Jane called Davidge as soon as she got back to the CID office. He seemed surprised when she told him Simmonds now wanted legal representation.
“He wants to make a written confession and have you present as a witness.”
“He’s confessed?”
“Yes, to the murders of three women and a young man called Aiden Lang.”
Davidge paused. “We’ll see about that. I’m coming to the station right now and I’d like you to advise him to do nothing until I get there.”
Jane put the phone down and went to see Moran in his office. He was talking to Gibbs, who looked a little sheepish when he saw her.
“I decided it was best to tell the governor what was happening.”
Moran frowned at her. “You should have told me he wanted to confess, Jane. It should have been my decision whether or not you continued to interview Simmonds.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Simmonds was adamant he would only confess to me, with nobody else in the room, and he wouldn’t allow me to make any notes.”
“What’s done is done, I suppose. As much as I’d have liked to have been there, I would probably have done the same if I’d been in your shoes.”
“Do you want me to go over what he said in detail or are you happy with a condensed version for now?” Jane asked.
Moran told her a quick summary was fine and Jane recounted Simmonds’ key admissions, whilst Moran jotted down notes. Then she told him about her phone call with Davidge.
“Good job, Jane. Simmonds might be lying about some things or change his story in the handwritten confession. I want you to write down his version of events in a statement, while they’re still fresh in your memory. You can use my office.”
“The conversation was off the record as far as Simmonds was concerned. Davidge will no doubt argue my statement is inadmissible.”
“Jane, I don’t give a toss about Davidge. Simmonds confessed to four murders. He was still under caution and said things only the murderer could know. A judge at trial will decide what is or isn’t admissible as evidence. I’ll countersign your statement as the same truthful version of events that you recounted to me.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jane looked at Gibbs. “Did you ask Lawrence about the indented writing?”
“Yeah. He said the lab were still working on it.”
Moran stood up. “Right, Spence, you can buy me lunch. If you need me, Jane, give me a shout.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Jane sat quietly in Moran’s office, concentrating hard on remembering everything Simmonds had said. Thankfully a lot of her suspicions had proved to be right, which helped in compiling the statement. She wondered how Simmonds had managed to appear a pillar of society for so long, when underneath his kind and gentle persona raged an unstable mind. Jane reflected on how his carefully constructed façade had crumbled to pieces when Helen Matthews said she was going to tell the police he was a child abuser and he’d snapped—causing a brutal chain reaction. Jane also wondered if Simmonds’ relationship with Lang, sexual or not, had precipitated a psychological crisis that acted as some sort of catalyst for the murders. She doubted Simmonds would ever tell the truth about his sexuality or the nature of his relationship with Lang. But it didn’t matter now. The important thing was that Simmonds had confessed to murdering him.
It was nearly two hours later when Moran entered the room with Gibbs.
Jane looked up. “I’ve nearly finished, sir.”
Moran looked pleased, opening his notebook. “I just spoke with Lawrence on the phone about the bin bags.”
“And?”
“Thankfully he gave me the details in layman’s terms, which were . . .” Moran read from his notes. “‘The striation marks on the body part bags are the same as the ones under the sink at the Peckham surgery. There’s also a perfect mechanical fit on the torn edge of the bag the head was in and the next bag on the roll under the sink.’ That’s enough to nail him for Lang’s murder even if he retracts his confession.” Moran turned a page in his notebook. “Fibers from the curtain ties used to strangle Helen Matthews and Eileen Summers matched fibers recovered from the waiting room curtains. The same fibers were also found in the pocket of Simmonds’ winter coat, which I’m guessing he wore when he went to kill Eileen Summers.”
Jane’s eyes lit up. “He’s not as forensically savvy as he likes to think. What about the testing of the eye fluid for novocaine?”
“We’re waiting for a result on that,” Moran said.
“Everything you just said about the forensic results on the ligatures fits with what Simmonds told me in his confession.”
Moran’s desk phone rang. He spoke briefly with the caller. “You can take Davidge through to the interview room and tell him one of us will be with him shortly. But don’t let him see Simmonds yet.” Moran put the phone down.
“I’ll make a copy of my statement so far for Davidge to read, then get Simmonds out of his cell so he can write his confession with Davidge present.”
“Whoa, slow down, Jane. I want to read your statement before Davidge or Simmonds. You don’t need to tell Davidge anything for now. Just give him and Simmons the confession forms and let them get on with it. You can finish your statement later.”
“I’ve already finished it, sir.” But she knew it wasn’t a complete record of what had been said between them. She had made no reference in her statement to the fact that Simmonds had threatened her, or that the custody PC had entered the room after hearing him shouting at her. And she had omitted her comments about Simmonds’ mother, and his dishonorable conduct in the army.
Jane took the cell keys from the duty sergeant and asked the custody PC to accompany her when she escorted Simmonds to the interview room. She opened the wicket on Simmonds’ cell door and peered in, but couldn’t see him.
Jane turned to the PC. “Has he been taken for a walk in the yard, or for a wash?”
“Not that I know of.”
Jane turned back to the door and raised her voice. “Mr. Simmonds, please show yourself. Mr. Davidge is here to see you.”
“I checked on him half an hour ago and he was there,” the PC assured her.
“Well, he can’t have bloody well escaped. Open the door,” Jane told him.
As the cell door opened, she could see Simmonds lying face down by the door, with a pool of blood around his head.
“Get an ambulance!” Jane shouted.
The PC knelt and put two fingers on Simmonds’ neck. “There’s no pulse. He’s dead.”
“Are you sure?” Jane felt for a pulse herself, but there was nothing.