by Giles Ekins
‘Seven. David Jarrett does not work, has not worked since he left Wainwrights distribution centre. He has an attitude problem, resents being told what to do and told his line manageress ‘to stick her job up her miserable dried-up cunt.’
‘Charming! But I’m in no way surprised, What else?’
‘He has debts of more than six thousand pounds, on three maxed out credit cards but has no viable mans of paying them off. However, he now stands to inherit the Jarrett house, valued at 685,000 pounds, plus savings and assets worth more than two hundred thousand pounds plus his share of Donald’s accountancy practice. That is a very strong motive’
‘That’s a good enough motive to kill his parents’ Claybourne asserted loudly, looking around for signs of dissent.
‘Eight; Grace continued, ignoring Claybourne’s outburst, the money aspect was a motive for murder, not proof. ‘David Jarett shows considerable animosity towards his adoptive parents, resentful that his sister, Julia, was the natural child of Donald and Janet Jarrett, whereas he was adopted. He is very resentful of that fact and felt alienated and rejected’
Fred Burbage lifted his hand to speak.
‘Yes Fred?’ Grace queried.
‘There’s a poem by David Jarrett that I found on his laptop. I’ll read it, if that’s OK, I think it relevant to his state of mind.’
‘If you must!’ Claybourne said, theatrically rolling his eyeballs.
‘Right, it’s called ‘Rejection’
One day, my father said,
Son, you’re not my son,
And I am not your Dad!
One day, my mother said,
son, you are not my son,
And I am not your Mum!
Listen boy,
your mother is another,
a dirty, filthy slag.
And so we’ll have a daughter,
And she’ll be the one we love,
And you will be discarded
Just like an oily rag.
And that was just what happened,
Leaving me so very stressed,
As that shitty little baby,
Pushed me out of the nest.
And so it was and so I fell,
Unloved, unwanted. and unwelcome
Forever and forever and forever
I will be the Detritus of Rejection.
He’s right bitter, in’t he?’ Fred added, when he’d finished reading.
‘It certainly confirms his feelings of rejection,’ said Emma softly, as if affected by the poem, clumsy as it was,
‘Stylistically, it is more coherent than the other one.’ Jessica remarked.
‘Total rubbish’ snorted Claybourne, ‘why ae we wasting our time with this drivel? Get to it, Grace. What else do we have? I need to report to Mr Vickers that you are making progress.’
‘Yes sir, nine. David Jarrett forcibly asserts that he was sexually molested by Donald Jarret, as was his sister Julia. An accusation of abuse on Julia was made after her death, aired by the spiritualist Sebastian Serrano, a message heard by many attendees at his spiritualist meeting’
‘Really?’ Claybourne interrupted. ‘Are we seriously accepting ‘evidence’ from a séance or whatever the hell it was? Absolutely no credence can be given to that nonsense. There was no message ‘from beyond the grave,’ all likely-hood it was a grotesque hoax perpetrated by this… mountebank Serrano.’
‘Maybe, sir, but Janet Jarrett unreservedly accepted the voice as Julia’s and believed Donald abused her.’
‘I repeat, there is no evidence of abuse. Neither her school, her doctor or social services reported any concerns. It’s just a pathetic attempt to gain sympathy. Grace, it is more than obvious there’s enough evidence to bring in David Jarrett and charge him.’
‘With respect. Sir. There are still lines of investigation we need to follow, for instance, those fingerprints all around the murder scene that belong to a girl with a history of violence.’
‘Enough. Let’s be having it done with. Understood?’
At that, Claybourne rose ponderously from his seat, picked up a blue summary folder and marched out of the room. There was a collective release of pent-up breath. but Grace felt deflated and frustrated, the case against David Jarrett was not complete, there were too many loose ends.
The rest of the briefing covered the assignment of tasks. Brian and Emma were to ask neighbours and friends of the Jarrett’s if they had suspicions or concerns regarding possible abuse of either of the Jarrett children.
Jessica was to concentrate on Chloe Macbeth, especially the search of CCTV records to spot if she left her apartment that day. She was also to continue checking CCTV for sightings of the Jarrett’s Volvo. Danny Boy was to assist in this task, Fred would continue with his task as Recorder.
In the meantime, Grace and Terry would follow David Jarrett’s claimed route out to Dunmore Edge. They would check how long the drive took them. CCTV had confirmed when David drove out of the town centre and the timing of his call to the emergency services was known. If they could not get to Dunmore Edge, spend a reasonable time ‘writing; a poem’. and get back to the Jarrett house within that precise schedule, his, already very flimsy, alibi could be dismissed.
Finally, Grace wrapped up the session, ‘Thank you everyone, we all know what we need to do.’
As the team filed out, Grace stopped Terry by putting her hand on his shoulder.
‘My office, ten minutes, OK? I just need the loo,’ and she hurried out, leaving Terry in a state of renewed anxiety, was she going to report him for sexual harassment, have him disciplined or what? ‘I’ll find out soon enough I suppose.’
He headed for the toilets, urinated, washed his hands, dabbed cold water on his face and with his stomach in roiling knots, knocked on Grace’s door and entered.
Fifty-Five
‘Close the door, Terry. Take a seat.’
He sat, feeling like a naughty boy in front of the headmaster, waiting to receive six of the best. ‘Grace, can I just say…’
‘Let me, Terry. I apologise…’
‘What, why should you, I mean…’
‘Let me finish, please. Yesterday, on the road back from Whitburn, you very politely, and rather sweetly, asked me out for a drink and I overreacted, overreacted in an appealingly unpleasant and insulting manner…’
‘No, no, it’s me who should be apologising, so soon after the …loss of Gary, it was insensitive of me…’
‘No, it was…’ and ‘I’m the one who…’ they spoke simultaneously, just as the phone on her desk rang.
‘DCI Swan’ she answered. It was Claybourne.
‘Grace, a word. My office, soon as, please.’ Grace rolled her eyes at Terry, ‘Claybourne’ she mouthed, and he nodded to indicate he had heard.
‘Bugger’ she swore. ‘Sorry, Terry, we’ll sort this out when I get back. Sorry, but His Master’s Voice calls, or rather the puppy dog who listens to Vickers on the speaker. Back soon.’ And she picked up her jacket from the back of her chair and walked out, without undue haste. ‘Let the fat bastard stew for a few minutes.’
She had a good idea what the summons was about and was in no hurry to hear what Claybourne was going to instruct her to do.
Fifty-Six
Chloe was still feeling distressed and upset. A black claw of depression hovered over her shoulder, a visceral fear that she was to be dragged back to prison to complete the rest of her sentence. It was irrational, she told herself, but even the most innocent of nuns would feel guilty when questioned by police, never mind an ex-con with record for GBH when murders are being investigated.
To take her mind of things, Chloe decided to treat herself another tattoo. A proper professional tattoo, not like the amateur, crude prison tats she had. Her name, CHLOE, was on her right arm and a butterfly which looked like a dead fly on the other . She would get that one removed by a laser but would keep the other, just as a reminder of her time in jail. Not that she needed one.
Chloe picked up her well-thumbed pa
perback copy of Stieg Larsson’s ‘The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo,’ bought second hand from a street stall in town. This book, with the two follow up volumes, ‘The Girl Who Played with Fire’ and ‘The Girl who kicked the Hornet’s Nest’ were her all-time favourite reads. And Lisbeth Salander her absolute idol of a heroine, a fearless genius of a hacker who took no shit from anybody and could kick-ass like a demon.
She studied the cover of the book, published by Quercus, whatever that might mean. Apart from the title and authors name, the cover showed the naked back of a woman, with a dragon tattoo on her left shoulder. It was, she supposed, a Chinese dragon without wings, although why she couldn’t say. Whatever, this dragon, Chinese or not, was the one Chloe wanted.
It was a day off from her job at Simpson’s, she worked a shift pattern so that some Saturdays and Sundays she worked in the shop, taking other days off in the week in lieu.
Despite a heavy rain, she caught the bus into town and made her way into Allison Square, a small recent development which housed a TK Maxx, some restaurants, a mind and spirit bookshop and the Black Raven Tattoo Parlour on the upper level.
Chloe showed Derek Raven the cover of her book, ‘That’s what I want, in exactly the same place.’
‘I’ve got lots of other dragon designs, if you’re interested,’ Raven, said, showing Chloe dozens of dragon designs on his iPad. Small delicate dragons which looked as though they were made of lace, Chinese dragons, (she had been right, Lisbeth Salander’s dragon was Chinese), winged Welsh dragons, cartoon dragons, ‘Game of Thrones’ dragons and multi-coloured fierce Japanese dragons covering the entire back, which would cost more than £1,000
‘Thanks, but no, I’ll stick to this one,’ Chloe said, handing the tattooist the book.
‘No problem, love, done that one a few times, could do it in my sleep, if asked.’
When the tattooist showed her the result in a mirror, she was delighted. ‘Great, just fantastic.’ she enthused, passing over her credit card to settle the £55 cost and vowed that when she next got paid, she would have the ‘dead fly’ removed.
But even so, the new tattoo on her shoulder was not the only thing there, the black claw of depression still lurked behind her. albeit not now so closely.
Fifty-Seven
Grace was not surprised when Claybourne told her why she had been summoned.
‘Grace, I have just spoken to ACC Vickers,’ surprise, surprise, ‘and he has given his instructions. You are to arrest David Jarrett and charge him with the murder of both Donald and Janet Jarrett. I hope that that is perfectly clear? Arrest and charge David Jarrett.’
‘Sir, as I said downstairs, there are still lines of investigation to follow up. Apart from the bloody clothes and blood traces on his iPhone, there are no forensics and there is nothing to put him in the kitchen or in the garage wearing those clothes.’
‘Preposterous! Charge him and be done with it. That is a direct order, DCI Swan. It will then be up to the CPS to decide if there is a case to take to court. Not you.’
‘Yes sir, understood! However, I must state once again that the Jarrett house is liberally covered with the fingerprints of Chloe Macbeth, she has a history of violence and cannot account for her whereabouts that day. We cannot just eliminate her from the investigation.’
‘I’ll hear no more of it. You have your instructions. See to them.’
Yes sir’ There was really nothing else she could say
Fifty-Eight
Despite her misgivings, Grace dutifully carried the orders handed down by ACC Vickers. David Jarrett was arrested at the hostel where he was staying and interviewed under caution with a court appointed solicitor to represent him.
When confronted with the bloody clothes recovered from the woods behind the Jarrett house, he called it ‘fucking police fit-up’ and shouted ‘No fucking way, man, this is my life we’re dealing with here’ when told that his mobile phone showed traces of Donald Jarrett’s blood.
He vehemently denied the charge, and when the Crown Prosecution Service confirmed there was enough evidence to go to trial, he repeatedly avowed that ‘the malicious pigs had framed him’.
He gave himself no favours with his behaviour. He sacked his solicitor, Amelie Burton-Evans, a smart young woman of Jamaican descent, whom he called ‘a stupid black bitch’, which brought the additional charge of a racial hate crime.
He swore at the magistrates when remanded in custody and threatened ‘to do that Grace Swan bitch’ once his innocence had been established and he was freed.
Despite doubts and the conviction that important strands of the investigation had not been followed through to conclusion, Grace was determined not to give Vickers the opportunity to claim that she had not been diligent in presenting the case against David Jarrett,
Grace and Terry did drive to Dunmore Edge to test David Jarrett’s timescale, but this proved inconclusive. Provided he spent no more than thirty to forty minutes writing his poem, which was entirely feasible; the explanation of his whereabouts did fit the timetable. something his defence team would latch onto at the trial. Conversely it would be argued that even if David Jarrett had driven to Dunmore Edge as claimed, he could have killed his parents before driving out there.
The drive out onto the moors did have one positive result, however. Grace and Terry cleared the air and their relaxed working partnership was resumed, and although there was no mention of a drink, they were both aware that this would eventually occur.
Grace and her team worked tirelessly preparing the Policy File, the investigative record of the case, which together with the mass of information meticulously collated by Fred Burbage, diligently assisted by Jessica Babalola, became the bedrock of the Prosecution case.
Accordingly, four months later, David James Jarrett was brought to trial at Sheffield Crown Court for the murder of his adoptive parents, Donald and Janet Jarrett.
As might be expected, the trial was sensational, attracting both regional and national newspapers. Marcus Garrity and Celie Donald from the ‘Garside Gazette’ were there, as was Kathy McNichol, as usual, the most prominent of the television talking heads
DCI Grace Swan spent most of one day giving her evidence, which she did in a clear-voiced professional manner. David Jarrett’s defence team were unable to challenge her testimony or coax contradictions from her. The evidence was there in the Policy File and could not be refuted.
Erika Berger was similarly professional, as was Dr Bagster Phillips, the Police Surgeon. Inspector Roger Jardine then presented the forensic evidence, none of which could effectively be challenged by the defence.
By means of a string model and a computer simulation program called ‘No More Strings’, Alison Robotham, a blood spatter analyst from Forensic Science Services, proved beyond doubt that the bloody clothes recovered from Westwick Woods had been worn by the killer of Donald Jarrett. On hearing this, David Jarrett shouted out, ‘Well it wasn’t me as wore them!’ He was reprimanded by the judge and the jury instructed to ignore the outburst.
To his intense chagrin, Stephen Nobbs, aka, Sebastian Serrano, was called to give evidence, the trial judge, Mr Justice Jonathon Fuller-Gifford, having deemed that the spiritualist meeting did have a direct bearing on the murders. Nobbs gave his answers in a dull monotone, with none of the vocal theatrics he employed on stage.
Yes, he was the clairvoyant and spiritualist known as Sebastian Serrano. Yes, he had held a meeting in West Garside. Yes, he had received a message ‘from the other side.’ No, he could not explain how such messages came, it was simply a ‘gift’ he was born with.
Yes, the ‘message’ did accuse Donald Jarrett of abusing his daughter Julia, who had tragically died a heroin overdose some months earlier. Yes, Janet Jarrett certainly did accept that the voice she heard was that of Julia. No, despite being clairvoyant, he could not possibly have foreseen the tragic consequences of ‘delivering’ the message. No, he did not feel responsible for the deaths of Donald and Janet Jarrett.
>
After giving his evidence, he left the courtroom and drove away in a nearly new VW Passat. He had just signed a new contract with his agent, who promised to book him into much better venues ‘now he was famous.’ He was also attracting younger ‘groupies’ and his sex life was now even more prodigious. Despite his initial concerns, the ‘message from beyond the grave’ had been good for him. However, he resolved with the hardest of hearts that the secret of that ‘message’ would go with him to his own grave.
The evidence against David Jarrett proved to be overwhelming. Against the advice of his defence team, David Jarrett insisted on taking the stand to defend himself. His expletive riddled performance did little more than repeat his denials and swear that the ‘police, the fucking pigs, had fitted him up’ He could not explain away the bloody clothes and iPhone, only repeating that whoever the real killer was, he must have worn those clothes, ‘cos I certainly didn’t’
The jury swiftly returned a unanimous verdict of guilty for both murders. Mr Justice Jonathon Fuller-Gifford called the murders amongst the most brutal and callous ever brought before him and duly sentenced David Jarrett to life imprisonment with a minimum term of 32 years.
Still swearing and shouting his innocence he was handcuffed and taken down to the cells for transfer to jail.
Despite the guilty verdict, Grace still had reservations, reservations which niggled and nagged at her. Yes, the evidence was overwhelming, but those little worms of doubt would not lie still.
Fifty-Nine
After the successful investigation into the murder of Donald and Janet Jarrett, Grace, rather naively, assumed her ‘temporary’ assignment to West Garside might be rescinded and she would could return to ‘main line CID duties’ at the HQ of South Yorkshire Police in Sheffield.
But then, ACC Vickers told her he was making the transfer permanent, overriding her objections. ‘It’s there or nowhere, Grace, I need team players as I told you before and you are not a team player.’
