‘How about this?’
This time, the super held up a bag containing a bra that matched the thong.
‘No, sir. Not that either.’
Forbes handed a third bag across. Willis let it open out. It held a white woman’s dress on a hanger. The front of the dress had been slashed in several places, and was covered in blood.
‘And this?’
Ethan wanted to throw up. He moved back a couple of steps, then collapsed onto the chair he’d been sitting on earlier. The food he’d eaten forced itself back up his throat, and he vomited onto the carpet. Shutting his eyes, he wiped his mouth and tried to concentrate. No one said a word. When he opened his eyes, the others were still looking at him.
‘Well?’ asked the super. ‘Do you recognise this dress?’
Ethan nodded. His head was spinning. He felt something trickle from his nose and put his finger to it. He was bleeding. Staunching the nosebleed with a handkerchief, he nodded again.
‘It belongs to Sarah. She was wearing it on Christmas Eve, at the party.’ He bit his lower lip and repressed a sob. ‘Where did you find her? What…did they do?’
‘We were hoping you’d tell us where she is,’ Willis said, his voice hardening now, his manner honed in years of conversations with suspects.
‘I have no idea. I told you, they must have driven off with her.’
‘We found the dress in your bedroom, hidden underneath your mattress. The bra and knickers too. The knife had been shoved behind the radiator.’
Ethan felt suddenly like a butterfly pinned to cork while still alive. For several seconds, he stared at the clothing. His old colleagues looked back at him, unsmiling. Ethan felt his heart go out of him. He’d been standing where they were standing many times. He knew what they were thinking. Like them, he’d used an accusing silence to intimidate a suspect into confessing.
‘You think this was my work?’ he said. ‘You think I killed her?’
The bra and thong, the dress had all been bloodied and planted. He had no doubt of it.
‘DCI Usherwood, I think you should know that fingerprints were lifted from the knife several hours ago, and that they match samples of your fingerprints we hold on record. You should also know that the blood found on the dress and underwear is from two individuals. When DNA tests have been completed, we expect to confirm that the smaller patches of blood belong to you.’
‘This is insane. She was my niece. Why would I harm her? And why the hell would I murder my grandfather? Or his friend?’
Willis breathed in sharply through his nostrils and held his breath tightly for some seconds before letting it escape again.
‘I spoke with your family lawyers an hour ago. Apparently, the bulk of your grandfather’s estate has been left to you, apart from a large sum bequeathed to your niece Sarah, and smaller amounts to other members of your family. Woodmancote Hall passes to you, along with its contents, apart from specific bequests listed in the will. You have a motive for the murders, and I have to act according to the evidence. I leave the rest of this to DI Forbes, who remains in charge of this investigation.’
Saying which, Willis turned and strode out of the room, leaving the door to swing closed behind him.
Bob Forbes stepped up to Ethan.
‘DCI Usherwood, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Gerald Usherwood and Max Chippendale. You are not obliged to say anything but anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.’
There was a knock on the door, then two uniformed officers stepped into the room.
Ethan said nothing. He knew the score, knew what to say, what not to say.
‘I’d like to make a phone call,’ he said.
Forbes nodded, and he took the mobile from his jacket pocket. He tapped in a number and waited for someone to answer at the other end.
10 On the Loose
Adam Markham turned out to be exactly as Ethan had imagined him. He was what people call a ‘safe hand’. Some said he was that rare thing, a man of the law you could trust. The moment Ethan set eyes on him, he had the same impression. Middle-aged, conventionally dressed, slightly plump, with a kind face, wise eyes, and frameless spectacles. In all probability, he would turn out to be a dull sort, a man for whom life pretty much began and ended with the law, with a little church attendance and sherry drinking to add spice. That, of course, was the impression he sought to convey, and the impression Ethan took.
But Mr Markham was not a criminal lawyer, nor was anyone else in the much-esteemed family firm of Markham and Pritchett. When he met Ethan in the police cell where he was being held before an appearance before the magistrates’ court the next day, he pointed this out to him, and added that good defence lawyers with experience in murder cases were thin on the ground in Gloucestershire.
‘But I’ll sort something out,’ he said, his little eyes twinkling, as though Ethan was being pulled up before the beaks for an infringement of some forgotten by-law.
‘I need to get out,’ said Ethan.
‘Out? You can’t get out. Not before the magistrates’ hearing.’
‘I want to get bail. I need to get bail.’
‘Ethan — if I may call you that — everyone wants bail. Ordinarily, there is little difficulty in obtaining it, as I’m sure you know. But these charges… They are, if I may say so, monstrous. Of course, I am your legal advisor, and I have every confidence in your lack of guilt in the matter. Unfortunately, the magistrates may not see it that way.’
‘I was set up,’ said Ethan. ‘If I’m locked up, there’s nothing I can do to prove myself innocent. I know Willis and Forbes and the rest, and I know what they do when they think they have a watertight case. They close down all other lines of inquiry and focus on getting a conviction.’
‘There’s time to deal with that once this goes to the Crown Court. You’ll have a barrister, probably a silk, you can afford the best counsel.’
All Markham’s clients were well heeled, and Ethan detected in him a carelessness to the risk he was running, a perception of things rooted in a preening assumption that money and status brought innocence in their train.
‘If I’m right,’ Ethan said. ‘Sarah hasn’t been killed at all. She’s out there somewhere, kidnapped probably.’
‘But I can’t see—’
‘They took it too far, can’t you see that? If they had killed her, why strip the body? If she’d been stabbed in the heart, why would her thong be bloodstained? It doesn’t add up. If I were in charge of the investigation, I’d have a team of officers out there now, hunting for her.’
‘Very well,’ said the solicitor, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
The following morning, he surprised Ethan. The heir to Woodmancote Hall had spent a miserable night in the cells, where he’d been treated with a mixture of embarrassment and contempt. He’d been a popular officer, but now the shine had been taken off his image by the stories passing from mouth to mouth, stories that told of more than mere murder, that painted a gruesome portrait of a multiple killer who tortured his victims before despatching them in a bizarre and blasphemous fashion.
The chief constable had issued instructions that as little as possible be said to the press about the arrest. Ethan was hurried in to Gloucester Magistrates’ Court through a back entrance used by the magistrates, and taken to a small court normally used for smaller cases. On his arrival, he was met by Brenda Pritchett, Markham’s partner. She introduced herself to Ethan, then brought forward a tall, dark-haired man in an expensive-looking suit and soft silk tie.
‘Ethan, this is Myles Clavering. Myles is a barrister with a long experience of criminal cases, including homicide.’