Confession (The Mark Pemberton Cases Book 3)

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘Yes, sir, of course.’

  Sitting alone in his office upon the departure of Sergeant Browne, Pemberton wondered how or why Browning had come to commit that solitary murder and then realised Dawlish might know the answer. It was increasingly necessary that Dawlish be brought in for interrogation earlier than Pemberton had intended although it was something he still resisted. But he might have to capitulate.

  It was during these contemplations that Lorraine returned, shaking her head.

  ‘Father Flynn refuses to reveal what Browning said,’ she sighed as she sat at his desk. ‘He was charming about it, but there is absolutely no way he will reveal anything said to him by the dying man. He asked me to express his regret at being unable to help us — I did explain about the Sandal Stranglings and said we wished to eliminate Browning from those, if we could, but not even that would make him change his mind. Sorry, sir,’ and she used his formal address because Inspector Larkin was heading towards the office.

  ‘Thanks, Lorraine, it was a good try.’

  Larkin smiled at her and said, ‘Don’t go, Lorraine, there’s been a follow-up to your efforts this morning. Both the Ambleside cafe owner and the waitress near Otterburn are still employed at the same places; the local constabularies showed them the e-mails of Browning in full colour and both said they can’t be certain, but it is possible that was the man seen with the prostitutes before they died.’

  ‘I just don’t know what to make of all this,’ Pemberton said. ‘Sit down, Paul, and you, Lorraine, and listen to what Sergeant Browne has just told me.’

  He outlined Browning’s charitable work, along with his thoughts about the feasibility of such a man committing murder and rape.

  ‘It is possible, sir,’ Lorraine said in due course. ‘Wasn’t there an American serial killer who worked for the Samaritans or a similar group, and did a wonderful job, even though he’d already committed countless murders?’

  ‘Ted Bundy,’ Pemberton recalled. ‘He was good-looking, well educated, intelligent, well groomed, universally liked, efficient — but a ruthless killer nonetheless. I’m not sure Browning is in that league.’

  ‘There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be,’ countered Larkin.

  ‘If it’s the likes of Bundy with whom we are making comparisons, then I would guess it’s Dawlish who’s more like him — confident, clever, articulate, cunning…’

  ‘So it’s time to bring him in, sir?’ suggested Larkin, not for the first time.

  ‘I was coming around to that decision myself,’ admitted Pemberton. ‘But let’s wait until this evening, until the teams have all reported in. If we have no further information that’s useful, I’ll have him in, for interrogation, stressing that it’s for elimination purposes.’

  By the end of that day’s enquiries, no further information of relevance had been produced by the teams of detectives; as always, so much of their work had resulted in negative statements. So far as the murder of Debbie Hall was concerned, people had seen nothing, knew nothing, and weren’t able to help the police in any way. Pemberton felt it was due to the fact that the woman came from Rainesbury and had apparently gone for a walk with a man in a wood at Crayton, something lots of Rainesbury people did from time to time. The snag was that Debbie was fairly well known in the town, albeit among a small sector of the population, but in rural Crayton no one knew her, hence she was regarded as nothing more than another visitor going for a walk — and as such as was virtually invisible to observers.

  In spite of detailed and intense enquiries, no one had come forward to say they had been in Crayton Mill Wood that weekend; no poachers had been traced, neither had any fishermen, ramblers, or bird-watchers. Debbie’s visit had not been observed; no red open cars had been noticed in or near the car park and the total result of the few days’ enquiries was very poor.

  Journalists came for their four o’clock news conference hoping for some dramatic news that would appeal to the Sunday papers, but nothing was forthcoming. ‘Is an arrest pending?’ asked one journalist, the question being necessary because if an arrest had been made, or was imminent, then speculative reporting of the case could not proceed due to the laws on contempt. Pemberton assured them that, so far as he knew, no arrest was imminent, and certainly none had been made. The Sunday papers would probably produce features about the murders of prostitutes or the risks they undertook in plying their oldest profession.

  By five-thirty, the teams were making their way into the office to knock off at 6.00pm, an early finish because it was a Saturday. That was one of the traditions of an extended murder enquiry — early finish on Saturday and Sunday, unless something dramatic happened or an extra effort was required. The only exception, of course, were the teams currently keeping Dawlish under observation. Their work could not be abandoned and a lot depended upon the time Pemberton decided to interview him. He took Paul Larkin into his office for consultation.

  ‘It’s a question of timing, Paul. Let us suppose he has no intention of killing Denise tonight. Do we leave him in peace — remember he has no idea we have any knowledge of his part in the murders…’

  ‘We’ve nothing to suggest he’s guilty, either,’ Larkin reminded his boss. ‘Nothing to put him at the scene.’

  ‘I know, but we do have a substantial amount of circumstantial evidence to link him both with Browning and with the Sandal Stranglings, however remotely. And he was the last person to see Debbie alive. Perhaps a few preliminary questions might produce something?’

  ‘So when do you propose bringing him in?’

  ‘I was wondering whether I should wait to see whether or not he tackles the prostitute and have him arrested if he attempts to strangle her. We’d have grounds for detaining him then. Or have him lifted before he actually gets her into his car. I need to get under his skin, unsettle him, produce a surprise; I need to shock him; I need to give him one hell of a knock, a mental jolt just when he’s least expecting it.’

  ‘He’s not expecting anything from us, is he?’ countered Larkin. ‘Anything we do will be a shock for him.’

  ‘He’s just bought a coil of rope, remember. Is that for his dastardly work? Or for a tow rope?’

  ‘He might have used the last bit of his existing rope last weekend!’ commented Larkin. ‘So why not bring him in now? You could then have words with Denise to see what plans he’s said he’s made for her this evening, if any.’

  Pemberton paused, then said, ‘Right, let’s do it. Immediately.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Acting on Pemberton’s decision, Inspector Larkin radioed the detectives at the Royal Hotel to ask if Hugh Dawlish had remained within the building. He was in his room, they were told. It was Room 136, and it seemed he had recently showered, an indication that he might be leaving. He had not booked dinner on the premises.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Pemberton will be coming to the hotel within the next few minutes,’ Larkin advised them. ‘He wishes to interview Dawlish. If Dawlish leaves in the meantime, can you let us know immediately? And keep tabs on him?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ was the response. ‘Does that mean our surveillance duties are almost complete?’

  ‘I doubt it. We’ve got to keep him within our sights until further notice. Mr Pemberton might decide not to arrest Dawlish in which case he’ll probably remain at the hotel until the morning of the funeral service. We want to know his movements and contacts the whole of his time here.’

  ‘Message understood,’ came the response.

  ‘Thanks, Paul,’ Pemberton said. ‘Now, Denise Alderson. I’m hesitant about making contact with her for obvious reasons, but against that, should we ask if she knows anything about the client who took her out to the Black Otter last night? In particular, I’d like to know whether he arranged to meet her again. If so, where and when.’

  ‘She’s well known to the Vice Squad in town, sir; we could arrange for one of them to have a chat with her, without making any reference to the murder. I’m sure we coul
d discreetly find out if she’d made any further plans to meet Dawlish.’

  ‘Yes, do it that way, but be sure to use an intelligent detective. At this stage, we don’t want Denise to give Dawlish any hint that we’re interested in him or that we know of his association with her…’

  ‘No problem,’ Larkin assured his boss. ‘I’ll be cautious. A bit of subterfuge works wonders. So you’re off to the Royal. Alone?’

  ‘I’ll take two officers with me, Lorraine for one, and I need a good DS.’

  ‘Grant’s available, sir — he’d be ideal; he’s been researching Dawlish.’

  ‘Yes, he’ll do nicely. I’ll brief him and Lorraine during my drive to the hotel. I think I’d better be wired up too, Paul, with a throat mike and recorder. I need to get every word on record, even the drivel. So, this is what I intend to do. I want to go to Dawlish’s room and surprise him; I want to see how he reacts, and then I shall begin to chat with him about Browning. I’ll take it from there, but I intend to make him think I’m interested in Browning rather than himself.’

  ‘So you don’t intend arresting him and bringing him in?’

  ‘Not if I can help it, not at this stage. If he is the Strangler, he’ll never admit it and I’d rather like him to think he’s beaten us. I want him to drop any guard he might have planned over the years. I want him to think he’s too clever for us. I want him to think we do not suspect him in any way. And, of course, we must bear in mind that he might not be a killer, that’s something we must never lose sight of.’

  ‘Meeting him face to face should tell you a lot, sir, unless he’s a good actor. Right, thanks for keeping me informed. Any idea how long you’ll be?’

  ‘Who can tell? Really, I have no idea. I’ll begin my chat in his room; it’ll be better than here. But there’s no need for you and any of the others to hang around. Let the teams go home, Paul; I can always recall anyone if it’s necessary. If we do have to put Dawlish in the cells overnight, the uniformed branch will see to him.’

  ‘Fair enough. Well, the best of British, as they say.’

  John Grant and Lorraine were sent into Pemberton’s office where he provided a brief outline of his plans. Lorraine would drive to the hotel while Pemberton completed his briefing in the car; furthermore, Grant would be discreetly armed as a precaution against any instability that might overcome Dawlish. Neither Grant nor Lorraine would question Dawlish or even speak to him until invited by Pemberton, who emphasised the strict limitations of this forthcoming interview.

  ‘What I hope to establish,’ Pemberton explained to them, ‘is whether or not he is a positive suspect for the Sandal Stranglings. I believe he is, but we need to know more. I regard this man as a challenge, John, it will be as much a test for me as it is for him — but if he is guilty, I intend to get him!’

  ‘You’re up to date with the dates, times, and places of all the Sandal Stranglings, sir?’ Lorraine reminded him. ‘Names of victims and so on?’

  ‘I’ve spent a lot of time today ploughing through Kirkdale’s files and I think I am sufficiently well briefed to hold my corner, as they say. Well, shall we go?’ And he picked up his briefcase.

  They descended to the ground floor and went out into the yard where an unmarked police car was parked. Meanwhile, Larkin alerted the observers at the hotel; they would keep out of sight and make no contact with Pemberton and his team during this visit, unless specifically requested. During the drive, Pemberton expanded upon his intended line of questioning but was sufficiently experienced to know that his plans could be thrown off course by any unforeseen reaction from Dawlish. From what he’d read about Dawlish, and from what he’d seen of him last night, it seemed the man would be a formidable opponent.

  He reminded them that Dawlish would not be arrested and thus the constraints upon interviewing a person who was in custody would not be relevant; if Dawlish refused to co-operate, however, then he would be threatened with arrest on suspicion of murdering Debbie Hall, that suspicion arising from the fact that he had been the last person known to have seen her alive, but this was to be a last resort.

  ‘I want him to believe we suspect Browning of being the Sandal Strangler,’ he emphasised. ‘And remember he runs his own advertising business. This is no simpleton we’re going to interview — he’s a successful businessman, someone who’s accustomed to getting his own way and who persuades his clients to believe what he wants them to believe. That’s the power of advertising.’

  After listening to Pemberton’s preamble, Lorraine and Detective Sergeant Grant added a few questions of their own, and so the small party drove through the busy evening streets of Rainesbury towards the Royal Hotel on the cliff top. During the ten-minute drive, the vehicle was in radio contact with the incident room, their progress being monitored by the police observers in and around the hotel. As they parked outside the front entrance, there was a final call to Pemberton to inform him that Dawlish was still in his room but seemed to be on the point of leaving.

  ‘Good,’ Pemberton muttered. ‘Our arrival will get him agitated. I think we might have come at just the right time.’

  Moments later, they were heading towards Room 136. There were no detectives in sight — the place seemed deserted as the other guests prepared for their evening. Room 136 was a single en suite room at the end of the first-floor corridor, a few doors down from the fire escape. Inside, faint music was playing. It was the theme song of an advertisement which was being shown on the television. After checking that the others were ready, Pemberton rapped loudly on the door, wondering if the sound was obscured by the noise of the TV set. Grant and Lorraine stood immediately behind him, one at each side; in circumstances of this kind, one had to be ready to place a large boot between the door and the jamb because some interviewees had an unfortunate habit of slamming the door the moment they realised their callers were police officers.

  That couldn’t be ruled out even here, but if Pemberton’s reading of the character of Dawlish was accurate, the fellow would be much more subtle. There was no reply, so he waited for a few moments, then knocked again, louder.

  ‘Coming!’ said a voice from inside. And the door was partially opened by a tall, well-built man with dark, slightly wavy hair. Pemberton recognised him as the man he’d seen in the Black Otter and in Browning’s souvenir photograph. In his early thirties, he was wearing light cotton trousers of a pale tan colour, a summer shirt, but no tie. His hair was wet, but combed, and there was a faint whiff of aftershave. Pemberton’s immediate reaction was that, at this close range, he looked heavier than in the photograph. He’d put on some weight, he realised, the onset of middle age.

  ‘Yes?’ There was a look of apprehension on his face as he was confronted by the three strangers, one of whom carried a black briefcase.

  ‘Mr Dawlish?’ were Pemberton’s opening words. ‘Hugh Dawlish?’ and he followed with the Findford-on-Trent address.

  ‘Yes, that’s me,’ was the worried response, as his eyes moved from one face to another. ‘Who are you? Is something wrong?’

  ‘Can we come in?’ asked Pemberton, producing his warrant card from his top pocket. ‘My name is Detective Superintendent Mark Pemberton from the local police, the gentleman is Detective Sergeant John Grant and the lady is Detective Constable Lorraine Cashmore.’

  ‘Why? What do you want? Has something happened?’ was Dawlish’s instinctive reaction, the door still not being fully open.

  The gap was little more than two feet wide and he was standing right behind it now, half his body on view, the other half hidden by the door. It would have been easy for him to slam the door but difficult for Pemberton to force it wider for their entry.

  ‘We’d like a word with you,’ began Pemberton.

  ‘Look, I’ve got a dinner engagement — I shall be going out in ten minutes or so. Can’t it wait? Tomorrow perhaps? Whatever it is.’ He spoke with a deep and rather pleasant voice; the public school accent was softer than last night’s braying in the pub.
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br />   ‘How long it takes depends entirely upon you, Mr Dawlish.’ There was an unaccustomed chill in Pemberton’s voice. ‘Ten minutes might be sufficient.’

  ‘Can I ask what it is about?’ Still he did not open the door to its full width.

  ‘I’d rather not say, not out here in the corridor.’

  Dawlish looked at them each in turn and, seeing not a glimmer of a smile upon any of their faces, eased the door wider and said, ‘You’d better come in.’

  As they entered the room, he closed the door behind them, first peering out to see if anyone else was waiting in the corridor.

  ‘There’s only two chairs.’ He waved his hands to indicate the sparseness of the small room. ‘Maybe one of you can sit on the bed? It’s a tiny room, the best I could get at short notice,’ and he moved across to switch off the television set. Pemberton watched him carefully.

  Dawlish was playing for time; even if his actions were calm and deliberate, his mind was working at speed. His next ploy would be to ask if they wanted a drink. There was a small hospitality fridge in the corner of the room, near the wardrobe. Pemberton knew Dawlish would be trying to determine the reason for this unexpected visit. If he was guilty, he’d be wondering how much the police knew.

  ‘Can I offer you a drink? Whisky? Sherry? Wine? The room’s fairly well stocked.’

  ‘No thanks, we’re on duty.’ Pemberton indicated that the others should use the chairs. He would remain standing, a psychological advantage in such a case. Dawlish did likewise. Knowing better than to be seated on the bed, he stood before the window and gazed across the town below, his back to the visitors.

  ‘So, Detective Superintendent Pemberton, what can I do for you?’ Dawlish had now recovered any composure he might have lost in those first few moments and turned to face the police.

  ‘You are — were — a friend of James Bowman Browning,’ Pemberton began.

  ‘Yes, we were at college together, in the north-east, some years ago. The Swangate College of Media Studies. We’ve kept in touch. I do know about the accident, by the way, which is why I am here. For the Requiem Mass; it’s on Monday as I am sure you know.’