The History Suite (#9 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (25 page)

His thoughts returned to Adrian Cooke’s death. Only a visitor, patient or one of the staff on the unit that evening could have killed him, but no-one had seen anything. Tim Taylor would be ruled out or in by CCTV and his money said out, so who did that leave who’d hated Adrian Cooke enough to kill him, and who was capable of manually strangling an uber-fit young man? No woman could have strangled Cooke, which left male staff, male patients or a male relative of someone on the wards. Craig was just making a note to check with Davy when something shifted in the back of his mind, as if it was waving for attention but he couldn’t see it in the dark.

Liam said something and he jumped.

“I missed that, sorry.”

“I said, what do we do if the prints rule Jacobs out? He could have worn gloves.”

“Only if he carried them around with him all the time; he wouldn’t have expected to see Cooke there last night.”

“There were boxes of gloves everywhere.”

“He’d have had to go looking for one.”

“OK. Say he carried gloves around with him, then what?”

“Then we pray that Des finds some other trace evidence that makes Ian Jacobs indisputably our man.”

***

The Lab. Wednesday, 9 a.m.

After a cursory coffee with John when he confirmed that Adrian Cooke had been high when he’d died, Craig and Ken took the lift up to Des Marsham’s world. As the doors opened they saw him approach; his opening words made Craig’s heart sink even though he’d half-expected them.

“There were prints on Cooke but they don’t match your man Jacobs. Sorry.”

As Des turned on his heel Ken pressed the button again for the ground floor. When Craig followed the scientist the army man looked confused.

“But he said he had nothing.”

“No he didn’t. He only said that the prints didn’t match. He wants us to follow him.”

He strode off with Ken trailing in his wake. By the time they reached Des’ office he was sitting smiling at his desk. Craig got to the point quickly.

“Show me what you’ve got, Des.”

“Sheesh. So much for small talk.”

He waved the two men to a seat and slid a lab report across the desk. Craig glanced at it and then passed it on to Ken.

“Wool?”

Des nodded, dislodging some crumbs from his beard. Craig wondered if he’d just dropped them or if something inside his beard was having a snack.

“Dark green wool. Pure wool, mind you, not a mix.”

“And oil.”

“Engine oil to be precise. There was a patch on Dr Cooke’s throat.”

Oil. Craig thought for a moment; Ian Jacobs was a mechanic. When they’d lifted him he’d been wearing a navy sweatshirt and jeans, nothing green, but then it was a day after Cooke’s death.

“No prints?”

“Like I said. None that match your man.”

Craig’s eyebrow rose in curiosity while Ken stared at the report as if it would yield a name. “What does this mean, sir? Is Ian Jacobs our man?”

Craig shook his head but not with a no. “If I’m correct, Dr Marsham is about to tell us exactly what it means. Des?”

Des smiled, his teeth barely visible through his greying beard.

“I found two prints but neither matches Ian Jacobs. One was on Cooke’s lapel badge and one on his watch; it has a metal strap. You’ll need to print everyone who was on the unit to eliminate them. You’ll also need to search Jacobs’ house for something made of dark green wool.” He turned to Craig. “And I need a sample of every oil in the garage where he works.”

Craig was more confused than he’d been the night before. They’d lifted Jacobs although he hadn’t been convinced he’d killed Cooke, but now Des had found engine oil on Cooke’s throat. Jacobs was a car mechanic and Cooke had been manually strangled; the oil was almost a smoking gun. Ken found his voice.

“But that’s around seventy people to print, sir, what with all the patients, relatives and staff. It’ll take us days.”

“Get Joe Rice and Jack Harris to lend you some men. It’ll go much faster.”

Craig stood up. Des looked disappointed.

“Off already, Marc? Don’t you want some tea?”

“Sorry, no. I’ve a search warrant to organise.”

***

High Street Station. 10 a.m.

Liam set down the phone and punched the air gleefully. “That’ll teach Jacobs to smile at me last night.”

Annette glanced up from the newspaper she was scanning. They were in the staff-room readying to interview Ian Jacobs and she was recovering from a late night before. Not work this time but something much more pleasant.

“Can’t you be a bit quieter? I have a headache.”

Liam squinted across the table recognising the signs of dissolution – he’d seen them in the mirror many times.

“Have you been a dirty stop-out then?”

Annette tried for indignation but ended up looking astonished instead. It was an overreaction to such a benign question and they both knew it was being amplified by guilt.

“My social life is my business.”

Liam shook his head and smiled, torn between his pleasure at seeing her less buttoned-up and his certainty that he would soon be witnessing a marital road-crash. He shrugged. Whatever or whoever Annette was doing, she looked good on it. She was slimmer than he’d ever seen her and with her newly long hair and sleek suits she’d shed ten years. He could even fancy her himself if wouldn’t feel like incest.

In the time it took the thoughts to run through his head Annette’s interest in the case had returned.

“Who was that on the phone and what were you smiling about?”

“The boss and never you mind.”

“It’s my interview as well.”

Liam realised she was referring to his smile as he’d spoken to Craig. “Oh, aye, that. The boss is getting a warrant for Jacobs’ place and we’re to charge him.”

A surprised look crossed Annette’s face. “On what grounds?”

“Des found a smear of engine oil on Cooke’s throat. Jacobs is a mechanic. So ipso facto and Bob’s your mother’s brother!”

Annette screwed up her face.

“What’s that look for?”

“Jacobs doesn’t feel right for this.”

Liam guffawed. “That’s what the boss said last night. Anyway, how would you know, you haven’t even met him yet.”

Annette was adamant. “Think about it. He’s too obvious. A bereaved father suddenly sees the drug-dealer who supplied his son with the drugs that killed him and decides to strangle him then and there on the ward, and no-one sees or hears anything?” She shook her head. “No way. Where’s the passion? Jacobs would never have strangled Cooke without angry words.”

Liam went to object and then he thought about what she’d said, picturing what he would have done in Ian Jacobs’ place. If it had been one of his kids killed with drugs and he’d seen Cooke unexpectedly, he’d have swung for him. There’d have been one hell of a fight and he might have strangled Cooke during that, but he wouldn’t have waited coolly until Cooke entered the blind spot on the ward and strangled him without saying a word. Annette was right.

Suddenly he remembered something and shook his head triumphantly.

“The Doc said there
were
signs of a fight on Cooke. He had abrasions all over his hands and stuff beneath his nails. And he had bruises all over the place.”

“No! Ian Jacobs didn’t kill Cooke.” Annette’s denial was so loud that it made her wince and hold her head.

Liam pursed his lips as if he was teetotal. “The devil’s milk giving you a headache, Inspector? Tut tut.” He leaned forward, his interest in their debate growing. “So why couldn’t Jacobs have killed Cooke? They fought, Cooke was strangled and there was oil on his neck. What more do you want?”

“I want yelling that someone overheard and…” Annette’s voice tailed off just as her face lit up. “And I want some signs on Jacobs’ hands that he was involved in a fight.”

With that she was out the door and at the custody desk, reaching eagerly for Jack Harris’ book. Jack lifted the book swiftly above her head.

“That’s station property. No-one touches it but me.”

“Sorry, Jack. Can you check something for me? Please.”

Her tone was so wheedling that Liam would have laughed if he hadn’t been so interested in what she was looking for. Jack was puzzled, not to mention shocked by how glamorous Annette was looking these days. He acquiesced grudgingly.

“What is it?”

“Last night, when Ian Jacobs was brought in, he would have been inspected for injuries before he was put in a cell. Yes?”

Jack stared over his glasses at her. “You know he would. In case he injured himself in custody and accused us. So?”

“Did he have any injuries anywhere, especially on his hands?”

As Jack turned his gaze to the book and leafed slowly through the pages as Annette held her breath, willing him to say no. He was less obliging than she’d hoped.

“Now then…” The sergeant scanned the page in front of him and then turned back to the previous one, prolonging her agony. “Ah, yes, here he is. Ian Jacobs. Prisoner fit and well. Distinguishing marks: small tattoo of Manchester United’s crest on his right upper back…”

Jack ran through Jacobs many tattoos deliberately slowly, winking at Liam to show that he was winding Annette up. She bit her tongue and waited until he reached Jacobs’ hands.

“Left forearm, old scar across back of arm, prisoner says it was a work accident three years ago. Right hand, multiple fresh cuts, left hand, bruising on the back of the hand and knuckles…”

Annette’s heart dropped. Ian Jacobs had cuts all over his hands, they might have come from work but distinguishing them from the marks of a recent fight was a task for Des and John. There wasn’t going to be a quick way of ruling him out. She shrugged in defeat.

“Has Dr Winter seen Jacobs, Jack? I think he’ll want to see his hands. You’d better bag them.”

Over forty hours had elapsed since Adrian Cooke had died and it was likely that any evidence under Ian Jacobs’ nails would have been lost, but they had to try. Jack shook his head.

“He’s not been charged.”

Liam nodded. “He has now.”

***

Two hours later Ian Jacobs’ hands had been examined and samples taken. John shook his head.

“It’s hard to say until we get the results, but my feeling is he’s not your man, Liam. The cuts and bruises on his hands don’t match.”

“How so? He has recent cuts and bruises and there was oil on Cooke’s neck.”

John shook his head again. “The cuts are recent but the bruises are two to five days old and they’re on the wrong hand for a fight. Jacobs is right handed and they’re on his left.”

Liam punched the air in front of them in a one-two motion using both hands. “He led with the right and followed through with the left. It’s a common move.”

“Common or not, Mike Tyson, the bruises’ positions still don’t fit.” John raised a hand to stop Liam’s next objection. “And no, I can’t explain the oil smudge yet, we’ll have to…”

He stopped mid-sentence and stared at Annette. A few seconds later they said the same words.

“He was checking his pulse!”

Liam stared at them, confused, so Annette explained quickly.

“Let’s say Jacobs’ cuts and bruises come from work; he works with heavy cars all day, there are bound to be a few bumps and scrapes. So, his mum’s taken into hospital as an emergency and in his rush to see her he doesn’t clean all the oil off his hands...”

John cut in eagerly. “He sees Adrian Cooke unexpectedly on the E.M.U. that night and goes to look for him, probably to have things out about his son. Jacobs finds Cooke all right, but he’s already dead, lying in the blind spot between the two wards. Jacobs reaches down to feel for a carotid pulse…”

“Hence the oil on Cooke’s neck, but no prints that match Jacobs anywhere else. If Jacobs had fought and killed Cooke barehanded his prints would be everywhere on him, and if he’d worn gloves to do it he wouldn’t have got the oil on Cooke’s neck.”

John and Annette exchanged a glance then nodded triumphantly. Liam was less impressed.

“This is all just speculation. We need to check the samples from Jacobs’ hands and he hasn’t even been interviewed yet.” He grinned suddenly. “I tell you what. Missy and I are going to interview him now. How about a wager on what he says?”

John extended his hand to shake. “You’re on.”

Annette smacked Liam’s arm. “Missy! When did I become Missy?”

“OK, Inspector Missy then. Are you in or out?”

She scowled for a moment then reached into her bag and pulled out a five pound note. “In. Can you stay and watch the interview, Dr Winter? Just in case Liam cheats.”

John smiled. Liam would fix any bet, given half a chance, but even he wouldn’t do it to land a man in jail.

“I’ll stay because I believe Jacobs is innocent and because I want to see Marc’s face when he arrives and finds out.”

***