Confession (The Mark Pemberton Cases Book 3)

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘Not to our knowledge, Mr Browning, but I did want to meet his family. I feel very involved in this tragedy and wanted to know more about James. I’m sure it would help PC Broadbent too, in preparing his paperwork for the inquest. Now, PC Broadbent, can you help with the latest on the testing of the car?’

  ‘Yes, sir. James’s car was burnt out after the accident, after your son had been released from it, Mr Browning — by Mr Pemberton, I ought to add. There was extensive damage. It meant our examiners had very little to work on; all we can say at this stage is that the brakes appear to have failed and we are making further tests to determine whether or not that was the case. It was an old car, as you know, and didn’t have a dual braking system.’

  ‘I suppose there’s always a risk,’ said Mr Browning.

  ‘I ought to say that I have no reason to suspect sabotage.’ Pemberton sought to reassure Mr Browning. ‘It does seem to have been a straightforward mechanical failure. We have no evidence that he had enemies, Mr Browning — unless you know something to the contrary?’ Pemberton seized this opportunity to begin a line of positive questioning, the sort expected from a detective.

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ said Mr Browning. ‘He was very involved with his PR work and was very highly regarded in that respect. Because he rarely came home, I wasn’t fully aware of his activities in this area and don’t think he had antagonised anyone, although I know very little about his friends and business contacts. Even so, I had no reason to think he’d got himself involved in anything unlawful, drugs, stolen cars, that sort of thing. He did come to see me occasionally, once every three months or so. He was a quiet lad, Mr Pemberton, although he’d been quite lively as a youngster and in his teens. He seemed to become quieter as he matured; in fact, there were times I’d say he was withdrawn, morose almost. But he never provided us, me, with an explanation and never grumbled. He rarely mentioned his activities in this part of the world, except to tell me about some of the big accounts he’d won or the vintage car rallies he attended. His car was his hobby, you see, he’d always wanted an old MG Roadster and leapt at the chance to buy that one.’

  ‘He’s had it a while?’ asked Lorraine.

  ‘A few years, I’m not sure how long. He bought it from a friend, Hugh Dawlish. Even at college, he used to attend rallies, with his friends. That’s when his interest in the marque developed, although it was a long time before he could afford one of his own. Once he was earning enough money, he bought his beloved vintage MG. I do know he was very proud of his little car.’

  ‘Did he go to university?’ asked Pemberton, knowing the answer but wanting to gain this man’s confidence and get him talking.

  ‘No, it was a college. The Swangate College of Media Studies near Durham. He did well, he had an aptitude for publicity and advertising and was good at copy writing. He made a lot of friends during his course. Afterwards, he kept in touch with most of his friends, that was one of his strengths.’

  ‘Male and female friends?’ asked Lorraine.

  ‘Oh, yes. He had girlfriends and men friends. He was not gay, Mr Pemberton, although he never married. He did some charitable work too — he took after his mother in that. That, his work, and his car kept him occupied. He enjoyed his role in public relations and did work hard for his success, putting in some long hours. I think he was hoping he’d be made a partner, but that hasn’t happened yet…maybe if he’d…’

  He wiped a tear from his eye and smiled apologetically at the police officers, then continued, ‘He kept out of trouble at college, Mr Pemberton. No drugs, political demonstrations, wildness of any kind. He just worked for his diploma. He wanted to please us, his mother especially. She died a few years ago — a heart attack. He was devastated but he did make her proud of him before she died. He was our only child, we couldn’t have more…but he fulfilled all our hopes. He was a lovely son, a lovely lad, I just wish he’d lived to provide me with a grandson or granddaughter…’

  More tears came from Mr Browning as Lorraine looked at Pemberton, signalling that in her opinion it was time to end their discussion. Pemberton left his seat and placed a friendly hand on Mr Browning’s shoulder.

  ‘Thanks for talking to us,’ he said. ‘We feel we know James much better now. I wanted to say I’m sorry we were unable to save his life.’

  ‘I know you did your best, PC Broadbent told me. Thank you for that.’

  ‘Is there anything we can do for you now, Mr Browning? Anything you wish to know?’

  ‘There’s the inquest this afternoon, I believe?’

  Broadbent answered. ‘Not the full inquest, Mr Browning, that comes later. It will be in a few weeks’ time. This afternoon, though, we — you and I, that is — will be attending the opening of the inquest at half-past three. It’s a formality, Mr Browning, where you state to the coroner that you have identified the victim as your son. That’s all you have to do today. The coroner will give you a certificate which you take to the undertaker and that allows the funeral to go ahead. He’ll then adjourn the inquest until further notice; that gives us time to complete our investigations into the cause of the accident and make a full assessment of the tests on the car.’

  ‘I see, thank you. And James’s personal effects? The contents of his flat?’

  ‘Do we need further access to the flat, sir?’ asked Broadbent of Pemberton. ‘Or can I give the key to Mr Browning?’

  ‘I think we have just about finished with it, PC Broadbent. You can hand Mr Browning the key then he can decide what to do with the furniture, clothing, and so on. We did visit the flat earlier, Mr Browning, in our efforts to trace yourself and James’s friends. I felt you ought to know that.’

  ‘I understand. I shall be staying in the area for a few days,’ Browning told them. ‘There will be a lot of things to do, the funeral arrangements and so on. You can contact me at my hotel,’ and he scribbled the address and telephone number on a piece of paper.

  ‘When you’ve finished your commitments,’ PC Broadbent said, ‘we have a few other personal belongings of your son’s. They were in his car. We’d like you to collect them whenever it’s convenient.’

  ‘Thank you, I’ll get in touch before I leave the area.’

  And so the interview, such as it was, was over. Pemberton shook Mr Browning’s hand before he was led away by PC Broadbent, and then, with Lorraine at his side, he returned to his own office.

  ‘What did you make of that?’ Mark asked Lorraine as they made their way through the corridors.

  ‘It looks as though young Mr Browning has managed to keep one side of his life very secret from his parents. They think the sun shone out of him,’ said Lorraine. ‘But after what Mr Browning senior said, I still feel we do not really know his son.’

  ‘He sounds like a bit of a cold fish,’ Pemberton grimaced.

  ‘Yes, very dutiful and not a lot of fun. Rather deep, I’d say. Morose almost.’

  ‘The sort who would commit murder, or a series of murders?’ Pemberton asked her as they arrived at his office.

  ‘He’s displayed some of the characteristics of a serial killer,’ she agreed. ‘So what happens next?’

  He led her inside and continued, ‘I need to find out what Scenes of Crime discovered in the flat and I want to have words with the boss of the firm he worked for. And it will be interesting to see what our teams turn up in their first foray in this murder investigation.’

  ‘We don’t know who our local victim is yet, do we?’

  ‘We should know soon, the morning radio and television news will have featured the crime. If anyone’s missing, their family or friends should have contacted front office.’

  ‘So shall we go down to the incident room now to see if there’s been any developments?’ suggested Lorraine.

  There had been a welcome development. Someone had called Rainesbury police about a missing woman. As a direct result of local media publicity, Linda Butterfield had called to say she hadn’t seen her friend, Debbie Hall, for two or three
days. Her call had been transferred to the incident room where Inspector Larkin had responded.

  ‘Can you describe Debbie?’ he had asked gently.

  ‘Dark auburn hair, thick and always clean; she’s not very tall and had a reddish dress on.’

  ‘Age?’ Larkin had asked.

  ‘Same as me, twenty-five.’

  ‘Colour of her eyes? Did she wear a lot of make-up? Stockings or tights?’

  ‘Brown eyes, not much make-up, no. No stockings, not in summer…’

  As he’d chatted, he’d known even from that brief description that she’d been describing the victim who was then lying in the mortuary. He’d said, ‘Linda, we need someone to come and look at the girl we mentioned on the news. You know she’s dead — she’s in the mortuary at the hospital. I do hope it’s not your friend, but can you come and have a look at her? To tell us if it is her?’

  ‘She has a mum and dad, but I don’t know where they live. Leeds, I think, or mebbe Bradford.’

  ‘We need someone now, Linda. Just to look at her face and tell us if it’s Debbie. It’s very important. We can send a car to bring you, a plain car.’

  There was a long pause before the caller said, ‘Yeh, right. If it is her, she’d want me to do it. 15a, Daker Place.’

  Half an hour later, Linda Butterfield was standing outside the mortuary at the District Hospital with two women detectives at her side. She was a short, fat young woman with dirty hair, hardly the sort who would appeal to the sexual appetite of most men. Nonetheless, she was one of the town’s busy prostitutes. One of the detectives, Detective Constable Unwin, had told Linda what to expect, explaining how the facial features were distorted and that it would not be a pretty sight.

  ‘Ready, Linda?’ asked Detective Constable Unwin.

  ‘Ready as I ever shall be,’ was the response.

  Inside, she was taken to a clinically white slab in the centre of a bare, tiled room that smelt of disinfectant. On top of the slab lay a figure beneath an all-embracing white sheet and beside it stood a sombre man in a green gown, the mortuary attendant.

  ‘Right, George,’ said DC Unwin.

  Slowly, he peeled back the portion of sheet that covered the head and face of the dead woman; her features were grossly distorted but Linda did not flinch. She studied the face and the hair, and whispered, ‘It’s her…God, it is her. It’s Debbie. Now let me out…God, I need some fresh air…’ and she began to sob.

  ‘Thanks, George,’ said DC Gibson, the second detective, as the sheet was replaced and the body prepared for return to the refrigerated cabinet.

  ‘I’ll need a statement from you,’ said DC Unwin, catching up with the hurrying Linda and putting a friendly arm around her shoulders.

  ‘That’s great news,’ Pemberton said when he learned of the identification. ‘So we need to trace all Debbie’s recent movements and contacts. DC Unwin and DC Gibson — an action for you. Talk to Linda Butterfield and her other friends and colleagues. How much they’ll tell you remains to be seen, but we need a comprehensive profile of the dead girl and details of her regular clients — the lot in fact. And the name and address of her parents if you can establish that. Have a word with West Yorkshire police, Leeds or Bradford areas. They’ll try to find her parents; there’s probably a lot of people over there called Hall.’

  As the victim’s name was written on the blackboard in the incident room, Pemberton knew it would provide the extra impetus required by any murder investigation.

  Pemberton spoke to Inspector Larkin.

  ‘Paul, it seems our victim could have parents living in West Yorkshire. I don’t think we should publicise her name in the media until we’ve done everything to trace them and notify them. But tell the teams. If Debbie Hall was active around town, the uniformed branch might know her, some of their patrols might have seen her with her killer. I just hope the ladies of the night will speak to our teams. Sometimes a crime like this makes them all speechless.’

  ‘I’ll put three of our best teams on that task, sir. We’ll check every detail of her life. I’m sure we’ll get some feedback.’

  ‘Good. It could lead to her killer. Things are moving nicely. Now, Paul, any other developments?’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘There’s a Mr Greenwood to see you, sir,’ responded Larkin. ‘Gordon Greenwood.’

  ‘What about?’ asked Pemberton.

  ‘The murder enquiry, he’s most insistent.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He’s James Browning’s boss, owner of the PR company for which he worked. Greenwood’s of Harlow Spa. By coincidence, he’s in Rainesbury today on business. He’s often here, he told me — he’s got several clients in town. He rang on his mobile phone a few minutes ago, when you were with Mr Browning senior. He can come straight away, before he returns to Harlow Spa.’

  ‘Well, I did want a word with him in due course, so I reckon he’s saved me a drive to Harlow Spa. But I don’t understand why he wants to see me, there’s been no public link between Browning’s death and the murder…’

  ‘Yes, I appreciate that, sir, but he heard your name on the radio. He’s very insistent…’

  ‘But is he linking Browning with the murder enquiry? If so, why? That’s what I want to know. We’ve never openly linked Browning’s accident with the murder and we don’t want any publicity about that. So what’s he up to?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir, all I know is that he insists on talking to you in person.’

  ‘All right, Paul, I’ll do it on the grounds I want to see him anyway.’ Pemberton sighed. ‘Tell him to come as soon as he can. Let’s get it over with.’

  Greenwood arrived quarter of an hour later. A large man with a military bearing, he was dressed in grey flannels and a smart blazer with a badge on the pocket, a white shirt and dark striped tie. He strode purposefully into Pemberton’s office and extended his hand.

  ‘Good of you to see me without an appointment, Superintendent.’ He plonked himself on a chair before Pemberton’s desk. ‘What a dreadful thing to happen. Poor James. A good man, you know, a very good operative and an asset to our company. Dreadful news. Every member of my staff — and most of my clients — are devastated, I can tell you.’

  ‘Mr Greenwood, my colleague said you wished to talk to me about the murder enquiry that is currently under way. I ought to stress it has never been linked to your Mr Browning.’

  ‘Exactly what I wanted to hear you say, Superintendent. That kind of thug, a murderer, working for my company — it could be ruinous. Imagine how it could affect my business if my clients thought I was the sort of chap who’d hired a killer or a rogue of any kind. I came to tell you I want the rumours halted, you see—’

  ‘Rumours?’

  ‘Well, yes, in view of what you’ve just told me. Maybe you hadn’t heard?’

  ‘Heard what, Mr Greenwood? I must confess I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘Let me explain. I was to meet a client over lunch at the Rainecliffe Hotel. I arrived in good time and was enjoying an aperitif in the bar when I overheard some people gossiping. And gossiping is exactly the right word to use. They said the body of a woman had been found in some local woods and that the driver who’d committed suicide in his sports car had done it. Now, I can’t see how such a tale has got around, Mr Pemberton, but I assure you that our Mr Browning is no killer, nor is he the sort of man to commit suicide. I felt I had to come straight here to you and make my feelings known. Your name was mentioned, you see, as the officer in charge of the investigation. I have — I had — the greatest respect for Mr Browning and in fact he was well on the way to becoming a partner in my business. I can recognise quality, Mr Pemberton, I’m not the sort of man who would appoint a wrong ’un to a senior post in my organisation. That’s why I am here — to ask you to halt those wild rumours.’

  ‘Mr Greenwood,’ Pemberton interrupted him, ‘Mr Browning did not commit suicide. I am convinced of that. I actually witnessed the accident
and am fairly certain that his car suffered a catastrophic brake failure. Clearly, experts are testing the car and its components, and their report is awaited. I am confident they will reveal brake failure as the cause of the accident, not suicide.’

  ‘But is he under consideration as a suspect for the murder of that woman? I did hear the local news, Mr Pemberton, on my car radio. I do know you have had a murder reported.’

  ‘Yes, there is a murder investigation under way in the town.’

  ‘Exactly. And the news report did refer to the inquest on James Browning at the same time as the latest on the murder—’

  ‘The murder is that of a prostitute, Mr Greenwood. I can confirm that, and although there is no prime suspect, everyone is a suspect in a murder investigation. That means that if your Mr Browning was known to have been in the vicinity at the time of the woman’s death, then we shall have to investigate him very thoroughly, for elimination purposes. I stress that point. We do know he was in town on Tuesday evening, prior to his accident. He was meeting a client. That means he is no different from many other people we have to eliminate from our enquiries and it does not imply he is under suspicion. I am sure you realise that most detection work in murder cases involves the elimination of suspects, dozens of them in some cases. If it’s any consolation to you, I have to say that I have no evidence to link him to the murder, nor is there anything to suggest he was at the scene of the woman’s death. Most certainly I have not authorised any news release which would even hint that he was a suspect.’