Cold Shoulder (46 page)

There was a low murmur and she looked to the only other woman present and asked if she could go to the bathroom. She took her time: she was tired out and her clothes were crumpled. She sat on the toilet, thinking about everything they had discussed. When she was led back into the room, only Rooney and his chief remained. Everyone else had gone.

The Chief motioned her to a chair. ‘We cannot agree to any deal, Lorraine, you know that, but what we will do is not press charges against you for withholding evidence, and we will endeavour to keep your name out of the proceedings. Your identity will be kept secret, but only if you’re able to ascertain that Janklow is the killer.’

She looked at Rooney and gave a half smile. ‘Okay, I’ll do it. Though it’s a very one-sided deal to your advantage. Now, I’ll need some new clothes and I need to get some rest. I also need a car so I’ll want a clean licence — just so I don’t get picked up.’

Rooney winked at her as a warning not to press too hard for anything more.

‘When is Janklow coming in?’ she asked the Chief.

‘Not sure, but we don’t want to make it seem too urgent, so you’ll have time to change and rest up.’

‘Can Bill be my back-up?’ she asked, and smiled at Rooney who looked at the ceiling. ‘He was always a good back-up man, one of the best.’

‘No, I’m afraid not. Bill’s been seen in your company and by the look of him if he doesn’t get some sleep, he’ll fall down. You’ll have his lieutenant, Josh Bean. He’s a good man, and he’s waiting to drive you home right now.’

Lorraine was confident, almost arrogant, as she said, ‘He gonna take me shopping? I want to look good.’

The Chief replied that they might not need the new clothes. First she had to view Janklow, then they’d see about the other things she’d asked for — just as they’d also have to set her up with a wire. She walked out of the room before the Chief had finished talking, saying over her shoulder, ‘I guess you’ll call me when you need me.’

‘Can we trust her?’ the Chief asked Rooney.

‘Much as any woman and she hasn’t had a drink for nine months. She wants to go straight.’

‘It never was your theory, was it?’ the Chief said quietly and Rooney grunted. He knew that by bringing her in it’d come out in the open.

‘No. She ran rings around most officers and, so help me God, I’ll never know why she blew it those years ago.’

‘Just hope she doesn’t blow it with us. If she puts a foot out of line, Bill, I’ll haul her in so fast, I’ll have her charged and put away for a long time. You should make sure she’s aware of just how serious this is. We’ve got to get this case wrapped up. And if she fucks up, it’s not just us, it’ll be the FBI who’ll make sure she never works again, not here or in any other state. Let her know that. Make sure she knows we can’t have any mistakes — there’s been too many as it is.’

R
OONEY HAD shaved, and was wearing a clean-looking shirt and a new suit. He’d had a good lunch before he drove into the station. He knew that Janklow was being brought in by his lawyer at four thirty because his chief, who seemed to be in a growing state of panic, had called him three times.

Bean was sweating as he hit a traffic jam. Lorraine sat beside him. If she was nervous she didn’t show it but Josh grew increasingly agitated. He kept on tapping the dashboard clock, then checking his wrist-watch. It was almost four. His hair was damp at the nape of his neck and he leaned out of the window to look at the lines of traffic up ahead. He knew if she wasn’t at the station by four fifteen he’d be hauled over the carpet. He wiped his face.

Lorraine tapped his shoulder. ‘Get your light on or we’ll never make it. Shut it off before we get to the precinct.’

Subtle it wasn’t but in the end Bean switched on his siren and his blinking roof-light and began to edge his way down the centre of the road. Even less subtly, he yelled out of the window for other drivers to move over.

On arrival at the station, they were met by Rooney.

‘Is he here yet?’ she asked breathlessly.

Rooney shook his head as he and Bean hurried her along towards the viewing room. It was just an anteroom, with a table and two hard-backed chairs facing a square-curtained window that adjoined the main interview room. There were microphones at ceiling level, the controls at the side of the room. Lorraine was ushered in. She noticed that, like Bean, Rooney was sweating. She knew a lot was riding for Rooney on her identification of Janklow.

‘You just make notes and watch, look and listen. You’ll be able to hear every word they say.’

‘Come on, Bill, I know the set-up. Who’s taking the interview?’

‘Ed Bickerstaff, one of the suits. He’s the blond crew-cut guy.’

It was four twenty-five, five minutes to go. Rooney left the room. Lorraine lit up and her hands were shaking. She picked up her pen and began to doodle on the notepad, then said to Bean, ‘What if there’s something I think Janklow should be asked?’

Bean hesitated. ‘Give it to me and I’ll see if I can go into the interview room but only if it’s—’

‘Important?’ she said smiling.

‘Yeah.’

‘He’s gonna know he’s being viewed — any two-bit criminal knows by the window — so why all the secrecy?’

‘Protection.’

‘His?’

‘Yours. You’re a valuable witness, Mrs Page.’

Janklow and Kophch’s arrival in a chauffeur-driven Cadillac sent whispers through almost every department. Even though secrecy had surrounded the request to bring in Janklow, rumour spread fast; any suspect being brought in for questioning about the hammer murders would have attracted interest, but a high-society man like one of the Thorburn family…

Rooney stood in the corridor as they filed past him. He was surprised at how confident Janklow appeared, not paying anyone any attention but staring ahead, his face partly hidden by dark glasses. As they passed, Rooney sniffed. He could smell expensive cologne like delicate flowers. He noticed the way Kophch stayed close to Janklow, his steely eyes taking in everyone and everything.

Bean replaced the intercom phone and looked at Lorraine. ‘They’re coming in now.’ He drew back the curtain to expose the dark square window-pane and returned to his seat.

The microphones picked up the sounds of the room beyond. Bickerstaff was sitting to one side, hardly visible. The table was stacked with files and photographs. As the door opened, he rose to his feet. Lorraine leaned forward: she couldn’t see Janklow as the men were introduced. Kophch turned and stared at the one-way glass, aware of what it was, but said nothing and drew out a chair for Janklow.

Lorraine watched closely as Janklow sat down facing her directly, his chair positioned towards the viewing window opposite Bickerstaff. Kophch sat on his left, and clicked open his briefcase. Janklow was wearing a fawn cashmere jacket and a white shirt with a tie, but Lorraine couldn’t see his trousers. He had mouse-blond hair combed back from his face which was angular, more handsome than she had expected. His nose was thinnish, again not as she had remembered and she doubted immediately that this was the man by whom she had been attacked. She didn’t recognize him. She sat back, her heart beating rapidly. She’d been wrong. She twisted her pen. ‘Can they get him to take off his glasses?’

‘They will, just relax.’ Bean could see that she was tense: she was frowning, cocking her head first on one side then the other.

No one spoke in the adjoining room. It was eerie: the silence, the waiting.

‘Would you please remove your glasses, Mr Janklow?’ It was the quiet voice of Bickerstaff.

‘If you require my client to look at any evidence, he will need to use his glasses. They are not decorative but prescription. I’m sorry but your request is denied.’

Bickerstaff opened his file. ‘Take off your glasses, please, Mr Janklow. When it is required you may replace them.’

Janklow slowly removed them. Lorraine felt chilled for the first time. His eyes were pale blue, washed out, and he stared ahead as if straight at her. She caught her breath as he moistened his lips. His mouth had been tightly closed until this moment but when he licked round both lips his face took on a different quality, as if his lips had come to life, wide lips, wide, wet lips. She scribbled on her notepad. This was the man who had attacked her, she knew it. His lips had given him away.

‘It’s him,’ she said softly, barely audible. Bean stared at her and then back to the window as the interview began in earnest.

Bickerstaff, quiet and authoritative, first explained that he would require from Mr Janklow his whereabouts on certain dates. He was aware that some were several years ago but he should answer to the best of his knowledge. When the date of the first murder was given, Janklow frowned. ‘I have no idea,’

His lawyer jotted something in his leatherbound notebook. The second date and Janklow was unable to answer, the third and still nothing — he was even apologetic at his memory failure. Bickerstaff persisted. As the more recent dates came up, Janklow gave alibi times and places. He mentioned his brother and his mother. Both, his lawyer said, would verify his client’s whereabouts.

Bickerstaff then laid out the victims’ photographs in front of Janklow. He studied each one intently, in silence, before shaking his head. ‘No, I don’t know any of these people.’

Lorraine watched every gesture he made, his hands, long delicate fingers, and she made a note of the ring on his right-hand pinky finger. She was sure that this was the man who had attacked her, even though she didn’t recognize his voice, or remember the ring. It was his face and hands that convinced her: he was left-handed.

Bickerstaff was unhurried, taking his time over each question, each photograph. He was saving Norman Hastings and Didi — or David Burrows — until last. When he presented Janklow with the picture of Hastings, Janklow said he knew him quite well. He described how Hastings had used his garage to park his car but denied any social interaction between them. When asked if he was aware of Hastings’s transvestite tendencies he looked shocked, and when Bickerstaff asked if he knew Art Mathews he looked nonplussed. To his knowledge, he said, he had never heard the name. He was then asked if he knew Craig Lyall. This time he paused and touched his mouth, he started to shake his head and then changed his mind. ‘Craig Lyall? Er, yes, I think I’ve been to his studio. He’s a photographer. I took my mother there to be photographed, but he was not as professional as I’d hoped and the session was terminated. My mother is very particular, and this refers back to her days in the movies. She was a film star when she was in her twenties.’

Bickerstaff let him talk, quietly turning pages, before he interrupted. ‘Were you being blackmailed, Mr Janklow?’

Janklow sat back in his chair. ‘Blackmailed? Do you mean by Lyall?’

‘By anyone,’ Bickerstaff replied.

‘Absolutely not.’

He now presented Janklow with the photograph of Didi. Again, Janklow spent a considerable time looking at it, shifting his glasses on and off. ‘No, I’ve never met this woman.’

‘It’s a man.’ Bickerstaff waited. ‘She or he never made you up for a photograph?’

Lorraine saw Janklow’s mouth snap shut. Then he licked his lips again and gave a humourless laugh. ‘No, I was never made up — I presume you mean in female attire — for any photograph.’

Bickerstaff didn’t flicker but continued, head down, still nonchalant, as he asked if Janklow was homosexual.

‘No, I am not,’ Janklow snapped.

‘Are you a transvestite?’

‘No, I am not.’

‘Have you ever in the past been charged with any homosexual crime?’

‘No.’

Kophch reached out and touched Janklow’s arm. He was becoming agitated and he constantly licked his lips. Lorraine chewed her pen, willing Bickerstaff to push for more, but he remained composed, even apologetic, looking at Kophch and saying that he was sorry if some of the questions were distasteful to his client but he must understand they had to be asked.

Kophch leaned towards Bickerstaff, his voice low. ‘Mr Bickerstaff, please feel free to ask my client any question — that is what we are here for, to confirm my client’s innocence — but please let me remind you, he is here of his own free will.’

‘I am aware of that, Mr Kophch. The sooner we have completed all the questions, then the sooner your presence will no longer be necessary.’

Lorraine sighed. If anything, Bickerstaff seemed to be on Janklow’s side. She had never witnessed anyone taking so long, pussy-footing around. His methodical approach was driving her crazy. She asked Bean when Bickerstaff was going to up the ante. He made no reply but stared at the glass partition.

Bickerstaff presented Holly’s picture next and Janklow denied any knowledge of her. Then Bickerstaff gave him Didi’s photograph again.

‘I have already said I do not know this person.’

Bickerstaff pushed the photograph closer. ‘This person sometimes calls herself Didi.’

‘I don’t know her — whoever it is. I don’t know them.’

‘You have also denied knowing or meeting Art Mathews.’

‘I don’t know him. You’re repeating the same questions.’

Bickerstaff was beginning to step up the pressure, just a little. ‘Now, Mr Janklow, can we return to the dates and the alibis you have given. It seems convenient that both your brother and your mother are always your only alibi. You have no other witness to—’

Janklow’s voice rose as he interrupted. ‘It happens to be the truth.’

‘Mr Bickerstaff,’ Kophch intervened, ‘it is obvious that you are beginning to repeat yourself. If you have no further questions to ask my client, then perhaps we can close this interview.’

‘I’m afraid not, Mr Kophch, because your client has so far been unable to present to me any alibi for a number of these cases.’

‘But they took place some years ago. If we are given time we will attempt to present you with the whereabouts of my client on those specific dates.’

Kophch stood up but was ordered by Bickerstaff to remain seated. Lorraine clasped her hands tightly together. This was more like it.