained a daily occurrence.
When the bodies of Kate and Felix were released for burial, the solicitors acting as their executors approached Gil, as the will's main beneficiary, to assist with funeral planning. Of course, he immediately agreed to help. The organisational p
rocess required him to contact large numbers of people. And many of these, perhaps to relieve their own sense of horror, wanted to discuss with him in some detail what had happened.
This in turn forced Gil to open up, and the process became in some ways a kind of talking cure.
24
The post-mortem on Owens was concluded swiftly. The large quantities of alcohol and tranquilisers found in his bloodstream were consistent with the description, assumed to be in Owens' own words, of his final act of violence, this time against himself. In fact, suicide was referred to several times throughout the laptop account as 'taking the Roman option'. Thus far, nothing had come to light to question this.
After the Owens post-mortem, Mullings was summoned to the office of the Deputy Chief Constable.
"The papers will no doubt make out we behaved like Laurel and Hardy," commented the Deputy Chief Constable acerbically.
"Every single lead was methodically pursued," replied Mullings, unabashed. "The killer covered his tracks very carefully."
"I appreciate that, John," the DCC replied haughtily, "However, the press can be relied upon to highlight our failure to apprehend Owens earlier. They are extremely focused on this case … Felix Blatt was a national celebrity."
"They should study the course of the investigation. Nothing suggested Owens could possibly be responsible. In fact, nobody has yet come forward to say they saw him in the vehicle he claims to have used … or, for that matter, ever saw him in any vehicle at all after he was banned from driving!"
"He was extremely cautious, by his own account the car was hidden in woods near his home."
"But where exactly, and why haven't we found the tracks? And why didn't anyone notice it hidden there?"
"Are you actually disputing the evidence, Chief Inspector?"