by Keith Nixon
“Just this once.”
Hamson sighed.
“Quick, before I lose you again.”
“I’m on Updown Road.”
“What sort of stupid name is that?”
“Number 10 and I’ll put the lights on so you can see where I am.”
“Be there shortly.” Gray disconnected.
Gray tapped Updown Road into the sat nav. It turned out that’s where he already was, not that any signage was visible to tell him so. He started the engine, rolled the car slowly forward, drove at ten miles an hour until he hit a junction. No lights. He performed a U-turn. A few hundred yards further back from where he’d first parked a pair of bright lights shone. A drive Gray had gone straight past the first time because it was just blackness. He swung in, tyres crunching on gravel.
Hamson was standing in the doorway of a detached house, hidden from the road by trees and bushes. She was dressed in jeans and a baggy woollen jumper, arms crossed over her chest against the cold. He parked, got out. The air was still, quiet here too.
“This had better be bloody good, Sol.”
“I can prove who the baby in the box is.”
“That just about qualifies.” She stepped out of the way. “Come in.”
Hamson took Gray into the living room, turned the TV off. The curtains were wide open, nobody could see in. The furniture was mis-matched, a mix of old and new. Like she’d inherited some and bought the rest. On a nearby table sat a bottle of wine and two partly filled wine glasses.
“Got company?” he asked. Her glare was enough of an answer. As she sat down Gray said, “Amos Jenkinson.”
“The pathologist? Clough’s predecessor?”
“That’s right,” he said.
“He’d retired when I moved here so I don’t really know him.”
“I thought I did.”
“You’re sure it’s him?”
“One hundred per cent. Actually 99.9.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve got proof?”
“A categorical yes.”
“Excellent.”
“And no.”
“There’s always a bloody ‘but’ with you, Sol.” She picked up a glass. “Nothing for you, you’re driving.” She sipped. “Go on, smack me in the face with whatever you have.”
“Jessop mentioned an older man in her letters.”
“I haven’t got dementia, tell me the new stuff.”
“A witness puts Jenkinson and Jessop together in a relationship. Jessop used to dance in a club Jenkinson frequented. One of her friends there recognised his photo in the newspaper detailing his death.”
“Good.”
“I believe they met at Andrea Ogilvy’s when Jessop was being fostered.”
“Which is where the baby in the box was found, right?”
“Correct. Jenkinson was friends with the Ogilvys and used to go over regularly. And Jessop wasn’t the first girl Jenkinson had a relationship with. Another woman, Kerry Hudson, confirmed they’d been together a few years before Jessop. She wouldn’t reveal the man’s name. She was worried about her past affecting her future. She just wanted to forget everything.”
“I can hardly blame her. When you say ‘girl’, what age are we talking here?”
“Seventeen, Eighteen.”
“Not underage, then.”
“No, but vulnerable and impressionable. And Jenkinson got her pregnant.”
“But she’s not the mother?”
“No, it happened several years before and Hudson had a termination.”
“Bloody hell.”
“It appears Jenkinson targeted foster girls through his friendship with Andrea. I’ve no idea which came first – his friendship or the exploitation.”
“Do you think Andrea was involved?”
“Hard to say. Most of the people involved in this case are dead. But I’d think probably not. Every word said about her has been positive.”
“What about the daughter, Fiona?”
“She worked with Andrea. And this is where part of the puzzle still exists. Andrea was investigated because of complaints by children, what’s called a Section 47. Her activities with social services were suspended. But nothing untoward was found.”
“So, what’s the punchline?”
“Andrea told her daughter she stopped fostering permanently because of the Section 47. But that can’t have been the reason. It was lodged ten years ago, and she returned to fostering afterwards. I think the actual cause was the baby.”
“God, what a mess.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You mentioned proof about Jenkinson.”
Gray shifted in his chair. “I have a DNA profile that says the child was his. From a hair. This is where it gets more difficult.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I didn’t get permission to take the hair sample.”
“Christ.” Hamson pinched the bridge of her nose. “How…?”
Gray cut her off. “Before you start into a lecture, Von, I had a thought process in mind.” Hamson snorted. “I needed to categorically prove Jenkinson was the father before proceeding. All the other evidence is circumstantial, all the witnesses are either dead or very unwilling to testify. I know he for sure as hell won’t.”
“Let’s say you’re right. What’s the actual reason you came out here?”
“We need a legitimate sample from Jenkinson.”
“Get one from his body.”
“He’s being cremated tomorrow. We’d have to open his casket at the funeral directors, and we’d need permission from Fiona – the body is hers.”
“Surely she’ll help?”
“Not a chance. I just came from her place. She threw me out.”
“Great.”
“But we don’t need to go down that path. She told me her father had cancer just before he died. Samples are retained at the hospital as standard procedure in case of a future need, like the disease returning. The samples will be enough to get a DNA analysis from. However, the hospital won’t just hand everything over. That’s why I need the warrant.”
“Fiona could protest.”
“Jenkinson would have signed over ownership of the samples to the hospital before they were taken. She could make a stink but if we move fast, we’ll have the data before she’s even aware what’s gone on.”
“How long?”
“The FSP got me the last analysis within the day.”
Hamson thought for a few moments. “All right, I’ll make some calls first thing in the morning.”
“Great.” Gray stood. “I have to say though, Von, your hospitality is shocking.”
“You can leave now.”
Thirty Two
Gray entered the QEQM mid-morning the following day, headed to Manesh’s office and found the besuited Sri Lankan doctor behind his desk with a patient, the door closed. Gray waited.
Ten minutes later the patient emerged, a smile on his face. He nodded at Gray as he passed. Manesh was writing some notes when Gray entered. He looked up, his face splitting into a wide grin. He stood, a good head shorter than Gray, came from behind the desk and shook hands with gusto.
“Inspector Gray!” said Manesh. “What a pleasure to see you again!”
“Likewise, doctor.”
“Is this a courtesy call?”
“Not quite. I’d appreciate your help.”
“Okay.” Manesh sat on the corner of the desk.
“I want to obtain a patient’s tissue sample as part of an ongoing investigation.” Manesh narrowed his eyes. “I have a signed warrant.”
“Which I’ll need to see, of course.”
Gray handed his phone over, the warrant on screen already. Manesh read the document, scrolling through until he finished and passed the mobile back.
“I assume the person had cancer?” asked Manesh.
“He did. He died recently. I remember from my own treatment that tissue samples taken
during that time are stored for the long term.”
“We are licenced by the HTA, the Human Tissue Authority, to store and carry out research on samples taken from patients under the 2004 Human Tissue Act. They’re held in the pathology department in the diagnostic archives, fixed into wax blocks or maybe microscope slides of slices. They form part of the patient’s medical records and by law we have to hold them for thirty years so we can review past medical history, whether the cancer has changed over time or the potential efficacy of any new drugs that have been developed since the patient’s illness occurred.”
“So, you will have material?”
“We should. However, we can’t always control the condition the samples are received in from the endoscopy suite or operating theatre. The fixing and storing can vary. Therefore, I can’t be 100% that the samples you require are perfect.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Okay.” Manesh stood. “I saw the name on the warrant is Amos Jenkinson.”
“That’s right.”
“If you can wait here, I’ll have the material collected for you.”
***
It was more than an hour before the doctor returned. Gray spent the intervening time on his phone – checking e-mail, speaking to his team about ongoing investigations and reading the news.
Manesh entered the office and closed the door. He carried a small blue chiller box by a handle. He placed it on the desk.
“I’m sorry I took so long,” said Manesh. “We had some trouble locating the correct slides, particularly the older ones. The names can rub off”
“No problem.” Gray pulled out his phone, dialled the courier service, waited for it to connect. “How many samples did you find?”
“Four.”
“That should do.”
When the motorbike courier arrived Gray handed over the box of samples and signed to confirm the transfer. As the bike whizzed out of the car park Gray sent a text to Dr Aplin. “Sample on way. Priority appreciated.”
All Gray could do now was wait.
Thirty Three
Gray was checking his phone for maybe the twentieth time when Hamson entered his office.
“Still not heard?” she asked.
“The waiting is bloody killing me.”
“Got time for a chat?”
“Depends whether you’re going to bollock me about coming to your house last night.”
“The less said about that the better. How about a coffee?”
“As long as you’re buying and it’s not the canteen.”
***
“Did we have to come here?” asked Gray. The café was on a corner plot of the marketplace in the old town. And it sold cupcakes. Several large haphazard piles on plates sat atop the counter. Otherwise it was stripped floorboards, wooden tables and chairs, antique ephemera covering the walls.
“I like it. Besides, if you chose, we’d be in the nearest pub.”
“What’s wrong with The Flag?”
“Nothing, if you’re a misogynist,” said Hamson. Gray opened his mouth to argue, but she got in first, pointed. “There’s a space come free. Go grab it.”
The table was next to the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows which dominated the setting. Hamson joined him a few minutes later with two coffees and two cupcakes.
“I’m not eating that,” said Gray. He moved the vase of flowers which sat right between them.”
“Who said I got one for you?” Hamson produced a single fork and serviette. She dug into the large, fluffy cupcake topped with a white icing. “Gin and tonic flavoured.”
“If they had beer flavoured, I might be slightly interested.”
“You’re definitely out of luck then.”
Hamson finished the first cupcake.
“What’s up, Von?”
“I wanted to get out for a bit. Too much time stuck at my desk.”
“Good idea.”
She moved onto the second cupcake. “What’s happening with the dog attacks on the kids?”
“You couldn’t help yourself after all.”
Hamson raised her hands, fork between two fingers. “Usually I switch off when I walk through my front door.”
“I’m not really making any progress.”
“Do you still believe one of our colleagues is involved?”
“I’m not sure what to think. But I still don’t trust Worthington.”
“How is he?”
“He’ll be fine. Worthington has a thick skull.”
While she was prodding the remains of the cupcake with a fork she said, “What about you and Emily?”
“Why?”
“We’ve been talking.”
Gray thought back to the two wine glasses he’d seen in Hamson’s living room. “Was she at your place?”
“Yes, she made herself scarce when you rang. She thinks there’s something up. She’s worried, says you’re even more withdrawn than usual.”
“She’s imagining it.”
“The ‘it’ being Melanie Pfeffer?” Gray’s mouth fell open. “I’ve seen how Melanie looks at you. And if I’ve spotted something you can bloody well bet Emily has too.”
Gray’s phone rang. Perfect timing.
Abbott. Not so perfect.
“I have to take this.” Gray went outside.
“I’ve got something for you,” said Abbott. “You might call it a clue.”
***
Gray parked on Royal Esplanade and walked the short distance to the Sunken Gardens. He’d left Hamson in the café, not bothering to go back in. He’d never escape otherwise.
Abbott sat on a wall in the gardens. Beside him was a dog, a German Shepherd. Abbott had hold of his collar. The dog sat calmly, quietly.
“This is the clue,” he said.
“A dog?”
“Not a dog, the dog.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“No wonder crime rates are so high round here. I figured it was just a question of time before whoever the geezer was after the kids would finish the job and go after Kirton. So, me and some mates shadowed the lad whenever he went out.”
“Mates?”
“You know.” Abbott shrugged a shoulder. “Anyway, earlier on this happened.” Abbott passed over his phone. There was a video on screen. Gray pressed play. The footage was jerky and captured from a distance. It revealed somebody walking with a dog towards another person – presumably Kirton. Then the dog was on Kirton, snapping and snarling.
The footage jerked up and down as Abbott ran towards the dog owner, a shouted swear word clear over the rustling. There was a view of grass, then sky, before a brief glimpse of the dog-owner running away. Without the dog. Gray pressed stop.
“When we chased the bloke, he cleared off but Kirton got hold of the dog. The animal seemed confused when his owner cleared off” said Abbott. “Now you can find out who he is.”
“How?”
“A lot of dogs have identity chips these days, in case they get lost. Which this one is.” Abbott grinned. “So, he’s all yours, take him.”
Abbott stood, kept his finger under the collar until Gray took over. Abbott began to walk away.
“Have you got a lead?” shouted Gray.
“Use your belt,” answered Abbott over his shoulder.
***
According to the map app on Gray’s phone the nearest vets was just off the main road in Westbrook, under a mile to the west. Gray bundled the dog into the back of his car. No tag on the collar. He drove to the vets, parked outside the church opposite, before taking the dog inside.
A woman in a blue uniform sat behind the counter directly in front of the door. She appeared vaguely like a nurse. To his left a rectangular waiting area opened up. Three equally spaced doors were inset into the longest wall and at the far end a shelf arrangement filled with cat food, dog food and toys, took up most of the space. A couple of other pet owners were already waiting. A man with a rabbit, another with a cat. Both stared at Gray.
“Can I help?” asked the receptionist. She smiled brightly.
“Do you have a chip reader here? For dogs?”
“Pardon?”
“I found him wandering around, I thought if he had a tag then I could return him.”
“Oh, that’s very good of you.”
“Just doing my bit for the animals.”
“Wait there a moment.” The receptionist left her domain and disappeared behind a door.
Gray turned to face the waiting area. The man with the cat stared at the belt in Gray’s hand, linked to the dog’s collar.
“Sir?” A man dressed in a similar design, but dark blue, the shirt with short sleeves, stepped out of the nearest door. “Come on through.”
Gray entered a small box shape room devoid of natural light. Immediately in front was a table, the surface just above Gray’s hip, upon which stood a small handheld scanner. Further back was a narrow desk and computer. A couple of posters advertising dog food were stuck to one wall, in the corner a set of scales. The vet closed the door behind Gray, and the dog sat, tongue lolling. The space felt rather tight.
“Let’s see what we can find, then,” said the vet. “I’m Rory by the way.” He grabbed the scanner, gave the dog a stroke. “Beautiful specimen, I expect the owner will be delighted to get him back.”
“Maybe.”
Rory gave Gray a curious glance before he placed the scanner on the back of the dog’s neck. It bleeped and a long number came up on the screen. “Here we go.” The vet took the scanner over to the computer, woke up the screen. “Every chip has a unique code which is stored on a database.” Rory clicked away. “Ah, yes. The owner is one of our customers and this fine beast is called Tony.” Rory straightened up, turned back to Gray. “If you want you can leave him here and we’ll get the owner to pick him up.”
“I’d rather take Tony around myself.”
The vet sucked in air through clenched teeth. “I’d like to help, but I can’t give out those details. Data protection, you see.”
Gray pulled out his warrant card, showed it to Rory. “Name and address, please.”
Thirty Four
The house was a three-storey terrace on Upper Grove, just outside of central Margate, right next to an industrial unit, which was shuttered. The streets here were narrow and parking restricted to local residents for which privilege they had to pay –a council scam as far as Gray was concerned.