Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller (24 page)

“Do you know how long it was between the convictions of these men and their deaths?” asked Jennifer.

“Yes, the times are quite similar. It was a little under two years for each of them. The shortest was for Edgerton, the one who committed suicide in 2007. He died a year and eight months after his conviction. It was a couple of months longer for Walker, who killed himself in Sunshore prison in Northumbria in 2009.”

“Perhaps that’s her preferred method of getting rid of them,” suggested Jennifer. “Suicide. After all, it’s more or less an admission of their guilt. If it doesn’t work, then someone gives them a helping hand.”

“If that’s the case,” said Charles, “we might at least have some time to play with. What I mean is that Henry’s case hasn’t even gone to trial yet, so he’s probably not in any immediate danger.”

“That’s some reassurance,” agreed Jennifer, “but we must warn him. He needs to be vigilant, careful who he mixes with. Listen, Charles, I think in the light of this, the only way to move forward is for me to report everything I’ve found to the police, to my ex-colleagues, in fact. It might not be easy to get them to listen, but I can tell them I’ve discussed it with you, that it’s not just some daft notion I’ve dreamed up.”

Charles nodded his agreement. “Yes, I think you’re right. My first instinct was to start rattling cages at the CPS, but I also realise that this needs to be handled carefully. If the police do sit up and listen, it will be imperative that Freneton is kept well out of the loop. That will mean having only a few trusted people in the know, people with clout, until they are ready to sling the book at her. So all things considered, I think it would be prudent for you to take the first initiative.”

“Thanks, Charles, I appreciate that. I just wish I had a plan.”

She stood and walked over to the window that looked out onto the tree-lined north-London street, but the view hardly registered as she considered her next steps.

“There are three people that I think, no, that I know I can trust with this,” she said, turning back to Keithley. “The DCI, Mike Hurst; the DI, Rob McPherson; and DC Derek Thyme. Hurst and McPherson certainly both have some clout and I’m sure they’ll listen if I approach it correctly.”

“I thought Hurst was part of the gang of three that accused you of lying about not knowing Henry was your father.”

“He was, but I don’t think he had much say in the matter. The other two in that gang were senior to him: Freneton and the DCS, who I’m pretty sure does what Freneton tells him. She was certainly in charge the day they hauled me in. She’s probably got something on him; you know how it works.”

“If you’re sure, Jennifer. I have to leave it to your judgement.”

“I think the first person I’ll talk to is Derek. Once we’ve reviewed the three case files in the morning, I’ll drive back to Nottingham and go through everything with him. I don’t think it will be difficult to persuade him to see the DI or the DCI, or both together. I don’t know; he and I will have to discuss it.”

“It sounds as if he’s a good colleague,” said Keithley.

“More than a colleague,” replied Jennifer, “he’s a good friend, and he’s far smarter than he gives himself credit for.” She smiled. “Even if he is a shocking time-keeper. He’s been nothing but supportive so far. He stuck his neck out for me with the Bristol case and persuaded his mate down there to do the same. No, if I have to rely on someone, he’s the one.”

Curled up in a leather armchair in Henry Silk’s comfortable study later that evening, Jennifer balanced her laptop on her knee as she trawled the Internet for one more piece of the puzzle: information on Olivia Freneton’s career progression in the police force. It was a task that would have taken her ten minutes on one of the internal police computers, but no longer having access to them, she had to go backwards through the years using newspaper reports that either mentioned Freneton’s name as a case officer, or as a newly appointed officer in a region or city.

Finally, satisfied she had what she wanted, she closed her computer, and sat back to drink in the titles of the dozens of leather-bound books on the shelves around her. With many first editions among them, Jennifer could have easily spent the night browsing; dipping into one and reacquainting herself with a chapter from another. But the exertions of the last few days were catching up. Another time, she thought, preferably with Henry.

She closed the study door and went to the kitchen where she threw together a salad with leaves she’d bought in a nearby organic deli along with a selection of cheeses. A raid on Henry’s substantial wine cellar provided an excellent Merlot.

Two glasses later, still at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, she realised how tired she was and headed for the guest room. Within two minutes of her head hitting the pillow, she was sound asleep.

C
hapter 28

A
s she took the Nottingham turnoff from the M1 motorway at two o’clock the following afternoon, Jennifer called Derek Thyme’s mobile.

“Derek, hi, it’s Jennifer.”

“Hi, kid, what’s up?”

“Kid?” exploded Jennifer, but then she realised that if Derek didn’t want to address her by name, he must be in the SCF office.

“OK,” continued Jennifer, grinding her teeth, “forget my reaction; I’ve worked it out. Listen, I need to see you very urgently and very confidentially. How quickly can you get round to my place?”

“Intrigued as I am, Mata Hari, I don’t think I can make it before seven, I—”

“Seven!”

“Sorry, I don’t have any choice. The Ice Queen has dumped a load of stuff on me that she wants the answers for by yesterday. I’ve got to make inroads with it today before I leave the office or I’ll be toast. She keeps on giving me these strange looks. I reckon she doesn’t trust me an inch; thinks I’m in telepathic communication with you or something.”

“P’raps she fancies you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“OK, I’ll have to make do with seven. But don’t be any later. This is far more important than anything dear Olivia might have for you.”

Shortly after eight o’clock, Jennifer heard a car pull up outside the house. She ran over to the window and saw Derek letting himself in through the main gate. She had buzzed the front door before he reached it.

“Sorry, Jen,” called Derek as he pounded up the stairs. “The papers got more and more complicated. I was worried that I was going to have to pull an all-nighter when Hurst looked in to say that Freneton was in London tomorrow for a meeting, so I had an extra twenty-four hours. She hadn’t told me, the cow. She’d’ve quite happily had me slaving away through the small hours and then looking like an idiot tomorrow.”

“Never mind, you’re here now. Sit down there, on the sofa, while I get you a glass of red. Unless you’d prefer a beer?”

“I’m supposed to be in training …”

He paused as his eyes fell suspiciously on a large box file on the coffee table in front of the sofa. More paperwork.

“Red’ll be great, thanks. I hope you’ve got a few bottles.”

“Limitless supply. Italian connections, remember?”

She put two almost full glasses on the coffee table and sat in an armchair next to the sofa.

Derek raised his eyebrows. “Wow! You do mean business.”

Jennifer grinned at him. “Derek, my friend, what I’m going to tell you will knock your socks off.”

She raised her glass in a toast. “Here’s to a life-changing moment.”

Derek narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Have you had a few of these already?”

Jennifer put down her glass and opened the box file. “Shut up and listen. I hope you’re ready for this.”

She took several folders from the box file and lay them side by side on the table in front of Derek.

“OK. These are the details of the murders of five different prostitutes in five different cities around the country during the last seven years. One is, of course, the murder of Miruna Peptanariu for which Henry Silk has been charged and is remanded in prison while awaiting trial. And you know about the rather weird circumstances of the Bristol case last year. For each of the other three, a man was arrested, charged and found guilty at trial, and convicted for life.”

She paused to take a sip from her glass.

“Right, amazing fact number one. Of the five apparent culprits for these cases, only Henry Silk is still alive.”

“What!” Derek put down his wine glass and leaned forward to pick up one of the files.

Jennifer reached out to touch his arm. “No, wait. Let me tell you all about it first, then you can read the details.”

She pointed to the files.

“Each of these cases was supported by strong forensics — DNA and fibres — as well as CCTV evidence for four of them. But if you discount the forensic and CCTV evidence, there’s nothing else. And there are no motives, no eyewitnesses, no known relationship between the dead girls and their apparent killers. The MOs for the murders weren’t entirely the same, in fact the first two involved semen found in the girls, which is interesting in itself given what I’m going to tell you in a moment. For those two cases, the DNA profiles matched profiles on the DNA database from previous offences, which in both cases were drink-driving convictions. As you know, that sort of comparison is no longer possible since the Protection of Freedom Act forced the police to throw away all the profiles they’d taken from people arrested for minor offences.”

She sat back in her chair, hardly able to contain the excitement in her eyes and voice as her story unfolded.

“But,” she continued, “there is one factor connecting all the cases.”

“Which is?” said Derek as he took a gulp from his glass. “Hey, this wine’s good.”

Jennifer smiled. “Straight from the extensive Fabrelli vineyards.”

“I could get used to it. Now, what’s that one factor?”

“One woman, two names?”

“Sorry?”

“Amelia Taverner and Catherine Doughthey.”

“Never heard of them.”

“One of them, Amelia Taverner, was on the guest list for the Old Nottingham on the night of Miruna Peptanariu’s murder, which of course was the night Henry stayed there too. She was also staying at hotels in Leeds in 2007 and Manchester in 2012 on the nights of prostitute murders in those cities, the hotels being the ones where the culprits who were subsequently found guilty of the murders also stayed on the same nights.”

Derek pulled a face. “Interesting coincidence?”

“Oh, it’s more than that. The other person, Catherine Doughthey, was staying at the Bristol View on the night of the murder down there last year, which is the hotel where the councillor died after apparently murdering a prostitute, and she was also staying in Newcastle in the same hotel as another culprit on the night of a similar murder there in 2009. The details are all there.”

She pointed again at the files.

“OK,” said Derek, still not sounding convinced. “Are these two women connected in some way?”

Jennifer grinned at him. “You betcha. I traced them both to the same village in Yorkshire, Pateley Bridge, and I went to see them. Well, I saw Amelia Taverner; Catherine Doughthey is dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yes, she died two months ago, aged eighty-six.”

“What?”

“You heard me right. And guess what? Amelia Taverner, who is very much alive, is a sweet eighty-four year old who wouldn’t hurt a fly who’s living in a picture-postcard cottage cultivating roses. But it was her credit card used in the three hotels I mentioned and Catherine Doughthey’s in the other two.”

“So the credit cards were stolen? No, hang on, that doesn’t make much sense.”

“Of course it doesn’t, the time frame is too long. Both ladies knew their cards were being used by someone else and they were in full agreement, although they didn’t know what they were being used for. As long as the bills were paid, which they were, they were in no way affected.”

Derek rubbed his chin thoughtfully, trying to absorb the story.

“That’s pretty weird. Who were they trusting with their credit cards?”

Jennifer opened the box file and retrieved another folder. She opened it and took out two photographs and held them up.

“One of these – this one,” she said, waving the photo in her left hand, “is of Amelia Taverner, although she herself uses her middle name, Grace, and the person she entrusted with her credit card. And this one,” — she waved the second photograph — “is of Catherine Doughthey with the same woman.”

She handed the photographs to Derek and sat back to watch his reaction.

Derek’s eyes widened as he studied the two images.

“Christ on a bike, Jennifer, that’s … Are you kidding me? Come on, you’re having me on. You’ve photoshopped these to get your own back for me getting Norrie to wind you up in Bristol.”

“Look at them carefully, Derek. They’ve not been doctored in any way. They’re the genuine article. I haven’t forgiven you for Bristol and I’m still planning my retribution, but this isn’t it. This is the real thing.”

Derek picked up his glass and took another large gulp.

“Right, Cotton, explain!”

Jennifer spent the next fifteen minutes telling Derek the tale that Grace Taverner had related a few days previously. Having covered that, she added detail from her Internet searches the previous evening.

“I’ve checked through Freneton’s postings in recent years. There’s quite a correlation. In 2007, she was in Leeds, but at a different station from the one that handled the prostitute murder in the file; in 2009 she was posted to Sunderland, a short way down the coast from Newcastle; while in 2012, she was stationed in Liverpool, which is not too far from Manchester. From there, she came here to Nottingham. The only place among the five cases I’ve unearthed she wasn’t posted anywhere near to when the relevant murder occurred was Bristol. But guess what? She was on a temporary attachment in Cardiff for two months last year that coincided with the Bristol murder.”

Derek was still finding it difficult to accept what he was being told.

“Jen, are you trying to tell me that the Ice Queen is behind these five murders, that she’s set all these blokes up? Why? What’s her motive?”

“I’ve no idea. But she must be psychopathic and a psychopath doesn’t necessarily need to know his or her victims, all they need is an ongoing motive that’s probably nothing to do with the victims. Hatred perhaps, some sort of vengeance. Maybe she was mistreated as a child. We know that her mother died when she was born and that she lived with her father. Perhaps he abused her and she now hates men.”

Derek picked up one of the files in front of him and flicked through it.

“You said that Freneton went to live with this Grace Taverner around the age of fifteen when her father died. How did he die?”

“In a car accident. His brakes failed and the car plunged off the road in the Yorkshire Dales. I’ve checked the newspaper reports from the time. They lived in Harrogate. There was some suspicion that the brakes might have been tampered with, but the accident damage was too severe for the investigators to come to a firm conclusion.”

She stopped, her brow furrowed. “I wonder what time Grace Taverner goes to bed.”

She checked her watch: eight fifty-five. She pursed her lips and stared at Derek while she made a decision. Then she picked up her phone and called up the contact list, pressed a number and waited.

“Hello, Mrs Taverner, it’s Jennifer Cotton from the North Western Bank. I called at your cottage the other day, do you remember? I’m sorry it’s rather late. You weren’t in bed, were you?”

“Hello, dear, no, I’m a bit of a night owl. Languid likes to listen to the ten o’clock news with me, so we never go to bed before that. But it’s late for you to be working. Are you still in your office?”

“No, I do quite a lot of my work from home. I was finishing off a report about my interviews in your area when I remembered something I meant to ask you?”

“What was that, dear? Oh, hold on a moment, Languid wants to pop out and use the garden. He’s so good, you know, always asks. Yes, Languid, it’s that nice Miss Cotton.”

Jennifer smiled to herself as she heard a door open and close in the cottage. Then Grace’s voice came back on the line.

“There we are. Now, you were saying?”

“I was wondering if you drove a car, Mrs Taverner.”

“Oh no, dear, not any more. I used to, but my eyesight’s not what it was. I had perfect vision for years; I didn’t need glasses until I was over sixty. But then I got cataracts and although they were treated, it wasn’t the same. I still miss my car though. She was a lovely old thing. A Morris Minor, one of those with the wood on the side.”

“A Traveller,” said Jennifer. “What a coincidence! My boyfriend had one until quite recently; he loves old cars.”

She pulled a face at Derek and held up her crossed fingers. Derek smiled, took another gulp of wine and went looking for the bottle. Jennifer snapped her fingers and waved her arm at a credenza by the living room door to show him where the bottles were kept.

“Unfortunately,” continued Jennifer into the phone, “my boyfriend’s car wasn’t in the best of condition. How was yours? I have a feeling it was immaculate.”

She heard a chortle down the line.

“Yes, dear, it was. I was fortunate to have Diana around. She used to tinker with it whenever there was a problem. She was a wiz with cars; did I tell you? About the only thing she had in common with her father. It was quite ironic, really, that he was killed in one. A car, I mean.”

A silence hung in the air for a few seconds before Grace asked, “Why did you want to know if I drove a car, dear?”

Jennifer had anticipated the question.

“The bank has a discount arrangement with one of the big insurance companies which benefits many of our customers. I know you don’t actually bank with us yourself, but I thought it might be useful for you to know. However, if you no longer drive, it doesn’t really matter. I apologise; I’ve disturbed you for nothing.”