She nodded, but didn’t elaborate.
‘He was a wheelchair user?’ Fennimore asked, thinking that might rule Mr Hazle out before they got started.
‘Sometimes,’ she said. ‘He had MS for ten years before he …’
Fennimore was ready to ask the next question, but Josh caught his eye and gave a barely discernible shake of his head.
‘That must’ve been hard for you,’ Josh said.
She bit her lip. ‘Worse for him.’
Josh nodded solemnly, handing her a mug of tea, one to Fennimore.
Fennimore knew that his educated accent and smart business dress had got them over the doorstep, but it was Josh who had them sipping tea in the grieving widow’s kitchen, so he followed the student’s lead, giving Mrs Hazle space to think.
‘They said they wanted to eliminate him from their enquiries,’ she said. ‘Like he was some kind of criminal.’
‘He did have a criminal record.’
The widow threw Fennimore a hot look.
‘That cannabis was medicine – he grew it for himself. But there was a big thing going on – an “initiative” they called it. Name and shame, all that. The police wouldn’t listen. Now they say they’ve got evidence proving David was there when that poor girl died.’
‘Evidence doesn’t prove anything,’ Fennimore said. ‘It’s context and interpretation that establishes conformity to one narrative or another.’
She looked to Josh, confused.
‘The evidence doesn’t tell the whole story,’ Josh explained. ‘Like Mr Hazle growing pot,’ he went on. ‘Stated as a stone cold fact, it looks bad. You need to know the whys and the wherefores before you can see how the facts fit together.’
‘And sometimes they don’t fit at all,’ Fennimore said, grateful for Josh’s nifty bit of interpretation. ‘The police do have evidence, there’s no denying that—’
‘I told you—’ Mrs Hazle began.
Fennimore raised a hand, placating: ‘Mrs Hazle, I’m not making any accusations. I’m saying if they got it wrong once, they could do it again. Which is why we’re here.’
She set her mug down carefully on the table. ‘Oh, you should’ve said – you’re here to protect my David’s memory.’ Contempt burned in her eyes. ‘Well, that’s very nice of you.’
Fennimore felt for her, but he needed information and he was sure she could give it to him. He would not fly back to Aberdeen empty-handed, so he returned her stare and put steel into his voice. ‘The new evidence puts your husband in close sexual contact with the victim around the time she was murdered.’
Mrs Hazle sat back, a look of shocked dismay on her face.
It was an overstatement and Josh began to speak, but Fennimore dismissed his protest with a shake of his head.
‘You’re right on both counts,’ he went on. ‘I’m not a very “nice” person. I’m not here to protect your husband. If I’m honest, I don’t really care if he’s guilty or innocent.’
She gripped the table edge and shoved her chair back, the fire in her eyes again. ‘So it’s all about getting your client off.’
‘No,’ Fennimore said. ‘You see, I don’t care about him any more than I do your husband.’
She gasped.
‘I’m a scientist, Mrs Hazle,’ he went on. ‘I doubt everything but the facts; choose statistical probability over feelings every time. But that’s what makes me good at my job – because I do care about the evidence. I care about the truth. I care when science is mangled by incompetents to prove their own prejudices. So – no matter what the outcome – I can promise you that I will look at all of the evidence objectively.’
Mrs Hazle looked winded; she released her grip on the table and let her hands slide into her lap. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I suppose that’s honest, at least. But I don’t see what I can do.’
Fennimore relaxed. ‘Right now the only new evidence is your husband’s semen on the murder victim’s dress.’
She flinched.
Josh shot an exasperated look at Fennimore. ‘It sounds brutal, but—’
‘I don’t like your professor very much, Josh,’ she interrupted. ‘But it’s like what you said: he wants more facts so he can see how they fit in the story.’
‘Precisely.’ Fennimore paused. ‘My guess is the police are driving down a one-way street: they’re thinking those stains got on to the victim’s clothing because your husband raped her.’ Josh shifted in his seat, but didn’t intervene. ‘But evidence without context is a two-way street: they should be looking at the evidence from both directions – asking what is the likelihood the stains got on to the victim for some other reason.’
‘I can’t tell you that – I don’t know!’ she exclaimed.
‘There’s no reason why you should,’ Fennimore said. ‘But if you’re willing to talk about some painful things, answer some tough questions, maybe we can find out.’
She thought about it for a full minute, wiping her eyes and twisting the wet tissue till it came apart in her hands. At last she sighed and plucked two more tissues from the box.
‘All right,’ she said, ‘ask your questions.’
‘Mr Hazle had MS,’ Fennimore said. ‘And you say he sometimes used a wheelchair. If we could establish that he was wheelchair-bound at the time of the murder …’
‘When did it happen?’ she said. ‘The murder, I mean.’
‘Four years ago,’ Fennimore said. ‘April twenty-sixth.’
Her forehead creased with pain. ‘David had just finished his first lot of chemo then,’ she said.
Fennimore looked at her in question.
‘It wasn’t the MS that got him in the end. It was cancer. David died of prostate cancer.’ She went eagerly to the Welsh dresser on the far side of the room and brought out a diary, thumbing through it. Her face fell. ‘He wasn’t at the hospital on the twenty-sixth of April.’
‘But you have a record of hospital appointments, treatments and so on?’
She handed Fennimore the diary, and he leafed through dozens of dates and times, ‘chemo’ or ‘radio’ noted next to the treatment days, ‘Dr Ghosh’ on others.
‘Dr Ghosh was his oncologist?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘Lovely man.’ She returned to the dresser and drew out a bundle of letters. She held on to them, as if reluctant to let go, but after a moment she handed the letters over. ‘Read them,’ she said.
It wouldn’t sway his judgement either way, but for her sake, Fennimore glanced through the letters, seeing messages of hope: ‘shrinkage of the tumour’, ‘positive signs’, ‘cause for cautious optimism’. Then requests to return for repeat scans, and a rapid decline into suggestions about palliative care, finishing with a contact for Macmillan nursing.
‘He went through so much,’ she said. ‘He was weak and terribly sick right through the chemo – but the treatment didn’t take. The cancer spread. That’s why he was growing cannabis – it reduced his stress, helped with the pain. And those heartless bastards prosecuted him – made a criminal of a dying man!’
‘Did you show any of this to the police?’ Fennimore said.
She wiped tears from her face and drew herself to her full height. ‘I didn’t like their manner,’ she said.
Fennimore smiled.
‘I don’t think I like yours any better,’ she added sharply. ‘What if I said that I believe I can prove your husband’s innocence?’
‘How? You’ve seen the diary. He wasn’t in hospital on the twenty-sixth.’
‘True,’ Fennimore said. ‘And we only have your word for it that your husband was too ill to be involved in the mur—’ Josh’s warning look made him revise what he was about to say: ‘To be involved.’
‘You want Dr Ghosh to tell the police how ill David was?’
‘That’ll help,’ Fennimore said. ‘But it’s just possible he has evidence that proves your husband’s innocence.’
She scoffed. ‘Didn’t you say evidence doesn’t prove anything?’
&
nbsp; ‘Without context, it doesn’t. But Dr Ghosh can provide that, too.’
She stared at him, uncomprehending.
‘We have physical evidence and part of the context – the whys and wherefores, as Josh so elegantly put it – but there are gaps,’ Fennimore said. ‘Dr Ghosh might be able to bridge those gaps, but he won’t do it without your permission.’
‘I’ll call him,’ she said. ‘What do you want me to say?’
Dr Ghosh met Fennimore in his office after morning clinic.
He had David Hazle’s file ready on his desk. He looked sad and tired, and Fennimore guessed he had spent more than one consultation that morning telling people the worst news possible.
‘I appreciate your taking the time to see me,’ Fennimore said.
‘David was a brave man,’ Ghosh said. ‘Did Frances tell you he raised ten thousand pounds for the oncology unit while he was undergoing treatment?’
‘She didn’t.’ They were on first-name terms, then – a good sign, given what Fennimore was about to ask.
‘Frances said the police believe David was involved in the rape and murder of a young woman – it’s preposterous, of course – he could barely lift his head off the pillow, after the chemo.’
‘A lot of prostate cancer patients suffer from erectile dysfunction following treatment?’ Fennimore asked.
Ghosh nodded. ‘David was one of them. And your surmise is correct: he wasn’t physically capable of rape.’
‘Yet his sperm was found at the scene.’
‘The police must have made an error on the DNA sample.’
‘I took a sample from the same item of clothing and had it tested at an independent lab,’ Fennimore said. ‘There’s no error.’
‘Then, I don’t …’ Dr Ghosh frowned.
‘He underwent both chemo- and radiotherapy?’ Fennimore said.
Another tired nod. ‘Two cycles. He was too weak to continue after that.’
‘Mrs Hazle would have been in her mid-thirties when her husband was diagnosed?’
‘Yes, but what has that to do with—?’
‘I imagine Mr Hazle banked sperm prior to chemo in case it caused infertility?’
Dr Ghosh looked suddenly energized. ‘It is usually advised in younger couples,’ he agreed, flipping open the folder and riffling through the pages. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘David donated sperm on three occasions over the course of the second week in March. His first cycle of treatment began at the end of March. Do you think someone stole one of the samples?’
‘I think it’s worth checking,’ Fennimore said. ‘And the police should be told.’ He paused. ‘But before you call them, Doctor, I’d like to ask two small favours.’
29
Never go back.
ANON
Essex, Thursday Lunchtime
Fennimore brought Josh up to date in the car heading to their motel. He had chosen a small, family-run inn, just off the A13, eight miles south-west of Basildon, and twenty-five miles from Chelmsford, where his family was based, as the safer option for Josh. They had Mrs Hazle’s diary documenting her husband’s hospital visits, and the letters sent by Dr Ghosh to Mr Hazle in the months before his death. Dr Ghosh had given Fennimore a copy of the post-mortem report and had promised to arrange for him to collect a sample of Mr Hazle’s semen before he returned to Scotland: he wanted independent verification that the sample from the victim’s skirt was a genuine match to Hazle.
‘Hazle didn’t do it, did he?’ Josh said.
‘Dr Ghosh says he wasn’t capable after the cancer treatment,’ Fennimore said.
‘So the evidence was planted.’
‘It seems likely.’
‘Which means Mitchell is guilty after all?’
‘It’s possible,’ Fennimore said. ‘Graham Mitchell could have murdered the victim and tried to implicate Mr Hazle.’
‘Yeah, but if he did plant Hazle’s DNA on her, why would he confess?’
Fennimore shrugged. ‘Duress?’
‘The police say there wasn’t any, and he never claimed that in court – even after he changed his plea. Speaking of which, if he planted the evidence, wouldn’t he get his defence to demand DNA tests on Kelli Rees’s clothing?’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ Fennimore said, with a sly glance; he wanted to see how far Josh could reason this through.
‘And Mitchell was a roofer,’ Josh said. ‘How would he get access to a hospital lab? He’d have to’ve had an accomplice.’
‘That’s possible, too,’ Fennimore said. ‘On the other hand, it could be that neither Mitchell nor Hazle is guilty. Maybe Mitchell told the truth about paying the victim for her services the night she was killed. The killer, unaware that Mitchell’s DNA was already on the victim, planted Mr Hazle’s semen on her to deflect attention from himself.’
Josh turned to Fennimore, his expression excited and intense. ‘We need to know who had access to the banked sperm.’
‘That would take a court order,’ Fennimore said. ‘Which we will ask for, but in the meantime, there’s work of a more mundane nature to be done.’
‘Okay, what?’
‘You photographed the oncologist’s letters?’
‘And the diary. I emailed the jpegs to you,’ Josh said.
‘Good. Hazle’s PM report is in my backpack – dig it out, will you, and do the same with that.’
Josh snagged the bag from the back seat and retrieved the folder.
‘I’ll want photocopies of everything, too,’ Fennimore said. ‘We’ll file the originals with Mitchell’s solicitor while we’re here.’ He fished in his pocket and handed Josh his mobile.
‘Try Lazko, see if you can raise him.’
Fennimore turned on to a country lane, and as they passed a traditional weatherboard house, Josh twisted to get a better look. For a second Fennimore saw a glimpse of the intense boy of seventeen in the press photo outside the Crown Court.
‘How does it feel, being back?’ he asked.
‘Like … nothing. Doesn’t mean anything to me any more,’ Josh said, facing straight ahead again, listening to the phone.
Is that how it would be for Suzie – if he ever found her? Fennimore wondered. Like home and family meant nothing to her?
‘It’s gone to voicemail,’ Josh said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘Want me to leave a message?’
‘Don’t bother, I must’ve left a dozen already.’ Josh handed the mobile back and Fennimore pocketed it, slowing for the turn into the motel car park. ‘I’ll drop you at the hotel, then head into Chelmsford to see the appeal solicitor.’
Fennimore dumped his car keys and bags with Josh while he went to the reception desk to check in. As the clerk slid the keys across the counter and launched into his script about room locations and breakfast arrangements, the entrance doors opened and three men approached the desk.
‘Professor Nicholas Fennimore?’ the shortest of the three said.
Fennimore gave him a cursory glance. ‘I prefer Nick. Who are you?’
‘Detective Sergeant Benton, Essex Police.’
He was squat and solid, with the bull-neck of a weightlifter and the broad hands of a labourer. Fennimore checked his ID. Dr Ghosh would have told them of his visit to the hospital by now. He looked at the other two grim-faced men; it seemed that Essex Police were pissed off he’d beaten them to the oncologist, but three cops to deliver the message seemed a bit extreme. ‘What can I do for you, Sergeant?’
‘Come down to the station, answer some questions.’
‘I’d prefer to answer them here – I’m starving – and I’m told the food here is good.’
‘We’ll sort you some tea and a sandwich at the station,’ the sergeant said.
Well, if they wanted access to Mrs Hazle’s diaries and letters, they could ask Mitchell’s solicitor for them. Fennimore chanced a quick glance at Josh; the student was staring at his mobile phone screen, but Fennimore could tell by the tension in his shoulders that he was paying close att
ention. He let his gaze slide over the younger man towards the hotel entrance and the three policemen eased into a semi-circle, crowding him.
‘Afraid I might make a run for it, Sergeant?’ he said with mild surprise.
‘Just keen to have that chat, sir,’ Benton said smoothly.
Fennimore experienced a pang of concern. ‘About what?’
‘Better if we talk down the station, sir,’ Benton said, relaxing his stance, even trying an experimental smile. ‘We won’t take any more of your time than we have to.’
‘Which station?’ Fennimore asked, for Josh’s benefit.
‘Does it matter?’
‘It might – I have business in Chelmsford.’
Another unconvincing smile. ‘Then it won’t even be out of your way, sir.’
The two silent cops flanked Fennimore, while Sergeant Benton walked a few steps behind him. One of the men glanced over at Josh, as they moved away. Josh didn’t look up, but he scratched his eyebrow with his free hand, effectively covering his face.
30
It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence.
A. C. DOYLE, A STUDY IN SCARLET
The police station was next to the Crown Court, not far from the cathedral. Fennimore had testified as an expert witness several times during his time at the National Crime Faculty, and he had enjoyed lunchtimes, strolling through the cathedral gardens in the shade of its honeyed stone-and-flint walls. Today they went by a less picturesque route, along Parkway, taking Fennimore into the station by the back door.
He was shown into an interview room; it looked recently refurbished, done out in aquamarine, with light beech furniture and a large flip clock on the wall showing date, day and time. The sergeant said he would be back in a few minutes. After the first five, Fennimore suspected the intention was to intimidate him. He checked the door. It was locked. He shrugged, taking an interest in the recording equipment bolted to the table top. The drive was empty, but he opened it and peered inside, closed it and tinkered with the audio balance. A plastic strip ran around all four walls at waist height, but he traced the recorder’s wiring down a conduit to a socket below the desk, so the strip must have another purpose. A video camera was positioned at ceiling height in a far corner of the room, pointing towards the table. At fifteen minutes, he hit the strip hard with his elbow.
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