Laughing Boy (32 page)
Mrs Jordan-Keedy wasn’t the only captain of industry he was interested in. We found the chiefs of all the other major utilities in there with the chairmen of several local
companies
, plus the head of the council, local millionaire with strong political views, manager of the football club, owner of the shopping mall, right down to the chief constable. I couldn’t wait to tell
him
. I compared their names with the initials in the notebook and found a few matches, including those of Mrs Jordan-Keedy, but there was nothing anything like the names of our murder victims. I heaved a great sigh and scratched my head.
“What are you thinking?” Adrian asked, peering over my shoulder.
“You tell me. You’re the shrink.”
“I think he’s one weird young man, that’s what I think.”
“Is that your considered clinical assessment?”
“It’ll do for now.”
Peter Goodfellow came in and gave me another sheet of paper. “He has form,” he told us. “Arrested at the Manchester airport demos and at the Newbury bypass demos. Released without charge.”
“That’s hardly form,” I said.
“No,” Dr Foulkes agreed, “but it explains why he’s not fazed by his predicament. He has experience at being
interviewed
by the police and knows how to give unco-operative answers.”
Dave said: “For what it’s worth, I’d say that Loughborough is about halfway between here and where the first three
murders
were done.”
I turned to Maggie. “Have this Martin Daley picked up, Mags. Let’s see what he has to say.” Then, to the doctor: “Any last minute instructions?”
“No, you’re doing OK.”
“Want me to wear the earpiece?”
“I don’t think so. He’d notice it, know someone was prompting you.”
“Right. Let’s go, then.”
“What did they give you for lunch, then, William?” I asked, after I’d reminded him about the caution.
“Baked potato, with coleslaw.”
Presumably he wasn’t lying about that. I thought about poking my head in front of the camera and asking if that would do, but resisted the temptation.
Instead I talked to him about war games, concentrating on who he played with, knowing he wasn’t telling the truth when he said he played alone. According to Outlook Express he exchanged several emails every day with his pal Martin Daley, describing lines of supply, launching counter
attacks and falling back into defensive positions.
Dave said: “What was the name of the lady you were
following
last night?”
“I wasn’t following her.” He wriggled in his seat, caught on camera.
“So you know who I mean.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Have you ever followed Joe Albright, chairman of
Albright Construction?”
“No.”
“Cyril Wheeler, chairman of the…”
“I’m not answering any more questions.”
“…chairman of the borough council?”
“No comment.”
I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees. “What about Laura Heeley, William. Did you ever follow her?”
“No comment.”
“Photo, Dave.”
Dave picked up his folder from the floor and produced a photo of Mrs Heeley, taken in happier times. He passed it to me and I held it in front of William. “Have you ever seen this woman before?”
He shook his head, then remembered he wasn’t
co-operating
and said: “No, no comment.”
“What about Norma Holborn? Did you ever follow her?” Dave passed me another picture and I held it towards William. He looked at it then turned away.
“And then there was Colinette Jones. Did you ever follow Colinette Jones, William?” I’d saved the best until last. Dave handed me the picture of Colinette that had been
emblazoned
on the front of all the tabloids, a beautiful girl
radiating
happiness and vitality. The stuff of dreams for any man who was ever swayed by a shapely calf, a bountiful blouse or a sideways glance. I held it towards him. “Take a good look, William. Did you ever follow this girl?”
He looked, briefly, as if against his better judgement,
looked away, and then was drawn back to the photograph.
“How many times did you follow Colinette, William?”
He stared at her. I pushed the picture at him and he took it from me.
“How many times, William?”
He looked at me, back at the picture, then at me again. His mouth was open and his cheeks were pink.
“How many times?”
“She was murdered,” he whispered.
“How many times?”
“She was murdered. And you think I murdered her. You think I’m a murderer, don’t you?”
“We know you’ve told us a pack of lies, William. Now I suggest you start telling the truth. You were arrested for offences under the Protection from Harassment Act, 1997, for what is commonly referred to as stalking. But now we want to question you about a series of murders that occurred over the last four months. The caution still applies but we strongly recommend that you have a solicitor
present
. We’ll have a short break while you consider your
position
.” I gave out the time and terminated the session.
Twenty minutes later we tried again.
“You don’t want a solicitor?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re the enemy.”
“But you’ve used solicitors in the past, surely, when you went on demos.”
“No. We used people who’d studied law and used that knowledge for the greater good. There’s a difference.”
Whose greater good, I thought? Yours or mine? But I didn’t pursue it. “Can you drive?” I asked.
“Drive?”
“A car. Do you hold a licence?”
“Erm, yes, but I don’t have a car now.”
“Have you ever been to Nelson, in Lancashire.”
“No.” He shuffled his feet, drummed his fingers on his knees and ran his tongue over his teeth. I hadn’t noticed that before.
“You sure about that?”
“Positive.”
“What about Hatfield?”
“I’ve never been to Hatfield.”
“And Waltham Abbey?”
“Never been there, either.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“Where what is?”
“Waltham Abbey.”
“Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. It’s on the zero meridian, just outside London.”
The taste of bacon sandwich and something more bitter came flooding up into my mouth and images of maps and grid lines flashed in front of me. “That’s a strange piece of
information
to carry about with you,” I said, swallowing the taste.
“I’ve studied the tactics and strategies of the Battle of Hastings, and Harold is believed to be buried at Waltham Abbey. One of the books I’ve read just happened to mention that it was on the zero meridian.”
Well I did ask. Next door Dr Foulkes would be grinning like a five-barred gate at my discomfort. “But you’ve never been there.”
“No.”
“Where were you on the night of Tuesday, February 6
th
?”
He looked uncomfortable, massaged his neck with his left hand, but it didn’t help him remember where he’d been, and he was equally blank about February 20
th
, March 21
st
and March 30
th
.
“Do you have a diary that might tell you?”
This solicited an unconvincing shake of the head.
“Nothing stored on your computer that might help you remember?”
But there wasn’t. I grilled him about the car he’d owned and tried jogging his memory with the headline stories from the papers on the days when Robin Gillespie, Laura Heeley, Colinette Jones and Norma Holborn were murdered, but it didn’t work.
Then I asked him about music. He listened to Indie, whatever that is, and when pressed confessed to liking Phut Phut Jag and the Pink Town Boys. I don’t think he was
taking
the piss but he might have been.
“What about Tim Roper?”
“Who?”
“The LHO. ‘Eye of the Storm’.”
“Never heard of them.”
There was a knock at the door and a DC came in with a sheet of paper for me. It had a few background details on it about William’s friend, Martin Daley. I read it slowly, folded it and passed it to Dave.
“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“Have you ever?”
“No.”
“Do you know what Old Holborn is?”
“Tobacco.”
“What sort?”
“Roll-up tobacco.”
“How do you know that if you never smoked?”
“Lots of the students use it.”
“Why are you lying to me, William?”
“I’m not lying to you.”
“OK, then tell me about Martin Daley.”
Everything moved at once: his feet, hands, fingers, nose and tongue, but he didn’t reply in words. I stayed silent too, so that Dr Foulkes next door could get it all down on the
diagrams
he worked with. I let the silence hang in the room like a poison gas cloud for what must have been a whole minute, with the tape going squeak-squeak-squeak in the background.
“Martin Daley,” I reminded him.
“I, er, don’t know him.”
“That’s not our information,” I declared, surprising myself with the hardness that had crept into my voice. “Our information is that he emails you several times a day about the wargames you insist that you play by yourself. Our information is that you and Martin Daley were buddies at university and have stayed close ever since you both fluffed your second-year exams. And my information, William, is that you are in serious trouble and have told me a pack of lies so far today.” I pulled myself back into my chair and sat upright. In a softer voice I said: “The time has come to start telling the truth. As things are, you are just digging a
deeper
hole for yourself. Get it all off your chest, William, right from the beginning. You’ll feel a lot better for it. You can start by telling me all you know about the Company.”
More reaction from William. All good stuff for the
doctor
to analyse and show his second-year students, none of it any use in a court of law.
“The C-Company?” he stuttered. “W-what do you know about the C-Company?”
“You don’t understand,” I told him. “I’m investigating a series of murders. I ask the questions and you provide the answers. Start by telling me about the Company.”
He slumped forward, placing his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. He had long legs and big feet that jutted out awkwardly and there was a wide gap between the bottom of the tracksuit we’d supplied and the cheap trainers. I made a mental note to suggest that when we did video-taped
interviews
in future we make an effort to dress the accused in a way that didn’t immediately gain him the viewers’ sympathy. We were due a pee break but I wanted to keep him talking.
“Sit up, please,” I said.
He did as he was told and started massaging his neck again.
“I strongly advise you to have a solicitor present.”
“I don’t want one.”
“OK. Tell me about the Company.”
“It’s just what we do. A silly thing.”
“Who’s
we
?”
“Me and Marty.”
“Martin Daley?”
“Mmm.”
“And what do you do?”
“We follow people.”
“So you
do
follow people. Tell me why.”
“Just for fun.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“We just pretend. Like, we were police, or spies or
something
. There’s no harm in it. We never hurt anybody.”
“So you admit that you have been following a certain woman on the train to Salford?”
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
“Do you know who she was?”
“Caitlin Jordan-Keedy, a director of Aire and Calder Water.”
“Where did you learn that?”
“Her picture’s in their annual report.”
“She was scared stiff.”
“Good. Last year EPW sacked nearly two thousand employees and all the directors rewarded themselves with a nice fat bonus. Mrs Jordan-Keedy swapped her year-old Porsche for the latest model out of hers.”
“What did you do with the information?”
“What information?”
“Train times, when she finished work, whatever.”
“Just wrote it in my book, that’s all.”
“Was she meant to see you?”
“No.”
“Tell me about Joe Albright.”
“What about him?”
“You followed him. Why?”
“Because he’s a crook. His daughter works in the council planning office and he has total disregard for the Health and Safety laws.”
“That’s a bit vague.”
“OK. In 1998 two men were killed on one of his sites when scaffolding gave way. He claims they were both
experienced
men and had convinced his site manager of this. The site manager was fined a trivial amount for not keeping proper records. In 1997 a sixteen-year-old boy was badly hurt by a truck on which the audible warning was not
working
. Several of his men said it had been working the day before. Since then others have sworn that it hadn’t worked for over a year, and every other piece of equipment was in the same state.”
He was leaning forward now as if lecturing me, glad to have an audience. I’d stumbled into something he held
passionate
views about but I wasn’t sure how relevant it was. “He’s got the contract for the by-pass extension, hasn’t he?” I asked, eager to keep him talking.
“If it goes ahead.”
“Don’t you think it should?”
“It goes through the only place in Yorkshire where
fritillaries
grow.”
“So why did you follow him?”
“I told you – for fun.”
“What did you do with the information?”
“Nothing.”
“The people you followed were people you don’t like. Why not follow someone you admire? Celebrities.”
“That would be stalking, and we’re not stalkers. We’re more like, you know, spies, doing it for society. That’s how we see ourselves.”
“Spies? MI6 and all that.”
“Mmm.”
“Licensed to kill?”
“No, we never hurt anybody.”
“So what did you do with all this information about where these people lived and what their movements were?”
“Nothing. We just saved it.”
