The Cloned Identity (6 page)

“You know, Joe, from what you have shown me, I think he went to see Miss Wood that evening; when he found she wasn't in he carried on to the park; then, on his way back, by which time she would have arrived home from Mrs Thomas's, he called on her. No – hold on – he would have had the dog with him. No – he must have taken the dog back to the vicarage first, then gone round there. She let him in and bingo! It all seems to fit, but it's only circumstantial.”

I sat there thinking and stirring my tea.

“You'll have a hole in the bottom in a minute.”

“Eh? What? Sorry, Joe. You were saying – I was miles away?”

“Your cup – you will stir a hole in it.”

“Oh, right.”

I put the spoon in the saucer and took a drink from the cup.

‘Yuk!' I thought. The tea tasted horrible, and I doubt whether it would have tasted much better if it was hot.

“Joe, this is what we will do: tomorrow the Chief's off all day, and the weekend too, on a course, so early in the morning we will go and pull him in. That'll give us plenty of time to break him down, get a confession and have the whole thing wrapped up by the time the Chief gets in on Monday. That way his boss can't get on to the Chief and pull any strings.”

“Are you sure this is the best way, boss? What about if he didn't do it? I mean, the evidence we have so far wouldn't convict a drunk for jaywalking.”

“I know, Joe – but he's guilty, I can feel it. Trust me. We'll nail the bastard to the cross if we have to. When you get back to the nick have another go at Adwell. See if you can get a statement from that woman he was messing about with. Then, tomorrow morning, I'll meet you at the office at six o'clock and we can go and lift him out of bed. That should shake him up.”

“Six o'clock, boss – good grief, it's a bit early! It's all right for you: you don't have a grumbling wife. She hates being woken up at that time, I can tell you.”

“Well, don't wake her.”

“You are joking. If I sneak out without her knowing and checking I've got a clean shirt on, then, well, I wouldn't dare go home again.”

I laughed at the pained expression on Joe's face. I could just picture his wife at that time of the morning, bell tent for a dressing gown, head immersed in curlers. She was a big lady was Betty and looked formidable at the best of times, let alone early in the morning.

‘Well, Joe,' I thought, ‘you are more than welcome. I don't envy you – not one little bit.'

Chapter 6

The next morning, at about six thirty, saw us banging on that large oak door. Only policemen, it seems, can knock in such a way that the occupants immediately know there are police at their door and they are in trouble. We usually have to bang a few times, which adds to the drama for the occupants – but not this time. The door was flung open quickly, just as Joe was about to deliver the follow-up knock, and he almost fell through into the hallway. The tall, imposing figure stood above us, not looking at all intimidated, but fully dressed and in command of himself.

“Yes, Inspector. What can I do for you?” came the stern inquiry.

Just for a few seconds I lost it. “Ah, yes, could we have a few words with you about the Miss Wood case?” I asked.

He looked at his watch. “You seem rather early.”

Joe spoke: “We thought we might catch you before your day began.”

“Um. You had better come in, then, but I can't spare you very much time. I've a lot to do.”

We followed him into the same room as before, and he sat down behind his desk. I could feel that we were losing the initiative as we took our seats.

“Well, Inspector, how can I help you? I am sure I've told you everything.”

“Ah, no, sir, I don't believe you have told us everything.”

He looked at me, puzzled, worried. “I don't quite follow. What exactly do you mean?”

“Well, sir, it now appears that you called round to see Miss Wood on the night she was attacked.”

“How did you—?” He stopped.

“How did we know, sir? We have a witness.”

The confidence melted away from his face and was replaced with a worried frown.

“Well, I might have; I am not really sure.”

He leant back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. I knew he was playing for time, trying to compose his thoughts.

I motioned to Joe, who said, “Reverend Thomas Wright,” – the vicar's eyes shifted from the ceiling to Joe – “we would like you to come down to the station to make a statement.”

Joe's voice sounded seriously official, and I could see the fear and sadness in the vicar's eyes as the words sunk in.

Joe stood up. “Are you ready, sir?” he asked, holding out his hand as if to help the vicar to his feet.

“What – now, you mean? Right at this minute? Impossible! I have things to do.”

I now stood up and said, “Please, sir, will you come now?” I tried to sound as threatening as possible.

He turned to look up at me, his face sagged and white. He slowly got to his feet and followed Joe, with me bringing up the rear.

Out in the hall Joe stopped and asked if he wanted his jacket, pointing to the clothes hanging neatly from their brass hooks.

“Ah, yes, thank you,” said the vicar as he reached out and took a grey jacket. I looked at the golf clubs standing proudly at the side of the hatstand as the vicar fussed about putting his jacket on. I could tell he was playing for time – thinking time.

He suddenly turned to Joe: “My dog I can't leave – he's in the kitchen.”

“That's all right – I don't expect you will be long,” I said. He seemed to perk up a bit when I said that.

Not a word was said as we drove back to the station. I sat in the back with the vicar, who stared out of the window all the way. He must have been deep in thought as he was startled when I told him we had arrived. He followed Joe meekly, shoulders sagging slightly, to the interview room. I closed the door with a controlled bang, which had the desired effect of making the vicar jump. After we had all sat, I pointed out to him that he was there of his own free will to help us with our inquiries and that he was free to leave at any time. He sat bolt upright, looking down at his hands, which were palms down on the table, as if he was about to get up. I felt he was showing us that he was ready to leave at any moment he chose.

I started the questions: “Now, when we saw you the first time you told us that the last time you saw Miss Wood was on the Monday afternoon when she was on her way to Mrs Thomas's. Is that correct?”

He nodded without looking up.

“But our subsequent investigations show that you did in fact see her on the evening she was attacked.”

“No! That's not true. Yes, I did call to see her, but she wasn't in. I told you the truth before.”

Still he did not look up. I noticed that he was now clenching and unclenching his fists as if in some sort of pain or turmoil.

I carried on: “After calling at Miss Wood's what did you do then?”

“Well, I had my dog with me so I carried on to the park, to give him a run.”

“Which park did you go to?” I asked.

He looked at me, puzzled. “The one at the end of Miss Wood's road of course,” he snapped.

“That's right,” I said.

“Well, if you already knew, why did you ask?” His voice lacked the normal anger I am sure he would have shown under different circumstances.

“Why exactly did you call on Miss Wood?”

“I was worried she might forget about our appointment the following morning. The church magazine proof had to be at the printer's by nine thirty.”

“Couldn't you have phoned her?” asked Joe.

“Yes, I could have, but I was going out anyway to take the dog for a walk.”

“Did you go round to Miss Wood's often?” I asked.

“No, not often – just now and again. She was kind enough to invite me round for tea, and sometimes supper.”

“So you have been round to Miss Wood's in the evening on other occasions, then?”

“Yes, Inspector, I have, but not on a regular basis.” He tried to sound as bored as he could as he answered. “Is all this relevant?” he asked.

I ignored his question.

“When was the last time you went round in the evening?”

“Let me think.” I could sense he was getting his confidence back. “That must have been a couple of weeks ago. I remember that because we spent the evening working on the magazine; it comes out fortnightly.”

“Couldn't you have worked on the magazine at the vicarage?” asked Joe.

“We do usually, but we get too many interruptions. You should try to understand that being a vicar is a twenty-four-hour job. Anyway, Susan suggested we finish it off round her place.”

I felt the vicar was starting to take over, so I fired another question at him: “What time did you leave the park?”

He looked at me in surprise, as the tone of my voice reminded him we weren't there for a cosy chat.

“Why, the light was just going – I would say about eight thirty.”

“Which way did you go back?” I asked.

“The same way as I went, of course. There is no other way.”

I nodded. “So you went back past Miss Wood's house, then?”

“Yes, it would be impossible to go any other way, unless you think I suddenly sprouted a pair of wings and flew back,” he answered sarcastically.

“And the dog,” Joe said.

The vicar gave him a dark look and said, “Quite so.”

“Did you notice that Miss Wood was now at home?” I asked.

“Yes, I did. The lights were on.”

“So you went and knocked on her door again?”

“No, of course not,” he answered angrily, obviously thinking I was trying to trick him (as if I would!).

“Are you telling me that you went out on purpose to speak with Miss Wood, but then changed your mind?” I asked in my best sarcastic voice.

“It was getting dark. She probably wouldn't have opened the door,” replied the vicar, shifting in his chair.

“But you said you often went round in the evening, for supper,” I asked with a doubtful look.

Again the vicar fidgeted in his chair. “Yes, yes, but then she would have been expecting me, wouldn't she?”

He was looking a bit edgy, so I asked him if he would like a cup of tea. He nodded and I looked at Joe and we got up and left the room. Out in the corridor I collared a passing PC and asked if he could rustle up some cups of tea.

“Well, Joe, what do you think?”

“I don't know, boss. I mean, we have got nothing – nothing that will stand up in court.”

“I know, Joe, but he's the one, Joe. I can smell it. Take off the collar and he's just an ordinary man like you and me. He's got feelings, urges, and in his job he is surrounded by all these adoring women, like groupies round a pop star – temptation, Joe. And we know from Adwell that he can be tempted.”

“You know, boss, I've never thought of the WI as being a load of groupies.”

I laughed at the look on Joe's face as he spoke.

The PC came back with the teas and we returned to the room. The vicar's face was expressionless as I placed a cup in front of him. I think I detected a murmur of thanks. All seated again, we sipped at our drinks.

Then I asked, “Can you tell us why you left your former parish at Adwell?”

That shook him. He looked at me, then at Joe, then back at the table.

“That was years ago.”

“But why did you leave?” I asked again, persistently.

“My bishop thought a move would be good for me.”

“So it wasn't anything to do with one of the ladies – a spinster like Miss Wood – making accusations against you?”

“Look,” he said sternly, “I was not forced to leave. It is quite normal for the Church to move vicars around. I was asked to come here to regenerate the parish.”

“Are you saying that our records are wrong and that no complaints were made against you?” I asked, trying to make what I had said sound totally unbelievable.

He looked hard at me. “Inspector, I have just explained the reason for my move. I admit there was a rumour circulating that I had been paying too much attention to one of the ladies, but that was idle gossip, born out of jealousy – part of the hazard of being a vicar. I can assure you it is quite commonplace among the clergy.”

“So you are saying there is no truth in the rumour, and the lady in question made it all up to discredit you.”

“No, Inspector, I am not saying Miss Cook was lying – just that she misunderstood the reason why I helped her. Good grief, man! I've helped hundreds of people – it's part of my job. Look – I've had enough of this. I am a very busy man, so can you please arrange for me to be taken home?”

He started to get up, so we followed suit. I stood directly in front of him.

“In that case, Reverend Thomas Wright, I am arresting you for the assault and rape of Miss Susan Wood.”

The vicar turned ten shades of white and sat down again, looking totally petrified. I carried on telling him his rights, but I don't think he heard a word. I turned to Joe and asked him to take the vicar through to the custody area. Joe moved round to the vicar's side and took hold of his arm. The vicar stood up in a total daze and Joe took him out of the room.

When Joe entered the custody area with the vicar, Sergeant Bert Sole was pinning a notice up. He turned and saw the vicar first, then looked at Joe.

“What have you got here, Joe,” he asked, looking bemusedly at the vicar.

Joe explained the charge and he filled in the forms. He had to ask the vicar several times to confirm his name and to empty his pockets. The vicar was still in a daze. I don't believe he understood what was happening to him. Mind you, he woke up quickly enough when Bert asked him for the chain and cross round his neck. Bert solved the problem by lending the vicar a Bible in its place. Joe watched as he was led to the cells. He couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for him. Joe wasn't totally convinced that he was guilty, and he suspected that we wouldn't be able to hold him for long. Joe was glad I was in charge. There were some advantages in being just a sergeant at times like this. He made his way up to my office.

“Got him tucked up, Joe?”

“Yes, boss. Look – are you sure? I mean, we don't have a lot in the way of evidence.”

“Joe, I know it's all circumstantial, but it all fits. Sit down. This is what I am sure happened: he did call on his way back from the park; she let him in as she had done many times before, only this time she was in her dressing gown, according to Forensic, having just got out of a bath. They went into the front room and sat down; then he saw a bit of bare leg or whatever. He got excited, got her upstairs and couldn't stop himself. That's why he came back the next day. He would have realised that she couldn't have phoned us or we would have been hammering on his door, so he thought there was a chance to throw himself on her mercy – beg for forgiveness and all that. He must have nearly died when he saw you were already there. That's why he was so irate with you and didn't give you his name. Did you notice, from the WPC's notebook at the hospital, that he has visited Miss Wood every day – not out of concern, I'll wager. He wants to be there in case she wakes up so he can convince her it was an act of God or something. It all fits, Joe.”

“I know, boss, but what worries me is are we making it fit?”

I nodded. I could see Joe's point.

“Look, Joe – get a warrant and take Mike and Jenkins down to the vicarage. See what you can find. I don't think we will be allowed to search the church – not officially anyway.”

“OK, boss. I'm on my way.”

Joe knew I was probably right, but he would have felt a lot happier with some good solid evidence behind him.

They got back from the vicar's just after lunch. Joe never enjoyed going through people's lives. It made him realise how shallow life was and how little in the way of personal possessions most people actually have. He knocked and entered my office, and placed a labelled plastic bag on my desk. I looked hopefully at the bag.

“Find something?” I asked.

Joe pointed to the bag. “There are some cards and letters from females (nothing incriminating), two packets of condoms (one opened, two missing, one still sealed), a mail-order sex catalogue and a couple of girlie magazines. That's about it.”