The Dead

by Howard Linskey

  ‘I hope you killed the bastard slowly Davey,’ she said. I had done, but I wasn’t about to confirm that, even to her.

  ‘Before I took back the city, Gladwell and his Russian henchmen took your dad and Finney away.’

  ‘I was there, remember?’

  ‘I remember,’ I confirmed, ‘they took them both to a lock up, a disused factory on the outskirts of the city. They brought me there too. By the time I arrived Finney was already dead. They strapped him to a chair, tortured him, then garrotted him with wire. They took Northam, our accountant, there too. They got the information they needed from him, then they shot him in the head. When I got there your father was the only one left alive. They wanted me to see him. Gladwell wanted everyone to know that your dad was finished.’

  ‘Did they torture him too,’ she asked me, ‘did they hurt him before they…’ She couldn’t complete the sentence. Tears formed in her eyes.

  ‘They beat him,’ I said, ‘pretty badly, but your dad was the toughest old bugger I ever met. It wasn’t the first time he’d taken a few punches. He could handle that.’

  ‘What did they do then Davey?’ she asked me, ‘tell me. I have to know.’

  ‘Your dad was tied to a chair and they made me watch while a man called Vitaly drew a gun and pointed it straight at your father. Gladwell then said he was going to kill him and I assumed he would kill me too. He gave your dad ten seconds, I think he wanted your father to beg for his life, but he didn’t, quite the opposite in fact, he told Gladwell to go and fuck himself. Gladwell counted down the ten seconds.’ I hesitated before telling her.

  ‘What happened when he finished counting?’ she urged me.

  ‘Vitaly shot your father in the head.’

  The tears were falling from her eyes now, tracks forming on her cheeks. She nodded silently and after she had absorbed that she said, ‘But how did you get away, Davey? How come they let you go? When you’d seen them kill my father, you were a witness, so why would they let you just walk away?’

  ‘They weren’t scared of me,’ I explained, ‘they didn’t think I was a threat. They thought I was just a suit and I couldn’t possibly harm them. Everyone who could do that was already dead; Jerry Lemon, Finney, Geordie Cartwright, your dad, they were all gone by then. They thought I was the only one left, but they didn’t know about Palmer, Danny or Kinane. I still don’t know why they let me live but I think they needed someone who could tell the world that Bobby Mahoney was really gone. Your father was a legend in this city. Nobody would have believed a man like Alan Gladwell could have brought him down without me to corroborate his story.’

  I couldn’t tell her that they had film of me shooting Bobby for them, which meant I was in their power by then and could be conveniently put in the frame for his killing if the heat became too much. ‘The truth is they could have killed me if they’d wanted to, it made no difference to them whether I lived or died. In the end they put me on a train to London, told me not to come back, that there was nothing in Newcastle for me anymore, but they didn’t know how I felt about you, Sarah. I came back for you.’

  She could barely speak now because of the tears. ‘I know,’ she sniffed, ‘and I’m so sorry. I’ve just been so messed up about dad, not knowing what really happened to him and then that detective came round, and more or less said you were involved, and I got confused, and then his daughter was killed…’ The words came out in a rush.

  ‘That had nothing to do with me.’

  ‘I know that now. I should have always known it. I’m so sorry,’ and she took a deep breath then to try to quell the sobbing. ‘Did he say anything?’ She was in floods of tears now, ‘Before he died, did my daddy say anything?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘he told me to get away from there. “Find Sarah,” he said, “take care of her” and that’s what I did. That’s what I’ve been doing ever since.’

  ‘Oh Davey,’ she collapsed into my arms, sobbing, ‘I’m so sorry… I’m so, so sorry… I’m so ashamed I doubted you.’

  ‘That’s alright,’ I told her, ‘it doesn’t matter now.’

  I didn’t want to talk about it anymore because her shame was nothing compared to mine.

  33

  Everyone knew my link to Henry Baxter, so it didn’t matter that I was in the public gallery. Opposite me, Matt Bell listened intently to the court proceedings, taking copious notes. Things didn’t get properly interesting until the third day of the trial, when our barrister took centre stage.

  Detective Chief Inspector Argyle, who headed up the original case into the murder of Leanne Bell, took the witness stand. Argyle couldn’t have been far from retirement age. He stood in the dock in his crumpled grey suit and M&S tie and, when our barrister cross-examined him, he stared out at the court like a rabbit caught between headlights.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector, the investigation into the murder of Leanne Bell was a large and extensively-resourced one,’ Julian Aimes reminded him, ‘involving more than thirty detectives, all of whom reported to you.’

  ‘That is correct,’ he answered, in a strong Bristolian burr.

  ‘During the course of this investigation, your team interviewed a large number of people, did you not?’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I can’t recall the exact number, but it was significant.’

  ‘One hundred and seventeen.’ Aimes prompted him.

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Whether I say so or not, that is the number, according to the documentation provided by the prosecution. Are you now telling me this is inaccurate?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m just saying I couldn’t remember, but it sounds about right to me. If that number has come from the prosecution, I have no reason to doubt it.’

  ‘Nor have I. One hundred and seventeen people spoken to in the course of your lengthy investigation into Leanne’s murder,’ Aimes told the jury. ‘I have the names of each and every one of them detailed here, but there is one name missing from the list, isn’t there Detective Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Yes there is,’ Aimes assured him, ‘Henry Baxter’s name is not on the list. Why not?’

  ‘Well,’ the Detective Chief Inspector looked uncomfortable, ‘we didn’t consider him to be a suspect… at that time.’

  ‘Why was that, I wonder? Sounds like a bit of an oversight to me. Here is a man who lived within a couple of miles of the girl and he is not even interviewed by you, despite having a link to Leanne and her friends due to the piano lessons that have already been mentioned in court. Yet you did not even bother to interview him. That’s little more than police incompetence, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all. We never received a complaint from any parent whose child had piano lessons with Henry Baxter. It’s only in hindsight that they seemed suspicious. We weren’t aware that he was giving free lessons and other incentives to young girls who visited him. There was no evidence to suggest the man might have been responsible for her death.’

  ‘Really? No evidence. None whatsoever? I find that very hard to believe.’

  ‘There was none. Nothing that would lead us to believe he was Leanne’s killer.’

  ‘Ladies and gentleman of the jury, you just heard it from the lips of the chief investigating officer; there was no evidence to link Henry Baxter to the murder of Leanne Bell.’

  ‘At that time,’ countered the DCI, realising too late that he had been baited into a trap while trying to defend a charge of incompetence.

  ‘And there is still none,’ said Aimes, firmly.

  ‘There is DNA evidence,’ replied the police officer.

  ‘Yes, well, we shall demonstrate how the DNA evidence is very far from reliable and, since it is the cornerstone of the prosecution case against Mr Baxter, I expect him to be acquitted. I put it to you, for the time being at least, that aside from the DNA sample, there is absolutely no other evidence against Henry Baxter. Is there?’

  ‘Well
no,’ admitted the DCI, ‘but the DNA evidence is enough.’

  ‘Is it?’ asked our lawyer, ‘the jury shall be the judge of that.’

  After the break for lunch our lawyer went for the DCI once more.

  ‘You have arrested and charged Henry Baxter with the murder of Leanne Bell and wish us to believe that you did not carry out this arrest lightly.’

  ‘No. I mean yes, of course we did not do it lightly. The police are not in the habit of arresting people on serious charges for the fun of it.’

  ‘In other words, an arrest in a murder case isn’t something the police do without considerable thought. You would expect us to read into the fact that Mr Baxter has been arrested for the murder, that he is your chief, your only, in fact, suspect in this case.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘But he is not the first man to be arrested for the murder of Leanne, is he?’

  There was a long pause before the DCI answered, ‘No, not the first, no,’ he muttered.

  ‘How many people have been arrested for this poor little girl’s murder, prior to the arrest of Henry Baxter?’

  The DCI took a long while to answer. You could almost hear the cogs whirring in his brain as he struggled to find the form of words that would be least damning. In the end he settled on a single word, uttered quietly, ‘Four’.

  We all heard him say it, just, but our lawyer went for maximum impact, ‘Could you speak up, please, so that the members of the jury can hear your answer?’

  ‘Four.’ He said it loud and clearly now, but no less reluctantly.

  ‘Four?’ the barrister’s tone was incredulous, ‘but I thought you did not arrest members of the public for murder lightly and yet, on your own admission, Henry Baxter is the fifth person to be arrested for this murder. How can that be?’

  ‘Well, there was evidence at that time… sufficient evidence to warrant… look, it’s not a simple matter of… you have to weigh up the evidence and sometimes you arrest a suspect in a case when you don’t yet have the full picture but, in the course of an interrogation, more facts become clear. That can lead to a charge of murder and, in the fullness of time, a conviction, but it could just as likely lead to a situation where no further action is taken.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ Aimes paused, as if ruminating on that last statement, ‘would you please reveal to the court the identity of the first man arrested for the murder of Leanne Bell.’

  DCI Argyle looked as if he would rather have had a tooth pulled from his mouth than the name he was about to offer up. Eventually he said, ‘Matthew Bell.’

  ‘And please explain what relationship Matthew Bell had to the dead girl.’

  ‘Father.’

  ‘He is Leanne’s father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what was the evidence which led you to believe that Matthew Bell could possibly have killed his only daughter?’

  The delay in replying spoke several volumes, ‘There were statements to the effect that the relationship between Leanne and her father had been strained.’

  ‘Statements from whom?’

  ‘Neighbours.’

  ‘How many neighbours?’

  ‘More than one.’

  ‘So, two then?’

  Through gritted teeth, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you be more specific regarding these statements? What was it exactly that the neighbours reported seeing or hearing that gave you cause for suspicion?’

  ‘Arguments, raised voices, the father shouting and the girl shouting back. That kind of thing.’

  ‘Rows, in other words?’

  ‘Yes, rows.’

  ‘So a teenage girl and her father are heard having an argument, several arguments possibly, and you arrest the father on suspicion of his daughter’s murder. Inspector, are you aware of a home in this country containing a father and teenage daughter where there have not occasionally been harsh words exchanged? What evidence did this provide?’

  ‘It showed the father had a temper and he had served in the armed forces previously in a highly stressful environment.’

  ‘Northern Ireland?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So Mr Bell occasionally shouted at his daughter and she shouted back at him, plus he had served his country loyally as a member of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces in a hostile environment, therefore he must have murdered her.’

  ‘I never said he must have murdered her. It made him a possible suspect, that’s all.’

  ‘Not in my view, and I suspect not in the view of anyone in this courtroom today. Inspector, can you imagine the anguish you must have caused Mr Bell; the man who, as we have heard in his own words earlier, during a highly-moving testimony to this court, has had his life destroyed by the death of his only child,’ our barrister raised an eyebrow, ‘and, at the very height of his grief, you arrested him and accused him, during several hours of interrogation, of being his own daughter’s murderer. Why ever would you do that?’

  ‘Obviously I very much regret that now, but at the time we were all under a lot of pressure and…’

  ‘Pressure to find Leanne’s killer, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That pressure has never really gone away has it?’

  ‘The case has remained open until now, which was a cause of concern to us all, but we were absolutely committed to finding her killer one day.’

  ‘So you readily admit that you remain desperate to resolve the case.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I wouldn’t use the word desperate though, committed was what I said.’

  ‘Bit embarrassing though, don’t you think? It must have been. Arresting four different people for the same murder, with the Press baying for your blood and ridiculing your every move as, one after another, you were forced to release them.’

  ‘I don’t recall the Press baying for our blood. On the whole they were supportive, sharing a common aim of finding Leanne’s killer.’

  ‘Really?’ asked our lawyer, in the manner of an unimpressed Jeremy Paxman on Newsnight.

  ‘Yes, really.’

  Aimes picked up a piece of A4 paper and read from his notes.

  ‘I’m quoting from a well-known broadsheet now, “The Police have clutched at suspects in the manner of a drowning man clutching at straws.”’

  ‘That was sensationalist nonsense.’

  ‘So you weren’t clutching at straws?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Aimes paused, as if considering that last statement, ‘would you be kind enough to tell the court the name of the second man who was arrested and questioned over the murder of Leanne Bell?’

  DCI Argyle looked quite nauseous at that point. Eventually he said, ‘Darren Bell.’

  ‘And what relationship does Darren Bell have to the dead girl?’

  ‘Uncle.’

  ‘He was Leanne’s uncle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh dear, Chief Inspector.’ The tone was pitying and our lawyer shook his head slowly, ‘Oh dear… oh dear… oh dear. Tell me, is there a family member you didn’t arrest for her murder?’

  ‘Objection!’ pleaded the prosecution lawyer.

  ‘I withdraw the question, Your Honour,’ conceded our barrister, but it was already out there and the jury heard it loud and clear.

  By the time Detective Chief Inspector Argyle stepped down from the witness stand, he looked like he had been repeatedly slapped in the face.

  34

  Julian Aimes took just minutes to discredit the prosecution’s two star witnesses; a couple of young women who claimed they had known Henry Baxter a decade before, when both were in their early teens. They each claimed to have been indecently assaulted by him while he gave them those notorious free piano lessons.

  Aimes got the first girl to talk about her life as a teenager and by the time she had described her home life, negligent parents and succession of foster families, the run-ins with the law and the absconding from a care home, he’d managed to make her sound like a pro
stitute. She left the witness stand in tears.

  The second girl was undone by Aimes’ assertion she was only testifying against Henry Baxter for money and, when she denied this, he asked her if she would be willing to sign away any future civil claim against him right now, should he be found guilty. The prosecution objected strongly, but the girl hesitated for so long that when she finally answered, she made herself sound like a lying gold digger.

  Next up was Professor Raymond Harris, the prosecution’s expert witness and a man who clearly thought he was the most intelligent person in the room and was just about to prove it.

  ‘Professor, could you begin by telling me how much DNA is common to every individual?’ asked Aimes.

  The portly professor spoke with the confidence of a courtroom veteran. ‘Well, I could, but that wouldn’t be relevant to the technique of DNA fingerprinting, which focuses on the percentage that is unique to each individual.’

  Aimes regarded the professor as if he might have something to hide. ‘Humour me,’ he demanded, before remembering that he was in front of a jury and adding the word, ‘please.’

  ‘Alright,’ conceded the professor, ‘it’s around ninety-nine percent.’

  ‘It is ninety-nine percent or it is in excess of ninety-nine percent? Could you be more precise? If you recall the question, it is how much DNA is shared by every human being on the planet?’

  The professor looked a little flushed already, his plump face was reddening and he had only been asked one question. ‘I recall the question, it’s ninety-nine point nine percent.’

  ‘Ninety-nine point nine percent. Imagine that?’ Aimes was speaking rhetorically but I could see the jurors were taking a lot of notice. ‘So the element of DNA you use in genetic fingerprinting must be just nought point one percent. Am I correct?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Such a tiny percentage,’ mused our lawyer, as if to himself.

  ‘But entirely sufficient to distinguish one person from another.’

  ‘So you maintain,’ Aimes’ voice was a low whisper, but he pitched it perfectly. All of the jurors were listening intently. One or two even leaned forward to hear more clearly, as he presumably intended them to.