Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) (17 page)

The young man shrugged. ‘A girlfriend gave them to me.’

‘Really? Why did she do that?’

No answer.

‘You didn’t steal them from a washing line in Naburn then?’

‘You think I’m some sort of pervie, do you? I’m saying nowt.’

‘Perhaps you could give us the name of this girlfriend who gave you these, Peter, then we can check it out. If your story’s true, she’ll say so, won’t she?’

‘I’m not telling.’

Jane persisted, asking Peter about the jogger, Melanie Thorpe, and the housewife, Sally McFee. But he denied a connection with either of them. The solicitor, in a belated attempt to earn his fee, suggested that his client had had enough. Frustrated, Jane sent Peter back to the cells, and told Terry what she planned to do next.

‘I’ll apply for a warrant to search his home. If he carries one set of trophy knickers round in his pocket he may have others in his bedroom. We’ll show these to Mrs Whitley in Naburn, see if she recognises them. And I’ll arrange an identity parade as well, see if Melanie Thorpe or Sally McFee can pick him out. If they do, that’s it, we’ve got him.’

‘Even if they don’t, you’ve still got him for assault on young Julie. Do you think her story’ll stand up in court?’

‘Should do, with the witness who made the citizen’s arrest.’ Jane allowed herself a brief smile, flushed with success. This was what she enjoyed about police work - action, progress, a result. ‘I think you’ll find Bishopthorpe’s a bit safer for women after tonight.’

‘Let’s hope so, detective sergeant. You’re off the mark, in less than a week. Well done.’

Jane supposed he meant it well, but she couldn’t help feeling patronised. You wait, you idle bugger, she thought, as he strode away with that easy, athletic lope. Back to his children, no doubt. While she’d be here until midnight, with all the details left to tie up.

Just you wait, Bateson. I haven’t even started here yet.

20. Whose Hand?

W
HEN WILL Churchill had first learned about the hand that had been found in the fox’s jaws on the slip road, he was intrigued. The initial search by the ring road found nothing, but Churchill wasn’t satisfied. He sent the hand to the best forensic pathologist in the area. When the report came back, he read it eagerly. Then he phoned Robert Baxter.

‘If you can spare the time, Bob, I’ve got something here that might interest you. Unless you’re too busy gardening, that is.’

At 4.15 that afternoon Will Churchill stood in front of a dozen CID officers in an incident room. Robert Baxter sat at the back, receiving several curious glances from younger officers. On the table in front of Will Churchill was a laptop and a plastic evidence bag containing the hand; his own hand held the forensic report.

Briefly, he explained how the discovery had been made. He pressed a key on the laptop and a photo of the skeletal hand appeared on the screen behind him. He had recently been on a PowerPoint course and learned how to do this. He felt sure this skill would advance his career. He smiled smugly at his assembled team. Bob Baxter scowled at the computer distrustfully.

‘A preliminary search failed to find any body parts in the area ...’ DCI Churchill paused for a moment, his eyes seeking out two of the younger officers in front of him - not the most diligent pair, in his opinion. ‘... but the hand was sent for forensic examination and now we have a full report. The findings, in brief, are as follows.’

He pressed another key. The hand disappeared from the screen, to be replaced by the words
Time since death: 10-30 years approx
. DCI Churchill beamed at the words approvingly; it had taken him half an hour to get them exactly the right size, colour, typeface and background. ‘This means two things: the hand was not severed as the result of a recent accident, but neither are we dealing with some kind of archaeological remains. As you see, we are investigating an incident which occurred before the majority of us were in our present posts, which is why I have invited Detective Superintendent Robert Baxter, retired, to attend this briefing. You’re very welcome, Bob.’

Baxter acknowledged this with a curt nod. DCI Churchill had an uncomfortable feeling that, proud as he was of the language and technological expertise displayed in this presentation, Bob Baxter would have done things more simply.

‘Secondly, as we see from this slide...’ he pressed the key again and a close-up of a bone appeared on the screen. ‘... the bones of the wrist are fractured. Detailed forensic examination of the edges of the fracture led the pathologist to conclude two things: firstly, that the original fracture occurred between ten and thirty years ago, but secondly, that one of the bones, the small ulnar here, was not fractured at that time, but was broken more recently, probably, as we see from these marks here ...’ he pressed another key. ‘ ... by the teeth of an animal such as the fox in whose jaws the hand was allegedly found. In other words, lads and lasses ...’ he gazed around the room significantly ‘... the fox didn’t just find a hand on its own, it found a hand attached to an arm, and it tore the hand off. In which case, if that arm was still attached to a body, it’s our job to find it. At the very least we’re looking at an unexplained death here; quite possibly at a murder.’

He pressed the key again. A buzz of excitement spread around the room, leavened, to DCI Churchill’s embarrassment, with one or two stifled giggles. Glancing behind him at the words

Unexplained Death

or

Murde

?

tastefully displayed against a green background, he quickly pressed another key and moved on. This time the screen displayed a close-up of two fingernails from the hand.

‘As you will see, there are traces of red nail varnish on these fingernails, confirming the pathologist’s belief that this is the hand of a young woman. The nail varnish itself has been analysed, and shown to be of a type no longer in use today, but common in the 1980s and 1990s. So, to sum up ...’ More headings appeared against the green background, better spelt this time. ‘We have here the left hand of a young woman who in all probability died between ten and thirty years ago. Some time around the time of death she suffered a severe fracture of her left wrist. At a later period, probably in the past few weeks, an animal, probably a fox, found the body and gnawed the hand off. Now foxes, lads and lasses, are territorial. They only travel far when they are leaving home, looking for a mate, or being chased by men in red coats. This fox ...’ A groan of disgust went around the room as a photo of a flattened, dusty corpse appeared on the screen ‘... was less than a year old, so it may have picked up the hand on its travels. However, given the time of year, it’s also possible that the animal had already left home and established a territory in the rough ground next to the ring road where its body was found. It’s not the sort of place, after all, where it’s likely to be disturbed, so long as it stays off the tarmac. So ...’ At this point DCI Churchill would have liked to round off his presentation with a photograph of the road junction near Copmanthorpe, but he’d had no time to take one. He had, however, scanned in a section of the map. ‘... this is the area which we are going to search. And I mean a real search, girls and gents, inch by inch, every blade of grass. If that body’s out there, we need to find it.’

He switched the computer off. ‘Any questions?’

A hand went up. ‘Do we have any idea who the body might be, boss?’

DCI Churchill preened himself. ‘That’s why I’ve invited Bob Baxter here. He was in charge during the time this female apparently died. And as you all know, there’s at least one murder of a young woman dating from that time, whose body has never been found.’

Another hand went up. ‘Can’t you do a DNA analysis of the hand, boss?’

‘We’re getting one, of course. But it’s taking a little time. Don’t worry, if we do establish identity, you’ll be the first to know. Now, let’s get to it.’

As he moved towards the door a voice murmured behind him softly: ‘Yeah. We’ll announce it on screen, won’t we? With bullet points.’

21. Identity Parade

‘S
O THERE wasn’t anything?’ Terry asked.

‘No. Porno mags a-plenty, two hunting knives, but no female underwear. And his mum swore she would have known if he had any. She does all his washing, she says. It’s true his clothes were quite clean.’

‘And she didn’t mind the porn mags?’

‘Apparently not, no. Seemed to think it was a normal interest for a young lad. Which it is, I suppose, up to a point. Wouldn’t surprise me if she’d been on the game herself. It was that sort of place.’

Jane Carter sighed, remembering her futile search of Peter Barton’s bedroom. The room had been reasonably tidy, but disturbing nonetheless. The curtains were black, and the light bulb red, throwing the posters of big-breasted fantasy women on the walls into lurid relief. The hunting knives hung neatly beneath a poster of a woman being eaten alive by a monster, half-bird, half lizard. There was a pile of well-thumbed pornographic magazines under the bed, two with an explicit sado-masochistic content.

His mother had seemed angry, but not surprised, that the police had arrested her son. If he’d been molesting girls, she said, that was what all young men did, wasn’t it? There was no real harm in the lad. If he’d had a pair of female knickers in his pocket, what did that prove? Probably the police had planted them on him, to make things look worse.

‘But they were identical to the ones stolen from Mrs Whitley in Naburn,’ Jane said. ‘Same size, same design, same everything. She’d just washed them, so there’s no DNA trace, but - where else did they come from?’

Next day she arranged an identity parade. A uniformed inspector supervised the parade, but Jane Carter and Terry Bateson came to watch. The first to go was Sally McFee, the yoga-practising housewife. She seemed to have dressed for the occasion. She wore a smart navy blue trouser suit and heels, with an expensive gold crucifix round her neck. Her hair and make-up were immaculate, and a light musky scent floated around her as she walked nervously into the room. As if she’s put all her warpaint on to protect her from the grime of real life, Terry thought.

The grime stood behind the one way window. A line of eight young men in various stages of fashionable dishevelment. Four had longish hair, three short, one had his head shaven altogether. It’s the fashion, the inspector told the defending solicitor apologetically, you’re lucky to find anyone with hair at all nowadays. Each man faced the glass holding a card with a number on it. Peter Barton was number seven, second from the end.

Sally McFee walked slowly along the row twice, as she had been told. She looked long at Peter Barton, then at a shorter boy with curly hair. But she didn’t seem satisfied. She walked along the line again before stopping in front of the shorter boy.

‘It might be him,’ she said. ‘None are exactly right but he’s the closest.’

The inspector bowed politely and showed her out. He returned with Melanie Thorpe, the jogger who had been pestered about her underwear. She wore jeans, teeshirt, and leather jacket, but seemed more nervous than Sally McFee. She turned her back to the window.

‘They can see me,’ she said, ‘that one’s staring at me.’

‘It’s just an illusion, love,’ the inspector assured her. ‘He can’t see a thing. Wave at them if you like, or stick your tongue out. It won’t make any difference.’

Reassured, she walked slowly along the line. She paused in front of Peter Barton, moved on, then came back for a second look. ‘Can you ask him to say something, please?’

‘What would like him to say?’

‘Ask him to say “You look sweaty. Are you hot?”. Is that possible?’

‘It is.’ The inspector spoke into a microphone, and after a moment’s awkward pause, Peter Barton spoke the words. They came out surly, reluctant, like a teenager obeying a teacher. But it convinced Melanie Thorpe.

‘That’s him,’ she said. ‘That’s the cyclist who pestered me.’

‘Sure of that, are you?’

‘Quite sure.’ She smiled in triumph, as though she had passed a test, and turned to Jane Carter. ‘Was it you that caught him? Well done. What’ll happen to him now?’

‘We charge him,’ Jane said. ‘Then it’s up to the court.’

Peter Barton was charged with the theft of a pair of knickers, two cases of assault, one of indecent exposure and one of actual bodily harm - the result of a small bruise on Julie Thompson’s left breast. The charge of assault against Melanie Thorpe was justified by her claim that his behaviour had put her in fear of imminent attack, even though he hadn’t actually touched her.

Melanie had been shown Peter’s bike. It looked like her assailant’s, she confirmed. The hunting knives from his bedroom were like the one she had seen on his belt.

‘And that’s about it,’ Jane said to Terry reluctantly. Peter’s fingerprints and a DNA sample were taken, and he was released on police bail. ‘With luck he’ll get probation, which may teach him to behave. But if not, we’ll know where to look next time.’

‘Good work,’ Terry said. ‘You may have nipped this in the bud.’

‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ Jane said. ‘OK, he may be just a sad harmless moron in search of a girlfriend, but what about those knives in his bedroom? I didn’t like that. And the smirk on his face when I asked about those stolen knickers? I bet he’s got more hidden somewhere.’

‘What if he has? It’s hardly the crime of the century.’

‘Not yet it isn’t, no. But what if he takes it further next time? He needs locking up now. But the courts won’t do it, will they?’

22. Body Search

W
ILL CHURCHILL had detailed thirty officers to search the scrub near the ring road. The announcement did not make him popular; the weather was cold and the opportunity of spending all day crawling on hands and knees through frozen grass, pizza cartons and coke cans did not appeal to everyone. Churchill himself did not have time to supervise the search. He had an important meeting at police HQ in Northallerton, on investigative procedures. ‘But I’ll be there to kick things off,’ he told Terry Bateson breezily. ‘Point things in the right direction, motivate the troops. Then I can leave it in your capable hands, Terence, I’m sure. Make sure there aren’t too many cock-ups.’