Darke

by Matt Hilton

  ‘For the tape please?’ Kerry said.

  ‘What? I didn’t hear you ask a question.’

  ‘Is that a true statement of what was said?’ Kerry clarified.

  ‘Sounds about right.’

  ‘OK, then. So if you don’t have a gun, can you describe what I’m showing you now…exhibit DSDK-Two?’

  ‘Well it’s obvious it’s a fucking gun, isn’t it?’

  ‘This gun was seized during the execution of a search warrant at your home address. It was found buried in fresh earth in the back garden of your property. I showed it you at the scene and asked if we’d also found your granddad’s gun, or if it was Erick Swain’s these days. Correct?’

  ‘You did, yeah, but I also told you it was bollocks, a fucking stitch up, and that you bastards planted it!’

  Dave Barnes interjected, a raised finger of caution for Hettie’s sake. She snorted at him. ‘Yeah, well, nobody’s putting words in my fucking mouth!’

  Kerry went on undeterred. ‘You didn’t answer my questions at the time, and understandably because I wasn’t clear. So I’ll ask again now. Did this gun belong to your grandfather?’

  Hettie frowned, figuring out if she was being led into a trap. ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did the gun belong to Erick Swain?’ Kerry went on.

  ‘No comment.’ Hettie thought hard. ‘Uh, no, wait. Yeah, the gun belonged to my granddad. He brought it back from Korea with him.’

  ‘When did your grandfather return from deployment in Korea?’

  ‘How am I supposed to know? Donkey’s years ago, ages before my time.’

  ‘To my knowledge the Korean War ended in nineteen fifty-four,’ Kerry offered. ‘Would it be fair to say that if your grandfather was deployed with the NATO First Commonwealth Division he probably returned home to the UK around that time? Around, let’s say, sixty-five years ago?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not that good at maths.’

  ‘Approximately sixty-five years,’ Kerry repeated.

  ‘Where are you going with this, Inspector?’ Dave Barnes asked. ‘My client has already told you she’s unsure when her grandfather came back from war. If you’ve a specific question, can you please ask it?’

  ‘I’m establishing a timeline,’ Kerry responded, but without acknowledging him personally. She continued looking directly at Hettie. ‘You said that the gun did belong to your grandfather.’

  ‘Yes. How many frigging times…’

  ‘So when did it come into your possession? Was it after your grandfather died?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘When did your grandfather pass away?’

  ‘It was a while back. Ten years…eleven?’

  ‘Before his death, did your grandfather regularly maintain his gun?’

  Hettie’s gaze swept from Kerry to Korba. He said nothing, his features giving no hint of where the questioning was leading. Hettie twisted to eye her solicitor. ‘Do I have to answer this? How the hell am I supposed to know what my granddad did? I didn’t live with him, did I?’

  Dave turned the question back on Kerry with a simple rising of his eyebrows.

  ‘So I’ll ask a different question,’ Kerry said. ‘Have you ever maintained your grandfather’s gun?’

  ‘What? Like oiled it or something?’

  ‘Yes. Exactly that.’

  ‘Nah. I’ve never touched it.’

  ‘Would you say the gun looks as if it hasn’t been maintained for sixty-five years? Or even for ten or eleven years?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Despite being buried, and having a little dirt on it, wouldn’t you agree that the gun looks as if it has been recently oiled and cleaned?’

  Hettie sniffed. Leaned towards the evidence bag, and said, ‘It looks shiny, if that’s what you mean?’

  ‘When the gun is forensically inspected, are we likely to discover your fingerprints or DNA on it, Hettie?’ As she posed the question, Kerry studied her minutely, watching for the micro expressions that would indicate a lie.

  ‘No chance,’ Hettie answered, although her nostrils quivered as she thought about it. ‘Like I said, I’ve never touched the bloody thing.’

  Kerry ploughed on. ‘Does anyone else live with you and Erick Swain?’

  ‘Do you mean in the past tense, or have you forgot you killed my Erick?’ Hettie smiled viciously – a fuck you to both Kerry and the audiotape. ‘We lived together, just the two of us. Lived. But not now.’

  In any other environment it would have stung her, but the accusation bypassed Kerry. ‘So if there was only you and Erick in that house, whose fingerprints do you suppose we will find on the gun?’

  ‘Who’s to say you’ll find any?’

  ‘That remains to be seen. But what is the likelihood of Erick’s being on the gun? If you didn’t maintain it, then someone must have. And if Erick was the only person to share your house…’

  ‘I don’t know. He might’ve.’ Hettie drew up in her seat, unfolding her arms and placing her hands flat on her thighs. ‘Look. I said earlier I’d never seen the gun, and never touched it. Same goes for those—’

  ‘For the tape Hettie has indicated Exhibit SRG-One, the cartridges,’ Kerry quickly interjected.

  ‘Yeah,’ Hettie agreed. ‘What I meant was I haven’t seen them in years. They were stored with the gun in a box in the attic. Erick must have…’

  ‘Erick must have fetched them from the attic if you didn’t?’ Kerry suggested, feeling victory was in grasping distance.

  ‘Well it wasn’t me. So who else could it have been?’

  Kerry drew both evidence bags towards her, then moved them gently towards Korba. He placed them safely in the brown paper sack.

  ‘Hettie. Can we make this clear? What you’re saying is that it had to have been Erick who took the gun and ammunition out of the attic, and who subsequently dropped some of the cartridges in your bedroom and also subsequently buried the gun in your back garden?’

  ‘Uh. Yeah. That’s what I’m saying. It had to have been him, because it wasn’t me.’ Again Hettie’s gaze swept from Kerry to Korba, then back again. ‘But before you ask, I didn’t know he’d touched them, or buried that thing. I had nothing to do with them.’

  Kerry didn’t acknowledge her plea of innocence. She asked, ‘Can you tell me your movements for yesterday, please?’

  ‘Movements? What, like where I was?’ To Kerry’s nod, she continued. ‘I was at home all day. I got up about eight and watched some telly, had a coffee and some breakfast, then started cleaning. I’m house proud.’ Her last was delivered with a hefty dose of pride, only dented by the memory of her ransacked home. ‘Later on I watched Judge Rinder and Tipping Point and…’ She opened both palms. ‘I was there all day.’

  ‘Can anyone corroborate your movements?’

  ‘Huh. Erick could’ve.’

  Kerry paused a moment. Slowly she closed and opened her eyes. ‘Was Erick home the entire time?’

  There was no denying her point, and Hettie squirmed while considering her options. ‘Erick had to go out for a few hours, but I swear to you I never left the house.’

  ‘When was Erick gone from the house?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly…maybe from eleven till about three.’

  ‘That’s eleven a.m. until three p.m.?’

  ‘Yeah, give or take a quarter hour.’ Hettie again squirmed, realising she’d admitted her partner’s movements were unaccounted for over the period when the drive-by shooting occurred. Lamely, she added, ‘He had some business to do.’

  ‘What kind of business?’

  ‘I dunno. He keeps his business private, and to tell you the truth, I don’t ask.’

  Kerry doubted Hettie could be honest if she tried. But again she switched focus abruptly, giving her no time to think. ‘Erick was registered as the owner and keeper of a sonic blue Subaru Impreza.’ She read off the correct license plate number. ‘Is that correct?’

  ‘Yeah. I know that car. It was
Erick’s pride and joy a year or two back. Why?’

  Ignoring the question, Kerry posed another of hers. ‘Do you know the whereabouts of that car, Hettie?’

  ‘It’s in a lock-up on our estate,’ Hettie said quickly. ‘If you want I can show you; I have the keys to the lock-up at home.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Kerry said, ‘although I would like to seize those keys.’ She exchanged a glance with DS Korba. ‘Anything to add, Sergeant Korba?’

  ‘No. I’ve no further questions.’

  ‘Thank you, Hettie,’ said Kerry, and nodded briskly at Korba who was in charge of the tape recorder. ‘Ending interview.’

  13

  ‘She’s got more face than frigging Big Ben,’ Korba announced after they watched Hettie Winters leave the police station. She’d flounced to where a sporty-looking red Nissan waited to collect her, summoned earlier as soon as the custody sergeant had returned her mobile phone. Hettie was returning home, to meet with DC Mel Scanlon, who despite Kerry ordering home was still in the nick when they left the interview suite. Mel was tasked with seizing the keys to the lock-up Hettie had mentioned, despite them all knowing that the Subaru was no longer there: it had already been impounded and was under forensic examination by the CSI team. She would also seek permission from Hettie to search the lock-up without need of a warrant.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d noticed, seeing as you rarely took your eyes off her boobs.’ Kerry gently elbowed Korba in the ribs.

  ‘You know me, Kerry. I’m not interested in fakes like Hettie. I prefer a real woman, with real curves, not ones blown up with silicone. They don’t have to be that good lookin’, only natural.’ He glimpsed surreptitiously at her and caught another elbow, slightly harder, in the midriff. He gasped in laughter.

  ‘Seriously, though,’ he said. ‘She’s a walking cliché. She should wear a sign round her neck saying ‘Gangster’s Moll’.’

  ‘Aye, she’s a real wannabe.’ She shrugged away the subject. ‘Can you log the evidence back in, Danny?’ The Webley required a full forensic investigation, and test firing. ‘I need to phone the coroner’s office for Swain’s results.’

  ‘Course I will, boss. You want me to grab you a brew on the way back? Dunno about you, but I’ve got a tongue like Gandhi’s flip-flop.’

  She squinted at him. ‘A coffee would be good. I’ll be in the office, OK?’

  Korba headed off with his hands in his pockets, his rolling gait reminiscent of a Jack Tar on shore leave. Kerry returned to the GaOC office: deserted now her team had left. She used the landline at DC Glenn Scott’s desk and punched in the Southwark coroner’s office number.

  Swain’s cause of death wasn’t the issue; it was whether or not any gunpowder residue had been found on him. Chances were that some kind of trace residue had been missed, even if he’d showered. Her mind flashed back to the search, and how the sniffer dog had acted on the sofa in the front room — it had possibly reacted to gunpowder residue. It was likely Swain sat on it not long after returning from where he’d burned out the Subaru, but before he’d changed clothing or washed, and residue had transferred to the cushions. In hindsight she should have had the settee seized and swabbed, as well as any unlaundered clothing. It was an opportunity lost.

  Proving Erick Swain’s guilt was important to Kerry. He wouldn’t face punishment for his crimes, and it wouldn’t bring back his victims, but at least there would be a modicum of resolution for the Ghedi family. Besides, proving Swain was their killer could lead her to his conspirator. Somebody had driven the Subaru while Swain took the shots at Ikemba Adefunke, and was therefore complicit in the murder. Hettie had been released on police bail, to return to the station at a later date, when a decision to charge her would be made. She made a mental note to go and speak with Hettie, with an off-the-record offer of leniency if she pointed the finger at Swain’s driver.

  Her train of thought was broken by a voice on the other end of the line. It belonged to a coroner’s office assistant.

  ‘Hello, this is Detective Inspector Kerry Darke,’ she announced, and gave her station identification number. ‘I’d like to speak with Mr Bellows please.’

  Nigel Bellows was an assistant coroner to Her Majesty’s Senior Coroner for the Southwark district — which also encompassed Lambeth — and was the direct line contact in regards to both the Ghedi and Swain cases. Forensic pathologists under his direction would have concluded the autopsies of all three people by now, and the results collated by him.

  ‘One moment please,’ said the office assistant, and then shortly: ‘Thanks for holding, Inspector Darke, I’m putting you through.’

  ‘My, my, Kerry Darke,’ Nigel Bellows said almost immediately. ‘I feel a little star struck speaking with you. Quite the Internet star you’ve become.’

  ‘You know me, Nige; I’m nothing special.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. Perhaps I was a little premature in dumping you…I could have lived off your fame and glory for decades.’

  ‘Who dumped who?’

  ‘Oh, that’s right.’ He chuckled. ‘You were the one that stopped replying to my messages and tokens of affection.’

  ‘You got so stalkerish I was tempted to take out an injunction on you.’

  Nigel laughed. They had dated twice shortly after Kerry’s arrival in London, once for dinner, once for drinks, but never with romance in mind. Nigel Bellows was a proud homosexual. They had remained friends, though, although their work commitments meant they rarely got time to meet socially.

  ‘How are you, Kerry? From what I saw on that video that thug roughed you up before he slipped.’

  Kerry hadn’t given her aches and pains much thought in the intervening hours, but now that he mentioned it her forehead still throbbed where Swain struck her. She touched the sore spot. It felt swollen, but not too badly. ‘I’m fine. A little achy here and there, but I’ll live.’

  ‘I’d love to see the state of the other guy. Oh! Wait a minute! I have!’ Nigel had taken her call in a private location. It was that, or coroners got to laugh at dead scumbags the way coppers weren’t allowed to. ‘Seriously though, Kerry, that was a close call. My heart was in my mouth when I saw how near Swain was to throwing you from that roof.’

  ‘I’ve watched the video,’ Kerry said. ‘My heart was in my mouth too. If he hadn’t slipped…’

  ‘Then the pavement pizza I’d the displeasure of inspecting this morning would’ve been you.’

  Neither of them wished to contemplate that alternative.

  ‘You personally conducted the autopsy?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’m a lawyer, not a pathologist. But I did observe the procedure. Eew! Mr Swain was not a pretty sight.’

  Out the corner of her amber eye, Kerry caught a blur of movement and colour. She thought Korba had returned with the promised cup of coffee. But when she looked, there was nobody there. Odd. With no windows, there was no reason to spot a shadow cast from outside. The door to the corridor was shut. An icy trickle worked its way the length of her spine. She shuddered, blinked a couple of times, and grasped for a rational explanation: she must have a floater in her vision. ‘Do you have the results from his autopsy yet?’

  ‘You’re specifically asking about the presence of gunpowder residue? I had the samples rushed through the lab. Hair; fingernail scrapings; skin swabs from the hands and face. Sorry Kerry, they all came back negative. There were trace elements, detergents and capsaicinoids — the latter from your incapacitant spray — but none of the components found in modern or historical firearm propellants.’

  ‘Is that unusual, if Swain fired a gun only a few hours earlier?’

  ‘No. He could have been wearing gloves and a hat. The presence of detergent on his face and hands suggests he washed himself with something more potent than regular soap and water.’

  ‘Bloody hell…’

  ‘That isn’t what you wanted to hear,’ Nigel concurred.

  ‘No. I was hoping we had Swain bang
to rights.’

  ‘You’ve the gun, the bullets, and a suspect so guilty he chose to run to his death rather than argue his innocence in court.’

  ‘And we both know where those will get me.’ Without tying Swain to the gun with irrefutable evidence, even Dave Barnes, the duty solicitor could rip holes in her case. Sadly, her only eyewitness to the shooting was hostile, and even forced to give testimony Funky would be deemed unreliable due to his allegiance to a rival gang. She was going to have to work on Hettie Winters harder than she had during her first interview. ‘Hopefully the results from the test firing of the Webley will confirm it was the murder weapon,’ she said. But still, for any hope of a conviction, and resolution in the deaths of the mother and girl, she must identify and catch Swain’s driver.

  ‘I hear that you’re engaged to be married these days,’ Nigel went on, in an awkward attempt at raising her spirits. ‘To some brute of a man you met at Belmarsh prison of all places. Is there no hope left for us?’

  ‘You’ll always occupy a soft spot in my heart, Nige,’ she assured him.

  ‘Oh, shame. I was hoping to meet that hunk of yours, and steal him away instead.’

  ‘You’re shameless.’

  Nigel laughed. ‘I am indeed. But seriously, Kerry, if you’d like to bring along your fella I’d love for us to go on a double date. I’ve a man of my own I’d love you to meet, and my eye on a brand new cocktail bar that’s just opened in Soho.’

  ‘Adam’s more of a lager lout,’ she said — and he got the subtext.

  ‘Then you should give him the slip and come away with a man of a more sensitive nature, and better taste.’

  They both laughed, but Kerry’s humour was tinged with morose. Nigel didn’t know how right he was. Adam’s display of insensitivity last night had been as subtle as hitting her in the teeth with a building brick.

  She thanked Nigel, and promised not to be a stranger. Hung up. She rested her backside on DC Scott’s desk, unconsciously touching the swollen spot on her forehead. The skin was hot; despite the air that was abruptly so icy she shivered. Between her fingers she glimpsed movement. Something loomed directly in front of her. She snatched her hand from her face, head snapping up at whatever the hell it was.