Flesh Evidence: a heart-stopping crime thriller

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  For the second time the lawyer spoke. “We should like to request a prenatal paternity test be carried out once the results of the computer analysis have been presented, should the evidence prove in my client’s favour. My client is innocent and may not be responsible for the pregnancy. If the computers are clear then he has broken no law. He has simply had sex with a consenting adult.”

  Liz frowned but knew there was nothing further to be done. “We’ll await the computer analysis and look to cross other bridges then. I’m recommending to the CPS that conditional bail be set so that that you can leave the station. Your lawyer and the Custody Sergeant will explain the conditions to you.” She reluctantly smiled before leaving the room.

  She knew, from her experience, that Jason was likely to be telling the truth. His answers were direct and swift. Someone, she strongly believed, was setting him up. She doubted the child was his but considered that for Sonya Jenkins, the son of a wealthy farmer made a good catch for her wayward daughter, a catch that was proving not to be the sharpest knife in the box. Bail was essential as going back to his father was more of a deterrent than Jason sitting in a cell at the station.

  ***

  Cyril paced the Command Room as ANPR results were being checked for the whereabouts of Bruce Jenkins’ car. He’d also contacted telecommunications for details of all calls made to and from Jenkins’ home. He knew that if there were any incriminating calls being made regarding the case, then unregistered mobiles would be used but you just never knew, these small details had to be checked.

  “Confirmation that his vehicle was logged at one of the ANPR cameras situated at the NEC before the bodies could have been dumped, Sir.”

  Cyril knew that with cloned plates, anything was now possible and with over one and a half million cars on the road using cloned plates, it wasn’t a rare phenomenon. All he could do was work the evidence with which he was presented.

  Cyril looked at the notes Owen had made at the crime scene. He read, Poena Honey 2015. Underneath, Owen had scribbled, Goddess of Punishment, also Latin for pain, punishment, or penalty. Cyril read it again. He’d always hated Latin, even at school. He was beginning to loathe it the longer this case continued.

  He checked his watch and shook it but failed to check it again. He’d had enough of the day.

  “What news from the hospital?” he asked a uniformed DC whilst leaning on the tables at which she was sitting. The officer checked the computer screen.

  “According to the last report, Norman is doing just fine, we have an officer there full time as procedure.” She smiled. “Well done, Sir. One safely returned, it could have been worse.”

  And did he know it. Moving away he dug into his pocket for his phone and

  phoned Julie but it went straight to the answerphone. “Julie, on my way home. Call if company would be OK. Thanks.”

  Cyril avoided The Coach; he knew that if he went in he would only stagger out. Turning into the snicket that led to Robert Street his phone rang. It was Julie.

  “Romeo, Romeo. Most men send their ladies roses and chocolates, you, Cyril Bennett, send me plastic wrapped corpses but this time one was left alive. I can assume from finding a live one, my Sherlock Holmes has a criminal on the run? Come over, I’ll rustle up something.”

  “Wonderful lady. I’ll be fifty minutes I need a shower to collect my pipe and fiddle. Is that alright?”

  “Wine’s already breathing.” She hung up and Cyril felt suddenly more alive than he had done in the last few hours.

  ***

  Cyril watched Julie sip from the large glass. Her hair was what he called scrunched along the top of her head. Small curls hung haphazardly by her temples; it suited her.

  “You look stunning. The meal was wonderful and the wine is perfect. Were they oven chips?”

  Julie put her glass down and dropped her head into her hands.

  “Yorkshire Men!” she whispered. “What became of the fine art of romantic, subtle conversation? Were they bloody oven chips?” She spread a fake smile across her face and shook her head. “Cheers, Romeo. Of course they were oven chips.”

  “What have I said now?”

  Julie left the table and moved to the sofa before settling. She went through the findings. It was as expected. The honey tested the same as in the other jars, handwriting matched as did the enclosed tongue section, removed post mortem. As in the last case, it was tattooed but this time with the words Lies kill. Again the body had been cleaned with the same chemical and double bagged initially but left in only one. To date, no incriminating evidence was found and again a pen drive was carefully lodged in the oesophagus. It had been couriered to the Jeffrey’s Lab in the late afternoon. She also mentioned that Forensics had managed to search Norman for evidence but whether anything would be found considering the multiple cross-contamination from paramedics, was unlikely.

  Cyril raised his glass. “No more work,” he protested. His brain was a thick fog. He closed his eyes.

  “Cyril Bennett, you’d better have some energy after all those…” she paused, “oven chips or you’ll find another specimen jar in my office…I could label them little and large!” She went towards the bedroom hiding a grin.

  Cyril drained the remaining wine suddenly feeling recharged.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Brenda Jenkins requested a table for two in a quieter part of the café. The waitress recognised her as a regular and asked how she was.

  “I have this one, is it acceptable?”

  She smiled knowing it was perfect; it was Brenda’s regular table.

  With more than a little relief, she deposited the cardboard box she carried on the floor before sliding it against the wall with her foot. She looked at the marks that had formed on her hand; the weight of the box had been a struggle. She sat and perused the menu. Why, she knew not, her order was always the same. She chatted briefly as her order was taken before beginning to rub her ridged, sore hand. The waitress brought her order. Brenda stared at the Fat Rascal that was delivered on a small plate, cleverly giving the impression that the scone-like cake was larger than it actually was. The café was busy, even for a Tuesday. She sipped her tea. A Fat Rascal and tea had always been a favourite of hers. She picked a plump raisin from the side of the large scone and popped it into her mouth. At the same moment, a man’s hand gripped her shoulder.

  “Forbidden fruit, Brenda? You can get away with nothing.”

  She was neither surprised nor amused, she simply pointed to the empty chair in front of her and, as if disciplining a naughty child, demanded he sit. She looked him in the eye. There was no warmth, no welcome.

  “You’re late.”

  ***

  The official police interview with Lisa Smyth, Brewster’s estranged wife, confirmed that she had discovered his fetish for transsexuals early on in their marriage and although she had tried to work things out it had proved impossible, particularly when she noticed that some of her own clothing was beginning to disappear, especially her expensive lingerie. She also had no doubt that he was wearing it for work. When the marriage failed she no longer communicated with Brewster; the house became hers and money was transferred into her account every month. She was happy with that. It also established that she still saw Adrian but not as often as she would have hoped, as his profession demanded a great deal of his time. He travelled widely, both on the continent and within the UK. What she was unhappy about was made very clear. She believed her son had been badly treated by the school and by his father. This incident of a sexual nature involving his teacher had not only been hurriedly dealt with, in her opinion, but the true facts had never really emerged. She believed that he had been made the scapegoat thereby saving his father’s reputation and that of the school. Cyril closed the file. He checked his diary and noted that an appointment had been made for Wednesday afternoon with Dr Adrian Smyth who would be attending a conference in Leeds on that day.

  ***

  Brenda Jenkins left the café and trun
dled down Montpelier Parade glancing occasionally in the various shop windows whilst contemplating the finer points of the conversation that had lasted the best part of an hour. It was such a relief not to have to carry the box. She would slowly trace her path back up the hill, cross by the Cenotaph and walk the short distance down Cambridge Road. Once at the bus station she would wait for her 2B bus to take her home. Her final destination would be Fieldway, a short walk to her bungalow.

  ***

  The cardboard box now occupied Brenda’s seat. He leaned across the table and attached a self-adhesive address label before paying the bill. He smiled and waved to the waitress as he left the café. He too crossed by the Cenotaph before turning left heading for Oxford Street. Once there he would call into the DHL Service Point and deposit the box for delivery. Apart from the bill at the café, he’d done well out of the deal. He had one more task and then it would be time for home.

  ***

  Cyril stared at the computer screen as the Forensic analysis report on the tests carried out on Norman White were uplifted. Owen and Liz stood by each shoulder; to the casual observer they were like the Holy Trinity, but considering the way that the case was developing, others might say they resembled the three wise monkeys.

  “Positive DNA Forensic match for Bruce Jenkins, a short hair with follicle. Thought you mentioned in the report he was fat and bald with funny toenails?”

  “Hair round the back and a bit of a comb-over but we’re talking thin.” Owen demonstrated with his hand. “Think more Friar Tuck than Yul Brynner.”

  “Thank goodness for that at least, it’s a first! It appears to have been trapped inside the bag, attached to the tape that was used to seal, it at the top. Adhesive must have formed a hermetic seal protecting the hair from the sanitized spray of the cleanser. There’s absolutely nothing else to go on.”

  Owen looked puzzled. “We know that he’s been away in Birmingham so how the hell can he be in two places at once unless someone else dropped the bag?”

  “What’s the time difference between his car being picked up ANPR cameras and the discovery of the body?”

  “We checked, Sir, after I visited Mrs Jenkins if you recall. He was at the NEC before the bag was dropped.”

  “His car was Owen, his car was. It tells us only that his car number plate was registered at that time. Ring his wife and see where he’s staying and get the local force to pay him a visit. All the usual stuff, photo ID, prints to them etc. If it’s possible, see if they can put a call out at the Exhibition Centre. All we can do now is wait. What news on Norman?”

  Liz smiled. “He’s home and seems no worse for the experience. Amazing how resilient kids are.”

  “What about Gregson, Liz?”

  “His computers were clean apart from what we already knew. It appears that he was telling the truth. We had another word with Sonya Jenkins and she reluctantly confirmed that Kylie had been sexually active before Gregson was involved and with multiple partners. Her excuse was that she was mature for her age! We’ve applied to get a court order for the prenatal paternity test, as there’s reluctance on Sonya’s part. Looks like mother’s little game of finding a wealthy man, no doubt either to fleece or possibly to blackmail, could well be up. Social Services are now taking an active interest so some good may come of it for the younger kids at least.”

  “In some ways I feel sorry for Jason Gregson. His life at the moment is lived between a rock and a hard place. I personally don’t understand why he doesn’t just go.”

  “No answer at the Jenkins’s house. Do you want me to call?”

  “Try again if we get nothing from the NEC. If there’s still nothing, go round.”

  ***

  Brenda Jenkins turned the key in the front door lock, pushed it open and breathed a sigh of relief. It had been more stressful than she had imagined, what with depositing the bodies earlier and then the box. So much for her bad back, if she didn’t have one before she should have now. She put her handbag and the keys on the side table and looked into the hall mirror. Her eyes shone, she had no regrets. It was true what had always been said about revenge, that it was sweet and best served cold. She had done both. He’d not treat her like dirt anymore that was for sure. She licked her finger and straightened her left eyebrow before walking towards the kitchen; besides she’d just passed an hour with the man who gave her more pleasure than Bruce ever could. She thought of the night before, visualising his firm body and shivered. “Don’t be silly,” she whispered to herself. You need a cup of tea, Brenda, and maybe a cold shower, that’s what you need my girl,” she said out loud, it would be the pick-me-up that she desperately craved. “And then you can put your feet up.”

  She chuckled as she took the kettle to the sink. The sound of the water filling the kettle masked the sound of any movement, but the arm that swiftly wrapped around her throat and squeezed took her completely by surprise. A slight whimper erupted briefly from her lips, but the power within the arm blocked any further protest. Her hand instinctively released the kettle in a desperate attempt to escape and clear an airway. The kettle clattered into the metal sink. Her senses suddenly became heightened and she recognised the faint smell of cologne. Her mind filled with confusion and betrayal. She could neither shout nor speak. Slowly her peripheral vision diminished, grey opacity began filling her eyes until a blurred light was the only visual acuity she had. An animal grunt tried to form a name but failed, it was hidden, almost drowned out, by the running water. The gurgling breath was just audible until there was nothing. Brenda’s body went limp, her left leg kicked spasmodically twice as if she were in some macabre dance; her arms fell away. Snot dribbled slowly towards her upper lip. It took just one further squeeze before the job was finally done.

  The gloved hand unfurled from her neck and leaned over turning off the tap. The room fell silent apart from the ticking of a clock. The kettle was collected and returned to its stand; water pooled around the base. Brenda was lowered carefully to the floor. Within minutes she would be placed in one of the chest freezers that lined either side of the garage and there she would wait. She would be able to put her feet up for slightly longer than she had anticipated.

  After a careful check, the front door was opened and quietly shut and locked. The figure pulled up the hood on his jacket before turning. The key was replaced under the front tyre of the van on the drive from where it had been collected. Now it was time for home.

  ***

  “Call out at the Exhibition Centre was fruitless, Sir. They’re waiting at his hotel. His car is in the NEC car park; an officer is waiting there too. He could have been outside taking the air, who knows, it’s a bloody big place. I suppose it’s the last thing you expect, hearing your name called.”

  Owen found himself again looking at the van on the drive for the third time. There was no answer when he knocked on the front door. He moved to the lounge window, put his hand against the glass, his head against his hand and peered in. Nothing. He moved round the back. A net curtain prevented a clear view of the kitchen but he could see there was no one in. He took out his mobile and rang the house phone. He heard it ring. There was still no answer. He then dialled Cyril’s mobile to give him the news. Whilst coming down, Owen had noticed a neighbour across the road standing in his front window, he was waving urgently. Owen went towards him. He quickly appeared on the driveway.

  “Can I help you?”

  Owen removed his ID and held it out. “Looking for either Mr or Mrs Jenkins. Have you seen them today?”

  “Mrs Jenkins arrived home a good couple of hours ago. She’s still in as far as I know. The man who left shortly after she arrived home was alone, I had a bad feeling about that”

  “Was that Mr Jenkins?”

  “No, never seen him before. Went that way. Never saw him arrive for that matter, I must have been making a cuppa.”

  “Can you describe him, Mr…?”

  “Bill, Bill McArthur. Not really, was wearing one of them hoody things. Fai
rly tall and I assume not too old but I couldn’t really say. I saw him pop the key back under the wheel, it’s their spare. When you get older, officer, you need back up keys dotted about the place.”

  “So you think she’s in?”

  “As far as I know.”

  Owen went back on the drive, located the key and opened the front door. He called but there was no reply. He noted her handbag and keys on the side. He briefly went to his car and returned before slipping on a pair of plastic overshoes and some gloves. There was nobody in the lounge. He called again. Nothing. He progressed to the kitchen. Water pooled the floor and the work-surface around the base of the kettle. He noticed one set of prints towards the back door. He moved quickly to the front door and turned down the drive to face the garage. There was a hint of a print just by the back door where there was a degree of shade and then nothing. The garage door seemed secure. He took out his mobile and dialled again.

  “Secure it Owen, we’re on our way. No one in and nothing out. Well done.”

  ***

  Cyril and Owen stared into the garage. A tent had been erected in front of the double open doors to prevent unwanted spectators and police tape fluttered across the bottom of the drive. A uniformed officer stood to one side. Four police vehicles were parked along what was normally a quiet road and as usual the journalists had arrived.

  “She’s in the left freezer. They’ve found a door to the rear.” Owen held up an iPad. They watched as the Forensic officer scanned the room. They could make out the bed and the commode. Cyril noted the chalk tally marks on the wall.

  “They found three drums of honey, jars and labels but no tattoo equipment as yet. There were photographs of Tony and Carl on the wall facing the commode. Anything on Jenkins?”