The man waiting for them in Interview Room 3 didn’t look like a murderer. But then, few of the murderers Anderson had encountered during his police career ever had. This was the first suspected murderer of four concurrent victims he’d interviewed, however, so all bets were off. In this job, you couldn’t ever think you’d seen it all. There was always something nasty waiting to bite you on the arse if you did.
Mark Lingham cowered beside his legal representative, uncomfortable and exposed in a regulation grey sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms. His clothes were already bagged up and on their way to forensics, the sight stomach-churningly gruesome, according to PCs Lanehan and Davis.
‘Drenched in blood,’ Steph Lanehan had informed Anderson, calling from the scene. ‘Never seen anything like it, Guv. Like someone had tipped buckets of it over him.’
Lingham was clean now, but the way he rubbed his fingers over the skin of his clean palms suggested he could still see the blood.
Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
Anderson had learned that in school. Act 5, Scene 1 of Shakespeare’s Macbeth: Lady Macbeth driven mad by the memory of murder, frantically washing imagined blood from her hands. Was Mark Lingham experiencing the same thing?
His solicitor eyed Anderson and Minshull accusingly as they made their introductions. One of those, Anderson surmised. Some lawyers would make master poker players, their faces unreadable. Not Jasper Carmichael, it would appear. Minshull had informed Anderson that the solicitor was the family’s representative – he hazarded a guess that the man had never had to deal with a multiple murder charge for his regular client. Could he be out of his depth, too? Perhaps this show of mistrust was designed to mask his lack of experience. Go on the offensive from the outset. Blag it until the coppers believe you…
‘If you have everything you need, we’ll make a start,’ Minshull offered.
Jasper Carmichael nodded. Mark Lingham kept his eyes fixed on his hands.
Anderson started the recording. ‘Interview conducted 11:40 a.m., Monday 9th September. Detective Inspector Joel Anderson and Detective Sergeant Rob Minshull present.’
‘Mr Lingham, could you state your name and age for the recording, please?’
Lingham’s voice cracked on his first attempt to speak. When he managed it, the tone was thick and laboured. ‘Mark Lingham, forty-nine.’
‘Thank you. Can you tell us, in your own words, what happened this morning at 62 Januarius Street, Evernam?’
There was a pause. The solicitor opened his file, pen poised. He made no attempt to encourage Lingham or make any kind of eye contact.
Anderson and Minshull waited.
Lingham’s fingers continued to rub his palms. Then, as Anderson was about to speak, Lingham lifted his head.
‘They’re dead. All of them. I couldn’t stay in there.’
‘Who is dead?’ Minshull asked.
‘All of them.’
‘Mr Lingham – Mark – can you tell me their names, please?’
Lingham shook his head, the muscles in his jaw working. Carmichael glanced at his client but said nothing. Was he giving Lingham time to formulate his reply?
When the silence began to stretch too long, Minshull intervened. ‘Okay, let’s go back to this morning, then. Can you tell me what you did prior to going to Evernam?’
‘Normal stuff. Got up, made breakfast, then Issy took the kids to school…’ His voice drifted away, his stare glassy.
‘How many kids do you have?’ It was a clever move from Minshull, Anderson observed. Make conversation. Keep Lingham talking.
‘Three. Kyra, Fin and Seb.’
‘Good kids?’
Lingham blinked. ‘The best.’
‘And your wife came home after running them to school?’
‘Yeah. She works from home, so…’
‘And what do you do for work?’
Lingham mumbled something.
‘Louder for the recording, please.’
‘I run a lettings agency. With a partner.’
Minshull made notes. ‘And who is your business partner?’
‘Is that important?’ Carmichael interjected.
Minshull’s expression bore no hint of irritation. ‘It helps us build a picture, that’s all.’
The solicitor glanced at Minshull and returned to his notes.
Lingham fell silent.
‘Mr Lingham?’ Minshull prompted. ‘Who is your business partner?’
‘Gavin Quartermain.’
‘How long have you run the agency?’
Lingham gave a long sigh, eyes fixed on his hands. ‘About fifteen years.’
‘And how’s business?’
The stare sharpened a little. ‘Can’t complain.’
Minshull offered a slight smile. ‘So, were you expected at work this morning?’
A pause.
Anderson kept his eyes trained on Lingham.
‘No.’
‘But it’s your business,’ Minshull prompted. ‘Don’t you have to be in the office?’
‘Not today.’
‘How come?’
‘Gav didn’t want me there.’
‘Why not?’
Another hefted sigh crossed the interview desk. ‘Because he was meeting an investor. I just… get in the way.’
What did that mean? Lingham’s tone had changed: whether this was the reality of his situation sinking in or something else, Anderson couldn’t tell. Minshull betrayed none of his own opinion but left a significant pause while he wrote down what Lingham had said. Longer than was necessary to record the suspect’s reply, but long enough to make him sweat.
The effect was immediate: the hand-rubbing began again in earnest, a frown shading Lingham’s features as he stared down.
‘And did Mr Quartermain call you at all, prior to the investor meeting?’
Lingham shook his head.
‘For the recording?’
‘No.’ The word was sharp-edged, irritated. The kind of reply a sulky teen would launch at an overbearing teacher.
Anderson glanced at his DS, proud of his work. Now they were getting somewhere…
Minshull let Lingham’s reply hang in the air far longer than was comfortable. Then he looked up from his notes. ‘So you weren’t expected in the office. Why did you go into Evernam this morning?’
‘I had to see…’ Lingham’s lips suddenly snapped shut, cutting off the answer he was about to give. Regrouping, he stated, ‘I – I had some stuff to do.’
‘Did you go there to meet your friends?’
‘No.’
‘How did you travel into the village?’
A slow blink. ‘In my van.’
Anderson watched Minshull’s steady note-taking. ‘Make and model?’
‘Ford Transit.’
‘Colour and year?’
‘Uh… navy blue, 2022 model.’
‘Numberplate?’
Lingham gave it. His solicitor didn’t flinch. Anderson found himself watching Carmichael rather than Lingham, wondering what Lingham might have disclosed to him. For now, the solicitor’s expression gave little away.
‘Okay. So, you drove to Evernam in your van and parked it, where?’
‘Behind the unit.’
‘The unit in Januarius Street?’
Lingham nodded.
‘Do you own the unit?’
‘No.’
‘Do you let it out for a client?’
‘No.’ Lingham was staring at his palms again.
‘Do you know who owns the unit?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have a key for the unit?’
‘What? No… I just park behind it. Lots of people do.’
‘And were there any other vehicles parked nearby?’
‘I don’t… I didn’t notice.’
Minshull’s pen worked another line on his notepad. ‘So you went into the unit?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Did you go in through the front door or the rear?’
‘I didn’t… I don’t remember, I’m sorry.’ Lingham glanced at Carmichael. His solicitor gave a slow nod. What did that mean?
‘Did someone let you in?’ Minshull pressed on. ‘One of the friends you were meeting, perhaps?’
‘No.’
‘Was the door already unlocked?’
‘I didn’t know they… It wasn’t what I expected.’
Minshull kept his gaze steady, but Anderson saw the grip tighten on his pen. ‘What did you expect? Had you agreed to meet there? Was it one of the errands you had to run?’
‘I… Maybe.’
Minshull relented, pulling back as Anderson had seen many times. Push for answers and then retreat, in the hope that the person opposite you at the interview desk would be compelled to fill the sudden silence.
But Mark Lingham simply returned to his hand-rubbing, his gaze pointedly averted from the DS.
‘Mr Lingham, did you leave a note for your wife this morning?’
‘I don’t see how that’s relevant.’ Carmichael stated, his uncharacteristic intervention causing both Anderson and Minshull to look at him. Anderson suppressed a grin. Was the solicitor on a coin meter? Did he lapse into silence until you paid him?
‘It’s relevant, Mr Carmichael, because Mrs Isabel Lingham called 999 to report a suicide note from her husband this morning, around twenty minutes before he emerged, bloodied, from the unoccupied unit at 62 Januarius Street.’
Silence.
Minshull folded his hands and waited for a reply. When none came, Anderson accepted the baton.
‘Mr Lingham, did you intend to take your own life?’
‘I… I just needed some space.’
‘Have you talked to your wife about this in the past?’
Lingham’s fingers increased their motion. ‘She knows.’
‘Is that why you chose the empty retail unit?’ Anderson asked as gently as he could. Surprise registered beside him as Minshull’s eyebrow rose a little. Anderson ignored it. ‘Did you intend to harm yourself there?’
‘It was supposed to be… I didn’t think they’d…’
‘Didn’t think who?’
‘The others. It wasn’t meant to be like this. It’s all my fault.’
‘Who are the others, Mr Lingham?’
‘You can’t help them. No one can.’
‘I’m aware they are past help.’ Anderson kept his tone steady, stare heavy on Lingham, who visibly winced when he looked up. ‘But we can help their families and friends who are left. And the men who died deserve justice. We can’t do either of those things unless we know who they are. So, I’m asking you again: who are the others?’
Lingham held Anderson’s stare for a heartbeat, then released the names on a long sigh, as if they were attached to his breath like ribbons on an invisible kite string. ‘Otto… Denz… Krish… Tim…’
Anderson and Minshull stiffened. The missing name.
‘Tim?’ Anderson repeated, a battle to keep the sudden adrenaline from his voice.
‘Stapleforth.’ Lingham stared back at his hands.
Minshull made steady notes, only looking up when he’d added the last name. ‘And who is Denz?’
It took Lingham a while to register. ‘Jack Markham. Everyone calls him Denzil, have done since he was a kid.’
‘How long have you known them?’
‘Grew up with them. In the village. I was a little older, but they started hanging around with me when we joined the rugby club and then the cricket team.’
‘Were you meeting them at the unit?’
‘I didn’t know what they were planning… They shouldn’t even have been there.’
He was meandering again, eyes glazing. Jasper Carmichael looked at his client, concern worrying his brow.
‘Were they trying to stop you hurting yourself, Mark?’ Minshull asked, as gently as he could.
Lingham’s hands went to his temples, his answer a long, agonised wail. ‘They were there because of me. It’s my fault… And now they’re dead…’
Outside in the corridor, Minshull slumped against the wall. Anderson punched his hands on his hips and stared towards the double doors that led to the cells.
‘What the hell are we supposed to make of that?’
‘Search me, Guv. Were they trying to stop him and he lashed out? Or were they there to help him and it went wrong?’
‘Help him?’ Anderson asked. ‘Help him do what?’
‘The bodies, the belongings around each one, the fifth space without a body at the centre… That doesn’t tally with Lingham being suicidal. Or panicking and lashing out with the knife. Why arrange the bodies like that and all the belongings around them?’
‘Unless they were part of it, too.’
‘How? A pact?’
‘Ludicrous as it sounds.’
It was preposterous to even consider it, but with so little else to go on and the already bizarre nature of the crime scene, it was a theory they couldn’t afford to rule out.
‘Did they want to be found like that? Is there a significance in the layout?’
‘If there is, I’ve yet to discover it.’
‘Maybe we’ll have more of a clue when we’ve spoken to next of kin.’ Minshull shook his head. ‘So, what’s the plan now?’
Anderson groaned. ‘Let Lingham talk to his solicitor again. Maybe Carmichael can advise him to tell us more.’ The solicitor had requested an urgent meeting with his client, and for once, Anderson was glad of the hiatus. Maybe it would give them time to work out what the hell the truth was.
‘But Lingham said he did it.’
‘No, he said it was his fault. Two very different things. For now, we keep an open mind. Maybe Lingham lashed out. Maybe they were all meant to die today. Or maybe they were there against their will, and someone else did the job…’
‘You think that’s possible?’
Anderson wished he knew. ‘Right now, anything’s possible. First and foremost, we need to add Tim Stapleforth to the list of suspected victims. Let’s head back. We need to break the news to Drew. And then… we need to find their families.’