by Nick Louth
‘The DNA’s identical.’ He then showed a slide of the spade. ‘This spade was recovered outdoors in the holiday home in Dungeness. Here we’ve had a little more difficulty, because the blood sample was tiny and had been out in the elements, but it is human blood, and it’s probably the same person, with an 85 per cent chance. There’s a partial match too on the follicle root of the hair on the spade with the hairs in the brush.’
‘Anything on timings?’
‘Yes,’ said Yaz. ‘Some of you will have heard of Tryptophan fluorescence. It allows us to measure the decay of a certain element within blood. So we can be sure, to within a day either way, that the ceiling blood is a week old. We weren’t able to corroborate that with the tiny sample on the spade.’
‘What about the rest of the house?’
‘There are traces of DNA from six people in the house, from toothbrushes and from hair recovered from bedding, clothes and traps beneath shower drains. Two, recovered from spare bedrooms and the kitchen-diner, match the elimination samples given by the son and daughter, while prints on the oven and vacuum cleaner match those of the cleaner. Prints in those rooms corroborate the kids’ elimination prints. Hairs recovered from discarded clothing in the second bedroom we presume to be that of Professor Knight. We also have fingerprints and DNA on a glass, and prints on several surfaces which we presume to be his too, because they match the comb and one toothbrush. These prints will be matched with those from his workplace and home computers, which are all in our possession, but we may not get all the results until later.’
‘I make that five,’ Gillard said. ‘Who was the sixth trace?’
‘Oh, there was a dirty glass in the dishwasher. Lipstick marks and a good DNA sample on the rim. We’ve got no match for that as yet. It’s not the cleaner. But it may not be significant.’
‘So, to summarize,’ Gillard said. ‘Mrs Knight was seen nine days ago, a Wednesday. She was seen leaving school by dozens of witnesses; she was also seen having a drink with her friend Helen Jennings at a wine bar later on that evening. She was at home on Thursday and the cleaner saw her before she left at 1 p.m. That is the last independent sighting. According to the blood fluorescence, time of death is from late Wednesday last week at the earliest, to perhaps Friday morning at the latest. However, assuming we trust the cleaner, we can eliminate up until Thursday at 1 p.m.’ He wrote down the key points on the whiteboard. ‘Rob, would you care to dovetail this with what we know of Professor Knight’s movements during that time?’
‘Certainly. Knight’s phone records have given us a pretty comprehensive idea of his movements during the crucial 36 hours, most of his working day well corroborated. Cell site analysis shows he took his usual 16.08 Blackfriars to Coulsdon South train. That would get him to Coulsdon South at 16.44 and home by just after five. Then there is about five hours at home, until a Skype conference call, from his home computer, with colleagues from the United States at 10 p.m. But during that time his mobile was on, and he took some calls. The next phone trace is half past eight on the Friday morning, and with witness corroboration we can get him into town for scheduled meetings in London with the Ministry of Justice from 10 a.m. to 1 p.m.’
‘Clearly he’s going to struggle to get an alibi for this,’ Gillard said, with satisfaction.
‘He’s pretty ballsy though, our Professor Knight, isn’t he?’ asked Kincaid. ‘I mean he kills her, let’s say, last thing on Thursday. Lots of blood. Cleans up, then off to the Ministry of Justice of all places, for a meeting next day. Like nothing’s happened.’
There was some nodding around the room.
‘So where is he, Craig?’ Kincaid asked. ‘Where’s our fiendish professor hiding?’
‘We’ve no idea. There has only been one single ping on his phone since I spoke to him on the landline to Dungeness on Tuesday, and that was when he emailed the LSE on Wednesday asking for compassionate leave. He was in Dungeness at that time. Apart from that, the phone’s been switched off.’
‘He could have bought another phone,’ Kincaid said.
‘Naturally,’ Gillard said. ‘We assume he will have. Rob Townsend has been working on that.’ He turned to Rob.
‘Yes, sir,’ Rob said. We’ve got two pieces of call analysis software working at the service providers. First, we’re monitoring every number on his contact list from the original phone. If any of those numbers is called by a number that’s new to them, we’ll get a copy of the metadata.’
‘Metadata?’ Kincaid asked.
‘Yes, who called the number, when, from where and for how long,’ Townsend said. ‘Not the content. Obviously we don’t know what is said or emailed. We’d need a warrant specific to the recipient for that. Likewise, we’re getting a copy of all the calls that pinged the Dungeness cell site from the time we last heard from Professor Knight. If any of these calls connects with a number on Knight’s original contact list, we reckon that’ll be Knight’s new number.’
‘Excellent thinking,’ Kincaid said. ‘Okay, everybody, good work. We’ll probably need another meeting at 4 p.m. before the big news conference at 5.’ His phone buzzed, and he stopped to take the call. As Gillard watched, his face changed shape, almost melting into a look of amazement.
‘What is it?’ Gillard asked.
Kincaid lifted the phone away from his head. ‘That was a mate of mine in the Met. A female Surrey PCSO has been attacked in Croydon. But you are never going to believe this…’
Twelve hours earlier
Sam Phillips banged her head on the wall on the way down, and landed on her side. The man dived onto her, a leg either side of her hips, his arms reaching down and grabbing her wrists. ‘Why were you following me, lassie?’ he said, breathing peppermint into her face, the Scottish burr soft despite the power in his arms. ‘Come on then, ye tasty wee thing, I can see you want some.’
She didn’t answer, but tried desperately to free her legs. Gary had held her down like this, many times. It was his idea of foreplay. He had been far too big and strong to shift. But this man? He wasn’t big, or heavy, and he was much older.
Maybe, just maybe, she could take him.
The police self-defence training sessions of two months ago were still fresh in her head. The man was using his weight and superior position to force her wrists backwards either side of her head, to insert a knee between her thighs and force her legs apart. She kept the pressure on with her left arm, but shot her right arm wide. This unbalanced him enough so she could buck up her left hip, and with her good leg braced beneath rotate them both to the right. As she did so he yelled ‘bitch’, let go of the left wrist and punched her in the side of the head.
Something snapped in her, and she lashed out. The heel of her left hand caught him a hard crack on the underside of the nose, sending his glasses flying. He yelled and rolled further towards the wall. She was up on one knee and gave him a flurry of stinging slaps as he tried to drag her down. But it was seeing him in a kneeling position that gave her the true opportunity. It was no longer this faceless middle-aged stranger in front of her, but a more recent, more intimate enemy. She grabbed him by the ears and smashed her good knee hard into his face. ‘You bastard, I hate you! I hate you. I hate you!’ What happened in the next blurred seconds – her wildness, her rage, her unanticipated strength, her animal growls of fury – she didn’t recognize in herself at all. But when it was over she was breathing hard, standing up, looking down at the vanquished man curled up on the floor. He looked up at her, his eyes wide in shock, glasses smashed, his hands raised, trembling in surrender, trying to protect his bloody nose and mouth. There was blood flecked on the wallpaper, on the carpet protector, on her hands, on the knee of her yellow leggings.
And, for once, finally, not a single drop was hers.
She had wanted to say: That’s for every woman who was ever attacked, bullied, stalked or raped. But seeing him, she actually felt pity. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she gasped, on the verge of tears. ‘That was meant for someone else.’
She opened the front door and fled, hobbling away as best as her bruised leg would allow. Only when she reached her car, and was clearly not being pursued, did she ring 999.
* * *
‘Which PCSO?’ Gillard asked, as soon as Kincaid finished taking the call.
Kincaid looked down at his notes. ‘Samantha Phillips, she works here, apparently.’
Gillard leaped to his feet, grabbed his mobile and left. ‘I’ll be back in a mo,’ he said.
As the door closed, Kincaid chuckled. ‘Another of his girlfriends?’ Once the laughter subsided, he returned to regaling the incident room with the rest of story: the plucky newbie PCSO who had spotted a false number plate while at the supermarket, followed the vehicle in her own car, and then fought off the attacker who ambushed her. ‘It seems he’d been hiding in his car, and left his own front door open to entice her in. The Met are holding the guy, by the name of Harry Smith. He’s clean on the PNC, but given that the car is a silver VW Polo, they are going to pass him to us to see if there is a Girl F connection.’
‘Could Scottish Harry be Scottish Barry?’ Mulholland asked.
‘Maybe,’ Kincaid replied.
Gillard walked back in two minutes later, fresh from leaving a consoling message on Sam’s mobile.
‘I shouldn’t worry about her, Craig,’ Kincaid said. ‘She made mincemeat of him, apparently. Broke his nose, fractured a cheekbone, knocked out a couple of teeth. God, she must be built like a tank.’
‘Not at all, in fact she’s very attractive,’ Gillard said. The eyes of every woman in the room suddenly settled on him for this uncharacteristic comment. Whether he would be judged gallant or merely sexist, he couldn’t tell. But judged he certainly would be. Kincaid’s look was different, a kind of astonished envy: She’s not been in the force five minutes and you’ve actually had her already, haven’t you?
‘Anyway, the ACC will be delighted, given the cold case review,’ Gillard added.
‘Yes, won’t she?’ Kincaid smiled. ‘You can leave me to pass on the good news.’
* * *
As soon as the meeting broke up, DS Mulholland called Gillard over to a stack of files on her desk. ‘I dug out the details of Mrs Knight’s RTA in 2007. The attending officer definitely recorded her as the driver.’ She passed a single sheet of rather yellowed paper to Gillard. In typical neutered police language it recorded the collision of a Renault Laguna with a skip owned by Aardvark Equipment Hire (Dorking) Ltd at approximately 12.15 a.m. One injured female treated at the scene, broken ankle, facial injuries. Breathalysed, negative. Male passenger, unhurt but rather vociferous, possibly ‘in drink’, claimed the skip was unlit. Broken plastic fragments at scene indicated skip light fell off during collision. Returned to scene at daylight and recovered skip lighting unit from woodland approximately 40 metres from scene. Mrs Elizabeth Margaret Knight charged with driving without due care and attention and pleaded guilty by post. Fined £150, and a £75 victim surcharge for the skip company to buy new lights. Three points on her licence.
‘Assuming Ms Parkinson got the real version of events, Martin Knight was driving but persuaded his wife to take the blame,’ Gillard said.
‘And then tried to claim the skip was unlit by throwing the lights into the undergrowth,’ Mulholland said.
‘They should have done him for perverting the course of justice, as well as due care,’ Gillard said. ‘In a single air bag vehicle it should be obvious the driver was the one without facial injuries.’
‘Yes, but the officer was late on the scene. The paramedics called the police only when they realized that there was another party involved, i.e. the skip hire firm. From the docket it looks like 40 minutes after the crash.’
‘So drunken Martin Knight made sober Liz agree to take the rap for driving before he’d agree to call an ambulance. And he never called the police at all.’
‘I think that is jumping to conclusions, Craig. Besides, she might have had her own phone.’
‘What a bastard, a first-class bastard,’ Gillard muttered.
‘I bet you wish she’d stayed with you, eh?’ Claire said, looking up at him.
When Gillard said nothing, she added. ‘Come on, Craig. Kathy Parkinson told me. Made me feel a complete prat. It would have helped if you’d told me first.’
‘It was a long time ago. A lot of water under the bridge, and all that.’
‘But a pretty important bridge, right?’ She was looking at the paperwork when she said it, but he still felt almost naked.
‘So let’s make sure we’ve got all the paperwork in order,’ he said.
‘Does Paddy Kincaid know?’
‘About me and Liz? Yes. I told him, right at the start.’
‘Did he laugh?’
‘Yep.’
‘Let me see, did he ask if you’d shagged the murder victim?’ Mulholland rested her chin on her hand and looked up at him.
‘Not initially. But later on, yes. Rogered was the term he used.’
‘And did you?’
Gillard permitted himself a small smile. ‘The DNA technique’s not been devised yet that could prove that after all those decades, one way or the other.’
Claire Mulholland shook her head. ‘We won’t need that if Kathy Parkinson goes to the papers, will we? It’ll be assumed.’
‘She wouldn’t do that.’
Mulholland snorted with derision. ‘Don’t be naive, Craig.’
‘I’ll have a word with her.’
‘If she wants to, she’s got you by the short and curlies. Fortunately for you, it wasn’t she who supplied the mystery DNA on the wine glass in the dishwasher. There’s no match. Still, if she ends up a suspect, you really would be compromised.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, Claire. I really should have told you.’
‘Yes, you should.’ She paused for a moment, then asked more gently: ‘So what was she like then, your beloved Liz?’
‘She was lovely. Bloody lovely. And I can’t believe that bastard killed her.’
‘If it was him, Craig. It could have been someone else.’ She looked up and gave him a frosty glare. ‘Though not in your mind, obviously. He’s already convicted up there.’ She tapped the side of her head, then stood up and walked away, anger radiating from her stride and the door that slammed behind her.
* * *
It was Friday afternoon. Sam had been invited to the Met’s Croydon police station to give a detailed statement. A huge uniformed black officer, Sergeant Winstanley, met her there, and laughed in amazement at what she had done as he wrote it all down in a huge looping longhand. ‘There’s no knowing what he would have done to you if you hadn’t fought back,’ he said.
‘I know exactly what he would have done,’ Sam replied. ‘Has he said anything?’
‘Two DCs from Surrey came to talk to him first thing, about Girl F. But he didn’t say a word, apparently. Surrey CSI is looking over his house and car. But he’s already been charged with the assault on you.’
The desk sergeant, a barrel-chested Ulsterman called Connolly, brought them each a cup of his trademark milky coffee. ‘We’ve got to take yer man to the doctor again this afternoon, then he’s off to Surrey Police. He’s on painkillers for that cheek, poor wee mite.’
Winstanley giggled again, a high but infectious sound for such a big man.
‘Do ye want to take a look at him?’ Connolly asked Sam conspiratorially. ‘He’s in the suicide cell because of the medication so we’ve got a CCTV feed.’ Winstanley put a finger to his lips as he ushered Sam through to the monitoring station, where a female civilian was watching a bank of screens. After Connolly had made the introductions, and praised Sam’s heroism, he leaned over the woman and tapped a pudgy finger on a screen where a bruised-looking Smith was shown sitting on a mattress staring at the opposite wall.
‘God, he’s a mess,’ Sam said.
‘Nothing the evil wee bastard didn’t deserve,’ Connolly said. ‘I clocked him for a nonce just by the shoes. Never trust a
fella who wears grey slip-ons.’
‘Long white socks too,’ said Winstanley. ‘Very dodgy.’
‘He’s not moved an inch for hours,’ Connolly said. ‘As if he’s sure he’ll get off.’
After swearing everyone to secrecy about the illicit visit, they let Sam go on her way. On the way out she checked her phone to see that Craig had left her a voicemail. It was cumbersome but heartfelt, hoping she was okay, and fairly heavy on the apologies. It made her smile, nonetheless, as she thought about snowstorms and piggybacks, and Craig’s heroic intervention to warn off Gary. She’d reply, in her own time. Just not yet. Let him sweat.
Chapter Fourteen
‘Have you arranged the flights?’ Martin asked casually, an untidy sandwich halfway to his lips as I walked in laden with shopping. I’d just finished a two-hour departmental meeting with the impossible Sarah Hodgkins, spent 40 minutes with dear Mrs Thomas from the refectory whose granddaughter has just been diagnosed with leukaemia, and then took the bus to Addiscombe to get Martin’s car back from its service. My reply was more direct than I intended. He sniggered, a greasy smear of mayonnaise on his cheek, and all I could think was: what on earth did Natalie Krugman see in him? I struggle to recall what I saw in him. No, that’s not true, but how the acid years of acrimony have corroded us. Only the wire struts of habit are left, and then what?
Liz’s diary, May 2012
Helen Jennings confirmed that she and Liz Knight had shared a quick after-work drink at a wine bar on Wednesday, 14 October. Helen had been pushed for time, and it was a glass of Perrier for her and a small glass of red for Liz. ‘If I’d had the faintest inkling it was going to be the last time I’d ever see her we would have had champagne,’ Jennings said, as she brought in ice-cold highball glasses brimming with home-made lemonade for Gillard and Mulholland.
