He stepped in.
‘I think DS Saslow merely wants to confirm that you could be absolutely sure that Gill did not leave the House at all during the course of yesterday,’ he said. ‘Is it not possible that she could have slipped out without anyone here realizing?’
‘Slipped out to murder her husband, do you mean, Mr Vogel?’ asked Helen.
Vogel noticed what was little more than a twitch, but might have been just the merest flicker of a smile, on either side of her mouth.
Vogel had instinctively liked the woman the first time he met her, and probably still did. He also had considerable respect for her. That didn’t mean he was going to allow her to manipulate, or even to attempt to take charge of, his investigation. Vogel would never let anyone do that.
‘Would you please answer my question?’ he asked curtly.
The flickering smile, if it had really been there at all, evaporated.
‘Of course, chief inspector,’ she answered briskly. ‘Absolutely no way at all. This is a busy house, full of people. There is only one way in and out. Nobody leaves or enters here without being noticed. In any case, if you really are suggesting that Gill returned home, with or without intent to harm her husband, she had no means of getting there. Not quickly, anyway. It’s two bus rides away. And she didn’t have any money on her. She left home in a big hurry yesterday morning, you see. So often the way.’
‘But Miss Harris, Gill Quinn had a car,’ commented Vogel. ‘It’s currently being checked by our forensic people. Why didn’t she drive here?’
‘Violence comes in many forms. With Thomas Quinn it primarily took the form of total control. Gill could only use her car when he allowed her to, mostly just to drive to and from work, and occasionally to go shopping. The rest of the time he kept the car keys from her.’
‘Would it really have been out of the question for her to take buses home? What about a bus pass?’
‘Completely out of the question in every way. I told you, she left home in a panic, without any credit cards, or anything of that kind, certainly not a bus pass even if she has one, which I doubt. I don’t know this for certain, but I always assumed that Thomas kept possession of her money, and it’s quite possible that she doesn’t even have any credit cards in her own name. If she does, he would have controlled her use of them.’
‘How did she get to you yesterday morning, then?’
‘She walked, Mr Vogel.’
Vogel thought for a moment. St Anne’s Avenue was nearly three miles from the centre of Bideford. The House was at the top of the town, almost a mile or so further up a steep hill.
‘That’s a fair walk, and not a particularly easy one,’ he commented.
‘Desperation, Mr Vogel.’
Vogel stared at her. He didn’t like what he was hearing. He was by nature a kind man. Cruelty upset him. And it made him feel inadequate. He was a policeman. Perhaps a rather old-fashioned policeman. He supposed he had become one in order to do his bit to put the world to rights. It would always be his most abiding regret that he was so rarely able to do so.
‘Oh yes, Mr Vogel,’ Helen continued. ‘Fear and desperation. Aspects of the human condition we are all too familiar with here. That is what we deal with on a daily basis here. A while back we had a woman turn up, with two little ones, who had fled her home down in Cornwall. She had nowhere else to go, and she’d heard of us and believed we would protect her. She had just enough money to buy train tickets to Barnstaple. Then she walked the rest of the way, with her baby strapped to her back, pushing her toddler in his buggy. That’s more than twelve miles, Mr Vogel, and it took her nearly five hours.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry, you don’t want to hear all this.’
‘Maybe I need to, Miss Harris,’ said Vogel quietly. ‘I certainly believe you have a lot more to tell me. You haven’t said exactly why Gill came here yesterday morning, what actually caused her to flee her home and walk four miles to what she presumably considered to be safety?’
‘Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? Thomas attacked her. Not for the first time. The man specialized in all manner of tortures, Mr Vogel.’
‘Gill was taken to hospital last night and kept in until early this morning,’ said Vogel. ‘She was thoroughly checked out. The medics found signs of old yellowing bruising around her ribs. But that was all. She said she received them when she had to do an emergency stop in her car.’
‘And you accepted that, did you? Don’t most motor cars have air bags which protect people riding in a front seat in such circumstances.’
‘Gill drives a classic car. An MG. No air bags. Didn’t you know that?’
‘I have little interest in cars.’
‘Well, in any case, the medics found no sign of any new injuries. What did Thomas Quinn allegedly do to her?’
‘There’s no allegedly about it, Mr Vogel,’ said Helen caustically. ‘Did anyone look behind her ears?’
‘Behind her ears? I don’t know. We certainly didn’t at the station. And nobody mentioned anything at the hospital...’
Vogel was stunned. What was Helen Harris talking about? His imagination was beginning to take over. And the direction in which it was taking him was making him feel even more ill at ease.
‘Medical professionals dealing with abuse should be aware of this kind of thing,’ Harris continued. ‘But I suppose that wasn’t why Gill was hospitalized, was it?’
‘No. It was because she appeared to be in deep shock that she was taken to the NDDH. Which, like all hospitals, is still suffering from the aftermath of the big Covid surge this last winter. It is possible that the physical examination was not as thorough as perhaps it should have been. That they just checked for obvious signs of injury.’
Helen Harris reached for her phone.
‘I always take photographs,’ she said. ‘Women like Gill often go to considerable lengths to prevent their injuries being seen, by their friends and families as well as by strangers, and are most unlikely to tell a doctor, or a nurse, or a police officer, about what has happened to them unless they have absolutely no choice. Here they feel safe and shielded, partly because we pledge confidentiality. I would not be breaking that confidentiality except in the most extreme circumstances. And even then, and you may not approve of this, Mr Vogel, I quite probably would not do so if we weren’t coincidentally able to provide Gill with an alibi.’
Helen tapped the screen of her phone a few times, then passed it to Vogel.
‘These were taken yesterday, in case you’re wondering,’ she said. ‘Soon after Gill arrived here.’
A series of photos appeared showing a woman, almost certainly Gill Quinn, although taken from behind, holding up her hair to reveal the backs of her ears. Behind each ear there were a number of old scars, and other small wounds in the process of healing. Also behind each ear there was one obviously new wound, raw and weeping. It seemed clear to Vogel that these were burns, old and new. And he was pretty sure they would have been inflicted by a lit cigarette.
The DCI was shocked. Silently he handed the phone to Saslow. The young DS made a small noise. It was a sharp intake of breath.
She too did not speak.
Vogel handed the phone back to Helen Harris.
‘Systematic, calculated, and viciously cruel abuse, Mr Vogel,’ she said, as she took the phone. ‘That is what Gill Quinn has suffered at the hands of her husband for years. That is what we deal with here over and over again. Most people still have a very old-fashioned idea of domestic abuse. Like a husband coming home from the pub drunk and beating up his wife. The modern truth is far more sophisticated, and in my opinion often considerably worse than that. It’s not entirely inflicted by men either. We had an elderly man here once who had endured years of abuse from his wife. He was frightened and emaciated. Every so often she would put a diuretic in his food. He barely dared to eat.