‘Your pencil?’
‘The one with the tassel. In the hallway. She didn’t mean to break it.’
‘Jackie?’
‘I didn’t realize I’d broken anything, ma’am. I’m very sorry if I did.’
‘We will of course replace anything that was broken during your arrest, Mr Pink. We have a form you can fill in. Jackie, if you can—’
‘I can’t replace it. It came with the address book and it’s attached by a gold cord. It belonged to my wife, you see? She died a few years ago . . . But that’s neither here nor there. I’m not complaining, just explaining why I was distracted.’
‘So you don’t want to claim compensation?’
‘Of course not. It’s just a pencil. Worse things happen at sea.’
‘That’s very good of you, Felix. Thank you. Now, the more pressing issue we have is this . . . because you did not know why you were being arrested, the confession you made with regard to the death of Albert Cann is actually inadmissible.’
‘Inadmissible?’
‘Yes. We can’t use it. It’s like it never happened.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do you understand?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well, you’ve confessed to a crime we haven’t arrested you for. And haven’t yet confessed to the crime for which you were arrested.’
‘Oh dear. I’m sorry if I’ve complicated things.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m sure we can sort it out now.’
‘Excellent.’
‘So, Felix, the good news is that Mr Martin is willing to accept your apology and some compensation, if you are prepared to be bound over, which means that you must promise to keep the peace and not to touch his property again—’
‘Oh, I won’t be doing that again, believe me!’
‘Good, so if you’re happy to make an apology, and to be bound over and to pay Mr Martin fifty pounds compensation, then we can put that whole matter to bed.’
King smiled, but then tapped the file on the table.
‘The bad news is that we’re going to have to arrest you on the charges relating to the death of Albert Cann. You’ll have another opportunity to call a lawyer, of course, and we’ll go back to the start, as it were, and do things properly, all right?
‘. . . Mr Pink?’
‘. . . Felix . . . ?’
‘Fifty pounds?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Fifty pounds?’
‘That’s the sum Mr Martin feels is fair for the theft of his tulip.’
‘Well . . . he might feel it’s fair, but I certainly don’t! Whatever happened to accepting an apology? I’ll shake his hand like a gentleman and I’m more than happy to buy him a whole bag of bulbs, but fifty pounds? For one measly flower? And his garden wasn’t even a ten. It was only an eight – and then I had to reduce that to a seven because of the grass, so it’s not as if his tulips are winning any medals at Chelsea, is it? I’ll give him five pounds and that’s that.’
‘O . . . K . . . um. Well, then . . . Jackie, would you mind letting Mr Martin . . . ?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Thank you. PC Braddick leaving the room. Right, Felix. While Jackie’s speaking to Mr Martin, would you like me to call a lawyer?’
‘For what?’
‘So that we can take a statement from you about Albert Cann.’
‘Oh yes, of course. Sorry – I’m still thinking about the tulip.’
‘So do you have a lawyer you’d like us to call?’
‘No, no, let’s just get on with it, shall we? I want to get it off my chest.’
‘Felix, I really do advise having a lawyer. Especially in a case of this potential gravity.’
‘If you don’t mind, Inspector, I’ve been here several hours already and I’m tired. I just want to get it off my chest and make sure Skipper’s all right and then have a rest.’
‘Why would Skipper not be all right, Felix?’
‘Just . . . No. No reason. It’s just, he fell recently when his stick broke. And – you know – he’s very unwell . . .’
‘Of course. We understand. As part of the investigation we have already informed his doctor and health visitors that he needs more regular monitoring now that Albert is no longer . . . in the home. However, his grandson still resides in the house and is used to caring for Skipper, and I understand the cleaner helps out too, when she’s there, so there’s no need to worry about him, all right?’
‘Well . . . I suppose so.’
‘OK. Again, for the record, Mr Pink has been advised of his right to have a lawyer present and has declined. Mr Pink states his desire to continue unrepresented. Are you ready, Felix?’
‘Yes. Well, nearly. I wonder if someone might ask my neighbour, Miss Knott, to look after my dog?’
‘Of course. We’ll take care of it.’
‘Thank you. Mabel’s good for about six hours, you see, but after that she will widdle on the floor.’
Mr Martin stood up and glared at Jackie Braddick. ‘You took your time!’
‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Martin, but things became rather complicated.’
‘Complicated how?’
‘I’m afraid Mr Pink says no.’
The man was plainly surprised. ‘No, what?’
‘No, he doesn’t agree to your terms,’ she said. ‘He says he’s happy to apologize and pay what he considers to be reasonable compensation or to replace your tulip, but he’s not paying you fifty pounds.’
Martin’s face became a walnut of confusion. ‘What does that mean?’
Jackie Braddick took a deep breath. ‘He says he’ll give you a fiver.’
‘A fiver ?’
‘And an apology, of course.’
‘But that’s . . . totally unacceptable! And anyway, surely he doesn’t get to decide this?’
‘Well, that’s not strictly true,’ she told him. ‘Mr Pink has to agree to the terms of any binding over. If he doesn’t agree to be bound over, then he can be charged with theft, but he doesn’t have to do anything.’
‘Fine then,’ he said petulantly. ‘You’ll be charging him with theft, I assume?’
‘I’m not sure that’s going to happen, Mr Martin. Events have rather overtaken us and Mr Pink is likely to be charged in connection with a more serious crime.’
‘More serious than theft?’ He laughed sarcastically. ‘Like what? Murder?’
‘That’s the allegation.’
Mr Martin stopped laughing and blinked rapidly several times instead. ‘Oh my God. Murder? Really?’
Jackie nodded.
‘Jesus,’ said Martin, and he slumped down on to the bench. ‘You never think it’s going to happen to you, do you?’
‘To be fair,’ she said, ‘it didn’t happen to you.’
‘But it could have! I mean, all this fuss about the flowers! Who knows where that could have gone?’
‘That’s true,’ Jackie nodded. ‘I suppose things might have ended quite differently.’
Mr Martin nodded. ‘Maybe I’ve had a narrow squeak there.’
‘Maybe you have.’
Martin looked around the dingy reception area as if in need of somebody else to bear witness to the narrowness of his squeak, but there was nobody, so he looked at Jackie again.
‘I assume he’ll be kept in custody?’
‘Unlikely,’ said Jackie. ‘Mr Pink’s very old and he’s not a flight risk.’
‘You mean he could be let out ? On bail ?’
‘Very likely, yes. Prisons are bursting at the seams, Mr Martin, and judges aren’t encouraged to send people there – especially vulnerable people.’
‘What about this vulnerable person?’ he shouted and poked himself in the chest several times.
‘Please don’t feel concerned, Mr Martin. The circumstances of the allegations against Mr Pink are very specific. He has no reason to feel aggrieved with anyone.’
‘He has reason to feel aggrieved with me !’
‘Well, I mean really aggrieved.’
‘How do you know?’ he said. ‘Maybe he only has to be aggrieved enough.’ He ran his hand through his hair anxiously, and Jackie gave him no words of comfort.
Instead she clapped her hands together to show she was getting on with business. ‘Now, sir, do you want me to go back to Mr Pink with a counter-counter-offer?’
‘No!’ said Martin. He got up and started towards the door. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Are you sure, sir? It’s no trouble.’
‘You said Mr Pink was confused and vulnerable. So I think on balance it would be more . . . compassionate . . . to leave it, don’t you?’
‘I think it would,’ she agreed.
‘Thank you,’ he said, and pulled open the door.
‘Thank you, Mr Martin.’
The door swung shut behind him and Jackie Braddick headed back to the interview room with a grin on her face.
Best job ever.
The Terrible Liar
Felix Pink was a terrible liar.
When he’d finished confessing to killing Albert Cann, DCI Kirsty King simply sat back in her seat, gave him a long hard look, and said, ‘I don’t believe you.’
Felix was briefly offended, but then remembered she was right, and that his natural propensity to tell the truth was a very poor platform on which to construct an elaborate scaffold of lies. He thought of how ashamed Jamie would be if he could see him now, and shrivelled a little inside.
DCI King sighed heavily. ‘However, there are some things I do believe.’
‘Oh, good,’ he said encouragingly.
‘I do believe you were in the house.’
Felix nodded eagerly. Finally a truth he could agree with.
‘I do believe you went there to oversee the death of Skipper Cann.’
He nodded again.
‘I do believe that Albert Cann’s death was as a result of a mistake on your part.’
He nodded sadly.
‘But what I don’t believe,’ said DCI King, ‘is that you did all this alone, and without help from either someone in the Cann family or another Exiteer.’
He said nothing.
DCI King looked at him steadily for a long, uncomfortable moment, then seemed to make an important choice. ‘We have information which indicates that you and your colleague may have been set up.’
Felix flinched and looked at his hands, clasped together on the table in front of him.
‘We think you may have been used, Felix. None of this may be your fault. And if that’s the case then your silence may be protecting the very person who set you up.’
Felix held fast.
DCI King changed tack. ‘And you’re concerned for Skipper. But if you don’t tell me who else was involved in all of this, then how can I protect him? When I don’t know who I should be protecting him from ?’
Felix sighed. He liked DCI King, and he understood and supported what she was trying to do. He just couldn’t help her do it. He had made a promise to Skipper Cann and would die before breaking it.
Kirsty King reached urgently across the table – her small hands almost touching his. ‘Felix,’ she said, ‘this could be a matter of life and death.’
But Felix knew it was much more important than that.
It was a matter of integrity.
After two hours with Felix Pink, DCI Kirsty King came into the office in such a rare bad mood that even the vending machine dared not dally with her. She punched the buttons hard and got exactly what she asked for.
‘I’ve never heard a confession that made me less convinced of somebody’s guilt,’ she fumed. ‘CPS are never going to go for a charge on the basis of him saying he acted alone when we have him on camera with an accomplice.’
‘Makes no sense,’ said Pete. ‘Why would he protect this woman if he doesn’t even know her?’
‘Maybe he does know her,’ said Calvin. ‘Maybe she’s his daughter. He’d want to protect her then, wouldn’t he? Or a granddaughter.’
‘Or maybe he’s shagging her,’ said Pete.
‘I didn’t get that vibe from him at all,’ said King.
Pete shrugged. ‘Everybody’s shagging somebody.’
Pete’s wife had moved in with her gym instructor. Everybody knew it.
‘What do you think about his concern for Skipper Cann, ma’am?’ asked Calvin.
King scooped her items from the vending bin. ‘It feels like a distraction.’
‘The old tea towel?’ Calvin said, and King smiled – albeit briefly.
‘Can we get Geoffrey Skeet back in?’ Calvin asked.
King shook her head. ‘We’d need hard evidence to do that now.’
For a moment she stood and frowned at her sandwich, then made up her mind.
‘We’re going to have to go back to basics,’ she said decisively. ‘Did you call the neighbour about the dog, Calvin?’
‘Not yet, ma’am.’
‘Then go over there instead. You two get a warrant and search the house. Find good hard evidence. We’ll forget the confession and build a case from the ground up. It’s not impossible; it’s just a pain when we thought we were so far ahead of the game.’
‘Yes, ma’am!’ said Pete, and picked up the phone.
King started for the door, but stopped halfway. ‘Pete?’
‘Ma’am?’
‘Don’t tear the place apart. Jackie already stepped on his pencil.’
Calvin Bridge had to lean over a large ginger cat to open the front door. It hissed menacingly.
‘Ignore it,’ said Pete. ‘The thing is to show no fear. Watch this.’ Fearlessly, he worked the toe of his boot under the cat’s bottom.
It whipped around, dug its claws into his leg and bit him hard through his trousers.
‘Shit!’ He had to kick out several times before it let go – and then re-took its place on the doormat to lick its own shoulders.
‘Did you see that?’ Pete rolled up his trouser leg. Little rivers of blood snaked through the hairs on his shin.
‘Little bastard ! You think it’s got rabies?’
Calvin thought that was nigh-on impossible, but he shrugged and said something about the Channel Tunnel anyway.
Then he opened the door and they edged around the cat.
Inside, a little white dog wagged and barked.
‘I’ll have a look upstairs,’ said Pete.
Calvin went through to the kitchen and let the dog out into the garden, then looked around him as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves.
There was a jigsaw on the table. Reindeer. It looked like a tough one with all that snow. Next to the puzzle was a collection of random objects. A few coins. A tablet. A crumpled receipt. It reminded him of the little pile that emerged when he emptied his pockets on to the top of the chest of drawers in his bedroom every night.
But why would Felix Pink empty his pockets on to the kitchen table?
Unless . . .
Calvin looked around the room. His eyes came to rest on the washing machine. A little green light flashed to show the cycle had finished. Calvin switched it off and opened the door.
The first thing he pulled from the machine was a short beige zip-up jacket.
He held it up to the light from the window. The jacket was wet and streaked with black, but it was so like the one on the CCTV footage that Calvin felt almost sure it was a match.
Pete came in, waving an address book. ‘Hey, this was in the hallway and guess who’s under D for Dentist? A Mr D. Williams in Tiverton!’ He smiled triumphantly. ‘Who the hell goes thirty miles to
a dentist? Must be the supplier of the laughing gas.’
‘Nice going,’ said Calvin. ‘And look at this. That’s the jacket he was wearing in the CCTV, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe.’ Pete frowned at it. ‘What’s all that black muck?’
‘Maybe he’s tried to dye it.’
‘Dye it?’ said Pete. ‘Why not just chuck it?’
‘He’s old,’ shrugged Calvin. ‘Waste not, want not. Hey, look at this . . .’
He put the jacket on the counter and turned to the little cluster of random pocket-items. He picked up the tablet. It was a round, yellow pill with the letters OC stamped on one side and 30 on the other. It looked innocuous, but Calvin only had to meet Pete’s eyes to confirm that it was Oxycodone – the drug found in Albert Cann’s system, even though it had not been prescribed for him.
With a surprisingly heavy heart, Calvin put down the pill and smoothed open the receipt. It was a return bus ticket from Bideford Quay to Abbotsham. The date on it was May 2 – the day Albert Cann was killed.
‘Hey, Pete. Looks like he went to the murder on a bus after all.’
‘Jesus,’ said Pete softly. ‘Who needs a bloody confession?’
He called DCI King to give her the good news, while Calvin gazed around the room. There really was an embarrassment of evidence. Too much, really. So much unhidden . . .
Was it another tea towel?
Pete hung up. ‘She’s happy. She’s coming out and we’re all off to the dentist. Doesn’t want to call first and give him the chance to destroy any records.’
Calvin nodded and looked at the clock. It was nearly four now. ‘We’d better take the dog next door and get going then.’
He opened the back door and yelped in surprise.
‘Can I help you?’ said the old woman standing there.
‘DC Bridge, ma’am. Bideford Police.’
‘And what are you doing in there?’
‘We have a warrant to search Mr Pink’s house.’
‘So why are you unloading the washing machine?’ she said a bit crossly.
She walked in as if Calvin wasn’t there, took the jacket from the counter and held it up to study it. Then she frowned and hung it neatly on the back of a kitchen chair.
Calvin should have stopped her, of course, but she was an old lady, so what could he do?
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