Cop to Corpse (37 page)

This one had already sat silent through several hours of interview time. For his fortitude he had a cut lip and some swelling above and below his bloodshot right eye. No doubt Jack Gull would say he must have tripped on his way to the cells. As the prisoner wasn’t talking, he couldn’t give his own version.

He was handcuffed and dressed in the white overall provided for suspects whose clothes have been taken away for examination. Of course the stupid-looking outfit can also puncture the self-esteem of a cocky criminal. Pale, thin-faced and unshaven, with deep-set, staring brown eyes, this one didn’t appear to care. He looked about twenty-five, but days on the run can put years on a man. He could have been as young as eighteen. Red-raw hands, the lines
ingrained with dirt, presumably from living rough. Fingernails chewed to the quick.

‘Staying silent isn’t going to help you,’ Diamond told him in a reasonable tone. ‘The evidence we have is overwhelming. Your shoeprints match those found at the scene at Wells where PC Hart was killed. We’ve recovered the murder weapon from the river. There’s no chance you’ll walk out of here.’

He got no reaction except the steady, contemptuous stare.

‘So I’ll tell you what happens next. After twenty-four hours we get an extension from a senior officer. That’s a mere formality. I could issue it myself. After thirty-six, we apply to a magistrate for a warrant of further detention. Another thirty-six. Unless we charge you before that.’

The prisoner seemed indifferent to what was being said. All Diamond was getting from him was hostility. Understandable.

‘In case you don’t recognize me,’ Diamond went on, ‘I’m the one who caught up with you last night. You may think it was rough, being pressed like a piece of ironing under a man my size for twenty minutes or whatever it was. What you may not realise is that I’m also the unfortunate who was standing in your way when you revved up your motorbike and rode out of Becky Addy Wood. Knocked me sideways, put me in casualty. That’s why I was forced to use a walking stick, the same stick I felled you with last night. So there was a little bit of justice in the end.’

Not a glimmer of comprehension. For appreciation, Diamond had to turn to Halliwell. This was all depressingly one-sided.

‘The bike and the helmet were hooked out of the river today. I’m assuming he stole them from somewhere.’

Halliwell gave a nod. Even he was stuck for a comment.

Back to the suspect. ‘What shall we call you?’ Diamond tried. ‘It doesn’t have to be your real name, if you’re coy about that. John? Bill? Andy? Fancy any of those? We’re Keith and Peter, so it had better not be one of our names. I see you as a Bill. William. Wasn’t there someone called William the Silent?’

‘I’ve heard of that,’ Halliwell said, to show support.

‘And there was William Tell,’ Diamond added. ‘Definitely not the name for you. Tell – geddit?’

Some eye contact would have helped. The man had stopped staring and was cultivating indifference, looking at a spot on the table midway between them. He’d had time to practise this act.

Diamond made yet another start, low-key this time, touching on matters that might get through and elicit a response as basic as the flicker of an eye or a twitch of the lips. Find a telling point and work on it. ‘There’s a lot you can tell us when you decide to speak, as you will, sooner or later. What is it about the police that you hate? Some bad experience in the past? You don’t seem to have form. Your fingerprints are new to the system. They’re checking the faces in criminal records, just in case, but it would appear you’re a first offender. So what possessed you? These officers you shot couldn’t have been known to you. They died because they happened to walk by when you were lying in wait with your G36 rifle. Don’t you think their people – their loved ones – are entitled to know why?’

Evidently not.

‘Where the policemen fell, members of the public leave flowers, notes, soft toys even. One word gets written in large letters again and again, in Wells, in Radstock and here in Bath. “WHY?”.’ He paused, allowing it to sink in. ‘The shootings happened. That’s fact. Can’t alter it now. Don’t you think you owe us an explanation? I don’t get the impression you’re mad. You thought this through stage by stage, choosing your position, your timing, your escape. If the killings were meant to be some kind of gesture, a protest against the way this country is policed, or whatever, it’s futile unless you explain the thinking behind it.’

The prisoner swayed back a fraction, barely enough to be noticed, and then resumed the hunched position. For Diamond, the movement was encouragement. ‘Am I making myself clear? The thing is,
you
haven’t made yourself clear at all.’ He waited again, watching for a response and getting none. He was forced to resume. ‘Your actions are going to be misinterpreted. Did you know that? I bet it’s happening on the internet as I speak, extremist groups claiming you as one of their own, every bunch of nutters intent on undermining the system. You did the shooting and they take the credit. That’s how it works these days.’ He stopped, sensing how strident he was sounding.

He glanced at Keith Halliwell. He, too, was starting to look as if he’d stopped listening.

This wasn’t working.

‘Things get out of proportion if you don’t make yourself clear. I’ll give you an example from my own experience. When PC Tasker
was shot in Walcot Street in the small hours of Sunday morning my first reaction like everyone else’s was that this was your work. The Somerset Sniper claims another victim. It was just like the shootings in Wells and Radstock, well planned, but random. The victim had to be a cop, yes, but which cop didn’t matter. Easy to pick one off at night walking his beat. Everyone said the identity of the victim was immaterial to you as long as he was a bobby in uniform.’

He waited, still hopeful of a nod or a shake of the head. Getting nothing, he resumed. ‘Being an obstinate sod as I am, I wanted to test this theory. Was it really as simple as that? I made enquiries about the officers killed in Wells and Radstock. Went down to Wells and talked to PC Hart’s widow and one of my team did some research in Radstock. A strange connection emerged. Ossy Hart came originally from Minehead and used to take the leading role in a street event they have there each midsummer. Centuries old, it is. He’d be dressed as a hobby horse and parade the streets collecting for charity. He was the best horse anyone could remember. Not a pantomime horse. More of a token horse decked out with ostrich feathers and ribbons. Of course it had to stop when he joined the police and got posted to Wells. But there was talk of the event being filmed for some kind of action scene in a Hollywood movie. Some film man came to see him shortly before he was killed offering big bucks if he would reprise the role. Now here’s the link. The officer you shot in Radstock, PC Richmond, had an interest in old customs and was one of the leading experts. He wrote an internet article about the Minehead hobby horse, and it’s not impossible he was seen and hired by the same film company who were offering to make Ossy Hart a rich man. Now can you see why I started to get interested? There was a common interest and the chance of money, silly money.’ He paused again.

The prisoner looked mentally a million miles away from the Minehead hobby horse. Halliwell had a glazed look, too.

Undaunted, Diamond started again. Although this was beginning to sound increasingly like a confession, it was crystallizing his own thoughts. Set out like this, the process sounded logical. ‘After finding this out, I went to see the widow of the third victim, PC Tasker, just to find out if her late husband had ever had anything to do with the hobby horse ritual. He hadn’t. Quite a blow, that. I was forced to accept that coincidences happen and they’re no
more than that. In short, I was up the proverbial gum tree. I’d wasted precious time on a theory that didn’t hold water. The killings had to have been random after all. But I did learn something from Emma Tasker that I still can’t explain. Among Harry Tasker’s personal items returned to her after the shooting was a scrap of paper with the words “You’re next”. It threw me into confusion again. Here was another challenge to the theory of random killings. It seemed someone had been out to get him and wanted him to know. Taunting him. What else could it mean?’ He let the question linger for a moment and then put his hand forward and touched the prisoner on the arm.

It was the lightest of touches, but it brought a sharp response. The man jerked away and braced himself as if preparing to head-butt Diamond. Or spit in his face. But at least there was eye contact.

‘I asked you a question,’ Diamond said, remaining calm. ‘What else could it mean? The shooting of Harry Tasker wasn’t random. If the note meant anything at all, he was singled out, warned and slaughtered deliberately. Am I right?’

The prisoner’s angry brown eyes were still locked with Diamond’s. Not a word was spoken. Then he lowered his head and the moment passed.

So was it only the touch of the hand, and not the words, that had prompted the reaction?

Apparently.

‘The note sent me down a route I didn’t want to take,’ Diamond began again. ‘Because he was a marked man, as I saw it, I looked for a reason. Who’s going to have a grudge against an ordinary copper? The people who know him best – his workmates. I started looking here in Bath Central for a suspect. A police officer or someone employed here. Bad mistake. A sure way to make myself unpopular. Okay, I discovered that PC Tasker didn’t always follow the rules. He had his own way of keeping law and order on his beat and some might say it was rough justice. Maybe after all it was someone from the criminal class who bore that grudge. But I didn’t find anything that justified murdering him. And now you’re in the frame, I’ve had to face it. I’m wrong again. The shootings really were random. Harry Tasker died for no more reason than being on the duty roster. He happened to be on nights when you were lying in wait with your rifle. Simple as that. Mind, the fact that it wasn’t personal makes it even more despicable.’

He stopped speaking. He’d said as much as he wanted to say. No form of persuasion in his repertoire was going to work.

On an impulse, he snapped his fingers. The prisoner blinked.

‘You’re not deaf, then.’ To Halliwell, who had also jerked in his chair, he said, ‘Still awake, I see.’

Halliwell drew himself up, ready to leave.

Diamond made a restraining gesture with his levelled hand. ‘Do you know if Jack Gull tried any foreign languages?’

‘I doubt if Mr. Gull knows any, guv.’

‘That’s probably true, and the English he knows isn’t exactly the Queen’s. If this guy is a foreign national, we’re supposed to find an interpreter and his consulate has to be informed.’

Unexpectedly the prisoner became animated again, shaking his head and making sweeping movements with his handcuffed arms.

‘Hey, fellow,’ Diamond said, ‘what’s this about? What did I say wrong? Interpreter? Consulate?’

If anything, the negative gestures redoubled.

‘You understood something I said,’ Diamond said. ‘What’s your name? Where are you from?’

Too much to expect. But at least some form of communication was established. The man was watching Diamond and listening intently.

‘Whoever he is,’ Diamond said to Halliwell, ‘he isn’t keen on his government knowing about it. I’m wondering if we have an asylum seeker here.’

‘Funny way to seek asylum, murdering three policemen,’ Halliwell said.

‘But worth following up.’

The prisoner was returned to the cells. Diamond learned from the custody sergeant that several languages had been tried on the clam-like young man and brought no response.

‘Well, it took a long time, but he made one thing clear to us,’ Diamond said. ‘If he’s on the run from his country it may explain why he’s saying nothing.’

Jack Gull was called to the custody suite.

‘It’s becoming clear he’s a foreigner without much English,’ Diamond said, ‘but there’s more to it. Even if you don’t follow the language, you co-operate. You’d understand when you’re being asked your name. Why is he withholding his identity?’

‘He’s a fucking killer giving nothing away, that’s why,’ Gull said.

‘He could be more scared of his own people than he is of British justice. What if he arrived here like plenty of illegals have, in a container lorry, and is on the run?’

‘Doesn’t explain how he gets hold of a G36 and why he goes on a killing spree,’ Gull said.

‘All right, suppose he was rounded up soon after arriving and sent to a detention centre to be repatriated.’

‘Removal centre,’ Polehampton said. ‘They changed the name. The words “detention centre” were thought to be offensive.’

‘Strike a light, what are we coming to?’ Diamond said. ‘To my ear, “removal centre” sounds a whole lot more sinister. Call it what you will, he’d mix with all sorts there. Some of them would know where a weapon can be bought. And we’ve all heard of break-outs and detainees escaping.’

‘He’ll have been photographed and fingerprinted if he was detained,’ Gull said. ‘That’s compulsory. He would have shown up when we ran the check.’

‘It’s still worth checking on recent breakouts. Didn’t a bunch of people escape from one of those places last year?’

‘I’ll get onto the UK Border Agency, see if they can throw any light. But no one has explained to me why he shoots cops.’

‘Did you look into his eyes?’

‘How could I not?’

Diamond didn’t say so, but there are some things a senior detective has to work out for himself.

‘One thing nobody has mentioned is what happens when we charge this guy,’ Keith Halliwell said in the incident room.

Diamond frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘If he still withholds his name, what’s the legal position? Can we actually charge an unknown man?’

‘Fair point. I’d need to think about that.’

‘And if he isn’t charged, and the custody clock runs out, are we compelled to release him?’

‘No way. We can’t let a serial killer walk free when we know the forensic evidence is watertight.’

‘You say that, guv, but is it lawful?’