‘Mr Williams, Thomas Quinn was a successful businessman and a former town councillor. He’s been described to me as a pillar of the community. What he may or may not have done to his wife in private would be one thing, but I’m surprised to hear that he behaved like that in public. Weren’t you surprised by his behaviour?’
‘No. I’d seen hints of his temper before, although nothing as bad as that.’
‘But he could have been recognized. The landlord might have reported him. You might have reported him. At the very least that would not have gone down well locally, would it? A former councillor behaving like that. He could have been charged with causing an affray. The local press would then have picked it up. It might even have had a detrimental effect on his business, mightn’t It?’
‘I don’t know. He was one of those who thought he was invincible. Certainly above the law. That’s the impression Gillian gave me anyway. He did exactly what he liked, without any thought to the consequences. And I’m sure it didn’t occur to him that I would have the nerve to stand up to him in any way at all. He was right, too.’
‘So, did you see or hear from Thomas at all yesterday?’ Vogel asked.
‘No, I didn’t. I told you. I was here all day, working. But I have to admit I made sure the doors were locked. I was half afraid he’d make good his threat and come round here. Or send some thug around. I wouldn’t have put that beyond him. People like Thomas Quinn often have someone around to do their dirty work, don’t they? To tell the truth, my imagination was running away with me, Mr Vogel.’
‘What about your temper, Mr Williams?’
‘My temper? What do you mean?’
‘We saw you raise your fist to your wife, make as if you were about to hit her? Maybe you would have hit her if I hadn’t intervened. Is that a regular occurrence?’
‘No, no it’s not. Sometimes she drives me to distraction, that’s all. But I wouldn’t have hit her. Really I wouldn’t. I never hit her.’
‘Not even when she drives you to distraction. Do you not sometimes hit her then? Mr Williams, do you ever attack your wife physically?’
Williams shook his head wearily.
‘You’ve met her, you’ve met us both,’ he replied. ‘Do you honestly think I’d dare?’
As soon as Vogel and Saslow had gone, Wynne Williams tried again to call Gillian Quinn. He had been trying ever since he’d heard the news of Thomas’ death. Her phone had seemed to be switched off throughout. Thomas couldn’t be keeping it from her any more. That was for sure. But Wynne had no idea whether or not Gillian now had her phone with her. He was hoping that she had, and was merely unable to answer it while at the police station. If she was still at the police station. He didn’t even know that. Of course the police may have taken possession of the phone. He just hoped not.
Yet again the phone switched to messages. Wynne was desperate to speak to his Gillian. He really believed he could help. And he was prepared to do anything, anything at all, to help. He always had been.
Just as he was wondering what to do next, Marjorie returned to the kitchen. Still drunk, still angry. But surprisingly lucid.
‘You’re a liar, as well as everything else, aren’t you?’ she remarked almost conversationally.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Wynne muttered.
‘Oh yes, you do. I overheard almost everything you said to those detectives. You just think I’m drunk. Not that drunk, I can tell you.’
Wynne did his best to hide how uneasy that made him feel.
‘So what?’ he enquired, displaying as much assertive disdain as he could muster.
‘So, I know you lied. I know you weren’t here all day yesterday, don’t I? And you’d better keep on the right side of me, or I shall tell on you.’
With that Marjorie started to laugh. And she was still laughing as she turned and left the room, her gait a little uncertain, but at the same time purposeful.
Wynne cursed her under his breath. He also cursed himself. He should have been more careful. Perhaps he should just have told the truth from the start. After all, nothing was much worse than being caught out in a lie by the police. He was pretty sure that it was a criminal offence, perverting the course of justice, or something like that.
There had always been a chance that he might have been seen in the wrong place. That there might be a witness. Or that he might have been caught on CCTV. However, he had thought those were chances worth taking. But now Marjorie knew that he’d lied, and she gave every impression nowadays that she had come to hate his guts. It was quite likely that she would ‘tell on him’, sooner or later. The next time he upset her, or just the next time she got blind drunk — which was pretty certain to be sooner rather than later.
Wynne wondered if he should make a move first, contact the police again and confess what he had done. He thought it probably was his best option now, but, as ever, he wasn’t sure he had the courage.
Meanwhile a large, metallic grey vehicle with tinted windows had just arrived in Northam. It’s occupants followed their satnav to St Anne’s Avenue.
There was, of course, still a substantial police presence at the crime scene there. Several police and CSI vehicles were parked outside number eleven, which was cordoned off, its boundaries watched over by two uniformed officers.
The vehicle motored slowly past without stopping.
Its occupants were alarmed. They had no idea what had happened, or what the police presence might signify. They pulled into the first lay-by they came to and Googled both the St Anne’s Avenue address and the name Thomas Quinn. Immediately they learned that Quinn had been murdered.
This caused them considerable unease. They wondered whether it was an incident unconnected with their visit to the area, or if there was a link — or at least a link with the disquieting activities which had come to their notice and caused them enough concern to warrant their personal attention and their presence in North Devon.
They discussed what they should do next. There were three men in the vehicle. One of them was clearly in charge. He made the final decision. The driver started up again and headed towards Bideford.
Eighteen
Lilian called Kate, her capable, almost always up-beat friend with whom she had trained as a journalist. There was nobody else. And actually, there was probably nobody better either. But Kate, of course, knew nothing of her sham of a marriage nor of the kind of monster her handsome husband had turned out to be. And Lilian was well aware of the leap of faith she would be demanding from her old friend in order for her to accept that she had acted in self-defence when she stabbed Kurt so seriously she’d thought she had killed him.
To Lilian’s relief Kate answered the phone straight away and sounded her usual breezy self.
‘Sweetheart, great to hear from you, are we finally going to have that lunch?’
Lilian didn’t know how long she would be allowed to speak on the phone. She cut to the chase.
‘Look, I–I’m in police custody. I’ve been arrested. I nearly killed Kurt. He’s in hospital. I don’t know how badly hurt he is...’
Lilian heard a startled gasp down the line.
‘You what?’ Kate’s voice was no longer breezy.
Lilian poured out as much as she could of the whole awful story as quickly as possible. She told Kate of Kurt’s consistent violence towards her, although not the cause of it, and how he had taken obsessive control of every aspect of her life.
When she had finished there was silence for what seemed like a very long time.
‘So that’s why we’ve seen so little of you since you married him?’
‘Yes.’