by Simon Hall
The fibres were from a batch of materials used to line the boots of BMW three series saloon cars, made for the British market between late 2003 and mid 2004.
The owner of one such car was Gordon Clarke.
Clarke didn’t say a word for the whole of the journey back to Charles Cross. He sat in the back of the car, alongside Dan, and stared at the falling rain picked out in the passing streetlights. Occasionally, he would glance at Adam or Suzanne, and shift position in his seat, but otherwise he was still.
One search team was going through his house, another his office. The High Technology Crime, or Square Eyes divisionas they were known, were searching his computers, looking for any evidence he may have been planning a murder. Forensics officers were examining his car for any traces of Edward Bray’s blood, and its boot for evidence the shotgun might have been carried there. It was an extensive and expensive operation, but the High Honchos had willingly authorised the overtime.
The final draft of their beloved annual report was on hold, ready for some new and proud headlines.
At the police station, Adam booked Clarke into the custody suite. Even then, the businessman spoke only to confirm his name. He was asked if he wanted a solicitor and allowed to make his call to Julia Francis’s offices. They were closed until the morning. Just as Adam had hoped, Clarke didn’t have her home number.
He was offered the duty solicitor, but refused. For the first interviews, Gordon Clarke would have no lawyer to shield him.
The plan was working.
Adam held a quick discussion with a Crown Prosecution Service solicitor, a young but effective man called Richard, to consider the evidence they had against Clarke. It was a ruthless dissection of the case and a forthright exchange. The eventual verdict was that the evidence was suggestive, but in truth only circumstantial, by no means yet sufficient for a charge of murder and certainly nowhere near to being strong enough to convince a jury.
Clarke had means and motive, but it was the opportunity which was the problem. They could show he hated Bray with a raging passion, and they could speculate that it wouldn’t be difficult to get hold of a shotgun. But in his visit to Bristol the man had an alibi, one which had yet to be properly punctured.
Even the trump card in Adam’s hand had a weakness, and one which would be fatal to any case. The fibres on the gun might match those from Clarke’s car, but they would also match similar BMWs from an eight-month period of manufacture. The database had no precise answer as to how many cars that would be, but the estimate was at least several thousand.
At that point in the discussion, Adam went quiet.
The conclusion of the case conference was that they were still some way short of securing sufficient evidence to consider the killer of Edward Bray identified and caught.
And so the strategy for the evening changed. Adam had been keen to interview Clarke as soon as possible, pile the pressure on him and see if he could be pushed to make a mistake and incriminate himself. But now he decided to wait, to see what the search teams and the Square Eyes turned up.
They needed more evidence. As Richard put it, with the case they currently had the Crown Prosecution Service would be most unlikely to be able to find a barrister willing to argue it before a court. Even if they did, he estimated the jury would scarcely need to retire to consider their verdict before pronouncing Gordon Clarke not guilty.
There was another advantage to letting the evening run. Some quiet and solitary minutes inside a small, cold and uncomfortable police cell might also prompt Clarke to consider his position and make him more inclined to talk.
So wait was what they did.
It was hardly the way Dan expected to spend the night before Christmas Eve.
He sat on the windowsill in the MIR and watched the people passing by. Despite the rain the city was busy, hundreds making their way between restaurants, bars and clubs. Most were obscured from his view and only apparent by the procession of colourful umbrellas they carried.
The room was silent. Adam was standing, arms folded, staring at the green boards, rapt in thought, Suzanne sitting at a desk working through some files.
The mood had changed. The breakthrough had become tarnished with reality. The euphoria of earlier had evaporated fast. The results from the search teams had come back. They had turned both places inside out and there was nothing incriminating in either Gordon Clarke’s home or office. All that remained was to wait for the Square Eyes to report their findings.
‘It’s just about our last hope,’ Adam said quietly. ‘If they don’t come up with any evidence we’ve got nowhere near enough.’
‘Clarke still might talk when we interview him,’ Suzanne said, although her voice sounded anything but hopeful.
Adam snorted. ‘Fat chance. He’s not daft. He’ll soon realise we haven’t got anything. He’ll just stay silent until the morning, then get that solicitor to come and release him. And we won’t have anything to stop it. There’s no way I’ll get a magistrate to let us keep holding him over Christmas on the evidence we’ve got.’
A couple of sharp phone calls from the High Honchos, demanding updates, hadn’t improved the detective’s mood. His usually impeccable tie was hanging low on his collar and he looked jaded.
It was almost eight o’clock and growing colder in the MIR. Dan pulled his jacket around his chest. He comforted himself with the thought that at least two outstanding issues in his life had been resolved. Earlier, he’d asked Adam how long it would be before anything happened this evening, been sullenly reassured he had an hour or more, and had driven home to feed Rutherford and give him a quick run around the garden.
‘Sorry for neglecting you old fellow,’ he called to the dog, as he cantered around the garden in the rain, ‘but the investigation’s at a crucial phase – or at least I hope it is. We will have Christmas together though, I promise you, and I will get you that turkey.’
Dan drove back to Charles Cross via El’s flat. He picked up the photographer, as they’d arranged earlier, and did his best to calm him. It wasn’t easy. El was like an excitable child at the best of times, but given the prospect of what might be about to happen he was a blur of agitation. Yes, Dan soothed, he was sure it would work – well, almost sure anyway. Whatever, it was certainly worth a try. El might have to wait for a few hours, hidden in the footwell of the car’s back seats, but it would happen.
Dan just hoped the photographer was at his surreptitious best. There would be more than a little explaining required if he was caught. He’d said he would try to tip El off if it looked like the opportunity for the picture was about to arise, but he couldn’t be sure he’d have the chance. The photographer would have to be ready.
Dan had left El hunched down in the car, burbling to himself and preparing a rhyme, ready for if the plan should work.
The phone rang, loud in the quiet of the MIR. Suzanne answered it, listened for a few seconds, then hung up.
‘The Square Eyes,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘They didn’t find anything incriminating at all on either Clarke’s home or work computers. If he has been researching murder he’s been smart and done it in some internet café somewhere.’
Adam nodded slowly. ‘Then it’s down to us, isn’t it? Our questioning and our wits. If we don’t get anything, we don’t have a case. Come on then, let’s go and do it.’
Chapter Twenty-one
ON THE WAY INTO the custody suite, they passed a sergeant who was escorting a chubby, balding man outside. Dan fumbled surreptitiously in his pocket and hit a couple of buttons on his phone. He gave it a few seconds to ring, produced an unconvincing coughing fit, then cut the call.
‘What are you up to?’ Adam asked, over his shoulder.
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you.’
‘I’m just – err … turning my phone to silent. I don’t want to interrupt this, do I?’
‘Is that all?’
‘That’s all.’
The detective turnedand gave Dan a
knowing look, but didn’t reply.
Clarke was waiting in Interview Room Two. He was sitting at the table, upright, his arms folded. Down here in the dim depths of the police station it was even colder than the MIR. Rain spattered on the tiny window and the odd thud of heavy feet passed by.
Adam introduced them for the tape recorder. He and Suzanne sat opposite Clarke, Dan took his customary place by the door.
On the walk down the stairs, Dan had again asked whether he should be here at such a sensitive moment, what might well be the culmination of the case.
‘Still yes,’ Adam grunted. ‘You want to come join an inquiry, you get the whole deal. There’s no copping out when things get tense.’
‘And how are you going to play the interview?’
‘The usual way. Go for his pressure points. Mix the questions up between Suzanne and me, to try to keep him guessing. Just watch and learn. But I’m not going to mess about. We don’t have the time. I’ll go straight in and aim right between his eyes.’
And the detective was very much true to his word.
‘Mr Clarke,’ he began, ‘We have reason to suspect you were responsible for the murder of Edward Bray.’
The businessman stared at him, but didn’t reply.
‘What do you say to that?’ Adam asked.
‘No comment.’
‘We have evidence to implicate you in the crime.’
‘No comment.’
‘Well, maybe this will change your mind. As you may have seen on the news, we’ve recovered the murder weapon. We’ve got it safely in the labs here, and do you know what?’
Adam paused, waited for a reaction, but Clarke gave him none. He just sat, staring straight ahead.
‘It’s been telling us a little story. It’s not like an informer, spewing out what happened, but it’s been telling us nonetheless.’
Another pause. But still no reaction from Clarke.
Now Adam’s voice changed, from hard to conversational, almost friendly. ‘Do you know, it’s amazing what our scientists can find. It’s an unfortunate fact of modern policing that killers are clever these days. They know all about DNA and hairs and fibres. They know how to cover their tracks – or at least how to try. But the problem is these little bits of evidence can be devils to get rid of. There’s nearly always something left behind, if you look hard enough.’
Adam leaned forwards, so his face was close to Clarke’s, and lowered his voice.
‘We looked damned hard. And guess what we found?’
The businessman didn’t reply.
‘Fibres!’ Adam spat. ‘Little tiny telltale fibres. They came from the boot of a car. And here’s the punchline, Mr Clarke. Guess whose boot they match?’
No reaction.
‘Go on, have a guess.’
Clarke’s eyes were widening. A quick hand flicked up to itch at his ear.
‘Yours, Mr Clarke. The fibres on the gun are an exact match for the boot of your car. Now, isn’t that a remarkable coincidence? Is there anything you’d like to say about that?’
Clarke gulped. ‘No comment,’ he said finally.
‘No comment?’
‘No comment.’
Adam angled his head. ‘You know, I thought you might say that. But comment or not, I’d reckon you’re in a bit of bother, Mr Clarke, wouldn’t you? We can show you had a motive, the means and, with some work, the opportunity to kill Edward Bray.’
‘No comment.’
‘We know you hated Bray.’
And this time, Clarke looked as though he was going to say something more, but after a couple of seconds replied only, ‘No comment.’
Suzanne opened a file on the desk, sat back and leafed through it. Clark eyed her nervously. He was sweating now, despite the cold. Outside, in the corridor, a cell door banged.
‘That’s a sound you’d better start getting used to,’ Adam remarked, casually.
The silence returned. Suzanne kept flicking through pages. Adam’s attention was set on adjusting his cuff. The strip lights buzzed.
At last, Suzanne looked up and in a kindly voice said, ‘Was it love? Or infatuation?’
Clarke sounded surprised. ‘What?’
‘Love. For Eleanor Paget. That prompted you to kill Edward Bray.’
‘No comment.’
‘We know you hated Bray, but then so did many people. You hated him for a long time. But it was when you fell for Eleanor, and you thought Bray was in the way of you having a relationship with her, that was what finally spurred you to murder – wasn’t it?’
Clarke lowered his headand massaged at his temples with unsteady fingers.
‘No comment,’ he muttered.
‘We’re going to have to keep you here unless you talk to us, you know,’ Suzanne added.
‘No comment.’
‘And that’s not going to be good for your business. I wonder how it’ll cope without you.’
‘No comment.’
‘Our accountants tell us it wasn’t doing well anyway.’
The businessman’s face was reddening. ‘No comment.’
Now Adam spoke, opening a new angle of attack. ‘What was it that forced you to put the killing off?’
‘What?’
‘From the week before. It was all planned for the Monday before, wasn’t it? But you had to put it off.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘I think you do.’
‘Well, I don’t.’
‘It would be easier on you if you talked to us.’
‘No comment.’
‘It would weigh in your favour with a judge.’
‘No comment.’
‘At your trial.’
‘No comment.’
‘For murder.’
‘No comment.’
‘A cold-hearted, premeditated, ruthlessly plotted and planned murder.’
‘No comment.’
‘It would be likely to get you a substantially lighter sentence if you cooperated with us.’
‘No comment.’
Adam leaned back from the table. ‘I’ll give you one more chance tonight, Mr Clarke. Before we leave you to your little cell and an opportunity to reflect on whether it might just be in your interests to talk to us.’
‘No comment. I don’t intend to say anything to you until my solicitor is present.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Then this is your last chance. Before we leave you to your cell and we all go home, to our lovely warm houses, eat our tasty dinners, have a beer, put our feet up and look forward to Christmas. Things you won’t be doing, not for a very long time.’
Clarke tapped a finger on the table, then said, ‘OK, if you’re so sure I killed Bray, charge me then. Charge me now.’
Adam hesitated. ‘All in good time,’ he said, but not quite quickly enough.
The two men stared at each other. Then Adam got up, called the sergeant, and Clarke was taken back to his cell. In the doorway, he paused and looked back. It was difficult to be sure in the dim light, but the expression looked very much like a smirk.
‘He knows,’ Adam said, as they sat in the MIR. ‘He knows we don’t have anything like enough on him.’
‘I think you’re right, sir,’ Suzanne agreed. ‘And it’s also clear that he’s not going to talk to us. He’ll suffer the night in the cells, then call his solicitor first thing in the morning.’
‘And when she gets here, we’re stuffed,’ Adam agreed. ‘We’ll try a few more questions, she’ll know the only evidence we’ve got is the fibres and that they could have come from thousands of cars, and that’ll be it. He’ll walk free.’
‘We’ll get him sir,’ Suzanne said, with an unconvincing attempt at reassurance.
‘Will we?’ was the grunted response.
Adam paced back and forth in front of the boards, the leather soles of his shoes clicking on the floor. Outside, the rain was sweeping in harder, waves of falling
water pummelling the windows. It reminded Dan of the times he’d been in a storm at sea.
‘I know it was Clarke though,’ Adam said. ‘Or if he didn’t actually pull the trigger, then he was involved. It’s just too much of a coincidence otherwise. And it’s bloody frustrating, knowing it but not being able to prove it.’
He kicked out at some imaginary debris on the floor.
‘Come on then, what do you make of it?’ Adam said, turning to Dan.
‘Err, me?’ he said, surprised.
‘I appear to be talking to you,’ came the petulant reply. ‘You’ve been conspicuously quiet. That’s not like you. What do you reckon?’
‘I’ve been quiet because I’m a hack, not a detective,’ Dan bridled. ‘And I don’t know what I reckon. If you can’t work out what happened, what chance have I got?’
‘Come off it. You’ve been in on the case since the start. You’ve met all the suspects. Tell me what you think. You’ve got a decent brain and a reasonable insight.’
Adam clearly wasn’t in the mood to rise even to the heights of damning with faint praise.
‘Well,’ Dan said slowly, ‘if you’re really interested, my “decent” brain and “reasonable” insight agree with you. Clarke has to be involved. But as to how, when he’s got an alibi that he was in Bristol, I don’t know.’
Adam didn’t reply, so Dan looked over to Suzanne. He expected the usual rich helpings of scorn and contempt, but she was nodding.
‘It’s a pretty decent alibi, without ever actually proving he was in Bristol,’ she said. ‘There’s the phone trace, the CCTV, and the cashpoint.’
‘And those text message to his secretary,’ Adam pointed out. ‘She was sure they came from Clarke, a hundred per cent certain, and there’s not a hint of suggestion that she’s lying. The messages were about all the ongoing business deals and gave her exactly the instructions she’d expect about what to do. That would be powerful evidence for him in court. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? He doesn’t have to prove he was in Bristol. We have to prove he wasn’t.’
No one replied. Adam pointed to the pictures of the six suspects on the boardsand ran his hand along them. Arthur Bray, Penelope Ramsden, Eleanor Paget, Andrew Hicks, Jon Stead and Gordon Clarke himself, all stared out into the MIR.
