Confession (The Mark Pemberton Cases Book 3)

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘Good. Run Browning’s name through the index along with that red car of his and see if he entered the frame at all. If he’s not in the frame for killing Muriel Brown, we’ll look elsewhere.’

  ‘But where, sir? Where can we start — we’ve nothing to go on.’

  ‘We’ve a life of Browning to start us off,’ he said. ‘If he did commit murder, there’s almost sure to be a report of a body being found somewhere, with some police force having an unsolved murder on their books. We can run a check on all outstanding murders of women in all UK police areas. I can’t see that that would present any difficulties. Computers will throw up the data in no time.’

  ‘Then let’s hope his victim was Muriel Brown!’ She sighed, smiled and left him.

  When she’d gone, Pemberton rang Detective Inspector David Holroyd, the man in charge of Harlow Spa CID. After explaining last night’s events, he asked if one of Holroyd’s officers would undertake a little localised research into the background of James Bowman Browning, whose address he provided. What he needed were names of contacts, friends, colleagues at his place of work — in fact, anything about him would be welcome. Pemberton said he’d arrange his own CRO check to see whether Browning had a criminal record.

  Holroyd promised he would oblige with the local angles, then asked, ‘Sir, do you want me to search his flat or is it something you’d rather do?’

  ‘I did arrange a preliminary search last night just to establish whether he’d left a corpse on the premises, but he hadn’t. I am assured the place was deserted but yes, I would like to inspect it myself. You could come with me, just in case something does develop. It’s on your patch after all. Meanwhile, it’s been sealed; uniformed branch has the key — they got one from the landlord. If I decide to come this afternoon, would you be available?’

  ‘Sure, no problem,’ said Holroyd. ‘Give me a call. And in the meantime, I’ll begin some discreet enquiries about your James Bowman Browning.’

  Feeling he had made a very positive start, Pemberton glanced at his morning post, buzzed for his secretary and began his morning’s routine. Among the circulars received from other police forces was one about the Sandal Strangler series of murders. It was a reminder from Leicestershire police; their Detective Inspector Kirkdale was the co-ordinator for the long-running investigation. To date, ten prostitutes had been savagely raped and murdered in different parts of the country. All had been strangled, all had had their footwear — invariably sandals — removed. Furthermore, every murder had been committed very close to Midsummer’s Day — 24th June — and the killer had struck every year since the first death in 1987.

  As Midsummer’s Day this year was approaching, all forces had been sent this reminder that, somewhere within the next few days, a Sandal Strangler killing was likely to occur, and every police force was exhorted to put its officers on maximum alert for a possible suspect. Even at this stage, with ten deaths so far, no suspect had emerged. Pemberton read the circular, initialled it to indicate he had seen it, and then asked his secretary to arrange its circulation to all interested departments. Having despatched her with her pile of work, Pemberton thought how gratifying it would be if he could solve the Muriel Brown case before he retired. The force would then have a one hundred per cent detection record for murder, and Browning might be just the fellow to complete the file.

  But, as he considered the logistics of that old case, he had to take into account that James Browning had been about thirty. It was true that his precise age had not been confirmed, but thirty was a fair estimate. Maybe a fraction less. Twenty-eight? Then he had to remember that Muriel Brown had been raped and murdered in her car on the moors some sixteen years ago. Give or take a year or two, Browning would have been fourteen or thereabouts, even as young as twelve. On the other hand, he could have been older. Fifteen perhaps? Fifteen-year-olds could commit rape, they could murder, and they could set fire to motor cars, but had the very young Browning done all that? It was time to call his local Criminal Records Office.

  ‘Run a CRO check on a James Bowman Browning, will you?’ he asked the girl who answered, giving her Browning’s address and an approximate age. ‘Local records first, then national. In particular, I want to know if he has a conviction for murder or any other form of violence.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Pemberton,’ she responded. ‘Do you want me to run a check on variations of the name? He might have used his middle name as an alias. James Bowman? Or James as a surname. Bowman James. Lots do that.’

  ‘Yes, good idea — give it the full works!’

  Having set in motion the official procedures, Mark Pemberton decided to send a fax to every police force in Britain, asking for details of unsolved murders which had resulted in the death of women during the past fifteen years, adding that he already had the up-to-date details of the Sandal Strangler’s crimes. There was no need to repeat those.

  He called his secretary again and dictated the text; once he was happy with the wording, she would despatch it to the various CID headquarters around the country. Meanwhile, he would await Lorraine’s preliminary examination of the Muriel Brown file and pop over to Traffic Division for a closer look at the burnt-out shell of the MG and the contents of James Browning’s briefcase.

  Chapter Three

  The blistered and burnt shell of the MG Roadster stood upon the concrete floor of the Road Traffic Division garage. A large tarpaulin had been spread beneath it and objects had been arranged around its outer edges. In the main, they were parts that had separated from the car during its recovery — lengths of chrome, a windscreen wiper, front number plate, headlamp rims, and other bits and pieces of metal and glass. There were also some items that had been thrown out during the fatal impact.

  Without touching any of them, Pemberton noted the road atlas he’d observed in the stream, a torch, some sweets, a mobile telephone, a small folding umbrella, some coins kept for parking meters, dusters, ballpoint pens bearing Greenwood’s tree-shaped logo, a parking disc, a paperback book listing restaurants and hotels, and an MG owner’s handbook.

  Browning’s briefcase was also on the tarpaulin with its lid open. Pemberton flicked through the contents. There were some PR leaflets produced by Greenwood’s of Harlow Spa and a file which apparently related to Browning’s meeting last night. It had been at Halton, a suburb of Rainesbury, and the client had been a Mr Joseph Phillips, the sales manager of Pomataste, the soft drinks manufacturer. There was a diary too; it contained Browning’s business engagements and notes, along with some personal reminders of birthdays — his father’s was shown there on 13th July, an uncle’s on 16th May, while that of a friend called Hugh was on 24th June.

  Virtually all the rubber, leather, and plastic ware of the vehicle had been destroyed; some rusted wires were all that remained of the tyres while most of the metalwork was now rusted and blackened with the heat of the flames, the beautiful chromework ruined. The boot lid was standing open to reveal its contents — the remains of some tools, the spare wheel minus its tyre, a partially melted length of tow rope, and what looked like a miniature fire extinguisher. Little had survived; the canvas hood and windscreen had gone altogether. The former car, such a beauty, was now a burnt-out wreck.

  Pemberton did not know whether Scenes of Crime had concluded their examination and decided not to ferret among the relics yet. There was time for that — perhaps he’d need to re-examine the pieces in considerable detail when further information about Browning’s murder victim came to light.

  With the impression of the car in his mind, he returned to his office where searches in the various registries had produced no criminal record for James Bowman Browning, James Bowman or any other combination of his names. He did not appear in any of the ‘Wanted’ or ‘Suspected’ lists on the Police National Computer, nor had he been convicted of any crime. He was not even listed as having committed any serious motoring offences. Nonetheless, Pemberton made sure that PC Broadbent would take fingerprints from Browning’s dead hands for ev
entual comparison with all the existing records, with due emphasis upon all unsolved murders and other serious crimes where identifiable prints had been found at the scene.

  He also arranged for Browning’s clothes to be collected and forensically examined for evidence of a killing. Along with a sample for DNA analysis, these steps would help enormously. Having set in motion these routines, Pemberton decided to visit Browning’s flat. He could usefully do this while matters were moderately quiet, and so he rang Detective Inspector David Holroyd and agreed to meet him after lunch, suggesting two o’clock that afternoon at Harlow Spa police station.

  Pemberton arrived on time. Holroyd was a sturdy man in his late thirties; thick, almost auburn hair with handsome curls graced his head, with no sign of balding, and he wore the clothes of a countryman — brown-shaded tweed jacket, cavalry twill trousers, and brogue shoes. A native of West Yorkshire, he’d been in the police service since leaving school and was known as a thorough and diligent detective, hence his rapid promotion.

  He was universally liked, even by his subordinates, and was regarded as a good manager. As the two detectives drove to the flat in Holroyd’s car, Holroyd explained that Browning had never come to the notice of the local police. This meant he was unable to provide any kind of character reference for the man and at this early stage had no details of his background. His officers were doing some discreet work on that, however. Pemberton told him that PC Broadbent of Rainesbury Traffic Department was tracing and contacting relatives, and they might be able to assist. When the two senior detectives arrived at the flat, they saw it was on the ground floor of a detached Victorian house in Hepworth Road, Bleagill, once a village in its own right, but now a pleasant suburb of Harlow Spa.

  Holroyd told Pemberton he’d spoken to the uniformed officer who had visited the flat last night and had obtained the key from him. The officer had left Browning’s address book in the flat, after copying out information about contacts and relatives, and had disturbed things as little as possible. Smiling, Holroyd inserted the key, eased open the door, and said, ‘It’s all yours, sir.’

  ‘You can help me search, David!’ Pemberton told him. ‘I need evidence of his involvement in a murder either recent or not so recent. As you know, we haven’t found a corpse yet, but there could be something else — newspaper cuttings, maybe, names of women, address books, porn videos or books, regular contacts, evidence of odd interests, peculiar souvenirs like bits of hair or underwear, strange hobbies or weird pastimes, you know the sort of thing. Even a weapon — gun, knife, rope — or some means of disguise. Anything, really. The snag is we won’t know what we’re looking for until we find it.’

  ‘I’ll start in the bedroom,’ Holroyd said.

  ‘And I’ll begin with the lounge.’

  After two concentrated hours of searching, their endeavours revealed that Browning was a remarkably tidy man who kept his well-furnished flat in immaculate condition. Much of his furniture was antique or second-hand, but polished and well cared for. With one double bedroom and one single, plus a bathroom, lounge, and kitchen, it was a typical bachelor’s home, functional and tidy, but lacking a woman’s touch. There were no flowers for example, no pretty curtains or floral wallpaper in the bedrooms.

  Nonetheless, the crockery had been washed, dried, and stored, the bed was made, all the surfaces had been dusted, and the floors were clean. The kitchen was functional and tidy too, with a well-stocked fridge and deep freeze (without a body hidden therein). It was impossible to determine, from merely looking at the flat, whether or not he had ever entertained a woman friend, although it did seem he used the double bed, albeit alone. Certainly, the bathroom did not contain any evidence of female presence — there was one toothbrush but no scented soaps, bath essences, body lotions, perfumes, or powder. A man’s bathroom.

  Their visit confirmed that he worked as an account manager for Greenwood’s, that he had a father living in Staffordshire, that his mother had died suddenly just over five years ago, that he was an only child, and that his rent was up to date. They found his personal file, giving his date of birth and showing he was thirty-one years old; from the ages of eighteen to twenty-one, he had attended Swangate College of Media Studies in County Durham but had not attended university. The file contained certificates and a diploma, and a family snapshot, on the back of which was written ‘Mum, Dad, and me, 1982’.

  Another file contained a list of several local charities along with telephone numbers and the names of personal contacts. It seemed that Browning had worked for the charities in his spare time to raise funds and provide active and practical help. Apart from his MG Roadster, about which they found nothing among his belongings, his charity work appeared to be his only outside interest. Judging from some letters of appreciation, it was clear he’d been involved in very useful and welcome work.

  There were no photographs of girlfriends, however, and no indication of any other interest or hobby. Pemberton found it strange that the flat did not contain anything relating to the MG: no registration document or MOT certificate, no photograph of Browning with his car, no papers or notices about forthcoming rallies or vintage car club membership. If he was an enthusiast, those were the sort of things Pemberton would have expected him to have.

  Browning kept all his other personal and professional papers in a system of neat file jackets stored in a two-drawer filing cabinet in the spare bedroom, a wonderful aid to the detectives. But skilled as they were at locating concealed items, neither Pemberton nor Holroyd found anything remotely connected with a murder investigation, nor did they find anything to suggest that Browning lived a seedy, criminal, or secret life. The clothes in his wardrobe and drawers were clean and neatly ordered; all the pockets were searched without revealing anything useful to the detectives.

  ‘I’m coming to the conclusion he must have committed his murder just before he crashed,’ mused Pemberton. ‘There’s absolutely nothing here to suggest he’s a killer. Maybe it was a spontaneous killing? If so, there’s a body awaiting discovery somewhere out there.’

  ‘I agree there’s nothing remotely suspicious among his belongings. He’s as clean as the proverbial whistle.’

  Pemberton pondered the lack of MG material, ‘There’s nothing of real interest at all. He seems to have lived a very quiet, ordinary, and rather mundane life. Lonely, even. I wonder if he had another flat or house somewhere? A double life, in other words.’

  ‘That’s possible. Have we any idea where he’d been last night?’

  ‘He’d been to see a business client; I’m having that confirmed at Greenwood’s,’ Pemberton said. ‘I’d imagine a PR executive would operate across a wide area with considerable freedom so we might have difficulty tracing all his movements.’

  ‘Sir, is all this really necessary?’ Holroyd asked suddenly. ‘There is absolutely nothing to suggest this man is a criminal, let alone a murderer.’

  ‘I believe we must follow it through, David,’ Pemberton said quietly. ‘Remember he did confess to murder. And consider what we’ve just learned — there’s nothing to indicate he killed anyone a long time ago, and that makes me believe his crime is recent. It might even have contributed to his crash, a lack of concentration while brooding over what he’d done, perhaps. That’s feasible if the murder was totally out of character…’

  ‘You’ve no evidence of that either, sir.’

  ‘No, but it might explain the car crash and his ready confession the moment he saw the priest.’

  ‘Suicide, you mean?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I saw the brake lights come on. But I do wonder if his concentration was not one hundred per cent as he tore into that corner. If he had killed someone, even accidentally, I can imagine it would adversely affect his driving, it would be far from normal. You must agree it’s a thought, David.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll go along with that. I can even imagine a sensitive person considering himself a murderer if the death he’d caused was accidental, say a fatal traffi
c accident. Such a person could let the guilt get to him. It happens to car drivers and train drivers who are innocently involved in fatalities. But in spite of all this conjecture, there’s not much we can do unless a body turns up, is there?’ Holroyd smiled.

  ‘True. And there isn’t one yet. Now for another question. How did his mother die, do we know that?’

  ‘The obituary in that cutting from the local paper didn’t say — it said she died suddenly, aged forty-five. Did he kill her? Is that what you’re thinking?’

  ‘We do need to know how she died, don’t we,’ said Pemberton. ‘It might have some bearing on his confession. And I’d like Scenes of Crime to give this flat a going-over before the relatives arrive. They might find things we’ve missed such as cleared-up blood or semen stains, visitors’ fingerprints perhaps. Other evidence.’

  ‘I’ll attend to that; it’s on my patch,’ said Holroyd. ‘Shall I trace the people in his address book or are you going to do that, sir?’

  ‘Leave that with me,’ said Pemberton. ‘It’ll help me trace his recent movements. We mustn’t overlook the possibility that he might have killed someone miles away from our force boundaries.’

  ‘We’re checking other force areas, are we?’

  ‘We are. I’ve asked all UK police forces for lists of unsolved murders of women within the last fifteen years — other than the Sandal Strangler killings. They’re the work of a serial killer — our man admitted just one. But a list of victims will be a starting point. Now, I think a chat with his landlord is called for.’

  The landlord, a retired seaman called Samuel Brooke, said that James Browning was an ideal tenant. He had been in the ground-floor flat for about five years and Brooke had no criticism of him. Browning always paid his rent on time, he kept the place tidy and clean and never gave cause for complaint, such as playing loud music or having noisy parties. Brooke had never seen people visiting Browning and confirmed that his tenant led a very quiet and secluded life. There was no garage with the flat, Brooke explained upon being asked by Pemberton, but there was a hardstanding beside the building which all the tenants, including Browning, used for their cars. Everything that Browning rented could be reached from inside his flat — two bedrooms, a bathroom and toilet, kitchen and lounge. Brooke could add very little about his quiet tenant and expressed genuine sorrow at his death; Pemberton told Mr Brooke that his father was being contacted, adding that in due course he would be asked to take responsibility for the flat and its contents. The detectives left, Holroyd taking the key and deciding to leave the flat sealed until Scenes of Crime had conducted their more scientific examination.