Текст книги "Scared to Live"

Автор книги: Stephen Booth

Соавторы: Stephen Booth
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

26

Friday, 28 October

Fry was early for the briefing next morning. The room filled up around her, but she let the increasing level of noise wash over her. When Cooper arrived, he looked flustered and dishevelled, as if he’d only just got out of bed. But that was his normal style. His hair fell untidily across his forehead, there was a scuff mark on his jacket, and his tie needed straightening, as usual. Casual was OK, but on Cooper it made him look disorganized. She had an urge to tell him to tidy himself up before he met the public. Most of all, she couldn’t help reflecting on the contrast between Cooper and Georgi Kotsev.

The divisional commander, Chief uperintendent Jepson, had made an appearance to greet Sergeant Kotsev.

‘I’ve emailed Captain Pirinski to thank him for loaning your services, Sergeant. It shows a very positive attitude on the part of the Bulgarian authorities.’

Kotsev shook his hand. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I’m very glad you came. It’s so useful to have a translator; not to mention your experience in the field of cross-border organized crime.’

‘I’m pleased to help.’

The Chief Super took DCI Kessen aside and put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Special Branch and C Division are taking the Zhivko bombing – it’s their pigeon, after all. But they’ll liaise with us on any connections to Rose Shepherd or Simon Nichols.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘It’s the best way, Oliver.’

‘Yes, I know.’

When he took the floor at the briefing, Kotsev turned out to be an excellent speaker, showing no signs of nervousness. He’d obviously had practice at presentations, and his almost perfect English and smart appearance commanded attention, even from this jaded bunch.

‘First a little background,’ he said. ‘Your colleague Sergeant Fry assures me that not all of you are experts on Bulgarian history.’

Behind him, the chief superintendent chuckled, and almost seemed about to nudge Kessen to share the joke.

‘In the last fifteen years, organized crime has thrived in Bulgaria, its influence reaching all parts of our society. Sadly, the state apparatus has been too weak to deal with this problem. Too corrupt also, you might say. But no longer. Now, anti-corruption is a byword in our ministries.’

Kotsev paused and looked around the room. Fry wondered if he’d made another joke. But even the chief super didn’t get it this time.

‘You’re talking about a kind of Mafia, Sergeant?’ prompted someone.

‘A kind of Mafia, yes. However, our organized crime groups are becoming more sophisticated, and they are developing their own areas of expertise. In addition to trafficking women into the international sex trade, Bulgarian criminals are skilled at counterfeiting currencies, forging credit cards and identity documents. Their enterprises are said to account for a third of the Bulgarian economy. They control tourism on the Black Sea coast, the ports, construction, agriculture. They seek power, and their influence runs very deep. But recent efforts of our authorities have put pressure on these criminals and created competition for a shrinking market. That is why there are currently so many murders – they are struggling to keep their influence.’

Kotsev spoke for a few minutes, outlining the issues he’d explained to Fry the previous night, but in less detail, skating round the more alarming possibilities. Listening to him, Fry wasn’t sure how she should feel about having been privileged to share inside information. It was flattering in a way, perhaps. But it put her in an odd position, knowing more than her senior officers, or at least having a fuller picture.

When Kotsev paused again, a hand went up. ‘If these individuals have so much power and influence, is it difficult to mount a successful prosecution?’

‘Yes, we have a tough time making charges stick. Witnesses deny their testimony or have accidents, lawyers back out of cases, evidence disappears.’

‘You said “various counterfeiting activities” – would that include passports and identity cards?’

‘Yes. The counterfeiters’ main area of business is forging euro banknotes. However, the United Kingdom is not a market for counterfeit euros – yet. Groups operating here are more likely to be employing their skills in the production of false identity documents.’

‘What about the couple who were killed in their car? Were they involved in organized crime?’

‘Yes, we believe this was the case, based on the known associations of Dimitar Iliev and the nature of the assassination. But there are also ethnic problems in Bulgaria, and Piya Yotova was a Romani woman. We do not know for certain who pulled the trigger, but Iliev and Yotova were shot with a Kalashnikov automatic rifle.’ Kotsev smiled sadly. ‘Kalashnikovs are causing some embarrassment. These weapons have been illegally exported to many war zones, and are therefore damaging our international image.’

‘And Simon Nichols? How was he connected?’

‘Simcho Nikolov? We are convinced from our intelligence sources that he was a major participant in counterfeiting operations. That was his particular area of expertise. Unlike the Zhivko brothers, we do not believe he was engaged in enforcement activities.’

There was a moment of silence when Kotsev had finished. Hitchens stood up to take over.

‘It might be worth mentioning a bit of news at this point,’ he said. ‘The firearms examiners have identified the weapon that killed Rose Shepherd.’

‘A Kalashnikov?’

‘No. Turns out it’s a fairly unusual item. This took some research on the lab’s part, so I think we owe them a favour. But they say it’s a Romanian military sniper rifle, the Pusca Semiautomata cu Luneta, or PSL. It might be considered to belong to the Kalashnikov family, but it’s different in appearance.’

‘Well, one thing’s for sure. Nobody’s going to admit to owning such a gun. There’s a mandatory five-year prison sentence for the possession of an illegal firearm.’

‘It’s probably a clean weapon anyway. It won’t be easily traced back to its origin.’

Hitchens nodded. ‘As for Simon Nichols – or Simcho Nikolov, I should call him – we haven’t yet received the full post-mortem report, but so far there is no evidence that his death was due to anything but natural causes, or an accident.’

‘So he probably isn’t a victim? In that case …?’

‘Yes,’ said Hitchens. ‘We should be regarding him as a potential suspect for the Rose Shepherd killing. We need to find some way of establishing his movements in the last few days before he died.’

After the briefing, Cooper found himself standing in the corridor with Liz Petty. Some mysterious force seemed to place them together at unexpected moments. Or perhaps that was only the way it seemed.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘Yes, fine. Thanks, Ben.’

When he spoke to Liz on the phone her voice always sounded so warm that it took him by surprise, almost knocked the feet from under him. Many female police officers formed a hard exterior, but not SOCOs, it seemed. He’d have to be careful not to make a nuisance of himself phoning her too often, just to hear her voice.

Petty seemed about to touch his arm, but drew back suddenly and looked past him, over his shoulder.

‘Uh-oh.’

‘I was asking Liz about the search at the caravan,’ said Cooper when he saw Fry approaching.

‘That’s OK.’

‘She just happened to be passing, and I –’

‘It’s all right,’ said Fry as she drifted by. ‘I don’t care. See you later.’

They both watched her disappear down the corridor.

‘What’s up with her?’ said Petty.

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Perhaps she’s turning human.’

‘I’d better get on anyway,’ said Cooper uneasily. ‘There was one thing I wanted to ask you.’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you think it would be possible to find out more about this weapon that fired the shots at Bain House, the PSL sniper rifle? I know the lab have pulled out the stops for us, but could you have a word with Wayne?’

‘I’m not sure, Ben. What do you want to know?’

‘Whether there are non-military versions of it.’

‘OK,’ said Petty. ‘I’ll see what we can find out.’

Diane Fry sat at her desk and watched Georgi Kotsev talking to Hitchens and DCI Kessen. But she wasn’t thinking about Kotsev. She was thinking about Europol.

Fry hadn’t really considered it before. She’d been aware of Europol, of course, as one of the organizations continually being spawned by the integration of European Union countries. But it had never occurred to her until now that it was a possible career move.

Since Kotsev’s arrival seemed to be causing some distraction for her senior officers, she decided to take the opportunity to check their website. Yes, Europol was looking for employees who were creative, self-reliant, energetic and willing to take up challenges. It wanted candidates who were able to work in a dynamic, fast-moving environment that required a high level of flexibility.

Fry nodded. She could do that, couldn’t she?

The bad news was that job opportunities were now open to nationals of twenty-five EU states, including all the new members, such as the Czech Republic, Poland, Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. And probably Bulgaria and Romania too, before long. The good news was that balanced gender representation was a priority, so Europol particularly encouraged applications from women.

She found half a dozen jobs currently available for law enforcement personnel. Counter Terrorism and Serious Crime. If interested, contact your Europol National Unit.

Fry felt an almost physical surge of excitement. It was one of those rare moments when a vista of future possibilities seemed to open up; opportunities to change her life, to make it better.

She remembered what Georgi had said about working for Europol: I could live in The Hague. The idea seemed both astonishingly unlikely and perfectly feasible. She’d never been to Holland. In fact, the only places she’d been to on the Continent were Calais, Paris and Naxos. But she could live in The Hague. She was as European as anyone else, wasn’t she?

Where were those Europol job descriptions again? Fry was sure she must meet all the criteria for potential applicants. And now, thanks to Georgi Kotsev, she even knew something about cross-border organized crime.

‘Anybody know where the Europol National Unit is based?’

‘Yes, at the NCIS in London,’ said Cooper, without looking up. ‘Their HQ is in Vauxhall Bridge, near MI6. I think you can see it in some of the James Bond films.’

‘Thanks.’

Fry waited to see if anyone enquired why she was interested in Europol. But there wasn’t a murmur. Well, that didn’t surprise her. No one cared what she did, or where she went.

There was a seminar she’d attended recently on the use of Sirene, a new data system linked to the Police National Computer. The system was designed to give access to information from all the Schengen countries, and get an alert placed against the details of anyone suspected of involvement in organized crime. That would be useful – when it came in. It had been mentioned during the seminar that the British part of the system would be administered by the Sirene UK Bureau. Based at the NCIS. Fancy that.

‘We’re still not up to speed on organized crime, are we?’ said Fry, when Cooper got to his feet and passed her desk.

‘That’s one of the reasons we’re going to end up being merged, isn’t it? That, and our neighbours’ problems.’

‘We can’t blame it on Nottinghamshire.’

‘We can try.’

Fry sighed. ‘You’re so parochial,’ she said. ‘You’re all so parochial.’

 On the DI’s desk, the plastic wallet was now labelled as evidence examined by the documents section at the forensics laboratory.

‘The passport has been confirmed as a forgery,’ said Hitchens. ‘Likewise Rose Shepherd’s driving licence. With those two items, you can build an identity for yourself in no time.’

‘Pity there was no sign of a birth certificate,’ said Fry.

‘You don’t need a birth certificate unless you’re applying for a genuine passport. People who supply forged identity documents don’t care where or when your birth was registered. So the person called Rose Shepherd won’t have a birth certificate.’

‘What about her DNA and fingerprints?’ said Fry.

‘We’re running them through the database.’

‘No wonder she got that shredder installed. If you had a fraudulent identity yourself, you’d know about taking precautions. But, despite her East European connections, she’s not your typical terrorist suspect, is she?’

‘True. But she’d need the right contacts to change her identity so effectively. Nikolov looks likely. But there are plenty of possibilities, given her links to organized crime. When we discover her real identity, we’ll find the motive for her murder. There must be something she did in the past that she was trying to conceal.’

Cooper nodded, but he was doubtful. He found he couldn’t reconcile the picture he’d built up of Miss Shepherd with the idea of her being a criminal with a background full of sordid secrets. If she liked cats, she can’t have been all that bad.

Of course, when this woman took on a new identity, she’d done a pretty good job of it. But it was never going to be perfect. It wasn’t really possible to start life all over again with the totally blank slate Rose Shepherd seemed to have craved. There were always a few threads that remained unbroken somewhere in any person’s life. No matter who she was, or where she came from, this woman was a product of all the experiences she’d gone through in sixty years of existence.

And in Miss Shepherd’s case, there must have been people in her life who she couldn’t entirely leave behind. Despite her change of identity, one of them had been bound to catch up with her some day. It was just a question of finding the right thread – the one that remained unbroken.

‘Did I tell you?’ said Cooper. ‘I think I might have found where the wooden dinosaur came from.’

During the briefing, Gavin Murfin had seemed fascinated by the shine on Kotsev’s shoes. He’d sat with his eyes permanently directed downwards, as if he’d been hypnotized.

‘What do you think of him, Gavin?’ asked Fry.

‘His shoes are very shiny.’

‘Are they?’

‘Yes, very military-looking. I bet he feels much more at home in uniform.’

‘All part of his professional manner, wouldn’t you say?’

Murfin sniffed, but didn’t take the bait. ‘By the way, West Yorkshire Police have no record of John Lowther on their local intelligence systems. But I tracked down a former colleague from the building society where he worked – a Mr Barrington. Apparently, the word around the office was that after Lowther left the company he was in hospital for quite some time.’

‘What for?’

‘Nobody ever knew. It was only a rumour that went round. Lowther’s resignation had come as a bit of a surprise, so there was some speculation about a mystery illness. You know the sort of thing. In those circumstances, people tend to assume cancer. In fact, Mr Barrington was surprised to hear that John Lowther was still alive.’

‘See if you can find out what was wrong with him, will you?’

‘That’s going to be difficult,’ said Murfin. ‘Even if the rumours are true, I don’t know what hospital he was in. I might be able to get the name of his GP in Leeds from the company’s personnel records, but you know what doctors are like …’

‘The rumour must have come from somewhere, though.’

‘Office rumours? That’s like catching feathers. People put two and two together and make them add up to whatever they want. It’s the same round here, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Murfin shook his head. ‘There was one person Mr Barrington mentioned. Not a friend exactly, but someone John Lowther might have talked to a bit more than his other colleagues.’

‘Does he still work there?’

‘It’s a she. And she moved to a rival firm a few months ago.’

‘But you could find her, though, if you tried.’

‘I suppose so.’ Murfin paused. ‘Diane, surely we could ask Lowther’s parents? They must know about his hospital stay.’

‘Yes, I’m going to ask them,’ said Fry. ‘But I don’t trust them to tell me the truth. I want to make sure I have an independent account.’

‘I can’t promise anything. There’s such a lot on right now.’

‘OK, Gavin. Just try, will you?’

Fry seemed to have heard herself saying that far too often recently. Was she the only one these things occurred to? Or was she obsessing too much over irrelevant details?

‘Where’s your Bulgarian?’ asked Murfin.

‘C Division. He’s assisting on the Zhivko bombing, too.’

‘Busy man.’

‘When he comes back, I’m taking him down to Foxlow. He wants to see Rose Shepherd’s house.’

‘Does he know anything about her?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Murfin answered the phone and held it out to Fry.

‘Speak of the devil,’ he said. ‘It’s Boris.’

Fry took the phone. ‘Hi, Georgi.’

‘Diane, alo. I’m returning to Edendale. I need to talk to you.’

‘Has something come up?’

‘I have to talk to you about the assassination of Rosica Savova.’

‘The assassination of who?’

‘The woman you know as Rose Shepherd.’

27

Standing in the sitting room at Bain House, Fry thought of the heaps of flowers and cards piling up outside the Mullens’ house in Darwin Street. Last time she’d been there, teddy bears and other children’s toys had been added to the pile. There was talk of opening a memorial book at the community centre. This morning, the local papers had been full of photographs of the Mullens, tributes from people who’d known them, and poems from children at the school Jack had attended.

But there was none of that for Rose Shepherd. No one in Foxlow had left flowers at her gate. No one had talked to the papers about her. Even Eric Grice had decided against that.

‘So who was Rose Shepherd really?’ asked Fry.

‘She was a woman by the name of Rosica Savova,’ said Georgi Kotsev, staring at the grey walls. ‘She had a Bulgarian father, but her mother was an Irish national, from County Galway.’

‘She could put on an Irish accent, if she felt like it?’

‘It might have been natural. We don’t know much about her past history, so which country she spent most of her time in is unclear. But she had been working in Bulgaria for several years before she came here. Our police department has an intelligence file on her, due to her association with Simcho Nikolov and Dimitar Iliev.’

‘What crime was she involved in?’

‘None that we know of,’ said Kotsev. ‘There has never been any evidence against her. However, Savova was connected with the wrong people. That in itself causes us suspicion.’

‘Did she have a job?’

‘She worked as an advisor for an adoption agency.’

‘And you’re quite sure she and Rose Shepherd were the same person?’

‘I noticed the photographs of her in your incident room. I wasn’t entirely sure then – I had to do a little checking.’

‘I see.’

Kotsev admired the TV set and the stereo. ‘What money did she have? You’ve examined her financial affairs?’

‘We’ve been through all her bank statements. Rose Shepherd had one current account and three savings accounts.’

‘But not much cash in them, perhaps?’

‘No, but –’

‘It’s not surprising. Rosica Savova must have lived in Bulgaria through the time of the 1996 bank collapse. That was when more than a third of our banks closed down, and much of our money simply disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’

Kotsev shrugged. ‘Who knows where it went? Many say it was sent to Switzerland for a holiday and returned after a nice rest. Like a faithful dog, the money came straight back to the pockets of the people who looked after it before, and those people became suddenly wealthy again. Our beloved credit millionaires.’

‘What has that to do with Miss Shepherd?’

‘Everyone who lost their money in 1996 also lost their faith in banks. Have your people searched the house properly?’

‘What do you mean by “properly”?’ said Fry, bridling.

‘Inside the walls, under the floorboards? The chimney?’

‘Why would we do that?’

Kotsev turned slowly. ‘To find her money.’

Fry took a call on her mobile. When she’d finished, she discovered Kotsev upstairs, tapping the walls of the main bedroom.

‘Good news, Georgi. The blue Vauxhall Astra we’re looking for was seen again in Foxlow last night. This time we have a registration number, and the PNC gave us a name and address to go with it. The vehicle is registered to a Mr Darren Turnbull, of South Wingfield.’

‘Is that nearby?’

‘Not too far. But we wouldn’t get there first, Georgi.’

‘We could try.’

‘There’s no point. DI Hitchens is already on his way there.’

‘Pity.’ He tapped the wall again. ‘It sounds hollow here. But it could just be the chimney. You should get your people back to examine the structure of the house.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Georgi. It sounds like a major exercise. I can’t see how we’d justify ripping the house apart.’

‘You need Savova’s personal information? Her private contacts? Where else would she keep them, but in her secret safe, with her money?’

‘She used the internet, Georgi. We think she might have had some free web storage space that she used for information like that. We just haven’t found it yet.’

‘The internet? Gluposti. Find her money, you find her heart and soul.’

‘That’s very cynical.’

‘Take a look at the real world, Diane.’

Fry was thoughtful as they returned to the car and drove out of Foxlow.

‘Georgi, what do you think of our methods so far?’ she said.

‘Very interesting. But your enquiries are in the wrong direction, Diane.’

‘What do you mean?’

He waved a hand out of the window at the cottages they were passing. ‘You are wasting your time with these Albanski reotani.’

‘Who?’

‘These … slow-witted country people.’

‘Hold on, I’ve got another call.’

This time, it was Hitchens himself. ‘Where are you, Diane?’

‘Just approaching Matlock.’

‘Great. We’re at Darren Turnbull’s house in South Wingfield, but his wife says he’s driven down into Matlock to go to the bank. His car should be parked by the railway station.’

‘OK, we’ll be there in a couple of minutes.’

‘It’s a blue Astra. You’ve got the reg?’

‘Yes, leave it to us.’

A few minutes later, Fry coasted her Peugeot into the station car park at the bottom of Dale Road. They found the Astra almost immediately.

‘OK, now we have to wait for him to come back.’

She parked where they had a clear view of the vehicle, looking along a line of parked cars towards the station.

‘Tell me again why we want to talk to this man,’ said Kotsev.

‘Darren Turnbull’s car was seen in Foxlow on Saturday night, at about the time Rose Shepherd was shot. I mean –’

‘Rosica Savova.’

‘Yes. Well, Turnbull doesn’t live in the village, so we need to know what he was doing there, and what he might have seen. And why he didn’t come forward in response to our appeals.’

Kotsev eased his legs with a sigh. ‘If I had seen Rosica Savova’s assassin, perhaps I would not come forward and tell the police either.’

‘Why, Georgi?’

‘It could be dangerous.’

Fry looked at him, surprised all over again. He was like some oversized alien sitting in her car, a visitor from another world.

‘He can’t possibly have known it might be dangerous,’ she said. ‘Turnbull is just an engineer in an aircraft engine factory.’

‘It depends what he saw,’ said Kotsev. ‘In my experience, many people see things that they keep quiet about, for their own safety.’

‘Maybe.’

Kotsev suddenly sat up straight. ‘Is this the man?’

‘Let’s see which car he goes back to.’

A man was strolling along the line of vehicles. He was in his thirties, sandy-haired, wearing a black parka. The hood was down, which gave them a good look at his face. He stopped, hesitated as if he wasn’t quite sure which was his car, then pulled a key from his pocket and approached the blue Vauxhall.

‘Yes, that’s him. Let’s go.’

Turnbull looked up nervously and saw them coming. He mouthed a curse, then turned and began to run towards the station. God knew where he thought he was going.

Fry broke into a sprint, but Kotsev easily outpaced her, his long legs covering the ground in seconds.

‘Politsia! Police!’

Catching up with him, Kotsev took hold of Turnbull’s arm and twisted it sharply behind his back, pushing his face into a wall.

‘My friend, you shouldn’t try to escape. You have to tell us what we want to know.’

Fry was frozen for a moment, shocked by Kotsev’s action. ‘Georgi!’

He looked at her, his eyes glinting, his jaw set as if he intended to face her down. She was glad Kotsev wasn’t wearing his gun.

‘Sergeant Kotsev, you don’t have any jurisdiction here. This isn’t Bulgaria.’

Slowly, he relaxed his grip on Turnbull’s arm, but didn’t let go completely. Nor did he stand back, so Turnbull’s face remained pressed against the stones.

‘You’re right, of course. You do things a little differently, Sergeant Fry. But I know the methods that work with these people.’

‘Let go of him,’ hissed Fry.

Another moment passed. Finally, Kotsev stood back, and smiled.

‘I apologize. I have no jurisdiction. This is your suspect.’ He turned Turnbull gently away from the wall and pretended to dust down his clothes. ‘I apologize to you, too, my friend. I intended you no harm. I hope you feel comfortable, and that you are well enough to be questioned by my colleague.’

Turnbull didn’t look reassured. In fact, he looked more frightened than ever at the sudden change. Now, he had no idea what was happening.

‘What the hell is this?’

‘You are Mr Darren Turnbull?’ said Fry.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you the owner of a blue Vauxhall Astra hatchback, X registration?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Were you in the village of Foxlow on Saturday night?’

Turnbull’s mouth dropped open. His brain still seemed to be working, but so slowly that no connection was being made with his vocal cords.

‘Sir?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ he said.

Kotsev had been standing by quietly, but now made a sudden gesture. It might only have been impatience he couldn’t restrain, but the suggestion of imminent violence communicated itself to Turnbull.

‘No, I really can’t tell you,’ he said. ‘I’d be in big trouble. Big, big trouble.’

‘Let’s all go back to the station, then,’ said Fry. ‘And we’ll talk about which sort of trouble you’d rather be in, Mr Turnbull.’

* * *

In the mortuary, the pathologist turned to Kessen and Cooper. ‘The bruise on his temple was the only physical injury. It wasn’t enough to kill him, but it could have caused mild concussion.’

‘There’s a little more to it than that,’ said Kessen.

‘Well, I found exceptionally high levels of alcohol in the bloodstream – and that would have been enough to kill most people. But tolerance varies, you know.’ Mrs van Doon raised an eyebrow. ‘If he was an experienced drinker, he could have survived the alcohol poisoning. Short-term, anyway.’

‘It sounds as though he was very experienced,’ said Cooper.

‘I thought so. Well, here’s an unwise combination for you – the victim was also malnourished. I’d say he hadn’t eaten properly for some time.’

‘So that combination was the cause of death?’

‘Not directly. My conclusion is that he fell on his back, suffering a blow to the head on the way down. It’s a pity he couldn’t have turned on to his side. It might have saved him.’

‘There wasn’t room where he fell in his caravan,’ said Cooper. ‘He was lying wedged between a table and the bed.’

The pathologist nodded. ‘Well, that explains it. While he lay unconscious, or in an alcoholic stupor, he choked on his own vomit.’

Darren Turnbull sat in Interview Room One. ‘I suppose this is about the shooting, isn’t it? The old lady who got shot in Foxlow.’

‘Would you like to tell us something about that, Darren?’ said Hitchens in his friendliest manner.

‘I don’t know anything about the bloody shooting,’ said Turnbull, apparently missing the friendliness.

‘Oh, really? So why did you mention it?’

Turnbull twisted his hands restlessly, but his voice seemed to be failing him again.

‘I mean, you must know something about it. You raised the subject, Darren, not us.’

This time, Hitchens let the silence develop. He was prepared to wait for Turnbull to fill the silence.

‘I saw it on the telly,’ he said. ‘That’s all. I read about it in the papers. That’s how I know about the murder, just like everyone else. So what does that mean, eh?’

‘That you’re admirably conscientious about keeping up with the news, I suppose,’ said Hitchens, opening the file in front of him. He made a show of reading the top page for a few moments, as if he was seeing it for the first time. He raised an eyebrow as he looked at Turnbull again.

‘Your car – this blue X-reg Astra. It was seen in Foxlow on Saturday night. Well, the early hours of Sunday, actually. It was remarkably near the scene of the murder, Darren.’

‘Maybe.’

‘And having diligently watched all those TV reports and read the items in the newspapers, which all mentioned that we were appealing for the owner of a blue X-reg Vauxhall Astra to come forward, you nevertheless stayed away, and failed to contact us. Why was that, Darren?’

‘I’m going to be in big trouble,’ said Turnbull.

‘Darren, this is a police station. You’re being interviewed in connection with a murder enquiry. We have reason to believe that you were in the vicinity around the time the murder occurred, and yet you’ve failed to come forward voluntarily as a potential witness. Believe me, you’re already in big trouble. It would be a lot better if you’re honest with us now. Otherwise, things could get … well, complicated for you.’

Turnbull sighed deeply. ‘I suppose I knew it would come to this in the end. I was visiting a friend. A girlfriend, all right?’

‘In Foxlow?’

‘Yes.’

‘And this was Saturday night, extending into the early hours of Sunday morning?’

‘Yes. So if some old nosy parker saw me or my car, that’s what I was doing. OK?’

‘Name?’ said Hitchens, with his pen poised.

‘What?’

‘Your girlfriend’s name, please.’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘We need to substantiate your story, Darren. What time did you leave Foxlow?’

‘About three a.m.’

‘And your friend would be able to confirm that?’

‘Of course she would.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

Turnbull didn’t answer. He looked at the table between them, torn by some difficulty that he was unable to resolve into words.

Hitchens looked at the file again. ‘You’re married, Darren.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘I met your wife. Fiona, is that right? Happy together are you?’

‘Yes, of course we are.’

‘That’s good. We don’t like to see marriages break up.’

‘Now you’re taking the piss.’