‘No.’ The word was emphatic.
‘Where were you then?’
‘Here.’
‘Witnesses?’
‘A couple of models and a lap dancer. What do you think? Looking like this, I don’t tend to attract much company if you see
what I mean.’
‘Ever fired a gun?’
‘No. Unless you count a water pistol.’
‘We can do tests for gunshot residue.’
‘Be my guest.’
Gerry knew he wasn’t going to get him to admit anything so he decided to move on. ‘So let’s get back to why you rang us about
the Podingham Clinic. You mentioned a murder.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why don’t you start at the beginning?’
‘Well, I don’t know if it was a murder. Might have been another experiment gone wrong.’ Carl suddenly sounded a little unsure
of himself. ‘I was watching the place like I said before and I saw a stretcher being loaded into a van – not an ambulance,
a plain van. There was something on the stretcher – all covered up with a sheet. Like a dead person.’
Gerry looked at Rachel. ‘It might have been an undertaker’s van.’
‘Yeah. But why should someone die in a place like that?’
‘It’s a clinic,’ said Rachel. ‘We’ve been told they do minor operations there – maybe one of them went wrong. Anyway, people
die in all sorts of places. Doesn’t necessarily mean it’s suspicious.’
‘You didn’t see them. They looked as if … as if they had something to hide. And a few days earlier I’d seen some people arriving
in a minibus. Not the usual types who took part in the trials. I’ve got pictures to prove it. Here.’ He reached out and picked
up a pack of photographs then handed them to Gerry. ‘There was just something about the whole set-up that seemed wrong. Don’t
ask me why but …’
‘When was this?’ said Gerry, flicking through the prints.
‘About a week ago. I don’t keep track of dates.’
‘OK, Carl, we’ll check with the Coroner to see whether any deaths have been reported at the clinic recently.’
‘You do that. But people with something to hide don’t usually tell the Coroner what they’re up to, do they?’
The sarcastic venom of Carl’s words made Gerry feel uncomfortable. It was always possible that the man was making up the whole
story to gain some sort of twisted revenge. Gerry didn’t blame him in the least, but wasting police time was a crime. And
at that moment, with James Dalcott’s murder and the child’s skeleton at Tailors Court, time was the one thing they couldn’t
afford to waste. At least, according to Colin, the naked woman in the river appeared to have died of natural causes. But who
she was and how she got there was still a mystery they had to solve.
Utley looked Gerry in the eye. ‘So are you going to look into it?’
Gerry glanced at Rachel. From the expression of doubt on her face, he guessed that her thoughts matched his own.
‘These pictures prove nothing, I’m afraid, Carl. Pity you didn’t get one of this dead body you said you saw.’
‘I didn’t have my camera with me.’
‘Look, Carl, if you’re having us on …’
‘I know, I know – I’ll be up for wasting police time. But I’m not. I saw what I saw. I swear.’
‘We’ll need a statement. And we’ll need you to come down to the station to answer some more questions.’
Carl Utley bowed his head and said nothing. And he stayed silent all the way back to Neston Police Station.
Wesley was sitting at his desk. It was difficult to think in the noisy open-plan office with telephones trilling over his
colleagues’ chatter, punctuated by the occasional expletive whenever one of the office computers decided to misbehave itself.
Something Nuala Johns had told him was nagging at the back of his mind. Tony Persimmon had worked for Pharmitest International
and Pharmitest International owned the Podingham Clinic. He leaned over and typed Persimmon’s name into the search engine
and, sure enough, there it was: Tony Persimmon had been Pharmitest’s Regional Head of Strategy – whatever that was – for four
years until his resignation six months ago. It was a tenuous link which probably meant nothing but it might still be worth
checking out.
He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. But the thought of Tony Persimmon conjured terrible images of those dissected
human bodies sketched with such care and detail behind the panelling at Tailors Court – along with the cruder copies similarly
concealed in Roz Dalcott’s flat.
He needed to know what they meant, and whether they had any connection at all with his case. He picked up the telephone on
his desk and punched out Neil’s number. It was about time he indulged in a spot of delegation, he thought. And besides, Neil
would enjoy finding out all he could about the former occupants of the building that now housed Trad Itions. He’d be doing
his friend a favour really, he told himself.
When the conversation ended and he replaced the receiver, he felt rather pleased with himself. He had set Neil on the quest
to find out all he could about Simon Garchard, the ‘Flesh Tailor’ of Tailors Court, and he had given him the extra task of
looking for any connection
with the property in Tradmouth. Had Simon owned the house? Or had it been occupied by somebody connected with Simon and his
sinister activities? He knew it might take some time but, once his interest was captured, Neil tended to worry at a historical
puzzle like a determined terrier.
Earlier he’d called the Hayneses at Gorfleet Farm and discovered that Mary was home from hospital at last and making a good
recovery – almost back to her usual sharp self. He needed to talk to her about what had gone on at Tailors Court during the
war years and about the possible identity of the little boy who’d been buried there near the paddock. But he wanted to be
sure she was up to speaking to him so he resolved to ring again tomorrow. The boy at Tailors Court had been under the earth
there for years and the Dalcott investigation took priority.
A voice behind him made him jump.
‘Sir. We’ve got them.’
Wesley swivelled his seat round and saw Paul Johnson standing there, all six foot two of him. He was wearing a look of triumph,
like a border collie who’d just put a herd of sheep into a pen.
‘Got who?’
‘Syd Jenkins and Brian Carrack. They were picked up at an address in the Banton area of Morbay about an hour ago. The local
patrols had been keeping a lookout for the car they were driving like we asked.’
Wesley stood up. Sitting looking up at Paul was giving him a crick in the neck. ‘Good. Have they said anything yet?’
‘They’re asking for a solicitor.’
‘Always a bad sign,’ said Wesley with a smile. Paul always
seemed to take his duties – and life for that matter – seriously but he was an asset to CID, unlike some.
He looked at his watch. Gerry was chivvying out Carl Utley but he was bound to be back soon, possibly with Utley in tow. ‘The
boss’ll probably want to talk to them himself. Get them taken down to the cells. It won’t do any harm to leave them to stew
for half an hour or so.’
Paul gave him a solemn nod and hurried out, passing Gerry Heffernan who was steaming in with Rachel bobbing behind him.
‘Carl Utley’s in Interview Room two,’ Gerry announced. ‘He’s going to make a statement.’ His gaze lighted on Trish Walton
who looked up nervously from her computer screen. ‘Trish, you and Rach can do the honours. The female touch.’ He hesitated,
looking Trish in the eye. ‘He’s not exactly a pretty sight but don’t stare, eh? He’s a bit sensitive.’ He turned and grinned
at Wesley. ‘Wes, you and me are going visiting the sick. We’re sending a team over to the Podingham Clinic. I’ve arranged
a search warrant ’cause, from what Utley said, they’ll have a pack of tame lawyers lurking in the undergrowth.’
When Gerry was in this mood it was usually hard to get a word in edgeways, so Wesley said quickly, ‘Paul’s just told me they’ve
found Carrack and Jenkins. They’re in the cells demanding a solicitor.’
Gerry, who had been about to walk away, stopped in his tracks. Wesley could almost hear his brain working, weighing up the
wisdom of delay. Eventually he delivered his verdict. ‘Good. We’ll speak to them while we’re waiting for the warrant.’
‘They’ve already had plenty of time to cook up a good story,’ Wesley pointed out pessimistically.
‘They’re experienced crooks, Wes. They’ve already got more stories than the public library. Come on.’
Syd Jenkins and Brian Carrack were on the premises and the clock was ticking. Gerry was to take Syd while Brian had been allocated
to Wesley and when they reached the respective interview rooms they exchanged knowing smiles and split up.
Wesley gave Brian Carrack a businesslike nod as he entered the room and switched on the tape. He was an unprepossessing little
man, probably in his late twenties but it was hard to judge. He was bald with a sharp-featured face and he reminded Wesley
of a rodent; a rat, perhaps.
‘Mr Carrack. We’ve been looking for you.’
‘Well, now you’ve found me. I don’t know why I’m here. I’ve not done nothing.’
‘So why did you leave the cottage you were renting in Tradington?’
‘There’d been a murder next door, hadn’t there? We weren’t going to hang around. We might be next.’
‘And who would want to murder you?’
‘Well, we were the targets, weren’t we? Stands to reason.’
‘How do you work that one out?’
Carrack looked over each shoulder theatrically, checking for any assassins who might have secreted themselves in the interview
room. Wesley tried hard to keep a straight face. Brian Carrack had been watching far too many gangster movies.
Carrack leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. ‘You tend to make enemies inside, if you know what I mean.’ He touched the
side of his nose.
Wesley sat back. He could smell the man’s breath and it wasn’t pleasant. ‘Why did you come down to Devon, Mr Carrack?’
‘Fancied a holiday, didn’t we?’
‘At this time of year and under false names?’
Carrack shrugged. ‘Why not?’
Wesley pretended to study the notes in front of him. ‘You were inside with a man called Harry Parker. He’s living with the
estranged wife of the man who was shot. Is Harry the reason you’re down here?’
‘No comment.’ The answer was swift. Wesley had hit the jackpot.
‘Come on, Brian. We’ll find out sooner or later so you might as well tell us now. How much did Harry pay you to kill his girlfriend’s
husband? Must have been a tidy sum because, according to your record, you’ve never gone as far as killing before. Because
James Dalcott died when he did, Harry’s lady friend will inherit rather a lot of money. Were you doing your old mate Harry
a favour? Did you owe him?’
‘No.’ Brian Carrack sounded quite outraged. ‘It was nothing like that. I never owed Harry nothing.’
‘You see, Brian’ – Wesley leaned forward as though he was about to share a confidence, trying to ignore Carrack’s halitosis
– ‘you’ve got means, motive and opportunity – and if you don’t come up with a better story I reckon, once the Forensic team
have done their bit, that we’ll have enough to charge you with James Dalcott’s murder. My boss is talking to your mate, Syd.
And DCI Heffernan always gets at the truth in the end. He’s famous for it.’ He looked Carrack in the eye. He could tell the
man was weakening. It would just take one last push.
‘Come on, Brian, do yourself a favour and tell me exactly what happened.’
Brian Carrack put his head in his hands and he sat there like that in silence for a whole minute. Wesley said nothing. The
man needed time to consider his options.
Carrack suddenly looked Wesley in the eye. ‘I need you to promise that we won’t be charged with anything.’
Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘You know I can’t do that till I know what I’m dealing with. I can’t turn a blind eye to murder.’
‘I’ve not murdered no one. I’m not a violent man, Mr Peterson, and neither is Syd,’ he added self-righteously. ‘Same goes
for Harry.’
‘Good honest crooks.’
‘You’ve seen our records. We might have used threats but we’ve never harmed a soul.’
‘You’ve scared the hell out of a few souls in your time, though.’
Brian gave a nervous grin. ‘All talk, Mr Peterson. We never hurt no one.’
Wesley picked up a pen and turned it over and over in his fingers. He needed to know what Syd Jenkins had said for himself.
He needed to consult Gerry. He stood up and announced that he was leaving the room for the benefit of the tape that was whirring
in the machine at the end of the table. A minute later he was standing in the corridor with Gerry, comparing notes.
It appeared that the older man, Syd, had come up with a similar story. There was no way they were involved in the shooting
of James Dalcott. They’d never fired a gun – even though they’d used replicas to terrify hapless postmasters and the guardians
of security vans. They’d used
the threat of violence but had never carried it through. They had their standards.
The two men exchanged conspiratorial smiles before returning to their respective victims. Crooks weren’t the only ones who
could hatch effective plots.
‘I’ve had a word with the DCI,’ Wesley began as he resumed his seat at the table. ‘Your friend Syd’s been very cooperative.
Why don’t you give me your version? The truth would be nice. He’s told the DCI what you were up to, by the way.’ Which wasn’t
exactly true but Carrack couldn’t know that. He tilted his head expectantly and waited.
There was another long period of thought as Carrack considered his options. At last he looked up, a worried frown on his pasty
face. ‘OK. I’ll be straight with you, Mr Peterson. Me and Syd have always kept in touch, like. And one day Syd saw something
in the paper about Harry having some art exhibition – he’d always been keen on painting inside. So I thought, well, artists
are always short of money, aren’t they? And me and Syd haven’t had work since we last got out. It’s not easy living on benefits,
Mr Peterson, believe me.’
Wesley assumed his most sympathetic expression. ‘I’m sure it isn’t, Brian. So what happened?’
‘We got in touch with Harry and asked if he was interested in a bit of ready cash. He jumped at the chance – said he had a
high maintenance bird and there was a baby on the way. I asked if he knew anywhere we could stay and he said there was an
empty holiday place next door to his bird’s ex. Nice place – quiet, like. The owner was pleased to let it for a few weeks
at this time of year, I can tell you. Times are hard.’ He gave Wesley a rueful smile.