Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller

by David George Clarke

  Charles didn’t share her confidence. “Not in theory, no. But we solicitors are a cagey lot; it might take more than a casual phone call. However, it’s worth a try; the more video footage we get, the better. I’ll get onto it now, but of course I won’t disclose more than absolutely necessary.”

  “Brilliant,” enthused Jennifer. “Would it be OK if we put aside your worries with the CCTV and I get straight on with viewing it?”

  “How could I refuse?” said Charles, with a chortle of laughter. “But then again, you knew the answer to that question all along; you were just playing me. I’m still staggered that you didn’t burst through the door shouting the news.”

  He walked over to his office door and opened it.

  “There’s an empty office down the hall. I’ll get someone to set up a computer there. You know, perhaps I should offer you a job.”

  An hour later, Jennifer was so engrossed in endless poorly lit images from the street cameras and low definition shots from the Old Nottingham hotel that she hardly heard Charles come into the small office he’d arranged for her. She certainly didn’t notice the tension in his voice as he said her name. If she’d looked up, she would have seen the ashen look on his face, but as it was, she continued to focus her attention on the computer monitor.

  “This is far more difficult than I thought it would be, Charles. The quality isn’t good in most of the footage. But even so, the more I look at these recordings, the more I’m convinced that the person shown isn’t Henry Silk. There’s something about the walk as he goes through the hotel corridor, as well as the hand and arm movements. And then there’s the hand when the lift button is pressed and the way the person gets into the car. It’s really not masculine enough. Of course, I haven’t made a study of Henry getting into a car, which is something of a problem. Has Henry seen all these?”

  In the silence that followed, Jennifer suddenly realised that Charles hadn’t said a word. She turned to him and finally saw the haunted look in his eyes.

  “Whatever is it?” she said. “What’s happened?”

  Charles sat down in a chair near to Jennifer’s.

  “Listen, Jennifer, there’s a problem.”

  “What? With the CCTV? I won’t say anything, honestly, you can trust me.”

  Charles shook his head. “I know I can trust you; it’s not the CCTV. It’s the three other cases you unearthed, the ones where we now know that Olivia Freneton was staying in the same hotel as the alleged culprits on the same nights as the murders. I contacted all three solicitors and they were surprisingly forthcoming, far more than I would have been to a telephone call from a complete stranger. But then I discovered the reason for their candour.”

  Jennifer felt a cold shiver pass through her. “What reason?”

  “They’re dead. The culprits in all three cases. They’re all dead. Two committed suicide while the third was killed in a fight, a fracas really, in prison.”

  “A fight?”

  “Yes. They’re not unusual in prisons; the tension amongst the convicts often reaches bursting point. Of course, some like fighting for the sake of it or as a demonstration of control, a warning to the other prisoners. But the fights are seldom so severe that someone dies. Apparently the convict involved in the fight was a proper thug, a man with a shocking record of viciously violent behaviour.”

  “And the dead man in the fight, the one whose name I turned up?”

  “Timothy Backhouse. The man convicted of the 2012 murder in Manchester. Apparently he was a quiet, rather timid man; the last person you’d expect to be involved in a fight, especially with a known hard man.”

  Jennifer could feel the cold shiver still gnawing at her spine.

  “Which … which prison was it, the fight?”

  “Maudslake, outside Leeds.”

  “Not Skipshed?”

  “No, definitely not.”

  “Well, at least that’s something.” Jennifer’s voice was barely more than a whisper; the sense of alarm she felt still palpable.

  “What about the suicides?” she added.

  “Do you mean where were they?”

  “No. I mean were they a surprise? To the prison authorities or the families?”

  “I don’t have the details yet. The solicitors are sending the files by courier; they’ll arrive first thing in the morning. It was the quickest way since not all the documents are scanned. They each reckoned it would be easier to photocopy the lot and put them in an envelope.”

  “Excellent,” said Jennifer. “I’ll stay down here overnight. I have the key to Henry’s house; he told me to use it whenever I want.”

  She shifted her gaze to the now-frozen image on the monitor, but she saw nothing as she bit on her lip in thought.

  “Do you think it’s possible that Freneton could have some influence on which prisons the convicts are kept in?”

  “I have no idea, Jennifer. I shouldn’t have thought so, but who knows? She’s clearly a devious woman whose planning skills are excellent. She seems to cover so much of the minutiae that I shouldn’t rule it out. Who knows, she might have befriended someone in the prison service in order to gain access to the system, or to influence it in some way? Perhaps it was part of her long-term planning, the same way that she set things up with Amelia Taverner and Catherine Doughthey to let her have credit cards in their names.”

  Jennifer’s hand suddenly shot to her mouth. “Oh, God, Charles, you realise what this means. With the Bristol suspect dead as well, Henry is the only one of the alleged culprits in the five cases we know about who is still alive. Don’t you find that strange? Do you think that is Freneton’s plan, her end game for her victims? She shows them what she considers to be mercy in that she has them killed, or somehow persuades them to take their own lives. It would be the ultimate control over someone. You set them up, destroy their reputation, make them suffer the ignominy that goes with that, you ensure that they are found guilty of a horrible crime and then kill them. She’s playing God.”

  Charles wasn’t so sure. “You could be right Jennifer,” he said, his tone reflecting his lack of conviction. “But surely it would take a lot to persuade someone to commit suicide.”

  “Suppose they weren’t suicides,” argued Jennifer. “Suppose they were murdered and the deaths made to look like suicides.”

  “I don’t know, I’ll need to see the files. But running with your conspiracy theory for a moment, if Freneton is somehow involved, a more cynical interpretation might be that she is hedging her bets after the convictions. Think about it. When an innocent man is locked up for many years, if he has anything about him, he will endeavour to demonstrate his innocence. If he writes to enough people and his case is convincing, someone might pick up his cause and run with it. They’re less likely to do that if the man is dead, especially if the manner of his death is suicide or some violent behaviour. There’d be nothing left in his credibility bank.”

  “Do you know how long it was between the convictions of these men and their deaths?” asked Jennifer.

  “Yes, the times are quite similar. It was a little under two years for each of them. The shortest was for Edgerton, the one who committed suicide in 2007. He died a year and eight months after his conviction. It was a couple of months longer for Walker, who killed himself in Sunshore prison in Northumbria in 2009.”

  “Perhaps that’s her preferred method of getting rid of them,” suggested Jennifer. “Suicide. After all, it’s more or less an admission of their guilt. If it doesn’t work, then someone gives them a helping hand.”

  “If that’s the case,” said Charles, “we might at least have some time to play with. What I mean is that Henry’s case hasn’t even gone to trial yet, so he’s probably not in any immediate danger.”

  “That’s some reassurance,” agreed Jennifer, “but we must warn him. He needs to be vigilant, careful who he mixes with. Listen, Charles, I think in the light of this, the only way to move forward is for me to report everything I’ve found to the
police, to my ex-colleagues, in fact. It might not be easy to get them to listen, but I can tell them I’ve discussed it with you, that it’s not just some daft notion I’ve dreamed up.”

  Charles nodded his agreement. “Yes, I think you’re right. My first instinct was to start rattling cages at the CPS, but I also realise that this needs to be handled carefully. If the police do sit up and listen, it will be imperative that Freneton is kept well out of the loop. That will mean having only a few trusted people in the know, people with clout, until they are ready to sling the book at her. So all things considered, I think it would be prudent for you to take the first initiative.”

  “Thanks, Charles, I appreciate that. I just wish I had a plan.”

  She stood and walked over to the window that looked out onto the tree-lined north-London street, but the view hardly registered as she considered her next steps.

  “There are three people that I think, no, that I know I can trust with this,” she said, turning back to Keithley. “The DCI, Mike Hurst; the DI, Rob McPherson; and DC Derek Thyme. Hurst and McPherson certainly both have some clout and I’m sure they’ll listen if I approach it correctly.”

  “I thought Hurst was part of the gang of three that accused you of lying about not knowing Henry was your father.”

  “He was, but I don’t think he had much say in the matter. The other two in that gang were senior to him: Freneton and the DCS, who I’m pretty sure does what Freneton tells him. She was certainly in charge the day they hauled me in. She’s probably got something on him; you know how it works.”

  “If you’re sure, Jennifer. I have to leave it to your judgement.”

  “I think the first person I’ll talk to is Derek. Once we’ve reviewed the three case files in the morning, I’ll drive back to Nottingham and go through everything with him. I don’t think it will be difficult to persuade him to see the DI or the DCI, or both together. I don’t know; he and I will have to discuss it.”

  “It sounds as if he’s a good colleague,” said Keithley.

  “More than a colleague,” replied Jennifer, “he’s a good friend, and he’s far smarter than he gives himself credit for.” She smiled. “Even if he is a shocking time-keeper. He’s been nothing but supportive so far. He stuck his neck out for me with the Bristol case and persuaded his mate down there to do the same. No, if I have to rely on someone, he’s the one.”

  Curled up in a leather armchair in Henry Silk’s comfortable study later that evening, Jennifer balanced her laptop on her knee as she trawled the Internet for one more piece of the puzzle: information on Olivia Freneton’s career progression in the police force. It was a task that would have taken her ten minutes on one of the internal police computers, but no longer having access to them, she had to go backwards through the years using newspaper reports that either mentioned Freneton’s name as a case officer, or as a newly appointed officer in a region or city.

  Finally, satisfied she had what she wanted, she closed her computer, and sat back to drink in the titles of the dozens of leather-bound books on the shelves around her. With many first editions among them, Jennifer could have easily spent the night browsing; dipping into one and reacquainting herself with a chapter from another. But the exertions of the last few days were catching up. Another time, she thought, preferably with Henry.

  She closed the study door and went to the kitchen where she threw together a salad with leaves she’d bought in a nearby organic deli along with a selection of cheeses. A raid on Henry’s substantial wine cellar provided an excellent Merlot.

  Two glasses later, still at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, she realised how tired she was and headed for the guest room. Within two minutes of her head hitting the pillow, she was sound asleep.

  C hapter 28

  As she took the Nottingham turnoff from the M1 motorway at two o’clock the following afternoon, Jennifer called Derek Thyme’s mobile.

  “Derek, hi, it’s Jennifer.”

  “Hi, kid, what’s up?”

  “Kid?” exploded Jennifer, but then she realised that if Derek didn’t want to address her by name, he must be in the SCF office.

  “OK,” continued Jennifer, grinding her teeth, “forget my reaction; I’ve worked it out. Listen, I need to see you very urgently and very confidentially. How quickly can you get round to my place?”

  “Intrigued as I am, Mata Hari, I don’t think I can make it before seven, I—”

  “Seven!”

  “Sorry, I don’t have any choice. The Ice Queen has dumped a load of stuff on me that she wants the answers for by yesterday. I’ve got to make inroads with it today before I leave the office or I’ll be toast. She keeps on giving me these strange looks. I reckon she doesn’t trust me an inch; thinks I’m in telepathic communication with you or something.”

  “P’raps she fancies you.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “OK, I’ll have to make do with seven. But don’t be any later. This is far more important than anything dear Olivia might have for you.”

  Shortly after eight o’clock, Jennifer heard a car pull up outside the house. She ran over to the window and saw Derek letting himself in through the main gate. She had buzzed the front door before he reached it.

  “Sorry, Jen,” called Derek as he pounded up the stairs. “The papers got more and more complicated. I was worried that I was going to have to pull an all-nighter when Hurst looked in to say that Freneton was in London tomorrow for a meeting, so I had an extra twenty-four hours. She hadn’t told me, the cow. She’d’ve quite happily had me slaving away through the small hours and then looking like an idiot tomorrow.”

  “Never mind, you’re here now. Sit down there, on the sofa, while I get you a glass of red. Unless you’d prefer a beer?”

  “I’m supposed to be in training …”

  He paused as his eyes fell suspiciously on a large box file on the coffee table in front of the sofa. More paperwork.

  “Red’ll be great, thanks. I hope you’ve got a few bottles.”

  “Limitless supply. Italian connections, remember?”

  She put two almost full glasses on the coffee table and sat in an armchair next to the sofa.

  Derek raised his eyebrows. “Wow! You do mean business.”

  Jennifer grinned at him. “Derek, my friend, what I’m going to tell you will knock your socks off.”

  She raised her glass in a toast. “Here’s to a life-changing moment.”

  Derek narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Have you had a few of these already?”

  Jennifer put down her glass and opened the box file. “Shut up and listen. I hope you’re ready for this.”

  She took several folders from the box file and lay them side by side on the table in front of Derek.

  “OK. These are the details of the murders of five different prostitutes in five different cities around the country during the last seven years. One is, of course, the murder of Miruna Peptanariu for which Henry Silk has been charged and is remanded in prison while awaiting trial. And you know about the rather weird circumstances of the Bristol case last year. For each of the other three, a man was arrested, charged and found guilty at trial, and convicted for life.”

  She paused to take a sip from her glass.

  “Right, amazing fact number one. Of the five apparent culprits for these cases, only Henry Silk is still alive.”

  “What!” Derek put down his wine glass and leaned forward to pick up one of the files.

  Jennifer reached out to touch his arm. “No, wait. Let me tell you all about it first, then you can read the details.”

  She pointed to the files.

  “Each of these cases was supported by strong forensics — DNA and fibres — as well as CCTV evidence for four of them. But if you discount the forensic and CCTV evidence, there’s nothing else. And there are no motives, no eyewitnesses, no known relationship between the dead girls and their apparent killers. The MOs for the murders weren’t entirely the same, in fact the first two inv
olved semen found in the girls, which is interesting in itself given what I’m going to tell you in a moment. For those two cases, the DNA profiles matched profiles on the DNA database from previous offences, which in both cases were drink-driving convictions. As you know, that sort of comparison is no longer possible since the Protection of Freedom Act forced the police to throw away all the profiles they’d taken from people arrested for minor offences.”

  She sat back in her chair, hardly able to contain the excitement in her eyes and voice as her story unfolded.

  “But,” she continued, “there is one factor connecting all the cases.”

  “Which is?” said Derek as he took a gulp from his glass. “Hey, this wine’s good.”

  Jennifer smiled. “Straight from the extensive Fabrelli vineyards.”

  “I could get used to it. Now, what’s that one factor?”

  “One woman, two names?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Amelia Taverner and Catherine Doughthey.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “One of them, Amelia Taverner, was on the guest list for the Old Nottingham on the night of Miruna Peptanariu’s murder, which of course was the night Henry stayed there too. She was also staying at hotels in Leeds in 2007 and Manchester in 2012 on the nights of prostitute murders in those cities, the hotels being the ones where the culprits who were subsequently found guilty of the murders also stayed on the same nights.”

  Derek pulled a face. “Interesting coincidence?”

  “Oh, it’s more than that. The other person, Catherine Doughthey, was staying at the Bristol View on the night of the murder down there last year, which is the hotel where the councillor died after apparently murdering a prostitute, and she was also staying in Newcastle in the same hotel as another culprit on the night of a similar murder there in 2009. The details are all there.”

  She pointed again at the files.

  “OK,” said Derek, still not sounding convinced. “Are these two women connected in some way?”