by Angie Smith
“And you said I could stop at any time, if I was feeling on edge.”
He nodded again.
“Well this is that time.”
“Pauline, if that’s what you want, you have every right to walk out of that door, but it’s my view that if we don’t discuss the things that cause you the most pain, we’ll never resolve the problems. Over the past few days you’ve made good progress, but something’s happened that’s turned it all on its head. Now, we can pretend it hasn’t, or we can confront it and work towards understanding and controlling the detrimental impact it has on you.”
She sighed and pursed her lips. “I… I don’t think I can talk about it,” she said.
“Would you like a drink?” Rosco asked. He stood up and walked over to the coffee machine.
“Yes please, a cappuccino would be nice,” she said unfolding her arms, fully aware that his change of tack was a classic interview technique.
He brought over the drink, together with a small selection of biscuits and cakes neatly arranged on an ornate silver salver. He offered them to her, and she politely refused, but he persisted. “Go on, take one,” he encouraged, smiling, “otherwise I’ll have to eat them.”
She took the Bourbon, and he placed the salver on the coffee table nearby. He was having a black coffee and chose a large chocolate muffin to accompany it.
“Why don’t you start by telling me how you were feeling when you first woke yesterday morning?” he said, taking a sip from the cup, “and then we’ll take it from there.”
“I was feeling fine, relaxed, confident, and looking forward to the day,” she replied, holding onto the cup as if it afforded her some degree of protection.
“Okay, what did you do after waking?”
“Showered, dressed and waited for breakfast.”
“Did you have breakfast in your suite?”
“Yes,” she replied sheepishly, glancing over at the window.
“I thought you were going to try the restaurant. The last time we spoke you were feeling more confident and agreed you’d try socialising at mealtimes.”
“I know and I was fully intending having lunch in the restaurant, but things changed.” Her expression darkened.
“Okay, how was breakfast? And how were you feeling after it?”
“Breakfast was delicious, as always; and afterwards I was feeling content and looking forward to my massage, scheduled for ten.”
“But you cancelled that, around nine thirty, if I’m not mistaken, and then you cancelled all yesterday’s other sessions.”
Pauline nodded. “I didn’t feel up to them.” She sipped the drink and nibbled at the corner of the Bourbon.
“What did you do between breakfast and nine-thirty?”
“Stayed in my suite, ordered coffee and read the paper.”
“So what triggered you to go from looking forward to your massage, to not feeling up to it?”
“Something I’d…” she hesitated, appraising Rosco, who was sitting patiently waiting, his gaze burning into her. “Something I’d read in the newspaper.”
Remaining silent, he tilted his head and looked expectantly over the top of his spectacles.
The pause lasted no more than ten seconds, but to Pauline it seemed like an eternity; she could choose to walk out, or to elaborate. She nibbled at the Bourbon hoping the sugar content would soothe her nerves, but the opposite was happening and her stomach muscles tightened as nausea kicked in. “I’d read a former colleague had committed suicide,” she finally said shakily.
“Were you close to this person?”
She eyed him carefully. “No, I absolutely hated the sight of him.”
“Hatred’s a strong emotion.”
Her eyes narrowed and she tasted venom.
“Why do you feel hatred?” he pressed.
“Because that bastard killed my twin sister… And he got away with it.”
Woods braked, swerved and hit the horn hard. “Idiot!” he shouted. “Why don’t you look where you’re going?”
Barnes turned around and watched out of the rear window as the youth safely crossed the road behind them; he had just stepped off the pavement oblivious to Woods’ approaching car.
“Did you see that?” Woods asked looking in his mirror, “He’s got earphones in. It’s a wonder I didn’t knock him down.”
“There would have been a lot of paperwork,” Barnes replied, glancing at Woods, who she could tell had been shaken by the incident; something she’d not witnessed before.
They were driving out of Huddersfield on the A642 heading back to HQ, after leaving Higgson with the awkward task of explaining to his Chief Inspector why Woods was reopening the investigation into Hussain’s death.
“I thought it strange that Hussain suddenly decides to drive up to the dam and commit suicide, when he’s heading to collect his son,” Barnes said, changing the subject.
“I know; that’s when my alarm bells started ringing. Even if his mind was in turmoil, why didn’t he collect his son, drop him off at home, make an excuse about going out and then head up to the dam?”
“And the sequence of events at the dam appeared strange.”
“I agree; he arrives, switches off his phone and then there’s a gap of just over one hour forty minutes. Did he drive somewhere else and then return to the dam?”
“But that question remains even if he was forcibly taken there.”
Woods nodded. “I know it does, but Hussain composing a lucid suicide e-mail, and adding a puzzle at the end? Come off it, and then sending it to his mistress, not his wife or family who he’s leaving after thirty years, his mistress who he’d been seeing for six months. It stretches the imagination.”
“And why torch the car?”
Woods was nodding. “Vehicles are usually only burnt out to destroy evidence,” he observed.
“And why — when he could have driven there — walk two and a half miles to the bridge, in complete darkness, carrying an extremely heavy 18mm rope?”
“Exactly. And he’d risk someone on the motorway spotting the fire and telephoning the fire brigade, who’d most likely turn up before he’d even reached the bridge.”
“There’s another problem too, with the timeline,” Barnes said. “He sent the e-mail at 11.16 switching the phone off one minute later; he torched the car and supposedly walked to the bridge. Let’s say it took him three minutes to set the car alight and thirty-five to walk to the bridge, which makes it around 11.55. He then tied a six loop hangman’s knot in the rope, not a slip knot or a noose knot, a six loop hangman’s knot, that must have taken him at least five minutes, making it midnight - the time the pathologist said he died. He virtually jumped straight off once he’d secured the rope. He didn’t sit on the edge having doubts or plucking up courage; he jumped.”
“I know the knot’s usually a giveaway,” Woods conceded, “but, to be honest, if I was planning to hang myself I’d use a proper hangman’s knot, you only have to look on the internet to find out how to tie one.”
“What’s your version of events then?” Barnes asked, her gaze becoming intense.
Woods was silent for a moment. “I think at some stage on his journey to Slaithwaite he was stopped, perhaps flagged down by a hitchhiker. I did at one point consider there may have been an accomplice or perhaps a few of them in a separate vehicle, but if that was the case there’d be no need for the stun gun; manpower alone would have been sufficient. So I think our man was working alone; he overpowered Hussain, zapping him with the gun, bundled him into the passenger seat and drove up to the dam, where he seized the Blackberry and switched off.”
“Where did the rope and petrol come from?”
“The hitchhiker’s vehicle in the car park.”
“Okay, I’ll go with that, but why was Hussain held there so long?”
“I don’t know the answer to that yet. Maybe, as I said, he was driven elsewhere and then brought back. Anyway, then at 11.12 the hitchhiker composed the e-mail and sen
t it four minutes later. He waited thirty, thirty-five minutes and drove to the bridge, stunned Hussain again, put the noose around his neck, tightening it in an attempt to mask the stun marks, tied it to the bridge, made sure Hussain’s fingerprints were on the rail and threw him off. He then drove back to the car park, burnt the car, destroying any evidence, and drove off in his own vehicle.”
“Sounds plausible,” Barnes said. “But he must also have incapacitated Hussain; otherwise he’d have been trying to escape.”
“He could have tied his hands and feet.”
“There were no marks on the wrists or ankles.”
“The ties could’ve been put over his clothes.”
“Um… okay,” she admitted as her thoughts moved on. “Maybe 1116 has more significance, and the time is a red herring, unless something noteworthy happened to Mateland at 9.16.”
“I’ll get Pete to check that out, but there’s got to be a link between Mateland and Hussain.”
“Motorway bridges… Similar numerals… Extra marital affairs… Are we missing something?”
“Listen, Maria, when we get back, can you get hold of all the CCTV footage from the hospital where Hussain and Noble worked? She’d said they were very discreet and no-one knew they were having an affair, but someone did. My guess is they’d followed them, so have a look and see if there’s any supporting evidence. Also ring Jacobs now, and get him to re-interview Julie Noble and Hussain’s family; I need to know if there’s any reason they can think of as to why Hussain was murdered, what significance, if any, 1116 has to him… and if there’s any link to Mateland, and I. . .” Woods’ mobile rang and he tossed it to Barnes. “Get that.”
It was McLean with an update after having interviewed David Brunt and the drivers who had stopped to assist at Mateland’s crash site; Barnes put the call on speakerphone.
“Aye, four drivers stopped. Three didn’t see anything untoward; however, the one who’d pulled up just after the bridge noticed the silhouette of someone moving about up there. She assumed they were watching events, but unfortunately she couldn’t give much of a description, other than she thought it was a man.”
“What about Brunt, what’s he had to say?” Woods asked.
“Aye, David Brunt’s fifty-three years old, married with a teenage daughter. He’s an office manager at an engineering company on a small industrial estate in Holbrook Green, ten miles from where he lives in Ecclesall. He’s a spotlessly clean record and claims he didn’t know Mateland. He denies ever having been to Wakefield, and on the days the Peugeot was recorded following Mateland he was at work with his Peugeot in the work’s car park; there’s CCTV footage to confirm this and a number of staff there that can vouch for it. Re his driving habits, weekdays he leaves home at 7.30 and drives to work where the car is parked all day; he leaves work at 5.00 and goes home, usually arriving there at 5.30-ish. He goes to the supermarket every Thursday evening between 7.00 and 8.15 and to the gym on Wednesday evenings between 6.00 and 9.00, and he uses the car extensively at weekends. I’ve checked the ANPR and when the Peugeot’s been recorded in the Wakefield area it’s always when Brunt’s car’s either parked up at work or at home during the night.”
“So the killer’s smart, and the car’s a clone,” Woods said.
“Aye, it looks that way. Oh, and get this, Brunt’s tax disc needs renewing at the end of July and if you look closely at the car following Mateland, so does that… And the reg plates have the same dealer logo on them.”
“Christ… Why would you go to the trouble of copying the dealer logo on the reg plates when cloning a car?” Woods asked.
“Aye, it’s a new one on me,” McLean replied. “Usually they just copy the reg. I’ve never come across anyone copying the logo; perhaps he’s a perfectionist, like you.”
Pauline watched as Rosco carefully placed his coffee down on the table and gave her a few seconds to compose herself.
“I assume you were very close to your twin sister.”
“Yes, we were inseparable. We did everything together; shared the same interests, got the same grades at school, went to the same university, studied law and qualified together. She was my best friend, and she was beautiful. . .”
“Ahhh… you were identical twins.”
Acknowledging the compliment, she managed a smile. “The only difference was in our choice in men. And that was Shelly’s downfall.”
“You said your former colleague killed her and got away with it. I don’t understand; wasn’t there a police investigation?”
“Shelly committed suicide.” She paused for several moments and looked vacant, “she was twenty-two and they’d been lovers; basically he used her, broke her heart and she could no longer cope.”
Rosco nodded. “The suicide of a loved one can have a huge impact on those left behind,” he conceded. “Feelings of guilt, and shame, rejection and sometimes anger are very common. Did you experience these?”
“Yes, probably all of them at first, but then some diminished and left me with guilt, anger and hatred, which I still feel today.”
“So, is it your former colleague’s actions that drive your feelings of anger and hatred?”
“Yes, definitely.”
“But what drives the guilt?”
“It was my fault they met,” she said, noticing him looking expectantly over the top of his spectacles again. “Shelly came to stay with us over the Christmas period,” she continued. “It was my work’s party and I invited her along. She bumped into him there. I didn’t know they’d started dating, otherwise I would have put a stop to it straight away. That’s one of my biggest regrets. Anyway, eventually she told me, but by then they’d been seeing each other for about six months and she was head over heels in love with him.”
“Perhaps she thought you wouldn’t approve; that’s why she kept it from you for so long.”
“Perhaps… but I didn’t keep anything from her…” she broke off for a moment, “well, just one thing… sorry where was I?” She glanced up and again he was appraising her over the top of his glasses. “We’ll save that particular demon for another day,” she said.
“So you feel responsible for what happened?”
“Partly, if I hadn’t invited her to the Christmas party she wouldn’t have met him.”
“No, but you didn’t have a crystal ball.”
“I tried to warn her off him. I’d told her he was married and that he wasn’t any good for her, but she said he’d promised to leave his wife. She was besotted with him. She wouldn’t listen.”
“Would you have listened if she’d tried to warn you off Gerrard?”
“No, but Gerrard wasn’t a bastard.”
“No doubt at the time Shelly though the same about her lover.”
“Perhaps,” Pauline acknowledged.
“So you invited her to the Christmas party for all the right reasons, and not being able to see into the future you had no idea what was going to happen. Then, when you found out she was dating a married man you did everything within your power to warn her of the dangers and to get her to stop seeing him.”
“Yes.”
“And as you’ve already conceded, if the tables had been switched you would have probably ignored her advice.”
“Yes.”
“So what is there to feel guilty about?”
She sighed. “I suppose when you put it like that, nothing, but it’s not easy and when those pangs of guilt occur I struggle to deal with them.”
“Could I suggest when you next have those thoughts you challenge them with the same rationale I’ve just used?”
She sighed again. “I know you’re right, and I promise I’ll give it a try. But I’m not convinced it’ll succeed.”
“It will if you allow it to.”
“Okay,” she said unconvincingly.
“Now, let’s return to those feelings of anger and hatred.”
“They’re directed solely and squarely at him. It’s taken twenty-eight years for him to
finally get what he deserved.”
“Do you really think he got what he deserved?”
“Yes, I do, and I hope he’s burning in hell as we speak.”
“How did he die?”
“He hanged himself from Scammonden Bridge.”
Rosco hesitated for a split second. “How did. . .?”
“She hanged herself in the barn at my parents’ house.”
Silence.
“Ironic isn’t it?” she said. “That he chose the same way out as Shelly.”
“That’s not uncommon, and neither are those thoughts you are having, but ask yourself how useful they are.”
“They’re not. I wish I could make them disappear.”
“You can, Pauline, but you have to let go of the past.”
“Have you let go of the past?”
“Yes, I have. It’s all part of moving on; instead of having thoughts which are painful, destructive and debilitating, challenge them with thoughts that are soothing, constructive and reinvigorating.”
“Is that what you did?”
“Yes.”
She thought long and hard. “You’re right,” she said eventually. “It is time to quell the anger and rebuild. I can’t bring Shelly back and she wouldn’t want to see me like this. I don’t want it to continue to drag me down.”
“There’s a quote, I can’t remember who by, but it went something like this: ‘You’ll never find peace until you finally let go of the hatred.’ To do this you must know why you feel the way you do and why you no longer need to feel this way. It’s about letting go of the past and pushing forward with good intentions.”
She smiled. “I’ll remember that.”
“Right, that’s a good point to stop. We’ll meet again tomorrow morning and agree some more coping strategies and perhaps, if you’re up to it we could discuss the secret you kept from Shelly.”
Friday 18th May.
Woods walked into the Incident Room at 10.00 a.m.; he’d been with Detective Chief Inspector Malcolm Foster, updating him on the two murder investigations. As he entered he saw Barnes, McLean and Jacobs busily working away at their respective desks. He strode over to the white board, picked up a black marker pen and called the three detectives over.
