Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller (26 page)

She reached forward and kissed his cheek, then she picked up his arm and pulled it around her. “But I’d like another hug.”

Derek stroked Jennifer’s hair with his free hand. “This is nice.”

She snuggled further into his arms. “It’s the calmest I’ve felt all day.”

After a few moments, she raised her head. “So when and where do they want to meet?”

“Tomorrow morning, eight o’clock at Trowell services on the M1. Southbound side car park. Go on at junction twenty-six.”

“Yes, I know it. It can’t be soon enough. I’m really worried about Henry’s safety. What exactly did they say about that?”

“The DCS is going to pull the reports from the Leeds, Manchester and Newcastle cases for the details. They particularly want to know about the two suicides. So yeah, they were concerned. But as we’ve said, all three happened after the trials, so Henry’s probably safe enough at the moment.”

Jennifer sighed. “Would you like a drink?”

“Thanks, but no. Like I said last night, I’m supposed to be in training. My coach’d kill me. And the way I felt this morning … Actually, Jen, I’d better go.”

She said nothing for a few seconds, and then whispered a reluctant-sounding ‘OK.’

They stood and she reached up and kissed him lightly on the lips.

“Thanks, Derek. I feel much better now.”

He took her hands. “You’ve got my number on your speed dial, haven’t you?”

She smiled. “As speedy as it gets on an iPhone, yes.”

“Right. Well, make sure to call me if you feel spooked. I’m only about ten minutes away.”

“I didn’t know your mum lived so close.”

Derek snorted. “I don’t live with my mum any more! I’ve got a studio apartment in a new development in Beeston.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It is. You’ll have to drop by and see it sometime.”

“I will, now I know your mum’s not going to answer the door.”

“See you in the morning, Cotton.”

“Trowell services.”

C
hapter 30

J
ennifer arrived half an hour early at Trowell Services, positioning her car so that she could see all vehicles pulling into the car park.

She had slept badly until around three thirty, after which she had fallen into a deep but troubled sleep, only to shoot out of bed in panic when the alarm woke her at six. Between then and her leaving home at seven, every point in her case against Olivia Freneton had raised its head, extended sharp, mocking claws and tortured her with self-doubt. Freneton may be a bitch to work for, but a murderer? Spectres of civil actions and defamation of character mingled with her mental images of the photographs of Amelia Taverner and Catherine Doughthey smiling sweetly at her, while the memories of Freneton in those same photographs now showed her with a victorious, sneering smile.

And now she was going to get the third degree from Hawkins, not known for either his patience or tolerance of over-assertive junior officers. God only knew what his attitude would be to a young detective who’d resigned under a cloud of suspicion.

As she switched off the engine, Jennifer checked her watch. Seven twenty-nine. They wouldn’t be this early; there was time for a visit to the loo. She had no idea how long the meeting would take, but she didn’t want to be wriggling for need of a pee, or worse still, have to interrupt matters for one.

Returning to her car, she took a sip from the insulated mug of coffee she’d brought with her, but with further thoughts of loo breaks, left it at that, despite a yearning for more caffeine.

At three minutes to eight, DCS Peter Hawkins’ Range Rover pulled into the car park followed by Rob McPherson’s ageing Sierra. Hawkins parked his car well away from any others; McPherson pulled up next to him. They clearly hadn’t spotted Jennifer’s car fifty yards away so she got out, locked it and made her way towards them. As she did, the front passenger door of the Range Rover opened and Mike Hurst got out, gesticulating to McPherson to move his car farther away, presumably, thought Jennifer, so they could keep a better eye on any other cars that came close. Were they expecting Olivia Freneton’s car to appear out of the blue?

While McPherson repositioned his car, Hurst looked around and saw Jennifer. He waved and pulled open the front passenger door, indicating to her to get in. He would sit in the back. As she paused by the Range Rover, Jennifer glanced at McPherson’s Sierra and noticed Derek sitting in the front passenger seat. At least there was one amongst them who would be on her side.

Jennifer positioned her briefcase on her lap and turned to see Hawkins staring through the windscreen, his pasty face set with an expression that clearly said he was only there under sufferance. He wasn’t a tall man and too many formal dinners had seen any waistline he once had disappear under the unhealthy bulge that was now his gut. His podgy fingers still gripped the steering wheel while his small, bulbous eyes roamed the car park. As Jennifer looked across at him, she noticed his comb-over for the first time. Somehow it had been less obvious when face-to-face in his office; now it looked like a ridiculous attempt to hide the inevitable, the remnants of his once wavy locks rather lonely survivors on a desert island of pink crown.

“Mr Hawkins, I’d like to thank you for agreeing to meet me. I—”

“I didn’t agree to meet you, Cotton, I demanded it.”

His strong East Midlands accent sliced through the car.

“And you can cut the civi crap. The last time we met you called me ‘sir’. Let’s keep it simple and stick to that shall we?”

Jennifer could feel her hackles rising. She took a deep, controlling breath.

“Th…that was a few weeks ago. I’m now just a member of the public. I—”

“Do you have any back pay still to come?”

“Er, yes, I do. But—”

“Then you’re still a police officer in my book. Now let’s get on. I haven’t got all day to sit here listening to your thoughts on etiquette.”

He turned his face to her for the first time and glowered.

Jennifer flicked her eyes towards Hurst, who had positioned himself in the rear seat immediately behind Hawkins. She saw the slightest shake of his head telling her to swallow her pride.

“Yes, sir,” she mumbled.

Satisfied with his victory, Hawkins returned his gaze to the car park, every movement of every car being noted. He took a breath and Jennifer saw his jacket button strain against the extra pressure.

“Now, Cotton, you and your terrier-like resistance to letting go of anything have caused me a major headache.”

It’s not about you, you stupid shit, thought Jennifer.

“Yes, sir,” she repeated.

Hawkins grunted. “It’s as well that Detective Superintendent Freneton was away from the SCF yesterday because she’d have been bound to get wind of something. However, she’s back today and it’s going to be all but impossible for her not to smell a rat. And if she gets even a shred, a sniff of something, she’ll be banging on the doors of every senior commander from here to London. And she’s got some heavy contacts, friends in high places. Believe me, Cotton, you have no idea.”

He stopped, his fingers working at the steering wheel while the words he didn’t want to say lined themselves up in his head. He breathed in deeply and pulled sharply on the wheel, as if to help the words escape.

“However,” he snarled, his jaw set, “despite all that and the fact that you’ve got me sticking my neck out so far I look like a bloody giraffe, having read carefully through your notes and having discussed them at length with both the DCI here, and DI McPherson, I’ve come to the conclusion that you may have something.
May
have. It’s all circumstantial and therefore there could be a logical and legitimate reason or reasons behind all of it. I know Silk’s solicitor has given you what he’s found about the circumstances of the three other deaths in custody, but I suspect the police files will have more. We’re still looking into that. I’ve told Thyme to get the files toot sweet. I’ve also ordered a re-examination of Silk’s clothing to include searching the inside surfaces, like you suggested.”

Jennifer was still trying to imagine how a man with no neck could look like a giraffe. She coughed, interrupting Hawkins’ flow.

“May I ask one thing here, sir? I know that Charles Keithley, Henry Silk’s solicitor, would much prefer it if his own expert could be present at any further examination of the clothing. Would that be OK?”

Hawkins dropped the corners of his mouth in disapproval. “Doesn’t he trust the lab, Cotton? It’s not regular practice to have the defence expert at what will effectively be an initial examination, this part of the clothing not having been examined previously.”

He paused but Jennifer held her tongue. She was beginning to get used to his style of denial and negativity followed by agreement. All that was required was the patience to let him work his way through his pomposity.

Finally he sat back and folded his arms over his belly.

“But, I suppose, in the circumstances …”

He glanced in the mirror. “Mike, make a note.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Hurst. He hadn’t told the DCS, but he’d already briefed the lab not to start until the defence expert was on site.

Hawkins flicked his eyes briefly at Jennifer before continuing his survey of the car park.

“Of course, Cotton, even if they find wig hair, like you think they will, it’s still going to be hard to pin anything on Detective Superintendent Freneton, or anyone else, for that matter.”

Jennifer nodded. “I know, sir, but every little helps, and there may be something else to connect her.”

“What are you expecting, her business card stuffed down his pullover? We’ve no grounds to seize any of her clothing for comparison, you know. Not at this stage, probably not at any stage. You realise, Cotton, that if nothing comes of any of this, and if the deaths are shown not to be suspicious or connected to each other or to Detective Superintendent Freneton, and eventually there’s a legitimate reason for her to have been in the hotels, this investigation will stop. There’ll be nothing, and God help you if that’s the case and she finds out.”

Jennifer gripped her briefcase. The DCS’s confidence was coming and going in waves.

“I know all that, sir, but it must be worth the risk. I’m prepared to be the fall guy on this. At least I can’t be sacked since I’ve already resigned.”

“It’s gone much further than you, Cotton,” snapped Hawkins. “Simply by entertaining the idea of these further investigations, the responsibility is firmly with me. Although, of course, Freneton would doubtless explore all avenues for retribution, and suing you for defamation of character would be high on her list, sure as eggs are eggs.”

Jennifer wasn’t fazed. “Good luck to her, sir. For me, it’s essential that all avenues are explored for Henry Silk’s sake, since I am totally convinced of his innocence, as is Charles Keithley.”

“That’s his job, Cotton.”

“No, sir, his job is to prepare the defence, whether he believes Henry’s innocent or not.”

Hawkins bristled. “Careful, Cotton.”

“Sorry, sir, but the point is he has to explore every angle for the barrister to present at trial. And if doubt can be raised, the jury might find in favour of Henry. But I don’t want it to go that far. I’m hoping that the charges will be dropped. You see, that was my initial aim when I started looking at everything. I had no idea that Detective Superintendent Freneton might be involved, and even if it can’t be shown that she’s the guilty party, I think you’d agree that there’s now huge doubt about Henry’s involvement. And if it’s not her, then there’s someone else out there framing Henry.”

Hawkins pursed his lips. “I understand you think the CCTV might show more. I know you’ve watched it again. Not in the station, I hope.”

The suggestion was so ridiculous that Jennifer wanted to spit it back at him, but she stifled the urge.

“No, sir, of course not. I managed to trick Charles Keithley into letting me see it. But I still haven’t had time to see all of it, and of course there’s the CCTV from three of the other cases, which I also haven’t seen.”

Hawkins nodded. “Yes, that’s on the way.”

“What I’d really like, sir,” continued Jennifer, trying not to make her tone sound too desperate, “is for you to watch the footage from the present case again and then the others. All of you. Please. I don’t want to say what I think, having watched some of it, since I don’t want to influence you. I—”

“We’re quite capable of making up our own minds, Cotton, regardless of what you think.”

“I know, sir, I wasn’t trying to imply you weren’t. But when you view all the footage, I’d really like you to consider that it might be someone other than Henry Silk. Obviously in the footage from the other murders, it can’t be him. But could the person shown be the same person in all of them? Are there any similarities, gestures, mannerisms? You’ve known Detective Superintendent Freneton for more or less a year now—”

“Considerably longer than that,” he growled, not trying to hide his distaste at the thought. “But so what?”

“Well, sir, you know how she walks, holds herself. Perhaps there’s something. An expert in posture and gait might be able to help.”

Hawkins shook his head. “Some ivory-tower academic with his head up his arse. No, Cotton, for every one of them, there’ll always be another with a contrary opinion. Totally unreliable, in my book.”

God, thought Jennifer, this man is so old school he’s hardly in the twentieth century, let alone the twenty-first.

Hawkins paused, and Jennifer waited. He was doing it again. Finally, he sighed. “But we can have a look at what can be done. Now, I know that you’ve put everything into your notes, and they’re impressive, if clearly biased.”

He held up his hand as Jennifer started to object.

“No, Cotton, don’t interrupt. They’re bound to be; the man’s your father. What I was saying was that I’d like you to tell us, as briefly as you can, since we haven’t got all day, what your initial thoughts were as you started all this. How you progressed. I want to get it clear in my head that this isn’t some vendetta against Detective Superintendent Freneton for basically forcing you to resign, your principles being what they are.”

Hawkins’ change of tack surprised Jennifer, but she was pleased: he was thinking positively.

“I can assure you, sir, that angry as I was at the stance taken against me, and not only by Detective Superintendent Freneton …”

She paused to let that sink in, but Hawkins stonewalled the remark, his pudgy skin even thicker than it looked.

“I can assure you,” she continued, “that my intentions were to look at what I could of the evidence. Like everyone else, I initially thought Henry Silk was guilty, but the more I searched the more I became convinced otherwise, and not only because he’s my father. As I said, I had no idea of any possible involvement of Detective Superintendent Freneton. I was completely gobsmacked when I saw her in the photographs.”

Hawkins held up his hand again.

“OK, Cotton, take me through all that again, the discovery of the names and your visit to this Amelia Grace Taverner. Concisely, if you will.”

Jennifer took a breath and gave what she hoped was a clear summary of the events leading up to the discovery of Olivia Freneton’s history with Grace Taverner.