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Pleasantries out of the way, Banks turned on the recording machine and clearly stated the necessary details. Gerry Masterson seemed nervous—she was playing with her hair too much—but he had advised her to observe for the most part, unless she was struck with a sudden inspiration. He imagined she would settle into her role when the interview got going. The room was stuffy but bearable. Hot enough that Ta
“So, Ronald,” he began. “What’s your story?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“That’s true. But you might want to help yourself a little by helping me.”
“You lot always say that. Why would I want to help you?”
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“Because a gang of coppers broke into my house at the crack of dawn and dragged me here.”
“We’ve had a serious complaint about you,” Banks went on. “A woman alleges that you talked your way into her home by impersonating a police officer, and that once inside, you threatened and intimidated her and her child.”
“What a load of bollocks.”
“She further alleges that you destroyed her mobile telephone and that you badly damaged her index finger by treading on it while she was lying on the floor, pushed there by you. How am I doing so far?”
“You tell a good story.”
“She picked you out of a VIPER identification parade.”
“What’s that?”
“Come on, Ronald, don’t play the i
“Can you cut out the i
“We’re not in court, you know,” Banks shot back. “There’s no jury.”
“Even so. Let’s all get along here, shall we?”
Banks turned back to Ta
“How about I don’t?”
“Did you visit Alex Preston and her son, Ian, at flat eighty-one Hague House on the evening of Monday, the fourth of March? That’s last Monday, in case you’re confused.”
“I’m not confused. I’ve never heard of the woman or the kid. Or Hague House, for that matter.”
“I suppose you’ve got an alibi, then?”
Ta
Banks shuffled his papers and slid over the sketch artist’s likeness so that both Ta
“Could be anyone. Lots of blokes shave their heads these days.”
“I don’t think so. It’s not just the shaved head. There’s the broken nose. Quite distinctive, that. And the shifty eyes. It’s you, all right. This description was worked out between Alex Preston, the alleged victim, and a police sketch artist. I’d say, as these things go, it’s a good likeness.”
“I don’t think you’d get very far with that in court, Mr. Banks, as I’m sure you know,” said Cassandra Wakefield. “These sorts of concocted identifications can be incredibly unreliable. The witness could easily have been describing someone she’d seen in the street, someone she had a grudge against. And there’s evidence that witnesses simply pick out faces they don’t like from VIPER displays. My client can’t help being . . . er . . . distinctive.”
“It’s because he’s distinctive that we were able to identify him so quickly,” said Banks. “And everything was done according to correct legal procedure, so I think it will be up to a court to decide, not you.” He returned to Ta
“Why would I do that?” Ta
“Are you saying you didn’t?”
“Of course I didn’t.”
“Can you explain the card with your fingerprints and a telephone number on it being in the possession of Alex Preston?”
“Maybe it was something I threw away in the street and she picked up? A handout of some sort. Did the number have anything to do with me?”
“We called the number. There was silence, then dead air. The number is untraceable. A pay-as-you-go cheapie, unregistered and disposable.”
“Well, there you go,” said Ta
“Except for your fingerprints on the card.”
“And I’m saying that maybe someone handed it to me in the street or something and I threw it away. Jehovah’s Witnesses or someone. What are you going to do, arrest me for littering?”
“DCI Banks, do you have anything other than this remarkably circumstantial evidence for holding my client against his will?”
“I would think that when a young woman reports the events Ms. Preston reported and presents us with the evidence she has presented us, in the form of the sketch, a broken finger, the fingerprints and the VIPER identification, it’s a little more than circumstantial. It’s certainly something we all ought to take seriously.”
Ms. Wakefield glanced at her watch. “As you will. But please hurry up. I have appointments.”
“Don’t let me keep you.” Banks went immediately back to Ta
“Home, I suppose. I haven’t been out much all week. The weather, you know. Plays havoc with my rheumatism.”
“Can anyone corroborate that?”
“I’m not married, if that’s what you’re asking.”
It was no alibi, but Banks knew that most alibis were thin. If you had someone who would lie for you, it helped, of course, but Ta
“Not at the moment.”
“What do you do for money?”
“Benefits. The social. I’m entitled.”
“Did you know a lad called Morgan Spencer?”
“Can’t say as I did. Is he dead or something?”
He was lying, Banks could tell from his change in tone. Cassandra Wakefield knew it, too, but she was doing her best not to react. “Yes, he’s dead,” Banks went on. “Murdered. Were you anywhere near the Riverview Caravan Park on Monday night?”
“Why would I go there?”
“To burn down Morgan’s caravan after you’d had a good look for anything that might incriminate you or your mates.”
“Incriminate how? What mates?”
“What about Caleb Ross?”
Ta
“No,” Ta
“Mr. Ross used to drive for Vaughn’s ABP. He is also deceased.”
“Murdered?”
“We’re not sure. What kind of work did you do before you became unemployed?”
“I’m a motor mechanic. Skilled, trained, experienced and all that, but it doesn’t seem to matter these days when they can get someone half my age with half the experience for half the money. Last while I’ve been doing a bit of club work.”