âYes.'
âSo you've lost her for ever, but you're still not ready to give up the role of the all-comfortin', all-knowin' dad. And that leaves an achin' void deep inside you. Am I right?'
âSomething like that,' Howerd mumbles.
âAnd then, one day on the market, you notice Lilly, and you can immediately sense how miserable she feels about not having a dad of her own.'
âYes, that's it! That's just how it happened!' Howerd says, grasping at this wisp of understanding like a drowning man might grasp at a straw.
âYou
did
take her to see your pigeons, didn't you?' Woodend says, and though it is phrased as a question, there is no longer anything questioning about it.
âShe said she'd like to see them,' Howerd explains. âShe said she really loved birds.'
âSo, just to get things perfectly clear in my mind, am I right in assumin' that not only did you take her to the loft, but you actually took her on the Friday night before she went missing?'
âThat's right.'
âBy why did you go after dark?' Woodend asks, the sympathetic listener he has become disappearing and the inquisitor temporarily taking his place.
âPardon?'
âIf you wanted to show her your pigeons, wouldn't it have been better to do it in the daylight?'
âI . . . er . . . I was busy at the market earlier. And I've got a storm lamp in the loft.'
âAh, that explains it,' Woodend says. âAn' was it on that Friday night that you first touched her?'
âI never touched her!'
âNot at all?'
âNo.'
âIt must be quite cramped in the pigeon loft. Surely you brushed against her once or twice â purely accidentally, of course.'
âI might have done.'
âAnd maybe you patted her on the shoulder.'
âI . . . err . . .'
âDid you or didn't you?'
âYes.'
âAnd gave her a hug?'
âOnly like one I might have given to my own daughter, when she was much smaller.'
âAnd then, on Saturday afternoon, you went out with her again, only this time you didn't take her to the pigeon loft, you took her to the allotment.'
Fred Howerd begins to scratch, almost desperately, at his lower right arm. âNo, I . . .' he croaks.
âIs there something bothering you about that arm?' asks Bannerman, speaking for the first time.
âNo.'
âWell, it certainly
seems
to be bothering you.'
âIt's just an itch. That's all.'
âAre you sure?'
âJust an itch,' Howerd repeats hauntedly, as if he is beginning to feel the trap start to close its jaws on him.
âI know a bit about first aid, so why don't you let me take a look at that arm of yours?' Bannerman suggests.
âI don't wantâ'
âI said, let me take a look at it!'
Reluctantly, Fred Howerd rolls back his sleeve to reveal a large sticking plaster.
âSo it's not just an itch, after all,' Bannerman says.
âNo.'
âThen what
is
it?'
âI . . . cut myself.'
âWhere?
âOn the side of the stall. There's a lot of rough edges. It's easy to do, if you're not careful.'
âYou should always be careful, Fred,' Bannerman advises.
âI will be in future,' Howerd says, and there is an element of relief in his voice which suggests he thinks the crisis is past.
But it isn't!
âShall we take a look at the wound, then?' Bannerman suggests.
âThere's no need,' Howerd tells him.
âI think there is,' Bannerman counters, and before Howerd has time to realize what is happening, the sergeant has reached across the table and ripped the plaster off.
Howerd howls and clutches the arm to his chest.
âHe should never have done that,' Paniatowski said.
âProbably not,' Woodend agreed. âBut you had to be there, Monika. I think, by that point, Bannerman was gettin' such a buzz from the way the interrogation was goin' that he didn't even think about would he should or shouldn't do â he just acted on instinct.'
âThat doesn't make it right,' Paniatowski said firmly.
âWhat do you think, Paco?' Woodend asked.
Ruiz shrugged awkwardly. âI saw much worse in my time with the police.'
âMaybe you did, but that was in Spain before the Civil War, and this was in England in the 1950s â and Bannerman
shouldn't have done it
,' Paniatowski said.
âDon't be such a baby! Put your arm back on the table, so we can look at the injury,' Bannerman orders Howerd.
âI don't wantâ'
âNow!'
Howerd lays his arm on the table.
The wound, which has almost healed, is perhaps three inches long and an inch and a half wide. And it is not so much a scrape or a cut â it is a gouge.
âIt looks self-inflicted to me,' Woodend says.
âI told you, it was an accident,' Howerd protests.
âYou say you cut yourself on the stall?'
âYes.'
âThen the boffins from the forensic department should be able to find traces of blood on the stall, shouldn't they?'
âI don't know.'
âWe found bits of human skin under Lilly Dawson's nails,' Woodend says. âHow do you think they got there?'
âI don't know.'
âWhat a lot of things you seem not to know,' Woodend ponders. âYou don't know how Lilly was snatched from the street without anybody noticin'. You don't know whether forensics will find blood on your stall. There are
so many
things you don't know that it would take me all day to list them.' He slams his hand down hard on the table. âYou're either very stupid or just pretending to be very stupid. It's obvious to us that there's skin under her nails because Lilly scratched her attacker. So what is the attacker to do? And don't you dare say you “don't know”, you bastard!'
âI don't . . .' Howerd mumbles, before falling silent again.
âHe has two choices,' Woodend says. âHe can leave the scratch marks to heal naturally, hopin' that nobody will notice until they do. Or he can disguise them by cutting them away â which is what you did.'
âThere comes a moment in any interrogation when you can sense it's all over, bar the shoutin',' Woodend said. âDo you know what I mean?'
Paniatowski and Ruiz nodded. On this point, at least, they could agree with him â because they knew
exactly
what he meant.
âThe suspect may keep on protestin' his innocence for hours after that â perhaps even for days â but he knows, just as clearly as you do, that the game's up. An' in that particular interrogation, the moment came when I accused Howerd of cuttin' away the scratch marks. I could
see
him collapse. I could
see
him give up all hope. An' though I didn't expect a confession right away, I was convinced we'd get one in the end.'
Bannerman looks up at the big clock on the wall.
âDo you know, I'm really feeling quite hungry, sir,' he says to Woodend. He turns to the suspect. âAre you feeling hungry yourself, Fred?'
âA bit,' Howerd lies.
âWell then, let's get this wrapped up, so we can all have something to eat, shall we?' Bannerman suggests. âMind you,' he continues, almost as an afterthought, âafter I've told you what's going to happen to you, I rather think you'll lose your appetite.'
âHappen to me?' Howerd repeats.
âThe government claims that hanging's a painless process, you know, but they have to say that, don't they? And do you know
why
they have to say it? It's because if the ordinary decent people on the street knew what it was
actually
like, they'd demand it was stopped immediately,' Bannerman says.
âI don't want to hear this,' Howerd tells him, clamping his hands firmly over his ears.
âYour neck's broken in the first second after the drop,' Bannerman says â shouting, but, at the same time, managing to sound almost clinical. âThat's when your bowels open and you shit yourself.'
âPlease . . .' Howerd begs.
âBut it's at least half an hour before all signs of life are extinct,' Bannerman continues. âSometimes it's much longer than that. I've looked at those hanging men myself, and I'll swear to you that though they couldn't move or say a word, they were suffering.'
Howerd starts to cry.
âAnd it seems so unfair that
you
should hang, because I know you didn't mean to do it,' the sergeant says, dropping his voice again, so that now it is almost gently hypnotic.
Howerd lowers his hands from his ears.
âWhat did you say?' he asks fearfully.
âI know you didn't mean to do it,' Bannerman repeats.
âYou let Bannerman seize control of the interrogation,' Paniatowski said.
âI wouldn't exactly say that,' Woodend replied. âHe'd hit on a good line, and I decided to let him run with it. I've done the same with you, any number of times.'
âYes, but I'm not Bannerman,' Paniatowski said, unyieldingly.
âAll you wanted to do, Fred, was to give her a bit of the loving she was missing,' Bannerman says. âShe probably encouraged you â maybe even led you on. And then, at some point, she changed her mind â which is just what women do. She decided that she'd been raped â though both of you knew that wasn't true. You thought about going to prison and losing the family â and all because you'd tried to help the girl, to give her a little comfort. You panicked, which is perfectly understandable in the circumstances. Before you even knew what was happening, your hands were round her throat. All you wanted to do was shut her up. It never occurred to you that you might be strangling her. And then, suddenly, she was dead â and you'd certainly never meant that to happen for a minute.' Bannerman pauses again. âWell, you can't hang a man for that, can you? It simply wouldn't be right.'
âI'd still go to prison, wouldn't I?' Howard asks.
âOh yes, you'd still go to prison,' Bannerman agrees. âAnd I won't lie to you, Fred, you'd get quite a stiff sentence. But that's still much better than the rope, isn't it? With a bit of luck, you'd be out in time to play with your grandchildren â and that's got to be worth something, don't you think?'
âThat's it!' Paniatowski exclaimed.
âThat's what?' Woodend asked.
âThat's what we've been looking for! Up to that point, you see, Howerd had been holding back his alibi â but he'd always been
ready
to produce it, if that should prove necessary.'
âSo what changed?' Paco Ruiz asked.
âWhat changed is that Bannerman painted him a picture of what death by hanging was like.'
âI'm not following you,' Woodend said.
âThe reason he didn't want to say where he'd been that Saturday afternoon was that he knew it would show him in a very bad light. Remember, it was
Howerd
who took
Clegg
to see the young prostitute in Bolton, not the other way round.'
âSo what?'
âSo it probably wasn't the first time he'd used her services â or those of some other girl who was quite like her. And once he'd produced his alibi, that would all come out into the open.'
âMaybe that's true,' Woodend agreed, âbut it would have got him off the murder charge.'
âThat's how
you
see things,' Paniatowski said.
âThat's how
anybody
would see things,' Woodend countered.
âNo, it isn't,' Paniatowski argued. âPut yourself in Howerd's shoes for a minute. He's convinced that you and Bannerman have him marked down for the murder, and that whatever he says is going to make no difference. So why should he give you more ammunition â why should he reveal to you what a nasty little pervert he really was?'
âBecause it would get him off,' Woodend said stubbornly.
âBut he doesn't
believe
that. He thinks that you'll find some way to discredit the alibi, but still have all the damning information you've collected
as a result of the alibi
at your fingertips.'
âYou can't possibly know what he was thinkin',' Woodend said.
âHe's convinced he's going to be convicted, whatever happens,' Paniatowski pressed on. âSo he's faced with two choices, isn't he? He can continue to deny he killed Lilly â in which case he'll probably be hanged. Or he can make a false confession, which will mean, according to Bannerman, that he could be released in time to play with his grandchildren. Which of those two alternatives would you choose?'
â
He told me it wasn't as simple as that
,' Elizabeth Eccles had claimed. â
He said that after what the policeman had told him, he didn't dare produce his alibi
.'