The Danger Within

Five

The setting up of the incident room at Bideford nick was already well under way by the time Vogel and Saslow arrived there just before nine thirty p.m. But then, the head of Devon and Cornwall Police’s Major Crimes Team, Superintendent Nobby Clarke, had issued her instructions. And she was a woman who expected her every directive to be carried out both with alacrity and total efficiency.

The place and a number of the people were familiar to Vogel. He and Saslow had been seconded to North Devon a couple of years previously to investigate a suspicious death which had carried with it considerable local significance.

Now, and somewhat unexpectedly considering some of the events which had accompanied that investigation, he was permanently attached to the region’s MCT and was in the process of looking for a home in North Devon for himself and his family. Hopefully on the coast, with which, also rather unexpectedly, he had fallen a little in love. Although he hadn’t quite admitted it yet, not even to himself.

Vogel was London born and bred, and had spent the bulk of his career as a Met detective, based in the heart of the city. He remained unsure of exactly how he had come to be relocating for good, or certainly the foreseeable future, to a largely rural and curiously remote part of the world, only linked to the rest of the UK by a thoroughly ghastly road and an equally ghastly and inadequate rail service. But that’s what he was doing. And he suspected the fresh sea air must be addling his brain, because he was more than a little looking forward to being settled there with his wife, his daughter and a beach-mad dog.

Vogel remembered Bideford nick well, a forbidding red-brick building, built on high ground opposite and above the River Torridge. He also remembered its access road, a disconcertingly steep ramp leading up from the riverside road, and its limited parking facilities. Vogel didn’t much like motor cars or anything about them. Indeed, his ideal method of transportation would be to be beamed from one place to another, as in the American space fiction series Star Trek, his childhood favourite TV show.

The police station had been closed to the public for years, but local CID and Uniform still operated on a day-to-day basis behind its closed doors.

In many ways the old nick was ill-suited to house an operation the scale of which was now being launched within its towering walls. Major Crimes Team officers were busy slotting themselves in amongst the resident force members, and extra officers from other stations in the region were currently being assigned, in order to form a suitably sized team for a murder investigation.

Vogel’s personal opinion might be that this particular investigation would not last long, but no force would launch an inquiry into a violent death based on that assumption. And he understood well enough Nobby Clarke’s reasons for choosing Bideford police station as the inquiry’s HQ. The only real alternative in the area would have been the Devon and Cornwall’s major regional station in Barnstaple. And Nobby, like so many senior detectives, Vogel included, preferred, in the case of murder investigations in particular, to set up a separate Major Incident Room away from base and close to the location of the crime. The Bideford station was very nearly on the spot. Just ten minutes or so from St Anne’s Avenue.

Vogel spotted DI Janet Peters, whom he knew Clarke had appointed deputy SIO and office manager, hurrying by, clipboard in one hand, phone in the other. Janet had played the same role in his previous North Devon murder investigation.

She looked slightly less dishevelled than he remembered. Her previously rather wild, dark-blonde hair was shorter than before, and shaped into a neat bob.

He had at first been a tad disappointed with her during their previous encounter, comparing her unfavourably, and probably unfairly, with the woman DI who had been his deputy on major inquiries throughout his time at MIT Bristol. But Janet Peters had grown on him. She had proven to be considerably better organized than she sometimes appeared, and both diligent and loyal, qualities Vogel always admired.

She did not notice him until he called out to her.

‘Oh hi, boss, Saslow,’ she said. ‘Sorry. My mind’s in a million places...’

‘I’m sure it is,’ Vogel replied. ‘Everything seems to be coming together pretty well though?’

‘Hopefully, boss. The boys and girls being sent up from Plymouth haven’t arrived yet, mind. And I’m not entirely sure where I’m going to put them.’

DI Peters’ easy smile somewhat belied her words, which might otherwise have indicated a degree of stress and anxiety. Vogel thought she had a pretty fair idea exactly what she was going to do with the Plymouth contingent. She seemed more relaxed under pressure than he remembered. Which was a good sign.

‘You’re in the same place as before,’ she told Vogel. ‘Not very big, but at least you get some privacy. I’ll take you along there, then give you an update, if that suits.’

Vogel nodded his thanks.

With Saslow following closely, he and Peters had just reached his temporary office when a young man approached who Vogel also recognized from his previous Bideford-based investigation. The DC’s appearance was quite memorable. He had very black hair and a long, thin, overly pale face well-suited to his more or less permanent worried expression. Vogel couldn’t remember his name though. But he was saved from any potential embarrassment.

‘Ricky Perkins, sir,’ said the young man smartly. ‘Good to be working with you again.’

Vogel nodded curtly. He was not, by nature, discourteous, but he had little time for niceties when embarking upon a murder investigation. Perkins did not seem to expect any further response.

‘Thought you should know straight away, boss, and you, ma’am, just had a call from Morag Docherty at the hospital, apparently they’re keeping Gill Quinn in overnight. She still hasn’t spoken, or not to Morag, anyway.’

Vogel nodded. That was more or less what he had expected. But he had yet to receive an official report of the examination she would have received upon arrival at the NDDH.

‘Did Docherty know if they’d found any sign of physical injury?’

‘Yes, boss, she said to tell you they discovered signs of old bruising around her rib area, but Gill apparently said she’d hit the steering wheel doing an emergency stop. Nothing else, boss.’

Vogel was mildly surprised that Gill had volunteered any information at all, and hoped it augured well for his own interview at a later stage.

He thanked Perkins, who hurried back into the heart of the incident room.

Vogel turned to his deputy SIO. ‘OK, DI Peters, we need a complete picture of this family as a matter of urgency,’ he began. ‘How are we getting on so far?’

‘I’m not sure how much you know, boss...’

Vogel gave Peters a brief summary of the information Saslow had supplied earlier. Mostly concerning the professional lives of the Quinns.

‘Gill Quinn is deputy headmistress actually, of Elm Tree Primary School, just along the road from here,’ the DI pointed out.

Vogel was a little surprised. When Saslow had told him back at the scene that Gill was a teacher, he hadn’t given it much thought. But now he had learned that she was a deputy head. It was difficult for him to imagine the woman he had earlier encountered holding down a position of any sort of responsibility. He had to remind himself that Gill Quinn, whether or not guilty of murder, had certainly been in a state of extreme shock.

‘Gill and Thomas came to Bideford twenty years or so ago with their young son,’ Peters continued. ‘We’ve done all the usual checks, of course. Neither of them is known to us. Nothing to report beyond a couple of speeding tickets. It seems that Thomas had done pretty well for himself, as you know. They moved to St Anne’s Avenue nine years ago. Posh sort of place, as you’d have seen, boss. One of the best residential roads in the area. There doesn’t seem to be any other family. Well, not local, that is. Not sure at all about Thomas, but it seems Gill has a sister, and her father is still alive. We’re trying to trace them.’

‘What about the son? He’d be in his twenties, wouldn’t he? Didn’t see any sign of him last night. Do we know whether or not he still lives at home?’

‘He’s twenty-three, boss,’ responded DI Peters. ‘Gregory Quinn, known as Greg. Seems he moved out some years ago, but he still lives locally. Educated at West Buckland School, one of the best public schools around here. Might have been expected to go to college or do something professional, I suppose. But he didn’t. He works for Durrants, the builders.’

So in spite of his expensive education the young man hadn’t followed his parents down an academic or professional route, Vogel pondered, wondering whether or not that was significant.

‘Have we managed to get hold of Gregory?’

‘We’re still trying to contact him. We have a number for a mobile, but it seems to be switched off. We also have an address for him. He’s not there, though.’

‘What about Thomas’ work colleagues?’

‘There’s a business partner, Jason Patel. An accountant by trade. Used to have a practice at the top of the High Street until he teamed up with Quinn a couple of years ago. More money, I should think. We’ll be sending a team round to see him, and also the headmaster of Elm Tree, Gill’s school.’

‘And the door-to-door enquiries. Anything from that?’

‘Not really, boss. No suggestion of any other disturbances, nothing about any trouble at home at all. Early days, of course, but the neighbours we’ve talked to so far seem by and large to have a good opinion of both. Expressed surprise that anything like this could happen, and so on. The only one who had anything constructive to say was the woman who lives opposite, Mavis Tanner, who reported some kind of row. But you know about that, don’t you, boss.’

‘Yes. She’s the nearest thing we have to a lead at the moment. I may go round and see her myself tomorrow. What about reports of any comings and goings at the Quinn house yesterday?’

‘Nothing at all, boss. But like most of the properties on that side of St Anne’s Avenue, the Quinn house has a back entrance onto an alleyway which leads to a little park. There’s garages and car parking there too. Seems the residents are inclined much of the time to use that route to access their properties, and it’s all very secluded and private. Not overlooked at all.’

‘Yet they have those impressive driveways and parking areas at the front,’ interjected Saslow. ‘Why don’t they use those?’

‘I think they’re for show, Dawn. The residents of St Anne’s Avenue certainly wouldn’t want vehicles permanently parked outside the front of their houses. Any callers, apart probably from family and perhaps close friends, would more than likely use the front. But we have no reports yet of any callers today.’

‘So, however much Mrs and Mrs Quinn may have been in and out of their house today, it’s quite likely nobody would have seen them?’ continued Saslow.

‘That’s right enough.’

‘And no CCTV at the back, I don’t suppose?’ queried Vogel.

‘None at all, boss. None along the road at the front either. Although a few of the houses have their own systems.’

‘But not number eleven?’ guessed Vogel, primarily because DI Peters had not already mentioned the possibility of any CCTV coverage.

‘Indeed not, boss.’

Vogel was thoughtful. He was still fairly convinced that Gill Quinn, for whatever reasons, had murdered her husband, but he would have liked at least some evidence that wasn’t circumstantial. At the moment their best hope of a quick conclusion seemed to be a confession, and he had no idea whether or not that was likely to be forthcoming.

His pondering was interrupted by the return of Perkins, looking as worried as ever.

‘Excuse me, boss,’ he said. ‘Could I have a word with DI Peters?’

Vogel nodded, still wrapped up in his own thoughts.

‘The extra desks have arrived, ma’am, where do you want us to put them?’

‘I’ll be with you in a minute, Ricky,’ said Peters. ‘Anything else, boss?’

‘No,’ said Vogel. ‘Just keep me informed of all developments. Instruct the team too. Whatever time of the night anything significant comes in, I want to be notified at once.’

‘Of course,’ said DI Peters.

Vogel turned to Saslow.

‘Well, nothing yet to indicate anything other than the obvious. And it doesn’t look like we’re going to get a chance to interview Gill Quinn until tomorrow morning at the earliest. So I suggest we spend an hour or two studying all the info that’s been collated so far, and then pick up a takeaway and head back to our digs.’

Saslow said nothing, but looked distinctly cheered. Vogel knew she found the kind of hours he took for granted pretty hard sometimes. She was a woman who liked her sleep.

As they drove back to Barnstaple, Daisy Dobbs called from the morgue.

‘I’m prepared to give you a tighter estimate of time of death, David,’ she said, having clearly decided they should both be on Christian name terms. ‘We’ve done all the possible tests now, and I reckon Thomas Quinn died between about three and five, probably nearer to three, only that’s a bit of a guess.’

So all they needed to do now, Vogel considered, was to ascertain that Gill Quinn had been at her home within that time span and the case would be more or less completed.