The decision was unanimous. The scarf was requested from Forensics and delivered to his desk within two hours. Finally, it felt as if the case was moving.
Minshull maintained a cautious approach in front of the team, but inside he was buzzing. It might be a coincidence, but if Isabel Lingham’s scarf was the bloodied item in the evidence bag he now carried down to the custody suite, it could change everything.
Had Lingham taken it to conceal the real murder weapon? If he’d hidden it in Evernam Woods, so conveniently close to where the mannequin had been discovered, did that suggest his involvement in its hanging after all?
Or was Isabel Lingham more involved than anyone had realised?
Then there was the revelation about the baby. Given how Cora’s ability had found the knife that could well prove a link between Lingham and the murders, her insistence that she’d heard a baby’s cry attached to both the objects around the bodies and the crime scene itself could no longer be easily dismissed. If Isabel Lingham was involved with the stashing of the knife – and had a small baby – could this be the evidence they so urgently needed?
Anderson said nothing as he strode beside him, but Minshull could feel adrenaline fizzing off his superior. He had that look of grim determination Minshull always saw when cracks began to appear in an investigation: the Mountain Lion, the team called it. Like Anderson had the taste for battle and was preparing to attack…
They had briefed Jasper Carmichael that they needed Lingham to inspect an item found near the mannequin. As they’d hoped, the solicitor had taken this to mean they were investigating the threat against his client. All well and good, Minshull reasoned. Better to let Lingham think they were believing his intimidation story than suspect they were about to throw an accusation his way.
It helped that a label had been discovered on the scarf, identifying a local textile artist. When Bennett had contacted the artist via her website, she had confirmed she’d had ten such scarves produced to her own design. They had proved too costly to take into full production, so she’d sold the samples at a series of craft fairs across South Suffolk, one of which had been in the neighbouring village of St Martin. It was therefore possible that Isabel Lingham could have bought it there – or that it had been bought for her by somebody who lived nearby.
A gift from her husband, perhaps?
As evidence, it was far from conclusive, but it significantly narrowed down the list of potential owners. That in itself was a major step forward.
Lingham sat quietly beside Carmichael while Minshull started the recording, stating the names of those present, the time and the date. There had been so many versions of the suspect in this interview room since the day of his arrest: Minshull wondered which Mark Lingham they would encounter this time. Despite the hours he and Anderson had spent interviewing Lingham in this room, Minshull felt no closer to knowing who he was. So many lies, so many twists of the tale, each one further obscuring the truth.
But Lingham was scared now.
That might be the difference they needed.
‘Okay, Mr Lingham, as I know your solicitor has explained to you, we have an item found near the site of the mannequin in Evernam Woods that we’d like you to take a look at, please.’
Lingham nodded.
Anderson produced the evidence bag and slid it across the interview desk. Lingham kept his hands wedged between his knees as he leaned forward, Carmichael placing his notes on the interview desk to take a closer look.
Minshull watched Lingham’s face. At first he betrayed no sign of any emotion, but as his brief turned over the bag and the line of blood-tarnished gold embroidery caught the light, he drew back, eyes filled with horror.
‘Do you recognise it?’ Minshull asked.
‘I… no… no comment,’ Lingham blustered.
It was exactly what Minshull had hoped for. He didn’t have to look at Anderson to know he shared his response.
The question now was why he recognised it.
Was it damning evidence or an indictment on his wife?
‘It’s quite an unusual design,’ Minshull continued, careful to keep his tone light. ‘We contacted the small business that made it. The owner is local and said only ten of these scarves were ever made and sold. Which is good news for us because it means our search for whoever it belongs to becomes significantly smaller.’
Lingham was practically leaning as far away from the scarf as he could now.
‘You seem distressed, Mark,’ Anderson cut in. ‘Is there a reason why?’
‘No… I mean, it was in the woods. I don’t want to think about the person who wanted to attack me.’
Minshull nodded, waiting for more. When none came, he pushed a little.
‘And that worries you?’
‘It scares me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they want to frame me for this… this…’ He swallowed hard, a light sheen of sweat visible on his brow.
‘Do you recognise the scarf, Mark?’
Lingham stared at Minshull, his mouth dropping open.
‘Because if you do, it could help us identify the person who threatened you.’ Minshull took his time, his tone as gentle as he could make it. With a breakthrough so close, it would be too easy to let the rising adrenaline push everything forward too quickly, destroying their advantage. He’d made that mistake in interviews before. He didn’t intend to repeat it today. ‘It’s our belief that this is linked to the hanging mannequin.’
‘What makes you think that?’ Carmichael asked, pausing from his note-taking and leaning in for a better view of the evidence bag.
Minshull caught Anderson’s slight nod in the periphery of his vision. ‘Because of what the scarf was wrapped around.’
Now Lingham visibly paled.
Anderson turned a page in his file, pulling a photograph from a plastic pocket. The bloodstained knife was stark against its regulation white background, ruled reference marks charting its length and width. As Anderson slid it across the interview desk, horror filled Lingham’s stare.
‘Do you recognise this knife?’
Lingham didn’t reply.
‘If you recognise the scarf, my guess is that this is familiar to you, also.’
Lingham remained silent, but everything about him screamed panic. The working jaw, the defined dip of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed against a dry throat, the whitening knuckles where his hands folded together on the interview desk.
Minshull wondered what Cora would hear if she were here. She’d told him of the soundscapes she sensed around the emotional fingerprint voices – three-dimensional landscapes stretching away from the subconscious words, encompassing breaths, echoes and peripheral sounds. He didn’t understand how it was possible, but he’d learned to trust what she told him. Questioning it had only revealed his own lack of trust.
What sounds might surround Lingham as he sat there, terrified?
‘I think my client needs a break,’ Carmichael said, breaking the silence. His concern was impossible to miss. Had the disclosure unnerved the solicitor, too?
A break was unfortunate; the respite it would afford Lingham a potential threat to the momentum they’d built. But it might solidify the evidence in his mind and force him to reveal the truth – or some of it, at least. Minshull would take either. They were close now. He could feel it prickling his skin.
‘If you think it would be beneficial…’
‘My wife!’ Lingham rushed, the accusation cutting through the stale air of the interview room like the blade in the photograph.
For a moment, the only sound between them was the gentle hum of the recording machine.
Then Minshull spoke. ‘Mr Lingham?’
‘The scarf belongs to my wife.’
Anderson displayed none of the shock Minshull felt, his expression granite-hard, eyes laser-focused on Lingham. ‘And the knife?’
‘She wants me dead. I never wanted to be involved, but she…’ He swallowed again, his voice cracking when he continued. ‘She did this. She made the threat. It has to be Isabel. She’s the reason I’m here.’