Confession (The Mark Pemberton Cases Book 3)

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘On the sea-front. His car was in a car park not far away, he met her on the fish quay, near the telephone kiosk there, and they walked to his car then drove out here. It didn’t look like a pre-arranged meeting, sir — it was a pick-up, I’m sure. Denise was touting for business where buses hired by men’s outings discharge their passengers. She’s often there; the Vice Squad know her well. He came along, they chatted and soon came to an agreement. She’s got a supper out of this punter. That’s style!’

  ‘He knew where to find her, you think?’

  ‘He knew where to find a prostitute, sir. I couldn’t say whether he picked this one deliberately or whether she happened to be the first that came along.’

  ‘It seems as if he likes to entertain prostitutes as if they’re his friends,’ Pemberton remarked. ‘I’d have thought he would have taken her to his room at the hotel.’

  ‘Most of the hotels know the local pros, sir, and the receptionists alert their management if they see a punter take one of the girls inside. It seems Dawlish knows the routine so far as local hotels and inns are concerned, so he makes his own arrangements.’

  ‘Or else he favours the open air for his bit of fun! So what about his room at the hotel? Can we have that searched while he’s out?’

  ‘Yes, sir, it’s being searched now; we’ve got access, thanks to one of our lads being well known to the manager. He’ll never know we’ve been.’

  ‘Good. Let’s hope we can find something to link him with the scenes of the murders. If you’ve any problems, give me a signal. Just walk out to the Gents or take the path back to the riverside car park — I’ve parked along there. I’ll follow you.’

  ‘No problem, sir. We’ll be fine — you enjoy your night off. Shall I report to you when it’s all over?’

  ‘Yes, I should be home by eleven. I’ve some reading to do before tomorrow morning, but yes, give me a call. I’d like to know the outcome of tonight’s efforts.’

  And so they parted.

  Their return to the bar went unnoticed by Dawlish and Denise; they were in earnest conversation over their meal and showed no interest in the activities around them. In many ways, they were like a courting couple, not in the least suspicious and not attracting the attention of the other customers. By this time, more people had arrived and the public areas were noisy and busy. Pemberton rejoined Lorraine, refilled her glass, placed his order then settled for a soft drink as he was driving.

  ‘I don’t think they want me to get involved in this observation,’ he told her, knowing he’d not be overheard by Dawlish.

  ‘I should think not, Mark Pemberton! It’s their task, not yours! They’re specialists. They won’t want you poking your nose in — you might make a mess of things! Or you might inadvertently alert Dawlish. So leave them to it! You’re off duty anyway. If we hadn’t come here tonight, you’d have known nothing about this exercise until tomorrow, by which time it will be all over! So, most definitely, you are not needed here!’

  ‘But if Dawlish has intentions of harming that young woman—’

  ‘Your highly professional team of observers will make sure he doesn’t! And if he gets close enough to try anything, they’ll deal with him. But he’s not due to murder anyone just now, is he? So no more about Dawlish — your supper’s here!’

  Later, as they tucked into their first course, Dawlish, in a loud and somewhat artificial upper-crust accent, ordered sweets and coffee for himself and Denise, then asked the waitress if he could be presented with his bill and also if he could have a VAT receipt.

  And quite clearly, Pemberton heard him say, ‘Dawlish. The name’s Dawlish. You’ll find I’m running an account — put these on it, please.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Dawlish,’ she smiled.

  ‘Are you full-time here, or is this just an evening job?’ He smiled at the pretty waitress, a girl of about nineteen with blonde hair in a pony tail. His voice was so loud that most of the customers could hear his conversation whether or not they wanted to.

  ‘Part-time,’ she said. ‘I work in an office in town during the day. I’m saving up for a holiday in Crete.’

  ‘Nice place,’ he said. ‘I hope you get what you want. To get what you want in this world, you’ve got to make a few sacrifices and work hard, so here’s a tip to help you,’ and he dug into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and gave her a five pound note.

  ‘But you shouldn’t, it’s too much—’

  ‘Nonsense! You’ve looked after us so well,’ he said smoothly, ‘I wish I got this kind of service where I come from. So see to our sweets and drinks, get me my receipt when we’ve finished, and have a great time in Crete!’

  ‘Oh, thank you, sir, thank you, yes I will,’ and she trotted off to obey his orders.

  ‘That’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?’ Lorraine grimaced. ‘I was expecting him to ask if she did modelling work or fancied taking part in a film he’s making…’

  ‘That would have been over the top, and she’d have realised it. I’m sure she’s heard every chat-up line there is, working in a place like this. But he didn’t do it to please her or to get her to agree to a date. He did it to establish his presence here tonight.’ Pemberton licked his lips after tasting his medium-rare steak. ‘As a result of that performance, that waitress will remember him.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Lorraine leaned forward to hear him above the buzz of conversation.

  ‘Dawlish.’ He leaned forward too, to respond. ‘He’s just made a great play of getting his receipt, mentioning his name, and giving a large tip.’

  ‘Lots of business people do that,’ she reminded him. ‘They need VAT receipts if they’re here on business, and they tip lavishly.’

  ‘Yes, but in his case, it’s different. He’s established an alibi, hasn’t he? The waitress will remember him, and he’ll have a piece of paper bearing today’s date and the name of the pub. That’ll support him should anyone ask where he was tonight.’

  ‘You think he’s doing this deliberately?’

  ‘It depends upon whether he’s intent on killing that girl he’s with,’ Pemberton said. ‘He won’t kill her tonight, that’s for sure. Too many witnesses have seen him in this pub with her, and he’s made sure his visit — their joint visit — will be remembered.’

  ‘I don’t follow your reasoning, Mark.’ She frowned as she enjoyed her salmon.

  His voice was lost in the hubbub and indiscernible to anyone but Lorraine as he said, ‘I’ll give an example. Suppose he was planning to kill her tomorrow night, Saturday. Take her off in his MG, drive out into the countryside, and rape and murder her.’

  ‘Go on,’ she invited.

  ‘And some time later, days, weeks, or even months, someone comes forward to the police to say the girl was seen with him in his red MG, driving away towards the countryside…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘So, if the police track him down and question him about it, he’ll admit he was with her. He would not deny it, he can even prove he’s been to the Black Otter with her because that waitress, with her five pound tip, will remember that lovely Mr Dawlish…If she works Saturday and Sunday evenings too, there’s a chance she might not remember which date the kind Mr Dawlish tipped her and talked about Crete. But she will remember him and the fact he was here; she won’t remember the day or the date. If he does not produce his receipt to the police, and if the enquiry is made in three or six months’ time, what’s the betting Dawlish could persuade us, or his defence counsel, or a jury, that he had been in the pub at whatever time he wanted us to believe. The waitress would swear on oath that she remembered him, even if she could not remember the day or date. So, at some distant time in the future, he could admit being here with Denise, if it’s in his interest to do so, and he has documentary evidence to support it, plus the waitress. And it’s also evidence that the girl was alive late in the evening…he’ll also gather evidence of the time of his return to the hotel tonight. A chat with the barman or receptionist or even a guest will help es
tablish that. And there’s the distinctive red car too. People will remember seeing that, but might not be quite certain when they saw it, especially if they’re asked months or even years later. So Dawlish has laid the foundations for an alibi, should he ever want to use it, and however he wants to use it. Or if he wants a specific date, he’s got the receipt.’

  ‘So you are saying he intends to kill Denise tomorrow?’

  ‘No. I’m not saying that. I think he sets up alibis wherever he goes — there are times he likes to cover his tracks. What I am saying is that if he did kill her tomorrow and was quizzed by the police, he could admit being with her tonight when she was alive. If any witnesses said they’d seen him with Denise at any other time, he could suggest they’d got their dates wrong. But she’s not going to die tonight, my example is hypothetical; she’ll be returned home safe and sound and she will be alive in the morning.’

  ‘Mark,’ she studied him closely now, ‘are you saying this is what he might have done for all those murders? Carefully set up a false alibi?’

  ‘At this stage, we don’t know, but I think it’s part of his continuing routine. On the other hand, this weekend is different; he’s lost a friend so he’ll be in a different state of mind. His behaviour could change. No suspects have been interviewed which means that no alibis have been put forward, but it would be interesting to see what stories he does tell, if we can ever get him to talk. He’s clearly arrogant and very sure of himself; if he is a killer, it will be a difficult task to prove it, particularly after the passage of so much time. There is every likelihood that he’s constantly putting up smoke screens to baffle anyone who might ask about those movements he wishes to conceal.’

  Just before ten o’clock, Dawlish and Denise made their move. He left his table and called in a loud, braying voice to the man behind the bar, ‘Thank you so much — it was a delicious meal! I shall return!’

  And he swept out with Denise, smiling.

  ‘Is she wearing sandals?’ asked Pemberton, unable to see her feet.

  ‘Yes, golden-coloured ones,’ Lorraine told him after peering through the crowds.

  Such interest in the departing couple was not unusual, in view of their overtly staged departure. Gary Watson and Gillian Barber, having paid their bill a long time ago, also made their move; Pemberton could see Watson talking but could not discern his words, yet he knew he was speaking into his throat microphone. The rest of Dawlish’s evening would be observed and reported upon.

  ‘Now we can relax,’ Lorraine said. ‘I think I’ll have another glass of wine, as you’re driving!’

  They returned home shortly after ten thirty, with Pemberton settling down to his reading as Lorraine prepared a nightcap apiece. And shortly after eleven, before he’d completed his work, Detective Sergeant Watson rang.

  ‘All clear, sir,’ he told Pemberton. ‘They went into the woods where they attempted sex, we think, and then he took her home. He dropped her off about ten minutes ago and returned to his hotel, alone. He popped into the bar for a quick nightcap and a chat with the barman, and now he’s gone to his room.’

  ‘There is a night watch on him, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes, sir, all through the night. He can’t move an inch without us knowing.’

  ‘And a search of his car? Can that be done?’

  ‘We’ll see to that, sir, he’ll never know we’ve been.’

  ‘Good, and tomorrow and Sunday we’ll have to maintain our observations on him while Grant and Black dig deeper into his background. Now, has anything interesting been found in his room?’

  ‘Apparently not, sir. He travels light. There’s a dark suit, presumably for the funeral on Monday, and a few changes of clothes, hiking boots, fairly new, summer wear mainly but nothing else of interest. He carries his wallet with him, of course, containing things like his credit cards and personal effects.’

  ‘Okay, it was a good try. Now, it’s time for some more reading before I turn in. Goodnight, Gary. I’ll address the troops tomorrow.’

  With the morning conference of detectives scheduled for ten o’clock on Saturday, Pemberton had plenty of time to marshal his thoughts before addressing them. There would be a news conference too, immediately following the detectives’ briefing; the reports would need to be brought as up to date with the story as possible for the Sunday papers. Although a good deal of progress had been made, little if any of it could be transmitted to the media. Fortunately, no newspaper had picked up on the story that a serial killer might be responsible and that Debbie’s savage death had parallels in other parts of Britain over a period of ten years. The problem facing Pemberton that morning, after last night’s careful perusal of the data already gathered, was that there was no further evidence to implicate Dawlish.

  Last night’s encounter, however, had produced another possibility — that Dawlish had selected his victims in advance, had taken the trouble to establish an alibi for potential future use, and had given sufficient thought to his macabre work to convince anyone that he was not guilty. If Denise was murdered tonight, therefore, could Dawlish be considered a suspect, simply because he’d bought her a meal in the Black Otter on Friday? And paid her for sex — or attempted sex.

  In addressing his officers, Pemberton began with Lorraine’s hypothesis that Browning might have spent his weekends working for charities in or near his home town; one of today’s actions was to determine precisely what charity work Browning did during the weekends. Pemberton asked his officers to be discreet and, if possible, not to give any hint that Browning might be a suspect for the murder of Debbie Hall. If questioned for a reason, they were to say it was part of the overall elimination process.

  He then told the gathering of last night’s sighting of Dawlish with Denise.

  ‘Whichever of them is the killer, I think we have a superior and dedicated villain here, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I believe he considers himself beyond our reach. I believe that after ten years, he thinks he has perfected a system of murder without the likelihood of detection. So with that in mind, please continue your enquiries. I think we need to examine in detail the events for two or three days prior to the disappearance of Debbie Hall. We still need to tie in the absences of Browning and Dawlish from their homes to establish whether one or both were at the scenes of the crimes, or had dealings with the murdered prostitutes, at some time prior to the assumed time of death. This might help us to place one or other at the scenes…’

  He went on to say that Lorraine Cashmore would re-examine Detective Inspector Kirkdale’s files on all the Sandal Stranglings with the same objectives in mind. Perhaps, hidden somewhere among the mass of detail, was a vital clue which would lead to the killer or killers.

  Then there was a telephone call from Dawlish’s team of watchers.

  ‘He’s leaving the hotel and heading for the town, sir, on foot.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hugh Dawlish’s closely monitored trip into town turned out to be nothing more sinister than a visit to a florist to order a wreath for the funeral. Having selected the style and flowers, he wandered down to the foreshore, bought a copy of the Guardian and went into a sea-front cafe for a cup of coffee and a chocolate biscuit. Meanwhile, his car remained at his hotel as teams of detectives continued to observe and report upon his movements; that car had been searched last night, the strangler’s rope being the chief objective, but no such length of rope had been found there.

  Following the morning conference of detectives, Pemberton’s teams had gone their separate ways, all charged with the completion of specific actions. One team was now looking into Browning’s charitable activities at Harlow Spa while others were repeating their efforts to place him — and Dawlish — at the actual scenes of the murders. All had a lot of work to complete, tedious to some extent, but very necessary.

  In the incident room, the morning’s work was also under way but, if anything, the tempo had decreased. Now, much of the emphasis was upon the presence and motives
of Hugh Dawlish; reports of his activities in town were logged in the official records of the murder investigation. Apart from a brief burst of apparent sexual activity last night, his behaviour seemed extremely ordinary and even mundane, hardly the stuff of a mass murderer. But such chores form the major proportion of any major investigation and the surveillance work had to be endured.

  Pemberton knew that his officers would maintain their efficiency in spite of any lapses into boredom while he took the opportunity to reread his summary of facts about the Sandal Strangler. It was later, during a lull in the activities of the incident room, that Lorraine brewed a coffee for herself and Pemberton and took the mugs into his room.

  ‘Coffee, sir.’ She took care to address him formally.

  ‘Thanks. I need a break from this headwork…I think there’s more concentrated reading to be done in a murder enquiry than there is swotting for a promotion exam! And it’s about the same degree of intensity. So how’s it going, Lorraine? Found any references to our suspects in Kirkdale’s files?’

  ‘I didn’t come about that, but funnily enough, yes, I think so. I haven’t finished scanning them yet, but in two cases, a long time ago, witnesses reported seeing a red-haired young man talking to the murdered prostitutes on the day they vanished. He has never been traced or identified but because each was seen alive afterwards, he was never regarded as a serious suspect. There was no report of a red car, though.’

  ‘Maybe that was before Browning bought his MG?’ Pemberton suggested. ‘He didn’t acquire his present car until 1991.’

  ‘Yes, it was. One of the murders was in the Lake District at Rusthwaite in 1989 — the murder of a Lancaster prostitute called Toni Petch. She was seen by a cafe owner on a Friday evening around eight o’clock, talking to a red-headed man in Ambleside. Because he wasn’t the last person to see her alive, though, he wasn’t considered a prime suspect.’