The Dentist, page 27
And so they ended it there, but both Cross and MacDonald knew it wasn’t done. Far from.
Cross and Ottey sat in his office trying to figure out their next move. They had the pieces but not the glue to connect them. Ottey looked up from her foul coffee - it was one of those moments where something was better than nothing. Although she was beginning to wonder.
‘Does Clay come up in Leonard’s files?’ she asked.
‘I haven’t had the time to finish going through them .’
‘Why did he come back?’ she said. Cross looked at her, ‘I know, I know “if we had the answer to that...”’ she said in singsong, acknowledging that this was the obvious question they’d muddled over for hours. ‘I wish Leonard had come directly to us.’
‘Why would he? He had no confidence left in the police, and who could blame him?’ said Cross.
‘That’s true.’
‘We need to find the body shop and details of the accident.’
Cross thought for a moment. ‘He kept everything meticulously about the case, in such exhaustive detail. So organised. So much of it,’ he said.
‘And?’
‘What if he was like that with everyday life matters? Hilary’s accident, there must’ve been correspondence. Insurance for one thing,’ he said.
Neither of the two detectives expected the scene they found in Jessica Carpenter’s kitchen when they arrived. At the kitchen table, drinking tea, carrier bags from Gap, Superdrug and Office Shoes at his feet, was Badger. He was looking better and happier than when they’d last seen him. Jessica had taken him shopping. As well as the purchases at his feet, he was wearing a set of new clothes. What really threw Cross, though, was Mackenzie sitting across from him. She looked like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t have done.
‘Alice.’
‘DS Ottey. Cross.’
‘I thought you were tasked with the body shop.’
‘I was…’
Jessica decided to intervene.
‘It’s my fault. I’ve been calling Alice. She’s been keeping me abreast of any developments… well such as they are.’ She said this matter-of-factly with no hint of reproach. ‘When she told me about Terence being released, I asked her to find out when. I wanted to pick him up before he disappeared onto the streets again, and she very kindly agreed to come and meet him with me,’ she explained.
‘Can I ask why?’ said Ottey.
‘Well, I didn’t want him ending up back on the streets. It’s awful. He’s a veteran, Sergeant, and it might sound weird but I thought we’d already put him through enough,’ said Jessica.
‘Can I see all of Leonard’s personal files, insurance, mortgage, bank. I need to find out if he kept all the correspondence pertaining to Hilary’s car accident,’ Cross said completely cutting across her, but she carried on nevertheless.
‘He was also the last person to spend any time with my father before he died.’
‘The files?’ Cross replied.
‘George…’ Ottey cautioned.
‘We are under a time constraint here with Clay,’ he said.
‘Go on,’ Ottey said to Jessica.
‘Well, so it wasn’t entirely unselfish. I’d like to talk to him about Dad and help him in any way that I can. He’s found himself in exactly the same situation as my father. I wasn’t able to help him, but maybe I can do something for Terence.’
‘Well that’s really kind and completely understandable. I think your father would be proud of you, don’t you George?’ said Ottey.
‘I don’t know. I didn’t know him so have no idea how he might have reacted. I’d like to see the files please,’ Cross insisted. He was getting frustrated.
‘Of course,’ Jessica left the room. He followed then turned back.
‘Mackenzie. With me,’ she got up and followed like a child following a parent knowing the familiar reprimand they’re about to receive off by heart.
Leonard had an old bureau-style desk with a roll top cover. Cross and Mackenzie started to go through his personal files systematically. They were so well-organised that it didn’t take them long to find what they were looking for. Mackenzie held up a file marked ACCIDENT. They shared the contents between them. After a couple of minutes she held up a piece of paper.
‘Here it is. Peter and Amanda Clay. Son Malcolm aged six,’ she said. Cross took the page from her, looked at it quickly and left the room. He walked straight out of the house and stood by Ottey’s car. Mackenzie walked back into the kitchen.
‘He’s got what he was after,’ she informed them.
‘I’d best go. We’ll be in touch,’ Ottey said.
Mackenzie followed her out but Ottey turned and said ‘No, stay here. It could be helpful.’ She was relieved, and suspected that Ottey had said it partly as a way of keeping her out of Cross’ line of fire. She thanked her and went back into the kitchen.
Another car pulled up as Ottey stepped outside. It was Catherine. ‘Hello, what brings you here?’ she asked.
‘We needed to go through Leonard’s domestic files,’ Ottey explained.
‘Has something happened?’ she asked.
‘Not as yet, but things are developing,’ she said. She knew Cross hated her making statements like this but she really didn’t care. Catherine looked over at Cross and decided against asking anything further.
‘I’m here because I have another pro bono patient in need of a dental exam apparently. I’m going to take him down to the surgery,’ said Catherine.
‘Really?’ asked Ottey.
‘Yes, my little sister’s heart could bleed for the entire world. She can’t resist a lost cause. I’m sorry, that sounded way more callous than intended.’
‘Alice could’ve brought him down. Saved you the trouble,’ Ottey said.
‘I know. But to be honest I wanted to have a chat with him. You know. About Dad.’ She said goodbye to Cross. ‘Inspector.’
‘Sergeant,’ he corrected her without even looking up from the documents he was still studying. A Range Rover pulled up. Gillian was at the wheel. Catherine turned to Ottey.
‘Maybe I’ll just take him straight to the surgery,’ said Catherine.
Ottey smiled, ‘I hear you.’
Chapter 42
They were back with Clay. He had the familiar look of irritation people had, when they realised that apparently they could just be left in their cell for two hours while the police did whatever they felt inclined to do, with no explanation. It’s one thing being engaged by a couple of detectives in an interview room, even if it’s hostile environment - you’re still the centre of attention. Quite another to be left in a blank cell with nothing to do, and against your will. That was the one thing Cross had always felt made it more difficult for people like Clay - middle class, his own boss, used to getting his own way – the idea that you are being held against your will and have to do whatever you’re told. The loss of one’s freedom, for however short a time, was a powerful, emotive deprivation.
‘I’d like to discuss your parents’ deaths,’ Cross started.
‘No comment,’ Clay replied.
‘That response will only be necessary in the event of a question being asked. It was a traffic accident was it not?’
Clay’s solicitor whispered something to him..
‘It was,’ Clay stated.
‘Both your parents killed instantly.’
‘Yes.’
‘Again, it’s only necessary to answer when I ask a question,’ Cross said.
People often made the mistake of thinking Cross was trying to wind them up. He wasn’t doing any such thing. He was, in fact, trying to be polite and make things easier for them. Having said that, he wasn’t unaware that the opposite effect was often achieved. This, together with his very factual, almost mono-tonal delivery, often led suspects to believe that he was in control. That he had all the information at his disposal. Hence Clay’s inadvertent eagerness to answer.
‘A momentous event in your life,’ he went on.
Clay was about to respond, then remembered what Cross had just said. No question asked, no answer required.
‘Something that must live with you on a daily basis, I would imagine. The loss of your parents. The trauma of the injury and the subsequent, almost never-ending surgical interventions,’ he said.
He produced Clay’s business card.
‘But you’re also grateful to those who cared for you in the immediate aftermath. You raise money for the hospital where you underwent the majority of those surgeries.’
A long pause. Interminable for Clay. He looked at his solicitor who just shook his head as if to advise quiet. Cross finished studying the piece of paper he had in front of him and then turned it over very deliberately, with great care, almost like a rare document in the British Library – the kind you would normally have to wear gloves to handle. He read it with the kind of attention that suggested he hadn’t ever seen it before. Which of course he had. Several times.
‘Do you know who was responsible for the accident?’ Cross asked.
‘They said it was my father,’ Clay said.
‘That’s correct. That must have been very difficult to deal with, I would’ve thought.’
He looked up, but there was no answer from Clay. ‘Is it?’ Cross insisted.
‘I’m not sure I believe it,’ Clay replied.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Well, it’s easy to blame the dead, isn’t it.’
‘That can’t be the only reason. Why else do you doubt it?’ Cross asked.
No answer.
‘I mean it’s perfectly clear from the accident report,’ Cross noticed this threw Clay. ‘I should explain that although we, the police, managed to mislay the original report, Leonard Carpenter had a copy. You know who Leonard Carpenter was?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘When did you become aware of who he was?’
‘No comment.’
‘Had you ever met Leonard Carpenter?’
‘No comment.’
‘But you’re aware of why I’m asking you this?’
‘No comment.’
‘Did you ever meet Hilary Carpenter?’
‘No comment.’
‘Are you aware of the identity of the other driver?’
‘No comment.’
‘Do you remember much about the accident?
‘I don’t.’
‘I’m not surprised. It must’ve been absolute agony. How do people deal with such intolerable pain I wonder. Are you aware of the identity of the other driver?’ Cross asked.
Clay looked at his solicitor for a moment. Didn’t this clown ask that same question just now in exactly the same way, he is thinking. ‘No comment.’ This made Cross look directly at the solicitor as he asked the next question.
‘Why, I ask myself, are you reluctant to answer questions about an accident that happened to you when you were six? And refuse with “no comment” rather than “I don’t wish to speak about this” or “what’s this got to do with the case?” “No comment” just makes me think I’m right in maybe thinking it does have something to do with Hilary Carpenter’s murder and, ergo, Leonard’s,’ Cross said.
‘I’d like to confer with my client,’ said the solicitor, jumping in quickly.
‘I think you should. I’m not sure it’s in his best interests not to answer these questions.’ said Cross.
‘What the fuck do you care about my interests?’ spat Clay.
‘Mr Clay…’ his solicitor intoned quietly.
‘I can assure you, I am only after the facts here. I have no feelings either way. I care about the truth and, therefore, I care about your interests, by ensuring that the truth and not some distorted version of the truth becomes clear during this process. I shall continue to do that until this is over,’ he said calmly and left the room leaving Ottey to deal with the tape recorder.
The conference took a full hour, which really irritated Ottey. Cross on the other hand was always interested to see what came out of such conferences; what had taken them so long? Was it an indication of what was about to happen next? Were they prepared to concede on something? Was it progress, in other words? His line of questioning about the accident had obviously caused the solicitor to come up with a new strategy. This lawyer was a good one. Cross had come across him before, and found him pleasingly efficient and extremely good at defending his clients and guiding them in the room – often directing them to talk when their instincts were urging them to clam up. He had a very keen sense of how interviews would be perceived in the dry, air-conditioned air of a quiet courtroom. In this case, they had prepared a statement which the lawyer read out. Cross had actually anticipated this. He knew the lawyer had to be thinking that they had all the information pertaining to the accident, and so “no comment” responses would serve no purpose. They might, in fact, do damage in the long run, and make him look less reliable in court. The lawyer read from the hand-written statement on his yellow legal pad.
‘I am aware of the identity of the other driver in my parents’ fatal collision. It was Hilary Carpenter. She showed me great kindness in the immediate aftermath of the crash, using her scarf to stem the flow of blood from my leg. She made me talk to her, and comforted me, so that I remained conscious until the emergency services arrived. I was later told that she had, in no uncertain terms, saved my life. Had it not been for her, my fate would undoubtedly have been the same as my unfortunate parents. I know this information from what I have been told.’
‘One question before I hand over to DS Ottey. Did you at any time see the original accident report?’ Cross asked. Clay looked at his lawyer who nodded his assent.
‘I did,’ he said.
‘How?’
‘Stuart showed me.’
‘Thank you. Ottey?’ Cross said.
At the start of their working relationship she had hated it when he would turn round, out of the blue, and ask her to take the lead. But then she realized the real cause of her resentment – she’d switched off. She hadn’t followed the course of the interview properly and obviously felt that he was checking up on her. The truth was that, as Cross later told her, he liked to change the interviewer at times, depending on how he thought the interview was going. He compared it to a cricket captain changing bowlers, between fast and spin, seamer, swapping from bowling over the wicket to round the wicket. It changed things up a little. Stopped the interview getting stuck in a rut, or following a predictable pattern. But she noticed he also did it when the interview had taken an unpredictable, or unexpected turn. Or when there was a development, however small. Like coming up with a written statement, as they just had.
‘So you knew Hilary Carpenter?’ she began.
‘I did not,’ Clay answered.
‘But you knew of her.’
‘I did.’
‘Were you aware of her murder when it happened?’
‘I was not.’
‘Even though it was all over the local news. The…?’ she turned to Cross.
‘”Tea set” murders,’ he said.
‘That’s right. Awful name. Probably explains why the subs were on local papers and not the nationals. But you weren’t aware of it?’
‘I was away,’ Clay replied.
‘That’s right. You took a gap year.’ He didn’t answer. ‘You left the country just a couple of weeks after her murder.’ Again no answer. ‘Did you know her husband, Leonard Carpenter?’ she asked.
‘I did not.’
‘Never heard of him?’
‘Not until recently.’
‘Did you discuss it with your foster-parents?’
‘Discuss what?’
‘Their deaths. The Carpenters?’
‘No. Why should we have done?’
‘The woman who killed your parents…’
‘It was my father’s fault. The accident,’ Clay interrupted, quite forcefully.
‘The woman involved in that accident, who saved your life, is murdered. Then, years later, her husband. Did this really go unmentioned by your adoptive parents?’ Ottey said.
‘I told you, I was away.’
‘A full four weeks after Hilary’s death. You’re saying it wasn’t mentioned at all at that time? The woman who had been involved in the most dreadful event in your life?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Despite the fact that your adoptive father was the lead officer in the case? He didn’t come home and say “here’s a sad and strange thing. That lovely lady who saved your life is dead. Murdered,” he didn’t say anything at all?’ Ottey asked.
‘He’s not allowed to talk about cases is he?’
‘Not the detail no, but nothing wrong in telling you he was on the case.’
‘Look, he might’ve. I just don’t remember,’ said Clay.
‘Did he mention Leonard’s death?’
‘No, but I haven’t seen him for weeks.’
‘That’s not actually true though. Is it Malcolm?’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You visited the MacDonald’s three nights ago.’
‘Did I? I forgot.’
‘Leonard had been to see Stuart on a couple of occasions, quite agitated meetings apparently.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Well he didn’t tell us either, so don’t feel left out,’ said Ottey.
Clay said nothing. He was beginning to find Cross’ silence unnerving. He had come across as the lead interviewer at the start. Why was he now so quiet? It felt as if he were keeping something back; judging the time when to step back in with whatever it was.
‘So two people linked to you, well one of them; a husband and wife are murdered and it’s just not talked about by any of you. Can you see why I find that difficult to believe?’ she concluded.
Chapter 43
Mackenzie was beginning to wonder whether she would get the smell of spray paint out of her nostrils. At the same time, though, she was thinking it was actually quite pleasant, in the way that petrol or aviation fuel, tarmacadam, spray glue often was. What did it trigger in the brain, she wondered? Was it the smell equivalent of umami? She’d spent the last few days going trawling through the lower end, the fringes of the car body shop industry in Bristol. The kind of outfits that couldn’t afford, didn’t need or, more likely with some of the dodgier ones, didn’t want a website. They were located variously in railway arches, abandoned industrial estates, one even in a set of council estate garages. She’d seen more body and facial piercings and tattoos – yes facial tattoos – than in the rest of her life. The world of the illicit body shop also seemed to be quite an international one, judging from all the languages she’d heard in the last few days. Sexism and the art of the indecent suggestion, together with a profound suspicion of the police were also alive and well.
