In spite of the hour, Sadie did not demur. It was as if she knew, thought Helen, that this might be the last breakfast they would ever share.
Forty-One
Vogel called Peters to arrange a team meeting at the Bideford incident room for later that morning, and had just finished briefing her about Gill Quinn’s confession, Wayne Williams’ admission of deliberate falsehood and, in confidence at this stage, what he had learned from Nobby Clarke of Helen Harris’ past, when Saslow arrived at Barnstaple nick a few minutes after eight a.m.
‘C’mon, Dawn, let’s head for Bideford and stop at the café on the Instow road,’ he said. ‘I’ll fill you in over breakfast.’
Saslow looked mildly surprised. As well she might. Vogel was not given to planning meal breaks during a major investigation.
With obvious enthusiasm she ordered a full English — no doubt chosen because she had no idea when she would have the opportunity to eat again — but was only halfway through it when Vogel’s phone rang.
The DCI, a vegetarian but not a vegan, had nearly finished his scrambled eggs, mushrooms and hash browns. He took a final mouthful as he answered the call. It was DI Peters.
‘We’ve got Helen Harris here, boss,’ Peters began. ‘She just arrived. Claims she has something very important to tell us, but she’ll only speak to you.’
Vogel was on his feet at once.
‘Take her along to the interview room, and tell her I’m on my way,’ he said as he ended the call.
He was already heading for the door as he spoke to Saslow. ‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘We have a rather extraordinary visitor.’
Saslow had experienced Vogel’s tendency to abandon meals before. She clearly had a survival plan. She swiftly picked up her last sausage and rasher of bacon along with the remaining two slices of toast in her paper napkin, leaving only her second fried egg and some baked beans behind. She also remembered to pay, dropping a ten-pound note and a handful of change on the table.
‘C’mon, Saslow,’ yelled Vogel from the doorway.
He just couldn’t wait. He knew this meeting was going to be highly significant.
But he most certainly wasn’t prepared for the revelation which greeted him when he and Saslow walked into the interview room to join Helen Harris, who had duly been escorted there by Peters and was already sitting at the table in the middle of the room, with her back to the door. She stood up and spoke before either of the two officers had time to say anything.
‘I would like to confess to the murder of Thomas Quinn,’ she announced at once.
Vogel was amazed. He glanced at Saslow. Her jaw had quite literally dropped. He suspected his may also have done.
‘Well, why not?’ he enquired rhetorically, after a brief silence. ‘Everybody else is today.’
Helen looked bewildered. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘You should know that we’ve already had Gill Quinn in at dawn confessing to the murder of her husband,’ Vogel replied.
‘Oh c’mon, surely you don’t believe that?’ asked Helen. ‘She’s just trying to protect her son. You know she couldn’t have killed Thomas.’
‘Do I?’ asked Vogel, as he moved behind the table and lowered himself into a chair. ‘I’m beginning to wonder exactly what I do and don’t know about this case. Would you please sit down, Helen. I think we have rather a lot to talk about, don’t you?’
Helen lowered her head slightly in acquiescence. She obediently sat opposite Vogel, and Saslow sat next to the DCI.
Vogel offered Helen the opportunity for legal representation, which she refused, and Saslow started the video and recited the names of those present.
‘I’d like to begin by asking you to repeat what you told us concerning the murder of Thomas Quinn before we had formally begun this interview and commenced the video recording,’ began Vogel.
Without a moment’s hesitation Helen repeated her confession.
‘I also know who killed Jason Patel,’ she added.
‘Do you indeed?’ asked Vogel, again rhetorically. He glanced at Saslow once more. Her eyes were riveted on Helen Harris. It was already clear that this meeting was going to reach far beyond anything he had even considered.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Now, before we go any further, I think you’d better tell me who you are, don’t you?’
Helen raised both eyebrows.
‘You know who I am,’ she said.
‘I know who you’ve been for the last twenty-one years,’ said Vogel bluntly. ‘I also know that you are on witness protection. But I have no idea who you were before you were supplied with a new identity. And I would very much like to know, as I suspect it will have a substantial bearing on the investigations I am heading.’
‘Ah,’ said Helen. ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting this.’
Suddenly she looked unsure of herself. Vogel knew that he had probably overstepped his authority. He thought he’d better cover himself.
‘You should be aware, however, that I have no right to try to make you tell me your original identity,’ he said. ‘And that those who arranged for you to be able to start a new life have chosen not to share that information with me, as is normal in these situations except in the most exceptional circumstances.’
‘Would confessing to one murder and being prepared to give evidence on another count as exceptional circumstances, do you think?’ asked Helen, very nearly echoing the question Vogel had asked Nobby Clarke the previous day.
‘Well, it might—’ Vogel began, wondering where this was going to take things exactly.
‘Don’t worry, chief inspector,’ she interrupted. ‘I came here this morning prepared to tell you everything I know, and everything about my past and my involvement in both murders, albeit only very tenuously in one of them, that might assist you in getting to the truth and bringing your investigations to a successful conclusion. I just don’t know quite where to start, that’s all.’
‘You could start at the beginning,’ interjected Saslow.
Helen looked at her thoughtfully. Then she half smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose I could,’ she said. ‘I am afraid it’s a very long story though.’
‘Please,’ said Saslow. ‘Take your time. We’re not going anywhere, are we, boss?’
Vogel shook his head. He noticed not for the first time that Helen’s hands were trembling, and watched as she clasped them together on her lap, took a deep breath, and began.
‘Twenty years ago I was Lilian St John. I was born Lilian Cook. When I was thirty-two I met, fell in love with, and married a rich handsome South African called Kurt St John, with whom I believed I was going to live the dream. But that dream quickly turned into an unimaginable nightmare...’
Vogel and Saslow listened in silent enthralment as the woman they knew as Helen Harris told an extraordinary tale, of a dream wedding, the abusive horrors that began on her honeymoon, the final terrible beating that led to her fleeing the London flat she had shared with her husband. How he had caught up with her and she had stabbed him with an unlikely weapon, a butter knife, in desperate self-defence, yet had been imprisoned for causing grievous bodily harm. How he had continued to stalk her even inside prison, and how, when she had her sentence slashed on appeal she had even changed her name by deed poll and cut herself off from everyone she knew in a desperate bid to finally escape him.
‘He caught up with me in the end, of course; it took him a year, but he found me as I knew he would,’ she said. ‘And that was when I killed him.’
Saslow looked totally shocked. But Vogel had started to recall the case. It hadn’t got enormous publicity at first, except the more salacious aspects in the more salacious newspapers, because of the tendency at the time not to pay any great attention to crimes that were regarded as domestics. But there were certain aspects of it which had attracted considerable interest and led to further police enquiries and an Old Bailey trial not directly connected with Lilian St John’s actions.