He was just wondering whether or not to give her a nudge, when the detective superintendent called on his mobile.
‘You’re quite right, Vogel,’ she began. ‘Helen Harris is on witness protection, and has been for more than twenty years, as you suspected. She gave evidence in a case involving a gang of powerful and highly dangerous international criminals. Her testimony was entirely in camera, but of course the criminals knew exactly who she was. And she knew that they knew. It was therefore decided to agree to her request to be given a new identity.’
‘So who is she, then?’ asked Vogel, although he didn’t really expect an answer. He didn’t get one either.
‘You know I can’t tell you that,’ replied Nobby, almost wearily.
‘I know the protocol, well enough, ma’am,’ said Vogel. ‘But in view of the Patel murder, and the manner of it, it’s quite clear that we are dealing with a dangerous criminal element here. We have armed men running amok in a quiet Devon town where stuff like this does not happen. It’s my job to make sure it doesn’t happen again. And there has to be a connection somewhere, between Patel’s shooting, Thomas Quinn’s stabbing, and the history of the woman I know only as Helen Harris. I don’t believe in coincidences, ma’am, and I know you don’t. They have to be linked. Can’t you tell me something?’
‘No, Vogel. I can’t. I’m afraid—’
‘Just give me a clue,’ Vogel interrupted, his voice rising. ‘Set me in the right direction, I’ll do the rest.’
He distinctly heard Clarke sighing down the telephone. He didn’t care.
‘I hope we’re not getting a repeat of that Instow case,’ he continued tetchily. ‘I don’t take kindly to being kept in the dark.’
‘Vogel, this isn’t about being kept in the dark,’ said Clarke, beginning to sound angry herself now. ‘This is witness protection. The whole premise of which relies on nobody, but nobody, outside those directly responsible, being aware of a witness’s new identity. Not even you, Vogel. In any case, I can’t tell you because I don’t know myself—’
‘What, they haven’t even told you, boss?’ cut in Vogel, forgetting in the heat of the moment that, as a matter of principle, he now only called her ‘ma’am’.
‘No, Vogel, they haven’t told me. I’m just another regional copper to these guys.’
Vogel didn’t think that was very likely. He did, however, think she was telling him the truth. All the same, he continued to persist.
‘But there is a protocol, is there not, for revealing the identity of a protected witness under certain circumstances, there must be—’
‘I suppose so Vogel,’ Clarke interrupted. ‘But I’ve no idea at all what those circumstances might be.’
‘What if that person were suspected of a serious crime?’ asked Vogel bluntly. ‘Surely their identity would then be revealed to the SIO of any police investigation.’
‘You’d think so,’ Clarke replied. ‘But I wouldn’t hold your breath if I were you.’
Helen Harris had been thoroughly shaken by the outcome of her phone call. It appeared that there had been a development of which she had not been informed. That there had been an unfortunate oversight.
To the person she had been talking to, an anonymous representative of some anonymous administrative unit, that oversight doubtless meant very little. To Helen it could mean the world. Or, rather more accurately, the end of the world. Her world, at any rate.
She was still pondering what she should do next when Philip Stubbs called to tell her that, following the acquisition of damning new forensic evidence. Gregory Quinn had been charged with the murder of his father.
For just a moment, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
‘Helen?’ queried Stubbs. ‘Can you hear me? Are you there? Helen?’
‘Uh, yes, uh yes,’ said Helen, trying desperately to pull herself together. ‘I’m so very sorry to hear that, Philip. Nobody deserves to go down for that monstrous man.’
‘No. They don’t. I’m still hoping we may be able to avoid that, after all, there’s such overwhelming mitigation. But the odds are probably against it. This is murder, after all.’
‘Do I take it then that Gregory is going to plead guilty?’
‘No, we won’t plead guilty to murder. Certainly not at his first hearing. There’s a mandatory life sentence, with a stated minimum term, for murder, as I’m sure you know, which is unavoidable however sympathetic a court might be. Greg has to plead not guilty. And he does continue to proclaim his innocence, by the way. However, the evidence against him is substantial, and I just can’t see him winning. The best thing we can hope for is a plea bargain. If we could get the charge reduced to manslaughter, it really is possible that Greg might escape jail altogether, or at least serve a very short term. Domestic violence is high profile right now. And everybody hates men like Thomas Quinn.’
‘Yes, but surely there isn’t much chance of you getting the charge reduced, is there? As I understand it, a certain criteria has to be adhered to for murder to be commuted to manslaughter. Diminished responsibility, self-defence, abnormality of mind. That sort of thing. And Thomas Quinn was stabbed eleven times. That’s pretty excessive. I can’t believe you’re very optimistic, are you, Philip?’
‘Well, it won’t be easy. We’ll need a damned good barrister on board. But there’s also loss of control. All we can do is try, Helen.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is...’ Helen responded quietly as she ended the call.
Philip Stubbs was a decent man and a pretty good solicitor. But he still operated within the restraints of legal aid, without anything like the size of team and level of backup enjoyed by the top private solicitors. And goodness knows what sort of barrister Greg would end up with if he had to rely on legal aid. It was possible that Gill would inherit some family money which she could pitch in to finance her son’s defence, but, in view of what she had already heard about Thomas’ financial troubles, Helen didn’t think there would be much. Gregory Quinn was in deep, deep trouble.
Helen had even more to think about now. Her life’s work had, in the final analysis, been devoted to creating a world where this sort of situation would never arise. Whichever way you looked at it, the ultimate plight of Greg and his mother had resulted from domestic abuse. Yet they, both of them in Helen’s opinion, were the victims. And it made her angry. Very angry indeed.
Her head was aching and her eyes still hurt. Helen reached for a couple of pills from a bottle she kept in the top drawer of her desk.
She had to do something. She would do something. She checked her watch. It was nearly midnight. Whatever she decided would have to wait until the morning now. Not least because it would be better if she slept on it. And she needed a clear head in order to formulate a plan. Whatever she did next was going to have far-reaching repercussions. Not only for her, but for a number of others.
Ultimately it was gone two a.m. before Vogel climbed into bed at his Airbnb. He was woken by PC Phil Lake, who was on earlies, at five thirty-one. It felt as if he had only just got to sleep.
‘It’s Gill Quinn, boss,’ the young man began excitedly. ‘She’s in the front office. She says she wants to confess to the murder of her husband.’
‘Say that again,’ muttered Vogel drowsily.
Lake did.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Vogel.
He dressed, completed the most arbitrary of ablutions, and walked to Barnstaple police station. He had decided to give Saslow the opportunity for a little more sleep. After all, he didn’t think he was going to need her assistance. Or that of anybody else.
Gill was still in the front office. Phil Lake and the duty sergeant gave the impression that they really didn’t know what to do with her.