‘I know who you are now, and I remember what you did,’ he said. ‘Yes, you killed your husband, you shot him with his own gun, but you didn’t even go to trial. You suffered terrible abuse at Kurt St John’s hands, not for the first time, and it was accepted that you acted in self-defence. Isn’t that so?’
‘Yes, that is so,’ she replied. ‘I had a very good lawyer, though. Jean Carr, do you remember her?’
‘I do. She was a famous human rights barrister, retired now, I think, and she certainly was good. But, anyway, your case was considered cut and dried, Hel... uh... Lil...’ Vogel paused. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure what to call you...’
‘Call me Helen,’ she said. ‘Always Helen. I never want to go back to being Lilian St John. And yes, you’re right, the case was considered cut and dried. By everyone. Kurt had hurt me quite badly again, and the police even found his bloodstained fingerprints on the little butter knife which I told them he must have brought with him, in order to do to me what I had done to him previously. It was just the sort of twisted thinking he specialized in, actually. Most importantly they were able to trace the gun to Kurt via his brother, William St John. It was a Vector Z-88, the type of pistol used by South African police and security services. Also by thugs like William, who was head of what the St John family call “security”. And I guess still is, hence his visit to Bideford at the weekend.’
Helen paused. She reached into her pocket, pulled out the pages she had extracted from the previous day’s Daily Mail, and pointed at the picture Vogel had released to the media.
‘This is William St John, of the notorious South African St John family. They run a network of international businesses, some way beyond the law, and others designed only to camouflage their more lucrative activities. They are, in reality, no better than gangsters, and they are quite ruthless. Particularly if they think they’ve been crossed. I believed, as I was assured did the police at the highest level, that the family and their activities were effectively destroyed in the UK more than twenty years ago. It would seem not, and that William was responsible for Jason Patel’s death. The gunmen who pulled the trigger were doubtless on his payroll.’
‘You’ll need to explain that,’ responded Vogel at once. ‘How can you be so sure? And how do you know for certain this is William St John? It’s not the best of pictures.’
‘I do know,’ Helen replied firmly. ‘I was almost sure it was him just from the picture, but then he called me. Last night. And threatened me. It was just like the old days really. He’d recognized me from my picture, as I did him, even though we were both twenty years older. I’m several stone heavier too, unfortunately; my hair is totally different, and I wear glasses instead of contact lenses. But I still have my freckles, and they were always distinctive.’
She touched her face with one hand, perhaps involuntarily. Vogel could see no freckles.
‘Ever since I stopped being Lilian, I have hidden my freckles with concealer and foundation,’ she continued. ‘The Mail photographer caught me without my make-up. A rare event.’
She pointed at the newspaper pages again.
‘So you see, there is no doubt that is William St John. And he has made it quite clear that he will not rest until he has achieved revenge for his brother’s death, and also for what I did to him. Or what he perceives I did to him.’
‘What did you do to him?’
‘I was instrumental in him facing a series of charges for his involvement in organized crime, drug running on a massive scale, international fraud, theft, money laundering, and one count of murder. Another exercise in frightening suspect associates that went too far, apparently. I gave evidence against him. I was never named in public, of course, but William knew who I was.’
Of course, thought Vogel, that was what Nobby Clarke had said. The witness gave evidence in camera, but the accused had known full well who they were. That was why Helen had been given witness protection.
‘There was a bit of a stroke of luck all round, the night Kurt died,’ Helen continued. ‘He had brought a briefcase with him, which was found to contain a whole load of incriminating information, mostly pointing at William, “the muscle” as the family have always called him, but some indicating that Kurt was not entirely Mr Clean.
‘The police interviewed me about it, and it turned out that, by default, I knew rather more of the nature of “the family business” than I had realized. Certainly my knowledge, which I had considered so limited, filled in a lot of gaps, and led to William being convicted on almost every charge. The judge sentenced him concurrently on several counts and William was given thirty years. The St Johns were outraged, and the story went round that the woman judge was the granddaughter of the man who gave the Great Train Robbers enormous sentences. It wasn’t true, of course.’
Vogel had a vague memory of that, and told Helen so.
‘He hasn’t served anything like it, obviously,’ Helen explained. ‘Out six months ago, on parole. Only nobody remembered to tell me. You should initiate a search for William and his cohorts straight away, chief inspector. I have reason to believe they intend to flee the country.’
Vogel thought for a moment. He saw no harm in doing just that. He asked Saslow to text DI Peters accordingly. Then he turned back to Helen.
‘You’ve indicated that the St Johns were in business in some way with Thomas Quinn and Jason Patel here in North Devon. That seems like something of a coincidence, particularly if it led to William and his minders coming to the town where you have lived your secret life for so many years on the very weekend that Thomas Quinn was killed. Unless you think they were responsible for that too?’
‘No, the last bit must have been a coincidence, but not the rest of it,’ responded Helen. ‘I remember telling you before that I had fallen in love with North Devon when I came here as a child. I suggested to Kurt that we came here, during what was really a rather wonderful courtship, or seemed to be, before the nightmare began. We stayed at the Saunton Sands Hotel across the estuary. When William phoned me last night he referred to Thomas Quinn as Tommy — which brought back a vague memory from all those years ago. Kurt went to play golf and returned enthusing about Tommy, a young man, I think he was little more than a boy, whom he had met by chance. Kurt said Tommy was just the chap to expand the family business into North Devon.’
‘Was that normal behaviour on the part of your future husband?’
‘Oh yes. Kurt was always looking for the main chance. And for what he called “the talent”. Bright, hard-working people — usually young, he liked to get them young — who were eager for success. And, of course, they had to be thoroughly unscrupulous and prepared to do almost anything as long as the price was right. Although I didn’t realize that at the time. Anyway it all made sense after William’s call. Thomas Quinn was Tommy, and that was the link with the St Johns.’
‘So, are we to assume that this business arrangement has been going on for more than twenty years, without incident, until this weekend?’
‘There is always something suspect about even the most innocent looking business activity, if the St John family is involved, so I would very much doubt that,’ said Helen. ‘The big difference is that William is at large again. And he wouldn’t tolerate anything even slightly amiss in any of the family outposts. Indeed he would take it as a personal insult.’