Chapter 12
The next morning Mark went home before work. Clarissa was still in bed and her daily had not arrived. He did pause for a moment at the foot of the stairs but it wouldn’t do — and especially not with Fielding outside. He wondered whether she had been there all night. No, it was one thing to rid the world of friendless strangers but he would always be the first suspect as far as his wife was concerned. No, it would take more careful planning than that, especially now.
He went to the back of the house and took the key from its place by the back door. Then he drove to a parade of shops some distance away to get it copied. He wore a crash helmet while the man did the job. Mark thought it unlikely that he could be recognised. By the time he got back, Clarissa was awake and having breakfast. He didn’t think she knew he had come there earlier.
‘Have you got the key to the back door?’ she asked. ‘It’s missing; Mrs Duggan couldn’t get outside.
He took the original from his pocket, put it into the keyhole and unlocked the door. ‘Now she can,’ he said.
‘Why did you take it?’
‘I thought you might bolt the street door but you can’t do that to the back door,’ he said.
‘You didn’t come back last night anyway,’ she said.
‘No,’ he said.
Clarissa stared at him for a few seconds and he stared back. ‘Don’t you think it’s about time you moved out altogether,’ she said.
‘If that’s what you want,’ he said.
‘I do,’ she said.
Fielding rang Clarissa’s doorbell once she saw Mark Turney drive off for the second time that morning. She had seen him go off at night and Comben had told her where he had been all night. It seemed the right time to get Clarissa’s co-operation. They searched Turney’s bedroom together.
Turney hadn’t moved out completely and his passport was not hard to find. She took a selection of his clothes but doubted that they would tell them anything. The American passport was enough to be going on with, surprisingly it was in the name of Mark Turney.
She arranged to meet Comben at Turney’s workplace. An office was made available for the three of them. Fielding assured him that her questions were unofficial and that no record would be kept. He seemed very calm and, as Fielding expected, had a plausible explanation. Yes, he was American and he had left the States because of harassment from the FBI. He had hoped for a calmer life over her but it hadn’t turned out that way, so he had changed his name again.
‘And again.’ said Fielding.
‘And back again,’ he said, pointing at his passport.
They left him and took his clothes to the station. He agreed to that with disappointing alacrity.
When Anderson woke, he felt as though he had been groping towards an answer all night — a solution that lay, now, just beyond his consciousness. Julian was innocent – the feeling was still there – but how could he prove it. Before it had been a hunch and the situation with Clarissa could have affected his judgement, but this morning it appeared more concrete, as if the evidence were there if he only knew where to look.
He squashed his down pillow into the back of his neck and lay on his back. Then he moved his legs and took pleasure in the smooth feel of the Egyptian cotton sheets. The distraction loosened some memory and he got the impression that he was on the edge of something. But it was no good lying there searching for it; like those names that come when they are least expected, this thought would too. He simply had to ignore it for a while until it wanted to be recognised.
The taste in his mouth drove him up and into the bathroom. Toothbrushing first, followed by a shower and a shave, then he dressed but did not yet put on a jacket. He wanted more time and was not yet ready to go into the station and face the inevitable queries about progress that would come down from above. He had had quite enough of Kearney for that week.
He went into his study and took the file that included Julian’s confession – if his remembrances could be called that – from the middle desk drawer. He hadn’t thought it prudent to leave it at the station while he was hiding Simanovicz’s arrest from the Super. He took it into the lounge. This was not a desk job; he needed to relax and let his mind wander a little. He sat in a leather buttoned Chesterfield armchair and read the relevant documents. It was not a fat file. Simanovicz had not said a great deal. He apparently had little to say and what he had said sounded confused.
Anderson imagined that if Julian ever reached the witness stand he would agree to anything a good counsel would put to him. He would not make a good witness but, more than that, there was enough in his testimony to send him away. Anderson knew he could chalk up a success in this case right then if he wanted.
The peculiar thing was that the dream confession sounded more real than the one he gave while wide-awake. Stevens had tried to explain this; he assured them it wasn’t unusual for hypnosis to produce greater clarity than straightforward probing. He was equally sanguine about Julian living in the same street as the two murder victims. If he was the murderer, Stevens said, it showed he really didn’t want to get away with it; he wanted to be punished. There was always that ’if‘. Stevens wouldn’t commit himself; proving Julian had murdered was not something for a psychologist, he said, it was Anderson’s job.
What stuck in Anderson’s mind was the coincidence of Amanda living opposite Simanovicz. Mark Turney had moved his mistress into the same road as Julian. It was as though he had wanted Julian to see her, as though he had wanted Julian to reveal himself. But, if he knew where the man was, why hadn’t he told them earlier? Why had he exposed Amanda to such danger? But then, if Julian was harmless, there never had been any danger?
Suddenly a small image came to his mind. It was the outside of the door to Julian’s flat. He needed to see it again. It took him less than ten minutes to walk to the house and let himself in from the street with Julian’s keys — something else he hadn’t yet officially lodged at the station.
He took the stairs two at a time and there it was: the door to Julian’s flat had a spyhole. Anderson knew what one saw through a spyhole; he also knew what happened when a person came up close and looked into the spyhole from the other side. He opened the door of the flat and looked through the spyhole. With the opposite door open Julian could have clearly seen into the flat.
Julian’s testimony was realistic; his account was accurate. He had seen the murderer through his spyhole that was why his view was distorted. Then he must have followed the man on foot and seen the body dumped in the park. It wouldn’t have been too difficult. If Julian had followed the car to the corner by the park, he could have seen it stop further down the road near Clarissa’s house. Julian had then walked down the hill himself but had arrived too late to see the murderer mutilate the body but he had seen the man go into a house by the side of the park. They had the wrong man and Anderson was certain now who the right one was.
He walked back home and drove to Mark’s office. He had left work for that day so he went to Amanda’s flat: there was no one at home. It was a long shot but Anderson then drove to the park. Clarissa’s house was empty. He wasn’t there either. He turned back towards the park and wondered what to do next.
The light was fading but the last shafts of sunlight lit up the leaves that remained on the trees in the park. He needed to think so he walked into the park and watched the luminous yellows and oranges fade as the sun finally went down, then he drove home.
Clarissa had to be told but he was shy of doing so. He sipped his Early Grey tea and, for the moment, was uncharacteristically passive. He had now been out of contact with the station for over twenty-four hours. The Super would want to know what was happening and the Stoke Newington station needed some reason to hang on to Simanovicz. He couldn’t continue like this. He needed to make some decisions.
First though he should speak to Clarissa. She had a right to know what was going on. If she was married to a murderer, he should tell her. It was dark by the time he arrived at the safe flat and there were no lights on inside and no officer outside. He rang the bell but got no answer.
He phoned Comben’s mobile. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.
‘Outside Amanda Clayden’s flat. Mark Turney’s inside.’
That was the good news, then his sergeant told him the bad news.
‘Kearney wants to see you,’ he said. ‘He wants to know why the officer in charge of a murder case cannot be reached and he wants to know what progress you’ve made.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘I said your line was out of order and that you probably didn’t know since your mobile was switched off.’
‘And?’
‘I said nothing about Simanovicz. But there is something else.’
Anderson waited expectantly
‘The Super sent Mrs Downing home.’
‘Why?’
‘Apparently her husband kicked up a fuss and she was getting bored.’
‘What’s Fielding been up to?’
‘She found Turney’s American passport and we both questioned him. Fielding’s outside Mrs Downing’s house now. We’ve still nothing definite to connect him to the murders.’ ‘Stay where you are. I’ll relieve Fielding by the park later.’
He went back to his flat and phoned the Super at home and asked who’d authorised Clarissa being sent home. He knew what the answer would be.
‘I sent Clarissa Downing back home. Her husband made a fuss and it was best all round.’
Anderson felt hot and wondered whether his face was red. He was sorry the Super couldn’t see how angry he was. ‘This is my case, sir, why wasn’t I consulted or even told?’ he said.
‘You couldn’t be reached. I had to act on my own initiative.’
‘I suppose you know that she might be in danger.’
‘Look John,’ the Super said, ’you’ve got too close to this. I’ve been looking at the evidence, there’s no reason to believe Mrs Downing is caught up in this thing. You’re worrying unnecessarily.’
Anderson knew what the man meant. It was his own involvement with Clarissa that had prompted the Super’s decision. He himself was to blame for putting Clarissa at risk. He rang Fielding’s mobile and arranged to relieve her later. He wondered how long they would have to keep it up.
At about three in the morning he drove round to the park. Fielding got out of her car to speak to him. He was pleased that she had been so alert.
‘You heard about Turney’s passport,’ she said.
He nodded.
‘He really is Mark Turney — born in Memphis thirty-two years ago. His story’s plausible, says he’s been harassed by Stevens and he was on flight from the States at the right time. I took some of his clothes back to the station but I don’t think we’ll find anything.’
‘Is he still at Amanda’s?’
‘Comben says so. We’ve been phoning each other every hour. He seems content to stay all night.’
‘Can he stay awake?’ Anderson was sorry he asked that.
‘He’s young, so, yes, he can stay awake.’
Anderson was even sorrier about the answer but didn’t rise to the bait. He was sure in his own mind that he could stay awake. He would feel better inside with Clarissa but that wouldn’t be right in the circumstances. There had been too much talk already; he didn’t want any more to get back to Kearney.