Moss put up her hands.
‘Let’s move on from that for a moment. So, back to the first murder… Tess also mistakenly identifies Sophia as Vicky. They look alike and in her beaten-up state—’
‘I arrived on the scene almost as soon as Tess saw the body, which meant that the misidentification stuck with us. We didn’t discover it wasn’t Vicky until twenty-four hours later,’ said Erika.
‘Fast forward twenty-four hours. We find Vicky, she then comes back from Scotland and Charles Wakefield sees her that night as he’s coming out of Lewisham Row station,’ said Moss. ‘Did he look shocked to see her?’
Erika thought back and tried to remember. Her focus had been more on Vicky’s reaction.
‘I don’t know if I would call it shocked, but there was a very strange moment between them,’ said Erika.
‘So when he sees Vicky, Charles Wakefield now knows that he didn’t kill her and she’s about to talk to us… Does he hope she’s scared enough that she won’t spill the beans right away? He waits until she goes back to Tess’s house. Then he knocks on the door late at night, and he’s ready with a knife and stabs her in the back,’ said Moss.
Erika thought it through.
‘Bollocks. Would it stand up in court? I don’t know, but it could have happened. Charles doesn’t have an alibi for the night Vicky was murdered. Well, his alibi is Julian Wakefield. With this inconclusive CCTV, he certainly doesn’t have an alibi for when Vicky was killed. There was no motive for him to kill Sophia, which would explain the mistaken identity. But now we find out he was the caretaker of GDA at a time when Vicky was investigating the assaults on students…’
‘And we’ve just found out from Becky and Kathleen that Vicky was quite a serious operator, and a damn good investigator. What else could she have known, and what if she confronted Charles with something serious?’ asked Moss.
Erika sat back and looked around at the empty bar.
‘And without Charles’s DNA, the saliva forensics found on Vicky’s shoulder is back in play. We thought we’d already matched that against Charles Wakefield’s DNA, but we haven’t.’
She drummed her fingers on the table. They needed a DNA sample from Charles, and they now had grounds to arrest him and take a DNA swab. The only problem was the cremation – could they justify rocking up and making an arrest during such a sensitive time for the rest of the family?
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ asked Moss.
Erika nodded. ‘What if Charles Wakefield recognised Becky and Kathleen when we were talking to them? He could make a run for it. We need to get him in custody, a DNA sample taken, and question him.’
‘What about the fact he’s—’ started Moss.
‘I couldn’t give a damn if he was the King of England, let alone the brother of the Assistant Commissioner,’ said Erika. ‘He could be our man.’
Erika pulled out her phone and rang Crane back.
‘Crane. I want to arrest Charles Wakefield and bring him in. I’m going to send you the address of the crematorium. We’ll do it after the service, and try to do it quietly without disturbing the family. I need you to arrange backup from local police.’
‘What about Melanie?’ he asked.
‘I’m the lead officer on this case. I’ll worry about Melanie. Just get me two uniformed officers and a backup car,’ said Erika.
54
Worthing crematorium was outside the town, and set amongst beautiful grounds. As they passed the tall trees and open fields down the long driveway, Erika saw that it might be difficult to make a quiet arrest. She’d hoped that the crematorium would be in a more built-up area.
‘This used to be a stately home, before they demolished it and turned it into a crematorium,’ said Moss. The sky was now clear and as the long driveway turned to the right, the trees parted and they saw the long, low crematorium building with a flat white roof. To their left and right were rows of tombstones, a lone mourner, and an older lady in a thick beige coat was placing a posy of flowers on a small square grave. A crow watched her from his perch, four stones across. It seemed so peaceful, and the idyllic scene was only marred by the sight of the long chimney rising up from the crematorium where the furnace was pumping a stream of dark smoke into the sky.
‘I hate these places, the contrasts,’ said Moss. ‘I remember my gran’s funeral. We all stood mingling in the lovely grounds after the service, chatting about her, but no one wanted to mention that the black pouring out the chimney and the burning smell was her.’