Scene of Crime (13 page)

Ryan had been asked if the shoes he was wearing were the ones he’d worn last night, and he said yes.

“No, they’re not,” his mum said. “You wore those other ones early on.”

“Mum!”

She had come up to him then. “Did you kill someone last night?” she asked.

“Of course not!”

“Did you burgle a house?”

“No.”

“Then let them look at your shoes. Let them look at anything they want. Let them prove you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Now, sitting in the cell, Ryan tried to get his head around it all. “What about Dex?” he asked Stan Braithwaite, the solicitor who had been doing his best to represent him since he was fourteen years old.

Stan shrugged. “Your mum said she wanted Dex to
tell the police everything they wanted to know, and that he wouldn’t need me there to do that.”

Ryan closed his eyes. “Well, let’s hope he wasn’t burgling this house. Because I wasn’t.”

“Are you being straight with me, Ryan? You really aren’t involved in this burglary?”

Ryan nodded. “But Dex was up to something, Stan. Have you seen the state he’s in? Someone gave him a right going-over last night.”

“Are you honestly saying you can’t tell me anything at all about what went on there last night? The police are playing their cards very close to their chest—they haven’t told me what they’ve got on you.”

“I know nothing about any burglary,” Ryan said. “And I’ve no idea what Dex was up to.”

“In that case, you say no comment to every question they ask, or you’ll make my job very difficult when your mum decides that Dex does need a solicitor after all.”

“Okay.”

It was Lloyd and Finch who were doing the interview. Ryan knew Lloyd; he hadn’t had much to do with him lately, but they had sat opposite one another when he was a kid and Lloyd was a DI, and Ryan wasn’t too keen on being questioned by him. Finch was okay—he was straightforward, but Lloyd was up to every psychological trick in the book. It was Finch who led the questioning, and that didn’t surprise Ryan. Lloyd nearly always let his co-interviewer do that.

“All right,” said Finch. “Where were you at eight-fifteen yesterday evening, Ryan?”

“No comment.”

“And where was Dexter?”

“My client doesn’t have to answer that,” said Stan. “To quote the Good Book—he is not his brother’s keeper.”

“As I recall, it was a murderer who said that,” Lloyd murmured.

Thanks, Stan. Ryan glared at him.

Sergeant Finch produced, much as Ryan had himself, the jade cat, the handbag, and the CDs. “I am showing Mr. Chester evidence bags marked TF1, TF2 and TF3,” he said. “Do you recognize these items, Ryan?”

“No comment.”

“I have a statement saying that you sold these items for seventy-five pounds in the Starland club last night.” Finch looked impressed. “You’re a good salesman, Ryan. I’d have reckoned thirty or forty pounds at the most. But then your customer isn’t the brightest thing on two legs, is he? Not just as dim as Baz, of course. But close.”

“No comment.” Trust Baz to have mates who grassed you up. He really must stop using Baz. For anything.

“These items were removed from number 4 Windermere Terrace during the course of a burglary which took place last night.”

Ryan could practically hear Stan’s blood pressure rising. Finch sat back a little. “Number 4 Windermere Terrace is the home of a Dr. and Mrs. Bignall,” he said. “Mrs. Bignall died as a result of treatment she received at the hands of the intruders.”

Ryan stared at him, his mouth open. He hadn’t recognized the address. And did he just say that Mrs. Bignall was dead? “What—What happened to her?” he asked.

“She was left bound and gagged. She couldn’t breathe, and so she died.”

“Your mother cleans for the Bignalls, doesn’t she?” asked Lloyd.

Ryan looked helplessly at Stan, who was tight-lipped and angry, then looked back at Lloyd, nodding.

“So how did these items come to be in your possession?”

Ryan’s mind was racing. “No comment,” he said.

Lloyd shook his head, smiling a little. “Ryan, you and I have met before. I know you. You’re a bright lad.” He tipped the seat back slightly.

Ryan had seen him do that before. It was when he thought he had you.

“You know, it’s said that if criminals weren’t stupid, we wouldn’t catch any at all,” Lloyd said, rocking gently as he spoke. “And I have to be honest with you—there’s a lot of truth in that. Most of them are very stupid, and that is how we get them. But you’re not stupid, Ryan. We haven’t seen you here in over a year, and I don’t suppose that’s because you’re sticking to the straight and narrow. It’s because you use your head.” He let the chair fall forward. “CDs, Ryan. You must know that the cases are the perfect surface for fingerprints. A fingerprint expert would use Perspex if he wanted to demonstrate how fingerprint identification works. And these,” he said, picking up the bag, “are going off right now to be fingerprinted. And since you know that your prints must be all over them, you would never be stupid enough to think you could get away with denying all knowledge of them.”

“I think my client would probably like a word with me, Chief Inspector,” said Stan through his teeth.

“Ryan?” said Lloyd.

“All right, all right, I sold them,” said Ryan, seeing little point in having a word with Stan, despite the
sharp kick his leg was given under the table. “But I never burgled anywhere.”

Finch now produced the candlesticks, and everything he’d stashed in the garage. His mum must have told them about it, true to her belief that letting the police see everything would prove his innocence. It hadn’t been used for a car—at least, not one his mother knew about—since Edward had died, and the rent for it was lumped in with the rent for the house; he thought she’d forgotten it existed. Unfortunately, she hadn’t.

“And these?” said Finch. “I’m showing Mr. Chester evidence bag TF4, containing two candlesticks recovered from a closet in the home of a Mrs. Janet Gibson, and evidence bag TF5, containing items recovered from a storage garage in Ellis Street rented by the same Mrs. Janet Gibson. Your mother was unable to account for these items being in her closet and her garage, Ryan. Can you?”

“I put them there.” He was kicked again, harder. Well, bloody hell, he had to admit it was him. He wouldn’t put it past them to charge his mum with handling.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Finch. “And how did you get hold of them?”

“I found them.”

Lloyd was smiling broadly. “You found them,” he repeated. “Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

“Chief Inspector,” said Stan. “I really must ask you to allow me to speak to my client in private.”

Lloyd raised his eyebrows inquiringly at Ryan, who shook his head and turned to Stan. “It’s okay,” he said. “I did find them.”

Stan sighed deeply.

“You know,” said Lloyd, “I’ve been a policeman since long before you were born, Ryan. Do you know how much walking I’ve done in that time? And in all those years, I have never once come across so much as one candlestick lying in the road. But you and your colleagues only have to step out of your front door and you find yourself tripping over microwaves, stubbing your toes on stereos, wading through bundles of cash, offensive weapons, credit cards, wallets—it’s odd that, isn’t it?”

“I found them,” repeated Ryan. “They were in a sack.”

“A sack?” said Finch. “Did you find a couple of reindeer while you were at it?”

Ryan closed his eyes. “A black plastic sack,” he said. “A bin bag. You must have found it, too—they were still in it.”

“Did you keep the rechargeable razor for yourself?” asked Finch.

What was he talking about? Ryan frowned. “What rechargeable razor?” he asked.

“That’s the only item known to be missing from 4 Windermere Terrace that we haven’t recovered,” Finch said. “Where is it?”

Ryan shrugged, and looked down at his hands.

“Someone answering your brother Dexter’s description was seen running away from the vicinity immediately after the window was broken,” Finch went on.

Oh, God, no. Ryan didn’t react visibly, but inside he was terrified. What the hell had Dex been doing there? How had he gotten himself mixed up in this?

“Was he supposed to be acting as lookout? Were you initiating him in the art of burglary?”

“My client is not obliged to—”

“Dexter was nowhere near the place!” As soon as the words were out, Ryan could feel Stan give up on him. That question required no comment if ever a question did.

“Are you admitting that you
were
there?”

“No comment.”

“Look, Ryan,” said Lloyd. “I know that whoever carried out this burglary didn’t mean Mrs. Bignall to die. So if that was you, believe me, this whole thing will go a whole lot better for you if you make a statement.”

“But it wasn’t me. I didn’t burgle their house,” said Ryan, finding himself close to tears. “I didn’t tie anyone up.”

“Did Dexter?” asked Finch.

Ryan lifted his head. “No!” he said.

“How do you know? I thought you didn’t know where he was?”

Ryan shook his head. “I don’t,” he said. “But he wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“Well, if it wasn’t you and it wasn’t Dexter, that just leaves your mother.”

Ryan jumped to his feet, to find Stan restraining him and Lloyd shouting at him to sit down.

“Chief Inspector, I think we can do without Sergeant Finch trying to provoke my client,” Stan said.

“I think Sergeant Finch felt that he was offering the only other possible explanation,” Lloyd said, and looked at Ryan. “How did these items come to be in your possession? The truth, if that’s at all possible, Ryan.”

“I found them. And that’s all I’m saying.”

“Very well,” said Lloyd. “We’ll see what Dexter has to say about it, shall we? Interview terminated at 9:23
A.M
.”
He stood up. “And if I were you, Mr. Braithwaite, I would indeed have a word with my client. Make him see sense.”

Back in the cell, Stan rounded on him. “How in hell am I supposed to represent you if you don’t level with me?” he said. “You swore to me you had nothing to do with that burglary, and I find that the entire proceeds are in your possession! You do realize how serious this is? For God’s sake, it’s manslaughter, Ryan.”

Ryan looked up at him. “I never killed anyone.”

“Ryan, Ryan. Use your head. Even if it was accidental, it’s still manslaughter because it’s against the law to tie people up and gag them—or maybe you don’t know that?”

“I never tied anyone up! I never burgled anybody! I found that stuff!”

“But don’t you see? You’ve admitted handling it—what are they going to believe if you
can
prove it wasn’t you who stole it? That Dexter did! That
he
tied the woman up! He’s the one who was seen, not you! Now, for God’s sake, tell me what you know about it!”

“Nothing! I know nothing about it!”

Stan shook his head. “All right,” he said. “But—unless you want to land Dex in it, you say no comment to everything—and I mean
everything
—when they call you back in.”

Ryan ran a hand through his hair. “All right,” he said. “Sorry, Stan.”

Denis had never seen Carl like this: pale, nervy, nibbling at a bit of toast only because Meg had insisted that he eat something. He shook his head at himself as he thought it;
how did he expect the man to look after something as dreadful as what had happened to him? And yet he couldn’t not be surprised to see the self-assured, urbane, clever Carl brought so low. He looked ill. Poor Carl, who always aimed for the moon, who had had such plans and dreams, looked as though everything he had lived for had gone.

Denis had never aimed for the moon, never been very ambitious; he had always been the junior partner in any practice he’d worked in, and this one was no exception. It was the young, handsome Carl who set up the practice and had to take on a partner because he was so popular. Denis smiled tiredly. He could see the disappointment on the women’s faces whenever he took a surgery that Carl had intended taking. Half of them had nothing wrong with them, but then, that was true of patients in general.

As Denis had understood it, Carl’s relations with his wife were all but nonexistent, physical or otherwise; all he had wanted when he married her was someone who looked good on his arm, and someone whose private income was his to spend as he pleased. Her psychological problems might not have been a result of his indifference, but that certainly hadn’t helped her. But perhaps he had been wrong to believe Estelle. Looking at Carl now, starting when the mail came through the letter box with a noisy flop onto the mat, Denis had to rethink all that. Estelle must have meant a great deal more to Carl than he had ever suspected.

And before last night, he had been jealous of Carl. Jealous of his looks, of his personality, of his charisma. But Carl had nothing that he needed, or even wanted. Carl didn’t even want to be a GP. He wanted to be a playwright,
an actor, a producer—whatever. He behaved like a film star. He had his clothes tailored and went to London for a haircut; he bought the latest gadgets, whether for work or fun, then tired of them and gave them to him. Carl changed his car the way he changed lightbulbs—indeed, Denis had fallen heir to one of Carl’s cast-off cars, which Carl had told him he could regard as his own. No money had changed hands; Carl just gave it away. And that sheer extravagance had seemed somehow glamorous to Denis.

But being jealous of him had been crazy; Carl’s life was all style and no substance, a substitute for happiness, whereas he had everything he wanted: a happy marriage, a comfortable home, grown-up successful children, two happy, healthy grandchildren, a job that suited him down to the ground. And if he had indeed been crazy, Denis knew he wasn’t anymore; it was just a great pity it had taken something quite dreadful to bring him to his senses.

Dexter Gibson sat beside his mother, his face badly bruised, his eyes scared, and his hands clasped in front of him. Lloyd sat beside Tom Finch, with whom he’d had to have a word about trying to needle Ryan into violence. Tom had protested that he had merely been trying to get Ryan to admit the truth.