by David Blake
Glancing over at Burgess, Barrington asked, ‘Any objection?’
Seeing the look on Burgess’s face, Tanner added, ‘I’d only be looking to sit in.’
Still staring at the wall, without any outward sign of emotion, Burgess said, ‘Whatever you think best, sir.’
Realising Burgess had resorted to sulking like a five year-old, Barrington let out a heavy sigh. ‘It probably is for the best, yes, Burgess. If the two of you can annoy him as much as you seem to be able to annoy me, you’ll probably have him signing a written confession within the first five minutes!’
‘What about DS Cooper, sir?’ asked Burgess, still hoping he wouldn’t have to have Tanner joining him for the interview.
‘You can send him down to the house to supervise forensics. Make sure he looks for anything that could have caused that injury to the victim’s head. And after DS Gilbert’s arranged for forensics to go down there, get her to start digging into Jane’s finances. If she is worth a small fortune, we need to know.’
Seeing Burgess nod his understanding, Barrington ended the meeting. ‘Right, that will do. Let me know how you get on with our Mr Richardson. If you tell him what we’ve already got on him, hopefully he’ll own up to it, and that will be that!’
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
THE INTERVIEW ROOM at Wroxham Police Station was like most: small, nondescript and windowless. Its furniture consisted of nothing more than four chairs and a table pushed up against a wall. On the table sat a square black box which was the station’s relatively new digital recorder, a time-saving device that allowed interview recordings to be accessed remotely through Norfolk Constabulary’s intranet.
Simon Richardson was seated at the far side of the table, deep in conversation with a wiry, bald-headed man who stood up to introduce himself as the two detectives entered.
‘I’m Clive Percival. I’ve been appointed to represent Mr Simon Richardson.’
‘Thank you,’ said Burgess, and gestured for him to resume his seat, making a note of his name on the case file he’d brought with him.
In the silence that followed, Burgess reached over the table and pressed a small red button on the front of the recording device, underneath the letters REC.
Taking the chair closest to the recorder, Burgess leaned in towards the machine. Referring to his notes, he said, ‘We’re here to interview Mr Simon Richardson of 1, River View Lane, Wroxham, in connection with the murder of Mrs Jane Richardson of the same address.’ Checking the display on the front of the digital recorder, he continued, ‘The time is 13:22 on Tuesday, 16th April. Present in the room are Mr Simon Richardson, his legal representative Mr Clive Percival, Detective Inspector Paul Burgess and Detective Inspector John Tanner.’
Without looking up from his file, he added, ‘Mr Richardson, you have been arrested on suspicion of the murder of your wife, Mrs Jane Richardson.’
‘This is insane!’ muttered Richardson under his breath, clenching his hands together on the table in front of him so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.
Ignoring him, Burgess read out his rights.
‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Looking up, first at the solicitor, then at his client, Burgess asked, ‘Do you understand why you’ve been arrested, and the allegations that have been made against you?’
‘What, that I murdered my wife?’
‘You don’t have to admit to it, Mr Richardson,’ said Burgess, with a malevolent smile. ‘Unless of course you want to.’
Looking back at him with defiant disdain, Richardson said, ‘Yes, I understand that for some moronic reason you seem to be under the impression that I murdered my wife, despite the fact that I didn’t, obviously!’
‘And you understand your rights under caution?’
‘I do.’
Pleased to have the legal formalities out the way, Burgess asked, ‘May I ask, for the record, where you were on the night of Saturday, 13th April, between the hours of ten and eleven o’clock?’
‘I’ve already told you this,’ he replied, before pointing at Tanner and adding, ‘Well, I’ve already told him!’
‘For my benefit?’ requested Burgess.
‘I was away for the weekend.’
Picking up his pen, Burgess said, ‘And where was that again?’
‘It’s called the Manor Resort.’
‘That’s right. And you said that you were playing golf there, is that correct?’
His eyes flicked between Burgess and Tanner, but he said nothing.
‘Sorry, but was that a yes or a no?’
‘I was there, if that’s what you mean,’ he eventually said.
‘Playing golf?’
Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, he eventually answered, ‘I’d intended to.’
‘Forgive me, but does that mean you did, or you didn’t?’
‘It means exactly what I said. I’d intended to.’
‘So you went there, but you didn’t actually play?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘I see,’ said Burgess. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why did you go somewhere to play golf, but not actually play?’
‘It’s simple,’ he shrugged. ‘When I hit a few practice balls on Saturday morning, my shoulder started to play up, so I thought it would be sensible not to push it.’
‘So you came straight home then?’
‘No, I decided to stay.’
‘For the whole weekend?’
‘I’d already paid for the accommodation, so I thought I might as well.’
‘But if you weren’t playing golf, what did you do for the entire weekend?’
‘I watched, as a spectator. That’s not against the law, is it?’
‘I’d have to check,’ said Burgess, pretending to make a note of it. ‘But that aside, what’s of interest to me is that you told my colleague here that you were away playing golf for the weekend, when you clearly weren’t.’
‘And as I’ve just explained, it had been my intention to.’
‘But you didn’t?’
The question was left unanswered.
‘I’m going to be completely honest with you, Mr Richardson. I already knew that you didn’t. I knew that because when I spoke to The Manor Resort golf course earlier today, they had no record of you having played there, that weekend or any other.’
Richardson shrugged again. ‘As I said, I didn’t play.’
‘And never had?’
‘Not there, no. But I did stay there though. You can check with the hotel if you like.’
‘We will, thank you.’
Allowing the room to fall into an oppressive silence, Burgess took a moment to check through his notes before asking, ‘I assume you’re aware of who your wife’s father is?’
‘Er…let me guess. Santa Claus?’
‘He may as well be, judging by how much money you’re likely to inherit, now that your wife – his daughter – is dead.’
‘I wasn’t aware she was worth anything.’
‘Really,’ muttered Burgess, disingenuously.
‘I wasn’t! I mean, I assumed she would be when her parents…’
‘Were dead?’
‘Passed away,’ he corrected, ‘but not before then.’
Burgess returned to reading through his notes.
After about a minute of nobody speaking, Richardson asked, ‘How long is all this going to take?’
‘We’ve only got a couple more questions, Mr Richardson.’
‘Well, would you mind hurrying up then? Unlike you, it would seem, I do have things I need to be getting on with.’
Still perusing his notes, Burgess asked, ‘When was the last time you had sexual relations with your wife, Mr Richardson?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Looking up, Burgess said, ‘Sorry, didn’t you hear the questio
n?’
‘I heard the question all right!’
‘So, when was the last time you had sex with your wife?’
Staring over at his solicitor, Richardson asked, ‘Do I have to answer that?’
‘I assume the question has some bearing on the accusation being made against my client?’ queried the solicitor.
‘It does,’ replied Burgess.
Leaning in towards Richardson, the solicitor said, ‘You don’t have to answer, no, but as it’s already been explained to you, it could harm your defence if you…’
‘It’s not that,’ interrupted Simon. ‘It’s just that it’s got nothing to do with them!’
‘Then it’s entirely up to you.’
He thought for a moment, then said, ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not prepared to answer that.’
‘Was it on Saturday night, by any chance?’
‘What do you mean, was it on Saturday night? Of course it wasn’t on Saturday night! I’ve already told you! I was nowhere near the place on Saturday night!’
‘I see. So you know where she was murdered then?’
‘What?’
‘You just said you were nowhere near the place where she was murdered, so I’m forced to assume that you know where that was.’
‘I didn’t mean that! I meant that I was nowhere near here, as in the Broads!’
‘So you didn’t know she was murdered under Wroxham Railway Bridge, which I understand is just down the road from where you live?’
Richardson seemed momentarily stunned, and it took him a moment or two to reply, which he did with quiet reserve.
‘I didn’t know that, no.’
‘Going back to the last time you had sex with your wife,’ continued Burgess. ‘When was that again?’
‘To be honest, I can’t remember.’
‘So, not recently?’
‘As I said, I can’t remember.’
‘But you do know that it definitely wasn’t on Saturday night?’
Stepping in, the solicitor said, ‘May I remind you, Detective Inspector, that asking the same question over and over again is a well-documented oppressive interview technique used by police the world over. It may well work in other countries, but here in the United Kingdom, any evidence obtained by using it will be deemed inadmissible in court. Consequently, if you continue to question my client along the same lines, it won’t make any difference whether he answers you or not!’
‘Forgive me,’ said Burgess. ‘I was just curious to know how it was possible for your client’s semen to have been found inside the murder victim, his wife, after she’d been dragged out of the River Thurne on Monday, if the last time he’d had sex with her was so long ago he couldn’t remember?’
As Richardson stared at Burgess, his solicitor couldn’t help but to lower his head to stare down at the table.
‘But… I didn’t…’
‘Kill her, or have sex with her afterwards?’
‘Afterwards? What do you mean, afterwards?’
‘Afterwards, as in after she was beaten over the head, strangled until dead and then raped.’
‘But that’s…’
‘…utterly disgusting and only something a seriously deranged individual would do? I’d have to agree with you on that one. So you’re saying that you didn’t, then?’
‘Of course I didn’t!’
‘Even though your semen was found inside her?’
Exchanging desperate glances between his solicitor and the Detective Inspector, he blurted out, ‘Look, I’ve no idea how my…my… got there, but it wasn’t me! I didn’t…put it there!’
‘And of course there’s the fact that she was murdered just down the road from where you live, and not forgetting that you’re in line to inherit what we’ve been led to believe is a substantial sum of money.’
‘As I’ve already explained, I was nowhere near the place. I was…’
‘Not playing golf. Yes, so you said.’
‘But I…’
With a victorious grin aimed squarely over at the solicitor, Burgess said, ‘I think we can call that lunch, don’t you?’
Before the solicitor or anyone else had the chance to say anything, Burgess leaned over toward the digital recorder and said, ‘The interview is suspended for one hour. The time now is exactly 13:37.’
As Burgess and Tanner got to their feet, Tanner couldn’t help but be impressed. Burgess may not have been up to the task of leading a murder investigation, but what he lacked in that department he certainly made up for in his ability to interrogate a suspect.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE interview, Burgess and Tanner met briefly with Barrington again, when it was agreed that Burgess should remain at the station, ready to resume the interview with Simon Richardson, hopefully whilst being fed information as it came in. Tanner was to head up to The Manor Resort to confirm Richardson’s new alibi, that he had been there, but hadn’t taken part in the golf tournament. Jenny, meanwhile, was to stay behind to continue the monotonous, time-consuming task of ploughing through Jane Richardson’s electronic communications, looking for anything that could suggest a motive for her husband to do what by then they all believed that he had. At the far end of the room, DS Gilbert was left to do her best to delve into the victim’s finances, whilst DS Cooper went over to the marital home to coordinate the forensics unit Gilbert had requested earlier.
For Tanner, driving up to The Manor Resort on his own gave him the perfect chance to clear his mind. It had been his idea that Jenny should stay behind. There’d been a significant amount going on since his arrival at Wroxham Police Station only the morning before, and he needed some quiet meditative time to begin processing it all. Having an attractive Detective Constable sitting next to him, a girl he was already beginning to have feelings for, was hardly going to help.
The hour-long drive through low undulating landscape proved to be just what he needed, and by the time he reached his destination he felt mentally refreshed.
The Manor Resort was housed in an impressive 18th-century Palladian mansion house, with four Romanesque pillars standing at the top of a flight of shallow stone steps to mark the building’s entrance, offering commanding views out over the golf course and the Norfolk coastline beyond.
Reception was a high-fronted desk set in one corner of a vast open space with a polished marble floor, a sweeping double-staircase and a lofty ceiling. Behind the desk sat two attractive young ladies wearing the Resort’s uniform of purple jackets over crisp white blouses. One of them was serving a guest, but as Tanner approached, the other looked up, smiled and asked, ‘May I help you?’
As her voice echoed around the reception area, in a bid to be discreet, Tanner pulled out his ID and said quietly, ‘My name’s Detective Inspector Tanner from Norfolk Police. I was hoping to find out about someone who may have been here to play golf last weekend.’
With a fixed smile, and as if she’d said it a hundred times before, the girl said, ‘This is The Manor Resort hotel. The golf course is next door. If you follow the road around, you’ll see a sign for the entrance on your left.’
‘But this is where visitors stay who are here to play golf?’
‘Naturally, yes.’
‘Then I wonder if you could tell me if a man called Simon Richardson was staying here on Saturday night?’
After a moment’s consideration, she said, ‘The name does sound familiar. Hold on, let me check for you.’ A few clicks of the mouse later, she said, ‘Did you say Mr Richardson?’
‘Simon Richardson,’ confirmed Tanner.
‘He checked in on Friday. Room 14.’
‘And when did he check out?’
‘On Sunday,’ she replied, in a curt but professional manner.
Tanner heard the sound of the entrance door opening behind him, and turned to see a well-dressed elderly couple enter the hotel and approach the desk.
Having also seen them, the lady asked, ‘Is there anything else I can help you w
ith?’
All he’d so far discovered was that someone called Simon Richardson had checked in on Friday and checked out again on Sunday, something he could have found out by simply phoning them up. ‘I don’t suppose you can remember what he did when he was here?’
With a scowl of rebuke, she said, ‘It’s not our job to keep tabs on our guests!’ and glanced behind him at the waiting couple.
‘But you remember him, though?’
She stared blankly at Tanner, clearly wanting him to leave so that she could deal with the paying customers.
Reading her thoughts, Tanner leaned forward, engaged eye contact with her, and in a quiet but firm voice, said, ‘This is a murder enquiry!’
That seemed to get the girl’s attention, and seeing her colleague was now free, she called her over. ‘Sarah, could you attend to Mr and Mrs Winterbourne? Thankyou.’
As the old couple smiled and stepped over to other side of the reception desk, the girl was now free to focus on the questions being asked of her by the Detective Inspector. ‘He came in carrying all his golf clubs, if that helps.’
‘Do you know if he left at all, on Saturday?’
‘From what I remember, he spent pretty much the entire time in his room, and only came down for dinner.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I can’t be one hundred percent certain, no.’
‘But you were on duty at the time.’
‘I do afternoons and evenings, yes. Guests are free to come and go as they please, obviously. But I did have the impression that he’d be the type who’d be looking to spend the weekend in his room.’
‘What makes you think that?’
Glancing over at her colleague, and seeing that she was fully engaged with dealing with the old couple, she leaned forward slightly and said, ‘I don’t think he was alone.’
‘He was here with a woman?’
She shook her head meaningfully. ‘He was with a friend. A male friend.’
‘You mean, you think he’s gay?’
‘Well, I’m fairly certain his friend is, at least. Fake tan, whitened teeth, exceptionally good-looking, definitely wearing eyeliner, and with a weird haircut - shaved sides with a long fringe; it’s a particular style. He also had a small teardrop tattoo on his neck and, well, he just had that sort of look about him.’
