Mrs Pearson was sitting at a table with a bottle of water in front of her. DC Townsend was standing by the door, his arms folded. There was a slight smile on Mrs Pearson’s face, but it was a sign of nervousness more than anything. She was a small woman, a couple of inches below five feet, with close-cropped black hair and slightly pointed ears that gave her a pixie-ish look. She was wearing pink lipstick and heavy mascara that appeared to have been freshly applied, which struck Lulu as strange considering that only the previous day she had learned that her husband had been murdered. She was wearing a denim shirt and had a pink pullover draped over her shoulders. ‘Can I smoke?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said DC Townsend.
The interview room was on the ground floor but the room that Lulu and Conrad were sitting in was on the second floor, just down the corridor from the MIT room. There were half a dozen plastic chairs facing two monitors. One feed was from a camera facing Mrs Pearson; the other was a view of the other side of the table, where there were two empty chairs.
On the wall by the table in the interview room was the audio recording system, which operated the old-fashioned way with two cassette recorders.
Lulu and Conrad were alone in the observation room and were sitting on the two seats closest to the monitors. As they watched the monitors, the interview room door opened and DI Friar walked in, carrying a pale blue folder and two cassette tapes.
‘Thank you so much for coming in at such short notice, Mrs Pearson,’ said DI Friar as she closed the door behind her.
‘Has something happened? DC Townsend wouldn’t tell me what was going on.’
‘We just need to confirm a few things with you, for the record,’ said DI Friar. She sat down and handed the two cassettes to DC Townsend. He slotted them into the deck and then sat down next to DI Friar.
DI Friar smiled brightly. ‘So, it’s just after six o’clock in the evening on 12 May. This is Detective Inspector Julie Friar and I am with . . .’
She nodded at DC Townsend. ‘Detective Constable Peter Townsend,’ he said.
‘We’re here to interview Mrs Tanya Pearson. If you could say your name for the tape, please, Mrs Pearson.’
‘Tanya Pearson,’ she said, gripping her water bottle tightly.
‘She’s nervous,’ said Conrad.
‘What does her aura look like?’ asked Lulu.
‘I can’t tell on screen,’ said Conrad. ‘I have to actually see the person. You can’t capture the vibrations with a camera. But just look at the way she’s squeezing that bottle. She feels trapped.’
Lulu nodded as she stared at the screens. Mrs Pearson definitely looked worried.
‘So, Mrs Pearson,’ DI Friar continued. ‘There are a few things that we need to run by you. You reported your husband missing two days ago, at midnight.’
That’s right.’
‘And prior to that you had sent your husband a number of text messages, asking where he was.’
Mrs Pearson nodded. ‘Yes, he’s usually back by ten o’clock at the latest. He does a lot of surveys in the evenings, but people have to sleep, so ten o’clock would be the latest.’
‘And you called several times, starting at nine o’clock?’
‘No, I didn’t call. He doesn’t like being called when he’s working. I sent texts. The first one was to ask him what he wanted for dinner.’
And when did you send that text?’
‘About half past nine, I think. He didn’t reply, so I sent him another text at ten. He didn’t reply to that either. Sometimes when he’s working he can’t reply right away, so I wasn’t worried, but then it got to midnight and I was worried so I called the police. Not that they were any help. They said they wouldn’t be able to do anything until the following day.’
DI Friar nodded. She opened the folder and took out a black-and-white photograph of a Ford Focus passing through a set of traffic lights. She gave it to Mrs Pearson. ‘That’s your husband’s car, isn’t it?’
Mrs Pearson narrowed her eyes. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Surely you recognize the registration number? Is it or is it not your husband’s car?’
‘It’s our car. We both drive it.’
‘Can you explain why your husband was seen driving home just before eight o’clock on the night he died?’
Mrs Pearson screwed up her face. ‘That’s not possible. He didn’t come home that night. And you’ve been to our house. You know that the car isn’t there.’ She pushed the photograph back towards DI Friar. ‘Maybe he was on the way somewhere else. Or maybe someone had stolen his car. Maybe the person who killed him.’ She tapped the photograph. ‘You should be looking for whoever was driving, because it can’t have been Robbie.’
The door opened and Lulu jumped – she had been so engrossed in what was happening on the monitors. It was Phil, carrying two coffee mugs, a bowl and a bottle of Evian water. ‘Have I missed much?’ he asked as he sat down next to Lulu.
‘DI Friar’s showing her photographs of her husband’s car, heading home about eight.’
‘Ouch,’ said Phil, handing her one of the coffee mugs.
On the monitor, DI Friar smiled thinly and took another sheet of paper from the file. ‘We accessed your husband’s phone records, and according to the GPS data he arrived home just after eight o’clock. The phone stayed there for another fifteen hours, after which it went dead. Presumably the battery died. So, Mrs Pearson, can you explain why you phoned the police at midnight to report your husband missing when he in fact arrived home at eight o’clock?’
Mrs Pearson grimaced and didn’t reply.
Phil poured some water into the bowl and placed it on the floor in front of Conrad. Conrad jumped down off the chair and began to lap at the water.
DI Friar reached into the folder again and took out a second photograph of the Ford Focus, this one taken by a motorway camera. ‘And perhaps you can explain why your car was then photographed being driven along the M60 towards Stretford Meadows just before eleven o’clock that night.’
Mrs Pearson squinted at the photograph. ‘You can’t tell who’s driving.’
‘That’s true. But we are sure it isn’t your husband at the wheel, because the post-mortem suggests that he had been dead for more than two hours at that point. Were you driving the car, Mrs Pearson?’
‘No, of course not.’ She sighed and slumped back in her chair. ‘Am I under arrest?’
‘Not at the moment, no. At the moment you are just helping us with our inquiries. You don’t have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. And of course this conversation is being recorded. So this is really your best opportunity to tell us the truth. If you do decide to lie, there could be repercussions down the line.’
‘I didn’t kill my husband,’ she said quietly.
‘And I believe that,’ said DI Friar. ‘Your husband was strangled by hands much bigger than yours.’
‘He was killed with a rope.’
‘No, he wasn’t. He was strangled and the rope was put around his neck afterwards. So I don’t believe that you strangled your husband. And I don’t believe you would have had the strength to carry his body out onto Stretford Meadows. The question I want answering is, did you help carry the body? Or did you drive the car?’
She shook her head. ‘I stayed at home.’
‘And who took the body to Stretford Meadows?’
‘How would I know? The killer, obviously.’
DI Friar opened her folder and slid a sheet of paper across the table. ‘When we checked your phone records, it became clear that you were having an affair with a man by the name of James Millington.’
Mrs Pearson swallowed nervously. Her eyes darted from side to side like a trapped animal looking for a way out.
‘You do know Mr Millington?’ asked DI Friar.
Mrs Pearson stared at the sheet of paper.
DI Friar took a photograph from the file and pushed it across the table. ‘Mr Millington works with your husband. Sorry, worked. Past tense.’
Mrs Pearson closed her eyes.
‘Please look at the photograph, Mrs Pearson. For the tape, I am showing Mrs Pearson a recent photograph of Mr James Millington. Do you know this man, Mrs Pearson?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘And were you having an affair with Mr Millington?’
‘If you’ve seen my text messages, then you know I was. You’ve snooped at my messages and seen the photographs.’
DI Friar nodded. ‘Yes, we have.’
‘Did it turn you on? Seeing those pictures? Got you all wet, did they?’ She glared at DC Townsend. ‘What about you? Did you get a stiffie looking at them?’
‘I haven’t actually seen them,’ said DC Townsend.
Mrs Pearson looked back at DI Friar. ‘Do I need a solicitor?’
‘That’s up to you, Mrs Pearson. You can call a solicitor if you want, or we can get you a duty solicitor. But at the moment you are simply helping us with our inquiries. Things might get a bit more adversarial if there is a solicitor in the room. At the moment I’m trying to help you make the best of what could be a pretty bad situation. As I said, I don’t think you killed your husband, and I don’t think you disposed of his body. The question is, were you an accessory before or after the fact, and were you involved in a conspiracy to kill your husband?’
‘There was no conspiracy!’ said Mrs Pearson. ‘Robbie came home early. He caught me and Jim and went crazy. He grabbed a knife and tried to stab Jim. Jim was only defending himself.’
‘So Mr Millington strangled Mr Pearson?’
‘You make it sound worse than it was. Robbie attacked Jim, Jim grabbed him by the throat to make him stop. He only had Robbie by the throat for a few seconds, then Robbie collapsed. We just thought he’d passed out but . . .’ She shook her head. ‘It was an accident.’
‘If it was an accident, why didn’t you call the police immediately?’
‘Jim said they wouldn’t believe us. Then he had the idea of making it look like the serial killer had done it. There was a story in the Manchester Evening News about the knot the killer used and Jim had some rope in his car.’
‘What about your husband’s clothes, and his phone?’
‘We put them in the attic. Jim said he’d dispose of them later. You have to believe me, it was an accident.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked DI Friar. ‘Or coffee? Maybe a sandwich?’
Mrs Pearson shook her head. ‘My stomach is churning, I can’t eat. But maybe a cup of tea.’
DI Friar looked at DC Townsend. ‘Could you get Mrs Pearson a cup of tea, please? And a cup of coffee for me.’
‘Milk and one sugar, please,’ said Mrs Pearson.
‘No problem,’ said DC Townsend. He left the room.
DI Friar leaned across the table. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
Mrs Pearson shook her head. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I just want to go home.’
‘Just a few more questions,’ said DI Friar. ‘What can you tell me about Dickie McNeil?’
Mrs Pearson frowned.
‘Dickie McNeil. Richard McNeil, but he’s always gone by Dickie.’
Mrs Pearson shook her head. ‘The name doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘Maybe a picture would help.’ DI Friar opened the file and slid out a head-and-shoulders shot of McNeil. She looked at it wistfully, then pushed it across the table. Mrs Pearson turned her head away.
The door to the observation room opened. It was DC Townsend. ‘I thought you were on a tea run?’ said Lulu.
‘DI Friar wanted to be on her own for a while,’ said DC Townsend.
‘Good cop, bad cop?’ said Lulu.
‘It’s funny how often it works,’ said DC Townsend. ‘They think that because one of the detectives has left the room, the interrogation has stopped. They forget that the tape and the cameras are still running.’ He sat down on the chair next to Phil. ‘She does this quite a lot, with considerable success.’
On the monitors, DI Friar tapped the photograph. ‘So, what time did Mr McNeil visit your house last night?’
‘I didn’t say that he did,’ said Mrs Pearson.
‘No, but the GPS on his phone tells us all we need to know. It also told us where you dumped Mr McNeil’s phone. In a skip between your house and Stretford Meadows.’
‘I didn’t dump any phone. I was at home all night.’
‘So you were there when Mr McNeil called?’ DI Friar leaned across the table. ‘I’m trying to help you here, Tanya. I’m on your side. You’re a mere slip of a thing, I know you didn’t hit Mr McNeil. According to the pathologist who carried out the post-mortem, Mr McNeil was hit from behind by someone who was bigger and stronger than he was.’
Lulu looked across at DC Townsend. ‘Has the post-mortem taken place already? That was quick.’
DC Townsend smiled. ‘It hasn’t. She’s winging it.’
Lulu smiled and shook her head. ‘Naughty, naughty.’
On the monitor, DI Friar smiled at Mrs Pearson. ‘You see, Tanya, I think Mr McNeil was talking to you when Mr Millington came up behind him and hit him with what we police like to call a blunt object. Almost certainly something that you already had in the house.’
Mrs Pearson shook her head but didn’t say anything.
‘You probably didn’t even realize what was happening. It was so fast, right? One minute you’re talking to Mr McNeil, the next he’s on the floor. And there was a lot of blood, I’m sure. You must have been shocked. And terrified.’
Mrs Pearson bit down on her lower lip. Tears were welling up in her eyes.
‘I’ll go and get the tea,’ said DC Townsend. ‘She’ll be needing it.’ He stood up and left the room.
‘And it was Mr Millington who took the body away, wasn’t it? He probably used his own car. But we’ll know for sure soon enough.’
Mrs Pearson frowned.
‘We have a forensics team checking his car now,’ said DI Friar. ‘And another forensics team is inside your house as we speak. If there’s a single speck of Mr McNeil’s blood in the car or in your house, that’ll be all the proof we need.’
‘I didn’t kill anyone.’
‘I believe you, Mrs Pearson. As I said, whoever killed Mr McNeil was big and strong. And whoever carried your husband out onto Stretford Meadows, well, they had to be big too.’ She reached over and tapped the photograph of James Millington. ‘Jim is a big man, isn’t he? Big hands.’
Tears were running down Mrs Pearson’s face now and DI Friar reached into her pocket and brought out a small packet of tissues. She held out the packet and Mrs Pearson took one. ‘Thank you,’ she said and dabbed at her eyes.
‘I’m on your side, Tanya. We women have to stick together, don’t we?’
Mrs Pearson blew her nose and nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, we do.’
‘We’re also talking to Mr Millington, and I am sure he has his own view of what happened two nights ago. And I’m sure he’ll present himself in the best possible light. Was it his idea to say that your husband attacked him with a knife?’
Mrs Pearson sniffed and nodded.
‘Tanya, this is your chance to tell me what really happened. We need to get this straight now so that there’s no misunderstanding down the line. If you are the innocent party here, now is the time to make that clear. I can see how upset you are. I realize that you are not the sort of person who would set out to commit two murders.’
‘I didn’t want Robbie dead,’ she said. ‘It just happened so quickly. They were fighting in the bedroom and then they were on the floor and Jim was on top of Robbie and he had his hands around his throat. I shouted for Jim to stop but he was crazy and he kept strangling him until he went still.’
‘And then Mr McNeil came to talk to you yesterday evening about Robbie’s death?’
Mrs Pearson nodded. ‘Jim was in the house when he called. He said he had information about Robbie’s death, and I let him in. We went into the kitchen and he said he had heard that Robbie was gay, which was stupid. Robbie wasn’t gay. Then he saw Jim’s jacket and asked if there was someone in the house. I said no, I was alone, and then he asked me whose car was parked in the driveway. It was Jim’s, but I said it was mine. He said he knew what car we had and it wasn’t mine and he said it was the easiest thing in the world to get the owner’s name and address. Then he saw the rope that Jim had used to make it look like the serial killer had killed Robbie. The rest of the rope was on a chair with Robbie’s clothing. Jim had put it all in a pile; he was going to get rid of it all – that’s why he’d come round to the house. Then Jim came up behind and hit him with a fire extinguisher. There was blood everywhere. I screamed at him, asking him what he’d done, and he said he had to do it because if the police knew he was there then they might suspect him. He said it was the journalist who had been writing about the serial killer. He told me to clean the floor and that he’d get rid of the body.’
‘And Mr McNeil had taken his coat off while he was in the house?’
Mrs Pearson nodded tearfully. ‘Jim took the coat along with Robbie’s things. He said he was going to burn them.’
‘And you knew who Mr McNeil was when he called at your house, didn’t you?’
Mrs Pearson shook her head.
‘You did, because you’d phoned Mr McNeil to tell him about your husband’s body being at Stretford Meadows.’
‘Oh. Yes. I suppose so.’
‘Was that Jim’s idea, to call McNeil?’
Mrs Pearson nodded. ‘Yes. He said the sooner they found Robbie, the sooner they would connect it with the other killings and stop looking for someone else.’
‘How did you get his number?’
‘Jim had it. It was in the paper.’ She blew her nose. ‘Can I go home now?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid not. At this point I am arresting you for the murder of Robert Pearson and for the murder of Richard McNeil. And I will read you your rights again for clarity. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Mrs Pearson burst into tears and buried her head in her hands.
‘Gotcha,’ said Phil.
‘That was a textbook interrogation,’ said Lulu. ‘DI Friar is a first-class detective.’
‘Takes one to know one, boss.’
Lulu smiled. ‘Why, Phil, you always say the nicest things.’