Читать книгу Closing In - Sue Fortin, Sue Fortin - Страница 13

As much as Donovan loved his job, he hated it too. He loved the analysis, the breakdown of potential suspects, the building up of criminal psychological profiles but hated the scenarios; the often skin-crawling and despicable crimes this role brought him into contact with.

He fixed his gaze on Oscar Lampard across the interview desk. Donovan looked for any signs, any body language that would give a clue as to whether Lampard was telling the truth or even uncomfortable with his responses. Lampard held Donovan’s gaze equally, a look of defiance lingering behind his eyes, his arms folded as he sat back in the chair, his ankle casually hooked over his opposite knee. He toyed with a brown asthma inhaler, turning it up one way and then the other. So far Donovan hadn’t managed to get Lampard to so much as break into a sweat. He doubted very much the inhaler was going to be needed.

‘So, how am I doing, Doc?’ said Lampard. ‘Have I passed?’

‘Passed?’ Donovan raised his eyebrows in question.

‘Yeah, passed your tests, like. Have I answered all your questions properly or have I let slip something that can tell you all about me?’ said Lampard beginning to look as though he was enjoying himself. ‘Have you been able to work out if I’m some psycho nutter who had a poor relationship with his mother? Did my mother dress me up as a girl and, as a result, I hate women, which means I attacked my neighbour. That’s how it goes, doesn’t it?’

Gut instinct played a big part in Donovan’s work. Today his gut was shouting loud and clear. Oscar Lampard had something to hide but was he hiding the attempted murder of his neighbour Stella Harris? Time to play hardball.

‘You’ve got the general idea,’ said Donovan. ‘However, I’d probably go down the route of what was your first sexual encounter like? Was it with a girl or a boy?’ Donovan paused looking for a reaction. Yep, there it was. Subtle but it was there. Lampard’s face remained impassive but the inhaler was now clenched in a firm grip, no longer being casually worked up and down on his knee. Donovan continued. ‘A member of your family even. Or one of your mum’s special friends, you know, an uncle who’s not really an uncle.’

Lampard was clearly fighting to prevent his smile turning to a sneer. ‘Maggie Harting. Behind the youth club. I was fourteen she was fifteen. Big tits. In fact, big everything. She wasn’t shy about putting it out.’

‘Too big for you?’ said Donovan. He continued without giving Lampard a chance to voice his obvious displeasure at the innuendo. ‘Did she have a laugh at your expense afterwards? Tell everyone what a little boy you really were?’

The sneer broke free and Lampard leaned forward in his chair. ‘Piss. Off.’

Donovan didn’t flinch. ‘All the other kids laughed at you after that, I expect. You were the spotty, lanky kid who none of the girls fancied and you only got a chance with Maggie because, as you said yourself, she wasn’t shy putting it out. Kind of backfired didn’t it? Instead of the girls thinking you’re some sort of hotshot, turns out Oscar Lampard is, in fact, a let-down.’

Lampard sat back in his chair, apparently in control again. He waved a dismissive hand in Donovan’s direction. ‘Whatever you say, Doc.’

Donovan flicked open the file in front of him. He didn’t really need to look at it but he wanted to give Lampard a few moments to let what had been said settle in his mind.

‘So, Oscar, it’s all right if I call you that, isn’t it?’ Oscar shrugged. Donovan continued. ‘Stella Harris, the girl who was attacked. You told my colleagues that you were on first-name terms with her and chatted when your paths crossed, but that was about it.’

‘Yeah and what of it?’

‘Fancy her, did you? She’s quite a looker, well she was, before her face became a punch bag. Lovely blonde hair, pretty delicate features, great figure. Come on, you must have fancied her.’

‘She’s pretty. So what? Doesn’t mean I attacked her,’ said Lampard. He put his leg down and shuffled in his seat. ‘She’s stuck-up anyway. Not my type.’

‘Snotty bitch, eh, Oscar? Is that what you thought? Prissy cow. Marching in and out of the flat like Lady Muck, parading around in her short skirts and high heels. Flashing her thighs. I bet she was asking for it really.’

Lampard thumped his hand down on the table, the plastic inhaler clashing with the Formica. He jumped to his feet. Donovan matched his action and the two men leaned across the desk, their faces inches apart.

The police officer, who had been patiently standing by the door observing, took a step towards them, ordering Lampard to sit back down. He cast Donovan a disapproving look. Donovan cursed under his breath. He was just about to move in for the killer blow in his verbal assault. Lampard was on the brink of cracking, then the sodding PC had taken it upon himself to act as a referee. Brilliant.

Oscar Lampard was sitting back down. Composed. Calm. In control. He slid the inhaler into his pocket and in an angelic-like way, brought his hands together on his lap. Donovan took his seat, throwing the PC a scowl as he did so. He’d have a word with DCI Ken Froames later to make sure this plod wasn’t in on future interviews. A rookie who didn’t know Donovan’s style. He turned his attention back to Lampard, who appeared relaxed, a smile settling on his face. Lampard leaned in and gestured with his hand for Donovan to move forward. Donovan obliged.

‘You’re going to be sorry you messed with me,’ he muttered quietly so only Donovan could hear.

Donovan remained unruffled. It wasn’t the first time he had been threatened in this line of work. It held no fear for him. It was all talk. However, sensing he had lost this particular battle, but certainly not the war, Donovan stood up. A coffee was definitely needed. He was sure Lampard was guilty. He matched the profile but without any hard evidence from the police, it wasn’t enough to charge him.

‘Oi, Doc,’ said Lampard as Donovan reached the interview room door. ‘Watch your back now. It’s dangerous out there.’