And now he was on the train. “What time do you arrive?” I asked.
“Not sure, but in about half an hour.”
“OK. We’ll be waiting. I want him followed home and arrested as soon as he puts his key in the door. You drop back as soon as you see the others, and well done, Rod. The boy done good.”
I gave the team a lightning briefing, alerted uniformed and went upstairs to tell Mr Wood what was happening. And to wait. That’s the hardest part. Once upon a time I was the youngest inspector the force ever had, and now I’m the longest serving. Because I couldn’t wait. Sitting at a desk, waiting for news, is not my style. I like to be out there on the streets, the adrenaline flowing, where the real policing is done. That’s how I got the pellets in the liver.
It wasn’t a long wait. Twenty minutes and I received the message that the train was pulling in. Fifteen minutes later they had him and ten minutes after that I was in the custody suite, looking at the real thing.
Six feet tall, built like a wind-blown reed. Wire specs, bushy hair, ex-German army anorak. Mrs Jordan-Keedy was right: his natural habitat was the end of a station platform, writing train numbers in a notebook. I watched and listened as they informed him that he’d been arrested under the Protection from Harassment Act, 1997, and told him his rights. He declined the offer of a phone call and didn’t want to inform either a solicitor of his own choice or the duty solicitor.
His name was William Desmond Thornton.
Age twenty-eight, unmarried, lived alone. Didn’t want his parents notifying.
Everybody came to have a look. We had uniformed
officers
guarding every doorway and corridor and two ARVs in the yard in case he made a break for it, but I knew he
wouldn’t
. From now on he’d rely on his mental agility to foil us. He answered the questions as briefly as possible,
volunteering
nothing extra, in an educated voice. He wasn’t scared, accepting everything he was told, almost as if he was
expecting
this and was prepared for it. I’d given instructions for the minimum of questioning, just the essentials, until we had him in the interview room, but I stepped in as his pockets were being emptied.
The custody sergeant produced a plastic evidence bag and
explained that this would contain connected property and would be under the control of an exhibits officer. His keys, wallet, some loose change, two pens and half a tube of mints were all placed on the counter. The money was counted and the amount noted. He had a Lloyds TSB cheque guarantee card but no credit cards. The PC frisking him found a
notebook
and, after a more thorough feel-around, produced a small penknife from a sleeve pocket of the anorak. On to the pile it went.
As the sergeant was placing the bounty into the evidence bag I picked up Thornton’s doorkeys. “Is there anything spoiling, back home?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No.”
“Not left the electric fire on?”
“No.”
“No pets that want feeding?”
“No.”
“No rabbits, gerbils, hamsters?”
“I don’t have any pets.”
“No tarantulas, boa constrictors, Tasmanian devils, Abyssinian garter snakes?”
“No.”
“Tortoises?”
He didn’t have any tortoises.
“Right,” I said, dropping the keys into the bag. “That saves us a journey.”
The sergeant sealed the bag and we both signed it. I asked him for a big envelope and placed the evidence bag inside it. I licked the flap, stuck it down and asked for the stapler. Three staples completed the job.
When the processing was complete they took him down to the cells. As he vanished from sight I held my hand out towards the sergeant. “Keys, please,” I said.
He unsealed the bag, made me sign for them and the notebook and resealed the bag, forgetting the brown
envelope
and the staples this time.
I threw the keys towards Sparky and he caught them.
“First thing in the morning,” I said. “Take it apart.”
Upstairs I rang Dr Foulkes at home. This time he answered the phone himself.
“It’s Charlie Priest,” I told him. “I was, um, half
expecting
your friend to answer.”
“Hi, Charlie. No, it’s over, I’m afraid.”
I didn’t want the details, so I said: “Oh, I am sorry, but listen, we have someone in the cells and I need some help.”
“For the killings?”
“That’s right.”
“Is he admitting it?”
“No, he doesn’t know he’s a suspect, yet, and I’m not expecting him to. I want to do a substantive interview in the morning and I could use some guidance. Any chance of you cancelling a few appointments?”
“What time?”
“Er, well the clock started at eight forty-five. We’re just tucking him up and hopefully he’ll get his full eight hours, but we’ve things we need to do. Providing he doesn’t start demanding a solicitor in the middle of the night we should have him available about ten in the morning.”
“Ten it is. I’ll see you then.”
“Cheers, Adrian. I appreciate it.” I put the phone down, swung my feet up on to the desk and opened William Desmond Thornton’s notebook.
“William Thornton,” he replied to my question, voice
confident
with no trace of an accent.
“And your address?”
“Flat one, number eight, Herdwick Street, Heckley.”
“And your date of birth?”
“Three, two, seventy-three.”
“And how long have you lived in Heckley?”
“No comment.”
“William, as I’ve just told you, you are still under caution.
You do understand that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And I strongly advise you to engage the assistance of a solicitor. Do you want me to send for the duty solicitor?” Actually, I didn’t give a toss whether he had one or not, but it sounded good on the tape.
We were in interview room number one, ten minutes to eleven on Thursday morning. Thornton was sitting with his back to the door, where the light from the high window fell on him, with me to the left, facing him, and Sparky to the right. The table was pushed against the wall, behind Sparky, so we all had a clear view of each other. It’s how they do things in social services, with no artificial barriers between participants. They reckon it’s based on Native American pow-wows, but we wouldn’t be handing round a pipe of peace. It meant I had no table to thump or leap over, and I felt naked, but it also meant that the camera was recording every twitch Thornton made, from his nose to his toes. A PC sat at the table, away from the door so as not to
intimidate
him, ready to change the video or sound cassettes, as necessary.
“No.”
“You don’t want a solicitor?”
“No.”
“OK, so how long have you lived in Heckley?”
“No comment.”
I leaned forward. “What’s so secret about that, William. Why won’t you tell me?”
“Because under the Geneva Convention I’m not obliged to. Name, number, unit and date of birth, that’s all.”
“So what’s your number and unit?”
“I don’t have one.”
“This isn’t the Second World War, William. You’re not some German paratrooper we found hiding in a haystack. You could be in very serious trouble and I strongly advise you to co-operate, because this isn’t a game.” I wanted to
add: “
So answer the fucking questions and don’t be such a smartarse
,” but the camera works both ways.
“Do you work for a living?”
“No.”
“You’re unemployed?”
“I’m a student.”
“Where?”
“Nowhere. I’m between courses.”
“What were you studying?”
“IT.”
“Where?”
“Huddersfield.”
“When was this?” Keep it going, I thought. Keep it
simple
and keep it going.
“Two years ago.”
“So what have you been doing since then?”
“I worked at Computers R Us.”
“But you don’t now?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“We fell out.”
“What over?”
“Nothing. I didn’t get on with them.”
“How long did you work there?”
“Not long.”
If he was twenty-eight there were big gaps, the numbers didn’t add up, but now wasn’t the time to worry about it. When he came in he’d been wearing brown brogues and khaki corduroys, all highly polished but seriously deformed through constant wear. Now he was dressed in a blue
tracksuit
and lace-less trainers, out of our community chest, while his own clothes were examined by the lab. He sat with one foot behind the other, heel to toe, and occasionally swapped them over. His right hand rested on his right thigh, with the other hand grasping its wrist, and his fingers drummed his knee periodically.
“Where were you born, William? You don’t sound like a Yorkshireman.”
“No comment.”
“It’s not an offence.”
“No comment.”
“Are you worried we’ll tell your parents?”
“No comment.”
After each answer I paused for a beat, allowing his
movements
to settle down while I formed the next question,
giving
him time to expand his answer, which he never did. One of the tapes made a squeak-squeak-squeak as it turned and behind me I could hear a bluebottle flying against the
window
. Sparky cleared his throat and shuffled in his chair. Next door Dr Foulkes would be watching the monitor, analysing every blink, twitch and tick.
“I get the impression from your earlier answer,” I said, “that you are interested in warfare. Do you ever play war games?”
“Sometimes.”
“Any particular theatre?”
“The European conflict.”
We’re not supposed to lie to suspects, or mislead them in any way, but it’s hard to avoid the temptation. He was sitting there believing his door keys had spent the night sealed in two envelopes, whilst my
impression
was really based on the eight-by-four table that had greeted Sparky, Maggie and Pete when they visited his bed-sit, laid out in a diorama of the
D-Day
landings. Maggie estimated that there were about a thousand tiny figures on it, plus all the other paraphernalia of war, suitably scaled-down.
“Any particular battle?”
“No.”
“Do you have a…whatever…a set-up?”
“Just a few bits.”
“So which side are you on?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I read General Patton’s biography a few months ago. Brilliant. Have you read it?”
“No.”
“You should. You’d like it.”
A long silence, then I said: “There are clubs for war games, I understand. Are you a member of one?”
“No.”
“But presumably you play against someone?”
“No.”
“Against yourself?”
“Yes.”
“There must be someone you play against.”
“No.”
“Doesn’t that get boring?”
“It’s not a game. We go for historical accuracy, so the
outcome’s
already decided.”
“We?”
“I. Me.”
I looked at the clock, making sure that the tape wasn’t going to click to a standstill in the next few seconds, then looked across at Sparky. He pulled himself upright, saying: “Why were you following a certain woman last night, William?”
William twisted in his chair to look at his new adversary. His shoulders curled forwards and he placed his feet side by side. The left hand let go of the right and took up position on the other knee, but he didn’t answer the question. “Why did you follow her. All the way to Salford, on the train?”
“I didn’t. I don’t know who you’re talking about. I went for a ride, that’s all. No law against that, is there?”
“Do you often go for a train ride to nowhere and back?”
“No, not often. Just sometimes.”
“On that same train?”
“Not always.”
“When did you last go on it?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Try.”
“I can’t.”
“Did you go on it last week?”
“No comment.”
“What about Tuesday the seventeenth?”
“No comment.”
“Did you or didn’t you?”
“I don’t remember.”
“But you might have done?”
“No. You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“And on Thursday the nineteenth?”
“No.”
“You were seen, William. And you were at the station on Wednesday the eighteenth, too, but you didn’t board the train. So why were you following her?”
“I wasn’t. No comment. I’m not answering any more questions.”
“In that case,” I said, “we might as well suspend
proceedings
and have lunch. Interview terminated at…eleven fortytwo.”
They took William back to his cell and I pulled my chair over to the table. I crossed my arms on it and leaned my head against them, faking sleep. I’d had none at all for two nights, and hardly any for a fortnight. I could have dropped off, there and then, but two hands gripped my shoulders and started massaging my neck muscles.
“Lower, Bridgette, lower,” I moaned, then lifted myself up to confront a grinning Dr Foulkes.
“This isn’t easy, you know,” I told him. “All this
softly-softly
stuff. I want to ring the lanky creep’s neck for him.”
“You’re doing great, both of you.”
“We’ll have to hit him with something more substantial before too long, Adrian. We haven’t got forever.”
“I understand that. So far we’ve built up a comprehensive database of his behaviour under different stress levels, in
other words, when he’s lying and when he’s telling the truth. If you can quickly go through some of it again, particularly when we know he’s lying, to reinforce what we have, and then you can move on to the heavy stuff, start asking him about the murders. Keep him talking and then start to point out where he’s being economical with the actualities. Now, what are we doing for lunch? How about that Italian place round the corner?”
We had bacon sandwiches up in the office, with mugs of
coffee
and chocolate eclairs. Maggie was waiting for me, with one of the boffins from technical branch who’d spent the morning unlocking the secrets of William Thornton’s
computer
. I studied the summary sheet which Maggie had
prepared
and compared it with what I’d gleaned from the
notebook
. William was in cahoots with someone called Martin Daley, who lived in Loughborough, Nottinghamshire, and there were vague references to something called the Company. The notebook was filled with initials and times and numbers which were meaningless so far, but the
computer
was more explicit. It held the names and addresses of people that an unemployed ex-student wouldn’t normally have on his Christmas card list.