Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller (16 page)

“A baseball cap.”

“Was that normal?”

“Yes, he wears it all the time to reduce the chances of being recognised in the street.”

“OK, the killer probably knows that. Now, the killer also wants to make sure there’s good forensic evidence and of course he would want to use Henry’s car, whereas if Henry is guilty, you’d think he wouldn’t have used his own car.”

“No,” disagreed Jennifer, “he’d only not use his car if the whole thing was premeditated. If he’d only gone out to pick up a prostitute, there’d be no problem with using his car.”

Sally tapped a brontosaurus against her lips. “Yes, but in that scenario, you’re saying that there must have been a fight that got out of hand, he killed her, panicked and drove back to the hotel.” She shook her head. “No, makes no sense, not even if he panicked. I mean, what would you do?”

Jennifer was with her. “I’d drive back towards the city, perhaps, and then dump the car somewhere quiet and claim it was stolen. I wouldn’t need to clean up the car in that case.”

“No, but you’d dump your clothing, surely?”

“Beyond question. And I definitely wouldn’t return to the hotel with the car and be able to act calm and collected, perform in a play and go merrily on my way.”

Sally smiled. “Good. OK, back to the framing scenario. If the killer is impersonating Henry, he must have access to Henry’s hotel room to get his clothes. And Henry would have to be absent — no, that doesn’t make sense because we know Henry was wearing them earlier. And there are still the scratches. How would the killer do that?”

“Remember,” said Jennifer, “that he claims total memory loss after returning to the hotel until he woke up the next day feeling wasted.”

“So he might have been drugged. You need to get him to think harder; it could be crucial.”

“Don’t think he doesn’t know that; he’s done little else since he was arrested.”

“Listen, Jennifer, let me think it all over and I’ll give you a call. Ced will be interested; he’s got a brilliant mind, and if I get a chance, I’ll talk to Claudia-Jane’s parent guardian — we don’t do godparents — she’s red hot.”

Jennifer stood. “Of course. Thank you. And thanks so much for listening; it’s really helped. I’m more than ever convinced now of Henry’s innocence. You’ve given me more hope than I’ve felt in this case so far.”

Sally nodded. “My pleasure. Unfortunately, none of what we’ve floated around would mean much in court, not without something else. But perhaps it’ll help in the long run, who knows?”

C
hapter 20

E
arly the following Monday morning, Jennifer was on her regular run around the Park. In the six weeks since she’d resigned, one advantage of not working all hours was that she had sharpened her fitness. Her eating habits had also improved — three nourishing meals a day instead of snatched sandwiches, pub snacks and filthy coffee from the machine in the corridor. However, she still had no idea of how in the long term she was going to fill the aching hole in her life. Never having contemplated another career, she was floundering emotionally.

But for now, at least, she had the all-consuming challenge of Henry. She had visited Charles Keithley in his offices in Hampstead, talked at length to Dr Pauline Merriton, the retained DNA and forensic expert, reviewed and reread copies of everything the defence had so far from the CPS. She’d been back to the crime scene in Harlow Wood, now no longer screened off, she had driven the route Henry’s car had taken, both in the daytime and at night, and she had sat in the bar of the Old Nottingham Hotel, walked its corridors and stairways, and examined the car park. None of it had taken her much farther forward.

It had now been five days since her visit to Sally Fisher and she was itching to talk to her again but reluctant to call. She had felt a resonance with Sally; she’d immediately liked her, been impressed by her clarity of thought, and hoped that she would become a friend. She imagined that Ced, Sally’s husband, would likely be the same as his wife — world renowned in his field of art forgery detection and the author of a groundbreaking computer program for comparing paintings from the analysis of their brush strokes, he had to be pretty special. She’d seen a photo of the Fishers in their living room and been taken by Ced’s open, friendly face, his loose-limbed athleticism obvious in the easy way he stood holding his beloved daughter, his other arm looped around his wife.

Jennifer pounded up Park Drive towards Newcastle Circus, turned right and was intending to sprint the final hundred yards along Duke William Mount to her apartment when her phone rang. It was strapped to her arm, monitoring her performance and she ignored it until it occurred to her that it might be Sally.

It was still ringing when she ground to a halt on a path in the middle of Lincoln Circus and grabbed it from its pouch.

“Derek!” she panted, after hitting the accept button. “You caught me … in a sprint. What … do you want … at this hour?”

She heard a laugh from her ex-colleague. “Chasing bad guys, Jennifer?”

“Those days are over. What can I do for you?”

“Make me a cup of coffee?”

“Really? I didn’t think you’d be allowed to even talk to me.”

“No law against it. And I think you might be interested in what I’ve got to tell you.”

“OK. Have you had breakfast?”

“I’ve heard about those. Remind me.”

“It’s a meal taken in the morning after you wake up. Sets you up for the day.”

“Interesting concept. I don’t think it’ll catch on in the nick.”

“Time you tried it. Get your backside round here. The gate code is eight nine four five; I’ll leave my front door on the latch. Help yourself to coffee if I’m still in the shower.”

Derek looked wide eyed at the plate of bacon and fried eggs Jennifer presented to him at her breakfast bar in the kitchen, her own plate equally large.

“Do you eat this every morning, Jen?”

“Yup. Being a lady of leisure has some advantages.”

“What about all that fat? Isn’t it bad for you? And no toast to soak it up?”

“You know, you shouldn’t believe all the rubbish the government puts out about diet, Derek, it’ll send you to an early grave. This is paleo, what our genes and bodies are programmed for, and it’s magic.”

“Where d’you get these eggs? They’re huge, and what a colour.”

“Organic farm out near Southwell. They have this novel notion that chickens are meant to run free, peck at things in the ground, be the little omnivores they’re supposed to be.”

“Wow!”

“Now, enough of Cotton’s Nutritional Tips, what have you got for me? You sounded enthusiastic on the phone, or was that just the blood coursing through my ears?”

Derek put down his knife and fork, and wiped his mouth on a paper napkin.

“I was down in Bristol at the weekend seeing a mate from training school, Norrie Frampton. He joined CID down there early last year, about the same time I did here in Nottingham. We like to get together for a few beers from time to time, compare notes. We’ve got a sort of ongoing competition about who’s going to make sarge first.”

Jennifer pretended to choke on a piece of bacon. “Is there much money involved?” she spluttered.

“Don’t be like that, Jen, there’s no harm in having ambition.”

“Only kidding, Derek, just don’t live up to your reputation and be an hour late for your sergeant’s exams.”

“Very funny. Now, do you want to hear this or not?”

“I’m all ears,” she said, giving him her best Cheshire cat grin.

“Right. Well, of course, Norrie wanted to know all about the Henry Silk case since it’s been big news in the press. Still is.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Yeah, they don’t seem to want to let it go. Every day there’s a fresh story from a hack who’s dug some has-been out of the woodwork for another Silk quote.”

“Yes, and everyone of them a slanderous lie. Henry’s thoroughly pissed off. He knew he didn’t have many friends; the list is even shorter now.”

“I’ll bet. Anyway, Norrie seemed to be taking more than a passing interest in the case, even for someone in CID, so I asked why. He told me that he was involved in the investigation of a similar case last year in Bristol, soon after he joined CID.”

Jennifer was suddenly serious.

“Similar in what way?” she said quietly.

“It was the murder of a prostitute working the old port area in Bristol. Her body was found in a wooded area not too far from the Clifton Suspension Bridge.”

“Should you be discussing this with me, Derek?”

“The case is all over, Jen, it’s not a problem. Now, what was interesting was that the girl wasn’t sexually assaulted and nor had there been any consensual sex, as far as they could tell. Nothing on the swabs, vaginal, anal or oral.”

“I was enjoying my bacon and eggs, Derek,” said Jennifer, putting her knife and fork down.

“Don’t be daft. You’ve heard and seen far worse and carried on munching on a sandwich. I’ve seen you.”

“Hmm.”

“Also,” he continued, “she was clobbered over the head, but only once, and then she was strangled, not suffocated with a poly bag like Miruna.”

“So that bit’s different, then.”

“I said it was similar, not identical. But she was found in a wood.”

“Did they find what she was hit with?”

“A side-handle baton.”

“Interesting choice. I take it the weapon in Henry’s case hasn’t been found yet?”

“No, it hasn’t, but don’t quote me; it’s confidential, as you know.”

“Was there a shoe missing?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Jennifer shrugged her shoulders as she stood to clear the plates.

“I don’t see that it’s that similar. There have been plenty of prostitutes and other women whose bodies have been dumped in woods.”

“I know, but it gets stranger. It was nearly forty-eight hours until the body was found, but the morning after the murder — although, of course, no one knew there’d been a murder at that point — the body of a prominent councillor from Cardiff was found dead in a hotel room in the centre of Bristol. When CCTV footage from the area where the girl operated was looked at, the vehicle that picked her up was linked to the councillor. That was traced on other CCTV to the woods and then back to the councillor’s hotel. They also linked him eventually, rather like Silk, with lots of forensic — fibres, DNA, hair, although there wasn’t as much as in Silk’s case, as well as the CCTV.”

“How did he die?”

“Overdose of sleeping pills.”

“Suicide?”

Derek shook his head. “Very unlikely, apparently. They reckoned he might have accidentally taken one or two too many and the strain of the pills on top of his night’s activities caused his heart to give out. He was in pretty ropey condition, according to the pathologist.”

“What were the pills?”

“They didn’t release that for a while, although some slime bag of a reporter wheedled the info out of someone. Actually, it might have been a controlled leak since the dead man was distinctly unpopular with the police both in Bristol and in Cardiff. Threw his substantial weight around a lot.”

“Are you going to tell me what the pills were or do I have to guess?”

“Oh, sorry. It was Rohypnol.”

“Roofies. That’s the date rape drug. Not easy to get now, even on prescription.”

“Norrie reckons it’s not that difficult and the man often went to Eastern Europe where they’re readily available.”

“Did the councillor have any connection with the girl?”

“No, and despite being an obnoxious bastard, he wasn’t known to have used prostitutes.”

Jennifer got up to get some more coffee capsules from a jar.

“Another cup, Derek?”

“Thanks, but I’d better get into the SCF; Freneton’s on the warpath this week about punctuality. She never fails to find new and innovative ways to break our spirit.”

“Tell her you were with me. She’ll have you posted to the Shetland Isles and then she’ll be out of your life forever. You could be the first black detective up there. That would be novel.”

“I wish.”

Jennifer pressed the button on the coffee machine and reached for a mug, but then changed her mind. Her bike ride would come first.

“Listen, Derek, thanks for that; it’s food for thought. And it’s given me an idea for some research.”

An hour later, her bike ride completed, Jennifer was taking her second shower of the morning when she heard her phone ringing. She hoped the caller would leave a message since there was no way she could reach it in time.

There was no message but Jennifer recognised Sally Fisher’s number in the call register and called straight back.

“Sally, hi, it’s Jennifer Cotton. Sorry I missed your call, I was in the shower.”

“Lucky you. I’ve been up since five.”

Jennifer laughed. “Actually, I’ve been pounding the streets and then putting my bike through its paces.”

“Ah, a girl after my own heart; I thought we had something in common. I’m about to do the same once Ced gets back from his run. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. The day you came over, Ced was called away to Italy on an urgent case; he only got back yesterday afternoon.”

“Italy? Whereabouts?”

“Milan.”

“My old stamping ground.”

“Really? You’re not Italian, are you?”

“No, but I was born there, a stone’s throw from the Last Supper. I’ll tell you all about it sometime.”

“Love to hear it. Ced’s often over there. As you’ll know, you can’t move in most towns for Renaissance paintings.”

“Too right. We had a few fifteenth-century frescos adorning the walls in the house where I lived.”

“Now I do want to chat, and so will Ced. You must come back soon.”

“Can’t wait. I studied art history as a subsidiary. Loved it, so it’d be great to talk to him.”

“Gets better all the time. Now listen; your stuff. I talked it over with Ced last night once Claudia-Jane had gone down. He loves a good puzzle and it really whetted his appetite. He immediately picked up on something that I think bothered me when you were here, but then we moved on to something else and I forgot about it.”

Jennifer stopped rubbing her hair with a towel and waited.

“Did you say that there were some long blond hairs found, possibly from a wig?” continued Sally.

“Yes, there were. Two. One was on the girl’s outer clothing, the jacket, and one on Henry’s pullover. The lab couldn’t be certain they were from a wig. Apparently there was some residue of glue on them, but one that is found occasionally in hairsprays. Why? Do you think they are important?”

“Did the girl own a long blond wig?”

“No, I’m pretty sure she didn’t.” Jennifer was rubbing her hair again as she wandered over to the coffee machine.

“So where did they come from?” asked Sally.

“No idea. I think they were more or less ignored since there was nothing to compare them with. It was assumed that they were on the girl’s clothing from some earlier appointment or from a wig she’d used, and got transferred to Henry’s clothing.”

“But you said that she didn’t own one.”

“No, but these girls swap things around, you know.”

“Sure. But suppose for one minute that they are significant. I mean connected to the case.”

“How?”

“How possible is it that a woman is involved?”

“A woman?” Jennifer shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible.”