the direction of the flat they’d just left. ‘That lot make you wonder why these blokes bothered.’
Morley turned into a pleasant suburban crescent of 1930s bungalows and brought the car to a halt outside number 27.
Giles read, ‘Hellvellyn,’ on the house name plate by the side of the door. ‘Must have more imagination than me . . .’
Giles stopped half way up the garden path and said, ‘Something tells me Shanks is going to do a runner when the door bell goes. You go round the back.’ He waited for half a minute to give Morley time to get into position then rang the bell. After the second ring a light clicked on and a girl’s voice asked, ‘Who is it?’
‘Police, open the door please.’
‘My God, do you know what time it is? Give me a moment to get some clothes on.’
Giles sighed. ‘No thoughts of mummy and daddy and the terrible accident they might have been involved in?’ he murmured.
Time passed and the door did not open but Giles did not bother to ring or knock again. He felt he had read the situation correctly. ‘Any second now . . .’ he said under his breath. The sound of shouting and a short struggle came from the back garden. Seconds later Morley appeared with a red haired man held bent over in an arm-lock in front of him.
‘Mr Shanks was just on his way out for an early morning run, sir.’
‘Nice of you to postpone it, sir,’ said Giles pleasantly, then with a change of demeanour, ‘Kevin Shanks, I’m arresting you in connection with the murders of Robert Lyndon and Timothy Devon. You need not say . . .’
A girl appeared at the front door, protesting loudly. ‘Leave him! Leave him alone! He hasn’t done anything!’
‘Mr Shanks is being arrested in connection with a murder inquiry, Madam. Step back please.’
‘Murder?’ exclaimed the girl. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Kevin wouldn’t hurt a fly. He wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’
‘Then he’s got nothing to worry about,’ said Giles.
‘Tell him, Kevin,’ pleaded the girl. ‘Don’t let them walk all over you. Don’t let them fit you up.’
‘Fit you up? You watch too much television, Madam,’ said Giles.
‘Tell them about the skinheads, Kevin,’ pleaded the girl.
The red headed man looked like a deer caught in headlights. Giles noticed that he’d put his T-shirt on inside out in his haste. His allegiance to Nirvana had to be read backwards. ‘I’m sorry, Mandy,’ he stammered. ‘I never meant to . . . honest to God, I never meant to hurt Stig but he wouldn’t see reason. I did it for us. I told him no one would ever believe the truth.’
The girl looked at him in horror and took a step backwards, holding her hands to her face. ‘You killed Stig? . . . It was you? How could you? You said it was skinheads . . .’
Giles lowered himself into his chair in the interview room and Morley switched on the tape and initialled it. Giles looked at Shanks and said, ‘It’s been a long night, son. Let’s not make it any longer. You killed Robert Lyndon. You killed him because he was planning to come to us and confess to the murder of Timothy Devon at the Crick Institute.’
‘Christ no!’ said Shanks, almost leaping out his chair. ‘We had nothing to do with the old guy’s murder. Sure, Stig was threatening to tell you about us doing the institute. He thought you’d believe him when he told you we had nothing to do with the old guy’s death. I kept telling him you would stitch us up anyway but he wouldn’t listen. I tried reasoning with him, honest to God, I did but he was shitting himself. We had a bit of a fight after we left the pub and Stig ended up getting stabbed. I never meant for it to happen . . . it just did. Christ, I’m really sorry . . .’ Shanks broke down in tears and Giles looked at Morley.
Giles scratched his neck: it was itching because he needed a shave. Three hours had passed, the dawn had come up on a frosty, misty morning and Shanks still refused to admit to the
Morley turned into a pleasant suburban crescent of 1930s bungalows and brought the car to a halt outside number 27.
Giles read, ‘Hellvellyn,’ on the house name plate by the side of the door. ‘Must have more imagination than me . . .’
Giles stopped half way up the garden path and said, ‘Something tells me Shanks is going to do a runner when the door bell goes. You go round the back.’ He waited for half a minute to give Morley time to get into position then rang the bell. After the second ring a light clicked on and a girl’s voice asked, ‘Who is it?’
‘Police, open the door please.’
‘My God, do you know what time it is? Give me a moment to get some clothes on.’
Giles sighed. ‘No thoughts of mummy and daddy and the terrible accident they might have been involved in?’ he murmured.
Time passed and the door did not open but Giles did not bother to ring or knock again. He felt he had read the situation correctly. ‘Any second now . . .’ he said under his breath. The sound of shouting and a short struggle came from the back garden. Seconds later Morley appeared with a red haired man held bent over in an arm-lock in front of him.
‘Mr Shanks was just on his way out for an early morning run, sir.’
‘Nice of you to postpone it, sir,’ said Giles pleasantly, then with a change of demeanour, ‘Kevin Shanks, I’m arresting you in connection with the murders of Robert Lyndon and Timothy Devon. You need not say . . .’
A girl appeared at the front door, protesting loudly. ‘Leave him! Leave him alone! He hasn’t done anything!’
‘Mr Shanks is being arrested in connection with a murder inquiry, Madam. Step back please.’
‘Murder?’ exclaimed the girl. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Kevin wouldn’t hurt a fly. He wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’
‘Then he’s got nothing to worry about,’ said Giles.
‘Tell him, Kevin,’ pleaded the girl. ‘Don’t let them walk all over you. Don’t let them fit you up.’
‘Fit you up? You watch too much television, Madam,’ said Giles.
‘Tell them about the skinheads, Kevin,’ pleaded the girl.
The red headed man looked like a deer caught in headlights. Giles noticed that he’d put his T-shirt on inside out in his haste. His allegiance to Nirvana had to be read backwards. ‘I’m sorry, Mandy,’ he stammered. ‘I never meant to . . . honest to God, I never meant to hurt Stig but he wouldn’t see reason. I did it for us. I told him no one would ever believe the truth.’
The girl looked at him in horror and took a step backwards, holding her hands to her face. ‘You killed Stig? . . . It was you? How could you? You said it was skinheads . . .’
Giles lowered himself into his chair in the interview room and Morley switched on the tape and initialled it. Giles looked at Shanks and said, ‘It’s been a long night, son. Let’s not make it any longer. You killed Robert Lyndon. You killed him because he was planning to come to us and confess to the murder of Timothy Devon at the Crick Institute.’
‘Christ no!’ said Shanks, almost leaping out his chair. ‘We had nothing to do with the old guy’s murder. Sure, Stig was threatening to tell you about us doing the institute. He thought you’d believe him when he told you we had nothing to do with the old guy’s death. I kept telling him you would stitch us up anyway but he wouldn’t listen. I tried reasoning with him, honest to God, I did but he was shitting himself. We had a bit of a fight after we left the pub and Stig ended up getting stabbed. I never meant for it to happen . . . it just did. Christ, I’m really sorry . . .’ Shanks broke down in tears and Giles looked at Morley.
Giles scratched his neck: it was itching because he needed a shave. Three hours had passed, the dawn had come up on a frosty, misty morning and Shanks still refused to admit to the
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