Gareth Dawson Series Box Set

by Nathan Burrows

  “Until around a year ago, you say. What happened then?” Paul asked.

  “They were all deleted. I was able to retrieve most of the content from various internet archives that catalogue social media profiles, and there was nothing particularly contentious within them.” Alfie looked down at his notes for a second. “But they were all deleted within a few days of each other, at about the same time he moved house.”

  “And was there anything unusual about his activity when he moved house?” It was obvious, at least to me, that Paul was leading Alfie carefully through a series of events to build a picture for the jury.

  “Yes, there was,” Alfie replied. “He became ex-directory at that point, and he also failed to re-register on the electoral role at his new address.” Paul paused to let that sink in for the jury.

  “Almost as if he was trying to hide from something or someone?” Paul suggested. I looked across at Miss Revell, expecting her to object. I was getting the hang of things. As I watched, one of the two young men with her leaned across and whispered something in her ear.

  “Your Honour,” Miss Revell said, half rising to her feet. “Counsel is leading the witness to speculate.”

  “Thank you, Miss Revell, you are quite correct,” Judge Watling replied, giving Miss Revell a look somewhere between confusion and concern.

  “I apologise, Your Honour,” Paul replied, also looking at his counterpart. I couldn’t read his face, and not for the first time I promised myself never to play poker with the man if I ever got the opportunity.

  “So to summarise, in May of this year, Mr Wainwright deleted all of his social media accounts and moved house. At the same time, he became unlisted in public telephone directories, and also didn’t register himself on the electoral roll?”

  “That’s correct,” Alfie replied. Paul’s previous comment about Robert hiding wasn’t needed. It was obvious that was what he was trying to do. “So, I looked at his e-mail account to see if there was any further information there.”

  “Was this information password protected?” Paul asked, looking at the Judge.

  “No, the password was saved onto the computer so wasn’t required by the firm that did the analysis,” Alfie replied. The judge nodded his head, and I figured that this must have been part of the discussions in the back room. Maybe something about the information being easily available and not hacked? I looked up at the public gallery and saw David sitting up there. When I caught his eye, he gave me a theatrical wink that I hoped no one else in the courtroom noticed. Saved onto the computer my arse.

  “I examined his e-mail account, including his deleted items. He didn’t empty his deleted items very often if at all,” Alfie said. I didn’t dare look up at David. “There was a series of increasingly threatening e-mails from an account with the e-mail address ‘f.caran@posta.ro’ regarding repayment of an unspecified sum of money throughout March and April. The last e-mail from this individual was on April 21st. Then there was a further e-mail from another Romanian service provider on April 25th. It’s not clear who this came from as the e-mail address is a random collection of letters and digits.”

  “Your Honour, may I introduce these e-mails as exhibits? These are copies of the relevant e-mails to Robert Wainwright.” The judge nodded as Paul handed him a copy of what must have been the e-mail. Laura then handed copies to the usher who walked across to Miss Revell, handed her a copy and continued to the jurors’ bench after giving copies to the two court officials sitting behind the prosecution desk. As the jurors passed the papers down their line, Paul continued. “Could you read this e-mail out please, Alfie?” Alfie cleared his throat before replying.

  “This e-mail is from ‘XDY654R@home.ro’, and is dated April 25th at 10:45 am. The text of the e-mail reads ‘Last warning. Pay now.’ The e-mail isn’t signed.”

  “Were there any more e-mails from this e-mail address?” Paul asked.

  “No, nothing,” Alfie replied.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I remind you that April 24th is the night that Robert Wainwright was attacked by the unknown assailants, as reported by the defendant.” He then turned back to Alfie.

  “Mr Nesbitt, could you let us know what you found out about Mr Wainwright’s finances when you had his computer examined?” Paul said.

  “Yes. Digital Solutions Incorporated was able to retrieve all his bank statements from his online account. Again, his passwords and access codes were all saved onto his computer.” I didn’t look up at David.

  “So, what did they show in terms of financial activity?”

  “Well, the bulk of his transactions were pretty routine,” Alfie replied. “Direct debits, cash withdrawals, that sort of thing. Nothing out of the ordinary from January at all.”

  “How about prior to January?” Paul asked. “In terms of, as you put it, anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Yes. Prior to January, there were a series of regular payments to six different online gambling companies. We could only go back three years, but they increased in amount over time. In January, the total payment to all six companies was just over £10,000.” Several sets of eyebrows in the courtroom, including my own, shot up.

  “In one month?” Paul asked, doing a good impression of incredulity.

  “That’s correct,” Alfie replied. “But at the same time, there were also a series of payments into the account.” Alfie stressed the word ‘into’.

  “Were you able to trace where this money was coming from?”

  “No. They were cash payments into the account, usually in the first week of the month. Untraceable. Like the outgoing payments, they slowly increased over about two years. This was separate from his wages which were paid by bank transfer at the end of the month,” Alfie explained.

  “Did the incoming cash payments and outgoing payments to the gambling companies match?” Paul asked.

  “No, not quite. Some months there was more coming in than coming out, but most of the time it was the other way round. He was haemorrhaging money. There was also a regular series of unusual outgoing bank transfers, usually just after he got paid for his regular job.”

  “And what made them unusual?”

  “It was where they were going to,” Alfie replied. “That’s what made them unusual. There’s no way of tracing the actual account holder, but the IBAN was from an overseas account.” A frown creased Paul’s forehead and as if he realised what the gesture meant, Alfie carried on. “An IBAN is an International Bank Account Number. The first two letters show which country the account is in.”

  “So where were these payments going to?” Paul asked.

  “The IBAN started with the letters ‘RO’. That’s the identifier for Romania,’ Alfie replied.

  “Mr Wainwright was making regular payments to an account in Romania?”

  “Yes,” Alfie said. “Until March. That’s when the payments to the Romanian account stopped.”

  Paul paused, making notes on a pad.

  “Mr Nesbitt, let me make sure I understand this,” he said, looking across for an instant at Miss Revell before returning his gaze to the investigator. “Mr Wainwright was paying cash into his bank account regularly, separate to his wages. He was spending a lot of money each month on internet gambling, and making regular payments to an unknown account in Romania which stopped in March.” Paul stopped at that point, looking toward the jury. It looked as if he was contemplating carrying on, but he didn’t say anything further.

  “No more questions, Your Honour,” Paul said, turning to face the judge for a second before returning to his seat. As he sat down, Laura put her hand on his arm and squeezed it, coaxing a brief smile from him.

  “Miss Revell?” Judge Watling said. I looked over at the prosecutor’s bench. She was deep in conversation with one of the suited men, and I didn’t think she’d heard the judge call her name. “Miss Revell?” the judge said again, louder than the time before. He looked pissed off which I thought was a good thing.

  “Sorry, Your Honour
,” Miss Revell replied, rearranging the wig on her head where it had slipped forward. “Er, yes, I do have some questions.”

  Alfie crossed his hands in his lap as Miss Revell got to her feet.

  “Mr Nesbitt, you have specified that all of the data you obtained from this laptop was easily available? Not password protected in any way?”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” he replied. Miss Revell turned to Judge Watling.

  “Your Honour, as we discussed in chambers, I have serious concerns about the integrity of this laptop’s data. You offered me the opportunity to explore this in open court.” The judge nodded and she turned back to Alfie. “Mr Nesbitt, you are quite au-fait with computers, are you not? Given your history working within the computer crime unit of Suffolk Police?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “And one of the tasks that you undertook within that unit was the forensic analysis of computers, which included password retrieval?” Alfie started to reply when Paul cut him off.

  “Your Honour, please. My witness appears to be about to be accused of a crime by my learned colleague,” he said. Miss Revell shot an immediate response back at Paul.

  “I am not, I simply suggest that the laptop could have been compromised.”

  “Miss Revell, you are skating on rather thin ice with your suggestion,” Judge Watling warned her. “There is a fine line between suggesting a compromise, and linking the witness to this compromise.” Miss Revell looked at the judge, and I wondered if she was taking one for the team to put the suggestion into the jurors’ heads.

  “Judge Watling?” I heard a voice and realised that it was Alfie. The judge looked at him, as surprised as I was to hear him interrupt the argument.

  “Yes, Mr Nesbitt?”

  “Perhaps I could point out I never had possession of the laptop. It was collected directly from Mr and Mrs Wainwright’s address by courier and taken to Digital Solutions Incorporated. It was never in my possession at all,” Alfie said. “Nor the defence team. It was sent directly from Mr and Mrs Wainwright’s house to the analysts by courier.”

  “I have an audit trail to support that, Your Honour,” Paul chipped in, and I had to concentrate on keeping a straight face and not look at David. Who could possibly be a better courier to collect a laptop than him? Miss Revell looked crestfallen at this news, looking back to her colleagues on the bench who both gave her blank stares in return.

  “Oh,” she said as Paul sat back down in his chair. That hadn’t gone well for her at all. She rallied and went on to ask Alfie more questions about not being able to trace the origin of the cash payments made to Robert or the recipient of the payments, but the questions soon petered out.

  I looked across at the jury and could tell from the look on their faces that this innings had definitely gone to Paul and Alfie.

  39

  It took me a second or two to realise that I’d been stabbed. Well, stabbed may be a bit dramatic. Slashed with a homemade knife is a more accurate way of describing it. I was queuing up for supper back at the prison, chatting with Pete about the day’s events and the investigator, Alfie Nesbitt. We were discussing what he might have been accused of when he was a copper. Pete was sure Alfie had been on the nick, perhaps using computers to syphon off money somehow, when someone brushed past me in the queue, knocking me toward the food counter. I was just about to say something to the prisoner who’d barged into me when I felt a white-hot pain across my buttock. I put my hand on my backside and it came away covered in blood. My blood.

  As soon as other prisoners saw the blood on my hand, a commotion started up that soon got the attention of the prison officers. Several of the prisoners shouted and jostled about, and I heard someone shout “knife” at the top of his voice. I wasn’t sure whether they were just doing it to create confusion to allow whoever had sliced me to get away, whether it was a genuine concern for my welfare, or both. It didn’t matter anyway. The prisoner with the knife was long gone.

  “Move, move,” Mr Jackson shouted as he cleaved a path toward me through the prisoners, closely followed by another two officers. His bulk cut through the small crowd with ease. Once he reached me, he looked at me with an impassive expression before reaching out and grabbing my shoulder with a huge hand. He spun me around and looked down at my tracksuit trousers which were getting heavier with the blood pouring out of the cut. I’d still not seen the extent of the damage, but started to feel light headed. I’d never been good with the sight of blood, and when it was mine it was ten times worse. “Right, let’s get you to the infirmary,” he said, pushing me away from the food counter. “You’re not going to faint on me, are you?”

  “No, I’m good,” I replied, even though I wasn’t.

  Other than asking me if I’d seen who the prisoner with the knife was, Mr Jackson didn’t say another word as he led me to the infirmary, a room the other side of two very serious doors. I knew there was a small ward attached to it from what Pete had told me, but I’d never been here as a customer. A male nurse came out to meet us as Mr Jackson pointed toward the single examination couch in the room. I shuffled onto it, face down.

  “What’ve we got, then?” the nurse said. He was dressed in the same pyjamas I’d seen at the hospital when Jennifer died, but his were blue instead of green.

  “Knife wound to the buttock. Looks deep,” I heard Mr Jackson say. “His name’s Dawson.”

  “Mr Dawson?” the nurse said. I turned to look at him. “My name’s Damien, I’m the nurse practitioner here. I’m just going to have a look at this wound, okay?” I wasn’t sure what the difference between a regular nurse and a nurse practitioner was, but he looked like an okay bloke, so I let that one go.

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” I replied. The nurse pulled some bright purple gloves from a box attached to the wall and snapped them on before pulling the back of my tracksuit trousers down.

  “Hmm,” I heard him say. “That’s going to smart a bit.”

  “You’re telling me,” I replied as he prodded at my buttock.

  “It’s not too bad though. Only went as deep as fatty tissue from the looks of it, bleeding’s pretty much stopped already. Do you know what the weapon was?” I wasn’t sure if he was asking me or Mr Jackson, so I kept quiet. The nurse kept prodding at my arse cheek. “Looks like it was probably a razor blade to me, it’s quite surgical.” I figured if anyone would know about weapons inside a prison, it would be a nurse practitioner who worked in one. The nurse mumbled something I didn’t quite catch, and I heard Mr Jackson reply with a curt ‘yep’.

  When I heard the door clang shut, I raised my head and realised that the nurse had left the room. Mr Jackson was sitting on a plastic chair, looking at me.

  “He’s gone to get some stuff to patch you up,” he said. “So what’s going on, then? Who’ve you pissed off?” I didn’t reply at first, but thought I’d better say something to the man.

  “I didn’t see who it was,” I replied. “One minute I was standing there talking to Pete, the next I’ve got blood pissing down my leg.” He fixed me with a hard stare, no doubt used to having conversations like these. “I don’t know who I’ve pissed off.” That last statement at least was the truth. I had no idea who had slashed me, but thought I probably knew who had put him up to it.

  The nurse came back in a couple of minutes later, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had developed between me and Mr Jackson. He had a handful of very clinical looking stuff in his hands, including what was quite obviously a syringe and needle.

  I groaned and put my head on my forearms.

  40

  “The defence calls Doctor Anthea Klein.”

  The court settled down as the small woman in the witness box took the Bible in her hand. As she recited the oath in a much louder voice than I had been expecting, I could see what Paul had said about her being straight from the set of Miss Marple. Dr Klein, Paul’s favourite witness if he was to be believed, was only about five foot tall if that. She was thin, dressed in a grey tweed jack
et and matching skirt, and had curly grey hair that would have looked fine with a blue rinse. As she sat down, I half expected her to pull out a ball of wool and a couple of knitting needles, although I’d had enough of needles for one week.

  “Dr Klein, before we begin, I would just like to introduce you to the jury if I may?” Paul said. Would you mind telling them a bit about yourself please?”

  “Certainly,” Dr Klein replied, smiling warmly at the jury. I looked across at them, and pretty much all twelve of them returned her smile. “I’m now retired and only undertake consultative work, but I first qualified as a Medical Doctor back in the late nineteen seventies, and then as a pathologist in the early nineteen eighties.” She described her career in some detail, listing courses, degrees, fellowships, all sorts of stuff I didn’t really understand. I was concentrating more on the fact she’d qualified as a doctor before I was even born. She carried on detailing her career and explaining all the qualifications and awards that she’d got along the way. Dr Klein got my attention back when she started talking about the time she’d spent in the United States, as a specialist examiner in New England. “I developed a keen interest in a specific type of trauma. Blunt force cranial trauma.” I was beginning to understand why Paul was so keen on Dr Klein in this particular case. “I authored a book titled ‘The Pathophysiology of Low Velocity Cranial Trauma,” she said in a light voice, as if she was about tell a joke. “It’s now in its tenth edition, but is used by most pathologists in the United States and the United Kingdom as a definitive resource in the investigation of blunt force trauma to the head.”

  Paul looked across to the prosecution table as Dr Klein offered this, as if he was expecting Miss Revell to object. When she didn’t respond, Paul turned to the judge.