‘Mr. Davidge is here to represent you. You can have a consultation with him in private, then DCI Moran will interview you. If you’d like to follow me, please.’
‘Can you thank Mr. Davidge for his valuable time, but I won’t be needing him.’
Jane wondered what he was playing at. ‘But you’re entitled to legal representation.’
‘I didn’t ask for Mr. Davidge to come here. He took it upon himself to represent me. I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself and answering any questions you put to me.’
‘It might be better if you told Mr. Davidge yourself,’ Jane suggested.
He smiled. ‘No, I’m happy for you to tell him.’
For someone who’s just been arrested for murder, Jane thought his attitude was incredibly cocky. She left Simmonds locked in his cell and went to speak with Davidge in the interview room. She asked the uniform sergeant to accompany her and corroborate what Simmonds had told her.
‘He’s weird, right enough,’ the burly sergeant remarked.
Jane agreed. ‘I know. It’s hard to tell if he’s being serious or playing games.’
‘I’ve never known a murder suspect refuse to be represented or advised by a solicitor.’
Davidge was making some notes when Jane and the sergeant entered the interview room.
‘Mr. Davidge, I’m WDS Tennison. I’ve just spoken with your client, David Simmonds. He asked me to tell you he doesn’t want legal representation.’
Davidge looked surprised. ‘I’d like to hear him tell me that in person.’
‘The sergeant here was also present. He can confirm what Mr. Simmonds said.’
But Davidge didn’t give the sergeant a chance to speak.
‘I think you’re lying! If you think for one minute I’ll walk away and allow you to fabricate evidence and concoct a false confession from my client, you are mistaken.’
Jane stood her ground. ‘Believe me, Simmonds wouldn’t be here if we didn’t have evidence he was involved in the murders.’
‘I demand to see David now!’ Davidge shouted, moving closer to Jane.
The sergeant stepped in between them. ‘Right, that’s enough. You can leave the station of your own accord, sir, or I will forcibly remove you. It’s your choice.’
‘You haven’t heard the last of this, Sergeant Tennison. I can assure you, I will be making an official complaint.’ Davidge snatched up his briefcase and stormed out of the room.
Davidge’s outburst was unsettling, but Jane wasn’t worried as she had the duty sergeant to back her up. She went to Moran’s office to update him.
‘What? He seriously doesn’t want legal representation?’
‘No, sir. He also said he’d answer our questions,’ Jane added.
‘Maybe he’s had an epiphany moment.’ Moran looked pleased.
But Jane was uneasy. ‘Simmonds is up to something. Do you think we should get the police doctor to certify he’s fit for interview? Just to be on the safe side.’
‘No. He might start play-acting and fool the doctor. The last thing we want is to be forced to have a social worker sitting in on the interview because the doc says he’s not the full ticket. Let’s stick to the plan, do the cursory interview and see what Simmonds has got to say.’
Jane signed Simmonds out on his custody record for interview, then, assisted by the custody PC, took him to the secure interview room. She sat down opposite him and placed her case file folder, A4 interview book, pen, three sharpened pencils and an eraser neatly on the table in front of her. She watched as Simmonds examined his fingers. He had very large hands, and the nails were exceedingly well manicured.
He looked up sharply. ‘That fingerprint ink you used is very hard to clean off. As a Harley Street dentist, I must be aware of my personal hygiene. If I were a patient, I wouldn’t be able bear the thought of a dentist with halitosis or dirty hands examining me.’
At that moment, Moran entered holding a case file folder. Jane wondered if he had changed his mind and decided to do a more in-depth interview, referring to statements and photographs. Moran asked the PC to wait outside, then introduced himself to Simmonds, who stood up and put his hand out. Moran ignored it and told him to sit down. After this brusque beginning, Jane was surprised when Moran asked Simmonds if he’d like a tea, coffee or water.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Simmonds replied.
‘Can you do me a favor, Jane? I’ve gone and left my notebook on my desk. Do you mind nipping up and getting it?’
Simmonds raised his hand and smiled at Jane. ‘Actually, could I have a black coffee?’
As Jane left the room, she heard Simmonds ask Moran when he would be released. She began to wonder if Simmonds really didn’t understand the gravity of his situation and was slightly unhinged.
Moran waited for the door to close. ‘Let’s get one thing straight here and now, Simmonds: if you’ve any sense, you’ll tell me why you murdered those three women, and what part Aiden Lang played in it.’
Simmonds showed no emotion as he shook his head. ‘I only knew Helen Matthews through work and Sybil Hastings as a patient and friend, who I sometimes played golf with, along with her son. I have no idea who the other woman was. With regard to Aiden Lang, did you say? I have never met or had anything to do with anyone of that name.’
Moran stood up, then leant over and prodded Simmonds hard in the chest. ‘I’ve got the best crime scene examiner in The Met going over your Peckham surgery as we speak, as well as a team at Harley Street.’
Simmonds didn’t flinch as he looked Moran in the eye. ‘You can beat me till I’m black and blue if it makes you feel good, but I’m not going to confess to crimes I didn’t commit.’
Moran sat back down with a scowl. ‘People like you make me sick, Simmonds. You think your money and position make you untouchable. You think you’re above the law. The fact is, you’re the lowest of the low — a perverted, sick monster, with no remorse for your crimes or the misery you’ve brought to others. You don’t like the thought that a mere copper can see through your lies, do you?’
Simmonds shrugged. ‘You seem to have already concluded I’m guilty, DCI Moran, without presenting any evidence to support your accusations. I thought any admissions of guilt must be obtained freely and voluntarily — not under duress. Or do you prefer beating false confessions out of suspects?’
Moran stood up quickly, knocking his chair over in the process. He leant over the table with his hand raised, ready to slap Simmonds, who didn’t flinch. Moran was shaking with anger as he squeezed his hand into a fist to stop himself from striking him. Moran heard the door opening, picked his chair up and was sitting back down when Jane entered.
As she handed Moran the notebook, she could see he looked angry. Although Simmonds still seemed calm and relaxed, something had clearly happened whilst she was out of the room.
‘I need a break.’ Moran got up and opened the door. He gestured for the uniformed officer to step inside. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
Jane handed Simmonds his coffee. ‘Thank you.’ He smiled. There was an eerie silence as he sipped at it, his little finger elegantly raised, as if he was drinking from a bone china cup, rather than a polystyrene one.
‘It seems as if I might be here for some time, Jane. Do you think I could contact my receptionist at Harley Street and tell her to cancel my appointments?’
Part of her felt she should tell him to address her as Detective Sergeant, but she decided to let it go.
‘You’d have to ask DCI Moran. Seeing as you mentioned it, I didn’t find an appointment book or any patient records at your Peckham surgery.’
‘That’s because they’re in box files at my flat in Harley Street. I take the appointment book and patient records to and from Peckham on a Monday and Friday. I used to keep them there, but after a break-in a year ago, I decided not to. I did report it, but no one was arrested.’