Carson was in his usual customary rush to charge Cubitt. He always seemed to do this, but Cross didn’t see the point of it. They had twenty-four hours in which to question the Cubitts, before needing to get an extension. What was the benefit of charging them before then? Carson reminded Cross of a schoolboy in class with his hand always in the air first to answer a question, jumping up and down in his seat and grunting with effort to make sure the teacher saw him first.
‘I’ll get straight onto the CPS about charging him,’ he told the group.
‘Charging him with what?’ asked Cross.
‘Murder. The reason you arrested him, George.’
‘It would be better to wait,’ Cross went on.
‘Why?’ asked Carson, barely able to conceal his frustration.
‘We know that in all probability one of them killed Brother Dominic. The problem is, we don’t know which one.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Carson asked.
‘We can’t say for certain which one of them it was.’
‘You found blood on one of his walking sticks, the twisted end of which would seem to be a match for the injuries the monk sustained,’ said Carson, as if pointing out the obvious to a small child.
‘The walking stick does indeed belong to Cubitt and would seem to be the murder weapon. But we don’t as yet know which one of them employed it to kill the monk. The quad bike is severely damaged down the right-hand side of the machine. We know Rosemary was driving it, so why didn’t she receive any injuries in the accident? It’s another inconsistency that needs examining,’ Cross summed up.
‘And because of that you’re saying we should hold off charging?’ asked Carson.
‘Excellent,’ Cross replied.
‘What?’ asked Carson mystified.
‘I appear to have made myself clear,’ replied Cross, causing a familiar chorus of laughter which Carson was rapidly tiring of.
*
Julian Cubitt had been joined by his lawyer. A formidable woman in a blue suit with a pearl necklace and matching earrings. Her hair looked like it was so firmly set it would break the teeth of a stainless-steel comb. Cross organised his files then looked up at Cubitt.
‘Percy Simmonds,’ he began.
‘What about him?’ Cubitt replied. The conversation now had a very different tone to the ones they’d had previously around Cubitt’s kitchen table. He was less defensive, more on the offense.
‘He’s your family solicitor. Is that correct? The solicitor who provided you with Mrs Ingham here.’
‘Yes.’
‘How often do you meet with Mr Simmonds?’ Cross asked.
‘Generally, twice a year.’
‘At the house?’ Cross asked.
‘Yes, he comes over for lunch.’
‘And you meet him with your wife?’
‘Yes, she’s involved in all aspects of our finances.’
‘So, never any reason really for you to visit their offices in Bath?’ Cross went on.
‘No.’
‘Then what was the purpose of your three visits there since May of last year?’ Cross asked.
‘A few things cropped up, that’s all,’ Cubitt replied.
‘Did Rosemary accompany you on those visits?’
‘She did not, as I recall.’
People always said ‘I recall’, when they wanted to imply whatever is being asked of them is of little or no importance to them, Cross had noticed.
‘Any particular reason for that?’ Cross asked.
‘No.’
‘Was she aware of the appointment?’
‘Probably.’
‘But you’re not sure.’
‘No.’
‘Not a problem. We can ask her ourselves,’ Cross replied. Cubitt coughed and cleared his throat nervously. ‘The last two meetings with Mr Simmonds included a…’ he checked his notes, ‘Mr Croft.’
‘How do you know that?’ Cubitt asked.
‘Is that correct?’ Cross asked, ignoring him.
Cubitt looked nervously at his solicitor, who nodded curtly.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘Do you consider yourself to be technically competent when it comes to the internet, with emails and messaging, Zoom calls, all that kind of thing?’ asked Cross, seeming to go off topic.
‘I get by,’ Cubitt replied.
‘When it comes to deleting emails?’
‘Obviously.’
‘So many people think that. Take it for granted. Yet you made a fundamental mistake when deleting emails, which presumably you didn’t want your wife to see. Such a simple error, but if it’s of any consolation, one so many people seem to make. You deleted your emails to Simmonds forgetting that when you do that, they simply move to a deleted files folder in your mailing app. I find it so puzzling. Who thought that was necessary at the software company? It’s as if we can’t be trusted to know whether we really intend to delete an email or not. So there’s a built-in safety net, a folder that is filled to the brim with emails we thought we’d deleted and exiled to the safety of non-existence. Sent out into the ether as if they were never written. Unfortunately for you, all your emails concerning your secret, well, from your wife, meetings with Percy Simmonds were just sitting there for anyone to find. So we now know that Mr Croft works in the probate department of Mrs Ingham’s law firm and that you were making changes to your will. One quite significant one, in fact. The question, though, is who else might have found out by looking in that irritating deleted items folder?’
Cubitt said nothing.
‘You altered your will so that on your death Rosemary would be given a year to live in the big house while Weald cottage was restored. She would then move into the cottage and be able to live there for the rest of her natural life, as long as she didn’t remarry. She wasn’t bequeathed the cottage, as you wanted the estate to remain intact. The estate which you were now leaving in its entirety to your son. Is that correct?’
Cubitt was flummoxed.
‘Was it your intention to tell your wife at some point? Or just let her discover it after your death when there would be nothing she could do about it and you wouldn’t be around?’ Cross asked. ‘But the question you really need to ask yourself is, if we were able to find those emails so quickly, couldn’t someone else with access to that computer and knowledge of your passwords also be able to find them? Does anyone else have such access?’
Cubitt didn’t answer immediately then said, quietly, ‘My wife.’
‘Ah well, food for thought. Perhaps we should have a break?’ Cross suggested, and before he was furnished with an answer, he’d left the room.
*
‘Mr Cubitt, were you aware of Alexander Mount’s existence as a monk at St Eustace’s Abbey?’ Cross began, when they were back in the interview room.
‘I already answered this when you asked me at the house,’ Cubitt sighed with irritation.
‘Mr Cubitt, were you aware of Alexander Mount’s existence as a monk at St Eustace’s Abbey?’ Cross repeated.
‘I was not,’ Cubitt replied tersely.
‘Mr Cubitt, were you aware of Alexander Mount’s existence as a monk at St Eustace’s Abbey?’ Cross said again in exactly the same tone, as if it were the first time he’d asked.
‘I just answered that,’ Cubitt replied, exasperated, and looking at his lawyer for help.
‘Mr Cubitt, were you aware of Alexander Mount’s existence as a monk at St Eustace’s Abbey?’ said Cross.
‘What is he doing? My client has already answered the question,’ the lawyer asked Ottey, as if Cross wasn’t in the room.
‘He’s simply giving him the opportunity to answer it truthfully,’ she replied.
‘Mr Cubitt, were you aware of Alexander Mount’s existence as a monk at St Eustace’s Abbey?’ Cross asked again.
‘No,’ Cubitt replied.
Ottey sighed and pushed an A4 sheet of paper across the table.
‘For the tape I’m showing Mr Cubitt a transcript of his texts with Nicholas Cubitt over the past few months. In these texts you can see that your son not only disclosed it to you, but the two of you entered into quite a long thread about it. You express your astonishment,’ she said.
‘I didn’t know he was going to do anything as stupid as this,’ he replied.
‘These denials, these, well frankly, lies aren’t going to look so good for you in court, Mr Cubitt. When you may ask the jury to believe something you’ve said they may have difficulty, having witnessed how liberal you can be with the truth,’ Cross informed him.
Mrs Ingham leant over to Cubitt, causing her pearls to rattle together like a Newton’s cradle on a desktop, and whispered in his ear.
‘Were you aware of your son’s intentions regarding the monk?’ Cross asked.
‘I knew he was going to the abbey to talk to him.’
‘Why was he going to do that?’
‘He said he wanted closure.’
‘Which is why the identity of the monk in the cottage came as no surprise to you,’ said Ottey.
‘His identity, no. His presence there and in that condition, absolutely. I was appalled, furious,’ he said.
‘Did you call Nick?’ she asked.
‘No. I decided just to clear up his mess and get rid of the body.’
‘You weren’t curious as to why he’d done this?’
‘I thought he’d lost his mind, to be honest with you. Got angry, things had gone too far. Alex had done more than enough damage to this family, I wasn’t going to let him do any more,’ Cubitt replied.
‘Some people, many people, would say that what happened to your family and its business was something you brought entirely upon yourselves,’ Cross said.
‘Then they obviously don’t have a full grasp of the facts,’ came the arrogant reply. Cross held his look for a moment, then turned over a couple of pages in his file. He found the page he was searching for and looked surprised at what he found. This, despite the fact that whatever was written on it was in his own hand.
‘You maintain that Brother Dominic was dead on March the thirty-first when you found him and you went back the following day with your wife simply to dispose of the body. Unlawfully, I should add,’ Cross said.
‘Yes,’ replied Cubitt.
‘Except that’s not actually true, is it? It’s yet another lie to add to the ever-growing list,’ said Cross. Cubitt said nothing. ‘You thought he was dead on the thirty-first, presumably because you didn’t look closely enough to be able to check. But when you went back on the first you discovered he was very much alive.’
‘Barely. He was barely alive,’ Cubitt admitted.
‘What happened then?’ Cross asked.
Cubitt was a little unsure how to answer.
‘I can’t remember. It’s all a bit of a blur,’ he replied unconvincingly. ‘Look, I’m getting a little tired. Could we have a break please?’ he pleaded.
‘Mr Cubitt, we know he was killed with one of your walking sticks. The one you had with you that day. It has a large twisted orb for a handle,’ Cross continued.
Cubitt said nothing, so Cross piled on the pressure.
‘You should also know that we’re fairly certain that your wife, with access to your phone and computer, may well have known that you’d changed your will,’ said Cross. ‘She knew everything was going to Nicholas.’
‘In our book, that gives her motive,’ said Ottey.
‘And you’re saying that’s why she did it?’ Cubitt asked. ‘What difference would that possibly make to her situation?’
There was a long pause in the room as they all took in what he’d just said.
‘So, you’re saying she did kill Brother Dominic?’ asked Cross, eventually pouncing on Cubitt’s slip.
Cubitt looked at his lawyer desperately. She gave him an imperceptible but encouraging nod. He looked at the ground for a moment, trying to grapple with what to say next.
‘Yes. She did,’ Cubitt said quietly.
‘What happened? Exactly,’ Cross pushed. Cubitt drew in a large breath as he recalled the horrific events of that night.
‘When we realised he was still alive, I suggested maybe we should call the police and an ambulance. But she told me to think about Nick. He would almost certainly go back to prison,’ Cubitt said.
‘Do you believe she was really concerned about him? She knew about the will,’ Ottey said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What happened that night, Mr Cubitt?’ Cross pushed.
‘It was so quick. She reached over, grabbed my stick, turned it upside down and hit him on the head.’
‘The autopsy report tells us it was a lot more than just a blow to the head, Mr Cubitt. He had several broken bones in his legs, his arms. His body was covered with injuries he sustained in that attack,’ said Ottey.
‘She just went berserk,’ he said, as if he still couldn’t believe what he’d witnessed. ‘She kept hitting him, again and again. I didn’t recognise her. I tried to stop her but she hit my hand with the stick and just carried on. Why did she do that?’
‘Mr Cubitt, are you confirming that your wife killed Brother Dominic?’ asked Cross.
‘I am.’ It was almost a whisper.
‘Were you involved at all?’ Cross went on.
‘I was not,’ he said quietly, the reality of all of it dawning on him. That he’d now told the police. ‘Why did she do that? Do you know?’
He began to weep, his shoulders heaving in great shuddering sobs.