Murder Mile

by Lynda La Plante

  “The conversation was off the record as far as Simmonds was concerned. Davidge will no doubt argue my statement is inadmissible.”

  “Jane, I don’t give a toss about Davidge. Simmonds confessed to four murders. He was still under caution and said things only the murderer could know. A judge at trial will decide what is or isn’t admissible as evidence. I’ll countersign your statement as the same truthful version of events that you recounted to me.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Jane looked at Gibbs. “Did you ask Lawrence about the indented writing?”

  “Yeah. He said the lab were still working on it.”

  Moran stood up. “Right, Spence, you can buy me lunch. If you need me, Jane, give me a shout.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Jane sat quietly in Moran’s office, concentrating hard on remembering everything Simmonds had said. Thankfully a lot of her suspicions had proved to be right, which helped in compiling the statement. She wondered how Simmonds had managed to appear a pillar of society for so long, when underneath his kind and gentle persona raged an unstable mind. Jane reflected on how his carefully constructed façade had crumbled to pieces when Helen Matthews said she was going to tell the police he was a child abuser and he’d snapped—causing a brutal chain reaction. Jane also wondered if Simmonds’ relationship with Lang, sexual or not, had precipitated a psychological crisis that acted as some sort of catalyst for the murders. She doubted Simmonds would ever tell the truth about his sexuality or the nature of his relationship with Lang. But it didn’t matter now. The important thing was that Simmonds had confessed to murdering him.

  It was nearly two hours later when Moran entered the room with Gibbs.

  Jane looked up. “I’ve nearly finished, sir.”

  Moran looked pleased, opening his notebook. “I just spoke with Lawrence on the phone about the bin bags.”

  “And?”

  “Thankfully he gave me the details in layman’s terms, which were …” Moran read from his notes. “‘The striation marks on the body part bags are the same as the ones under the sink at the Peckham surgery. There’s also a perfect mechanical fit on the torn edge of the bag the head was in and the next bag on the roll under the sink.’ That’s enough to nail him for Lang’s murder even if he retracts his confession.” Moran turned a page in his notebook. “Fibers from the curtain ties used to strangle Helen Matthews and Eileen Summers matched fibers recovered from the waiting room curtains. The same fibers were also found in the pocket of Simmonds’ winter coat, which I’m guessing he wore when he went to kill Eileen Summers.”

  Jane’s eyes lit up. “He’s not as forensically savvy as he likes to think. What about the testing of the eye fluid for novocaine?”

  “We’re waiting for a result on that,” Moran said.

  “Everything you just said about the forensic results on the ligatures fits with what Simmonds told me in his confession.”

  Moran’s desk phone rang. He spoke briefly with the caller. “You can take Davidge through to the interview room and tell him one of us will be with him shortly. But don’t let him see Simmonds yet.” Moran put the phone down.

  “I’ll make a copy of my statement so far for Davidge to read, then get Simmonds out of his cell so he can write his confession with Davidge present.”

  “Whoa, slow down, Jane. I want to read your statement before Davidge or Simmonds. You don’t need to tell Davidge anything for now. Just give him and Simmons the confession forms and let them get on with it. You can finish your statement later.”

  “I’ve already finished it, sir.” But she knew it wasn’t a complete record of what had been said between them. She had made no reference in her statement to the fact that Simmonds had threatened her, or that the custody PC had entered the room after hearing him shouting at her. And she had omitted her comments about Simmonds’ mother, and his dishonorable conduct in the army.

  Jane took the cell keys from the duty sergeant and asked the custody PC to accompany her when she escorted Simmonds to the interview room. She opened the wicket on Simmonds’ cell door and peered in, but couldn’t see him.

  Jane turned to the PC. “Has he been taken for a walk in the yard, or for a wash?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Jane turned back to the door and raised her voice. “Mr. Simmonds, please show yourself. Mr. Davidge is here to see you.”

  “I checked on him half an hour ago and he was there,” the PC assured her.

  “Well, he can’t have bloody well escaped. Open the door,” Jane told him.

  As the cell door opened, she could see Simmonds lying face down by the door, with a pool of blood around his head.

  “Get an ambulance!” Jane shouted.

  The PC knelt and put two fingers on Simmonds’ neck. “There’s no pulse. He’s dead.”

  “Are you sure?” Jane felt for a pulse herself, but there was nothing.

  Chapter Thirty

  The PC left Jane with Simmonds’ body whilst he went to inform the duty sergeant of the death. Jane couldn’t believe it. She crouched down and looked at the back of Simmonds’ head, but there was no noticeable injury. Could he have fallen over and split his forehead open on the floor? She slowly lifted his head. His face was covered in blood, but there was no visible injury.

  “What the hell have you done to him?” Davidge shouted.

  “Nothing. We opened the cell door and found him like this.”

  Davidge scowled at her. “I don’t believe you!”

  The duty sergeant approached the cell. “Back off, Davidge. Simmonds was checked half an hour ago and he was fine.”

  “I want Simmonds examined by an independent doctor,” Davidge insisted.

  “I’m calling a forensic pathologist to examine the body in situ, and a lab liaison sergeant to examine the scene,” the sergeant replied firmly.

  “I want to be present when that happens,” Davidge told him.

  The duty sergeant ushered him away from the cell. “Please go and wait in the station foyer.”

  As Davidge walked off, the sergeant took Jane to one side.

  “I’m playing this by the book, Sergeant Tennison, and not just because Davidge is here, but to protect you, Moran and everyone else involved in the investigation.”

  Jane knocked nervously on Moran’s door before opening it. He was on the phone with a smile on his face and waved for her to sit down.

  “That’s unbelievable … Cutting his first tooth … But isn’t he too young? … Are you sure he said it? … I can’t wait to come home … Yes, I hopefully won’t be too late.”

  Replacing the receiver, Moran clapped his hands. “Did you hear that? Cutting his first tooth, which explains why he’s been so ratty. And he said ‘Dada’! Could just be wind, of course, but—” From the expression on Jane’s face, he knew something was wrong. “What is it?”

  Before she could say anything, they were interrupted by a knock at the door. The duty sergeant entered and looked at Moran.

  “SOCOs finished taking photographs and Professor Martin should be here in about five minutes. I spoke with A10 and they’re happy for DS Lawrence to deal with the scene.”

  Moran looked confused. “What? Don’t tell me we’ve had another bloody murder. And what’s A10 got to do with it?”

  The sergeant looked at Jane.

  Moran banged his fist on the desk. “Will someone tell me what’s going on?”

  Jane took a deep breath. “I found Simmonds dead in his cell.”

  Moran, Gibbs, Jane and the duty sergeant watched as Professor Martin and DS Lawrence carefully examined Simmonds’ head. Davidge was taking notes.

  “How do you think he died?” Moran asked.

  “In the interests of my client, Mr. Simmonds, I’d like to see the detective sergeant’s notes of his alleged confession.”

  Moran turned on him. “For Christ’s sake, shut up, Davidge. Your client’s hardly in a position to deny it now, is he!”

  Martin took some medical pliers o
ut of his bag and inserted the end in Simmonds’ left ear, which was covered in congealed blood. He slowly pulled out a six-inch pencil with blood and brain matter stuck to it. Gibbs and Moran looked at each other in shock. Jane recognized it as one of her pencils, and realized with horror that when he asked to be returned to his cell, Simmonds must have slipped it into his pocket with the intention of using it to kill himself.

  Martin placed the pencil in an exhibits bag. “I’d say he put the pencil a little way in his ear, then lay sideways on the floor so it was touching the ground. Once in this position he placed his right hand on his head and rammed it towards the ground, causing the pencil to penetrate the brain. He would have died slowly through blood loss and brain hemorrhaging. ‘Slowly’—in this case being a matter of minutes rather than seconds.”

  Davidge looked stunned. “Why wasn’t my client searched before being put in the cell?”

  “I can assure you he was searched, and all his pockets emptied. He must have hidden the pencil somewhere in the cell,” the duty sergeant replied.

  “I guess this is a case where the pen, or rather pencil, is mightier than the sword,” Gibbs quipped, to nervous laughter.

  Davidge was white as a sheet.

  “Spence, Jane—my office,” Moran ordered.

  “I’d like to see Sergeant Tennison’s statement,” Davidge insisted.

  Moran sighed. “No need to be so impatient, Mr. Davidge. I’ve not even read it yet.”

  “I’m entitled to a copy on my client’s behalf.”

  “Simmonds is hardly a client anymore, and as you can see, he isn’t going anywhere. I’ll get a copy of the statement to your office tomorrow morning.”

  Davidge walked off without another word.

  Gibbs watched him go. “He’ll soon lose interest. A dead man isn’t going to stand trial, let alone pay him, so there’s nothing in it for him.”

  As Moran, Gibbs and Martin walked down the corridor, Jane stayed behind to have a quick word with Lawrence.

  “The pencil was mine, Paul. Simmonds must have taken it when we were in the interview room.”

  “Well, if I were you, I’d say nothing. He’s committed suicide and that’s that. If he didn’t have the pencil he’d have found another way.”

  “But I might have pushed him to suicide.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Lawrence chided.

  “I’m not. I brought up the army thing and the young cook he slept with. I also asked if he was in a sexual relationship with Aiden Lang. It seemed to affect him. Then when I said his mother would be disgusted with him, he broke down.” Jane couldn’t bring herself to tell Lawrence exactly what she had said to Simmonds about his jealousy towards his brother and his mother hiding the fact he was a homosexual.

  “I hope you haven’t put any of that in your statement, Jane. The army stuff is hearsay. There’s no record of it, so A10 could say you lied to a suspect in an effort to extract a confession.”

  “I haven’t put it in. And thanks for chasing up the indented writing.”

  “No problem. Pity there was … nothing of interest,” Lawrence said hesitantly.

  Jane tilted her head to one side. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me something, Paul?”

  “It doesn’t matter now. Simmonds is dead.”

  “It does matter to me, Paul. Did the indented writing reveal something?”

  Lawrence checked to make sure no one could overhear them. “The document section still hadn’t had a chance to examine it so I took a look myself. It was hard to make out, because Sybil Hastings had written a few notes across the page, not down as you’d normally expect.”

  “What was on it?” Jane asked apprehensively.

  Paul took a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Jane.

  “Eileen Summers teacher … Dentist Peckham … ?”

  “Lang and the women were already dead before you got the Samaritans forms, Jane.” Paul put his hand on Jane’s shoulder. “I only spotted some of the indented writing was across the page through experience. As the forensics officer in the case, I should have taken the time to examine it before submitting it to the document section.”

  “Will you have to mention the indented writing in your forensic report?”

  “I don’t want either of us getting hauled over the coals about something that’s of no evidential value now. I’m going to say I couldn’t find any identifiable handwriting or indentations that could be attributed to Sybil Hastings. Let sleeping dogs lie, learn from mistakes and move on.”

  The duty sergeant walked down the cell passageway towards them.

  “I’ve had a word with the custody PC. Apparently Simmonds asked if he could have some plain paper and a pen so he could start writing his confession. The PC gave him a few sheets of A4 paper and a pen. I asked him if it could have been a pencil and he said it might have been. Anyway, that clears the matter up and should satisfy A10 since prisoners are allowed writing material.”

  “Thanks, Sarge.” Lawrence turned to Jane. “We didn’t find any confession, did we?” He lifted up the plastic mattress in Simmonds’ cell, revealing a folded sheet of paper. He handed it to Jane. “Take it to Moran and let him decide what to do with it.”

  Jane went to Moran’s office and gave him the sheet of paper. Gibbs stood beside Moran, reading over his shoulder.

  I, David Simmonds, am totally innocent of the murders I am accused of. Detectives Tennison and Moran have ignored all evidence that points to the real killer being a man called Aiden Lang, whom I knew as Benjamin “Ben” Smith. I gave him a Harris tweed jacket and he repaid my kindness by stealing items of property from my premises (dental chisel, curtain tie backs) and used them in the commission of his crimes. Because of Tennison and Moran’s desire to arrest a suspect AT ALL COSTS, my reputation and career have been destroyed. They have made me an outcast in a world where I was respected for my achievements and honoured for my charitable work. I find myself in a position where I have no choice other than to end my life. The police have driven me to suicide through their biased and ruthless quest to frame me.

  Signed: David Simmonds

  Moran looked furious. “There’ll be a coroner’s inquest into Simmonds’ death. If these notes are part of it, the press will have a field day saying we got the wrong man for the ‘Murder Mile’ killings. I’m not having Simmonds laugh at us from his grave.”

  He tore the page in half and then quarters, before throwing the pieces into a confidential waste bag.

  “Anyone have a problem with this?” Moran asked.

  “Not at all,” Gibbs replied.

  They both looked at Jane.

  “No, sir. As you said, it’s all lies.”

  “What are you going to tell DCS Blake?” Gibbs asked.

  “That Simmonds made a full confession to WDS Tennison, then committed suicide because he couldn’t live with what he’d done.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Jane said.

  “Be wary of Blake, Jane. He doesn’t like what you know about his involvement with Simmonds and Andrew Hastings. He won’t say anything to your face, but behind the scenes he will try and persuade other people that you’re not up to the job. So watch your back.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate the warning.”

  “We may still get a slap on the wrist and some words of advice from A10,” Moran said.

  Jane shrugged. “I’ve been in the firing line with A10 before. But I was naive back then. I can justify my actions from start to finish where the investigation against Simmonds is concerned—even the fact I mistook his mother’s bedroom for the toilet, I reckon.”

  Moran laughed. “I was wrong about you, Tennison. You’re much wiser than your years in the job would suggest. You’re turning into an excellent detective and earning the respect of your colleagues. Next time you have a hunch or gut feeling, speak up. I for one will listen. Go and finish your statement then bring it to me to read. Make a copy as well so I can show A10 that your interview skills led t
o Simmonds’ confession.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jane left the room, glowing from Moran’s words of praise.

  Gibbs waited until Jane had closed the door. “You know A10 won’t just sweep Simmonds’ death under the carpet, guv? They love to screw the department whenever they can. They’ll go through the investigation with a fine-tooth comb looking for any fuck ups.”

  Moran shrugged. “I’m not worried about being interviewed by the rubber heels, Spence. As far as I’m concerned, the ‘fuck up’ just left the room.”

  Jane volunteered to deal with the unenviable task of informing the London-based victims’ families about Simmonds’ arrest, confession and subsequent suicide, while Gibbs travelled to Manchester to inform the Summers family, as he’d already met them when they were in London.

  Jane visited Andrew Hastings first. He was still living at his mother’s flat, since his wife had apparently asked for a divorce. He was his usual arrogant self and moaned once again about the fact that he’d been arrested. Jane suspected that underneath it all, he’d been hit hard by his mother’s death, but he was so self-obsessed, he found it hard to show his emotions. Jane told him the coroner had released his mother’s body for burial. Hastings was quick to tell Jane that he didn’t want any police at the funeral and asked her to leave.

  Hilary Peters cried profusely when Jane told her that her brother, Aiden, was dead. It was of some comfort for her to know that Aiden had been framed by Simmonds and had had no involvement in the women’s murders. Even Hilary’s husband commented that, regardless of Aiden’s sexuality, he didn’t deserve to die in the way he did. Both he and Hilary were grateful for all that Jane had done as it proved his innocence, but Hilary was still scathing about Moran’s bigotry and the way he had spoken about her brother.

  Jane’s hardest visit was with Brenda and Simon Matthews. She found it upsetting to see the bright young boy happy to see her. It showed he still had no understanding of what had happened to his mother. Brenda would have liked to see Simmonds spend the rest of his life suffering in prison and felt cheated by his suicide. Jane was about to leave when Simon came up to her holding a drawing book.