Deadlock

by Graham Ison

  ‘I think Miss Preston’s answered your question,’ said Dave mildly. ‘In any case, you’ll probably be remanded in custody, so you won’t have much opportunity to get married. Even less to enjoy a honeymoon.’

  ‘You said just now that you were going to pack, Miss Preston,’ I said. ‘Where were you thinking of going?’

  Sophie Preston paused for quite a few seconds before replying, but eventually she said, ‘Tony Miles told me that there’s always a bed at his place should I need it.’

  ‘And presumably he’ll be in it, waiting.’ Roper gave a cynical laugh that was almost a snarl. ‘And it won’t be the first time, will it, you slut?’

  With a commendable show of restraint, Sophie Preston completely ignored Max’s bitter comment and turned to me. ‘I’ll go upstairs and pack now, if you’ve finished with me, Mr Brock.’

  ‘Before you go, Miss Preston, Inspector Ebdon will take a DNA sample, and the statement from you about the underwear found in Mr Roper’s car and the other things you mentioned just now, and then you’re free to do whatever you want.’ I knew that when a couple broke up, even when her relationship with Roper was as volatile as it seemed to have been, a change of mind at a later stage could not be ruled out. Love is a strange phenomenon, and I’d seen it happen on more than one occasion when a careless detective had rushed an investigation only to finish up with egg on his face. The last thing we needed at the Old Bailey was for Sophie Preston to deny that she had disclaimed ownership of the four bras. To have her immediate reaction to the contrary, and to have it in writing, would guard against any change of heart. The fact that each of the four bras was a different size would give the prosecuting counsel something with which to amuse the jury. I didn’t think Sophie Preston would risk it, but it’s always safer to make sure. ‘But I’d be grateful if you’d keep us informed of your whereabouts. You may be called to give evidence at Mr Roper’s trial.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for all the tea in China,’ said Sophie maliciously.

  At the police station in London Road, Twickenham, I charged Roper with abducting Heather Douglas and the theft of her sports bag. That would do for a start, but I explained to the custody sergeant that Roper was also strongly suspected of the murder of four women and might interfere with witnesses. I therefore required the prisoner to be kept in custody until his appearance at court the following morning.

  It was close to midnight by the time Dave and I returned to Belgravia. Brad Naylor had remained at Richmond, overseeing a thorough search of Roper’s house for any further evidence.

  I dictated an urgent email for Linda Mitchell, explaining that Max Roper was in custody charged with abduction and theft. The important job, as far as Linda was concerned, was to start connecting Roper with the scientific evidence that had been recovered from the scenes of the four murders.

  One of the few advantages of having the Crown Prosecution Service, and there aren’t many, was the advice, albeit extremely cautious and cost-driven, they would give about what charges to prefer and when to prefer them. The last thing we needed was a soft district judge who would release our man on bail. We could offer all manner of objections – flight risk, interference with witnesses, creating false alibis – but it would be the district judge who made the decision. And some have been known to make wrong decisions.

  Fortunately, our CPS adviser was prepared to offer advice late on a Friday evening without complaining. Wonders will never cease. This splendid lawyer – and I don’t often say that of lawyers – advised me not to charge Roper with the four murders yet, but that he would seek a remand in police custody in order that we could question him about them. He also suggested that Roper should be transferred to a central London police station and taken before the district judge at Westminster Magistrates Court.

  And that is exactly what happened. The central London police station we asked for and got was Belgravia. Very handy, being just downstairs from our offices.

  On Saturday morning, our CPS man made a successful application to the district judge to remand Roper into police custody in order that he might be questioned about serious matters unconnected with the charge before the court.

  We now had a maximum of three days, after which we must either charge our suspect with murder or release him to a remand prison, providing, of course, that the district judge didn’t release him on bail. Immediately on our return from court, and with Dave Poole beside me, I began to question Roper about the murders of Rachel Steele, Lisa Hastings, Denise Barton and the young Dutch woman, Danique Vandenberg.

  When we mentioned that three of the four victims had been prostitutes, he said that he’d never paid for sex in his life. To have found three prostitutes who didn’t charge for their services was unbelievable, but he dismissed the allegations with a cynical laugh and maintained his denial until we broke for a midday meal. It was then that we had a stroke of luck.

  I’d returned to the incident room just as Colin Wilberforce put down the phone.

  ‘Sir, Miss Sophie Preston is downstairs and wishes to speak to you. She said that she has information that may be of assistance.’

  As Dave and I entered the interview room, Sophie Preston handed me a photograph. ‘Her name’s Margaret Hall.’ There was no preamble, no explanation, at least not yet. Just a name and a photograph of a slender young woman, probably under thirty years of age, with long brown hair. ‘Remind you of anyone?’ she asked.

  She did remind me of someone. She reminded me of the woman seated in front of me but also, more ominously, of the four murder victims.

  ‘I suppose she looks a bit like you,’ I said cautiously, not wishing to commit myself any farther. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘As I said, her name’s Margaret Hall, known as Maggie, and she was Max’s girlfriend. In fact, she was more than that. They were engaged, but come the day of the wedding, Maggie didn’t turn up at the registry office.’

  ‘How do you know all this, Miss Preston?’ asked Dave.

  ‘Maggie’s brother-in-law told me. He said that if I was going to marry Max, I ought to know.’ Sophie laughed, but it was more cynical than humorous. ‘I don’t know whether it was malicious or friendly. But he said that he thought I ought to know,’ she said again. ‘It seems that Maggie worked in London as a computer operator in a bank, but when she wasn’t on duty – she worked shifts apparently – she would go home to Berkhamsted in Hertfordshire and spend the nights in the bed of a man she’d been having an affair with for ages. Her brother-in-law described her as a two-timing bitch.’

  ‘I don’t see how this helps me, Miss Preston,’ I said.

  ‘I’m coming to that. The next her sister heard of her was a letter from Australia, in which she said that she’d emigrated there the day before her wedding was due to take place. And she also admitted going there with the guy she slept with whenever she went home to Berkhamsted. She said something about the two of them making a new life “down under”.’

  ‘This is all very interesting, but—’

  ‘I haven’t finished yet,’ said Sophie, somewhat tersely. ‘According to Mike—’

  ‘Who is Mike?’ asked Dave, as he struggled to keep his notetaking up to date.

  ‘Maggie’s brother-in-law,’ said Sophie, with a sigh of exasperation. ‘He’s Maggie’s sister’s husband,’ she continued, as though explaining it all to a couple of dimbos. ‘According to Mike, Maggie never wore a bra, and one of the first questions that Max asked me when we first met, eight weeks ago, was whether I wore one. When I said I didn’t, he immediately started taking me out for expensive dinners and even treated me to a luxury weekend in Paris. His obsession with bras was almost frightening. It was as if he was paranoid about it, and Mike reckoned that Maggie running off like that affected Max’s mind, because he never seemed the same after that.’

  ‘Do you know the date of this wedding when Max was supposed to marry Maggie?’

  ‘Not exactly, but I think it was a matter of a week or so before Max and I met.’r />
  ‘You say that you met Max Roper about eight weeks ago, Miss Preston. So you became engaged almost immediately.’

  ‘You could say he swept me off my feet,’ said Sophie, ‘but then I found out that he was a womanizer who didn’t care how much he embarrassed me, even in public. That video of him all over that woman in the Talavera—’ She suddenly stopped. ‘Oh, God!’ she exclaimed. And I could see that she was, at last, putting two and two together. Then she recovered. ‘I broke off the engagement three times altogether, apart from when he was arrested, but each time, like a fool, I went back to him. He was so contrite, but it didn’t last long.’

  I wasn’t sure whether Sophie Preston was being vindictive or whether she had belatedly believed she could help Roper out of his present trouble. The four murders had found their way first into the more lurid newspapers, and were picked up later by the respectable organs of the national press. Sophie hadn’t been told that we suspected Roper of those killings, although she must’ve guessed; she seemed bright enough to have worked it out, especially when she thought back to the video of Roper with Rachel Steele. However, no mention had been made in the media of the fact that, in each case, the murderer had removed his victim’s bra.

  ‘I require you to make a statement encompassing what you have just told us, Miss Preston.’

  ‘Willingly,’ said Sophie.

  ‘And we’d like the full name and address of Maggie Hall’s brother-in-law. We’ll need to take a statement from him.’

  ‘I’m not sure he’d want to appear in court,’ said Sophie.

  ‘He won’t have an option,’ said Dave, ‘once a subpoena is issued.’

  EIGHTEEN

  We started again at just after two o’clock. Max Roper maintained his disdainful attitude, presumably believing that he could talk his way out of whatever accusations were put to him by two thick coppers. After all, he was a manager in human resources, and he could see right through the lame excuses employees came up with for covering absence or wanting time off. Oh, yes, the old ‘sick mother-in-law in Cornwall’ excuse to cover a holiday on the Costa Brava or wherever. He could write a book about the stupidity of the human race, and it would take more than this pair opposite him to get a confession out of him.

  What Roper didn’t know, however, was that Dave and I had discussed our afternoon strategy over lunch.

  ‘Where were you during the evening of Monday the tenth of June?’ I asked, kicking off the renewed interview with a question I’d asked before lunch. This was not forgetfulness on my part, but a technique to discover whether the answer was the same as Roper had given previously. It’s really quite surprising how many guilty people trip up over a question as simple as that.

  ‘I’ve already told you. I was with my fiancée.’ Roper examined his fingernails, as though he was finding the entire conversation insufferably boring.

  ‘But you told Detective Inspector Ebdon and me,’ said Dave, ‘that you’d had a row with your fiancée, that you’d gone to your local pub and, to use your exact words, “got pissed”. So, which was it?’

  ‘I can’t remember. You’re confusing me.’

  ‘And what were you doing during the evening of Wednesday, the twelfth of June?’ I asked. Kate and Dave had interviewed Roper at Richmond police station that evening, but the interview had ended at eight thirty. He would, therefore, have had adequate time to commit the murder of Lisa Hastings, whose body was found on Ham Common, a mere three miles from Richmond police station.

  ‘The same.’

  ‘What exactly were you doing that evening, then?’

  ‘I stayed in and watched TV with Sophie.’

  Dave made a big thing of thumbing back through the book in which he’d recorded details of their conversation. ‘That was the evening you were interviewed by DI Ebdon and me at Richmond police station. After you’d crawled about in the gutter to find the engagement ring that Sophie had thrown at you.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Roper lamely. ‘I’d forgotten. I must’ve been confusing that with another evening.’

  ‘You seem to be confused about all sorts of things, Mr Roper,’ commented Dave drily.

  ‘How well did you know Lisa Hastings?’ I asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘She was the girl whom I suggest you murdered on the evening of the twelfth of June.’ Dave pointed a menacing pencil at Roper.

  ‘How could I have done? I was being given the third degree by you at Richmond nick,’ sneered Roper, staring at Dave. ‘And the woman policeman who was with you.’

  I glanced at Dave and nodded. It was time to spring the surprise.

  Dave took a copy of the photograph of Maggie Hall that Sophie Preston had given us and dropped it casually on the table between him and Roper.

  ‘For the benefit of the recording, I am showing Max Roper a photograph of his former fiancée, Margaret Hall, also known as Maggie Hall.’

  Roper shot forward, his face white. ‘Where the hell did you get that from?’ he demanded. His face was working and he looked like a man on the verge of losing his reason.

  Dave parried question with question. ‘Did Maggie wear a bra, Roper?’

  ‘What in God’s name has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Please answer the question,’ said Dave mildly.

  It seemed that Dave’s refusal to be riled by Roper’s outburst and his constant sneering condescension disconcerted him more than if Dave had banged the table or even leaned across and shouted in his face. But Dave was a good interrogator and knew that to bully a suspect would finish up with him telling his inquisitor what he thought he wanted to hear, rather than telling the truth.

  ‘Frankly, I don’t see that questions about her underwear—’ began Roper.

  ‘Maggie Hall didn’t wear a bra, did she, Mr Roper? And whenever she had a day off from the bank she spent it in the bed of a virile multiple-times-a-night stud in Berkhamsted, but I suppose even you couldn’t compete with that sort of stamina.’ Dave’s tone of voice was one of curiosity coupled with a little banter, rather than one seeking a confession to four murders. ‘And that’s why you took the bra from each of the women you’d murdered, each one of whom was very similar in appearance to that woman.’ Dave gestured at the photograph on the table between them. ‘It was a strange way of exacting revenge on Maggie just because she’d stood you up at the registry office and preferred another man’s bed to yours, but understandable in the circumstances. It must really have hurt your pride, standing there looking like a complete prat with a stupid grin on your face and a carnation stuck in your buttonhole but no bride. I’ll bet all the guests who couldn’t wait to get their lips around a free glass of champagne were sniggering behind their hands. Especially the girls, eh? “Oh dear, poor old Max. What a loser.” Can’t you just hear them saying it? And then down the pub that night, they’d be laughing like drains at you in bed all by yourself.’ Dave shook his head. ‘But she wasn’t alone in bed that same night, was she? She had her Hertfordshire stallion in bed with her in Australia.’

  Suddenly Roper snapped. ‘Yes, damn you,’ he yelled. ‘Of course I killed those bitches. They’re all the same, trying to get as much as they can out of a man and giving nothing back. That’ll give those sniggering bastards something to think about. It’ll put a stop to their snide remarks on social media about me being stood up.’

  And that simple statement put an end to any further questions. That was the law. Unless, of course, there was any ambiguity or danger to others in his statement, in which case I was permitted to ask questions about anything I thought needed clarification. But what Roper had said was incapable of misinterpretation.

  ‘Max Roper,’ I said, ‘I’m charging you with the murders of Rachel Steele, Lisa Hastings, Denise Barton and Danique Vandenberg on divers dates between the tenth of June and the eighteenth of June this year.’ I followed this up with the usual caution. ‘Detective Sergeant Poole will now take a written statement from you.’ I expected Roper to refuse to put h
is confession into writing, as was his right, but he acquiesced.

  I had time to reflect, while Dave was taking the statement, how so very often the slightest remark by an interrogating police officer will bring forth an admission of guilt. It’s not easy to define, and may be something as simple as a comment that unwittingly damages an individual’s ego. I’m pretty sure that Dave’s jibe about Roper being laughed at by his wedding guests was enough to produce a confession. It was, I suppose, Roper’s way of restoring his ego – by acquiring a reputation for having murdered four women. None of his friends was that good.

  In this enlightened age, when the perpetrator of a crime seems to merit more consideration than the victim, murderers have been known to be granted bail. Fortunately, the district judge at Westminster Magistrates Court flew in the face of political correctness and on Monday morning remanded Roper in custody to appear at the Old Bailey on the following Friday, the fifth of July. The Old Bailey judge remanded Roper in custody for a month, and that gave us a bit of breathing space while we composed the lengthy report that would form the basis of brief to counsel.

  ‘You look remarkably pleased with yourself, Harry darling,’ said Lydia when I arrived on that same Monday evening.

  Although Lydia Maxwell and I had known each other for almost a year, it was the first time I’d visited her house in Esher, next door to my old friends Bill and Charlotte Hunter. But now that Max Roper was in custody, charged with the four murders that had occupied my mind for nigh on three weeks, I felt that I could afford to relax. Briefly. And when Lydia had invited me to dinner at Esher, I jumped at the opportunity.

  ‘I think we’ve got our murderer at last,’ I said, relaxing into one of the armchairs in Lydia’s large living room. The French windows were wide open, but it had no effect on reducing the humidity. If anything, it made it worse.

  ‘You only think you have?’ Lydia smiled and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘I shan’t be convinced until a guilty verdict is delivered,’ I said. ‘An English jury is a fickle creature. Taken individually, its members are usually quite rational. But when twelve members of the human race are gathered together in the name of justice, there’s no telling what they might decide, even if they’re intelligent enough to have understood what’s been going on.’