by Keith Nixon
“What do you remember from the scene?” asked Gray.
“Everything, it’s like a graphic movie in my mind, Sol. The flat was on the second floor. The door stood open, half hanging off the hinges. Somebody had kicked it in. There was even a footprint on the wood. The eyes of the uniform cop at the entrance running over me. Pulling on the evidence suit, stepping inside.
“Along the corridor. Mike Fowler on the phone, talking to your old boss Jeff Carslake, watching me proceed as well. My palms were sweaty, my medical bag heavy. She lay in the living room, on her back; hair, legs and arms splayed. It was stiflingly hot, the radiator turned to full. A stench; of excrement and the beginnings of decomposition.”
“How long had Zara gone undiscovered?”
“Body temperature is the best indicator though the rate of cooling depends on many factors. It can take anything from eight to thirty-six hours for a body to feel cold to the touch.”
Gray held up a hand to interrupt Clough. “I know all this; I’ve been doing this long enough that I don’t need an explanation.”
“Sorry, you’re right. Anyway, the heat in the room affected my assessment. And there was no rigor mortis. In a normal environment that would mean something like twelve hours after death, but more heat means faster rigor onset. So, it was difficult to be clear. Eventually, we settled on approximately two days. At least that’s something Jenkinson agreed with.”
“Cause of death you identified as blunt trauma.”
Clough sighed. “That’s what caused all the problems.”
“Why?”
“Jenkinson.”
“I don’t understand.”
“As I mentioned, he was on holiday and a more senior colleague was sick, so I took responsibility as the lead forensic pathologist.”
“Understandable.”
“You would think so, but later on that day I received a call from him. Jenkinson was absolutely furious with me for carrying out the PM. He said I should have rung. He slammed the phone down, broke off from his holiday and drove straight back to Thanet.”
“What did you think to that?”
“He’d always possessed an explosive personality, but that felt somewhat extreme.” It did to Gray as well. “He was in the following morning at the crack of dawn. When I arrived, he was very cold and calm. He’d already reviewed my notes and undertaken another PM.”
“Isn’t that unusual?”
“It’s not uncommon for a second review to happen under certain circumstances, but usually it’s as a result of the defence team at a trial trying to find a mistake the pathologist has made in order to get their client off their hook. This felt more like the boss not trusting the worker and checking for themselves. Particularly when he hauled me into his office and trashed my analysis. Although he agreed with my assessment that the cause was blunt trauma, he reckoned it was accidental death, severe inebriation being a significant contributing factor. I’d been less equivocal, and he didn’t like that. I recall him shouting that pathologists should be definitive in their assessments to remove any margin of error in subsequent legal proceedings.”
“Jenkinson’s perspective is understandable. Blood and bone fragments were found on the fire surround and she had a high alcohol content in her body.”
“At the time we didn’t have any information on quite how inebriated she was because the test results weren’t back. And no booze was visible at the crime scene.”
“But the report states very clearly a bottle was found nearby.”
“There wasn’t a bottle when I was on site.”
“So where was it?”
“The SIO, Mike Fowler, said he’d picked it up before my arrival and bagged it. And when the test results came in showing she was blind drunk that just confirmed Jenkinson’s perspective on events.” Clough sipped his drink. “The trouble was I couldn’t see how she could have fallen. There weren’t any trip hazards.”
“But if she was that drunk, she could have simply collapsed.”
“It seemed unnatural to me. However, Jenkinson overrode me on that aspect too.”
“What about the inquest itself?”
“As I said, once Jenkinson returned, he took over everything, including the hearing. I wasn’t involved at all.”
“Did you look for anything else in the PM?”
“Like what?”
“Pregnancy?”
Clough paused before he said, “She’d clearly had a child, and recently.”
“But that’s not in your or Jenkinson’s PM notes.” Gray pushed the paperwork he’d brought with him across the table. The pathologist didn’t even look at it. “This is the report we have on file and was presented as evidence at the inquest.” Gray flipped the folder open. “That’s your signature at the bottom, right?”
“Yes.” Clough squirmed in his chair.
“What the hell is going on, Ben?”
“That’s not what I originally wrote. It was altered.”
“By who?”
“Me.”
“Why?”
“I’m well aware of how it looks, Sol. Back then I was under the thrall of a very influential man who could make or break my career with a couple of well-placed phone calls.”
“So, you were coerced?”
“I could say yes, however that would be an easy way of absolving myself of the responsibility. Jenkinson pushed me hard and I folded. I could have stood up to him, but I didn’t. He’d have fired me; I’d have been out of a job and the report would still reflect Jenkinson’s wishes. And, there was another complication, another lever Jenkinson could yank on.” Clough twirled his glass on a coaster. “I’d started a relationship with his daughter. I was besotted with her and, she told me, she shared my feelings. Jenkinson, however, wasn’t of the same mind. He didn’t like it at all, in fact he hated us being together. We tried to keep our status very quiet. I never went around to meet the parents. Fiona was working full time for social services and had her own place.”
“So, what happened?”
“He threatened my relationship with Fiona if I didn’t do what I was told.”
“How?”
“He said he had friends high up in the police who could hit me with a charge that would get me sent to prison.”
“Such as?”
“Sex with an underage child.” Clough shuddered. “I still remember his grinning face now. He told me how easy it would be. That he knew the perfect girl, or maybe even boy, and a willing cop or two. All would swear blind what I’d been up to. Even if the charges didn’t stick it would be a smear I’d never escape.”
“Good God.”
“Therefore, I did what he wanted, and I’ve stayed quiet all the years since.”
“Why change now?”
“Jenkinson’s on his last legs.”
“Did Fiona say anything about the state of Jenkinson’s marriage?”
Clough frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.”
“Fiona doted on her mother, Millicent, I know that much. She died not long after we split up.”
“When did you separate?”
Clough gave a short, derisive chuckle. “That’s what makes all of this so ironic. It was shortly after the inquest, once matters were closed and buried.”
“What caused the break-up?”
“I’ve no idea. I just received a letter in the mail, the old-fashioned way, telling me it was over. I was devastated, of course.”
“Have you seen Fiona since?”
“Just the once, at a function. I spotted her across the room. I couldn’t speak I was so knotted up inside. The way she looked at me.” Clough shook his head. “Like I was shit on her shoe.” Clough leant forward, elbows on the table, head in his hands. “What a mess.”
“It’s hard to disagree.”
“If you need me to make a statement at any point I’ll do so, of course. I’ll accept my fate.”
“For what?”
“Lying.”
“Who’s going to care now?”
“I do.”
“Then you’ll just have to learn to live it with again, Ben.”
Gray left Clough alone with his thoughts.
Twenty Two
“And you’ve no idea who this older man, the father, might be?” asked DCI Hamson. She and Gray were together in her office, at the table in the corner.
“I’m not certain yet.”
“What about Gordon Ogilvy?”
“The DNA results don’t match. Gordon seems to just be a patsy.”
“And Fowler was the SIO?”
“That’s right.” Several years back Hamson and Mike Fowler had been having an affair. Fowler was married at the time. Only Gray was in on their secret.
“Could it be Fowler?”
“Not a chance.”
Hamson shook her head. “Do you think he altered the crime scene? To make it appear to be an accident?”
“It’s impossible to tell at this stage. Maybe Clough really did miss the bottle. Maybe it really was there all along.”
“Maybe.”
Gray knew Hamson was thinking the same as him – when you knew somebody had broken the rules once you suspected them every time.
Like Worthington.
“We can discount the suspect being police,” said Gray. Because every officer had to provide a DNA sample – in case they accidentally contaminated a crime scene. Therefore, the database would automatically have cross-referenced every officer. “But he had or has still a responsible role – whatever that would mean to a girl just seventeen years old.”
“Who’d lived for a couple of years on the street and danced in a strip club, Sol. I’d bet she had a far more experience of life’s hardships than most people twice her age.”
“You’re probably right,” he admitted.
“What are you doing next?”
“There’s no point in speaking with Amos Jenkinson, his mind is shot to pieces.” And Fowler was gone too. “I’ll go to the club where Zara worked. See if I can track down Lucy Gold, the friend mentioned in the crime scene report. But it’s a long time ago.”
“Eight years isn’t all that much.”
“Look how many people involved in this case have died. And memories fade fast.”
“Not fast enough, sometimes.” He guessed she meant Fowler. “Jesus, Sol.”
“I know.”
“Speaking of shadows from the past, Frank McGavin.”
“What about him?” McGavin had been a significant player in the local underworld until he’d fled overseas to avoid arrest and had been hiding in plain sight ever since in Northern Cyprus, a region which didn’t have an extradition treaty with the UK.
“The CPS have dropped all the charges.”
“Why?”
“Insufficient evidence.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“The decision has been made.” Hamson held her hands up.
“Can’t the superintendent pull a few strings?”
“I’ve already tried that.”
“There must be other avenues, surely?”
“Sol, I’ve tried my damndest. There’s nothing can be done about it. McGavin has no case to answer, end of.”
Gray leant his chair back on two legs. “Now what happens?”
“Nothing. McGavin is free to come home when he likes.”
“He’ll find the landscape very different to when he ran things.”
“That’s for sure.”
“Anyway, I’ll deal with McGavin if he returns.”
“I’d say when, Sol. Not if.”
Gray dropped the chair back onto all four legs and stood.
“There’s one more thing.”
“Oh?” He sat down again.
“You’re not going to like it.” Hamson picked up a pen, twiddled it between her fingers. “HR has decided not to get the PSD involved with Worthington.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Just because he accessed their records doesn’t mean Worthington was up to anything.”
“They’re just being weak, Von. Not wanting us to look bad in the public eye if another dirty cop gets the boot.”
“The decision is made.”
“Brilliant.”
“Deal with it, Inspector. Anyway, it’s late. I’m going home.”
Gray paused at the top of the stairs, slammed the side of his fist against the wall. He wasn’t letting Worthington off the hook. Not now.
He needed to make a call, but not here. Too many ears.
***
Gray sat in his car and watched Hamson drive away. He pulled his phone out, tapped in the number but paused before pressing the green key. Was he sure he should contact someone he knew to be a criminal? Did Gray want justice, regardless of the cost?
He decided that when it came to Worthington, he did. He made the call.
“Who’s this?” asked Andrew Abbott when he answered.
“We met in the hospital. We talked about your son, Eric, being assaulted.”
“I remember, officer. I hope you’ve some good news for me?”
“I know who attacked your son.”
“I’m listening,” said Abbott.
Twenty Three
Gray waited in one of the shelters set into the cliffs on the Ramsgate esplanade. Cut into the cliffs by the Victorians, they’d been intended as genteel places to rest and take in the sea air. Now, the exterior was peeling paint, softening wood and cracked glass. Inside was a graffiti’d bench and a fair share of wind-blown detritus in the corners.
The tide was up, and the waves beat against the nearby concrete sea defence. This was never a busy area, even at the height of summer. The tourists tended to stick to the main beaches. This was a good half mile from the pubs and cafes of the Ramsgate seafront. In January, when the wind blew, there was the occasional dog walker, but that was it.
A few drops of rain hit the esplanade.
“Bit out the bloody way, isn’t it?” Abbott stepped inside.
“That’s kind of the point,” said Gray. Abbott sat down. “How’s Eric?”
“He’s at home now, recovering.” Abbott shifted on his backside, pivoted towards Gray, eyes narrowed into slits. “Who attacked my son?”
“A colleague.”
“So, a cop?”
“That’s right.”
“And nothing is going to get done about it, that’s why we’re here?”
“You catch on fast, Abbott.” Abbott stood, walked out onto the esplanade, glanced in both directions. “It’s just me and you.”
“I’m being careful.” Abbott sat back down, focused on Gray. “Why would you help me?”
“My colleague’s behaviour goes against everything I believe in.”
“And you want me to sort him out? Like a vigilante? Doesn’t that go against your code?”
“Do you want to know or not?”
“Course.”
“Then stop questioning my motives.”
Abbott shrugged. “Whatever, mate. Ultimately I don’t care.”
“You still have connections, right?”
“Oh, yeah,” nodded Abbott. “Plenty. What’s his name then?”
Gray held for a moment before he said, “Jerry Worthington.” Then Gray told Abbott Worthington’s address.
Abbott tapped the details into his phone, shoved it in his pocket. “I’ll sort him.”
Gray grabbed Abbott’s arm. “We never met, all right?”
Abbott’s grin was humourless. “I’ve done this before, don’t worry.” Then he left.
Gray stayed where he was, leaning back, legs outstretched, asking himself if he was bothered by his actions. He decided it was a resounding, no. Worthington had asked for this.
Outside the rain started properly. Big fat drops patterning the grey concrete. Gray waited for the weather to pass.
It always did.
Twenty Four
The Platinum Club was located in what appeared to be an old church on C
leaver Lane in the Eastcliff section of Ramsgate. The architecture – sloped roof, bell tower and dominant arched windows – certainly made it seem that way. However, the windows were bricked up now and the outside painted a summery yellow.
Cleaver Lane itself was very narrow and cobbled. Faded double yellow lines ran down either side and bollards spaced a few yards apart along the length separated it from the large, council run pay-and-display Staffordshire Street car park which served Ramsgate. Whatever industrial building had occupied this space was long gone. Houses backed onto the car park and, beyond, were the high rises of Kennedy House and in the other direction the spire of St. George’s church.
The club opened evenings only. It advertised pole and lap dancing ‘for the discerning gentleman’. When the place had first thrown its doors open something of a minor local media frenzy had occurred – people waving placards outside claiming the club would be a bad influence on their children, all watched by television cameras and the press. Gradually the furore died down. The campaigners drifted away, and other stories were of more interest.
So, the club was still here. Gray had visited twice in the past – to deal with the aftermath of an assault during the protests, then again, a few months later when Fowler dragged a group of colleagues around the area on a birthday night out – one of the rare events Gray attended.
Gray headed through the entrance, solid wooden doors giving no view of the interior which hadn’t changed much, simply been given a refresh. The lobby was bright, light and open. A bar area tucked to one side, more doors straight in front leading to the dancing area and some stairs tucked behind a wall. Dull music throbbed.
A well-presented black woman possessing voluminous afro hair walked over to Gray. A short skirt exposed long legs and heels.
“Welcome to the Platinum experience.” She smiled broadly. “I’m Brandi. What can I get you?”
“The manager, please.” Gray showed his warrant card.
Brandi’s grin didn’t dim in the slightest. “I’ll fetch her straight away.” She disappeared upstairs.