Free A Capital Crime by Laura Wilson Page B

‘Didn’t talk much. Mind you, neither did we. I’m not sure the lad really understands what’s going on. He’s hardly the brightest – to be honest, I don’t think he’s all there. He asked if his mother’d got in touch with the people looking after his daughter.’
    Stratton, aware of a slight ache behind his eyes – he and Ballard had polished off what was left in the bottle before they’d turned in – endeavoured to collect his thoughts.
    ‘Well, he’s not been told we’ve found the bodies, so perhaps he thinks it’s a good idea to keep on with his story.’
    ‘I suppose so. Oh, and he told us he didn’t pinch the briefcase, but he didn’t say who did.’
    ‘I’m surprised he didn’t say it was Backhouse. He seems to be blaming him for everything else.’
    They rode to West End Central in silence, Stratton in front beside the driver and Davies, flanked by Grove and Porter, in the back.
    Ballard met Stratton in the lobby. ‘Mrs Davies has identified the bodies, sir, so there’s no difficulty there. She’s made a statement, too. There’s not much new, although she did tell us that there’s some insanity in the family. Her grandfather and an uncle died in asylums, and her father was violent.’
    ‘I suppose it’s not surprising. Grove and Porter are bringing Davies in now. Tell Cudlipp I want him taken straight through to the Charge Room. I’ll be waiting.’
    Once in the Charge Room, Stratton arranged the two piles of clothing on a desk so that the tablecloth and the sash cord were on top of Muriel’s, and the tie – still tightly knotted, but slit at the back in order to remove it – on top of Judy’s. Then he took his notebook out of his pocket and positioned himself beside the table. After a few minutes, the door opened and Davies appeared, escorted by Ballard and Porter. On seeing the clothing Davies blinked several times, opened his mouth, then closed it again, and looked at Stratton in bewilderment. Bang to rights, chum, thought Stratton. Bang to fucking rights.
    Opening his notebook in case he needed a prompt, he said, ‘At nine thirty p.m. yesterday I found the body of your wife, Muriel Davies, concealed behind timber in a washhouse at ten Paradise Street, also the body of your baby daughter Judy concealed in the same outbuilding, and this clothing was found on them. Later I was at the Middlesex Hospital mortuary, when it was established that the cause of death was strangulation in both cases. I have reason to believe that you were responsible for their deaths.’
    Davies stared at him, jaw hanging slack. Then he reached forward, picked up the tie, then dropped it back onto the pile of baby clothes. When he looked up, Stratton saw that his eyes were wet with tears. ‘Yes,’ he whispered, and then again, more loudly, ‘Yes.’

Chapter Thirteen
    ‘John Wilfred Davies, I am arresting you for the murder of your wife, Muriel Davies, and your daughter, Judy Davies. You are not obliged to say anything, but I must warn you that anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence against you.’
    Stratton stared across the desk at the tiny man who sat beneath the naked light bulb in the interview room. There were deep troughs of exhaustion under his eyes. His coat removed, his over-large jacket stood proud of his shoulders as if there were a hanger still inside, and his grubby white shirt stood a quarter of an inch clear either side of the skinny column of his neck. Whatever else he looked like, Stratton thought, it wasn’t a monster. ‘Do you understand what I am saying to you?’ he asked.
    The man’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, working saliva into his mouth. ‘Yes.’
    ‘Good. Please sign here.’ Stratton pushed a pen and the paper with the caution statement across the scarred wooden table. Davies glanced at it, then looked up, bewildered.
    ‘Sign?’
    ‘Your name.’ Stratton tapped the bottom of the paper. Davies