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  ‘But if he did, his actions could have been dictated by arcane local factors,’ McKenna said. The lights changed and, as the line of traffic jerked forward, he touched the indicator to turn left on to the Buxton road.

  Ellen had a large-scale road map open on her lap. ‘It’s about two miles to Rowarth Rise estate, where Dugdale lives, and fifteen or so to Buxton, where Dr Spenser, the pathologist, lives. Will we be seeing him?’

  ‘Probably not,’ McKenna told her. ‘His reports are very comprehensive, and there’s been no dispute about his findings.’

  ‘I found his scene-of-crime report far more harrowing than the autopsy report,’ Ellen said. ‘It was probably that warning against visual identification. When I was helping Rene wash up after lunch, she said Linda insisted on seeing Trisha’s remains. Then she told people exactly what she’d seen, which could be why nobody can stop talking about it. Rene says Smith’s an out and out monster, and if he’s any sense, he’ll get out of town while he’s still got legs to walk on.’

  ‘I trust you told her to warn the town off any lynch mob activity?’ Jack broke his silence.

  ‘Our being here focuses local attention,’ McKenna said. ‘Until we’re gone, Smith will be the main topic of interest, and as he’s shown no reluctance to make a public spectacle of himself, he can’t complain if the public turns out to watch, and judges in the process.’

  *

  Rowarth Rise estate consisted of twenty or so detached and semi-detached modern houses, built of local stone and fronted by lozenge-shaped gardens. The pavement line followed the gardens, zigzagging along the side of the hill behind a row of old sycamore trees, their denuded branches stark against the overcast sky.

  McKenna parked between other cars angled against the kerb, and, his briefcase leaden with papers, walked across frost-rimed grass to the unlatched garden gate, Jack beside him carrying the tape-recorder, Ellen with her laptop computer.

  A small, bent, wispy-haired man in lawyer’s pin-stripes opened the front door before they reached the step, and introduced himself. ‘Rodney Hinchcliffe, Superintendent. I’m Detective Inspector Dugdale’s legal representative.’ When McKenna had introduced his own contingent, Hinchcliffe added: ‘I really must protest about the way you’ve chosen to conduct this investigation. Turning a person’s own home into an interrogation centre is quite inappropriate, especially when there are more than adequate facilities at the town’s police station. Mrs Dugdale was forced to go out, and she’s had to arrange to keep the children away until I contact her with the all clear.’

  The hallway was carpeted in a warm, rosy pink, and McKenna carefully wiped his feet on the doormat before following the solicitor inside. ‘I note your objections, Mr Hinchcliffe,’ he said, ‘but I’m sure you appreciate that using the local facilities could give rise to far graver concerns.’

  ‘Such as?’ Hinchcliffe demanded, stopping in his tracks.

  ‘If this investigation is to succeed, we must remain as independent and as far removed from influence as possible. Our being based at Haughton police station could put us in danger of being drawn into institutional crisis and neurosis, and of adopting the distorted perspectives of others. In addition,’ he went on, moving along the hall and forcing the solicitor to do likewise, ‘the local officers would be aware of our every move, which, in my opinion, would place DI Dugdale and his colleagues at an even greater disadvantage, and under quite intolerable pressure.’

  Frowning with annoyance, Hinchcliffe pushed open the door to what was obviously the family’s sitting-room, where Dugdale stood before a large gas fire, wiping his hands nervously down his trouser legs, and not sure if a smile might, or might not, be appropriate.

  Shocked by the man’s gaunt appearance, McKenna thought he looked as if the stuffing had been literally knocked from his body, and tried to ignore the thought that guilt usually wore a different face. The apparatus of interview plugged in, switched on and readied, he announced the date, the time, the names and status of those present, then said: ‘For the tape, Inspector Dugdale, please state your name, rank, and date of birth.’

  Dugdale tried to speak, and failed, then cleared his throat, and tried once more. The words emerged slowly and falteringly, as if these essential details eluded his memory.

  ‘Thank you,’ McKenna said. ‘I will now show you various statements made by yourself, and given by yourself, with regard to the investigation into Trisha Stanton Smith’s death, the arrest and charge of Piers Stanton Smith, and statements made subsequent to the submissions of Father John Barclay. Please read these statements, and say if there is anything in them with which you now disagree, or which you wish to amend. At a later stage, I shall deal with your testimony at Smith’s trial.’

  As McKenna handed over each sheet of paper, some now dog-eared and grimy, Dugdale obeyed his instructions, then gave the papers to his solicitor. The rustle of papers, the rasp of breath and the hiss of fire grew oppressive, and Dugdale began to sweat, drawing his finger around the neck of his shirt. Jack and McKenna watched him, while Ellen gazed through the window at a moorland panorama, where the earth reflected the grey of the sky.

  Taking the last sheet from his interrogator, Dugdale said, in a more certain voice: ‘I don’t disagree with anything, sir, and I don’t wish to change anything.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ McKenna asked.

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Throughout the investigation, you reported to Superintendent Ryman at police headquarters in Ravensdale. You also reported to the station commander in Haughton.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but Mr Ryman decided what procedures should be taken.’

  ‘Did you agree with Mr Ryman’s command?’

  Dugdale shifted in his chair, glancing at his solicitor. ‘It wasn’t really a matter of agreement or not, sir. For all practical purposes, what happened was up to me.’

  ‘That’s common procedure,’ McKenna commented. ‘Were there any specific issues on which you required Mr Ryman’s consent, support, or co-operation?’

  ‘Only Smith’s arrest. He rubber-stamped it, so to speak.’

  ‘Did he ever advise pursuit of specific lines of inquiry?’

  ‘Well, no. He didn’t know the people involved, he never visited the crime scene, and it was a long time since he’d worked in this area.’

  ‘Headquarters set up a toll-free telephone line after the murder,’ McKenna said. ‘If someone lodged information on that line, or with Crimestoppers, who would receive the information? You or Mr Ryman?’

  ‘It would have been relayed to me,’ Dugdale said. ‘But no one called, sir. There was a thorough trawl as soon as Father Barclay turned up. Nothing had been overlooked, and certainly not his letter.’ He paused, then added: ‘If we’d had it, believe me, Complaints and Discipline would have found it. They turned the station upside down, came here, then searched Wendy Lewis’s house and Colin Bowden’s flat.’

  ‘Don’t be naive,’ McKenna chided. ‘If you decided to frame Smith, you’d get rid of Father Barclay’s letter first. Why didn’t you interview Father Fauvel?’

  ‘Because we had no call to consider him until the papers for the appeal hearing arrived. As far as we were concerned, he was just the parish priest for the Catholics.’

  ‘And of whose flock Smith had become a member.’

  ‘He wasn’t relevant.’

  ‘He was very relevant in the end, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Look, sir, Brett Fauvel had months to come forward about this letter, only he didn’t. He didn’t mention it at the trial either, even though he was a character witness for Smith.’

  ‘According to his testimony at appeal, he claims the letter was handed to you, unopened as Father Barclay instructed, and that as he heard nothing further, he assumed it was irrelevant.’ McKenna glanced at his notes. ‘Father Barclay had no idea who was running the investigation into Trisha’s murder, or even if it were still active, but assumed, quite reasonably, that Father Fauvel would know, and would know who was i
n charge. In his affidavit for the appeal hearing Father Fauvel states that he called at the police station on the afternoon of the day he received the letter, and gave it to you.’ Watching Dugdale speculatively, he added: ‘He also states that you identified yourself to him. The detail in his statements, and their level of simplicity, have the ring of truth.’

  ‘Then why didn’t anyone else remember seeing him there?’

  ‘Probably for the same reason that none of the women working at St Michael’s church on the afternoon Trisha died could be certain they’d actually seen Smith there at the time. You know as well as I do how unreliable the public memory becomes when challenged, and especially so where someone like Father Fauvel is involved. He’s very well known, apparently very distinctive, very prominently involved in all kinds of activities and, when he’s wearing his social-worker hat, a fairly frequent visitor to what is a very busy police station. In other words, he could be seen anywhere in the area at any time, and therefore’, McKenna concluded, ‘few people are willing to commit themselves to when he might have been seen in a particular place.’

  Hands trembling almost violently, Dugdale said: ‘He did not give me any letter. I never saw him or spoke to him throughout the investigation.’ He looked squarely at his interrogator. ‘I’m calling him a liar, sir, priest or not.’

  ‘What motive could he have?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  Hinchcliffe leaned forward. ‘Has it occurred to anyone, Superintendent, that this letter is nothing more than a myth, and that both these priests are lying?’

  ‘That is an issue I shall have to pursue, although Father Barclay’s actions speak of his being an honest man, and to our knowledge he has no stake in any aspect of Trisha’s death or your client’s investigation,’ replied McKenna. ‘Father Fauvel’s statements on Smith’s behalf indicate a regard quite contrary to the notion that he would allow an innocent man to go to prison.’

  ‘I don’t understand why Father Barclay didn’t tell Father Fauvel what was in the letter,’ Dugdale said. ‘Why not, at the very least, make its importance clear?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ McKenna was thoughtful. ‘Perhaps he thought there was no need.’ He shuffled his papers. ‘Leaving aside Father Fauvel for the moment, were there other lines of inquiry you should have pursued?’

  ‘You want the benefit of my hindsight, sir?’ Dugdale’s voice was bitter. ‘We did what seemed right and necessary at the time.’

  ‘Were you negligent?’

  ‘No, sir. We probably missed odd things here and there, but that’s inevitable in any investigation, and this one was a real mystery. Trisha was well-liked, she hadn’t upset anyone, she didn’t have any insurance, she didn’t owe large amounts of money, no one seemed to benefit from her death, and she had no compromising knowledge about anyone apart from her ex-husband, so we began to wonder about Beryl. Wendy Lewis said she could have been pathologically jealous of Trisha.’

  ‘Why should she be?’

  ‘Second wives often worry that the husband will go back to the first,’ Dugdale asserted. ‘There’s so much history between them. Apart from that, a failed marriage doesn’t exactly point towards reliability, and Beryl already had more than enough to make her feel insecure.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Wendy Lewis can give you a better perspective, sir. She researched Beryl’s background very thoroughly.’ He rubbed his forehead, and stared at the smears of moisture on his hand. ‘But she spent all afternoon at the dentist’s, having gold fillings done, so she had a cast-iron alibi, even though I’m sure she wouldn’t balk at murder to protect Smith.’

  ‘That brings us to these mysterious male escorts with whom Trisha allegedly took up,’ McKenna said. ‘Are they included in the “odd things” over which you were probably remiss?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘But you didn’t really look for them, did you?’

  ‘There was nowhere to look. Everything in that house was destroyed: no address book, no record of any ads sent to papers or magazines, and no replies. We contacted every publication in the country which carries personal ads, and found where Trisha placed hers, but that was the end of the line.’ He paused, gathering thoughts. ‘The main attractions of personal ads are secrecy and anonymity. Any of the four million or so readers in the area could have replied to her box number. Mr X sends his letter to the paper, addressed to the box number, and it’s sent on unopened. The paper has no idea who Mr X might be.’

  ‘Why did you give up so easily, just because the obvious way failed? Why did you assume these men were both untraceable and innocent?’ McKenna demanded. ‘Wasn’t Trisha ever seen with a man? Where did they go for outings? Surely Linda Newton knew about them?’

  Dugdale flushed. ‘Linda only knew what Trisha told her. People always keep secrets from each other, no matter how close they are. Trisha might’ve been embarrassed about advertising for company, or just ashamed of the types who replied. Personally, I think the all-round battering she had from Smith put her off men altogether.’ He paused again, measuring his words. ‘At the trial, Smith’s barrister twisted the whole thing for his own ends, and shoved Linda into a corner. She knew about the ads, but she didn’t know if Trisha had met any respondents. That was an assumption, for the benefit of the defence.’

  ‘But as Smith’s barrister so rightly pointed out,’ McKenna said, ‘simply for Trisha to advertise in the personal columns was hardly consistent with her alleged state of mind.’ He watched Dugdale’s face. ‘Was it?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. Trisha’s not here to explain herself.’

  Hinchcliffe roused himself once more. ‘I feel obliged to draw your attention, Superintendent, to the quite exhaustive documentation relating to my client’s search for these elusive letter writers. In my opinion, he did all that could be expected, and I would defy even yourself to have been any more successful. You will also note, I hope, my client’s examination of the entirely plausible, if probably unprovable, possibility that Beryl Stanton Smith instigated the murder, and paid someone to do her dirty work while she gave herself a near-perfect alibi.’

  McKenna nodded. ‘I have Mr Dugdale’s report to the Crown Prosecution Service. I also have a long list of people who gave what he described as “negative” statements.’

  ‘Which I think you will find,’ Hinchcliffe commented, ‘constitutes most of those he interviewed, including the ladies busy in St Michael’s church, Father Barclay’s evidence notwithstanding. As is usual in such matters, no one saw, heard, or knew anything of significance, or even, relevance. Nor, I may add, was it possible to find a voice match with that of the recording of the 999 call about the fire.’ He gazed at McKenna, pale eyes wide. ‘What more could my client do, Superintendent? He isn’t Superman, you know.’

  Ignoring the solicitor’s barbed remark, McKenna turned to Dugdale. ‘In the CPS report you refer to Julie Broadbent, a care worker at the Willows, which I understand is a home for the mentally handicapped. You indicate that she was friendly with Trisha.’

  ‘I think I wrote “acquainted with”, sir, not “friendly with”,’ Dugdale said. ‘Trisha had talked about working there. Now she had the freedom to choose, I suppose she was thinking about something with a purpose, instead of any old job to keep Smith in idleness.’

  ‘Why did you report that Broadbent “appears to he holding back”?’

  ‘Wendy Lewis and Colin Bowden interviewed her. They tried to talk to the residents, too, but as few of them can speak more than gobbledegook, it wasn’t very productive.’

  ‘Broadbent, please, Inspector.’

  ‘That was their impression.’ Pausing again, Dugdale clenched his fingers. ‘It had to be recorded, even though it wasn’t necessarily correct. As they aren’t local, they didn’t know about Julie’s circumstances, and what they perceived as “holding back”, and significant, was probably only her automatic response to the police.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’d come to police
attention in the past. Persistent truancy, a bit of teenage delinquency. That kind of thing.’

  ‘Does she have a criminal record?’

  ‘She was cautioned twice for under-age drinking, and once for shoplifting. That was the end of it, which is all to her credit, given her background,’ Dugdale said. ‘Her mother was the town tart, and she never knew her father, or any other family. She had no proper schooling, no guidance, no support, and no love, so it was no surprise when she went off the rails for a while.’ There was something near outrage in his voice. ‘No one ever gave her a fighting chance, and all you ever hear about her is “like mother, like daughter”.’

  ‘In other words, Broadbent has a piquant reputation?’ McKenna asked.

  ‘Which I don’t believe she deserves,’ Dugdale insisted. ‘Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before Wendy Lewis got wind of it, and she was all for crediting Julie with guilty knowledge on the assumption that she’d given Trisha a taste of the high life and introduced her to the scum who battered her face and set the house alight.’

  ‘And as you will know,’ Hinchcliffe added, ‘my client also made an exhaustive, and to my mind, unnecessary, pursuit of that line of inquiry.’

  McKenna ignored the solicitor’s sarcasm. ‘At what point did Smith begin to feature as a suspect, or did he only become so by default, as it were?’

  ‘He featured from the day after she died, when we saw the divorce petition.’

  ‘But according to Beryl, Smith made no secret of his shameful behaviour towards Trisha. Indeed, it’s almost as if he gloried in challenging her to take the risk of marrying him. So, as he had nothing to hide, Trisha posed no danger to his new-found comfort.’

  ‘I have to disagree, sir. Even now, Beryl probably knows only what Smith carefully calculated he couldn’t keep hidden,’ Dugdale said. ‘And, of course, there was the fact that Trisha was planning to sue him for maintenance.’

  ‘But why?’ McKenna queried. ‘He wasn’t earning. Beryl had no liability, however rich she might be. Trisha would get nothing.’