‘I just put a note in the window, and someone bought it.’
Ramouter took out two sheets of paper and placed them on the table. ‘This is a DVLA printout of the registration details for your car. Make, model, stuff like that and, on the second page – the bit that I’ve highlighted – you will see the list of registered keepers, previous and current. The car was transferred to your name two months after your wife’s death and it’s still in your name.’
‘I just haven’t got round to letting them know, the DVLA that is,’ said Larry.
‘Why are you lying?’ Ramouter asked. He brought up a series of photos on the screen. ‘These are photographs of your car, on your street, taken last week by our colleagues. Exhibit PS/1.’
‘They’ve made a mistake,’ Larry said shakily.
‘Are you suggesting that my officers are lying?’ Henley jumped in, leaning forward on the table.
‘I don’t have the car, I sold it.’
‘Stop lying and tell me what happened on the night of 17 October,’ Henley said firmly.
‘Nothing happened. I was home.’
‘This is footage of your car on Lordship Lane, half a mile from the Ashcrofts’ home,’ said Ramouter. ‘Your car is then seen turning into Cullen Lane at 11.38 p.m..’
‘I sold the car,’ Larry said, his voice breaking.
‘Tabitha Ashcroft was attacked in her home,’ Henley ploughed on, keeping her eyes on Larry as she produced photographs of Tabitha’s injuries. ‘She was pinned down in her kitchen and her attacker put a knife to the back of her head and scalped her.’
Larry paled, put his hands to his mouth and closed his eyes. ‘Oh my god, oh my god.’
‘Scalped her,’ Henley repeated, tapping the table hard. ‘You’ve got scratch marks on your hand and a mark on the side of your head. Did that happen when Tabitha was trying to defend herself?’
‘It wasn’t me.’
‘If it wasn’t you then who was it? Who did you drop off at the Ashcrofts’ home, Larry?’
‘I didn’t do anything.’ Larry lowered and shook his head.
‘The only reason you weren’t arrested for her murder is because her husband saved her,’ said Ramouter as Henley leaned back in her seat. ‘Not that he got away unscathed.’
‘Look at the photographs, Larry,’ Henley pushed. She placed more photographs on the table, this time of Graham. Half-naked on a hospital bed. His knife wounds visible.
‘Stabbed multiple times because he was trying to save his wife,’ Henley said slowly.
Larry breathed in deeply, clasping his hands tightly. ‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘Can you explain why Graham’s blood was found in your car?’
‘Again, you didn’t disclose this to me,’ said Kalia, pushing another tissue towards Larry.
‘Check your disclosure,’ Henley said coldly as Ramouter brought up the image of the shattered car windscreen. ‘You were informed that we had forensic evidence. DNA.’
‘Look, Larry, we’re not asking you these questions because we’re trying to hurt you or catch you out,’ Ramouter said, his voice calm and warm as he switched the footage. ‘We want to help you.’
‘You can’t help me,’ Larry answered.
‘Graham Ashcroft ran out of his house. He thought he was running away from danger,’ said Ramouter. He pressed play on the footage that had been taken from the Ashcrofts’ neighbour, Patsy Howe. The gasp from Kalia was audible as the footage showed Graham running into view, being hit by a car, landing heavily on the bonnet and then falling to the ground.
‘I need a consultation with my client,’ said Kalia.
‘Interview suspended at 10.34 a.m.,’ said Ramouter.
‘We’ll be waiting outside,’ Henley told them. She and Ramouter gathered their things and left the interview room.
