‘No need for the helicopter, after all,’ said Fry.
‘What was that?’
‘The Star Wars theme, I believe. Mobile phones are a great way of locating people, even out there.’
Rick Widdowson heard them coming, and stood up from the heather, clutching his phone in his hand as if about to hurl it from him in a fit of anger. But it was far too late for that.
‘You should remember to switch it to vibrate next time,’ said Fry, as she read him his rights.
33
Most suspects who ended up in an interview room weren’t bright enough to maintain a consistent lie. Their stories were easily undermined by the use of logic, their memories too short to survive a few hours’ wait in the cells between interviews. And a change of interviewers usually seemed to unsettle them.
It was always a source of amazement to Fry that anyone thought they could get away with telling a different story to a different interviewer. Did they think that no one compared notes? Did they not notice the tapes running? Yet it was true what they taught you about interviewing techniques: Suspects seemed to feel they had to try harder to impress one or the other.
In Interview Room One, Naomi Widdowson had been waiting for a while. She was pacing restlessly, muttering to herself, fidgeting like a junkie suffering from withdrawal symptoms.
‘Get close enough to smell her breath, to see if she’s been drinking,’ suggested Hitchens, before Fry went in.
‘You think she might be drunk?’
‘That, or mad. But when they’re mad, you can usually tell it from their eyes.’
Fry entered the interview room and persuaded Naomi to sit down. The woman kept flicking her fingers, and shuddering as if she was cold.
‘Yes, Rosie was my horse,’ she said. ‘I never denied that.’
‘When I asked you, you said the name meant nothing to you,’ said Fry.
Naomi looked at Fry as if she couldn’t really see her, the way someone might look at a ghost, not quite able to focus properly on the figure in front of them.
‘She was stolen and went for meat, I’m sure of it. Rosie died the same way as all those other horses. It was horrible to think about — I’ve never been able to get it out of my mind since. Patrick Rawson did that to me. He did the same to so many people. He deserved to be punished.’
‘He didn’t deserve to be murdered.’
‘You know what? A lot of people would consider Patrick Rawson to be guilty of murder. But we never meant to kill him.’
‘Who made the arrangement to meet on Longstone Moor?’ asked Fry.
‘I did. I phoned him and set up the appointment. Told him we had a lot of horses for sale. Thoroughbreds, for meat. He fell for it completely. Greedy people always do.’
‘You deliberately used an unregistered pay-as-you-go mobile to make this call to Mr Rawson, didn’t you?’
Naomi frowned. ‘A what? Yes, my phone is pay-as-you-go. What does that have to do with it?’
Fry looked at her, registering her puzzlement. So Naomi Widdowson hadn’t planned that, didn’t know that a call from an unregistered phone would be almost impossible to trace. Her phone just happened to be pay-as-you-go. This wasn’t turning out to be a clever criminal mind at work, was it?
‘Is this your mobile number?’ asked Fry, showing her a copy of the phone record.
‘Yes.’
‘You went to the meeting on horseback, Miss Widdowson. Why did you do that?’
‘It was the easiest way to get there, and get away again quickly. We pulled scarves over our faces, so he couldn’t identify us. He might have remembered a car. Besides…’
‘Yes?’
‘It just seemed, well… right. In the circumstances.’
Fry nodded. It was just what Dermot Walsh had said: poetic justice. But there hadn’t really been anything poetic in the crushed skull, in the fatally injured man trying desperately to run from his attackers, even as his blood drained away into the ground and his brain swelled against the shattered bone.
‘And your brother went with you on this meeting, didn’t he?’
Naomi pushed herself up on to her feet, her fingers tense and trembling on the edge of the table.
‘No. You can’t fix any of this on Rick.’
‘Please sit down, Miss Widdowson.’
‘I need to make you understand that it had nothing to do with Rick.’
‘He does have a record. Several previous offences of violence.’
Naomi slowly sank into the chair again, as if deflated. ‘What does that have to do with it? You’re all the same, once a person gets into trouble. Isn’t it supposed to be innocent until proved guilty?’
‘And you still say you didn’t intend to kill Patrick Rawson?’ asked Fry.
‘No. It was an accident.’
Her tone carried a hint of regret. And it was probably that which finally convinced Fry she was telling the truth.
Rick Widdowson had recovered from the humiliation of his arrest very quickly. He walked into Interview Room Two with a strut, swinging his shoulders, his head tilted to spread a smirk around the room.
‘Have you been informed of your rights?’ asked Fry. ‘Offered facilities and refreshments while you’ve been waiting?’
‘Good cop, bad cop — never goes out of fashion, does it?’ he said.
‘This is good cop, good cop. You haven’t even seen the bad one yet.’
‘You don’t have anything on me,’ said Widdowson, sitting confidently at the table opposite Fry. ‘If you did, there’d be a solicitor here, and the tape recorders running.’
That was the trouble with regular customers — they knew too much. Rick was right, of course. She had no evidence to implicate him in the death of Patrick Rawson. Not yet.
‘So why did you try to escape when we visited your home?’ said Fry.
He smiled. ‘I was going for help. I thought we had burglars.’
Fry sighed. ‘You know your sister is in trouble. Wouldn’t you like to help her?’
‘’Course I would. Only too keen to help.’
If that was so, his loyalty might only be one way, thought Fry.
‘You can start by telling me where you were on Tuesday morning.’
‘I don’t have anything to say.’
‘You might as well go, then.’
Widdowson made a move to get up, then froze. Fry could see the calculation going through his mind, and she guessed what he was thinking.
‘Yes, you’re free to leave at any time, Mr Widdowson. You can get up and walk out. But that would be a strange thing to do if, as you claim, you want to help your sister. “Only too keen to help” — wasn’t that your phrase? And I believe you, of course.’
Widdowson continued to hesitate, glancing at the door instead of at Fry.
‘But if you walk out now, sir, I’d probably have to stop believing you.’
With a deep sigh, Widdowson sat back down and stared at his hands.
‘I do want to help her.’ He paused, seeming to realize that what he’d said didn’t sound enough. ‘I’m her brother, after all.’
‘That’s good. I was starting to get the opposite impression.’
‘It’s just… Well, I know what you lot are like. If you haven’t got anyone else in your sights, you’ll fix it on the nearest person you can find.’
