Anna waited for quite a while before Mrs. Eatwell came onto the phone. "Mrs. Eatwell, this is Detective Inspector Travis."
"Good afternoon," came the brusque, upper-class voice.
"Thank you for agreeing to speak with me."
"I don't really have any option. I have a policewoman with me all the time; they even do the grocery shopping. Is Honour coming home?"
"Mrs. Eatwell, I need to ask you about Damien."
"What about him?"
"Is he related to you?"
There was a pause, then Mrs. Eatwell repeated her question about Honour returning home.
"I am unsure when Honour will be allowed home." Anna asked again if Damien Nolan was related to Mrs. Eatwell.
"He is a wonderful man. I won't have a word said against him. Damien has nothing to do with my son, and whether or not he is related to me is none of your business."
Anna tried again; this time, she said that she could make inquiries to check out Damien's background, but it would be far simpler if Mrs. Eatwell just answered her query.
"It's not your business; I refuse to be drawn into implicating Damien in any of this. Leave him alone."
Anna gave up and ended the call. Even if she did discover that Damien was related to Alexander Fitzpatrick, she was unsure what it would mean, bar the fact it would implicate him more deeply; however, as yet, they had no evidence of his involvement whatsoever. It was the note that still irritated her: the torn scrap of paper with directions to the farmhouse. It would make sense if Damien had been in London, and written them for Adrian Summers to use to drive the drugs to
Honey Farm. But he had denied being in London, and denied having any knowledge of the shipment.
Anna made a note to requestion Adrian Summers regarding Damien. She then returned to the incident room, where Phil collared her again. "We're getting quite a lot of feedback on known thefts of Fentanyl. One has just come in from York: a guy working as a radiologist has been arrested up there. They found a large quantity of empty vials wrapped up in hospital surgical supplies and hidden in a ceiling tile. Apparently, the guy was stealing them by entering operating rooms after procedures had been performed and taking what was left over from the medical waste containers."
"Phil, I can't really spend time on this. I don't see the connection with our case."
"I'm only doing what Langton told me to do!" he said, tight-lipped.
"Where is he?"
"I dunno; I thought he was interviewing Damien Nolan."
"He was, but then he left. We still haven't questioned Honour Nolan." Anna looked around the incident room, and then headed toward Cunningham's office. It was empty. Frustrated, Anna approached her own office but, when she tried to open the door, she found it locked. "Is somebody in here?" She pressed her face to the window, trying to see inside. Then the door was unlocked, and she had to catch her breath.
Langton looked terrible. His face was pale, and it had a sheen of sweat, making it appear almost gray. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and he had no shoes on.
"James?" she said, closing the door quickly behind her. She saw his jacket on the ground, his shoes beside it.
"I needed to have a break," he said, slumping into her chair.
"Have you got a temperature?" She felt his brow; it was cold, and he shivered. Anna picked up his jacket and slipped it around his shoulders. "You want a cup of tea?"
"Just some water," he said quietly.
Anna opened one of the desk drawers and took out a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap and passing it to him.
He took a few sips and then closed his eyes. "Sorry," he muttered.
"Do you want me to take you home?"
"No, I just need a few minutes."
"I think you should see a doctor."
"I'm fine; just couldn't get my breath. If I sit tight for a while, it all eases up. There's no need for you to stay with me."
Anna sat on the edge of her desk. "How often does it happen?"
"It happens," he whispered, leaning forward.
Langton had suffered from a collapsed lung after his attack; he had almost died and the scars on his chest were proof of his appalling injuries. He seemed very frail and his hand shook as he continued to take sips of water.
"I've just been listening to Phil collecting information regarding numerous thefts of Fentanyl."
"Yeah, the medical profession has got to pull out their fingers and get some kind of tamper-proof mode of Fentanyl administration. What we've got coming in is widespread theft from various institutions— could create a fucking epidemic."
"I think we should concentrate on our case," Anna said. "We haven't even questioned Honour Nolan yet."
Langton pushed back the chair and got unsteadily to his feet. "I am aware of that!" He started to redo his tie. She bent down and placed his shoes in front of him; he slipped them on. "Thing is, Travis, we've only just touched on what that bastard intended dealing. In my position, I have to look at the whole perspective. If Fitzpatrick was able to ship this amount of Fentanyl into the UK, it's only the beginning."
"It would be good to get him locked away."
"Quite, but my gut feeling is he's long gone."
Anna shrugged, annoyed by the suggestion that they had lost Fitzpatrick. "You fit to question Honour now? Or do you want to wait until after lunch?"
Langton slowly pulled on his jacket and yanked the collar down; she could see that the color was coming back into his face. "Let's go in ten minutes." He walked to the door and unlocked it.
"What about Damien Nolan?" she asked.
"What about him?"
"His solicitor's getting very tetchy."
"We hold him until we're finished with Honour." They walked out of her office.
Anna asked if he felt Damien had just been drawn into the edges of the Fitzpatrick scenario, but played no part in it. Langton gave a soft laugh. "He's a player, Travis, and a clever one, because we don't have anything to pin on him, bar the fact he lived at the farmhouse, is married to Julia Brandon's sister, supposedly had an affair with Julia, and, according to her, fathered her child! For someone on the periphery, he certainly got into heavy relationships."
"I didn't find out if he was related to Alexander Fitzpatrick. I spoke to Mrs. Eatwell; she said it was none of my business and that Damien was a wonderful person."
"Maybe he is just that." Langton opened the interview-room door.
Already sitting, waiting with her solicitor, was Honour Nolan. She gave a nervous smile to Anna, and nodded to Langton as he took his seat opposite her. She was wearing the same dress she had been arrested in: it was hippy-styled, caught under the bust with a row of hand-embroidered strawberries, and fell in loose folds of soft fabric over her motherly figure. She wore numerous heavy silver bangles and rings, and silver hoop earrings. She wore no makeup but her skin looked fresh, none the worse for a night in the cells. Her long dark hair was wound around her head, the two braids long enough to cross over the top and coil around again, rather like the Mexican artist Frida Kahlo.
Langton took a while, selecting his files and placing them in order. Anna took her notebook and pens out, and her own file. She glanced at him; he showed no ill effects from the episode she had just witnessed.
Langton started the tape, explaining that they would also be recorded on video. He repeated the charges against Honour: she was being questioned with regard to drug trafficking, harboring a known felon, and perverting the course of justice. He added that this alone was a very serious offense and, if charged, she could be given ten to
twelve years, as the authorities took a very serious view of anyone tampering with the law. Honour had her hands folded across each other on top of the table, heavy silver rings on almost every finger, even one on her right thumb.
"Very well, Honour, let's go from the top, shall we? Please give your name and address." Langton kept his voice low, almost encouraging, as Honour cleared her throat and answered his seemingly innocuous questions about how long she had lived at the farm, how long she had been married to Damien Nolan, when she had worked at the antiques store, and her relationship with Mrs. Doris Eatwell. Her answers were concise and to the point.
Seated beside Honour was her solicitor, a gray-faced man, with extremely bad halitosis. Matthew Webb used a stubby pencil to jot down notes in what looked like a child's exercise book. His solid square face gave no hint of expression, his watery eyes unblinking, as his client continued.
Langton paused before he asked Honour to detail her relationship with Alexander Fitzpatrick.
Webb looked up. "My client will refuse to answer that question, on the grounds that it could—"
"Your client, Mr. Webb, has already admitted to knowing Mr. Fitzpatrick and, according to her sister, had an ongoing sexual relationship with him."
"That is a lie," she said.
"I'm sorry; do you want to explain why you say it is a lie?"
"My sister did not tell you the truth. I have never had a sexual relationship with him."
"When was the last time you saw him?"
Again, Webb interjected that his client would not answer, on the grounds that it might implicate her.
"Your client, Mr. Webb," said Langton, "was fully aware that Fitzpatrick was a man wanted on both sides of the Atlantic. Your client aided Mr. Fitzpatrick to store a sizable amount of medical drugs, first at Honey Farm, and then subsequently in Mrs. Doris Eatwell s garage."
"I did not."
"Were you aware that your husband fathered a child by your sister?"
"That is preposterous! If my sister claimed that this happened, then she lied to you. Julia was incapable of ever telling the truth."
"Could you please explain why this has been brought up?" Webb tapped the notebook with his stubby little pencil.
"We are simply trying to establish the relationships that enabled Alexander Fitzpatrick to avoid detection for such a considerable time. His mother, Doris Eatwell, was a close friend to you, Mrs. Nolan; you assisted in moving the drugs to her garage with the help of Adrian Summers."
"That is not the truth."
"Do you admit to knowing Mr. Adrian Summers?"
"I have never met him."
"But we have a witness who saw him at your farmhouse," Langton persisted. "He also submitted a statement, claiming that you helped store the crates containing the drugs in the henhouse at your farm."
"I did not."
"Were you aware that your husband fathered a child by your sister?"
"That is preposterous! If my sister claimed that this happened, then she lied to you. Julia was incapable of ever telling the truth."
"Could you please explain why this has been brought up?" Webb tapped the notebook with his stubby little pencil.
"We are simply trying to establish the relationships that enabled Alexander Fitzpatrick to avoid detection for such a considerable time. His mother, Doris Eatwell, was a close friend to you, Mrs. Nolan; you assisted in moving the drugs to her garage with the help of Adrian Summers."
"That is not the truth."
"Do you admit to knowing Mr. Adrian Summers?"
"I have never met him."
"But we have a witness who saw him at your farmhouse," Langton persisted. "He also submitted a statement, claiming that you helped store the crates containing the drugs in the henhouse at your farm."
"I did not."
"Then, at a later date, when it became known that the police were making their presence felt, possibly about to orchestrate a search of the farmhouse, you moved the crates to Mrs. Eatwell's garage for safekeeping."
"That is not true."
"At this time, you assisted the injured Mr. Fitzpatrick; you tended to, I believe, a flesh wound to his right shoulder."
"That is not true."
Langton glanced at Anna, and took out a photograph of Julius D'Anton. "Do you recognize this man, Mrs. Nolan?"
Honour hesitated, then admitted that she did recall seeing him, when he tried to buy a table from the antiques shop where she worked. She was shown the photograph of D'Anton, taken when his body was dragged out of the water. She gave a strange lift of her eyebrows, but said no more.
Anna sat patiently as Langton began to bring out the photographs of all the victims: David Rushton, Donny Petrozzo, Frank Brandon, Julius D'Anton's wife, Sandra. Lastly, he laid out the pictures of Julia Brandon's mangled car, and the mortuary shots of her body. He kept up a fast
delivery, slapping down the pictures, not giving Honour time to < or her lawyer time to interject. He spread the photographs out fan across the table and stared at Honour.
"Why are you showing me all these terrible photographs?' voice was now starting to sound strained.