by Robert White
“OK then, why does the defence want to know if Stewart is left handed?”
“Because of the handwriting discrepancies,” said Jemson.
“No!” Marie Baker was open-mouthed. “It’s not that at all. It’s the cord. I’d lay odds that their Forensic guy believes the knot was tied left handed.”
Jemson seemed doubtful. “Can you tell from a knot?”
All three people in the room had no answer, but all suspected you could.
Marshall broke the silence. “We’re just coppers at the end of the day, that’s why we have experts. I know that there has bee a lot of work done in the States recently on ligatures and bindings. I agree with Marie though, I think it’s the cord.”
Jemson stared at the photograph once more. “Then who’s got the cord now?”
Marshall ignored that particular dilemma and removed three graphic crime scene photographs from the file.
“I want our forensic pathologist to give me an expert opinion on whether these wounds were made by a right or left handed person, and I want it today. Now, let’s plan our day.”
Wallace and his team had far more answers. The hourly wage bill of the five men, gathered in the hotel suite would keep an average family for a month.
Arthur Simmons Graphologist, Professor John Staples Forensics, Sir Peter Davits Pathologist, George Thomas Q.C. Barrister at Law and of course, Wallace himself.
The men were a formidable force and had Dave Stewart known of the might of his team, he may have felt a little better.
Wallace had gone through the preliminaries, what they knew, what they needed to discover.
Simmons spoke first, “Well gentlemen, I can say with certainty, that Stewart did not write the entries on any of the documents. All I can say about the man who did is that he is right handed and between 30 and 45 years of age. I would like a sample of handwriting from all the officers involved in the case for comparison.”
“Will a signature do?” asked Wallace.
“No Sir.”
Wallace nodded and made a note. “Mr. Staples?”
Staples looked completely out of place in the room of expensive tailored suits. He wore faded denims and a checked cotton lumberjack shirt. He had obviously not shaved for a couple of days. His appearance though, was of little importance; he was not to be underestimated.
“As far as the Forensic side goes gents. We are well and truly cookin’.”
His casual remarks brought a look of disdain from George Thomas. Staples noticed the look, gave Thomas a cheeky wink and continued, “The handwriting side will be backed up by fingerprint evidence, once we get hold of the relevant original documentation.”
Thomas was cutting, “That would be fine if the originals hadn’t been stolen.”
Staples shot the lawyer a look. “More importantly, we can now say positively that a male person, with a different blood type to Stewart, McCauley, or Bailey was present at Anne’s house on the night of the murders. Furthermore, I have been talking to colleagues Alec Jeffreys at Leicester University who is researching a method of testing and typing DNA from semen or blood. They say, this will be as good as a fingerprint, although how admissible it will be is your department, Thomas.”
Thomas had never even heard of DNA testing. Therefore, he kept quiet.
His point to Thomas made, Staples continued, “As for the cord, well without the actual item, I’m afraid I can only say that I am about 70% certain that it was tied left handed.”
Sir Peter interrupted, “I can assist there. I can now say with certainty that the throat wounds, on both Bailey and Anne, were made by a left handed person.”
Wallace leaned forward across the table, around which, all the men were gathered. “Then we are looking for two men, a right handed forger and a left handed killer.”
Thomas could contain himself no longer. “Surely we are only interested in getting our client free, not solving the case,” he added in condescending tone, “let the Police do their job for once.”
Wallace struck like a snake. “Whilst I retain your services George, I will decide what lines of inquiry we follow and how far we take them. Is that clear?”
Thomas remained silent. He knew better
“So gentlemen, David Stewart will be in Court, Monday 10 a.m.” He glared at Thomas again. “I expect everything to go smoothly.”
“In the meantime, we need to speak to the man who forged the documents. If I were a betting man, I’d say we need to pay McCauley’s good friend Inspector Williams a visit.”
Davits looked uneasy, Wallace noticed. “Problem Peter?”
“Well we all seem to be overlooking something.”
“Go on.”
“The motive gentlemen; the motive we were all led to believe at first is now shot to pieces. We know Stewart didn’t forge the documents. We know he was in love with Anne and that that love was mutual.”
Thomas snorted quietly. Davits ignored it. ”The real motive must have something to do with the burglary at McCauley’s house.”
Davits leaned his elbows onto the table.
“Let’s just imagine that whoever was responsible for the burglary is also responsible for all three murders. Reasonable?”
Thomas gazed out of the window. The tedium was killing him and showed in his tone.
“Obviously.”
Sir Peter was again undaunted. “Well if it’s so obvious, why are we not looking more closely at what could be so valuable to the killer? He didn’t find it at McCauley’s house. So, he thought that it would be at Anne’s house.
What could Anne have that would be worth killing for? Moreover, is the murder of Bailey connected to the fact that he was loose at that time?”
Wallace turned to Thomas. “What do we know about William Bailey?”
Thomas shrugged. “Not a great deal, the best person to speak to would be his solicitor,” Thomas looked at a file and found the name, “Holmes. But he’s not in his office.”
John Staples raised an eye. “Raymond Holmes?”
Thomas gave the forensic man a tired look. “Yes, Raymond Holmes.”
Staples returned the look. The two men were not going to be comrades in arms.
“I’ve heard some very nasty rumours about that man. He’s reported to be, how shall I say, of dubious character.
I recall a Senior Detective from the Greater Manchester Force being very interested in Holmes. The investigation surrounded a pedophilia if my memory serves me correctly. I understand nothing was ever proved, but my man was convinced of his involvement.”
Wallace shook his head. “Blackmail gentleman.”
He pointed toward his friend. “Remember Peter, that barmaid friend of Andy Dunn’s. She said she overheard McCauley saying something about having information on people. She heard them mention dirty pictures. What if McCauley had information on Holmes? Say Anne was party to it and Bailey knew of it. Maybe Bailey even offered the information to McCauley as a plea bargain. I agree with Sir Peter. Let’s take a look at the motive.”
Sir Peter was first, “Well the way I see it, there must be some physical evidence that McCauley or Anne, had access to. As you say pictures or similar. Alternatively, maybe something that McCauley had and the others simply knew of. We know that Stewart doesn’t know.”
“No we don’t.”
Again, Staples was on the ball. “Just because our man wasn’t responsible for the crime, doesn’t mean that he has no knowledge of anything else. He was well and truly set up. He may as well have been the fourth victim. If I were he, I wouldn’t trust a living soul right now, and if I knew the real reason behind it all, I would be keeping it to myself.”
“All this would explain something,” said Wallace. “As you said Thomas, Holmes is not in his office. I have been attempting to contact him for several days. He appears to have gone to ground. He could be our man.”
“On the other hand,” said Staples, “and I’m playing devils advocate here. If you were the only one left alive or free, a
nd you weren’t responsible, what would you do?”
Wallace took the floor again. “So we have two lines of inquiry, Holmes and Williams. Sir Peter and I will take that on board. The rest of you ensure we get our man free on Monday.”
twenty one
Dave and Jimmy were playing cards for cigarettes. Jimmy had been winning, but it had not been due to expertise. Dave wanted him happy. He wanted information on Holmes.
“You say you knew, Billy Bailey then Jimmy?”
“Umm.”
“Was he at the kid’s home with you?”
“After me, I’m a bit older than him.”
“Was he used by Holmes and his friends too?”
Jimmy became a little defensive. “Seems to me, that’s somthin’ you don’t need to know Dave.”
“It is,” Dave pressed, “because, the reason I’m here at all, is all down to me arresting William Bailey. Plus, your man Holmes is the only surviving link in the chain. Just think Jim, I lock up Bailey for murder. Days later, he and two of the investigating team are dead, I’m in jail and his pervert brief has done a runner.”
A light suddenly came on in Dave’s head. Had he just answered his own question? He closed his eyes and tried to remember. He had flicked through the files briefly on that fateful night. Was there one on Holmes?
Dave was desperate. “Please Jimmy, just tell me; would Bailey know about Holmes’ little scam at the children’s home?”
“Of course he knew.”
Dave’s head spun. Maybe Bailey had given McCauley something on Holmes to gain some kind of favour. A plea-bargain? The Chief would have loved that.
Could McCauley have tried to use the information against Holmes? Could Holmes have been after the same files?
What if McCauley already knew about Holmes’ perversion before the Bailey job? Had Holmes tried to pressure the Chief?
Dave pleaded with jimmy. “Jim, I need to know all you know about Holmes
Jimmy gave up on the card game, he knew it was pointless.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes.
“Alright, alright. Holmes is a bastard. You know that. What you don’t know is how much of a bastard. He’s been on the take for years. OK, he gets his fee from the legal aid we all know that. The fee isn’t enough for him. He isn’t happy unless he gets a drink out of the poor bastard in the dock as well. That means, either cash, or sex.”
Jimmy looked straight at Dave. “If you’re under sixteen and male, it’s always sex he wants.”
Dave nodded. “What if he was cornered, what is he capable of?”
“Oh, he’s a hard case alright, but he wouldn’t do the dirty work himself. No, he’s got plenty of little helpers. You know the type. You busted the arm of one in the canteen.”
Dave knew the type. He had been one himself. Hired muscle was a lucrative career for the poor of any city.
Dave pressed on, “I think Holmes may have had Bailey killed.”
Jimmy shrugged. “Don’t surprise me,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “Listen, there was this kid at the home, Holmes and Clarke had been workin’ on him for a while, if you know what I mean. He’d be about twelve or thirteen. Problem was, he was a real little tough nut and havin’ none of it like. Anyway, one night, Holmes comes over and takes the kid downstairs. Tells him it’s to do with his case or somethin’.”
Jimmy swallowed. Dave thought he looked close to tears again. He had to pause and the words came hard.
“I heard him screaming, pleading with them. I wasn’t the only one who heard either.”
Now Dave did see tears.
“He was just a fuckin’ kid Dave, real small. They didn’t give a fuck, I should have done somthin’, stopped it, somehow….”
Jimmy broke down. His wiry shoulders heaved and he covered his face with his hands. His embarrassment and shame too much, even for him.
“You were young too Jim,” Dave soothed.
Jimmy wiped his eyes and regained his composure. “Yeah, we were all young. No one would have believed it would they? Not from us; we were just little shits from the gutter.”
Jimmy’s eyes turned cold. “He called for me! For me Dave! I didn’t do a fuckin’ thing!
Dave could feel Jimmy’s agony. “You were a frightened child.”
Jimmy nodded furiously, tears streaming. “I’ll tell you somethin’ though, we never saw that kid again after that night.
Clarke reported him missin’ the next day. Kids are always goin’ missin’ see? Fuckin’ coppers don’t care. His Mam and Dad didn’t care. He never turned up again. Know what I mean?”
Dave knew exactly what Jimmy meant.
“I’m sorry I had to ask Jim, but I needed to know.”
Jimmy lay motionless on his bed and stared into space. Faces, only he could see, flashed in front of him.
The conversation was over.
Dave knew now that Holmes was his top suspect.
Marshall surveyed the modern detached house. It sat in a line of other identical detached houses, ugly box-like structures, devoid of any character or thought.
This one belonged to Clive Williams. His garden, in comparison to the others, was a mess. Marshall thought it reminded him of the way Williams dressed.
Marie Baker stood at his side. She carried a briefcase and was dressed in a smart pinstripe suit, which showed her figure off to good effect.
Marshall was in no mood to pussyfoot around with Williams. He knew the officer was in the shit. A criminal conviction loomed for him. His only possible escape would be to confess all and hope that the Chief Constable would let him retire gracefully when the dust settled. He pressed the doorbell and heard it ring in the distance. No reply;
Marie was at the garage. “Car’s here boss.”
Marshall nodded. “I’ll go around the back.”
He pushed open a high gate that led to the rear of the property. The rear garden was even worse than the front. He noticed that the area had never been grassed. It had been left the way the builders had seen fit, even though the property was three years old. The lack of care coincided with Williams’ second divorce.
Marshall peered through the rear window. It appeared to be the dining room. The gas fire blazed away. Williams was at home, he knew it. He positively hammered on the back door and called out to Williams. Then he tried the handle. It was unlocked. It opened into the kitchen. Pots and pans, interspersed with dirty plates and cups littered every surface.
Marshall turned to Marie who had joined him. “A right little home-maker eh?”
Marie lifted an empty scotch bottle from the waste-bin. It was one of several. “Maybe this is the reason boss.”
The pair walked from the kitchen and into a narrow hall. Various police awards adorned the walls. Marshall noticed three commendations for bravery and suddenly felt very sorry for Clive Williams. He opened the door to the lounge. It was unusually heavy and Marshall needed a shoulder to complete the task.
Once inside the extra weight was obvious. Clive Williams was hanging on a coat hook on the inside of the door and was very dead.
“Jesus Christ!” Marshall gasped.
Marie reached toward the dead man’s throat and checked for a pulse. It was a gut reaction and a pointless exercise. Williams had been dead for some hours.
Marshall took hold of Marie’s arm and motioned her away from the body. He surveyed the scene. A small footstool was lying just inside the doorway. No doubt, Clive had used it to stand on, in order to connect the ligature around his throat to the coat hook.
The cord looked like plastic coated washing line, or electrical flex.
It had cut so deeply into Williams’ throat, that it could barely be seen. His face was the colour of a well- ripened plum. His eyes bulged grotesquely in their sockets.
Marshall inserted his hands into his pockets, as did Marie. Old fashioned Police practice, but very effective.
If your hands are there, you can’t touch anything you shouldn’t.
Marshall also saw some deep scratches on Clive’s throat. Maybe he changed his mind at the last minute?
He checked the fingernails. Yes, there was blood under them.
Classic.
The officers walked slowly into the living room. It was as cluttered as the rest of the house.
Half-eaten takeaway lay on the coffee table together with cardboard cups of soft drinks. Numerous ashtrays overflowed everywhere and yet another bottle of scotch sat next to an easy chair.
In one corner of the room was a desk, covered in documents. A typewriter had pride of place in the centre.
Placed on top of the machine was one A4 sheet. It bore one word and no signature.
It read,
‘Sorry.’
Marshall turned to Marie, “Call out the circus.”
The two men stood on the promenade of the seaside town. They stared out into the Irish Sea, its rolling greyness hypnotic. Drizzle mixed with spray on their faces.
The shorter of the two turned up the collar on his expensive overcoat.
“Was it clean?”
“As a whistle, no worries.”
“Shame about Clive, I liked him, but loose cannons and all that.”
The taller man sneered, “He was a pussy; he shit himself.”
“And the files?”
“No.”
“You sure he didn’t have them?”
“You ever been hung?”
“I need those files.”
“He didn’t have them.”
“I don’t like this business with Wallace’s father. He’s a powerful man. He already knows too much.”
“No one can connect you. Without those files, none of this means shit. You are home and dry. Just don’t forget my money.”
The smaller man walked away without looking back.
“Stay in touch, you know where I am.
The prison officer shocked Dave. His constant lock down had given him time to think. He had grown used to the lone company of his cellmate.