by Mark Dawson
“You can see now why we need to talk to you,” Mack said.
“You can’t think that I had anything to do with that?”
“We don’t know who was responsible, Colonel. We’re investigating it now. Please—sit down again, would you?”
He didn’t. “You think I have a motive.”
“Well,” Atticus said, “you do.”
Mack flashed an irritated glare in his direction, but Atticus didn’t see it.
“I didn’t do a bloody thing,” Miller said. “I had no idea. I haven’t seen him for weeks.”
“Sit down, sir,” Mack repeated, and, this time, the colonel did. “Now, before we go on, I’m going to caution you. 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. Do you understand, sir?”
“Is this necessary?” he said.
“I think it’s best we do things by the book, Colonel. For you and us.”
“Fine,” he said.
“Do you want to have a solicitor present?”
“No,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m happy to go on without one.”
“Tell us everything,” Atticus asked. “From the start.”
64
Miller took a breath, laced his fingers in his lap and exhaled.
“Fine,” he said. “I met him in the army, like you said. We were both in the Green Jackets. I was in Northern Ireland with him.”
“You were friendly?”
He laughed, softly and with bitterness. “I wouldn’t quite go that far.”
“Why are you laughing?” Mack asked him.
“Because getting to know him was one of the worst decisions I’ve ever made. He was bad news. Always has been.”
“How did you meet?”
“We met because we were in the same unit. I was a captain, and he was a rifleman. I doubt either of you have served—have you?”
“No,” Mack said. “We haven’t.”
“No, of course not. It’d be hard for you to understand what it’s like to be in a situation like that. Londonderry, back then? You go out on a patrol and there’s a good chance a sniper tries to pick you off. Or maybe you get back and you go out for a beer and the Provos blow up a bomb.”
“Like in Ballykelly,” Atticus suggested.
“Yes,” Miller said. “Just like that. We were both inside that bar when the INLA detonated their bomb. Seventeen people died. Eleven soldiers. We were both injured. Alfred lost his leg below the knee, and I had lacerations and a broken arm when the roof fell on top of me. They put me back together again, and I was back on the job in six months, but Alfred wasn’t as lucky. Never recovered. Got a medical discharge.”
“But you kept in touch?”
“No. I didn’t see him until a couple of months ago. He showed up with that photo and asked me for money.”
“Tell us about it,” Mack said, pointing to the photo. “What happened?”
Miller looked away and, when he looked back, little dots of scarlet had formed in his cheeks. His lips were bloodless. “It’ll ruin my reputation. My career. Everything.”
“I’m sorry about that, sir, but you still need to tell us.”
“We were in Londonderry. I’d just been promoted, but I was broke. My parents died when I was very young, and it was down to me to get my brother and sisters through school. They were at Bishopstrow. My parents had left us a little money, but it was all gone, and the only way they would’ve been able to keep going there was if I found the money to keep paying the bills, and they were bloody, bloody expensive.” He shrugged helplessly. “I didn’t have it—there was nothing left. I was on watch with Burns one night, and we got talking about it. He said he might have something that would interest me and, stupidly, I listened.” He exhaled. “I don’t know how much you know about Burns, but he was always involved in things that he shouldn’t have been. He stole things. He was violent. There was this one time he assaulted another rifleman. It was more than just the boys scrapping—the other bloke was badly hurt, but he kept his mouth shut. Burns must’ve had something on the poor bastard.”
“He was a frightening man,” Atticus offered.
“You knew him?”
“I investigated him.”
“For the child pornography?”
“That’s right.”
“I should thank you, then,” he said bitterly. “He said that was the reason he needed money. He couldn’t work after the case.”
“Get back to Londonderry,” Mack prompted.
“Alf told me that he knew about a local criminal who had robbed a building society and had the cash at home. He said we should go and help ourselves to it, and, like a fool, I agreed.”
“What happened?”
“There were three of us,” he said. “Me, Alf and another soldier.”
“Name?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“You must have known.”
“He was in a different unit. Alf didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask.”
Atticus didn’t believe him, but, before he could press, Mack waved for him to go on.
“We went to the house after dark and kicked our way in. Alf had said the robber lived on his own, but his girlfriend was there.”
“That’s them in the photograph?”
He nodded. “I held them in the bedroom while Alf and his mate searched the house and found the money. We were ready to go, but the man threatened us. He said he was connected to the IRA, that he’d remember our faces, and he’d make sure that we all got slotted the next time we were on patrol. I thought he was bluffing, but Alf lost it. Lost it. He told the two of them to get down on their knees. We’d found a Polaroid when we were looking for the cash, and Alf said we should get a snap to remember a job well done.”
“Who took the photograph?”
“The third man.”
“What happened next?”
He looked away, clenching the arms of the chair so tightly that his knuckles shone white through his parchment-thin skin. “Alf shot them both.” He looked away and swallowed. “I had no idea that he was going to do that. I thought he just wanted to frighten them.” His voice cracked. “There’ll be a court martial.”
That would be the least of his worries, Atticus thought. There would be a trial in Belfast Crown Court for murder; what the colonel was describing was a classic joint enterprise.
“This is going to ruin me,” Miller said.
Atticus had no time for his self-pity. “Did you report it?”
“At the time? I was going to, but he threatened me with the photo. He said that I had to keep my mouth shut if I didn’t want it to be sent to my CO. He said the other man—”
“Whose name you can’t remember,” Atticus cut across.
Miller scowled. “Alf said he’d back him up. My word against theirs. That’s when the blackmail started. I’ve had this hanging over me for forty years. There was another job. Alf said that we’d do that one together and then that would be that.”
“And did you?”
“No. The bomb put a stop to that. Alf and I were sent to Musgrave Park to recover. I carried on with my career, but it was obvious that Alf was finished. He couldn’t be a soldier after that. He was bitter about it all. Can’t really blame him, but, in the end, it just got to be too much. I never saw him again.”
Atticus pointed at the photograph. “Until he came back with this and asked for money.”
“Yes,” he said. “Until then.”
“When was this?” Mack asked.
“Last November. He said he’d been in Thailand after the trial but that he’d run out of money. He said he couldn’t get a job—he said no one would even interview him after the trial—and he said that if he couldn’t work, then I needed to look after him. He said he knew I had money and it was only fair that I return the favour—those were the words he used
—from when I was broke and had needed his help.”
“How much did he want?”
“Ten thousand.”
“And you paid it?” Mack said.
“What choice did I have?”
“You didn’t think that he’d come back again and ask for more?”
“They usually do,” Atticus added.
“I did think about it. My wife had cancer, and she only had a few months to live. I decided that I’d pay him to stay away until…” He swallowed. “Until it wouldn’t matter. I couldn’t bear the thought of her witnessing my disgrace. She died just after Christmas. I decided that if Burns came back, I would tell him no and take responsibility for what I did. But he didn’t come back.”
“Because someone murdered him,” Atticus said.
“So you say.”
“When was the last time you saw Burns?”
Miller frowned at his brusqueness. “When I paid him. I met him in the lay-by near to the Army Flying Museum in the Wallops. I had a bag of cash. I handed it over, and that was that.”
65
Atticus found it difficult to assess how much of what Miller had said was true. He held eye contact for most of the time that he was speaking, and his breathing and voice remained steady. His hands stayed in his lap and did not touch his face or fiddle with anything in a way that might suggest a lie. The story was full of details, suggesting either that it was true or that it had been prepared and rehearsed in advance. Overall, his story and behaviour suggested veracity, but there was still the matter of the phone call that he had made before delivering his confession.
To whom had he spoken?
Mack got up. “Could you give us a moment, Colonel?”
“Of course.”
She signalled for Atticus to follow and led him back to the hall, where they could talk without fear of being overheard.
“What did you make of that?” she asked him in a low voice.
“I think some of it was true.”
“But?”
“But he’s holding something back. He spoke to someone on the phone when he went to the bathroom. I couldn’t make out what he said, but, whatever it was, it changed him. Did you notice the difference when he came back?”
“He was terrified before,” she said.
“And then resigned afterwards.”
“You think he did it?” Mack said. “Killed Burns?”
“I don’t know. But he’s just confessed to conspiracy to murder. You’re going to have to arrest him and take him back to the station.”
Mack said that she agreed and led the way back to the sitting room.
The colonel was looking out of the window onto his garden. He swivelled as he heard their footsteps.
“Colonel Miller,” Mack said, “I am arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to murder.” She cautioned him for a second time.
“I understand,” Miller said. He did not look surprised.
“I’m going to take you back to the station in Salisbury,” she said. “We’ll go over some of the things we’ve spoken about again.”
“Of course,” he said.
The colonel led them back to the front door and opened it for Mack and Atticus to step out. He took a set of keys from a dish on the hall table, stepped out and locked the door, and walked with Atticus and Mack out to Mack’s car. She opened the back and waited for the old man to lower himself inside, then closed the door.
“We need to search the house,” Atticus said. “No need for a warrant. We can do it under Section 32.”
“Agreed.” Mack opened the rear door again. “Excuse me, sir—we’d like to search your house. Could we have the key to the front door, please?”
The colonel nodded. “I don’t have anything to hide.” Miller pulled out his keys, removed one from the ring and handed it to her.
Mack thanked him and closed the door. “I’ll drive him back,” she said to Atticus. “I’ll get Francine or Mike Lewis to come out.”
He put out his hand for the key.
“You’ll wait for them?” she said sceptically.
“Of course I will.”
He knew that she didn’t believe him, but, nonetheless, she held out the key and allowed him to take it.
66
Atticus waited for Mack to drive the colonel away and then went back to the house. He unlocked the front door and went inside. He turned right rather than left, taking a half-flight of stairs that led down to the kitchen and then a flight that led up to the first floor. There were four bedrooms, each with an en suite bathroom. There was no way he could search the house himself and even pretend to be thorough, so he looked through the rooms in the hope of finding something that might be relevant. He opened drawers and wardrobes and medicine cabinets, unpacked and then repacked an ottoman that was full of blankets, found an airing cabinet and rifled through the towels that were stacked on the shelves. He checked in bedside tables and reached beneath beds, ran his finger along the spines of rows of books, opened a humidor and took out the cigars inside. He found black bin bags full of women’s clothes and realised that the colonel was sorting through his dead wife’s things.
There was nothing of interest.
He looked at his watch. He had already been inside the house for twenty minutes, and he doubted that it would take much longer for whomever Mack had sent from the station to arrive.
Atticus took the stairs back to the ground floor, passed the open door to the breakfast room and turned right into the cloakroom. The bathroom was to the right, with another door to the left; Atticus opened it, continued through a small vestibule into a utility room and then, beyond that, to what appeared to be another sitting room.
He looked around. The room was opulently furnished, with generous sofas loaded with cushions, a footstool that held a large book dedicated to the photography of Cecil Beaton, ornaments on several small tables and more pitchers full of sweet-smelling lavender. There was a pair of French doors to the left and a large stone fireplace with a wood burner. He crossed the room and looked down at a low table that carried a thicket of photographs in matching silver frames. He looked at the photographs; they appeared to be of the Miller family: Miller himself, his wife, and children in their early twenties.
He crossed over to the mantelpiece and looked at the photographs that were displayed there. Once again, they were bland: Miller at a regimental event; with his wife at a wedding; smiling for the camera as his daughter held a newborn baby. A copy of the order of service for his wife’s funeral had been propped up against one of the frames. Atticus took it, intending to flip through the pages, but stopped.
The photograph in the modest wooden frame behind it caused him to gasp in surprise.
He heard the sound of a car in the road outside and, quickly, he took out his phone and fired off three photographs. He stuffed his phone back into his pocket and put the order of service back so that it was as he had found it and then hurried back to the front door. He closed and locked it just as Mike Lewis and Francine Patterson came through the gate.
Lewis whistled. “Nice place.”
Atticus held out the key. “You’ll want this.”
Patterson took it. “Are you coming in?”
“No. I’ve got something I need to do.”
67
Jessica pulled up at the gate of the farmhouse, got out and pressed the button for the intercom.
James York answered, “Hello?”
“It’s Detective Constable Edwards. I was here earlier.”
“Yes, hello, Officer. You’ve come for your identification?”
“Yes,” she said. “Did you find it?”
“It was on the ground. It must’ve fallen out of your pocket. I’ll open the gate—come in.”
The gates clanked as they parted. Jessica drove through them, followed the drive to the parking space at the front of the farmhouse and pulled in. She got out of the car and took the path around the side of the house to the stables. James York stepped out of a door at th
e side of the house and made his way across to her.
“Afternoon,” he said, holding out the wallet with her warrant card. “Here you are.”
She took it. “Thank you.”
“Did you find Jordan?”
“No. He wasn’t there. But I found Shayden Mullins. He’s in London.”
“And Molly?”
Jessica shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
York looked crestfallen. “This is a nightmare.”
“I’m sorry.”
He put both hands to his head and massaged his temples. “This is going to lead me to an early grave. What do you think I should do now?”
“I’d call Atticus.”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll do that. Bring him up to speed.”
“I’m sure Molly will turn up.”
She offered her hand and York took it.
“Thanks again,” York said.
Jessica opened the car door and was about to slide inside when her phone rang in her pocket. She took it out and saw a London number.
She held the phone up. “I think this might be Shayden.”
“What does he want?”
“I asked his mother to have him call me. I’d better take it.”
York nodded. Jessica accepted the call and put the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Officer Edwards?”
“Hello, Shayden.”
“My mum said you wanted to speak to me.”
“I do—thanks for calling. She says you’ve been in Salisbury.”
“Yeah.”
“When did you leave?”
“Yesterday. Came back last night and stayed with a friend in Camden. Got home this morning.”
“Why were you there?”
“Do I have to say?”
“You’re not supposed to have left London.”
“I left my PlayStation at the place I was staying.”
