by Zoe Sharp
“So, what can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to update you. I went to see Agnes Trelawney, as your ma suggested.”
“Ah. Any use?”
“Not really. She has Alzheimer’s. Totally away with the fairies, unfortunately. Her daughter looks after her. I saw the old girl but there was clearly no point in asking her anything. I didn’t even try.”
“Oh, what a shame. Still, presumably there must be records.”
“Mm, I’ll look into it as soon as I get in.”
“Meanwhile, I’ve just taken a proper look at that DNA report on Jordan Elliot.”
“Oh, why do I not like the sound of that? You’re not going to tell me Dylan was his father after all, are you?”
“Quite the opposite,” Grace said. “Not only was Dylan not the boy’s father, Yvonne wasn’t his mother, either…”
“I’m sorry… What?”
“Uh-huh. It took me a little while to get my head around it. There were two samples on the asthma inhaler—one male and one female. Jordan’s sister, Ollie, tends to make free with his stuff when he’s not there. When the lab rang me yesterday, they told me that there was no match between the male sample and Dylan Elliot’s profile, which is on the database, but that was all they said.”
“Sounds like they missed out a few vital bits.”
“Jordan was also no match to the female sample—Ollie. In theory, she should be his half-sister at the very least. She is a match to Dylan, however.”
“But is she a match to Yvonne as well?”
“Ah, that we don’t know. Yvonne’s profile isn’t on record anywhere and I doubt we’ve enough to compel her for a test—that’s if I could get the authorisation to apply in the first place.”
He was silent for a moment or two. Then he muttered, “Damn.”
“Quite.”
“But we still have Dylan in custody, and we have the remainder of our forty-eight hours until we have to charge or release him… What about checking Yvonne’s medical records relating to her pregnancy with Jordan? I mean, was she really pregnant? If not, where did the baby come from?”
“And, if she was, where did her baby go?”
“Quite,” he echoed. “OK, Grace, I’ll—”
But Grace wasn’t listening any longer. Movement at the office doorway caught her eye. She glanced up to see Ty Frost standing there, looking pale as a ghost and utterly stunned. As she watched, he swayed, put a hand out to the door frame to steady himself and missed. He staggered, almost fell.
“Nick, I’ve got to go.” Grace hung up without waiting for a response, jumped to her feet and hurried to guide Ty into his chair.
He looked up at her with unfocused eyes. She bent toward him, took a hand that was cold, clammy, and lifeless as a corpse.
“Ty, what’s happened?” she demanded. “What’s wrong?”
“I… I’ve been suspended,” he said faintly.
“Suspended? Oh, Ty… Whatever for?”
He swallowed, eyes huge, flitting everywhere without seeming to settle. “Con–contaminating the evidence—from the car.” He gripped her arm suddenly, voice turning fierce. “I didn’t do it, Grace! I swear I didn’t. I would never plant anything—”
“Wait a moment. Are they accusing you of planting evidence? Where on earth did they get such a stupid… Ah, Blenkinship, yes?”
He nodded, looking more wretched than she’d ever seen him.
Grace put her hand on his shoulder. “Tyson, listen to me. I don’t believe for a second that you did anything wrong. You’re an excellent CSI, careful, methodical, conscientious. No way would you contaminate anything, and no way in hell would you ever do anything dishonest. This is a mistake and we will get to the bottom of it, OK?”
He nodded again with all the conviction of a man on his way to the gallows.
She rose, forced a brisk note into her voice. “Right, what did you find?”
For a beat longer, he didn’t move. Then, sluggishly, he swivelled back to his keyboard and brought up a folder of images. They showed part of the rear suspension of Dylan Elliot’s Ford, a wide shot to give context, then a close-up of a scrap of cloth wedged into part of the coil-spring assembly. And, finally, the fabric removed from the car and laid out on a plain background. The usual graduated scale alongside showed it to be perhaps a couple of inches square, with part of a hem at one edge.
Grace leaned closer, her eyes narrowing. “This?” she queried. “This is what they’re saying you ‘planted’?”
He flinched at her tone as much as the words, but gave a single affirmative duck of his head.
“Then it’s not you who needs to worry,” she said, her voice grim, “because it’s not just unlikely that you did any such thing, I can prove it’s damn near impossible…”
79
“How dare you!” Yvonne yelled, surging out of her chair. “Accusin’ me of stealin’ a baby, are you?”
“Sit down, Mrs Elliot,” DI Pollock said calmly.
“I—”
He cocked his head and stared at her. She subsided without another sound, folding back into herself until she was small and tightly packed away.
“For the benefit of the recording,” Nick said, “I am now showing Mrs Elliot two DNA test results. These were obtained from samples taken from an asthma inhaler belonging to Jordan Elliot.” He slid the two sheets across the table toward Yvonne. “One set of results has been identified as belonging to Jordan. The other is from your daughter, Olivia Elliot.”
“So?” She skimmed over them, her blank expression making it clear that she did not understand their significance.
“We have your husband’s DNA stored on our database from a previous offence,” Nick went on. “These results prove that Jordan was not Dylan’s son. And,” he added, cutting her off when she opened her mouth for another loud denial, “they also prove that Jordan is no relation to Olivia.”
“What was you takin’ Ollie’s DNA for, anyway?” she demanded. “You’d no right to do that!”
“It appears that your daughter had handled Jordan’s inhaler,” Nick said. “Her DNA was collected unintentionally. It won’t be stored…once this case is over.”
“So, what all this boils down to,” Pollock said, “is that although we know little Olivia is Dylan’s daughter, if she’s your kiddie as well, then Jordan can’t possibly be. So which is it?”
Yvonne sat there and glared between the two of them for a moment, then she folded her arms and said, “No comment.”
“And what we need now, in order to clear this up, nice and easy, like, is a sample of your DNA for comparison.”
Yvonne’s eyes flew to the duty solicitor sitting alongside her, a drippy girl who kept pushing her glasses back up her nose every couple of minutes and sniffing—hay fever, she’d explained.
“Can they make me do that?”
“No,” the girl said with more bite than Nick would have given her credit for. “They can’t.”
Pollock heaved a gusty sigh and eyed the solicitor with disfavour. “Might I suggest, Ms Chadwick, that you try to talk some sense into your client.”
“It is not up to Mrs Elliot—or me—to do your job for you, detective inspector,” she said with another sniff. “Until we know exactly what offence you’re alleging has taken place here, we’re not obliged to respond. My client has a right not to incriminate herself, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”
Pollock glowered at her for a few seconds longer, then jerked his head to Nick and got to his feet.
“Interview suspended at…” Nick logged the time, then paused the recording and followed Pollock outside, closing the interview room door behind them.
“Well, they’re both right, in a way,” Pollock remarked as they moved further along the corridor. “We are accusing Yvonne of nicking a baby, more or less—”
“We just don’t know which one.”
“And until we do know that, we can’t begin to work out where the cuckoo came from, or by wh
at means they acquired it.”
“Maybe she…swapped it?” Nick suggested. “Dylan was desperate for a son, after so many girls. What if she was convinced this one was a boy and then, when it was born, it turned out to be another girl?”
“Or maybe she simply faked the pregnancy and snatched the kid.” Pollock scratched his chin. “How are we doing with her medical records?”
Medical records were subject to the Data Protection Act. Without the consent of the patient, it was hard to get hold of them, as Nick had found on numerous occasions in the past. But when the death of a child was involved—or the safety of other children—then no General Practitioner wanted to be held responsible for being obstructive.
“It took a bit of fast talking, sir, but her GP agreed to release them—under the circumstances.”
“Hm, about time, too. Although, whether we can make anything from them or not is another matter.”
“Ah, well, I took the liberty of calling in some expert assistance, sir,” Nick said. Movement at the other end of the corridor caught his eye and he nodded over Pollock’s shoulder. “And here she is now.”
Pollock turned just in time to see Dr Onatade moving briskly toward them. In one hand was a folder of papers. “Brian. Nick,” she greeted them.
“Ayo, thanks for coming in,” Pollock said. He nodded to the folder. “What can you tell us?”
“I’m sure you will appreciate, gentlemen, that I’ve had very little time to study this material in depth?”
“Understood,” Pollock said. “First off, can you confirm she was actually pregnant?”
“Oh yes,” she said promptly. “Ante-natal clinic attendance notes, ultra-sound scans, all her appointments. She was pregnant, without a doubt.”
“Did they note the sex of the baby?” Nick asked.
“Yes, a boy. She particularly wanted to know.”
Nick exchanged a glance with his inspector. “What about the next pregnancy, with the little girl, Olivia?”
“That one is confirmed, also.”
Nick frowned. “I suppose we could check if there were any missing babies reported at the hospital around the times they were born.”
“Ah, well, there you will struggle,” Dr Onatade said. “She opted for home births—both times.” She flipped open the folder and double-checked. “Midwife in attendance. No doctor required. No complications reported.” And she closed the folder again.
“So, after all that, we still don’t know which one is hers,” Pollock muttered.
Dr Onatade eyed him with surprise. “Oh yes, I can tell you that,” she said. “I can say with absolute certainty that Yvonne Elliot could not possibly be the mother of Jordan.”
“Why so sure?” Nick asked.
“Blood. According to the records, Yvonne’s blood group is listed as O-positive. Nothing unusual in that—it’s the most common type. Almost forty percent of the population have it. However, Jordan’s blood group was also O-positive.”
Nick frowned at the pathologist and noted Pollock doing the same. Clearly the right response. She beamed at them.
“Dylan Elliot’s blood type is AB-positive. Not the rarest, but close. Only around three percent of us have such a type. Interestingly, it also makes him capable of receiving a donation from any other blood type.”
Pollock cleared his throat.
Dr Onatade regarded him over her reading glasses. He refrained from whatever impatient remark had been forming. Nick held back a smile. Nice to see his boss was not the only one who’d perfected the hard stare technique.
“What this means as far as your case is concerned,” she went on, “is that if the parents are types AB and O, then it is scientifically impossible for their offspring to be type O. Or type AB for that matter. They can be only A or B.”
Pollock looked momentarily stunned. “Ayo, you’re a bloody wonder.”
“Yes, I know.” Dr Onatade grinned as she handed over the folder. “Now, is there anywhere I can observe what happens next?”
Nick caught the doubt on Pollock’s face. “Dr Onatade might be able to discount on medical grounds any arguments Yvonne tries to raise, sir,” he pointed out.
“All right then. Show her the way and let’s get back at it, lad, eh?”
As he led her to the office set up with the video and audio links, Dr Onatade leaned in conspiratorially. “Sod medical grounds,” she murmured, “I want to catch the drama.”
When Nick returned to the interview room, Pollock had restarted the recording equipment. From the sour look on the faces of both Yvonne and Ms Chadwick, he had already given them the glad tidings about Jordan’s parentage as well.
“DC Weston has just entered the room,” Pollock narrated. “Now, Mrs Elliot. We need some answers. So, do yourself a favour, lass.”
“My client is now prepared to make a statement,” Ms Chadwick said.
Pollock sat back in his chair. “Is she now?”
Yvonne’s gaze was skittering around the walls as if looking for an escape. When none presented itself, she clamped her hands together in her lap.
“When I fell pregnant with me fourth, and we found out it were a boy, my Dyl’ were over the moon. Only, you lot nicked him for receiving,” she said, throwing them a dirty look.
That’s right—blame us for catching him, Nick thought, not him for being stupid enough to commit the crime in the first place.
“So, when I got near me due date, he were still on remand.” She stopped, stared down at her hands. “I–I knew there were summat wrong with the baby. You can’t give birth to three kids and not realise…”
Ms Chadwick gave her an encouraging smile and sniffed again.
“What did the doctors say?” Pollock asked.
Yvonne shook her head. “I didn’t go. Was too scared of what they was goin’ to tell me, I s’pose. And Dyl’ were so desperate for a boy—he would’ve killed me…”
That hung in the air between them.
“Go on, lass,” Pollock said, almost gently.
“I was about a week or so overdue when I finally went into labour.” She pushed a limp dangle of hair away from her face. “Never known anythin’ like it—not even with me first. I sent for the midwife… She did her best but, when he were born, I could see he weren’t breathin’…”
“Still-born,” Pollock said, in a hushed tone Nick hadn’t heard him use before. He glanced sharply at his DI but could read nothing from his face.
“I thought so,” Yvonne agreed, face screwed up with anguish, “but…she took him away for a bit. Don’t know how long. I was exhausted, like. I just…passed out. And then the midwife brought him back, all wrapped up and wailin’ and it… It were like a miracle.”
But her words lacked conviction.
“The midwife—that would be Agnes Trelawney, I presume?” Nick said. Convenient to dump responsibility for the whole deception onto the one person who was in no state to answer questions.
“Aye… Aye, that’s right. Agnes.”
Nick asked quietly, “Did you know, straight away, that he wasn’t your baby?”
She shook her head fiercely—too fiercely, overdoing it perhaps.
“Not then,” she denied. “But he were so tiny—smaller even than my eldest, and she were a week early. And then, of course, as he grew…” She looked up, met their gaze at last, her eyes brimming with tears. “Well, by that time he were mine, every way that mattered.”
80
Grace was concentrating so completely on the outraged email she was writing in defence of Ty Frost, that she did not immediately notice Dr Onatade hovering in the doorway.
“Good heavens, Grace. That’s quite a scowl.”
Grace made an effort to relax. It was only then she appreciated how tense her shoulders had become.
“What can I say?” She shrugged. “Incompetence infuriates me.”
“Ah, anything I can help you with?”
Grace bit her lip. She was very tempted to vent her feelings to the pathologist about t
he treatment of her colleague, but something made her pause. It would be unprofessional of her. Besides, there were protocols, chains of command to be observed. And although Ayo Onatade had always seemed friendly, approachable, Grace did not know her well.
She did not, she reflected, know any of her colleagues particularly well outside of work.
With the exception, perhaps, of Nick Weston…
“No—thank you anyway, Ayo. I’ll get to the bottom of it, I expect.” She sat back in her chair. “It’s lovely to see you, though. What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
“That rather dishy young detective, Nick Weston.”
Grace merely raised her eyebrows and Dr Onatade laughed out loud.
“He was only after my mind, sadly. For the interpretation of medical records—and confirmation that the boy could not possibly be the child of his parents. I understand it was you who spotted the differing DNA results between the boy and his sister?”
“It’s a problem with sending anything away to an outside lab for testing. If they don’t know the context, they don’t flag up things that could well be vital.”
“Hm, I know some forces are setting up their own in-house labs, but they are not without their drawbacks—accusations of bias in favour of the prosecution, for instance.”
Was that what had happened here, Grace wondered? That someone had let their enthusiasm for a conviction get the better of them?
“Ayo… When you carried out the post-mortem exam, on the boy, what happened to his clothes?”
The pathologist blinked in surprise at the apparent swerve of subject. “I photographed them in situ, removed them from the body, bagged them, labelled them, and passed them on to Chris Blenkinship to log when he got back here. Why, is something wrong?”
“I’m not sure at the moment,” she said, disliking the need for evasion. “Would you be able to send me the images you took?”
“Of course,” she said promptly. “I can login remotely to my system and do it from here. On one condition.”
Grace looked up quickly at the serious note in her voice. “Which is?”