Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller

by David George Clarke

  “Derek is dead in a ditch. I’m really Olivia Freneton in disguise.”

  “Idiot!” she said, punching him on the arm.

  “Ouch! I’m arresting you for assaulting a police officer.”

  “Shut up and tell me what happened.”

  He shrugged. “I can’t do both.”

  “Derek!”

  He sat back and took a deep breath, suddenly serious.

  “I’ll tell you what, Cotton, have you created some waves. Shit hitting the fan would be the understatement of the year. It was more like an entire sewage treatment plant venting its load.”

  “Skip the scatological prose and cut to the chase, Thyme.”

  “OK. I got in soon after nine; all smart, clean and shipshape, although the head was still giving me trouble. McPherson was in his office looking grumpy as usual, so I knocked on the door and asked if I could see him, said it was confidential. He gave me one of his looks and pointed to a chair. I closed his door and started to explain, but it came out a bit garbled. However, he must have picked up on how serious it was because after about a minute he told me to shut up and wait. Then he walked out of the room. I was shitting myself; I thought he’d gone to get Freneton even though at that stage I hadn’t even mentioned her name.

  “But he hadn’t. He came straight back and told me to go with him. We marched into Hurst’s office and McPherson closed the door behind us. You can see through the glass partition, as you know, but Freneton was nowhere around, which was a relief. Didn’t want her barging in.

  “Anyway I explained what you’d found in more or less the order you told me. I said you’d found four other cases, found the names on the guest lists and emphasised, ’cause you’d told me to, that you’d done it all. I told them I’d wanted to help but you wouldn’t let me.”

  “You shouldn’t have said that, Derek; they could hold it against you.”

  “I think they took it the right way,” he said, shrugging. “Anyway, when I got to the bit with the photographs of the Ice Queen, they both nearly had coronaries. Then Hurst went white while McPherson grabbed the files and started to read them all. Hurst picked up on that and wanted them too. They were like kids, almost snatching things out of each other’s hands. I had to intervene to make sure they had covered all the info. I told them it would be better if I summarised it all before they read over it, so that they had a broad picture. You would have been proud of me, Jen, they just sat back and took it. ‘You’re right, Thyme,’ Hurst said to me. ‘Bullet point the lot.’ So I did.”

  Jennifer touched Derek’s arm and grinned. “Well done, partner, I wish I’d been there.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d expect them to take it from you, you seem to be able to wind them round your little finger, but it was a new experience for me. Felt good.

  “Anyway, once I’d gone through everything, you know, the credit card thing, Freneton’s history with Amelia Grace Taverner, her postings, and of course, the point about all the other blokes convicted of the murders being dead — that stopped them in their tracks too—”

  “So it should.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, once I’d covered it all, Hurst said they’d need to discuss it and that I wasn’t to say anything to anyone. I think that was the hardest part ’cause when I went back into the squad room, everyone wanted to know the score. They’d seen me go into McPherson’s office and then Hurst’s, and now they could see Hurst and McPherson tossing the papers around and waving their arms. They were at it for ages. Twice a WPC knocked on Hurst’s door for something, first one and then another ten minutes later. He bawled at them both to get out and stay out.”

  “So how long did this go on for?” asked Jennifer.

  “Like I said. Ages. I reckon it was nearly lunchtime. I was getting worried because the lads wouldn’t let it go. One after the other they kept dropping by my desk for a chat. I’ve never been so popular. Then someone had the bright idea of a pub lunch with a couple of those young civi research girls, the pretty ones. I reckon they thought they’d distract me into saying something. Fortunately, McPherson appeared at the right moment and called me back into Hurst’s office. We were there for another half an hour while they asked me more about various bits you’d told me. Some of it I could help with but most of it will need your input.”

  “When do they want that?”

  “I’ll tell you in a mo. They booted me out again and they both went off to the DCS’s office where there was a repeat performance of the whole morning’s dramatics, only even noisier — you know what Hawkins is like when he gets wound up. I couldn’t actually hear what they were saying, of course, because the office door was closed, and I couldn’t see anything ’cause Hawkins’ office has walls, not glass, but there was certainly a lot of ranting and raving. It was funny, when the lads got back from the pub, one or other of them would keep finding excuses to pop along the corridor to see if they could pick anything up. The DCS’s secretary was getting totally pissed off, since she’s the barrier between him and the human race. Her mood got even worse when she also tried to go into his office and got a bawling out for interrupting him in a meeting.”

  “What about Freneton?” asked Jennifer. “Where was she when all these high dramatics were going on?”

  “Fortunately, she was out for the day. Over at county headquarters, I think. But she’ll be back tomorrow, so that will be interesting.”

  “Do you know if they’re running with it? I’ll need to know so that I can brief Charles Keithley. Although he’s trying to remain calm, I know he can’t wait to get something moving. Every day Henry is inside is a day too many for Charles, not to say Henry, of course.”

  “Yeah, I can sympathise. You must feel the same, Jen.”

  She smiled at him. “I do, but at least now I think there’s some hope.”

  When Derek didn’t smile back, Jennifer registered it immediately.

  “Don’t you agree?”

  “Up to a point, yes, but there’s still a way to go. However, the outcome of today is that Hawkins has set up a confidential team comprising the three of them: him, Hurst and McPherson, and me, although Hawkins said that he will probably bring in a couple of outsiders to help me. I’m really just their gofer at the moment.”

  “It’s going to be difficult keeping Freneton out of the loop,” said Jennifer. “Her antennae are hypersensitive.”

  “Yes, they know that. McPherson told me that the DCS is hoping that they can get something quickly to either implicate her more strongly, or exonerate her, in which case it would all go away.”

  Jennifer shook her head. “Don’t you believe it. Charles won’t let this drop and neither will I. We want Henry off the hook.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” said Derek. “I don’t think there’s much doubt in their minds that Henry has been set up. The biggest thing for them is getting their heads round the fact that Freneton’s involved. It’s a big deal, Jen, as you know. The fallout will be horrendous. I’m sure the DCS can already feel a noose of blame tightening round his neck.”

  “What do they need from me?”

  “Obviously they want to see you, but most definitely not in the nick. The DCS and Hurst were adamant about that; they don’t want you anywhere near the place. You bumping into Freneton could be a disaster. She’s not stupid and if she gets to thinking that you’re onto something, she might start taking matters into her own hands.”

  “Why do you think I was so spooked today? I was running exactly that sort of scenario through my head.”

  Derek’s eyes found hers. He shrugged, trying to look nonchalant.

  “I … I can stay, if you like. If you’re worried.”

  Jennifer took his hand. “Thanks, that’s sweet, but I’d feel guilty if you spent another night on that sofa.”

  “Doesn’t have to be the sofa,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

  She put a hand on his cheek. “I don’t think I’d be … I mean, I’m extremely preoccupied. Look, it’s a tempting idea, but
… I’m not quite ready.”

  She reached forward and kissed his cheek, then she picked up his arm and pulled it around her. “But I’d like another hug.”

  Derek stroked Jennifer’s hair with his free hand. “This is nice.”

  She snuggled further into his arms. “It’s the calmest I’ve felt all day.”

  After a few moments, she raised her head. “So when and where do they want to meet?”

  “Tomorrow morning, eight o’clock at Trowell services on the M1. Southbound side car park. Go on at junction twenty-six.”

  “Yes, I know it. It can’t be soon enough. I’m really worried about Henry’s safety. What exactly did they say about that?”

  “The DCS is going to pull the reports from the Leeds, Manchester and Newcastle cases for the details. They particularly want to know about the two suicides. So yeah, they were concerned. But as we’ve said, all three happened after the trials, so Henry’s probably safe enough at the moment.”

  Jennifer sighed. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Thanks, but no. Like I said last night, I’m supposed to be in training. My coach’d kill me. And the way I felt this morning … Actually, Jen, I’d better go.”

  She said nothing for a few seconds, and then whispered a reluctant-sounding ‘OK.’

  They stood and she reached up and kissed him lightly on the lips.

  “Thanks, Derek. I feel much better now.”

  He took her hands. “You’ve got my number on your speed dial, haven’t you?”

  She smiled. “As speedy as it gets on an iPhone, yes.”

  “Right. Well, make sure to call me if you feel spooked. I’m only about ten minutes away.”

  “I didn’t know your mum lived so close.”

  Derek snorted. “I don’t live with my mum any more! I’ve got a studio apartment in a new development in Beeston.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “It is. You’ll have to drop by and see it sometime.”

  “I will, now I know your mum’s not going to answer the door.”

  “See you in the morning, Cotton.”

  “Trowell services.”

  C hapter 30

  Jennifer arrived half an hour early at Trowell Services, positioning her car so that she could see all vehicles pulling into the car park.

  She had slept badly until around three thirty, after which she had fallen into a deep but troubled sleep, only to shoot out of bed in panic when the alarm woke her at six. Between then and her leaving home at seven, every point in her case against Olivia Freneton had raised its head, extended sharp, mocking claws and tortured her with self-doubt. Freneton may be a bitch to work for, but a murderer? Spectres of civil actions and defamation of character mingled with her mental images of the photographs of Amelia Taverner and Catherine Doughthey smiling sweetly at her, while the memories of Freneton in those same photographs now showed her with a victorious, sneering smile.

  And now she was going to get the third degree from Hawkins, not known for either his patience or tolerance of over-assertive junior officers. God only knew what his attitude would be to a young detective who’d resigned under a cloud of suspicion.

  As she switched off the engine, Jennifer checked her watch. Seven twenty-nine. They wouldn’t be this early; there was time for a visit to the loo. She had no idea how long the meeting would take, but she didn’t want to be wriggling for need of a pee, or worse still, have to interrupt matters for one.

  Returning to her car, she took a sip from the insulated mug of coffee she’d brought with her, but with further thoughts of loo breaks, left it at that, despite a yearning for more caffeine.

  At three minutes to eight, DCS Peter Hawkins’ Range Rover pulled into the car park followed by Rob McPherson’s ageing Sierra. Hawkins parked his car well away from any others; McPherson pulled up next to him. They clearly hadn’t spotted Jennifer’s car fifty yards away so she got out, locked it and made her way towards them. As she did, the front passenger door of the Range Rover opened and Mike Hurst got out, gesticulating to McPherson to move his car farther away, presumably, thought Jennifer, so they could keep a better eye on any other cars that came close. Were they expecting Olivia Freneton’s car to appear out of the blue?

  While McPherson repositioned his car, Hurst looked around and saw Jennifer. He waved and pulled open the front passenger door, indicating to her to get in. He would sit in the back. As she paused by the Range Rover, Jennifer glanced at McPherson’s Sierra and noticed Derek sitting in the front passenger seat. At least there was one amongst them who would be on her side.

  Jennifer positioned her briefcase on her lap and turned to see Hawkins staring through the windscreen, his pasty face set with an expression that clearly said he was only there under sufferance. He wasn’t a tall man and too many formal dinners had seen any waistline he once had disappear under the unhealthy bulge that was now his gut. His podgy fingers still gripped the steering wheel while his small, bulbous eyes roamed the car park. As Jennifer looked across at him, she noticed his comb-over for the first time. Somehow it had been less obvious when face-to-face in his office; now it looked like a ridiculous attempt to hide the inevitable, the remnants of his once wavy locks rather lonely survivors on a desert island of pink crown.

  “Mr Hawkins, I’d like to thank you for agreeing to meet me. I—”

  “I didn’t agree to meet you, Cotton, I demanded it.”

  His strong East Midlands accent sliced through the car.

  “And you can cut the civi crap. The last time we met you called me ‘sir’. Let’s keep it simple and stick to that shall we?”

  Jennifer could feel her hackles rising. She took a deep, controlling breath.

  “Th…that was a few weeks ago. I’m now just a member of the public. I—”

  “Do you have any back pay still to come?”

  “Er, yes, I do. But—”

  “Then you’re still a police officer in my book. Now let’s get on. I haven’t got all day to sit here listening to your thoughts on etiquette.”

  He turned his face to her for the first time and glowered.

  Jennifer flicked her eyes towards Hurst, who had positioned himself in the rear seat immediately behind Hawkins. She saw the slightest shake of his head telling her to swallow her pride.

  “Yes, sir,” she mumbled.

  Satisfied with his victory, Hawkins returned his gaze to the car park, every movement of every car being noted. He took a breath and Jennifer saw his jacket button strain against the extra pressure.

  “Now, Cotton, you and your terrier-like resistance to letting go of anything have caused me a major headache.”

  It’s not about you, you stupid shit, thought Jennifer.

  “Yes, sir,” she repeated.

  Hawkins grunted. “It’s as well that Detective Superintendent Freneton was away from the SCF yesterday because she’d have been bound to get wind of something. However, she’s back today and it’s going to be all but impossible for her not to smell a rat. And if she gets even a shred, a sniff of something, she’ll be banging on the doors of every senior commander from here to London. And she’s got some heavy contacts, friends in high places. Believe me, Cotton, you have no idea.”

  He stopped, his fingers working at the steering wheel while the words he didn’t want to say lined themselves up in his head. He breathed in deeply and pulled sharply on the wheel, as if to help the words escape.

  “However,” he snarled, his jaw set, “despite all that and the fact that you’ve got me sticking my neck out so far I look like a bloody giraffe, having read carefully through your notes and having discussed them at length with both the DCI here, and DI McPherson, I’ve come to the conclusion that you may have something. May have. It’s all circumstantial and therefore there could be a logical and legitimate reason or reasons behind all of it. I know Silk’s solicitor has given you what he’s found about the circumstances of the three other deaths in custody, but I suspect the police files will have more. We’r
e still looking into that. I’ve told Thyme to get the files toot sweet. I’ve also ordered a re-examination of Silk’s clothing to include searching the inside surfaces, like you suggested.”

  Jennifer was still trying to imagine how a man with no neck could look like a giraffe. She coughed, interrupting Hawkins’ flow.

  “May I ask one thing here, sir? I know that Charles Keithley, Henry Silk’s solicitor, would much prefer it if his own expert could be present at any further examination of the clothing. Would that be OK?”

  Hawkins dropped the corners of his mouth in disapproval. “Doesn’t he trust the lab, Cotton? It’s not regular practice to have the defence expert at what will effectively be an initial examination, this part of the clothing not having been examined previously.”

  He paused but Jennifer held her tongue. She was beginning to get used to his style of denial and negativity followed by agreement. All that was required was the patience to let him work his way through his pomposity.

  Finally he sat back and folded his arms over his belly.

  “But, I suppose, in the circumstances …”

  He glanced in the mirror. “Mike, make a note.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Hurst. He hadn’t told the DCS, but he’d already briefed the lab not to start until the defence expert was on site.

  Hawkins flicked his eyes briefly at Jennifer before continuing his survey of the car park.

  “Of course, Cotton, even if they find wig hair, like you think they will, it’s still going to be hard to pin anything on Detective Superintendent Freneton, or anyone else, for that matter.”

  Jennifer nodded. “I know, sir, but every little helps, and there may be something else to connect her.”

  “What are you expecting, her business card stuffed down his pullover? We’ve no grounds to seize any of her clothing for comparison, you know. Not at this stage, probably not at any stage. You realise, Cotton, that if nothing comes of any of this, and if the deaths are shown not to be suspicious or connected to each other or to Detective Superintendent Freneton, and eventually there’s a legitimate reason for her to have been in the hotels, this investigation will stop. There’ll be nothing, and God help you if that’s the case and she finds out.”