Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
DS Laura Welsh and DCI Bob Beattie walked and talked along one of the many dull corridors in Hampstead police station. On the floor, every few feet, were mousetraps. Not Laura’s job to deal with, thankfully.
“Can I lead this one?” she asked Bob.
“Not this one, sorry. Next time.”
Laura stopped moving.
Bob played dumb. “What?”
“It’s twenty-four degrees Celsius outside, Bob. Does that sound like January weather to you?”
“No.”
“Leaves? On the trees? You noticed they’re back, Bob? Does that look like January weather to you?”
“Laura.”
“After Christmas. That’s when you said I could lead an interview. It’s June.”
“June not after Christmas? I’d say it’s well after Christmas. True to my word.”
Laura stared at him. She wasn’t in the mood to be fobbed off with joviality. Bob clocked on. “Sorry. I should have let you do one. But this one, there’s too many factors at play.”
“Oh, yeah. Factors. Are you going to let me in on all those factors or what? I’ve read the file on Desmond. Investigated for corruption and cleared of all charges, but that’s not the whole story, is it? He was the boss. They were never going to do him.”
“I’m just worried about where this might lead,” said Bob. “I don’t want you going down alleyways that ain’t gonna help us. There’s shit we want to avoid. Trust me.”
“I don’t trust you, Bob. You said after Christmas. It’s June. June. You’re just a big boys’ club, aren’t you?”
Bob looked at his shoes, then up at Laura. Then, seeing the strength of her stare, he turned back to his shoes. “Look. This should be a pretty simple case. We’ve got a killer in there. I know she did it. You know she did it. I just don’t want us causing ourselves unnecessary bother.”
“If it’s a pretty simple case, then let me do it. I’ve done the reading. She confessed to everything last time around. If she did it, which, like you say, we know she did, we’ll be done in ten.”
Bob relented and stretched out his arm, gesturing for Laura to lead the way. She took a deep breath and walked in.
—
A table in a cold gray room, with Carol sitting on one side, Laura and Bob on the other. Carol took a sip of her coffee, in a chipped cup this time, and waited.
“Okay. I have a few questions I need to get through before we start,” said Laura, looking down at her checklist. “How is your mental health today?”
Carol frowned. “Fine.”
“Do you have any allergies?”
“No.”
“And are there any subjects you find triggering?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Are there any topics which, if brought up, are liable to cause you distress?”
“Murder.”
“Sorry?”
“Yes, murder, violence, conflict in general, really. So, if we could stay away from those areas, I’d appreciate it.”
“Right. Um…”
Laura looked down at her notes and underlined nothing in particular.
Stalling for time, thought Carol.
“She’s pissing you about,” said DCI Bob Beattie, sticking a nicotine patch onto his arm. “Aren’t you, Carol? You know the score.”
“It’s a long time since I’ve been in an interrogation room.” Carol leaned back and sighed.
“Yeah, I’d imagine it is,” said Bob. “What was it, thirty, forty years ago?”
“Split the difference.”
“I wasn’t even on the force then.”
“Not much has changed,” said Carol. “The icebreaker questions are new. Do you want to go ahead and ask me the big one, DCI Beattie?”
“I’m asking the questions,” said Laura, making a point of taking control.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Good. Go ahead, dear.” Carol returned to her coffee. It was going cold.
Laura looked her in the eye. “Did you kill Desmond Crisp?”
Bob winced.
“No. Can I go home now or do you have any more questions?”
Laura looked down at her notepad. “Right, but you are a killer, yes?”
“I have killed. You’ve both read my files by now, I’m sure. Nobody’s perfect. I noticed your mum likes to dabble in a little bit of the old racism, Chief Inspector.”
Bob bristled but let Carol continue talking.
“Am I a killer? Not since Gary Lineker was a footballer. I hear he does podcasts now, but doesn’t everyone?”
“Why didn’t you think to mention your past when we spoke the other day?” asked Laura.
“You didn’t seem interested in much of anything I had to say.
Besides, it’s not my typical way of introducing myself.
‘Hello, my name is Carol. I’m a convicted serial killer.
’ Here’s a thought: If I did murder Desmond, why would I be insisting to you that it was a murder while you seemed to be under the impression that it wasn’t? What would be the logic in that?”
“You killed seven people. You’ve admitted that,” said Laura, “which doesn’t seem particularly logical to me. Maybe you’re the type to do illogical things.”
“I can assure you that each of those killings was perfectly logical.”
Carol looked at the cold brick wall, painted gray. Really, it could have been 1988 again. Her last interrogation had been south of the river but this might as well be the same room.
Back then there’d been an ashtray in the middle of the table, packed with stubs. No, lots had changed since then. No point pretending otherwise.
This time she was being interrogated by a woman, which made a nice change.
The male detective, Bob Beattie, he didn’t look healthy.
Bags under his eyes, stubble on each of his chins.
His hands were dry. Carol could see blood on his knuckles from where the skin had cracked.
What was it that men of his age and type had against hand cream?
He looked like he belonged in the days of her first police interview.
“What about Desmond? Was killing him logical?” asked Laura.
“For whoever did it, perhaps. But it wasn’t me. If I were you, I’d think about the person for whom killing Desmond might have been logical.”
“Whom. You’re smart, aren’t you, Carol?” said Bob.
Carol didn’t respond. What was she to say to that? A lady says “whom” and now she’s an evil genius?
“You take a baking class, is that right?” Laura asked.
Carol smiled. “It’s more of a club, really, but yes.”
“And does Desmond go to that same club?”
“Before he was pushed from a four-story building, yes. He tended to leave early.”
“He left early?” said Laura.
“Yes. He usually did.”
“And why was that?” said Laura.
“You’d have to ask Desmond.”
“Desmond’s dead,” said Laura.
“He said he was tired and left.”
“Did he try any of the cakes? The day before,” asked Laura.
“They weren’t ready yet.” Carol looked down at Laura’s notes. “Is that it? The only evidence you have? That I’m a former killer who likes to bake? You must have some other unsolved murders. Why don’t you chalk me down for them too?”
“You weren’t seen with any of those victims the day before,” said Laura. “You weren’t the first to report their death.”
“This really is it,” said Carol. “These are your only grounds. That I was seen with the murdered man the day before he died and lived in the same building, along with dozens of other people? I suppose the hope is that I’ll break down and confess?
That would make for good drama. If this were a Sunday-night detective show, we’d be just before an ad break now, wouldn’t we? ”
Laura exhaled through her nose, tiring of the jocular tone. “I’ve been looking at your work history, Carol. You worked in a lab once, is that right?”
For the first time Carol felt a little unrooted. Where was this going? “For a bit. On reception. About forty years ago. What of it?”
“You’re familiar with poison, aren’t you, Carol? One of your methods.”
“This is all a very long time ago.”
“Not everything is.”
Carol felt the mood shift. Did Laura think she was gaining the upper hand? Carol did her best to keep a poker face.
Laura rested her elbows on the table. “You’re not an entirely reformed woman, are you, Carol? When we arrested you last night, you had a bottle at the throat of a woman.”
“You’re right. That was terrible of me. I must apologize to Belinda when I next see her. Here’s something that might be of use. Somebody told Belinda that I called her a slut. I did nothing of the sort. Somebody was trying to trigger me into violence.”
“Are you easily triggered into violence, Carol?”
Carol directed her eyes at the paint peeling off the ceiling and pondered the question seriously.
“No. I don’t think I am, not anymore. I don’t know what got into me. It won’t happen again.”
The door to the room opened, and a young officer popped his head in. He looked at Bob. “Excuse me, sorry. A quick word?”
Laura stood up quickly. “I’ll handle this.”
Laura exited, and Bob and Carol sat for a moment.
“I didn’t do it, Detective,” said Carol.
“We should wait until DS Welsh comes back.”
“If I did, I’d tell you.”
“Really, we should wait.”
“Sorry.”
They paused again but Carol couldn’t help herself. “Shep Newsom. Now, there’s a man with a motive, who happened to be in the building at the time of the murder. I’m sure you already knew that.”
“Honestly, you’re going to get me into trouble if you keep talking while she’s not here.”
Carol nodded, clocking the office politics at play. “Do you want me to stop?”
Bob narrowed his eyes, wrestling with the dilemma. “No. Go on.”
“I’m sure you’re also looking at Jim, you know, the former gangster?
A man who knows how to kill, who was in the building, and who there’s every reason to suspect had a gripe against a former Metropolitan Police chief.
He even had a big row with Desmond a couple of nights before the murder.
Let me think…Why else do people kill? For love?
That’s one, isn’t it? Well, Belinda claims to have been in love with Desmond, but just a few days later she’s sprawled all over her new boyfriend.
You’re the experts, but I’d say that’s an avenue worth pursuing.
The roof: That’s locked. I’m sure you’ve taken a look, but you must be wondering why there’s a lock to that door and who has the access. ”
Bob shuffled uncomfortably.
“That points to Sheldon Oaks staff members, surely? I don’t want to tell you how to do your jobs,” said Carol, “but if I’m your number one suspect, I’d say you may not be looking hard enough at the others.”
Bob got twitchy and started rolling a cigarette.
“This is weird. Being lectured on how to do my job by Carol Quinn. You’re right, obviously.
We’ve got no evidence. I just thought it had to be you, what with your track record and you being nearby.
Maybe this is revealing too much, but you’re smart so why not? I thought you’d have confessed by now.”
“Sorry, Bob, I only confess to things I did.”
“We do have one thing in our favor, though.”
“What’s that?” said Carol, genuinely curious.
“People don’t like serial killers. Politicians, traffic wardens, serial killers.
They’re the big three, right? Do you think anyone’s gonna mind if we pin it on you?
CPS don’t want to be the ones to leave a serial killer in an old people’s home.
I don’t think we’re gonna have a problem getting a charge.
Do you? So if I was you, Carol, I’d tone down the cockiness, I’d think twice before you slag off people’s mums, and I’d start thinking about how embarrassing it’s gonna be in a few years when you’re the only lag walking around Bronzefield with a Zimmer frame. ”
Laura opened the door and beckoned Bob with her finger. He left the room.
Carol hardened, contemplating her tricky situation. She had no control over her own destiny. None.
There was a small pile of files on the desk in front of her. Looking at the door, she took one and opened it. The autopsy results, pictures from the scene. It was Desmond’s murder file. Her pulse racing, Carol took her phone from her pocket and started taking pictures of each page.
She heard footsteps closing in on the door but managed to finish the job and stuff her phone back into her pocket just in time. She sat still and set her face into the most nonchalant expression she could muster.
Bob and Laura came back into the room with, to Carol’s surprise, a familiar face. Margaret.