by Linda Coles
Faye sat quietly while he looked over each photo in turn, picking them up and holding them closer to see. He didn't say anything. A waitress arrived at Faye’s shoulder with a tray carrying coffee and their muffins, and Faye could immediately see the girl's predicament—where should she put their order down? She also saw the young woman turning pale as she realised she was looking at autopsy pictures. Kevin perceptively became aware at the same time and hurriedly gathered all the photos together, placing the one he was most interested in on top, allowing the young woman to put the tray down. She scurried off like a mouse escaping a cat’s grasp. When she had gone, Kevin burst out laughing and Faye couldn't help joining in, their eyes meeting across the table.
“Oops,” said Kevin. “That’ll put her off food for today.”
Faye pushed Kevin's coffee across to him along with his muffin and took a sip of her own while he studied the photograph on the top of the stack. She broke the crunchy part off the top of the muffin and began to eat, giving the man time to gather his thoughts.
“I'm guessing this is an old case, and I'm also guessing you have no samples?”
“Correct.”
“I'm also guessing you think this could be a similar case to what we’ve been working on this morning?”
“Correct again,” she said, taking another bite. Icing sugar gathered on her chin and self-consciously she wiped it off with her napkin.
“Well,” he said, “it's hard to be sure from this printout, but I'd say you could be looking at the same thing. Look,” he said, pointing to a particular area. “That could be dislocation. I wonder why the original pathologist who performed the autopsy didn’t spot it?”
Faye had another idea come to her.
“Or maybe it was the photographer who inadvertently did spot it, with the camera angle perhaps?”
“That’s possible, I suppose, and perhaps the pathologist simply overlooked it or wasn’t aware of the photographic outcome, having already seen what he’d seen with his own eyes and made his decision. It’s possible. And maybe fifteen years ago it hadn’t been seen before? I’m guessing, of course. You’d have to do some research.”
Faye sat back and chewed quietly, deep in thought. The implications were massive—life-changing, in this case.
“This person is very likely to have experienced the same outcome: a ruptured artery, just like our friend Mr Parker. What's the situation with this case now?” Kevin asked.
“He’s been in prison for murder ever since.”
Kevin raised his eyebrows. “Murder?” He sounded incredulous.
“Yes, apparently so. DC Jack Rutherford remembered the case from when we started working on the current one, and he had a look into it. It seems a bit over the top. Don't you think?”
“I certainly do.”
“So how can we prove otherwise with what we've got here? And what can we do to help the man?”
“We find the original pathologist, first off. After that, there is only one way as far as I can see.”
Faye felt she understood what he meant but needed to be sure. “Exhumation.”
“Got it in one,” he said. “Let’s hope we don’t need to go that far.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
No one liked a dirty copper, and no one liked a dirty pathologist either. Faye’s head was swimming with reasons why the great Dr Charles Winstanley had made such a catastrophic error, one that had resulted in a man being imprisoned for nearly fifteen years. How she approached it was going to be awkward—he was her old tutor, no less—but meant that an innocent man had gone to prison. Someone had to help put it right. Winstanley was pretty much retired now, but fifteen years ago he would still have been extremely competent. Not that retirement meant you weren't competent, of course, but age sometimes dulled the mind; there was a reason why people retired from such a technical job.
As Kevin and Faye left the café there was a comfortable silence between them and she assumed Kevin was thinking along the same lines—and feeling glad it wasn't him that had to do the deed in confronting the great doctor. Traffic whizzed by as though nothing traumatic was going on in the drivers’ heads, and in truth most of them probably hadn’t much to worry about, save for the usual—paying the mortgage, getting the kids to school on time or what to have for dinner. She doubted anybody was wondering about how to get an innocent man out of prison and how to approach a revered pathologist about the fact that he'd made a grave error.
Kevin broke the silence and said, “I can help where I can, if you'd like me to, but I totally understand if you don't want me anywhere near it. It's your case, Faye.”
“I appreciate that. Thank you,” she said, still facing forward as they walked. “The first thing I need to do is talk to Jack and see what’s what, and then someone needs to pay Mr Winstanley a visit. I'm not relishing the job, not only because he was my teacher, but because I work with his daughter here in the lab. This is not going to go down too well, is it?”
“No. I see what you mean. I know that his son is a pathologist up in Manchester too. I've worked with him a couple of times, actually. He’s a decent bloke.”
“The whole family are, which is why I wonder about this slipup. How could he have missed it?”
“Well, maybe in his head, he already had the answer and didn’t need to see the images, what was really in the photographs, because he'd done the autopsy. He knew with his own eyes what he’d seen, but the angle that the photographer managed to capture inadvertently is all we have to go on. Luckily, we have that. It’s photographic evidence now over memory.”
“But surely Winstanley looked at the photographs afterwards. You know, during the trial?
“But if he didn't see it the first time in the lab, he wouldn't be looking for it when giving evidence. And the image printouts were not very clear because of the low-resolution copies. They are clear now, because we know what we’re looking at and we have the much bigger master. They didn’t email that size of file back then; the computers probably couldn’t cope with the sizes. I know it sounds like I'm making excuses, but it is quite feasible that that's what happened and it's just something that got missed by chance.”
“I need to go and see Jack and Amanda urgently,” she said. “They'll know what to do, because now we have evidence of a wrongful imprisonment. Maybe one of them will go and see Winstanley. Getting the man out now could be quite a task, but this is new evidence, so hopefully they'll be able to use it. It doesn't matter why the pathologist missed it; it matters that it’s put right. Don't you think?”
“I absolutely do. Yes, figure out Charles Winstanley later, but let the police know now.”
They were back at the building now and as they entered the lift to go back upstairs, they let the subject drop and turned to small talk. Faye knew there was nothing more she could do until she’d spoken to Jack, though she thought maybe she should go through it again and try to find another possible explanation. She couldn't mention this to anybody within her office; she had to keep it to herself.
The doors opened on Faye’s floor and they walked past the fish tank and headed back to her desk, where they said their formal goodbyes.
“Do you want me to take a copy of this file away?” Kevin enquired.
She couldn't immediately see why he’d want to copy, but he was offering; it could come in useful in the future, she surmised.
“I’ll get a copy made if you can hang on for a moment,” she said, and took the file out to her PA to be copied. The two walked slowly back to reception together, just passing time while her PA did the necessary and caught them up. Once at the entrance door again, Faye thanked Kevin once more for coming in and for corroborating her results on the Parker case.
“No corroborating needed, really, Faye,” he said. “You are correct in your summation, as I said. That's exactly what happened, and I found the same thing. The guy killed himself, in effect—an unfortunate, freaky accident that nobody could have seen coming and nobody but Callum Parker could h
ave stopped.”
The PA came over and handed over the copies Faye had requested. Faye passed them to Kevin.
“It was nice meeting you, Kevin,” she said.
“And you too, Faye. Maybe if I'm passing, we could sample another muffin together. What do you think?” His eyes twinkled like warm, clear honey again, and Faye couldn't help but smile. And agree.
Walking away back to her office, she couldn't understand why she was smiling and then she realised—she quite liked Kevin.
But she needed to motor on with this now and call Jack immediately. She dialled his number and he picked up right away.
“I have some news for you, Jack. Are you able to come this way?”
“What's up, Doc?” he said. He sounded like Bugs Bunny.
“I’ve got something I'm sure you'll be interested in, and I don't want to leave it any longer, or say it over the phone. I've got stuff I’ve got to get on with here, but I’m hoping you're a little freer?”
“I'm on my way,” said Jack. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
Jack couldn't believe what Faye was telling him. It was like music to his ears, like “Mr. Blue Sky” on full blast on a Bang & Olufsen sound system bouncing around in his car. It was everything he wanted to hear.
Michael Hardesty had not been responsible for the death of Chesney McAllister.
Now all he had to do was figure out how to get the man out of prison—no easy task. Rather than waiting until he got back to the station, he called ahead to Amanda to tell her the good news. But while he didn't expect her to be as ecstatic as he was, he had hoped for a more upbeat response.
“What’s the matter, Amanda?” Jack asked. “I thought you might sound a bit more enthusiastic.”
“Sorry, Jack,” she said distractedly. “But Gordon is here waiting with his solicitor and Dupin seems to have gone AWOL. I’d have thought he might like to prep since he doesn't know much about the case, and apart from a quick phone conversation with me, he appears to be leaving it to the last minute. I’m not impressed.”
“I'm sure he’ll be back in time.”
“Well, you can't do the interview and I can’t either, not really.” Jack picked up on her low tone, it wasn’t like Amanda to be like this. “Hey, Amanda, don't be so down about it. I know that's easier said than done, but nothing has happened as yet, so the best thing is to try not to worry until something, if anything, happens.” Jack winced at his own words; they sounded hollow even to his ears, but what else could he possibly say?
“It is easy for you to say, Jack, but it's Ruth I'm concerned about, too. She’s going to blame me for this, and that's going to be hard on both of us. I can't believe this is happening. Gordon is a family member and I just can't comprehend that he’d be involved in a murder!” Her voice was a good couple of octaves higher now than when she’d picked up the phone call.
“I know what you mean,” said Jack. “But have you spoken to Ruth yet?”
“She’s still not picking up; she’s obviously avoiding me. And I suspect Gordon has called her this morning anyway, so she's probably keeping her distance. I’ll be enemy number one, the police detective on the case. I'm dreading going home later.”
“You can always come round to mine if you need some space,” said Jack. “There’s always a spare room if it helps.”
“I hope it doesn't come to that. Whatever happens, we've got to work through this together, and separate houses aren’t the answer. But thanks anyway.”
Jack sensed she was ready to talk about something other than her personal life, so he obliged. “Just by way of a change in the subject for a moment, have you spoken to Des Walker's sister, Rose? Has she been informed now that we have her brother’s remains?”
“Yes, she is aware now. Raj went over earlier on. At least she won’t always be wondering and worrying and trying to figure out where he'd been all these years. It should bring her some peace now, even though he’s dead. It can't be easy when someone goes missing; all sorts of things would remind you of them. But at least she's got closure now. That’s one good thing for this case.”
“Indeed. Well, I've got to make a quick detour before I get back in, so I’ll be back in an hour or two.”
“That's not a quick detour, Jack,” she said.
“Okay, I lied. I've got to pay a visit, and I’m not referring to the gents’ toilets. If Dupin asks after me, keep him amused, eh?”
“I don't think that's an issue, to tell you the truth.” She sounded lower than an oboe; all the fight had drained out of her voice as she resigned herself to the fact that something could happen to Gordon. And that meant to her and Ruth as well. With a shudder, Jack realised just how much crap could fall upon her family. He hoped she had a tough umbrella to shelter under.
It didn't take Jack long to find Eddie Edwards’ current address, which was where he was headed now. He wanted to find out for himself just why he’d been drinking at the Jolly Carter so often, and more importantly, why he’d met up with Mac McAllister in the back room. What Jim had told him over bacon rolls had been playing on his mind, and something had niggled away at him. Now things were becoming a little clearer as time wore on, but he needed to hear it for himself. Add that to the evidence that the pathologist had somehow got it wrong, and it seemed that maybe something bigger was going on. It wouldn’t be the first time corruption had been involved in a trial.
He wasn't surprised, then, when he turned into Eddie Edwards’ road that his address wasn't far from the crash scene—if you were a sparrow. Or on foot.
Nor from Dupin's house.
He pulled up outside Eddie's flat and took in the surroundings. It was a far cry from the days when Edwards had been driving around in a brand-new fire-engine-red Jaguar with a woman on each arm, and Jack wondered what had happened to the man’s luck since he’d left the force. He hadn't invested his ill-gotten gains wisely, that was evident.
Jack pressed the buzzer and waited for the door to open. When it did, he was taken aback by the first words out of Eddie's mouth as he peered from around the cracked door, where the security chain was holding the fort.
“You as well?”
His words weren’t lost on Jack. He let them filter into the back of his brain and linger until later, when he could figure out who else had visited.
“Let me in, Eddie,” he said impatiently. The door closed again and the chain rattled as it was taken out of its socket, and then the door reopened, allowing Jack to walk inside. He’d never been to Eddie’s house, had not kept in contact with him since he’d left the force so suddenly; they hadn’t been best buddies at the time. As Jack surveyed the squalor that the man now lived in, he was saddened at how the man's life had obviously hit rock bottom. It was nothing more than a glorified squat.
“I'm obviously popular station conversation,” Eddie said.
Jack ignored him, but filed it with the other snippet that was rattling around his head. Someone else was interested in the man, but who? What else would Eddie come up with if he let him speak?
“Then you'll know why I’m here,” said Jack. “What can you tell me about the pathologist in Hardesty's case?”
Eddie’s eyebrows raised and furrowed all at the same time. Jack noticed his surprised look; it seemed genuine.
“Not a lot. I'm no expert, am I? Why the interest?”
“He got it wrong, Eddie. Michael Hardesty is in prison and he’s innocent. He wasn’t responsible for McAllister’s death.”
“Well, shit happens,” said Eddie, sounding bored.
“That’s all you can say? ‘Shit happens’?” Jack paced up and down the tiny, filthy kitchen area, rubbing his forehead with his fingers as if stimulating his brain somehow. “How much of a part did you play in it? I know you were in the McAllisters’ pocket.”
Eddie glared at Jack but said nothing. It was obvious he didn't really give a stuff anymore.
“I don’t have to answer your questions, Jack,” shouted Ed
die, suddenly angry. “I’m not a copper anymore, I’m a civilian, so I'd like you to leave my house. Now.”
Eddie’s irises were blazing, though the whites stayed a dirty yellow, the colour of diluted mustard. The man’s kidneys were not functioning as they should.
“What are you afraid of, Eddie? What happened back then? Why did this pathologist get it so wrong?”
“I know nothing about the pathologist,” said Eddie, averting his gaze towards the far wall. Wallpaper was peeling from the top corner and had drooped down, giving the impression the tired room had sagged.
“Maybe not, but you know about other stuff. What else happened, Eddie? Because this all stinks—stinks like a pig farm at swill-out time.”
“Can't help you with that, Jack. Now, if that's all you came for, I think you should leave now. I've already said my bit.”
But Jack wasn’t ready to leave just yet, even though he was being edged towards the front door. “I'm assuming that it was you that set Dupin up. You can almost see the Parker house from the top of the hill outside.”
“Get out! I don't have to answer your questions. Now sod off, will you?”
“No, you don't Eddie,” Jack said, resignation in his voice. “Sometimes it's what you don't say that gives me the answer.”
Jack was back at the front door. He opened it and stepped out, then turned back. He could see Eddie’s outline against the light coming in from the kitchen window. The man was reed thin.