Jane suspected as much. She glanced at Moran, who was glaring at Simmonds. Jane felt let down by Moran’s impulsive actions, which he would know could jeopardize the investigation.
“You’re a liar. I never touched you. We both know you killed those women and Aiden Lang,” Moran said bluntly.
Simmonds sighed. “I understand you have a job to do, DCI Moran. But why are you trying to make anything I’ve done or said fit your ill-conceived notion that I am the murderer? It seems to me you’ve failed to consider that this Aiden Lang may have committed the crimes and framed me for the murders.”
Before Moran could reply there was a knock on the door.
“What?” Moran shouted.
Gibbs put his head around the door and asked if he could have a word with them both. They left the room to join Gibbs while the uniform PC entered to keep watch on Simmonds.
Moran punched the corridor wall. “He’s fucking unbelievable, sitting there, cool as a cucumber. He must think we’re all idiots.”
Jane said nothing as she followed them down the corridor, away from the interview room.
Gibbs turned to Moran. “I just got a phone call from one of the lads searching Harley Street. They found the box files for the Peckham patients, and Simon Matthews’ record was in there.”
“Simmonds has already told us that!” Moran said and started to walk off.
“Has he told you there’s also a file for a Benjamin Smith, and not only does his description fit, he has the same date of birth as Aiden Lang?”
Moran froze as he took this in. “No, he hasn’t!”
“When I went to Harley Street, I asked Simmons if he knew Aiden Lang and showed him the photograph. I also said he might be called Ben Smith,” Jane added, realizing the implications.
Gibbs stepped forward. “According to the file, Ben Smith first went to the Peckham clinic nearly two months ago. He had a missing upper left incisor, the same as the severed head. Simmonds’ report noted that the socket was badly infected, with a possible abscess, and he prescribed a course of antibiotics and painkillers, before he could fit a temporary plate.”
“Fuck me. So Simmonds has known Lang for about six weeks,” Moran said.
“It gets better, guv.” Gibbs flicked through his notes. “Simmonds fitted him with a temporary plate at his Peckham clinic on Monday the twelfth of February.”
“Shit, that’s one … two … That’s four days before Matthews and Hastings were murdered. What else was in the file?” Moran asked, adrenalin pumping.
“In his appointments book, Simmonds has a return date for him on the following Monday, the nineteenth of February.”
Moran paced up and down, rubbing at his hair. “OK, OK … I need to get this straight. At the post-mortem, Professor Martin estimated the dismembered victim had been dead around seven days. That’s right, isn’t it?”
Gibbs nodded.
“Which means that Lang’s murder happened before Simmonds killed Eileen Summers.” Moran rubbed his hands together. “We’ve fucking got him, Spence!” He turned to Jane. “When we go back in, I want you to mention that you showed Simmonds the photograph of Aiden Lang. Have you got the photo of him with you?”
“It’s in a folder on the desk, sir.”
“I’ll let you know when to get it out.”
They re-entered the interview room and sat down. As the PC left, Jane opened the A4 notebook to continue making notes.
“Do you know a young man called Ben Smith?” Moran asked.
“Not that I recall.”
“That’s strange, because he’s a patient of yours at Peckham,” Moran said.
“I’ve had hundreds of patients over the years. Many of them have the surname Smith, or at least claim to.”
“We’ve had someone check the Peckham files at your Harley Street flat. There’s one for a Benjamin Smith, who attended your Peckham clinic several times over the last six weeks. In fact, you fitted him with a temporary plate on Monday the twelfth of February.” Moran paused to monitor the effect of this information, but Simmonds didn’t react.
Moran continued. “When you first met WDS Tennison, she told you Lang used the alias Ben Smith, who we now know has the same date of birth as Aiden Lang.”
Simmonds put his hands to his face. “Oh my God, I’ve just realized … it’s the young man from the homeless shelter you’re talking about. You’re right, I fitted him with the temporary plate. I think he was supposed to come back last Monday for the actual porcelain tooth to be fitted, but he never turned up.”
“So you did know Ben Smith,” Moran concluded.
“He gave his name as Benjamin, not Ben.”
Moran looked at Jane. “Show him the photo, please.”
Jane opened the case folder and slid the picture of Aiden Lang across the table.
“I showed you this picture of Aiden Lang at your Harley Street surgery when we first spoke. Is this the man you knew as Benjamin Smith?”
Simmonds picked up the picture and studied it. “Now I remember: his hair was dyed blond, not dark like in this photo.” He looked at Jane with an apologetic expression. “I didn’t make the connection when we first met.”
Moran couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Well, I guess we all make mistakes. So what can you tell us about Aiden Lang?”
“I only knew him as a patient. He seemed like a nice young man, always very polite. That’s really all I can say about him.”
Moran nodded. “I take it you’ve heard about the body parts found in Peckham Rye Park?”
“Yes, it was on the radio.”
“Some monster chopped the victim up and left the body parts with the rubbish.”
Simmonds shook his head. “How someone could do that to another human being is beyond belief.”
“The victim was Aiden Lang, the same young man you just identified as Benjamin Smith.”
Simmonds looked shocked. “You can’t seriously think I had anything to do with his death?”
Moran leant forward. “You wouldn’t be sitting here under arrest if I didn’t. We also suspect Lang’s body parts were kept in a freezer before they were dumped on the piles of rubbish. You have a freezer in the cellar at your Peckham surgery, don’t you?”
Simmonds shook his head in disbelief. “Why would I be so stupid as to keep Benjamin Smith’s—or Aiden Lang’s—dental records if I was involved in his murder?”
“Because getting rid of them would be even more suspicious.”
Simmonds didn’t seem to have an answer to that, and Moran sensed he was getting to him.
“The forensic officers found some bleach stains on the living room carpet at Brayards Road. I think you used the bleach to clean up bloodstains.”
Simmonds found his voice again. “This is ridiculous! One of the alcoholics from the homeless shelter was sick on the carpet recently. I used bleach to clean it up.”
Moran sat back in his chair. “Well, you didn’t do a very good job. When the stained section was cut away, blood was found on the underside of the carpet. In your rush to clean up the blood, you actually helped to push it down through the carpet, so I’d like to thank you for that.”
“Are you always so condescending to someone who’s telling the truth, Moran? If there was blood on the carpet, it could have got there at any time. My mother lived alone in that house for many years. She was on warfarin to stop her blood clotting. One of the side effects was sudden heavy nose bleeds.”
“You have a well-prepared answer for everything, don’t you, Simmonds? If I was a juror listening to you in a murder trial, I’d probably think everything you said was perfectly plausible. But as a detective, I know better. You’re lying.” He paused. “I’m confident the black bin bags we found in the kitchen at your Peckham surgery will prove it.” Moran let Simmonds think about that for a moment.
“Everybody has black bin bags,” Simmonds said dismissively.
Moran slowly and carefully explained about the unique striation marks on t
he bin bags, which were being examined at the lab to determine if they were from the same roll as the ones in Simmonds’ kitchen.
“Bin bags are mass produced. Thousands will have been made at the same factory and sold around the country,” Simmonds declared confidently.
“You’re quite right, of course, but when a bin bag is torn from a roll, each tear is unique. A match between two torn edges is conclusive evidence.” Moran folded his arms and stared at Simmonds.
Simmonds sat upright and motionless. He didn’t seem to have an answer and Jane sensed he was trying to work out whether what Moran had just said was true.
Moran spoke quietly. “Cat got your tongue for once, Simmonds? Or are you not quite as informed about forensics as you like to think you are?”
There was a knock on the door. “Getting a bit like Piccadilly Circus in here, isn’t it?” Moran said, smiling at Simmonds.
Gibbs entered the room and handed a sheet of paper to Moran. “Just had a fax through from Paul Lawrence. I think you’ll like what’s on it,” he added, before exiting the room.
Moran ran his eyes over the fax. He smiled as he showed it to Jane, then carefully folded it in half and ran his index finger over the fold. He held the folded page up in front Simmonds.
“This is a forensic report. Prints left by blood stained fingers were recovered from the underside of the freezer handle in your cellar.” Moran paused for a response, but Simmonds didn’t reply, so he continued in an increasingly confident tone.
“The fingerprints match your second and third right fingers. The blood group is the same as Aiden Lang’s. And the blood on your waiting room carpet at the Peckham surgery is the same group as Sybil Hastings’. I know we can’t say ‘beyond a doubt’ that the blood is theirs, but we can say it’s not yours, as you’re a different blood group. From where I’m sitting, that looks like pretty damning evidence against you. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Moran leant forward, inviting a reply, but Simmonds still said nothing.
Moran sat back. “And there was me thinking you were a bit of a forensics expert. But you’re just a perverted son of a bitch who’s incapable of telling the truth. If you have a shred of decency or remorse, then have the guts to admit what you did.”
Simmonds roused himself. “I will not be spoken to like this, Detective Moran! If you continue in this manner, I will heed my barrister’s advice and respond ‘no comment’ to any further questions.”
“So you’re not prepared to answer any further questions?”
Simmonds leant forward. “No comment!” he said through gritted teeth.
Moran stood up. “I’d like you to read the questions and answers recorded by Sergeant Tennison in the interview book. If you agree they are a correct account of what was said, then sign and date each page.” Moran opened the door and asked the custody PC to come in.
“Remain with Sergeant Tennison while she goes over the record of interview, then take the prisoner back to his cell.”
As he shut the door, Simmonds and Tennison could hear Moran whistling “Happy Days Are Here Again.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jane sat next to Simmonds whilst he carefully read through the notes of the interview. It was painstakingly slow, and Simmonds hardly said a word, apart from the odd question where he had difficulty reading what Jane had written. Eventually he had signed and dated each page. Jane stood up, closed the interview book and went back to the opposite side of the desk.
She glanced at the custody officer, about to ask him to take Simmonds to the cells.
“Tell me, how do you feel when a guilty man isn’t convicted by a jury?” Simmonds asked softly.
“I’ve never had a case like that.”
Simmonds smiled. “There’s always a first.”
“What do you mean by that?” Jane asked.
“You’re the detective—you tell me.”
“I’m not interested in your silly games, Mr. Simmonds. You pretend to be a good, upstanding citizen who cares about other people, but we both know it’s all an act. You pretended to be shocked when I told you Helen Matthews had been murdered, but you already knew because you’d killed her. You even asked how Simon was and offered your help. I think your behavior is beneath contempt.”
He didn’t seem fazed by her damning indictment. “I meant it about Simon. I lost my own father at a young age. I know the pain and heartache the boy must be going through.”
Jane was incensed. “I don’t think you do. The officer here will take you back to your cell.” She picked up the interview book, ready to leave.
“Please hear me out.” Simmonds kept his face lowered as he took a deep breath.
Jane was surprised to see that he actually seemed distressed. The troubled look on his face was certainly unlike anything she had observed whilst Moran had been interviewing him. She sat down slowly.
“My father was killed in the war whilst fighting the Japanese,” Simmonds resumed. “And my brother died in a motorcycle accident aged seventeen. My mother never spoke about their deaths. Without her strength and love I wouldn’t have got over my brother’s death or been a successful dentist. She was so proud of everything I achieved. She took great delight in telling anyone she met that I owned my own dental practice in Harley Street.”
“I read that you bought her the house in Peckham.”
Simmonds smiled. “It was the happiest I’d ever seen her when she moved in there. But I’ll never forget the sound she made when they came to tell her my brother had been killed. It was a horrific accident. He was virtually decapitated. My poor mother had to go to the mortuary to identify him. He was the light of her life and it broke her heart. I don’t honestly think she ever got over losing my brother, and it made her overprotective of me.”
“Did you keep the house because of your mother?” Jane asked, thinking about how the bedroom was like a shrine to her.
“In some ways, yes. As my success grew I was able to develop a lucrative private practice, and eventually buy the property in Harley Street. But my beloved mother always encouraged me to help people less fortunate than myself and I knew setting up my dental practice in Peckham would have pleased her, so that’s what I did. I took great care of my mother, and spent many hours cooking her favorite dishes for her and putting them in the deep freeze, so she didn’t have to go shopping.” He looked at Jane. “As you discovered, of course.”
“Did you ever live there with her?”
He looked puzzled. “No, I had an extremely busy private practice to run, so it made sense to live in the Harley Street flat. But I saw her at every opportunity.”
Jane realized he must have started the Peckham clinic after his mother had died. She felt like saying his mother would be turning in her grave if she knew what a monster he had become, but managed to bite her lip. She didn’t want to alienate him when he seemed to be opening up to her.
“How did your mother die?” she asked.
“She was a munitions worker during the war, handling cordite and sulfur all day, which fatally damaged her lungs.”
Jane decided to turn the screw a little. “In some ways you have been more fortunate than the families of the murder victims, though. You know how your mother died. She also lived long enough to witness your success.”
“Edmund Burke once said, ‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing,’” Simmonds intoned.
Jane didn’t understand what point he was trying to make. “Very profound, Mr. Simmonds. But it does beg the question: are you a good or evil man?”
He closed his eyes. “I am both … Please, dear God, I need to talk to you, Jane.”
She took a deep breath. “Did you commit the murders?” she asked quietly.
It was a moment before Simmonds opened his eyes. He looked at the PC, then slowly turned to Jane. “I need to speak to you alone. I want to make a confession.”
Jane could feel her heart beating fast. She turned to the PC. “Please wait outs
ide.” She remained sitting for a few moments after he was gone, then leant forward. “Did you commit the murders?”
He nodded. “I want to tell you what happened, and why.”
Jane was stunned. She wondered if Simmonds was still playing mind games, but the tortured expression on his face seemed to tell her otherwise.
“I’ll need DCI Moran to be present.”
He shook his head. “No. I don’t want Moran or any other officer in the room. Otherwise I’ll tell you nothing.”
Jane knew that police regulations advised another officer should be present when a murder suspect was interviewed, but it was not actually a legal requirement under the Judges’ Rules of evidence. She opened the interview book and clicked her ballpoint pen.
Simmonds leant over and put his hand on the book. “No notes.”
“Legally I’m required to take notes, otherwise your confession may be ruled inadmissible in court,” Jane told him.
“Don’t worry. I’ll tell you everything, then make a handwritten confession myself.”
“How do I know you’ll do that?”
“Because when you hear what I have to say, you’ll know I’m telling you the truth.”
Jane felt she was in a catch-22 situation. Reluctantly, she closed the interview book and put her pen down.
“The first thing I need you to know is that I’m not a child molester,” he began. “I swear I never abused Simon Matthews.”
Jane nodded. “But did Helen Matthews, his mother, think you had?”
Simmonds took a deep breath. “Yes, that’s why she came to see me at my Peckham surgery.”
“Do you recall what date that was?”
“Friday the sixteenth of February.”
“What time?”
“Late afternoon or early evening. I’d finished with my last patient and was tidying up when the doorbell rang. Helen stormed in, shouting and accusing me of sexually abusing Simon. I told her it was lies, but she didn’t believe me.”
Murder Mile Page 32
