Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller

by David George Clarke

  “Hawkins would only say that they wanted a powwow, pronto.”

  “Powwow? What is he, the Lone Ranger? I’ll bet he has a secret stash of cowboy movies.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Mike Hurst’s car, driven by Derek, pulled up outside Lincoln View House. Jennifer buzzed the main gate and her front door and waited while the four men made their way up the stairs.

  She sat them down in the living room and asked if they wanted coffee.

  “If we can get started while you’re making it, Cotton,” said Hawkins as he took in the room and contents.

  Derek winced. When would the DCS get it that Jennifer was no longer a police officer?

  “Nice place,” called Hawkins through to the kitchen where Jennifer was fetching a large jug of coffee she’d made once she knew they were on their way. “How can you afford this?”

  Nosey bugger, thought Jennifer.

  “I play the Asian stock markets in the hours of darkness, sir. It helps that I never sleep.”

  “What?” exclaimed Hawkins, to the others’ amusement.

  “Actually, sir, I have a very generous stepfather,” said Jennifer with a smile as she walked back into the living room.

  “Lucky girl,” grunted Hawkins. “Right, coffee ready? I’ve got some results from the lab to tell you about.”

  He nodded to McPherson who passed him a beige folder he’d been clutching.

  Hawkins opened it and removed a typewritten sheet of paper.

  “These are the preliminary findings on the new examination of Silk’s clothing.”

  “I heard that the lab had some results,” said Jennifer, as she put a tray on the coffee table. “I was talking to Charles Keithley about them this morning. He called to moan that his expert hadn’t been given all the findings.”

  Hawkins gave a dismissive shrug. “Just because his expert was at the lab witnessing the re-examination doesn’t mean that he’s entitled to all the results immediately. There are other considerations to be made.”

  Jennifer wasn’t letting it go. “Hardly in the spirit of mutual cooperation, sir. And by the way, the he was a she. Dr Pauline Merriton.”

  Hawkins gave an exasperated sigh.

  “If you’d keep quiet and listen for a minute, Cotton, you might learn something.”

  Jennifer smiled sweetly at him as she pulled her index finger and thumb across her lips.

  “Now then,” continued Hawkins, looking down at the report. “As you predicted, trace evidence was found on the inside of the pullover. They found three blond hairs that are the same as those found on the outside and in the car. They reckon, now they have several, that they are all from a wig. The irritating thing, of course, is that there is still nothing to compare them with, so they don’t mean a lot on their own.”

  He stopped, his face serious.

  Jennifer waited. She knew that Hawkins wouldn’t have made a special trip to see her just to tell her about wig hairs that had no present value as evidence. There must be something else. She glanced across at Derek, but from the look on his face, she could see that he also hadn’t been told anything. Hurst and McPherson were both staring into their coffee, their faces unreadable masks.

  Hawkins pulled another sheet of results from the folder.

  “There’s something else, Cotton. Actually there are two things.”

  “Yes, sir?” Jennifer was suddenly in fear of what had been found. Was it going to implicate Henry after all?

  Hawkins continued his scrutiny of the paper in front of him.

  “This,” he said, waving the paper at her, “would have been potentially damning for Silk if we’d had it a few weeks ago, but as it turns out, it now probably goes the other way.”

  “I don’t understand, sir,” said Jennifer.

  “Of course you don’t, Cotton. It’s the results of the examination of the weapon that was used to knock Miruna Peptanariu unconscious.”

  “I didn’t know that had been found,” said Jennifer. She glanced at Derek, who raised his eyebrows and pulled a face to indicate that he too had no knowledge of it.

  “We kept it under wraps,” said Hawkins.

  “Really?” harrumphed Jennifer, unimpressed. “What’s the weapon?”

  “A side-handle baton. A dog walker found it. His dog picked it up in some dense bushes and brought it to him. Fortunately, the dog’s slobber didn’t ruin the fingerprints.”

  “You recovered fingerprints?” said Jennifer, suddenly worried.

  Hawkins nodded. “Two good sets, both of them matching Henry Silk’s.”

  “Where on the baton were they?” asked Jennifer.

  “The best were on the retractable part of the main handle, which was extended when the baton was found. There were also some smudged ones on the side handle that didn’t show enough detail for comparison.”

  “Wasn’t the same sort of weapon used in the Bristol case?” asked Jennifer, turning to Derek.

  Hawkins answered for him. “It was. The baton design was identical. So given that, and the location of the matching fingerprints, it seems more than likely they were planted by Freneton once her target was out cold. She’d only have the handle out when she disposed of the baton, otherwise she’d keep it retracted to avoid smudging the fingerprints.”

  “Interesting that she dumped the baton in the woods,” said Jennifer. “It didn’t need to be found to clinch the case, since there’s so much else. But if it were found, she’d assume you’d regard it as icing on the cake. Not something you’d expect from someone planting evidence. Tells you something about her capacity for planning, don’t you think?”

  Hawkins nodded. “I don’t think any of us doubt Freneton’s skill in that direction.”

  He placed the sheet back in the folder and extracted another.

  “I said there were two more things; this is the second. The scientist poked around the seams on the inside of Silk’s pullover, near the neck, and found what she thought was a tiny spot of blood.”

  Jennifer felt a chasm opening in her gut as she remembered the scratches on Henry’s neck. If the spot tested positive for blood and the DNA profile matched Henry’s, then it would be further evidence against him, although she couldn’t begin to imagine a scenario given what they now knew about Olivia Freneton’s involvement.

  “Charles Keithley didn’t say anything about that, sir,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

  “Charles Keithley doesn’t know yet, that’s why,” snapped Hawkins.

  Jennifer felt her anger rising again. Keithley had every right to know; it wasn’t fair that results were being kept back. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself not to react. As her fingers drummed quietly on her coffee mug, she looked up at Hawkins’ face. He was totally relaxed, his eyes no longer stern.

  “The blood’s been profiled. It’s not Henry Silk’s and it’s not the dead girl’s.”

  Jennifer was shocked, unable to make sense of the information.

  “Then … whose is it?” she said.

  Hawkins closed the file, sat back and crossed his legs, picking at the crease in his trousers.

  “As you know, for elimination purpose, the profiles of all police officers who could potentially contaminate a crime scene are kept on the Police Elimination Database. Although it was stretching a point, I had the profile of the blood from the inside of the pullover run against the PED.”

  He paused, enjoying the moment, before completing the account.

  “The profile didn’t match any of the officers who attended any of the scenes in this case. Not you, not anyone else—”

  “But,” interrupted Jennifer, “if the list of those profiled was limited to officers attending the scenes, it wouldn’t have inclu—”

  Hawkins cut her off by raising the palm of his left hand.

  “Exactly, Cotton. I see we’re on the same page.”

  He paused again, his eyes moving from Jennifer to Derek and back again before he continued.

  “Right, I’ve discussed
this with DCI Hurst and DI McPherson already. What I’m about to say does not go beyond these walls. OK?”

  They both nodded.

  “Say it,” insisted Hawkins.

  “Yes, sir,” they said as one.

  “Good,” nodded Hawkins. “OK, I’ve checked the PED and it turns out Freneton isn’t on it. She joined the force before it was compulsory to have your profile recorded and somehow she seems to have avoided getting included. Now, for obvious reasons I can’t, at this stage, demand a sample from her so I’ve … taken an alternative route. We can’t use this, but I snaffled a toothbrush from a drawer in Freneton’s desk. She’d locked everything else, but one was open and the toothbrush was in it. I had the lab check it for saliva, which they found and then profiled the DNA. It matches the blood on Silk’s pullover.”

  Jennifer’s eyes widened as she felt her emotions rising. She bit down on her lip, trying to keep control.

  “So it was her,” she said, her voice hardly audible. “She did it. That blood must have got there when the prostitute tried to fight back as she was being suffocated.”

  Much to Derek’s embarrassment, she took his hands in both of hers.

  “This proves Henry’s innocent,” she said, squeezing his hands.

  “Yes,” agreed Hawkins, “but as I said, we can’t use this as evidence because the profile was produced from an illegally obtained sample. Without her permission, it’s useless, and if ever it got out that I’d done it, I’d be in more than deep shit, I’d probably lose my job.”

  “You must have been pretty convinced that she was guilty to have done that, sir,” said Jennifer.

  Hawkins nodded. “Yes, I was. You see, I’ve been looking into her background and her career progression on the force. I’ve got better access to such data than the rest of you. And putting it mildly, she’s a vicious bitch who seems to have a real problem with men. She almost crippled a uniform sergeant who came onto her at a party a few years ago, when she was a detective sergeant. It was one of the rare parties she has attended. She didn’t hold back in unarmed combat training either; seemed to take a delight in not stopping as short as she should with the odd punch.”

  Hawkins held up the file with both hands and tapped it on his knees.

  “But that’s not all, there’s something else. DCI Hurst and I have spent hours poring over the CCTV recordings, as you suggested, Cotton. The upshot is that we’re both pretty convinced that it’s her. There are several things. They probably wouldn’t stand up in court, especially since Silk’s an actor and could probably have mimicked her.”

  Jennifer was shaking her head.

  “Why, sir? Why would he do that? He doesn’t know Freneton at all, as far as we know, and if for some reason he did and we don’t know about it and he wanted to implicate her, then it’s a pretty dodgy way to go about it. After all, he’s more or less ignored the CCTV. When he saw it he just said it wasn’t him. He didn’t point any fingers; I was the one to do that.”

  “Good point, Cotton,” Hawkins conceded.

  “So what happens now?”

  “What happens is that we need to find Freneton. She hasn’t been seen or heard from since Friday when she claimed to be in Exeter but was in fact here in Nottingham. What’s also going to happen is that once I go upstairs with this, the fan won’t be able to cope with the shit that’s hitting it. But that’s the senior command’s problem. I’m seeing the assistant chief constable in an hour’s time. It’s not going to be easy; he actually quite likes the woman and he’ll be terrified of the fallout.”

  “Takes all sorts,” muttered McPherson.

  Hawkins grunted. “P’raps likes is too strong. Admires is more like it. He sees her as a role model for women in a force that’s still very male-oriented.”

  Jennifer snorted her derision. “A role model on how not to behave, even without her penchant for murder.”

  As Hawkins put the sheet back in the file, Jennifer was thinking through their conversation.

  “Sir, if she hasn’t been seen since Friday, where has she been? Are we sure she hasn’t returned to her house?”

  “Pretty sure. I’ve had patrol cars checking it out regularly and a couple of uniforms have asked the neighbours. There’s been no sign of her.”

  “So she must have somewhere else to go, if she’s still around. Do you know where the call to Edmunds at Skipshed prison came from?”

  It was Mike Hurst who answered.

  “I had it traced. It was from a call box here in Nottingham, near the city centre, so yes, she’s still around.”

  Jennifer was puzzled. “If she’s still around, it must be for a reason. She knows without doubt now that she’s been rumbled. You’d think she would have gone well away from here.”

  “Henry Silk?” suggested Hurst.

  “What about Henry?” said Jennifer.

  “She decided to kill him much earlier than she’d originally planned. She wanted to do it now, before he’s released.”

  “But she didn’t need to be in Nottingham for that,” objected Jennifer. “She could have called from anywhere in the country. Has her house in Wollaton been searched yet?”

  “Only Thyme’s quiet look in her garage,” said Hawkins. “That’s what I want from the ACC. Given Freneton’s seniority, I want his blessing for a search warrant. We should have that in a couple of hours. When we get it and go there, Cotton, I want you to come along. You’ll have to stay in the car, I’m afraid, given you’re a civilian, but I’d value your on-the-spot insight into anything we find.”

  “My pleasure, sir,” said Jennifer.

  “Retribution.” The word rolled from McPherson’s lips. They all turned to look at him.

  “What’s that, Rob?” asked Hurst.

  “She’s been rumbled and she must be pissed about it,” growled McPherson. “She didn’t want that fact to muck up her plans for Silk, so she decides to have him topped earlier than originally intended.”

  He looked up from the spot on the carpet that seemed to have been providing him with insight.

  “I’ve been thinking; she won’t know that her plan failed, will she? Not unless she has other contacts in Skipshed who have a way of contacting her. There’s been nothing released to the press and I think we should keep it that way for now. She might have a backup plan for the prison that she’d enact if the first one failed.”

  “Retribution makes sense,” agreed Jennifer, “but it still doesn’t explain her remaining in the city. It must make her more vulnerable.”

  “Perhaps we should all be watching our backs,” said Hurst. “Looking into the shadows in case she’s lurking.”

  “Who do you think she’d be most pissed at?” asked Jennifer. When there was no answer, she looked up to see all the men staring at her.

  “Me?” She shook her head. “I’d like to see her try.”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Hawkins. “I think we should all be extra vigilant, but the notion of you being a target isn’t daft. Now, we need to get back to the SCF; I’ve got my meeting with the ACC to go to. But Thyme, you stay here and check out the locks, go through the security with Cotton. I want to be sure that if Freneton calls by here, she can’t just walk in without a bloody great alarm going off.”

  “Sir,” objected Jennifer, “I think that—”

  “Don’t care what you think, Cotton. I want you back on my team, and I want you in one piece.”

  An hour later, Jennifer had briefed Derek on the sophisticated security system her stepfather had insisted on having installed when he bought her the apartment. He’d read articles in Italian glossies about Nottingham being the gun capital of the UK and he wanted to take no chances.

  “Impressive stuff, Jen,” said Derek after he had checked and rechecked every inch, “so long as you don’t get conned into opening the front door.”

  “I’ll be checking every caller on the monitor from now on, don’t you worry.”

  “Actually, Jen, I do worry. I think maybe I should move in unt
il Freneton is caught.”

  Jennifer laughed. “And if she’s not caught? How many years are you planning to stay? That sofa could get awfully tedious after a while.”

  Derek pulled a face. “You think there’s a chance she’d get away?”

  “More than a chance. Olivia Freneton is a bright lady; psychopaths generally are. I think she’ll have her exit strategy all worked out.”

  “P’raps,” said Derek. “But it hasn’t all gone her way. After all, you rumbled her, and then her bid to kill Henry failed.”

  “I’m not saying she’s perfect; she makes mistakes like everyone else. Let’s hope that whatever else she has planned, we can nip it in the bud. The problem is working out what the ‘whatever else’ is. So, DC Thyme, I think you should report back to DCS Hawkins that all in Fort Cotton is safe and secure. I’ll let you out, triple bolt the door and not answer it to anyone I don’t know.”

  C hapter 39

  Having dispatched Derek back to the SCF and probable wrath of Peter Hawkins for not staying longer, Jennifer carried out her own double-check of the bolts around the apartment. Most of the sash windows had been replaced during the building’s renovation, the new ones the same design but far stronger than the originals. With substantial bolts, double glazing and individually alarmed — additions insisted on by Pietro Fabrelli’s team — they were ready to announce the arrival of anyone who attempted to force them open.

  Jennifer still didn’t have a baseball bat, but she did have her truncheon, part of the police uniform she had yet to hand back. It was now sitting within reach on an armchair.

  Reassured by the security, she put it to the back of her mind. Digging into a drawer, she pulled out an A3-size sketchbook and opened it on the breakfast bar alongside her various notebooks and loose-leaf files that contained all the information from the five cases and everything she had learned about Olivia Freneton. The answers had to be there and she was convinced that if she brainstormed for long enough, she’d find them.

  Within half an hour, a single A3 sheet had become four. Spread across the worktop and taped together, they were covered in a densely packed network of boxes, lines, arrows, triple underlining, major points ringed in red, huge question marks and exclamation marks of frustration. As she sipped absently at her latest coffee, Jennifer’s eyes scanned the sheets looking for the connection that would inspire her. But all she found was history: five cut-and-dried cases that she had connected but nothing to give her further insight into what was going to happen next.