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  “My client has explained his movements on the night of the 17th of March to the best of his abilities,” Quinlan snaps.

  “No!” Erin corrects him. “Your client has told us a fairy tale of a non-existent competition, of losing his way home and of falling asleep drunk in a park in Bootle at around the same time a young woman was being murdered nearby with a claw hammer matching the one reported missing by your client.”

  Reaching under the desk, Erin retrieves an evidence bag and tosses it down in front of Murray and Quinlan. The weight of the bag hitting the table is sufficient to startle them and they both lurch backwards.

  For additional shock value, Erin slams down her clenched fist and exclaims, “This claw hammer! Your claw hammer, Johnny.”

  Wide-eyed, Murray desperately looks to Quinlan for support. Cutting off his lawyer’s half-hearted protest with a dismissive wave of her hand, Erin continues, “For the benefit of the tape, I have produced a sealed evidence bag marked as exhibit FJ14. Inside the bag is a Makita-brand claw hammer. This hammer was located by police officers from Merseyside constabulary during a forensic search of a crime scene and the immediate surrounding area on the morning of Tuesday the 19th of March.”

  Pulling it back towards her, Erin carefully lifts the corners of the bag with her fingertips. “Do you recognize this, Johnny? Is this the hammer that went missing from your toolkit at the end of December?”

  Clearly annoyed with Erin’s tactics, Quinlan whispers to Murray before saying, “On my advice, my client will not be answering that question, Chief Inspector. Nor will he be answering any further questions if you continue to conduct this interview in such an aggressive manner.”

  Dismissing his protest, Erin carefully places the evidence bag back down in front of Murray. “Take a close look, Johnny. Is this your hammer?”

  “For the benefit of the tape, my client will not be making any comment concerning this exhibit, Chief Inspector. Please move on.”

  Ignoring him again, Erin smiles and points to the evidence bag. “During your arrest, you were shown this hammer. Inspector Marchetti asked if it was the one that you reported missing from your toolkit. You initially said that it was your hammer before you changed your mind. It is your hammer, though. Isn’t it, Johnny?”

  “Don’t answer that question,” Quinlan urges. “I’ve already told you, Chief Inspector. My client will not be answering any questions concerning this particular exhibit.”

  “Oh, and why is that?” Erin asks. “Are you worried that by doing so, he might inadvertently tell us the truth about how and why he killed Shreya Singh?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Erin places a sheet of paper in front of Murray. “For the benefit of the tape, I am now showing the suspect a printout of a partial fingerprint retrieved from exhibit FJ14 earlier today.

  “This fingerprint is a forensic match for the fingerprints previously provided by Mr. John Franklin Murray.”

  Despite the chill in the interview room, Murray is noticeably sweating. Erin pushes a box of tissues across the table and allows a moment for him to wipe his brow before she says, “You don’t look well. Perhaps there is something you would like to get off your chest?”

  Taking Quinlan’s advice, Murray remains silent and turns away. Tutting, Erin nods. “It’s no matter. We know this is your hammer, and we know that you killed those girls. What we don’t know is why you killed them. Why don’t you help us understand?”

  Suddenly tearful, Murray turns towards Terri. “Please, miss. I didn’t do what she is saying. I’m not a violent bloke. You know that.”

  “So, help yourself and tell the truth,” Terri advises. “Is that your hammer?”

  “Don’t answer that question,” Quinlan implores.

  “We can’t help you if you don’t tell us the truth,” Terri mouths reassuringly. Caught between a rock and a hard place, Murray rubs his eyes and shakes his head before turning back to Terri. “I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry, Miss Marchetti.”

  Pointing to the bag, Terri softly urges, “Just tell us if this is yours?”

  Ignoring Quinlan’s protest, Murray slowly nods.

  “I need you to say it for the tape, please. Is this the hammer from your toolkit that you reported missing?”

  His response is barely audible, but is adequate for the recording. Head in hands, Murray nods again and says, “Yes, Miss Marchetti, it’s my hammer. I’m sure of it. I didn’t kill those girls, though. I swear to God, I’m telling the truth about that.”

  Incredulous, Quinlan asks for a break to confer with his client.

  “Yes, I think that might be for the best,” Erin concurs. “This interview will now be suspended to allow Mr. Quinlan to consult with his client. The time is 9.47 am and DCI Blake, DI Marchetti and DS Bolton are all now leaving the room.”

  . . . . . . . .

  Away from the interview room at the far end of the corridor, Tony turns to Erin and smiles. “So far, so good. How long are you going to give them, ma’am?”

  “If Quinlan has any sense, then ten to fifteen minutes should be enough for him to convince Murray to spill his guts.”

  “Great. Time enough to grab a brew then,” Tony says with a smile.

  “Actually, your brew can wait,” Erin says. “I want you to check out what Murray told us about the voucher and his bus travel arrangements. First get yourself down to The Ugly Duckling to see what you can find out, then check out the CCTV at the bus station to confirm what time Murray arrived and left.”

  “You don’t want me to continue in the interview, ma’am?”

  “That’s okay, Tony. We can manage. We’ve already got them on the run. Speak to our colleagues over in Manchester as well. Find out if they turned up anything during the search of Murray’s apartment. I’ll call you if there is anything else that needs to be checked out.”

  Looking slightly perturbed but having the good sense not to rock the boat, Tony leaves Erin and Terri alone in the corridor.

  As soon as he is out of earshot, Terri asks, “Do you really think we have them on the run, boss? There is no doubt that it is Murray’s hammer, but I know him and—”

  “And what?” Erin suddenly interrupts defensively. “You said it yourself – he can do some pretty stupid things when he is wasted.”

  “You’re right,” Terri replies. “But you told the chief super that the killings of Shreya Singh and Shelley Wilton were most likely premeditated. You also told him that it’s not normal behavior to be walking the streets at night with a hammer in your pocket. It’s that element of premeditation that I’m struggling to get my head around. I know Murray. He’s not smart enough to—”

  “I know what I said,” Erin snipes. “Let’s concentrate on the facts at hand, though, please. We have the Singh murder weapon with forensics linking it to Murray and we have his own admission that it’s the hammer he reported missing over Christmas. We also have a cock and bull story about why he was in Bootle on St. Paddy’s Day.

  “I know that you have previous experience dealing with Murray. But that was two or three years ago, and people change. I don’t know what may or may not have happened to Murray to turn him into a killer, but right now, the facts seem to be speaking for themselves.”

  Despite her misgivings, Terri knows that Erin is making sense. Putting aside her own previous impressions of Johnny Murray, she nods and offers an apology. “Yeah, I’m sorry, boss. I guess you’re right. So, what next?”

  Smiling, Erin nods towards the door. “We turn the thumb screws, DI Marchetti. You can lead this time.”

  . . . . . . . .

  Confirming with Quinlan that they are ready to proceed, Erin starts the tape. “The time now is 10.07 am. Detective Chief Inspector Erin Blake and Detective Inspector Teresa Marchetti have reentered the room to continue the interview under caution of John Franklin Murray. DI Marchetti will lead.”

  Hearing Marchetti’s name, Murray looks towards her, hopeful of some support. Playing the role of good cop, T
erri smiles sympathetically. “This is a difficult time, Johnny, but things will go much better for you if you continue to cooperate with us.”

  He starts to speak but a firm hand from Quinlan stops him from continuing. “From this point on, my client will be exercising his right to silence.”

  “That really won’t help your client,” Erin tuts.

  “Won’t help my client or won’t help your investigation, Chief Inspector?”

  “It’s the same difference, Mr. Quinlan. I’m sure you think your advice is helpful, but the British legal system holds a dim view of non-cooperative felons when it comes to passing sentence.”

  Despite his limited experience, Quinlan knows exactly what Erin is trying to do. “Chief Inspector, your continued scare tactics towards me and my client are neither welcome nor warranted. For the benefit of the tape, I must insist that you desist from such threats. Failure to do so will—”

  With her point made, Erin interrupts and cuts him off. “Your objection is well noted, Mr. Quinlan. Please continue, DI Marchetti.”

  Nodding, Terri once more smiles reassuringly across the table. “I’ve known you for a few years now, Johnny, and, personally, I would never have had you pegged as being a violent man, let alone a multiple murderer. But everything we have so far suggests that I’m wrong, and that you did, in fact, murder Shreya Singh and Shelley Wilton.”

  Tears are welling up in the corner of Murray’s eyes, and it is obvious to all that he desperately wants to speak. Nodding slowly, Terri leans forward and asks, “You killed both of those young women, didn’t you, Johnny?”

  “No. It’s not true,” Murray howls. “I couldn’t do that to someone. Please, miss. You have to believe me.”

  “I’m sorry, but, no, I don’t believe you,” Terri responds, shaking her head dismissively.

  Carefully placing a series of video-capture images onto the table, she points to them and adds, “This is you, isn’t it? For the benefit of the tape, I am showing Mr. Murray five surveillance images marked as exhibits FJ22, 23, 24, 25 and 26. These images were captured by CCTV cameras on the 17th and 18th of March 2019 at various locations between the area of The Starry Plough public house and Rushmore Lane in Bootle.”

  “What is this?” Quinlan demands.

  “Look for yourself,” Terri responds, gesturing to the pictures.

  “This first image shows your client holding what looks like a bottle of vodka. The location of this image is beside the taxi rank adjacent to The Starry Plough.”

  “That’s not me,” Murray howls again. “I wasn’t there.”

  “You’re lying!” Erin snaps. Pushing the pictures further across the table, she points to the first image. “This is the grey hoodie you were wearing when you were brought in yesterday. What happened to the jogging bottoms?”

  “Wh… what?” Murray stammers.

  “The jogging bottoms you wore on the night that you killed Shreya Singh. Do you still have them? Where are they?”

  “You don’t have to answer these questions,” Quinlan reminds him.

  Switching back to good cop, Terri shakes her head and quietly says, “We can’t help you if you continue lying to us or refuse to cooperate, Johnny.”

  “Inspector Marchetti, I have already advised you that my client will not be answering any further questions today. Please continue.”

  “Thank you,” Terri smirks. “I will continue, but with all due respect to your many years of legal experience, the advice given to your client is bad advice. Your client is in a hole that is only going to get deeper and deeper if he doesn’t see sense and start talking to us. Take a look again at these pictures and ask yourself if it looks like your client?”

  Caught off guard, Quinlan momentarily looks down at the images before he realizes that Terri has been baiting him. Annoyed at being so easily trapped, he looks up and shakes his head. “Move on, please, Inspector.”

  Pleased with the small but important victory, Terri smiles at Quinlan before saying, “Look at this picture again, Johnny. You said this person isn’t you. So, let’s just suppose for a moment it isn’t you. But let me ask this, please. Do you own a pair of jogging bottoms like this?”

  A light touch on his elbow from his solicitor elicits a barely audible, “No comment.”

  “That’s okay,” Terri says, shrugging. “We already know that this is you, and it won’t be long before DS Bolton checks the bus station CCTV footage to confirm what you were wearing during your trip to Bootle on St. Patrick’s Day. Refusing to answer our questions is only hurting you. It’s your choice thou—”

  “I had a pair like that,” Murray suddenly blurts out. “I ripped one knee, though, so I chucked ’em away.”

  Quinlan looks stunned, but sensing a breakthrough, Erin cuts in. “When was that?”

  Realization suddenly hits that he has dug the hole even deeper for himself and Murray quickly clams up again and refuses to comment.

  “When was that, Johnny? When did you throw away the jogging bottoms?” Erin demands.

  A further chorus of “no comment” necessitates the need for her to change tactics. “Okay. Then why don’t I tell you what I think happened to your jogging bottoms?”

  Jabbing one of the images accusingly with an index finger before pointing to a frightened Murray, Erin calmly says, “I think you were wearing these when you attacked and murdered Shreya Singh. And I think if you did, indeed, rip one of the knees, it was when you had that poor girl pinned to the floor in the backyard of number twenty-four Rushcroft Lane. Am I right, Johnny?”

  Confronted with the ever-more grim reality of his situation, Murray’s head drops and he covers his face and ears with his hands in a hopeless attempt to block out the questions. He rocks back and forth in his chair sobbing quietly, and Quinlan looks as mystified by his behavior as the two police officers.

  All three allow Murray a few moments to compose himself, after which, he wipes his nose and eyes with the back of his sleeve before suddenly straightening up and mumbling, “No comment.”

  A sideways glance between Erin and Terri is enough of a signal for Terri to continue her questioning.

  “Okay, Chief Inspector Blake has told you what she thinks happened. This is your chance now to set the record straight. Why don’t you tell us when and how you ripped your joggers and what you did with them?”

  Caught between his desire to speak and Quinlan’s advice, Murray turns desperately to his legal counsel. “I want to tell them. I want them to know it wasn’t me.”

  “It’s your decision, Mr. Murray. But my advice at this time remains the same.”

  “It will be better for you if you speak to us and tell us the truth,” Erin urges.

  “We can’t help you if you don’t,” Terri adds. “Just tell us the truth, so we can start to understand what all of this is about.”

  Ignoring the disapproving frown from Quinlan, she softly prompts again, “Tell us about the joggers?”

  Turning away from Quinlan, Murray noisily clears his throat before taking a deep breath. “Like I said before, after I left the pub, I tried to get back to the bus station, but I got lost and ended up in a park somewhere. I think I must have tripped or fallen over at some point because when I woke up the next day, both of my knees were muddy and the right one had a big hole in it. I chucked them away when I got home.”

  “Seriously!” Erin exclaims. “Didn’t you hear a word of what DI Marchetti just said to you? How the hell are we meant to believe or help you if you persist in telling us a pack of lies?”

  “I’m not lying,” Murray protests. “It’s what happe—”

  “You’re a murderer and a liar!” Erin screams. “Look at the pictures.”

  Fanning them out, she jabs each of the images in turn. “This is you standing next to the taxi rank! This is Shreya Singh! This is you just behind her! This is you again just fifty yards from where she was murdered. We have your hammer! We have your fingerprint! We have Shreya Singh’s DNA on the hammer. You killed
that poor girl, didn’t you?”

  Erin’s onslaught is so fierce that Murray breaks down and sobs uncontrollably into his hands. Recovering from his own initial shock at the severity of her assault, Quinlan angrily gets to his feet. “Chief Inspector Blake, this is completely outrageous. This interview is over.”

  Suddenly calm again, Erin casually gestures for him to retake his seat. “On the contrary, we’re only just getting started. Sit down, please, Mr. Quinlan. I’d like to move onto something else now and ask your client to tell us where he was between the hours of 8 pm and 4 am on December the 29th and 30th of last year. That was the night that Shelley Wilton was murdered.”

  Murray looks like he is about to speak and Quinlan pleads with his client to remain silent.

  “No!” Murray blurts. “I’ve nothing to hide. I didn’t do anything.”

  Looking to the ceiling for inspiration, he scratches his head, then directs his response towards Terri. “I can’t be completely sure, miss, but most nights over Christmas, I was drinking in either The Twisted Friar on Lower Ancoats Road or The Frog and Whistle.”

  “Both of those pubs are fairly close to the Arndale Center, if I remember correctly?”

  “Yes, miss. Close enough.”

  “Okay,” Terri murmurs and nods. “And what about The Bamford Arms? Did you drink in there at any time over Christmas?”

  “I don’t think so,” Murray replies shaking his head.

  “You don’t think so or you didn’t?” Erin asks.

  Before Murray can answer, Erin places a new photograph onto the table. “I’m now showing Mr. Murray a picture of a young woman. Take a close look, please, and tell me if you recognize the woman in this picture?”

  As expected, Quinlan intervenes before Murray can respond. “Chief Inspector, we all know who the woman in this picture is. This is the same picture that was used in the press appeal for information. Your question has no bearing or relevance when presented in this context.”

  Ignoring him completely, Erin asks again in a slightly different way, “You do recognize her, don’t you?”