Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller (4 page)

Henry answered the gentle tap on the door almost immediately and stood aside to let Amelia in. She held up her phone and smiled.

“That’s good,” said Henry. “Can’t be without the things these days. Did you get your text?”

Amelia shook her head. “Not yet. The old soak’s probably in a bar somewhere.”

He ushered her towards two armchairs by the window.

“Here we are,” he said, retrieving a black bottle with elegant gold lettering and motif from the fridge. “Belvedere Unfiltered. My particular favourite. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll pour. You’ll take it on the rocks, I assume?”

She shook her head. “Actually, as it’s already cold, I’d prefer it with just a twist of lemon.”

Henry shrugged. “As you wish, but I can assure you that the ice adds to the experience.”

She raised her eyebrows in amusement. “You sound like an advertisement.”

Henry poured the drinks and brought them to the small table by the armchairs.

“I do, don’t I? It must come from doing so much voice-over work. A jobbing actor’s bread and butter, you know.”

“I can see that you would be good at it. You have the right sort of voice.”

“Thanks, but it’s mainly training the vocal cords to do the right thing at the right time.”

He raised a quizzical eyebrow, closed his eyes slightly and let his voice fall to a lower register. “Cue mellifluous, add a drop of honey and even a credit card can sound exciting.”

Amelia tossed back her head and laughed. “Bravo! You know, I think I’d like some ice after all. Would you mind?”

“Not at all. I know you won’t regret it.”

He stood, picked up her drink and turned to walk over to the fridge.

Amelia was ready. Her hand flashed inside her handbag to retrieve a syringe. In one rapid action she uncapped the end, squirted the contents into Henry’s glass and returned it to the depths of the bag, the whole process taking less than two seconds. In case Henry had registered any movement, she picked up her phone and was staring at the screen when he turned back with her drink.

“My boss at last,” she said, holding up the phone. “I’ve told him I’m busy and that I’ll check in with him in the morning. That’s bound to keep him up all night fretting about the Asian markets.”

Henry placed Amelia’s glass next to her and sat down.

“Is it true what they say about hedge fund trading?”

“What do they say?”

“That it’s gambling with other people’s money.”

She laughed. “That’s a rather cynical view.”

“So how would you describe it?”

She paused to think, half-closing her eyes in amusement.

“Gambling with other people’s money. But to be fair, most of the financial world can be described in that way, it’s merely a question of degree.”

Henry raised his glass. “Here’s to gambling. Cin cin!”

Amelia leaned forward and clinked his glass.

“Happy days,” she said as she took a sip and watched in delight as Henry downed half his vodka.

Henry sat back and sighed. “Ah, exquisite. There are so many subtle flavours. What do you think?”

“I think you’re in advertising mode again, Mr Silk, but I agree, it’s delicious.”

Amelia continued with the small talk, asking Henry questions about the theatre and acting. He was more than happy to entertain her with several amusing tales.

After ten minutes, Henry’s glass was empty while the level in Amelia’s had hardly changed, despite her appearing to take several sips.

“You’re lagging behind, Jane,” said Henry. “Can I top you up?”

She heard the slur in his voice and saw the change in his eyes. As he stood, she saw him rock on his feet. She had used a strong dose since she wanted to be sure he remained asleep. It was taking effect even more quickly than she had anticipated.

Henry paused and looked back down towards Amelia. Her face was beginning to blur and there was a strange whirring noise in his head. He took a deep breath and forced his eyes to focus.

“Don’t know what happened there,” he said, unaware that the entire sentence came out as one word. He took a step and then stopped. “You know, I’m feeling a little odd. Might need … to lie down for a moment.”

His arms dropped to his side. Amelia jumped to her feet and took the empty glass from his hand. “Let me help you,” she said, as she touched the base of the glass onto the small of his back and nudged him gently towards the bed. Until she gloved her hands, she didn’t want to touch him.

Henry tried to say that that would be nice, but what came out of his mouth was incomprehensible. He wasn’t even aware of lying down and by the time his head settled on the pillow, he was unconscious.

Amelia opened her handbag to retrieve a pair of surgical gloves. After snapping them on, she lifted Henry’s feet onto the bed, untied his shoelaces and removed his shoes. She checked the sole pattern. It was nothing special, but the stick-on repair soles were quite worn, which might help the forensic scientists link them if they found any shoeprints. She waited for two minutes before prodding Henry hard in the ribs, but there was no response.

She now moved with total purpose. Picking up Henry’s key card, her file of papers and her handbag, she quietly opened the door, listening carefully for anyone in the corridor.

Back in her room, she dropped the file and handbag on the bed, picked up the two holdalls with her equipment and went straight back to Henry’s room three doors away. Once inside, she put the holdalls on the floor, unlocked them and spread their contents neatly in front of her.

There was a checklist in her head that she was about to tick off. But before paying attention to it, she stood to one side, pulled off her shoes and removed her own clothes down to her plain white cotton bra and pants, and sheer tights. She’d be undressing Henry in a moment and she didn’t want his clothing fibres on her suit nor her fibres on him. She carefully folded the jacket and skirt along with her blouse and placed them in a plastic suit bag from one of the holdalls. The shoes went into another plastic bag.

First on her mental list were the drinks glasses. She took them to the bathroom and washed them thoroughly, dried them and put one back on the shelf next to two other larger tumblers. She then poured a shot of vodka from the Belvedere bottle into the second glass and put the bottle back in the fridge. She tossed a couple of ice cubes and a slice of lemon into the glass and put it back on the small table. Finally, she pushed the chair where she had been sitting back against the wall. Now, for all intents and purposes, even if Henry had a vague memory of her in the room, which was unlikely, the single glass and chair would contradict that memory. He had been drinking alone.

The next task was Henry’s clothes. She peeled off his trousers, and, with a little more difficulty, his pullover. Henry had already removed his linen jacket and scarf and hung them on the back of a desk chair, while he’d tossed his baseball cap onto the desk. Amelia made Henry comfortable and looked briefly at his body, now wearing only boxers, a T-shirt and socks. Although she had little physical interest in men, she still appreciated his physique; he was clearly a man who looked after himself.

From her stock of items on the floor, she took a new plastic comb, removed its wrapper and combed it through Henry’s hair, making sure that there were some of his hairs trapped in it. Henry’s hair was fashionably short, but nevertheless, a few hairs settled in the teeth of the comb, quite sufficient for her purposes. If she planted too many it would raise suspicion; too few and they might not be found. It was a tricky balance but she would rather risk their not being found than overdo it. She placed the comb in a ziplock bag and sealed it.

The next part needed great care and of all her preparations, was the one most likely to wake Henry, which was one further reason she had given him a generous dose. From a large plastic bag on the floor, she took out a mannequin’s forearm and right hand, the fingers complete with a set of false fingernails that she had glued on earlier. She walked over to the bed where Henry was stretched out on his back, snoring gently. Pushing his head to his right, she took the mannequin hand by the wrist and pulled the fingernails slowly but firmly down Henry’s neck, making sure that the scratches she made were deep enough to bleed – she wanted both skin cells and blood to be transferred. Before returning the hand and arm to the bag, she inspected the nails closely to make sure she could see sufficient material trapped under them.

Another large plastic bag contained a side-handle baton, an excellent two-handed weapon for delivering powerful and accurate blows at close quarters. Specifically chosen from the range of options available, this model had an extendable grip that slid from inside the baton’s main shaft. She pulled out the grip extension and walked back to the bed. Taking Henry’s right hand, she folded his fingers round the extended grip, after which she folded the fingers of his left hand around the baton’s side handle — she knew from watching Henry on stage that he was right-handed. Placing her own gloved hands over Henry’s, she squeezed his fingers tightly, making sure they made good, firm contact. She then pushed the grip extension back inside the body of the baton and returned the baton to its bag.

Now all that remained were Henry’s clothes, which she had left folded on the end of the bed. Henry had been carefully chosen for a number of reasons, one important one being that since he was only a little taller than Amelia and was slim with well-toned muscles, his clothes would fit her reasonably well.

Before putting them on, she removed her bra and replaced it with a tightly fitting sports bra. Her breasts weren’t large and the elasticated cotton made a good job of flattening her. Under Henry’s pullover and jacket, there would be nothing to be seen.

She pulled on his jeans, tightening the belt to compensate for Henry’s larger waist size, and then the pullover. Checking her reflection in the wall mirror by the desk, she wound the hair from the blond wig onto the top of her head, pinned it in place and pulled Henry’s baseball cap down over the top, the piled-up hair helping to pad out the cap. Under the wig, she was wearing a tightly fitting skullcap to minimise the chance of any of her own hair ending up on Henry’s clothing or at the crime scene she was about to create.

Before slipping on Henry’s shoes, she popped in some heel lifts, which made them surprisingly snug, but then, she had large feet. Finally she put on the linen jacket and scarf and looked at herself again in the mirror. Adjusting the cap so that it covered more of her face, she shuffled around in the clothes until she was comfortable before packing all her gear back into the holdalls. Last on her list were Henry’s car keys and phone: both were lying on the desk.

Back in her room, she dropped the unwanted holdall and looked at her watch. Twelve fifty; time to move. Using Henry’s phone, she dialled Miruna’s number. It answered almost immediately.

“Yes?”

“Zis is Klaus. I—”

“This is not same phone.”

Amelia nodded in approval; the girl was sharp. To reassure her, she gave the number of the Nokia she’d called from earlier, adding, “That one is out of credit.”

There was a brief pause as the girl decided.

“OK.” Her tone was businesslike. “Sometimes police try to trick us.”

“Don’t worry, I have no love of the police. I am slightly early. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll be at the spot we arranged on Forest Road in about ten minutes. The car is a dark green four by four. I’ll flash the lights once as I approach.”

“OK, when I see car, I come onto street. Stop in darker place between street lights.”

Amelia ended the call and pocketed the phone. She took a deep breath. Now for the fun part.

C
hapter 7

Monday 2 June, 8 a.m.

T
o make sure that she wasn’t the last to arrive for the briefing on Monday morning, Jennifer set three alarms, but unlike the previous day, she had been awake and up making tea before any of them sounded.

She was amazed to find that Derek Thyme was once again in the incident room before her. A reformed character? — she doubted it. She was about to ask him about what progress he had made when DCI Hurst marched in followed as usual by Rob McPherson.

Hurst cut straight to the chase.

“Morning everyone. As some of you will know, we made a certain amount of progress yesterday, and once the pm’s done this morning, I’m expecting a lot more.

“As far as background on Miruna Peptanariu is concerned, the girls either living with her or working the same patch that she did have been tight-lipped, which would indicate that they are scared — we’ve no information yet as to who her pimp is. They’ve told us conflicting stories — some say Miruna was a popular girl with a number of regulars; others say she didn’t have any. They are probably all lying and competing against each other for the favours of any of Miruna’s more lucrative clients.

“The search of her room has given us some background about her, but little about her professional life. She obviously played it carefully; she must have been quite streetwise for her age.

“There was an ageing laptop on which there were several emails to and from her family back in Romania. We’ve had a uniform who is half-Romanian translate them for us and it would appear that the family is under the impression she works as a model for the Hyson Modelling Agency. The company is real — DC Cotton managed to raise them even though it was Sunday afternoon — but they have never heard of her. She must have got the name from the Internet. Apart from her clothes, which were cheap, and her laptop, she had few possessions of any significance. The laptop has been seized for examination. Yes, Cotton.”

Jennifer had put up her hand. “What about her mobile, boss?”

“Not yet been found. However, we have the number so the techies should still be able to link calls and texts from the records of the service provider.”

He turned to the many photos attached to the whiteboards.

“Where we have made good progress is with the street cameras. A quick run through yesterday afternoon showed what appeared to be Miruna getting into a vehicle, a dark Nissan X-Trail, on Forest Road West at three minutes past one on Saturday morning. The lighting wasn’t so good and the plate was partly obscured, but we got a partial number to run. Other cameras picked up the vehicle with what looks like Miruna in the front passenger seat leaving the city and heading north. One shot gave us more on the number plate, enough in fact to give us a full number: LJ11TTV. The vehicle is registered to a Henry Silk who lives in Hampstead, London. This information only came in a few minutes ago so we haven’t yet tried to contact Mr Silk.”

Jennifer raised her hand again.

Hurst cocked his head to one side, the look in his eyes telling her that the interruption had better be worth it.

“Is that the same Henry Silk who’s an actor on the TV soap Runway Two-Seven, boss?”

A mutter of amusement went around the room as Hurst voiced what they were all thinking.

“I’m surprised you’ve even heard of Runway Two-Seven, Cotton. Not your normal cup of tea, from what I’ve been told.”

Jennifer blushed. In the short time she had been in the SCF, she had gained a reputation as the group’s intellectual, preferring to read the classics on her Kindle and talk about arty, foreign films. She was also known to be fluent in French and Italian.

“I do allow myself a couple of vices,” she said defensively, “and Runway Two-Seven’s one of them. Henry Silk has quite a reputation for his bad boy character but,” — she paused as the ribbing got louder, and then raised her voice — “if it is him, the fact that he was appearing here at the Theatre Royal all last week could be significant.”

The ribbing suddenly stopped as the group realised that the case might well have just moved significantly forward. Jennifer raised her chin towards them and continued.

“There was an advert in the Post for the play he was in, and then when I passed the theatre a few days ago, I saw a large poster with Silk’s photo and name on it.”

She paused again; she could see the DCI’s mind was in overdrive. But before he could speak, one of the civilian intelligence officers put his hand up and launched into his own question.

“You said that the girl’s face was visible on the CCTV footage, sir. Was the driver’s face also shown?”

All eyes turned to Hurst, who put up his hands.

“Hold on a minute. We haven’t yet confirmed whether the Henry Silk who owns the Nissan is Henry Silk the actor, but, to answer your question, the driver’s face was obscured. He had the visor down, which must have been deliberate since it’s not the sort of thing you’d normally do at night.”

Another of the civilian intelligence officers had been tapping furiously on his mobile phone. He raised his hand and waited until Hurst saw him.

“Yes … Pete, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve checked the Theatre Royal’s website and it says that the play that Henry Silk was in finished on Saturday night, so he has presumably left the city. However, he’s in another play here in July.”

Hurst thanked him. “That’s interesting. What we need to know now is whether the Nissan owner from Hampstead is the same Silk and whether his vehicle has been reported stolen. Could someone get onto that immediately, Rob?”

“Certainly,” answered McPherson. He nodded to Derek Thyme who got up and headed to his computer in the adjacent main operations office.

“I also think it would be useful if, Cotton, you called the Theatre Royal to find out where Silk was staying and what they can tell us about him,” added McPherson.

Jennifer followed Derek out of the room and sat at her computer. She entered her password, called up the Theatre Royal’s number and punched it into her desk’s landline. While the number was ringing, she heard Derek exclaim, ‘Got it!’ as he rushed over to a printer and waited impatiently for a sheet of information to emerge.

“Is this him?” he said, brandishing a copy of Henry Silk’s driving licence under Jennifer’s nose.

Jennifer nodded. “That’s him, yes. Is it the same address?”

“Checking now,” said Derek as he tapped some keys. Jennifer saw his eyes scanning the information on the screen.

“Yes,” he said, “It’s him all right. Any answer from the Theatre Royal?”

“No, probably too early for them; it’s not yet eight thirty. I’ll try the various hotels within walking distance of the theatre. I reckon the actors will have their favourites that are not far from the theatre so they can have a few post-performance drinks and not worry about driving.”

Ten minutes later, Jennifer walked back into the main incident room to find it buzzing with activity. With the confirmation of Henry Silk as the owner of the vehicle and the information that he had been in Nottingham, Hurst and McPherson were busy allocating more tasks. One intelligence officer had already confirmed that there was no record of the Nissan being reported stolen, another had somehow obtained the name of Silk’s insurance company and discovered that his vehicle insurance named him as his car’s only driver.

Jennifer caught Hurst’s eye. “Boss, he was staying at the Old Nottingham Hotel on Standard Hill. According to the receptionist I spoke to, it’s his regular haunt when he’s in a play here.”

“OK, Cotton, get over there now with Thyme and talk to the staff. See what CCTV coverage they’ve got.”

He turned to McPherson. “Right, Rob, let’s get as many people as we can checking through every frame of the footage from traffic. There has to be one shot with Silk’s face in it. Put him in the car and we’ve got him. Game over.”