Flawed Beauty

by Ernesto Lee

  “It went okay,” Erin responds. “You shouldn’t have any more problems from him anyway. He’s planning to apologize personally for his behavior as soon as he gets the chance.”

  “Hence, the sickly smile earlier and asking whether I’d slept well?” Terri laughs.

  “Exactly,” Erin affirms with a chuckle. “Don’t knock it, though. It takes a lot for a guy like Tony to admit that he is in the wrong.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. Don’t answer this if you don’t want to, but did you have to read him the riot act to gain his cooperation?”

  “I didn’t quite have to go that far,” Erin replies.

  Failing to suppress a smirk, she then adds, “Threatening to transfer his ass or put him back into uniform was quite enough to make him see sense.”

  Smiling, Terri nods. “Well, whatever it was, it seems to have had the desired effect. Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

  Reaching across the table, Erin lightly takes one of Terri’s hands in her own. “You don’t need to thank me. It was something I should have done at least two months ago. Anyway, it was good to finally clear the air and get him refocused on the task at hand.”

  Now only half-smiling, Terri lightly squeezes Erin’s hand and quietly mouths the words, “Thank you.”

  Suddenly aware that she has initiated an unintentional moment of intimacy, Erin blushes.

  Breaking away as casually as her dignity will allow, she is already on her feet and heading for the door when she says, “Okay, I think they have had quite long enough, don’t you?”

  . . . . . . . .

  While DS Bolton makes the introductions to Conor Quinlan, Erin focuses her attention squarely on her suspect, searching for any telling sign of emotion or other indicator of his present state of mind. For his part, Murray appears to be making a conscious and deliberate effort to avoid eye contact with either of the female officers. Throughout the introduction, his gaze darts continually between the files on the table next to Quinlan and Tony Bolton.

  What Erin finds both interesting and puzzling are Murray’s ever-changing facial expressions. One moment, he looks scared and confused. The next, he looks like he has remembered something significant and desperately wants to ask a question.

  Erin’s first impression of her primary suspect is of a man that is extremely uncomfortable in the presence of women.

  Surprisingly, her impression of his legal counsel concurs fully with Tony’s earlier appraisal. His fitted suit, polished shoes and briefcase exude the air of professionalism expected from a legal practitioner. The designer spectacles, the desperate attempt to grow facial hair and the barely concealed acne scars, however, are all clear indicators of his youth and probable inexperience.

  Erin surmises that he is probably no older than thirty, with a maximum of two to three years postgrad experience. Regardless, she has no intention of taking anything for granted today. With the niceties done, she smiles and asks Quinlan if he has had adequate time to review the medical reports and newly presented forensic evidence.

  Quinlan returns her smile and nods. “Yes, I have. Thank you, Chief Inspector.”

  “And presumably, then, you’ve explained the significance of the reports and the fingerprint evidence to your client?”

  “I have.” He nods again.

  “Good, and is there anything you would like to say before we start this interview?”

  Looking to Murray reassuringly, Quinlan’s response is self-assured and more than a little bit smug in its delivery. “Only that my client denies any knowledge or involvement in the death of the two young women he currently stands accused of murdering.”

  Frustrated at the lack of early cooperation she’d been hoping for, Erin shakes her head before quickly moving on. “Thank you, Mr. Quinlan. In that case, let’s not waste any more of our time. DI Marchetti, the tape, please.”

  The indicator tone at the start of the recording startles Murray into briefly lifting his gaze from the floor. The sight of the three detectives staring him down from across the table unnerves him further and he fidgets nervously in his seat before freezing wide-eyed like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights.

  It takes the obvious tone of authority in Erin’s words to break the spell and Murray closes his eyes and lowers his head back down while Erin completes the required formalities.

  “Interview under caution of John Franklin Murray on Thursday 21st of March 2019. The time now is 9.22 am. Present in the room are senior investigating officer Detective Chief Inspector Erin Blake, Detective Inspector Teresa Marchetti and Detective Sergeant Tony Bolton.

  “Also present are Mr. John Franklin Murray and his legal counsel, Mr. Conor Quinlan.”

  Turning to Quinlan, Erin asks hopefully, “Are you sure that there is nothing that you or your client would like to say before we start?”

  “Not at this time, Chief Inspector. Please continue,” Quinlan replies with a pompous wave of his hand.

  Disappointed with his attitude, but confident that they already have enough to formally charge Murray for the murder of Shreya Singh at least, Erin slowly shakes her head. “Very well. Have it your way.”

  Shifting her attention back to Murray, she loudly clears her throat to gain his attention. “John, I’d like to remind you that you are being interviewed under caution and that you are currently under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Shreya Singh on or around Sunday the 17th of March 2019 and of the murder of Shelley Wilton on or around Saturday the 29th of December 2018. These are extremely serious charges, John. Do you understand this?”

  Impassive, and still averting her gaze, Murray ignores the question and focuses instead on Tony Bolton. Noting Tony’s confused expression, Erin subtly changes tactics and softens her tone. “Is it okay if I call you John, or would you prefer if I called you Johnny?”

  Turning very slightly, Murray nods. “Yes. Johnny is better. That’s what my friends call me.”

  “Good, then Johnny it is.” Erin smiles. “Do you understand why you are here, Johnny?”

  Murray shakes his head, then turns to Quinlan, who responds on his behalf. “My client is fully aware of the reasons for his arrest and detention but asserts that he has no knowledge or involvement in the deaths of Shreya Singh or Shelley Wilton.”

  “But surely you’ve explained to your client the significance of the forensic evidence provided to you yesterday and today?” Erin asks.

  “Yes, I have. And he denies all knowledge or involveme—”

  Rapidly losing patience, Erin abruptly cuts in. “Really? Yesterday you were provided images of a claw hammer recovered close to the scene of the Shreya Singh murder. Based on the brand and the blue paint on the handle, you were also provided information to say that we believe this hammer came from a Makita toolset issued to your client by his employer. A Makita claw hammer, I might add, that your client reported missing in early January of this year!”

  Quinlan tries to speak but is quickly and icily cut off again.

  “If you’ll be kind enough to let me finish please, Mr. Quinlan. You were also provided with copies of trace DNA evidence recovered from that same hammer. This trace DNA is a conclusive match to DNA samples recovered from the body of Shreya Singh.

  Furthermore, just twenty minutes ago, my colleague provided you with a copy of a partial fingerprint recovered from that same claw hammer. There are fourteen points of commonality between this print and the prints taken from your client yesterday.”

  Angrily pointing to the files on the table, Erin barks, “Your client’s fingerprint! Your client’s hammer! Shreya Singh’s DNA! Can you see where I’m going with this, Mr. Quinlan?”

  Murray’s face has turned unusually ashen, but seemingly unfazed and stoic, Quinlan allows a short pause before responding to ensure Erin has finished her rant.

  “Your shock and awe tactics are duly noted, Chief Inspector Blake, but our position remains the same. My client fully asserts that he has no knowledge or involvement in the deaths of Shreya Sin
gh or Shelley Wilton. Move on, please.”

  Tutting loudly to herself before referring to her notes, Erin shifts her attention back to Murray. “Okay, let’s start with where you were on the 17th and 18th of March of this year. During your arrest yesterday, you told Inspector Marchetti that you were in Liverpool to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Is that correct?”

  Unsure of himself, Murray looks to Quinlan, who nods an assurance that it is okay to answer the question. Nodding slightly, but still avoiding eye contact with Erin, Murray quietly says, “Yes, but I had nothing to do with what happened to that girl.”

  “Okay, so why were you in Liverpool then?” Erin asks. “You’re a Manchester boy. What was the attraction in Liverpool? Have you got friends or family here?”

  “No. I went on my own. I had a voucher for—”

  Pointing to an entry in her pocketbook, Terri holds a hand up and tells Murray to stop. “That’s not what you told me yesterday, Johnny. Yesterday you said, ‘I was in Liverpool that day, but it was to celebrate St. Patrick’s Days with some friends.’ You also told me I can ask them.”

  “So, which is it?” Erin asks. “Are you lying to me, or were you lying to DI Marchetti yesterday?”

  “I’m… I’m not lying,” Murray stammers. “I was confused yesterday.”

  “So, you’re saying that you went alone to Liverpool and you didn’t meet anyone while you were there. Is that right?”

  “That’s correct, Chief Inspector. The way in which my client was ambushed yesterday and presented with these completely unfounded charges would be enough to shock and confuse anyone. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Ignoring him, Erin asks Murray, “This all sounds a little unlikely, doesn’t it? Why on earth would you make a trip to Liverpool to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day on your own when you could just as easily have celebrated in Manchester with friends?”

  After getting the okay from Quinlan, Murray replies with an expression to suggest that the answer should be obvious. “The voucher. It was for a free Paddy’s Day meal and drinks.”

  Seemingly pleased with himself for confidently answering the question, Murray briefly but unintentionally makes eye contact with Erin before nervously turning back to Tony with the same perplexed expression he had earlier. Unsure of why he is deserving of so much attention, Tony nonchalantly shrugs. “Don’t ask me, ma’am. He’s clearly got something on his mind.”

  Holding back on asking Murray to tell them more about the voucher, Erin instead asks, “Is there something you want to say to Detective Sergeant Bolton? Only, you seem to be extremely interested in him?”

  “Or is it just that you don’t like looking at women?” Terri suddenly snipes accusingly.

  “Yes, perhaps that’s it,” Erin adds, joining the attack. “Maybe you don’t like women full stop. Is that why you killed Shreya Singh and Shelley Wilton?”

  Flustered, Murray starts to mumble a denial. Cutting him off, Quinlan angrily shakes his head. “That is out of line, Chief Inspector. Either desist from these scare tactics or I will advise my client to remain silent for the remainder of this interview.”

  Pleased that they already have Murray wrong-footed, Erin nods a smile before offering a less than sincere apology and adds, “I’m sure you understand, Mr. Quinlan. This is an extremely emotive case and the evidence we currently have to support our assumption of your client’s guilt is highly compelling.

  For the benefit of the tape, however, I withdraw my last question.”

  Ending her statement with a sympathetic smile, Erin continues, “Johnny, let me ask again, please. Was there something you wanted to ask or say to DS Bolton?”

  Turning again to Quinlan for support, Murray slowly mulls the question before finally shaking his head. “No, nothing. He just looked familiar, that’s all.”

  “That’s it?” Erin asks. “So, you don’t want to say or ask anything?”

  “No. That was all.”

  “Okay. Then tell me more about the voucher, please. What was it for and how did you get it?”

  Referring to his own notes, Quinlan responds on behalf of Murray. “According to my client, he received a letter approximately ten days ago informing him that he had won a prize voucher entitling him to a meal and alcoholic drinks on St. Patrick’s Day, up to the value of five hundred pounds.”

  Clearly unconvinced, Terri leans across the table and asks sarcastically, “You won this voucher in a competition, Johnny? Do you enter many competitions?”

  His nod and response are less than convincing. “Sometimes I do.”

  “And have you ever won anything before?”

  “No, Miss Marchetti. This was my first time.”

  “Okay. And when did you enter this competition?”

  Shrugging his shoulders, Murray again defers to his legal counsel. “My client doesn’t recall the specifics of this particular competition, Inspector.”

  “That’s very convenient,” Terri smirks. “He remembers the name of the venue, though, I presume?”

  Quinlan confirms that he does. “Yes. The Ugly Duckling public house.”

  “That’s in Bootle?” Erin asks her colleagues.

  “It’s a five-minute walk from The Starry Plough,” Tony confirms, raising his eyebrows.

  Unsure of the significance of the intimation, Quinlan asks Bolton to explain himself.

  “Certainly. The Starry Plough is the pub where Shreya Singh celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with her cousin and her friends. It’s also one of the last places she was seen before she was brutally murder—”

  “Okay, thank you, DS Bolton,” Erin interjects. Then to Murray, she says, “Do you seriously expect us to believe that you won a voucher for free food and drink in a Liverpool boozer, in a competition that you don’t even remember entering? Somehow you don’t strike me as the type to enter competitions, Johnny.”

  “It’s true,” Murray insists. “I got a letter a couple of weeks back. It was for five hundred quid to be spent on Paddy’s Day.”

  “That’s a lot of money. And in Liverpool, not Manchester?”

  “Yes. In Liverpool,” Murray confirms with a nod.

  “You didn’t find that strange?” Erin asks. “That the prize was for a pub in Liverpool that you most likely had never heard of before?”

  “No, not really. I thought I might have entered when I was dru— I mean, that maybe I had just forgotten.”

  “You were going to say when you were drunk,” Terri suggests. “You like a few drinks, don’t you? Would that explain why you weren’t particularly concerned about where the voucher came from? If, indeed, there ever was a letter and a voucher, of course.”

  “I don’t think whether or not my client is partial to a drink is relevant,” Quinlan says.

  “I disagree,” Terri responds. “Mr. Murray’s drinking habits have, without exception, been the cause of all of his previous brushes with the law. Isn’t that right, Johnny?”

  Quinlan touches Murray’s arm and advises him not to answer the question. Smiling, Terri sits back and allows Erin to continue.

  “Do you still have this letter or the voucher in your possession?”

  “No. I binned the letter, and the pub should have the voucher.”

  “Okay,” Erin says. “We’ll have that checked out. Tell me about St. Patrick’s Day. How did you get to Liverpool?”

  “I took the bus,” Murray mumbles. “From Manchester Central to the bus depot in Bootle.”

  “And what time did you arrive in Bootle?”

  “Not sure. Just after six, I think.”

  “You don’t remember the time?” Erin asks. “It was only a few days ago.”

  “It was six,” Murray asserts confidently. “No, hang on, it might have been closer to seven. It was already getting dark.”

  Nodding, Erin makes some notes before asking, “Did you go to Liverpool with anyone, or did you meet anyone while you were here?”

  “No, I already told you. It was just me,” Murray replies.

&nbs
p; “So, you made the trip alone to a pub that you’ve never been to before and you didn’t meet anyone while you were here? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “My client traveled to Liverpool alone and didn’t meet anyone while he was here,” Quinlan confirms. “I’m not sure how we can make this any clearer for you.”

  Still unconvinced, Erin frowns but moves on, “Okay, and how long did you spend in The Ugly Duckling?”

  “Dunno. I think I left around eleven thirty. It was before kicking-out time anyway.”

  “That’s not like you,” Terri comments. “Were you making a nuisance of yourself or was it that you’d pissed away your voucher allowance already?”

  Smirking, Erin adds, “What DI Marchetti means to say is, were you asked to leave?”

  Looking more than a little insulted, Murray shakes his head. “I’d had enough, that’s all. And my bus was due to leave at just after twelve.”

  “So, you caught the bus back to Manchester at just after midnight in the early hours of Monday the 18th of March?”

  Suddenly flustered again, Murray stumbles over his words. “Well, no. Not exactly… I, um… well, I missed the bus, didn’t I? I got lost and ended up dossing down in a park for the night. I got the first bus home in the morning at just after six.”

  “You got lost?” Erin asks. “Were you drunk?”

  Murray’s news of missing his bus is clearly a revelation to Quinlan, but before he can advise him against answering the question, Murray nods. “Yeah, I was a bit out of it, I think.”

  “And not familiar with the area?” Erin suggests.

  “That’s right,” he agrees. “Some fella outside the pub gave me directions, but I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.”

  “But you managed to find your way to The Ugly Duckling without any problem earlier in the night?”

  “You don’t need to answer that question,” Quinlan advises again.

  Exchanging furtive glances with her disbelieving colleagues, Erin pauses to take a sip of water. Carefully placing the glass back down on the table, she slowly shakes her head. “No, Johnny. Your story just doesn’t add up. Do you really think we are stupid enough to believe any of the nonsense you’ve just told us?”