by J M Gregson
Phil eased his position on the hard seat, raised his hand unconsciously to make sure that his plentiful, greying hair was still in position, then made himself fold his arms and look straight at Lambert. What the man said made sense: he certainly wouldn’t want Carol to hear some of the things he might have to say here. But he didn’t want to concede anything, at this stage; he might get out of this without revealing anything more, if he was lucky. ‘I understand that. I just don’t see what I can have to tell you.’
‘We’d like to hear what you thought of the dead man, without any of the tact you might think appropriate. We’ve heard from a lot of people about him now. We’d like to know how you saw him and compare that with what other people remember of him.’
‘I hardly knew him. We’d only been living in the close for two or three weeks when he died.’ Phil found that his resolution to look his questioner fully and frankly in the eye hadn’t lasted very long. He wished now that he hadn’t dressed so formally. His tie felt tight on his neck, and before he knew it he was running his forefinger round the inside of his collar, feeling the dampness of his neck in this airless place.
‘You’re telling us that you didn’t know Robin Durkin before you met him as a neighbour.’
Phil found himself trying to work out what they knew. He couldn’t afford to be caught out in a direct lie at the beginning of this, but Lambert’s tone was even and unrevealing. Phil was sure now that he was sweating, that there was a sheen of damp about his temples which he could not wipe away. Some other unfortunate who had sat on this seat had tried to scratch his initials into the shiny top of the table; Phil found himself trying to decipher them as he said, ‘I did know Durkin. From years back. And I didn’t like him.’
It sounded like a confession – was a confession, of sorts, an acknowledgement that he had just tried to deceive them. Phil wanted to shout that it wasn’t a confession to murder. Lambert said quietly, ‘Don’t you think that it’s time that we had the full details of that? I shouldn’t need to remind you once again that this is a murder enquiry, but I’m now doing so.’
‘He was a nasty piece of work, Durkin.’ The latest of his clichés, and one they had heard before about the dead man. ‘He made plenty of money, and not much of it from that garage of his, if you ask me.’
‘Which is what we are doing, Mr Smart. Asking you for everything you can tell us about the man and your dealings with him.’
‘He was into drugs. Selling them, I mean. But not dealing himself, not him. He wouldn’t be on the streets taking the risks, would he, Robin Durkin?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Smart. I’m looking for you to tell us.’
‘I can’t give you any details. You asked me for my impressions of the man, and I’m giving them to you.’
‘Were you one of his dealers?’
‘No! I’ve never been involved in the drugs business.’
‘So if we get a search warrant and go through your house, we won’t find any illegal substances?’
Phil tried not to show the panic in his face. Part of his salesman’s training was to keep a smiling, untroubled face when things were going wrong, but this was different. This was for real. He fancied he could feel a vein throbbing in his temple; wondered if it was apparent to these men who watched him so carefully. ‘Of course you wouldn’t find anything.’ But his mind was opening and shutting drawers, racing through the house as if he were in some manic farce. ‘What is it you want to know?’
Lambert smiled now, acknowledging that the man had been softened up, was ready to make concessions, was going to cooperate with them. And letting his opponent know that he expected all of this. ‘We need everything you know about Robin Durkin, Mr Smart. It’s as simple and as comprehensive as that.’
And as hazardous and complex as that for me, who is determined that you shall not know everything, thought Phil. He returned his own, more sickly, smile. ‘It won’t take long to tell you that.’
‘Take as long as it needs, Mr Smart. You weren’t completely frank with our officers on Monday; it’s important that you hold nothing back today.’
‘I’ve already told you that Durkin was into drugs. That he was making big money from coke and horse and LSD and E.’ Phil had a desperate and ridiculous hope that by listing all these drugs he could convince them that he was being frank and honest. ‘I should think he was into the rape drug, as well. Rohypnol, isn’t it?’
‘Do you know that he was supplying that?’
‘No, of course I don’t. Not for certain. It’s just that—’
‘Confine yourself to what you know at this moment, please. We are interested in your speculations, as I’ve said, but we need to be clear about what is fact and what is merely your informed opinion.’
Phil didn’t think he liked the use of the word ‘informed’. It seemed to make him more of a player in this than he wished to be. ‘I don’t know any of the details of his dealing. A few years ago, I knew a few users, that’s all. I picked up things from them. No more than rumours, but enough to make me think that Durkin was becoming a big player in the drugs game.’
Rushton leaned forward and said, rather prissily to Phil’s mind, ‘It isn’t a game, Mr Smart. It’s an evil and criminal business which makes billions of pounds for a few and leads to death for many thousands. So tell us everything you know. We have been in contact with the Drugs Squad and already know quite a lot about Robin Durkin and his activities.’
It was a warning and he took it as one. ‘I don’t know very much, actually. I didn’t like the man, so I suppose I was prepared to listen to gossip about him, especially gossip which wasn’t to his credit.’
Rushton flicked rapid, almost silent fingers over the letters of his keyboard to record this. Philip Smart was looking earnestly at the detective inspector, trying to convince him he had yielded everything about this, when John Lambert said quietly, ‘Blackmail was Durkin’s other criminal interest. Were you one of his victims?’
It was like a lateral blow, thrown at him from the edge of his peripheral vision. Phil’s senses reeled for a moment. He tried desperately to marshal his resources, to decide how much they already knew, whether this devilish superintendent was merely inviting him to compromise himself by lies which would then be truculently exposed. He found himself staring again at those ineffectively scratched initials on the table as he said, ‘I was one of the people he had a hold over, yes.’
Lambert was unexpectedly quiet, almost supportive. ‘You need to tell us the nature of that hold, I’m afraid. The information won’t go any further, unless it proves to have a connection with this death.’
The words were said sympathetically, but they sounded in Philip Smart’s ears like a knell of doom. He found that his mouth was very dry as he said, ‘He knew things about me. Things which he threatened to reveal to my family and my employers.’
‘What kind of things, Mr Smart? Things about the women in your life?’
He looked in alarm from one to the other of the two very different faces on the other side of that silently-turning cassette. Like many serial philanderers, Phil was absurdly optimistic about keeping his bed-hopping secret. It came as a surprise to him that these men seemed to know all about his weakness for the ladies. ‘No, not that. Well, not just that.’
‘What, then?’
He was ashamed, now it came to it. He had convinced himself that with Durkin’s death he would never have to reveal this to anyone. But these people might be playing cat and mouse with him: he couldn’t afford to lie about it to them. ‘Something at work. I fiddled a few figures, made my sales seem a little higher than they were. It was easy enough. Acolleague had left and gone to a new post in Canada. I appropriated a few of his sales to me. It made no difference to company profits, but it made my own performance look pretty good. And I couldn’t see it was doing any harm to the man who’d gone. He’d got his big job, moved on to become a bigger fish in a bigger pond.’ This time a little of his envy of the younger man’s success flashed
out on the cliché, as the confident, handsome features of his departed colleague flashed momentarily across his memory.
‘But stealing these sales made a difference to you.’
It sounded like a statement to Phil, drawing him on to reveal everything, to confirm what they already knew. ‘It gave me a bigger bonus. And the Sales Manager’s post was coming up. It helped to get me that.’ The admission was drawn from him like a painful tooth.
‘And Robin Durkin knew about this. Used this.’
‘Yes. I don’t know how he got to know; perhaps he knew someone in Accounts. He took the bonus I had obtained from me, down to the last penny. He threatened that he was going to take the rise I got with the promotion from me, but that only happened in the first year.’ Confession was almost a relief: he must be careful that he did not tell everything about himself to this persuasive man. ‘What I paid Rob must have been peanuts, compared with what he was making from drugs in the last year or two. But he enjoyed having a hold over me, I think. Enjoyed the feeling that he held my destiny in his hands.’
Lambert knew as he heard the words that this was a phrase Durkin had used to this abject man. He said quietly, ‘No doubt he kept coming back to remind you of what he knew. To taunt you and tell you that there would be further demands.’
Phil found himself nodding eagerly, seizing on this chance to explain himself and the awfulness of the position in which the dead man had placed him. ‘Yes. It wasn’t just the threat of further extortion. He kept reminding me that he could have me sacked at any time he chose. That he could cause a major local scandal for me and my family.’
‘You must have felt quite desperate.’
Phil found that he couldn’t stop nodding, even though he felt he must be looking ridiculous. ‘I did.’
‘Desperate enough to kill Robin Durkin?’
‘No!’ He heard himself shout the word, appalled at the unfairness of this. The man who had been talking like a therapist had now turned on him and thrown the logic of his confession back into his face.
‘People who are blackmailed do kill people, Mr Smart. When they get desperate, they do things which are out of character.’
‘And blackmailers deserve to die.’
‘Did you take the law into your own hands, Mr Smart?’
‘No.’ He wanted to embroider the simple negative, to say something which would emphasize to this relentless man that the idea was ridiculous. But no words would come into his brain, which seemed to be preoccupied with the problems of a dry tongue against the roof of a dry mouth. He found that his finger was running round the inside of his collar again.
DI Rushton looked at him steadily for a moment, seeming to Phil to savour his discomfort. Then he said, ‘The statement you gave on Monday claims that you left Mr Durkin’s house at the same time as everyone else on Saturday night. Is that correct?’
The man was underlining the fact that he’d held things back on Monday, that the whole of his story would now be suspect. Phil knew he was in no position to take offence. ‘Yes. We all left at the same time. Around one, I think. Carol could confirm the time for you.’
‘And you didn’t go out again that night?’
‘No.’ He tried to take his eyes from the slowly-revolving cassette, which seemed to be atrophying his thought processes.
‘Presumably your wife could confirm that also.’
He almost nodded, almost gave them a weary, automatic yes. But Carol had been in here herself yesterday, had talked to Lambert; she had been mysterious, even evasive, with him at home, and he did not know what she had said. He couldn’t afford to chance his arm with these two: not again, after they had exposed what he had said on Monday. So he said wearily, ‘She couldn’t, actually. We sleep in separate rooms at present. I expect she told you that.’
She hadn’t, of course, though Lambert was quite content that Smart should think that she had. Lambert wondered how much these two confided in each other, how many secrets they held back. He said, ‘This means that neither of you can confirm that the other one did not go out again after apparently retiring for the night.’
‘You’re not suggesting that Carol could have killed him, surely?’
‘A woman could have done this, Mr Smart. The method of killing required no great physical strength.’
‘Not Carol. She couldn’t have done this.’
‘And how do you know that? Because you did it yourself?’
‘No.’ This time he did not shout. This time it was vital only that he made it clear to them that Carol could not have killed Durkin. ‘I simply know that my wife is incapable of murder, that’s all. It’s important that you should realize that. I don’t want you wasting your time on Carol.’
For the first time since they had come into the interview room, Philip Smart had a kind of dignity about him. This florid, dishonest, rather ridiculous figure, who dealt in clichés and conventional reactions, was lit up by the startling intensity of his love for the wife he had wronged so often. It was totally unexpected in this middle-aged Lothario, but more striking as a result.
Lambert and Rushton reminded themselves soberly when he had left the station that he was still a very realistic candidate for the role of murderer of the man who had blackmailed and taunted him.
Sixteen
Bert Hook looked at the anxious faces of his colleagues and didn’t wait for them to voice the question he had no wish to hear. ‘Luke’s holding his own,’ he said. ‘The hospital people seem to think the worst might be over, but Eleanor’s waiting to see the specialist.’
Lambert and Rushton muttered their relief at this terse summary, and Hook said, ‘Now, can you bring me up to date with what’s been happening in the Durkin murder case? I’m afraid I can’t claim to have been single-minded about my work over the last day or two.’
Neither of them ventured to suggest again that he should take time off because of his son’s illness. Indeed, Lambert was secretly delighted that Hook wanted to be here: he had grown so used to Bert’s comforting, complementary presence at his side that he now found it difficult to conduct key interviews without him. He said, ‘It’s time we reviewed the case anyway. It would help to clarify my mind, as well as yours. I can’t recall a murder victim being as universally disliked as Robin Durkin.’
Rushton nodded, flicking up the relevant list of files on his computer. ‘Blackmailers are a pretty odious crew, as we all know well enough. But even among blackmailers, Durkin seems to have been notably nasty.’ Chris smiled at an alliteration he had not intended, then gave a professional grimace. ‘That has ensured that the list of suspects is still much longer than any of us would like it to be, five days after the killing.’
Hook thought of his white-faced Eleanor at Luke’s bedside as he said heavily, ‘Have we eliminated the wife yet?’
Lambert shook his head. ‘We need to see her again, in the light of what we now know about her husband. And because of Chris’s discovery that she had an abortion, three years ago.’
Rushton tried to look modest. ‘I didn’t turn it up myself; I merely recorded it. And it may have no connection with this death.’
‘It’s certainly not the sort of thing which women go bragging about to strangers,’ agreed Lambert. ‘But we need to ask her about it, when there’s a murderer to find. We need to know why she had the termination, and how it affected her relationship with her husband.’
Hook remembered the dark-haired, distressed widow very clearly, though because of the momentous events in his own life it seemed much more than two days since he had seen her. ‘She said when we first saw her that they didn’t have secrets from each other. I remember thinking at the time that that was probably very unlikely. This job makes us cynical.’
Lambert could think of few people less naturally cynical than DS Hook, who tended to see the best in most people, despite all the evidence provided by his work. ‘And you were right, Bert. She admitted to us when we saw her again on Tuesday that she knew about his blackmailing acti
vities. Now that we know a lot more about Durkin, it seems unlikely that Alison knew much of the detail of what he was up to. Or if we decide that she did, we need to follow up that knowledge. We now know that she was holding things back from us when we spoke to her on Sunday. I felt that we couldn’t press her then, only a few hours after she’d found the body of her husband on the back lawn. We got a little more out of her on Tuesday. But the answer to your original query is that Alison Durkin is certainly still in the frame as a suspect for this killing. We know that she has a previous episode of violence towards a partner, albeit a long time ago, and we need to investigate with her what she felt about her abortion. She had the most obvious opportunity of all. And she was very anxious to suggest that some stranger had come into the garden through that back gate to kill Durkin. It’s natural enough for those closest to a murder victim to prefer an outsider as the killer, as we all know, but Alison Durkin was very quick to stress the possibility.’
Rushton said, ‘She may be justified, though. Something’s come in only an hour ago to support her theory. There was a call from Birmingham whilst we were talking to Philip Smart,’ he added apologetically to a frowning Lambert, who was wondering why this had been withheld until now. ‘It now seems that there was a known contract killer in the area at the time of this death.’
‘Which known contact killer?’ Lambert was dangerously terse.
‘Watson.’ Anthony David Watson, the records said. But you somehow didn’t deal in forenames when you spoke of contract killers.
‘Don’t know him.’
‘He hasn’t any convictions. Ex-army, like a lot of them. He was a mercenary in Africa for a year or two. Finds he has a lucrative career here, now.’
With the spectacular growth in the British illegal drug trade, there is plenty of work for people who deal in swift, anonymous death. If dealers disobey orders, or get too greedy, or stray into rival territory, or even get to know a little too much, they disappear swiftly and quietly. Liquidation is one of the necessary expenses of billion-dollar crime.
