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“Elizabeth Siddal, Dante Gabriel Rosetti’s first wife. You do look a lot like her, Lauren. Or a lot like the paintings of her. A typical Pre-Raphaelite beauty, as someone said.”
“You know?”
“I should have made the co
“But how could you have known?”
“We found Luke’s shoulder bag at the other flat, too. I read over his recent writings and found a lot of classical references I didn’t understand. One thing I did understand is that they were of a sexual nature, very intimate, and they stressed a kind of Pre-Raphaelite look. There were also references to Ophelia, but I don’t think it was Shakespeare Luke had in mind. It was John Everett Millais. He painted Ophelia and used Elizabeth Siddal as a model. She caught pneumonia lying in a tepid bath every day posing as Ophelia floating down the river. Very romantic. But what I don’t understand is why. Why did you do it, Lauren? Why did you kill him? Was he going to leave you?”
“You don’t understand anything. I didn’t kill him. You’ve got no proof. I’ve got an alibi. Talk to Vernon.”
“I’ve already talked to Vernon,” said A
Lauren looked down into her lap. Her fingers were twined together, grasping so tightly, all the knuckles were white. She shook her head. “I don’t believe Vernon would do anything like that.”
“But you must have suspected, after you heard about the kidnap demand?”
“It confused me. I didn’t know what was going on. Maybe I had my suspicions, I don’t know. I was too upset to think about it.”
“The thing is,” A
Lauren looked at A
“What happened, Lauren?”
Lauren reached for her cigarettes and lit one. Then she eyed A
“Do you think I might have a word alone with your husband?” Banks asked Mrs. Marshall at her house that evening.
“Bill? I don’t know what he can tell you,” she said. “You know he can’t talk.”
“There might be one or two little things.” Banks looked at the invalid who, judging by the hard expression in his eyes, certainly knew he was being talked about. “Can he write?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Marshall. “But he can’t hold a pencil properly. He can only grasp it in his fist and scribble a few letters.”
“That’ll do,” said Banks. “Can you get me a pad and pencil, if it’s no trouble?”
Mrs. Marshall brought Banks a lined pad and a pencil from the sideboard drawer.
“Come on,” said Michelle, taking her arm and leading her toward the kitchen. “Let’s go make some tea. I’ve got a few things to tell you.” Banks and Michelle had agreed on a sanitized version of events to tell Mrs. Marshall. If the media dug too deeply and the story hit the news, then she might find out more than she wanted about her son’s life and death, but that was for the future. Now, maybe it was enough for Michelle to tell her that Donald Bradford killed Graham because he found out something about Bradford’s illegal activities.
When they had gone into the kitchen and closed the door, Banks put the pad and pencil on Bill Marshall’s knee and settled in front of him, gazing into the expressionless eyes. “I think you know why I want to talk to you,” he said.
Bill Marshall made no sign that he understood.
“You used to spar with Reggie and Ro
Bill Marshall did nothing.
“Okay, so that’s how you want to play it,” Banks said. “Fine. I’m not saying you had anything to do with Graham’s death. You didn’t. You’d never have done anything like that. But you knew who did it, didn’t you?”
Bill Marshall just stared at Banks.
“See, the trouble with people like you, Bill, is they insist on working outside the law. You’ve no use for coppers, have you? Never have had, I shouldn’t think. Just like my own dad. Want to know what I think happened? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. I think Donald Bradford just wasn’t cut out to be a killer of young boys. I don’t think he had much choice in the matter, though. Fiorino pushed him into it. After all, Graham was his responsibility, and Graham was in a position to do a lot of serious damage. There was just too much at stake. Not just the empire as it existed then, but the future. The city was expanding, becoming a new town. Soon it would double in population. What an opportunity for a man like Fiorino. He supplied what people always seemed to want, for a good price. Are you with me so far?”
Marshall just glared at Banks. A little drool slid down his stubbly chin.
“Fiorino had no use for the law, either, unless it was in his pay, so he used other people to do his dirty work. Shortly after the killing, Bradford sold up and moved out. Fiorino didn’t like that. Didn’t like people escaping his control, being out of his line of sight. Especially if they knew as much as Bradford did and were fast becoming unstable and unreliable. Bradford was guilt-ridden by what he had done. Also, I think he took some of Fiorino’s goods with him, though that’s just a minor matter. What really counted was that Bradford was out of sight and untrustworthy. And he knew too much.”
Marshall still showed no reaction. Banks could hear muffled voices from the kitchen. “So what does he do when he has a problem with Bradford? Well, he could pay for a hit, I suppose, and that’s one option. But he knows you. That’s an easier one. He knows that whatever you do, you’ll do it yourself, you won’t go ru
Banks could tell by the anger and hatred in Bill Marshall’s eyes that he was right. “You went up to Carlisle, didn’t you? Probably told everyone you were looking for work. Then you broke into Donald Bradford’s flat and waited for him to come home. You knew Bradford was a tough customer, so you attacked him from behind with a cosh. I don’t blame you, Bill. The man murdered your son. I’d want to do the same to anyone who harmed either of my children. But you let your wife suffer all those years. You knew Graham was dead and you knew who killed him. Maybe you didn’t know where the body was, but I’ll bet you could have found out. Instead, you went up there and murdered Bradford and said nothing to your wife or your daughter. All these years they’ve lived not knowing what happened to Graham. That’s unforgivable, Bill.” Banks nodded toward the pad. “What do you have to say about that? Come on, tell me something.”