‘No. I told you. There was no rucksack. No damned knife either. Nor bloodstained clothes.’
‘We will of course be conducting a forensic search of your flat, your van, and your boat, Greg.’
‘Do what you like. I didn’t kill my father. I couldn’t kill anyone. I just couldn’t.’
‘Not even in the heat of the moment? I’m not saying you planned to kill him. Indeed, it seems unlikely your father’s killer had any sort of plan. I think you went around to your family house looking for your mother, that you had some sort of row with your father, the neighbours heard raised voices, and you just lashed out.’
‘No. That’s rubbish. Total bloody rubbish. I wasn’t even there. I haven’t been to the house for weeks.’
Vogel studied the young man in silence for a moment. Sometimes in a case like this he would have a definite opinion on whether or not an interviewee was telling the truth. With this particular subject he remained unsure. Although he did believe the neighbour who said she had seen Greg’s van parked at the family house. After all she had no reason to lie. He decided to push the point.
‘Are you absolutely sure of that, Greg?’
‘Yes, I am,’ said the young man.
‘I don’t think I believe you,’ Vogel remarked mildly. ‘As you know, we have a witness who told us that she saw your van parked at the house on Saturday afternoon. Why would she lie?’
‘I don’t know. Another attention-seeker probably.’
Vogel and Saslow continued their interview for a further ten minutes or so, without making any significant progress, until they were interrupted by DC Perkins.
‘Can I have a word, boss?’ he asked. ‘Something you should see.’
Vogel was aware of Gregory Quinn’s eyes boring into his head as he stepped out of the interview room. He was with Perkins for just a few minutes, during which Saslow sat with Quinn in silence.
When Vogel returned he was carrying an iPad. He put it down on the table in such a position that all four involved in the interview, himself, Saslow, Quinn and Quinn’s solicitor, could see the screen.
Then he ran the video he had just been shown. It comprised aerial images of the immediate area around the Quinn house. The initial shots had been taken from high over the estuary. The camera had then panned in, following a network of roads towards St Anne’s Avenue, and finally homing in on the avenue itself, offering close-ups of most of the houses including number eleven. One shot clearly showed Gregory Quinn’s distinctive orange van, with its purple logo and markings, parked in the parking area by the garages at the rear of the house. An area that could not be seen from any vantage point other than from directly above.
A numerical display in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen gave the date and time when each shot had been filmed. The date was the previous Saturday, the day of Thomas Quinn’s murder. The time was three thirty-one p.m. Quinn looked confused and anxious. As well he might, thought Vogel.
‘What the fuck’s this?’ he asked.
‘This is some footage of your parents’ house shot on the day of your father’s murder by a professional cameraman using a drone. The cameraman was gathering background material for a new TV drama being filmed around Northam and Appledore. One of our chaps noticed the filming going on and made some enquiries just in case they had anything that might help us. You could say he struck gold, Greg. Turned out this cameraman had been carrying out a kind of blanket drone coverage of the area, as he didn’t know exactly what the director would require. It is now undeniable that your van was parked at the back of the house on the day in question. In addition to its distinctive colour and markings, the registration number is quite legible.’
Vogel zoomed in.
‘Also, there is a figure walking away from the van. We can now see that the person walking away from the van and entering your family house through the back door is you. And the date and time is shown on the screen.’
Quinn said nothing more, instead glancing anxiously at his solicitor, who did not intervene.
‘Greg, you really can no longer deny that you were at your parents’ house on Saturday afternoon, and this film places you there within the exact time frame during which we believe your father was killed,’ Vogel continued. ‘Do you understand me?’
‘All right, yes, I was there,’ Quinn suddenly blurted out. ‘But I didn’t kill my father. Honestly I didn’t.’
These moments of breakthrough on a major case always took Vogel’s breath away. He had to make a real effort to continue with his line of questioning without revealing his excitement.
‘All right, Greg, we’ll move on to that later,’ he said. ‘For the moment I just need you to formally confirm for the record that you were at your parents’ house on the date and at the time indicated by this film.’
He tapped the side of the iPad.
‘I just said I was there. He was alive when I arrived though. I m-mean he w-was alive when I left. But there’s no film of my leaving, is there? Well, if there had been you’d have seen there was no blood on me. There c-couldn’t be. Because he wasn’t bleeding when I left. I m-mean, he hadn’t been stabbed. I hadn’t stabbed him... I m-mean, I didn’t stab him...’
Quinn was stumbling over his words and beginning to gabble.
‘Would you please tell me if you and your father quarrelled on Saturday afternoon?’ Vogel interrupted.
‘Well yes, I suppose so. I mean, we never got on. We always q-quarrelled. I only went to the house to try and find Mum. When I realized she wasn’t there I left. I didn’t attack my father. I didn’t touch him, w-why would I? What would I gain? It’s only my mother I worry about...’
Again Quinn was gabbling. Vogel let him do so until he paused for breath, before speaking again. ‘Now that we have formally ascertained that you were at the scene of the crime at the relevant time, I would like you please to go through exactly what happened from the moment you arrived until you left.’
Greg looked as if he were about to respond. Then his lawyer stepped in.
‘Chief inspector, I am advising my client to say nothing more unless or until you formally charge him, and I have had time to discuss this matter with him fully,’ said Philip Stubbs suddenly.
Vogel wasn’t best pleased. Greg Quinn had begun to talk. The DCI had thought they might be getting somewhere at last. On the other hand, he didn’t blame Stubbs for interjecting. If Vogel had been a lawyer representing Quinn he would have done exactly the same. He decided to have one last try.
‘I thought you might like to get this sorted out now, Greg,’ persisted Vogel. ‘It could help you a lot if you told us honestly everything that happened between you and your father on Saturday afternoon.’
Greg glanced towards Philip Stubbs who said nothing more, merely shaking his head just very slightly.
‘C’mon Greg. This is your chance to get it all over with,’ encouraged Vogel.
‘No,’ said Greg after another few seconds silence. ‘I’m going to do as Mr Stubbs says. I’m not saying anything more.’
Morag Docherty had walked out into the hallway of Greg Quinn’s flat to take Vogel’s call.
When she re-entered the sitting room where she had left Gill Quinn watching TV, or at least staring at the set, Gill was standing right behind the door, holding the house phone in one hand.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked at once.
Morag suspected that Gill had been listening to her conversation with the DCI.
‘Nothing’s going on,’ Morag lied.
‘I’ve been trying to get Greg on the phone ever since you went outside to take that call,’ Gill continued. ‘He’s not picking up.’
‘Does he always pick up when you call him?’ asked Morag, avoiding Gill’s question as best she could. ‘Even when he’s at work?’