his desk, elbows on the desk, fingertips steepled, eyes closed.
‘Looks very zen,’ said Frankie. ‘Right, good luck, again. See you later. We’ll all be waiting. Oh – and when I came in just now the press were outside, by the way. Loads of them. All shouting questions about the serial killer suspect we have in custody. How do they know?’
Helena sighed. ‘Bloody parasites. Can’t blame a leak this time though. When Dolan came in last night, pissed as a parrot, there were half a dozen scallies in reception, and they’d all have heard him claiming to be the Bristol serial killer – apparently he wasn’t exactly being quiet about it. It was on social media within ten minutes. Not much we could do this time, Frankie.’
‘Arse,’ he said.
‘Arse indeed,’ she replied. It would all be worth it though, if Dolan really was their man. If. A case like this, so high profile, so well documented in the press, often attracted the crazies, the attention seekers, the false confessors; but generally when they came in drunk, their story changed dramatically in the cold light of dawn without the buzz of alcohol in their system. Dolan’s hadn’t.
Please, she thought. Please, be the one. Be the killer.
***
An hour later she was sitting across the table from him, Devon to her right, two other officers guarding the door, one inside, one out in the corridor. The duty solicitor, a young woman in a bright red jacket which looked two sizes too big for her, sat next to the suspect, back rigid, her pen tap-tapping on the pad in front of her. George Dolan was fifty-three, a short, shaven-headed brute of a man in a stained blue shirt who lumbered into the room bringing with him the smell of stale sweat and bacon. He looked as though he may once have been a bodybuilder or a boxer, a ripple of muscle still visible under a layer of blubber, the knuckles of his meaty fists scarred.
When the formalities had been completed, Helena cleared her throat, and then for a moment there was silence. George Dolan looked calm, his small eyes, so dark they were almost black, giving nothing away.
‘So, Mr Dolan. Last night you walked into this police station and made a confession. Because it was clear that you were in an inebriated state, we allowed you to sleep it off and then spoke to you again this morning, when you made the same confession. For the benefit of the recording, can you repeat that again now?’
Dolan shuffled in his seat, then leaned forwards, both hands flat on the table in front of him.
‘Sure,’ he said, and his voice was guttural, roughened by cigarettes, the accent strong West Country. ‘What I said was, I killed ’em.’
He paused, looking from Helena to Devon, then sideways at his solicitor. All of them stared back at him, and his lips twitched.
A smile? thought Helena. Christ, he’s enjoying this.
‘I killed all of ’em.’ Dolan was speaking again.
‘The two lads in London, and the two ’ere on The Downs. And the other one too. The most recent one, O’Connor, the one you lot ’aven’t even found yet. I did it. I did ’em all. I’m the one you’ve been looking for. I’m the serial killer.’
For a moment nobody spoke, moved, breathed. Then Dolan leaned slowly back in his chair, and the smile that had been threatening to appear finally crept over his face.
‘So go on, you’ve got your confession. Arrest me. Bang me up. I’ll keep on doing ’em if you don’t,’ he said.
Helena swallowed, and glanced at Devon, who raised an eyebrow. She turned back to Dolan, who was gazing at her, a quizzical expression on his bloated face.
‘OK, Mr Dolan. Thank you for that. However, now we need to ask you some questions. The first of which is … why? Why did you kill five men? And why those five men, in particular? What was your motive … your reason?’
‘My motive?’ George Dolan laughed, a short, hoarse sound that reminded Helena of a barking dog.
‘You want to know what my motive was?’ He leaned forwards again, his head jutting out across the table, and she could smell his breath, acrid and sour.
‘I’ll tell you what my motive was.’
His voice was low, and full of menace. Then, suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, he grinned widely, showing a mouthful of yellow, rotting teeth.
‘I just didn’t like the look of ’em,’ he said.
Chapter 23
On Wednesday morning, sitting at the kitchen table with a