Fennimore went looking and found the student in the empty forensics lab. Most of the equipment was gone, but Josh stood at one of the benches, gloved, capped and booted, a lab coat over his student-issue jeans and T-shirt. The bench was covered with a sheet of white paper on which he had placed a hand-held magnifier, stereo microscope, a roll of fibre-evidence tape, backing cards and high-power torch. The room had a sharp, slightly astringent smell. Josh lifted a black pea coat out of an evidence bag, glancing up as Fennimore came through the door.
‘I got your report,’ Fennimore said. ‘Cool,’ Josh said. He placed the coat carefully on the paper and began examining it through the magnifier.
‘So Hazle’s been dead three years?’ Fennimore said.
‘Yeah.’ Josh put the magnifier down and took a strip of adhesive tape, pressed it on the coat fabric and peeled it back, sticking it face-down on a piece of backing card and labelling the card to indicate where on the jacket the lift had been taken from. ‘Doesn’t look a likely suspect to me, though,’ he said.
‘Why?’ Fennimore said, moving around the table to face him. ‘Hazle was alive at the time of the murder.’
Josh frowned. ‘Is this a test?’
‘I’m asking for an opinion.’
‘Okay …’ Josh paused in the collection of evidence and gathered his thoughts. ‘Hazle had form. He was prosecuted for possession of cannabis with intent to supply.’
‘Which explains why he’s in the DNA database,’ Fennimore said, ‘but not why you think he’s innocent.’
‘He claimed the weed was for “medicinal use”,’ Josh went on. ‘No other criminal prosecutions. He left a widow; there was no recorded history of spousal abuse.’
No recorded history – Fennimore liked qualification – Josh’s attention to detail put him head and shoulders above his peers.
‘All right,’ Fennimore said. ‘But there has to be a first time for everything. Let’s look at what we’ve got: the weed – medicinal use, he said – did you get anything more on that?’
Josh shook his head. ‘He was given a suspended sentence, so the judge must’ve believed him. We could ask the appeal solicitor to request a copy of the court proceedings.’
‘We’ll do that, but it’ll take time and Essex Police are already way ahead of us on this. So … common medicinal uses of Cannabis sativa would be treatment of glaucoma, epilepsy, migraines, insomnia …’
‘And nausea associated with AIDS and chemotherapy,’ Josh added.
‘If I were on the police review team,’ Fennimore said, ‘I’d suggest they go to the hospital records, dig through old files. But I’m not, and while hospitals might share that kind of information with a murder investigation, we wouldn’t stand a chance.’
‘I could try and get into the hospital database.’
Josh had managed something similar on their first case, but that hadn’t involved hacking; it was all achieved with guile and a measure of charm that Fennimore had not previously suspected of the student.
‘We stay within the law,’ he said.
Josh glanced down at the coat on the bench, then up at Fennimore. ‘So you’ll want to talk to the widow.’
Fennimore felt the corners of his mouth twitch; this was another of Josh’s strengths – he was always thinking, always trying to get one step ahead. ‘I don’t suppose you have an address?’
He saw an answering flicker of amusement in the student’s eyes. ‘Home phone number, as well.’
‘The police will be aiming to establish a timeline that rules Hazle in or out as a rapist, a killer, or the killer’s accomplice,’ Fennimore said. ‘So you can bet they’ve already interviewed the wife. My guess is she won’t be keen to take phone calls from strangers.’
‘So where do we go from here?’ Josh said.
‘Essex, I think.’ Fennimore watched closely for a reaction, but Josh avoided his gaze.
‘You’re going to doorstep her?’ he said.
‘I’m not good with that sort of thing,’ Fennimore said, meaning the bereaved, those outside his professional sphere. ‘I thought you might come along, smooth the way.’
‘To Essex.’
‘Assuming she still lives there.’ Fennimore looked into his face. ‘Is that a problem?’
Josh lifted his chin, acknowledging the challenge, but didn’t answer.
‘Josh?’
For a few seconds, Josh stared at the coat on the bench as if it were a corpse awaiting dissection. ‘I did some … bad things,’ he began, each word seemingly an effort, ‘… when I was a kid. I—’
‘I know,’ Fennimore interrupted – it seemed cruel to make him go on.
The student’s brow furrowed. ‘What do you know?’
‘What happened to you. That you had to change your identity to stay safe. That you did the right thing.’
Josh stared at Fennimore, his face grey. ‘Who told you?’
‘Lazko.’
‘Oh, shit …’ Josh wiped a gloved hand over his face, then stared at it, as though the stain of contamination were visible. He peeled off the glove and dumped it. ‘When?’ he said.
‘Yesterday.’
‘Well, that’s it, then.’ Josh stripped off the other glove. ‘I got to call my handler.’ He moved away from the bench.
‘Lazko isn’t going to tell anyone,’ Fennimore said, holding up a hand to stop him.
‘He’s a journo – ’course he is.’
‘He’s also a coward. He seemed badly scared by what he found.’
‘He should be.’
‘Is it really that bad?’
‘Worse.’ Josh exhaled and Fennimore heard the breath stutter in his throat. ‘There’s a contract out on me. Has been ever since I broke with the firm.’
‘Okay,’ Fennimore said, ‘you should stay here – forget I ever mentioned Essex.’
Josh bowed his head; he seemed in silent conversation with himself. When his head came up, Fennimore saw cold, hard determination in his face.
‘I’ll do it,’ he said.
‘No. Josh …’
Josh shot him a shrewd look. ‘You want the widow’s co-operation?’
‘I won’t get far without it,’ Fennimore admitted.
Josh lifted one shoulder. ‘Then you need me. Book a cheap tourist hotel away from the towns, hire a car with tinted windows. I’ll stay low.’
It was a risk. But Fennimore thrived on risk – and he really needed Josh on this. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll take the earliest flight out tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you at my apartment at five-thirty.’
Josh flung off the rest of his protective gear and swept the coat off the bench.
‘You’re going to wear the evidence?’ Fennimore said.
‘It’s not evidence – it’s my jacket,’ Josh said. ‘Practice,’ he added, by way of explanation. ‘So I’ll know what to look for when things go wrong – the mistakes people make.’
Fennimore nodded, approving.
‘So how’s my technique?’
Fennimore appraised the bench. ‘Your work space is organized; your “evidence” retrieval was methodical – but if you’d overlaid the coat with a grid, you could have mapped the exact position of any fibres you retrieved.’ He paused, sniffed. ‘There was an odour when I first came into the lab – I can’t quite catch it now – tea tree oil, maybe?’
‘Wet wipes,’ Josh confirmed, taking the pack from his jacket pocket. ‘I used ’em to clean the bench before I put the paper down.’
‘Of course, you should’ve used sterile distilled water and swabs. You’ve got at least half a dozen ingredients in those wipes: oils, perfume, chelating agents, anti-microbials, alcohol – added to that, the tiniest imperfections in the bench can slough off fibres which might contaminate a sample.’
Josh nodded. ‘Had to improvise,’ he said. ‘The lab techs took all the proper stuff.’
‘Except the microscopes?’
‘No, they’re gone as well. This little beauty’s mine,’ J
osh said, lifting it from the bench into a sports bag.
27
Manchester, Wednesday Evening
Simms was folding laundry when Fennimore called.
‘Any news on the little girl?’ he said.
‘I’m not supposed to be talking to you,’ she said. ‘That sounds ominous. I’m guessing it’s my fault.’
‘Only partly. I called a mate in SCAS, she reviewed the case analysis with the zip tie factored in, found some related cases.’ Simms paused, relishing this next detail, despite what it had cost her. ‘And a survivor.’
‘A what? Kate, that’s fantastic – have they interviewed her yet? What did she say?’
‘I don’t know, Nick.’
‘What d’you mean, you don’t know?’
‘It’s a weekday and I’m standing in my kitchen, doing housework,’ she said, with dry humour. ‘Take a guess.’
‘Enderby locked you out?’ Fennimore sounded outraged, and she felt a surge of warmth towards him. ‘The man’s an idiot.’
She laughed. ‘He speaks very highly of you. Look, I went behind his back, I broke protocols, I meddled in an investigation – I’m lucky he didn’t suspend me.’
‘Kate, I’m—’
‘Forget it.’ She didn’t think she could cope with his sympathy just now; since her row with Kieran, she had yearned for Fennimore in a way that could only lead to trouble. ‘So,’ she said, brightly, ‘what’s going on with your MOJ?’
Fennimore gave her a brief summary, outlining the discovery of DNA on Kelli Rees’s clothing, that it was not a match to Mitchell; he named the new suspect, who, it seemed, was with Kelli the night of her death. He elaborated on the defence barrister’s ineptitude, the missed opportunities, his intention to interview Hazle’s widow.
His ability to keep all the facts in his head and present them concisely was one of Fennimore’s strengths – and why he was so popular as an expert witness in court.
‘So you’re off to Essex tomorrow,’ she said.
‘First flight.’
‘You will bear in mind the widow isn’t a hostile witness?’ Simms said, only half-joking.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But we do need to establish if her husband was involved in a rape-murder or he if simply paid for the victim’s services that night.’
Simms winced. ‘You must see that she won’t find either option particularly comforting?’
He paused. ‘Now you mention it.’ He sounded chastened. ‘Which is why I’m taking Josh with me.’
‘Josh,’ Simms said. ‘I thought you’d dropped him?’
‘I changed my mind.’
‘I think that’s a mistake.’
‘That’s because you’re a cop, and he has a natural antipathy to cops – but I need someone who can smooth-talk the widow.’
‘I’ve seen him in action – I know he can turn on the charm,’ she said. ‘But you skimmed over his “natural antipathy”.’
‘He’s okay, Kate.’ This was Fennimore the rock-climber, the risk-taker, the betting man who didn’t mind losing as long as he came out even.
‘You mean you think he’s okay.’
‘I know it,’ he said. ‘Lazko did some digging.’
That came as a surprise. ‘What did he find?’
‘It’s not my story to tell.’
‘Well, that can’t be good,’ she said, thinking, Fennimore, you’re going to get hurt. ‘Maybe I should do some digging of my own.’
‘No—’ He sounded alarmed. ‘Kate, you can’t do that.’
‘Give me one good reason.’
‘It could put his life in danger.’
She thought about it: the secrecy, Josh’s discomfort around cops; his chosen career – and now this. ‘So Josh is in witness protection?’
‘I didn’t ask. But, Kate – you can’t go looking. He had a bad start in life; he turned it around. He deserves a chance, doesn’t he?’
Simms had met a lot of drug addicts and prostitutes looking for a second chance in her fallow years of community/police partnerships at the Met before she landed her promotion with Manchester. She believed passionately in second chances; hadn’t her own move to the north of England been her second – her final – chance? But she knew it wasn’t only victims who went into witness protection. Manipulative, violent, evil men did, too. And Fennimore had been the target of too many of those since Suzie’s disappearance.
‘You know his real name?’ she said. ‘Give me that, I’ll do a few discreet checks.’
‘No. Please, Kate,’ he said. ‘Promise me you’ll leave it alone.’ She began to weaken. ‘What if he’s just using you?’
‘We all use each other. The more important question is do I trust him?’
‘And do you?’
‘Josh Brown has a first class honours in psychology, but he attends undergraduate courses in forensics because he wants a firm grounding in the basics. He comes in early and stays late to practise techniques he’ll probably never need. He even blew a minimum of five hundred quid on a stereo microscope so he can have exclusive use of it.’
‘That makes him a good student,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t make him a good man.’
‘He turned down a promising academic opportunity at Nottingham, relocated here and started all over again with forensic science, because he cares about justice. He’s genuine. I trust him.’
‘All right,’ she said, against her better judgement. ‘I’ll leave my spade in the tool shed – for now. But please – be careful.’
28
Doubt everything but the facts.
N. FENNIMORE, PARAPHRASING A. LEOPOLD
Aberdeen, Thursday, 5:30 a.m.
Fennimore called Carl Lazko’s number and left a message to let him know he was on his way; since he would be in Essex for a few days, now would be a good time to meet with Mitchell’s solicitor. The door entry buzzer sounded: it was Josh.
‘Taxi’s here, an’ all,’ Josh said. ‘Give me two minutes.’ Fennimore picked up his carry-on bag, slid his laptop into his shoulder bag, set the alarm and, with a last swift glance around the room, was out the door. As it swung shut, he heard the landline ring.
Leave it? He should, but what if it was Lazko, returning his call? He pushed the door open with his fingertips, tapped in the alarm code and scooped up the telephone receiver in one smooth sequence.
‘Professor Fennimore?’ A male voice, vaguely familiar.
‘Speaking,’ he said. ‘Oh, thank goodness. This is John Vincent, auditing accountant at Laurent Wealth Management.’ The company that dealt with Fennimore’s accounts and investments. ‘I’m sorry to ring so early, but I have left several messages. Are you free to talk?’
‘Early? It’s five-thirty in the morning, Mr Vincent,’ he said. ‘And I’ve a plane to catch.’
‘Oh …’ The accountant sounded disappointed. ‘If we could schedule a chat – we really do need to review your investments.’
Fennimore stifled a groan. ‘Can’t you put together some suggestions and I’ll take a look?’
‘Of course, of course.’ Vincent sounded a bit breathless. ‘But it’s not a simple matter of moving investments around. Diminishing returns from your publications are a complicating issue.’
Diminishing returns? What the hell is he talking about? Fennimore checked his watch. ‘Look, I really have to go,’ he said.
‘Very well,’ Vincent said. ‘But please don’t leave it too long; if you have a pen, I’ll give you my direct line.’
Fennimore jotted the number down and hung up, frowning. The drop in sales was puzzling: he had recently done a book tour in the USA where there was a lot of interest in Crapshoots and Bad Stats. Hurrying down the staircase to Josh, and the waiting taxi, he resolved to deal with his finances when he got back.
By mid-morning, they had arrived at Mrs Hazle’s home, a 1960s semi-detached on the edge of Basildon. Essex felt positively tropical compared with the dull, damp chill of Aberdeen. A ramp and handrail had been built up to th
e extra-wide front door. She opened it on the safety chain and peered out, a spare, dark-haired woman of about forty, her brown eyes hard with distrust.
‘What are you – police?’ Her gaze switched from Fennimore to Josh. ‘Journalists?’
‘We’re neither, Mrs Hazle,’ Fennimore said. ‘We’re forensic scientists.’ He introduced himself and Josh, and handed her his business card.
‘Aberdeen,’ she said, reading the address on it. ‘What’s a scientist from Scotland got to do with my husband?’
A neighbour walked past pushing a pram. The young mother slowed and her head swivelled to watch the exchange on Mrs Hazle’s doorstep.
‘If we might step inside, Mrs Hazle?’ Fennimore said. ‘It would be more private.’
With a gasp of indignation, the widow unhooked the door chain.
They followed her through to the kitchen.
‘All right,’ she said, when they were seated. ‘You better tell me what this is all about.’
‘I’m helping with the review of the rape-murder—’
‘We’re not accusing your husband of anything, Mrs Hazle,’ Josh interrupted, throwing Fennimore a warning look. ‘Professor Fennimore is looking at some new evidence that came to light.’
‘You’re talking about my husband and a murder in the same breath – sounds a lot like an accusation to me,’ she said. ‘Well, I told the police and I’ll tell you – my David was no killer.’ Her eyes, already red and puffy, filled with fresh tears.
‘Like we said,’ Josh soothed. ‘We’re not police. We’re scientists – we got no axe to grind.’ Normally, Josh toned down his accent, but now he played up the Essex vowels. ‘We just want to get at the truth.’
Mrs Hazle bit her lip, tears brimming over, and Josh stood and reached a box of tissues down from the kitchen counter. ‘Why don’t I make us a nice cup o’ tea,’ he said, his tone gentle, sympathetic. ‘The professor will explain.’
‘Our client is appealing against his conviction,’ Fennimore said.
‘And now the police want to pin it on my husband. Well, he’s not here to defend himself – it’s not right.’
‘You’re husband was ill before he d—’ Josh bugged his eyes and Fennimore corrected himself: ‘Before he passed away?’
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