by stewartgiles
TWELVE
LIES.
“So, what you’re telling me is we’re no closer to cracking this thing,” DI Chalmers announced gruffly.
“It’s obviously the father,” Thompson insisted, “Martin Willow.”
“No note book Thompson?” Smith said sarcastically.
“It’s full,” Thompson replied, “I don’t need it for everything.”
“You two, enough,” Chalmers said. “Let’s go over what we do have. Thompson, you first.”
“It’s quite clear that Martin Willow did it,” Thompson began. “He was there at the scene, covered in blood. Not a scratch on him and he has a degree in criminals.”
“Criminology,” Bridge corrected him.
“Criminology, whatever. Even his best friend said he could commit the perfect murder, its him, we need to arrest him and put him away.”
“I’m afraid I have a bit of disappointing news for you Thompson,” Smith interrupted, “Martin Willow was incapable of moving, let alone killing his family. We’re looking at the wrong man and the sooner we realise that, the sooner we may get somewhere.”
“Do we have anything else?” Chalmers was becoming frustrated.
“Did you get Paxton to write Martin’s name down?” Smith asked Thompson.
“I did sir,” Bridge said, “I pretended I needed his phone number to trace a call from a taxi company. I said I had trouble reading my own writing sometimes so I asked Paxton to write it down for me.”
He handed Smith the piece of paper.
“Brilliant,” Smith said, “nice work. We need to get this compared to the suicide note as soon as possible. What has the taxi company got to do with this?”
“Willow had a call sir,” Bridge said, “just before midnight. Paxton assumed it was from the taxi firm.”
“And did you check this out?”
“No, we came straight here from Paxton’s house.”
“Which taxi firm was it?”
“We don’t know sir.”
“Thompson,” Smith said, “did you get your sergeant stripes out of a Christmas cracker?”
Thompson’s face reddened.
“What does it matter who phoned him?” he said.
“Thompson,” Chalmers said, “someone phoned our current number one murder suspect just before the murder was committed. Find out who it was.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” Thompson asked.
“Willow’s phone is in evidence, isn’t it?” Smith said. “Go and get it. Now Thompson, stop me if I am going to fast for your slightly retarded brain. Look through the received calls history and find the one that corresponds with the time Paxton says Willow missed a call on Christmas Eve.”
“Do as he says,” Chalmers ordered.
Thompson left the room in disgust.
“Martin Willow is still too drugged up to question,” Smith said as Thompson was retrieving the phone, “The doctor said it will be a few days at least before we can talk to him. In the meantime, we need to concentrate all our efforts elsewhere.”
“You’re still convinced he didn’t do it aren’t you?” Chalmers said.
“Almost certain sir. Something just doesn’t add up.”
“Do we know the exact time of death of Wendy Willow?”
“Somewhere between midnight and two in the morning.”
“And the babysitter?”
“Also in the same time frame. What are you thinking sir?”
“I’ll let you know when I’ve figured it out.”
Thompson brought in the phone.
“They’re getting worse down there in evidence,” he moaned, “I had to fill in three forms to get this released. What do I do now?”
“Look back in the call history,” Smith said. “Just give it here.”
He snatched the phone from Thompson and switched it on. He looked back through the call log. There was a missed call at 23.45 on the 24th and a received call at 17.34 on the same day. The calls were from the same number.
“This is interesting,” Smith said, “why would the taxi firm have phoned earlier?”
He took out his own phone and dialled the number. The phone rang for a while then a voice mail recording could be heard. Smith gasped and his eyes grew wide. He hung up and rang the number again, this time with his phone on speaker phone mode.
“Everybody quiet,” he said, “listen to this.”
The phone rang three times and then a woman’s voice could be heard.
‘Hi, this is Lauren. I’m not available at the moment; please leave a message after the tone.’
“The dead babysitter?” Chalmers asked.
“That’s her,” Smith said.
“Sir,” Whitton added, “you said Martin Willow had missed a call. Did she leave a message?”
“Good thinking Whitton,” Smith said, “there’s no message icon flashing but he may have already listened to it. How do you check? This phone is a lot more complicated than mine.”
Whitton took the phone and dialled the voice mail number. She put the phone on speaker mode again. There were no un-read voice messages so she selected the ‘listen to all messages’ option. The last message left on Martin Willow’s phone was haunting.
‘Martin,” it began; it was clearly the same voice as on Lauren Cowley’s voice mail recording. ‘I need to talk to you urgently. I’m pregnant and I’m sure she knows. Please Martin; you’re the only one I can talk to. Phone me when you get this.’ She rang off.
The room was in silence. Thompson broke that silence.
“My version is looking pretty decent now isn’t it?” he said smugly, “college professor knocks one of his students up, wife finds out so he shuts her up. I wouldn’t be too surprised if he killed the babysitter too. I’m not looking so stupid anymore am I?”
The last question was directed at Smith.
Smith was thinking about something else.
“Thompson,” he said, “can you remember yesterday at the Willow’s house; we spoke to Frank Paxton, the one who discovered the attack?”
“What about him?” Thompson was tiring of Smith.
“I think we need to have a chat with him.”
“Me and Bridge were there earlier. He doesn’t know anything.”
“He said yesterday that he went to the Willow’s house to return a book. He claimed he knocked on the door and when he got no answer, he phoned Martin Willow.”
“What about it?”
“The last two numbers on Willow’s phone were the babysitter’s, both on Christmas Eve. There was no call from Frank Paxton, he lied to us.”