Killing Satisfaction

by Jason De'Ath

  Joanne smiled reassuringly, unaware of the extent of her father’s criminal exploits: “It’s okay; ‘e just wants t’talk to you.”

  “‘Aven’t you lot ‘ad y’u’ two penneth worth out t’me, already?” Arthur continued to complain with open hostility.

  “Mr Jameson, I’m not here to cause you trouble – honestly.” Callum beseeched.

  “Dad, calm down. Just let ‘im ‘ave a chat.” said Joanne soothingly in her blissful ignorance.

  Arthur reluctantly shuffled into the living room and sat in his armchair, before demanding a cup of tea – Joanne duly obliged.

  “So, what do you bastards want?” asked Arthur venomously.

  Callum took the liberty of sitting down on the sofa: “Mr Jameson, a lot of old cases are being re-examined and one of them happens to be the Marsholm Wood murder... There’s been some incredible advances in forensics since the 1960’s... The case is still unsolved, but we now have a DNA profile. Nothing came up on the database, so we’re still no further forward.” Joanne was avidly listening from the kitchen. “Not too surprising, given the age of the crime... We were hoping you would help us out – it would be a chance to clear your name, once and for all.” “What d’y’u mean?” Arthur enquired apprehensively.

  “Well, we could eliminate you from the new enquiry, and you would be able to prove your innocence beyond any doubt.” Callum was desperately trying to be surreptitiously persuasive, but Arthur wasn’t that stupid.

  “Look, I was acquitted forty years ago. I don’ need t’prove anyfink.”

  “I know...But it was a majority verdict, I believe... DNA is definitive.” Callum persevered.

  Arthur took a deep and aggressive breath, before standing to glare over the detective, who was now feeling slightly vulnerable: “Jus’ get the fuck out. I a’n’t got nuffin’ else to say on the matter.” And with that Arthur walked out of the tiny living room and shut himself in the bathroom, just as Joanne rushed back into the room to rescue the situation.

  “God, I’m sorry.” she said apologetically.

  “No worries.” Callum calmly replied, “I wasn’t really expecting a welcome... We thought it was worth a try.” He rose and walked towards the front door, saying: “I’ll let myself out.”

  Joanne stood motionless for a moment, somewhat stunned by the whole affair; then she suddenly remembered something and rushed out to catch up with DS Johnson.

  “Officer...Officer!” she called chasing after him, “I couldn’t ‘elp ‘earin’ what y’u was sayin’ t’me dad... He never told me about this murder thing.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s understandable.” he consoled her.

  “Look, my dad’s a bit of an old grump sometimes, but maybe I can ‘elp...”

  “In what way, madam?”

  “Well, y’u know that American crime programme, CSI?” “Yes, I have heard of it.” he concurred, a little non-plussed.

  “Well, there was this episode where they used family DNA to get a match.”

  “Family DNA...? Ah, right, you mean familial DNA.” The penny had dropped for the detective, though Joanne didn’t quite grasp the difference in what he had said – something he could tell from her puzzled expression. “Yes, I know what you’re talking about...Are you saying you would volunteer a sample?”

  “Yeah – exactly. If it’ll ‘elp clear me dad’s name.”

  Callum immediately had a warm sense of triumph come over him: this should keep the boss happy, he thought: “Well, that would be extremely helpful, Ms Clayton. Would you mind accompanying me to the local station – we can take your samples there?”

  Joanne initially hesitated, but certain of her conviction in her dad’s innocence, she agreed; Callum drove her to Huntingdon Police Station and arranged the sampling under officially controlled conditions (to ensure that there could be no mistakes – or dispute, later).

  Late that afternoon, Joanne returned to her father’s bungalow, he was still simmering from the earlier debacle, so she trod carefully to begin with, making him a pot of tea and his dinner, as he hadn’t eaten all day. As Arthur sat with a kneetray, eating his egg, sausage and chips, while watching Neighbours on the television, Joanne tried to approach the subject of his 1966 trial.

  “Dad...? You never mentioned being tried for murder...”

  Arthur tutted and sighed: “Yeah, well I didn’ fink it was important.” he grouchily explained.

  “Well, it is quite a big thing... That’s around the time I was born and...my mum died.” she commented gently.

  Arthur sighed heavily: “She died in child birf – nuffin’ t’do wiv my trial.” he reminded her, reiterating what her mother had told her and she had later verified with Arthur, who just conveniently agreed with the story.

  “Yeah, I know... But...”

  “But what?”

  “Nothin’... I can’t understand why you don’t wanna take the opportunity to clear y’u’ name, once and for all.”

  “Look, it was forty years ago – I wanna forget it.”

  “Yeah, well, if they reopen the case, the papers might come lookin’ for you...” she was quick to point out.

  “They can’ touch me. I was foun’ not guilty, and tha’s an end to it.”

  “Actually, that copper told me that it’s not necessarily the case, anymore.”

  “What ‘d’y’u mean?” Arthur turned to face his daughter for the first time in the conversation.

  “Double jeopardy – it’s been banned.”

  “You what?”

  “They can retry people, now; even if they got off before.”

  Arthur stare uncertainly into his daughter’s eyes, before an expression of bewilderment overtook his face; he then continued eating and watching the television, apparently indifferent.

  “Anyway,” Joanne recommenced, “you don’t have to worry, do you? You’re innocent... And I’ve made sure that they prove that.” she announced auspiciously.

  Arthur stopped eating and froze: “What d’y’u mean?” he asked warily, without looking at her. “I gave them a sample.” she exalted.

  “What sample?”

  “Just some blood and saliva, tha’s all.”

  “What for?” Arthur was both alarmed and confused.

  “They can do this family match, y’u see... Don’t ask me – I don’ do science.” she said putting on her coat.

  “Where y’u goin’?” snapped Arthur.

  “Home...I have a fourteen year old son who’ll be demanding his dinner, y’u know...I’d quite like some myself, too... I’ll come ‘roun’ tomorrow evening. Dunno exactly when – got t’make up some time at work.” The front door slammed shut and Arthur was left alone with some perplexing thoughts.

  DS Johnson returned to Scotland Yard early in the evening to find his boss still in the office; she was well known for her diligence and commitment to the squad, and her promotion had been no surprise to anyone when the previous DCI retired. Callum knocked on the closed door of her office; she looked up and was pleased to see him; hoping for good news, she beckoned him in.

  “Hello Cal’ – how did it go?”

  “Um, interesting, ma’m...I think I got what we need, just not from Jameson.”

  Michelle was intrigued: “How do you mean?”

  “Well, Jameson was unsurprisingly uncooperative. But, his daughter couldn’t help enough... I never thought I’d praise American television, but thanks to CSI, people know a lot about forensics these days.” “Is that a good thing?” she queried doubtfully.

  “In this case, yes – a very good thing...Familial DNA, ma’m: she provided samples; if Jameson was the killer, we’ll be able to match her DNA to his with a high degree of certainty...Then we can get a warrant to get samples from him.”

  Michelle’s eyes lit up with recognition and considerable appreciation: “Well done, Cal’! Good work.”

  “Thank you, ma’m. I’ll book the samples in first thing tomorrow.”

  “No...Give them to me – I’ll
take them now. There’s usually someone down there in the evening.”

  DCI Cartwright practically ran down to the Forensics Laboratory, such was her excitement and anticipation. As she expected, Dr Fletcher was still hard at it. She knocked on the glass of the security door access to the laboratory. Dr Fletcher acknowledged her with a wave and indicated she would be three minutes.

  Dianne Fletcher opened the door and greeted her friend DCI Cartwright: “Hello, ‘Chelle; what can I do for you at this late hour?”

  “I need an urgent DNA analysis.” Michelle passed the cold bag of samples to Dianne.

  “Right. We’re pretty busy...”

  “Aren’t you always?”

  “Well, is it a priority?”

  “I think so. The sooner the better, anyway...I need a comparison with an historic sample we had analysed the other month: the Marsholm murder... That’s a familial sample, so it won’t be exact – we just need to know if there’s any relation, then we can move the case forward...” Dianne examined the bag with curiosity. “This is important to me, Di’: I’d really appreciate a fast track.” Michelle pressured, reckoning on the perks of her friendship. “Okay, ‘Chelle – I’ll see what we can do.” Dianne conceded with good humour.

  Arthur had been pacing up and down the small, rather dank bungalow, fretting about this new investigation. His understanding of genetics was exceedingly limited, so he was in a quandary about the implications of the whole situation; he had an instinctive distrust of the police and therefore envisaged a scenario whereby they would fit him up no matter what. Around 10 PM he resolved to pack his bags and take a taxi to the railway station. He didn’t have a railcard, but he did at least have a bank debit card, (thanks to his daughter,) so was able to buy a ticket from the automated ticket machine – the station was only manned until 8 PM. He arrived at the station at 10.45, just minutes before the last train to London (king’s Cross) was due to arrive.

  Sitting in the 2nd class carriage, clutching a holdall containing his few possessions, he felt like a 2nd class citizen, destined to be reviled and deprived; wallowing in this vat of self-pity, his beleaguered past all began to flood back: so many unanswered questions. He did not leave those cartridge cases in Room 26 at the Verona Hotel, so who did put them there; and why did so many of his close friends and associates so keenly turn Queen’s evidence against him? Their treachery still rancored deeply within him; but they were all long dead, as were most of the police involved – so none of the truth behind all of that would ever come out now.

  As the train rattled along the tracks, the distant street lights were a mesmerising distraction from all his woes. At this stage, he still had no idea where he would go when he got to King’s Cross. Everything he had known, people and places, were largely gone, swallowed up by the new metropolis of increasingly cosmopolitan internationality – his type were gradually being squeezed out, like dregs scraped from society’s smelting pot. In fact, he didn’t even know why he was going to London, because there was nothing left there for him; and yet, it was the only world he really knew, outside of the prison walls. He considered changing his identity or joining some obscure religious sect – either would enable him to drop out of society and off the police radar, but he was getting a bit too old for all that. Vagrancy might be his only real option and he had heard that there was good money to be made begging in the streets down Putney way.

  The Ticket Inspector, a large man of African extraction, meandered down the carriage in a totally expressionless manner. Arthur’s natural reaction to any form of authority was to make a bolt for it, but then he remembered he had paid; he had a valid ticket. The inspector indifferently asked “Ticket please” in a monotone voice of abject boredom. Arthur produced his ticket with a feint air of smugness in the fact that on this occasion he was legit. The journey would take about an hour, so he removed his glasses and neatly placed them in his pocket, before shutting his eyes and allowing his mind to drift back to the old days.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  (28 May & 2 June 1965)

  Friday mornings tended to be a bit quiet at La Matrice des Curios; Denise therefore busied herself by checking her stock and rearranging the shelf and window displays. Alone, deep in thought and uninhibited, she sung to herself When a Man Loves a Woman, dancing care freely about the small shop, she didn’t notice the bell chime as the shop door was opened behind her and consequently visibly jumped when a loud, deliberate cough, announced the presence of a man.

  “Oh! My god.” she exclaimed turning and clutching her chest; immediate recognition of an old friend brought a relieved smile to her face: “Ewan! You frightened the life out of me.” “Sorry Denise.” Ewan Williams apologised with a chuckle.

  She hugged him affectionately: “I wasn’t expecting you this early.”

  “No, I know. I didn’t open up today – family crisis.” he cryptically explained.

  “Oh...Nothing serious, I hope?” she enquired empathetically.

  “Well, nothing new, anyway...So, how are you?”

  “Very well, thanks.”

  “In fine voice.” he noted cheerfully.

  “Oh, yes.” she laughed, “How embarrassing... Do you want to come up for a cuppa? I can lock up for an early lunch – don’t get a lot of trade on a Friday morning down here.”

  “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

  “You can tell me all about it; a problem shared...”

  They both went out to the back of the shop and up the stairwell leading to the flat above. Ewan made himself comfortable on the chaise lounge, while Denise made a pot of tea. “Are you going abroad again this year?” she called as she filled a bone-china Victorian teapot.

  “I don’t know that we can afford it this year...Jane wants to go to the Greek Islands.”

  “Wow, that would be lovely.” she attested, standing in the kitchen doorway, the bead-curtain tied to one side. “Yeah...I was thinking more of The Valleys this year.” “Back home, eh?” she inferred.

  “Yes. My Grandparents still live near Cardiff, we could stay with them – would be a lot cheaper.” he concluded.

  “You’re not becoming a skin flint in your old age are you, Ewan?” she suggested with a laugh.

  “Cheeky cow...You’re older than me.” he complained.

  “Yes, you’re right – still very young.” Denise asserted with mock-indignation. She poured two cups of tea, milk, no sugar, and handing one cup and saucer to Ewan, sat down on the sofa opposite. “So, what’s troubling you?” “Oh, it’s just my sister and her...shit of a husband.” he groaned. “You never really talk about them...Are they having problems?”

  “They’ve always had problems: namely him.” “Not a very nice bloke?” she suggested quizzically.

  “Well, he’s quite personable; I mean: I’ve always got along with him on a personal level – man to man.” “So, what’s the problem?”

  “He just can’t keep it in his trousers.” Ewan stated bluntly.

  “Oh, he’s like that is he? I see.”

  “He’s been having affairs ever since they met; we warned her, but she wouldn’t listen... Every now and then, it seems to drive Anne into a crisis state. This latest one’s been on the go for a while and she’s scared stupid he’s going to leave her on her own with the kids.”

  “Oh dear...Do you think that’s likely?”

  “I don’t know; it’s not like we haven’t been here before... I just hate seeing my sister getting like that. She deserves better.”

  “Couldn’t you have a word with him?” Denise tried to be helpful.

  “She doesn’t like anyone interfering. The one time I did, it didn’t exactly help matters.” Ewan seemed quite dejected by it all.

  “Well, is there anyone you could ask to speak to him, so that it wouldn’t look like it was coming from you?”

  “Not really. I couldn’t risk asking any of my friends – he’s met most of them.”

  Denise pondered this conundrum for a moment and then had a flash
of inspiration: “What if you could hire someone?” “What do you mean?”

  “Well, hire someone to put the wind up him – scare him off this other woman.”

  “Mmm, nice idea, but he’d guess that I had something to do with it and that would get back to Anne.”

  “Oh, yeah; yeah, I see... What if looked like a random thing?”

  “Random? How would that work?”

  “I don’t know...Maybe if he was humiliated in front of this girl, it might put her off him.”

  “Right; roughed up a bit?”

  “Yeah – make it look like a robbery, or something; you, know: a mugging.”

  “Hmm, that might work. But who the hell could I get to do something like that? Do you know some Teddy boys?” Denise chuckled: “No, not exactly...But I do know some people who are bit, how shall I put it – rough?” “Really, Denise? Are you living some double life, or something?” he queried with some surprise.

  “No, no. I just know this young chap...He knows some dodgy characters.” she clarified with enthusiasm.

  “And you think they could be of help?” Ewan sounded dubious.

  “Well, he knows this hard case; Mr Fixit type – he could probably arrange for some thug to shake up your errant brother-in-law.”

  “Wow, you’re certainly full of surprises, Denise... How would I get hold of this Mr Fixit?”

  “Well, his name is Dickie, Dickie Paris.” “Sounds like a saucy holiday.” joked Ewan.

  Denise burst out laughing: “Oh, Ewan!” she reprimanded in good humour. “Seriously, that’s his name...I know he meets people at a snooker club in Soho – you know, to do business. You could say you’re an associate of Arthur Jameson – that’s my friend – they’re quite close, I believe.”

  “Do you have the address of this club?”

  “Romily Road, I think it is... I think they go every Wednesday... Actually, I know that Arthur is going to Liverpool next Wednesday, so he won’t be going...That would be a good opportunity for you – I don’t really want Arthur to know I’ve been bandying their names around, he might not like it.”