Confession (The Mark Pemberton Cases Book 3)

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘Can I ask how you know they are linked?’

  Pemberton had to be careful here even though it was a question he had anticipated. ‘Clearly, we cannot and would not reveal all the information in our possession, but every criminal has his own method of committing a crime — his MO or modus operandi. It’s like a signature, really, or a trade mark. And the same hand killed each of the women to whom I have referred — we know that beyond a shadow of a doubt. One clue which I can reveal is the type of victim — the girls were all prostitutes, all about the same age; they were all killed in woodland areas and their injuries were identical. In repeated cases of that kind, we can generally rule out coincidence.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  At this stage, Pemberton was not going to mention the sandals, the missing underwear, the rope or the nickname of Sandal Strangler which had been given to the killer. He said, ‘I am sure you can appreciate that when the pooled details of the killings were studied in depth, certain similarities came to light and that told us that one person was responsible, even though the killings were in different parts of the country and many miles apart. Our duty is to find that person. Now, Mr Dawlish, thanks to you — and, sadly, thanks to James’s accident — I believe we are on the verge of doing precisely that.’

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean. But I had no idea such investigations were going on in the background, all this time…’

  ‘Yes, we never give up; we never close the file on a murder enquiry. We kept our suspicions out of the papers — we did not tell them that we suspected a serial killer. That spot of secrecy was for very good reasons, Mr Dawlish, and I am sure James never thought we suspected him.’ Pemberton was anxious to get this man talking while he was lulled into a false sense of security. ‘Now, let us concentrate on James Browning, shall we? And I think we should start at the beginning.’

  ‘The first murder he committed?’ asked Dawlish.

  ‘Yes, if you can help us with that, it would be of enormous value. But before that, let’s go back to the time you first met,’ smiled Pemberton. ‘Just briefly, just to give me a flavour of your friendship. Perhaps you’d tell me how you met, how your friendship developed, what sort of a man he was, and then I’d like to discuss the first murder.’

  ‘So this is going to take a long time?’ and Dawlish smiled.

  ‘Let’s see how it progresses. If you feel you need to leave, then do so and we can resume tomorrow. You’re staying in Rainesbury until the funeral service?’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow is at my disposal but I’d like to get this thing cleared up too, Superintendent. The sooner the better so far as I’m concerned.’

  Hugh Dawlish told how, when he’d joined Swangate College, he’d occupied the room next to James Browning in the accommodation block and so they’d become friends. They had never met until that time. In the second year of their course, they had opted to live in town and had shared a two-bedroomed ground-floor flat in a large terrace house. They’d remained friends, entertaining their contemporaries and taking part in a wide range of student activities as well as others outside college. James had been a perfectly normal fun-loving young man, Dawlish said; he’d had girlfriends and there’d been no hint of the quiet and unsociable character into which he later withdrew.

  ‘Then…’ and Dawlish paused, ‘things changed.’

  He took a deep breath, helping himself to another coffee from the heated flask. Pemberton did not rush him; he was sure this speech had been well planned and rehearsed over many years. Browning’s untimely death would have made things easier, however; Dawlish’s version could hardly be queried.

  ‘It was the end of our course at the college. There was a party, several parties in fact. You know the sort of things. Lots of booze, food, women, music and dancing. Fun and noise, laughter. Lovely days, Mr Pemberton. Our course — thirty-six of us — went out for a meal at a pub. We’d booked in advance — nothing flashy, just a bar snack and lots to drink — then the idea was to go back to the campus where we had some music laid on in one of the assembly rooms, with dancing until the early hours. Friends and family were invited, but neither mine nor James’s could attend. I don’t know how it happened, but fairly early in the evening, I noticed James had vanished from the pub. I asked around but no one knew where he’d gone and then, when we were supposed to get the hired bus back to college, somebody said he’d gone off with a prostitute. He’d never done that before, not to my knowledge. It was when he didn’t return that I went to look for him.’

  ‘What day would that be?’ Pemberton put to him.

  ‘A Friday, the last day of our last week of our last term together at college. A sad time for us all, leaving friends we’d been with for three years.’

  ‘So what time would it be when you noticed his absence?’ Pemberton wondered how long it would take for a friend to begin worrying.

  ‘When he went off or when we started looking?’ asked Dawlish.

  ‘Well, for starters — when he went?’

  ‘Dunno. Eight or nine o’clock, I’d guess, although I can’t be too sure. The buses were running, I think he caught a bus, with the prostitute…’

  ‘And you started to look for him at what time?’

  ‘Getting on for two in the morning,’ Dawlish said. ‘We were all pretty well plastered by then, but I wasn’t so drunk that I didn’t know what was going on. I was bothered about him, partially because they said he’d gone off with a prostitute, and partially in case he was ill. So I went to look for James.’

  ‘Penthorne’s near Durham, isn’t it? It’s a big area. How did you know where to begin?’ Pemberton asked.

  ‘I started with our flat. He wasn’t there, and there was no sign of him having come home. Then I remembered there was a wood he loved — he and I often walked there when we were under pressure. It was a place of calmness, with a river and a small weir, fairly well into the countryside. I knew a late bus went there, I once used it to take a girl home. I knew, with some certainty, that if James had taken a girl out for a spot of romance or sex, that’s where he would go.’

  ‘So how did you get there?’

  ‘In my MG. I kept it at the flat. My mother gave it to me, for my eighteenth birthday. I bought another later, same model, a twin-sister car almost, and sold the first one to James. I used it to drive there — perhaps I would have been over the drink/drive limit if I’d been stopped and breathalysed, but I took that risk.’

  ‘Did the road go right into the wood?’

  ‘No, it stopped at a small car park. There was a gate and a sign saying there was a public footpath. We’d used it before, several times.’

  ‘So you walked from the car park into the wood?’

  ‘Yes. And after a bit of searching in his favourite places, I found him.’

  ‘Found him? So what time would that be?’

  ‘In the early hours. After two o’clock, maybe half-past or thereabouts.’

  ‘And what was he doing when you found him?’

  ‘He was lying on the ground, fast asleep. In a leafy hollow, quite a way off the footpath. He was near the girl — she was dead beside him.’

  Pemberton paused, trying to visualise the scene, and then, after a few minutes’ silence from Dawlish, he asked, ‘So what did you do, Mr Dawlish?’

  Dawlish swallowed; for the first time during this interview he appeared to grow emotional, licking his lips and wiping moisture from his eyes as if trying to eradicate an awful memory.

  ‘I tried to rouse her; she looked awful…there was no response, nothing.’

  ‘Was she dressed?’

  ‘Yes, in a summer frock. He was too — he was fully dressed, in a T-shirt and slacks. There was no sign of them having undressed. They were like the Babes in the Wood, lying there among the leaves…’ and he brushed the hint of a tear from his right eye.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I shook him, to rouse him. To wake him up.’

  ‘And you succeeded?’

  ‘Yes, he’d been dr
inking, we all had, but he wasn’t incapable. I got him to his feet and asked what had happened. He had no idea — he couldn’t remember anything. I had another look at the girl, she was dead, strangled with a piece of rope. Her face was swollen and blue…I touched her again, God it was terrible…but she was dead. There was no doubt about that. He’d raped her too, she was a mess, Mr Pemberton, blood all over.’

  ‘Hmm. So what did you do then, Mr Dawlish?’

  ‘James was dazed, I didn’t know whether it was because he was half asleep or because of what he’d done or what he’d been drinking, but I made him look at her. I’m not sure whether he realised the gravity of what he’d done. I forced him to look at the girl, made him stand there and think about what he’d done, then I took his arm and walked him back to the car.’

  ‘The buses had stopped by then?’

  ‘Yes, the service bus which went past that point ended just after midnight. I drove him back to the flat.’

  ‘Did you ask him what had happened?’

  ‘Not at that stage, no. He just crashed out in bed and fell into a dead sleep, exhausted.’

  ‘Drugs perhaps? Had he been drugged in any way? Taken anything?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. We weren’t part of the drugs scene, certainly I never took anything and so far as I knew, James didn’t either. I think he was just befuddled with too much alcohol, although somebody could have spiked his drink. He had no idea what he’d done or where he’d been. Anyway, next day, I told him what had happened.’

  ‘And his response?’

  ‘He didn’t believe it. He couldn’t remember anything, Mr Pemberton. Nothing at all. He couldn’t even remember picking the girl up in the pub or taking her out to the wood. And when I told him about the dead girl beside him, he refused to believe me at first. I told him what I had found and how I had taken him home. He couldn’t even remember me showing him her body. I was not really sure whether he thought I was telling the truth when I told him what he’d done.’

  ‘He might not have killed her, Mr Dawlish. Some other person might have committed the crime and rendered him unconscious. It is not beyond the bounds of possibility. Prostitutes have some funny friends and contacts. You didn’t actually see him kill her, did you?’

  ‘That thought had occurred to me, Mr Pemberton, which perhaps explains the fact that I did not tell anyone about that experience. In my heart of hearts, I felt sure James was not a killer, Mr Pemberton, in spite of the circumstances in which I had found him. I gave him the benefit of the doubt.’

  ‘So you didn’t tell the police about the body? Or tell anyone else?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I did not. No one. I’ve kept quiet all these years. I must admit I was tempted to act as informer — I even thought about an anonymous telephone call to alert the police — but I failed to do so. Call it cowardice if you like, but I didn’t want to get James into trouble. I reasoned that the longer the enquiry was delayed, the easier it would be for James to avoid detection. He was not a violent man, Mr Pemberton, and that was something which was totally out of character. I wanted to protect him. At that stage, I would never have dreamt he would harm a woman, let alone kill one. I wondered if the woman had not treated him very well and whether he’d lost his temper or something, so, rightly or wrongly, I did not report finding the body. I said nothing to anyone, except to James, of course. And he kept quiet about it, although for a time, we did discuss it when we were alone.’

  ‘Is that when his personality changed?’

  ‘Yes, from that time onwards, he became quiet and morose. He wanted me to take him back to where I had found him and the girl. He wanted me to do so the following day, so he could be sure he had done what I had said he’d done, but I refused. I felt sure the body would have been discovered and the police would have launched a murder enquiry, so I persuaded him not to visit the place. And not to say a word to anyone. I promised him I would keep quiet for the rest of my life — it was our secret, and I would never reveal what he’d done to anyone so long as we were alive. I have honoured that pledge. Now that he’s dead, though, I feel I can speak.’

  ‘If you had spoken out at the time, other lives might have been spared,’ said Pemberton. ‘From that start — if in fact that was his first victim — he seems to have got a taste for murder. We think he went on to kill ten more young women. It’s quite an appalling record.’

  ‘That will always be on my conscience, Mr Pemberton, but at the time, I felt I was protecting a friend. I’m sure any real friend would have done likewise…’

  Pemberton found himself wondering what he would have done in the circumstances, but refrained from comment as he asked, ‘So, Mr Dawlish, what happened next?’

  ‘We stayed in the flat for the weekend, clearing up and packing, saying our farewells. I left on the Sunday to go home, I’d got a job, you see, and had to start on the following Monday in Tunbridge Wells. That’s my home town. I got no holiday break after college…James said he would stay on in Durham for a week or so. He had found himself a job but didn’t start it until the first week of September.’

  ‘So he stayed in Durham, at the flat?’

  ‘Yes, for a few days.’

  ‘And was there a police enquiry into the murder?’

  ‘I never saw anything in the papers. During the short time I remained, there was no report of the murder. I went home without knowing whether or not she’d been found or whether there had been an investigation. There was nothing in the Kent papers about it. Then James called to tell me the police had launched a murder hunt. If he hadn’t rung, I would never have known the outcome.’

  ‘And James? What did he do?’

  ‘He got a job with a PR firm, the one he’s still with — er, was with. He mentioned the murder once or twice on the phone, always to say no one had been to interview him. And gradually, he seemed to forget about it; he stopped referring to it. We met once a year as I told you — I had my MG and was involved in the vintage car scene and so I said we’d meet up at a rally or event of some kind, once a year, in the summer. I’d keep him informed and we could swap experiences. We’ve done so ever since.’

  ‘James also developed an interest in vintage cars, I believe? He was driving one when he died.’

  ‘Yes, it was a genuine interest — he was not simply emulating me. He couldn’t afford to run a car of his own until his career was well established, and then, some years later, I sold him that one of mine. He was delighted with it.’

  ‘And that first weekend reunion…did he ever mention the prostitute he’d killed?’

  ‘Yes, as we were making our arrangements, he told me on the telephone that a year had gone by without him being interviewed. I think he realised he’d got away with it. I was never interviewed, and neither were any of the students that I knew. I am sure the police must have traced some of them, though — through the pub we all used.’

  ‘When the body was found,’ Pemberton continued, ‘the police would have sealed off the area for a couple of days or so until they had finished their work at the scene. Do you think James would have gone back there at some later date?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Pemberton, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if he had done so. He wanted me to take him while she was still lying there, to see what he’d done and where it was, but I kept him away. So yes, it’s possible. He knew exactly where she was even though he could not remember taking her there or killing her.’

  ‘We have, in the files, a report of a red-haired man walking past the scene two days after the body had been discovered. He was stopped by the police but gave a false name and address — he said he was James Bowman and gave the address of a Newcastle bookshop as his home address. That man was never traced.’

  ‘That would be him. Sometimes he called himself Bowman, when he didn’t want to be found out, such as when he had a one-night stand with a woman.’

  ‘And so, over the years, he has borne the guilt of that woman’s death?’ said Pemberton.

 
; ‘Yes, but apart from those few occasions, he rarely talked about it, Mr Pemberton. He did go into his shell, as they say; he kept away from women, in case he did something harmful to them — he once told me that — and he got himself involved in charity work, as a form of reparation.’

  ‘And yet he continued to kill more women?’

  ‘Yes, an odd contrast, so I’d better tell you about the others,’ said Hugh Dawlish.

  Chapter Twenty

  As Dawlish told his story, Pemberton realised his ‘revelations’ amounted to nothing more than a catalogue of supposed suspicions about his friend. He claimed to have noticed that the murders occurred when James Browning joined him for the midsummer weekend vintage car rallies, adding that he would never have considered his friend as the killer had it not been for that first murder in County Durham. That appeared to have been the catalyst for all that followed, for Dawlish had come to realise that Browning was operating to a system based on that killing. It was quite a simple system. Browning would ask that he, Dawlish, drove him from their digs — invariably bed-and-breakfast accommodation close to the vintage car rally site — to meet a prostitute he had previously chosen, not a difficult task if one knew where to look.

  That meeting was always at a pre-arranged place, always in remote countryside and in woodland. Browning and the woman of his choice would be driven to the edge of a wood before being dropped off to go about their secretive business. They would then stroll into the woodland just like any courting couple, dressed like hikers or people taking an evening stroll. They merged easily with the background. Dawlish smiled as he told how the three of them would be packed into a two-seater car for the first part of those journeys and said he allowed the girl to occupy the front passenger seat while Browning squeezed himself into the tiny space at the rear. It produced a picture of happiness which was so common during the MG rallies, a sporty English summer scene.

  As Dawlish explained this, Pemberton realised that such a display would not appear suspicious to a witness — an open-topped car in the summer with three laughing people on board would not register as being in any way odd, particularly when the district was full of similar cars or crews. Neither would a couple taking a walk in a wood, hand in hand, appear at all sinister to onlookers who were doing exactly the same.