by Ellis, Tim
‘My apologies, my Lord. But as you’re all too aware, the facts of this case are so few and far between that I sometimes lose them in the morass of half-lies, assumptions and fabrication.’
‘My Lord!’ Dryden shouted.
‘Withdrawn,’ Gollum said, taking a drink of water to smother the smile. ‘Shall we continue, Sergeant?’ She turned back to the board without waiting for an answer. ‘Mr Naseby returned to the house at 0830 hours – would you agree with that?’
‘If he ever left.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Maybe he never left.’
‘I see . . .’
Here we go again, Jerry thought.
‘During your investigation did you find any witnesses who could verify Mr Naseby’s account of what happened?’
‘No.’
‘No? No you didn’t find any witnesses? Or no you didn’t try to verify Mr Naseby’s account?’
‘He was covered in blood. He was holding the knife. And he said it was his fault she was dead.’
‘I take it that the answer to my question is that you failed to check Mr Naseby’s account of what happened?’
‘No, we didn’t check what he’d said had happened. As far as we were concerned he’d killed his wife. What he did before that wasn’t relevant.’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you Sergeant, but it was relevant. Your derisory investigation has left us not knowing whether my client was telling the truth or not. You walked into that house, saw my client sitting on the stairs covered in blood and holding a bloody knife and decided he was the killer.’
DS Foster stared at the floor.
‘Did you consider anyone else?’
‘There was no one else.’
‘Right from the start, you’ve stated that Mrs Naseby was having an affair – with whom?’
‘We never found out.’
‘Presumably, forensics discovered evidence that a third person had been in the Naseby’s bed?’
‘Yes, but unfortunately we couldn’t find a DNA match.’
‘Let’s go back to the timeline, shall we? You arrived at the house at 0905 hours, which is thirty minutes after the anonymous call?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Naseby said he left for work at 0805 hours, that his wife was up and about, but still in her nightclothes and they ate breakfast together.’
‘So he said.’
‘Please keep your comments to yourself, Sergeant. Yes, my client did say that, and you failed to check it one way or the other. All we have now is your version of events, which Mr Naseby discounts. And to be honest, I can’t imagine why the jury would believe you over my client when it’s clear from your testimony that you have no evidence to support what you say happened. In fact, because of your rank incompetence, all we are left with are two accounts of what might have happened. The dilemma, of course, is who are the jury to believe?’
Foster glared at her.
‘There was twenty-five minutes between my client leaving the house and then returning to retrieve the Chuka file that he’d left in his study. Do you think it’s possible that someone else was let into the house by Mrs Naseby during that time?’
‘Yes, it’s possible.’
‘Did you find any evidence that someone else had been in the house?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t you say earlier that forensics had found a third person’s DNA in the bed?’
‘Well yes, but we couldn’t pinpoint when that DNA was deposited there.’
‘That’s the point, Sergeant. Did forensics find semen that did not belong to Mr Naseby on the bed linen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it less than twenty-four hours old?’
‘Yes, but it was impossible to tie it to that time period.’
‘Really? And yet, you seem to be using the semen as evidence that my client interrupted his wife having sex with her lover and then killed her in a fit of rage.’
Again, Foster declined to respond.
‘Did forensics find any evidence that Mrs Naseby had recently had sex?’
‘Yes, there was a significant increase in vaginal fluids.’
‘And had the male ejaculated inside the victim?’
‘No. Forensics found Mr Naseby’s semen and also evidence of a condom lubricant.’
‘Pubic hairs?’
‘No.’
‘Did my client explain why his semen was found inside his wife?’
‘He said he’d had sex with her earlier that morning.’
‘Are you disputing that, Sergeant?’
‘No, my Lord.’
‘I’m confused, and I’m sure I’m not the only person in this courtroom suffering from that affliction. On the one hand you’re saying that my client killed his wife because he returned home to find her having sex with another man, but on the other hand you’re telling this court that what limited evidence there is of a second male having been in the bedroom can’t be used to place him in the bedroom during that time period. I’m sure the jury would like to know what you believe to be the case, Sergeant.’
‘Please answer the question, Sergeant Foster,’ the judge instructed him.
‘We think that there was a second man there, but he left and then Mr Naseby and his wife had an argument which resulted in her murder.’
‘I see . . .’
Jerry loved it when Gollum said that. And she had the feeling that everyone else did as well. Each time, the courtroom went a notch quieter in expectation of what was to come.
‘Now that we’ve established there might very well have been a third person in the house between 0805 and 0835 when the anonymous 999 call was made, did you ever consider that this second man – Heidi Naseby’s purported lover – might very well have murdered her?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because, as I’ve stated a number of times, Mr Naseby was covered in his wife’s blood, he was holding what was subsequently identified as the murder weapon, and he said to me: “It’s my fault she’s dead.”
‘Mrs Ferguson,’ the judge said.
‘Yes, my Lord?’
‘I think it’s time for lunch, don’t you?’
‘As usual, your lordship is blessed with perfect timing.’
As an afterthought the judge said, ‘Is that all right with the CPS, Mr Dryden.’
‘Of course, my Lord.’
‘All rise,’ the court usher said, as the judge made his way out.
Jerry stretched. It had been a long couple of hours. Some of the other students were talking about the case, about how fabulous Gollum was, the strategy she was using and her questioning technique, but Jerry was worried.
Gollum was certain to get Manning Naseby acquitted. The police had made a right dog’s dinner of the case, and DS Foster would be lucky if he wasn’t transferred to somewhere inhospitable to end his career in ignominy. The trouble was, she had the terrible feeling that Naseby had killed his wife. Just before the judge had adjourned for lunch, Manning Naseby had glanced around the courtroom, and she’d seen something in his eyes, something that brought memories of Rose Needle standing over her flooding back.
Wasn’t it the innocent, helpless and downtrodden she wanted to fight for? Well, Heidi Naseby was such a person. Even if she had been having an affair, she didn’t deserve to die. Gollum couldn’t do anything – she was bound by oath to fight for her client. It was her job to get Manning Naseby acquitted. The police and CPS couldn’t do anything either – they were adrift in a morass of incompetence. It was up to her – Jerry Kowalski – to find out the truth of what had happened at 24 Somerset Garden on January 15 last year.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Are you ready, numpty?’ she said to Stick when she reached the squad room.
‘Ready.’
‘Let’s go then.’
‘Should I bring this with me?’ he asked, holding up the sheet of card with the pictures of eight vans on it.
‘What do you thi
nk?’
‘I don’t know, that’s why I asked you.’
‘Is Jessica Curry here in the station?’
‘No.’
‘Is she likely to stop by on her way to chemotherapy?’
‘No.’
‘Are we likely to ask her to come into the station to look at the card?’
‘Possibly.’
‘The answer is still “no”, numpty.’
‘No.’
‘Are we likely to send a squad car to drag her here to look at the card?’
‘Poss . . .’
Xena shook her head.
‘No.’
‘Correct. So, what do you think now?’
‘I should bring it with me?’
‘That’s two right. You’re a star. Let’s go.’
They made their way to the car park and climbed in the car.
‘What do you think?’ Stick said passing her the card and starting the car. He keyed Ware College into the satnav and pulled out of the car park onto the A10.
‘Do you really care what I think?’
‘Of course.’
She glanced at the card. ‘It’s a piece of card with pictures of eight vans stuck on it that all look the same to me. What am I expected to think? Have they asked you to put it on display in the National Art Gallery?’
‘I’m sure they would if they saw it. Damien Hirst did that shark in formaldehyde thing, so I don’t see why not.’
‘You think your “Eight White Vans on a Card”, which is based on an original idea by DI Parish, is comparable to a Damien Hirst work of art?’
‘Poss . . .’
‘The answer is still “no”, numpty.’
‘I didn’t know there were so many types of white van. The first one is a Mercedes Sprinter, then from left to right: a Ford Transit, VW Transporter, Renault Traffic, Peugeot Boxer, Chevrolet Express, Freight Rover and a Honda Acty.’
She pulled the lever to recline the seat, stretched her legs out and closed her eyes. ‘I think I’m going to have a relapse.’
‘Do you want me to make a detour to the hospital?’
‘Will you shut the fuck up and drive?’
Ware College was located on Scotts Road, not far from the New Gauge House where water leaves the River Lea at the start of the New River on its way to Finsbury Park in London.
The Ware campus had recently been redeveloped and now boasted hair and beauty salons where people could walk in off the street and obtain a hair cut – for a fraction of the price – by students; a cafeteria full of grazers; a learning resource centre, which used to be called a library; a business centre sponsored by local businesses; and a reception full of paintings, photographs, pottery and ceramic objects d’art, plus a receptionist to answer stupid questions and direct people accordingly.
Xena showed her warrant card to the middle-aged woman wearing silver ball earrings and matching necklace behind the reception desk. ‘We’d like to speak to someone about one of your students . . .’
‘Clarice Kennedy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just one moment.’ She pressed a button on the small switchboard and spoke into the tiny microphone hooked over her ear. ‘There are two police officers here. They’d like to speak to someone about Clarice Kennedy . . . Yes, Ma’am.’ She ended the call and spoke to Xena. ‘The Vice Principal – Dr Cindy Wismer – said for you to go up.’ She pointed to the lift on the right of the reception. ‘Press for the third floor, she’ll be waiting for you.’
‘Thank you,’ Stick said to the receptionist, as Xena headed towards the lift. ‘You could have said, “Thank you”,’ he said when he caught up with her.
‘She was doing the job she gets paid to do.’
‘Manners cost nothing.’
They stepped into the lift.
‘Since when did you become an etiquette guide and add accountancy to your skill set?’
‘No wonder people . . .’
The lift juddered to a stop and the doors opened.
Dr Cindy Wismer was in her mid-forties and black. She wore a dark blue dress, a pearl necklace and had an attractive smile.
Xena and Stick shook her hand, and then followed her along the corridor to her office where she directed them to sit in easy chairs around an oblong occasional table.
‘Tea or coffee?’
‘You don’t have lemonade, do you?’ Stick asked.
Xena nudged him. ‘No we’re fine.’
‘I’m sure we could acquire some lemonade . . .’
‘No, that’s all right,’ Xena said. ‘We’re not here to drink lemonade.’
‘But you are here about Clarice Kennedy?’
‘Yes.’
‘A terrible business. We were all shocked to learn that she’d been found dead.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘What would you like to know?’
‘What course was she doing?’
‘She had signed up for the Dance & Drama course taught by Mr Neil Cowan.’
‘We’d like to talk to him.’
‘Of course.’
‘Did you know that she was also a student at the Rhythm Stick Dance Studio in Widford?’
‘I didn’t really know Clarice, but I’m sure Mr Cowan would have known. Would you like me to ask Mr Cowan to come up here?’
‘We’ll talk to him in his classroom if that’s all right with you?’
‘That’s fine. I’ll arrange for a student to escort you.’ She stood up, stuck her head round the door, and asked her PA to obtain an available student.
‘One other thing,’ Xena said.
‘Yes.’
‘Could we have a staff list?’
‘Can I ask why?’
‘No.’
‘Oh! All right then. I presume you’d like every member of staff to be on the list – part-time, peripatetic, agency, seasonal and so on?’
‘Anybody who works or has worked on the campus and might have come into contact with Clarice.’
‘You don’t think . . . ?‘
‘No, we don’t. We’re simply making sure that we do a thorough job, so that the Police Complaints Commission focus their gaze somewhere other than at us.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean. Teaching isn’t much better . . . if better is the right word to use. If something goes wrong they want someone to blame. Before, there were places to hide, you could move sideways quietly, retire anonymously with enough to live on. Now, they want to hang, draw and quarter you in public. It’s like they’ve brought back public flogging and executions. Justice must not only be done, but seen to be done. You can pick the list up from reception when you’ve finished speaking to Mr Cowan.’
‘Thank you,’ Xena said.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come.’
Xena and Stick stood up.
A boy with braces on his teeth, a silver ring through his nose, trousers half-way down his buttocks, and a t-shirt that stated he was a:
JUNIOR GYNAECOLOGIST
AT YOUR CERVIX
‘Ah, Bradley. Please be so kind as to show these two police officers to Mr Cowan’s classroom.’
‘Police officers?’ He looked down at the floor, stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and began shuffling his feet.
‘Yes, show them to Mr Cowan’s classroom, please.’
Xena took a step forward and began sniffing.
Bradley backed up and said, ‘It was only one.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘One what?’
‘Nothing.’
‘One nothing?’ She turned to Stick. ‘Do you smell one nothing?’
Stick leaned forward and sniffed. ‘Yes, I’d say that was one nothing of the highest calibre.’
Xena looked at the Vice Principal and said, ‘Thank you for your time. Right Mr Bradley, lead the way.’
They followed the student out of Dr Wismer’s office, along the corridor and down the stairs.
‘Bradley is my first name, by the way.’
‘A
s if I’m going to believe a word you say,’ Xena said. ‘You’re lucky I have more important things to do, otherwise I’d have called the drug squad by now. I’m sure they’d be very interested in your stash of nothings.’
‘It was one spliff.’
They reached the landing between the second and third floor. Xena grabbed the boy, spun him round and pinned him up against the wall. ‘You don’t seem to understand that you’re an amoeba at the bottom of the illegal drug supply cess pit. Where there’s one spliff there are a thousand other spliffs, bags of ecstasy tablets, mountains of cocaine, crack cocaine, heroin and any number of other Class A drugs. Above you, there’s a drug dealer, a supplier, an importer, a whole drug cartel . . . In fact, your one spliff has turned into a worldwide humanitarian problem.’
‘You’re crazy. It was one spliff.’
‘And you’re a fucking addict in the making.’
Bradley looked at Stick. ‘Will you tell her to let me go?’
Stick pulled a face and slowly shook his head. ‘Let you go? No, I don’t think so. We’re going to arrest you for drug possession with intent to supply.’
‘I haven’t got any drugs.’
‘I’m sure we can find some from somewhere.’
‘You cops are all the same.’
Xena let the boy go. ‘Yes, we are. We try to help people. We’re going to give you this one chance. If I hear you’ve been using drugs – of any sort – again, it’ll be like an alien invasion. The drug squad will arrive at your house, here and anywhere else you go. They’ll strip everything clean like locusts, arrest you and everybody you’re connected with. If you want to be a drug user we’ll make it easy for you. We’ll destroy your life by giving you a criminal record and making it impossible for you to get a job. You’ll be eating rotting food from supermarket bins, sleeping in doorways with a mongrel dog called Toby. Is what I’m saying making any impression on you, Mr Bradley?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Good. Now, get going before I change my mind.’
They reached Mr Cowan’s classroom, which was more like a landfill site than a place of learning.
‘Can I go now?’ Bradley asked.
‘Don’t squander your last chance, Mr Bradley.’
As he started off along the corridor he threw over his shoulder, ‘It was one spliff.’