by Linda Coles
Eddie had been pissed that Dupin had been promoted to DI when it should have been his position for the taking, and he’d never let it drop. Dupin had known what was going on in the McAllister case—that the foreman had been bought and that Eddie had been bought—but for the sake of his own career he hadn't reported it. He’d only been a DS at the time, the same as Eddie, and had then been promoted over him. He hadn't wanted to rock the boat at the time; he’d been more eager to get on and please his new bosses than to punish Eddie. And he was just as far in the wrong as Eddie was, he’d known, for not speaking out. So, he’d made DS Eddie Edwards a deal: kicked off the force with no pension in exchange for no prosecution over tampering with the case. Added to the burden on his conscience was the fact that an innocent man lay in prison. It was less grief all round if Eddie simply resigned with immediate effect. It hadn’t taken the man long to decide; he had left the same day.
Dupin had figured that would be enough to serve him right. What he hadn't expected was for Eddie to take a chance and dredge it all back up, tit-for-tat, as the opportunity presented itself. Judging by the squalor the man lived in and his obvious ill health, the lack of pension had hit him hard, but that was not Dupin's concern. The problem now was if it all came out—if Jack could place him back in the case, or if he found Eddie and spoke to him for some reason. Eddie would be bound to tell Jack of his involvement, and smile doing it. Dupin was up to his eyeballs just as much as Edwards was.
The stress surrounding his pending disciplinary hearing and the protesters outside had been hard enough, and he was also tired of Lyn moaning on about it. He couldn't deal with it. And he didn't want to remain under scrutiny himself; even if he resigned his post now and called it quits, there’d still be an investigation. No one liked a dirty copper.
He didn't feel much like going back to the station yet. Glancing at the clock on his dashboard, he noted it was a little after 2 PM. He estimated he’d have to be back for around 4 pm to do some catch up on the landscaper body case before he interviewed Gordon Simpson later. So, he still had a couple of hours to burn. Knowing Lyn would be out at work, he turned towards home and pulled up in his own driveway. The silence of his house was what he needed now, a place to sit and close his eyes and think things through. He let himself in, poured a finger of whiskey and sat in his chair in the lounge to mull things over.
He was woken by the front door slamming and a woman's voice calling him—Lyn was home. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly 5.30 PM. He’d fallen asleep.
“Bugger, shit, bollocks!” he shouted as Lyn came through the living room door.
“That's no way to greet your wife,” she said caustically.
Dupin was out of his chair, searching for his car keys and ignoring her remark. He hadn’t the time or the inclination.
“I've got to go. I'll call you later,” he said, and flew out the front door towards his car. He’d call Amanda on the way and let her know that he wasn't far off, that he'd been delayed; he'd figure it out. He'd make something up. It was not her concern.
He hadn't been in the car for five minutes when his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and groaned. He had no choice but to take the call and clicked the button on his steering wheel to accept.
“Yes, Amanda,” he said in as normal a voice as he could muster, hoping that the sleepiness had left his vocal cords.
“Are you on your way somewhere? Only Gordon Simpson is waiting for his interview, and his brief isn't fond of hanging around.”
“I'm twenty minutes out. Keep them entertained,” said Dupin. “But since I'm running late, you'd best fill me in. I hate going in without proper preparation, but sometimes needs must.” He listened while Amanda ran through what they knew, which wasn't much different than what Jack had already said earlier on. They were banking on the fact that either Mr or Mrs Simpson or both of them had committed the murder. One of them. And since Madeline Simpson was herself lying in a grave, that only left Gordon. It was far from ideal, and it might be tough to get through the CPS, but if Gordon had no alibi and no reasonable way of explaining how the body had got there, he would be the favourite and would no doubt be arrested. At the very least it cleared another case off, ticked another box. The commissioner would be grateful.
It felt like old times. Almost.
Chapter Sixty-One
Jack slumped down in his swivel chair and twiddled with the whiskers of his moustache, deep in thought. How the hell had Dupin known what he was working on? And how the hell did Dupin know that he been to the prison? There was obviously a grass, somebody on the inside who’d felt it necessary to call the DI and let him know that he’d been. The box of chocolate biscuits had not been enough, apparently, and someone hadn’t been able to keep their gob shut.
He swivelled slightly from side to side, staring at the keyboard in front of him. He'd never looked at it in so much detail before; it had dirty brown smudge marks over the well-used keys. He wondered why he had never noticed just how dirty it was. But now he looked at it, he was disgusted with it. It reminded him of the rest of the office and his new fascination, wherever it had come from, with living in a petri dish. Maybe it was Mrs Stewart's influence? He had the sudden urge to clean the dirt and grime off his keyboard, and while he was at it, his monitor. The mundane task would help him think, allowing enlightenment, he hoped, to fill his skull. He glanced over at Amanda, who was busy doing something on her own computer, head down, fingers tapping away furiously. She'd have something he could use.
He sidled over to Amanda and said, “I don't suppose you've got a packet of wet wipes in your bag, have you?” Amanda looked at him over her right shoulder. From the look on her face, he’d dragged her from deep concentration, and she was struggling now to comprehend what he was saying. “Wet wipes,” he repeated.
“Yes, that's what I thought you said. Hang on.”
Jack watched as she pulled her bag up from off the floor and passed him a little green packet without another word.
“Thanks. I'll return them when I'm done.”
Back at his desk, he pulled out a wet wipe and got to work first on his monitor and surround, then worked his way down the keyboard. There weren’t going to be many fresh wipes to return to Amanda; he’d have to buy a new packet for her. He carried on dutifully cleaning the rest of his desk, wiping it free of coffee stains, chocolate biscuit crumbs and general debris. All his files and belongings were now in a neat pile on the floor. Several of the other officers watched him with interest. Maybe he’d start a trend, he thought. Maybe he’d pass the remaining wet wipes round and they’d all have a go cleaning the place up a bit. Maybe somebody would organise that window cleaner he’d been on about.
Standing back looking at the clean space he’d created, he thought it was a shame he had to put all his stuff back on his desk. Now was the time to have a sort-out and throw away the things that were useless, things he didn't use, the things he didn't need any longer and create some order in his work space. His nostrils filled with the perfume of baby oil and talcum powder and he breathed deeply. It was the same smell of a newborn baby.
Jack and Janine had never had children; they'd never been blessed. So he hadn't any first-hand experience of infants, but he thought back to a case he’d been on about the same time as Hardesty was going through his troubles. A newborn baby had been found that Christmas on a snowy church porch and he remembered visiting the tiny little bundle when she’d first been taken to hospital. Mary, she'd been called by the nurses who’d cared for her. He'd taken her a little pink rabbit and kissed her tiny head, and she had had the same smell that was lingering on his desk now. He wondered what had happened to her, to little Mary. Perhaps he’d follow up and find out where she was living; she’d be a young woman now, he thought with some surprise.
He began sorting through the files and loose bits of paper and post-it notes, stacking some things back on his desk and others in file 13—the rubbish bin. He was almost finished when he s
aw Amanda approaching.
“Does that feel better now?” she enquired, reaching to pick the almost-empty packet of wet wipes.
“I'll buy you some more. I've almost used them all,” Jack said apologetically.
“I don't think I've ever known you to scrub your keyboard,” she said.
“Me neither. But I seem to be on a bit of a bacteria-fest at the moment. I keep washing my hands too. Maybe I'm coming down with OCD,” he said, smiling.
“I don’t think you ‘come down’ with OCD.”
“I read somewhere that when you've got something whizzing around your head and you’re trying to work it out, a mundane task, like tidying something away or clearing a cupboard out, for instance, gives your brain something else to chew on and the answer will spring forward on its own. So, I thought I'd give it a try. That and a little inspiration from Marie Kondo.”
Amanda raised an eyebrow. “And did it work? Did it bring you joy?” Her lips twitched in a quick smile, and she began fiddling with the package of wet wipes. Jack watched, mesmerised. Perhaps he’d do the windows next.
“Do you know,” he said, “watching your fingers fiddling with that green packet, I think it just has.”
“So, what shook loose?”
“I was wondering who told Dupin about my visit to McAllister and the prison, and I just realised,” he said, nodding at the green packet. “It will be Kyle Greenly.”
“Now where do I know the name Greenly from?” said Amanda, looking up at the ceiling as if hoping the answer would be written on the water-stained tiles.
“Well, you know the name because Max Greenly is a local businessman, but he’s also the father of Kyle Greenly, who is also the nephew of one DI Lawrence Dupin.”
“He grassed you up,” said Amanda.
“He certainly did,” said Jack resignedly. “He must think I’m as green as grass.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
Satisfied with his newly cleaned and Kondo-ized desk that now smelled of newborn babies, Jack picked up the file that was on the top—the Hardesty case. He knew every piece of paper that was in it, he’d been through it so many times, but he pulled out the autopsy photographs again and spread them out on his clear desk. They had been taken almost 15 years ago and the quality was poor compared to what he was used to seeing now—grainy and hard to discern.
He picked up the autopsy report again. Again, he knew most of the wording by heart now, and he also knew the pathologist who had performed the procedure—Charles Winstanley. He'd worked with him on many cases in the past; the old man had only recently semi-retired. He was one of those characters who, even when he had been 40 years old, looked like he should have been in retirement. He was famous for his wispy white hair that stood straight up like Don King’s. Jack had always found him a decent person, talented, accurate and inquisitive, but looking at the photos now, he wondered if there was any chance of a mistake in Winstanley’s work on the case.
There was only one way to find out and that was to ask Faye Mitchell if she’d be willing to take a second look. He picked up the phone, selected her number and waited for it to connect. When she answered, it was obvious she wasn't in her office. He could hear traffic close by. Maybe she was out grabbing a bite to eat for lunch and walking back to the lab.
“Yes, Jack?” she said. “What can I do for you?”
“I'm hoping I can ask a favour, actually, Faye,” Jack said.
“You can always ask. Can’t promise I can do, though.”
Jack was used to the woman’s occasional abruptness, and as usual he ignored it. She was wired differently to him, and that was fine. He carried on, “You’re obviously familiar with Dupin's case and your findings, and I just wondered what the possibility was of you looking at some photos from a cold case that might be related. Actually, it’s not strictly a cold case—it's more of an old case, but it's the same sort of setup.”
“What happened in that case, Jack? Why the interest now?”
“Well, a chap is in prison—he was charged with murder, actually—but I'm just curious. Given the recent experience with Dupin, I wondered if the same thing might have happened with this man, Michael Hardesty?”
“It’s not like you to get involved in old solved cases, Jack. Are you underworked at the moment?” She tittered lightly; it was her way of being amusing.
Jack wasn't sure how to answer, so he stayed silent, pondering his next move. But Faye realised what he was doing and filled in the gap anyway. She knew Jack well enough; they'd been on too many cases in the past together, and she respected his judgement.
“Why don't you bring the photos over,” she said. “I'm just headed back to the lab now. Who did the original autopsy?”
“It was Charles Winstanley, actually,” said Jack. “Fifteen years ago.”
Jack heard her sharp intake of breath. The man had a reputation, and a good one.
“The revered Dr Charles Winstanley,” she said, putting emphasis on each word. “I spent time training under him myself, and I guess you know his daughter works in the lab here too.”
“Yes, I do know, so I guess if there's any way of keeping this between you and me that would be best. I'd appreciate it.”
“I hear you,” she said.
“I'll bring in them round now,” said Jack. “I'll be over in twenty.”
Jack hung up, pushed all the photos back into the folder and hurriedly left the squad room before anybody could ask questions, Amanda included. At least Dupin was out, wherever he’d gone, and as he pulled out of the car park and the electric gates closed behind him, he wondered what Faye would make of this. As she’d said, Charles Winstanley was a practised pathologist and wouldn't appreciate having his work mulled over by a former student. But getting a second opinion was a common part of the job these days, and Winstanley would no doubt know that, and so be it. It had to be done.
The lab reception area air-conditioning always seeming to be just one degree too cold for Jack's liking. He approached the young woman on the desk and told her that Faye was expecting him, then waited by the lift doors, knowing that she would come out through them shortly. When they eventually pinged open, he stepped straight in to greet her and they headed back upstairs to her office, via the fish tank and her PA, who glanced at Jack disapprovingly. She’d remembered his belching from his last visit.
They were sat at her desk.
“So, what have you got, then, Jack?” asked Faye.
“Take a look at these, if you wouldn't mind, and see what you make of them,” he said, handing her the file. “I know they're a bit grainy, but obviously you're the expert here, not me and I've no idea what I'm looking for. But you might see it, whatever ‘it’ might be.”
Faye lifted her eyes to Jack as if to say ‘no shit, Sherlock,’ but the twinkle in her eyes told him she wasn't offended. He smiled, though he wasn't sure if it was an apology smile or an ‘I'm sucking up to you’ smile. Jack watched the top of her head as she perused the photos in turn, studying each one intently. When she got the image of a section from the man's neck, she removed a magnifying glass from a drawer and took a closer look.
“They aren't terribly clear, are they, Jack?” she said, sounding disappointed.
Jack kept quiet; he didn't want to agree with her in case she gave up too soon.
“I wonder if the original files are still with Winstanley,” she mused. “He might have the master copy that we can get better copies off?” She was thinking out loud.
Jack didn't need to reply, and the silence went on for what felt like a couple of minutes but was probably only seconds in reality. He felt like he was sitting on the edge of his chair, eagerly waiting for good news about test results.
Finally, Faye put the magnifying glass down and looked straight at Jack.
“Tell you what I'll do,” she said. “I'll contact Charles Winstanley's office, and when we've had the second autopsy on Callum Parker later on, I'll ask the pathologist to see what he thinks. How does that sound?”
“I can't say fairer than that, can I? Thanks.”
“If we can get a better resolution of the photos, we might see things a bit clearer,” she said, pointing to a particular one. “For instance, in this area, that would be where I would be looking at if it was the same sort of event, but there isn’t enough detail visible. It’s too grainy.” She picked the photos up and put them back in the folder. “Can I keep these for now?”
“Please, yes,” said Jack. “Any help you can give me would be appreciated.” He rose to leave, not wishing to take any more of her valuable time.
Shortly after Jack had left, Faye made the call to Charles Winstanley's office. It seemed they did have the original masters, so she asked for the higher-resolution image files to be emailed on to her as soon as possible.
Chapter Sixty-Three
In high-profile cases, it’s not unusual for there to be a second autopsy. Often lawyers defending clients on murder charges call for another one just to be doubly sure of the facts, and many pathologists have their work re-examined in this way. Anyone who finds themselves accused of murder, for instance, would want a second opinion too. Nonetheless, this is never pleasant for the pathologist—one never liked being second-guessed, and Dr Faye Mitchell was no different. She’d met the second pathologist many times at conferences and medical get-togethers, and though she wouldn't exactly have referred to him as a friend, she certainly regarded him as a colleague, though not from the same team.
Dr Kevin Douglas worked in Surrey and had a solid reputation; he was a regular in courtrooms and in the expert witness box. It helped to know who was going to be rechecking your work, and the fact that it was Dr Kevin Douglas gave Faye some heart. While it wasn’t required for the first pathologist to be witness to the second autopsy, it was normal procedure. And Faye was interested in his findings as well as wanting to see how the man worked.
