by Peter Hey
Dean said nothing and his face had become impassive and unreadable. Only a faint twitch in his right eye betrayed the surge of anger and resentment swelling within him. He’d been brought up to idolise his grandfather. Dean knew the same blood flowed in his veins; he would not have that taken from him. Some days it felt like all he had.
Jane reached into her bag and brought out the transparent polythene envelope. ‘I hope this hasn’t come as too much of a shock and I suspect it’s difficult for you. There’s one way to prove it. This is a DNA test kit. I’d bought it for someone else, but if you could give me a saliva sample—'
‘I’ll give you a fucking sample, you bitch!’ Dean leapt across the room and grabbed Jane by the shoulders, yanking her upright out of her chair. He pulled her into him and pressed his face hard against hers. She was an inch or two taller so he had to use his weight to forcibly bend her at the knees. He began to lick her cheek and she could taste fried food and stale cigarettes on his breath.
‘Dean! No. Get off me, please.’ Jane tried to wriggle out of his grasp.
‘You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you, pet? Well, now I’m going to teach you a little lesson you won’t forget.’
‘Dean. No! Stop this! You’ll be sorry, Dean. Don’t do this.’
Dean grabbed Jane’s face with his right hand, squeezing her cheeks together painfully and distorting her mouth into a vertical line.
‘Shut up!’ he hissed. ‘You’re the one who’ll be sorry if you don’t do exactly what I say. The last woman who messed me about ended up face down in the river with her head smashed in. And smart old Dean here got away with it, so you be a good girl and behave. Maybe you’ll enjoy yourself. Eh? It’s why you came here, after all.’
Dean’s senses were focussed on one thing as he ripped open her blouse with his free hand and began fumbling at the belt of her jeans. He didn’t notice her right leg slip round the back of his calves. If he felt her hands slip onto his chest, he might have convinced himself it was the beginning of an embrace.
The next thing he knew, he was tumbling backwards. He hit the floor awkwardly and the words, ‘You bitch!’, were half out of his mouth when he sucked them back in again. Jane had followed him down and landed heavily with both knees slamming hard into his stomach. He twisted his head to the side and retched but Jane’s weight prevented the contents of his gut spewing out.
Prostrate, sweating and between rapid, heavy breaths, he resumed his threats. ‘I’ll make you pay for this, you bitch. You’ll wish—'
He stopped abruptly. Something sharp was pressing into the socket just beneath his right eye. It felt as if the skin was being pierced and the eyeball was being pushed up and out. He lay motionless as Jane shifted her position so that she was astride him with her knees pinning down his shoulders. He was seeing double and the image was partially blurred, but he could just make out her face. He saw flared nostrils, wide eyes, bared teeth. It was a look verging on madness. He forced his breathing under control in fear of any violent movement jarring whatever weapon was cutting into him and threatening his sight.
His voice was weak and shaking. ‘Calm down. Let’s not get silly. I was only playing.’
By contrast, Jane’s tone was steady and cruelly measured. ‘I’m not playing, you filthy little scumbag. You make me sick.’
Dean tried to sound soothing but he croaked and swallowed with anxiety. ‘Look, just think for a minute. You’ll have my eye out and that’s a prison sentence for sure. You wouldn’t like prison. Trust me, I’ve been there. You wouldn’t like it. Not a nice girl like you. So let’s just calmly talk about this.’
‘You’re not the only one who gets away with things, Dean. I pretty much blinded a suspect in a police cell once. Did I tell you I used to be a policewoman, Dean?’ She paused more for effect that in expectation of a reply. ‘I guess not. Anyway, he pissed me off, too, Dean. And I got away with it. And he hadn’t just tried to rape me. Had he, Dean?’ Another pause. ‘Here I am, a poor, defenceless woman, fighting off a known lowlife scumbag. I think I’d get the benefit of the doubt in court, don’t you, Dean? If my old chums in the force let it get anywhere near court, of course, Dean.’
He was begging now. ‘Please just stop this. Please. You’re scaring me.’
The red mist in Jane’s mind was lifting and she began to see an alternative path to retribution. ‘So, tell me about the woman who ended up in face down in the river.’ Jane gently increased the pressure against Dean’s eyeball causing him to whinny like a frightened horse.
‘Okay, okay. She was a junkie. Do anything for the price of a fix. This one time she was playing all hard to get and I gave her a bit of a slap. Then she started threatening me...’
‘Keep talking.’
‘Her dad, he was due out of prison. The bloke you had the run in with outside the pub. Michael’s a total animal. A big, angry, vicious animal. Been inside for manslaughter. She said she’d tell him it was me that got her on the heroin…’
‘Keep talking.’
‘I was scared, so I think I just pushed her. Just to make her shut up. We were by the river. She hit her head on the rocks. She didn’t move. She was in the water. I was scared. I heard someone coming. I ran away. I was scared.’
Dean felt the pressure on his eye socket recede and Jane’s weight shift off his body. He began to breathe deeply again and touched his face. His vision slowly cleared and he managed to focus on a small drop of blood on his fingertips. Looking over, he saw Jane kneeling alongside him and putting a jagged Yale key back in her bag.
He lifted himself onto his elbows, all fight seemingly knocked out of him. ‘Good luck proving that to anyone, by the way. I’ve got a watertight alibi. I was probably lying to you anyway. Just to get you off me, you mad fucking bitch.’
In one final act of defiance he spat angrily into Jane’s face.
She felt the saliva dripping down her cheek. ‘Thanks for that,’ she said and stood up.
Another phone call
She left it until the following morning before making the call. A bottle of wine had stopped her shaking and got her off to sleep. She awoke with a rough head and a feeling of anxiety. It was a conversation she could do without, but she knew it couldn’t be avoided. She sat staring at a half-drunk cup of coffee and then reached for her phone.
‘Dave speak...’ There was a slight pause as he registered the name that came up on his mobile’s screen. ‘...oh hi, Janey. Look, I’m at work. Is this urgent or could we talk later?’
‘Hi, Dave. It’s a work-related matter. You remember you said you were friends with that DI in Chesterfield? The one who gave you the lowdown on Dean Smith, the guy I was trying to trace?’
‘Please don’t ask me for any more favours, Janey.’
‘I’ve got something for you this time. A lead for your friend, something on Dean Smith.’
‘Go on.’ Dave had begun to sound interested.
‘A girl was found dead in a river in Dowley a while back. Dean admitted to me that he did it. Said he just pushed her and got scared, but he is a total scumbag so maybe he did do it on purpose. He said he had an alibi but there must be a hole in it.’
‘Dean just admitted this to you in passing, did he?’
Jane hesitated before replying. ‘It’s a long story. My testimony wouldn’t be accepted in court, but—'
‘But what, Janey? That suggests you forced it out of him somehow? What was going on?’
Jane sighed. ‘I guess there was an element of duress. Look, he attacked me and I fought back.’
Dave replied angrily. ‘I warned you about him! What was your supposed partner, Tommy, doing while all this was going on?’
‘I was on my own. It was a spur of the moment decision. I can handle the likes of Dean Smith. He’ll think twice before attacking another woman.’
‘Oh, my God! What does that mean? What did you do to him, Jane?’ Dave lowered his voice. ‘Please tell me you left his fucking eyes alone. No, it’s not eye
s, is it Jane? It’s just eye. Always the right eye. Please tell me he’s not in a hospital ward somewhere with half his face covered in bandages.’
Jane felt her own voice beginning to crack. ‘It’s fine, Dave. Don’t worry. I stopped myself this time. That’s good, isn’t it? I just nicked his skin a bit. He might have a slight bruise. He tried to rape me – he won’t be making any complaints. I didn’t want to make this call, but I couldn’t ignore what he told me. And it was the truth. I know it. He killed that girl.’
The line went silent for a full ten seconds before Dave replied. He sounded calmer now but was still whispering to avoid being overheard. ‘What am I going to do with you, Jane? When you attacked that guy in the cells… You know you were lucky to get away with just losing your job. If he hadn’t been doped out of his head, if the desk sergeant hadn’t pulled you off him, if the hospital hadn’t been able to save the guy’s sight, if I hadn’t stuck my neck out… All these ifs... It could have been very different. We both know that.’
‘I know, Dave. But Dean attacked me. And I stopped myself, don’t you see? That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘If you say so,’ said Dave without conviction. ‘Okay, I’ll call my mate in Chesterfield and say I’ve got an anonymous but reliable tip-off. But maybe you need to do something for me. Maybe you need to go back and see that psychiatrist again. What do you say, Janey?’
‘He’ll just get me talking the same old crap about my father and my mother. And he’ll put me back on those horrible pills. I’ll be a zombie again. With a memory full of holes. I’m not going back there. Please don’t ask me to do that, Dave. I can’t go back there.’
‘Okay, okay, I get it,’ said Dave, defeatedly. ‘But promise me one thing. Stay away from Dean Smith.’
‘I will.’
The line went dead. Jane’s grip relaxed and her phone slipped out of her hand and dropped onto the carpeted floor. She left it where it lay and walked over to her laptop. She’d made the call, now she had an email to type.
She’d thought of ringing Tommy too, but given his nocturnal habits there was a chance she’d disturb him whilst he was catching some much needed sleep. An email also allowed her to organise her thoughts, pushing Dean Smith to the back of her mind so she could try to make sense of the scribbled notes she’d made in Mary’s company. In amongst the rambling recollections, tangential asides and dubious claims, there had to be a core of accuracy and truth. Tommy had previously dismissed the suggestion that James Smith had been a spy. But that had been before Jane had seen the Iron Cross and William Joyce note. Could they possibly be taken at face value?
Three threads
Hi Jane
Wow! Your email made quite some reading. No need to apologise for it being a bit complicated. It sounds like Mary was talking to you for hours, and you know I like complicated.
I agree that Mary isn’t what a judge would call a ‘reliable witness’. She had to have been mistaken in at least some of what she told you. Your question, of course, is: how much? There’s a lot to comment on, but I think there are three main threads to address:
Thread #1. Was James Smith a German spy?
I can’t help but feel things hinge around this. If you believe it, even partially, the rest of it makes much more sense.
Which takes us to the medal and the letter you scanned purporting to be from William Joyce. The Germans didn’t engrave a recipient’s name on Iron Crosses, and I agree one would be relatively easy to get hold of. The letter is more puzzling. I was able compare the writing with a genuine document written by Joyce. Unfortunately, it’s on the Web as a poor quality image and I’m no graphologist, but they certainly look similar. Would James have had the skills to forge the letterhead and make a good fist of the handwriting? And why would he bother? One interpretation is that he was a complete and dedicated fantasist. Perhaps Mary was taken in by – or shared – those fantasies.
I need to dig into this some more. I’m still convinced the Double Cross system means he can’t have been (working for) a German agent, but maybe I’m missing something. Leave it with me.
Thread #2. The parenthood of Mary’s children.
You seem quite unhappy about what Mary told you. She jumped around a bit, so let me see if I can summarise the story.
Mary moves to Norfolk to work as a Land Girl. There she meets James Smith. He’s originally from London but earning a dodgy living as what they used to term a ‘spiv’. He buys otherwise unobtainable goods from GIs on US air bases and then sells them on the black market. He’s not been called up himself because he’s lost the sight in one eye. He’s charismatic and looks like a film star. Mary is besotted and has an on/off relationship with him. She gets pregnant, but then he wants nothing more to do with her.
Mary has also slept with American airman, Woody Jensen. He marries her and is registered as the father of the child, Lois, when she’s born. Despite her obvious resemblance to James, Woody accepts the baby as his and absolutely adores her.
Mary gets pregnant again, this time she says the father is Woody, but he’s killed almost immediately afterwards. James Smith steps in this time, marries her and they go back to her home village, Dowley in Derbyshire. She says he’s trying to hide under the anonymity of his surname, off the beaten track in a remote mining community. When the child’s born it’s a boy, whom he can’t resist naming Ernald after Oswald Mosley’s middle name. James has himself registered as the father, but treats him badly because he’s not his real son. Ernald doesn’t exactly grow up a pillar of the community, a trait he passes on to his own son, your friend Dean Smith.
I think that sums up what Mary told you. If true, we’ll have to amend the family tree, but I sense you’re reluctant to do so. Unfortunately, this sort of thing happens, Jane. If it helps, I’ll try to lay out the evidence for and against:
Evidence for, photographic. Lois looks like James Smith; Ernald looks like Woody, compellingly so when you’ve heard the explanation. That said, children don’t necessarily take after their parents, genetics is a complicated business.
Evidence against, birth certificates. Official documents aren’t always right, but Mary’s saying the paternity of both her children is incorrectly recorded, i.e. the wrong way round. One big problem is that Ernald’s date of birth is a full ten months after his supposed father, Woody, died. You pointed this out, and her answer – eventually – was that James simply delayed the registration, perhaps because he was trying to distance himself from the name Woodrow Jensen. I guess it’s possible; he sounds dodgy enough, spy or not.
On balance, I think we should probably accept Mary’s account, but DNA testing is the only way of achieving any certainty. I’m assuming that’s why you wanted the sample off Dean Smith. You’ll still need to get one off Lois’s child, Chris Aimson, of course.
Thread #3. Woody Jensen’s death.
I definitely need to think about this some more. As I suggested, if we don’t think James Smith was working for the Germans, then this part of Mary’s story seems like another fantasy and even harder to accept. You mentioned that photograph we saw in the Norfolk air museum, but that’s circumstantial evidence at best.
Give me a day or so and I’ll get back to you.
All the best,
Tommy x
PS and more importantly, are you OK? I get the impression it didn’t go too well when you went round to Dean Smith’s flat. He doesn’t sound a very nice man. I hope he didn’t upset you.
Case closed
Jane was sitting on the patio at the back of her house. It was within range of the wifi signal and the laptop was open on the wooden slatted table, shaded from the sun by the large umbrella that had once been a vivid orange but had long since faded to khaki. Her grandfather and latterly her grandmother had lavished much love and attention on the small walled garden. Jane struggled to do little more than keep it under control and its once bright summer colours were gradually being reduced to a monochrome palette limited to various shades of green.
Nonetheless, it was her oasis and she sat out there whenever the weather allowed.
She’d read Tommy’s email twice and was composing a reply in her head when her phone rang. Dave’s picture appeared on the screen and she reminded herself that she’d meant to delete it.
‘Hi Dave.’
‘Jane. It’s just a quick call. I’m outside the station having a quick fag.’
‘What are you doing back on the cancer sticks?’ Jane heard herself nagging and backed away. ‘Not that it’s any of my business anymore.’
‘Correct. Look, I spoke to my mate, the DI in Chesterfield, about Dean Smith killing that girl.’
‘Is he going to pull him in?’
‘Jane, now don’t get wound up about this, but he’s not interested.’
‘He’s not even going to pull him in and talk to him?’ Jane made no attempt to disguise her anger.
‘It’s like this. Dean was a known associate, that is customer, of the girl. She was on the game to fund her habit. But he does have a solid-gold alibi. He was caught on CCTV on the other side of the county at the time she died—'
‘We both know time of death can be way out,’ interrupted Jane.
‘Not in this case. She was found quite quickly. There was only a small window when it could have happened. And at that time Dean was doing over a car accessory shop. I told you about it before. Someone grassed on him and the stolen goods were found in his flat along with the hoodie he was wearing on camera.’
‘He told me he did it, Dave.’
‘Under duress, i.e. you were scaring the shit out of him at the time. He’d probably have said he was the Yorkshire Ripper if you’d told him to. Look, Janey, the coroner recorded an open verdict. It was suspicious but maybe she just fell. And there’s something else.’
