by Nick Louth
‘Only in one direction. You couldn’t get back into the UK like that,’ Michelle Tsu said.
‘How did you get in, then, love?’ Kincaid muttered, exchanging smirks with Hodges.
The room went silent and everyone looked at Michelle’s stony face. ‘I was born here,’ she said. ‘And so were my parents.’ Michelle looked at Claire and rolled her eyes, earning a smile of solidarity in return.
‘Look, it was just a joke,’ Kincaid said. ‘Anyway Knight probably doesn’t want to come back. He’s jetting away to the sun aided by a hot bit of fluff. The full Ronnie Biggs.’
‘I think it’s unlikely he’s left by air,’ Gillard said. ‘A booking requires a credit card as well as a passport number, and he’d have to show his passport at the check-in desk even if not at the outward border control. There’s also a vast amount of CCTV coverage.’
‘What about smaller airports?’ Hoskins asked.
‘We’ve already checked Lydd airport, which has plenty of light aircraft movements. They are adamant that Knight hasn’t been through there. A ferry is far simpler, especially if he stays hidden in the vehicle. What about his contacts, Claire?’
‘Michelle and myself have gone right through his LSE call log, his and Liz’s home address books, his email contact lists and the contact list on his phone. Not one of those contacts claims to have heard from him since he disappeared. Someone might be lying, but it’s not obvious who. We’ve tried to find the accomplice by seeing which of his friends and contacts isn’t currently where he or she normally would be,’ Claire Mulholland continued. ‘But it’s a big job.’
Kincaid stared at Claire: ‘You can halve the work by just concentrating on the women. The accomplice is a bird, trust me. Some bit of stuff we haven’t managed to track down. Just look at the extramarital leg-over he’s done. Our professor is a bit of a fanny magnet.’
Mulholland’s face tightened. Kincaid delighted in ruffling female feathers, particularly if he could see the effect, and he was on fine form today. Female officers did all they could not to react. But for all of Gillard’s distaste for Kincaid, underneath it all was a decent detective nose. And on this occasion Gillard reckoned he wasn’t far wrong.
Warming to his theme, Kincaid continued: ‘Knight has got to eat. He’s got to have somewhere to sleep. He’s got to get some cash, unless he’s got a great wodge of readies with him. He’s been invisible for a week, but he can’t stay that way for ever.’
‘He can if he’s dead,’ muttered Michelle Tsu. ‘He could have committed suicide, and that’s why we can’t find him.’
There was a general nodding among the assembled detectives, some of whom hadn’t considered this possibility. Gillard shook his head. ‘I don’t buy it. Even if we ignore the planned nature of the murder of Liz Knight, this doesn’t fit the pattern. Most suicides in cases like this are committed at home, or somewhere near where the car is driven: a quarry, a lake, big cliffs like Beachy Head, something like that. Suicides usually want to be found, because they’ve got something to say.’
Kincaid chuckled. ‘Craig’s right. Could you really imagine a windbag like Professor Knight topping himself without leaving a suicide note as long as an election manifesto? Believe me, he’s not killed himself. No way.’
‘Or you’ll eat your desk, sir?’ Claire asked.
‘Too right I will. With mustard.’ Kincaid folded his arms. ‘And bloody onion rings.’
* * *
Professor Martin Knight’s card said simply:
To My Darling Chloe
I’m so sorry I can’t be with you at this difficult time, and know you must be very upset. I’ll get back as soon as I can, and then we can talk. I know it’s hard, but try to have a happy birthday.
All my love
Dad xx
‘Why didn’t you tell me about this?’ Oliver said. ‘I have a right to know too.’ He was sitting at home with his sister, looking at the birthday card that Chloe had kept hidden from him all day.
‘If I show it, the police will just take it away,’ she said. But I want to keep it. It’s all I’ve got of Dad. He said he would see us. It’s up to us to persuade him to come back and answer all the questions, isn’t it?’
‘Chloe,’ Oliver said, gripping her arms. ‘You can’t keep this hidden. It’s interfering with the investigation. You’ll get into so much trouble.’
‘I know, I know. But it’s just so awful. There has got to be some explanation. I told him that he has to.’
‘You told him?’
‘I emailed him to thank him for the card.’
‘Well that’s it, then. The police are monitoring all activity on his mobile. They’ll know about the card.’ He paused. ‘Did Dad reply?’
‘Not yet. But at least I know now that he’s all right, whatever happened to Mum.’
Oliver rubbed his chin and said nothing.
Tuesday, 25 October
Croydon police station looks like a cross between a crematorium and a multi-storey car park, a contender for the most miserable of Britain’s many soulless public buildings. For DS Claire Mulholland, summoned for a Girl F meeting with DCI Brian ‘Radar’ Dobbs first thing on a rainy Tuesday, it looked its depressing worst.
Dobbs was waiting for her in a borrowed office, surrounded by paperwork, every inch the bespectacled 1950s door-to-door insurance salesman. Tall and moustachioed, Radar had been a Hong Kong policeman and before that an RAF police officer. He was considered diligent if unimaginative, but had a good record in re-examining failed investigations, which is why Rigby had appointed him to head the Girl F cold case review.
‘Why is he called Radar?’ Claire had asked Kincaid earlier that day.
Kincaid had smiled and just pulled his own ears out. ‘He’s part of Britain’s early warning system,’ he said.
Now, in the flesh, Claire could see Kincaid wasn’t exaggerating about the huge ears. But what he hadn’t mentioned was Dobbs’s ridiculous thin beige moustache clinging to his top lip, a runaway eyebrow come down for a drink.
‘Claire, thank you for making yourself available,’ he said, without quite making eye contact. He pointed to a seat, and she sat. ‘I’ll get to the point. I think Harry Smith is the man who abused Girl F. I need someone of your calibre to get him to admit it, and quickly. We have to release him by tomorrow night.’ He turned his myopic gaze upon her.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I spent last night reading up on the case. How is the CSI coming on?’
‘Well, he’s clever. That much is clear already. The computers we seized had been cleansed of presumably incriminating data by the time we got there, using professional software. Given we were there within half an hour of the attack, that was going some. We found cameras, video recording gear and a portable studio at the house, all of which fits his claim that he’s a professional photographer. Nothing on the camera data cards is incriminating. Likewise, the house is spotless too. Every surface lined with disposable cling film. The man’s beyond forensically aware, he’s got OCD. I have to say that given the number of years since Girl F could have been here, we’ll be very lucky indeed to get a speck of forensic evidence. But there may have been other, more recent, victims. I’m getting the Met to comb their records of unsolved abuse allegations, and I want you to do the same for Surrey. Requests are out for Sussex and Kent, likewise.’
‘Has he said anything so far?’
‘Not a thing. We’ve had two teams of detectives asking him the same questions over and over again, and he’s just ignored them. Seems completely impervious. He knows he’ll go down for the attack on the PCSO, but he seems to know that we’ve got nothing on him for Girl F.’
Chapter Twenty
The gruesome sight was enough to sicken even hardened detectives. It was a sunny summer day at Romney Marsh in Kent, when officers discovered a murder so savage and bestial it would leave the stolid residents of the Garden of England in shock. A young woman’s body in the marsh. Cut into pieces.
(Daily Expres
s, 23 June 1954)
Wednesday, 26 October
The search of Walland Marsh went on for days. Many interesting items were found. A rusting Webley revolver turned out to be of Second World War origin, and there were fragments of anti-aircraft shells, a discarded machine gun belt and a piece of a Hurricane cockpit discarded during a bail-out, all of the same vintage. Rusted parts of agricultural machinery were also found, along with some 1970s car parts still in their sealed packets. But of the missing body parts of Mrs Elizabeth Knight there was no sign whatever.
First thing on Wednesday morning, Mulholland and Gillard came down to join the search and to finally meet Harpy Singh. There was still a bit of mist across the marsh when Gillard pulled the Ford Focus into the gravel car park of the old boat yard a mile north of Dungeness on the road to Lydd. There were five other Kent Police vehicles there. At the centre of a huddle of five anoraked officers and four in wet suits stood a svelte woman with a mane of dark hair that she was in the process of twisting into a bun. At Gillard’s approach she turned around and smiled. Dark commanding eyebrows and huge brown eyes made this more of a Bollywood face than one suited for sifting swamps for rotting corpses.
‘DCS Harpy Singh,’ she said, extending an arm. Gillard shook her hand and introduced Claire Mulholland. ‘Get your wellies and latex gloves on, chaps,’ Singh said. ‘Got something you may find interesting.’
A big Yorkshire sergeant in a wet suit whose name Gillard didn’t catch led them over to the point where the discovery had been made. The thick, glutinous mud clung to his boots, sucking and sapping each step towards what he was sure would be a grisly find.
‘It’s bits of bone,’ said the sergeant. ‘In a taped-up bin bag.’
‘Human?’ Gillard asked.
‘Mebbe.’ The officer lifted his gloved hands to show him. The wet bin bag had been wrapped to the rough size of a fruit juice carton, but had come undone when the tape lost adhesion. He laid the package on a plastic sheet, where it sagged and fell open revealing nine gristle-covered vertebrae, three of them still connected, all coated in a silty residue. ‘Fancy a plate of oxtail stew?’ asked the sergeant. He seemed pleased when Claire Mulholland grimaced. He was clearly a soulmate for Kincaid.
Gillard watched an officer taking photos of the find with a big camera. As she readjusted the position of the plastic sheet, the vertebrae slid and revealed what looked like a scrap of fabric. ‘I don’t want anyone touching this. We’re already disturbing the evidence, and I think we need help.’
It was time to take the forensic work to the next level. The CSI teams from Kent and Surrey had done a fine job, but he really needed more authority, and more certainty. That meant getting a Home Office forensic pathologist on-site. The one he wanted was Dr David Delahaye. Gillard had worked with him before, and trusted his judgment completely. And as Gillard recalled, the doctor lived in Rye, just a few miles away. He slid out his phone and called him.
* * *
It was less than an hour when a sleek black Tesla pulled onto the gravel apron by the marsh. Admiring glances from the male officers brought all work to a stop. Dr Delahaye, a tall, slight figure with a domed bald head and metal-framed glasses emerged from the driver side door, eating an apple, and shook hands with Gillard and Harpy Singh. The doctor was in mustard-coloured corduroys, a waxed jacket and wellingtons. On the other side of the car a pony-tailed girl of perhaps 12 in a pink anorak slid out of the passenger side, inquisitiveness scribbled all over her face.
‘You were lucky. Just caught me on my way back from picking up Cordelia,’ Delahaye said, eating the core of the apple, stalk included, in two crisp bites. ‘Got another case in Canterbury at 11. I can give you 15 minutes. Where’s your find?’
The detectives walked over with him to the plastic sheet, where he knelt and stared. ‘Where did you find this?’ he asked, and was shown the section of marsh 20 metres away. Gillard noticed Delahaye’s daughter crouching between him and the pathologist, her neck straining for a better view. ‘Urggh. Is that from a person, Daddy?’
‘It was once, Cordelia. Part of a female of childbearing age, from the anterior tilt in these remaining connected lumbar vertebrae.’ He pointed to the gristle which still surrounded parts of the bones, and the fragment of fabric. ‘Delighted to see this. Textile analysis could provide valuable corroboration.’ He looked up. ‘Freshwater marsh, yes?’
‘That’s right,’ the Yorkshire sergeant said.
‘Good. If the supposed victim’s been dead, what, two weeks, is it?’
‘Nine days,’ Gillard said.
‘Excellent. Not too long. Then there’s a good chance we can get a little DNA and maybe, if we are really lucky, some mitochondrial too. Not with salt water though. Corrodes the cells too quickly, even in bone.’
‘So you can find out who this lady was?’ the girl asked.
‘If we are lucky, Cordelia.’ He turned to her. ‘You remember I described to you a process called polymerase chain reaction?’
‘To make enough cells for measuring?’ she asked.
‘Yes, to amplify the unique codes in cells by copying them to a measurable size for our tests. Our biggest worry is hydrolysis, which is the severing of chemical bonds within the cells. That happens because water reacts with those organic cells. In bone the main damage is through the loss of hydroxyapatite protection through the dissolution of the inorganic element of the bone.’
The child nodded, sagely. She had obviously heard it before.
‘How old is she?’ Harpy Singh asked Delahaye.
‘I’m 12 on Boxing Day,’ the girl said proudly.
‘What’s this?’ said Delahaye, looking at one of the shovelled piles of silt.
‘It’s the surrounding muck, just in case there’s owt small in there for yer to look at,’ the wet-suited sergeant said.
‘Yes, well done. And here’s why. There’s another section of bone in there, see?’ He pointed to what had at first appeared to be a vaguely conical pebble in the gloop. ‘Coccyx – that’s a tail bone, Cordelia. If I’m not mistaken, there are some clumps of hair here clinging to the fabric.’ He stood up. ‘Well, I’m feeling quite optimistic about this. I’ll know for sure once I’ve had a chance for a proper look. Three to four days after you send it to me.’ He reached out his hand to his daughter and led her away. Cordelia looked over her shoulder for the last glimpse of the human remains.
‘I hope she understands all that,’ said the Yorkshire sergeant. ‘Then mebbe she can explain it to me one day.’
* * *
Wednesday afternoon found DS Claire Mulholland waiting impatiently for the full results from the CSI at Harry Smith’s house. She had three hours left before he had to be charged or released, but she needed to maximize the leverage against him. At a quarter to four, the results arrived, and they weren’t up to much: no trace of Girl F, no youthful fingerprints or footprints. Only two DNA profiles had been found in the house. One was Smith’s, from his toothbrush and hairs in his bed. The other was from a fragment of discarded tissue found down the back of a settee, and which was found to contain semen. It wasn’t Smith’s, but there was a match from the national database.
It was Timon Horvat, aka Aleksander Horvat. The Knights’ tenant.
‘Well, well,’ muttered Claire to herself as she speed-read the lab document. Dots in her head were being gradually connected.
‘What have you got, Claire?’ asked Paddy Kincaid as he walked past.
‘We’ve got a weird connection between the hunt for Professor Knight and the Girl F case. One of Knight’s tenants, Timon Horvat, has been having sex in Smith’s house.’
Kincaid seemed taken aback. ‘Maybe it was with Harry Smith himself?’
‘Maybe, but with a record for approaching underage girls I would think his tastes fall in more predictable areas,’ she said.
‘Did you see the message for you from the Slovenian cops?’ Michelle Tsu called across from the opposite desk.
‘No, I didn’t,’ s
he answered.
‘They say Horvat has no history of sexual offences back home. But they added something quite interesting. He was charged in Ljubljana in 2002 with being an accessory to murder, but was acquitted because of a lack of evidence.’
‘In what way was he an accessory?’ Tsu had Mulholland’s full attention now.
‘I put the printout in your in-tray, but basically he was accused of helping dispose of a body after a gangland killing. He has all the requisite skills. He worked in an abattoir for a decade.’
Mulholland’s jaw hung open. When she closed it again, there were three words in her mind: Bring him in.
‘I’ve got to drive up to Croydon and interview Harry Smith now, sir,’ she said. ‘Can I ask you to get Horvat arrested?’
‘Consider it done,’ Kincaid said.
* * *
Harry Smith was seemingly asleep in the custody suite when Mulholland arrived. ‘Wakey-wakey,’ she said, as Sergeant Connolly let her in.
‘Come to let me out?’ Smith said, stretching his arms and yawning. His right cheek and nose were still swollen, and a purple bruise spread below a dressing up to his brow.
‘No, I’m here to ask you some questions.’
He looked up at the wall clock. ‘Not for long, lassie.’
‘We’ve got 40 minutes,’ she said.
‘Where’s my brief?’ Smith cracked his knuckles methodically, one finger at a time. Something about it really irritated Claire.
