‘Stall,’ replied Vogel, struggling to shake himself from a heavy sleep and make his brain work. ‘There’ll be paperwork. Do what you can to slow everything up...’
A thought occurred to him.
‘Presumably she hasn’t got any clothes?’
‘No, boss. She’s wearing a hospital gown. Her clothes have gone to Forensics. Anyway, they’re covered in blood.’
‘OK, tell her you’re going to organize some fresh clothes for her. Then take your time.’
‘Right, boss.’
‘Saslow and I will be with you soonest. Just don’t let her leave.’
‘I’ll try not to, boss.’
‘Don’t just try, Docherty. Make sure you succeed. Use your initiative.’
‘Yes, boss.’
Vogel was temporarily staying at an Airbnb within walking distance of Barnstaple police station. As a city boy he had never felt the need to learn to drive, and had, until now, in spite of a certain pressure from his superiors in Bristol, continued to avoid doing so. But the move to North Devon was beginning to make it unavoidable. Even for Vogel. He liked to be as independent as possible, and without a motor car in that part of the world he was more reliant on others than he had ever been. He had signed up for driving lessons, but not even Saslow knew about that, and he hadn’t actually started his course yet. So he suspected it would be some time before he was no longer reliant on her for transport.
He called Saslow, who had, rather to Vogel’s surprise, welcomed the opportunity of moving to North Devon with him. She had, of course, been offered permanent promotion, from detective constable to sergeant, but Vogel also suspected that she had grasped the opportunity to escape from an unhappy love affair. Not that he knew for sure. Saslow always preferred to keep her private life just that.
The DS had already secured a short-hold tenancy on a terraced cottage on the outskirts of the town. Her phone rang several times, then switched to messages. He dialled again. She picked up on the second ring. In spite of sounding completely dopey, she was with him in twenty minutes. It took them only ten minutes more to reach the NDDH.
Morag Docherty greeted them at the entrance to the ward in which Gill Quinn had been persuaded to remain.
The DCI noticed that Morag was carrying a pair of trainers, which she put behind her back as they approached Mrs Quinn, who was sitting bolt upright on the edge of the bed nearest the door, feet on the floor, hands clasped in her lap. She showed no reaction at all as the three police officers entered, instead staring straight ahead just as she had done the last time Vogel saw her, at her home following her husband’s murder.
She was wearing blue tracksuit bottoms and a brown top with orange flashes. Not only did they fail to go together as any kind of outfit, but neither did they fit. The top was too small, and the bottoms were too big.
These were presumably the clothes the hospital and Docherty had found for her.
‘Hello again, Mrs Quinn,’ said Vogel gently. ‘I’m DCI Vogel. Do you remember me?’
Nothing.
‘Are you feeling any better?’
Nothing.
‘We really need to talk to you about what happened at your house yesterday,’ he continued in the same tone of voice. ‘Do you think you may be well enough to help me with that?’
Suddenly Gill Quinn looked directly at him.
‘I need shoes,’ she said. ‘I want to go home.’
Her voice was toneless, staccato.
Vogel glanced down at the woman’s bare feet. So, he thought, that was why Morag Docherty was carrying a pair of trainers behind her back. She certainly had used her initiative.
‘I am afraid your home is a crime scene at the moment,’ said Vogel. ‘It is likely to be some days before you can return there.’
‘I want to go home,’ Gill Quinn repeated, still staring directly at Vogel, but with that same blank expressionless look in her eyes.
‘Do you remember what happened at your house, what happened to your husband?’ Vogel persisted.
Did the eyelids flicker? The DCI wasn’t sure. But Gill made no attempt to answer his questions.
‘You can’t make me stay here,’ she said.
‘No, we can’t,’ Vogel agreed. ‘But we can ask you to come to the station with us. We really do need to talk to you as a matter of urgency.’
‘I want to go home,’ said the woman for the third time.
‘Mrs Quinn, that will not be possible...’
‘Are you arresting me?’ Gillian Quinn asked suddenly and quite sharply.
Perhaps she was coming back to life, thought Vogel. Or had her behaviour so far been an act? He hadn’t thought so, but he had in the past experienced instances of some pretty impressive acting performances from suspects.
‘No, I’m not arresting you,’ he replied quietly. ‘I am asking you to cooperate with us. We need to ascertain exactly how your husband died. And we do need to conduct a formal interview with you.’
‘So, then can I go home?’
‘I have explained.’ Vogel paused. ‘Do you mind if I call you Gill?’ he asked.
Using Christian names is not uncommon practice in modern policing. All part of the process of building a relationship with a suspect. And most police officers would probably not even bother to ask. But Vogel was a naturally courteous man. Particularly when dealing with a woman who, whatever she may have done, was clearly vulnerable and in distress.
However, when there was no response, Vogel proceeded as if there had been.
‘Your home is a crime scene, Gill. Is there anyone you can stay with? Your son perhaps—’
‘No, not him,’ Gill Quinn interrupted swiftly. ‘He’ll be angry...’
Vogel was taken by surprise. ‘Why will he be angry?’ he asked.
‘He will be, that’s all.’
‘Have you tried to call him? Maybe to ask him to come and pick you up. Have you been in touch with him at all?’
Gill Quinn shook her head. ‘I don’t have my phone. I don’t know where it is.’
‘We have his number, would you like us to try to call him now.’
It was just before six thirty a.m. Gregory Quinn had not been answering his phone or responding to messages all night. It was probably unlikely that he would do so at this time of the morning. But Vogel wanted to show willing.
Gill shook her head again. ‘I don’t want him to know,’ she said bluntly.
‘You can’t keep this from your son, Gill. Or indeed anyone else. You do understand that your husband is dead, don’t you? That he has been murdered.’
The eyes went blank again.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know anything.’
Eight
Lilian took to her bed for the best part of three days and three nights. She did not have the will to do anything else. She lost track of time. She had no wish to think about her past, and she could contemplate no future. Even sleep, frequently interrupted by nightmares, brought little respite. She rose from the bed only for calls of nature and, just occasionally, to nibble at some of the dwindling supplies she had bought on her visit to the twenty-four-hour shop. It appeared that she still had some survival instincts in place, in spite of having, perhaps almost wistfully, contemplated her available supplies of painkiller and other pills.
The doorbell rang several times. She ignored it. She had switched off her mobile, but the house phone rang regularly in the sitting room. She ignored that too. When she heard it, she could not think of anyone she wanted to see or speak to, and it could be Kurt calling.
Eventually, and somewhat to her surprise, Lilian finally felt a tweak of curiosity. She had disconnected the phone by the bed. She uncurled herself from the foetal position, sat up, swung her legs over the side, reconnected the phone, and dialled 1571, the answerphone service.