"You wanted him dead, didn't you?" I said.
He shrugged and stared at the carpet.
"And one day, you remembered the gun. Where was it? Hidden up in the loft, or somewhere, wrapped in grease-proof paper? Whenever we have a guns amnesty it's amazing how many old soldiers bring in weapons that they forgot to hand back when they were de mobbed Do you know what I think, William?" I didn't wait for an answer. "I think you found the doctor's name and address in Susan's diary, when you went through her things. And then the hatred for him began to fester in your minds.
Both of you. The strange thing is, I think it's perfectly understandable. In your shoes, I'd have wanted the same thing. What did you do? Go round, with the gun? But he lived in a block of flats and you didn't know how to get in, did you? So you left a Magic Plastic catalogue in his mailbox, with a note saying that you'd call back. Couldn't you do it, that first time? And what did you think when he ordered a mini-bin from you? Is this about how it happened, Mr. Crabtree?"
He nodded, slowly and deliberately, without taking his eyes from the carpet.
"But then Christmas came, with all its images of children, and the feelings became unbearable. Christmas Eve was the first anniversary of Susan's and Davey's deaths. You went back again, didn't you? You said you were the man from Magic Plastic, and he let you in. This time you made him lie on the carpet and you shot him through the head. Am I right is that how you did it?"
His wife reached across and took his hand. "Suffer the little children to come unto me," she said, 'for theirs is the Kingdom of God."
He looked up at me and nodded. "Yes," he whispered.
"What did you do with the gun, William?" I demanded.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it. "He threw it in the canal."
"Did you?"
"Yes, I threw it in the canal."
"Whereabouts?"
"Off the bottom bridge."
That shouldn't be too difficult to find, I thought. I turned to her.
"Could you get your coats and shoes, Mrs. Crabtree," I said. "I think you'd both better come down to the station." She struggled to her feet and went to fetch them.
We stood in the hallway and I held her coat while she helped him with his. She fussed around him, checking his buttons and fastening his belt. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets as she placed hers on his cheeks and kissed him.
"Don't worry, Treasure," she whispered to him. "Be brave. Mother's coming with you."
As soon as she was inside her own coat I asked where the key was. She retrieved it from a hook beside the door and handed it to me.
"Right, let's go," I said. I locked the door behind us and took William by the arm, guiding him up the garden path, Mrs. Crabtree leading the way. The panda was parked near my car. When the driver saw us emerge he drove slowly towards the Crabtrees' gate.
Mr. Crabtree wrenched his arm from mine as the car stopped. I turned as the gun fired and saw the side of his head blossom like a chrysanthemum and felt the warm wetness of him on my face. He was falling through a scarlet mist. I threw my arms around him but I was off-balance and he dragged me down to the ground. Mine was the embrace that held him in his death throes, but he was already beyond comforting.
The two PCs came running, but there was nothing anyone could do. I took the waterproof coat off and spread it over William's body, the army-issue Enfield revolver still grasped in his hand as his blood spread out across the wet concrete. Mrs. Crabtree stood there, rain pouring down her face, spouting her mantras, until she was led away.
"It's come," Sparky informed me as I returned from the morning meeting, a week and a half after we'd brought Mrs. Crabtree in. He followed me into my office and retrieved a brown Home Office envelope from my in-tray.
"Right," I said, hanging my jacket on its hook. "Better ask Nigel and Maggie to join us."
Sparky poked his head out of the door and shouted: "You and you. Boss says to get your arses in here, toot sweet."
Maggie arrived first. "Nigel's on the phone," she told us.
"It looks like the results of the DNA tests have arrived from Wetherton," I explained, showing her the envelope.
"What do they say?"
"I haven't looked yet. Sit down."
"Let me get this straight," she said, pulling a chair from under my table and turning it round. "I wasn't in from the beginning. The Crabtrees were under the impression that Dr. Jordan was the father of the baby?"
"Yes."
"And Jordan wanted Susan to have an abortion?"
"Not quite. According to the counsellor at the clinic he just took her along to explain the options. She listened to them and at first she appeared quite keen to have a termination, but then changed her mind.
The counsellor detected that she was under a great deal of pressure from her parents to let the pregnancy take its course." I sliced the envelope open with the glass dagger I use as a paper knife. It was a present from the team after an earlier murder enquiry.
"And after it was born the depression set in."
"It looks like it. She blamed them, they blamed the doctor. Sometimes, it helps if we can put the responsibility on someone else instead of accepting it ourselves."
"And the Magic Plastic Killer was created."
"Yep."
Nigel came in. "Sorry about that," he said.
"Did she put the gun in her husband's coat pocket?" Maggie asked.
"It looks like it. She said something about coming with him, but I don't know what she meant."
"Will she stand trial?"
"Mrs. Crabtree? I doubt it. She's been sectioned under the Mental Health Act. She'll spend the rest of her days preaching to her fellow inmates. No doubt they'll hang on to her every word." I thought about it for a second, then continued: "It's funny, isn't it? If there is a God speaking to her, putting the words into her mouth, you'd think he'd give her the right quotations, wouldn't you?"
Sparky said: "You know what they say: When we talk to God it's called praying. When he talks to us, it's called schizophrenia."
"I'll say Amen to that." I unfolded the letter from Wetherton. "Let's see what we have here." There was a silence as I scanned it. "Tests were conducted…" I read out, 'at the request of handsome but self-effacing DI Priest of…"
"Get on with it!" Sparky urged.
"Right. Blah blah blah. Here we are "Conclusions. Examination of the band patterns shows that there is no obvious kinship between the two samples. In answer to the specific question posed, we can categorically state that the donor of sample CP1 is not the child of the donor of sample CP2." That's it. The doctor wasn't little Davey's dad." Nigel extended his hand and I gave him the letter.
"So who was?" Maggie asked.
"Big Davey? Whoever he is."
"Are we going to find him?"
"To tell him his ex-girlfriend and their baby are dead? What's the point?"
Sparky said: "So the doc was just being kind to her."
"It looks like it," I replied.
"Every way we've turned, every avenue we've followed, he's come up smelling of roses. He was a decent bloke, all along."
"You're right. He was a bit of a lad, but why not? Everybody who knew him liked him. He had plenty of friends. Some of them just happened to be a bit dodgy."
"Who needs enemies?"
Nigel placed the letter on my desk. "So it was all a waste of time," he stated.
"Fraid so."
"All that… all that grief was for nothing."
"Yep," I agreed. "All for nothing." And I've still got the scars to prove it.
I never wrote that letter to personnel saying that I wanted out, and the one from pay section is still unopened. Darryl Buxton appeared before a crown court judge last month and pleaded guilty to a charge of rape. He'll be sentenced in a few weeks. The daffodils outside the court looked magnificent.