Wasn’t Mine

The Offer The request reached Inez Navarro at eleven minutes past eight, while she was trying to make sense of an expense claim for a witness who had attended the wrong police station. The claim wasn't hers to authorise. It had come to her because the officer who normally dealt with it was off sick and somebody had decided that a detective chief inspector would be able to find the correct cost centre. The email from the prison liaison unit had been copied to Detective Superintendent Frances Lethbridge, which was unusual enough for Inez to leave the claim open and read it twice. Darren Holt wished to speak to the officer in charge of the Cedar investigation. He had described himself as seriously ill, had given no account of what he wanted to say, and had been advised that any interview about an offence would require proper arrangements. The liaison officer's final sentence was carefully worded. Mr Holt had asked for DCI Navarro by name and had said there were matters concerning three murders which he had not previously disclosed. Inez knew the name. He had appeared in the outer reaches of two Cedar reviews, once because his work took him through one of the relevant counties and once because a detective with a good memory had remembered an assault with a surviving partner. Neither enquiry had established anything useful. In 2022 he had been convicted of murdering a man in a dispute that bore no persuasive resemblance to Cedar. He was now sixty-eight. She clicked through to the attached liaison note. The prison officer had recorded the request at six fifteen the previous evening. Holt had refused to elaborate in the presence of staff, except to repeat that he had committed crimes for which somebody else was receiving the credit. 'You all know the one I mean,' he'd apparently said. Inez set the expense claim aside, picked up her phone and asked Orford to come upstairs. While she waited, she read the prison liaison note again, paying particular attention to the officer's exact wording. He arrived carrying his tea and a thin folder he had not yet opened. Tariq Orford worked on the historical Cedar material often enough to recognise the difference between a possible lead and an excuse for bringing everything else to a halt. His jacket was damp at the shoulders; he'd cycled in despite a morning of rain that had ended just before eight. 'Before you ask,' he said, 'the Hatherley paper exhibits are still where they were on Friday. Nothing has been sent to storage without us knowing.' 'That wasn't what I was going to ask.' 'It was what you asked on Friday.' She turned her screen towards him. He bent, read the liaison note, then put his tea on the clear corner of her desk. 'Holt,' Tariq said. He remembered the assessment, of course; he'd worked on it after the 2022 conviction, when a detective had pointed out that Holt's employment took him through the relevant counties. They had reviewed his history, found no forensic route into the older offences and noted that his face did not fit the much-publicised scar. 'He says three murders.' 'Lots of people have said things about Cedar.' 'Not many of them were already serving life for murder.' Tariq read the last paragraph again. 'Do we know what he's ill with?' 'The prison isn't going to send us his medical record because we ask nicely. We know he has been transferred to their healthcare unit. We need to find out whether he's fit for a recorded interview and how long we've got.' She sent the liaison officer a short reply requesting a call, then rang Frances Lethbridge. Frances was already in a meeting. Her assistant said she would come down once the custody briefing finished. It was easier, Inez thought, when a lead could be rejected at the first gate. The trouble with Cedar was that almost everything had once deserved a second look. A seventeen-year investigation had collected so many statements, sightings, anonymous letters and confident recollections that somebody had eventually devised a separate classification for contacts that were sincere but of no further use. The classification hadn't stopped the calls. Cedar had acquired a permanence beyond the individual officers who worked on it. New detectives came to her with files containing decisions made when they were at school. Families rang to ask whether the force still considered their relatives part of the same investigation. There were still people who sent photographs of men with marks on their faces. And once or twice a year a producer telephoned with a proposal for a documentary which would, they promised, bring fresh attention to the case. Inez had developed a reliable method for saying no without leaving room for a second meeting. She asked Tariq to retrieve the 2022 Holt assessment, including the source material behind the one-page conclusion. He took his tea and went downstairs. By half past nine she had spoken to the prison liaison officer, who was frank about the uncertainty of Holt's condition. The prison healthcare team would consider a short interview if an appropriately qualified clinician judged him able to participate. There would need to be security arrangements, recording equipment, and an offer of legal advice. They could not have the interview room for a whole day, whatever the police wanted. When Frances came in, Inez had already started a handwritten list of questions that should not be asked until they knew what Holt could volunteer without prompting. 'We're not at the point of announcing a breakthrough,' Frances said, looking at the list. 'I haven't suggested we announce anything.' 'You haven't yet. The chief constable's office will want to know if we're about to receive a confession in a nationally known murder series.' 'We may receive a confession from a man who enjoys watching us work.' 'And you want to see him.' 'Of course. If he has something real to tell us, I'd rather hear it without an account of Cedar in front of him.' Frances sat in the chair by the door, moving aside a box of outdated witness packs with the edge of her shoe. She was younger than Inez, though Inez had stopped thinking about that except during conversations like this, when Frances was the person required to explain why the force couldn't simply follow every significant development wherever it led. 'Who conducts it?' 'I will, with a second interviewing officer. Properly recorded. Caution, legal advice, medical assessment. I'll speak to the relevant team about the procedure before we go.' 'And if he claims all nine?' 'I'll be very interested in what he can establish.' Frances watched her for a moment. 'You've been waiting a long time to hear somebody say it.' Inez set down her pen. 'I've been waiting a long time for evidence.' 'Fine. Bring me the evidence.' By late morning they had agreed a short interview at half past two. Inez used what remained of the morning to work through the old Holt assessment with Tariq. His employment and travel history had made him worth considering. A previous interviewer had thought his description of a scar on a possible suspect was inconsistent with Holt's face, and a review of the available forensic records had produced no comparison that helped. The file was neither an exoneration nor the product of serious investigation. It was a reasonable record of limited grounds and no further line of enquiry. A colleague who had worked the 2022 case was available by telephone. He remembered Holt as difficult, possessive about the facts and uninterested in the effect of his crime on the victim's family. 'If he tells you he did it, I wouldn't assume he's doing you a favour,' the officer said. 'He'll want something out of it. He always did.' 'Has he ever claimed other murders?' 'Not to us. The idea of him telling us more than he had to is quite something, actually.' Just before one Inez was still in the office, reading the clinical advice that had come through the prison. She called her brother. He answered on the fourth ring. 'You haven't forgotten Saturday, have you?' he said. 'I've written it down,' she told him. 'You've written down four of the last six. That isn't the same as coming.' 'I'll be there.' He told her about a leaking kitchen tap and the plumber who'd managed to fix the leak but leave the cold water running hot for half a minute. Inez listened, asked a question about the stopcock and realised only after the call ended that he hadn't asked about work. He rarely did. She sometimes suspected it was the reason she rang him. She drove east after lunch, with the interview authorisation in a folder on the passenger seat and a sealed copy of the three-case index in her bag. They had chosen what they would disclose only after Holt gave a free account. An experienced interviewer from another unit, Sergeant Claire Morley, had agreed to take notes and watch for problems with fatigue or leading questions. Claire was good with difficult interviewees and didn't know enough about Cedar to supply answers by accident. The healthcare wing was reached through two sets of locked doors and a passage that smelled of disinfectant and overcooked vegetables. Security staff checked their equipment. A nurse told Inez that Holt had been restless overnight, but was alert that morning and had requested the meeting again. The clinical assessment had found no immediate reason he couldn't take part, provided the interview was kept short and breaks were available. He had been offered legal advice and had spoken privately by telephone to a solicitor. The solicitor would not be attending in person but could be contacted if Holt wished. The decision and its terms were recorded. There was a jug of water and three plastic cups on the interview table. Holt arrived in a wheelchair pushed by an officer. The man in the photographs from his trial had a broad face and a dense crop of grey hair. The man who settled into the chair opposite Inez had lost a great deal of weight. His shirt collar lay away from his neck. He took a tissue from his sleeve, coughed into it and inspected the result before putting it away. He looked at the two detectives and then at the recording equipment, taking longer over the machine than either of their faces. 'Are you the one who did the television?' he asked. 'I gave a short appeal four years ago. DCI Navarro. This is Sergeant Morley.' 'I know who you are.' Inez explained the arrangements, the caution, and the possibility of stopping if he became unwell or wanted further legal advice. Holt interrupted to ask whether the recording was already running. She confirmed it was. He said he was happy to go on and asked for the water. Claire slid the jug towards him but didn't offer to pour. His hands were steady enough to manage, though he filled the cup with a concentration out of proportion to the task. After drinking, he put it carefully in the centre of the coaster, which was a square of folded paper someone had left on the table. 'You asked to speak about three murders,' Inez said. 'I want you to tell me, in your own words, what you meant.' 'You've got the names.' 'I haven't been given names,' Inez said. She had left the three-case index in her bag until it was needed, and Claire's note sheet showed only the interview reference and the time. 'No? Well, I suppose that's sensible. Neil Hatherley. Deepa Vora. Warren Keating.' He paused after each, as though giving the spelling of unfamiliar words over a bad telephone line. 'I killed them. In that order.' Claire made no visible reaction. Inez asked him to describe what he had done and how he knew those people. 'I didn't know them. That was part of it.' 'Tell me about Neil Hatherley.' Holt spoke of a couple in a parked car on an isolated stretch of road in north Worcestershire. He had details of the approach and the position of the vehicle, some specific enough for Inez to recognise elements of the scene and others that she couldn't immediately place. He corrected himself over which side of the road the car had been facing, then insisted on going back to explain why he had chosen it. He couldn't remember the make of the vehicle and grew irritable when Claire asked him what he meant by a narrow entrance. 'You'd have to go there,' he said. 'You'd understand it if you went there.' Inez let him continue. When he moved to Marianne, he called her 'the wife', and had to be asked whether he knew her name. He remembered where she had been when he restrained her. He described her trying to get her feet beneath her on the verge. 'She kept saying she wanted her shoes.' 'What happened to them?' Inez asked. 'I put them in the boot. Locked them in there. She thought I was taking the car, I reckon. Kept asking for the keys.' He drank water and looked at Inez, expecting something. 'You've got that, surely.' The location of Marianne's shoes had never appeared in the public accounts Inez knew. She had put it on the list of things that would require checking against the original material. It had been recorded in a scene exhibit and in the private part of Marianne's first account. She didn't say any of that to Holt. 'Why did you do that?' 'Because she kept trying to stand.' 'What did locking her shoes away achieve?' 'Nothing useful in the end. She still tried.' He looked mildly annoyed at the question. 'Is that what we're doing? Going through everything I did and asking why?' 'I'm trying to understand your account.' 'I've given you the account.' It was a long way from an admission of every relevant fact. At several points he seemed to lose the thread and returned to some practical aspect of the location. He said he had gone back to his vehicle but couldn't say whether it was immediately afterwards or after driving a short distance. Once he confused the position of the passenger door with the open boot and became irritated when he was invited to clarify. He was a tired man making an extraordinary confession, and Inez kept both facts in mind. When they moved to Deepa Vora, he knew there had been a problem with the restraint on the surviving man's wrist. He mimed drawing something tight and then stopped because the effort made him cough. He mentioned a piece of material that had slipped against the man's sleeve. Inez did not recognise the detail. She made herself leave that uncertainty where it belonged. For Warren Keating he described an argument beside the car and something breaking during the struggle. He remembered a light on an upper floor of a nearby building, then said that perhaps he was confusing it with a different night. He offered no apology for the uncertainty. 'Why now?' Inez asked after nearly forty minutes. 'I'm dying.' 'You've known you were ill for some time.' 'And you've been calling it Cedar longer than that.' Holt picked at the edge of the paper coaster until his thumbnail split a corner away. He moved the fragment beside the cup and began tearing off a second piece as he answered. 'That's not a name I ever called myself,' he said. 'I kept seeing it after I went inside. They were giving him everything. Every story, every dead person you thought belonged with the others. And then some television person said he'd never been caught, as if I hadn't been caught at all.' 'You were convicted of another murder.' 'I know what I was convicted of.' 'Are you saying you want credit for these three?' He stared at her, genuinely puzzled by the need to ask. 'They're mine.' His breathing had become more laboured. Claire offered a break, and Holt agreed without objection. A nurse checked on him. They did not resume questioning that morning. By the time the officer took Holt back to the ward, the water had been finished and he had torn the paper coaster into several neat pieces. Inez and Claire reviewed what had been said before leaving. They identified which details appeared potentially significant, which had been volunteered without prompting, and where the account was unclear. Inez was careful about the shoes. She knew a detail could feel secret to an investigator because she hadn't seen it in the papers; feeling wasn't an audit of disclosure. She told Claire she wanted the original Hatherley record brought forward before anybody used the statement to support a conclusion. Outside, the car park had filled. A delivery van was reversing towards the service entrance, watched by a man in a high-visibility vest who had apparently decided shouting instructions was less effort than moving the bins. Claire waited while Inez rang Tariq. 'I've got three names,' she told him. 'The same three he said he had. I want each original file treated separately. Start with the first statements, scene plans and exhibit schedules, and find out exactly what went outside the team. The Vora and Keating evidence as well. Don't guess what survived.' Tariq asked how Holt had seemed during the interview. 'Tired. Particular about some things. Less particular about others,' Inez told him, and explained that the clinical team had curtailed the session before his concentration deteriorated further. 'And do you believe him?' Tariq asked. In the background she could hear somebody asking him whether he had finished with the old exhibit register. 'I believe there's something to check.' She heard him moving papers around at the other end. 'That could keep us busy.' 'Yes,' she said. 'It could.' Claire was putting her equipment case into the boot. Inez called the prison liaison officer to arrange for a further interview if Holt's condition allowed it, then rang Frances. She reported the three admissions, their apparent specificity and the checks that had already been requested. 'Are we alerting the chief constable's office?' Frances asked. 'I think they need to know we've taken a serious confession,' Inez said. 'They don't need to know we've solved Cedar.' Frances agreed and asked for a note she could use when the chief constable's office came back to her. Inez promised to send one from the station, with the individual offences named and the outstanding checks made plain. On the drive back towards Worcester she had the radio on at a level too low to follow. The first time she had attended a Cedar briefing, years ago, the wall had held only a handful of photographs and a rough map with the early sites marked. There had been room between the boards for people to stand. The investigation now occupied far more space than that, in offices and archives and in the expectations of people she spoke to several times a year. She knew the families would hear of any serious development soon enough, whether the force announced it or somebody else did. At a set of temporary traffic lights outside a roadworks compound, she checked the time on the dashboard and thought about the way Holt had said the three names. He had spoken them as naturally as another man might list former employers. She had listened to recorded interviews for a quarter of a century and could not remember another in which the speaker had cared so little whether his confession caused pain. The lights changed. Inez drove on, already working out who needed to be in the room when the original Hatherley file was opened.