The Danger Within

Forty

It really did look now as if the Quinn case was about to reach its obvious conclusion. But Vogel was far from satisfied. There had been a second murder which he still could not believe was totally unrelated to the first. After all, it was Thomas Quinn’s business partner who had been shot. Also, he had a mystery woman on his patch, already connected, albeit at a certain distance, with Thomas’ murder. And that continued to bug him.

It was rare to find people living their lives in the UK who did not have a documented history by the time they reached adulthood. Building an entire new identity, without even the hint of a past, was not easily done. Even in the age of the internet, let alone more than twenty years previously. Indeed, it was pretty nigh impossible without assistance at the highest level.

Vogel really needed to call Nobby Clarke. He and Nobby went back a long way and he had always admired and respected her. That had sadly changed the last time he worked with her, due to a situation which Vogel continued to believe had seriously compromised them both and, ultimately, he had taken the decision to move permanently to North Devon in spite of Clarke rather than because of her. As a result the easy banter of their old relationship had been lost, and they were inclined to speak only when professionally necessary. This was definitely one of those occasions. He had developed a theory about Helen Harris, and he was eager to check it out. Also, he needed to give Clarke a further progress report.

He called her mobile and she picked up almost at once. They both dispensed with any niceties, Vogel swiftly and concisely gave her an update on the progress of his investigations. Basically the Patel murder inquiry was ongoing, and the Quinn case had almost certainly been resolved.

‘I would therefore like to charge Gregory Quinn tonight with the murder of his father,’ he concluded.

To his relief, but only as he had expected, Clarke immediately agreed that he should do that. ‘And I’ll leave you to liaise with the CPS, you’re the one running the show,’ she added. ‘But I don’t see any problems there, do you?’

Vogel conferred that he did not, and hoped that would prove to be so. But you could never be totally sure with the prosecution service, in his experience. He then explained his dilemma concerning Helen Harris.

‘I think I know what you’re getting at here, Vogel,’ responded the superintendent. ‘But you’d better spell it out.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Vogel.

Once upon a time she would have rounded on him for calling her ‘Ma’am’. Detective Superintendent Clarke was not much given to formality. She actually preferred to be called Nobby, but she would put up with ‘boss’. At a push. Nowadays however, her relationship with Vogel was different, and she invariably made no comment whatever he addressed her as.

‘Well, I think Helen Harris might be on witness protection,’ Vogel continued. ‘It’s just about the only thing that makes any sense. It’s as if she wasn’t born until 2000. Nobody can recreate themselves to that degree without help at the highest level. We both know that.’

‘Possibly,’ said Clarke. ‘So what do you want me do about it?’

Vogel was aware that she knew perfectly well what he wanted her to do about it. He played it straight.

‘I’d very much like you to find out if I’m right, boss,’ he replied evenly.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Clarke.

She ended the call without any further prevarication. Sometimes Vogel so missed the way things used to be between them. But he had accepted that they would never be able to get those days back.

And, anyway, he had no time for pondering the past. He had work to do. He needed to present his case to the CPS. He wanted Greg Quinn charged as soon as humanly possible.

Helen Harris was in her office with the door shut. That in itself was unusual. She didn’t feel particularly well. Her eyes were sore. Her hands were trembling. She had just knocked half the contents of her coffee mug over the newspaper spread out on her desk.

And it was that newspaper, the Daily Mail, which was causing her so much concern that she believed it to be affecting her physically.

Helen rarely read newspapers, certainly not the Mail, and had only just seen the paper, that day’s edition, even though it was past ten o’clock in the evening. Sadie had handed her a copy when she had returned from her visit to Barnstaple police station, and suggested she should take a look

Sadie hadn’t appeared overly disturbed. Why should she have been?

‘They’ve made you famous,’ she’d remarked lightly.

Helen was deeply disturbed.

The Mail had done one of its major investigations into what it had dubbed ‘Murder by the Seaside’. A snappy front-page blurb led into a spread and a further page inside the paper.

It was the spread that initially alarmed Helen. The Mail had published a row of mug shots of people involved in the police inquiry into the deaths of Thomas Quinn and Jason Patel, which stretched across two pages. Vogel was there as the senior investigating officer, also Saslow, the two victims of course, and Gill and Greg Quinn. The Mail had clearly done its homework. Wynne Williams also featured, as did a summary of his possible affair with Gill. And Patel’s ex-wife Maureen, along with some perhaps ill-judged comments about her husband and his business partner Thomas’ possible links with organized crime.

However it was the final picture in the line-up which had stunned her. The Mail had somehow acquired a close-up photograph of her, which looked as if it had been snatched just outside the House. Nonetheless it was pin-sharp. And if the photographer’s intention had been to present her as some sort of deranged half-wit then he had done an excellent job. Her hair was all over the place, her mouth appeared to be hanging open, and there was a distinctly wild look in her eye. Neither was she wearing any make-up, which meant that the freckles on her face, which she had habitually masked with concealer and foundation for so long, were starkly evident. Helen couldn’t believe she had been so careless, particularly when she’d known there were press photographers about. But, upon further studying the picture, she realized that it had been taken early the previous morning when she had stepped into the back alley to put out some rubbish. And she’d had no idea that there was any particular press interest in her. She certainly hadn’t noticed the presence of any journalists in the vicinity of Helen’s House — not even the photographer who’d so successfully snapped her. Helen had missed a call from a Daily Mail reporter who’d left a message saying that she wished to speak to her about issues concerning domestic violence following the death of Thomas Quinn, but nothing about that message had indicated that they were aware of her personal involvement in the case. Which presumably had been the caller’s intention. She’d ignored it for no other reason than that, under the circumstances, she hadn’t wished to further draw attention to herself.

However, the Mail spread drew attention to her, all right. The elongated caption accompanying the snatched photograph not only commented on the work of Helen’s House and its probable relevance to the case, but also, with careful ambiguity, referred to Helen herself having offered Gill Quinn an alibi which the police were currently examining.

Helen was aghast. She wondered where on earth the paper had got its information from. They were good at what they did, there was no doubt about that. And they were taking full advantage of nobody having yet been charged for either murder, which meant they were, so far, free of the constraints of the laws of sub judice. All the same, she hadn’t expected anything like this.

She turned over to the final page, which focused on the shooting of Jason Patel. And that brought another shock. Possibly an even bigger one. A still taken from the CCTV footage which Vogel had authorized to be released to the press filled almost a quarter of the page. A one-line caption read: ‘Do you know this man?’

Helen felt a shiver run up and down her spine. She made herself study the picture with care. She couldn’t see the man clearly, his features were blurred and partially concealed by the peak of his cap, which was pulled well down. Nonetheless, there was something so familiar about him, his build, and the bullish set of his shoulders. There was a similarity, too, in the way he was leaning, both legs thrust out straight in front of him, against the vehicle — which also seemed familiar, but it couldn’t really be the same one, of course. Not after so long. However, a Range Rover with tinted windows had always been his motorcar of choice.

The more she stared, the more she came to believe it was him. Back again. And not only was his photograph in the same newspaper in which hers had been printed, on the very next page, but also his image had been captured here in Bideford. Only a mile or so away from the place that was so much more than her home, it was also her refuge, hers and that of so many other women.

But how could it be? And what on earth could he possibly be doing here? Nothing in North Devon had ever alarmed her, or given her cause for concern, from the moment she had settled in Bideford. Until now. She felt she would have known if he or any of the family or their associates had been operating in the area. Yet would she have done? How on earth would she have known? Particularly if he had been unable to be here in person until now.

She wracked her brains, trying to think back to anything that could have forged a link. Suddenly deep in the past something came to her. Something she should have perhaps remembered before. But it had held no significance to her. Not then. And not since. Until now.

All the same, perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her.

She looked again at the picture. At the stocky broad-shouldered man leaning on a big dark-coloured motor car. This could not be him. It really wasn’t possible. She knew where he was. She knew where he had been for the last twenty years. And she had allowed herself to think she was protected from him for ever. Or, at the very least, that he would never again become a danger to her without her being forewarned.

She had a phone number for use in situations like this. An emergency number. She didn’t keep it in her mobile. It was scribbled on a Post-it note stuck to the underside of the top of her desk, on a folded piece of paper tucked into the drawer of the built-in unit by the side of her bed, and on another piece of paper stowed in the glove compartment of her car.

She leaned to one side and peeled off the Post-it from beneath her desktop. She wondered if the number written on it would even still work. She had never had cause to use it. Not since the very beginning. And nobody had called her, either. After all, that would have defeated the object.

Very deliberately she punched in the number, carefully checking each digit. Rather to her surprise, a male voice answered after just two rings.

Back at Barnstaple, Vogel had been given the go ahead by the CPS to charge Gregory Quinn.

He did so in the company of Saslow, a custody sergeant, and Quinn’s solicitor, Philip Stubbs. A charge sheet had already been prepared detailing the crime Quinn was accused of.

The young man would be held in police custody until his first court hearing at Barnstaple magistrates court, which would probably be the following day. In view of the seriousness of his offence and as is virtually de rigueur in the case of murder, he would then almost certainly be held in custody until his crown court trial.

Quinn looked totally devastated, although not particularly surprised. After all, Vogel had already warned him of his intentions, and he assumed that Stubbs would have also attempted to prepare Greg for the inevitable.

He protested his innocence several times, in spite of his solicitor repeatedly advising him to stay silent.

But even as he was being led back to the cells he called out over his shoulder, ‘I didn’t do it, Mr Vogel, I couldn’t do it, you have to believe me,’ he cried, his voice full of anguish.

Unfortunately Vogel didn’t believe him. The DCI had not considered Greg Quinn to be the most likely of suspects at the beginning. He had seemed a decent enough young man, with no apparent motive strong enough to have led him to want to kill his father. After all, if not getting on with your father was sufficient motive for murder, then there would be an awful lot of dead dads around, Vogel reckoned. Neither had it seemed, at first, that Greg would have had the opportunity.

However, all that had changed. Quinn could now be placed irrefutably at the scene of the crime within precisely the designated time frame. The forensic case against him was also irrefutable and utterly damning. And the more Vogel had learned about the violent and abusive behaviour of Thomas Quinn, the stronger Greg’s possible motive for killing his father had become.

It was to be hoped, and indeed expected, that a court would take Thomas Quinn’s behaviour into mitigation when dealing with Greg. But the young man must stand trial. And Vogel no longer had any doubts about his guilt. Vogel was a copper who believed in evidence. An overwhelming weight of evidence was now stacked against Gregory Quinn.

The DCI was quite sure that the right man had been arrested and charged.

However, his thoughts turned to Gregory’s mother, a woman who had suffered enough already. He was sure she was not sorry to have lost the husband who had treated her so cruelly, but now she looked likely to also lose the son she adored. For a very long time.

He called Docherty, who was still babysitting Gill, and asked her to break the news, as gently as possible.

‘Then call me back,’ he instructed. ‘I want to know how she reacts. I have a feeling she won’t be surprised.’

Docherty called back only ten minutes later to report that Gill had appeared to barely react at all.

‘You were right, boss, she certainly didn’t seem to be surprised,’ said the PC. ‘She said she wanted time to herself, time to think, and she was going to bed. She’s in the bedroom now, do you want to speak to her.’

‘No, let her rest. I’m hoping this indicates that she will accept the inevitable. Look after her, though, she’s had it rough, that one, and her life is now likely to get rough again.’

‘I’ll do my best, boss,’ said Docherty.

It was now almost midnight. The day had already been a long one. He sent Saslow home, telling her he would make his own way back to his digs. But Vogel’s day hadn’t quite finished yet. He needed to touch base with DI Peters, who he knew was still at work at the Bideford incident room, and he had yet to hear back from Nobby Clarke concerning his suspicions about Helen Harris.

He was just wondering whether or not to give her a nudge, when the detective superintendent called on his mobile.

‘You’re quite right, Vogel,’ she began. ‘Helen Harris is on witness protection, and has been for more than twenty years, as you suspected. She gave evidence in a case involving a gang of powerful and highly dangerous international criminals. Her testimony was entirely in camera, but of course the criminals knew exactly who she was. And she knew that they knew. It was therefore decided to agree to her request to be given a new identity.’

‘So who is she, then?’ asked Vogel, although he didn’t really expect an answer. He didn’t get one either.

‘You know I can’t tell you that,’ replied Nobby, almost wearily.

‘I know the protocol, well enough, ma’am,’ said Vogel. ‘But in view of the Patel murder, and the manner of it, it’s quite clear that we are dealing with a dangerous criminal element here. We have armed men running amok in a quiet Devon town where stuff like this does not happen. It’s my job to make sure it doesn’t happen again. And there has to be a connection somewhere, between Patel’s shooting, Thomas Quinn’s stabbing, and the history of the woman I know only as Helen Harris. I don’t believe in coincidences, ma’am, and I know you don’t. They have to be linked. Can’t you tell me something?’

‘No, Vogel. I can’t. I’m afraid—’

‘Just give me a clue,’ Vogel interrupted, his voice rising. ‘Set me in the right direction, I’ll do the rest.’

He distinctly heard Clarke sighing down the telephone. He didn’t care.

‘I hope we’re not getting a repeat of that Instow case,’ he continued tetchily. ‘I don’t take kindly to being kept in the dark.’

‘Vogel, this isn’t about being kept in the dark,’ said Clarke, beginning to sound angry herself now. ‘This is witness protection. The whole premise of which relies on nobody, but nobody, outside those directly responsible, being aware of a witness’s new identity. Not even you, Vogel. In any case, I can’t tell you because I don’t know myself—’

‘What, they haven’t even told you, boss?’ cut in Vogel, forgetting in the heat of the moment that, as a matter of principle, he now only called her ‘ma’am’.

‘No, Vogel, they haven’t told me. I’m just another regional copper to these guys.’

Vogel didn’t think that was very likely. He did, however, think she was telling him the truth. All the same, he continued to persist.

‘But there is a protocol, is there not, for revealing the identity of a protected witness under certain circumstances, there must be—’

‘I suppose so Vogel,’ Clarke interrupted. ‘But I’ve no idea at all what those circumstances might be.’

‘What if that person were suspected of a serious crime?’ asked Vogel bluntly. ‘Surely their identity would then be revealed to the SIO of any police investigation.’

‘You’d think so,’ Clarke replied. ‘But I wouldn’t hold your breath if I were you.’

Helen Harris had been thoroughly shaken by the outcome of her phone call. It appeared that there had been a development of which she had not been informed. That there had been an unfortunate oversight.

To the person she had been talking to, an anonymous representative of some anonymous administrative unit, that oversight doubtless meant very little. To Helen it could mean the world. Or, rather more accurately, the end of the world. Her world, at any rate.

She was still pondering what she should do next when Philip Stubbs called to tell her that, following the acquisition of damning new forensic evidence. Gregory Quinn had been charged with the murder of his father.

For just a moment, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

‘Helen?’ queried Stubbs. ‘Can you hear me? Are you there? Helen?’

‘Uh, yes, uh yes,’ said Helen, trying desperately to pull herself together. ‘I’m so very sorry to hear that, Philip. Nobody deserves to go down for that monstrous man.’

‘No. They don’t. I’m still hoping we may be able to avoid that, after all, there’s such overwhelming mitigation. But the odds are probably against it. This is murder, after all.’

‘Do I take it then that Gregory is going to plead guilty?’

‘No, we won’t plead guilty to murder. Certainly not at his first hearing. There’s a mandatory life sentence, with a stated minimum term, for murder, as I’m sure you know, which is unavoidable however sympathetic a court might be. Greg has to plead not guilty. And he does continue to proclaim his innocence, by the way. However, the evidence against him is substantial, and I just can’t see him winning. The best thing we can hope for is a plea bargain. If we could get the charge reduced to manslaughter, it really is possible that Greg might escape jail altogether, or at least serve a very short term. Domestic violence is high profile right now. And everybody hates men like Thomas Quinn.’

‘Yes, but surely there isn’t much chance of you getting the charge reduced, is there? As I understand it, a certain criteria has to be adhered to for murder to be commuted to manslaughter. Diminished responsibility, self-defence, abnormality of mind. That sort of thing. And Thomas Quinn was stabbed eleven times. That’s pretty excessive. I can’t believe you’re very optimistic, are you, Philip?’

‘Well, it won’t be easy. We’ll need a damned good barrister on board. But there’s also loss of control. All we can do is try, Helen.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is...’ Helen responded quietly as she ended the call.

Philip Stubbs was a decent man and a pretty good solicitor. But he still operated within the restraints of legal aid, without anything like the size of team and level of backup enjoyed by the top private solicitors. And goodness knows what sort of barrister Greg would end up with if he had to rely on legal aid. It was possible that Gill would inherit some family money which she could pitch in to finance her son’s defence, but, in view of what she had already heard about Thomas’ financial troubles, Helen didn’t think there would be much. Gregory Quinn was in deep, deep trouble.

Helen had even more to think about now. Her life’s work had, in the final analysis, been devoted to creating a world where this sort of situation would never arise. Whichever way you looked at it, the ultimate plight of Greg and his mother had resulted from domestic abuse. Yet they, both of them in Helen’s opinion, were the victims. And it made her angry. Very angry indeed.

Her head was aching and her eyes still hurt. Helen reached for a couple of pills from a bottle she kept in the top drawer of her desk.

She had to do something. She would do something. She checked her watch. It was nearly midnight. Whatever she decided would have to wait until the morning now. Not least because it would be better if she slept on it. And she needed a clear head in order to formulate a plan. Whatever she did next was going to have far-reaching repercussions. Not only for her, but for a number of others.

Ultimately it was gone two a.m. before Vogel climbed into bed at his Airbnb. He was woken by PC Phil Lake, who was on earlies, at five thirty-one. It felt as if he had only just got to sleep.

‘It’s Gill Quinn, boss,’ the young man began excitedly. ‘She’s in the front office. She says she wants to confess to the murder of her husband.’

‘Say that again,’ muttered Vogel drowsily.

Lake did.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Vogel.

He dressed, completed the most arbitrary of ablutions, and walked to Barnstaple police station. He had decided to give Saslow the opportunity for a little more sleep. After all, he didn’t think he was going to need her assistance. Or that of anybody else.

Gill was still in the front office. Phil Lake and the duty sergeant gave the impression that they really didn’t know what to do with her.

However this was an investigation into a murder, and Vogel had no choice but to follow the correct procedure, whatever his private thoughts on the matter.

He told Gill he would be with her in a moment, then took Phil Lake to one side.

‘Where’s Docherty?’ he asked.

‘I was about to say, boss,’ responded Lake. ‘She just called in. Apparently she fell asleep on the couch in Greg Quinn’s sitting room. When she woke up she stuck her head into the bedroom to check on Gill and discovered that she was gone. Must have snuck out, Docherty said. She’s on her way in, and she says to tell you she’s very sorry, boss.’

‘For God’s sake,’ said Vogel again. ‘I don’t expect my officers to do entirely without sleep. I’m glad Gill hasn’t gone missing, though. Right Lake, you’re with me. We need to set up a formal chat straight away. I presume there’s an interview room free at this ungodly hour?’

Lake agreed that there was, and led the way, with Vogel escorting Gill Quinn in silence, apart from reminding her that she had the right to have a solicitor present if she wished. She declined. Like most coppers Vogel usually welcomed that. On this occasion he would have preferred his interviewee to have legal advice, in the hope that this might help her reconsider her position before too much time was wasted.

‘So, how can I help you this morning, Gill?’ he began noncommittedly, once the preliminaries had been completed.

‘I’ve already said, several times,’ responded Gill a tad impatiently. ‘I want to confess to Thomas’ murder. I did it. It was me.’

‘I see. And yet you appear to have a watertight alibi, provided by the staff and residents of Helen’s House, covering the period of time when your husband was killed, do you not?’

‘I told that PC Docherty, they were mistaken. They didn’t realize I went out, left the House. For more than three hours in the afternoon. I had plenty of time to go back to my place and... and stab Thomas to death.’

‘Right. Perhaps you would like to explain why you have decided to tell us this now, Gill?’

‘You know why. You’ve charged my Greg with his father’s murder.’

‘Indeed. You’ve come forward to protect him, to try to stop him standing trial, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, I have. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t do it. I did kill Thomas. And I think Greg is trying to protect me.’

‘Gill, Greg isn’t admitting that he murdered his father,’ said Vogel, as gently as possible. ‘In fact I understand he will be pleading not guilty at his first hearing later today. We have charged him because we have built what we feel is an irrefutable case against him. We have gathered a dossier of quite damning evidence, including substantive forensic data.’

‘Yes, well. He’s a clever boy, my Greg. Cleverer than you might think. He’s probably arranged it all. I’m telling you. I killed Thomas. I thought he was going to attack me again. I picked up the nearest knife and stabbed him over and over, until I was sure he was dead. You found me by his body. I was covered in his blood. I’d have thought it was obvious.’

‘OK, let’s say I believe you, Gill. Can you tell me what you did with the knife that you used? We have yet to find the murder weapon.’

‘I uh, I put it in the dishwasher and switched it on, in order to destroy any forensic evidence. Your murder weapon was in the dishwasher. Squeaky clean. Maybe still is.’

Vogel made a mental note not to underestimate Gill Quinn. She was a very different woman now to the one in a state of deep shock who he had first encountered. Or certainly, she seemed to be. He wondered if she’d come up with that one on her own, or if perhaps she’d seen it in a TV drama or maybe read of a similar instance in a newspaper report of another real-life crime.

‘We found your son’s DNA on your husband’s body, containing traces of Thomas’ blood, which is definitively incriminating,’ the DCI continued.

‘I should think you found plenty of mine too,’ Gill Quinn persisted. ‘If there was any of Greg’s DNA on Thomas, then he must have gone to the house after I killed the bastard. But he’s not told you any of that because he guessed straight away that I’d killed Thomas. I mean who else could it be, for God’s sake? And he wanted to protect me.’

‘Gill, we know you were at the House in the early evening on Saturday, and that you were given a lift home to St Anne’s Avenue. Do you expect me to believe that you went back there covered in blood, as you were, and nobody noticed?’

‘No, of course not. I took the bloodstained clothes off.’

‘And then you put them back on when you returned home?’

‘Y-yes. Umm, well. Well, there was just something that made me think Greg may have been to our place. I can’t explain. And then, when I saw again what I’d done. When I saw Thomas lying there. Well... I was so shocked I didn’t know what I was doing...’

The woman was beginning to gabble. Vogel continued to question her for a while longer, and the answers she gave continued to be confusing, to say the least. He was confident that Gill was lying through her teeth, however he could not entirely dismiss her story. But neither did he consider it necessary to detain Gill Quinn.

‘How did you get here from Westward Ho! this morning?’ he asked suddenly.

‘I called a taxi,’ she replied.

‘But I thought you didn’t have any money?’

‘That was two days ago. My son is a builder. There’s always plenty of cash lying around at his place.’

Vogel reckoned that was sure to be the truth.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘I think PC Docherty should be here by now. I’ll get her to run you back to Kipling Terrace. Unless, of course, there’s anywhere else you’d like to be taken to?’

‘You mean you’re letting me go?’

‘Yes.’

‘But I’ve just told you I killed my husband. Why aren’t you arresting me? You should be arresting me. Don’t you believe me?’

‘I don’t feel I have sufficient grounds to arrest you, but I haven’t said I don’t believe you, and our enquiries will continue,’ Vogel explained patiently.

Docherty had arrived, and duly came to the interview room to collect Gill, who continued to express her desire to be arrested, but allowed herself to be escorted from the building and into Docherty’s car without too much trouble.

Vogel was as confident as he possibly could be that his judgement was correct, and that Gill Quinn’s confession was false. But Gill was clearly a much trickier customer than he had originally thought her to be. And maybe her son was too. Perhaps she was executing some complex kind of double bluff? Perhaps mother and son were in on this together? Perhaps their joint plan was to lay a series of false trails and create a smokescreen in order to blindside Vogel’s investigation?

And if that was so, Vogel’s job was to ensure that they did not succeed.

He was just considering his next move when he was informed that Wayne Williams had arrived at the front office and was desperate to see him. That he wanted to amend his statement.

First Gill, now Williams. Vogel wondered what on earth this might mean. Again he asked Perkins to arrange an interview room. Williams looked even more anxious than he had the previous day.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t told you the truth,’ he blurted out as soon as Perkins had completed the preliminaries. ‘I’ve been worrying ever since yesterday. I’m a law-abiding man, really I am, chief inspector, I didn’t mean to do anything wrong, I’ve been getting myself in such a state. I was afraid I might have been seen, and there’s CCTV all over the place, isn’t there, and if you found out I didn’t know what might happen...’

‘All right, Mr Williams, just calm down, and tell me the truth now,’ said Vogel, in his most reassuring voice.

‘Right yes. Well, the thing is, I wasn’t at home all day on Saturday. I went out. In the afternoon. I drove round to Gill’s house. I was so worried about her. I really had thought she would find a way to call me after Friday night. Eventually I couldn’t stand it any longer. But when I got there, well, I told you I was a coward, didn’t I? I got as far as the front door, I was about to ring the bell, but I didn’t have the courage. I was afraid Thomas might answer. And I just couldn’t face it. So I got back in the car and drove home. I didn’t tell you because I thought it would look bad for me, but now I realize I’ve been really stupid—’

‘What time was this?’ interrupted Vogel.

‘Well, I’m not sure exactly, well gone four, maybe half past.’

Vogel felt himself stiffen. It would seem that Wayne Williams had been at the Quinn house during exactly the time frame in which Thomas had been killed.

‘Did you see or hear anything which gave you any cause for concern whilst you were at the house? he asked.

‘No, nothing,’ replied Williams. ‘Everything was quiet. I couldn’t even tell whether anyone was in or not.’

The DCI questioned Williams further for a few minutes, particularly concerning the timing of his visit to St Anne’s Avenue, and the possibility of his having witnessed something of relevance without realizing it. He then asked Williams if he was prepared to be fingerprinted and undergo a DNA test, to which the headmaster agreed readily enough.

Vogel thanked him and told him he would then be free to go.

‘Does that mean you believe me?’ asked Williams, who looked both palpably relieved and somewhat surprised. Vogel wondered what he had been expecting.

‘You should know that late last night a man was charged with the murder of Thomas Quinn,’ he responded obliquely. ‘However, we may well want to talk to you again, Mr Williams. Lying to the police is a very serious matter, as I am sure you are aware.’

As he watched Perkins lead Wayne Williams from the interview room, Vogel couldn’t entirely suppress a certain sense of unease. The case against Gregory Quinn was overwhelming. The DCI remained as sure as was ever possible that the right man had been charged. And he really couldn’t believe that Williams would have the guts to murder anyone. But as he had told Saslow after they’d interviewed the man on Sunday, you never can tell.

Helen Harris had been allowed even less rest than Vogel. Indeed virtually none at all. Her head was all over the place. And she had only just managed to drift into a fitful sleep when the house phone woke her at two forty a.m.

Groggily she lifted the receiver.

‘Hello Lilian,’ said a voice she had hoped never to hear again.

‘Who is this?’ she demanded. But, of course, she really didn’t need to ask.

‘It’s William,’ said the voice. ‘Your dear brother-in law. You know that though, don’t you, Lilian?’

She attempted to dissimilate.

‘I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know any Lilian,’ she said.

There was a humourless laugh at the other end of the phone.

‘I’m sure you’ve seen the papers,’ William continued. ‘Both our pictures, almost next to each other, but yours by far the most bold and clear. You look very different though. Older, of course, and your face is plumper. You must have put on a lot of weight, and your hair is not at all how I remember it. I might not have recognized you, if it hadn’t been for your freckles. I’m surprised you don’t cover them up with something. They’re such a giveaway, so distinctive. But I suppose you’ve grown complacent, after all this time—’

‘What do you want?’ she interrupted, trying not to let her desperate anguish sound in her voice. ‘What the bloody hell do you want?’

‘I wanted to let you know that I’d found you. Of course, I was always going to find you sooner or later. You must have known I could never let you get away with what you did. You killed my brother, Lilian, and then you dared to get me put away. You should have been told I was out. So you must have known you were living on borrowed time. But, thanks to Tommy, you’ve been offered to me on a plate...’

Tommy. For a few seconds Helen stopped listening to William. The name registered with her suddenly, in spite of the awful shock of hearing William’s voice. Tommy must be Thomas Quinn. And it was Thomas who had maintained a link with the St John family that Helen had completely forgotten about, Thomas who had brought William and his henchmen, even more monstrous men than Thomas himself, to this little town which had for so long been a haven to Helen.

‘Unfortunately, due to circumstances beyond my control,’ she heard William continue with another mirthless laugh, ‘I have to lie low for a bit. But I will come to you, have no doubt about that, and I will make you suffer—’

‘You may not get the chance,’ interrupted Helen with a bravado she did not feel. ‘The police are looking for you, and they’re going to find you. You and your thugs are wanted for murder. Did you come here intending to kill?’

‘No, just to give Tommy a wake-up call. Frighten him a little. And the other one, of course. But it was too late for Tommy, although we didn’t know that until we arrived in Bideford. All too many of our, uh, business interests had fallen a little by the wayside whilst I was, umm, unable to take care of them. I decided to take a bit of a tour around the UK before going back home to South Africa, to remind certain people of who they were dealing with. Nobody was supposed to get shot though. That was just a bit of youthful overenthusiasm. Worth it of course, Helen, just to find you. What a bonus.’

Unlike Kurt, William spoke with a strong South African accent. Helen determined not to show just how threatening she found everything about him.

‘You don’t scare me any more,’ she lied. ‘You’re going to be back behind bars way before you can to get to hurt me,’ she continued, attempting a bravado she definitely did not feel.

‘The police don’t even know who they’re looking for, and nobody would recognize me from that grainy old picture, not even you,’ said William. ‘You can barely see my face—’

‘You’re wrong, I did recognize you,’ Helen interrupted.

‘It makes no difference. I won’t be in the country long enough to get arrested...’

‘Really? I thought you said you were lying low?’

‘Don’t get cute with me, Lilian, or you won’t even live to regret it.’

With that William ended the call.

Helen had been half expecting something like this from the moment she had learned that the man she had been instrumental in sending to jail twenty-one years earlier really had been released. Nonetheless his phone call had chilled her to the bone. Her whole body seemed to be shaking. She took two of the pills she kept by her bedside. Now she had to make decisions fast. The first one was easy. Whatever she did, she would sleep no more that night. So she dragged herself out of bed, dressed, and made her way to her office.

She spent the next three hours or so assimilating the events of the last few days and going over and over in her head what she would do next. Finally, she spent some time reorganizing her affairs, and ensuring, to the best of her ability, the future of Helen’s House, regardless of the actions she was about to take. She also wrote two letters, one to her solicitor, and one to Gregory Quinn.

There had already been more than one enormous sea change in her life. Another, probably greater than all, now beckoned.

At six o’clock she moved to the kitchen, removed some unbaked croissants from the freezer and put them in the oven, and prepared juice and coffee. Then she woke Sadie.

‘I’m sorry, but I need to talk to you,’ she said. ‘And it has to be now. There’s some breakfast waiting.’

In spite of the hour, Sadie did not demur. It was as if she knew, thought Helen, that this might be the last breakfast they would ever share.