INTERLUDE – THE DONALD CLITHEROE MURDERS

One

INTERVIEW

'Cigarette?'

'Yes.'

Wilson turned to the uniformed constable standing impassively by the door.

'Cigarette, Constable.'

'Don't smoke, Sir.'

'Find somebody who does and get some!' the CID man barked. The constable stared at him for a brief moment, then left the interview room, returning in less than half a minute with a packet of cigarettes which he handed over and resumed his position by the door.

The man reached for the pack and extracted a cigarette with a trembling, nervous hand. Wilson reached in his pockets until he found what he was looking for, a box of matches.

'You've been cautioned?'

'Yes. No. I'm not sure.'

'Constable.'

'You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say.....'

'Yes!'

'.....may be taken down and used in evidence.....'

'Yes, I said yes!'

'You are ready to make a statement?'

'I don't know, I'm not sure why I'm here.'

'Don't waste my time, Donald!' Wilson barked, his face less than an inch away from Clitheroe's. Clitheroe stared back at the investigating officer. In his left eye there was a noticeable twitch.

'You want to tell me about Frances Pemberton, Cassandra Wilson, Cathy Connor, Polly Bartram? Mary Bailey?'

'Those names mean nothing to me.'

Wilson sat down. Even sitting down he was tall, massively built, wide shoulders, thinning hair. The constable had thought he was tall, but Wilson.....

'Those names mean nothing to you,' Wilson repeated. 'You want some tea?'

'Yes. Please.'

'Frances Pemberton.'

'What?'

'Tell me about Frances Pemberton.'

'What?'

'Frances Pemberton. Tell me about Frances Pemberton.'

'You said tea.'

'In a minute. Talk to me, Donald. Tell me about Frances, and Cassandra and all the others.'

'You said tea.'

'In a while. The evening is hardly begun. We have the night ahead of us.'

'Why have you brought me here?'

'To assist us with our enquiries into the deaths of some girls.'

'I don't know any of them.'

'Donald, Donald,' Wilson said soothingly, 'we both know that simply isn't true.'

'Are you charging me?'

'Not as yet, no.'

'What I said earlier, to the constable, I withdraw it.'

'You withdraw it?'

'Yes.'

'You admitted to the murders of a number of several young women and girls, in front of witnesses, and you are now withdrawing that admission?'

'That's right. I've had time to think.....'

'Donald, stop fucking me about and talk to me about Frances, and Cathy, and all the others, for Christ's sake! Stop fucking me about!'

'You can't talk to me like that!'

Wilson's hand shot across the table and grabbed Clitheroe about the throat. Wilson's face was covered with an ugly grimace as his other hand raised.

'Sir!' the constable cried, starting forward, and Wilson relaxed. He released Clitheroe and sat back down.

'Sorry, forgot my manners. Donald, I put it to you that you killed Rachel Upson on or about the twenty-sixth of August 1974. I put it to you that you killed Frances Pemberton.....'

'Yes, yes, all right! I did it. I did them. I did them all!'

'That's better. Shall we start again?'

'I want a lawyer.'

'Do you have a lawyer?'

'No.'

'You want a lawyer?'

'I'm entitled to a lawyer.'

'Indeed you are. Constable, Mr Clitheroe wants a lawyer. He does not have a lawyer. Will you see to it that a lawyer is found for Mr Clitheroe, please?'

'Sir, I'm not supposed.....'

'Now, please, Constable.'

Reluctantly the young constable again left the room, but this time he left the door slightly open and shouted to attract the attention of the duty sergeant. Footsteps were heard in the corridor.

'Mr Clitheroe wants a lawyer, Sergeant.'

'All right, lad, leave it to me. You get back in there.'

'Sir.'

'And some tea, Constable.'

'And some tea, Sergeant!'

'On its way, lad. You just stay put.'

'Sir.'

'Tea is on its way,' Wilson said. Clitheroe stubbed out half of the cigarette. 'Now, shall we start again?'

'I want my lawyer.'

'A lawyer is being found for you, Donald. In the meantime, since we have not yet charged you with anything, shall we continue with our chat? Perhaps you can clear up some small mysteries for us?'

'I'm saying nothing until my lawyer gets here.'

'That could take a while, Donald. You know how far out of the way we are here. The sooner we talk about it, the sooner you can go home to your nice warm bed.'

Clitheroe glanced at the young constable with suspicion, then at Wilson, who was beaming at him.

'All right.'

'Start where you like, Donald. Start where you like. Start with why you killed them. Why did you kill them?'

'I wanted them.'

'From the way the report reads, you had them, Donald, you had them all, even the little seven year-old. Try again.' Wilson was unbelievably calm.

'I wanted them. I wanted to touch them. They wouldn't let me touch them.'

'They weren't yours to touch, Donald, were they?'

'Frances Pemberton, she was a whore!' Clitheroe spat the word out. 'She was a whore! Just like my.....'

'Frances Pemberton? You're confessing to the murder of Frances Pemberton?

'Yes. She was - she was just like my.....'

'Just like your what, Donald?'

'Just like my mother!'

'Your mother?'

'Whore! Whore!'

'Rachel Upson was a whore just like your mother?'

'Yes! She led me on.'

'How did she lead you on?'

'She dressed up, in short skirts and blouses. She led me on.'

'You believed she was dressing up for you?'

'For anyone! She was anyone's who wanted her! Except me!'

'But not you?'

'Not me, no!' Clitheroe cried hoarsely.

'She would go with anyone except you, is that it?'

'Yes.'

'Why do you think that was, Donald?'

'What?'

Donald Clitheroe was miles away, once again following Rachel through the woods. He was jerked back to reality by Wilson's hand slapping him gently across the cheek, just enough to bring him back to the present. The young constable frowned. He had never been present at an interview such as this one.

'Why do you think Frances did not want to go with you, Donald?'

'I don't know.'

'I think you do'

'No, I don't.'

Wilson stood up and crossed the room to the door, whispering into the constable's ear.

'You don't have to stay, son. Leave me to it.....'

'You know I can't do that, Sir.'

'It might get messy.'

'I'm prepared.'

'I might have to persuade him, you know.....'

'Sir?'

'It might get messy, constable.'

'I have to stay, Sir.'

'What's your name?'

'Thompson, Sir. Constable Thompson.'

'Still on probation?'

Thompson drew himself to his full height. He was just an inch shorter than the superior officer.

'No, Sir. Not on probation.'

'Right. Let me give you a word of advice. We are in for a long night here. That lawyer will not be here till morning. You get me? He will not be here till morning. In the meantime, what we have here is a man who has killed ten times, maybe more. I have a confession from him, of sorts. In two or three hours' time I hope to have a signed statement from him. You jumping in and reminding me of what I can and cannot do every five minutes will not help us along. You understand?'

'Yes, Sir.'

Clitheroe had lit another cigarette. The door opened and a WPC entered with a tray of teas in plastic cups, which she deposited on the table, then left with an apologetic smile at the constable. She evidently knew what kind of a man Wilson was. Yet he had a good reputation. A reputation that Thompson himself aspired too, though not at the expense of his humanity, his dignity, his… No, he intended to get there the right way, by doing the right things. He had already applied for CID and knew that he would make a good detective. He was thorough, painstaking, logical, intuitive. He had heard that Wilson was a bully, but this was the first time he had seen it first hand.

'Right, let's get on, shall we? Don't want to be here all night. In your own time, in your own words, tell me about Rachel.'

Clitheroe sipped tea from a plastic cup and gazed across its brim at Wilson.

'I'll try and help you remember what you said when you make your written statement. Off you go, Donald. Let's not waste any more time.'

'My lawyer?'

'Ah, yes, just got a message, Donald. Car's broken down. Sending a police car. Probably be about an hour or so. Might as well get some of it out of the way, eh?'

Clitheroe gazed warily at Thompson, then at Wilson, as he had before, almost as though he was expecting the young constable to advise him on what he should do next.

'I suppose.....'

'That's it, Donald,' Wilson said, patting Clitheroe on the shoulder in an avuncular fashion. 'You know it makes sense.'

Clitheroe nodded.

'I followed her, see.....'

Wilson stared impassively at Clitheroe, and listened patiently while he described how he had followed a girl through the woods, raped and murdered her, then went back for his car. He seemed to have finished that particular narrative, and sat waiting for Wilson to speak.

'You're forgetting something, Donald, aren't you?'

Clitheroe's blank stare was like a puff of foul air in Wilson's face.

'I don't know what you mean.....'

'You have forgotten what you did when you went back to her.....'

'I.....'

'You filthy little shit!' Wilson shouted, leaping to his feet, sending his chair crashing over as Clitheroe cowered against the opposite wall.

'Keep him off me!' he screamed. Thompson started forward, but the expression on Wilson's face was enough to warn him off. Wilson sent Clitheroe crashing from his chair, then pulled him back onto it in one deft movement, smoothing the prisoner's clothing and his own and then righting his own chair.

'Sorry, Donald. Getting tired. Long day. Been on duty fourteen hours already. Carry on, will you?'

'Don't hit me again!'

'Sorry. Hand slipped. Carry on, mate. In your own time.'

For a minute or so it looked as though Clitheroe might remain silent. Wilson extracted a third cigarette from the pack and pushed it across the table, lighting a match as Clitheroe's hands trembled and the cigarette shook.

'Tell me about Frances Pemberton, Donald,' Wilson said.

'I didn't mean to kill her,' Clitheroe said softly. Years afterwards, Thompson would remember how odd it was to hear a serial killer speaking in such a soft, cultured, educated voice. But then Clitheroe was cultured, he was educated. If he had not been able to find a natural niche in society into which he could slot and be accepted, he had at least persisted with his education in spite of all of his personal problems, including the death of his mother and the murder of Frances Pemberton and the others.

'I didn't mean to kill her. I was interested in buying the house next door to hers. She invited me in. She gave me coffee. We talked about.... She asked me in!'

'Then what happened, Donald?'

'She made coffee for us both, but when she brought it into the lounge, she had changed somehow.'

'In what way? Her clothes?'

'No.... not her clothes. Her face, her hair..... I don't know, I can't remember.'

'Her attitude?'

'Attitude?'

'Towards you?'

'Maybe. I don't know. I don't remember.'

'She'd changed into different clothes?'

'No! I said not her clothes! She'd - undone buttons - on her blouse.'

'Her blouse?'

'The top buttons. There was flesh showing.'

'Flesh.'

'The top of her bosom.'

Again Thompson was struck by the oddity of the phrase.

'The top of her bosom. It was visible.'

'Do you think she did that deliberately?'

'Why would she?'

'Maybe she fancied you?'

Clitheroe's face crumpled into an anguished cry and he buried it in his hands. When he looked up, there was wet running down his cheeks, mingling with mucous running from his nose. Disgustedly, Wilson took a handkerchief from his trousers pocket and thrust it across the table.

'Wipe your nose, Donald,' he said quietly. Clitheroe did as he was told.

'Carry on,' Wilson said.

'She..... she'd undone her hair.'

'And the top buttons of her blouse.'

'Yes.'

'When you first went into her maisonette, her blouse was buttoned up to her throat and her hair was done up in a bun.'

'Yes.'

'She undid her hair and the top buttons on her blouse.'

'Yes.'

'Coincidentally with you entering the maisonette.'

'Yes..... I don't know.'

'She did it for you, then.'

'What?'

'To make herself more attractive to you.'

'Maybe. Yes.'

'Did she make any advances towards you?'

'What?'

'Did she sit next to you on the sofa? Did she accidentally touch you with her arm? Did her breasts pop out of her blouse? Did she give you the come-on?'

Again Clitheroe's face twisted into a snarl of anguish and the tears started again.

'No! I don't know!'

'You killed her.'

'Yes!'

'Why did you kill her, Donald?'

'I don't know!'

'You thought she was giving you the come-on, and when you touched her, she fought like a tigress, and you killed her. You raped her, you desecrated her, and you killed her.'

'It wasn't meant to happen!'

'You couldn't control yourself. She invited you into her maisonette because you were kind, and well-spoken. You had a common interest, poetry. She made herself attractive to you and you tried it on. She panicked, realising you were after only one thing, just the one thing that she had thought made you different from all the other men she'd ever been with. And you let her down, you spoiled it, you wanted to have sex with her, you didn't want to discuss poetry after all, did you, Donald, you wanted her body, and she realised it was too late and it had gone too far, she had gone too far, and you raped her and killed her. That's how it was, wasn't it?'

'Yes, I suppose so,' Clitheroe blubbered into Wilson's handkerchief.

Wilson stood up and glanced across at Thompson.

'Get all that, did you?' he asked. Thompson stared back at the CID man, his gaze never faltering. Wilson was a bully, a blustering giant of a bully, who usually got results. His methods were universally condemned throughout the force, but he got results. This was the first occasion on which Thompson had had to work with the man, and he was not enjoying it. Moreover, he knew there was worse to come. As Clitheroe's career of murder progressed, the enormity of the crimes increased.

'You know what he did to these girls, don't you, Constable?' Wilson said in a low voice, so that only Thompson could hear him.

'Sir?'

'Haven't you read the files?'

'Haven't had time, Sir. Studying.'

'CID?'

'Sir.'

'Why don't you take a few minutes, go and read the files now? Donald Clitheroe will be perfectly safe with me.'

'Can't do that, Sir.'

'No, of course not. Just keep your ears open, in case I miss something.' He turned back to Clitheroe, who had lit another cigarette.

'Could I have some more tea?'

'Please.'

'What?'

'Please.'

'Please.'

'More tea, please, Constable.'

Thompson opened the door to shout along the corridor, but the duty Sergeant was already there, a tray in one hand, his other on the door handle.

'Everything all right, Thompson?'

'Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir.'

'Carry on, then.'

Clitheroe drank two more plastic cups of police tea.

'Right, Donald, let's move on, shall we? Do you want to describe to me what you did to Cathy Connor?'

'No.'

'You don't want to describe it to me?'

'No.'

'I think you're going to have to. Help you when it comes to writing out your statement. Don't want to miss anything out, do we?'

'I suppose not. Am I going to be done for all the murders?'

'Did you commit them all?'

'Depends what you mean by all. I suppose.'

'You tell me what you mean by all, Donald. One at a time or all in one go. Suits me either way. In your own time. Let's start with Cathy , shall we? You followed her through the woods, you raped her, you killed her, you dumped her body in the water, then you legged it. Then you went back to the soc.....'

'The what?'

'Scene of the crime. You went back to the scene of the crime. What did you do then?'

'I.....'

'Yes?'

Thompson stared uncomfortably at his shoes. In the dim light of the interview room, he could still see his reflection in them. You just want to hear him say what he did to the girls, he thought to himself, but then it was exactly right, Wilson did want to hear Donald Clitheroe confess to his extraordinarily sordid and disgusting little crimes, for the simple reason that that was what he was paid to do. Like a Catholic priest. Hear peoples' confessions. He tried not to listen, but the room had about it an empty, hollow sound. There were just the three items of furniture, a table and two chairs, and a lamp without the benefit of a shade dangling a foot or so above Wilson's head. He and Clitheroe were inclined across the table towards each other, almost as though they were playing a hand of cards.

'I..... I did it again.'

'Did it again. Did what again?'

Don't make him say it, for God's sake don't make him say it! Thompson pleaded silently.

'I fucked her again.'

'She was dead, Donald.'

'I know.'

'That didn't bother you?'

'No - I don't know. I didn't think about it.'

'You just saw her body sticking up out of the water and.....'

'I fucked her again.'

'Just for the hell of it.'

'To teach her a lesson.'

'Teach her a lesson. She was dead for fuck's sake!' Wilson said.

'Better stop now, Sir.....'

'Leave it!'

'Sir?'

'I said leave it!'

'Sir.'

'Go on, Donald. You gave it to her again, to teach her a lesson. She's fucked you about, so you killed her and fucked her again, is that it? To teach her not to fuck you about?'

'Yes.' Clitheroe's reply was almost inaudible.

'Do you think she learned anything from this lesson you gave her, Donald?'

Clitheroe looked at the detective questioningly, as though he was insane.

'She was dead!'

'All right. Frances Pemberton. Tell me about her. Tell me about Frances.'

'I lost my temper. She came back with the coffee and she was all made up, lipstick and eye shadow, and she'd untied her hair, and unbuttoned her blouse, she'd put on makeup, and earrings, but I knew she wasn't going to let me, I knew she was just going to tease me, like all the others, so I killed her. I had to kill her, because you see she was going to tease me, and I don't like to be teased. Not about that.'

'You're sure?'

'Sure of what?'

'That she was going to tease you? It didn't occur to you that she actually found you attractive? I mean you're not an unattractive man, Donald, even now, and this was a while ago, wasn't it? What made you think she was going to tease you?'

'I don't know, she seemed forward, and she was all made up.....'

Wilson buried his head in his hands. Abruptly he stood up, almost knocking over the chair.

'I don't believe this,' he said to Thompson sotto voce. 'I don't like it at all. It's all coming out of him too easy!'

'Sir?'

'I'm going to take a breather. You take over for a few minutes, Thompson, what's your name.....?'

'Mike Thompson, Sir.'

'.....Mike. That's it. You have a quiet chat with him. I'll be a few minutes, that's all. I don't like the way it's going. I need to think, that's all. Okay?'

'Could you ask someone.....'

'That's all right. You sit with him, just chat to him. I'll only be gone a few minutes. You'll be all right, Thompson. You'll be all right.'

Thompson straightened the chair Wilson had been sitting in and sat to face Clitheroe.

'You want me to tell you about the others?'