by Lisa Cutts
Leonard Rumbly stood back to let us into his home. It was an impressive house, probably thanks to a life of crime.
‘Anyone else here, Mr Rumbly?’ I asked.
‘No. I live alone. What’s this about?’
‘It’s about the Wickerstead Valley train crash in 1964. I’m arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder.’ As I cautioned him and told him why it was necessary that he be arrested, he continued to stare straight at me. He didn’t blink, look away or seem concerned in any way. It wasn’t his first arrest and he probably thought that, since so much time had passed between the crash and police knocking on his door, he could still get away with causing the death of so many people. It was true that we didn’t have much evidence, but he didn’t need to know that. Certainly not at this stage.
Mark took Rumbly upstairs to get dressed as the search team came in. George spoke to the officer with the video camera whose job it was to film every room and part of the house that we entered and searched, as well as anything we seized as evidence. By the time my prisoner reappeared at the bottom of the stairs, he was wearing a shirt, trousers and a bemused look.
‘I need my medication,’ he said. ‘It’s for my heart. You don’t want me collapsing on you.’
‘Where is it? We can get it for you,’ said Mark.
‘I’d rather get it myself. I don’t trust you foot soldiers to get the right tablets.’
I caught Mark’s eye over Rumbly’s shoulder as he shook his head and looked to the ceiling.
Rumbly made to go past me towards the back of the house, in the direction of the kitchen. I couldn’t let him out of my sight now. In the very unlikely event that he made a run for it, I would have some serious explaining to do as to why I was unable to catch a seventy-six-year-old man. What I couldn’t chance was that he might try to injure himself or one of us. He was my prisoner and my responsibility now, and allowing him into the kitchen – the place with the knives – was an unnecessary risk to take.
George appeared in the kitchen doorway, possibly having the same thought as me. Instead of heading where I thought he was going, though, Rumbly turned left before he got to the kitchen. I could hear two officers already in the room he entered, but I followed him nevertheless. He stopped inside the door, scanned the room and let out a sigh. Even though I saw him sweep the whole room once, he turned three times in the direction of a small, low table underneath the window. Initially I thought he was looking at a large desk which held only an old-fashioned blotter and a telephone, but when I followed his line of vision I saw that he was eyeing the table beyond that.
The wooden table-top held only a vase of flowers, but beneath, on its base, a couple of inches from the floor, were a couple of piles of stacked papers.
Unless I was very much mistaken, there was something in the paperwork that Leonard Rumbly didn’t want us to see.
63
Mark and I got Rumbly into the car without any issues. He drove while I sent a text message to the search team sergeant to let him know about the papers Rumbly had been casting an eye over. There was no chance that his team would miss them, but I knew how important it was to pass my concerns on. Then I thought about making small talk with our man in custody. I was well aware of the topics I had to steer clear of, such as, what part did you play in a train journey ending in carnage? Even so, I really didn’t feel like rapport-building with him.
Eventually, I said, ‘When we get to the custody desk, the sergeant will go through your rights with you. One thing you’ll be asked is if you want a solicitor. The choice is yours, but if – ’
‘I don’t need a solicitor. I’ve got nothing to say to any of you.’
I’d tested the ground with a neutral but important subject, and got a very clear indication of how he was going to be handling himself. He was unlikely to give us any trouble, but he wasn’t going to be any more accommodating than he had to be.
We pulled into the yard at Riverstone police station a short time later, and led him to the custody area. After he’d been booked in by a sergeant, his DNA and fingerprints taken, and he’d been searched once more and seen by the nurse, we took him to the only available interview room.
It was the smallest of the three, holding a table fixed to the floor, three heavy wooden seats, and the recording equipment. The air was always stale and the only things on offer were teas and coffees in polystyrene cups. Even the hot chocolate that so many of the prisoners were fond of had been cut back in the budget slashes.
Mark went to make Rumbly a coffee and enter on his custody record that he’d been given a hot drink. Everything had to be logged in case he later claimed that he had been kept without food and drink. It was a procedure we had to go through for every detainee, but my guard was very much up on this occasion. When Mark left us alone, I propped the interview room door open.
‘Saw you on the news last year,’ he muttered.
I paused with the DVDs for the interview in my hand. I fought to remain impassive but I had a sense of what was coming next.
The civilian detention officer who was behind the custody desk was directly in my eyeline. She could also see my prisoner. The only problem was, she couldn’t hear him, and we hadn’t yet started recording.
‘I thought I recognised you earlier at my house, but I saw the way the others danced around you, trying not to upset you, and then I realised that you were the one that got stabbed last year.’
I felt my face twitch. I wanted to look away. I wished for Mark to return and put a stop to this. I heard his footsteps coming along the corridor but then my heart lurched when it was followed by the sound of another officer stopping him and asking how married life was treating him. Crumbling in front of Leonard Rumbly was not an option, but I didn’t want to leave him alone either. He’d met me only a couple of hours earlier and he’d already found one of my weaknesses. I had hesitated for far too long to now deny the story of my stabbing, which had been broadcast for a number of days, in what had probably been a very slow news week. A factory closure in Charlton had eventually taken its place.
‘You would only have been one more dead copper at the end of the day.’
My grip tightened on the DVDs, flexing their cheap plastic casing. I thought about ramming the corners into his face but the only purpose that would serve would be to get me arrested, suspended and probably sent to prison. It would be my word against his that he’d said something to inflame my anger so much and to provoke me.
Whatever he thought of me, or all police officers, I knew I had to approach the whole thing impartially. And that involved interviewing him and evidence-gathering. Not smashing him in the face with the recording equipment.
Mark finished his conversation with his old acquaintance and appeared back in the room. He placed the unappetising beverage within Rumbly’s reach.
‘What did I miss?’ he asked, looking at me and the prisoner in turn. Neither of us said a word.
64
The interview began. I did my best to keep my voice even and all traces of emotion from it. I had a couple of minutes to think about whether I was going to mention Rumbly’s comments to me once the discs started to record. I only had a short time to make my mind up: just long enough to unwrap the discs and for the machine to whirr into life.
Introductions made, caution given and explained and the other interview formalities all completed, I said, ‘And before the DVDs were recording, we didn’t ask you any questions about the offence or why you’ve been arrested?’
‘No, officer. It was all above board.’
‘In fact, you mentioned that you thought you’d recognised me from the news last year?’
A smile played around his mouth. If I wasn’t very much mistaken, his eyes twinkled. It was game on for Leonard Rumbly. This was very much how he took his pleasure in life – by toying with people. I could only imagine how Marilyn Springate had felt all those years ago when she’d gone to him for help. I was in control of the interview, despite the way h
e’d behaved towards me, whereas she had been clueless about what she was getting herself into. I liked to think I was more of a match for him, but that remained to be seen.
‘Yes, indeed, officer,’ was all he said, after a brief pause.
‘I’ve explained that you’ve been arrested on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder.’ I had the list in front of me, but I had no need to look at it. ‘Martha White, Gerald Downing, Susan Drayton, Leslie Lawrence, Kenneth Andrews, Sylvia Peterson and Mathew Cole. They all died in the train crash. Do those names mean anything to you? They should.’
I’d hoped that hearing their names and making them real might at least lessen his resolve. I was wrong. He crossed his legs and sat back in his hard wooden seat before clearing his throat and saying, ‘The only thing I do have to say to you is, why would I arrange for the train to crash if I was actually on it? I was sitting beside Marilyn Springate. And I walked away without a scratch. Ask her.’
How had I missed this crucial bit of information, and why had no one mentioned it to me? This threw me completely, and I battled to appear composed before asking, ‘What were you doing on the train?’
‘No comment.’
‘Why were you travelling with Marilyn Springate?’
‘No comment.’
I was crestfallen, but I hid it from Rumbly as best I could and fought on. For the remainder of the interview, in spite of my repeated attempts to get him to talk to me, nothing worked. Even questions about his family that caused his face to drop elicited a reply of, ‘No comment.’ Mark then asked him dozens of questions and again, to each of them, he replied, ‘No comment.’ We went on like that for an hour and a half before pausing for a break.
Mark put Rumbly back in his cell with another cup of tea. It hardly counted as torture, but the drinks really were like warm pondwater. Sometimes you had to make the most of a bad situation and enjoy the little victories. We went up to the CID office for a proper brew and to speak to Janice Freeman about what he’d said so far.
When we found her, she was in the interview monitoring room, neutral expression on her face.
‘You get that, ma’am?’ I asked, taking a seat opposite her.
‘Even though Rumbly’s not talking to you, he doesn’t seem to be giving you too much trouble.’ I saw her glance up over my shoulder to where Mark was standing in the doorway. ‘Do me a favour, could you?’ she asked him, ‘Find Clint and ask him to go to Custody. I need him to check the custody record for something. He’s not answering his phone.’
This seemed a little odd to me, firstly as we’d just come from Custody and she could have sent us back there – but also, her phone was beside her, on silent mode. I could see the screen illuminating and the name ‘Clint Stirling’ flashing as he tried to call her.
Once Mark was out of earshot, she leaned in closer to me across the desk and said, ‘I came up here to monitor the interview. I heard what Rumbly said to you when you were alone.’
I stared at the DCI. What he’d said to me hadn’t been a threat and evidentially was completely irrelevant. So, he didn’t like the police? Most people we arrested didn’t want to be our friends. But this had seemed personal. He knew that; that was why he had said it. He wanted to be spiteful and knock me off track. It didn’t make any difference. Either we had the evidence to charge him, or we didn’t.
Janice’s voice focused me once more. ‘We’ve been in touch with the Crown Prosecution Service already but so far we’re probably going to have to bail Rumbly unless the interviews throw any light on anything else.’ She paused and pursed her lips at me. ‘I don’t like this man any more than you do. Trust me, we’re not putting all of our eggs in one basket when it comes to the interview process.’
I heard a noise behind me and saw her look up. ‘Speak of the devil,’ she said. ‘Nina, if you could give us a few minutes.’
I got up out of my chair to leave the room. I came face to face with the plain clothes officer I’d seen in the briefing.
Things were looking up.
65
Rarely was the interviewing process rapid: something as serious as interviewing a murder suspect might take hours, if not days. It was clear from the start that we were not going to be able to keep Rumbly in custody for much longer than the initial twenty-four hours, and even that had to be justified at several stages throughout the timescale. Rumbly declined a solicitor at every opportunity afforded to him and remained impassive whenever he was spoken to. He even came across as courteous – that was, if you didn’t know what he was capable of.
During our breaks, Mark and I went to see Janice Freeman or Clint Stirling to ask if the team of six officers searching his house since seven that morning had uncovered anything useful. I knew I was being impatient as we would be told as soon as anything of importance came to light, but it didn’t stop me asking.
As I stood in the CID office doorway, Clint looked at me for the third time and shook his head as if to dismiss me. I was about to leave him to it when his phone rang. I watched Clint’s face brighten as he listened for a short time before he said, ‘That’s very interesting.’
Mark and I took a step towards him.
‘Did he really?’ said Clint, eyeing us both. ‘Nina and Mark are both standing in front of me. They’re going to be pleased to hear that. I’ll let them know.’
‘Come on, then, sir,’ said Mark. ‘What’s happened?’
‘You’re going to like this.’ Clint paused. I wasn’t beyond telling a detective inspector to bloody well get on with it. My impatience often knew no bounds.
‘And?’ I said, after what seemed like enough time for him to say something.
‘We’ve found a quantity of class A drugs at Andy Rumbly’s home. They were buried in the garden.’
‘Heroin?’ I asked, taking another step forward.
‘Looks like it. Needs testing, but what you’re really going to like is that, when it was put to him in interview, he claimed it wasn’t his.’
‘I don’t want to be rude to you, sir, a man of rank and all that, but why should that please me? Unless…’
Clint gave me a smile and raised an eyebrow, coaxing my next words out of me.
‘Unless,’ I said, ‘he’s claiming that the drugs belong to his dad.’
‘That’s exactly what he said. The details are on an email you should have by now. You and Mark can get back down to the interview room and ask your suspect if he wants to tell you why his son is claiming the drugs are nothing to do with him but were buried in his garden by his old man.’
‘I might just do that, sir.’ I moved back towards the door where Mark was standing.
‘It would seem,’ said Clint, ‘that all is not harmonious in the Rumbly family: Andy is blaming his father for Niall’s spell in prison.’
I turned and stared at Clint, no doubt a look of stupidity on my face.
‘Niall’s in prison for assaulting a doorman. The doorman was rude to Leonard. He told him he was too old to go into the club, so Niall went back and gave him a hiding, and all to impress his grandad. It would seem that Andy wants better for his son than he had himself – now that he has a nice home paid for by drugs and burglary, of course.’
‘Of course,’ I echoed. ‘Poxy people never fail to astound me.’
‘Let’s go and ask him about all this,’ said Mark rubbing his hands together. I’m going to enjoy this one.’
‘Not as much as me, not as much as me.’
Ten minutes later, back in the interview room, I sat beside the recording equipment and Rumbly sat opposite me, looking as though he didn’t have a care in the world. With the introduction and legal obligations out of the way again, I paused for breath and savoured the moment as I said, ‘Leonard Rumbly, I’m arresting you on suspicion of possession of a class A drug, namely heroin.’
I watched him closely as I cautioned him: a barely perceptible tightness appeared around his eyes. Nothing else gave him away. His body language kept his secret, as well as his ex
pression, but there was something I couldn’t define. Perhaps I was merely hoping he was guilty. If we couldn’t prove he had been behind the deaths of seven innocent people in 1964, a drugs charge was better than nothing.
He kept perfectly still until I’d finished and then leaned forward and said, ‘There were no drugs in my house. You’ve planted them there.’
‘The drugs weren’t in your house. They don’t have to be on your property for you to be in possession of them. Let me explain to you where they were and the circumstances.’
For the first time since I’d clapped eyes on Rumbly, I was enjoying myself. I felt as though I had the upper hand. Even though I had my doubts whether his own son would eventually give evidence against him, it was the best we had so far. Whatever the rest of the team were doing, I hoped they were building a better case than we had.
‘We arrested your son, Andy, this morning.’
I paused and it worked. Rumbly blanched.
‘We didn’t find all that much at his place but he was very helpful… If it weren’t for him, we might not have found the heroin buried in his garden. In a metal box. A metal box that belonged to you. We – ’
‘How do you know it belonged to me?’ It wasn’t just Rumbly senior’s tone but the fidgeting and finger-flexing that gave him away. Now he was worried.
‘I’m coming to that. We know it’s your box because Andy’s told us it’s yours.’
I was greeted with an open-mouthed stare across the cheap wooden table. Rumbly eased himself back in the seat and dropped his hands beside him. He broke his gaze away from me and sought out the answer in the distance. I thought I heard him say, ‘He didn’t.’
‘Sorry, Leonard. What did you say then?’