Double Check

by Malcolm Rose

  “FI Harding. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m interested in Everton Kohter...”

  The prison doctor cut him short. “I know. I’ve got one of the warders with me here – Greg Roper – and he’s told me about your visit last week. By coincidence, you’ve caught us double-checking the doses of the drugs that’ll be used to pass sentence. I’m approving the volumes that are appropriate for Kohter’s weight and age. Being a doctor, I can’t cause a death, but it’ll be my duty to pronounce life extinct.”

  Luke shuddered. Doctors were supposed to save lives, not assist in the taking of life. Dr Lackie did not seem to have any emotional involvement. He talked like a mobile aid to law and crime or a clinical murderer. In a way, he was a clinical murderer, along with Greg Roper. He also seemed to think that an investigator would be equally unaffected emotionally, yet fascinated by the technical detail of the execution.

  “Just one question,” Luke said, keeping it brief. “Does Everton suffer from epilepsy, by any chance? Does he have fits?”

  Dr Lackie’s response was immediate. “No. Definitely not. I assess the health of all our prisoners very thoroughly prior to execution. I’ve had him under observation for the standard two years now and fits are one thing I check very carefully. We don’t want a commotion in the Death Cell.”

  The whole business was far too serious to be funny but Luke saw a grim humour in the doctor’s answer. He made it sound as if the prison would execute only people who were well. Luke got the impression that, if Everton had been ill, the death sentence would have been delayed so that he could be cured before he was killed. “Does he have any health problems?”

  “Absolutely not. He’s in good physical shape. As for his mental state, depression’s normal for someone in his situation. There’s little I can do about that.”

  “Thanks,” Luke replied. “That’s all.” As soon as Malc broke the link, Luke muttered, “An epileptic fit was a good idea. If he’d thrashed around, it would have explained why Everton was covered in blood and bruises and left so much evidence. He might even have made that bite mark and dribbled over Rowan without knowing a thing about it.”

  “Irrelevant. The prisoner does not have epilepsy and it would not explain why he was present at the murder scene.”

  It was clear that Everton had played a part in the killing of Rowan Pearce. While Luke did not understand that role, he was still not satisfied that Everton had actually committed the crime. Yet, if Everton had simply been a witness or if he’d intervened in a failed attempt to stop the murder, why had he never said so? Luke sighed and shook his head. Changing his line of inquiry, he asked, “What’s on file about Lee McArthur’s death?”

  Malc had already accessed the database remotely. “No suspicious circumstances were noted in the coroner’s report. The mains wiring of the automatic analyser in the smart toilet had become dangerously worn with the result that its metal parts became electrically live. When the subject flushed the toilet, he received a fatal shock through the hand. In the damp conditions of a bathroom, the current was sufficient for the muscles to go into spasm, preventing voluntary release of the metal fitting. The right hand showed typical spark burns, a scorched palm and collapsed blisters. Death resulted from ventricular fibrillation caused by the action of the electrical current on the heart muscle and conducting system.”

  “Was there any evidence that someone had tampered with the mains supply?”

  “No.”

  “Was there a proper investigation or did they just assume it was bad luck?”

  “There is no record of a forensic examination.”

  “Mmm. Makes me wonder,” said Luke as he turned to watch more of the north slip past the window.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “When I shut my eyes,” Farrah said with a pained expression on her face, “I can still see his hand. It was burnt black and purple, and the skin gaped open on his forefinger and thumb. It was hideous. I don’t want to...” Her whole body shook and she muttered, “I wish I could forget.”

  Luke had to admit that pairing worked well for most couples. It was clear that, even after two years, Farrah Bruce was still devastated by the loss of her partner. Sometimes, he wondered if he and Jade were alone in despising the system. But the stormy relationship between Rowan Pearce and Camilla Bunker told him that they weren’t the only ones. “I’m sorry,” Luke said quietly and inadequately to Farrah. “Did a forensic investigator turn up?”

  “It’s all a bit of a blur but... no. I came home from work and found him in the bathroom. Awful. Absolutely awful. You can’t imagine...” She sniffed and composed herself. “A man came and said it was wear and tear in the insulation and the live wire got exposed. Something like that.” Then, struck by a thought, she paused and stared at Luke. Her anguish turned rapidly to horror. “What are you saying? It was an accident, wasn’t it? Or do you think someone... Is that why everyone’s interested again?”

  Puzzled by her choice of words, Luke asked, “Everyone? How do you mean?”

  “An old colleague called about him as well.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “Erm... a woman in Derby. Sadie something.”

  Luke nodded. “Kershaw.”

  “Yes. She didn’t know... what had happened to him. I think she was upset. But you’re different. You’re an FI.”

  “Yes, but I’m here to get up to running speed, not because I’m ahead of everyone else,” he replied. “I wanted to ask, did you know about his... um... unofficial business?”

  “Do you?”

  “He altered identity cards, and made new ones.”

  “He was a clever man,” Farrah stated. “A good man.”

  “I know. He did people favours. I’m sorry to say this but, if the stakes were high enough, there’s a chance someone he helped might’ve wanted to make sure he kept quiet.”

  Farrah’s mouth fell open for a second before she could reply. “That can’t be right! He always swore he’d never say a word. Not under any circumstances. He didn’t even tell me who came.”

  “Was he expecting anyone on the day he died?”

  She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know for sure. It wasn’t something we talked about. But, yes, I believe so. He was... a bit on edge. He always was when... you know.”

  “Where did he do this work?”

  Farrah nodded in the direction of a door. “He had a tiny study in there. Nothing special. Just a computer, card-maker and other bits and pieces. I haven’t had the heart to clear it out. I’ve still got all his clothes as well. If I got rid of his things, it’d feel like he’d never been here. That’s wrong. I still want a bit of him around.”

  Luke’s heart rate took a leap. “So the study’s just as it was?”

  “More or less.”

  Luke rose to his feet eagerly. “Can I take a look?”

  Farrah got up and slowly led the way. At the closed door, she hesitated. “Will this get him – his reputation, I suppose – into trouble? It won’t damage his memory, will it?”

  “No,” Luke answered. “The worst that’ll happen is The Authorities confiscate his equipment. But it’ll help me figure out if there’s more to his accident.”

  Her fingers were clamped around the handle but still she didn’t open the door. “And what if there is? Will you tell me? I need to know.”

  Luke nodded. “I won’t hide anything from you. I can promise that.”

  Farrah gazed into his face for a moment and then nodded. “All right.” She drew back the door to her partner’s study and turned on the lamp.

  It was an unremarkable and narrow room. On the right, there was a work surface containing a printer and a computer that had been state-of-the-art three years ago. Luke had never seen the third device before but he realized that it was a forger’s way of duplicating the physical appearance of identity cards. The wall opposite the door had a small window of frosted glass so that no one could look in on Lee’s privacy. On the left, there was a radiator and
a shelf with instruction manuals, a camera and a few trinkets scattered along it.

  “Malc,” Luke said in a respectful whisper, “do a very fine scan of everything. I’m looking for any traces at all, especially fingerprints with a scar.” Then he turned to Farrah who remained in the doorway, “I want to turn his computer and camera on and get my mobile to copy their contents. All right?”

  She nodded.

  He pushed the button on the processor and said to Malc, “Full download, please.” He switched on the camera and put it next to the computer. “That too.”

  “Tasks logged.”

  Farrah said, “I’ll tell you now, though, he never made a record of names or kept photos, if that’s what you’re after. He used to jot a few things down here.” She tapped a small pad at the end of the work surface. “But he always shredded what he’d written afterwards.”

  Luke donned latex gloves and made for the jotter. The top page was blank but, if Lee had written on the sheet above, he might have left an impression on it. Luke was not sure if any indentations would last for two years. He picked up the pad and examined it closely, tilting it so that he could look at it from an oblique angle. He was trying to position the page so that the light would cast a shadow into any scoring, making it visible. Seeing indistinct marks was like hearing the murmur of a distant conversation without being able to distinguish the incriminating words. After a minute, Luke shrugged in frustration and put the pad of paper back down on the table. “There’s something here, I think, Malc. It’s very faint, but I want to know what he wrote. Use your best electrostatic enhancement and document analysis.”

  “My systems are fully occupied with scanning and downloading. I will process the additional task when I have spare resource.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “My scan for fingerprints would be improved by laser enhancement.”

  “All right.” Luke added, “Spray fluorescent dye around as well if it helps, but analyse the pad first. If solvent from the spray gets onto the paper, it’ll ruin the electrostatic detection of any impressions.”

  Malc replied coolly, “I am equipped with programs for deducing the optimum order of given tests.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I’ll leave you to get on with your job.” Luke switched off the lamp and left the study.

  “How long’s this going to take?” asked Farrah.

  “A few minutes,” Luke replied. “Not long. He’s an advanced model.”

  “Do you want a drink while you wait? I make a hot punch with fruit and herbs. Perfect for this weather.”

  “Mmm. Sounds good. Thanks.”

  She smiled weakly. “Lee’s version was always better than mine, but...” She shrugged and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Outside, a monstrous square crane on the other side of the Clyde was lifting goods from an auto-barge onto Stobcross Quay. Seagulls were screaming and diving over scraps in the water. Luke strolled around the living room and realized how much his job of forensic investigator had taken over his life. Most visitors would perhaps admire the view over the river and the city, the quality of the furnishings or the strange collection of coloured-glass bottles. Luke was a scientific observer. He always looked for dust and stray hairs and surfaces that would hold fingerprints. Out of habit, no matter where he was, he wondered what he would sample if he had to uncover what had happened in the room. His forensic brain hardly ever turned off.

  He opened the door to the bathroom and looked inside. It was ordinary, clean and reeked of bleach. Nothing like a crime scene. Closing the door again, Luke reminded himself that Lee had died two years ago. It was highly unlikely that the bathroom or living room retained traces of his death. The study was different because it had remained untouched.

  When Farrah returned, she was carrying a tray with two tumblers of a steaming drink, the colour of red wine. It filled the room with the fragrance of spices. Holding the tray towards him, she said, “Watch out. The glass will be hot. But it’s best to drink it as warm as you can stand.”

  “Thanks.” Gingerly, he took the drink and sat down. He held the fruit punch under his nose and breathed in the fumes. “Mmm. Nice.” Then he glanced at the study door, eager to hear Malc’s findings. Looking back to Farrah, he asked, “The first time you went in the study after Lee died, did you notice anything odd?”

  “Like what?”

  Luke shrugged. “An unusual smell, something out of place, maybe two glasses in the study rather than one, anything.”

  Farrah sipped her drink. “Not that I recall,” she answered.

  Following her lead, he tried the drink. Its flavour struck his mouth and shocked him with its intensity. When the liquid trickled down his throat, he let out a little gasp of pleasure. It was like a very hot version of pomegranate juice with added herbs.

  “Good?” Farrah said.

  “More than that. I ought to get you to download the recipe into my mobile.”

  From the study, Malc’s neutral voice called, “Tasks completed.”

  Luke jumped up and opened the door, allowing Malc to float out. “What have you got?”

  “Very little relevant information,” he replied. “The camera’s memory has been deleted. The computer does not contain significant data. There are no fingerprints or other biological traces of a third person.”

  “So, the last one to go in with him was very careful. Hat and gloves at the minimum. What about fibres?”

  “There are several. I cannot identify those that originate from visitors without a comparison with all clothing possessed two years ago by Lee McArthur and Farrah Bruce.”

  Farrah put down her tumbler. “I’ve still got Lee’s, but I’ve changed a lot of mine.”

  “Pity.” Thinking for a moment, Luke took another drink of the fruit punch. Then he said to Malc, “Before we go, you can sample Farrah and Lee’s clothes. Any fibres from the study that don’t match must have come from clothes Farrah’s thrown out or from someone else. Could still be useful.”

  “Task logged.”

  Impatient to hear about the most promising lead, Luke asked, “What did you make of the pad?”

  “The indentions are unclear. I cannot read out the result because there are several possible interpretations of the letters.”

  Disappointed, Luke sighed. “Can you put an image of them on the telescreen right now?”

  “Confirmed.”

  “Go on, then.” Talking to Farrah, he said, “You’re familiar with Lee’s writing so you might be able to help me work it out.”

  Farrah nodded. “Okay.”

  Malc projected a grossly magnified result of his document analysis on the large screen. The result was a grey rectangle with vague and scratchy black lines representing the impressions left on the pad.

  In the top right corner, Luke could make out two digits. The number – 26 – grabbed his attention because it was the clearest impression amid the indistinct scribbles and because it was Camilla’s age at the time of Rowan’s murder and the plane crash.

  Underneath, there were two lines of capital letters. The first row was very patchy. Making out what had been jotted was like trying to recognize a tune playing against white noise. There was certainly an S and then a gap followed by AN. After another unidentifiable letter, an E appeared.

  The second line was clearer. Luke’s felt a tingle as he picked out the surname of ROBERTS. He turned to Farrah and asked, “First, is it Lee’s writing?”

  She swallowed and nodded. “It’s hard to see, isn’t it? But, yes, that’s Lee all right.”

  The squiggles were the ghostly echo of Lee McArthur’s last written words.

  “What do you make of it? Apart from the twenty-six, what does it say?”

  Farrah got up and walked towards the telescreen. “Not sure.” She squinted at the muddled scrawl and said, “It’s an N or M before the S.” She traced the hazy lines with her forefinger. “If it’s an M, you’ve got MS. As in Ms Farrah Bruce.”

  Suddenly, Luke became tense.
“Yeah. It’s someone Roberts, isn’t it?”

  She nodded in agreement. “The first name’s A, N, something, E.”

  “It’s got to be Anne, hasn’t it?” Luke said.

  “I can’t make out another N but, yes, I don’t know what else it could be.”

  Luke was up on his feet, gazing intently at the faint black marks blending into the dark background. “I suppose it could be Angie – there’s a sort-of curve that could be a G – but I don’t think there’s enough room for two letters in there. No. It’s more likely to be Anne. Ms Anne Roberts.” He turned towards his mobile and issued an urgent command. “Search all available databases, Malc. Highest priority. I want a list of everyone called Anne Roberts.”

  “Processing.”

  Turning back to Farrah, Luke said, “Does the name of Anne Roberts mean anything to you?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “It could be the name Lee gave to his last client before... you found him. So she might be able to throw some light on what happened to him.”

  Sadly, Farrah mumbled, “I just wish I knew where all this was heading.”

  Sympathetically, Luke replied, “I’ll tell you when I’ve got something to report. Right now, I want to let Malc loose in your wardrobes. All right? After that, I can leave you alone.”

  “Fine.” She led the way to the bedroom.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “There are two hundred and thirteen people called Anne Roberts, according to The Authorities’ files,” Malc reported.

  Trying not to be put off by the large number, Luke said, “And how many are twenty-seven to twenty-nine years old now?”

  “Eleven.”

  “That’s better. If Camilla Bunker survived the crash and killed her husband, she did it to escape her life in the south. How many of those Anne Roberts live north of Coventry?”

  “Six.”

  “Camilla – or Anne – would’ve settled somewhere in the last two years. Take away all those known to have been in their current homes or jobs for 3 years or more.”