by Malcolm Rose
“The fingerprints that I have just recorded match precisely those of Camilla Bunker.”
“Including the scar?”
“Confirmed.”
“What have you entered into case notes?” Luke wanted Constance to hear the conclusion from Malc because she would know that mobiles always told the truth. She would also know that he’d pass the information to The Authorities. Luke hoped to have most impact on her that way.
Malc answered, “There is sure proof that Constance Robertson is Camilla Bunker. Therefore, she survived the air traffic accident. Her identity card is perfect, but it must be forged. The forger was Lee McArthur. Camilla Bunker returned to her house in London after the damage to her finger because a scarred print was found on the work surface of the kitchen.”
Luke looked down on Constance Robertson and raised his eyebrows.
She stared back at him without a word. She interlocked her fingers and held them so tightly that the brown skin over her knuckles almost turned white.
Trying to catch her out, Luke said, “On top of that, I can get Lee McArthur to identify you.”
Her expression of disbelief gave her away. “But he’s...” She ground to a halt.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Luke smiled again. “You were going to say he’s dead, but how would you know that? You had no contact with him after he made your fake card. That was the deal.”
After a few more seconds of silence, her resolve cracked. “All right. You’ve discovered who I am. So what?”
“I’m trying to work out how many offences you’ve committed.”
“Look,” she said angrily, “You don’t know what it was like with Rowan. He was a slob. I volunteered to go on that plane as part of my work. Anything to take a break from him. And I was coming up here to take a peek at how the other half lives. I didn’t get past Coventry as it turned out. But I’d already heard enough. It’d be a leap in my lifestyle. I was hungry for it, wanting to settle in the north but, with Rowan and my old identity card weighing me down, there was no chance. When the plane crashed and I walked away with cuts and bruises, I realized I’d stumbled across a way of disappearing.”
“Yes. You wandered off, then went back to leave some clues at the crash site, didn’t you? Your pairing ring and identity card.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “To make sure Rowan and everyone else thought I was dead.”
Luke was on the verge of nailing her for murder but he also sensed that she was clever and slippery. “Why did you go home afterwards?”
“Did I?” she replied with an innocent expression.
“Yes. We’ve got a print with a scar across it.”
“I didn’t say when I nicked my finger. It could’ve been before the plane came down.”
“Come on! You walked away with cuts and bruises,” Luke said, the disbelief clear in his voice. “I think we know what cut your finger. And it wasn’t wire strippers.”
“All right. I went back to London to collect a few items.” She shrugged, implying that she’d done nothing wrong.
“How did you get there? And how did you go to Glasgow afterwards?”
“I befriended a couple of people who used their cards to call me cabs.”
“Was Rowan at home when you got there?”
Camilla hesitated. “No. I went when I knew he’d be out.”
Luke understood her strategy. If she admitted that she’d seen him, she’d have a motive for killing him because she couldn’t allow anyone to know she was alive. “That’s not true, is it? He was there and you murdered him.”
She shook her head. “You arrested a boy. I heard the news.”
“Yes. You must’ve been relieved. We’re executing him in a week. That doesn’t bother you, does it?”
“Why should it? He’s a murderer. He deserves what he gets. Rowan was... a pain, but he didn’t deserve that.”
Luke shook his head with an ironic smile. “I’ll tell you what happened. You went back to make sure Rowan wouldn’t come looking for you.”
She laughed. “What an imagination! He wouldn’t have done that. Not him. And he’d think I was dead. There was no reason for me to kill him.”
“There was a reason,” Luke insisted. “Just disappearing wasn’t enough for you. You couldn’t resist going back with the ultimate alibi and getting revenge. You hated him so much, you wanted to be rid of him altogether.”
She threw up her hands in a gesture of frustration, like an instructor who couldn’t get a student to understand a simple idea. “That’s stupid!”
“Maybe I’m wrong, then. Maybe you did go home to pick up some things. You went when you thought he wouldn’t be there, but he was. As soon as he saw you, you knew you had to finish him off to make your scheme work.”
“Why don’t you ask your mobile if there’s proof I killed anyone? Why don’t you ask it how many crimes I’ve committed? One. A forged identity card. And there’s extenuating circumstances for that. I had to get away from a useless partner.”
Luke didn’t have to ask Malc because he already knew the answer. Constance – or Camilla – had admitted that she’d run away from the crash site and got herself a new identity, but he couldn’t pin any other offence on her yet. He could prove only that she’d been at the murder scene, not that she was the one who had stabbed Rowan Pearce. The impressions on the pad were evidence that she’d also been to Lee McArthur’s apartment. She wasn’t denying it, so he didn’t need to match the fibres from Lee’s study with her clothing. But knowing that she’d been there wasn’t proof that she’d sabotaged his electrical supply. After all this time, Luke was unlikely to turn up any more forensic evidence that incriminated her in either case. If he consulted Malc, his mobile would merely inform him that he did not have enough evidence to arrest Constance Robertson for murder. At best, he could charge her with possessing a forged identity card.
“When you went back to London, did you see anyone in or near the house? Apart from Rowan, that is.”
“I didn’t see Rowan. I told you. And, no, I didn’t see anyone.”
“Not a thirteen-year-old boy?”
“No.”
Luke decided on another bluff. “Well, he saw you. Until next Sunday, I’ve got a witness, way out of your reach in Cambridge Prison. You can’t fiddle with his electric supply or take a knife to him. Of course, if he identifies you, the decision to put him to death will be overturned and I’ll be back for you. Right now, I’m confiscating your identity card and sending some guards to escort you to Glasgow on a charge of possessing a forged card.”
****
The quickest way of getting Luke from Ballachulish to Cambridge on Monday morning involved a flight from Glasgow to Birmingham. Before Luke boarded the aeroplane at Glasgow Airport, he updated Farrah Bruce on his investigation into her partner’s death. He found it impossible to offer her any hope that he would be able to charge Constance Robertson with Lee’s murder unless she confessed. Too much time had passed and any traces of a crime would have long since gone. Luke hinted that Farrah would probably have to settle for seeing Lee’s killer charged with a different murder, if he could fit the final few pieces together.
In the departure lounge, Malc said to Luke, “I have just been informed that The Authorities regard the charge against Constance Robertson as not sufficiently serious to warrant escorting her to Glasgow and placing her in a holding cell.”
“What?” Luke exclaimed. “I don’t care about forgery. It’s just a way of keeping her locked up till I close Rowan Pearce’s murder case – if I can.”
“The Authorities can act only on the existing charge against her. At this time, she is not regarded as a murder suspect because someone else has been found guilty. Lee McArthur’s death was an accident. There is no overriding reason to reverse these verdicts.”
A detached voice announced that the flight to Birmingham was now boarding.
Getting to his feet and making for the gate, Luke muttered, “T
he Authorities are fools sometimes.”
“By nature, all humans act foolishly occasionally. You have taken the appropriate action to control Constance Robertson’s movements. You have taken away the identity card, stopping travel from Ballachulish.”
“She managed to move around without a card before.”
“The subject’s status will be broadcast to telescreens in the area so she will not be able to persuade others to help. In effect, she is under curfew. She is also obliged to report by telescreen to the Glasgow Authorities once every twenty-four hours.”
“Mmm. Let’s hope it works. She’s devious. She’s proved that.”
Luke stepped into the body of the aeroplane and found his seat. To preserve battery life, Malc settled awkwardly onto the two adjacent seats. Luke looked down at him and, trying to drag himself out of a glum mood, said, “Don’t forget to fasten your seatbelt.”
“I do not need a seatbelt and it is not designed for my shape,” Malc replied.
“In other words, you don’t fit,” Luke remarked. “Like Everton Kohter.”
“Explain the comparison.”
“He’s innocent, Malc. He’s going to be strapped to a death-cell chair where he doesn’t belong. He doesn’t fit.” He shook his head sadly. “It should be Camilla. Her scarred fingerprint was near the knife. She had the opportunity and the motive. She’s nasty and she had to have the last word. That’s what her neighbour said. She went back to kill Rowan because she’s vindictive. And she wanted to make sure he’d never poison her new life, the same way she made sure Lee McArthur would never identify her. She couldn’t stand the thought of either of them catching up with her.”
“Speculation. In law, your beliefs do not substitute for facts.”
On the runway, the engines screamed and the aeroplane lurched forward.
****
This time when the cab dropped Luke outside Block J, the grim building, its intimidating walkway and security measures were less of a shock. Once inside, Greg Roper marched him through the same bleak passageways to the same interview room. There, Everton Kohter sat with the same empty expression, the same empty eyes. This time, he looked even more gaunt.
Luke gazed at him for a few moments and then said, “I won’t waste your time...”
Everton shrugged. He was past caring. His shaven head drooped.
Again, Luke noticed the purple mark of an old wound above his right ear. “I just want you to look at this woman. It’s important.” Luke pointed at the blank wall opposite Everton and obediently Malc projected a close-up of Camilla Bunker onto the light green surface. “Have you ever seen her before?”
Everton shrugged again.
“Have a good look before you decide.”
The prisoner sighed and peered at the picture. “No.” Uninterested, he dropped his eyes. But then something made him look up again.
At once, Luke prompted a response. “Yes? Have you seen her anywhere?”
Everton stared at Camilla’s image with a puzzled expression for several seconds. Then, strangely, his face brightened. “Yes! I remember!”
Luke leaned towards him. “What do you remember?”
“I heard a terrible scream. Think so. Wasn’t sure with the rain and all. I went towards the house and she came out. Yes. She was the one. She came out. Almost barged into me. In a hurry, she was. Running. I watched her go, I think. I made for the door – she’d left it open – when... I’m not sure. Something happened. But...” Everton lapsed into his own dreamlike state. “It wasn’t me! It really wasn’t. It was her!”
Everton’s mind was clearly in turmoil but, in a bizarre way, he was thrilled.
“I believe you,” Luke told him. “But what you said doesn’t prove she did it. She admits she was there, not that she killed him. You’ve got to give me more if I’m going to prove you’re innocent. Was Rowan – the man inside – still alive when you went in?”
Shaking his head, Everton muttered, “I don’t know. I can’t... This is so weird. But it wasn’t me!” he repeated gleefully, withdrawing into a world of his own.
Right now, Everton didn’t seem to care about proof. Luke guessed that he just wanted to feel freedom from guilt. He relished certainty after two years of not knowing. But Luke’s mood was sinking fast. Without undeniable facts, The Authorities and the law would execute someone who now knew he’d done nothing wrong. That was crueller than executing someone who didn’t know whether he was guilty or innocent.
Luke wanted to give Everton more than freedom from guilt. Luke wanted to give him complete freedom.
Without emotion, Malc said to Luke, “The prisoner is now behaving conventionally. Blaming someone else is typical behaviour of the guilty.”
“And typical of the innocent,” Luke snapped at his mobile. He reached across the table and touched Everton’s scrawny shoulder. “Can you remember? When she came out, was she stained with anything?”
Everton gave him an empty smile. “Don’t know.”
In desperation, Luke shook his shoulder. “Think! There must be something else.”
But it was hopeless. Everton had retreated again. After all, his own world had to be better for him than the real one.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Doubt is not enough in this case,” Malc told Luke. “The evidence against the prisoner is considerable and conclusive. To halt the execution of Everton Kohter, you would have to explain how that amount of forensic data could be wrong and provide new facts that prove his innocence.”
“In four days.” Annoyed with himself, Luke shook his head. “I’m missing something. I know I am. There’s got to be something definite that’ll clinch it.”
It was Wednesday morning and he was walking through Sheffield’s Southern Park, hoping that fresh air and relaxation would clear his head. He wanted to forget for a while all of the obvious leads. He wanted to clear away the clutter to reveal some neglected pathway that he could explore for the first time.
He was sure that the answer lay in working out what had happened to Everton that day two years ago when he reached Rowan and Camilla’s open front door. It was something that had made him act bizarrely when the FI arrested him and, even today, it prevented his brain from retrieving the memory. Luke couldn’t believe that Everton had merely been upset at the sight of Rowan’s dead body. Whatever had affected him went well beyond normal shock. It was the key to understanding why he’d made himself appear so guilty.
To Luke’s left, there was a long line of evergreens. In the middle, one tree had not thrived as much as its neighbours. It was much shorter than the others and its foliage had turned brown and brittle. Above ground, the height of the adjacent trees deprived it of sunlight and their width deprived it of space. Below ground, its roots could not compete with the bullies on either side. The tree was still standing, but it was dead. Luke gazed at the pathetic thing and thought of Everton.
“What if I got a confession out of Camilla Bunker?”
“That would be regarded as fresh evidence. The death penalty would be delayed, giving you more time to account for the misleading forensic data and establish the reliability of the confession.”
“The instructors at school said being an FI wasn’t easy. They weren’t kidding.” Luke came to a standstill again. “I just can’t bear the thought of Everton being murdered by The Authorities. That’s what it is when he’s innocent. And he’s only fifteen!”
“His age is irrelevant.”
“Yeah, I know. But...” Luke brushed snowflakes out of his long black hair. “Kill a fifteen-year-old and you’ve taken away sixty-odd years, children, a career, everything. You don’t want to get it wrong.” Sighing, he flicked the melted snow from his hand and then looked up at the clouds. “It’s getting darker. I think we’re in for a big snowstorm.”
“The weather forecast for Sheffield includes a sixty-five per cent chance of snow.”
Already, the flakes were larger and falling more thickly, Luke thought. “Ninety-five per cent is
more like it,” he murmured.
“I have just received a transmission from the Glasgow Authorities. Constance Robertson did not make contact yesterday. Neighbours report that they have not seen her since she went yachting in the afternoon. There is a team of agents in the area, searching for the subject.”
“What?” Luke cried, dismayed by the news.
“I have just received a transmission...”
“No, I heard.” Luke took a deep breath. “Make an urgent request for a helicopter, Malc. The Authorities must let me have one this time. I need to be in Ballachulish. Now.”
“Transmitting.”
“Come on,” he said, sprinting for the exit. “I’m going to the helipad. I need to take off before this storm hits.”
“I have not yet...”
“And I haven’t got the time to hang around, waiting for the go-ahead.”
As he dashed back past the stunted and sadly wilting tree, Luke had the overwhelming feeling that it was trying to tell him something.
****
Luke’s headphones reduced the racket from the rotors and engine to a muted drone, similar to the unsettling sound in Jade’s latest composition. He could hear the pilot’s voice seeking permission to take off and requesting the latest information from the Meteorological Office.
“You have a tight window before the storm will ground you, Five Nine.”
With her hands hovering over the joystick and lever, the pilot said, “Repeat that, Control. Are you telling me to abandon the flight?”
“Negative, Five Nine. You have clearance for the next few minutes. Once north of Leeds, you have cold clear outlook.”
“Copy, Control. I’m out of here.” Straightaway, she operated the lever.
With a jerk, the blades plucked the helicopter from the tarmac. For a moment, Luke felt his stomach lurch uncomfortably. The pilot swivelled the craft so its nose was pointing in the right direction, and then she pushed the joystick forward. The helicopter pitched and headed north at speed.
At first, she seemed to be flying blind. Wipers swept rapidly to and fro across the window but, beyond them, there was an almost complete whiteout. “Don’t worry,” her voice said into Luke’s ear. “The computer can see even if I can’t and we’ll be free of it soon. I just hope this mission of yours is important enough.”