‘OK, boss, I’ll do it straight away.’
‘If she plays true to form, she won’t be very forthcoming. But just keep on asking. We think it belongs to one Maggie Challis, only don’t tell her that. Just stick at it, and stick with her. Right?’
‘Right, boss,’ said Docherty.
Whilst Vogel and Saslow were waiting for Gregory Quinn to be processed, a series of clips from the CCTV footage filmed in the vicinity of the Bideford office block where Jason Patel had been shot were patched through to them by DI Peters. A specialist team had been hard at work, as directed by Vogel, and had extracted material that was without doubt highly relevant. Two men wearing dark clothing and baseball hats, tinted glasses, and standard surgical face masks, had been caught on camera entering Tide Reach at three thirty-one p.m. the previous day. At four ten p.m. there was footage of Jason Patel arriving. And there was footage of the two men leaving, in rather more of a hurry, at four fifteen p.m.
‘These are our killers, all right,’ said Vogel at once. ‘They have to be. Look at the timings. But we’ve not got a hope in hell of anyone recognizing them from this stuff, that’s for sure. You can’t see their faces at all.’
‘Covid’s done evil bastards like this a bit of a favour, hasn’t it, boss?’ remarked Saslow. ‘In the current climate masked men can wander around towns like Bideford without attracting any attention at all.’
‘I’m afraid that’s so...’ Vogel began, then he paused as another section of footage from a different camera played out.
This showed a large metallic grey vehicle with tinted windows parked in The Pill car park. It was a Range Rover. After a few seconds the driver’s door opened and a bulky figure, also wearing dark clothes, baseball hat and mask, stepped out. He leaned against the vehicle, then reached into his pocket for something, and removed his mask, bowing his head as he did so.
‘My God,’ said Vogel. ‘This has to be those guys’ driver. And he’s trying to light a cigarette. The cool bastard.’
‘Hang on, something’s startled him,’ said Saslow. ‘Look, he’s turned his back on us and he’s getting right back in the car. I reckon he heard gunfire, boss.’
‘So do I, Saslow,’ said Vogel.
The officers watched for a few minutes more, then the two men they had seen entering and leaving Tide Reach appeared running towards the vehicle. They climbed in, and the Range Rover was driven swiftly, but not at excessive speed, towards the car park exit.
Vogel immediately replayed the footage of the man leaning against the vehicle.
‘There’s not a clear shot, his head is bowed throughout the few seconds when he’s not wearing a mask, but I think we’ve got a glimpse of his face, don’t you, Saslow?’
‘Yes, boss, I do. But it’s pretty grainy stuff, isn’t it? Looks like the camera from which this footage was taken was quite a long way away. It’s a fairly distant shot. We can zoom in, of course, but then it will be even grainier. I think the number plate might be decipherable, though. Shall I get DI Peters to put out a trace, boss?’
‘I reckon she’s already onto that, Saslow. And I’ll bet my mortgage the plates are false, too. But I think it’s worth releasing that footage of the driver to the media. I know there’s not much to go on, but there might be just enough for somebody to recognize him.’
Gregory Quinn was already installed in the designated interview room when Vogel and Saslow arrived. This time he had asked for a legal presence and a duty solicitor had been appointed and was also present.
The young man and his solicitor, Philip Stubbs, a local man Vogel had previously encountered on more than one occasion, were sitting together on one side of the central table. Vogel and Saslow positioned themselves opposite them. A uniformed officer stood by the door.
Saslow recited for the record the names of all present and the time of the start of the interview.
Vogel came straight to the point.
‘Greg, I understand you are the owner of a highly powered inflatable boat and trailer which you keep in a garage just up the road from your flat,’ he began without prevarication. ‘Is that so?’
‘U-uh yes,’ responded Gregory, only a little hesitantly. ‘I go sea fishing.’
‘Did you take that boat out to sea on Saturday evening, the day your father was killed?’
This time Gregory Quinn’s hesitation was distinctly noticeable. ‘Y-yes, I did, b-but only for a quick spin,’ he responded eventually.
‘Yet when we previously asked you to tell us your whereabouts on that day, you did not mention that you had taken your boat out, nor indeed that you owned such a boat.’
Quinn shrugged. He might well have been making a huge effort, Vogel suspected, but when he spoke again he sounded rather more like his usual self, or at least what appeared to Vogel to be his usual self: confident, almost cocky.
‘Well, why would I? I didn’t think any of that was important.’
‘You merely told us that you had gone drinking with a mate in Torrington and stayed at his place all night. Why?’
‘Why did I tell you that, or why did I stay at my mate’s place?’
Quinn was definitely back to being cocky now. Well, two can play at the same game, thought Vogel.
‘Why both?’ he countered deadpan.
‘Because that’s what I did. Because it was the truth.’
‘Didn’t you think there was a fair chance somebody would have seen you in that distinctive van of yours, taking your boat down to the beach, and launching it off the slipway?’
‘I didn’t think about that at all. Why would I? I hadn’t done anything wrong. There’s no law against taking your own boat out, is there? Or should I have asked police permission first?’
Vogel chose to ignore that. He had no intention of allowing himself to seem even remotely provoked.
‘We do have a witness who watched you launch your inflatable,’ the DCI continued. ‘He said you loaded a rucksack into it. He noticed that particularly because you were carrying it as if it was heavy. He thought that a bit odd. Why would you be carrying a heavy bag on a fishing trip? He also noticed that you didn’t appear to have any fishing equipment with you—’
‘Yeah well, I’ll bet my wages I know who your witness is,’ interrupted Greg. ‘That nosey arsehole who thinks he’s in charge of bloody Westward Ho! but actually he’s just a car park attendant by the slipway. I keep most of my fishing stuff in the bow locker. He knows fuck all, that one. In any case, I told you, I just went out for a quick spin. I didn’t go fishing.’
‘What about the heavy bag?’ asked Saslow. ‘What were you taking out to sea, Greg? Was it something you planned to drop overboard? Something you didn’t want found, weighed down so that it would sink? Was that what you were carrying?’
‘I didn’t have a rucksack with me. I wasn’t carrying anything. Your witness talks a lot of bollocks. Anyone will tell you that. He doesn’t like me. And he always wants to be the centre of attention.’
‘Does he? Whoever killed your father, Greg, would have been covered in blood. Their clothes would have been soaked. They’d need to get rid of them if they were to have any chance of getting away with what they had done. And we have yet to identify the murder weapon. Is that what you had in that rucksack, Greg? The knife which you used to kill your father, and bloodstained clothes?’