“Sorry, sir,” said the driver. “We had a delay setting off. Had to wait till the doc had finished.”
“Doctor?” Burgess said. “Why, what’s wrong? Young dick-head here didn’t hurt anyone, did he?”
“Him? No.” The constable gave Paul a contemptuous glance. “Fainted when they caught him, that’s all, then came round screaming about walls closing in. Had to get the doc to give him a sedative.”
“Walls closing in, eh?” Burgess said. “Interesting. Sounds like a touch of claustrophobia to me. Never mind. Sit him down, and you two can bugger off now.”
“See the desk sergeant about expenses and accommodation,” Banks said to the two Scotsmen. “I don’t suppose you’ll be wanting to set off back tonight?”
The driver smiled. “No, sir. Thanks very much, sir.”
“Thank you” Banks said. “There’s a good pub across the road. The Queen’s Arms.
You can’t miss it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Burgess could hardly wait to close the door behind them. Paul sat facing Banks in a tubular metal chair with a wooden seat and back. Burgess, preferring a free rein and the advantage of height, chose to lean against the wall or stride around as he talked.
“Get the sergeant in, will you?” he asked Banks. “With his notebook.”
Banks sent for Hatchley, who arrived red-faced and out of breath a minute later.
“Those bloody stairs again,” he grumbled. “They’ll be the death of me.”
Burgess pointed to a chair in the corner and Hatchley sat down obediently. He found a clean page in his notebook and took out his pencil.
“Right,” said Burgess, clapping his hands. “Let’s get cracking.”
Paul looked over at him, hatred and fear burning in his eyes.
If Burgess had one professional fault, Banks thought, it was as an interrogator.
He couldn’t seem to take any part but that of his own pushy, aggressive self. It wouldn’t prove half as effective with Boyd as the Mutt & Jeff routine Banks and 184
Hatchley had worked out, but it would have to do. Banks knew he would be forced into the role of the nice guy, the father confessor, for the duration.
“Why don’t you just tell us about it?” Burgess began. “That way we won’t have to resort to the Chinese water torture, will we?”
“There’s nothing to tell.” Boyd glanced nervously at the window. The slats of the Venetian blind were up, letting in grey light from the street below.
“Why did you kill him?”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Did you just lose your temper, is that it? Or did someone pay you? Come on, we know you did it.”
“I told you, I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Then how come that knife with PC Gill’s blood on it also happens to have your dabs all over it too? Are you trying to tell me you never touched it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What are you trying to say?”
Paul licked his lips. “Can I have a cigarette?”
“No, you bloody can’t,” Burgess growled. “Not until you’ve told us what happened.”
“I didn’t do anything, honestly. I’ve never killed anyone.”
“So why did you run?”
“I was frightened.”
“What of?”
“Frightened you’d fit me up for it anyway. You know I’ve done time.”
“Is that how you think we operate, Paul?” Banks asked gently. “Is that really what you think? You’re wrong, you know. If you just tell us the truth you’ve nothing to fear.”
Burgess ignored him. “How did your prints get on the knife?”
“I must have handled it, I suppose.”
“That’s better. Now when did you handle it, and why?”
Paul shrugged. “Could’ve been anytime.”
“Anytime?” Burgess shook his head with exaggerated slowness. “No it couldn’t, sonny. No it couldn’t. Want to
185
know why? Your prints were right on top, numero uno, clear as day. You were the last person to handle that knife before we found it. How do you explain that?”
