Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller (31 page)

C
hapter 37

H
enry Silk was feeling buoyant following a call over the weekend from Charles Keithley with the news from Jennifer. Keithley was convinced that the police would soon recommend that the CPS drop all charges. He had nevertheless had to counsel Henry to be patient, telling him the wheels would inevitably move slowly despite his frequent calls insisting on urgent consideration of Henry’s case.

“Stay calm, Henry,” he’d said before ringing off, his voice all encouragement and positivity. “I’m beginning to see light at the end of the tunnel.”

As the row of prisoners shuffled into the exercise yard, Henry took a deep breath and smiled. A warm breeze was blowing from the nearby Pennine foothills as the sun broke through the ambling clouds. He thought he could even hear birdsong. Certainly not a day to be confined in a prison, but at least the afternoon exercise schedule would remind him a little of the freedom that would soon be his.

The forty prisoners broke from the line and, creatures of habit, headed for their preferred positions, some to natter in conspiratorial tones, some to swagger, some to cut deals, some to play basketball. Others, Henry included, preferred their own company, walking the perimeter of the fenced area like caged animals maximising their space.

Henry normally kept his distance. He didn’t want to get close to either the convicts or the remand prisoners, most of whom would soon also be convicts. He refused to succumb to their mindset, their acceptance of their sentences and the inevitability of years of mind-numbing boredom. To do so would be to give up, to take the road to conformity and become institutionalised. Once on that road, life was a downward spiral, one that led inexorably to a world far removed from the world outside the fence. He’d spoken to cons who had been behind bars for ten or more years. To a man, they were dulled, their intellects scrambled, their comprehension of the ever-changing, vibrant and dynamic pace of life outside lessened with every passing year. It was no wonder that those who had served long sentences found reintegration with modern life bewilderingly difficult. He sympathised with them, but he was determined never to become one of them.

Now his head was full of the possibility of imminent and permanent freedom. He would get his life back and maybe some sympathy vote for a change. He might even get some decent parts. And the wonderfully positive thing to arise from his ordeal: the discovery that he had a daughter; the lovely, intelligent and tenacious Jennifer. Without her, he would be doomed to an unbearable life, knowing he was innocent but never able to prove it. He couldn’t wait to get to know her properly, to be part of her world and she part of his.

A soft, apologetic voice jarred him from his reverie as he paced the compound.

“Henry.”

It was Horace Turnbull, the unctuous, former bank manager with whom he shared his cell. Turnbull was serving seven years for defrauding his bank and a number of its customers of three hundred thousand pounds over several years.

Star-struck, he couldn’t believe his luck in having been put in a cell with what he liked to describe as a major player in the entertainment world. He seemed to think that his crimes had almost been worth it just to rub shoulders with someone so famous. Henry had tried to put him straight, and when that hadn’t worked, had scolded him for aiming his sights too low.

“Christ, Horace, if you’re going to defraud, to steal, at least make it worth your while. How long do you think that a few paltry hundreds of thousands would have lasted? You should have been looking at millions. Many millions.”

Horace had explained that it had all been for his demanding wife and high-maintenance daughter.

“A dear girl, Henry, and one who never misses an episode of ‘Runway’. A constant and devoted fan.”

“Henry,” repeated Horace, his tone now more urgent.

Henry stopped and looked down at the little man. “What is it, Horace?”

Horace raised an arm and pointed to a group of large men standing near a basketball hoop.

“They want to talk to you.”

Henry looked towards the group.

“What do they want?”

“They want you to join their game.”

“The last time I joined them I ended up sprawled on the ground with a cut lip. Tell them … wait a minute, why are you their messenger boy?”

“They all had their heads together discussing something in hushed tones when I was walking past. Suddenly an arm reached out and grabbed me, yanked me in amongst them. That big one, the one at the front with the racist tattoos on his arms and hands, he told me they wanted you to play, told me to get my fat little arse over here to tell you. Could you teach me to box, Henry? I’d like to flatten him.”

Henry smiled grimly at the thought. “I’ve told you to keep your distance, Horace. They are not nice people.”

He lifted his arms toward the group, mimed throwing a basketball and shook his head to tell them, no, he didn’t want to join them.

“I should stay on this side of the compound, Horace, if I were you,” said Henry as he turned his back on the group and walked away.

Within seconds, a huge hand grabbed his shoulder.

“Didn’tcha get me message, Silky boy?”

The con’s other hand spun Horace around.

“What did you tell him, pansy?”

Henry looked at the hand on his shoulder. The words ‘White Supremacy’ were tattooed across the back against an array of burning crosses.

“Leave him alone,” snarled Henry. “He gave me your message, but I don’t want to play.”

He pushed the man’s hand away.

Tattooed Hand’s eyes caught Horace’s. “Hop it, creep.”

Horace slunk away through a group of six heavily built men who had materialised to form a loose circle around Henry.

“Seen you playing, Silky boy,” said Tattooed Hand. “You got a good eye. Want you on me team.”

Two of the group started bouncing basketballs, the threat in their eyes compounded by the synchronisation of the bouncing.

Henry’s eyes flitted back and forth between them, then he glanced at Tattooed Hand. As he did, one of the ball bouncers hurled his ball at him, catching him off guard and hitting him hard in the chest. The ball rolled away.

“Whoops!” said Tattooed Hand. “That wasn’t so good; thought you was better than that. Looks like you need some practice.”

Without any warning, the second bouncing basketball was hurled at Henry. Henry reached out an arm to deflect it, but the arm was yanked to one side. Again the ball thumped into Henry’s chest.

He turned angrily to Tattooed Hand.

“Let me go and I’ll catch it. Otherwise find someone else for your team.”

The man sneered his reply. “Didn’t quite get that, Silky boy. Still want some practice, did you say?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Henry saw yet another ball flying in his direction. His responses were good and he got both hands up, only to find them grabbed and pulled away. For the third time, a ball thumped into Henry’s chest.

“For Christ’s sake, man, what’s your problem? Do you want me to play or not?”

The man’s sneer immediately twisted into a black, threatening grimace.

“You accusing me of something, actor boy?”

Henry shook his head in disgust and turned away, only to find his shoulder grabbed again as the man’s hand spun him round.

“I’m talking to you, actor boy. Show me some respect.”

Henry had had enough. He turned and faced the man, his hands on his hips.

“What’s the issue, Cuthbert?” He spat the man’s name derisively.

A cloud of fury descended over Tattooed Hand’s features. He poked a meaty index finger into Henry’s chest.

“You don’t never use that name, d’you hear me. Never! No one calls me by that name!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Henry noticed that the group of large men had now tightened the circle around him, blocking him and Tattooed Hand from the view of the guards. Tattooed Hand delivered a second vicious poke to Henry’s chest, sending him staggering backwards. As he tried to regain his footing, another strong pair of hands pushed him forward so that he almost fell into Tattooed Hand.

“That wasn’t very polite, actor boy. You picking a fight?”

Aware that he was being set up, Henry crouched slightly and raised his fists in defence.

“If that’s what you want, Cuthbert, come and get it. But make it just you and me.”

This time, Tattooed Hand ignored the forbidden use of his name. He threw his head back with a laugh. Suddenly, with a slight flick of his wrist, there was a knife in his hand.

Henry instinctively took a step backward, but a foot appeared in his path and he fell heavily onto his back.

He looked up from the ground to see Tattooed Hand nod to the circle of men. They immediately began jeering loudly as they closed the circle even more tightly. One kicked at Henry as Tattooed Hand casually knelt down over Henry and raised the knife.

A series of piercing electronic squawks suddenly filled the exercise yard followed moments later by a coarsely amplified voice screaming over a loudhailer.

“Stop! All of you! Boyston! Put down that knife!”

The group of men melted away, heads down, doing their best to blend in with the horrified group of prisoners in the exercise yard. They could all now see Henry lying on his back, his hands and arms held protectively in front of him as Tattooed Hand knelt with the knife still poised in the air above him.

“Drop it, Boyston! NOW!”

Tattooed Hand’s eyes were fixed in hatred on Henry’s as he calculated whether to carry out what would clearly be a fully witnessed murder, or to stop.

His hand wavered slightly, and then he slung the knife to the ground. Within moments, a group of guards had dragged him off Henry, thrown him face down on the ground and handcuffed his wrists behind his back.

“He started it,” yelled Tattooed Hand. “The actor started it. Ask anyone.”

His reward was to have his face jammed firmly into the concrete.

C
hapter 38

“H
e was what!” yelled Jennifer down the phone to Derek. She was close to tears after having listened to the account of the thwarted attempt on Henry’s life.

“Tell me he’s fine, Derek. Tell me! They should release him immediately. Every minute more spent in that place puts him at risk. Don’t they realise that?”

“It’s OK, Jen, he’s not injured in any way. Like I told you, the guards got to him in time,” said Derek, trying to reassure her for the third time. “He’s been isolated and the boss is onto the CPS. He’ll be out of there soon.”

“Not soon enough,” snapped Jennifer.

Derek waited. He heard her take several deep breaths, followed by a sigh.

“Sorry, Derek, you don’t deserve my wrath; you deserve a medal. If you hadn’t brought those emails to the high-ups’ attention straight away, Henry would be dead by now.”

“Yeah,” mumbled Derek, now embarrassed by her praise, “it was a near thing. My opinion of Hawkins has gone up enormously. He’s not just the fatty sitting on his arse in his office I thought he was.”

“I’m sure your badgering helped,” said Jennifer, still not totally convinced about the DCS.

“Actually it was Rob McPherson’s badgering; he’s the one that kicked the boss into gear.”

“Perhaps you can give him a hug from me, then.”

“I think he’d break my arms if I tried. Anyway, you can do it yourself. The other reason I called is to tell you they want another meeting.”

“Really? Why? Surely they believe me after all that’s happened?”

“I’m not sure, what the meeting’s about, I mean. All I know is that about half an hour after Hawkins and McPherson got back, Hawkins yelled for Hurst. There was a bit of a barney, judging from the noise, then McPherson was called in. Ten minutes later McPherson comes to me and tells me that it’s now OK to call you and tell you what’s happened, and that they want to see you.”

Jennifer ground her teeth. “I’ll forget for the moment that I was left out of the loop when Henry,
my father
, was in danger—”

“They told me specifically not to call you, or to tell you if you called, Jen,” interrupted Derek. “Anyway, there was nothing you could have done, and any delay …” He let the point hang in the air.

“Yes, you’re right of course,” said Jennifer, now all contrition. “Sorry.” She took another deep breath. “OK, this meeting. Do they want to go to Trowell again? False moustache and dark glasses?”

“Actually, Jen, they’re getting beyond that. They want to come round to your place.”

“Who’s they? And when?”

“All of them. Hawkins’ confidential team. Hawkins, Hurst and McPherson. They want me to bring them round. Like, now.”

“Who’s manning the phone for your secret squad?” said Jennifer, ever covering bases.

“Bottomley’s been brought on board. He didn’t know whether to be angry that he’d been left out initially or happy to be in on getting Freneton. Anyway, he’ll be holding the fort in the office.”

“Bet he’ll be telling everyone too. He’s a bit of a blab.”

“Hawkins threatened to wring his neck personally if he says a word.”

Jennifer smiled at the thought.

“You haven’t said why they want to see me, Derek. What’s happened beyond the attempt on Henry’s life?”

“Hawkins would only say that they wanted a powwow, pronto.”

“Powwow? What is he, the Lone Ranger? I’ll bet he has a secret stash of cowboy movies.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mike Hurst’s car, driven by Derek, pulled up outside Lincoln View House. Jennifer buzzed the main gate and her front door and waited while the four men made their way up the stairs.

She sat them down in the living room and asked if they wanted coffee.

“If we can get started while you’re making it, Cotton,” said Hawkins as he took in the room and contents.

Derek winced. When would the DCS get it that Jennifer was no longer a police officer?

“Nice place,” called Hawkins through to the kitchen where Jennifer was fetching a large jug of coffee she’d made once she knew they were on their way. “How can you afford this?”

Nosey bugger, thought Jennifer.

“I play the Asian stock markets in the hours of darkness, sir. It helps that I never sleep.”

“What?” exclaimed Hawkins, to the others’ amusement.

“Actually, sir, I have a very generous stepfather,” said Jennifer with a smile as she walked back into the living room.

“Lucky girl,” grunted Hawkins. “Right, coffee ready? I’ve got some results from the lab to tell you about.”

He nodded to McPherson who passed him a beige folder he’d been clutching.

Hawkins opened it and removed a typewritten sheet of paper.

“These are the preliminary findings on the new examination of Silk’s clothing.”

“I heard that the lab had some results,” said Jennifer, as she put a tray on the coffee table. “I was talking to Charles Keithley about them this morning. He called to moan that his expert hadn’t been given all the findings.”

Hawkins gave a dismissive shrug. “Just because his expert was at the lab witnessing the re-examination doesn’t mean that he’s entitled to all the results immediately. There are other considerations to be made.”

Jennifer wasn’t letting it go. “Hardly in the spirit of mutual cooperation, sir. And by the way, the he was a she. Dr Pauline Merriton.”

Hawkins gave an exasperated sigh.

“If you’d keep quiet and listen for a minute, Cotton, you might learn something.”

Jennifer smiled sweetly at him as she pulled her index finger and thumb across her lips.

“Now then,” continued Hawkins, looking down at the report. “As you predicted, trace evidence was found on the inside of the pullover. They found three blond hairs that are the same as those found on the outside and in the car. They reckon, now they have several, that they are all from a wig. The irritating thing, of course, is that there is still nothing to compare them with, so they don’t mean a lot on their own.”

He stopped, his face serious.

Jennifer waited. She knew that Hawkins wouldn’t have made a special trip to see her just to tell her about wig hairs that had no present value as evidence. There must be something else. She glanced across at Derek, but from the look on his face, she could see that he also hadn’t been told anything. Hurst and McPherson were both staring into their coffee, their faces unreadable masks.

Hawkins pulled another sheet of results from the folder.

“There’s something else, Cotton. Actually there are two things.”

“Yes, sir?” Jennifer was suddenly in fear of what had been found. Was it going to implicate Henry after all?

Hawkins continued his scrutiny of the paper in front of him.

“This,” he said, waving the paper at her, “would have been potentially damning for Silk if we’d had it a few weeks ago, but as it turns out, it now probably goes the other way.”

“I don’t understand, sir,” said Jennifer.

“Of course you don’t, Cotton. It’s the results of the examination of the weapon that was used to knock Miruna Peptanariu unconscious.”

“I didn’t know that had been found,” said Jennifer. She glanced at Derek, who raised his eyebrows and pulled a face to indicate that he too had no knowledge of it.

“We kept it under wraps,” said Hawkins.

“Really?” harrumphed Jennifer, unimpressed. “What’s the weapon?”

“A side-handle baton. A dog walker found it. His dog picked it up in some dense bushes and brought it to him. Fortunately, the dog’s slobber didn’t ruin the fingerprints.”

“You recovered fingerprints?” said Jennifer, suddenly worried.

Hawkins nodded. “Two good sets, both of them matching Henry Silk’s.”

“Where on the baton were they?” asked Jennifer.

“The best were on the retractable part of the main handle, which was extended when the baton was found. There were also some smudged ones on the side handle that didn’t show enough detail for comparison.”

“Wasn’t the same sort of weapon used in the Bristol case?” asked Jennifer, turning to Derek.

Hawkins answered for him. “It was. The baton design was identical. So given that, and the location of the matching fingerprints, it seems more than likely they were planted by Freneton once her target was out cold. She’d only have the handle out when she disposed of the baton, otherwise she’d keep it retracted to avoid smudging the fingerprints.”

“Interesting that she dumped the baton in the woods,” said Jennifer. “It didn’t need to be found to clinch the case, since there’s so much else. But if it were found, she’d assume you’d regard it as icing on the cake. Not something you’d expect from someone planting evidence. Tells you something about her capacity for planning, don’t you think?”

Hawkins nodded. “I don’t think any of us doubt Freneton’s skill in that direction.”

He placed the sheet back in the folder and extracted another.

“I said there were two more things; this is the second. The scientist poked around the seams on the inside of Silk’s pullover, near the neck, and found what she thought was a tiny spot of blood.”

Jennifer felt a chasm opening in her gut as she remembered the scratches on Henry’s neck. If the spot tested positive for blood and the DNA profile matched Henry’s, then it would be further evidence against him, although she couldn’t begin to imagine a scenario given what they now knew about Olivia Freneton’s involvement.

“Charles Keithley didn’t say anything about that, sir,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

“Charles Keithley doesn’t know yet, that’s why,” snapped Hawkins.

Jennifer felt her anger rising again. Keithley had every right to know; it wasn’t fair that results were being kept back. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself not to react. As her fingers drummed quietly on her coffee mug, she looked up at Hawkins’ face. He was totally relaxed, his eyes no longer stern.

“The blood’s been profiled. It’s not Henry Silk’s and it’s not the dead girl’s.”

Jennifer was shocked, unable to make sense of the information.

“Then … whose is it?” she said.

Hawkins closed the file, sat back and crossed his legs, picking at the crease in his trousers.

“As you know, for elimination purpose, the profiles of all police officers who could potentially contaminate a crime scene are kept on the Police Elimination Database. Although it was stretching a point, I had the profile of the blood from the inside of the pullover run against the PED.”

He paused, enjoying the moment, before completing the account.

“The profile didn’t match any of the officers who attended any of the scenes in this case. Not you, not anyone else—”

“But,” interrupted Jennifer, “if the list of those profiled was limited to officers attending the scenes, it wouldn’t have inclu—”

Hawkins cut her off by raising the palm of his left hand.

“Exactly, Cotton. I see we’re on the same page.”

He paused again, his eyes moving from Jennifer to Derek and back again before he continued.

“Right, I’ve discussed this with DCI Hurst and DI McPherson already. What I’m about to say does not go beyond these walls. OK?”

They both nodded.

“Say it,” insisted Hawkins.

“Yes, sir,” they said as one.

“Good,” nodded Hawkins. “OK, I’ve checked the PED and it turns out Freneton isn’t on it. She joined the force before it was compulsory to have your profile recorded and somehow she seems to have avoided getting included. Now, for obvious reasons I can’t, at this stage, demand a sample from her so I’ve … taken an alternative route. We can’t use this, but I snaffled a toothbrush from a drawer in Freneton’s desk. She’d locked everything else, but one was open and the toothbrush was in it. I had the lab check it for saliva, which they found and then profiled the DNA. It matches the blood on Silk’s pullover.”

Jennifer’s eyes widened as she felt her emotions rising. She bit down on her lip, trying to keep control.

“So it
was
her,” she said, her voice hardly audible. “She did it. That blood must have got there when the prostitute tried to fight back as she was being suffocated.”

Much to Derek’s embarrassment, she took his hands in both of hers.

“This proves Henry’s innocent,” she said, squeezing his hands.

“Yes,” agreed Hawkins, “but as I said, we can’t use this as evidence because the profile was produced from an illegally obtained sample. Without her permission, it’s useless, and if ever it got out that I’d done it, I’d be in more than deep shit, I’d probably lose my job.”

“You must have been pretty convinced that she was guilty to have done that, sir,” said Jennifer.

Hawkins nodded. “Yes, I was. You see, I’ve been looking into her background and her career progression on the force. I’ve got better access to such data than the rest of you. And putting it mildly, she’s a vicious bitch who seems to have a real problem with men. She almost crippled a uniform sergeant who came onto her at a party a few years ago, when she was a detective sergeant. It was one of the rare parties she has attended. She didn’t hold back in unarmed combat training either; seemed to take a delight in not stopping as short as she should with the odd punch.”