Neither of them said a word, faces set, eyes gazing into the distance. But their mother, clad only in a sheer nightdress, was filling the silence. And then some. ‘You need a warrant,’ she said. ‘You can’t just come in here like the SAS, like a fucking militia and take people away.’
‘Mrs Perry,’ said Janet, ‘DC Janet Scott.’ She showed her warrant card. ‘I am here to arrest Noel and Neil Perry and I have a warrant to search the property.’
‘Looking for what?’ Noreen Perry said. She had thin, greasy brown hair. She was overweight and her complexion was pale, doughy.
‘As you’ll see from the warrant,’ Janet said, ‘we are pursuing evidence connected to the murder of Richard Kavanagh at the Old Chapel on Wednesday.’
‘Murder?’ Mrs Perry said. ‘You’re off your fucking trolley.’
‘Any objects removed will be itemized and listed,’ Janet said.
‘You’re wasting your time,’ Mrs Perry said, ‘they’ve done nothing wrong. This is harassment.’
‘If you wish to make a complaint, please do feel free.’ Janet was tired of the woman’s knee-jerk loyalty, the blanket defence, the rabid hostility.
Neither of the twins spoke at all.
‘Get them some disposable suits to wear and take them down,’ Janet told the officers escorting the suspects.
Once they had left, Mrs Perry shook her head, a bitter expression on her face, then eased herself into an armchair.
‘Perhaps you could tell me where Noel and Neil were on Wednesday evening?’ Janet said.
‘Perhaps you could fuck off.’
‘Hey,’ Rachel said, ‘watch the language.’
Janet nearly laughed, Rachel swore like a trooper.
‘You can’t say where they were?’ Janet said.
‘Here.’
‘All evening?’
‘Yes.’
Rachel gave Janet a knowing look.
‘They never went out?’ Janet said.
‘They were here all night,’ said Noreen Perry.
‘You do any washing since?’ Rachel said.
‘Machine’s broken,’ Noreen Perry said.
‘We’ll check that,’ Rachel said.
‘Launderette then?’ This from Janet.
Noreen Perry shook her head. ‘We’re going to execute the search warrant now,’ Janet said.
Assisted by four other officers, the search was thorough. Janet and Rachel began in the bedroom that the twins shared. The space was dominated by a large flat-screen TV and games console in front of the window, the floor a tangle of wires and controllers. The lighting was dim, the curtains closed. Janet drew them back to let in some natural light. Cobwebs and dead flies littered the window sill.
Six floors up and the view was extensive, out over the estate. Janet could see the ruins of the Old Chapel down below, the canal a glinting line between the buildings, the traffic streaming along Shuttling Way, the roundabout, the parade of shops, the roofs of the houses. Another damp day, the sky bruised and mottled.
Twin beds, each with a headboard and side table, were positioned to face the TV. High-energy snacks and power drinks littered the tables, and there was a mobile phone on each. A laptop lay on one bed. A set of dumbbells sat in the corner. The walls were decorated with posters, a naked woman draped over a Sherman tank, a bulldog wrapped in a Union Jack. A large St George’s Cross flag had been pinned up, and close by hung a pair of ceremonial swords in fancy sheaths. Janet shuddered to think of the twins wielding them.
Wearing latex gloves, to prevent contaminating any evidence they might find, they went through the bedding first, checking under the mattresses and inside the pillowcases. In the side-table drawers were condoms, knuckledusters, batteries, and lots of plastic baggies containing drugs: cannabis, white powder that was probably cocaine, yellow pills with a stamp of a palm tree on and some coloured capsules in plastic containers. Janet showed the capsules to Rachel.
‘Steroids, be my bet,’ Rachel said.
On a folding canvas chair, Janet found the hoodies and held them up.
‘That’s them,’ Rachel said, ‘Class of 88.’
They took pictures of the items they were seizing, in situ, and then secured them separately in evidence bags, clearly labelled. The laptop was taken, along with the phones. As well as the discarded clothes from the chair they removed shoes and trainers from the room and garments from the laundry basket in the bathroom.
The search team continued to look in all the usual places for the weapon or ammunition: the airing cupboard, cistern in the bathroom, under the bath panel, in the freezer, bread bin, cupboards, fridge and microwave, behind pictures, inside lampshades and cushions, up chimneys, under drawers, behind radiators. They examined the pots on the balcony outside.
They found no handgun, no bullets and no stash of petrol.
On the dot of ten, Gill got a call from Trevor Hyatt, the fire investigator. ‘Morning,’ she said, ‘we’ve got the Perry brothers in the cells, awaiting solicitors, will let you know soon as-’
‘I wasn’t ringing about that,’ he said. ‘We’ve had another fire. The big warehouse on Shuttling Way. Been burning all night. Tenders are still there, getting it under control but we’ll not be able to go in for some time. Several floors, very hazardous environment.’
‘Is it arson?’
‘Extremely likely. Once we do get in, we should be able to check the seat of the fire and establish whether accelerants played a part,’ he said.
‘And if they match,’ she followed his train of thought, ‘could be the same person or persons?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘geographically close, about a quarter of a mile apart, both buildings disused. Looks like a pattern.’
‘OK, keep me posted. The questioning of our suspects will be confined to the murder and the Old Chapel fire at this stage. Can’t go fishing.’
‘Understood,’ Hyatt said.
‘Janet, you take Noel, Rachel – Neil,’ Gill said. ‘Solicitors have arrived. Gunshot residue tests on the suspects’ hands came back negative.’
That was disappointing but not unexpected, thought Janet. Three days since the murder and the residue was easily washed away.
Once in the interview room, Janet had done the preamble, explained to Noel why he was being interviewed and what his rights were. Then she asked him to tell her what he had done on Wednesday evening.
‘I was at my nan’s,’ he said.
‘Where’s that?’
‘Langley, 43 Perkins Close.’
‘And how long were you there?’ she said.
‘Stayed over.’
‘What time did you get there?’
‘About five.’
‘Anyone else there?’ Janet said.
‘Neil was.’
‘Right. What did you do while you were there?’
‘Watched telly.’ He stretched and scratched his ribs, making the disposable suit crackle. Indifferent: a good act or was he actually unconcerned because he’d nothing to fear?
‘What did you watch?’ Janet asked.
He shrugged. ‘Dunno, can’t remember.’
‘Did you go out at all that evening?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure? Maybe to run an errand?’ she said.
‘No.’ That same vacant nonchalance.
‘If I told you that someone had seen you in the vicinity of the Old Chapel that evening, how would you explain that?’
‘They’re wrong.’
‘They are sure it was you, you and your brother,’ Janet said.
‘Can’t have been.’ The dull expression in his eyes hardened into something more intense, more acrimonious.
‘Did you know Richard Kavanagh?’
‘No.’
‘He looked a little like this.’ She passed him a photo, one created using software to age the original image and show how the subject would appear when he was older. ‘I am now showing Mr Perry exhibit PR31.’
‘No.’ He shook his head several times over.
‘You might have known him as Rodeo Rick. He wore a leather cowboy hat.’
‘Never seen him.’