by Rob Ashman
Walsh didn’t look the least bit re-assured. ‘You wanted to ask me some questions?’
‘Yes, when we spoke yesterday, I got the distinct impression you weren’t telling me the full story. You were holding something back.’
Walsh’s cufflinks were a blur. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ He looked into his lap.
‘What is it you’re not telling me, Mr Walsh?’
An hour and a half later, Kray pushed open the door to the incident room to be met by a wall of sound. The only person lacking any sort of positivity was DI Brownlow, who was sitting at a desktop terminal staring out of the window.
Officers were standing at the boards, deep in discussion, while others were talking on the phone. Tavener was looking over the shoulder of DC Janice Parks, staring at a computer screen.
‘Gotcha!’ he called out, hurrying over to the printer. Two pieces of paper spooled out into his waiting hand. He noticed Kray and waved them in the air.
‘Listen up, everyone. Janice has found a link between John Graham and Teresa Franklin.’ Parks took the printouts from his hand and pinned them to the notice board.
‘Franklin writes a shock column for the Telegraph,’ she said. ‘This woman does not pull her punches and her articles are scathing. In February of this year, she wrote a piece about domestic abuse and followed that up with a second feature when the man named in the first article wrote to the paper disputing her claims. That man was Kevin Palmer, the same man who was in business with John Graham.’
She jabbed her finger at his name on the board. ‘Palmer is on our system and has a history of violence. He was involved in a domestic dispute with his wife when she accused him of breaking into the family home, causing her to flee to a neighbour’s house for safety. Shortly before that, he burned a woman by tipping coffee over her, though she didn’t press charges. Then, he assaulted John Graham in a row over selling his share of the business for which he received a fifteen-month custodial sentence. While he is in jail, Franklin wrote the articles about him with the help of his wife Sadie. He has connections to both.’
‘Good work,’ Kray said, making her way to the front, standing next to Parks.
‘We need to find something that connects Palmer to Chapman, and we’ll be cooking on gas,’ a tall man with a porn-star moustache said from the back of the room.
Kray cleared her throat. ‘I’ve just had a meeting with David Walsh who is the Commercial Director for Brixton Construction the company owned by Nigel Chapman. He told me that Chapman had an affair with Sadie Palmer – Kevin Palmer’s wife.’ The room fell silent. ‘The affair fizzled out, but it wrecked their marriage, and she filed for divorce while Palmer was serving time in prison. We have our connection. The same name crops up in all three.’ Kray looked across at Tavener hunched over a desktop computer. ‘We need to bring our friend in for a chat.’
‘Roz…there’s something else,’ said Tavener.
‘What?’
‘When we spoke to Palmer earlier today, he said he worked for Sandringham Products.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Sandringham Products is an abattoir. They slaughter pigs.’
28
‘For the purposes of the recording, I am Acting DCI Kray, also present is DC Tavener. You have not been arrested, Mr Palmer, however you are under caution – do you understand?’
‘I do.’ Palmer said.
‘You have also waved your right to legal representation.’
‘I don’t a lawyer because I haven’t done anything wrong.’
All three were sat in an interview room. Tavener was opposite Palmer with Kray to his left. Palmer sat calmly with his hands folded one on top of the other on the desk.
‘We have questions to ask you relating to an ongoing investigation. Do you understand?’ Kray continued.
‘I understand,’ Palmer replied. ‘I didn’t think you were very thorough this morning, so I’ve been expecting a return visit. Though, I was not prepared for it to be this formal.’
Kray ignored the comment. ‘How do you know Nigel Chapman?’ she asked.
‘Wow! That’s a blast from the past. I thought you were going to ask me about poor old John.’
‘Can you answer the question, Kevin?’ said Tavener.
‘It’s a short answer, Detective. We did business with him and he stole my wife. They had an affair and that was the end of my marriage. New Year’s Eve to be precise, the night of the Chamber of Commerce dinner dance.’
‘What happened?’ Kray asked.
‘He had the hots for her, she had the hots for him…do I need to draw you a diagram?’
‘What did you do?’
‘What could I do? I tried to patch things up between us but Sadie didn’t want me in her life anymore. She threw me out, stopped me seeing the kids. Even when I heard they were no longer together, she didn’t want to know me.’
‘Did you confront them about the affair?’
‘I did, but they just laughed.’
‘That must have made you very angry.’
‘It did, but there was nothing I could do about it. She held all the cards. She had the law on her side, the solicitor on her side, our friends on her side and even turned the kids against me. Why are you asking me about Chapman?’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘I don’t remember the date, but I do remember it was a week day. He’d just finished fucking my wife when I caught them in bed together.’
‘What happened next?’
‘That’s when they laughed at me.’
‘Where were you on Monday the ninth of October?’
‘Christ, I have no idea. If I knew you wanted to talk dates I would have brought along my diary. Now, let me see…’ Palmer struck a theatrical pose stroking his chin, deep in thought. ‘If it was a Monday, then I was probably doing exactly the same as I did last Monday. I must have gone to work, got home, had a nap and then ate dinner in my flat watching TV. I told you this already. I have a set routine for the start of the week.’
‘Would the owners of the takeaway be able to vouch for you?’
‘I expect so. Did you talk to them about last Monday?’
Kray ignored the question. Frustratingly, when Tavener had questioned Joseph Woo, he had confirmed Palmer’s story.
‘How do you know Teresa Franklin?’
‘Shit! What is this?’
‘How do you know Teresa Franklin?’ Kray repeated the question.
‘I don’t know her, but I know of her. She was the bitch reporter who wrote the articles about me in the Telegraph when I was inside. My darling wife told a pack of lies and that fucking woman printed it. I tried to lodge a formal complaint with the paper and she fucking wrote about that too.’
‘You were angry towards her.’
‘Angry! No, Acting DCI Kray, angry is not a strong enough word.’
‘Did you want to harm her?’
‘I’m not going to be so stupid as to answer yes to that question, now am I?’
Kray and Tavener exchanged glances.
‘But you were angry?’
‘It was more like…incandescent rage.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘I’ve never seen her. I only know what she looks like because she has her face plastered over her column in the paper. When I came out of prison the last thing I wanted to do was go back inside, so I thought it best to avoid her like the plague. Why are you dragging all this up? I thought you wanted to talk about John?’
‘Where were you at six o’clock last night?’
‘Now that one I do know. I was in bed asleep. I came home from work around four-thirty in the afternoon feeling absolutely knackered. I spoke to Joseph and his wife when I got in, pottered around the flat for a while, before heading off to bed. The takeaway was particularly noisy that evening and it woke me up at about seven-thirty. I went downstairs to get dinner and Anabel insisted I have it for free to say sorry. What is going on?
Why are you–’
‘Did you leave the flat at any time?’ Kray interrupted.
Palmer said nothing. Kray spun her wedding ring around on her finger, watching his every movement.
‘Something has happened to them, hasn’t it?’ Palmer said. ‘You came around this morning asking about John, and I know he’s dead. Now, you are asking me the same questions about Chapman and that bloody journalist woman. Are they dead too?’
‘Did you leave the flat after you got back at four-thirty?’
‘Fucking hell, someone has murdered them as well. And you think–’
‘Did you leave the flat at all last night, Mr Palmer, answer the question.’
‘No. No, I didn’t leave the flat.’ Palmer sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’ He started to chuckle to himself. ‘Graham, Chapman and Franklin all dead. My favourite people in the whole wide world – all dead.’ He threw his head back and laughed. ‘I tell you what, Acting DCI Kray, you certainly know how to give a guy a lift.’
‘We are not saying that, Kevin.’
‘You don’t have to. It’s written all over your face. And you think I did it? You think I killed them.’ Palmer laughed and shook his head. ‘Priceless, bloody priceless. Simply because I am an ex-con, the logical conclusion is it must be me. That is lazy police work, very lazy.’
Tavener shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Kray leaned forward. ‘This is a serious matter.’
Palmer held his hands out in front of him, palms up with his wrists together. ‘It looks to me, Acting DCI Kray, that you have me bang to rights. Slap on the cuffs and let’s be done with all this nonsense.’
‘Kevin, your behaviour is not helping.’
‘Acting DCI Kray, you will appreciate that since my epic decline I no longer move in the same social circles as Nigel Chapman. I have not seen him since he was enjoying the afterglow having screwed my wife in our marital bed. So, I’m unable to help you identify the person who killed him. I am, however, absolutely thrilled with the news that someone has murdered the marriage-wrecking bastard. Equally, I have not reacquainted myself with John Graham since he forced me to sign away my share of the business for a pittance and I was jailed for an assault which I did not commit. But I’m delighted to hear that the thieving twat is dead. And as for that fuckwit of a journalist being dead as well, I will get drunk for a week celebrating that one.’
Kray leaned forward. ‘Do you think you’re funny?’
‘No, but I’ll tell you what is funny, Acting DCI Kray. I have the perfect motive for killing all three but we would not be sitting here having this “dancing around the handbags" discussion if you had a scrap of evidence. If you did, I would have been arrested by now and sitting in one of your cells waiting to be charged. You have my fingerprints and DNA on record. The fact that I am here tells me you have nothing. You have all the motives you could ever need but no evidence. Now that is funny, don’t you think, Acting DCI Kray?’
Kray sat back, saying nothing.
Palmer shook his head, ‘I’m right, aren’t I? My name has cropped up three times in your lines of inquiry, throw into the mix a spell in prison and…hey presto! The easy answer is, it must be the ex-con. Can I encourage you to speak with Joseph and Anabel again, they will confirm that I was at home?’
‘We will, Mr Palmer, we will.’ Kray rose from the table and nodded to Tavener. ‘Interview terminated at seventeen ten.’
‘Oh, don’t stop now. I was just beginning to enjoy myself.’ Palmer said.
Kray and Tavener trooped out, closing the door behind them.
‘I said he was a cocky little shit.’ Tavener said.
‘He’s playing us.’
‘What do we do next?’
‘Get the team together we need to re-focus.’
‘Can I have a coffee?’ Palmer called out. Tavener scuttled off and Kray went back into the interview room.
‘We have more questions and will need to hold you for a while longer.’
‘That’s fine, be my guest. But I will have to call work to let them know I won’t be in. I need to speak to my supervisor or it will be marked down as an unauthorised absence. You said I was allowed one phone call.’ Palmer pulled his mobile from his pocket.
‘Yes, you are, but I will make the call. What’s the number?’
‘Can I get a coffee?’
‘What’s the number?’
Palmer read out a series of digits and Kray punched them into her phone.
‘What’s his name?’ Kray paused as the phone rang at the other end.
‘Vinny Burke.’
‘Oh, hi, am I speaking to Vinny Burke? … Good … This is Acting DCI Kray, I need to inform you that Kevin Palmer won’t be in work today. He is helping us with our inquires.’ She paused, allowing the person on the other end to respond. ‘Yes, that’s correct,’ she added. ‘Thank you.’
‘Everything okay?’ asked Palmer.
‘Yes. He’s got a hell of a stammer, your boss.’
‘Do I get a coffee now?’
29
I’ve been cooped up in this bloody interview room for hours and the excitement of the day is wearing thin. Officers keep popping their heads in to check on me but they don’t hang around. My initial adrenaline rush has crashed. I have to keep reminding myself that this is all part of the plan but I’m struggling to keep focussed. My head is woozy and I ache.
I imagine Kray and her team as they race against the clock.
I can picture her, somewhere in the building, barking out her tin-pot commands. ‘I want everyone working on Kevin Palmer. I want forensics evidence that places him at the scene or anything which blows a hole in his alibis. Let’s work all the angles, develop new lines of inquiry. We have to make this count. Remember, there are another two victims out there. We need to find them before he has a chance to finish what he started.’ I imagine them running around like children trying to please the teacher.
The door opens and Tavener walks in holding a piece of paper.
‘I have a warrant here to search your flat and your car. It would be easier if we had the keys – though, if we don’t, that won’t be a problem.’
They’re so predictable. For a second, I toy with the idea of not co-operating, to break the boredom and have some fun, but the implicit threat of having my front door hanging off its hinges is enough to have me reaching into my pocket.
‘The car keys are on the table in the lounge. It’s a–’
‘Silver Ford Fiesta. Yes, we know.’ He takes the flat key from my hand and scurries off, closing the door.
‘Any chance of more coffee?’ I call after him. No response.
I sit and stare at the blank walls. It reminds me of my cell, that featureless rectangular box barely big enough to swing a cat let alone being big enough to house two grown men. Especially when one had grown a damned sight bigger than the other. The daydreams kick in once again, and I’m transported back there.
My time in jail was coming to the end; I had two weeks to go.
‘K-keep your h-head down,’ Irvine said, ‘Don’t m-mess up.’
It was sound advice, because I actually felt myself relaxing as I neared the finish line.
Then, one Thursday afternoon, my whole world imploded.
I remember having a conversation with a man who was wearing green corduroy trousers. He looked like an old geography teacher of mine but with worse fashion sense, if that’s at all possible. His hair was swept over his head to hide his baldness and his specs were perched on the end of his nose. I was so busy thinking, Who the hell wears green corduroys these days? that I missed his punchline. He delivered it and watched for my reaction. He was visibly put out by my dead pan expression.
‘Erm, sorry, can you say that again?’ I had asked, as much to break the awkward silence as anything else. He repeated himself, placing an exaggerated pronunciation on the words he considered important. I found myself drifting back to his trousers. I mean, who
the fuck wears…
Then, I caught it. The key word which lay at the end of the sentence following his laboured explanation.
‘Sorry, say that again.’ I had asked him to repeat himself. He huffed and shuffled around in his well-worn seat.
There were more key words. Words that I had missed previously but which now had a stark resonance. Words that formed like a pillar of ice inside my body. I couldn’t move.
Try as I might, my mouth would not respond. The questions racing around in my head had no way out. They ricocheted off my skull causing my brain to freeze. He took my silence and gaping look as a sign that I had once again failed to grasp the significance of what he was telling me.
He began his speech once more, but I held my hand up, and he stopped.
‘You understand?’ he said flipping his pen around his fingers.
I nodded.
He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a bundle of leaflets, peeled one off and pressed it into my dead hand.
‘It’s all in here.’
And that was it.
He opened the door, and I wandered out, wondering what the hell had just happened. I didn’t make it further than one of the plastic chairs in the waiting room. I slumped down, staring into the middle distance. I have no idea how long I sat there.
All I could think about were my plans. Every time I broke my train of thought to look around, a new set of faces gawped back at me. The nursing staff ignored the fact that I was there. The place was too busy. My plans spun together in a whirl of imagined activity. At some point, I made it back to my cell. I laid on my bed and stayed still for hours.
In the days that followed, the rage grew. It burned with a ferocity that I struggled to contain. Irvine wanted to know what the problem was, but I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t seem to get my mouth to form the words.
The plans loomed dark. All those hours spent working out the intricate details. Each one played in my head like it was on fast forward, as one ended so another began – over and over.
Then, they stopped. My predicament came into sharp focus – it was obvious what I had to do. I now had five plans. One plan for each verse.