In the Family

by Christina James

  Tim nodded. But by the time that Professor Salkeld had finished speaking, he was barely listening. He scrambled out of the tent, ripping off the mask and the gloves, and rummaged under the overall for his mobile phone. He pressed one of the speed dials.

  “Andy?” he said. “Have you managed to get hold of Hedley Atkins yet?”

  “Hello, sir. I’m at his flat now. He’s not at work – technically speaking he’s still on holiday – and he’s not here, but his flat-mate is. A man called Peter Prance. I can’t get any sense out of him. He won’t tell me where Hedley is, or when he’ll be back.”

  “Take him to the station, will you? I’m coming to join you. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  He looked at his watch. It was almost six o’clock in the evening.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  When Tim entered the interview room at Spalding police station, he found Andy Carstairs sitting at the table opposite a slight, finely-boned man with short white hair thinning on top. His face was narrow, his eyes black and beady, and his complexion bore the red-brick tinge peculiar to the incipient alcoholic. He was wearing a very offended expression.

  “You cannot expect me to drink tea out of that!” the slight man was saying, making a small moue of disgust and pointing derisively with a manicured index-finger at a white polystyrene cup. “And before you suggest pouring it into a mug, I must tell you that I never use them. I need a tea-cup. And some fresh tea, now, in all probability. That has been stewing there for at least ten minutes now.” During this last sentence his voice had risen by an octave.

  Andy’s reply was such a model of strained politeness that his words almost became a parody of what they were saying. Tim remembered that Andy had already spent most of the afternoon in this man’s company and reflected that he himself would probably have lost his temper by this stage. The man was in any case so arrogant that he did not suspect that Andy was taking the piss.

  “Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you there, sir,” Andy was saying. “The girls in the typing pool might have some cups, but they’ve all gone home now. I suggest that you try to drink it anyway. It looks as if we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

  By now, Andy’s interviewee had turned to focus his attention on Tim. He evidently sensed that Tim was the more senior officer, and sprang to his feet, holding out his hand.

  “Peter Prance,” he said in clipped tones.

  Tim took the outstretched hand.

  “Detective Inspector Tim Yates. Do sit down again, Mr. Prance. Am I to understand that you are Mr. Hedley Atkins’ lodger?”

  The small man immediately became very agitated. He had begun to retake his seat, but now he jumped up again.

  “Lodger!” he squealed. “I hardly think that that is the appropriate term. Hedley and I are partners.” He rolled his eyes. “Lovers, if you will.”

  “Indeed,” said Tim. “Then perhaps you accompanied him on his recent holiday? It was to Scotland, I believe?”

  “Yes,” said Peter Prance. He tilted his chin at Tim. “It was my treat, if you must know.”

  “Oh?” said Tim. “How very nice of you. Do sit down, sir. I understand from Mr. Atkins’ colleagues that the holiday was not due to finish until Saturday. It’s only Thursday today. Was there a reason for cutting it short?”

  Peter Prance swatted the air with a curved hand.

  “Oh, Inspector, now you’re playing games. You know very well that you sent out a radio broadcast suggesting that Hedley should return home.”

  “Yes, I did send out a broadcast: but what I specifically asked him to do was to get in touch with the police here. He hasn’t done that yet, and there is something of great urgency that I want to discuss with him. I therefore need to know where he is. I understand that you haven’t been willing to give that information to DC Carstairs. I must warn you, Mr. Prance, that if you know of Mr. Atkins’ whereabouts and refuse to disclose it to us, we can charge you with obstructing the police.”

  “Oh, well if you’re going to get rough, I must insist on having a solicitor present. And some more tea while we’re waiting, in a cup, if you please.”

  Tim sighed. It was indeed going to be a long night. He got up to leave the interview room, motioning Andy Carstairs to follow him.

  “I’m going to send one of the coppers on the desk in with some more tea,” he said. “It’ll give you a bit of a breather from him. I’ll go and call the duty solicitor. Let’s hope we get someone reasonable. In the meantime, can you check to see if he’s got form? The way he’s behaving, I’m pretty certain it’s not the first time he’s seen the inside of a police station.”

  “You may be right,” said Andy. “On the other hand, he may just be an arrogant little fucker.”

  Tim grinned. “Maybe we’re both right. It’s worth finding out, anyway.”

  The duty solicitor turned out to be Chris McGill. Tim was pleased. Mr. McGill was conscientious enough, but not over-zealous when it came to expostulating about his client’s rights. He arrived less than an half an hour after he received Tim’s call, still wearing a dinner jacket. He was carrying a canvas holdall.

  “Is there somewhere I can change? I’ve come straight from the rotary dinner. It was just about to start. I don’t feel like exposing myself to the ridicule of our man by appearing dressed like this.”

  “Actually, this particular client would probably respect you a great deal more if he did see you dressed like that, but I take your point. Please use my office to change in. You know where it is, I think? I’m sorry I dragged you away from the dinner.”

  “Don’t be. I’d almost rather be here. My wife is none too pleased, though.”

  Ten minutes later, Tim and Chris McGill joined Peter Prance in the interview room. He was sitting ramrod straight in his chair, drinking tea from a china cup. Tim recognised it as the cup that Molly, who ran the station canteen, kept on the counter as a receptacle for tips. He smiled inwardly. Knowing Sergeant Jackson as he did, he doubted if he’d given it more than a cursory wash out. He hoped that Peter Prance was enjoying his tea.

  Tim turned on a hand-held tape recorder. “Detective Inspector Yates interviewing Mr. Peter Prance. Mr. Chris McGill, solicitor, is present, to advise Mr. Prance. Date: Thursday 24th February. Time: 20.08 hours.”

  He placed the tape recorder on the desk between them.

  “Now, Mr. Prance,” he said. “I want to make it clear that you are not here under suspicion of any crime and I have no wish to keep you for a minute longer than is necessary. I do, however, have the power to detain you for up to twenty-four hours without making a charge and I shall certainly exercise that power if you do not co-operate. Do I make myself clear?”

  Peter Prance glanced across at the solicitor, who nodded.

  “Perfectly clear,” he said in an aggrieved voice, “though I can think of nicer ways of putting it.”

  “How much do you know of Hedley Atkins’ background?”

  “I know that his mother was Dorothy Atkins, if that’s what you mean. The woman who killed her mother-in-law.”

  “That is correct. Did he talk about her much?”

  “Hardly ever, Inspector. May I ask why you’re using the past tense?”

  “Because I’m talking about the past, Mr. Prance. The present is now. Since he is not here, you are clearly not able to say what Hedley Atkins is talking about at this moment, and I am assuming that you don’t claim to know what he will say in the future? ” Tim paused for a moment. Peter Prance lowered at him, then dropped his eyes. Tim continued. “When I was trying to locate Hedley Atkins while you were both in Scotland this week, it was because I wanted to let him know that his mother had died suddenly.”

  “Really? What a thing!”

  “You don’t sound very surprised, Mr. Prance.”

  “We did know she had died, but I didn’t know the lady. Her death is
of little consequence to me.”

  “Can you tell me what effect the news had on Hedley?”

  Peter shot Chris McGill a mischievous look.

  “Should I answer that?”

  Chris McGill sighed.

  “Strictly speaking, Inspector, that question is not answerable, since you cannot expect my client to be able to read Hedley Atkins’ mind. However, it would be perfectly all right to ask him what impression he had of Mr. Atkins’ feelings when he heard the news.”

  Peter Prance cocked his head expectantly.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Your impression of his feelings, then, Mr. Prance, if you don’t mind recollecting them.”

  “Not at all. I’d say that he was agitated. And a little upset. Quite a normal response to such news.”

  “Indeed. And can you explain how he came to hear the news? The radio announcement simply asked him to contact me for news about his family. It did not say what it was.”

  Peter Prance glared furiously. He realised immediately that he had fallen into a trap.

  “Very clever, Detective Inspector. Touché.”

  “I’m not playing a game, Peter. I am gravely concerned about Hedley Atkins’ state of mind at present, and I want to know his whereabouts. Now answer the question, if you please.”

  Peter Prance looked at the solicitor again. Chris McGill nodded encouragement.

  “He made a phone call.”

  “To whom did he make the call?”

  “I really don’t know,” said Peter Prance slyly. “He made the call from one of those hooded contraptions in the foyer of our hotel. He didn’t want to use the telephone in our room, for some reason.”

  “Was he calling Ronald Atkins, his father?”

  “I’ve told you that I don’t know . . .”

  “Mr. Prance, aside from myself and the members of my team, there were only two people to whom he could have spoken who could have known of his mother’s death. One was his father, and the other was Margaret Meredith, the Matron of the home in which his mother lived. Now, I can easily call Mrs. Meredith and ask her if she received a call from Hedley; or you can tell me who he called. Which is it to be?”

  “Now I think about it, he did say something about checking with his father,” Peter muttered.

  “Thank you.”

  Peter Prance looked up at the clock on the wall. It suddenly dawned on Tim that he was stalling for time, not just for the sake of it, but until a specific moment known only to himself had passed.

  Andy Carstairs re-entered the room at that moment.

  “Could I have a word?” he said.

  “Of course. Detective Inspector Yates, leaving the interview room in the company of DC Carstairs. Time: 7.45 p.m. Mr. Chris McGill of McGill & Son, Solicitors, remains in the room with Mr. Peter Prance.”

  “What is it?” asked Tim irritably. “I was just beginning to rattle him. I must find out where Hedley Atkins is. I’m convinced that he’s doing something this evening that Peter Prance knows about, very possibly something illegal, or something that he doesn’t want us to find out about – or at least not until it’s too late. If what I’m thinking is correct, Hedley is already responsible for two, possibly three, murders, and may be contemplating another. If so, he’ll be desperate to do it before we can locate him. Catching him tonight may be vital.”

  For answer, Andy handed over a computer print-out.

  “This might help then, sir. You were right when you guessed that Prance’s got form. The list of convictions is fairly short, but I wouldn’t mind betting that there are others that have been expunged from the record because he was fly enough to get acquitted. Fraud charges, mostly, associated with gambling swindles – not the sorts of offences for which juries tend to sympathise with the victims, because they’re usually guilty as well as the perpetrators. It’s all a question of degree. He’s mostly been fined or sentenced to community service, but he did do time for one stretch. Three years ago, he served eight months of a fourteen-month sentence for embezzlement, at HMP Liverpool. He got beaten up while he was in there, too. Officially it was just the kind of routine beating often dished out by the inmates to nancy-boys when they’re inside, but the prison governor thought there was probably more to it. He thought that Prance’s crime might just be the tip of an iceberg, part of some bigger fraud, and that he was being warned to keep his mouth shut. The governor suspected that a local racketeer called Whitey Coonan was at the back of it. Whoever it was, the beating left Prance terrified, and it served its purpose. He clammed up completely. His sentence was reduced by more than the usual period of remission for good behaviour, because arguably he should have been better protected by the prison authorities, so he was let out shortly afterwards, on probation. He asked if he could move to London immediately and register with a probation officer there. After that, as far as his criminal record goes, there is nothing until now.”

  “Thanks, Andy. Well done,” said Tim. “Are you coming back in there with me?”

  “Let’s take it in turns, shall we? You carry on now you’ve started to get to him, and I’ll come back if you aren’t getting anywhere. We’ll keep Chris McGill sweet that way: his idea of fair play is likely to be better satisfied by one cop against one witness.”

  “True,” said Tim, “you’re probably right – especially as Prance isn’t a suspect. Yet.”

  Tim returned to the interview room. Peter Prance was expatiating on the merits of professionally-starched collars and cuffs. Chris McGill was listening, his arms folded, an affable smile on his lips.

  “Right,” said Tim. “I’m sorry about the interruption.” He picked up the tape-recorder again. “Detective Inspector Tim Yates, returning to the interview room, 7.58 p.m. Now, Mr. Prance, when did you arrive home from your holiday?”

  “Yesterday evening.”

  “What sort of time?”

  “It was about eight o’clock. I remember saying that we would have to send out for something for supper, because there was no food in the flat, but Hedley said that he wasn’t hungry. He said that I should go round to the Punch Bowl and get something to eat there.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yes. I unpacked my suitcase and left after that. I was in quite a hurry, because they stop serving food at 8.30.”

  “Bit of a rough pub, the Punch Bowl, isn’t it?”

  Peter Prance rolled his eyes heavenwards.

  “Needs must, Inspector, on occasion. Besides, I’m not averse to a little bit of roughness, sometimes.” He giggled. “To tell you the truth, I was gagging for a drink. By some oversight, there was no alcohol in the flat and we’d had none on the train, either.”

  “I see. At what time did you return?”

  “Oh, it was quite late. After 11 p.m., I should think.”

  “Was Hedley Atkins in the flat when you returned?”

  “Yes – no. I’m not sure.”

  “Come on, Peter, you can do better than that. Was he there, or not?”

  Peter Prance’s eyes flickered and were drawn to the clock again.

  “I don’t think that he was. I’d had a few drinks, you understand. I didn’t see him, certainly.”

  “Thank you. And when did you see him again? Definitely see him, that is.”

  “This morning. He was already up when I got up.”

  “Did he say anything to you? Did he tell you where he went last night?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Prance, may I reiterate my previous statement about being obstructive? If you waste police time or try to pervert the course of justice, you might just end up with another custodial sentence. You wouldn’t want to find yourself back at HMP Liverpool, would you?”

  “That’s a threat!” screeched Peter Prance, looking accusingly at the solici
tor. “You tell him! That was a threat!” He was clearly scared.

  “It might possibly be construed as a threat,” said Chris McGill mildly. “On the other hand, it might just have been intended as a friendly warning.”

  Peter Prance looked at the clock again.

  “You seem to be very interested in that clock. Have an appointment this evening, do you? If so, you’re not going the right way about keeping it. Let’s try again. What did Hedley Atkins talk to you about this morning?”

  “His mother’s death. And the funeral arrangements.”

  “Had he made progress with them?”

  “I believe some progress, yes.”

  “Then he’d been to see his father?”

  “I very much doubt it. He never went to see his father, in my experience.”

  “Then he couldn’t have made progress with the funeral arrangements. Hedley Atkins was his mother’s next of kin, but his father was the executor of her will. Either by an oversight or by her own design, she hadn’t changed her will at the time of her divorce, so Ronald Atkins was responsible for organising her funeral. And before you decide that I am forgetting my grammar again, I say ‘was’ because that is the correct tense in this instance. Ronald Atkins also died last night.”

  Peter Prance’s look of astonishment could not have been fabricated. It was quickly replaced by an expression of intense fear.

  “May I have a glass of water?”

  “Of course. Let’s take a short break, shall we?”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  I feel calmer when I’ve boarded the next train, even though it means a long wait in Birmingham. I will still arrive in Liverpool before 8 a.m., well before she has left her house. I get off this train at New Street Station just before 11 p.m. and head for the waiting-room. There is an electric fire mounted on the wall in there, and a heater suspended over the door, giving out waves of heat. At the moment there are still a few people sitting half-asleep on the plastic chairs, waiting for the last ride home, but I think that they’ll disappear soon enough, and leave me in peace. I think I’ll probably be able to get some sleep in here before I catch my connection, which is due to depart at 4.03 a.m. tomorrow. The place is squalid with discarded sandwich wrappings and empty cardboard coffee cups. I’ve seen a cleaner further up the platform, clearing up debris with a huge brush. I hope that he won’t want to come in here and disturb me.