Cath Staincliffe - Desperate Measures

‘And you didn’t think to tell us?’ Butchers said. Missing at the time of the murder . ‘Why’s that then?’ He picked up his phone.

‘Because this is nothing to do with him,’ she said vehemently, ‘even if he found out about us, he’d never hurt anybody. Neil is not a murderer. No way.’

‘Whoah!’ Butchers said, ‘Stop right there.’ Found out about us? ‘Who’s ‘us’?

Dawn Langan burst into tears. It was a good five minutes before Butchers could get any sense out of her. And when he did the whole picture changed.

They were searching for Neil Langan: using the automatic number plate recognition system to look for sightings of his car, following procedures to get access to his phone records, and liaising with his bank so they could track him when he used his cards.

‘So,’ Shap marvelled, ‘Dawn Langan and Don Halliwell, playing doctors and nurses.’

‘And when Neil Langan finds out…’ Janine said.

‘He smashes up Halliwell’s car…’ Shap said.

‘And then shoots him,’ Richard said.

It was a strong motive and Janine knew that jealousy was a very powerful emotion. Being betrayed, cuckolded, dumped, drove people to kill. A minority to be sure – otherwise the murder rate would be phenomenal. She remembered her own sense of shock when she caught Pete cheating, the numbness giving way to a mix of cold fury and deep sadness. That Pete could risk it all, their marriage, their life as a family, daily contact with his children, for the thrill of sex. Janine was hurt even more when Pete chose Tina and left Janine, who was expecting their fourth child, on her own.

She had fantasized about hurting him, humiliating him, called down all sorts of catastrophes and punishments but that was all they were.

So, had Neil Langan, a postman married to the practice nurse, a man with no criminal record, been driven to act with such brutality? Violence against property was a very different matter than violence against the person. What had he thought? That if he shot Halliwell, put him out of action, that he might be able to win back his errant wife? Hardly. Janine imagined that if Langan had killed Halliwell it would’ve been done in a blur of hatred and rage, with no thought of the far-reaching consequences of his actions.

‘He just happens to carry a handgun in his postie’s bag?’ Janine said. ‘He goes from a clean sheet to criminal damage and murder in twenty four hours?’

‘He’s there on the Monday, casing the joint, planning it,’ Shap said.

‘Then why bother with smashing up the car, if you’re going to kill someone anyway…’ Janine said.

‘Maybe the car was the initial plan and then he’s still mad with jealousy so he ups the ante,’ Shap said.

‘Why the wait?’ Janine said. ‘The car was smashed up in the early hours then he waits all day until the surgery is closing to make his move on Halliwell. What’s that about?’

‘Perhaps that’s the only time he can get Halliwell on his own,’ said Richard.

‘We don’t have the Range Rover in the area on the Tuesday evening,’ Janine said.

Shap shrugged. ‘Went on foot, less easy to trace him.’

Lisa called out, ‘Boss, Langan used his card on Tuesday at a Travel Inn at Chester services.’

‘He’ll be long gone, now,’ Shap said.

‘No, he used the same card at the ATM there last night,’ Lisa said.

‘Go on, then,’ Janine told them, ‘what you waiting for?’

Butchers was trying to establish whether Halliwell had actually been to visit Roy Gant or if that was another cover story for this funny business with the drugs.

Gant lived in a small terrace with mullioned windows, double glazed so they looked odd, too fussy for the property, Butchers thought.

Butchers knocked and introduced himself. He apologized for the intrusion and explained the reason for his call.

Roy Gant grunted and nodded he should go on. He was dishevelled, Butchers saw, probably still dazed from his wife’s death.

‘Mr Gant, did Dr Halliwell visit you on Tuesday afternoon?’

‘Yes, that’s right. He had to do the cause of death certificate, for Peggy. Then he was calling home, he said, before afternoon surgery.’

This was news to Butchers.

‘What time was he here?’ Butchers said.

‘About two o’clock,’ Gant said.

‘How long was he here?’

‘About ten, fifteen minutes. Just filling out the certificate,’ Gant’s voice caught. Butchers nodded, a little uneasy at the man’s raw grief.

There was nothing about Dr Halliwell calling to his own home in his schedule for the Tuesday but maybe something like that wasn’t out of the ordinary. Dr Halliwell was in charge of the practice after all. If he fancied nipping home for a bite to eat or forty winks he’d not have to answer to anyone.

Butchers thanked Mr. Gant and back in his car he jotted down the new timeline.

1.30 pm, Chemist’s – collecting drugs for Marjorie Keysham

2.00 pm Roy Gant’s

2.20 Home

What if Halliwell was an addict? Maybe he popped home to use the drugs? The notion struck Butchers like a stroke of genius for all of ten seconds. It wouldn’t work, would it? They would have checked at the post mortem.

Lisa and Shap enquired at the Travel Inn reception for Neil Langan and the receptionist pointed them towards the lounge bar.

‘It could be a domestic after all,’ Lisa said. And if it was, if Neil Langan had killed Halliwell in a crime of passion, then Lisa would be off the hook for messing up the Matthews arrest.

Shap just rolled his eyes, like she was baying for the moon.

Neil Langan was slumped in a corner booth, eyes shut, empty glasses in front of him.

‘Neil Langan?’ Shap said.

Langan startled awake, eyes bleary. ‘What?’

‘DS Shap and DC Goodall.’ Shap made the introductions.

Neil Langan stretched his neck, as though he’d a crick in it. ‘I wondered how long you’d be,’ he said. ‘I thought she should know that’s all.’ He gave a shrug.

‘Back up a bit, sir,’ Lisa said. ‘You were outside the surgery where your wife works on Monday night?’

‘Yes,’ Neil Langan said, ‘I wanted to see with my own eyes. I’d rung the Monday before to ask Dawn something, but the surgery was closed.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘She wasn’t at a late-night clinic every Monday like she told me; she was shagging Don Halliwell.’ He leaned forward and lifted a glass, whisky, Lisa guessed, and drained it. ‘I waited this time,’ Langan went on, ‘and I followed them to the hotel. Then I got hammered and I rang Mrs Halliwell and I told her all about them. Then I sank a few more – pints and chasers.’ He waved the glass. ‘And I went round there in the middle of the night and I rammed his car. Bastard.’

No attempt to mislead them or deny any of it.

‘Where were you on Tuesday, afternoon and evening?’ Lisa said.

‘Here,’ Neil Langan said, ‘well, that table over there, I think.’ He flapped a hand. ‘Or that one.’

‘Can anyone confirm that?’ Shap said.

‘Ask the staff,’ Neil Langan said. ‘I’m their big spender, this week.’ He waved at the bartender who gave a small shake of the head and busied himself stocking up the bottles behind, clearly weary of Langan, Lisa thought. She walked over to him and asked how long Langan had been in residence.

‘Too long,’ the man said.

‘Do you know when he arrived?’

‘He was in here as soon as we opened on Tuesday morning,’ he said, ‘drowning his sorrows.’

‘Did he leave the premises any time on Tuesday?’

‘No. Still here when I clocked off at seven,’ the man said.