by Bill Kitson
By comparison, it seemed as if Sharon’s rise to prominence was meteoric, having successfully gained the acquittal of a string of high-profile clients such as Ashley Fortune and Rev. Thomas Campion, amongst others. The prosecuting counsel in both cases was Stephen Jardine, the police investigations being led by DS Kate Jackson.
A footnote to the potted biography stated:
‘Although Victor Gardner has a very strong motive, and doesn’t have a solid alibi for the night his ex-wife was murdered, the fact that the same weapon was used in this case as in the murder of Ashley Fortune leads us to discount Victor Gardner as a suspect. When Fortune was killed, Gardner was in London, attending the Horse of the Year Show on behalf of his employers, Black Fell Stud.’ Lambert sighed; one step forward and two steps back. He closed the file, drank the cold remnants of his coffee, and went to make a fresh one before examining the third file.
REV. THOMAS CAMPION. Occupation: Anglican priest. Age: 52. Marital status: Single.
Campion had recently moved to the parish of St Anthony the Hermit in Upper Thorsdale, having previously been the incumbent in a large parish in Leeds. It was during his service in Leeds that Campion was prosecuted, unsuccessfully, for the alleged long-term sexual abuse of a boy named Terry Gilbert at an orphanage within Campion’s parish. In the resulting trial, the prosecuting counsel was Stephen Jardine QC, the defence counsel Sharon Gardner, and investigating officer, DS Kate Jackson. The note added below left Lambert more confused than ever.
Although the prime suspect would have to be Terry Gilbert, now twenty-three years old, at the time of Campion’s murder Gilbert was in Tenerife, having won a winter break in a competition run by a national newspaper. The holiday ended with his return flight on the evening following the discovery of Campion’s body, ruling him out of the enquiry. Confirmation that the weapon used to stab Campion was the same as that in the previous murders suggests only one suspect with motive, means, and opportunity. That suspect is Detective Sergeant Kate Jackson.
Lambert closed the file and stared at it for a moment. He could see how detectives had come to the conclusion, but he knew they were wrong. He felt certain Kate was innocent. Proving it was a different matter entirely. Short of a miracle, Peter couldn’t see how he could convince his colleagues to release her.
A crisis meeting took place in the chief constable’s oak-panelled office around noon. On the ground floor, as the meeting was taking place, the solicitor appointed to represent Kate Jackson waited in vain for an officer to accompany him to his client.
Upstairs, the chief constable’s anger was reflected both in his tone of voice and the heightened colour in his cheeks. ‘This is absolutely appalling, a total disgrace. It has placed us in an intolerable position. I dread to think what the media would make of this dog’s dinner you’ve created.’ He glared at DS Peel, who, although from another force and technically not answerable to him, nevertheless quailed under his piercing scrutiny. ‘I hold you and your superior officers responsible for this catastrophic situation,’ the chief continued. If you hadn’t been so insistent that you had identified the right suspect and demanded an immediate arrest, none of this would have happened.’
He turned to Sharpe. ‘Are you absolutely certain there’s no mistake? This crime was definitely committed with the same weapon as the others?’
‘The pathologist is convinced of it, sir, and he conducted the autopsies on all the other victims. According to his report, the blade is highly distinctive, with a curved edge and a small nick in the leading edge which leaves a unique wound.’
‘And there’s no possibility that the time of death could be inaccurate? If it was wrong by only a few hours, Jackson could still have committed the crime. She wasn’t placed into custody until after three o’clock yesterday afternoon, was she?’ The chief constable was clutching at straws. All three of them knew it, and knew the straw wouldn’t hold him.
‘Unfortunately, the deceased was seen by three of his employees shortly before the offices closed yesterday evening. That means he was alive and well after five o’clock.’
The chief constable sighed, accepting the inevitable. ‘You’d better release Jackson, then, and utter a grovelling apology. At the same time, you can inform her that her suspension has been lifted, and she can return to work with immediate effect. As the personal connection no longer exists, I see no reason why she should not assist DI Lambert, who will now take overall charge of the full investigation into all four murders.’
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ Sharpe asked.
‘They can’t investigate Sharon Gardner’s murder,’ DS Peel objected, ‘that’s under Leeds jurisdiction. Leeds CID are handling that case.’
‘Judging by the mess they’ve made of it so far, I think “mishandling” would be a more appropriate word. I’ll speak to your superintendent and tell him what I’ve decided. It’s time we had some real detectives in charge of the case instead of the bungling amateurs who have botched things up so far. Now, unless you two have something else to tell me, kindly get on with some work. Go direct traffic, or something. Anything useful, but as far as this case is concerned, you’re out of it, got me?’
Having spoken to the duty solicitor, and informed him that his services were no longer required, Sharpe watched the man leave the station before instructing the custody sergeant to bring Kate Jackson from her cell, as she was to be released. Rumour and gossip travel fast within the confines of a police building and the sergeant already had the cell keys in his hand; the release papers were on the counter, awaiting Kate’s signature.
When she appeared, Sharpe watched as she signed the paper, then, as she turned to leave, he stepped forward, holding out a conciliatory hand. ‘I’m sorry about this, Kate. We were acting on orders from Leeds CID, who were running the show. That has now changed. The chief has ordered your suspension to be lifted immediately. You could even join Peter at Thorsby this afternoon if you want to.’
The outstretched hand was ignored. ‘What I want,’ Kate told him in a clear, distinct tone that made the custody sergeant shiver apprehensively, ‘is to go home and take a long, hot shower. With luck, perhaps that will take the stench of this place from my nostrils.’ She glanced down. ‘I’ll have to burn these clothes, though. That’s a pity; I was rather fond of this top.’
With that, she turned and marched out of the building, leaving her superior officer standing, mouth agape, his hand still poised in mid-air.
Sharpe’s phone call to Peter Lambert got a frigid, though slightly less hostile response. The DI assured Sharpe that he would investigate the murders. He neglected to mention that he had already been studying the reports into the first three deaths. ‘Who’s in charge of the Barrington case?’ he asked, when Sharpe told him of the latest incident.
‘I was in charge of it with DS Peel assisting, but she’s been sent back to Leeds with a flea in her ear. Now it’s all down to you.’
‘That’s fine, but please let me have your report on what’s been done so far. I’d like it on my desk in the morning, so I can begin work on all four cases. As to whether Kate will want to assist me given what she’s been through, I’m not sure.’
Sharpe felt as if he was a raw young detective constable again, being ordered about by a grumpy but experienced senior officer. He opened his mouth to rebuke Lambert, but remembering the chief constable’s instructions, and the tone in which they were delivered, he bit back the angry response. He merely asked, ‘Can’t you make a start before then, Peter?’
‘I could do, but I don’t intend to. I’m going to see Kate, and see that she’s none the worse for her ordeal. I won’t be contactable until morning.’
And with that, as Sharpe reported to the chief constable, they would have to be content, or risk losing two good officers. The chief attempted to soften Sharpe’s feeling of injustice and wounded pride. ‘I hold myself responsible for this mess, Bill. I should never have bowed to pressure from Leeds, even though they’re a bigger force, with fa
r more resources at their disposal. It’s the old question of quality versus quantity, I’m afraid, and I backed the wrong horse. I’ve cleared it with their chief, by the way. You can tell Peter he has full autonomy, and can call on all the backup he might require from them.’
When Lambert arrived at Kate’s flat, he let himself in, noticing her car was parked outside. As he walked down the hall, he almost stumbled over a large plastic bag bearing the name and logo of a national charity. At the same time, he heard Kate’s voice. She was singing, which he took to be a good omen. He located the source; the bathroom, and opened the door. Clouds of steam billowed past him, as his lover began her rendition of an Abba song.
‘Hello, you jailbird,’ he called out.
The singing ceased, and through the mist, Lambert saw the shower cubicle door open. A split-second later he was struck in the chest by an extremely wet sponge. ‘Hello, you defective detective,’ she responded.
‘Are you all right, sweetheart?’ Lambert approached cautiously.
‘Never better,’ Kate assured him. As she spoke, she reached forward and grasped his tie, pulling him towards her. ‘But you’re a bit overdressed for in here, don’t you think?’
Within seconds, he knew that resistance was no longer an option, even if he’d wanted to deny her. He began removing his clothes with increasing urgency.
Later, as they were lying side by side on the bed, Lambert told her what Sharpe had said. ‘They want us both involved. They want us to run the whole investigation. What do you think?’
‘I don’t honestly know, Peter. At one time I’d have jumped at the chance to work a big case like this, but the question now is, do I want to? Actually, it’s far more than that. The real question is, do I want to remain in the police force? At one time I’d have laughed if anyone had suggested I might want to leave. Now, I’m beginning to think it might be my best option.’
‘Funny you should say that, because I was considering resigning too. Perhaps we should both pack it in and go run a hotel on some remote Greek island.’
‘No, Peter, you mustn’t resign. Promise me you won’t. You’re far too good a detective. The chief knows that, which is why he’s bypassed Old Bill and put you in charge. That’s some accolade, when you come to think about it, especially giving you control of the Leeds detectives. I bet they’re not happy.’
‘OK, I won’t hand my papers in, but will you help me? I could do it on my own, but it’s far more fun doing it with you.’
Kate thought about it for a moment. ‘I might do,’ she conceded. She began to stroke his thigh – ‘If you make it worth my while.’
As Lambert had requested, when he and Kate arrived at Thorsby next morning the Barrington file was on his desk. Peter handed Kate the other three folders, and told her about the latest victim. It didn’t make a pretty story.
FRANK BARRINGTON. Occupation: Company Director. Age: 53. Marital Status: single. Barrington was a highly successful businessman. He started in a single unit on the Thorsby Industrial Estate and gradually built the business of Barrington Plastics into one of the leading employers in the area, with a turnover of in excess of £100 million a year, and a workforce of 150. His personal life and reputation was far less savoury, by all accounts. Barrington was a serial womaniser, whose particular pleasure was in rough sex. Some years ago, a Filipino girl by the name of Carmela Flores answered an advertisement for a post as Barrington’s housekeeper, only to find that the services he required of her were of a far different nature. She later alleged that Barrington had kept her a prisoner in his house, treating her as his sex slave, raping her repeatedly and forcing her to commit a number of other degrading sexual acts.
The resulting prosecution failed, largely due to the brilliant cross-examination of Ms Flores and other witnesses by, guess who, our late friend, defence counsel Sharon Gardner. The prosecution was again led by Stephen Jardine QC, and the principal police officer this time was Detective Superintendent William Sharpe.
‘Old Bill certainly kept that quiet,’ he said as he passed the file to Kate.
‘Hardly surprising, Peter, I don’t exactly go out of my way to tell folk about my failed cases, do you?’
Once Kate had familiarised herself with the victims’ backgrounds, she and Lambert spent the following week interviewing everyone they could locate who was connected to the deceased. They concentrated their attention on those who had the most reason to want the victims dead. Having drawn a blank with Terry Gilbert, Carmela Flores, and Lily Holt, they turned their attention to Victor Gardner. Like Gilbert and Flores, he had a cast-iron alibi for the time of Barrington’s murder. In fact he had alibis for the time of all the deaths apart from that of his ex-wife. However, with confirmation from the pathologist that the same weapon had inflicted the fatal wounds on all four victims, it seemed that, once more, they were facing a dead end.
They interviewed Gardner in his small tied cottage, a comedown from the mansion in Leeds he once shared with Sharon. Lambert glanced round the sitting room. Cosy would be one way of describing it. Tiny would probably have been more accurate. Pride of place in the room went to a new-looking TV set, which was accompanied by a VCR recorder. One wall of the room was devoted to shelves, all of which were crammed with VHS tapes. They must have set Gardner back a fair amount, Lambert thought, catching sight of the titles of some famous films amongst them. ‘You’re a movie buff, are you?’ he asked, lightly.
‘Yes, well, there’s very little else to do around here of a winter’s evening,’ Gardner pointed out. ‘The nightlife is non-existent.’
Shortly afterwards, Gardner stood in his doorway, watching the detectives’ car bump carefully down the narrow track leading to the main road. When he was certain they had gone, he returned to the sitting room and picked up the phone. ‘They’ve gone,’ he said. ‘It went pretty much as you described. They must have a script they work to. Do you fancy coming over tonight? I think this calls for a celebration. A spot of dinner and a film, perhaps? Even a glass of wine.’
An hour later, Peter and Kate would have been startled and more than a little suspicious had they seen the identity of Gardner’s visitor. The small, petite blonde parked her car and walked over to the front door, which she opened with a key taken from her handbag. She closed the door as Gardner emerged from the lounge. ‘Hiya, Lily,’ he greeted her enthusiastically. His relationship with Lily was an unexpected bonus of all that had occurred.
She was wearing a knee-length imitation fur coat, ideal for the cold weather. She placed her hands lightly on the belt and slowly released it. ‘I thought about what you said,’ she told him. She allowed the coat to fall open, and Gardner saw she was wearing only bra and knickers underneath it. ‘Then I had a better idea.’
‘What about dinner?’ Gardner smiled, containing his desire with an effort.
‘Fuck dinner,’ Lily Holt retorted. ‘No, fuck me; then we’ll worry about dinner.’
‘Well, that’s it. We’ve interviewed all the people who suffered at the hands of the murdered men – and woman,’ Kate corrected herself. ‘Have you come to any conclusion from what we’ve seen and heard?’
‘Not really. I’m completely baffled, to be honest. Before we began talking to the first of them, I would have been prepared to bet that one of the four was responsible for the murders. But when we questioned them about the person who had hurt or abused them, although it was clear that they still hated them, not one of the four looked or acted guilty. If you add that to their unshakeable alibis for the time their abusers were killed and we’re back to square one.’ Lambert hesitated for a second, then corrected his last statement. ‘No, actually, we’re worse off than that, because we now have four less suspects than we did when we started out.
‘Have you any thoughts about what we should do next?’
Lambert grinned. ‘Go back home, cook dinner, pour some wine, stick an old film on the telly, then go to bed and make passionate love.’
Kate considered the suggestion for a f
ew seconds. ‘I can’t see a fault with that, but what I actually meant was what should we do next regarding the investigation?’
‘Search me. What do you think I am, some sort of detective?’
‘Searching you sounds like fun. I’m sure it can be arranged.’
They enjoyed the meal, enjoyed the wine, and settled in front of the TV. They switched to the satellite channel devoted to films in the hope of enjoying the offering. After half an hour, Kate stirred restlessly. ‘This is rubbish,’ she told him. ‘Let’s switch it off and go to bed.’
‘I’m all in favour of that.’ Lambert stood up. ‘That film was a real disappointment. Not a patch on the last one we …’
He sat back down abruptly, with a grunt that might have been pain, or shock. ‘Peter, what’s matter? Are you all right?’
Lambert didn’t reply. He sat there, staring at the blank television screen. Kate shook him gently by the shoulder. ‘Peter, tell me, are you in pain?’
He shook his head, as if clearing his brain. ‘Yes, Kate, I’m fine.’ His attention was not wholly on her, she could tell. After a few seconds, he said, ‘Of course, that’s how it was done. The cunning sod.’
‘Peter, would you mind telling what the heck you’re babbling on about. You haven’t made any sense for about the last ten minutes. At one point I thought you were having a heart attack.’
‘No, Kate, I’m fine. Mind you, I reckon Old Bill and the chief constable might have synchronised strokes when I tell them I’ve worked out who killed our four victims. Especially when I tell them that short of a confession we haven’t a ghost of a chance of prosecuting them. This has to be one of the cleverest villains I’ve ever come across.’
Kate grabbed hold of him again, all gentleness gone as she shook him vigorously.
‘Peter … Lambert … stop … being … so … bloody … provoking. All you’ve done is babble incoherently. Don’t you realize how infuriating that is?’
