‘Hi, who is it?’ said the shrill voice on the entryphone.
He smiled. His guardian angel was doing the biz today. ‘Peter Diamond, Detective Superintendent.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t buy anything at the door.’ The line disconnected. She couldn’t have been listening properly.
He tried again, twice. He’d kick the door in, if necessary.
At the third attempt, she came on again and said, ‘Please go away.’
‘Police,’ he said, ‘about the murder.’
After a pause, she said, ‘Why didn’t you say so? Push the door.’
Trying to give the appearance of calm, he stepped inside. Sherry Meredith, exquisitely made up, was halfway along the passage holding a door open, a yoghurt pot in one hand, a teaspoon in the other. ‘You’ll have to be really quick. I’m due back at work in fifteen minutes and I can’t run in these heels.’
She showed him into the flat. Decorated in primary colours, blue and yellow, it had shelves with collections of pottery figures, rabbits along one wall, Disney characters and fairies another. ‘I’d invite you to sit down, but there really isn’t time,’ she said. ‘I’ll be in awful trouble if I’m late back.’
Diamond shrugged. ‘So we’ll get down to it. We talked before about what happened early Sunday morning. I need to know more about you and your background. I expect you have plenty of boyfriends.’
The false eyelashes did some rapid work. ‘As many as I want. But one at a time.’
‘Not going steady, then?’
‘It’s funny. I always start off thinking I am.’
‘Where do you meet them — nightclubs?’
‘Mostly, yes.’ The blue eyes widened. ‘How did you know that?’
‘It’s my job. Have you ever dated a policeman?’
She was open-mouthed. ‘I don’t wish to be rude, but I’m only twenty. Aren’t you a bit senior for me?’
He remembered how tricky it was to interview her. ‘I’m not talking about myself. This is an investigation. Would you answer the question, please.’
She appeared to decide he wasn’t, after all, chatting her up. ‘A policeman? I’m not sure.’
‘You must know.’
‘With some guys I never find out the jobs they have. We talk about other stuff — if we talk about anything at all. The bands we like, and that. Some of them like to get physical straight away. I’ve discovered it’s best to stay clear of the silent ones.’
‘There’s a lad called Royston,’ Diamond said. ‘Younger than you, but mature in looks. He’s often around the clubs. Ever met him?’
‘I don’t think so. Cute name. I’d remember it.’
‘How about Anderson, a black guy?’
‘Everyone’s heard of Anderson,’ she said. ‘He’s cool. But he’s never shown any interest in me. Why are you asking me about these guys?’
‘I need to know who has visited here.’
Her mouth formed a perfect O. ‘I don’t bring them home. If I spend the night with them it’s never here. I wouldn’t want that. I mean, they might ask to use my bathroom.’
‘It’s a case of his place, or his place?’
She giggled. ‘That sums it up.’
‘You’re telling me you haven’t entertained a man here in the past year?’
‘Only my Dad and he brings a blow-up bed.’
He believed her. He doubted if she had the ability to lie. ‘I’ll be frank with you, Sherry. What I need to know is who could have visited this house with a view to planning the murder of PC Tasker.’
‘Not Daddy,’ she said. ‘He’s a parish councillor.’
‘No, not him. Do you remember any other visitors?’
‘To me?’
‘To anyone in the house.’
‘They could be visiting upstairs, I guess. It’s a quiet house. The Murphys have friends in on Friday evenings. I think they play bridge. They’ve been coming for years. They’re all about eighty.’
‘And the man on the top floor?’
‘Mr. Willis with the ponytail? He’s younger and he has a lady caller I’ve met at the door a couple of times. Thick dark hair and too shy to smile. I know she has a key because she lets herself in at night sometimes. She’s really quiet, but some of the stairs creak, so I hear her. I don’t mind. It’s romantic. She’s gone before morning. I can’t believe she’d murder anyone.’
‘He must have other visitors.’
‘Well, I don’t see all the comings and goings. I’m at work most of the day.’
‘So is he. He’s a civil servant. Have you ever seen him carrying a gun?’
‘Lordy, no.’
‘He belongs to a gun club.’
‘Never. Who would have thought it?’
‘His shooting friends could come calling.’
‘With guns?’
‘Probably not. Just socially.’
‘They’re very quiet if they do. I don’t hear anything.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I have to go. I don’t want to lose my job.’
‘You can tell your supervisor you were being interviewed by the police.’
‘I don’t think I will.’
He allowed her to leave, but he remained in the building. After she’d closed the door behind her, he went upstairs and tried the Murphys’ door. They didn’t answer his knock. He went up another flight and found Willis wasn’t at home either.
But he had the opportunity of another look inside the basement flat, which was unlocked. Forensics had been through on the first day, so he didn’t expect to find a vital missing clue. Yet it was helpful to stroll through the rooms imagining how the killer could have passed several hours waiting to go into the garden and position the rifle for the shooting of Harry Tasker.
The garden, when he ventured outside, he found transformed. It had been levelled of those tall weeds, so he couldn’t easily picture the second phase of the crime, the attack on Ken Lockton. Somewhere here, or inside the flat, the carefully executed plan went wrong. The killer had almost been caught red-handed — or with the G36 in hand — when Lockton arrived with Sergeant Stillman. Then it was a case of lying low, waiting for an opportunity to escape. Lockton had dismissed Stillman and gone to the front door with him. The sniper had retrieved the rifle, skulked in the undergrowth until the chance came to make a dent in Lockton’s head with the stock. In the minutes that followed, nobody else came and the chance of escape was possible and ultimately simple.
Well-planned? There had been a plan, certainly, but luck must have played a part as well. He walked to the railings and looked down into Walcot Street, busy with the lunchtime crowd. Difficult to visualise the same street at 4 A.M. on Sunday morning with just a lone policeman almost at the end of his beat, passing under the lamplight.
Calculating and cold-blooded.
Diamond gave a soft sigh for the death of his brother officer and the way he’d been ambushed.
Back in the nick, the desk sergeant told him he was wanted in the interview suite.
‘Wanted who by?’
‘Mr. Gull. The interpreter arrived.’
He glanced at his watch. Not much time.
In interview room two, Gull greeted him with, ‘Been out to lunch? All I have time for is a fucking sandwich.’
‘Is that better than egg mayo?’
The joke was lost on Gull. ‘Pull up a chair.’
‘I may have to leave shortly. You can’t turn up late to a funeral.’
As usual, Gull was oblivious of Diamond’s needs. ‘This is Polly. She’s English.’
The reason he’d said so was because the young woman seated opposite was wearing the hijab. She looked young and confident.
‘Married to an Iranian living here,’ she explained.
Gull was impatient to begin. ‘I’ve filled her in on the background.’
The prisoner was brought in, his bored expression suggesting he was resigned to yet another unproductive session. But the hours in custody had improved his appearance. The red-raw loo
k from living outdoors had toned down to a passably healthy glow and a few hours’ sleep had made his eyes brighter and less sunken. He looked younger, closer to twenty than twenty-five. The whole face lit up when he saw Polly and she said something to him in Persian.
Miracle of miracles, he spoke some words back.
‘He is Iranian,’ she said, ‘from Tehran.’
Jack Gull didn’t have the grace to acknowledge that Diamond and his team had done their homework and got it right. There wasn’t even a glance Diamond’s way. ‘We’d better issue the caution, then.’
Polly was well organised. She had a card ready in her hand with the words in the Persian language. Then she introduced Gull and Diamond.
‘And is he going to tell us his name?’ Diamond asked in the spirit of the Chinese proverb that when heaven drops a date, open your mouth.
She turned back to the prisoner and, wonder of wonders, got another response.
‘Hossain Farhadi, student,’ she was able to tell them.
Was this the breakthrough, tight lips willing to loosen up at last?
‘Student of which college?’
Polly listened to Farhadi’s answer and translated. ‘West Wiltshire Higher Education Institute, Bradford on Avon.’
Diamond felt the kind of lift you get from champagne.
‘As we already worked out,’ Gull said. ‘Does he know the college was closed down?’
Presently Polly was able to say, ‘Yes, and he and many other students who had come to England in good faith were left with nowhere to study. He tried other colleges and they wouldn’t consider him without a better knowledge of English.’
‘Tough tittie,’ Gull said.
Polly paused, while Farhadi said more.
‘He couldn’t return to Iran. He’d fled his homeland for political reasons. People disappear, are imprisoned, tortured and executed. The secret police took away two of his brothers and one of his friends three years ago and he hasn’t seen them since. He expected he would be safe in England.’
‘Pity England wasn’t safe from him,’ Gull muttered to Diamond.
The prisoner said some more and the translation followed.
‘He was on an official student visa and even though the college closed he intended to return to education later. So he was determined to stay at any cost. With the help of some other Iranians he obtained work as a casual labourer on farms mainly in West Wiltshire and Somerset. It was the kind of work he’d been doing as part of his education.’
‘Education, my arse,’ Gull said.
‘I don’t believe he knew it was a con,’ Polly said.
‘You’re being paid to translate, not give an opinion.’
Diamond said, ‘Be fair, Jack. She’s telling us the sense of what he’s said to her.’
Hossain Farhadi had started up again.
Polly translated. ‘He worked hard for many months and earned enough money to live. He gave up trying to find another course because he needed to put in the hours of work to pay for his food and rent. Then one day he was picking potatoes in the field and the police arrived. He and some others ran off and managed to hide, but several others were put in vans and driven away. He was told by his friends that they would be taken to something called — ’ She hesitated and looked across at Gull for help. ‘- an extermination centre?’
‘What the fuck …?’
‘Removal,’ Diamond said, ‘a removal centre.’
Polly shrugged. ‘In his country this means something more sinister. He was scared of being taken to such a place. He is still terrified you’ll take him there.’
‘Is he simple-minded?’ Gull asked her. ‘We don’t do that. Someone must have told him about deportation.’
‘That alarms him, too.’
‘He can forget about that,’ Gull said.
‘Can I tell him?’
‘Tell him we’ll hear what he’s got to say and then decide where to send him.’
The prisoner started speaking again and the English version followed.
‘The remaining students decided their best chance was to split up and go their separate ways. Some went to London, some to the Midlands. He decided to stay in the only part of the country he knew, the West, but on his own, survival was even more difficult. He’d lost his job and couldn’t communicate.’
‘He took to stealing?’ Diamond said.
‘The motorbike,’ Gull said. ‘Is he admitting to nicking that?’
‘Do you want me to ask him?’ Polly said, more to Diamond than Gull.
Diamond nodded. It could open the gate to the bigger charges.
They could see Farhadi frown as the question was put to him.
Gull took a photo of the bike from the folder in front of him and passed it across the table.
Farhadi took one glance and nodded. Then he continued speaking, but in shorter, more impassioned statements that Polly rendered into English in her even tone, as straightforwardly as if she were reading out instructions on assembling flat-pack furniture.
‘He knew he was on the run from the police. His student visa was no longer valid, so he got rid of it with his passport. He didn’t want to be identified. He was angry because he had done nothing wrong.’
‘Worked in the black economy and stole a fucking motorbike. Nothing wrong there?’ Gull said.
He didn’t get an answer, presumably because Polly treated the remark as rhetorical.
‘He believed he had only a few days of liberty left, and he could expect to spend the rest of his life behind bars.’
‘Too fucking right,’ Gull said.
‘He is thinking of prison in Iran. The penal system there is very harsh.’
Gull turned to Diamond and said through his teeth, ‘I can see where this is heading and I don’t buy it, don’t buy it at all.’
Farhadi was already making his next point, stabbing the air with his hands.
Polly translated in the same steady tone, ‘He was living rough, a fugitive, a wanted man, surviving on what he could find or scavenge, sleeping in barns and outhouses, constantly expecting the police to arrest him. He has a deep-seated fear of men in uniform.’
‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ Gull said.
Diamond said, ‘Let him speak, Jack. He’s doing our work for us.’
Another rush of words followed.
‘For a time he was in other towns, south of here, but eventually he came back to the place he knows best, where the college was. He knew the police were closing in. He had a couple of narrow escapes before you finally arrested him.’
Farhadi had stopped speaking. Polly waited and only got a nod that seemed to say, ‘End of story.’
The prisoner folded his arms and sat back.
If he thought he had finished, he was being optimistic.
‘Let’s rewind a bit,’ Gull said. ‘We recovered the bike from the river. We also recovered this.’ He pushed a photo of the assault rifle across the table.
Farhadi tensed and his facial muscles rippled. He was silent for a few seconds, as if weighing his options. Then he spoke more words that Polly turned into English.
‘He had money in his old lodgings, saved from the farm labouring, and he decided to arm himself. He’d learned to shoot during military service. He was a qualified marksman. He bought the gun from an illegal trader in Bath.’
‘Your patch,’ Gull said to Diamond. He turned to Polly. ‘Ask him if he wants to tell us how he used the gun. No, let’s go for broke. Tell him we have ballistic evidence that this gun — his gun — was used to murder police officers, the first in Wells twelve weeks ago.’
Up to now, Farhadi had given little away, but as Polly translated, the first signs of alarm showed in his eyes. He glanced down, seeking the right words to explain his actions. When he finally spoke, the gravity of what he was accused of came through in the voice.
Polly’s rendering was, of course, free of all that, except in the sense of the words. ‘His original plan was to defend himself when
the police came for him. He was sleeping rough, with the loaded gun beside him. But the more he considered his situation, the more he realised he was likely to be killed in a shoot-out.’
‘Twisted thinking,’ Gull said.
‘He says the combination of being alone and on the run, forced to break the law to get food, often being hungry and too afraid to get much sleep, affected his brain. He became paranoid.’
‘His word?’ Diamond asked Polly.
She reddened. ‘All of this is as accurate as I can make it. Paranoid is the expression he uses. I can ask him again to be certain.’
There was another short exchange before she said, ‘He confirms it. He was having nightmares about the police. He believed they were everywhere, watching him through spy cameras, setting traps, waiting to ambush him. It all built up in his brain and became unbearable, usually at night.’
‘This is breaking me up,’ Gull said with a yawn.
Farhadi’s explanation had moved on to a new level. ‘When the night terrors reached a particular point of crisis, he believed there would be no release until he used the gun to shoot one of his tormentors. This would be a way of striking back when everything was targeted at him. At first he thought it might be enough just to get a police officer in his sights without pulling the trigger. He would plan the shooting with great care and the sense of power might satisfy.’
The two detectives were compelled to wait while the process of translation was renewed.
‘He found a place in Wells that suited his plan, a tree-house. Two nights he took aim at a passing policeman and resisted firing a shot. But the impulse was overwhelming and on the third occasion he pulled the trigger.’
Gull slapped his hand several times on the table. He’d got his confession.
‘He got away and left Wells for good, but he needed to find another town where there were bins to search for food. He came to Radstock and for a short time he survived quite well. Then the terrors undermined him again. He felt compelled to use the gun a second time, and he did.’
‘For the hell of it, or what?’ Gull said, becoming angrier now that guilt was admitted.
Cop to Corpse Page 34
