The Danger Within

Thirty-Nine

Once she learned that Vogel was on his way, there had been no need to tell Helen Harris to leave. She did so at once.

Her mission, such as it was, had been at least partially accomplished. Philip Stubbs had stepped out of Greg’s cell as she had requested, allowing her just a few minutes alone with the young man.

Helen did not intend for either Greg or his mother to stand trial for Thomas Quinn’s death. Vogel had been quite right about one thing, Helen did not think that Thomas Quinn had deserved to continue living. And she did not believe that anyone should suffer for having caused his death. Particularly not his son or his wife.

She now had a clear picture of the evidence against Greg, and her extensive knowledge of the law led her to believe that the young man would not be charged without a substantive further development.

But she also thought it possible that Greg might confess to the crime merely in order to protect his mother. Certainly his mother had been prepared to put herself in the frame in order to protect Greg. So she considered it vital that she had the chance to assure him that the alibi she and the other women at Helen’s House had given his mother stood, and that all he should worry about was himself.

‘And you are innocent,’ she had told him. ‘Just remember that, whatever happens. Don’t give them anything. And if things change, if they do charge you, make sure that lawyer of yours calls me at once. There are things I can do that he can’t. I want you to remember that. Whatever happens, remember that.’

It was the truth, too. Helen had the knowledge and the will to turn Vogel’s investigation upside down. The only question was, she mused, as she drove back to Bideford, did she have the courage?

Upon arriving at Barnstaple nick just after nine thirty p.m., Vogel stopped by at Custody where he rounded angrily on the officers on duty.

‘What on earth were you thinking?’ he queried in bewilderment.

‘We’re used to having her around, I suppose,’ said the duty sergeant. ‘We think of her as a welfare worker, I mean that’s what she is, really, isn’t it?’

‘Actually, sergeant, I don’t know what the hell Helen Harris is,’ Vogel replied angrily. ‘And neither do you. Which is, of course, my point.’

Meanwhile, Greg, accompanied by Philip Stubbs, was already sitting in an interview room waiting for Vogel and Saslow to arrive.

Greg had been overwhelmed by Helen Harris’ visit. He had never met her before. He’d heard of her, of course, albeit only vaguely. It was pretty much impossible to live in the Bideford area and not have heard of Helen Harris. He had actually suspected for years that his father had been more than just an unpleasant control freak towards his mother, and that he had also physically abused her — even though she had always denied it when he had challenged her. But he’d no idea that his mother had become involved with Helen’s House. And it was absolutely true that he’d also had no idea of the extent of Thomas Quinn’s abuse. He had been shocked to the core by the wounds that his father had inflicted upon his mother. Burning another human being with a cigarette end wasn’t domestic abuse in Greg’s opinion. It went beyond his conception of what that might mean. It was torture. And he was glad his father was dead. He would never mourn him. Like Helen, he believed absolutely that Thomas deserved to die.

However, he had no wish to go to prison for his father’s murder. And Helen’s somewhat bizarre visit had brought with it the hope that he could avoid even being charged with that. And also that neither would his mother face a murder charge. Before Helen’s visit he had been quite convinced that at least one of them was going to end up in court.

So, as he prepared, yet again, to face DCI Vogel, Greg was feeling a little better about his situation than during the previous interview. And considerably more optimistic. Neither had his solicitor turned out to be quite the muppet he had thought at first. Philip Stubbs seemed to know his stuff, had so far stepped in smartly when needed, and had bent the rules without too much prevarication so that Helen Harris could not only visit Greg in his cell, but also spend time alone with him.

Philip had also explained to Greg something he already half knew from watching TV detective dramas. Except in exceptional circumstances, and Philip doubted there was anything exceptional about this case, Greg could only be kept in custody for thirty-six hours without being charged. Philip had also explained that he did not consider the evidence presented so far by DCI Vogel would persuade the Crown Prosecution Service that there were grounds to proceed.

‘Almost totally circumstantial,’ said Philip.

Greg had half known that too.

‘Just don’t put your foot in it and you’ll be right as ninepence,’ Philip had said, unknowingly echoing at least the tone of Helen’s advice.

Philip was inclined to talk in clichés. Occasionally, not very often, Greg recalled something from his posh education. This was one of those occasions. Greg remembered his old English teacher telling him that clichés had become clichés because they were usually the truth. He sincerely hoped that would prove to be so.

Certainly Greg had no intention of putting his foot in it. Philip had also said that if he played his cards right he reckoned Greg could be home in time to make his mum a bedtime cuppa.

He stood up as Vogel and Saslow entered. An unconscious gesture of respect that was another legacy of his public-school education. He even dared to smile at them. Just a little.

Within seconds his cautious optimism had been shattered.

‘We have DNA evidence that you were with your father at the crime scene after his death,’ Vogel began bluntly. ‘It would therefore be highly advisable for you to change your earlier statement. Your father was not alive when you left the family home on Saturday, was he, Greg?’

Greg was stunned.

‘Y-yes, yes, of course he was alive, I–I told you,’ he stumbled. ‘You can’t have any evidence. You can’t. You’re just trying to trick me, aren’t you?’

‘No Greg, I’m not trying to trick you,’ said Vogel quietly.

He then told the young man about the fingerprints that had been lifted from the fabric of Thomas Quinn’s shirt and the DNA extracted from them which was an exact match to Greg’s DNA.

Greg was shocked. He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t even known such a thing was possible.

‘W-we’re talking about my father, I could have touched him at any time while I was there, and left fingerprints on his clothes,’ he blurted out. ‘While he was alive, I mean.’

‘Indeed, but we can prove that your prints were left after, or perhaps during, your father’s killing.’

‘W-what?’ stumbled Greg. ‘You can’t, I mean h-how on earth...?’

‘The DNA we extracted contains relatively substantial traces of your father’s blood. Enough for us to reasonably deduce that the fingerprints from which that DNA was obtained were left on your father’s body after his death. So, do you understand what that means, Greg?’

Greg felt absolutely shattered. He understood only too well. This was quite devastating evidence. He glanced at Philip Stubbs, desperately seeking assistance. The solicitor stepped in at once.

‘Don’t answer that,’ he instructed Greg, before addressing Vogel.

‘I am advising my client to answer no more questions at this stage,’ he said.

‘Right,’ said the DCI. ‘You should know that I shall be approaching the CPS with a view to charging your client later tonight.’

Vogel turned to Greg. ‘Are you absolutely sure that you have nothing else to say?’ he asked mildly. ‘You could make things worse for yourself, you know.’

Greg had no idea what he could say. He merely shook his head. He didn’t know how things could be worse. It felt as if his world was about to end. He wanted his mother. He needed to talk to his mother. Desperately. Although he wasn’t entirely sure what he could say to her, either.