YOU DON’T GIVE A FIG HOW I FEEL
PAUL BIRCHALL LOOKS UP EXPECTANTLY as DI Yarrow and DS Harding enter the room and then does a double-take as he sees the ravaged mask that is Yarrow’s face. He looks down and away in embarrassment, a reaction that Yarrow is well used to.
“I am Detective Inspector Yarrow; this is Detective Sergeant Harding.”
“At last, somebody in authority, we can put an end to this farce. I tell you now, I wish to make a formal complaint about the actions of these two… officers,” waving his hand in the direction of Balderstone and Edgley. “It has been heavy-handed from the outset and most distressing for my niece, my niece Denise Walker,” Birchall blustered, rising from his chair.
“Please sit down, sir, we are not through yet,” Yarrow said, quietly but firmly, “there are still some issues to be resolved, and I require that you remain here for the time being.”
Balderstone and Edgley look at each other in bemusement; they have not yet been told about Denise’s accusation. “Thank you,” Yarrow says to them, indicating with a nod of his head that they should leave.
“‘Scuse me sir, can I ask what’s going on?” Balderstone asks hesitantly.
“Yes, sorry, I can’t divulge it now, but please see WPC Lodge, she will fill you in on the situation, all I can say is that some additional information has come to our notice. Meantime, thanks lads, you’ve done a good job, I will advise of any further developments.”
Balderstone and Edgley exit the room, not best pleased about the turn of events. “Bloody typical, bloody CID muscling in on our case,” Balderstone exclaims loudly.
“Got to be serious though, hasn’t it? To get the DI involved, old Crispy doesn’t normally get involved at this level.”
“Mebbe, but if our guy has done owt, it should be our collar, not CID.”
“Let’s see what Janet Lodge has to say ‘bout it, what this additional information is all about. And I could do with a cuppa anyhow.”
“Yeah, right.”
The two officers trudged down the corridor, looking for Janet Lodge. Paul Birchall now looked worried; the two detectives are not at all friendly, and Yarrow is particularly grim-faced.
“Can you please confirm your name for me, please, sir? Your full name?” Yarrow asks.
“What is this bloody farce; I already gave it to those other plods about twenty bloody times.”
“If you would, sir, just for the record.”
“If you insist, Paul Albert Birchall.”
“Address?”
“22 Newcome Street, Batley.”
“Age?”
“26, born on the 3rd February 1930.”
“Thank you. Now, sir, please explain to me how and why you were in the park with your niece?” Yarrow asks, leaning forward into Birchall’s face.
“How many more bloody times, this is intolerable. You either tell me what this is all about or let me out of here,” Birchall demands, clenching his fists again.
“Very well then, sir. A very serious allegation has been made, and I must investigate this allegation. Your niece, Denise Walker, alleges that you have molested her sexually.”
“What?” he exploded, rising from the chair, spittle flying.
“Sit down, Mr Birchall. You heard me.” Yarrow said, without raising his voice but with the hard edge of authority. Harding got to his feet, ready to restrain Birchall if he got violent or made a break for the door.
“This… this is nonsense. I have never touched her,” he said as he sat back down. “I never would, never… You’ve been putting words in her mouth. I have never molested her sexually, never. Never.”
“The allegation is that you touched her private parts, her vulva, her pee-pee as she calls it, whilst bathing her.”
“This is ridiculous; I have done no such thing. Where is she, I want to talk to her?”
“That is not possible at present; she is being examined by a nurse and further questions will be put to her by a WPC.”
“Putting words in her mouth, you mean.”
“Mr Birchall, Paul, where were you on the night of Saturday the seventh of August, or the early morning of Sunday the eighth?” Yarrow asked suddenly and with far more hostility than he had previously displayed.
“What?” Birchall shook his head, confused by the sudden change in questioning. “The seventh of August? I don’t know, at home, probably.”
“At home in Newcome Street, Batley?”
‘Yes, I don’t go out much, I prefer to stay at home. Listen to the radio or read. I like to read.’
‘And you were at home, reading or listening to the radio on the night of the seventh of August, is that what you are telling us?’ Harding asked.
‘Yes, yes, I should think so.’
‘Can anyone verify that?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. Wait! Wait, this is about that little girl who was murdered here in West Garside, isn’t it? I read about it in the papers.’
‘Were you in Garside on the night of the seventh?’ Harding asks.
‘No, no, of course not.’
‘What were you reading?’ This from Yarrow.
‘I…I can’t remember. I have to think.’
‘How did you get to Garside, that night? You drive. Got a car?’ Harding again.
‘No, I don’t drive, and I’ve got no car.’
‘What was on the radio?’
‘What?’
‘On the radio, what were you listening to, that night, seventh of August?’ Yarrow asks.
‘I don’t know, I can’t think, ‘Journey into Space,’ maybe no, no. No, that was broadcast later, a concert maybe. No, I can’t think, I don’t even know if I was, listening I mean, I only I might have been. That or reading, that’s what I do most nights.’
‘Motorbike?’ Marcus asks suddenly.
‘What?’ The rapid switch of questioning disorientating him, as it was designed to, to trip him up.
‘Did you get here by motorbike; do you have a motorbike?
‘I have a pushbike, but no motorbike. I don’t like them. Noisy. Dirty. Dangerous things.’
‘How many times did you abuse her, Denise?’ asked Harding, suddenly changing tack once again. ‘How many times have you touched her sexually?’
‘I told you; I have not touched her. I have not in any way touched her sexually.’
‘What time does the train get in?’ Yarrow asks, almost before Birchall has finished speaking.
‘Eh?’
‘The train, from Batley to Garside, what time did the train get in on the seventh?’
‘I did not take the train, or bus. I did not drive or come by motorbike; I did not come here by any means, car, bike, train bus or flying bloody saucer. I was not in Garside at all on the seventh.’
‘When she was in the bath, how many times did you touch Denise?’ Birchall’s head swivelled back sharply from Yarrow to Harding.
‘I swear, I did not ever touch her, in the bath or elsewhere.’
‘She claims that you were drying her with a towel when you touched her ‘pee-pee.’ Why would she make that up?’
‘What, oh, right, I remember, I was drying her, and the towel slipped and I…accidentally, accidentally, touched her there and she said very matter of factly, ‘that’s my pee-pee. That’s all; I did not deliberately molest her.’
‘You’re a grown man; do you think it appropriate for you to be bathing a four-year old girl?’ Yarrow puts the question, even with his immobile face, you can sense his disapproval.
‘She was dirty, she’d fallen down, and of course I had to bath her.’
‘And I repeat, do you think it appropriate for a …twenty-six year old man to be bathing a four year old girl?
‘I’m her uncle for God’s sake, family.’ He held his head in his hands. ‘This is the thanks I get; this is what I get for trying to help out.’
‘And you, what about you, were you in the bath with her?’ Harding queries.
‘What? No, of course not.’
‘Were you naked at the time, when you bathed her, were you naked as well?”
‘No, no.’
‘Did you ask Denise to touch you, to touch you sexually?’
‘No, no, no, no.’
‘Look, Paul, said Harding, in a suddenly sympathetic tone of voice.’ We know this is troubling you, knowing what you did to Denise. Believe me; you’ll feel a lot better if you get it off your chest. We see so many people like you, good decent blokes, blokes who work hard, and then somehow, something goes wrong, you didn’t plan for it, but it happens just the same.
You’re there, bathing your niece, the little Denise, and you touch her. And that’s weighing on your mind, we know it is. Come on, help yourself, do yourself a big favour and just get it off your chest. Just admit to us that you sexually touched Denise and we can wrap this up and go home. You will feel a lot better for it. Cathartic, that’s the word for it.’
‘Don’t come the soft soap. You don’t give a fig how I feel. I tell you how I feel, angry, annoyed, upset, I do my sister a favour and I end up here accused of molesting her daughter. So much for being a Good Samaritan! It’s the last time ever, I can bloody tell you.’
‘When did you decide to come to Garside and abduct a little girl for rape?’ Yarrow asks harshly, he does not much like Birchall, to his mind a grown man bathing a little girl, niece or not, is not in any way acceptable.
‘I did not. I was not in Garside that night’
Yarrow and Harding continue to question him, switching back and forth, between the alleged sexual assault and his whereabouts on the night of the murder trying to shake his story about being in Batley that night, looking for inconsistencies in his responses. A good liar tries to make the lies look like the truth and the truth like lies. Lies should be vague, too much detail in a lie and you can trap yourself and Yarrow and Harding knew this very well, trying to trap Birchall with a detail that could be disproved and then his entire story would start to unravel but he did not trip over any part of his denials.
The police in Batley would be asked to check his story as far as possible, to see if neighbours could verify his presence in Batley that night, or to see if they saw him leaving his house that day.
They would enquire at the railway and bus stations as to whether anyone answering his description had bought a ticket to West Garside. In all honesty Yarrow and Harding do not seriously believe him to be the Emily killer, but they had to make sure.
As to the alleged sexual assault on Denise Walker, Birchall maintains that only once did he accidently touch her whilst drying her; only the one time.
Yarrow leaves the interview room to discuss the case with Dave Armitage, who is the Custody Sergeant that day; it is the Custody Sergeant who decides if there is sufficient evidence to press a charge
‘It’s bit thin, Chris,’ he says, ‘it’s her word against his. The nurse has found no evidence of molestation on the girl; I mean she’s intact internally. I reckon it’s best to bail him and make further enquiries, see if there has been any funny nonsense elsewhere, up in Batley, see if the girl’s mother has a take on it. Maybe Denise has spoken to her Mum about it, told her summat. Sorry, Chris, there’s not enough there to charge him as it stands.’
Paul Birchall was duly bailed, to re-appear in three weeks’ time. Although still angry and confused at the turn of events, he seems resigned.
He shrugs and sighs, life’s vicissitudes weighing heavily on him. ‘What about Denise? he asks wearily, he still feels he still has a duty towards her. ‘Is she coming back with me, or what?’
‘That would not be appropriate.’ answers Yarrow.
. ‘So? What will happen to her?’
‘She’ll probably have to go to a foster home tonight, but we’ll visit her mother and see what other arrangements can be made.’