Destruction of Evidence (14 page)

‘Baby thug dreaming of growing up into a hard case.’ Peter kept his gaze fixed on the screen as he pushed a cigar into his mouth.

‘His mother’s twice his size, twice as ugly and has twice as many tattoos.’ Frank Howell set a tray of tea and biscuits on Reggie’s desk.

‘Father?’ Peter asked.

‘God might know, doubt his mother does. There are eight Jones brothers and two sisters. To quote the Welsh vernacular, “all rough as a dog’s…”’ Frank glanced at Reggie, ‘“rear end; tough as dried shit and twice as nasty.”’ He handed the mugs of tea around. Trevor noticed the sergeant served Reggie before him and Peter. A reminder that however the investigation ended, when it closed, he and Peter would return to their station, leaving Reggie to run her patch, recommend promotions and make or break careers.

He turned back to the screen and noticed Larry’s hands clasped on the table in front of him. ‘His nails and hands are clean. You allowed him to wash before questioning?’

Reggie hit the pause button on the machine. ‘I told you, I had his hands and feet bagged. Forensic scraped his skin, finger and toe nails and took his shoes and socks. Samples were taken during a full body search. Afterwards we allowed him to shower.’

‘If we hadn’t he would have stunk out the interview room, sir,’ Frank interposed.

Peter leaned towards the screen when the questioning began. The officer conducting the interview was attractive; slim, blonde with even features and soft grey eyes that occasionally hardened to steel.

After ten minutes Peter removed the cigar from his mouth. ‘Your Inspector is good. Doesn’t let the pressure up for a minute.’

‘I’m sure Inspector March will be delighted to get a commendation from you, Sergeant Collins,’ Reggie responded.

Trevor noticed Peter was watching the interviewing officer more closely than Larry Jones and wondered if Daisy’s influence would ever curb his wandering eye.

They watched intently until Carol pronounced the interview at an end. The screen went blank and Reggie switched off the machine.

‘Still want to interview Larry Jones, Inspector Joseph?’

‘First I need to talk to the officer who found and arrested Larry Jones in the derelict building at the Pitcher house. I’d also like to talk to Inspector March about her thoughts on that interview.’

‘Fire Officers discovered Larry Jones. Sergeant Howell,’ Reggie indicated Frank, who was stacking their tea cups on a tray, ‘was the first officer on the scene.’

‘Coincidence?’ Trevor asked him.

‘A fireman alerted me that a man had been found. Constable Murphy and I responded.’

‘I arrived a few minutes after Sergeant Howell and Constable Murphy, called in suited forensic officers, and oversaw the bagging and initial search of Larry Jones. I witnessed the officers remove the jewellery from the pocket of Larry Jones’s jacket. And, as I told you earlier and you heard Inspector March say, the only prints found on the bag containing the jewellery were Larry Jones’s.’

‘Smudges?’ Trevor checked.

‘Yes,’ Reggie conceded. ‘The bag and the pieces had been handled by someone wearing gloves. But that someone could have been Lee Pitcher. Michael Pitcher said his brother was fanatical about cleanliness when it came to antique pieces. He always wore latex gloves lest the perspiration from his skin damage or stain delicate surfaces.’

‘So the gloves were already in the house?’

‘Michael said Lee always kept a box in his room.’

There was a knock at the door. It opened in response to Reggie’s “Enter.”

Carol March walked in. Peter looked up; she made no attempt to introduce herself.

‘Thought you should see this right away, Super.’ She handed Reggie a sheet of paper.

Reggie read it. ‘When did this come in?’

‘The hospital telephoned the news half an hour ago. When I saw the record of the call, I rang back and asked to speak to a doctor. Those are the notes I made on our conversation.’

Reggie turned to Trevor. ‘You can forget about interviewing Michael Pitcher any time soon, Inspector Joseph. He was discharged from hospital at midday. His girlfriend drove him to her parents’ house. While she was making lunch, he drank a bottle of vodka, swallowed a pack of paracetamol and jumped into the river behind the house. She dragged him out and called the paramedics. They pumped his stomach. He’ll live, but he’s been admitted to the local psychiatric hospital.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ Peter mocked. ‘Medical opinion is, “he’s too unstable to be interviewed”.’

‘The boy’s lost his entire family,’ Frank snapped.

‘Given his present place of abode, “convenient” is the word that springs to mind,’ Peter countered.

‘Michael Pitcher was at his girlfriend’s, miles away from Main Street when the fire broke out.’ Frank had softened his tone but Trevor saw anger in his eyes.

‘How exactly do we know that?’ Peter challenged.

Trevor flashed his colleague a warning look but for reasons best known to himself Peter had chosen to needle Frank.

‘I was the first police officer at the scene. The landlord of the Angel Hotel was already in the Pitcher’s yard…’

‘What time was that?’ Trevor broke in.

‘Three twelve.’

‘Exactly?’

‘Within a minute or two. I took the call myself from the emergency services at three minutes past three. I asked Jim Murphy who was in the station with me to contact officers both on and off duty and order them to Main Street. I ran to the Pitcher’s yard because I’d been told the fire was at the back of the house. The fire tender arrived a couple of minutes after me. The officers ordered Tim Pryce and myself to Main Street for our own safety.’

‘The fire was reported to the emergency services when?’ Trevor looked from Frank to Reggie.

‘The first call from the fisherman was logged by the emergency services at 3 a.m.,’ Reggie answered. ‘A second was made by Tim Pryce the landlord of the Angel at two minutes past three.’

‘Was the fire visible from the Angel?’ Trevor asked.

‘The back of the building, yes. The Angel’s yard adjoins the Pitchers’. The fire wasn’t visible in Main Street when I arrived. I could smell burning when I left my car but there wasn’t any smoke in the street, not then.’ Frank divulged. ‘Tim Pryce was in the Pitchers’ yard watching the fire escape, hoping to see survivors. He said he’d been woken shortly after three o’clock by an explosion. He’d looked out of his bedroom window and seen flames shooting from the second floor of the Pitchers’ house.’

Trevor frowned. ‘The Angel pub is next door but one to the Pitchers’ house.’

‘The back overlooks the Pitcher’s yard. Alun Pitcher bought the accountant’s yard from them twenty or more years ago because he needed more space to park his cars and vans.’

‘Is Tim Pryce’s bedroom at the back?’

‘I presume it is, otherwise he wouldn’t have seen the fire.’

Trevor ignored Peter who was trying to catch his eye. ‘To return to Michael Pitcher. Who sent for him after the fire was reported?’

‘I did,’ Frank volunteered. ‘Tim Pryce told me he’d seen Michael and Alison drive off around midnight. At that stage none of the services knew how many people were in the Pitchers’ house or the location of the family bedrooms. It’s a large house.’

‘We noticed,’ Peter chipped in, aware just how much he was irritating Frank.

‘I telephoned a neighbour of Alison – that’s Michael’s girlfriend – and asked him to drive Michael into town. Henry Clarke – he’s an ENT consultant, went over there, woke Michael and Alison and brought them in.’

‘How far is it from Main Street to Michael’s girlfriend’s house?’ Trevor asked.

‘At night, on empty roads, no more than twenty minutes, twenty-five if you stick to the speed limit,’ Carol said.

‘Is the timeline finished?’ Trevor asked.

‘It’s still being linked to witness statements,’ Carol told him, ‘but I can get you one as far as it’s been updated.’

‘Thank you.’

Carol left the office. She returned a few minutes later with a sheaf of papers. She handed one to Trevor and one to Reggie.

‘We have to share,’ Peter complained.

‘They’re still being processed. I thought you would like the final version when it’s ready.’ Carol pulled up a chair and sat down.

‘Why didn’t you send a police car to pick up Michael Pitcher?’ Trevor asked Frank.

‘All available officers were clearing and securing Main Street,’ he explained. ‘We haven’t huge resources like you in the city. We had neither officers nor car to spare.’

‘You do like to improvise in the sticks,’ Peter goaded.

‘As I said Henry Clarke is a consultant…’

‘And that makes him honest?’ Peter faced Frank. ‘Haven’t you heard of Harold Shipman?’

Trevor interrupted. ‘To return to Michael Pitcher. I take it he’s intelligent and educated.’

‘It’s no secret that patients in a psychiatric hospital can’t be interviewed without their doctor’s consent and it’s also common knowledge that it doesn’t take much of an actor to fake mental illness,’ Peter said.

Reggie finally allowed her anger to surface. ‘Are you making an observation from personal experience, Sergeant Collins?’

‘Professional experience, Superintendent Moore. Forgive my cynicism,’ Peter didn’t sound in the least apologetic. But when you’ve been in the job as long as I have, it’s difficult to think the best of people – especially the recently bereaved who stand to gain from murder. I take it he is heir to the family’s considerable estate and, no doubt, insurance policies?’

CHAPTER TEN

Trevor broke the silence. ‘Do we know anything about Michael Pitcher’s relationship with his parents?’

‘They were close. The whole family were,’ Carol March answered briefly.

‘You knew the Pitchers?’ Trevor waited for Carol’s response. She was attractive, well groomed and, like her boss, projected a professional image. He sensed it would be difficult to get to know the woman behind the uniform.

‘Everyone in the town does – did.’ Outwardly Carol remained cool and composed, but Trevor sensed she was tense. Stress or grief?

‘You knew them socially?’ he asked.

‘I keep telling you, practically everyone in this town knows everyone else,’ Reggie reminded Trevor tersely.

‘There’s a difference between being aware of someone and knowing them socially,’ Trevor replied.

‘Mrs Pitcher and my mother were at school together,’ Carol divulged. ‘They are – were members of the local amateur dramatic group. Families and friends are expected to support the productions. I saw the boys around town as well as in the theatre. When I returned here about seven years ago, the first place I went to look for furniture was Alun Pitcher’s auction rooms. I told James what I wanted. He tracked down some original Art Deco pieces and restored them for me at a reasonable price.’

‘You haven’t always lived here?’ Trevor checked.

‘I grew up here but left to pursue a career elsewhere. When my professional and personal life didn’t develop the way I’d hoped. I returned and joined the force.’

‘Were the Pitchers too close?’ Peter questioned.

Frank bristled. ‘What are you are insinuating, Sergeant Collins?’

‘Don’t you think it’s odd? Three adult sons, all living at home. I couldn’t wait to get away from my parents. Left home at seventeen…’

‘No doubt your parents were glad to get shot of you,’ Frank broke in.

Reggie gave Frank a warning look at the same time Trevor fired one Peter’s way.

‘The Pitchers’ adapted their house to accommodate the family’s needs. They all had private space,’ Carol observed. ‘When Lee converted the attic into a studio flat six years ago, they turned his old bedroom into a second lounge so the boys could entertain their friends away from their parents.’

‘You went there?’ Peter filched his cigars from his pocket.

‘Occasionally,’ she faced him coolly almost daring him to probe deeper.

Peter accepted the challenge. ‘To visit which one of the Pitcher boys?’

‘Generally as one of a group,’ she answered tersely, clearly resenting the personal nature of Peter’s questions. ‘This town offers an excellent social life for those who chose to participate. There’s something on almost every night of the week.’

‘Like what?’ Trevor asked.

‘Concerts, amateur and professional theatre productions; an art house cinema is attached to the professional theatre and we’ve a multiplex a few miles away. There are excellent restaurants in and around town. And that’s without the clubs, the Rotary, WI, Arts society, Round Table, Charitable committees…’

‘You sound like an advertisement for Wales. “For a good social life move west”,’ Peter mocked.

‘I wouldn’t live in rural Wales if I didn’t believe the quality of life superior to that offered by most cities and towns in the UK, Sergeant Collins,’ Carol answered.

‘What can you tell me about Michael Pitcher?’ Trevor asked Carol.

‘He graduated in fine arts a couple of months ago. But he’s been cleaning and repairing paintings for his father since he was in Tertiary College. When he went to Art College he asked some of the pub landlords and Dr Edwards if he could hang his paintings on their walls. As a result he established a lucrative sideline in portraits of people, pets, houses and local landscapes.’