Crane stood in stunned silence. Finally he said, ‘Maybe he just forgot the exact place. It’s been a year, after all.’
‘Agreed. So we took him to the sluice-way end. That’s where the stones came from, the buttressing. Hadn’t a clue where they’d been gathered.’
‘He … could have forgotten that too. He struck me as a bloke who’d have trouble remembering what he did yesterday.’
He nodded wearily. ‘We took all of that into account. So then we talked about the body. And when he wasn’t weeping and wailing he couldn’t get any of that right either. Hadn’t a clue where he was supposed to have attached the bag of stones. Said he’d tied it to her ankles with rope.’ He stared at Crane irritably. ‘It was attached to her waist with a plastic-covered clothes line. Said the stones were in a black plastic bin bag; we’ve got the bloody things stored in the chamber of horrors and they’re in a clear plastic sack. He said she was in jeans and a short jacket. Well, she was in a floral summer dress.’
Crane stood again in baffled silence. ‘He no more killed the kid than I did, Frank,’ Benson said finally.
Crane knew he was right. The police had to have proof. They had to have the same proof for an innocent man who said he was guilty as for a guilty man who said he was innocent.
‘Crazy sod,’ Benson said. ‘Crazy sod! If he’d given us this crap last year we’d have had the bugger out of the mowing and kept at it. With him sticking to that fucking alibi we could never see it being anyone else.’
He stood flushed and angry. He’d be thinking of all the wasted hours, the overtime, the cancelled leave. Crane thought about the meeting at the Goose and Guinea, Anderson’s kindly words about Aborigines. ‘It could be a lot to do with the Willows pointing the bone, Ted.’ He told him about the meeting. ‘He was in a state. He’d had months of being given the elbow. Apart from that I think he was genuinely crazy about her. And then Geoff starts giving him the needle. I think he must have decided he’d have an easier life inside. Saying he’d done it and taking the porridge. At least he’d get his self-respect back. Sounds crazy but I can’t think why else he’d do it.’
‘Stupid arsehole! He still wouldn’t tell us where he really was the night she went missing. He certainly wasn’t at home with Dougie and that lot.’
‘You’re right. But he had to pretend he was. He was actually alibiing Dougie.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You didn’t hear this. The bloke who told me was Cliff Greenwood, Bobby’s one-time best mate. He’s a decent lad, going straight now. The night Donna fell in the pond Dougie was taking delivery of a van-load of expensive antique guns. The big house Morton way, yes?’
‘Come again.’ It was Benson’s turn to look stunned.
‘Did none of you tie Dougie to it? It had his dabs on, according to Greenwood.’
‘We think Dougie Mahon’s involved in everything to do with posh gear. Like Greenwood says, it had his dabs on. The guns were the sort of clean, careful job he sets up. But we had no proof, we never do with that bugger, and the burglary didn’t come to light till a week later with the owner being away. By that time it was a back-burner job anyway, it was all Donna Jackson then.’
‘Well, Dougie made doubly sure he was fire proof. Told Bobby and his mates to say everyone was at the Mahons’ place that night. That’s why Bobby daren’t admit where he really was himself. Until now. There’s a good chance he was clubbing in Leeds with some French totty called Nicole. If you want to have another go with the guns you could try putting the arm on Marvin Jackson. He’s going to find it hard to prove he wasn’t disabling intruder alarms at a big moorland house that night.’
‘We’ll get him in, those guns were worth a fortune. If we can tie him to the house we can tie him to Dougie.’
‘If Marvin wasn’t out thieving he could be in another kind of serious shit, now Bobby looks to be off the hook. I’ll get back to you on that. It was certainly him who duffed me up. Him and Dougie’s wife.’
Benson glanced at him. ‘You OK now? She’s given out the muscle before on Dougie’s behalf, him being nine stone wet through. Christ knows why blokes want to give her one, must be like humping a rhino.’
Crane said, ‘What happens now, about Donna?’
‘Terry wants to re-assemble the team who worked on it the first time round. It’ll take time, but so what, we’ve lost months already with that dozy bastard. I’ve got to go, Frank. Keep in touch.’
Crane watched him move off. No word of thanks for handing him valuable information that could see the guns recovered, brownie points to Benson. But then he’d not expected any thanks. Benson owed him for a lot more than information. He owed him for a debt he could never repay and debts of that size killed friendship. And Benson had once been his closest friend.
As Crane walked across the marble tiling of the reception area, the dark-haired girl called Carol was collecting a package from the desk. ‘Frank, hi,’ she said. ‘I suppose you’ve come looking for Doctor Watson, though I suspect he sees himself more as Sherlock himself.’
He grinned. ‘Is he about? If not I’ll catch him later.’
‘Yes he is, and I was hoping I might just talk him into taking me out tonight. So you’ve got to be seriously bad news, turning up like this.’
‘I take it you and Geoff are an item?’
‘I thought we were, but since he got his teeth into the DJ story it’s not been the same.’ She tossed her curly hair. ‘I suppose you’ve got to admire the big dope,’ she said, with rueful fondness, ‘the way he clings on with it. He’ll not forgive you, you know, if you sort it all out before he does. I know him. I’ll tell him you’re here.’
She went off before he could tell her the case would soon be back with the police and her chance of a night out with Anderson looked good.
‘Frank!’ Anderson walked rapidly across reception. Everything he did was rapid. Crane was sorry about the case being over as far as he was concerned, but relieved not to have to go on uneasily cooperating with a bumptious reporter.
‘Geoff, it’s good news, bad news, depending which way you look at it. Mahon. He’s confessed to killing Donna, but the police aren’t buying it.’
Anderson’s mobile face became totally still, and when Crane had given him the story he watched him in a lengthy silence, and that was unusual too in a man who thought and talked so fast. The news had clearly given him a big shock, just as it had Crane. He finally gave a wry smile. ‘You don’t think this could be Mahon-type cunning? He puts his hand up and then deliberately gives all the wrong answers, so they have to let him go? He’s cleared his name and he’s off the hook for good.’
Crane shook his head. ‘He’s not got that kind of brain, we both know it. And with skilled CID men knowing all the ways to flush out the truth … they’re as certain now it wasn’t Mahon as they were once certain it was. My feeling is he just couldn’t go on facing any more of that shit the Willows was throwing at him. Benson says he was in a state of near-hysteria.’
‘Christ,’ he said softly. ‘I was damn certain it was him, just like the police and the Willows, and one day I was sure someone would nail the bugger. I had that big write-up all there in my mind, you know, boy meets girl, all that stuff. Then girl begins to outclass boy. She’s very popular and it’s obvious she’s going to make it as a model, probably a very good one. Boy can’t hack it. He gets red-jealous, starts knocking her about, finally does her in; if he can’t have her no one can. All set against the slagheap the Willows is these days. It’s a classic.’
Crane watched him. It had to be the born journalist’s mind in action. It was a classic, only there were real flesh and blood people involved: a dead beautiful kid, parents who endlessly grieved, a boyfriend off his trolley, a sister who’d had to handle most of the fallout despite having problems of her own.