Cold Shoulder (47 page)

‘Mr Janklow, you’ve stated that you are not homosexual.’

‘Yes.’

‘You are not a transvestite.’

‘No, I am not.’

‘Is your brother?’

‘No, that’s ridiculous.’

‘And you have never at any time in the past eight years been arrested on a homosexual-related incident.’

‘No, I have not.’

‘You have stated that on the night of Norman Hastings’s death you were not in Santa Monica, you were not—’

‘I was with my mother.’

‘Is this your mother, Mr Janklow?’

Bickerstaff placed one of the photographs Lorraine had removed from the Thorburn house before him. Janklow looked at his lawyer, then looked back at the photographs. He was visibly shocked. ‘Is this your mother, Mr Janklow?’

Kophch frowned and looked at the pictures. He seemed confused as Janklow sat tight-lipped with fury.

‘Is this a photograph of your mother, Mr Janklow?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘
Yes.

Bickerstaff removed a picture of Mrs Thorburn and placed it on the table. ‘Do you notice any difference, Mr Janklow, between this photograph of Mrs Thorburn and the one I am now placing in front of you?’

The two photographs lay side by side, one of Mrs Thorburn, the other, everyone was certain, of Janklow himself.

He picked up the photographs and stared at them. ‘Where did you get these?’

‘Would your client please answer the question?’

Janklow was becoming agitated. Lorraine stood up. Bickerstaff should go for him now.
What was he waiting for? Why didn’t he push Janklow now?
Kophch requested a few moments alone with his client. As they were led out, Lorraine slapped the table. ‘I don’t believe this —
I don’t believe it!’

The door opened; Bickerstaff walked in and asked quietly if she had anything to tell him.

‘You bet I have! It’s him and I would stand up in any court. In fact, if you want me to I’ll walk in there and confront him.’

‘No, you won’t,’ Bickerstaff said firmly, and left.

They waited over half an hour before Janklow and Kophch returned. Janklow was calm again. Kophch opened the interview this time.

‘My client and I would like to know how you came by these photographs.’

Bickerstaff kept his head down as if studying his papers. ‘I am afraid, Mr Kophch, I am unable to give that information to you. We feel we require to place your client under oath and that anything he subsequently says—’

‘If you have any charges related to my client, I want to hear them. If any relate to these murders, then we will not, at this interview, discuss or refer—’

Bickerstaff snapped, ‘You will not, Mr Kophch, tell me what I can or cannot do. I am more than aware of the law and I am now ready to charge your client with assault.’

‘
What?
’ Mr Kophch’s studied calm cracked. He had been unprepared for an assault charge.

Bickerstaff continued, ‘I wish formally to charge your client that he did, on the night of the seventeenth of April, assault a woman, whose identity I have every right at this stage of my inquiry not to disclose.’

‘You never at any time told me my client was suspected of an assault,’ Kophch interjected. ‘You have brought my client and myself here on false pretences.’

Bickerstaff and Kophch argued for more than ten minutes. Lorraine was becoming impressed with Bickerstaff, who had remained in control. Kophch was one of the most high-powered lawyers and knew every legal loophole but Bickerstaff was one jump ahead. He had wanted, from the outset, to force Janklow to talk on oath but without Lorraine’s verification of his identity he had not had sufficient evidence. Now he had, and at seven o’clock that evening Janklow was sworn in and read the charges of assault against him. As yet there was still not enough evidence to charge him with any of the murders. All were more than aware that when Kophch received Lorraine’s statements and was allowed access to the evidence against Janklow, they would be in trouble. But they had enough to hold him for another twenty-four hours.

At nine o’clock that evening, with only an hour’s break for a light supper, Janklow was brought back into the interview room. He and Kophch had spent the time alone in a cell.

Lorraine had sat in the incident room with Bickerstaff over sandwiches and coffee.

‘I think you should put more pressure on his homosexual activities.’

‘The blackmail’s a strong murder motive and if he and Hastings ever discussed the blackmail—’

Lorraine leaned close, excited. ‘Of
course
he was being blackmailed. What about all the missing jewellery belonging to Mrs Thorburn? We don’t know if it was sold with her
permission but it’s a good area to get Janklow to talk about — even more so as Mrs Thorburn is his only alibi for the night I was attacked.’ Bickerstaff wiped a crumb from his lips with his paper napkin. ‘Is anyone talking to her?’ Lorraine asked.

Bickerstaff was getting irritated, but he listened — he felt obliged to. ‘Don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t do, Lorraine, I’m quite capable of interrogating a suspect.’ He finally asked her if she felt that Janklow was the killer.

‘Yes, I do,’ she stated. ‘He has the motive, heavy blackmail and possibly over a long period of time.’

‘But you don’t have any proof of that, it’s just supposition and we don’t have a motive for each of these women.’

Lorraine looked at Bickerstaff, her head on one side. ‘What about Kophch? He’s not as tough as I expected — he seems to be taking a back seat. Couple of times he could have got Janklow off the hook but he let it ride. Why?’

Bickerstaff grinned. ‘We got him. Here, read that. This retired cop has spilled the beans, and that softly spoken lawyer’s in it up to his neck.’ He pushed forward a neatly typed statement. ‘Steven Janklow had been arrested for soliciting in a red-light district. He was given a warning, but three nights later was arrested again in the same area. This time they took him down to the station to book him. His lawyer subsequently bought off the vice charges against Janklow and paid the cop to pull his arrest sheet. Kophch would be struck off if it was known that the client he bought out subsequently went on to kill eight women. But don’t let him fool you, he’s a vicious little shark. His prowess is in court — you’d be surprised what he’s like and what he can do. A lot of this is knocking him sideways — but don’t think he’s a pussy because he’s got razor-sharp claws.’

The time was up. Janklow was being led back into the interview room. The session began again. Bickerstaff repeated almost every question he had asked earlier. Janklow answered virtually word for word. He denied any knowledge of the victims and confidently repeated the same alibis. It was only when he was asked about his sexuality that he became hesitant. He was quiet, subdued, when he admitted that he was homosexual but was now celibate; he had not had a relationship with any man for ten years. He was near tears when he admitted that he did, on occasion, use women’s clothes, but only his mother’s. He had never been outside his home dressed as a woman. The photographs Lorraine had found were taken a long time ago.

‘Who took these photographs, Mr Janklow?’

Janklow became distressed. He sniffed, then took out a clean laundered handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘Art Mathews, or one of his assistants.’

‘Where, Mr Janklow?’

Again he sniffed, wiping his nose. ‘Santa Monica.’

‘Are you or were you being blackmailed by Mathews, Mr Janklow?’

‘No, and I haven’t seen that wretched man since that session.’

‘Who did the hair and make-up for it?’ Bickerstaff pressed, repeating the question.

Janklow wriggled in his seat. ‘It might have been David.’

‘David?’

‘Oh, stop this! You know who I mean. That David Burrows — Didi.’

‘So was David “Didi” Burrows blackmailing you, Mr Janklow?’

‘
No.
Why do you keep asking me this? I’ve told you I’m not being blackmailed. Not by that Art, or Burrows or anybody. I haven’t seen them since that session years ago.’

Bickerstaff doodled with his pencil. ‘And you have not dressed as a woman for, as you said, many years?’

‘
That is correct,’
he snapped loudly.

Janklow was now confronted by Rosie’s photograph. He stared at it, pursed his lips. He seemed disgusted by it. ‘
That
isn’t me.’

‘Please look more closely, Mr Janklow. Is that person in the photograph you?’

‘No, it is not. It’s my mother.’

‘Your mother?’

Janklow blew his nose again. His eyes watering, he wriggled and then whispered, ‘It’s me.’ He had already lied — and under oath. Bickerstaff went after him again, demanding to know just how deeply entrenched he was in the world of transvestites and transsexuals, swinging his questioning round to prostitutes — whether Janklow had ever picked up transsexual prostitutes. ‘No, I have not.’

‘You sure about that, Steven? You never picked up other men like yourself, dressed like this…’ He pushed the photo of Janklow forward again.

‘I do not pick up any of the filth from the streets.’

‘Tell me about David Burrows.’

‘I don’t know him.’

‘Didi. Come on, Steven, you’ve admitted he made you up, fixed your hair for the photographs and now you’re saying you didn’t know him. You’re lying.’

Janklow looked helplessly to Kophch who examined his nails, refusing to meet Janklow’s eye.

Bickerstaff leaned back. ‘Okay, Steven, you didn’t know Didi, you didn’t know Art Mathews. So tell me about the jewellery you’ve been selling off. It’s a lot of money and it belongs to your mother.’

‘You leave her out of this.’ He was back on the defensive.

‘But, Steven, if you’ve been selling it without her permission then we’ll have to discuss it with her.’

‘Leave her alone. She’s not well.’

‘I can’t do that, Steven, because she’s also your alibi for the night of the assault and the night of Norman Hastings’s murder. We’re going to have to bring her in, you must know that.’

Janklow slapped the table near to Kophch. ‘Tell them they can’t do that.’

‘They can, Steven.’

Janklow put his head in his hands. When Bickerstaff asked him again about the jewellery, he began to sob. This was not what Bickerstaff wanted: if he became too distressed, by law Kophch could take a break. Bickerstaff switched the subject away from Mrs Thorburn.

Lorraine was furious. ‘What the hell is he doing? He’s got him sobbing his heart out. Why doesn’t he push for more about the jewellery? I don’t believe it.’

Rooney walked in and saw her angry face. ‘Mrs Thorburn has just told us that she gave her son permission to sell all her jewellery and that he was, on the night he was supposed to have attacked you, with her… I got to tell Bickerstaff.’

‘Shit.’ Lorraine looked at him. ‘But somebody must have got to her — like Brad.’

‘According to the nursing staff she’s had no visitors, just one phone call. Late last night. From Kophch. But as her legal advisor he has every right to call her, and I’m telling you, she’s a tough old broad and she’s got all her marbles — told me to get the hell out.’

Bickerstaff was back on the subject of Janklow’s relationship with Norman Hastings.

‘He was a fool, a stupid idiot.’ Janklow was no longer tearful, and both Lorraine and Rooney listened intently. It was eerie watching him, his face twisted, his lips wetter and shinier. ‘Stupid, boring, fat, bloated fool.’ Kophch gave a warning touch to Janklow’s arm. ‘Get off me, don’t
you
touch me, you’re a useless waste of money. This is
your
fault, all your fault — you should never have brought me in here. I’d be better off on my own. I don’t want you here any more.’

Bickerstaff ploughed on, asking Janklow why he didn’t like Hastings, a man he had said he hardly knew. Janklow whipped round and pointed at Bickerstaff. Kophch attempted to calm him but he swiped him aside. ‘You have nothing to keep me here! You’ve been fishing around for hours and I know you have not one shred of evidence against me.’

‘What about a witness, Steven?’

‘Lies. There was never any witness.’ Janklow was pulling at his jacket and smirking now, rocking backwards and forwards in his chair.

‘We have a witness, Steven, someone you attacked on the same day Norman Hastings was killed.’

Janklow laughed. ‘Oh, yes? You think I don’t know who she is? She’d never stand a chance coming up against me. She’s an ex-cop, ex-drunkard with a string of vice charges against her. She killed a kid when she was on duty. I know who you’re protecting! I know — and it’s a joke.’

Kophch was white, his face so tight with anger because his client was blowing it. He should never have admitted what he knew about Lorraine. Kophch rose to his feet. ‘I insist we take a break now.’

‘Sit down,’ Janklow leered. ‘I’m beginning to enjoy myself. This is fascinating. Go on, ask me anything you want.’

Bickerstaff said evenly, ‘Listen to me, I don’t care if we scooped a witness off the streets. All that matters to me is that she’s a witness, you tried to kill her, you used a claw hammer. You know the type because there must be a hundred of them at your garage. I am quite prepared to let you go, Mr Janklow, but I will need a blood test. You see, you made a big mistake with the assault. She attacked you as well, didn’t she? She made you bleed, didn’t she? And, Mr Janklow, we have a sample of blood taken from the vehicle, the same vehicle into which you stuffed Norman Hastings’s body. We have what I think is your blood. And now would you open your shirt.’

Janklow had become still, his face drawn, his hands clenched in front of him.

‘Open your shirt and remove your tie.’

Lorraine clutched Rooney as Janklow slowly loosened his tie, slipping it away from his neck, and undid his shirt, one button after the next. It was horribly sexual — he was flicking glances to each of the men in the room and then he pulled away his shirt, revealing his white neck.

Bickerstaff got up, hiding Janklow from Lorraine and Rooney as he peered at the man’s neck. He stepped back. ‘You’ve got a mark the right side of your neck. Where did you get it?’

Janklow shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have a German shepherd dog. He bit me a few weeks ago, maybe a couple of months. You can ask my brother, he was there, he saw it.’