However, the Mail spread drew attention to her, all right. The elongated caption accompanying the snatched photograph not only commented on the work of Helen’s House and its probable relevance to the case, but also, with careful ambiguity, referred to Helen herself having offered Gill Quinn an alibi which the police were currently examining.
Helen was aghast. She wondered where on earth the paper had got its information from. They were good at what they did, there was no doubt about that. And they were taking full advantage of nobody having yet been charged for either murder, which meant they were, so far, free of the constraints of the laws of sub judice. All the same, she hadn’t expected anything like this.
She turned over to the final page, which focused on the shooting of Jason Patel. And that brought another shock. Possibly an even bigger one. A still taken from the CCTV footage which Vogel had authorized to be released to the press filled almost a quarter of the page. A one-line caption read: ‘Do you know this man?’
Helen felt a shiver run up and down her spine. She made herself study the picture with care. She couldn’t see the man clearly, his features were blurred and partially concealed by the peak of his cap, which was pulled well down. Nonetheless, there was something so familiar about him, his build, and the bullish set of his shoulders. There was a similarity, too, in the way he was leaning, both legs thrust out straight in front of him, against the vehicle — which also seemed familiar, but it couldn’t really be the same one, of course. Not after so long. However, a Range Rover with tinted windows had always been his motorcar of choice.
The more she stared, the more she came to believe it was him. Back again. And not only was his photograph in the same newspaper in which hers had been printed, on the very next page, but also his image had been captured here in Bideford. Only a mile or so away from the place that was so much more than her home, it was also her refuge, hers and that of so many other women.
But how could it be? And what on earth could he possibly be doing here? Nothing in North Devon had ever alarmed her, or given her cause for concern, from the moment she had settled in Bideford. Until now. She felt she would have known if he or any of the family or their associates had been operating in the area. Yet would she have done? How on earth would she have known? Particularly if he had been unable to be here in person until now.
She wracked her brains, trying to think back to anything that could have forged a link. Suddenly deep in the past something came to her. Something she should have perhaps remembered before. But it had held no significance to her. Not then. And not since. Until now.
All the same, perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her.
She looked again at the picture. At the stocky broad-shouldered man leaning on a big dark-coloured motor car. This could not be him. It really wasn’t possible. She knew where he was. She knew where he had been for the last twenty years. And she had allowed herself to think she was protected from him for ever. Or, at the very least, that he would never again become a danger to her without her being forewarned.
She had a phone number for use in situations like this. An emergency number. She didn’t keep it in her mobile. It was scribbled on a Post-it note stuck to the underside of the top of her desk, on a folded piece of paper tucked into the drawer of the built-in unit by the side of her bed, and on another piece of paper stowed in the glove compartment of her car.
She leaned to one side and peeled off the Post-it from beneath her desktop. She wondered if the number written on it would even still work. She had never had cause to use it. Not since the very beginning. And nobody had called her, either. After all, that would have defeated the object.
Very deliberately she punched in the number, carefully checking each digit. Rather to her surprise, a male voice answered after just two rings.
Back at Barnstaple, Vogel had been given the go ahead by the CPS to charge Gregory Quinn.
He did so in the company of Saslow, a custody sergeant, and Quinn’s solicitor, Philip Stubbs. A charge sheet had already been prepared detailing the crime Quinn was accused of.
The young man would be held in police custody until his first court hearing at Barnstaple magistrates court, which would probably be the following day. In view of the seriousness of his offence and as is virtually de rigueur in the case of murder, he would then almost certainly be held in custody until his crown court trial.
Quinn looked totally devastated, although not particularly surprised. After all, Vogel had already warned him of his intentions, and he assumed that Stubbs would have also attempted to prepare Greg for the inevitable.
He protested his innocence several times, in spite of his solicitor repeatedly advising him to stay silent.
But even as he was being led back to the cells he called out over his shoulder, ‘I didn’t do it, Mr Vogel, I couldn’t do it, you have to believe me,’ he cried, his voice full of anguish.
Unfortunately Vogel didn’t believe him. The DCI had not considered Greg Quinn to be the most likely of suspects at the beginning. He had seemed a decent enough young man, with no apparent motive strong enough to have led him to want to kill his father. After all, if not getting on with your father was sufficient motive for murder, then there would be an awful lot of dead dads around, Vogel reckoned. Neither had it seemed, at first, that Greg would have had the opportunity.
However, all that had changed. Quinn could now be placed irrefutably at the scene of the crime within precisely the designated time frame. The forensic case against him was also irrefutable and utterly damning. And the more Vogel had learned about the violent and abusive behaviour of Thomas Quinn, the stronger Greg’s possible motive for killing his father had become.
It was to be hoped, and indeed expected, that a court would take Thomas Quinn’s behaviour into mitigation when dealing with Greg. But the young man must stand trial. And Vogel no longer had any doubts about his guilt. Vogel was a copper who believed in evidence. An overwhelming weight of evidence was now stacked against Gregory Quinn.
The DCI was quite sure that the right man had been arrested and charged.
However, his thoughts turned to Gregory’s mother, a woman who had suffered enough already. He was sure she was not sorry to have lost the husband who had treated her so cruelly, but now she looked likely to also lose the son she adored. For a very long time.
He called Docherty, who was still babysitting Gill, and asked her to break the news, as gently as possible.
‘Then call me back,’ he instructed. ‘I want to know how she reacts. I have a feeling she won’t be surprised.’
Docherty called back only ten minutes later to report that Gill had appeared to barely react at all.
‘You were right, boss, she certainly didn’t seem to be surprised,’ said the PC. ‘She said she wanted time to herself, time to think, and she was going to bed. She’s in the bedroom now, do you want to speak to her.’
‘No, let her rest. I’m hoping this indicates that she will accept the inevitable. Look after her, though, she’s had it rough, that one, and her life is now likely to get rough again.’
‘I’ll do my best, boss,’ said Docherty.
It was now almost midnight. The day had already been a long one. He sent Saslow home, telling her he would make his own way back to his digs. But Vogel’s day hadn’t quite finished yet. He needed to touch base with DI Peters, who he knew was still at work at the Bideford incident room, and he had yet to hear back from Nobby Clarke concerning his suspicions about Helen Harris.