I was eventually
asked to give the police my witness statement regarding the death of the child,
and to my surprise I was also interviewed about the subsequent killings of
Skinner and Short.
Seamus O’Malley
was being held as the prime suspect for the killings, and my testimony, along
with that of other members of the band, was expected to convict him of the
crime. I’d expected to be interviewed in a stark interview room, similar to the
ones I’d seen on television programmes, but on my arrival at the police
station, a constable guided me to a comfortable office room.
Detective
Inspector Trimble was leading the investigation; he’d lost most of his hair,
except for a ring of predominantly silver hair which travelled around the back
of his neck, before curling over his collar for want of a recent trim. The inspector
had grown a moustache to compensate for his follicle deficiency, and with a
genial face he looked like the stereotypical image of a favourite grandfather.
A gold half hunter pocket watch, on a rose-gold chain, adorning a three piece
suit, and his shoes were highly polished as if he’d once been in the army.
Trimble sat on a
green leather swivel chair behind a large mahogany desk, where he consulted his
pocket watch frequently, as if he were late for a more important meeting. Due
to its many years of faithful service, not only to Trimble, but to the
generations that came before him, the old desk had seen better days, and the
once vibrant green leather top with gold tooling, had faded to a greenish grey,
never more to return to its former glory.
Framed and
displayed on a blue velvet background, a collection of police badges caught the eye; while around the walls hung
photographs of police football teams, and the inspector shaking hands with
local dignitaries.
On an inferior
chair, probably one of a set of dining chairs, sat another plain clothes
officer, while a female stenographer, in police uniform, occupied an identical
chair with her back against the wall, her reading glasses perched on the tip of
her nose, and a writing pad lying expectantly in her lap.
“Please sit
down,” invited the inspector.
Trimble may have
had a genial face, but his colleague, who appeared to be Savage by name and
savage by nature, instigated the interview. His hair was dark and slicked back
using Brylcreem, while a flat moonlike face, coupled with a small pointed nose
and horned rimmed spectacles, gave the impression of an owl waiting expectantly
to pounce.
“Detective
Inspector Trimble, and Detective Sergeant Savage in interview with; state your
name please,” said Savage.
“Raymond Evans,”
I answered, much too loudly due to my nervousness, and I instantly felt
embarrassed at my over-exuberant response.
Not even my
mother called me Raymond unless I was in some kind of trouble, but under the
circumstances Ray would have seemed a little informal.
“How long have
you known Seamus O’Malley?” Savage questioned me.
“I only met him last Saturday for the very first
time. We were involved in a minor road traffic accident and Seamus was a
pedestrian who was injured slightly.”
“Did the accident
occur on the street where O’Malley lives?” asked Savage with a puzzled
expression. It appeared to be his introduction to the concept of a road traffic
accident, and he momentarily floundered while attempting to ask the right
questions.
“No, the accident
happened on the Shadcroft estate, not far from the Manxman public house.”
Savage appeared
to be even more confused by my explanation. “Then can you explain how you came
to witness the discovery of a child’s body almost a mile away from the
Shadcroft estate, and on the street where O’Malley lives?”
“After the
accident we gave Seamus a lift home and he invited us into his house for a
bottled beer.”
“Why on earth
would a pedestrian, who you’d never before met, invite you to his house for a
beer?” He leant forward aggressively as he spoke, and invaded my space as if he
didn’t believe a single word of my explanation.
I moved my chair
backwards, not because Savage intimidated me, although I have to admit he did,
but to avoid the obnoxious smell of his foul breath.
“I personally
had never met him before, but he works on the same building site as Freddie.”
“Who on earth is
Freddie?” asked Savage, as he shuffled the papers in front of him to discover
the answer to his own question.
“Frederick
Cope,” interjected the inspector. He’d been studying the case notes avidly, and
never once had he raised his eyes from the type written pages laid out before
him.
“What was Seamus
O’Malley’s state of mind when he was told that the child might be dead?” asked
Savage, but before I could answer his question, he added. “Was he angry?”
“He appeared to
be angry, he suggested we break into the squat and discover the truth.”
“Were you angry?” snapped Savage, leaning
forward once again and giving me another whiff of his halitosis problems.
“Why should I be
angry? I puzzled. “I didn’t even know the druggies existed until we went to
authenticate Mrs O’Malley’s story.”
“I suggest that you became angry, on seeing
the body of the child, Mr Evan’s, and that along with Seamus O’Malley, and others, you plotted to kill Thomas Skinner and Teresa Short.”
“Now wait a minute,” I yelled. “If I’m a
suspect, instead of the witness I was led to believe, then this interview is
over until I have a lawyer present.”
I didn’t know
anything about lawyers, or whether I was entitled to have one represent me, but
I’d seen criminals on television react in much the same manner, when the hot
seat appeared to be getting a little too hot, and it always appeared to halt
the proceedings.
Detective Inspector
Trimble held up his hand as a signal for Savage to cease his interrogation.
“You’re not a
suspect, at this stage, Mr. Evans,” said Trimble, trying to defuse the tension
between myself and his subordinate officer. “If you’re in need of a lawyer, at
any time during the interview, I’ll gladly inform you. Now can we continue
please?”
I reluctantly
nodded my approval and Trimble took over the questioning.
“How did
O’Malley appear when he discovered the child’s body? Was he upset? Did he
become angry? Did he shout or threaten?”
“He was stunned
like the rest of us, and upset,” I answered, selecting one of the options made
available to me. “We all were. Seamus collapsed on the floor and began to cry.
I never saw such a tough looking guy break down in tears like that.”
“Did he threaten
the lives of Skinner and Short?”
“We never saw
Skinner and Short, but he said if he ever set eyes on them they were as good as
dead.”
“He threatened
to kill them?” prompted the inspector, and the stenographer wrote frantically in
shorthand on her writing pad.
I could have
bitten my tongue for my indiscretion, and instantly tried to make amends.
“People say
those things all the time, they don’t mean them literally. My mother threatens
to kill me three or four times a week.”
Trimble smiled
in recognition. “In your opinion, is Mr O’Malley capable of murder?”
“I’ve only met him once, so I’m not qualified
to comment.”
Trimble lit a
cigarette and offered one to me.
“No thanks I don’t smoke.”
“Have you never
smoked Mr. Evans?”
“I tried them while at school, but they made me feel dizzy and sick so I
never took them up.”
“What about
Seamus O’Malley, does he smoke?”
“He never smoked
in my presence,” I answered truthfully.
“Thank you, Mr.
Evans. The sergeant will show you out.
“Cope and
Cheshire are both smokers by their own admission; so is Bloomfield,” Trimble
told Savage after he’d shown me to the door, “which makes them prime suspects,
but that doesn’t rule out any of the others. If the killer was a non smoker,
and smoked just to imitate the child’s injuries, he would have felt pretty sick
afterwards, there were a lot of burns on the bodies so he must have smoked at
least twenty cigarettes. Unless he vomited in the canal, there is
nothing at the scene to suggest that he was sick. This may indicate that the
killer was a regular smoker, but if he wasn’t I’d like to know about it. Did you get
photographs taken of our suspects as I asked?”
“Yes sir, they
were told it was routine when they arrived at the station.”
“And did they
buy it?”
“They did sir.”
“Good. Show
their pictures to the local shopkeepers and see if any of our non-smokers
bought cigarettes around the time of the murders.”
“Over what time
scale,” asked Savage. “Do we know when the deaths actually occurred?”
“The bodies were
in the second stages of decomposition,” Trimble mused, “my guess would be
within a timescale of a matter of hours of vacating the squat, until about
seventy-two hours ago. We won’t know anymore until we receive the autopsy
report.”
As the killer
had bought his cigarettes from a dispenser in The Manxman public house, Savage’s enquires revealed
absolutely nothing.
Seamus O’Malley
remained the primary suspect, despite having been released without charge due
to a lack of evidence. The vigilante, whoever he might be, hadn’t left a single clue as to his identity.