Martin took some medical pliers out of his bag and inserted the end in Simmonds’ left ear, which was covered in congealed blood. He slowly pulled out a six-inch pencil with blood and brain matter stuck to it. Gibbs and Moran looked at each other in shock. Jane recognized it as one of her pencils, and realized with horror that when he asked to be returned to his cell, Simmonds must have slipped it into his pocket with the intention of using it to kill himself.
Martin placed the pencil in an exhibits bag. ‘I’d say he put the pencil a little way in his ear, then lay sideways on the floor so it was touching the ground. Once in this position he placed his right hand on his head and rammed it towards the ground, causing the pencil to penetrate the brain. He would have died slowly through blood loss and brain hemorrhaging. “Slowly” — in this case being a matter of minutes rather than seconds.’
Davidge looked stunned. ‘Why wasn’t my client searched before being put in the cell?’
‘I can assure you he was searched, and all his pockets emptied. He must have hidden the pencil somewhere in the cell,’ the duty sergeant replied.
‘I guess this is a case where the pen, or rather pencil, is mightier than the sword,’ Gibbs quipped, to nervous laughter.
Davidge was white as a sheet.
‘Spence, Jane — my office,’ Moran ordered.
‘I’d like to see Sergeant Tennison’s statement,’ Davidge insisted.
Moran sighed. ‘No need to be so impatient, Mr. Davidge. I’ve not even read it yet.’
‘I’m entitled to a copy on my client’s behalf.’
‘Simmonds is hardly a client anymore, and as you can see, he isn’t going anywhere. I’ll get a copy of the statement to your office tomorrow morning.’
Davidge walked off without another word.
Gibbs watched him go. ‘He’ll soon lose interest. A dead man isn’t going to stand trial, let alone pay him, so there’s nothing in it for him.’
As Moran, Gibbs and Martin walked down the corridor, Jane stayed behind to have a quick word with Lawrence.
‘The pencil was mine, Paul. Simmonds must have taken it when we were in the interview room.’
‘Well, if I were you, I’d say nothing. He’s committed suicide and that’s that. If he didn’t have the pencil he’d have found another way.’
‘But I might have pushed him to suicide.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Lawrence chided.
‘I’m not. I brought up the army thing and the young cook he slept with. I also asked if he was in a sexual relationship with Aiden Lang. It seemed to affect him. Then when I said his mother would be disgusted with him, he broke down.’ Jane couldn’t bring herself to tell Lawrence exactly what she had said to Simmonds about his jealousy towards his brother and his mother hiding the fact he was a homosexual.
‘I hope you haven’t put any of that in your statement, Jane. The army stuff is hearsay. There’s no record of it, so A10 could say you lied to a suspect in an effort to extract a confession.’
‘I haven’t put it in. And thanks for chasing up the indented writing.’
‘No problem. Pity there was... nothing of interest,’ Lawrence said hesitantly.
Jane tilted her head to one side. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me something, Paul?’
‘It doesn’t matter now. Simmonds is dead.’
‘It does matter to me, Paul. Did the indented writing reveal something?’
Lawrence checked to make sure no one could overhear them. ‘The document section still hadn’t had a chance to examine it so I took a look myself. It was hard to make out, because Sybil Hastings had written a few notes across the page, not down as you’d normally expect.’
‘What was on it?’ Jane asked apprehensively.
Paul took a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Jane.
‘Eileen Summers teacher... Dentist Peckham...?’
‘Lang and the women were already dead before you got the Samaritans forms, Jane.’ Paul put his hand on Jane’s shoulder. ‘I only spotted some of the indented writing was across the page through experience. As the forensics officer in the case, I should have taken the time to examine it before submitting it to the document section.’
‘Will you have to mention the indented writing in your forensic report?’
‘I don’t want either of us getting hauled over the coals about something that’s of no evidential value now. I’m going to say I couldn’t find any identifiable handwriting or indentations that could be attributed to Sybil Hastings. Let sleeping dogs lie, learn from mistakes and move on.’
The duty sergeant walked down the cell passageway towards them.
‘I’ve had a word with the custody PC. Apparently Simmonds asked if he could have some plain paper and a pen so he could start writing his confession. The PC gave him a few sheets of A4 paper and a pen. I asked him if it could have been a pencil and he said it might have been. Anyway, that clears the matter up and should satisfy A10 since prisoners are allowed writing material.’
‘Thanks, Sarge.’ Lawrence turned to Jane. ‘We didn’t find any confession, did we?’ He lifted up the plastic mattress in Simmonds’ cell, revealing a folded sheet of paper. He handed it to Jane. ‘Take it to Moran and let him decide what to do with it.’
Jane went to Moran’s office and gave him the sheet of paper. Gibbs stood beside Moran, reading over his shoulder.
I, David Simmonds, am totally innocent of the murders I am accused of. Detectives Tennison and Moran have ignored all evidence that points to the real killer being a man called Aiden Lang, whom I knew as Benjamin ‘Ben’ Smith. I gave him a Harris tweed jacket and he repaid my kindness by stealing items of property from my premises (dental chisel, curtain tie backs) and used them in the commission of his crimes. Because of Tennison and Moran’s desire to arrest a suspect AT ALL COSTS, my reputation and career have been destroyed. They have made me an outcast in a world where I was respected for my achievements and honoured for my charitable work. I find myself in a position where I have no choice other than to end my life. The police have driven me to suicide through their biased and ruthless quest to frame me.
Signed: David Simmonds
Moran looked furious. ‘There’ll be a coroner’s inquest into Simmonds’ death. If these notes are part of it, the press will have a field day saying we got the wrong man for the “Murder Mile” killings. I’m not having Simmonds laugh at us from his grave.’
He tore the page in half and then quarters, before throwing the pieces into a confidential waste bag.
‘Anyone have a problem with this?’ Moran asked.
‘Not at all,’ Gibbs replied.
They both looked at Jane.
‘No, sir. As you said, it’s all lies.’
‘What are you going to tell DCS Blake?’ Gibbs asked.
‘That Simmonds made a full confession to WDS Tennison, then committed suicide because he couldn’t live with what he’d done.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Jane said.
‘Be wary of Blake, Jane. He doesn’t like what you know about his involvement with Simmonds and Andrew Hastings. He won’t say anything to your face, but behind the scenes he will try and persuade other people that you’re not up to the job. So watch your back.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate the warning.’
‘We may still get a slap on the wrist and some words of advice from A10,’ Moran said.
Jane shrugged. ‘I’ve been in the firing line with A10 before. But I was naive back then. I can justify my actions from start to finish where the investigation against Simmonds is concerned — even the fact I mistook his mother’s bedroom for the toilet, I reckon.’
Moran laughed. ‘I was wrong about you, Tennison. You’re much wiser than your years in the job would suggest. You’re turning into an excellent detective and earning the respect of your colleagues. Next time you have a hunch or gut feeling, speak up. I for one will listen. Go and finish your statement then bring it to me to read. Make a copy as well so I can show A10 that your interview skills led to Simmonds’ confession.’