Unsafe Convictions (3 page)

‘
Not necessarily. It’s not statistically improbable that they’ve had sexual relations on only three occasions.’

*

Rene had an instinct for people which had rarely let her down. She pottered around the kitchen, collecting utensils and the ingredients for shepherd’s pie, while McKenna sat at the table, finishing a drink. He could have finished his drink in the front room, where the other man was making one telephone call after another, but she sensed that he wanted to talk to her, so, with just the odd, innocuous comment disturbing the comfortable quiet, she waited. He was very handsome, she thought, glancing at his fine-boned face, even if rather too thin, and his dark-auburn hair would make a saint green with envy. She suspected there was a real temper to go with that hair, but she had no intention of arousing his ire, for she wanted his mind clearly on the facts, not confused by ill feeling and annoyance. Only then was he likely to discover who scapegoated a decent, honest policeman, and had probably left the mortally wounded Trisha to suffocate in her blazing house. Counting potatoes into the sink, she covered them with warm water, pulled on rubber gloves, and reached for the peeler. ‘You do realise I’ve known Barry Dugdale since he was in nappies, don’t you? And you must’ve been told I see a lot of Fred Jarvis. And Linda, of course.’ One peeled potato landed with a thud on the draining board. ‘Fred’s wife, Dorothy, was my best friend.’ She sighed. ‘She was a lovely young woman. Her dying the way she did was a tragedy. Linda was only eleven, and Trisha was just getting to that age when she should have been enjoying herself.’ Another clean potato joined the first.

‘
What was wrong with her?’

‘
Breast cancer.’ She scraped ferociously. ‘It’s a cruel way to go.’

‘
Between finding out you’ve got cancer and dying from it there’s too much time for hope,’ he said. ‘My father had a tumour cut from his stomach and less than a year later, they found another one in his liver. He was barely fifty when he died.’

‘
And how old were you?’ Rene asked, adding to the potato mound.

‘
Twenty.’

She
nodded. ‘Like Trisha, then.’

He
lit a cigarette and while smoke drifted under her nostrils, reminding her quite forcibly of the scent that had always hung about her husband’s clothes, she finished the potatoes, scooped the peel into the bin, rinsed the sink, then tipped in four large carrots, ready topped and tailed, and covered them with water.

‘
Have you seen Linda recently?’ McKenna asked.

‘
Yesterday afternoon. And she asked me to tell you she wants to talk to you.’ Holding each carrot in her left hand, she took off long, neat strips of orangey peel. ‘She doesn’t know what to do with herself since Smith came out of prison. She’s hurt, and bitter, and grieving, and she’s scared of him and, heaven knows, she’s got good cause.’ She picked up a chopping knife, and began expertly slicing the vegetables. ‘And she hasn’t a good word to say for young Father John, but that’s to be expected, isn’t it? He was the one to give Smith his “get out of gaol” card.’ The carrots landed with a hollow sort of noise in a big steel colander, then danced under a jet of cold water, while she turned her attention to the potatoes. ‘Mind you, if you took too much notice of Linda at the moment, you’d believe every priest ever to set foot in Haughton is a cheat, or a liar, or a drunk, or a pervert, and she says Father Brett’s the worst of the lot.’ The carrots went into a pan, while the colander was filled with potato chunks, and doused under more cold water. ‘Then again, she’s not the only one who doesn’t like him. He’s smarmy, and he’s got a big opinion of himself, which isn’t helped by the way some folk fawn over him, especially the women.’

‘
Why does Linda want to see me?’

‘
Like I said, she doesn’t know what to do with herself.’ She put the potatoes into another pan, sprinkled salt, lit the gas, then sat down opposite McKenna, rubber gloves still on her hands, orange stains on the hatched palms and finger ends. ‘To tell you the truth, I think she’s hoping you’ll somehow be able to send Smith back where he belongs. I told her that’s not why you’re here, and I said you’re not here either to find whoever killed Trisha, more’s the pity.’ She fell silent, memory disturbing her features. ‘Most folk think you wouldn’t have far to look if you were, whatever that court decided. You’d go past the church, down the road as far as the Junction Inn, turn left, drive another mile, turn right, and there you’d be, right outside the gates of the house. Would you believe’, she added, shaking her head, ‘what that silly Beryl Kay’s done? That house was called The Parsonage from the day it was built, which must be at least a hundred years before her grandfather bought it, and now she’s changed the name to Piers Holme. My daughter noticed the other week when she was going past.’

‘
How many children have you got?’ asked McKenna.

‘
Just the one. She’ll be thirty in April. There’s only a few weeks between her and Linda, you know. Dorothy and me used to take those two everywhere together.’ Rene took off her rubber gloves and placed them neatly beside her. ‘And what about you?’

‘
We didn’t have children.’

‘
P’raps as well, seeing as you got divorced. D’you live alone, then?’

He
nodded. ‘Apart from two cats. Mr Tuttle’s wife is looking after them.’

‘
Has Mr Tuttle got youngsters?’

‘
Twin girls. They’re doing A levels this summer, and they both want to go to university.’

‘
That’ll
cost,’ she said feelingly. ‘You could still get grants when my girl went, but we were forever baling her out. Then again, she was training to be a vet, and that’s always an expensive business.’ She glanced at him, knowing perfectly well he knew she was horse-trading information. ‘The two ladies you’re expecting,’ she began. ‘What about them?’

‘
Janet Evans is a detective constable,’ he told her. ‘She’s twenty-seven, and she’s not married. Ellen Turner’s in her late thirties, and her husband’s a barrister. They’ve got three children.’

‘
Is she a police officer as well?’

‘
No. She’s in charge of administration for our force, but in this case, she’ll be overseeing this investigation.’

Frowning,
Rene said: ‘I thought you were in charge.’

‘
I am.’ He smiled.

‘
That’s all right, then.’ She rose and, picking up the gloves, added: ‘I wouldn’t dream of telling you how to do your job, but don’t you forget one thing. If Smith really
didn’t
kill Trisha, whoever did is going to get very worried now you’re here. You need to watch out for people.’

*

‘I’ve notified the various solicitors when we intend to interview Dugdale, Lewis and Bowden.’ Jack pushed a list of times across the desk to McKenna. ‘You said you want to see Ryman again, too.’

‘
He’ll keep for a few days,’ McKenna said. ‘And make arrangements to interview Linda Newton as soon as possible.’

‘
With or without legal representation?’

‘
With.’

‘
Is an interview under caution really warranted ? Because she was briefly Dugdale’s flame many moons ago — and you’ve only got Ryman’s word for that — it’s jumping the gun to suspect her and Dugdale of conspiring to fit up Smith. And that’s another idea Ryman put in your head, isn’t it? He probably dropped Linda into your lap to take your mind off the bloody awful job he did of supervising the investigation.’

‘
We leave no stone unturned, if we can help it.’

‘
Then shouldn’t we add Fauvel to the first round of interviews? Our primary task is to find out whether Dugdale lied about that letter, or whether Fauvel did.’

‘
Our first priority is investigating what Dugdale, Lewis and Bowden actually did or didn’t do, to resolve the uncertainty around them. Suspension can make people very panicky.’

‘
They’ll have been offered counselling, I imagine.’

‘
That won’t alter the fact that they see their future in the hands of total strangers, who could, for all they know, be under instruction simply to find, or fabricate, grounds for dismissal.’

‘
As in no one cares very much who’s hacked to bits as long as the pound of flesh is forthcoming.’ Drawing circles with his ball-point pen on a sheet of scrap paper, Jack asked: ‘Exactly how much latitude do we have?’

‘
As long as we don’t provide Smith with further grounds for complaint and, by extension, enhanced compensation, our hands are remarkably unfettered.’ McKenna began sifting a pile of documents, in search of a pathology report. ‘And bearing in mind you were quick to rebuke me for prejudging Smith’s sexual orientation, don’t leap to your own conclusions about Ryman’s motives.’

‘
How did the top brass come over to you?’ Jack asked. ‘Well-practised in shrugging off allegations of corruption? Resentful because this applecart was tipped up so publicly? Scared we’ll find a whole load of rotten apples, instead of just a few?’

‘
I had the impression of a well-run force doing its best to provide a good public service. The senior ranks seem more distressed than anything, and not only because three of their officers had to be suspended. Linda Newton’s not alone in believing Smith killed her sister, and the only real resentment I detected was over the fact that he’s out of prison. Trisha’s murder was a nasty affair, and it’s left a very nasty taste.’

‘
So, contrary to what Holbrook’s telling the world, the file on Trisha isn’t closed?’

‘
No, but it’s not officially reopened, either.’

‘
That won’t please Rene,’ Jack commented. ‘Bearing in mind
her
connections and aspirations, at what point do we tell her to stay in the kitchen, as it were?’

‘
We don’t. Like Smith, we’re outsiders, so we need all the good press we can get. Having her on our side, thinking she’s privy to what’s going on even if she can’t direct it, won’t do us any harm.’

‘
That’s an extraordinarily cynical view.’

‘
I’ve never been able to see the dividing line between realism and cynicism,’ McKenna admitted. ‘Perhaps it’s something I should deal with. But don’t belittle her potential. You could say she’s powerful with the local knowledge.’

‘
And looking to grind her own axes, given the chance.’

‘
Which could be the same as ours.’ Picking up a file of documents, McKenna rose. ‘I’m going to explore the lie of this very strange land.’ He glanced outside. ‘Janet and Ellen should be here soon, as it’s not snowing yet.’

‘
We’re due to see Dugdale at two.’

‘
I’ll be back long before then.’

Chapter Three

The documents on the seat beside him, McKenna pulled away from the kerb outside the house, inched along Church Street past a row of parked cars, and made as if to follow Rene’s instructions to reach Smith’s place, but instead of going left at the Junction Inn, as soon as there was a break in the stream of morning traffic he went right.

Haughton
had neither the slightly romantic edge of Gaynor Holbrook’s description, nor the air of dereliction she cast upon it. Although the surrounding moorlands, visible at every turn, were near overwhelming, the interminable terraces of stone houses were smart with fresh paint, double-glazed windows, bright front doors, and doorsteps pumiced to a creamy white. The mills were far from idle, or empty of all but vermin life. King Cotton had given way to rubber mouldings, plastic extrusion, food canning, an industrial museum and, close to the town centre, women’s lingerie, its wispy, ethereal products in a display case attached to one of the gate pillars.

The
town centre, its grand Victorian buildings sand-blasted of industrial grime, was, to use a word he loathed for no discernible reason, bustling, and the shops, windows bright on this grey morning, packed with customers. Cars and trucks and buses stretched ahead as far as he could see, moving forward when the traffic lights changed, then coming to a halt while more traffic flowed across the intersection. Once clear of the lights, he followed an orange and brown double-decker bus down the road, past the new supermarket where Kay’s drapery once stood, past more terraces, more shops, and more mills, different moorlands now on the horizon. The town was much larger than he had imagined, more prosperous, better served and, in this patch, clearly under regeneration, with new commercial investment and enclaves of modern chimneyless dwellings spreading like rashes over the lower reaches of the moors.

Dent
Viaduct came into view, an enormous six-arched brick structure carrying the Manchester railway line, so lofty that the flimsy tracery of electricity wires and gantries along its top was wreathed in cloud. The road passed under one arch, beside a narrow, dirt-spumed river, then came to another fork, between an old-fashioned public house and a small riverside mill. The glass in its windows was smashed to bits, its roof a caved-in wreckage of slate and wood, and its walls sprouted withered weeds from a myriad cracks in the brickwork. A defunct wood-and-iron paddlewheel, green with moss and red with rust, rotted in the brown water. Car indicator blinking, McKenna turned right, drove by the mill’s windowless frontage, and turned right again, along a narrow lane fringed on both sides by scrubby hedges, from which a few dead leaves still hung. Drawing to a halt beside a dusty holly bush bedecked with strips of plastic carrier bag, he picked up the documents, locked the car, and pulled on a sheepskin jacket.

Days
of unthawed frost rimed the dead grass under the hedge and the lower branches of the holly bush, as if it were assailed by fungus. He could smell the chill off the river, and hear the trickling water. His breath plumed, and he felt the cold biting his ears and face, and creeping through the soles of his shoes. One hand thrust in the jacket pocket, the other holding the documents, he read as he walked, the words jerking out of focus with each step. Called to the burned-out house on that early April day, the pathologist who later dissected Trisha’s remains had left a record of the scene as it unfolded before him, neatly printed on paper which bore the logo of the district hospital trust and his own impressive qualifications.

The
time is 16.17, the weather is windless and fine, although the sky to the north is beginning to cloud over. Ambient temperature away from the house is 11.5 degrees Celsius and cooling.

The
two-storey house lies at the end of an unmade lane, with only its pitched and slabbed roof visible from the road, as it is located in a depression some fifty yards from the river. Several police cars and official vehicles are parked along the verges of the lane, which is still muddy in places although there has been no rain for six days. The gardens are untended and mostly overgrown, with unclipped privet hedges, broken-down brick walls, and some saplings to the rear, on which newly emerged leaves hang in blackened shreds. There is a general air of neglect, which existed before fire debris worsened the view. A large crowd of people gathered prior to my arrival, doubtless attracted by flames and excitement, and they are now being kept back by police officers. Two fire tenders and an ambulance are outside the property, all hoses have been deployed, and a doctor and four paramedics are waiting at the front door, which is
placed centrally with windows to each side. The fire, which was reported by anonymous telephone call at 15.07, has been extinguished, although much smoke is still about the ruined walls and roof. There is an overwhelming smell of petrol in the air, and the water running from the house and forming puddles in places shows traces of iridescence. The first fire tender arrived from Haughton Station, some three miles distant, at 15.17, by which time the whole building was well alight, with flames shooting from windows and doors back and front, and through holes already burned in the roof.

Provided
with a protective jacket and hard hat, I have been escorted into the house by the chief fire officer — I am told it is not safe to examine the rest of the building — and led into the ground-floor room to the right of the front door. This would appear to have been used as a sitting-room. There is a modern tiled fireplace on the exterior wall, and a door in the reveal wall leading to a lean-to kitchen, which runs the length of the rear wall. Such must have been the intensity of the blaze here that it is no longer possible to determine the state of the furnishings or decorations: everything is charred beyond recognition, with plaster stripped from the walls. The ceiling has collapsed, bringing with it the few contents of the room above, and daylight is visible through the many large holes in the roof.

The
anonymous caller, a woman, said that a person was possibly in the burning house. The police have already traced the call to a nearby public telephone kiosk, and inform me that attempts are being made to isolate fingerprints from the apparatus: there is little hope of success, as the kiosk is well used and on a main thoroughfare. The tape-recording of the call will be examined later, and house-to-house enquiries made locally in an attempt to identify the caller. The fire crews from both tenders searched the building as soon as the flames had been brought under control, and found one body in the room where I now stand, underneath debris fallen from the ceiling and upstairs room. This debris has been moved sufficiently for me to carry out initial examination, but the whole area is saturated with water, and fouled with fire residues.

The
body lies on its left side facing towards the fireplace, and has suffered severe heat contraction. From the nature of the burns to the visible parts of the body it is my immediate impression that the person made no attempt to escape the fire, and did not
move voluntarily at any point, although there would have been a sufficiently fierce draught from the flames to disturb the body somewhat in situ. I therefore make an initial conclusion that the person was deeply unconscious, or deceased, before fire took hold. The right arm is bent sharply, and all flesh and muscle have been burned away, exposing the bone, which is charred. Similarly, flesh, muscle and hair are missing from the visible area of the head, exposing the skull, and the right eye socket is empty. I note that facial bones are shattered, although the body does not appear to have fallen against any hard surface or object, and was not felled by collapse of the ceiling. It is not possible to say at this stage whether the damage is due to heat fracture. The visible lower extremities of the body are similarly incinerated, bone exposed in the pelvic girdle, thigh, knee and shin. One buttock is completely consumed, the other partially so, and both feet charred inside the remains of what appear to be female leather shoes with a heel some 5cms in height. Filaments of melted synthetic fibres remain on the legs, suggesting the person wore stockings or tights, and there are further molten substances adhering to the torso and thighs.

I
confirm that life is extinct. Still photographs of the body and surroundings have been taken by forensic and fire officers, and fire officers continue to take video film of the scene. Forensic scientists are waiting to begin their own examinations. In view of the fragility of the remains, I do not propose to disturb the body to make a further examination at this stage, and have ordered the remains to be taken to the mortuary, where I shall conduct a full autopsy later today. Removal of the body will be executed under my supervision and recorded on video film. The forensic scientists are under instruction to sample the residues of liquefied body fat and tissues under and around the remains, and the remnants of clothing. My own experience and that of the fire crews suggest that accelerants of some type, probably petrol, were laid at various sites to facilitate the fire, and from the nature of the burn injuries to the deceased, that at least one site was very close to the body. It is my view that identification of the deceased should be pursued via fingerprinting, if sufficient flesh remains on the left hand, and by dental and any other medical records. The condition of the body is such that not only would visual identification be uncertain, but the experience of viewing the body would prove too distressing for any relative.

Wilfred
Ernest Spenser

Home
Office Pathologist

McKenna
leaned against the cold brick of the garden wall, looking at the shell of the house, which nature had partially reclaimed in the intervening months. Rain, driven by winds off the moors, had scoured the worst of the smoke stains from walls inside and out, and the saplings of which Dr Spenser wrote reared behind the building, bare branches clacking against the eaves. In the front garden, still littered with charred odds and ends, grass and brambles grew in a thick tangle, which was already creeping towards the walls.

He
made his way up the path, slipping on icy, mossy flagstones, and went through the hole where the front door had hung. In rendering safe the building after the fire, the upper floor had been brought down completely, and only the ends of the rafters, below which he stood as if inside the rib-cage of a massive skeleton, still told of a roof. A huge, weathered mound of wood, stone, tile and rubble obscured the patch where Trisha’s body had lain. Hands in pockets, he leaned against the wall, and noticed a broken Cornish-ware jug, then some patches of patterned carpet, their edges singed, and lengths of wood fashioned into a zigzag, which he realised must be part of the staircase, rammed side on into the mound. Wondering what else he might discern if he lingered, he turned away, to walk gingerly around the back, where a great sheet of corrugated iron hung off the lean-to kitchen roof like a guillotine waiting to fall. Here, where the saplings were obviously new recruits to an older thicket, which cut off air and light from the back of the house, he was sure he could still smell the fire. Mingled with it was the rancid odour of damp, curling off the slimy flagstoned path and around the base of the wall that was also green with moss. The corrugated iron squealed like a live thing as the wind caught one of its corners, and he stepped back, suddenly cowed by the misery of the place. Its horizons were overhung by the moors and the massive viaduct, and came to an utter dead stop as soon as he lifted his eyes. Walking slowly back to the car, looking over his shoulder now and then, he wondered too if Smith ever revisited the place he had once called home, but thought not.

Reversing
the car, he twice rammed the scrawny hedge, ice-brittle twigs crackling under the wheels, then drove slowly to the end of the lane, to find his way barred by a supermarket trolley half filled with firewood, being pushed slowly to and fro by a rotund body dressed in padded jacket, scarves, a skirt, trousers, thick striped knee socks, and short black wellingtons. Dull eyes stared at him from under a knitted Fair Isle cap and, as he pulled on the handbrake, another body hove into view like a crow fluttering to earth, dressed in flapping garments. Bare head jerking, exposed shins blue with cold, arms gesticulating to the sky, the man uttered an unintelligible stream of words, snapped his mouth like a trap, stared at the car, then repeated both gestures and streaming words. At a total loss, McKenna waited, still under the woman’s vapid scrutiny. Then a thin woman, clad in jeans and pale-coloured duffel coat with a fur-trimmed hood, appeared as if from the wings of a stage. She glanced at the car, and began to harry the others out of his way. As he turned into the road, he saw the little group trundling away to the right, the thin woman’s hands on the shoulders of the others.