Part 30 (1/2)
Not a flicker of guilt, Warrilow thought. Psychotic.
Like a little flower opening in the sun, Thomas put it. Pity there's evil at the heart of it.
Oh, G.o.d - Doctor Caradoc, Clare thought, recognising the language.
The real you, Zanny, Graham willed, is the way I see you now. Happy. With a grin on you like a Ches.h.i.+re cat. Wish I could take you on my knee. Wish I could boot these policemen to h.e.l.l. Wish none of it had happened.
”If you should see Murphy in prison,” Zanny told Thomas, ”would you give him my very best wishes and tell him how pleased I am?”
”Yes, indeed,” said Thomas, ”with pleasure.” He felt as if he walked in some fey countryside where the craziest remarks made sense.
Warrilow's countryside was very rational. He trod his route with precision, perfectly sure of where he was going.
”Do you think Murphy murdered Bridget O'Hare, Susannah?” he asked.
”Zanny,” Zanny corrected him. ”I think she might have fallen,” she said cautiously.
”In your statement to Sergeant Thomas you said that you had murdered Bridget O'Hare.”
”Just a bit of nonsense,” said Zanny. ”Miss Sheldon-Smythe went around the convent saying the same thing.”
”Miss Sheldon-Smythe was in town having her hair permed at the vital time,” Warrilow said. (A casual remark dropped by Constable Jones, the husband of the hairdresser, had produced this bit of evidence - though it hadn't been considered important. Miss Sheldon-Smythe hadn't been under suspicion - any more than this girl had been.) ”I was picking flowers,” Zanny said, ”and most of the time I was with my friends. Anyone will tell you that. I didn't push Bridget O'Hare.” ”But you kept on insisting that you did.”
”Only to save his life.”
Warrilow smiled thinly. ”That was very n.o.ble of you. Why should you want to do that?”
Zanny blushed. ”Well - I rather liked him.”
”If you still rather like him, then the prospect of his serving a long prison sentence must rather disturb you?”
”I really am awfully sorry for him,” Zanny said, s.h.i.+fting uncomfortably, ”but I don't see what I can do.”
(Murphy, I'm sorry. But today is different from yesterday. Today there is Caradoc. And tomorrow there is Caradoc. You're yesterday, Murphy. You've gone.) Warrilow turned to Graham and Clare. ”Your daughter's confession of guilt seemed very unlikely at the time,” he said. ”Had you backed it, however, it would have been believed.”
”It was crazy nonsense, as the child's just told you,” Clare expostulated.
”Utter rubbish,” Graham agreed.
”You were placed in an extremely difficult position,” Warrilow went on unperturbed. ”Maybe that is why you cut the telephone wire on what you thought was Murphy's last night?” It was small actions, such as that, that indicated complicity. They knew -- had known for a long time - he was sure of it. His own certainty had grown during the last twelve hours. He had been wrong about Murphy. He had begun to doubt his guilt during the trial. The mentality to murder was the x factor that balanced the equation. In this case an elusive x factor -until now.
”I caught it in the Hoover,” Clare said. ”The cord snapped.”
”When one's own kith and kin are concerned,” Warrilow continued smoothly, ”one tends to ignore the ethics of a situation. In certain circ.u.mstances it's almost forgivable - almost, but not quite.”
”If we're talking about ethics,” Graham snapped, ”shouldn't we apply them to police procedure? Is this an accusation? Is it an inquisition? You've made no formal warning. Should I contact my lawyer?”
Warrilow acknowledged the criticism, but refused to be deflected. If his route were circuitous - and it was -he had good reason. ”You will, no doubt,” he said, ”contact your lawyer in time. If a charge were to be laid against you, it would be one of criminal negligence. A lethal virus needs to be contained.”
Graham's forgotten cigarette was burning up into his fingers. He flung it in the ashtray. ”I don't understand you. Are you accusing my daughter of ”murdering Bridget O'Hare?”