The Danger Within

Thirteen

Helen’s House was a rambling Edwardian semi, one of a number in a tree-lined street of similar properties. But there the similarities ended.

Whereas the others were immaculately cared for, clearly the homes of the more well-off amongst Bidefordians, Helen’s House looked as if it could do with a coat of paint, at least two panes of glass, visible at the front of the house, were cracked, and its garden displayed none of the lavish and exquisitely cared-for horticulture of its neighbours.

Vogel knew that the refuge had been established almost twenty years previously, and he suspected that it may not have been a welcome addition to this part of town.

It disturbed him somewhat that in modern and allegedly enlightened times such a place remained necessary. And in a quiet country town like Bideford, too.

He was unsure whether the small, thin, bird-like woman with cropped dark hair who answered the door was a member of staff or a resident. She was not particularly welcoming. Nor did she appear at all surprised, or indeed much concerned, by a police visit. But then, Helen’s House provided refuge from violence. Sometimes extreme violence. And that was in itself likely to not infrequently call for a police presence.

The two officers were immediately led to a small, cluttered first-floor office at the back of the house. Helen Harris was sitting before a computer in front of a narrow window which provided an unexpectedly spectacular slice of view over the roofs of Bideford and the River Torridge.

She stood up as the two officers entered. She recognized Vogel at once.

‘Mr Vogel,’ she said, by way of greeting.

She glanced enquiringly towards Saslow, whom the DCI introduced, before explaining that he was SIO of the Quinn investigation.

‘I understand that you have information which you think might help us in our enquiries,’ he remarked.

‘Yes I do, although I’m not sure quite how helpful you will find it,’ responded Helen Harris evenly, sitting down again, and gesturing for Vogel and Saslow to do the same.

Vogel wondered what she meant by that. But he did not speak, instead waiting for her to continue.

Helen Harris was a big woman, probably in her mid-fifties, taller than average and heavy. But she was not unattractive. Her face, maybe because of her excess weight, bore virtually no lines nor any other overt indication of the passing of the years. She wore wire-framed glasses, very slightly tinted, which seemed to add to, rather than detract from, the pleasantness of her features. Her long hair, a soft shade of brown streaked with pale grey gleamed in the shaft of morning sun shining through the narrow window, and hung in a single tress falling loosely over one shoulder. It suited her well. But more than anything the secret of Helen Harris’ attractiveness was what Vogel’s wife always called ‘the light behind the eyes’.

Vogel had noticed it the first time he met her, and he was again struck by it.

It was only a few seconds before Helen spoke again. But it seemed longer to Vogel.

‘First of all, I have to tell you that Gill Quinn is known to us here.’

‘I see,’ said Vogel, who was quietly confident that he did see.

‘Yes, and I am sure you guessed that from the moment you heard I had called in, and you probably also guessed what it might indicate,’ Helen continued.

‘Indeed,’ Vogel agreed. ‘I assumed it was likely that there was at least some history of domestic violence in the Quinn household.’

‘A reasonable assumption. You sat on a committee where we discussed the problems which still abound in dealing with violence in the home. And we learned long ago here at the House that it is only by operating under a strict code of confidentiality that we can be of any assistance at all to victims of domestic violence.’

‘I completely understand that,’ said Vogel, who did understand, but wondered exactly how Helen Harris was going to proceed from this point. If at all. But, of course, it was Helen who had contacted them.

‘And so, Mr Vogel, before I take it upon myself to break that code, and I realize this might involve a certain breach of protocol for you, I wonder if you could clarify a couple of points for me,’ she continued. ‘I understand that Thomas Quinn was found dead at his home yesterday. Are you able to tell me at approximately what time he might have died?’

Vogel thought for a moment. This information would probably soon be publicly released as part of a call for possible witnesses. He saw no reason why he should not answer Helen Harris’ question as best he could. And he suspected it would be in his interest and that of his investigation to cooperate with her as fully as possible.

‘We think he died around mid-afternoon, probably between three and five,’ he said.

‘I see,’ Helen responded. ‘Also, I heard on Radio Devon that a woman had been taken to Barnstaple police station and was helping you with your enquiries. I assumed that would be Gill. The spouse of a murder victim is always the first suspect. Isn’t that right?’

‘Yes, on both counts,’ said Vogel.

‘So could I ask, have you arrested Gill Quinn? Do you have her in custody?’

‘No, we have not arrested Gill, and we are not holding her in custody. But she is helping us with our enquiries. And I feel I should tell you that she is what we call a person of interest in this case.’

‘As I thought,’ muttered Helen.

There was another brief pause. And when she spoke again Helen Harris’ tone of voice was loud, clear and unequivocal. Almost as if she was daring Vogel to challenge her.

‘Therefore, I must tell you that Gill Quinn was here all day yesterday,’ she said.

Vogel felt himself start to blink. He turned his head slightly to one side so that Helen Harris wouldn’t notice.

‘She arrived just after eight a.m., and stayed with us until early evening,’ Helen continued. ‘Somebody here was with her all the time. Either me, or another member of staff, or one of the other women. She did not leave the premises at any time.’