THE MURDERER'S SON a gripping crime thriller full of twists Read online

  Marie nodded. ‘As long as you do. Found anything that I should know about?’

  ‘Nothing of gobsmacking interest, other than the fact that I don’t think the purer than pure Mrs Fleet is quite as snowy as we first thought.’ Max shuffled a pile of printouts and shook his head. ‘I hope I’m wrong, but my guess is that if you burrow your way through all the good works and fundraising, you’ll find that Saint Alison had a secret past. I’m sure there’s more to her and her old man than people might think.’ He looked up from his screen. ‘How about you, Sarge?’

  ‘Much the same, as it happens. Mystery after sweet mystery.’ Marie grimaced at him, ‘On the surface, everything in her garden seems to have been roses for the last ten years, but as I dig a little deeper, I smell manure!’

  ‘Oh, lovely jubbly.’ Max gave her a knowing grin.

  Marie liked the young Cockney. Well, she did now. She liked the whole team. They were close, tight knit. They had to be, given the kind of work they undertook, but she had initially had something of a problem with Max, and it had nothing to do with his being an in-comer. Like most true fenlanders, she welcomed people from outside the county, knowing that some of the smaller marsh villages would have died without an injection of new life. No, it was simply that Max came over as a bit of a smart-arse, and he wasn’t averse to voicing his opinions, especially when it meant getting one over on his younger colleague, DC Charlie Button. However, it hadn’t taken her too long to work out that the bravado came from being the youngest of a large tribe of siblings from the East End of London, and having had to stand his ground from a very early age. Plus, his parents had divorced when he was thirteen, which didn’t exactly help with his attitude. And Marie had quickly noticed that even if Max chose to have a dig at Charlie, heaven help anyone else who tried it!

  Now, a few years down the line, Marie knew that if you ever wanted someone to cover your back, choose Max Cohen. He did loyalty very well.

  Marie pulled open her drawer and took out her keys. The call of the crime scene had been more alluring than her soft duvet. As she tidied her desk, she thought about what they had found, out in the sleepy rural village of Thatcher’s Hurn.

  She and Jackman, wearing protective suits, had warily entered the lovely old house, and tried to assimilate everything they saw. They had walked slowly and without speaking. The “golden hour” after the discovery of a crime was a vital period of time. It was the only time when the evidence was fresh, when the integrity of the scene had not been corrupted or contaminated, when what had occurred was still freshly emblazoned into the minds of witnesses. And to Marie, it was a time when something still hung around the site, something left over from the criminal’s actions. To her it was like a slowly fading memory, where in those early moments, feelings, emotions and almost tangible shadows hung in the air at the crime scene before disappearing under the busy activity of forensic analysis. It was nothing spooky, it was simply an ability to read what she saw and understand what her intuition was telling her. And DI Jackman was the same, although he came at things from a totally different angle. Some thirteen years younger than her, he had travelled the academic route up the ladder. A degree in sociology from Cambridge gave him a clearer understanding of society and human behaviour than most, but his thoughts were based in theory, whereas hers were simply organic, the gut instinct of a beat bobby who’d become a detective sergeant.

  Marie stared around the office. Right now her damned “organic” intuitive feelings were shouting at her that something was wrong about the way Alison Fleet had died in the kitchen at Berrylands. Marie had been overwhelmed by the impression that the whole thing had been stage-managed. Whatever had happened there just did not fit into any of the usual hypotheses. But what was it? She frowned. That was one good reason to get back out there and talk to Jackman.

  ‘I’m going back out to Thatcher’s Hurn,’ she called across to Max. ‘You get home and get some sleep.’

  Max raised a hand in acknowledgement. ‘Will do. This line of enquiry has dried up anyway. Night, Sarge.’

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant Evans.’ A civilian secretary was blocking Marie’s exit, just as she was about to escape. ‘The desk sergeant wants DI Jackman, but I can’t find him anywhere and his phone is on voicemail.’

  ‘He’s out at the crime scene. Can I help?’ Marie hoped the answer would be no, but the woman nodded quickly. ‘I’m sure you can. Can you come downstairs right away?’

  Marie’s eyes narrowed and her tiredness magically lifted. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘The sergeant has someone in an interview room that he thinks may be of interest to DI Jackman.’

  Marie beckoned to Max. ‘Cancel my last words. With me, please.’

  * * *

  The uniformed sergeant looked pensive when Marie and Max hurried into the front office. His craggy face was etched even deeper with a mass of bewildered furrows.

  ‘I could be wasting your time, DS Evans, but then again . . .’ He stopped and rubbed hard on his chin. ‘He could be just another fruitcake. God knows we get enough of them.’

  ‘I sense another “but” coming on.’

  ‘Yeah, well, this one has me puzzled.’ He let out a loud exhalation of breath. ‘Just when you think you can sum them up in a flash, someone like this comes along.’ He frowned again. ‘I think you’d better judge for yourself.’

  He walked towards the row of interview rooms. ‘He’s in here, and the best of British.’ The sergeant pushed the door open for them, then walked back towards the desk, shaking his head as he went.

  The man was around twenty-five years old. He had thick, wavy, dirty-blond hair, pale staring eyes, and his clothes, far from suitable for the weather and the time of night, were soaking wet.

  Marie looked at him with interest. He certainly didn’t look like your usual druggie or petty criminal, and she saw intelligence behind that oddly disturbing stare.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Marie Evans, and this is Detective Constable Max Cohen. How can we help you?’

  The young man gave a strange little laugh. It hovered in the stale air of the small, claustrophobic room, and sent a shiver down Marie’s spine.

  For a moment she thought he was not going to speak, then in a clear, strong voice he said, ‘My name is Daniel Kinder and I murdered Alison Fleet.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘What do you make of him?’

  Jackman’s voice was breaking up as he drove across the fen and back towards the station. The signal was often weak in that remote area.

  ‘To be honest, sir, I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘I don’t believe that for one moment,’ echoed down the line. ‘He must have made an impression on you.’

  ‘Oh yes, he did that alright.’ Marie felt again the shudder of apprehension when she’d heard Daniel Kinder give that strange laugh. ‘It’s just I don’t know if he’s barking mad, a time-waster, or . . .’

  ‘Or a killer?’

  ‘Mm, or a killer.’ She hated to feel that way, but there it was. ‘I decided to wait for you before I spoke to him anymore.’

  ‘Have you arrested him?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I had to. He’s confessed to murder. And I’ve done the prelim stuff. I’ve searched him, seized his clothing and asked the doc to come in and see if he’s fit to interview.’ She paused. ‘He’s refused a brief, even though I urged him to have one, so I really need you here before I talk to him again.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll be with you in ten.’ The line cut, and Marie was left with her confused thoughts.

  * * *

  ‘Before we go in, what do we know about this man?’ Jackman straightened his tie, even though it was already perfectly centred in his crisply ironed collar.

  Marie stared at her notebook, ‘His name is Daniel Kinder, and . . .’

  ‘Kinder?’ Jackman asked, his eyes widening. ‘Is he local?’

  ‘Yes. He lives with his mother in one of those flashy houses out on—’

  ‘I know, on River
side Crescent,’ he finished off grimly.

  ‘You’ve had dealings with him, guv?’

  ‘No, but I knew his father, Sam Kinder. He had some sort of business association with my family some years ago. He died a while back of some god-awful tropical disease. Bilharzia, I think.’

  ‘I did think our man was too well-spoken to be some crackhead with a melting brain.’

  ‘I can’t speak for Daniel, of course, but his family were very well thought of. Sam Kinder was a rich man who almost singlehandedly brought water to hundreds of African villages. He worked with a Water Aid charity out there, that’s where he got ill.’ Jackman pulled a face. ‘It was a cruel irony that he had to die of a waterborne disease.’ He paused. ‘I never met Ruby, that’s his wife, but I seem to recall that they had just one son, although I don’t think I ever knew his name.’

  ‘Well, it seems that the mother is away trekking through Asia, trying to deal with her grief, and you’re about to meet the only son. And I hope, sir, you’re as baffled by him as I am.’ She frowned. ‘Because I’d hate to think I’m losing my knack for reading people.’

  ‘Let’s go see, shall we?’ Jackman turned to enter the room, then stopped mid-stride. ‘Daniel Kinder? The name’s familiar. Isn’t he a journalist?’

  ‘I haven’t got that far, sir.’

  ‘Well, if it is the same guy, he’s pretty damned good.’ He paused. ‘But it can’t be, can it? He’s one of these up-and-coming young “voices” of the modern world.’

  Marie shrugged then moved towards the door. ‘Pass. But if that’s the case, then his “voice” is now saying that he’s just murdered someone.’ She pulled open the door.

  ‘After you, guv.’

  They entered the interview room, and Jackman was immediately struck by the waves of nervous energy emanating from the young man in the paper suit. He waited while Marie unsealed a new tape and placed it in the recording machine, began the formal introductions and reiterated their suggestion that a solicitor be present. She looked hopefully at Kinder, but he shook his head and flatly refused representation.

  Initially Jackman sat quietly and tried to appraise Daniel Kinder. The doctor had said that he was fit to be interviewed and in his opinion, an appropriate adult was not necessary. Jackman stared at Kinder and decided that he was not so sure. There was something about the young man that made tiny shocks run down his spine, like the notes on a scale.

  He’d felt that way once before, when as a probationer he had been escorting a prisoner to a high-security psychiatric unit. There had been some kind of admin error that led to a delay, and Jackman had spent more time than he would have wished to with the “patient.” He hadn’t known how to communicate with the man or how to react to him. Although he’d never have admitted it to anyone, mental illness scared him.

  Now he experienced a similar feeling, sitting in the interview room and looking at Kinder. Not that the man was threatening. He was outwardly calm, even if he was giving off more static than a high tension cable. It was his eyes that disturbed Jackman. The eyes told a very different story, one that was anything but calm.

  ‘You say that you killed Alison Fleet? Perhaps you could explain how and why?’ Jackman leaned forward. ‘Actually, let’s start with where, shall we?’

  The man blinked rapidly then squinted, as if trying to recall it precisely. ‘At her home in Thatcher’s Hurn. A house called Berrylands.’

  Nothing he couldn’t have easily found out about, thought Jackman. The village had been featured on the five o’clock news, and the house name had not been withheld. ‘And where in the house did you kill her?’

  ‘The kitchen.’ Daniel Kinder looked directly at him, an unspoken challenge in his clear enunciation.

  Jackman kept his expression neutral, but he felt Marie, sitting close to his side, stiffen slightly. The site of the killing had not been released to the media. Then he considered the TV footage. Anyone with even the slightest knowledge of Berrylands could have worked that out from the positioning of the protective tents that the investigators had erected to keep the site from prying eyes.

  ‘Okay, Daniel, so how did you kill her?’

  ‘I stabbed her.’

  ‘Why?’ Jackman asked quickly.

  For the first time the young man faltered. He gave a peculiar little shiver, moving his neck and head with a jerky movement, then very softly whispered, ‘Because I have it in me.’

  Jackman hadn’t expected that particular answer. It should have been, “Because I hated her.” Or, “Because I loved her and she cheated on me.” “Because I was jealous.” There was always a cause, something that triggered violent and unstoppable emotion.

  ‘We all have it in us,’ said Marie quietly, ‘given certain circumstances. But very few commit murder. There is always a reason, Daniel, or a trigger. What was yours? What did Alison do to make you kill her?’

  He drew in a long breath and said, ‘It wasn’t her. It could have been anyone. I was destined to kill at some point in my life. It just happened to be Alison Fleet.’

  ‘What did you stab her with?’ Jackman flung this back, trying to give the young man no time to think.

  ‘A kitchen knife.’

  For almost half an hour they questioned Kinder. Sometimes he answered immediately, at others he was vague or appeared confused, and then there were questions that he would not answer at all.

  Jackman sat back, stared long and hard at Kinder, and confusion swept over him. ‘Would you excuse us for a moment, please, Mr Kinder?’ He pushed back his chair, stated for the sake of the tape that they were suspending the interview, and beckoned to Marie.

  Outside, and a little way from the room, he leant back against the corridor wall and exhaled loudly. ‘Okay, so he’s got some of the details, but not enough by far.’

  ‘Even we don’t know what kind of knife was used yet, but she was stabbed.’

  ‘Yes, but how many ways are there to kill someone? And I mean a bloody, violent death, not a premeditated furtive plan that involves hemlock or arsenic. You shoot them, beat them to death, drown them, strangle them or stab them, and what is the most likely in this country?’

  ‘Stabbing.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He shook his head. ‘He’s guessing. He didn’t do it.’

  ‘But he’s a far cry from your average time-waster, wouldn’t you say?’ Marie asked. ‘And he’s not your standard nutter either, if there is such a thing.’

  ‘I agree completely.’ Jackman sighed. ‘But I really don’t buy his story, and I’m not too sure how to tackle this.’

  ‘Let’s talk to him some more, sir. Throw in the fact you knew his father. Let’s see if we can find the real Daniel and try to work out what he’s up to.’ Marie paused. ‘He’s giving off enough vibes to stun a charging tiger, and I want to know what is making an apparently bright, young, upwardly mobile journalist, suddenly decide that he’s a murderer.’

  ‘You have a point, as usual.’ Jackman gave a chilly laugh, and together they walked back into the room.

  ‘You are Sam Kinder’s son, aren’t you?’ said Jackman, trying to keep his tone friendly. ‘He was a colleague of my father. I was very sorry to hear about his death.’

  Daniel drew his brow together, then relaxed. ‘I’m his adopted son, Detective Inspector.’ The words were said with gravity, as if they were meant to indicate something truly momentous. ‘His death hit my adoptive mother and me very hard.’

  Jackman nodded. ‘A great loss, certainly to you his family, but to countless others as well. He was a really great man.’

  It was Daniel’s turn to nod. Then he thrust his head up and his jaw forward almost aggressively. ‘What has this got to do with my murdering that woman? You do understand what I’m telling you, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t think you killed anyone, Daniel,’ said Jackman without emotion.

  Anger flared up in the pale eyes. ‘I did! Why won’t you believe me?’

  Jackman decided to push a few buttons. ‘Be
cause you’ve told us nothing that you couldn’t have easily found out. Especially someone in your line of work. You’re a journalist, for heaven’s sake! You have friends in the know. You hear whispers, you have contacts, you pay for little titbits of information.’ He gave a slow shake of the head. ‘No, Daniel. I don’t know why you’re doing this, but you’re no killer.’

  Without warning, Daniel Kinder jumped up and launched himself across the table, grabbing at Jackman’s suit lapels. ‘You have to believe me! Don’t you understand? You have to!’

  Marie calmly leant across and fixed Daniel’s hands in an iron grip, and as Jackman had already moved swiftly back out of his reach, Daniel was left lying across the desk, sobbing that they must believe him.

  ‘Okay, my friend, that’s enough.’ Marie slowly turned to Jackman and muttered, ‘Methinks he fooled our duty doctor. We need a full medical assessment before we go any further.’

  Jackman nodded and watched as Kinder was taken out of the room by two uniformed officers.

  ‘Get the FMO to see to him!’ Marie called to one of the men, above the noise that Daniel was making. ‘And keep us posted on his status.’

  Jackman watched the young man being half-carried, half-dragged down the corridor. ‘Nothing more we can do tonight. I’m sure the doc will administer a sedative and he’ll sleep until morning. Then we’ll see what tomorrow brings.’

  ‘I wonder if there’s anyone we should notify?’ asked Marie. ‘Earlier he told me he had a girlfriend, but he wouldn’t give her name. She’s probably worried sick about him.’

  ‘We’ll send an officer round to his home on the off-chance that they live together. Other than that there’s little we can do without his permission.’ Jackman realised that his shoulders were aching. He stretched. ‘Get home, Marie. Get some rest. This case is going to be far from straightforward.’

  ‘My thoughts precisely. See you in the morning, sir.’