‘He knew he was on the run from the police. His student visa was no longer valid, so he got rid of it with his passport. He didn’t want to be identified. He was angry because he had done nothing wrong.’
‘Worked in the black economy and stole a fucking motorbike. Nothing wrong there?’ Gull said.
He didn’t get an answer, presumably because Polly treated the remark as rhetorical.
‘He believed he had only a few days of liberty left, and he could expect to spend the rest of his life behind bars.’
‘Too fucking right,’ Gull said.
‘He is thinking of prison in Iran. The penal system there is very harsh.’
Gull turned to Diamond and said through his teeth, ‘I can see where this is heading and I don’t buy it, don’t buy it at all.’
Farhadi was already making his next point, stabbing the air with his hands.
Polly translated in the same steady tone, ‘He was living rough, a fugitive, a wanted man, surviving on what he could find or scavenge, sleeping in barns and outhouses, constantly expecting the police to arrest him. He has a deep-seated fear of men in uniform.’
‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ Gull said.
Diamond said, ‘Let him speak, Jack. He’s doing our work for us.’
Another rush of words followed.
‘For a time he was in other towns, south of here, but eventually he came back to the place he knows best, where the college was. He knew the police were closing in. He had a couple of narrow escapes before you finally arrested him.’
Farhadi had stopped speaking. Polly waited and only got a nod that seemed to say, ‘End of story.’
The prisoner folded his arms and sat back.
If he thought he had finished, he was being optimistic.
‘Let’s rewind a bit,’ Gull said. ‘We recovered the bike from the river. We also recovered this.’ He pushed a photo of the assault rifle across the table.
Farhadi tensed and his facial muscles rippled. He was silent for a few seconds, as if weighing his options. Then he spoke more words that Polly turned into English.
‘He had money in his old lodgings, saved from the farm labouring, and he decided to arm himself. He’d learned to shoot during military service. He was a qualified marksman. He bought the gun from an illegal trader in Bath.’
‘Your patch,’ Gull said to Diamond. He turned to Polly. ‘Ask him if he wants to tell us how he used the gun. No, let’s go for broke. Tell him we have ballistic evidence that this gun — his gun — was used to murder police officers, the first in Wells twelve weeks ago.’
Up to now, Farhadi had given little away, but as Polly translated, the first signs of alarm showed in his eyes. He glanced down, seeking the right words to explain his actions. When he finally spoke, the gravity of what he was accused of came through in the voice.
Polly’s rendering was, of course, free of all that, except in the sense of the words. ‘His original plan was to defend himself when the police came for him. He was sleeping rough, with the loaded gun beside him. But the more he considered his situation, the more he realised he was likely to be killed in a shoot-out.’
‘Twisted thinking,’ Gull said.
‘He says the combination of being alone and on the run, forced to break the law to get food, often being hungry and too afraid to get much sleep, affected his brain. He became paranoid.’
‘His word?’ Diamond asked Polly.
She reddened. ‘All of this is as accurate as I can make it. Paranoid is the expression he uses. I can ask him again to be certain.’
There was another short exchange before she said, ‘He confirms it. He was having nightmares about the police. He believed they were everywhere, watching him through spy cameras, setting traps, waiting to ambush him. It all built up in his brain and became unbearable, usually at night.’
‘This is breaking me up,’ Gull said with a yawn.
Farhadi’s explanation had moved on to a new level. ‘When the night terrors reached a particular point of crisis, he believed there would be no release until he used the gun to shoot one of his tormentors. This would be a way of striking back when everything was targeted at him. At first he thought it might be enough just to get a police officer in his sights without pulling the trigger. He would plan the shooting with great care and the sense of power might satisfy.’
The two detectives were compelled to wait while the process of translation was renewed.
‘He found a place in Wells that suited his plan, a tree-house. Two nights he took aim at a passing policeman and resisted firing a shot. But the impulse was overwhelming and on the third occasion he pulled the trigger.’
Gull slapped his hand several times on the table. He’d got his confession.
‘He got away and left Wells for good, but he needed to find another town where there were bins to search for food. He came to Radstock and for a short time he survived quite well. Then the terrors undermined him again. He felt compelled to use the gun a second time, and he did.’
‘For the hell of it, or what?’ Gull said, becoming angrier now that guilt was admitted.
Polly put this into some form of words for Farhadi and got a response.
‘He experienced the same build-up of extreme anxiety that he believed could only be assuaged by shooting another policeman. He wishes to make clear that he didn’t know either of his victims. They were uniformed police and the idea alone was driving him, inhabiting his brain.’
‘
‘He told us about two,’ Polly said.
‘I heard what he told us, but we all know there are three. He shot Harry Tasker right here in Bath.’
In response to Polly’s enquiry, Farhadi shrugged and made another short statement.
Polly told Gull, ‘He denies this. He shot two policemen, two only, in Wells and Radstock, and nobody in this city. He was living in Becky Addy Wood and Avoncliff, not Bath. He came here because he was at college in Bradford on Avon and knows the locality.’
‘Bullshit,’ Gull said. ‘Listen, chum, I don’t serve in this dump. I’m from headquarters. You’ll get no sympathy from me this way. You’re a piece of crap whether you killed two of us, or three. Might as well fess up.’
But Farhadi was insistent when it was put to him again.
‘Fucking liar,’ Gull said.
Then Diamond said, ‘Actually, I believe him.’
31
Before leaving, Diamond instructed Keith Halliwell to take a small surveillance team to keep watch on Emma Tasker’s house while she was at the funeral.
‘Are you expecting a break-in?’ Halliwell asked, appalled. ‘What kind of sick bastard would plan something like that?’
‘Get with it, Keith,’ Diamond said as one who had heard and seen it all before. ‘That’s one of the oldest tricks in the book. Weddings and funerals. They know the house is empty at this time, so they take their opportunity. I don’t want it happening today. Take Ingeborg and Paul Gilbert and stay out of sight.’
‘If anyone tries it, we’ll come down hard, don’t worry.’
‘Hold on.’ The lofty tone changed rather suddenly. ‘I’m not suggesting violence. It could be just a neighbour pushing a sympathy card through the door.’
He was at Haycombe crematorium a few minutes before the hearse arrived. He stood with the three uniformed police who had served with Harry. They told Diamond that more would certainly have come, but Emma had insisted she wanted three only. About fifteen other people had gathered outside. They all looked grim-faced. He found himself thinking his suggestion of ‘Gone Fishing’ for Harry’s send-off may not have been such a good one.
‘You’re invited to the Hop Pole after the service,’ a man who seemed to be family told the police group. ‘It’s
