Breakfast at the hotel was mercifully minus the
crowd of senior citizens who had either not stayed the night there, got up at
the crack of dawn to watch the tide coming in or going out, or were off on some
other early morning adventure.
Cleo and Gary set off in good time to walk from the
hotel to the police station. They stopped to look at the incoming tide for a
few minutes and were not surprised to see a line of senior citizens watching
the water.
“I never thought I’d prefer this beach to a lido in
Italy, but I do,” said Gary. “I just hope none of those people will be trapped on
the sandbank.”
A safety officer on horseback drove the people back
who had not noticed that the water was starting to cut off their escape route.
“I expect he does that twice a day when the
weather’s good,” said Gary. “Why don’t people read the danger notices?”
“It all looks so harmless,” said Cleo.
“The sea is merciless, my love.”
A few minutes elapsed while Cleo and Gary watched
the safety guard galloping from one end of the beach to the other, checking
that no one had been left stranded.
“I’m glad Dorothy found that corpse,” said Cleo.
“Who knows how long it would have otherwise taken for us to find one another.”
“Correction: for you to find me, Cleo. I found you
the day I set eyes on you.”
“I found you then, Gary. I just could not admit it.”
“You didn’t get near admitting it. You denied it.”
“I suppose I did.”
“I don’t think I could go through all that again,
so I’m glad you finally made up your mind.”
“It’s all a bit like virtual reality.”
“I’ll pretend to know what you mean,” said Gary.
“Us.”
“Je t’aime.”
“Moi aussi.”
“That’s concrete enough for me. We’d better move on
now,” said Gary. “Much as I enjoy our sojourns on the beach, there’s work to
do.”
***
The drive to Headquarters was accompanied by a
discussion of how they were going to get Llewellyn to admit to anything,
assuming he was not just one of those guys who made a devious impression. Cleo thought
he was a puffed-up swaggerer and unlikely to buckle under pressure, though she
tried not to judge people by appearances.
“I wonder if it’s a good idea for me to be present,
Gary. I’m not sure I could stomach that guy trying to make a ‘manly’ impression
on me. I’ll watch for a while from behind the morrir.”
“You will come in eventually, won’t you?”
“Sure. I’ll pick a critical moment. I love the
perplexed look on that guy’s face every time he sees me. He had sorted me into
the black lawyer category of the U.S. shark variety, then he thought I was a
hooker until he realized that you and I are a item and I’m a sociologist. Since
he’s a vain little strutter, It’s on the cards that he thinks his self-styled
attractiveness will win the day with me and get me to influence your judgement.”
“He’s barking up the wrong tree if he thinks all
females succumb to his ‘charms’,” said Gary. “He’s a single guy who goes to brothels
rather than shacking up with some domestic female or other. Most hetero men do
that if only to get their shirts ironed.”
“And later some guys decide that the hookers have
more to offer. The sergeant may even be gay and wants to prove that he isn’t,”
said Cleo.
“I should think he’s even less attractive to gays. What
about this: I insinuate that he’s gay and we watch the reaction.”
“Men often have grudges against hookers due to hang-ups
in their childhood,” said Cleo.
“Oedipus complex and so on, I expect you mean, but
it doesn’t seem to stop them picking up girls or visiting brothels.”
“I can’t see anyone, male or female, fancying that
guy, but his mother presumably did and in that case she is on a mysteriously
virginal pedestal, so that all less innocent women have to be done away with,”
said Cleo.
“Nice,” said Gary, wondering what Cleo’s analysis
of him had revealed.
“Did you know that the word virgin referred to
unmarried girls in the old days? The bible translators and the whole of the
R.C. church got it wrong. It makes nonsense of the so-called ‘immaculate
conception’ founded on the guaranteed virginity of girls,” Cleo continued. She
was now on one of her hobbyhorse themes, to which Gary was in no mood to
listen.
“I don’t think I have the nerve for a history
lesson with In-depth psychology and theology thrown in for good measure,” he
said.
“I found all the theoretical stuff fascinating, but it can make you misinterpret
behaviour, too,” said Cleo, noting that she was getting on Gary’s nerves.
“Some women appear innocent and aren’t. Is that
what you mean?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Cleo, stearing the
conversation into more familiar waters. “ Susie Sweet could easily fool a guy
like Llewellyn by putting on a non-tampered-with act.”
“Miss Sweet won’t have rejected him because the sex
act was her job,” said Gary. “Whoever killed her had a vicious dislike of
prostitutes and somehow I can’t fit Llewellyn into that scheme.”
“Can you iron shirts, Gary?”
***
The designated interview room at Headquarters was
on the lower floor, near the arrest cells. It was lit mainly by neon strips and
the cold light gave the room a chilling atmosphere. There was a one way mirror
on the side opposite where suspects sat. Voices could be heard through
loudspeakers and it looked like word had got around and lleellyn would have an
audience of interested parties observing the proceedings. But they would also be
curious about Gar, an unknown quantity. Llewellyn was notorious so any show he
put on would be appreciated. a notoriously dislikeable cop. A large old tape
recorder with a huge roll of tape buzzed away in the background. Digital
recording was available and used, but the tapes were a reliable backup. A
security camera filmed the proceedings.
***
Llewellyn was brought in handcuffed. The bracelets
were removed, but the security guards stayed in the room. Llewellyn was
sulking. He had been behind bars for some time, had refused a lawyer because he
said he didn’t need one, and had not been charged with any offence. Gary
thought the sergeant must be very confident if he was just sitting around and
waiting for suspicions to be wiped out.
“What the hell is this all about?” said Llewellyn,
breaking a rather uncomfortable silence created deliberately by Gary to force
the man to react.
“Don’t you know, Llewellyn?”
“I know you’re trying to pin Susie Sweet’s murder
on me.”
“We’ll only pin it on the murderer, Sergeant.”
“Then you’ll have to look elsewhere, isn’t it?”
Gary could see that Llewellyn’s blood pressure was
rising. Relapsing into quaint English grammar was a sign he’d observed in other
Welshmen under pressure.
“We are doing, but we need some more information
from you on what you did that Wednesday evening. You haven’t been very
forthcoming, Llewellyn.”
“You damn well know what I did, Hurley. I took Susie to the
chip-shop and then we went to one of Ivy’s beachhuts to eat our supper. Susie
had a healthy appetite. I wanted to buy her out of that brothel, but she had
not decided.”
Maybe the guy was not gay, after all.
“You have never actually said quite all that before,
Sergeant.”
“Well I’m saying it now. When I left that beachhut,
Susie was alive and waiting for her coke.”
“And when you got back?”
“I had to walk all until I found somewhere selling
coke open, so I was away at least twenty minutes. When I got back I found her
dead.”
“Why didn’t you raise the alarm or call an
ambulance, Sergeant? A doctor might have saved her life.”
“I was shocked and…scared out of my mind, boy.”
“Scared of what? A boyfriend? Jake?”
The sergeant paled.
“Has that damn black woman been putting ideas into
your head, Hurley?” he spat.
“Do you mean Miss Hartley?”
“If the name fits.”
“Firstly, she is not black. She has enviable olive
skin. She has a British father and an Afro-American mother. For the record, her
skin is like silk to the touch and it is the colour for a hint of which many
women spend hours spread out like herrings on sun banks.”
“Some sun bank bimbo!” jeered Llewellyn.
“Don’t make an enemy of me, Llewellyn!” said Gary.
“I’m more likely to help you than anyone else in this joint if you can convince
me that you are as innocent as you say you are.”
Llewellyn leaned back on his chair, smirking .
“Good in bed, is she?” he said.
“I’ll ignore that,” said Gary.
“I’ve told you everything. I did not murder Susie.
You and your crony will have to look elsewhere.”
Gary would have liked to go round the table and
crack the sergeant’s jaw. The guy was in a hole and still could not resist
being impertinent.
“Don’t,” said Cleo through the speaker. “I’m coming
in.”
Gary sat down again. The sergeant sniggered as Cleo
entered.
“You may have pink skin, but you have an evil mind,
Mr Llewellyn,” she said before sitting on the vacant chair next to Gary’s. “I’m
not the only person witnessing this interview,” she added. “As far as I can
see, even if you are innocent, you can be sure that your job is up for grabs.”
“I have other plans anyway,” said Llewellyn,
staring at Cleo. Later she was to tell Gary that he had stripped her with his
eyes.
“Pole-dancing perhaps?” said Cleo. “I’m not sure
you have quite the figure for that. Paunches are not raunchy.”
Gary laughed out loud and the audience on the other
side of the observation window applauded with the speaker on so that the ergeant
could not help hearing it
Llewellyn was thoroughly disliked by anyone who had
dealings with him. To their satisfaction, it was obvious that the sergeant
was overawed by this female coming in and treating him like vermin rather than
playing up to his advances.
Llewellyn turned to the guard and informed him that
he wished to go back to his cell. “You can talk to me when you have some kind
of evidence that I have committed some kind of crime, Hurley. Sleeping with
prostitutes is not illegal.”
“That depends on what you do to them before, after
or instead, Sergeant.”
The sergeant spat.
“I expect there’s a spittoon in your cell,
Sergeant, so that you really feel at home,” Cleo commented.
“And we do have another suspect with a paunch,
Sergeant,” said Gary, taking on Cleo’s apt description of the prisoner’s
figure. "You may be on a winner yet."
Cleo enjoyed taking revenge for the insulting
remarks about her by telling him his pink skin could be improved.
“I’m sure Headquarters can provide you with a sun
lamp if you would like to add a little colour apart from apoplectic red,” she said.
“Go to hell,” the sergeant replied as he was escorted
out.
“Same to you, lover-boy,” called Cleo, before
turning and telling the audience behind the mirror that she did not usually feel
the need to taunt a detainee – but there were exceptions.”
***
“I’m not sure that the interview was a complete success,”
said Gary.
“On the contrary. We can now assume that he is too
busy trying to sort out his sexuality to kill women.”
“The one does not exclude the other, Cleo.”
“I think it does in his case. The guy was sure he’d
made a conquest in Susie. That made him believe he was attractive to women, and
to my astonishment, I think he was actually making a pass at me in a furtive
way.”
“Now? Is he that confident of his charms?”
“Some men think they can provoke a woman to
surrender, and some gays think women are attracted to them,“ said Cleo. ”That’s
because women don’t like being raped, Gary, and a gay man is less likely to do
that.”
“So that’s why gays have lots of girlfriends, I
suppose. They make women feel safe and treasured and don’t make demands.”
“Yes. Women are perfectly capable of seducing men
they want, but gays have a ‘keep off the grass’ allure and that is appreciated
by many women.”
“Go on. What’s the point of this, Cleo?”
“Most gays are normal guys or gals with a
preference for their own gender,” said Cleo. “Llewellyn is fixed on women,
which makes him heterosexual by nature. That’s one reason I think he sees
himself as a playboy and is more likely to conserve the female sex than
obliterate it. Remember, he even thought he could marry Susie Sweet,”
said Cleo.
“That does not mean anything.”
“Let's talk to Dr Smith. The more I think about it, the more
I think he could have killed Susie Sweet. We just don't know yet why he would
do that on the spur of the moment."
“Or whether he had the opportunity. Apart from
that, he’s a medical doctor, Cleo. He has sworn to protect life, not destroy it.
I’ll ring Brass. They may have Dr Smith in custody by now.”
“Maybe we should think back to Dr Crippin, Gary…”
The police had indeed caught up with the doctor. He
had been traced to Harrogate thanks to his mobil phone. He would be transferred
to North Wales by a police helicopter. That would take an hour or two. The helicopter
would land on the marked square at the hospital and Dr Smith would be held for
questioning.
***
“We are free until later, Cleo. Brass will notify
me when Smith has arrived for questioning.”
“We could brave the pensioners and have lunch at
the hotel,” Cleo proposed.
“And I’ll go along with that if you tag a siesta on
after the repast.”
“As cooperative as ever, Sweetheart.”
“I’m glad you don’t call me lover-boy.”
“I will, if you prefer it; which reminds me…”
“Let’s talk to O’Reilly about that case later. No
chance of driving home tonight.”
“I’ll phone Edith about the girls staying a day longer,”
said Cleo and did.
“Before we leave the office, let’s just run through
the list of suspects,” said Gary. “I’d hate to leave anyone out.”
“Sure. We still don’t know what happened to Mrs
Grant.”
“There’s a short report from Forensics saying she
definitely died from the stab wound, not from dog bites.”
“So who followed her?”
“Good question. Macpherson is also a member of that
dog society.”
“Is he now? Have they already investigated all
those members?”
“All? There are only a dozen or so of them, and
they are all big buddies,” said Gary.
“I’d like to ask Macpherson how he feels about
someone trying to bomb him to kingdom come,” said Cleo.
“That’s not a bad idea Cleo. I’ll get him here to
share his theories on who could have wanted Mrs Grant dead. I note that there
was only half a column about her murder in the local rag.”
“Hookers make better copy than women walking dogs.”
“Even women whose husbands are up for murder?”
“That is old hat for the press.”
“Maybe talking to Macpherson would help to make it
all more public,” said Gary. “We need witnesses. Someone might come forward. We
could cocntact local radio.”
“You cops are optimists! You can’t expect Macpherson
to talk if he thinks he’s going to read what he said in the paper next morning
or hear it on the news.”
“I’ll talk to O’Reilly about what has been done
about the bomb, but we’ll get Macpherson in after office hours today.”
“That sounds like common sense. We’d better get to
the hotel now, before the oldies eat all the best food.”
Gary picked up his phone and dialled O’Reilly.
Macpherson was come to Headquarters that evening.
***
Gary found it easy to invite Macpherson to talk because
the official hoped that talking to someone really superior, even someone from
outside, would help to solve the bomb mystery without causing fallout. That was
the usual way things were sorted out in Frint-on-Sea. Why spoil a perfectly
good mechanism? The police knew their place and who had to be protected. Hurley
still had to be brought into line, but who better than Macpherson to make sure
the cop did what was required of him?
***
Nothing had happened except for an incoherent
warning notice nailed to a tree near the Town Hall entrance. O’Reilly had said
it was only a prank and should be ignored. Macpherson had no alternative but to believe O’Reilly,
but he was disgusted that the deaths of prostitutes seemed to be eating up all
the resources of the local police, a phenomenon he had not come across before
Hurley and his shrewd assistant turned up. The Town Clerk hated O’Reilly, who
had taken to treating him as a culprit rather than a near-victim. Macpherson
was sure that O’Reilly was up to something that went against the codex
established inside and outside Frint-on-Sea government offices.
***
“Did you know Mr and Mrs Grant?” Cleo asked. She
had been introduced as Gary’s assistant. Nothing wrong in that, of course, but
Macpherson was surprised that a Chief Inspector would allow a lowly assistant
to ask questions.
Gary felt the need to introduce Cleo in a form he
did not usually resort to.
“This is Dr Hartley,” he said. “Dr Hartley is a
brilliant sociologist and extremely adept at finding loopoles in arguments.”
“Oh,” said Macpherson.
“Well, did you know them?” said Cleo, smiling
benignly.
“Vaguely,” was Macpherson’s reply.
“How vaguely?” Gary wanted to know.
“I knew Grant’s dog from Woof,” said the Town Clerk,
“and I knew Mrs Grant slightly.”
“But aren’t you related to Mrs Grant?” Cleo asked.
It was a shot in the dark, but it got a strong
reaction from Macpherson, who looked gobsmacked,, which made Gary suspect that
Cleo had hit on something important. However, Gary had the impression that
Macpherson thought Cleo was talking out of place, despite his glowing
introduction..
“I don’t think I introduced you properly, Mr
Macpherson. Sorry about that.” Gary said. “Dr Hartley is the driving force of the
Hartley Investigation Agency.”
Macpherson was now less impressed by Cleo’s status
than he was alarmed that anyone could know anything about him other than what
he had published in the Town Hall Who’s Who. He had kept his family out of things
up to now. How could this woman possibly know anything more about him?
“A cousin, if you must know,” said Macpherson
deciding that if this coloured woman knew that much she might know more. “I
can’t see how that is relevant.”
“Has anyone died recently in your family?” Cleo
persisted. Macpherson was now on the defensive.
“What’s that to you?” he said
“Murder is a strange beast,” said Cleo.
“I thought we were here to discuss the bomb, Inspector,”
said Macpherson angrily.
“We are, Mr Macpherson,” said Gary, “but Dr Hartley
thinks that the two incidents might be connected.”
“What two incidents?”
“The bomb and your cousin’s death, Macpherson,”
said Gary.
“We need a motive, you see,” said Cleo, and
Macpherson was forced to admit to himself that Cleo’s true calling must be detection.
He looked at Cleo with new eyes. What sort of assistant was that who could
plant such ideas into an inspector’s head. Being used to having secretaries who
were, on average, dumb with good legs, Macpherson could not envisage anyone
being on his intellectual level.
“How could they be related?” said Macpherson.
Cleo answered and Gary listened. Her theory was new
to him. There had not been time to explain it, always assuming that she was not
improvising.
“Supposing the relative who died in your family was
going to leave a lot of money and you looked like getting part of the legacy.
It might be a motive for someone to want to get rid of you.”
Macpherson paled.
“Have you just thought of something, Macpherson?”
Gary asked.
“No.”
“You’re lying, Mr Macpherson,” said Cleo.
“I’m not. That is…”
“Mrs Grant could have had a motive, but planting
bombs is not a woman’s job, is it?” said Cleo. “Is that what you would like to
tell us, Mr Macpherson? Or does your cousin Betty Grant have a child by a
previous marriage who is a whiz at igniting incendiary devices?”
Gary was impressed by the way Cleo was dealing with
this man and amazed that she had thought of a way to connect Macpherson with
the murder of Mrs Grant.
Macpherson hastened to reveal some family details
about which he had long been in denial.
“You’re right, Miss erm Doctor… Betty had a son by her
first husband. The son had high criminal energy almost before he could walk,
Grant once told me. As a young adult he was up to no good and his fiddles cost
them a lot of money. They wanted him to move out, but in the end they moved to
Frint-on-Sea to force him out of their house. Betty was upset and got him
lodgings as near as possible without telling her husband.”
“So you had more than just a passing contact with
the Grants, Mr Macpherson, otherwise you would not have known all that,” said
Cleo.
“I didn’t think that was relevant since they are both
dead.”
“Come on, Macpherson. Mrs Grant is barely cold,”
said Gary,” and Grant is alive and well.”
“Grant is not the father,” said Macpherson. My
cousin had an affair with his best friend.”
“Wow. Maybe Grant also had a motive. That would let
you off the hook, wouldn’t it?” said Cleo.
“Where does your nephew live – he would be your
nephew, wouldn’t he?” Cleo continued.
“Only by marriage and as I said, he lodged with an
old woman in a house near Betty.”
“Or is he, your son, Macpherson? The result of a
little hanky-panky with your cousin?” said Cleo.
Macpherson paled.
“We could check the DNA, Macpherson, but it may not
be necessary,” said Gary, who was anxious to show that he knew all about Cleo’s
theory.
“Either was, it would explain how he had a key to
the dog compound,” said Cleo. “His mother trusted him. Grant may not even have known
about the key.”
“I suppose Betty Grant did not want the bother of walking
the dog,” Gary commented.
“I wonder if there was a key to his mother’s house
on the ring with the key to the compound,” Cleo said.
“I wouldn’t know that, would I?” said Macpherson.
“The nephew’s name is Paul Murphy, isn’t it?” said
Gary.
“Yes. Murphy was Betty’s first husband. He left her
with the infant and was never seen again.”
“Another mystery,” said Gary. “Were you suspicious
at the time?”
“It’s funny you should say that. I always thought
Grant had killed Murphy, but there was no proof.”
“I wonder how much trouble the police took over their
investigation,” commented Gary.
“Inspector, that’s all so long ago.”
“Murder does not have a sell-by date,” said Gary.
“And then Grant stepped in and married Betty
Murphy,” said Cleo.
“Shortly after. But later, they started to have
rows about Paul and Grant told me that Paul took after his father and was a
rotter.”
“So you must have kept up the contact, Macpherson.”
“Only for a while. Eventually it became a nuisance,
so I kept away from them. Then I came here to take up the post of Town Clerk
and they were breathing down my neck within weeks.”
“That must have been very unpleasant,” said Cleo.
“Yes, especially as Mrs Grant bonded well with her
good-for-nothing son. He came to me looking for a job and recently he tried to
cadge money.”
“Had he said you were his father so you should look
after him?”
“In so many words,” said Macpherson.
“Did you give him some money?” Gary asked.
“Of course not.”
“So that would be a good reason forwanting to blow
you up, wouldn’t it,” Cleo said.
Macpherson was thinking hard.
“Since Paul Murphy was Betty Grant’s son, I expect he
would have done anything for her,” said Gary. “And that would include killing
you, especially if you were going to share a bequest.”
“Who left you his fortune, Macpherson?” Cleo asked.
“A great uncle. Old as the hills. A brother to
Betty’s and my grandfather.”
“He must have been about 100 years old,” said Cleo.
“He was.”
“Who else could have reason to want you dead, apart
from Murphy on behalf of his mother and with a view to sharing the spoils?”
Cleo asked.
Macpherson took time to think about the implication
of the question. Eventually he started talking.
“Now it’s all clearer to me, I think it must have
been my nephew wanting me dead if I was not going to support his lifestyle.”
“You are probably right,” said Cleo. “We’ll settle
for him being your nephew, Mr Macpherson, shall we?”
Macpherson nodded, and Cleo knew tht her suspicion
had been right. What a lot of hatred they must have had for one another,
Macpherson because he had a criminal son, and the son because his father wanted
nothing to do with him.
***
Gary phoned through to O’Reilly and ordered him to
bring in Paul Murphy for questioning. No, not tomorrow. Now.
“I don’t want to see my nephew,” said Macpherson.
“You have no choice,” said Gary.
The phone rang to inform Gary that Murphy had been found and was being brought in.
“Murphy’’ will be here any minute.” Gary said.
“I do not want to see him,” said Macpherson.
“But we do, Macpherson. We might want you to ask
him why tried to kill you and why he killed his mother,” said Cleo.
So that was the way the cookie crumbled, Gary
decided. Cleo suspected that Macpherson might have hired Murphy to get rid of
his mother. There was no time to ask her about it. He’d have to wait and see.
Macpherson tried to protest, but his protests were
ignored.
“Exactly, Macpherson, but we’ll have something to
eat first.”
Gary ordered a round of coffee and sandwiches. They
arrived surprisingly fast.
“Before we move on, let’s sum up,” said Cleo. “You
think Paul Murphy planted the bomb, don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” said Macpherson.
“That’s what we think, Mr Macpherson.”
***
After they had finished their snack, Macpherson was
escorted temporarily to an arrest cell.
***
Paul Murphy was brought in once Macpherson was
safely out of the way. Murphy was handcuffed, held on each side by a security
officer and accompanied by O’Reilly.
“I told you to bring him in without any fuss, O’Reilly,”
said Gary.
“I would have done, but I got to his lodgings just
in time to stop him doing a bunk.”
“OK. Take him to the cells, please!” Gary ordered.
“We’ll call for him in a few minutes.”
The guards took Murphy to an arrest cell.
***
“I expect Murphy smelt a rat,” said Gary.
“What rat?” asked O’Reilly. “He was questioned earlier,
but his statement was innocuous. There was no need to detain him.”
“When exactly did you question him, O’Reilly.”
“When we questioned all the neighbours.”
“Including the deaf old lady he lodges with?”
“Yes!”
“Deaf, O’Reilly. Deaf! She might not have heard him
go out.”
“But she might have heard the dog barking.”
“Not necessarily, O’Reilly. The dog knew Murphy and
might just have wagged its tail in anticipation of an outing. Unless the dog
was not in the compound, of course.”
“But it was there when Joan checked next day, Gary,
and that was your idea, after all.”
“OK. But thinking has since set in, Pat. Mrs Grant
could have taken it for walkies and Murphy brought it home.”
“I never thought of that, Gary.”
“You should have a female assistant like mine. She
has a very suspicious mind and logic like Sherlock Holmes. I’ll order Murphy
back in so that we can find out exactly
what makes the guy tick. Dr Hartley is very good at putting two and two
together. She wants to know if the bomb and Mrs Grant’s killing are connected.”
“Doctor?”
“You heard, O’Reilly.”
“But those killing can’t be connected.”
“They can be, Pat. Just keep your eyes and ears
open and indicate to me when you want to ask a question. I dare say that Cleo
will do most of the talking.”
***
Paul Murphy was tall and thin. He was in his late
twenties but looked much younger than his age. He had tattoos on his forearms
and was jobless.
“What is your profession, Paul?” Cleo asked. “I
hope you don’t mind me calling you Paul,” she added, “it’s normal in the USA.”
“I don’t care what you call me, Miss, as long as I
get out of here fast.”
“Why were you running away, Paul.”
“I wasn’t. I was taking stuff to the charity shop
in Morlin Bay.”
“Let’s have a look what’s in that sports bag then,
shall we?” said Cleo, signalling to O’Reilly, who had been carrying Murphy’s sports
bag. He now tipped the contents onto the floor.
“Wow, Paul! You are generous, donating a nice new
shaver and bath cosmetics to charity. It sure looks like luggage to me.”
Murphy did not comment.
“It can go back in the bag now, Mr O’Reilly,” said
Cleo. “Paul will need it if he stays the night here.”
“I’m not staying the night,” Murphy protested.
“We’ll decide on that,” said Gary, giving Cleo a
wink. Murphy was anxious.
“You said you were on bomb disposal in the army, I
think, didn’t you, Paul?” sai Cleo.
“I did not say anything of the sort.”
“But I’m right in thinking you were in the army,
aren’t I?”.
Gary winced.
“Those tattoos are from your army days, aren’t
they?” Cleo continued.
“What if they are?” said Murphy.
“You’d better tell the truth, Murphy. We can ask
elsewhere if we need to,” said Gary.
“I signed on for four years,” said Murphy. “I
volunteered for bomb disposal. It was either that or the kitchen.”
“Very brave of you. Dismantling bombs entails
intimate knowledge of how they are constructed, doesn’t it?” said Cleo.
“Praps it does.”
“So it would be no trouble for you to build a bomb,
Paul.”
“No, but I didn’t.”
“Didn’t what, Murphy?” Gary asked.
“Put a bomb under Macpherson’s car.”
“No one said you did, Paul, but now you mention it,
I rather think you did plant that bomb,” said Cleo. “You saved me asking. Thanks
for that.”
“I want a lawyer. I’m not saying any more without
one.”
“But I haven’t quite finished yet,” said Cleo. After
a dramatic pause she asked Murphy the most vital question of all in a subtle voice:
“Paul, why did you kill your mother?”
O’Reilly thought Cleo was going too far too fast,
but Gary had experienced her shock questioning before. It got results.
“Who told you that?” said Murphy, forgetting that
he had wanted to remain silent.
“A little bird,” said Cleo quietly.
“Fuck yourself!” said Murphy.
“Mind your tongue, Murphy,” shouted Gary. “Did I
hear you confess to the murder of Mrs Grant.”
“Did you commit matricide, Paul?” Cleo asked.
“What’s that?” asked Murphy and started to cry.
There was no doubt that he was guilty. Cleo thought
his mind might have been disturbed at the time, but whatever drove him to his
deed did not lessen its awfulness.
