Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller

by David George Clarke

  Derek shook his head. “Very unlikely, apparently. They reckoned he might have accidentally taken one or two too many and the strain of the pills on top of his night’s activities caused his heart to give out. He was in pretty ropey condition, according to the pathologist.”

  “What were the pills?”

  “They didn’t release that for a while, although some slime bag of a reporter wheedled the info out of someone. Actually, it might have been a controlled leak since the dead man was distinctly unpopular with the police both in Bristol and in Cardiff. Threw his substantial weight around a lot.”

  “Are you going to tell me what the pills were or do I have to guess?”

  “Oh, sorry. It was Rohypnol.”

  “Roofies. That’s the date rape drug. Not easy to get now, even on prescription.”

  “Norrie reckons it’s not that difficult and the man often went to Eastern Europe where they’re readily available.”

  “Did the councillor have any connection with the girl?”

  “No, and despite being an obnoxious bastard, he wasn’t known to have used prostitutes.”

  Jennifer got up to get some more coffee capsules from a jar.

  “Another cup, Derek?”

  “Thanks, but I’d better get into the SCF; Freneton’s on the warpath this week about punctuality. She never fails to find new and innovative ways to break our spirit.”

  “Tell her you were with me. She’ll have you posted to the Shetland Isles and then she’ll be out of your life forever. You could be the first black detective up there. That would be novel.”

  “I wish.”

  Jennifer pressed the button on the coffee machine and reached for a mug, but then changed her mind. Her bike ride would come first.

  “Listen, Derek, thanks for that; it’s food for thought. And it’s given me an idea for some research.”

  An hour later, her bike ride completed, Jennifer was taking her second shower of the morning when she heard her phone ringing. She hoped the caller would leave a message since there was no way she could reach it in time.

  There was no message but Jennifer recognised Sally Fisher’s number in the call register and called straight back.

  “Sally, hi, it’s Jennifer Cotton. Sorry I missed your call, I was in the shower.”

  “Lucky you. I’ve been up since five.”

  Jennifer laughed. “Actually, I’ve been pounding the streets and then putting my bike through its paces.”

  “Ah, a girl after my own heart; I thought we had something in common. I’m about to do the same once Ced gets back from his run. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. The day you came over, Ced was called away to Italy on an urgent case; he only got back yesterday afternoon.”

  “Italy? Whereabouts?”

  “Milan.”

  “My old stamping ground.”

  “Really? You’re not Italian, are you?”

  “No, but I was born there, a stone’s throw from the Last Supper. I’ll tell you all about it sometime.”

  “Love to hear it. Ced’s often over there. As you’ll know, you can’t move in most towns for Renaissance paintings.”

  “Too right. We had a few fifteenth-century frescos adorning the walls in the house where I lived.”

  “Now I do want to chat, and so will Ced. You must come back soon.”

  “Can’t wait. I studied art history as a subsidiary. Loved it, so it’d be great to talk to him.”

  “Gets better all the time. Now listen; your stuff. I talked it over with Ced last night once Claudia-Jane had gone down. He loves a good puzzle and it really whetted his appetite. He immediately picked up on something that I think bothered me when you were here, but then we moved on to something else and I forgot about it.”

  Jennifer stopped rubbing her hair with a towel and waited.

  “Did you say that there were some long blond hairs found, possibly from a wig?” continued Sally.

  “Yes, there were. Two. One was on the girl’s outer clothing, the jacket, and one on Henry’s pullover. The lab couldn’t be certain they were from a wig. Apparently there was some residue of glue on them, but one that is found occasionally in hairsprays. Why? Do you think they are important?”

  “Did the girl own a long blond wig?”

  “No, I’m pretty sure she didn’t.” Jennifer was rubbing her hair again as she wandered over to the coffee machine.

  “So where did they come from?” asked Sally.

  “No idea. I think they were more or less ignored since there was nothing to compare them with. It was assumed that they were on the girl’s clothing from some earlier appointment or from a wig she’d used, and got transferred to Henry’s clothing.”

  “But you said that she didn’t own one.”

  “No, but these girls swap things around, you know.”

  “Sure. But suppose for one minute that they are significant. I mean connected to the case.”

  “How?”

  “How possible is it that a woman is involved?”

  “A woman?” Jennifer shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible.”

  Sally was now warming to her theme, the enthusiasm clear in her voice.

  “It would go a long way to explaining how Henry was rendered unconscious in his room. Assuming he’s not gay—”

  “No, he’s definitely not.”

  “Right, well, supposing he met someone, I don’t know, in the hotel bar, say, and it was a set-up. She could have slipped him something—”

  “Roofies?” interrupted Jennifer.

  “Yes, that would be good. Why did you suggest those?”

  Jennifer gave her a brief outline of the Bristol case.

  “Interesting,” said Sally. “I’ll definitely muse on that.”

  “So, do you think that we’re looking at two people,” said Jennifer. “A woman to spring the honey trap and get the target unconscious, and a man to dress up in the target’s clothing, pick up the girl, kill her, and then return to the hotel?”

  “Mmm,” muttered Sally. “Possibly, but I don’t like it.”

  “Why?”

  “Exactly. Why? The motive for a team of two or more people committing a crime is normally completely different from that for one person. For two or more, it almost always hinges around money. But for one perpetrator, all sorts of motives can be possible.”

  “Yes, but either way, it would still be very calculated and the question of why is still there. Why Henry, in fact?”

  “Perhaps you should put it to him.”

  “I shall.”

  “OK. That’s great. Look, I’ve had another thought and the possibility of it being a woman makes this an interesting one. When you were involved in the investigation of the case, were the hotel guests checked?”

  “Their names taken, you mean? Yes, the list for the night of the murder was gone through; it’s routine practice. As I remember, there was no one with a criminal record, not even drunk driving, which is unusual. Just the regular sort of bunch you’d expect: businessmen and women, conference-goers, tourists. You know.”

  “Yes. But now that you’ve heard about the Bristol case, I was wondering if it might be worth looking at the guest list from the hotel in Bristol to see if there’s any overlap with the Old Nottingham list.”

  “Mmm. Not sure how I can get hold of them. I can’t ask Derek. If someone found out, he’d be in all kinds of trouble.”

  “You’re the detective; you’ll think of something.”

  “Ex-detective.”

  “I wonder.”

  C hapter 21

  Jennifer had no sooner rung off from talking to Sally than she was pressing the call button for Charles Keithley. His secretary put her straight through.

  “Hello, Jennifer. Any news from your forensic friend?”

  Jennifer had decided she would keep Charles in the loop on everything she was pursuing in the case. He had been more than open with her, giving her access to everything he had; it seemed only fair to be the sam
e.

  “Actually, Charles, yes, I have. She called a few minutes ago.”

  She outlined Sally’s thoughts about the implications of the long blond hairs.

  “That’s an interesting idea,” commented Keithley once she’d finished. “I hadn’t really thought along those lines. I’m seeing Henry this afternoon. Is it all right to talk to him about it?”

  “Certainly it is,” enthused Jennifer. “You never know, it might trigger a memory from that night. Listen, Charles, there’s something else. I also had a visit this morning from Derek Thyme, my ex-colleague at SCF.”

  “He likes living dangerously, does he?”

  “He should be in the clear unless the Ice Queen has spies hiding behind the trees outside. He mentioned what I think is a possibly connected case in Bristol.”

  Keithley listened in silence as she told him the details, although Jennifer could hear the rustling of paper as he made notes.

  “Interesting similarities,” he said, after a pause as he checked his notes. “But the case is closed. They have the culprit, albeit a dead one, so surely it’s more academic than anything?”

  “On the contrary, Charles, it raises an interesting alternative. Let’s suppose for a moment that for both crimes, the same culprit was involved, framing the councillor in the first and Henry in the second. After all, a similar MO was used in both.”

  “Similar but not the same,” countered the solicitor. “Criminals are creatures of habit, as you well know.”

  Jennifer sighed. Keithley’s conservative attitude was not what she wanted to hear.

  “You could be right, of course,” she said. “You probably are, but I think it’s worth following up. I’m also thinking of trawling the newspaper archives for prostitute murders around the country where someone has been convicted, but protested his innocence throughout the trial and is still protesting it from the confines of his cell.”

  “That’ll keep you busy.”

  “Yes. It’s a pity I don’t have access to the police computers, but online newspapers and one or two other archives should be a start. You see, I’ve been thinking. If I’m right about these two cases, and if perhaps there are more, if they’re spaced out over a long enough period of time and in different parts of the country, they probably wouldn’t have been connected during any of the investigations since in all cases there will have been a culprit offered up on a plate. None of them would be outstanding crimes, cold cases or anything like that. They would hit the plus side of the police statistics and be forgotten about. They’d never be flagged for anything.”

  “Still a long shot, Jennifer, but worth a try. I don’t know if I can offer any resources to help you; I’m up to my eyes at the moment.”

  “Don’t worry, Charles, I’m happy to do it. However, there is one thing that’s connected you might be able to help me with.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “In the bundle of papers you have from Henry’s case, do you happen to have the guest list from the Old Nottingham for the night of the murder? I know we, the police, that is, got it. It’s routine to do so.”

  “Mmm, I don’t remember seeing it. I doubt it would be included since it would be of no relevance in the trial. I’ll check, but I don’t think so. Can’t your friend Thyme get it for you?”

  “Too risky. No, I’ve had an idea about a story I could spin; I’ll see if I can use my feminine charm on the barman at the hotel. Could you remind me which room Henry stayed in?”

  She heard the rustle of papers again.

  “Let me see,” muttered Keithley to himself. “Yes, here it is. Room two zero two.”

  “Thanks, Charles. Please give my love to Henry.”

  Jennifer thought through the story she’d concocted and decided she needed to give herself more credibility, and since hotels are always more sympathetic to their guests than strangers walking in off the street, that’s what she would be: she would reserve a room for the night.

  She looked at her watch: eleven thirty. Rather early to be checking in, but not too early to book. She went online and made a reservation for that night. In the box for special requests, she asked for a room on the second floor.

  With some hours to kill, she opened up her laptop and began the long process of searching through online versions of national and local newspapers for prostitute murders.

  By seven that evening, she’d had enough of trawling the Internet. She was finding her initial broad-brush approach to the search quite difficult to refine, given the variety of parameters. Tomorrow she’d try something different: major city by major city. With an average of about seven hundred and fifty murders a year in the UK, it was going to take a while, even if many of them were not murders of prostitutes.

  She picked up the overnight bag she’d packed, tossed in her laptop and set out on the ten-minute walk to the hotel, hoping that the receptionist would be both male and cooperative. However, as she walked through the main door into the lobby, her heart sank. The receptionist sitting behind the desk was Sheryl, the girl she’d questioned two days after Miruna Peptanariu’s murder. She’d forgotten all about her.

  She quickly sat in one of the armchairs in the lobby, her back to the desk, and picked up a magazine. Fortunately, Sheryl was busy with a guest seeking directions to the Broadmarsh Bus Station and hadn’t noticed her. She tried to tune in on the conversation and had almost decided she should get up and leave when the main door banged open and a flustered young man she didn’t recognise burst in clutching a cycling helmet.

  “Michael!” hissed Sheryl. “You’re twenty minutes late. I’m meeting me boyfriend at half past; he’ll be wild if I’m late.”

  “Sorry, Sheryl, I had a puncture. Thanks for covering, I owe you.”

  “I won’t forget it, either,” promised Sheryl as she grabbed her bag and headed for the door, leaving her guest still wondering how to get to the bus station.

  Jennifer sat back in relief. She decided she’d wait ten minutes for Michael to calm down before checking in.

  At ten o’clock she came down from her room and made for the bar. She was within Michael’s age-noticing parameters so he immediately followed her from reception.

  “What can I get you?” he asked, with a smile that told Jennifer he would appreciate a drink himself.

  “A red wine, thank you.”

  Michael poured and hovered. Jennifer let him suffer for a minute before telling him she was looking for some information about a conference centre near the river Trent. Oh, and would he like a drink?

  “Used to work there,” he said, beaming. He turned to pour himself a vodka and spent the next ten minutes giving her a mountain of useless information.

  She smiled encouragement as she moved the conversation round to his present job, which he told her he’d had since January.

  “Do you like it here?” she asked. “It’s certainly my favourite whenever I’m in town. I think this is my fourth stay.”

  “Your face does look a bit familiar,” he said. “When was the last time?”

  Jennifer was suddenly cautious. She hadn’t been the one to interview him, but he might have seen her with Derek.

  She pretended to check the calendar on her phone.

  “Quite recently,” she said. “May the twenty-ninth.”

  She watched his eyes, wondering if he’d make the connection, but clearly he didn’t.

  “Actually,” she continued, “I was wondering if you can help me. I need a receipt from that stay to claim my expenses and I’ve lost the original. My boss is a real skinflint and will take any opportunity not to pay. You couldn’t print out another copy for me, could you?”

  “No probs,” he shrugged in his coolest style. “Wait there and I’ll get it. What was the name?”

  “Cotton. Jennifer Cotton.”

  “Be right back.”

  Jennifer casually followed him to the desk where he was punching keys rather slowly and looking puzzled.

  “Won’t be a minute,” he said. “
Not a routine I’ve done before and this system isn’t exactly user friendly.”

  “Want a hand?” offered Jennifer. “I’m good with computers.”

  He pursed his lips and glanced around. “I shouldn’t really, but there’s no one around and it would probably be quicker. Thanks.”

  Jennifer made her way around the desk and leaned over the keyboard.

  “Let’s see. Arrival date: twenty-ninth of May. There. Name of guest: Cotton. Enter. Oh, it says there’s no record. That’s weird, I wonder if there’s a glitch in the software. Perhaps I could try the guest list for that day; maybe the receptionist misspelt my name. OK?”

  “Sure,” he said, still trying to look casual.

  She hit a couple of keys and the guest list appeared. She scanned the menu, hit another key and the list refreshed with room numbers alongside. The first one she noticed was Henry Silk in two zero two.

  “That’s really odd, I can’t see my name anywhere.”

  She looked up, involving him. “You’d think a single woman would stand out on the list that’s nearly all men.”

  She turned her attention back to the screen. There were only four women listed as single-occupant guests. Indhira Chandraya, who stayed three nights; Emily Chan, four nights; Amelia Taverner, one night; and Sharon Peterson, one night. Both Taverner and Peterson had occupied rooms on the second floor.

  “Very strange,” she continued as she hit another button. “Oh whoops, that was stupid. I’ve hit print by mistake. Where’s your printer? You don’t want to leave any incriminating evidence.”

  “It’s in the back office,” said Michael, suddenly looking worried. “Glad you thought of that. The day girl would give me hell. I’ll pop through and fetch it.”

  As he turned away, Jennifer lifted her phone and photographed the screen. Then she hit another button and Amelia Taverner’s credit card details appeared. After snapping that, she repeated the process for Sharon Peterson.

  By the time Michael returned, the screen was once again showing the overall guest list.

  “Any luck?” he asked.

  “No,” said Jennifer, frowning at the screen. “You know, I’m sure it was May the twenty-ninth.”