Fletcher tries a different tack. Her mind is scattered, so perhaps scattered questions might work. “Does Annabel know Peter Dale is her dad?”
She blinks. “Can you pass me my glasses, please, Detective?”
He picks up a pair of glasses from the coffee table and she slides them on clumsily. Behind the lenses, her eyes look startlingly large.
“Now I see you!” she says. “It wasn’t you that came before, was it?”
“I can assure you it was me. I came with Detective Fryer.”
“He’s a lovely man.”
“Yes, he is. Ms. Collins, please try to concentrate for me. Does Annabel know Peter Dale is her dad?”
“No.”
Fletcher’s excitement quickens. He was right about Annabel Collins’s paternity. “What about Peter? Did he know you were pregnant before he died?”
“No. Peter was embarrassed about me. I would never have told him about the baby being his because I knew he didn’t want me. Not as a proper girlfriend to take out in public. I was no spring chicken and no beauty either. He was randy, though. He couldn’t keep it zipped up when we were together. I knew I served a purpose for him and I wasn’t saying no because it wasn’t like I was getting any other offers.”
“Did you love him?”
“I wanted a baby. I didn’t care who gave me one. Peter was a means to an end. To be honest, I thought I was too old to get pregnant, I thought I’d missed my chance, so it was the loveliest surprise when I discovered I was.” Her fingers release the pearls and she lays her palm flat on her stomach. The sunlight has moved out of her eyes and plays on the side of her face. Her skin lies in tissue-paper wrinkles and Fletcher can see her scalp beneath her coiffed hair, but her gaze is sharper than ever. I’m just going to ask her outright, Fletcher thinks. He has a feeling this is a good moment.
“Is that why you killed Peter? Because you didn’t want him to know about the baby? Or perhaps it was because you wanted the money? You knew how to access his money, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t kill Peter. Not me.” She smiles, apparently unshockable. Fletcher’s not buying it.
“Do you remember what you gave Annabel yesterday?”
“I don’t remember giving anything to Annabel.”
“Last night Annabel phoned me. She was upset and asked me to meet her because she had something she wanted to show me. Do you know what she showed me?” There is no change in Hazel Collins’s expression. “She showed me a box. It contained something that appeared to be a mummified ear. Annabel said you told her that the ear was Peter’s. Can you explain that?”
At first Fletcher wonders if Hazel Collins is choking. A sound that is part wheeze, part cough begins low in her throat before swelling. He half stands up to help her before he recognizes the mirth in her eyes. She is laughing at him.
“Ms. Collins!” he says. “This is a very serious matter.”
“Oh, my darling,” she says when she’s able to talk. “Has Annabel gone and given you Peter’s ear? She’s such a drama queen.”
“You gave it to her,” Fletcher says. “In a box.”
“Well, I was reminded of Peter after you detectives came the first time, so I was having a look in a trunk of his stuff that I keep. I never told Annabel it was her dad’s stuff. I meant to, I probably should have done years ago, but the moment never seemed right, especially with what Peter did to all those people. It would have upset Annabel. She thinks she was conceived in a one-night stand.”
“The ear, Ms. Collins. You need to tell me about the ear.”
“Oh, of course. Peter studied anthropology at University. He was especially interested in voodoo. He told me he bought the ear on a trip to New Orleans when he was a student and smuggled it home. It’s a voodoo relic, or something. I always thought it was a fake. But it’s not Peter’s actual ear. It didn’t come off his head.”
Fletcher is rigid with embarrassment. He is thinking of the ear being fast-tracked through the lab at his request. He’ll be a laughingstock if it’s fake, but she might be lying.
“Annabel said that Peter’s brother Terry gave you the ear. Why was that?”
“Annabel is wrong. The only things I’ve got of Peter’s is the stuff I packed up from his office. Terry didn’t want it and I didn’t know who else to give it to. I thought I might give it to Annabel one day if I ever told her who her dad was, but it didn’t come to pass. Did I say that already? Sorry if I did. Annabel says I repeat myself too much. I’ll tell you something for free, Detective. Life doesn’t always turn out how you think it’s going to.”
She yawns. Her ribs rise and fall. Fletcher thinks they look fragile, like birds’ bones. He suppresses a shudder. There’s no trace of amusement in her expression now, just fatigue. Fletcher knows his time is running out. He says, “Do you know who killed Peter Dale?”
“Well, it was Terry.” She frowns. “We just talked about this. You have a terrible memory. I think it’s worse than mine.”
“Terry killed Peter?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Peter Dale’s brother, Terry Taylor, murdered Peter?”
“That’s what I said. Terry found out Peter was going to do a runner with all the money. Don’t ask me how Terry found out, but he did. He turned up at the office on a Saturday. Peter had asked me to come in and work, so we were both there. I heard them have a terrible row and both stormed out of the building. I didn’t know what happened after that, but on Monday morning when I got to work, Peter didn’t turn up but Terry did. He wanted access to the money. But he was in a terrible state.”
“Because he had murdered his brother?”
“Yes. He broke down.”
“Why didn’t you make a report to the police?”
A smile plays at the corner of her lips. “Money, darling. Filthy lucre. I had a baby to provide for. Me and Terry came to an arrangement about the money, and later that day I called the police to say Peter had gone missing. It was so easy. He’s dead now, Terry is. Brain tumor. So he got his comeuppance in the end.”
Fletcher knows he should stop this interview now and caution Hazel Collins, but he has one more question he is desperate to ask. “Did you ever meet a man called Felix Abernathy while you were working for Peter?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Felix who?”
“Felix Abernathy.”
“Was he in the newspaper?”
“He might have been, but what I want to know is, did you ever meet him? Or do you know if he was close to Peter or Terry?”
“It’s a fancy name, isn’t it? I don’t think I met him, though. I’d remember if I met somebody called Felix.”
Fletcher grimaces. Her mind slips so easily between fantasy and reality. He feels his hopes of some leverage over Felix fade, but there will be other ways he can look into the connection he believes is there. He checks the time, but the hands on the carriage clock on the mantelpiece haven’t moved since he arrived. He gets his phone out. It’s gone ten-thirty. He has two missed calls from his ex-wife plus five missed calls and a message from Danny.
“Excuse me,” he says.
“You’re excused, darling. I’d always excuse a handsome fellow like you.”
He stands in the bay window, in the sunlight, and pays scant attention to a hot air balloon drifting over the suspension bridge. He kneads his forehead. The sunshine warms him, and within the long shadow he’s throwing across the room, Hazel Collins’s eyelids droop. Danny’s message is curt: Fletcher is to call him asap. Fletcher dials and Danny picks up on the first ring. “Where are you, mate? I’ve been trying to track you down for hours.”
Hazel Collins’s mouth has dropped open. Fletcher thinks she’s asleep but he drops his voice anyway. “I’m at home,” he says. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t feeling well last night and I overslept this morning. What’s happening?”
“I went round your house. You’re not there, John. I saw Jean. She said you walked out this morning. She’s worri
ed about you.”
“There’s nothing to worry about. I went to the doctor. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I interviewed Hazel Collins again this morning. DC Banks came with me because I didn’t know where you were.”
“What?” Fletcher says.
“Hazel Collins? You remember? The old lady?”
Fletcher looks at the sleeping woman before he says, “Yes.” As Danny continues to talk, Fletcher takes in the empty mugs of tea in front of her. Two of them. He had assumed they had been used by Hazel and Annabel, but they must have been for Danny and the DC. Hazel was right when she said she’d only just talked through everything. She mistook Fletcher for Danny.
Danny says, “She linked the cases.”
Fletcher sits down hard on the piano stool. “Which cases?” he says, but he knows. His mouth is suddenly dry.
“Peter Dale and the double murder: Charlie Paige and Scott Ashby. Dale was murdered by his half brother, Terry, and the boys were murdered because they stumbled on the scene.”
“Christ,” Fletcher says.
“We need to talk. Where are you, mate?”
Fletcher swallows. He can’t admit where he is. It would be professional suicide, even to tell Danny. “I’m at my doctor’s surgery. Where do you want to meet?”
“I’m still in Clifton. I was hoping to grab Annabel Collins for a chat when she gets home. Where’s your doctor?”
Fletcher feels as if somebody has stepped on his grave. He steps back from the window of Hazel Collins’s flat and peers out carefully. Outside, he sees a man walking up the pavement, phone to his ear. It’s Danny. With him is a young man in a sharp suit. He must be the DC Danny is working with. They get into a car parked directly across the street from the flat. There’s no way Fletcher can leave without being seen.
Fletcher’s not sure he can count the ways his career has probably just broken. He turns and looks at Hazel Collins. Her head has lolled so far forward you might think her neck was broken. To have come all this way and be brought down by this witch, he thinks, is not something he can allow to happen.
“I’ll call you back,” he tells Danny.
Detective Chief Superintendent David Tremain has a red-wine birthmark on his face and Fletcher is surprised at how livid it looks close up. He is standing in front of Tremain’s desk. He has been summoned with no explanation and has already endured ten minutes outside Tremain’s office in the company of his assistant, who was date-stamping letters with a ferocity and volume that seemed designed to take Fletcher’s post-celebration hangover to a critical level.
Fletcher can guess why he’s here.
“Detective Inspector Fletcher,” Tremain says, and Fletcher tenses at the use of his rank to address him, “something has taken place and we shall need to keep it under wraps.”
“I am aware of Howard Smail’s departure, sir.”
“Oh, you’re aware of it, are you?”
“Yes, sir. Some of the men were talking about it at the pub last night.” Fletcher senses danger. Tremain still hasn’t asked him to sit.
“In public,” Tremain says, “I shall be praising your work on the case. I shall praise the way you identified Charlie Paige’s and Scott Ashby’s killer and brought him in. I shall let the public know that the departure of Howard Smail from the force is an unfortunate incident, which has been dealt with immediately and robustly, and that the police service does not tolerate such behavior. I shall offer the proper apologies where they are due, in particular to Ms. Jessica Paige.”
Fletcher blinks. It doesn’t feel safe to say anything. He’s not sure where this conversation is going, even though his sluggish, hungover mind is trying its hardest to work it out. He wishes more than anything that a terrible urge to puke wasn’t convulsing his gut. He is wearing yesterday’s suit and there is a beer stain reeking on the cuff. He kipped on the floor at Danny’s pad last night. Tremain looks immaculate from top to toe. His eyes are glassy with contempt. “In private,” he continues, “I would like you to know one or two things, and to remember them.”
Tremain walks around his desk until he is standing very close to Fletcher. Fletcher sways but doesn’t step back. He swallows with difficulty, his tongue thick and tacky in his parched mouth.
“Firstly,” Tremain says, “Howard shared with me some of his doubts about the way you have worked during this investigation. While it seems in the end that the result you so aggressively sought was the correct outcome, neither he nor I approve of your methods. I cannot state that strongly enough. No! Don’t interrupt me. Listen!”
Tremain leans closer still. Fletcher avoids eye contact. His gaze roves around the room until it settles on the photographs on Tremain’s office wall. It takes him a moment to understand why he recognizes a few of the faces in one particular photograph. Is that? he thinks. It can’t be. There is a photograph in which Tremain stands with his wife and another couple. The man very much resembles Howard Smail. Fletcher is gripped by a feeling of dread so intense it’s as if somebody has placed a cold hand on the back of his neck. He squints at the picture. The women look like sisters, or could they be mother and daughter? Oh, dear god, he thinks, whichever it is, I’m finished. How did I not know about this?
“Look me in the eye!” Tremain bellows. Fletcher tries but finds he needs to step away to do so. His back is only inches from the wall. “Secondly!” Tremain says. Fletcher can see right inside his mouth, where metal fillings lurk in abundance. He blinks at them. He wonders how the hell he got here. He thinks he might be in shock. Tremain talks on relentlessly. “You and I both know the allegation against Howard is untrue. I don’t know how you did it, but I will move heaven and earth to find out, and until I do, I will keep you so close to me that you won’t take a breath without checking in with me, you won’t go for a shit without getting my authorization. I will own you! Do you understand me?”
Fletcher’s heart is hammering. He nods. It’s not enough for Tremain. He puts a hand on Fletcher’s chest and shoves him backward against the wall.
“I said, do you understand?”
“Yes, boss,” Fletcher replies. He can hardly say the words. He feels winded.
“Howard Smail is a good man and a fine detective. He is worth ten of you. Twenty of you! What’s he worth?”
“Twenty of me.”
“Get out of my office.”
It’s Time to Tell
Episode 11—Wrong Time, Wrong Place
“Yesterday, we received new information regarding two historic investigations from a member of the public.
“The significant information concerns the 1996 murders of Charlie Paige and Scott Ashby and the 1996 disappearance of businessman Peter Dale.
“Peter Dale’s remains were recently discovered buried in the Eastville area of Bristol. Until their discovery, Peter Dale had been presumed to have absconded abroad, after perpetrating a sophisticated financial scam in 1996.
“In the light of this information, police are appealing for members of the public to come forward if they knew a man called Terence (Terry) Taylor who died in 2012, aged sixty-four. Terry Taylor was closely involved with St. Giles’ Church in Kingswood, and Peter Dale was his half brother.”
My name is Cody Swift. I’m a filmmaker and this is the final episode of It’s Time to Tell, a Dishlicker Podcast Production. The clip you just heard is a statement issued to the press by the Avon & Somerset police department.
Events, it seems, have overtaken this podcast and taken me, for one, by surprise. The question that remains is this: How to make sense of this new revelation after everything I’ve learned during the making of this podcast? In this episode, I’ll try my best to do that, so we can all process this together.
I called Detective Inspector John Fletcher to discuss the development, but was unable to reach him. I persisted and eventually got a call back from Detective Inspector Danny Fryer. In the following clip, you’ll hear his voice first:
“Thank you for your patience. DI Fletch
er is currently on leave.”
“Can you give me any information about Terence Taylor, and what this means for Sidney Noyce’s conviction?”
“I’m unable to comment on an investigation that is ongoing.”
“Is Terence Taylor a suspect in the murders of Charlie and Scott?”
“I’m unable to comment on specifics. I can say that as of yesterday we have reopened our investigation into the murders of Charlie Paige and Scott Ashby.”
I phoned Howard Smail to see if he could help me interpret events. Here’s what he had to say:
“Reading between the lines of the press release, Terence Taylor is a suspect in all three murders.”
Is it going too far to speculate that that person who came forward might have been listening to It’s Time to Tell? I’d like to think so.
Owen Weston had this to say:
“I am a hundred percent certain this means Sidney Noyce will be exonerated at some point down the line. You must remain vigilant until police have concluded their inquiries, though. Your personal safety is still a priority. If Terence Taylor committed all three murders and he is dead, somebody out there must still have a stake in this and care enough about it to threaten you.”
Noted.
So what am I feeling in the aftermath of this news?
I’m pleased for Sidney Noyce’s mother, Valerie. I wish I could turn back time so she and Sidney could avoid the heartbreak of his stigmatization and conviction for a crime he did not commit. I wish he hadn’t ended his own life. But I hope his exoneration might bring Valerie a measure of relief. A very small measure, given what she’s been through, but a measure nonetheless.
I am also plagued by a question: If Terence Taylor murdered my friends, how could that have happened, and why? Smail and Weston both posited that the boys might have stumbled across him committing an act of violence against his half brother. Weston was quick to research Peter Dale. These are his findings:
“Dale was reported missing two days after the boys were murdered. His half brother was one of the people he ruined financially. If the boys interrupted Terence Taylor while he was either in the act of harming his brother or of disposing of his body, it might have been enough to get them murdered.”
I Know You Know Page 27