Trial by Execution

by T. M. E. Walsh

Yes, he had been a competent officer.

  He was also Claire’s ex-husband.

  CHAPTER 10

  After the team brief and assigning various tasks, Claire sat in Stefan’s car as he drove them towards a rundown area of Haverbridge, watching the city go past in a blur of concrete.

  An urban jungle of new developments – flats crammed together, stacked high, to meet the commuter demands of those who worked in London but could no longer afford the cost of living.

  Claire’s thoughts turned to Simon.

  The thought of seeing him again was painful. She knew she’d have to take the plunge at some point, just to get his perspective of the Dahlia Rapist investigation as a whole. She felt her stomach shift. She wound the passenger-side window open further, hoping to clear the nausea.

  The air was still muggy, with a dark sky allowing a hazy sunshine to break through the cloud only at irregular intervals. When the sun did come out, the heat was intense.

  Claire shrugged off her suit jacket as they pulled up outside a small, semi-detached house in what would normally be a quiet street. Only today there were news vans parked up on the curbs, a general gathering of journalists congregating in a huddle at the corner of the home of Rupert Knox.

  A few of the hacks gave Claire and Stefan a quizzical look as they passed through them, and some fired off questions as soon as they realised who they were.

  A uniformed policeman intervened, coming down the path from the house, making sure the media didn’t follow Claire and Stefan.

  This house looked no different to any other on the street; one might have been forgiven for imagining that this house, with all that had lived inside, to be ominous in appearance. A monster house that would terrify the kids at Halloween.

  Claire was taken aback by the normality and dullness of it.

  They saw the net curtain behind the frosted glass window in the door twitch and heard locks being turned.

  They nodded at the woman who answered.

  ‘Guv,’ she said and then smiled at Stefan.

  Family Liaison Officer Sarah Pacey stepped aside, allowing them over the threshold before glancing down the path.

  ‘Bloody hacks,’ she said as she shut the door on the media horde outside. ‘I’ve unplugged the landline. He’s been hounded, despite our best efforts,’ she said, voice low. ‘He’s through there,’ she added, gesturing towards the first door off from the hallway.

  ‘How is he?’ Stefan said.

  Sarah shrugged. ‘As to be expected under the circumstances.’ She paused a moment, eyes shifting towards the letterbox in the front door and it was then that Claire and Stefan noticed the smell.

  Dark stains were smeared over the back of the UPVC door.

  Claire wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Tell me that’s not what I think it is.’

  ‘It is,’ Sarah said, sighing heavily. ‘He said it’s evidence. That’s why he won’t let us wash it off.’ She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Why not take a photograph like any normal person?’ Stefan said, covering his mouth and nose as he spoke.

  Claire saw the thick strips of brown parcel tape stuck crudely to the letterbox, holding it down. It, too, was smeared with sticky brown residue.

  ‘Dog shit’s coming through there no matter what he does,’ she said.

  ‘He’s given up,’ Sarah said. ‘That’s what he told me.’

  Claire nodded. ‘Okay, let’s go through.’

  ‘I’ll make us a drink,’ Sarah said and disappeared down the hall.

  Claire pushed open the living-room door and went inside.

  Rupert Knox was sixty-five years old, but looked at least ten years older. His stocky frame slouched at one end of a faded-green, threadbare sofa, his one good hand clasped around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold.

  His left arm was in a cast from when he’d been attacked mere days before. It was propped on a pillow on his thigh for support. Blue and purple bruising mottled his skin. Cuts about his head and face were starting to scab, but Claire knew that, although outwardly he was healing, inside would be much harder to fix.

  The man was clearly fighting it, but she could see the sadness in him taking over, like it was eating him from the inside out.

  His heavily hooded milky eyes glanced up to look at Claire. He didn’t even ask who they were. Claire wondered if he even cared.

  ‘My son…’ He broke off, unable to finish his sentence. ‘Ivy hasn’t been the same since he…’

  Claire and Stefan stood awkwardly staring at him until Sarah came into the room with mugs on a tray. She gave them a half-smile as she looked at Rupert.

  He grimaced, eyeing Claire up and down as if noticing her for the first time.

  ‘Press have been calling non-stop,’ he said, a measure of his steely self coming back to the surface. ‘I had to rip the bloody phone out of the wall. They’re sick, that lot.’

  He reached for a mug, sipped the tea, frowned, and set his cup down. ‘All they ever wanted was my son’s blood, and even now he’s dead, they can’t let it rest.’

  Stefan exchanged a look with Claire, and took a seat opposite Rupert. ‘Can I ask after your wife, Mr Knox?’ Rupert raised his head to stare at Stefan. ‘Do you feel able to tell her?’

  Rupert allowed himself a little grin, shaking his head at the question. ‘It wouldn’t register even if I did tell her.’ He watched Claire as she took a seat beside Stefan.

  ‘Tell us about Ivy,’ she said. ‘What happened to her?’

  Rupert gave a snort of laughter. ‘You care now? I was beaten black and blue, my arm broken, not to mention my dignity taken along with it, and you lot have done bugger all.’

  He shifted in his seat, his eyes inspecting them both. After a few seconds, Rupert looked to the picture of his wife on the table beside him. It had been taken at least twenty years ago, Claire guessed, judging by the style of Ivy’s clothes and her hair. Her face had barely a line on it back then.

  Rupert’s sigh was heavy, as if he longed to go back to happier times, when life was considerably less complicated.

  ‘What didn’t happen to Ivy?’ he said, asking himself more than attempting to answer Claire’s original question. ‘Ivy was very… pure, if that’s the right word? She’d never smoked behind her parents’ backs, never had a boyfriend until she met me when we were eighteen.’

  Claire saw the ghost of a smile on his lips as a distant memory in his mind was brought to the surface. ‘Never shared a bed until we got married. Never even let me touch her beyond the odd grope in the back of the cinema when we were courting.’

  Stefan gave him a small smile.

  Rupert’s face then turned serious. ‘Then after Raymond did what he did…’ He shook his head, avoiding their eyes.

  He leaned forward, as if sharing a secret for the first time. ‘Do you know, as soon as she came back from the police station after you lot charged our son, she came in here, never said a word, went up to that cabinet,’ he said, gesturing to the corner of the living room, ‘and poured herself a measure of gin, and didn’t stop until the bottle was empty.’

  His eyes brimmed with tears as he remembered. ‘That was the day I lost my wife, the woman I married, now a shadow of her former self. She didn’t speak to me for about a week after Ray was charged.’ He sighed. ‘All she did was drink.’

  Claire’s eyes narrowed as he spoke. Yes, he’d just lost his son, a man that most would say got what he deserved. But despite that, and despite the fact that Rupert was losing his wife as well, Claire couldn’t help thinking that Rupert must have seen changes in his son that gave him some idea that something wasn’t right and he chose to turn a blind eye.

  ‘What’s on your mind, Chief Inspector?’ Rupert said, when he caught her stare.

  Stefan bit his bottom lip, apprehensive.

  Claire smiled but it never reached her eyes. Even Rupert knew she was forcing it. ‘Cirrhosis of the liver, isn’t it?’
she said.

  Rupert regarded her for a second, then nodded. ‘Even when she was hospitalised she managed to get the drink sneaked in.’

  ‘By you?’ Claire asked.

  ‘No. I didn’t want her leaving me like this, not this way.’ His face grew darker as he remembered. ‘Do-gooders, neighbours, brought her it, I suspect, but Ivy never told. Kept it a secret with whoever it was. They’re just as much to blame.’

  ‘Nobody forced it down her neck, Mr Knox,’ Claire said.

  He paused, watched her face, angry with her. ‘She never wanted to get better. She wanted a release from the shame our son brought on the family. She didn’t want a transplant, and these months she has just been waiting to die.’

  Sarah, who had remained at the living-room window, frowned at his words, risking a glance his way, before looking out of the window again. She saw a few more TV vans join the others lining the street, cameras ready to capture a glimpse of the man who helped spawn a monster.

  ‘She was discharged from hospital to Haverbridge hospice, as per her wishes,’ Rupert continued without prompting. ‘Now she’s at the end stage of the disease, her personality has completely changed.’

  His eyes shimmered with fresh tears.

  ‘She’s not the woman I once knew. Not a wife, not a mother, just this… thing that hardly looks human any more. At least Ray will be spared the sight of what remains of his mother, and she in turn will never know what was done to him in his final moments.’

  Claire felt obliged to bite her tongue and not mention how the parents of Knox’s victims had to think about the harm their son had inflicted on their daughters every single day.

  Rupert got to his feet, pushing himself from his chair, his bulk hindering his movements. He was shorter than Claire had imagined.

  He made a big show of pacing over towards Sarah. At her side he looked out of the window, frowning at what he saw in the street. ‘Vultures,’ he muttered. He turned back to Claire and Stefan. ‘What are you planning to do about the assault? The death threats?’

  ‘That’s what we need to go through with you,’ Stefan said. ‘Have you kept any of the notes, recorded the phone calls?’

  Rupert shook his head, and gestured with his hands. ‘Nah, I threw ‘em out, and I don’t know how to record phone calls. I usually hang up when the papers call, which reminds me,’ he said, now turning to point at Claire. ‘I reported these death threats, and the dog shit pushed through my letterbox.’

  Claire stiffened in her seat, knowing what was coming next.

  ‘None of your lot has really bothered with me, even when I was beaten up by a bunch of hooligans. Before last night and this morning, you’ve shown no interest.’ His face had grown red at the sudden outburst.

  He slumped back on the sofa, jarring his arm bound by the cast. Pain registered fleetingly on his face but he regained his composure quickly. ‘And I want something done about that Crowley bloke. It’s bloody harassment, what he’s doing.’

  Stefan’s brow furrowed. ‘Crowley?’

  ‘Yes, Adam Crowley he calls himself,’ Rupert said with some disdain. ‘Parasite.’

  ‘Who is Adam Crowley?’ Claire said, making sure Rupert looked her square in the face.

  ‘That poxy journalist from Heart of Haverbridge… The little foreign shit. Government need to deport all these immigrants. Bad dose of karma coming his way, he should know that.’ He looked at Claire, noted the confusion on her face. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? Karma? What the Indians believe in?’

  Stefan opened his notebook and wrote down Adam Crowley’s name. ‘What’s been his agenda?’ he said at length.

  Rupert sighed. ‘He wants my side of the story. A chance to put all the rumours to bed. Once and for all.’

  Claire made a mental note to contact Crowley at the paper.

  ‘My advice would be not to speak to anyone from the press,’ Claire said, watching Rupert’s reaction carefully.

  ‘All they did was drag our good name through the papers,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’m not giving them anything; they can print what they like.’

  Stefan watched Claire’s face. He knew she’d be eager to point out that what the papers had printed was the truth in the Dahlia Rapist case. The public needed to be aware of what happened. He made eye contact with her, and gave a sharp shake of his head, barely noticeable, but it was there.

  Just let it go.

  ‘You still haven’t told me,’ Rupert said, wiping his eyes, ‘what had been done to him.’

  Claire’s face was stony.

  ‘I need to know what he went through. Despite what he did, at the end of the day he was my son.’

  Claire cleared her throat. ‘We don’t know yet, not for certain.’

  ‘You must be able to tell me something.’

  ‘He’d lost a lot of blood,’ Claire said. ‘The PM’s scheduled for five this afternoon. We’ll know more then.’

  ‘I need to see him.’

  Claire nodded. ‘We need you to formally identify his body. Sarah here,’ she said, gesturing to the FLO, ‘will keep you informed about the process. She can answer any questions you may have, but we’re looking at your going to the hospital early tomorrow morning if possible. We’ll need to make an announcement to the media as soon as possible.’

  Rupert’s face darkened and all the weight of his sorrow seemed to crush him in those words. ‘I’ll do it just to get it over with, not because I’m doing you and the press any favours.’

  Claire looked to Stefan, who gave her a nod, eyes flicking towards Rupert.

  She knew instantly what he meant and gave him back a look that left him in no doubt she was silently telling him to shove his idea.

  Instead, Stefan spoke the words himself.

  ‘We’re sorry for your loss, Mr Knox.’

  Rupert looked at him through bloodshot eyes and pulled a smile of appreciation, but felt little comfort at the words.

  CHAPTER 11

  Knox’s body lay on the slab. Pale. Cold. Even the sliced-up empty shell that had housed evil in its purest form couldn’t raise any compassion in Claire’s body.

  After their visit to Rupert Knox, Claire and Stefan had been back to the station, and after what had felt like an eternity for Claire, watching the clock, it had been time for Knox’s PM. Arriving at Haverbridge City Hospital a little before six, to give the forensic pathologist the time she needed on her own, both Claire and Stefan felt a sense of dread as they had headed towards the mortuary.

  Now in the cold, sterile room, Claire’s eyes rose to meet Danika Schreiber’s stare. Green eyes appeared without make-up above the pale-blue facial mask.

  ‘He died from a haemorrhage caused by the facial lacerations,’ Claire stated to nobody in particular. Stefan stood beside her, arms folded, staring at Knox from head to toe.

  ‘Yes,’ Danika said. ‘He would have died from loss of blood anyhow, even without the cuts through his face. I counted at least ninety-two stab wounds, made with a sharp blade. Those injuries would’ve killed him eventually.

  ‘The killer practically disembowelled him. Part of the large intestine has been perforated. The depth of the wounds would indicate the killer used excessive force, in a frenzied attack. What’s unusual is the shape of the wounds. The blade used wasn’t a run-of-the-mill kitchen knife. The blade was shaped at a distinct angle.’

  ‘Like a Stanley knife?’ Claire asked.

  Danika nodded. ‘I’d say so, or something very similar, but with cases I’ve seen, a utility knife like that is usually more effective for slashing, not stabbing.’

  ‘Perhaps they were being creative,’ Stefan said, dryly.

  Claire cast him a look. Not helpful. ‘What about the cuts to the face?’ she said, returning her attention to Danika.

  She pointed to the lacerations in Knox’s cheeks, running from the corner of his lips, up to his earlobes. ‘Considerable force was used, almost like a hacking motion as the
blade tore through the flesh. Cutting through the face like this would have taken a great deal of strength and effort.’

  ‘Could a Stanley knife do it?’ Claire said.

  She nodded. ‘It could easily have been the same blade used to stab him.’ She pulled the mask down below her chin. ‘You’re being very specific with the type of blade used,’ she added, staring at Claire.

  Claire’s eyes lowered across Knox’s torso, punctured with multiple stab wounds, down to his genitals. They, too, had been stabbed repeatedly, almost beyond recognition. ‘The mutilation of his face is symbolic of his own crimes. Knox took a Stanley knife to each of his three victims.’

  ‘If someone’s dishing out payback, they appear to be making a point about Knox’s MO,’ Stefan added.

  Danika nodded, eyes lowering back to the body in front of her.

  ‘What else can you tell us?’ Claire said.

  Danika shrugged. ‘Not a lot more than what you already know. The cuts to the face go all the way through to the other side. The tox report should take about two to three days to get back if I request the results are expedited.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t think they’ll come back with any surprises. I can’t find any indication that he was restrained at all. There are no ligature marks on the wrists. The only defence wound I can find is here on his right hand.’

  Danika pointed to the bruising on the knuckles. The skin had been broken, and tinges of blue and purple tainted deathly pale skin.

  Claire eyed Knox’s lifeless hand. ‘Would you expect to see that if it were a defence wound?’

  ‘That’s the problem I’m having,’ Danika said. ‘Whoever or whatever he hit, it was done with considerable force, looking at the damage to his hand.’

  ‘If he was capable of punching someone like that, why didn’t he continue to fight back?’ Stefan said.

  Claire’s eyes narrowed. ‘Maybe it wasn’t the killer he hit.’

  ‘I’d agree with that,’ Danika said. ‘He could’ve injured himself some time before he was killed.’ She stared at Knox’s hand. ‘The healing process had started.’

  ‘You think he got into a fight?’ said Stefan, his voice sceptical. ‘He took someone down with one punch?’