Hilary Bonner: When the Dead Cry Out

“What was what like?”

“Killing your own children, of course.”

Again Marshall didn’t miss a beat. He continued to sound calm and to speak in a manner of overly deliberate patience, even though such an horrific scenario had been put to him.

“I didn’t kill my children. My wife returned and took them away with her. Find my wife and you will find Lorraine and Janine.”

Talbot took a deep breath and persisted. He could think of no better plan. He walked across to Richard Marshall and leaned over so that his mouth was close to the other man’s ear. When he spoke again his voice was little more than a whisper.

“How did you kill them, Richard?”

There was no reply.

“Did you strangle them? Did you suffocate them with a pillow? Which one did you murder first? What did you see in their little faces? Were they afraid? Did one of them see you kill the other? Perhaps you hit them over the head with something? Perhaps you used a knife on them? Was there blood? Did you watch your daughters’ lifeblood pour out of them? What did you do with their little bodies? I think you wrapped them up and took them out in your boat and dumped them, along with their mother, probably. That’s what I think. Why don’t you tell me, Richard, why don’t you tell me how you murdered your own daughters?”

Talbot fired the questions one after the other. Rat-a-tat-tat. Like bullets from a gun. His voice grew louder as he proceeded. He became aware of Malone and Parkin, who were also present yet again, fidgeting with discomfort. He didn’t care. He was going for broke.

But Richard Marshall did not flinch. Neither did he speak. He remained absolutely still, staring stonily ahead, his eyes more blank than ever.

“Suspect refuses to answer,” barked Talbot at the tape recorder, as he sat down once again opposite Marshall and drew in a big intake of breath.

“Right,” he said, speaking very quietly again. “Let’s change direction a bit here and look at the facts. We have removed a large amount of clothing from your house which belonged to your wife and children. Indeed very little of their clothing, if any, seemed to have been taken. Your wife also left some valuable jewelry behind. How do you explain that?”

“Clara left with one suitcase. I have no idea what she took or what she left behind. She took all she wanted, I suppose. Presumably she didn’t want her jewelry. I had given her almost all of it and that could have been the reason she didn’t want it. When she came back for the children she did take another couple of bags of things with her. More than likely they’d already grown out of most of the stuff that she left.”

The man was perfectly controlled. Talbot’s earlier aggressive line of questioning did not seem to have rattled him at all.

“Extremely plausible, Mr. Marshall,” said the DCI.

Marshall raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair, still appearing to be quite composed. “The truth very often is, Detective Chief Inspector,” he replied laconically. “Very often indeed.”

Nobody in Torquay Police Station noticed, but the rain was pouring down outside throughout Bill Talbot’s second long interview session with Richard Marshall. John Kelly and photographer Micky Lomas, standing morosely on the pavement, were getting a good soaking. It really was a filthy day for the time of year, and their vigil had already been a long one.

Apart from hurried calls of nature, taken in turn, usually combined with dashes to the sandwich shop up the road, they had left the station for only a few hours, in order to grab some much-needed sleep, since taking up their position there the previous day.

Kelly checked his watch, wiping the raindrops off the face in order to do so. It was just past 9.30 P. M. Other journalists had come and gone during the course of the day, but none were there now. After all, they had no idea when, or even if, Marshall would step outside the station again. Nor did they even know for certain that Marshall was still inside.

There were all sorts of other lines of enquiry the various news teams on the case could convince their desks that they should be on, lines of enquiry which did not necessarily involve getting soaked to the skin. Kelly glanced at the sky. The weather was so dreadful that day had turned into dark night rather early for the time of year. All he could see was blackness, certainly no sign of any stars or a moon, which indicated that the leaden cloud which had hung over Torquay since before dawn that morning was still solid above. Certainly the rain, which had subsided into light drizzle for a couple of hours around lunchtime and cleared totally for just an hour or so in the early afternoon, now seemed heavier than ever.

But the young Kelly was already showing signs of the tenacity which would later lead him to the top of his profession in Fleet Street. He was determined to stand his ground. If Marshall was charged neither he nor anyone else would get anything other than a brief official statement from the police. But if he was not charged, then Kelly was determined to give himself every opportunity of being the first journalist to confront him. Already John Kelly did not give up easily. Not on any story as big as this one, and certainly not on this one. Not with his mother to contend with at home, he didn’t.

Kelly’s dossier on Marshall was burning a hole in his notebook. Kelly was a local boy and he had homed in on the gossip right at the beginning, spurred on of course by the peripheral involvement of his mother, as head teacher of the Marshall girls’ primary school. Angela Kelly had known the two little girls well and had been extremely fond of them. She had known Clara Marshall too, and Richard, although a little less well, before all the fuss began. She was that sort of teacher. She made it her business to know about the children in her care and their families. Kelly’s mother had been involved from the start. And Kelly’s mother had taken the Marshall business very very personally. Which was why it was so personal to Kelly, too.

Kelly hunched his inadequate raincoat, a shower-proof job which had been leaking all day, around his shoulders and looked down at his watch again. If Marshall was inside, which he was somehow quite certain he was — he was sure the man hadn’t been released yet and he didn’t think the police would have taken him anywhere else — and if there was not enough evidence to charge him, which Kelly’s police contacts had already indicated to him was likely, they would not be able to keep him much longer.

Kelly was aware of Micky Lomas shuffling his feet disconsolately next to him. He knew he was more or less blackmailing the photographer into staying, because Micky didn’t dare leave as long as Kelly was prepared to keep up the vigil, in case Kelly got words and he had to confess to no picture. Micky had not uttered a word of dissent, but left Kelly in no doubt that he was extremely fed up.

The reporter deliberately did not look at Micky. Maybe another smoke would put the snapper in a better mood. Kelly slipped a hand inside his coat pocket and fished out his cigarettes. The packet was sodden. He opened it carefully and passed it to Micky who took out a cigarette which promptly disintegrated in his fingers. The cigarettes were sodden, too. Micky impatiently tossed the one in his hand onto the ground and stood on it rather aggressively.

“Sorry,” muttered Kelly.

Micky just grunted, and from inside his state-of-the-art, thoroughly waterproof jacket, complete with hood, withdrew a dry packet of cigarettes which he threw at Kelly who, to his relief, caught it smartly while wondering what Micky’s reaction would have been had he dropped the cigarettes onto the wet pavement. Well, Micky might feel hard done by, but at least he was wearing proper heavy-weather gear, Kelly reflected as he lit up. Photographers always did and reporters never did. Kelly had no idea why, and made a mental note to pay Millets a visit as soon as his next paycheck came through. He glanced sideways. Micky was also wearing waterproof trousers and thick-soled boots. Kelly’s own feet were clad in inadequate city shoes as ever, and from about the knees down, the trousers of his green suit, of which he had been so proud only the day before, were wet through.