‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘You’re still in shock. You’ll feel better soon. Things will be clearer...’
PC Jack Porter, the uniformed constable on sentry duty at the door, stepped forward, looking as if he was ready to help. Vogel stood up, stepped sideways, and moved slightly closer to the two women. But he had no intention of touching Gill Quinn.
Saslow continued to speak softly. Eventually, and it felt like a very long ‘eventually’ to Vogel, Gill stopped screaming. Then she buried her head in Saslow’s shoulder and began to sob. Her shoulders heaved. She seemed to be gasping for breath.
Vogel turned to PC Porter.
‘We’d better get a doctor in here,’ he said. ‘Soonest.’
The PC turned and headed back to the door. As he opened it, DC Perkins entered, then stopped abruptly, as if mesmerized by the sobbing woman before him.
‘What is it, Perkins?’ Vogel snapped, displaying none of his usual patience.
‘C-could I have a word with you outside, boss?’ the young DC asked, stumbling slightly over his words.
Vogel followed him into the corridor.
‘We’ve made contact with Gregory Quinn, the son, boss, and...’ Perkins began, then he paused, clearly agitated, and also distracted by the sounds of sobbing which could still be heard clearly through the closed door.
‘C’mon, lad, spit it out,’ instructed Vogel.
‘Sorry, boss. Well, when told of his father’s death, he seemed more concerned about his mother apparently. We had to tell him where she was, and he’s on his way here. He’s been informed that we couldn’t even guarantee he could see his mother. But he was quite determined. Apparently he spent the night in Torrington with a mate. They went out drinking and he had a skinful. That’s what he says, anyway. Don’t think he’ll be long. Sorry, boss...’
‘Don’t be sorry, Perkins. He may be just what we need...’
‘Really, boss?’
‘Yes. We can’t keep Gill Quinn here much longer. Not in the state she’s in. She needs medical attention, and in any case she’s not telling us anything. But she can’t go home, that’s for sure. Not to a crime scene. Perhaps young Greg will take his mother home with him. That would probably be the best result.’
‘Will you be wanting to interview him, boss?’
‘At some stage, of course. Partly depends how his mother is by the time he gets here. And if we’ve got that doctor here by then...’
As if on cue PC Porter arrived with a woman Vogel did not recognize and who, rather to Vogel’s surprise, the PC introduced as Dr Louise Lamey. How on earth had they got a doctor here that fast, wondered Vogel.
‘Dr Lamey was already in the station,’ Porter explained, almost as if he had read the DCI’s mind. ‘Custody were anxious about the condition of a drunk driver arrested in the early hours. He kept throwing up apparently, all over the—’
‘Thank you Porter, I can do without the intimate details,’ interrupted Vogel.
He turned to the doctor and told her how glad he was to see her, then escorted her into the interview room.
Gill Quinn had stopped sobbing into Saslow’s shoulder, and the DS had moved back to the safety of her chair on the other side of the table. Somebody had provided Gill with a box of paper hankies and she was blowing her nose loudly. She certainly looked calmer, but Vogel could see that her hands were shaking.
Dr Lamey pulled up a chair next to Gill, introduced herself and asked if it was all right to examine her. Gill made no objections.
Dr Lamey took Gill’s temperature and blood pressure, listened to her heart, looked into her eyes, and asked her some basic questions about how she felt, which, again rather to Vogel’s surprise, Gill Quinn answered, albeit in a monosyllabic fashion.
When the doctor had finished she moved to leave the room, gesturing for Vogel to follow her.
‘Severe shock, as I’m sure you realize,’ she began once the two of them were outside. ‘And before you ask, no reason to doubt that it’s anything but completely genuine. Her heart is racing, her skin is clammy, and her breathing is not quite as it should be. I’m going to prescribe a mild sedative. What she needs now is rest. A good long sleep. Are you keeping her in?’
Vogel shook his head. ‘We don’t intend to, no. We’re nowhere near ready to charge her. We need to question her further, but at the moment we can’t get anywhere with her.’
And I don’t want her passing out on us, or worse, he thought, although he didn’t say it. Vogel had never had a suspect die in custody or while being questioned, but he knew of it happening. It was something he had no wish to experience.
‘Neither are you likely to get anywhere with her for the time being,’ commented the doctor. ‘Not until sleep has hopefully worked its magic. My advice to you is to send her home and give her at least twenty-four hours rest before you approach her again.’
If only, thought Vogel. But all he said was: ‘Thank you, doctor.’
Perkins was not in sight. Vogel called him to check if Gill’s son had arrived.
‘Apparently he’s just walked into the front office,’ said Perkins. ‘I’m on my way there. What do you want me to do with him?’
‘Is there another interview room free?’
‘I think so, yes, boss.’
‘Good. Get it set up. I think I’ll have a chat with young Mr Quinn straight away.’
Vogel delegated PC Porter, an officer approaching retirement who gave the impression that he’d seen it all before and nothing was going to faze him, to look after Gill. The DCI hoped that there would be no further outbursts from her, but reckoned there was probably no one better than Porter to play nanny.
He took Saslow with him to assist in the interview with Gregory, or Greg, Quinn.
Quinn was a handsome young man. Even Vogel noticed that. He was sitting at the table in the middle of the little room, but he stood when the two officers entered. He was exceptionally tall, probably six foot three or four, broad-shouldered, and with the naturally well-muscled look of a man who earned his living primarily by means of manual labour.
He had blonde hair which fell almost to his shoulders, perhaps unfashionably long in the present day and age, and a smattering of designer stubble, which, conversely, was fashionable. Tediously fashionable, Vogel often thought. And not always attractive. In his opinion Greg Quinn would look even more handsome without it.
The young man’s features were even and chiselled. His eyes very blue and bright. They were also full of concern.
‘Thank you for coming—’ Vogel began.
Quinn interrupted him at once. His voice was not entirely level. ‘I want to know what’s going on,’ he said, a sweep of one arm taking in what was clearly a formal interview room furnished with full video equipment.
He was well spoken, a legacy of that public-school education Vogel assumed, but with just a hint of Devon burr.
‘I came here to get my mother,’ Greg Quinn continued. ‘Why’ve I been put in here? Am I a suspect or something, for God’s sake? I just want to see my mother.’
‘And so you shall, very soon,’ said Vogel. ‘But I do need to talk to you, Greg.’
Obliquely Vogel realized he had automatically addressed the young man by his first name without asking permission to do so. He really was youthist, he thought.
‘We would have sought you out sooner or later, if you had not been kind enough to come in, talked to you at your home, first up, more than likely,’ he continued. ‘But as you are here, well I thought we would take the opportunity for an on-the-record chat. Quite a few points we rather hope you might be able to help us clear up. That’s all.’