Confession (The Mark Pemberton Cases Book 3)

by Nicholas Rhea

  Dawlish rested his buttocks on the window sill and folded his arms. He was now in command of himself and seemed prepared to respond to their questions about James. Pemberton recognised that decision.

  ‘We were very sorry about the accident.’ Pemberton spoke sincerely. ‘It’s always sad when a young person dies so tragically — I witnessed the accident, by the way; DC Cashmore and I had the awful task of attending to James at the scene.’

  ‘I had no idea…’

  ‘No, of course, you couldn’t be expected to know that. We were there when he died, as was Father Flynn, the local priest.’

  ‘Oh, God, how terrible! I had no idea…it was an accident, wasn’t it? I mean, you coming here like this, three of you…’

  ‘Yes, we are confident it was an accident, probably due to brake failure. We’re waiting for the final report on the car. It happened when he was in his MG, the open tourer, the Roadster. I believe he was a fan of MG cars, as you are.’

  ‘He liked to drive around in one, yes. I wouldn’t say he was a fanatic, not in the sense that it dominated his life, but he did enjoy owning and running a vintage MG, as indeed I do. It was a hobby for him, for me as well. I had a pair of them, you know, two very similar cars. I sold him one of mine—’

  ‘So I understand,’ Pemberton interrupted.

  ‘You know that?’ There was just a hint of surprise in Dawlish’s voice.

  ‘We traced the history of the car,’ said Pemberton without explaining why and without giving any indication how he knew of Dawlish’s presence in the Royal Hotel. ‘We know that James liked to go on weekend rallies, to show off his car, to be with other enthusiasts. I believe that you and he had some kind of reunion, an annual get-together, at such rallies?’

  There was a short interval before Dawlish responded. Although he maintained eye contact with the superintendent and a show of relaxed confidence, there was a momentary flicker of uncertainty which showed Pemberton that he was pondering the relevance and direction of this discussion. At the moment, it was not like an interrogation but Pemberton could see that Dawlish was taking infinite care in considering his responses before answering. In watching him, Pemberton was now certain that Dawlish was the Sandal Strangler and that he was putting into action the responses he’d planned over the years.

  ‘We had a common interest,’ he said slowly. ‘It seemed sensible to co-operate on it; our annual get-together was part of that camaraderie. It was something provided by the rallies, a focal point, a pleasant means of keeping in touch. Attending them was always enjoyable. He and I would chat about old times, and about our current work — we did finish up working in similar fields, he with a PR firm, and me with my advertising business.’

  ‘And what did you do on the rallies?’ Pemberton asked gently.

  ‘Do? A funny question, Superintendent. We did all the things that people usually do during such weekends. Talked about our cars, examined all the visiting models and compared them with ours, entered competitions, worried about MOTs and the effects of European laws on motoring, we touched on pollution, depletion of the world’s fuel resources, the future of the motor car…We did a lot of serious talking, but we had fun as well.’

  ‘And when you were not talking about cars or solving the world’s problems?’

  A sudden smile appeared on Dawlish’s rather handsome face. ‘We ate, drank, and made merry! Isn’t that part of the fun side too? Socialising?’

  ‘I would hope so. You know what they say about all work and no play. So when you met James at these rallies, he was always the same? His behaviour never caused you to worry about him?’

  ‘Behaviour? I don’t follow, Mr Pemberton. What sort of worry are you talking about? He was always the perfect gentleman, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘He never talked of death or suicide?’

  ‘You’re not suggesting his death was suicide, are you?’ was the predictable response. ‘James was not that kind of person. No, he was always happy and cheerful, quiet perhaps, and thoughtful, but full of life.’

  ‘And girlfriends? Did he have any on a regular basis?’

  ‘No, he never brought one with him. That was not the point of those events, Mr Pemberton. We didn’t go as members of a club; we went as members of the public, not as part of a group outing. It was our reunion, you see, ours alone. For James and me. An annual get-together. We were not lovers, by the way, if that’s what you are implying. There has never been a relationship between us. I like women, even if I have not yet married. But normal? What’s normal, Superintendent? You tell me.’

  ‘I would never attempt to define what is normal behaviour, Mr Dawlish,’ said Pemberton. ‘Police work has taught me something about human life. I know that what is outrageous for some is normal for others. Now, back to these rallies, the ones you attended. They were always in the summer, around Midsummer’s Day, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, there were others up and down the country at different times, but we always went to the one held on the weekend which was closest to Midsummer’s Day. It made a focus, something for us to aim for. It was midsummer when we parted after our course; it seemed sensible to arrange our reunions around that time.’

  ‘And I believe the midsummer vintage car rallies were also held in different parts of England?’

  ‘You have been doing your homework, Superintendent, but yes, that’s quite true. It’s a wonderful means of seeing something of our countryside. Look, Superintendent, it’s very nice knowing that the police are taking such an interest in James now that he is dead, but I really do have a dinner engagement. It is gracious of you to contact me, to clear your minds about James’s death, but I must be getting along. I don’t like to keep my guest waiting.’

  Pemberton ignored his comments and continued, ‘Did you and James attend every rally since you left college? You left in 1987, I believe?’

  ‘More of your background research, Mr Pemberton? Am I missing something here? Is there more to this enquiry, more reason for your presence, than you have allowed me to believe?’

  You know damned well there is, thought Pemberton. ‘I am interested in Mr Browning’s movements over the past few years.’ Pemberton placed his briefcase on the bed and opened it. ‘In fact, I have a list of all those rallies,’ and he began to read aloud. ‘1988 Otterburn, Northumberland, 1989 Rusthwaite in the Lake District, 1990 Linsby near Market Rasen in Lincolnshire, 1991 another one in Lincolnshire, this time at Buckwold near Horncastle. That was the year he purchased the MG Roadster from you, I believe. Then in 1992 the rally was in Derbyshire, at Longwell near Buxton, with the next over the border in North Wales, Pontyllan near Betws-y-coed in 1993. The 1994 rally was at Kingsleadon in Gloucestershire, followed in 1995 by one at Fulstock in Oxfordshire, and in 1996 it was at East Welton near Market Harborough in Leicestershire. Nine rallies, Mr Dawlish. I don’t think James attended one in 1987 because that was the year you and he left college as you said, the year each of you completed your media course.’

  ‘There is nothing criminal or sinister in two friends travelling about the country to enjoy rallies of vintage cars.’ Dawlish had stopped smiling now and was frowning at Pemberton, occasionally glancing across to Grant who was saying nothing. Lorraine was also quietly seated in one of the easy chairs.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Pemberton smiled. ‘Nothing criminal at all. But you and he did attend each and every one of those rallies, did you not?’

  ‘Yes, we did. We made a point of doing so, as I’ve said. It was our annual reunion.’

  ‘Mr Dawlish, I will now come to the point of my visit, and I hope you might be able to help. Very close to the venues of those rallies — a matter of five or six miles away in most cases — and upon the same weekend as each rally took place, a murder occurred.’

  Dawlish merely looked at Pemberton, then said, ‘Go on, Superintendent.’

  ‘There have been nine such murders, Mr Dawlish. In fact, there was another murder in County Durham, the very weekend you and Mr Browning
were celebrating the completion of your course. It was at Penthorne. That makes it ten murders, Mr Dawlish, in or near the very places you and Mr Browning have visited and, oddly enough, at the same time you were there. It is an inescapable fact that your visits and the murders coincided.’

  ‘And there was a murder in this very town last weekend!’ stated Dawlish matter-of-factly. ‘When we were both here. That makes another for your total. Eleven.’

  ‘Yes, it brings the total to eleven. Eleven that we know about, eleven that might be connected in some way, or that might not. But the most recent, here in Crayton, happened shortly before Mr Browning’s accident,’ added Pemberton.

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Dawlish now spoke very softly.

  ‘Eleven murders, Mr Dawlish, and all with striking similarities. The victims were all young women, they were all prostitutes, but they were all raped. And strangled. And all died when you and Mr Browning were known to be in the locality. It is that fact which has brought me here, Mr Dawlish, to talk to you.’

  ‘Are you accusing me of murder, Mr Pemberton?’ There was now a hardness in Dawlish’s voice.

  ‘No, I am not. I am gathering information, Mr Dawlish. I am endeavouring to eliminate anyone who could not have committed those crimes. As a consequence, it is important to speak to you because our enquiries show that both Mr Browning and yourself were at or near the murder scene on every occasion. That is something I cannot ignore, as I am sure you will appreciate, and I therefore need to eliminate you, both of you, even though Mr Browning is, unfortunately, no longer able to answer for himself.’

  There was a long pause now and then Dawlish, in a loud and very confident voice said, ‘I congratulate you, Superintendent Pemberton, upon your detective prowess. Yes, it was James all along. I suspect you knew that. I can now confess that I suspected his involvement; I had noticed that every time we went to a rally a prostitute died. It doesn’t need a genius to work out that one of us could be responsible, and I knew it wasn’t me. I was fairly sure he’d committed the murders, but I had no proof — and the police never interviewed him, he was never a suspect, Mr Pemberton. So how could I betray a friend? I kept quiet about my suspicions…well I think you would have done the same if a friend had been involved. I mean, I never actually saw him kill those girls…but, well, we had been to every one of those rallies. We weren’t together every minute of the weekend, of course. It all began in Penthorne, after college, when he killed a prostitute…’

  ‘Are you prepared to make a statement about it?’ asked Pemberton.

  ‘Yes, I think I’d better, don’t you?’

  ‘It would help us enormously if you did,’ smiled Pemberton. ‘It would enable us to clear up a very worrying series of murders.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Now that he’s dead, I think I can talk freely. Should I cancel my dinner date? Will it take that long?’

  ‘Under the circumstances, I think that would be wise and your co-operation would be highly appreciated. We do need to get this matter cleared up. Can I invite you to the police station — we have all the facilities there.’

  ‘Yes, anything to oblige. I feel free to talk now he’s dead; it has been a burden, believe me. Poor old James…fancy him dying with all those deaths on his conscience.’

  They waited as Dawlish rang a number to say, ‘Look, Denise, I’m sorry, I’ve been called away unexpectedly on business. Very important business. Can I cancel tonight’s arrangements? And I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Pemberton knew the call would be checked, but it was certainly a call to the prostitute Dawlish had engaged last night. Replacing the handset, he said, ‘Well, I’m ready when you are, Superintendent,’ and he took a blazer from the wardrobe. ‘Now, you know the Requiem Mass is on Monday, but, well, Mr Pemberton, I’m not sure how much of this will become public knowledge…’

  ‘Where a guilty person dies before being tried for murder, we never inform the public of their guilt. Not even the coroner would announce the guilt of such a person. It seems unfair to judge a person guilty of such a serious crime when they’ve never had an opportunity to defend themselves in a court of law. That is our practice and I see no reason to change it on this occasion.’

  ‘That gives me immense relief, Mr Pemberton. Mr Browning, that’s James’s father, is such a charming gentleman. I’d hate him to know that his son was a mass murderer.’

  ‘There is no reason for him to know,’ smiled Pemberton. ‘And it will not reach the press, I assure you. But thanks for your cooperation, Mr Dawlish. I do appreciate it, particularly as you had made other arrangements for this evening. Now, the sooner we can complete your statement, the sooner you can resume your social activities.’

  As they all prepared to drive Hugh Dawlish to the police station, Mark Pemberton allowed himself a smile of triumph. So far, so good.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Am I under arrest?’ Dawlish asked as Pemberton’s car approached the police station.

  ‘No, you are not.’ Pemberton was sitting in the rear seat beside Dawlish. ‘I have not arrested you on suspicion of committing anything, Mr Dawlish. I merely want you to tell me all about your friend, James Browning. You are a witness, Mr Dawlish; you are helping with our enquiries. That is your current status — it’s nothing more sinister than that!’

  ‘Yes, I think I understand. It’s just that it’s rather a sobering experience to be confronted by three police officers without warning and then be driven off for questioning like this…’

  ‘I am sure we shall all find the experience very interesting and worthwhile,’ Pemberton said as the car turned into the police station complex.

  ‘Sir, do you want Sergeant Grant and me to remain with you?’ Lorraine asked as the car drew to a halt.

  ‘Yes, I think we should all like to hear what Mr Dawlish has to say. You’ve no objections if they join us, Mr Dawlish?’

  ‘Objections? Good God, no. The sooner this is over, the happier I shall be.’

  ‘We’ll use the senior officers’ lounge for this interview — it’s much more comfortable,’ Pemberton told Lorraine and Grant. ‘Far better than the interview room. The lounge won’t be required by any of them on a Saturday night! Lorraine, perhaps you could fix coffee for us all?’

  Fifteen minutes later, they were all seated in comfortable armchairs in the quiet room normally reserved for senior officers. It was an odd choice; such interviews, whether they involved suspects or witnesses, invariably occurred in one or other of the station’s interview rooms and so this was a noteworthy departure from the normal. But Pemberton had his reasons — he was going to continue his pretence to this man that he was not under suspicion. To prepare for his interview, Pemberton positioned Dawlish between Lorraine and Grant; he sat opposite and there was a coffee table between them bearing coffee and biscuits.

  ‘I do appreciate your courtesy in coming here,’ Pemberton began. ‘It makes things so much easier, all our files are on the premises for one thing, it’ll enable us to check any of the details if we have to…’

  ‘Whatever you feel best, Superintendent.’ Dawlish helped himself to a chocolate biscuit as he sipped his coffee. ‘But I fail to see why all this is necessary when James is dead. There’ll be no court case against him, will there? After all, he can’t be called to account for his actions.’

  ‘That’s true, but we need to gather the evidence which is necessary to prove beyond all doubt that he was responsible. I cannot write off our files unless the evidence is conclusive. I know you have suggested he is a multiple killer, but we must investigate your allegations with all the thoroughness we can muster, as if he was still alive. You see, the country’s murder statistics contain at least eleven deaths which have not been cleared up, and if we can bring one or even all those investigations to a satisfactory conclusion, then it satisfies the Home Office, it shows we are doing our job, and it helps us to maintain some degree of public confidence. After all, a detected murder is a great achievement, Mr Dawlish; an undetected
murder is like a perpetual blemish on our record. It means the killers are still at large — and we don’t like that either.’

  ‘Well, I’ll help as far as I am able. I can say things which I could not have done had James been alive and, I trust, with complete confidentiality?’

  ‘Yes, of course. That is exactly what I hope you will do, Mr Dawlish. I want you to be completely open with us and tell us everything you know. You will do society a great public service and you can be sure we shall treat everything with the utmost confidentiality. As I said earlier, neither the press nor anyone else will learn of James’s involvement. It is between us, you and ourselves. We will simply record each murder as detected; that will release lots of police officers to deal with other crimes, and the respective murder files will be closed without a court hearing.’

  ‘So you need to take each in turn? I’m not sure if my memories are as clear as that, especially after all this time.’

  ‘That’s where our files will come to our aid,’ Pemberton said. ‘We have the files of every murder on hand.’

  ‘Every one?’

  ‘Yes, where we suspect that a series of murders is the work of the same person — or persons — then all the police forces in whose areas the crimes were committed pool their knowledge and resources; they collaborate during the investigations; in effect, the series of murders becomes one large investigation with a coordinator as the focal point.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I had no idea things were so organised. There’s been nothing in the papers, has there? About James’s killings being the work of a serial killer?’

  ‘No, happily, the press has never cottoned on to the fact the murders were linked, and we took care never to alert them. We preferred to let the killer believe we were not hunting a serial killer.’