Seventeen missed calls and five messages were listed. Each one was from Kurt. Brief and apparently warm, but to her, absolutely chilling.
‘Hello darling, welcome home.’
‘Hello darling, so glad you’re home. Can’t wait to speak to you.’
‘Sweetheart. I know you’re there. Please pick up the phone. I miss you.’
‘Hello sweetie. We need to talk.’
And finally and most chillingly: ‘Hi darling. Sorry we can’t speak. But I just wanted you to know I can’t wait to see you.’
Lilian unplugged the phone again and checked her mobile. There was a long list of similar messages from Kurt sent whilst she had been in hospital, and her one reply, posted as soon as her phone was returned to her, telling Kurt that he should stay away from her, and that there was a warrant out for his arrest. Surprisingly perhaps, there appeared to be no more recent messages and no missed calls from Kurt or anyone else. She looked again, hastily pushing the phone’s controls. There was no mistake. Her mobile had been cut off. The bill, of course, was paid by direct debit from her joint account with Kurt. Lilian felt numb.
She stood up. Kurt was all around her still. His power, if not his presence, was everywhere.
She had to leave this flat. That was for certain. A thought occurred to her. She hurried to the little desk in the sitting room. Her car key was still in the place she always kept it. That was a start. But would her car still be in the car park below the building? She should at least check that out. The lift went straight down to the car park.
She made her way to the door. Outside, placed in a neat line by the doorway, were three enormous bouquets of flowers, one looking quite fresh and the others in different stages of decay. They were, of course, from Kurt. The messages echoed those left on the answering service.
Lilian leaned out and picked up the flowers in one enormous armful. She stepped back into the flat pushing the door shut with her hip, then hobbled into the kitchen where she fed the flowers into the rubbish shoot, breaking and crushing the blooms in an almost savage frenzy.
Nine
Docherty and Saslow helped Gill Quinn put on the trainers the PC had been concealing. They appeared to fit rather better than the tracksuit. At least she’d be able to walk, thought Vogel. Assuming she was willing to do so.
Docherty looked all in. Unsurprisingly. She had taken Vogel’s instruction to stick close to Gill Quinn quite literally, and stayed at the hospital all night. Vogel continued to be impressed by Morag Docherty.
For whatever reason, maybe because she had realized there was little alternative, Gillian Quinn appeared to have decided to cooperate. On the surface, at any rate. Certainly she seemed calm enough, outwardly at least, in stark contrast to how she had been the previous evening.
She allowed herself to be escorted out of the hospital without any further incident. And once she was safely installed in Saslow’s car, illegally parked outside, Vogel felt able to release Docherty.
‘Go home, get some rest, I’ll square it with your sergeant,’ he told her.
During the short drive to Barnstaple police station, Gill did not speak at all. Which suited Vogel. He preferred there to be no further conversation between them until he could begin a formal videoed interview.
It was vital to provide no opportunity for any evidence she might give to be declared invalid at a later date.
She was offered a solicitor upon arrival at the station. She declined.
‘Why would I need a solicitor?’ she asked.
Vogel studied her carefully. He didn’t know what to make of that. Was she being disingenuous? She was a professional woman. She was not stupid. Perhaps she still wasn’t in a fit condition to be interviewed. He dismissed that thought. He had an opportunity to interview his number one suspect without the presence of a solicitor. He was a decent man and a principled police officer, but he wasn’t a saint.
Gill was therefore taken straight to an interview room where she was duly cautioned. Vogel had designated himself to lead the interview, aided by DS Saslow.
He began by asking Gill about her whereabouts on the previous day, particularly during the afternoon at around the time her husband was believed to have been killed.
‘I don’t remember,’ she said.
‘Well, did you go out at all, or were you at home all day?’
‘I think I went out.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘I don’t remember.’
Vogel consoled himself that at least the woman was speaking now. She was saying something. Even if it wasn’t anything constructive. He persisted.
‘Do you know what time you went out yesterday?’
‘No.’
‘Were you at home during the afternoon yesterday, before your husband died?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Vogel paused and glanced towards Saslow, his look inviting the DS to join in. He certainly wasn’t having any success. He wasn’t sure if Gill Quinn was being deliberately obstructive, or if she was genuinely still in deep shock.
‘Gill, we want to help you,’ Saslow interjected. ‘Really we do. But you do understand that we need to know everything that happened yesterday, don’t you?’
Gill Quinn nodded slightly.
‘We need you to answer for the record,’ said Saslow.
‘I understand,’ said Gill Quinn.
‘So, I will ask you again,’ Saslow continued. ‘Were you at home yesterday before, say, five p.m.?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘We know that you were at your home at six forty-one p.m. yesterday evening when you reported your husband’s death. Can you remember if there was anyone else in your house with you at any stage, apart from you and your husband?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Gill again.
Saslow continued with the gentle approach.
‘If there was anyone else present at any time, or if you could remember when you were away from your house, and where you went, that would be very valuable information. Then we could work towards finding you somewhere to stay, and getting you the help you clearly need.’
Gill Quinn folded her arms tightly around her upper body and looked down at the table. She did not respond.
Vogel had had enough. He was beginning to distrust this woman, and it was time to do something about it. He was not necessarily a fan of the old good cop, bad cop routine. For a start he’d always regarded it as too darned obvious. But it had its uses on occasion. And this, he felt, might be one of those occasions.
‘If you do not reply, then I can only assume that you were alone with your husband,’ he said curtly. ‘I need a full explanation from you concerning whatever may have happened in your home to lead to your husband’s death. Do you understand me? And I need it now.’
Gill Quinn looked up. Her eyes were blank again. It really was impossible to work out what was going on behind them. She did not speak.
‘You know how your husband died, don’t you?’ Vogel continued. ‘I need you to tell me what happened, do you understand? Please answer me.’
Yet again there was no response. Vogel wasn’t sure what further approach to take. The woman could well still be genuinely confused and in shock. But this was a murder investigation. He decided to proceed on the basis that one way to deal with shock was to meet it with further shock. At least that way he might get some sort of a response.
He raised his voice considerably, which was unusual for Vogel.
‘You must know that your husband was stabbed violently, several times. You do know that, don’t you?’ he began. ‘Eleven times actually. He suffered cataclysmic knife wounds to his belly, upper torso, and to his throat. A blade entered the base of his throat just below the larynx and slashed open the jugular. He would have bled to death from that wound alone. There was no need for any further wounds to be inflicted. But his attacker was clearly in a frenzy, out of control...’