What Would Wimsey Do?

by Guy Fraser-Sampson

  “Do nothing,” the ACC said curtly. “I will decide what to do about Andrews once I have spoken to the Commissioner. Go back to Hampstead and babysit the case until I can find a new SIO to take over.”

  Collison took the tube back to Hampstead in a daze. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach refused to go away. As he walked down Rosslyn Hill from the station, the air of unreality deepened; passers-by might have been in a parallel universe. The pavement outside the front door of the police station was thronged with reporters and photographers. He spotted at least one television camera and ducked round the corner to enter the building through the side entrance, which led through the old magistrates’ court.

  The desk sergeant gave him a strange look as he passed and seemed about to say something, but Collison pressed on upstairs to the incident room. The atmosphere there was as if someone had just had a heart attack in the middle of a briefing. Metcalfe looked stricken. Willis had clearly been crying. Collison forced himself to say something before the silence grew oppressive.

  “A bad business, Bob.”

  “Worse than you might think, guv,” Metcalfe said quietly. “Dr Barker is downstairs in the waiting room with his solicitor. They’re asking for a meeting.”

  “Christ.” Collison sat down heavily. He stared blankly at the whiteboard covered with notes and photos, unable to think.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Willis said, tear-stained but resolute, “but since he’s here anyway, couldn’t we just go ahead exactly as we’d planned? Charge him and put him up before the magistrates?”

  She and Metcalfe looked at him expectantly.

  “We could, yes,” Collison said heavily. “The difference is that over the last hour or two since the story came out he’s had a chance to arrange an alibi for himself. The whole point was to take him by surprise.”

  “We either have to see him or send him away,” Metcalfe said as the ensuing silence became oppressive. “Do we really lose anything by putting our various points to him? After all, we were going to caution him anyway and as soon as we’d done that he would have asked for a lawyer—he’d be a fool not to. So apart from having lost the element of surprise, we’re right where we wanted to be.”

  Everyone in the room was looking at Collison. He knew this but he felt unable to respond, to give them the lead they were looking for.

  “Would you like me to take the meeting, sir?” Metcalfe asked, sensing his indecision.

  “No.” Collison attempted to drag himself out of the stupor that had suddenly descended on him. “No, I’ll take the interview but you sit in with me, Bob. Let’s do this by the book.” He thought for a moment. “We’ll interview him under caution, explain why he’s a suspect and see what he comes back with. Then we can decide whether to charge him or not. Since he’s already had a chance to concoct a story we’ve got nothing to lose by letting him go home again if we want to.”

  “Fine.”

  “We’ve already prepared an interview pack, haven’t we?”

  “Yes, I did it yesterday.”

  “OK, bring it with you and let’s go and see what Dr Barker has to say.”

  The two of them headed downstairs to the waiting room.

  “Dr Barker,” Collison said, “I don’t think we’ve met, but I hope you remember my colleague, Detective Inspector Metcalfe.”

  “I think so,” Barker said, clearly nervous.

  “I’m Stephen Cohen,” the other man said. “Dr Barker’s solicitor.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Collison replied, “and thank you for volunteering to come in like this.”

  “My client would have been happy to do so at any time,” Cohen responded pointedly. “He had no idea that he was being treated as a suspect and so was naturally surprised to read in the newspapers today that he was about to be arrested.”

  “I can’t be responsible for what appears in the papers, I’m afraid,” Collison said.

  “But the story must have originated somewhere within the police,” Cohen persisted, “and you’re the senior investigating officer, so you must be able to confirm whether it’s accurate.”

  “The story did not emanate from the enquiry team, nor from the Metropolitan Police press office,” Collison said carefully. “So, as I say, we cannot comment on anything they may have said or not said.”

  “Excuse me, Mr Cohen,” Metcalfe said innocently, “but are you Dr Barker’s regular solicitor? I’m sure I’ve seen you before—in court, I think, and I’m not aware of him having been charged with any criminal offences in the past.”

  “I am often in court, yes,” Cohen said. “In view of the nature of the charges which were apparently imminently to be brought against my client, he decided, not unreasonably, to ask his regular solicitor to refer him to a criminal specialist.”

  “Well,” said Collison, “now that we’ve dealt with the preliminaries, why don’t we go through to the interview room?”

  “Just so we’re clear from the outset, Detective Superintendent,” Cohen said primly, “could you please confirm whether you are proposing to interview my client as a witness or as a suspect? It may affect how I choose to advise him.”

  “We will be interviewing your client as a suspect for the murder of his wife, Katherine, and possibly for what we believe to be the related murders of four other women.”

  Dr Barker paled visibly. Collison saw that his hands were trembling.

  “In that case, would you please caution him?” Cohen requested.

  “Of course,” Collison said again. “Bob, do the honours, will you?”

  “Dr Barker,” Metcalfe intoned, “you are about to be interviewed as a suspect in connection with the murder of your wife, Katherine. Do you wish to say anything at this stage? You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  “OK,” Collison said briskly. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Now then, Dr Barker,” Collison said once the tape recorder had been switched on and the preliminary announcements had been made, “I’d like to ask you a few questions relating to the death of your wife, Katherine.”

  “My client is eager to co-operate,” Cohen interjected.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Collison replied. “In that case, perhaps we can start with your client’s financial affairs. Dr Barker, is it the case that in the months leading up to your wife’s death you were in financial difficulties?”

  “No, I wouldn’t put it exactly like that,” Barker protested.

  “Then how would you put it, Doctor?”

  “Well, it would have been nice to have more money of course, but then when wouldn’t it? Kathy enjoyed going out to restaurants and she liked buying clothes. I used to joke that she was a high maintenance woman, but I wouldn’t say that I was in difficulties exactly.”

  “For the tape,” Metcalfe said as Collison nodded to him, “I’m showing Dr Barker copies of his bank and credit card statements for the period in question.”

  “If you examine them, Doctor,” Collison said, “you will see that you were only just able to cover your monthly outgoings such as the mortgage, and even then only by running your credit cards right up to their limits.”

  “OK, I was a bit stretched from time to time, yes.”

  “More than a bit stretched, and not just from time to time,” Collison said, running his finger down one of the bank statements. “Month after month your outgoings were exceeding your income: credit cards, utilities, mortgage payments, divorce maintenance…”

  “OK, like I said, I was struggling to keep my head above water. Getting divorced isn’t cheap, you know.”

  “Struggling is the word, Doctor. In fact you were slowly and steadily drowning, weren’t you?”

  There was no answer to this. Collison tried a new tack. “Did you and your wife argue about money, Doctor? Is that what the rows were about? You asked her to
rein in her spending, or maybe get a job? And she told you to get lost? How did that make you feel? Angry?”

  Barker looked angry. “No,” he said abruptly. “It wasn’t like that at all.”

  “Really? Your finances were going down the drain largely because of your wife’s spending habits and yet you never argued with her about money?”

  “Sometimes, yes, I suppose,” Barker admitted grudgingly. “Yes, I did ask her to get a job and yes, she refused. She said she’d got married to get away from that sort of thing.” He grimaced.

  “What is your point here exactly, Superintendent?” Cohen cut in. “What can my client’s financial situation possibly have to do with the death of his wife?”

  “I’m glad you asked that,” Collison replied. “If you turn over a few pages you will see that the situation was dramatically transformed after Mrs Barker’s death by a substantial inflow of funds.”

  Cohen looked blankly at the later statement.

  “Isn’t it the case, Doctor,” Collison asked, “that this payment was in fact the proceeds of a life insurance policy which you took out on your wife shortly before she was murdered?”

  “Yes, it is,” Barker said nervously. His pallor had not improved.

  “And does that not provide you with a solid motive for your wife’s death?”

  “That’s not for my client to say,” Cohen interjected.

  “True,” Collison conceded. “It’s for a jury to say, but I’m sure they’d be interested to hear anything your client has to say which might have a bearing on the subject.”

  He looked quizzically at Barker. Barker glanced at his solicitor. Barker’s solicitor gave a barely perceptible shake of the head.

  “No comment,” Barker said faintly.

  “Very well, let’s move on,” Collison said. “I wonder if you could enlighten me, Doctor, as to the present day medical uses of chloroform, particularly within a GP’s practice?”

  Barker shrugged. “I can’t think of any offhand.”

  “None at all?”

  “No, it hasn’t been used for years.”

  “Then can you explain,” Collison asked, staring at him intently, “why chloroform was ordered by someone at your practice?”

  “No I can’t,” Barker said with a dark glance across the table, “and if you’re referring to the mix-up we had with one of our suppliers a while back then in my view it was just that—a mix-up.”

  “Yet when it was time for the chloroform to be returned it had gone missing, hadn’t it, Doctor? Would you like to tell us anything about that?”

  “Once again,” Cohen cut in, “you’re asking my client to answer questions which require supposition on his part.”

  “No, I’m not,” Collison corrected him mildly. “I’m asking him if he has any personal knowledge of how the chloroform came to go missing.”

  “I don’t,” Barker said quickly.

  “Nor of how it came to be ordered in the first place?”

  “No.”

  “Nor of why anyone should want to order it in the first place?”

  “I think my client has already answered that,” Cohen objected, ostentatiously turning back a page in his notebook. “My recollection is that he freely admitted that he could not think of any valid reason why it should have been needed within a GP’s practice.”

  “Very well,” Collison acknowledged calmly. “Then perhaps we could turn to the night of Katherine Barker’s murder. You told my colleague, DCI Allen, that after your wife left your flat in a distressed condition you made no attempt to follow her?”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘distressed,’ strictly speaking,” Barker objected. “That makes it sound as if she was just unhappy about something. In fact she was drunk and hysterical, which she often was.”

  “Thank you for making that clear, Doctor,” Collison said quietly, “but the crux of my question was that you made no attempt to follow her: that is right, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is right. I assumed that she’d hail a passing taxi once she got onto Haverstock Hill, and anyway, I knew where she was going.”

  “You knew where she was going?” Collison asked innocently. “How? Did she tell you?”

  “This is all in my original statement,” Barker pointed out in exasperation.

  “Please answer the question. I wasn’t there when you were first interviewed.”

  “I knew she was going to her sister’s because that’s where she always went. I followed her a few times when first she started running off like that, and that’s always where she went.”

  “You followed her a few times?” Collison echoed, opening his eyes wide. “But there’s no mention of that in your original statement, Dr Barker.”

  “I didn’t think to mention it,” Barker said sullenly. “Is it important?”

  “I suggest that it is, yes, very important,” Collison replied. “If you had followed her before you would not only know where she was likely to be going, as you say, but also exactly how she was likely to get there, and how long it was likely to take. In other words, you might have been close on her heels, or even managed to circle round ahead of her, especially if you were determined enough to risk driving your car even though you’d been drinking.”

  Barker clasped his hands tightly in front of him but said nothing.

  “There is no evidence of that at all, Superintendent,” Cohen objected. “This is pure conjecture on your part.”

  “Yes it is,” Collison admitted. “But if you take it together with the conjecture that it was Dr Barker who was responsible for obtaining and removing the chloroform for his own uses, and the fact—not conjecture, fact—that he stood to gain financially from his wife’s death, then that would give him opportunity, means and motive.”

  He glanced at Barker, who looked sunk within himself.

  “And I note for the record that I have just given Dr Barker an opportunity to deny having used his car that night, or having gone out at all, and that he has declined to do so.”

  “That is not true,” Cohen corrected him. “You made an observation on which my client did not comment. You did not put it to him as a question, and were you to do so I would say that you have already asked him to confirm that he did not follow his wife after she left, and that he has done so. The point is also, I believe, fully covered in the statement which he gave to DCI Allen.”

  “Thank you for your clarification,” Collison said drily.

  “As you know, my client absolutely denies any involvement in his wife’s death,” Cohen stated emphatically. “And it would seem obvious to my untrained eye, Superintendent, that Katherine Barker was murdered by the same maniac who had already killed four other women in identical circumstances. Are you seriously suggesting that my client was responsible for all those other crimes as well?”

  “Since you mention that…” Collison motioned to Metcalfe.

  “For the tape,” said Metcalfe, “I am passing to Mr Cohen a list of the dates of each of the previous murders.”

  At this point there was a knock on the door and Willis came in with a note.

  “DC Willis has entered the room,” Metcalfe informed the tape recorder.

  Collison nodded and she handed him a note, then turned and departed.

  “DC Willis has left the room,” Metcalfe said automatically as Collison pushed the note across to him. It read “Susan McCormick is asking to see you.”

  Collison pointed to the list of dates, which was still sitting on the table. “Perhaps you and your client could look at this at your convenience and let us know his whereabouts on each of those days, and whether anyone else can vouch for them.”

  “We will of course,” Cohen said evenly, slipping it into his attaché case. “Is that all?”

  “Not quite,” Collison replied. “Dr Barker, am I right in thinking that you have a key to the front door of the house in which Gary Clarke was renting his flat?”

  “Of course,” Barker said, staring at him in surprise. “It was my flat. I
bought it as a buy-to-let many years back. It was about the only asset I was able to save when I got divorced. Not that it ever made any money for me; I had a couple of long periods with no tenant and I got stuck with a high fixed interest rate from the bank.”

  “So you had a key?”

  “My wife did, yes. She used to go there to show prospective tenants around, and she dealt with any problems that arose. I think I have a spare somewhere but I’m not sure where it is, right now.”

  “And do you have any knowledge of how various items from the murder scenes came to be secreted in the loft?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Have you ever had reason to enter the loft there, or even to open the hatch and look inside?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Not even when you originally viewed the flat with a view to purchasing it?”

  “I suppose I might have done then, but I don’t remember. I think I had a survey done, so I didn’t need to make a detailed inspection myself. After all, I was never planning to live there.”

  “And when was the last time that you visited the property?”

  “I don’t know. Not for at least a year or so. Like I said, Kathy used to deal with it, and my ex-wife before that. I’ve never really had anything to do with it.”

  “Can you give us any details about your ex-wife?” Metcalfe cut in. “Just in case we need to ask her anything?”

  “I haven’t killed her, if that’s what you mean,” Barker said viciously.

  “Anything you can tell us would be helpful,” Metcalfe replied smoothly.

  “Her name is Sue Dashwood,” Barker informed him, “assuming she’s gone back to her maiden name, that is. She used to do a bit of work at the practice on our IT systems, although that was only a casual job for her. She was training to be a psychotherapist; I don’t know if she ever finished. That’s why I ended up having to pay her so much maintenance; she said I’d told her it was OK for her not to work and that I’d support her while she was getting qualified. I believe she’s still living in London somewhere, but I don’t know. I haven’t seen her or spoken to her since the day we split up; everything was done through lawyers. It wasn’t exactly an amicable divorce.”