by Mark Bailey
‘Unfinished business?’ asked Mia.
‘Yes, I’ll probably go back for two or so years. I’ve made a commitment to Theo Maddix who has just given me a substantial pay rise, but God knows, I don’t need the money now. Then there’s my sister – your daughter, Mom, and your niece, Aunt Christy. I feel there’s some unfinished business there. I want to go and visit John and Ella Russell in Scotland after this bloody trial, before the end of the year …’
‘Unfinished business with your sister?’ interrupted Mia.
‘Yes, Mom. I want to look at the last ten months of her life from the time Joe Charles was found with the drugs in his car to when Sibby was murdered. The police have given me some detail, but not enough to satisfy me. Please understand, you two, I probably won’t take two years, and you can both visit anytime you like. It’s not like we don’t have any money,’ commented Milly, laughing.
She turned in early that evening. She wondered at her newfound concern for the last ten months of Sibby’s life. She hadn’t consciously given it a thought until bringing it up at Dannii’s place the previous evening. Had she used it as conversation filler and an excuse to Aunt Christy and Mia to stay longer in the U.K., she wondered. Anyway, she would consider it later, when she had less on her mind.
She decided she wasn’t going to tell anyone of her sudden wealth, but she might tease Dannii.
She sent Dannii a text. ‘You wouldn’t believe what happened to me today. I still can’t believe it … astonishing! Xxx.’ Milly knew Dannii loved gossip more than anything else.
‘Why, what’s happened?’ Dannii’s text came back immediately.
‘I’ll let you know soon. I’m still getting over the shock.’
‘WHAT??? XXX!!!’
‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.’
‘TELL ME!!!!!!!’ Two minutes passed, then: ‘WHAT? Don’t be a cow, Milly,’ pleaded Dannii.
‘Do you mean a fat cow, Dannii? XXX.’
Milly turned her phone off when Dannii tried to call her.
Chapter 9.
It had been a while since Milly slept so fitfully. She tossed and turned all night, at one stage turning the light on to look at her uncle’s letter again to make sure she hadn’t dreamt the whole thing up. The letter was a type of legal document, written by the late James Anderson of sound mind in his final days, she consoled herself. She placed it back under her pillow for safekeeping.
For breakfast, Milly ate two boiled eggs and some dry toast, followed by a strong coffee with no sugar. She had hardly eaten the day before and checked in on the scales in the bathroom; her weight had dropped 1.5 kilos to 82 kilograms — still, 8 kilos to go she decided. Aunt Christy was back to her talkative self and asked Milly about the D.N.A. phenotyping she had mentioned the previous day when discussing Sibby’s murder.
‘It is new technology, Aunt Christy.’
‘Please, Milly, just drop the aunt bit, will you? Call me Christine or Christy. You’re making me feel very old!’
‘Okay, it’s new technology … Christy. It’s technology that’s come out of the U.S., and the scientific explanation is that it uses computer algorithms to reverse engineer the human genome to work out spots on another genome that correspond to different traits such as eye color, skin color, and hair color. These traits are based on the model performance of thousands of samples they have in their computer database.’
‘Oh right,’ said Christy, considering what Milly had just said. She was never any good at understanding scientific concepts — or financial ones for that matter.
‘Simply, when a sample of D.N.A. is sent to the laboratory in Virginia, after it is analyzed, it is compared with other like traits from other genomes to establish that the person who owns the profile, for example, has blue eyes, fair skin, and blond hair. Then they send a report back with a confidence statement for each trait. The report will say that the D.N.A. is from a male person with an eighty percent probability of having blue eyes. It will also say with one hundred percent certainty, they don’t have brown eyes. If you consider the fact that fifty- five percent of the world’s population has brown eyes, that’s a lot of people eliminated from the people pool if you’re trying to help establish someone’s identity from the phenotyping.’
‘What about green eyes?’ asked Christy seeing a flicker of light, a sense of understanding.
‘Well, that’s why there is only an eighty percent surety, indicated in the confidence statement, that they have blue eyes …’
‘Because there is a twenty percent chance they may have green eyes,’ interrupted Mia, looking very pleased with herself.
‘Exactly, you’re brilliant, Mom! So basically, it’s a process of elimination. As they go through the profile, they build up a photo-fit of what the genome or profile suggests the person owning it looks like. This process is helped along by the elimination of some human traits, confirming to a greater degree … sometimes … what that person doesn’t look like.
‘In this case, that they don’t have brown eyes.’
‘Correct again, Mom. As the technology progresses and they get more information from other genomes on their databases, they will establish other traits like space between the eyes, the size of the nose, if the ears protrude from the head, and so on. The technology is fascinating; it’s limitless in its potential … I love it.’
‘If that’s the scientific explanation then, what’s another explanation?’ asked Christy who was having trouble grasping the concept with all the scientific jargon — may as well explain it in Mandarin, she thought, as that light flickered out.
‘In layman’s terms, D.N.A. phenotyping is simply the prediction of someone’s physical appearance from their D.N.A.’
‘What’s D.N.A. then?
‘Deoxyribonucleic acid,’ answered Milly.
‘The building blocks of your cells. It’s unique to an individual, it makes up their chromosomes, determining their genetic makeup,’ clarified Mia.
‘So, to continue,’ said Milly before her aunt could ask for an explanation of chromosomes, ‘they use the makeup of the D.N.A. in the profile they are working on, to help gain a photo-fit. To do that, they need to get similar characteristics on a database to compare the D.N.A. to … that’s D.N.A. phenotyping.’
‘So, would they have a photo of someone who looked like him … this Kerford fellow, on their computer?’ asked Christy.
‘I don’t think they have photos of anyone.’
‘But you said they send a photo back.’
‘A photo-fit from the computer, Christy, after they’ve done the genome matching,’ said Mia, sensing Milly’s frustration.
Milly changed tack slightly. ‘I don’t know how they do it exactly au … ah, Christy. I don’t know how they feed the profile they are trying to identify into the computer. Theoretically, there could have been someone very similar in their genome to Kerford on file … perhaps a photo … or they have taken their results from numerous genomes. They say everyone has a double somewhere in the world. They were just lucky that P.C. Stone was so astute, not that it makes a difference to Sibby’s case now, though.’
Christy sighed, feeling slightly placated. There was a short silence as she contemplated her next question — to clear things up more — to keep talking.
She could see Christy was about to ask another question. It’s just as well Uncle James oversaw the currency exchange and not Christy, thought Milly, rather unkindly, otherwise there’d be no inheritance. She quickly suggested they get going into the city to shop for a pinstripe suit as Simone had suggested or something similar before the shops shut. The exclusive boutiques tend to close at lunchtime on Saturdays, and the way they were going, they could be sitting in the kitchen until next Saturday explaining phenotyping to Aunt Christy.
The three were like any young girls going shopping — happy, in a playful mood with money to spend. The only difference with these girls was that they were older and could afford to buy the business, the premises, and
the clothing chain if they wished.
They discussed James’ love of Australia’s marsupials on their drive into the city. As well as the Tasmanian devil, he had donated money to research into a cure for the deadly sarcoptic mange, a blight affecting wombats in Tasmania. It was a cruel and insidious affliction with burrowing mites rendering the animal unable to eat, and it eventually died of starvation.
‘The wombat held a special fascination for your uncle, Milly. Being a marsupial, it has a pouch for its young and being a digger, you would think it would fill its pouch with dirt every time it dug its burrow, killing its young ones. To get around that, they have backward-facing pouches, like the devil, which also burrows for its den.’
‘They certainly are an amazing creature,’ answered Milly. She briefly considered the formation of the wombat’s pouch and the wonderful evolutionary path that established its backward-facing position but considered something else. Bugger it; I’ll just ask her, she decided. ‘If it’s not a rude question, Christy, how much were you and James or … your estate now … um, how much is it worth?’ asked Milly.
‘No, that’s not a rude question, though it needs to be kept between us. It’s somewhere between 180 and 190 million dollars depending on property and other asset valuations.’
‘That’s unbelievable.’
‘Personally, I think the money is like the wombat mange. It’s always there crying out for someone to do something about it as it piles up clogging up everything, biting away like those disgusting little mites. You can only spend so much money. I don’t know how poor old Bill Gates gets on,’ and they all laughed.
‘A shocking problem to have to deal with,’ agreed Milly.
They drove to a clothing store in Hay Street where Milly knew they catered for taller women with her five feet ten height and, her now, all tits and arse frame, according to Dannii. She came away with a jacquard fringe coat with two sets of pants and low-cut stripy shirts. She also bought a suit skirt and matching suit top and shoes to go with each outfit. The weather would be mild while the trial was on as winter was another month away. The fringe coat was advertised as a trans-seasonal garment, so would cater for cooler weather should winter arrive early. The clothes in their own way would hide the bits Milly wanted to hide, but she could still give the ponce a flash of her Brad Pitts if she wanted to, distracting him, as she bent over the dock to answer some of his impertinent questions. She decided she didn’t need to be too frugal anymore, but just the same would read the letter from Uncle James again when she got home — just in case.
Shopping finished, they visited one of the coffee shops on Hay Street for some lunch and coffee. Milly switched her phone on. There were four missed calls from Dannii and an email from Theo asking some questions on a client they were counseling. Milly ordered chamomile tea. She was starving, but she didn’t order any food. There was also a message from Dannii, proclaiming her innocence, establishing her description of Milly’s figure as voluptuous, not fat. Another text followed: ‘So what’s this bloody news then? X’
Milly smiled and sent her a text back: ‘I’m busy. I’ll call you later this arvo or tonight, XXX.’
When they finished lunch, Milly drove Yves King’s Mercedes-Benz and her two happy and carefree passengers back the fifteen-minute trip to Mia’s place in Mount Hawthorn. Christy was happier now than Milly had seen her in a long time. She put it down to her relief at the end of James’ pain and suffering. If the worst she needed to endure was an ever-expanding bank account, then that would be a cross she’d have to bear.
On reaching the unassuming house in Ellesmere Street, Milly asked her mother if she could use her computer. She took it to her bedroom, sitting at her old study desk next to her old bed and entered gmail.com into the web browser and downloaded the security settings for her personal and work email addresses. She sorted Theo out first. Then she sent Rosie a brief email describing the state of play and asked her opinion on whether she thought Theo would agree to more time off, so she could fly from Australia to Scotland and visit with the Russells. She pointed out that over the three and a half weeks she would accumulate another three days’ holidays so would have four weeks’ holiday owing. She signed off — ‘I’ll leave that one with you, Rosie — let me know what he says.’
Next, she pulled Stopford’s business card from her purse and sent him an email. She asked if there was any chance she could get access to his paperwork on Donald Kerford, including the photo-fit and photograph he had produced at McDonald’s in Watford when they met back in late March, early April; she didn’t recall the exact date. It would be great to show the Russells a photo or photo-fit of the owner of the semen found at the crime scene.
She giggled to herself as she considered sending Stopford a selfie with her Brad Pitts out as inducement. She decided she would leave that ammunition in the armory, all holstered up in her 38DD bra in case she needed them later. She laughed as she pressed the backspace button to change the end of the email from ‘There’s a good boy,’ to ‘Much appreciated, Kind regards, Milly.’
She considered then sending Ella Russell an email asking if they would be at home in Dundee but thought she was being too hasty. She didn’t know when the trial would finish or even that she could get time off and they hadn’t booked her flight back home yet.
As Milly pressed ‘send,’ catapulting her email to Stopford into cyber-space with a whoosh, her phone rang.
‘Hi, Dannii.’
‘Gee, you’re nasty to me sometimes, Milly.’
‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about, mate.’
‘You know exactly what I’m talking about.’
‘What?’ asked Milly.
‘That thing you were going to tell me last night. I’ve hardly had any sleep.’
‘Oh that. That’s nothing; I was only making it up to get back at you for being so nasty to me with all your fat remarks.’
‘Oh, come on, Milly, you can do better than that. I know you’ve got something to tell me.’
‘Yeah, well I can’t ’til I see you in person. There are too many people about,’ explained Milly, dropping her voice to a whisper.
‘Just a hint?’
‘No, Dannii. By the way, I’ll see if I can get the all-clear here to stay at your place tomorrow night and through part or all of next week while the trial’s on,’ answered Milly, raising her voice slightly.
‘I’ll be there for you, Milly.’
‘Thanks, Dannii.’
‘A small hint?’
‘No, Dannii, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’ Milly pressed the red hang-up icon on her phone and reached under her pillow for her letter — her legal document — from Uncle James.
Chapter 10.
Sunday morning rolled around, and it was quiet and peaceful. Traditionally, it was a day of rest and worship on the Christian weekly calendar. As Milly lay in bed, she wondered if this was the calm before the storm; the trial would begin tomorrow.
Mia and Christy had left for the 10:00 a.m. service at the St. Mary Star of the Sea Church in Cottesloe. It was still Christy’s choice of parish for her weekly Sunday worship. Although Christy and James had sold their Cottesloe mansion, downsizing and shifting to Dalkeith in February 2016, she had chosen to continue worshipping in Cottesloe.
Milly had questioned her mother’s Christian credentials the previous evening, asking if Mia considered herself a practicing Catholic or still an atheist, now that she was attending church again regularly.
‘I think I would best be described as a lapsed Catholic with agnostic tendencies,’ was Mia’s rather meek reply.
‘You mean you’re a garden-variety atheist who is chauffeuring her wealthy sister around who doesn’t drive.’
‘I would probably rate my religious conviction somewhere between my opinion and your rather unkind observation,’ replied Mia, smirking and winking at Milly. ‘Don’t tell your aunt, though, will you?’ she added.
She sat up in bed, with her mother’s computer, searchi
ng her inbox for replies to the previous day’s emails.
Theo had replied: ‘Thanks.’ Rosie had replied too. She explained that Theo’s ego had willingly offered her another week off although he looked unwell, but they were coping just fine. Milly smiled to herself.
Stopford’s reply was more detailed, the opposite of a Dear Jane letter. He told her what he wanted and what he expected in return. There was a lot at stake if he complied with Milly’s request for Kerford’s details. Providing the information would break the rules, even risk his career. His email began:
I am sad for you, Milly, with the loss of your sister. I don’t know how you will cope with the stress of an ill-timed court case in Australia after what you’ve been through. I will gladly provide you with those documents you have requested, the same documents I carried into our meeting at McDonald’s in Watford at 12:30 p.m., Friday, March 31. It will be our little secret though – no one must know. I am placing my career in jeopardy for you, Milly …
He continued, asking if they could meet when she got back to the U.K. He offered to pick her up from Heathrow when she flew in from Australia. Milly had a sudden urge to rub the bottom of her legs under the bed-sheets, to shoo away the metaphorical Jack Russell Terrier as it nipped at her ankles. She would be indebted to Stopford but could repay that debt with a ride in his car — a chance to get to know each other better.
None of it bothered her, though. She thought he’d probably retrieved the folder from the rubbish bin after it had lain idle on his desk for the past month. It was interesting that he’d mentioned the meeting date — the time even — down to 30 minutes. Most would have been happy with a time of early that Friday afternoon in any correspondence. He was obviously a man for detail, she decided, an endearing quality for anyone tasked with an investigatory job in a P.I. role.
She took the business card of Dr. Ella Russell G.P. from her purse and emailed Ella, asking if they would be in Dundee, mid-May to mid-June. She assumed they would know of P.C. Stone’s excellent detective work and added both that she had more news and would be interested in visiting Joe Charles in Barlinnie Prison if John wanted to take the drive to Glasgow. She asked that they reply a.s.a.p., as she needed to book a flight to Scotland.