Murder Mile

Chapter Twenty-Six

Jane and Gibbs were in Moran’s office, discussing the events surrounding Simmonds’ arrest.

‘So if Davidge says anything about you being unlawfully at the Peckham surgery, just stick to the looking for the toilet story,’ Gibbs told Jane. ‘We got Simmonds’ Mercedes taken to the lab for examination. Edwards took Simmonds’ dabs when we got back to the station and is taking them up the yard. They can be checked against any unidentified prints from the hostel, in Hastings’ car, and on the bin bags the body parts were found in.’

Jane told them about the fridge freezer and possible blood and fingerprints on the handle.

Moran was skeptical. ‘I suspect Simmonds is too smart to have left his fingerprints anywhere, but it’s worth a try. Did you find anything else of interest at Brayards Road?’

Jane went over everything she and Lawrence had found at the Peckham surgery and mentioned the importance of the bin liners.

‘We also searched the garden shed. There were no screwdrivers or hacksaws, just gardening equipment. Behind the shed, in a recessed area, we found the remnants of a recent garden fire, which Lawrence examined. He scooped the ashes up and placed them in a bag for a thorough examination back at the lab.’

Moran seemed pleased. ‘Good work. If the bin bags at Brayards Road are from the same batch as the ones the body parts were in, Simmonds has got big problems — not to mention he might have stashed the dismembered body in his bloody deep freeze.’

Jane got out her notebook. ‘I made notes about the possible murder scenarios DS Lawrence suggested. I wondered if you’d like to go over them with me in preparation for the interview, sir?’

‘Thank you, Jane, but you need to understand that with people like Simmonds, it’s best do a cursory interview first. That way we can dictate the pace of things, soften him up and sound him out before we squeeze him by the balls in a proper interrogation.’

Jane didn’t argue. Moran knew what he was doing, and she would be able to observe Simmonds whilst he was being questioned.

Moran’s desk phone rang. He spoke briefly then put the phone down. ‘That was the duty sergeant letting us know Mr. Davidge, the barrister, has arrived and wants a consultation with Simmonds. He didn’t waste any bloody time. Jane, go and book Simmonds out of his cell and take him to the secure interview room so he can speak to him in private.’

Jane made her way to the cell where Simmonds was being held, and waited for the uniform sergeant to open the door. Simmonds was still wearing the immaculate white dental coat he’d had on when he was arrested. He sat on the bed, sipping water from a polystyrene cup. She recalled the flattering photograph of him in the dental journal, and then the first time she’d met him at his practice in Harley Street. She had thought then that he was an attractive man, but now, sitting in a cell, his features somehow looked different. His striking blue eyes seemed vacant, and his thin-lipped mouth appeared frozen in a permanent sneer. As he stood up to face her, he seemed taller and more imposing than she remembered.

‘Good morning, Detective Sergeant Tennison,’ he said with an off-putting smile. ‘Could you inform DI Gibbs that I have patients who rely on me and need important treatment? Mrs. Lewis, who’s eighty-two, needs her new dentures, then there’s Mr. Riley, who has a painful abscess that needs looking at.’

‘I’m not here to talk about your patient list.’

He smiled again. ‘I just wondered when I’m going to be released, that’s all.’

Jane couldn’t believe his arrogance. ‘This is a murder investigation. DCI Moran will decide if and when you’ll be released.’

‘You and your colleagues are wrong about me, Sergeant Tennison. I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘Mr. Davidge is here to represent you. You can have a consultation with him in private, then DCI Moran will interview you. If you’d like to follow me, please.’

‘Can you thank Mr. Davidge for his valuable time, but I won’t be needing him.’

Jane wondered what he was playing at. ‘But you’re entitled to legal representation.’

‘I didn’t ask for Mr. Davidge to come here. He took it upon himself to represent me. I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself and answering any questions you put to me.’

‘It might be better if you told Mr. Davidge yourself,’ Jane suggested.

He smiled. ‘No, I’m happy for you to tell him.’

For someone who’s just been arrested for murder, Jane thought his attitude was incredibly cocky. She left Simmonds locked in his cell and went to speak with Davidge in the interview room. She asked the uniform sergeant to accompany her and corroborate what Simmonds had told her.

‘He’s weird, right enough,’ the burly sergeant remarked.

Jane agreed. ‘I know. It’s hard to tell if he’s being serious or playing games.’

‘I’ve never known a murder suspect refuse to be represented or advised by a solicitor.’

Davidge was making some notes when Jane and the sergeant entered the interview room.

‘Mr. Davidge, I’m WDS Tennison. I’ve just spoken with your client, David Simmonds. He asked me to tell you he doesn’t want legal representation.’

Davidge looked surprised. ‘I’d like to hear him tell me that in person.’

‘The sergeant here was also present. He can confirm what Mr. Simmonds said.’

But Davidge didn’t give the sergeant a chance to speak.

‘I think you’re lying! If you think for one minute I’ll walk away and allow you to fabricate evidence and concoct a false confession from my client, you are mistaken.’

Jane stood her ground. ‘Believe me, Simmonds wouldn’t be here if we didn’t have evidence he was involved in the murders.’

‘I demand to see David now!’ Davidge shouted, moving closer to Jane.

The sergeant stepped in between them. ‘Right, that’s enough. You can leave the station of your own accord, sir, or I will forcibly remove you. It’s your choice.’

‘You haven’t heard the last of this, Sergeant Tennison. I can assure you, I will be making an official complaint.’ Davidge snatched up his briefcase and stormed out of the room.

Davidge’s outburst was unsettling, but Jane wasn’t worried as she had the duty sergeant to back her up. She went to Moran’s office to update him.

‘What? He seriously doesn’t want legal representation?’

‘No, sir. He also said he’d answer our questions,’ Jane added.

‘Maybe he’s had an epiphany moment.’ Moran looked pleased.

But Jane was uneasy. ‘Simmonds is up to something. Do you think we should get the police doctor to certify he’s fit for interview? Just to be on the safe side.’

‘No. He might start play-acting and fool the doctor. The last thing we want is to be forced to have a social worker sitting in on the interview because the doc says he’s not the full ticket. Let’s stick to the plan, do the cursory interview and see what Simmonds has got to say.’

Jane signed Simmonds out on his custody record for interview, then, assisted by the custody PC, took him to the secure interview room. She sat down opposite him and placed her case file folder, A4 interview book, pen, three sharpened pencils and an eraser neatly on the table in front of her. She watched as Simmonds examined his fingers. He had very large hands, and the nails were exceedingly well manicured.

He looked up sharply. ‘That fingerprint ink you used is very hard to clean off. As a Harley Street dentist, I must be aware of my personal hygiene. If I were a patient, I wouldn’t be able bear the thought of a dentist with halitosis or dirty hands examining me.’

At that moment, Moran entered holding a case file folder. Jane wondered if he had changed his mind and decided to do a more in-depth interview, referring to statements and photographs. Moran asked the PC to wait outside, then introduced himself to Simmonds, who stood up and put his hand out. Moran ignored it and told him to sit down. After this brusque beginning, Jane was surprised when Moran asked Simmonds if he’d like a tea, coffee or water.

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Simmonds replied.

‘Can you do me a favor, Jane? I’ve gone and left my notebook on my desk. Do you mind nipping up and getting it?’

Simmonds raised his hand and smiled at Jane. ‘Actually, could I have a black coffee?’

As Jane left the room, she heard Simmonds ask Moran when he would be released. She began to wonder if Simmonds really didn’t understand the gravity of his situation and was slightly unhinged.

Moran waited for the door to close. ‘Let’s get one thing straight here and now, Simmonds: if you’ve any sense, you’ll tell me why you murdered those three women, and what part Aiden Lang played in it.’

Simmonds showed no emotion as he shook his head. ‘I only knew Helen Matthews through work and Sybil Hastings as a patient and friend, who I sometimes played golf with, along with her son. I have no idea who the other woman was. With regard to Aiden Lang, did you say? I have never met or had anything to do with anyone of that name.’

Moran stood up, then leant over and prodded Simmonds hard in the chest. ‘I’ve got the best crime scene examiner in The Met going over your Peckham surgery as we speak, as well as a team at Harley Street.’

Simmonds didn’t flinch as he looked Moran in the eye. ‘You can beat me till I’m black and blue if it makes you feel good, but I’m not going to confess to crimes I didn’t commit.’

Moran sat back down with a scowl. ‘People like you make me sick, Simmonds. You think your money and position make you untouchable. You think you’re above the law. The fact is, you’re the lowest of the low — a perverted, sick monster, with no remorse for your crimes or the misery you’ve brought to others. You don’t like the thought that a mere copper can see through your lies, do you?’

Simmonds shrugged. ‘You seem to have already concluded I’m guilty, DCI Moran, without presenting any evidence to support your accusations. I thought any admissions of guilt must be obtained freely and voluntarily — not under duress. Or do you prefer beating false confessions out of suspects?’

Moran stood up quickly, knocking his chair over in the process. He leant over the table with his hand raised, ready to slap Simmonds, who didn’t flinch. Moran was shaking with anger as he squeezed his hand into a fist to stop himself from striking him. Moran heard the door opening, picked his chair up and was sitting back down when Jane entered.

As she handed Moran the notebook, she could see he looked angry. Although Simmonds still seemed calm and relaxed, something had clearly happened whilst she was out of the room.

‘I need a break.’ Moran got up and opened the door. He gestured for the uniformed officer to step inside. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

Jane handed Simmonds his coffee. ‘Thank you.’ He smiled. There was an eerie silence as he sipped at it, his little finger elegantly raised, as if he was drinking from a bone china cup, rather than a polystyrene one.

‘It seems as if I might be here for some time, Jane. Do you think I could contact my receptionist at Harley Street and tell her to cancel my appointments?’

Part of her felt she should tell him to address her as Detective Sergeant, but she decided to let it go.

‘You’d have to ask DCI Moran. Seeing as you mentioned it, I didn’t find an appointment book or any patient records at your Peckham surgery.’

‘That’s because they’re in box files at my flat in Harley Street. I take the appointment book and patient records to and from Peckham on a Monday and Friday. I used to keep them there, but after a break-in a year ago, I decided not to. I did report it, but no one was arrested.’

‘Where exactly are the box files in your flat?’

Simmonds took another sip of coffee. ‘In the study room on a bookshelf next to the work desk.’

Jane jotted the details down and passed the paper to the PC, telling him to give it to DI Gibbs to make sure the box files were seized.

Moran returned to the interview room and the PC left. Jane could see he’d doused his face with water, as some drops had splashed onto his shirt. She told him what Simmonds had said about the Peckham patient files and the message she’d had passed on to Gibbs.

Jane thought Moran would open with some routine questions about how long Simmonds had owned the Peckham surgery, how often he worked there etc., but instead he cut straight to the chase.

‘What were you doing on the day and evening of Friday the sixteenth of February?’

Jane remembered this was the date the bodies of the first victims were found.

‘I worked at the Peckham surgery as usual, until about five thirty or six p.m., then went home to my flat on the top floor of my Harley Street practice. I don’t think I went to my local Italian restaurant that evening. If I didn’t, I would have cooked myself something, then listened to the radio or read a book.’

‘What exactly did you listen to on the radio?’ Moran asked.

Simmonds shrugged. ‘I can’t honestly recall now. It’s hard to remember exactly what one was doing, what, two weeks ago?’

Jane knew Moran was hoping Simmonds would account for every minute detail of what he was doing on the sixteenth as it would indicate he’d prepared a cover story.

‘When did you learn about the murders?’

Simmonds paused for thought. ‘I’d heard something on the radio but didn’t take much notice at the time.’

‘Did you see the news coverage on TV?’ Moran continued.

‘No. I don’t have a TV. The first I knew about Helen Matthews’ death was when Jane came to see me at Harley Street.’

‘You mean Detective Sergeant Tennison,’ Moran said firmly.

Simmonds shrugged. ‘She didn’t object when I called her Jane while you were out of the room.’

Moran ignored him. ‘When did you hear about Sybil Hastings’ murder?’

‘Chief Superintendent Blake told me about it.’

Moran remembered Blake saying he hadn’t mentioned Mrs. Hastings’ murder to Simmonds. He looked at Jane, who raised her eyebrows. She thought Simmonds was being foolhardy if he was lying, but she also knew Blake had a propensity to lie to get himself out of trouble.

‘So when exactly did Chief Superintendent Blake tell you about Mrs. Hastings’ death?’ Moran asked.

Simmonds nodded towards Jane. ‘Last week. On the same morning Sergeant Tennison came to see me. He had a toothache.’

Moran shook his head. ‘DCS Blake told me he never said anything about Hastings to you!’

‘Then he’s mistaken, or lying for some reason,’ Simmonds replied.

‘If you already knew Sybil Hastings was dead, why didn’t you tell Sergeant Tennison?’ Moran asked.

‘Because I thought my conversation with Chief Superintendent Blake was confidential and he didn’t want me to tell anyone. He also told me you were looking for a suspect and the forensic evidence was overwhelming. I didn’t tell Sergeant Tennison that either.’

‘Did he tell you the name of the suspect?’ Jane asked.

‘No.’

‘And the dental nurse who works with you will be able to confirm your version of the discussion with DCS Blake?’

‘I doubt it. She was downstairs apologizing to the patient who had to wait because Chief Superintendent Blake didn’t have an appointment.’

Jane knew there were elements of truth in what Simmonds said, but was sure he was twisting things to support his cover story.

‘You don’t seem very concerned about DCS Blake and confidentiality now,’ she remarked.

‘He’s not being accused of multiple murders, is he?’ Simmonds replied.

Moran looked at Jane and nodded for her to continue.

‘You told me you treated Simon at Harley Street, which was another lie.’

‘I’m sorry, you’ve changed the subject. Who are we talking about now?’

‘Simon Matthews. His mother Helen, your cleaner, was murdered. You told me you treated her son at your Harley Street surgery, which was a lie. Simon said it was Peckham.’

Simmonds looked confused. ‘I don’t think I ever said I treated him at Harley Street. I recall you asking if I treated him, and I told you I did.’

Jane got her CID notebook out of her pocket and flicked through the pages to the notes of her first meeting with Simmonds. She had made brief notes but hadn’t recorded word for word what was said, as it wasn’t an official suspect interview.

‘You said you didn’t keep a record, as the other dentists would be upset if they found out you were doing dental work for free, which is strange as you own the practice. Surely you can do as you please? Your answer also implied you treated Simon at Harley Street—’

‘That’s absurd,’ Simmonds interrupted. ‘Everyone knows I have a Peckham practice. You’ve misconstrued what I said. You’ll find a Peckham patient record for Simon in the box folders at my flat. I made Simon’s braces myself at Harley Street. I didn’t make a record of it, or put it through the books, for a good reason. I like to think of the other dentists as colleagues—’

‘Are you saying Sergeant Tennison is a liar?’ Moran snapped.

Simmonds looked offended. ‘I’m not accusing her of any such thing. I have no doubt she’s an honest and forthright police officer. If I may ask, Detective Tennison, when did you actually make those notes?’

Jane recalled her first opportunity was after the office meeting on the Thursday. ‘Late afternoon, early evening, on the same day.’

‘Surely you must find it hard to remember exact words used in a one-to-one conversation many hours later?’

Jane shook her head. ‘Not at all. As a police officer I’ve had a lot of experience making accurate notes after a conversation, even the following day.’

‘What was the first thing I said to you today, then?’ Simmonds asked.

Moran slapped the table, almost making Jane jump. ‘You’re the one who has to answer the questions, Simmonds. You murdered Helen Matthews because she found out you’d sexually abused her son, didn’t you?’

Jane was surprised by Moran’s sudden change of tack, since they both knew Simmonds hadn’t abused Simon. Was he just trying to rile him?

Simmonds scowled at Moran. ‘I resent your disgusting, sick allegation, DCI Moran. I am not depraved, nor have I ever treated a child without an adult being present. You can ask any of the parents of children I’ve treated and they’ll confirm it as fact.’

‘Have you ever been married?’ Moran asked.

‘No.’

‘Got a girlfriend?’

‘Why are you so interested in my private life?’

‘Are you a homosexual?’

‘You think because I don’t have a wife or girlfriend I must be homosexual, and thereby also abuse children. The more I listen to you, the more I realize what a sad, pathetic little man you are, Mr. Moran.’

‘Were you in a relationship with a rent boy called Aiden Lang?’

‘As I told you, I don’t know, and have never met, anyone called Aiden Lang. The first time I ever heard the name was when Sergeant Tennison showed me his photograph. Someone else did mention it to me when—’

‘When what?’ Moran banged his hand on the desk.

‘When you said to me, “If you’ve any sense at all, you’ll tell me why you murdered those three women, and what part Aiden Lang played in it.” Then, if you remember, you kicked your chair over and raised your hand to me. God knows what you’d have done if she hadn’t walked into the room.’ Simmonds looked at Jane. ‘He didn’t forget the notebook. He wanted you out of the room so he could beat me into confessing to crimes I did not commit!’

Jane suspected as much. She glanced at Moran, who was glaring at Simmonds. Jane felt let down by Moran’s impulsive actions, which he would know could jeopardize the investigation.

‘You’re a liar. I never touched you. We both know you killed those women and Aiden Lang,’ Moran said bluntly.

Simmonds sighed. ‘I understand you have a job to do, DCI Moran. But why are you trying to make anything I’ve done or said fit your ill-conceived notion that I am the murderer? It seems to me you’ve failed to consider that this Aiden Lang may have committed the crimes and framed me for the murders.’

Before Moran could reply there was a knock on the door.

‘What?’ Moran shouted.

Gibbs put his head around the door and asked if he could have a word with them both. They left the room to join Gibbs while the uniform PC entered to keep watch on Simmonds.

Moran punched the corridor wall. ‘He’s fucking unbelievable, sitting there, cool as a cucumber. He must think we’re all idiots.’

Jane said nothing as she followed them down the corridor, away from the interview room.

Gibbs turned to Moran. ‘I just got a phone call from one of the lads searching Harley Street. They found the box files for the Peckham patients, and Simon Matthews’ record was in there.’

‘Simmonds has already told us that!’ Moran said and started to walk off.

‘Has he told you there’s also a file for a Benjamin Smith, and not only does his description fit, he has the same date of birth as Aiden Lang?’

Moran froze as he took this in. ‘No, he hasn’t!’

‘When I went to Harley Street, I asked Simmons if he knew Aiden Lang and showed him the photograph. I also said he might be called Ben Smith,’ Jane added, realizing the implications.

Gibbs stepped forward. ‘According to the file, Ben Smith first went to the Peckham clinic nearly two months ago. He had a missing upper left incisor, the same as the severed head. Simmonds’ report noted that the socket was badly infected, with a possible abscess, and he prescribed a course of antibiotics and painkillers, before he could fit a temporary plate.’

‘Fuck me. So Simmonds has known Lang for about six weeks,’ Moran said.

‘It gets better, guv.’ Gibbs flicked through his notes. ‘Simmonds fitted him with a temporary plate at his Peckham clinic on Monday the twelfth of February.’

‘Shit, that’s one... two... That’s four days before Matthews and Hastings were murdered. What else was in the file?’ Moran asked, adrenalin pumping.

‘In his appointments book, Simmonds has a return date for him on the following Monday, the nineteenth of February.’

Moran paced up and down, rubbing at his hair. ‘OK, OK... I need to get this straight. At the post-mortem, Professor Martin estimated the dismembered victim had been dead around seven days. That’s right, isn’t it?’

Gibbs nodded.

‘Which means that Lang’s murder happened before Simmonds killed Eileen Summers.’ Moran rubbed his hands together. ‘We’ve fucking got him, Spence!’ He turned to Jane. ‘When we go back in, I want you to mention that you showed Simmonds the photograph of Aiden Lang. Have you got the photo of him with you?’

‘It’s in a folder on the desk, sir.’

‘I’ll let you know when to get it out.’

They re-entered the interview room and sat down. As the PC left, Jane opened the A4 notebook to continue making notes.

‘Do you know a young man called Ben Smith?’ Moran asked.

‘Not that I recall.’

‘That’s strange, because he’s a patient of yours at Peckham,’ Moran said.

‘I’ve had hundreds of patients over the years. Many of them have the surname Smith, or at least claim to.’

‘We’ve had someone check the Peckham files at your Harley Street flat. There’s one for a Benjamin Smith, who attended your Peckham clinic several times over the last six weeks. In fact, you fitted him with a temporary plate on Monday the twelfth of February.’ Moran paused to monitor the effect of this information, but Simmonds didn’t react.

Moran continued. ‘When you first met WDS Tennison, she told you Lang used the alias Ben Smith, who we now know has the same date of birth as Aiden Lang.’

Simmonds put his hands to his face. ‘Oh my God, I’ve just realized... it’s the young man from the homeless shelter you’re talking about. You’re right, I fitted him with the temporary plate. I think he was supposed to come back last Monday for the actual porcelain tooth to be fitted, but he never turned up.’

‘So you did know Ben Smith,’ Moran concluded.

‘He gave his name as Benjamin, not Ben.’

Moran looked at Jane. ‘Show him the photo, please.’

Jane opened the case folder and slid the picture of Aiden Lang across the table.

‘I showed you this picture of Aiden Lang at your Harley Street surgery when we first spoke. Is this the man you knew as Benjamin Smith?’

Simmonds picked up the picture and studied it. ‘Now I remember: his hair was dyed blond, not dark like in this photo.’ He looked at Jane with an apologetic expression. ‘I didn’t make the connection when we first met.’

Moran couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. ‘Well, I guess we all make mistakes. So what can you tell us about Aiden Lang?’

‘I only knew him as a patient. He seemed like a nice young man, always very polite. That’s really all I can say about him.’

Moran nodded. ‘I take it you’ve heard about the body parts found in Peckham Rye Park?’

‘Yes, it was on the radio.’

‘Some monster chopped the victim up and left the body parts with the rubbish.’

Simmonds shook his head. ‘How someone could do that to another human being is beyond belief.’

‘The victim was Aiden Lang, the same young man you just identified as Benjamin Smith.’

Simmonds looked shocked. ‘You can’t seriously think I had anything to do with his death?’

Moran leant forward. ‘You wouldn’t be sitting here under arrest if I didn’t. We also suspect Lang’s body parts were kept in a freezer before they were dumped on the piles of rubbish. You have a freezer in the cellar at your Peckham surgery, don’t you?’

Simmonds shook his head in disbelief. ‘Why would I be so stupid as to keep Benjamin Smith’s — or Aiden Lang’s — dental records if I was involved in his murder?’

‘Because getting rid of them would be even more suspicious.’

Simmonds didn’t seem to have an answer to that, and Moran sensed he was getting to him.

‘The forensic officers found some bleach stains on the living room carpet at Brayards Road. I think you used the bleach to clean up bloodstains.’

Simmonds found his voice again. ‘This is ridiculous! One of the alcoholics from the homeless shelter was sick on the carpet recently. I used bleach to clean it up.’

Moran sat back in his chair. ‘Well, you didn’t do a very good job. When the stained section was cut away, blood was found on the underside of the carpet. In your rush to clean up the blood, you actually helped to push it down through the carpet, so I’d like to thank you for that.’

‘Are you always so condescending to someone who’s telling the truth, Moran? If there was blood on the carpet, it could have got there at any time. My mother lived alone in that house for many years. She was on warfarin to stop her blood clotting. One of the side effects was sudden heavy nose bleeds.’

‘You have a well-prepared answer for everything, don’t you, Simmonds? If I was a juror listening to you in a murder trial, I’d probably think everything you said was perfectly plausible. But as a detective, I know better. You’re lying.’ He paused. ‘I’m confident the black bin bags we found in the kitchen at your Peckham surgery will prove it.’ Moran let Simmonds think about that for a moment.

‘Everybody has black bin bags,’ Simmonds said dismissively.

Moran slowly and carefully explained about the unique striation marks on the bin bags, which were being examined at the lab to determine if they were from the same roll as the ones in Simmonds’ kitchen.

‘Bin bags are mass produced. Thousands will have been made at the same factory and sold around the country,’ Simmonds declared confidently.

‘You’re quite right, of course, but when a bin bag is torn from a roll, each tear is unique. A match between two torn edges is conclusive evidence.’ Moran folded his arms and stared at Simmonds.

Simmonds sat upright and motionless. He didn’t seem to have an answer and Jane sensed he was trying to work out whether what Moran had just said was true.

Moran spoke quietly. ‘Cat got your tongue for once, Simmonds? Or are you not quite as informed about forensics as you like to think you are?’

There was a knock on the door. ‘Getting a bit like Piccadilly Circus in here, isn’t it?’ Moran said, smiling at Simmonds.

Gibbs entered the room and handed a sheet of paper to Moran. ‘Just had a fax through from Paul Lawrence. I think you’ll like what’s on it,’ he added, before exiting the room.

Moran ran his eyes over the fax. He smiled as he showed it to Jane, then carefully folded it in half and ran his index finger over the fold. He held the folded page up in front Simmonds.

‘This is a forensic report. Prints left by blood stained fingers were recovered from the underside of the freezer handle in your cellar.’ Moran paused for a response, but Simmonds didn’t reply, so he continued in an increasingly confident tone.

‘The fingerprints match your second and third right fingers. The blood group is the same as Aiden Lang’s. And the blood on your waiting room carpet at the Peckham surgery is the same group as Sybil Hastings’. I know we can’t say “beyond a doubt” that the blood is theirs, but we can say it’s not yours, as you’re a different blood group. From where I’m sitting, that looks like pretty damning evidence against you. Wouldn’t you agree?’

Moran leant forward, inviting a reply, but Simmonds still said nothing.

Moran sat back. ‘And there was me thinking you were a bit of a forensics expert. But you’re just a perverted son of a bitch who’s incapable of telling the truth. If you have a shred of decency or remorse, then have the guts to admit what you did.’

Simmonds roused himself. ‘I will not be spoken to like this, Detective Moran! If you continue in this manner, I will heed my barrister’s advice and respond “no comment” to any further questions.’

‘So you’re not prepared to answer any further questions?’

Simmonds leant forward. ‘No comment!’ he said through gritted teeth.

Moran stood up. ‘I’d like you to read the questions and answers recorded by Sergeant Tennison in the interview book. If you agree they are a correct account of what was said, then sign and date each page.’ Moran opened the door and asked the custody PC to come in.

‘Remain with Sergeant Tennison while she goes over the record of interview, then take the prisoner back to his cell.’

As he shut the door, Simmonds and Tennison could hear Moran whistling ‘Happy Days Are Here Again.’