She felt guilty about being so relieved to get an early night. Tomorrow would be the interrogation, then Murphy would be taken to the magistrates. There was, she knew, no possibility of bail. She calculated that a trial date would be set quite quickly, then it would be down to preparation for the trial. That would be the end of the case.
Anna was back at the station by eight-fifteen the next day; Murphy was to be brought up from the holding cell at nine for the interrogation. By nine-fifteen, she was sitting alone in the small observation room adjacent to the interview room. Murphy had still not been brought up, as they were waiting for his solicitor to finish talking to him. It was just after ten when they took up their seats and she saw Murphy for the first time.
Murphy, wearing a white paper suit, was sullen-faced. He had cropped hair, big flat ears and a large nose. His thin mouth was drawn downwards, almost clownishly, at the sides. His eyes were dark and blank, giving hardly any expression at all. He sat with his hands cupped in front of him, big gnarled hands with dirty fingernails. Anna felt disgusted by the look of him, by his insolence and by the lack of any kind of remorse when shown the photographs of his victim.
He leaned forwards and then rested back. ‘Yeah, that’s her.’
It was chilling to hear him explain how he had seen Irene Phelps on a number of occasions walking back towards her flat. He said, without any emotion, how on that particular day he had followed her to her door and simply pushed her inside. At one point, when Brandon was discussing the DNA results from his attack, he had shrugged.
‘You know, you people think rape is about sex. Of course, sex comes into it, but you know what it’s really about? Power.’ Murphy’s thin clown mouth drew down in a sickening smirk. ‘I had power over her. Sex is just an extension of that power. Afterwards, I was real hungry, so I made up a sandwich: tomatoes, lettuce, and there was some ham. It tasted good.’
Anna clenched her fists; it was so hard to believe what this man had done and, moreover, how he could sit there talking about making a ham sandwich with the blood of his victim still on his hideous hands.
‘I can’t help it.’ He gestured wide, then continued. ‘I got this determination, you see, deep down inside me, and it’s really deepset, you know what I mean? And my problem has always been that I have to satisfy that anger. What did you say her name was?’
Brandon’s face was taut. ‘Irene Phelps.’
‘Right, Irene; well, she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I suppose it was lucky her daughter wasn’t home, because I’d thought about doing her.’
Anna walked out of the room. She couldn’t stand to watch another second’s gloating from that sickening man, who’d murdered a decent young woman and probably traumatized her twelve-year-old daughter for the rest of her life. Murphy’s psychiatric reports from the time he had been in prison evaluated him as being very dangerous; the fact that he was released made it chilling to even contemplate the total ineptness of the probation departments. It exposed the terrifying weaknesses at the heart of the criminal justice system.
Anna returned to her desk as Harry Blunt passed with two mugs of coffee; he placed one down for her.
‘Thank you,’ she said, rather surprised.
‘Good work — that photograph was a piece of luck. That animal could have hung out for weeks, maybe months; the filth he was living with, they could have started to kill together.’
Anna sipped her coffee. Harry seemed loath to move away. ‘I’ve got a daughter the same age as Irene Phelps’s little girl,’ he told her.
‘Did her father come and see her?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, she’s going to be living with him. Won’t be easy; he’s got two kids with another wife and, at her age, moving schools, new environment… Poor little soul.’ He slurped his coffee and then sighed. ‘You know, there are no excuses over this bastard. Everything that could go wrong did go wrong, and what makes me puke is that no one is going to take the blame, and they should. His effing so-called probation officers should be sacked. Whoever gave that son of a bitch a low-risk category should be fired; better still, be made to look at the dead woman’s corpse — ask them then if they still think he’s a low risk. Do you know how many murders last year were committed by low-risk bastards freed on parole?’
‘Not right off, no, I don’t.’
Harry leaned forwards. ‘Nearly fifty. I dunno how they think we can do our job; we no sooner get them to trial and banged up than they let them loose again! Bloody frustrating. I tell you what, if that creature in there had killed my daughter, then I’d strangle him. Why not? Gimme twelve years — good behaviour, I’d be out in seven, probably less. I’m not kidding. The Home Secretary said there was a crisis — a fucking crisis? I’d say it’s a lot more than that. My mate’s a prison officer, and he says his pals have been warning the Prison Officers Association: there’s overcrowded wings, riots and hostage taking — something he’s gotta face every week, and you know what? The Home Office pays forces nearly four hundred quid for each prisoner, that’s if you count it up; a bill to the tax payers of over ten bleedin’ million, and are they building new prisons? Are they hell as like. That’s how fucking pricks like Murphy get out early. And now you know they are giving inmates friggin’ keys to their cells, so they gain respect? Jesus Christ, I dunno what the world is coming to.’
He drained his coffee and stood up. ‘Sorry,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘Just needed to get it off my chest.’
‘Do you ever talk about your work with your wife?’
‘No, I try to close down when I walk out of here, but on this, with my daughter being the same age… I kept on looking at her, then looking at my wife and thinking, what if it had happened here, in my house? My home invaded by that madman, and one that should never have been let out on the streets? Well, look at poor old Jimmy.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Langton. Fucking illegal immigrant got him and nearly killed him, and from what I’ve heard, he’d have been better off.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Well, he’s not going to walk again, is he?’
Anna flushed. ‘Yes, of course he is. I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but he’s making a remarkable recovery.’
‘Just a bloke I knew who was at the rehabilitation home, released a few days ago; he told me. May have got it wrong, sorry.’
‘Yes, you have got it wrong, Harry.’
‘Well, I’ve said I’m sorry, love. I know you and he are — what exactly? Living together?’
Anna stood up, packing her files. ‘I hope you will put your friend right. James is really hoping to get back to work soon.’
‘Oh well, good on him.’ Harry moved away, leaving her feeling tense and angry, but thankfully no longer thinking about Arthur George Murphy. She would not allow him to invade her life. Langton already had.
She felt so protective towards Jimmy and, moreover, so upset that rumours were spreading that he would never walk again.
Chapter Three
As soon as Anna had been released from duty, she called the rehabilitation home to see if she could speak to Langton to confirm that she would, unlike the previous night, be there to see him.