Grave Decisions

by Claire Highton-Stevenson

  Turner breathed deeply and nodded. “Excellent, let CPS deal with it then. What about this grave business?”

  Whitton changed files. Opening it, she pulled out the first page and passed it across to Turner. “Right now, we have another case that seems to link into this. As you can see, the victim in each case lies on top of the grave of their alleged victim.”

  “Alleged?”

  Whitton licked her bottom lip as she pulled two other pieces of paper from the file and passed them across. “George Herring was found last year on top of the grave of one of his alleged victims. No charges were brought against him in a historic child abuse case against Constance Martin, also known as Martin Tillerson. Constance was transgender, however with the court case and other things going on in her life, she hadn’t gone any further into legally changing her name or getting a gender recognition certificate sorted, and that meant her delightful parents were able to totally disregard her as a woman.”

  He perused the information, quickly scanning the page before looking up. “So they buried her as a him, Martin Tillerson?”

  Tilting her head, Whitton scrunched up her face in annoyance. “Yes. I met with them. They are insistent that Constance was their son…I may have overstepped the mark.”

  Turner sat up straight; he was used to his DI and the way that she worked. He listened. “Go on.”

  “I told them that regardless of whether she was Constance or Martin, she was still their child.” Shrugging, she added, “I think they were aware that I wasn’t impressed with them.”

  “Well, if they make a complaint then I will deal with it, otherwise, I wouldn’t worry too much. I won’t be kowtowing to a couple of bigots. Tell me about Anita Simmons.”

  She nodded; it helped having a superior on your side. “Anita was left on the grave of Adam Whitman. She was involved in an RTA last year, and Adam was the victim. It was an accident from what I can tell, but the breathalyser unit used at the scene recorded Anita as being over the limit. She accepted that she had had a drink, but only the one. It was then discovered that the unit hadn’t been calibrated correctly, and the evidence was thrown out. Anita Simmons was free to go. Both cases are also connected in that Anita Simmons was also Constance Martin’s sexual assault adviser.”

  “So what’s the thinking on the whole?” he asked, sitting back in his chair again.

  “I think we have a vigilante on the loose. Someone who has deemed themselves judge, jury, and executioner.”

  “So it seems.” He steepled his hands together.

  “Whoever it is, is smart. There is barely any forensic evidence. These deaths are happening with no witnesses. We don’t have much to go on other than hoping he, or she, makes a mistake the next time.”

  “I want to be kept up to date with this, Whitton. If we have something more sinister on our hands, then I want us concentrating all our efforts on containing it as quickly as possible.”

  “Sure. Might help if the rest of the department could have one of these.” She smiled pointedly towards the air con unit.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Outside Woodington Magistrates Court, Whitton lit up a cigarette and blew out a white puff of air. She wanted to be here early and get in to see the CPS solicitor beforehand. She had a file of evidence to pass over and would be watching the proceedings from the back, unable to give any evidence until the pair were passed on to the Crown Court.

  She watched as Gina Ashcroft arrived, supported on either side by two equally somber women. A black veil covered her face in an overly dramatic attempt at showing the world her grief. All three glared at Whitton as they passed by on the steps. She couldn’t make out their whispered comments, but the detective knew they were aimed at her. She was used to it; it didn’t matter to her what they thought. Her colleagues had done their jobs, found the evidence, and passed it on. Whatever Gina and her cronies thought, it wasn’t the police they should be angry with. Hayes and Jacobs would both be remanded.

  Stubbing her cigarette out on the metal box attached the wall, she dropped the butt inside. As she was about to step inside, a man followed her in, almost knocking her over.

  “Oh, I am so sorry…” His dark eyes found hers, and recognition appeared between them both. “DS Whitton, how are you?”

  Jonas Robinson was greying around the hairline a little, not quite as slim as he had been a few years ago when she remembered seeing him last. Hitting his fifties had clearly taken its toll, or was it the stress of the job?

  “Jonas, good to see you. I’m well, thanks, and it’s DI now.” She smiled a thin smile. “How are you?”

  He smoothed down his suit jacket and stood straight-backed, his full height not quite as tall as Whitton, but his northern accent was still as strong as ever. “I should have known you’d have moved up the ranks. I’m well, thanks. Just here to drop off some papers and then hang around. I’m duty solicitor today. You know how it is, always someone to defend.” He emptied his pockets and handed his briefcase over before walking through the metal detector. “Same faces every day sometimes.”

  “Yes, unfortunately they don’t seem to always learn their lessons, do they?” She smiled at him again and then checked her watch. She still had a few minutes, but followed him in anyway, emptying her own pockets into the tray. “So, I haven’t seen you for what? 10 years? What are you doing here? London not exciting enough anymore?”

  “Has it been that long?” He grinned in return. “We moved back a while ago. My wife has family here, so it made things easier, but I was commuting until recently.” He shrugged. “Have enjoyed my travels, but eventually you have to put down roots, don’t you?”

  “Married now then too?” Whitton asked, not really that interested, but she had liked him, back in the day. She had learned a lot from people like him. He had always been a stickler for the rules and carried the fierce belief that everybody deserved a defender.

  His face lit up then. “Yes, Lydia, she’s a vet, runs her own practice from home. We met at a St John’s Ambulance course about five years ago, married for four.”

  “That’s great. I know who to call should I ever get a pet.”

  He smiled. “Anyway, I should get on. You here on a case?”

  “Yep, two-hander: Jacobs and Hayes, routine stabbing. They’re finger-pointing, so I’m dragged down here, along with Branson, to talk about CCTV evidence.” She shrugged.

  “Guilty?”

  She glared a little at him. “Of course, we don’t bring charges against innocent people, regardless of what you defense lawyers think.”

  He grinned. “Touché. Let’s hope the right result rings true then.” She nodded, her attention then caught by the good-looking black guy waving at her from outside. “I’ll see you around then,” he said quickly as he dashed towards Court Three.

  Whitton nodded, turned her attention to the notice board and running a finger down the lists of cases to be heard, just as Jeff came to stand beside her. Hayes. Trevor. Court Two, second on the list. “Court Two.”

  “Yep. Who was that?”

  “Someone I knew from my time in London. Jonas Robinson, nice guy, bit of a do-gooder. You know the type, always looking out for the ones we put away,” she added before turning and bounding up the stairs. “You’re cutting it fine, by the way.” She glanced at her watch once more. They had a couple of minutes to get inside and in place before the magistrates appeared.

  “Yeah, sorry. I set the alarm clock, but there was a power cut in the night.”

  Rolling her eyes, she said, “Get a wind-up one then.”

  The courtroom itself was bright and airy. It had high ceilings with windows either side that ran the length of the wall. They were ushered in by Tom, he’d been doing that job since God was a boy. “Take a seat, officers,” he said, pointing over to the area they already knew they would be sitting in. In front of the gallery, but behind the prosecution desk.

  “I just need a word with Ms. Akim,” Whitton said, nodding toward the prosecuting team
. She wandered over and tapped the short woman on the shoulder. “Sorry, Ms. Akim? DI Whitton. Lead on the Jacob and Hayes Case.”

  “Oh right, good morning, Detective.” There was a small smile that crept across her lips, but it didn’t stay put; instead a frown appeared. “Did you not get the message?

  “No, what message?”

  She looked a little flustered. “I…we…we don’t need you to give evidence today. I think Jacobs going to Crown will be a given without the need for...” She smiled again and took her seat, turning back to face her laptop.

  “Sorry, what do you mean?”

  Ms. Akim had no time to answer as the court legal adviser stood. “Would the court stand?” Whitton glared down at the prosecutor but backed away as soon as the judge entered.

  “Good morning, be seated,” the judge said cheerfully, smiling in Whitton’s direction. “What do we have on the list this morning?” Judge Renton was considered a fair and honest woman in most circles. Whitton was always grateful to see her sitting on the bench for any of her cases. Though in her sixties, she looked much younger. Her short blonde hair was beautifully styled, and she wore just enough make-up.

  The people around her began to list the names of the cases due to be brought in front of her that morning. Whitton stewed. Sensing the irritation, Branson ventured a whispered question. “What’s wrong?”

  The DI leant in and whispered back, “I think they’re letting Hayes go.”

  “What?” Branson half-whispered a little too loudly. The prosecution legal aid and the court usher both turned and glared at him. “How can they?”

  Her jaw tensed, lips thinly pressed together. “I guess we are about to find out,” she hissed.

  The first case on the list was quickly adjourned when it became apparent that the man in question had had some kind of episode in the cells and was deemed unfit to attend. Hayes and Jacobs were up next. Standing in the dock before toughened glass, Hayes sported a black eye and Jacobs looked angry. They stood as far apart from one another as they could. Hayes was in a cheap suit, two sizes too big and obviously borrowed from a friend. Jacobs wore jeans and a t-shirt.

  They both confirmed names, addresses, dates of birth and their nationality when requested by the legal advisor. “Who is representing Mr. Jacobs?”

  “I am, sir.” A man in smart suit stood and addressed the court. “Gordon Black,” he said for the record, though everyone knew who Gordon Black was: the biggest scumbag defense lawyer in Woodington. He wore Saville Row, with initialed cufflinks, and thought nothing of representing any and every criminal without a solicitor. He wasn’t interested in them, just the payday they brought for a few minutes’ work.

  “And who is representing Mr. Hayes?” The man looked around the room until a tall woman wearing a baggy cardigan stood. “I am, sir. Margaret Connelly.”

  With all the details noted, he read out the charge and both men answered that they understood. It was at that point that Ms. Connelly stood and made her case.

  “Your Honour, I have spoken previously with my learned friend and discussed the case in depth. I think if you look at the evidence, although nobody disagrees that my client was in fact there when the incident took place, it is also evident that he was not the perpetrator of the crime. And as he has also been very forthcoming in giving evidence, of which I believe the prosecution has built most of its case on…I would, if it pleases the court, ask that the charge of manslaughter be dropped against my client.”

  “No, they killed him! Both of them!” screamed Gina from behind Whitton.

  “Sit down please, may I remind you that this is a court of law? Any further outbursts will see you removed from court,” the judge said from her seat high above them all. She turned her attention to Akim. “Does the prosecution have any counter argument to put forward?”

  Standing, Ms. Akim shook her head. “No, your honour. We believe that although we have a case against Mr. Hayes, it would be prudent to use his testimony as a witness against Mr. Jacobs, who we believe was the actual perpetrator in the murder of Darren Barton. We may look to bring a lesser charge of affray at a later date.”

  “I see, then if you are both satisfied, Mr. Hayes, is granted an NFA for now.” The judge then turned to the dock and to Hayes. “Mr. Hayes, with no further action to answer for today, you are free to go.”

  Whitton stared up at the coat of arms on the wood paneling. The unicorn and the lion stood proudly on either side of the royal standard. Every court had one; she looked on it as a symbol of justice. Now as the smiling figure of Trevor Hayes was released from the dock. She wondered just whose justice it was.

  ~Grave~

  “I don’t fucking believe it,” Jeff Branson ranted and tossed the phone onto the desk as soon as they’d returned to the office. “They’re dropping the case against Hayes.”

  “What?” Bowen said, standing up with his face contorted. “How the hell? He was there.”

  Whitton watched the scene play out in front of her. Branson was still just as pissed now as when the judge had read out the ruling, and she couldn’t blame him. He had spent hours going through the CCTV and putting together the evidence they needed, some of it in his own time.

  “Yeah, he was there, but not enough evidence to say he actually caused Barton’s death, plus he is now a prosecution witness against Jacobs. They’d rather guarantee one conviction, than risk losing both.”

  Whitton moved past them, dropped her bag down on her old desk, and flopped into the vacant chair.

  “And that bloody witch attacked the Guv,” Jeff stated. All eyes turned towards Whitton. She had her feet up on the desk, her eyes closed. The silence of the room now indicated that she was expected to reply.

  “Attacked is a little bit of an over statement.” She opened her eyes and, one leg at a time, placed her feet back on the ground. “The woman was upset, she’s lost her partner and one of his killers is getting away with it, scot free. I think she’s entitled to be a little pissed.”

  “Come on, Guv. She launched herself at you, another inch closer and you’d be wearing a shiner.” Jeff grinned, remembering back to the way Whitton had sidestepped Gina’s fist and still managed to stop the woman from falling and landing on her arse. The court officials had quickly escorted her from the building before she got a charge of contempt of court and a few hours cooling off in the cells.

  “Thankfully, I’m not.”

  “Shame.” Dale smirked. “A nurse at home, too.”

  He ducked just in time to avoid the Bic pen that flew past his head. “I don’t need an injury for my partner to pay me attention.” She grinned.

  Chapter Twenty

  Whitton’s desk phone rang. Dale answered it as she glanced up at the time; almost four p.m. She listened as he spoke.

  “Yeah, okay, send him up.”

  She turned away from the computer mumbling, “Fuck sake, who wants to bug me now?!”

  “Some cop from Croydon. Says he has something of interest.” He shrugged and stood up, stretching out his back and arms.

  “Better put the kettle on then,” she said, yawning.

  It didn’t take long before DI Richard Chivers strolled into the incident room with all the confidence of a man that took no shit. Tall and built like a rugby player, his dark eyes scanned the room before settling on her. “You must be Whitton.”

  Whitton raised a brow. “I must be, and you are?”

  “Chivers, DI Richard Chivers.” She almost laughed at the James Bond-style introduction. “I wanted to come here personally rather than do it over the phone.” He perched himself on the corner of a desk and held the files he carried across his middle.

  “Coffee?” Dale called out and received a nod in return.

  Whitton leant her weight to one foot. Crossing her arms over her chest, she waited.

  His smile was charming, but wasted on her, and he knew it. “So, we have a case that fits your grave murders.”

  Saint brought three cups of coffee over and han
ded them out. “Go on,” Whitton urged.

  “Cathy Owumbi was a 69-year-old Nigerian woman who had settled in the UK 25 years ago. She took citizenship in 2001 and trained to become a psychiatric nurse, working in Croydon. She was killed in a hit and run on her way home from a late shift in 2015. The car was found two days later, and it took another week for forensics to run down the evidence and bring Paul Crawford to our attention. The car was stolen, and although Crawford’s DNA put him inside the car, the evidence was tainted when someone at the lab mixed up the labels. Even though the labs re-ran the tests, it was enough to put doubt on the table, and he was acquitted.” He shrugged and shook his head. “She was a good woman. Her gravestone in Croydon is where the body of Paul Crawford was found on January 18th 2016.” He handed her the two files.

  Inside was a photograph of an elderly black woman, full of life, smiling at the camera. She had a gap between her front two teeth and wore her hair neatly beneath a brightly coloured scarf. Behind it was another photograph of the same woman, but this time there was no smile. Instead, she was laid out across the road, her head resting on the kerb; a concrete pillow. Whitton read the medical report, the list of injuries, and silently closed the file.

  “I’ll add Cathy to the board,” she said solemnly, receiving a nod and half a smile from Chivers. She opened the second file and came face to face with Paul Crawford’s mugshot. He looked bleary-eyed, gaunt and unconcerned. There were photos of the car and then crime scene photos of Crawford’s body in situ at the graves and during autopsy. Evidence was recorded on sheets of paper, along with medical recordings from the ME, all of which she scanned quickly before passing both files to Dale. Saint opened each one and perused it while Whitton continued on. “So, we have three now.”

  “That we know of,” Chivers added. “Whoever did this is smart, they know what they are doing. They’ve got balls to carry it out and they leave us nothing forensically.”

  “So you think they’ve done this before?” she asked, sipping her coffee.