He pulled on one of my old red Realm and Empire hoodies and started for the door. For a moment I thought he was going to the little holiday home on the coast.
‘Work,’ he said.
‘OK.’
Stan followed him to the door and then came padding back into the loft when Jackson had left. I stared at the laptop but resisted the urge to open it, and I resisted the urge to look at his browsing history. There seemed to be no point. I felt like I already knew what it contained.
Instead I walked to the window and I stared down at the great meat market of Smithfield. It was in total darkness because London Central Markets, to give Smithfield its official name, is not open at the weekend or Bank Holidays.
So wherever my oldest friend was going, he certainly wasn’t going to work.
18
I looked across the table at Paul Warboys. He held my gaze but his expression was pleasant. I had never seen anyone so calm in an interview room. But then he had done this many times before.
‘OK, are we ready?’ I said. ‘Is everybody ready?’ I glanced at Edie Wren, sitting by my side, and Warboys and his lawyer on the other side of the small table. ‘When I press this button, we will start recording . . .’
Warboys smiled gently at the beep, his deeply tanned face as creased as old leather. He crossed his arms and his heavy gold jewellery clinked in the box-like room. His lawyer hovered at his side, staring at me over his reading glasses, ready to pounce.
‘All right,’ I said, ‘this interview is being recorded and may be given in evidence if any case is brought to trial. My name is DC Max Wolfe and I am currently serving with Homicide and Serious Crime Command here at West End Central, 27 Savile Row, London. The other officer present is DC Edie Wren. The time is – look at that – exactly noon.’ I nodded at the elderly gangster on the other side of the table. ‘Please state your name and profession.’
‘Paul Warboys. Businessman. Retired.’
‘Further to our previous interview at your home, Mr Warboys, I’d like to ask – what were your movements on the day that Hector Welles was abducted and murdered?’
The lawyer leaned forward. ‘I’d like to remind you that my client is not under arrest.’
Warboys held up a hand. His lawyer sat back in his chair.
‘I was at home. All day. All night.’
Most people become impatient or irritated when they are asked the same questions more than once. But not Paul Warboys.
‘How did you learn about Welles’ death?’
‘I told you before and now I’ll tell you again.’ It was said with a wry smile. ‘And I’ll keep on telling you the same thing as many times as you like. The phone started ringing. And then it didn’t stop.’
‘Who called you?’
‘Everybody called me, Detective. And they all said exactly the same thing: “Somebody just hanged the bastard who killed your grandson.” I’m paraphrasing.’ His pale blue eyes glistened with tears and he laughed, amused at himself, the old gangster who was still capable of crying. ‘That’s what they all told me. Somebody lynched the bastard who knocked down little Danny when he was crossing the road.’
Paul Warboys smiled at me again. His teeth were white and even. Most of those old London faces didn’t care too much about their dental work. I couldn’t imagine Ronnie and Reggie Kray worrying about their flossing. But Paul Warboys had spent a lot of money and time getting his teeth to look that good.
‘Did you ever meet Barry Wilder?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘Who? Sorry, Max. You’re going to have to give me a clue.’
‘Barry Wilder’s young daughter was a victim of Mahmud Irani’s grooming gang.’
‘Ah. Mahmud Irani. The first one they hanged.’
‘Yes, the first one. I’ll ask you again – did you ever meet Barry Wilder?’
‘No.’ He laughed. ‘You want me to take a lie detector, Detective? I’m willing.’
His lawyer shot forward. ‘Paul, I strongly advise—’
Warboys again silenced him with a raised hand.
‘It’s not necessary,’ I said. ‘But I appreciate the offer. I’m concluding this interview.’
I looked at the one-way mirror of the interview room.
And I smiled back at Paul Warboys.
Because I had someone much better than a lie detector.
* * *
I walked Warboys to the main entrance of West End Central.
Doll, his wife, was waiting for him under the big blue lamp that hangs outside 27 Savile Row. She came to his side and gave him a quick, fierce hug, gold chains sliding down her thin brown arms. She peered into her husband’s face.
‘You done?’
He nodded. ‘For now.’
A chauffeured Mercedes was idling by the kerb.
‘Are you going back to Essex?’ I said.
‘Spain,’ he said. ‘Just for a few days. My brief can give you our schedule.’
I nodded. ‘OK.’
He held out his hand to me and I shook it. But then he wouldn’t let go. He kept my hand in his grip, and he held my gaze with his cold blue eyes.
‘I’d like to wish you luck in your investigation,’ he said. ‘But my grandson was the best thing that ever happened to me, Max. An innocent little boy who never did anyone in this world any harm. And I really hope these chaps – the Hanging Club – get away with it.’
Up in MIR-1 Tara Jones was running voice biometrics on a recording of the Paul Warboys interview. His laconic old London accent filled the room.
‘Paul Warboys. Businessman. Retired.’
It was a voice from an old London that no longer existed. It made the graph on the screens in front of Tara jump like lightning. When she looked up at us, Edie said, ‘So, Tara – what’s the difference between a lie detector and voice biometrics?’
‘Approximately the difference between a horse and a Ferrari,’ Tara said. ‘A polygraph – or lie detector – is hundred-year-old technology. It records physiological changes during questioning – blood pressure, breathing, heart rate, sweating and so on. And it’s fine if you are screening new employees. You’ll know if they’re lying about their CV, their qualifications and their smoking habits. But for someone like Paul Warboys? It just doesn’t work as well as it does in the movies. Someone like Warboys will be aware of what we call countermeasures. Confidence, controlled breathing, establishing a friendly – or at least a workable – rapport with the questioner. Confidence, above all. Not being scared by the process or his environment. That’s why a polygraph is not considered reliable evidence in a court of law. It is Jurassic technology. But voice biometrics does what we want a lie detector to do.’
We let her work. I stared down at the street, sipping a triple espresso from the Bar Italia until Tara Jones leaned back in her chair and ran her hands through her hair.
‘He’s telling the truth,’ she said.
* * *
In the afternoon Barry Wilder came in. There was no lawyer with him. But his wife Jean was there. She was waiting in the corridor outside the interview room with him, furiously stubbing out one unfiltered Camel on the floor and immediately lighting another one. Barry Wilder got to his feet at the sight of us, moving in weary slow motion, as if every movement took enormous effort.
‘There’s no smoking in this building, ma’am,’ Edie told his wife.
Jean Wilder glared at her and muttered under her breath as we went into the interview room.
‘Little ginger cow.’
Edie shook her head and let it go.
Barry Wilder eased himself into the chair opposite us.
‘OK,’ I said, ‘this interview is being recorded and may be given in evidence if any case is brought to trial. My name is DC Max Wolfe and I am currently serving with Homicide and Serious Crime Command here at West End Central, 27 Savile Row, London. The other officer present is DC Edie Wren. The time is 3 p.m.’ I nodded at Barry Wilder. If he had once been a man of violence then he looked as if all the violence had been knocked out of him.