Pierce’s fingers stilled, bringing the twirling lighter to a complete stop. “Probably the same thing I would say. Sir.” Hagen knew his sergeant’s opinion on the no-carry policy of the Met, and while he was loathed to buck age-old tradition, Hagen was inclined to agree. Especially on range days when he saw Pierce in action. Pierce was always vague about what he did when he was in service, but one thing was certain: that young man can handle a firearm like no other.
“What did she say, sir?”
Hagen sighed. “Something about Scooby-Doo.”
Pierce chuckled, shifting slightly in the passenger seat. “Sounds like her.”
“She seems to be fitting in nicely.” Hagen watched Pierce’s expression, noting the small smile that clung to the corners of his mouth. “You know, making friends and — “
“Sir.” Pierce’s smile was gone, his gaze fixed on Dempsey flat block.
The door was opening. Hagen could feel the energy in the car shift into high gear as both he and Pierce watched Dempsey step out onto the door stoop.
Hagen returned his mug to the cup-holder and nodded to Pierce. The two got out of the car and began walking toward Dempsey. They watched as Dempsey hurried down the stairs, taking a quick turn to his right before starting down the street.
Hagen and Pierce picked up their pace as they crossed the street and fell into step about thirty meters behind Dempsey.
Dempsey noticed the movement behind and sped up.
Hagen walked along quickly, his breaths deep. He was in good shape… Nothing like his Royal Air Force days, to be sure, but the combination of krav maga and capoeira, courtesy of his beloved wife, was keeping him fit enough. Hagen could feel beads of sweat starting to form on his temples. They were approaching the intersection and Dempsey showed no signs of slowing. To bloody hell with this…
“Mr. Dempsey? We’d like a word?” Hagen called out.
Dempsey immediately broke into a run. Pierce and Hagen took off after him, but Pierce quickly outpaced Hagen and began to gain on the fleeing footballer.
Dempsey reached the intersection and, after glancing back to see the approaching Pierce, made a wide turn that sent him running out into the street itself.
Horns honked and tires screeched as on-coming traffic swerved to avoid Dempsey and then Pierce as the two weaved through vehicles.
Dempsey reached the opposite side of the street and tripped on the curb, stumbling forward onto the sidewalk, his right knee slamming into the pavement. He scrambled to regain his footing, but the fall had been just enough time for Pierce to catch up.
Pierce grabbed Dempsey by the back of his shirt and their combined momentum propelled them down to the ground in a heap. Dempsey struggled to get up, but Pierce used his own weight to keep him down.
“Stay down,” Pierce gasped as he waited for Hagen to arrive.
Hagen jogged across the street moments later, taking in the scene quickly before focusing on Pierce.
“All right, Rick?”
“Yes, sir,” Pierce replied as he wrestled Dempsey around, pulling him up as Pierce regained his own footing.
“Good.” Hagen glanced around at the small crowd of pedestrians and drivers that had begun to gather. Some of them were pointing at Dempsey, obviously recognizing him.
Hagen turned back to Dempsey. “John Dempsey, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. You are also entitled to free legal advice now or at any time.”
***
Interview Room One, New Scotland Yard
Dempsey slumped at the table, the scuffs and bruises from his arrest already visible on his exposed skin. He rubbed his right knee, wincing when the movement rekindled the pain.
Hagen sighed and sat down across from the younger man. “John, do you know why you’re here?”
Dempsey picked at his thumbnail, refusing to look up at Hagen. “I didn’t kill anyone,” he responded adamantly.
“Talk to us, John. Everything you say is recorded.” Hagen gestured toward the recording equipment, waiting for Dempsey to glance up at it before continuing. “Just tell us the truth.”
Dempsey hesitated, looking at the tape recorder. The sound of the tape rolling echoed in the silence that filled the room. To Hagen, it seemed to crescendo into a deafening CLICK, CLICK, CLICK! Dempsey swallowed hard and let out a small, gasping breath before burying his face in his hands.
“I didn’t know Norton was going to... Helen was a sweet girl, good to everybody, she could never deserve what happened to her.”
“Helen Flynn?” Pierce frowned, shifting his weight slightly as he leaned against the wall near the door. Hagen glanced over at his sergeant, shook his head slightly. This was going to be a delicate maneuver, getting the truth out of young Dempsey.
Hagen leaned in toward Dempsey, lowering his voice to a soothing tone. It was his best technique, this tone of voice, this manner, and thankfully the Commissioner had listened to him when he insisted on the high-tech microphones in the interview rooms. Interrogations could be so varied, but the sincere touch was effective in most cases, and you simple cannot deliver his kind of sincerity at high volume.
“Did you have a relationship with her?” Hagen inquired, pouring a glass of water and sliding it carefully across the table to Dempsey.
“No.” Dempsey took a long sip of the water, swallowing carefully. Another sip, and then he continued. “Not that I would have said no, but Helen was involved with someone else at the time.”
“Daniel Norton.” Hagen stated.
Dempsey shook his head. “That had been finished for a while by then. Helen dumped him shortly after…” Dempsey rubbed his neck and shifted uncomfortably.
“After what?” Hagen prompted.
“Dan… got bored easily. Can’t imagine why he would ever get bored with Helen, but he said things weren’t… exciting any more. That’s when he mentioned the drugs. Using drugs to restrain a person, while you…” Dempsey coughed and took another sip of the water. “I thought it was just talk. He’d been hanging out with Henry Bell a lot then, and Harry was in to all kinds of shit.”
“Were you there when Helen died?” Hagen asked.
Dempsey shook his head rapidly. “No, not a chance. I just heard afterward… and I knew what must have happened.” He swallowed hard, the recollection of the event clearly sickening him. “Sick bastards.”
Pierce cleared his throat. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”
Dempsey shook his head. “I was afraid. You know, to get involved. I had a future playing ball. I didn’t want to be connected to something like that, even if it was me turning them in. It was easier to just… keep out of it.”
Hagen nodded, the purse of his lips the only outward manifestation of his indignation and contempt for the young man in front of him. Coward, he thought, as he looked at the wilting footballer across from him. Selfish coward.
Hagen took a deep breath. “You said earlier that Helen was involved with someone other than Daniel Norton. Who?”
“I don’t know. I never saw him or anything. I think he was older, a lot older than Helen was. Too old, I think.”
“No name, then?” Hagen pushed.
Dempsey shook his head. “I’m sorry, no.” He paused reaching for his water again. Then froze. “Hang on. I remember once, when we were still at school. Someone sent Helen roses. A dozen roses for her birthday. It was just a few months before she was killed.”
Pierce moved away from the wall, stopping right beside Dempsey as he asked, “And the note? Was there a name?”
Dempsey nodded. “There was, but I don’t think it was his real name.”
Hagen frowned. “What makes you say that?”
“Well, the note was addressed to ‘Mary’, and signed ‘Percy’. I asked Helen why she was getting flowers addressed to ‘Mary’, was that her real name
or something? And she told me that they shared a love for Gothic poetry, Shelley in particular, so it was sort of their pet names for each other.” Dempsey drained the cup of water in his hand. “You know, it’s funny I thought of that, because I remember Daniel saying to me that he’d been to the cemetery, to visit her grave… sick sod that he was… And he said that there were roses on her grave. And a note signed ‘with all of my love, now and forever, Percy’.”
Hagen sat back in his chair, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. Another man? A secret romance? Recalling the contents of the file on the Helen Flynn murder, there was no indication of either. They had interviewed the father, before the press and the legal circus had made any real progress impossible. He had never mentioned it.
Hagen stood, glancing at his watch as he spoke. “This is Detective Superintendent Douglas Hagen, suspending this interview with John Dempsey at 11:54 AM.” He pressed the button, shutting off the recorder and quickly removed the tape, sliding it into an envelope and sealing it.
“What shall I do with him?” Pierce asked, gesturing to Dempsey.
Hagen looked at the footballer for a moment before responding. “We hold him, until we can’t anymore.” He lowered his voice before continuing. “Get him safely to his cell, and then get a hold of Reynolds. Let him know what we know.”
Hagen exited the interview room and nearly ran into Owens. “Ah, Paul, excellent. I need you to work your magic. I want the names of every professor, teacher, house monitor, visiting resident, anyone that was connected with the school that Helen Flynn attended.”
Owens nodded. “The Carroll School.”
“Yes.” Hagen walked down the hall, with Owens in-step beside him. “Helen Flynn had an older boyfriend, so focus on anyone who would have been between twenty-five and thirty-five at the time.”
“But she was only fifteen!”
Hagen smiled at Owens’ incredulous expression. “Yes, that is correct. Off you go!”
The two stepped into the Murder Squad room and Owens made a beeline for his desk, donning his glasses and focusing on the computer.
Hagen continued on to his own office, shutting the door and pausing for a moment. He moved over to his bookshelves, a small pair of three-shelf units, and searched through the titles. He pulled out a moderately thick book and flipped open to the contents page. His finger slid down the page, stopping finally as he reached his destination.
Hagen quickly flipped through the pages, and smiled as he opened it to the desired entry. He sat down in his chair and leaned back comfortably.
“Percy Bysshe Shelley,” he read aloud. “Well, sir, what do you have to tell me?”
11
9 September 2011
CPS London/ Complex Casework Unit
One Drummond Gate, Pimlico
Clive Reynolds breezed into the reception area, pausing briefly by the large mirror on the wall to check his appearance. Good Lord… He quickly straightened his shirt collar and ran a hand through his hair, smoothing most of the stray pieces and shaping it back into some semblance of neatness. Reynolds chuckled to himself. He loved Diana dearly, but that motorcycle… The risk of offending her was too high, or he would have insisted on taking the Tube to work.
“Good morning, Mister Reynolds. Difficulties on the drive in?”
Reynolds smiled warmly and turned to the thin, graying woman sitting behind the reception desk. “The only difficulty is the drive in, actually. I’d just as soon walk.”
“From the Docklands?”
Reynolds feigned an injured look. “Ms. Warren, are you implying that I am not fit enough to manage a walk in from the Docklands?”
Gladys Warren shook her head, her eyes widening behind the wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. “Not at all, sir. I do think getting up two hours early might put a stop to it, though.”
Reynolds grinned. “Too right. Messages?”
Ms. Warren’s smile faded quickly. “I’m afraid there are dozens.” She quickly gathered a pile of colored sticky-notes, then grabbed several more that were stuck to the desk in front of her.
Reynolds looked at the pile with an amused expression. “You color-coded them?”
Ms. Warren sighed. “Call it reception triage. The blue ones are from the press, the pink ones are from Mister Matthews’s office, and the green ones are all in regards to John Dempsey’s arrest.”
“John Dempsey?” Reynolds accepted the pile of papers and flipped through them casually. “He’s a footballer, isn’t he?”
Since he expected Ms. Warren to reply, Reynolds was startled by the deep voice that replied.
“West Ham. He’s good, too.” Barrister Jerome Wilkinson leaned on the reception counter and looked pointedly at the pile of papers in Reynolds’ hand. “Rough morning, eh?”
Reynolds sighed, “And it’s barely even begun. Yours must have started at dawn.”
Wilkinson rubbed a hand over the light black stubble that covered his dark chin. “Preliminary hearings for the Eddowes case. Good news and bad news. Eddowes’s statements in police custody are in, but the eye-witness statements are out.” Wilkinson’s jaw tightened slightly as he continued. “And the knife may be out.”
Reynolds’ shoulders dropped visibly. “What? Why?”
“Pierce didn’t show.”
“Well, I’m sure it was an oversight. He is working this Regent’s Park case.” Reynolds turned to Ms. Warren. “Ring Mister Lindsay for me. We will get Sergeant Pierce’s hearing rescheduled. Then ring Superintendent Hagen for me.” He turned back to Wilkinson. “All right?”
Wilkinson shrugged and smiled. “You’re the boss.”
Reynolds nodded. “Yes, I am.” He looked down at the pile of messages again. “Unfortunately.” He turned and headed for the lift.
Wilkinson turned back to the pert Ms. Warren. “So, Ms. Warren… There have been a lot of calls about Dempsey?”
Ms. Warren smiled tightly. “At least twenty.”
Wilkinson chuckled. “Those vultures waste no time.”
Ms. Warren shook her head quickly. “Oh, no, not the press. The calls were from football fans, all proclaiming Dempsey’s innocence and denouncing this quote… unwarranted and malicious persecution...unquote.”
Wilkinson winked at Ms. Warren. “Good job, isn’t it? I’ll be in my office.”
“Oh, Mister Wilkinson? There’s a woman here to see you,” Ms. Warren offered.
“A woman?” Wilkinson responded, puzzled.
“She’s in the Blue Room.”
***
“The Blue Room” (Conference Room One)
True to its informal moniker, Conference Room One was indeed decorated in shades of blue, from the dark blue-grey of the carpeting to the smoky blue upholstery of the chairs around the conference table to the periwinkle shade of the draperies on the windows.
Wilkinson entered the room and immediately felt a sense of calm wash over him. Or it could have been a chill, because the room was freezing. Wilkinson turned quickly and adjusted the thermostat by several degrees. The air-conditioning unit shut-off immediately, filling the room with an eerie silence.
“Nice place you have here.”
Wilkinson turned toward the voice – and the young woman sitting on the far end of the conference table, her legs crossed at the ankle and swinging back and forth like a clock pendulum. He quickly assessed the young woman: “skinny” jeans, knee-high suede boots, puffy vest covering a long sleeve shirt. She wore too much eye makeup for his taste, but overall her appearance was neat, casual, attractive. And very young.
Wilkinson frowned. “Miss —”
“Gardener.” Kate stopped swinging and hopped off the table, her hand outstretched between them. “Kate Gardener.”
Wilkinson accepted her outstretched hand cautiously. “How can I help you, Miss Gardener?”
“I have a couple of questions about the Helen Flynn case.”
“You should contact the press office, they can connect you —”
“O
h, no,” Kate interrupted, holding up her hand. “I’m not press. I’m with the FSS. Forensic Photography.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her badge. “I’m working the Norton case. Regent’s Park?”
Wilkinson glanced at his watch. “I have a meeting in ten minutes.”
“You seem to be in good physical shape, it won’t take you that long to get there,” Kate responded.
Wilkinson hesitated, then crossed to the table. He pulled out the nearest chair and sat down. “I can give you two minutes.”
Kate grinned. “That’s enough for me.” She quickly pulled out a chair and climbed in, pulling her knees up as she sat. “The Flynn inquest.”
“I didn’t formally work the case, I was a clerk at the time.” Wilkinson noted the simultaneously dissatisfied and expectant look on Kate’s face. He sighed, and continued. “I do recall the inquest was a zoo. The police looked at the father from the very beginning. Based on leaks and conjecture, the press crucified him. Doctor Thomas Flynn. The man lost his medical practice, his home, all on top of losing his only child.”
“You didn’t think he did it.”
Wilkinson quickly shook his head. “I didn’t think he was a viable suspect, and the labs confirmed my conclusion. According to Doctor Flynn’s statement, and corroborating statements and evidence, Helen split from Daniel Norton some time before her death. The relationship did not end on good terms.”
“She was being harassed?” Kate asked.
“Not by Norton, but by a friend of his. Henry Bell. In fact, Doctor Flynn had a confrontation with Bell right after the inquest ended. Flynn was convinced Bell had something to do with her death. Personally, I thought he was right.” Wilkinson glanced at his watch. “I have to go.” He stood and reached the door in a couple of strides.
“Mister Wilkinson? Thank you.”
Wilkinson paused, nodding curtly before exiting the conference room.
Kate grabbed a hold of the table, swinging the chair back and forth a couple of times, then pushing hard. The chair spun around in a circle several times before coming to a slow stop. Kate chuckled as she took out her mobile. She dialed carefully, humming a little disconnected tune as the phone rang on the other end. Then the ringing stopped.
The Memory of Trees (Kate Gardener mysteries Book 1) Page 6