Hilary Bonner

by Braven

  It was going to give her a lot of pleasure to relate all this to Marshall. Sometimes you held back from telling your suspect much about your case against them. Karen believed this was a situation in which it was right to tell him everything. Indeed she felt it was her only hope of breaking him, if there was even the remotest prospect of that, she thought, as she stared into his mocking eyes.

  “On this occasion the newspaper reports have been spot-on,” said Karen.

  Marshall’s eyes narrowed. You could almost see his thought processes. “You’ve been able to positively identify a body that would therefore have been in the ocean for twenty-eight years,” he responded eventually, his voice casual but his words chosen with infinite care.

  “Yes, we have, as a matter of fact,” Karen responded equally casually, making a big effort to remain calm.

  Marshall flinched, she was sure he flinched. It was almost imperceptible, though. For a fleeting moment she thought she saw fear in those pale blue eyes, then it was gone. This man gave so little away.

  She explained it all then, briefly but succinctly. And when she told him about the watch, the watch that was almost definitely Clara’s and which had been found by her body, she noticed that he turned his face away, perhaps so that she could no longer see his eyes. She paused several times to let him speak if he wished, wondering if he could be tempted into some indiscretion. He wasn’t, of course. He remained, outwardly at least, as cool as ever.

  When she had finished he still did not speak until she actually asked him what he had to say. Marshall shrugged his big shoulders then, and turned to her again, the mockery back in his eyes—if, indeed, it had ever left. He really was a smug bastard.

  “So?” he enquired. “Even if it’s Clara’s watch it doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve found her body. And if it is her body, well, I still have no idea how it got there. I didn’t put it there. I never touched any of my family. I wouldn’t ever have done such a thing. Not ever.”

  “Mr. Marshall, you were seen taking your boat out of Torquay Harbour at night, right after Clara and your girls were seen for the last time. We have witnesses to that. Now your wife’s body has been found at sea, and I promise you absolutely that it is her and that our identification of her will almost certainly already stand up in any court in the land, and that we are confidently expecting further confirmation. I therefore put it to you also that any jury would accept the quite reasonable deduction that you killed Clara and the girls and that you dumped all three of their bodies at sea.”

  “No. I didn’t.” Marshall didn’t bat an eyelid. His voice remained steady. “You’ll never shake me, you know. I didn’t do it.”

  Karen could feel the frustration already building up in her. He was an infuriating man. No wonder the case had bugged Bill Talbot so much, she thought.

  “So it was all just a coincidence, was it?” she enquired, matching his earlier sarcasm with her own.

  “Yes, it was,” he replied easily. “Just a coincidence.”

  Karen leaned forward across the table.

  “I don’t believe in those sorts of coincidences, Mr. Marshall,” she said. “And neither will a court of law.”

  Chapter Eight

  Karen interviewed Marshall solidly for almost two hours. At the end she reckoned she was probably considerably more exhausted than he was. Her prime suspect appeared to have remained singularly unmoved by all that was happening around him. He did not budge an inch. The passage of time had not changed him, it seemed. Although initially shaken by his arrest, he had settled back into what she had been told had always been his approach to any investigation into the disappearance of his family.

  Marshall continued to waver between a kind of arrogant contempt and a laconic sarcasm. His confidence never seemed to falter. He even waived his rights to a solicitor throughout.

  “I am innocent, why would I need a lawyer?” he enquired.

  Karen decided that the only hope was to keep up the pressure in an attempt to wear Marshall down. She might be wearied by her verbal contest with him, but one advantage she did have over the man was that she was not alone. She could step down and ask others to take over. She decided on a policy of continuing to interview Marshall, with the minimum number of breaks allowed, for as long as the law permitted, using various members of her team in succession.

  Then somewhere around 10 P. M., after munching a couple of chocolate bars to replenish her flagging energy, she resolved to have another go herself.

  To her immense irritation Marshall’s face positively lit up when she entered the interview room, breaking into a sardonic grin which stretched from ear to ear.

  “Ah, Detective Superintendent,” he began, addressing her before she could him and thus yet again giving every appearance of being in charge, something he was extremely good at, Karen reflected.

  “I’ve been puzzling about you all day. Finally I’ve got it. Karen Meadows. How could I ever have forgotten? Little Karen Meadows from next door. The lovely Margaret’s daughter.”

  The grin became a leer. His voice took on a husky note.

  “And what a woman that Margaret Meadows was.”

  His eyes were fixed on Karen’s. They were both mocking and challenging.

  DC Tompkins, who was already in the interview room, was also staring at Karen. Involuntarily she glanced towards him. But as usual Tompkins’ expression gave little away. Karen turned her attention back to Marshall. She could see that he remembered every bit as clearly as she did the fateful day on which he had been upstairs with her mother when Karen had unexpectedly returned home early from school. She was also sure that he would have realized that she knew, had known for all these years, that he and her mother had had some kind of an affair. And he probably also realized that she had told nobody.

  It was bad enough for Karen that she was now heading the Marshall investigation while aware that she had kept quiet about the affair for nearly thirty years. It was even worse to be aware that Marshall knew that, too. She had always told herself that nothing that had gone on between him and her mother could be relevant, but she actually knew from long experience that it may well have been, because you never could tell when you were investigating a crime. Sometimes the most inconsequential piece of information later proved to be crucial.

  He appreciated all of that, the bastard. She was quite certain. Richard Marshall was a very perceptive and intuitive man—which was perhaps one of the reasons why he had gotten away with all that he had over the years.

  “Oh yes, oh yes, what a woman!” Marshall repeated, still challenging Karen with his eyes.

  Karen had a quick temper which had caused her trouble more than once in her career. She felt the rage rising in her and struggled to contain it. It was quite a struggle, too. Only the knowledge that it was Marshall’s intention to make her lose her temper stopped her from doing so.

  She did not, however, feel able to sit down and interview him again. In any case she reckoned it would be a waste of time for her to do so now. Unfortunately, Marshall had already won this session on points, and the best thing for her to do was walk away from it, she reckoned. But not without issuing a broadside or two.

  She turned to DC Tompkins, still sitting patiently waiting for her, a typical police detective in his nondescript brown suit, his long, thin, slightly morose face as taciturn as ever. Yet she knew all too well that he would have taken in everything that Marshall had said.

  “I suddenly have some other business to attend to so I’m sending someone else in to join you,” she told him obliquely and then continued with a blatant lie. “Actually, we have received some more new information that I need to deal with right away.”

  She swung round to face Marshall again.

  “You can play all the games you like, sunshine,” she said, and there was low menace in her voice. “It doesn’t much matter what you tell us. I doubt you’d know the truth if it hit you full on. But we don’t need you to say a damned thing anymore. We’ve got enough on you t
o keep you locked up for the rest of your life. You can mock, you can laugh, you can kid yourself you’re the cleverest bastard that ever walked the earth. All that’s academic now. This time you’re going to be charged. What I’m doing now is tying up every loose end there is because I’m not having you slip the net this time.”

  “You’re going down, Marshall. Make no mistake about it. Finally your luck has run out.”

  She was aware of DC Tompkins looking at her in mild surprise and it was rare indeed for the veteran detective to visibly display a response to anything. But she just hadn’t been able to resist making her little speech. Without waiting for a reply she turned on her heel in order to leave the little room.

  But as she opened the door she paused and glanced back over her shoulder.

  “Do you understand what I’m telling you?” she enquired, almost mildly, of Marshall. “Don’t even think you’re getting bail. This is it. I intend to make absolutely sure that you never step foot outside a prison again. It’s over, Marshall. It’s really over.”

  And for the second time that day she was sure that she could see fear in his eyes.

  She found she was still trembling with suppressed rage when she returned to her office. It had been extremely gratifying to wipe the smirk off Maxwell’s face, but she was well aware that it had been self-indulgent, too. Once again she had probably not behaved in the way a police superintendent probably should have done. She just hadn’t been able to help it.

  Worse though, most of what she had told the man was unmitigated bullshit. Yes, it was her intention that everything she had said would come to be the truth. But although she thought the case against Marshall was now a strong one, it was a long way from copper-bottomed. She was not even one hundred percent certain that she would be able to charge him. At least not yet. First of all she had to convince the Crown Prosecution Service and the chief constable. And the very thought of confronting Harry Tomlinson, not her favourite top cop by a long chalk, made Karen feel extremely weary.

  She reached for the bottle of mineral water on her desk. It was warm and flat. She pulled a face. It was, however, liquid, which at that moment provided relief enough. Her mouth and throat were so dry they felt as if they had been sandpapered. Tension was responsible for that as much as the muggy heat of the day, she suspected.

  She checked her watch. It was almost 11 P. M. She was exhausted. And still hungry in spite of the chocolate. She reckoned she might as well go home and try to start really early the following morning. There was, in any case, little more that she could do. Tomlinson could wait until the next day. He was probably off at one of his myriad politically motivated dinners, and in any event there was just a chance that, between them, the team might have worn Marshall down a bit by the following day. Not much of one though, if the bastard ran true to form, she reflected grimly. But as she prepared to leave the station she called through to the incident room and gave instructions for the pressure to be kept up on Marshall throughout the night.

  “I want Marshall given absolutely the minimum rest,” she ordered. “I want a team available to interview him continuously, every minute that we’re allowed. Tell them to push. Really push. Our best hope is still to break the bastard. But also tell them to be sure to keep within the rules. Stick to the book. I don’t want him getting off on some blasted technicality, that really would be the end.”

  “And it would be just our luck and Richard Marshall’s.”

  She leaned back in her chair and considered any other last-minute things she had to do before leaving. Oh God, she thought, Phil. The detective sergeant had also had a long day and had been trying to call her all evening to relate it in full.

  He had already told her briefly about Jennifer Roth, but she had not had time to listen to the full account of his Dorset investigations.

  Swiftly she dialled the number of his mobile phone.

  “I’m in heavy traffic, I’d better not talk,” he said. “I might get arrested.”

  Karen didn’t even manage a giggle.

  “Where are you?” she enquired.

  “On the Newton Abbot road, nearly back, but I think there may have been an accident or something.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Sandwiches.”

  “Fancy telling me all about it over a pint and a curry?”

  “I do.”

  Phil hadn’t hesitated. And she knew that it wasn’t just that he always seemed to be hungry, either. There couldn’t be a police officer alive who worked harder or longer hours than he did. Except her perhaps, she thought. It was a bonus that they enjoyed each other’s company. Not for the first time she reflected on how lucky she was to have him on her team.

  “See you at Akbar’s as soon as you can make it, then,” she said. “I’ll be about fifteen minutes.”

  Karen left her car in the station car park. The ten-minute walk to the restaurant would do her good and she felt like having a decent drink. She thought she might well get a taxi home.

  The atmosphere at Akbar’s was restful and relaxing. All dark-red plush upholstery and similar wall coverings blending into one in the subdued lighting. Karen arrived first, but Phil joined her not long after, before she had even got around to ordering herself a drink. Although he was obviously tired, he also seemed excited. You could see that he was pumped up.

  “You look how I feel,” she told him. “Marshall’s being impossible, of course, but at least he’s inside. I don’t know whether to collapse or cheer.”

  “That’s just how it is, boss. We’re all the same, you know, even the really young guys. Everybody wants Marshall. Nobody will relax, though, until he’s charged, and even then not really until he’s convicted. That’s the trouble with this one. You can’t quite believe it, can you?”

  Karen grunted. “It’s been a long haul,” she said, as she ordered two pints of lager and passed Cooper the menu.

  “Thanks, boss,” replied the DS. “You’ve no idea how much I’m looking forward to a square meal and a few beers.”

  “Oh yes, I have,” said Karen. “I really have.”

  By the time they had finished their main courses, chicken masala, chicken tikka, and a selection of vegetable curries, Phil had told Karen all about his enquiries and given her a rundown on Jennifer Roth.

  “She’s a piece of work, boss, I’m telling you,” he said. “At first she just seemed shocked rigid. But as soon as I started to push her she changed into something I hadn’t expected. Like a trapped animal she was. She’s a snooty bitch, too. And she won’t have a word said against Marshall. Not a word.”

  “Yup. Well, that much is par for the course. God knows what he does to the women in his life but they all seem totally taken in by him.”

  Karen tried not to think about just how much her mother may have fallen into that category. She called for another two pints of lager, their third each.

  Cooper held up a hand to stop her. “I’d better not, I’m driving,” he said. “The days when you could tell the pointy-hat brigade you were in the job and they’d go away are long gone.”

  Karen grinned. She knew that as Cooper was thirteen years her junior those days must be mere mythology to him, but she could remember them for real.

  “Where’ve you parked?” she asked him. “My car’s at the nick. I’m leaving it there. To hell with it, Phil. You don’t arrest Richard Marshall every day of your life.”

  Cooper grinned back at her. “You’re right, boss,” he said. “My motor’s in the car park round the corner. As long as I get there early in the morning it’ll be all right overnight. I’ll have Sarah give me a lift in. In which case, how about a whisky chaser?”

  “Done,” said Karen, and ordered two large ones.

  They stayed in the restaurant until past 1 A. M., demolishing two more whiskies each.

  “Do you ever think about how the law was in the old Wild West, boss?” asked Cooper casually at one point, when the booze had definitely kicked in.

  Karen giggled.
“Can’t say it’s a major preoccupation, Phil,” she confessed.

  “Yeah well, those cowboy lawmen could get away with murder, and did, didn’t they?” Phil went on. “If they’d got a fucking Richard Marshall in their territory they’d have shot him or lynched him straight away. Now, I’m not saying that’s right, boss, no, I’m not. But you got to admit it wouldn’t half save a lot of unnecessary bother.”

  Cooper, whom Karen knew was not a big drinker at all, was obviously feeling no pain having downed the best part of three large whiskies. He was very very serious and spoke with careful deliberation. Karen became almost overwhelmed by an irrepressible urge to giggle. Eventually she could contain herself no longer. And her suppressed mirth came out in the form of an explosive snort.

  Still apparently very serious, Cooper made a show of wiping his face with one hand and then the lapels of his jacket.

  “Sorry, Phil, did I get you?” Karen asked, in between hoots of laughter.

  “Think you did, boss. It’s all right. I just don’t know what I said that was so funny.”

  The laughter really kicked in then. Uncontrollably.

  “That’s it, that’s it,” she spluttered. “You really don’t, do you?”

  Cooper looked bewildered. “No, I don’t, boss,” he said, downing the last of his whisky.

  “You are quite wonderful sometimes, Phil, particularly when you’ve been drinking,” she continued through giggles. “Oh, and when we’re off duty I do wish to God you wouldn’t call me ‘boss.’ That makes it even funnier, if you see what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t see, really, boss—”

  “Oh Phil, please.”

  “Right. All right. OK. Here goes. K-A-R-E-N. Karen.”

  Phil beamed at her.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Did that sound all right, boss?” asked Cooper then.

  She shot him a sharp look.

  He grinned broadly. She pretended to throw the remains of her lager over him. It was all very childish. But it really felt good to unwind and play the fool.