Catalyst (19 page)

“I'll do my best.”

She left the office.

Twenty minutes later she was back.

“Got all three, sir,” she said, looking very pleased with herself. “Two on mobiles – at work, like you said – and one at home. He's the one who was discharged due to incapacity, the one in Pretherby. Really interesting this – all three remembered Deverall; not one had heard of Lorimar. They all knew of Deverall's death, and one of them – the one who was injured – he was actually there when it happened – used the phrase ‘blown to pieces'. When I asked him did that mean he had been killed instantly, he said ‘probably the most instantly anyone's ever been killed.' It doesn't sound like he had much time to make a dramatic death-bed speech.”

“Right,” said David, with some relish.

Grace took Tom's call at a little after 5.00 pm.

“Hello, this is Goody,” she said, as usual.

“Have you got anything for me?”

“You're late phoning,” she said, annoyed at the abruptness of his manner. “Such as what?”

“You know what, Grace! About the debate?”

“It looks like it's going to be big,” she said. “Up to now they have over three hundred people signed up to go from the estate alone. They've stopped asking people to put their names down at three of the places where the notices are. And apparently the 3AF secretary is trying to move the debate to the council offices, because everyone in the village is planning to attend as well. Anyway, it's probably going to be at the Lecture Room in the Town Hall – seats around six-fifty theatre-style. They're talking about cancelling a concert to accommodate it.”

“I wish it was one of Portman's newly-fucking-funded concerts!”

“I beg your pardon! Please don't use that language with me!” snapped Grace. “What on earth is the matter?”

“Sorry, Grace,” he said. “You're right, that wasn't necessary. Is it okay to say ‘bloody' though? Because I've had it today with bloody Donald and bloody Hewlett. And I've got to stay over for a review meeting with them both first thing in the morning. Saturday, for God's sake! There goes the surgery again – or some of it. I'll tell you about it when – or if – I see you next week. That's assuming I'm not suspended!”

“Can't wait,” said Grace. “And bloody Portman?”

“Not him, he's okay,” said Tom. “I thought he was bloody good, in fact, though he didn't do me any favours. Any reaction on the streets to the arrest?”

“Total dismay, it seems. Everyone's hoping it's not the man.”

“Good,” said Tom. Then, after a pause, “I think so, anyway.”

After ending the call, he phoned Mags.

“Hi, sorry but I'm afraid I'm stuck here tonight. Got a meeting with… ”

“Okay,” she cut in, her voice expressionless.

“So I'll see you tomorrow after the surgery. Should be back there around… ”

“Right.”

“Shame, because I thought we could…

“Bye.”

She ended the call, mentally erasing, he suspected, the points he had gained for the parents' evening.

“They're checking out guys in the same unit around the time of Deverall's death. I'm worried that if they talk to these people it's all going to kick off.” Vicky Barrowclough was alerting her boss to the police's further probing for details concerning James Lorimar.

“That's something we didn't anticipate; something we need to put right,” said Peter. “We have to get to Lorimar fast. I think our man may have to sacrifice himself for the greater good. Pull Granville in for briefing. Let's hope we're not too late. By the way, what's the investigating officer's name again? They mentioned it on the news.”

“Detective Chief Inspector David Gerrard,” said Vicky, handing him a sheet of paper.

“He's a sharp bastard, I'll give him that,” said Peter. “Might be an idea to get the name and contact details for his Chief Constable as well.”

“It's on there,” said Vicky, pointing to the sheet of paper. “Heather Rayburn; and those are her three contact numbers – office reception, direct line and mobile.”

Peter smiled. “Thanks, Corporal. You don't need me at all really, do you?”

“Well, I hardly expected anything else,” David Gerrard had just been told that the landlord of the Wild Boar had failed to pick out James Lorimar at the identity parade. “They'd probably lynch him if they thought he'd helped us catch their hero.” He looked at his watch for the twentieth time. “Where the bloody hell is Granville? And what could be more important than representing Pinocchio in there?”

“I don't know, but he shot off at a rate of knots,” said Jo.

Geoff Drury knocked on David's door. He waved him inside.

“Solicitor's back, sir. Says he's ready when you are.”

David looked across at Jo, eyes wide. “Ready when you are,” he repeated, checking for the twenty-first time. “Seven o'clock.
We've
been ready for six bloody hours.” They rose to leave. “I tell you, Jo, sometimes – like right now – I think I'd like to go down in history as the first DCI ever to beat a solicitor to death during an interview.”

Jo laughed. “Well, before you do that, sir, let me check the records. I find it hard to believe it's never happened before.”

David switched on the recording machines in the interview room and stated the names of those present. He also made a point of stating the time very loudly.

“Before we go any further,” Clive Granville took the two officers by surprise before they could start, “my client would like to make a final statement.”

“What,
another
final statement?” asked David. “Oh, I can hardly wait! Who are you this time, Billy the Kid?”

“My client, Mr Lorimar,” said the solicitor, emphasising the name, “simply wishes to add to his last statement – to complete it, in effect.”

David sat back in his chair.

“Over to you, Detective Sergeant,” he said. “I don't think I can handle another layer of complexity.”

“Please go ahead,” said Jo, while David sighed loudly and fidgeted in his seat. “And please, Mr Lorimar, do try to finish the story this time,” she added, smiling gently, like someone encouraging a reluctant child to drink his milk.

“My last statement,” began the man, “stands as made, but, as Mr Granville says, I wish to complete the picture. Following the death of Mrs Deverall I got very depressed – overcome by guilt, you might say. I felt I had let both John and his mother down badly. If I had been more proactive and assertive when the tenancy in Hammersmith ran out and had found her another place, instead of putting the decision on to her, then… well, who knows? The fact is, I didn't and as a result of that… she's dead.” His voice showed signs of breaking again as he spoke the last two words.

“During the week following the funeral I went back onto the estate every night. I watched those Brady bastards out there stirring things up all the time – all over the place. They had this army of young kids who I reckon would walk through walls for them; they never got their own hands dirty. Fires, beatings, vandalism, drug-dealing, and three stabbings – all in those few days. And not one person daring to come out of their house to confront them, or even try to reason or plead with them. Hundreds of people running scared – or rather, hiding scared. It must be like the blitz, except that the enemy is just a few feet away in the streets and actually lives next door. What sort of a fucking life is that?” he shouted across at the officers. “Sorry, ma'am,” he apologised again.

“So what did you decide to do?” asked Jo.

“Get rid of them,” the man replied. David sat bolt upright in his chair.

“And how did you propose to do that?” asked Jo, before he could grab the reins again.

“Just take a guess, Detective Sergeant,” said the man, with gentle sarcasm.

The two police officers were temporarily taken aback. They looked expectantly at the solicitor, who returned their looks calmly, raising his eyebrows as if to invite a question.

Jo accepted his invitation. “Mr Granville, are you entirely comfortable with your client's… position?”

“It is my client's expressed wish to make this statement,” he replied. “I have alerted him as to the implications of his admitting those
intentions
and advised him to consider his position carefully, but he is insistent that he wants to say this. And… he is choosing his words judiciously.”

In fact, James Lorimar had already chosen all the words he was intending to use; he had nothing more to say.

David walked out of the front doors of Parkside Police Station and down the two steps to street level. He placed the single A4 sheet on the stand and looked around at the gathered mass of reporters and TV cameras. The crowd fell silent.

“Detective Chief Inspector David Gerrard, investigating officer,” he introduced himself. “I wish to make a statement regarding the ongoing investigation into the deaths of three men in the Cullen Field area two weeks ago. At 8:35 pm today, Mr James Lorimar, a forty-one-year-old Investment Manager, was charged with the murder of Jimmy, Kevin and Karl Brady on the 7
^th
of May this year. The charge was made after due consultation with the Crown Prosecutor. As of now, we are not looking for anyone else in connection with this incident.

“That is all I am able to tell you at this point in time. We will release further details as and when appropriate. As a consequence, I am not able to take any questions. Thank you.”

The questions came in a torrent, anyway, as David turned away and walked back into the building, ignoring them all.

CHAPTER 8

At 7.30 am on Saturday morning the G4 vehicle arrived at Parkside, along with two police cars, to pick up the prisoner for the short journey to Marlburgh Central Magistrates Court. James Lorimar was taken from the police holding cells in through the rear doors of the vehicle and secured in his seat inside. By 7.50 am, he was being provided with a light breakfast in his new accommodation in the secure basement area of the court building.