Hilary Bonner - When the Dead Cry Out

“I’ve been puzzling about you all day. Finally I’ve got it. Karen Meadows. How could I ever have forgotten? Little Karen Meadows from next door. The lovely Margaret’s daughter.”

The grin became a leer. His voice took on a husky note.

“And what a woman that Margaret Meadows was.”

His eyes were fixed on Karen’s. They were both mocking and challenging.

DC Tompkins, who was already in the interview room, was also staring at Karen. Involuntarily she glanced towards him. But as usual Tompkins’ expression gave little away. Karen turned her attention back to Marshall. She could see that he remembered every bit as clearly as she did the fateful day on which he had been upstairs with her mother when Karen had unexpectedly returned home early from school. She was also sure that he would have realized that she knew, had known for all these years, that he and her mother had had some kind of an affair. And he probably also realized that she had told nobody.

It was bad enough for Karen that she was now heading the Marshall investigation while aware that she had kept quiet about the affair for nearly thirty years. It was even worse to be aware that Marshall knew that, too. She had always told herself that nothing that had gone on between him and her mother could be relevant, but she actually knew from long experience that it may well have been, because you never could tell when you were investigating a crime. Sometimes the most inconsequential piece of information later proved to be crucial.

He appreciated all of that, the bastard. She was quite certain. Richard Marshall was a very perceptive and intuitive man — which was perhaps one of the reasons why he had gotten away with all that he had over the years.

“Oh yes, oh yes, what a woman!” Marshall repeated, still challenging Karen with his eyes.

Karen had a quick temper which had caused her trouble more than once in her career. She felt the rage rising in her and struggled to contain it. It was quite a struggle, too. Only the knowledge that it was Marshall’s intention to make her lose her temper stopped her from doing so.

She did not, however, feel able to sit down and interview him again. In any case she reckoned it would be a waste of time for her to do so now. Unfortunately, Marshall had already won this session on points, and the best thing for her to do was walk away from it, she reckoned. But not without issuing a broadside or two.

She turned to DC Tompkins, still sitting patiently waiting for her, a typical police detective in his nondescript brown suit, his long, thin, slightly morose face as taciturn as ever. Yet she knew all too well that he would have taken in everything that Marshall had said.

“I suddenly have some other business to attend to so I’m sending someone else in to join you,” she told him obliquely and then continued with a blatant lie. “Actually, we have received some more new information that I need to deal with right away.”

She swung round to face Marshall again.

“You can play all the games you like, sunshine,” she said, and there was low menace in her voice. “It doesn’t much matter what you tell us. I doubt you’d know the truth if it hit you full on. But we don’t need you to say a damned thing anymore. We’ve got enough on you to keep you locked up for the rest of your life. You can mock, you can laugh, you can kid yourself you’re the cleverest bastard that ever walked the earth. All that’s academic now. This time you’re going to be charged. What I’m doing now is tying up every loose end there is because I’m not having you slip the net this time.”

“You’re going down, Marshall. Make no mistake about it. Finally your luck has run out.”

She was aware of DC Tompkins looking at her in mild surprise and it was rare indeed for the veteran detective to visibly display a response to anything. But she just hadn’t been able to resist making her little speech. Without waiting for a reply she turned on her heel in order to leave the little room.

But as she opened the door she paused and glanced back over her shoulder.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” she enquired, almost mildly, of Marshall. “Don’t even think you’re getting bail. This is it. I intend to make absolutely sure that you never step foot outside a prison again. It’s over, Marshall. It’s really over.”

And for the second time that day she was sure that she could see fear in his eyes.

She found she was still trembling with suppressed rage when she returned to her office. It had been extremely gratifying to wipe the smirk off Maxwell’s face, but she was well aware that it had been self-indulgent, too. Once again she had probably not behaved in the way a police superintendent probably should have done. She just hadn’t been able to help it.

Worse though, most of what she had told the man was unmitigated bullshit. Yes, it was her intention that everything she had said would come to be the truth. But although she thought the case against Marshall was now a strong one, it was a long way from copper-bottomed. She was not even one hundred percent certain that she would be able to charge him. At least not yet. First of all she had to convince the Crown Prosecution Service and the chief constable. And the very thought of confronting Harry Tomlinson, not her favourite top cop by a long chalk, made Karen feel extremely weary.

She reached for the bottle of mineral water on her desk. It was warm and flat. She pulled a face. It was, however, liquid, which at that moment provided relief enough. Her mouth and throat were so dry they felt as if they had been sandpapered. Tension was responsible for that as much as the muggy heat of the day, she suspected.

She checked her watch. It was almost 11 P. M. She was exhausted. And still hungry in spite of the chocolate. She reckoned she might as well go home and try to start really early the following morning. There was, in any case, little more that she could do. Tomlinson could wait until the next day. He was probably off at one of his myriad politically motivated dinners, and in any event there was just a chance that, between them, the team might have worn Marshall down a bit by the following day. Not much of one though, if the bastard ran true to form, she reflected grimly. But as she prepared to leave the station she called through to the incident room and gave instructions for the pressure to be kept up on Marshall throughout the night.

“I want Marshall given absolutely the minimum rest,” she ordered. “I want a team available to interview him continuously, every minute that we’re allowed. Tell them to push. Really push. Our best hope is still to break the bastard. But also tell them to be sure to keep within the rules. Stick to the book. I don’t want him getting off on some blasted technicality, that really would be the end.”

“And it would be just our luck and Richard Marshall’s.”

She leaned back in her chair and considered any other last-minute things she had to do before leaving. Oh God , she thought, Phil . The detective sergeant had also had a long day and had been trying to call her all evening to relate it in full.

He had already told her briefly about Jennifer Roth, but she had not had time to listen to the full account of his Dorset investigations.

Swiftly she dialled the number of his mobile phone.

“I’m in heavy traffic, I’d better not talk,” he said. “I might get arrested.”

Karen didn’t even manage a giggle.

“Where are you?” she enquired.

“On the Newton Abbot road, nearly back, but I think there may have been an accident or something.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Sandwiches.”

“Fancy telling me all about it over a pint and a curry?”

“I do.”