A Bad, Bad Thing

by Elena Forbes

  ‘I can get the DNA profiles back in twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Good. It may be a long shot – a precaution, really. But I need to know as soon as possible if there’s a match with the samples you took from me.’ She still couldn’t quite believe that Harry was responsible, although there was often no rhyme or reason to rape and she barely knew him. But if her instincts were right and there was a link to the samples taken from Jane McNeil’s body, Harry had an alibi, which had satisfied the police. If not Harry, it could have been anybody at the party. It was a shame she couldn’t get hold of Stuart Wade’s glass too. He looked like a man with attitude and enough pent-up aggression to carry out a rape. ‘This piece of paper also needs testing, both for prints and DNA.’ She handed Margot the envelope that Dan had given her in the car, containing the slip of paper dropped by the intruder in his office the night before. ‘It relates to a break-in. I’ve no idea if there’s a connection to what happened to me, or if you’ll find anything. The man who dropped it was wearing gloves. But whoever gave it to him may have been less careful. I just want to be on the safe side.’

  ‘No problem,’ Margot said. ‘We’ll process it as quickly as possible. We can sort out the finances later. But, as I said, the tox results will take a while. Any ideas what we should be looking for?’

  ‘One of the dissociatives, like Ketamine. I was hallucinating and had a strange, out-of-body experience.’

  Ketamine also seemed a likely candidate for so-called date rape on a racing yard, since its primary use was as a horse anaesthetic and it was easy to get hold of. She wondered if it had been used to knock out Jane McNeil too, although there had been no mention in the pathologist’s report summary of any drugs being found in her system. Either the time elapsed was too long and the body was too badly decomposed, or they hadn’t checked for it. It was equally likely that she had gone willingly with her killer.

  Margot peered at her again questioningly over her glasses. ‘You say you think this might be related to a cold case?’

  ‘It’s not just cold, it’s dead and buried and someone’s doing time for the murder.’

  ‘But you think the real killer’s still on the loose?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Can’t you retest the exhibits?’

  ‘The local police won’t cooperate. There’s a review of the case pending with the CCRC, but it’s looking as though they may throw it out. The autopsy report was inconclusive, but sperm were found on the victim’s thigh. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough biological material to develop a full DNA profile ten years ago. To give you the background, it had been raining heavily for many days at the time and the body had been partially set on fire, then half buried beside a brook, or a gulley, so probably exposed to more water. The man who’s in jail had a vasectomy, so the prosecution case centred on the sperm having got there by secondary transfer, such as a towel at the gym, or some such ludicrous means. Unfortunately, the jury believed them. Much more likely, she had sex with somebody else, who then killed her.’

  ‘Sometimes the science is too complicated for the man in the street …’

  ‘Or the expert witnesses think they’re talking to a load of academics and no normal person can understand them, particularly if the defence is not up to paraphrasing and giving a clear explanation.’

  ‘Very true. You said that the sperm were deformed?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, you can discount the rain or water as a factor. Spermatozoa resist, even submerged in water, very well; better than blood, in fact. One of my students recently presented an interesting paper on the subject. She had to use pigskin as a proxy for human skin, but the results are compelling. If the sperm were abnormal, it’s likely to be for another reason. I know you’re wondering if there’s a link to what happened to you and the old murder.’

  Eve nodded.

  ‘Let’s see what we have here.’

  She took one of the slides she had prepared and added some liquid with a pipette. ‘We call this Christmas Tree stain and you’ll see why, in a minute. Very apt for this time of year, I think, and it’s one of my favourites.’ She placed the glass cover slip on the slide, slotted it into the tray of the microscope and peered down the eyepieces.

  ‘Hmm. Very interesting,’ she said, after a moment. ‘You’d better come and look at this.’

  She stepped aside and Eve put her eyes to the lenses, adjusting the focus until the image was clear. The background was a greenish colour and it was speckled with little red dots, which at first glance did look remarkably like Christmas tree baubles.

  ‘The red bits are the spermatozoa,’ Margot said. ‘If you look closely, you’ll see they are all irregular in size and shape. Some have deformed heads, or twin heads, some have twin tails, but the majority have no tails at all.’

  Eve felt her stomach lurch and shuddered. It was exactly as the biologist giving evidence at Sean Farrell’s trial had described. What were the odds? Blinking, she peered up at Margot. ‘What causes sperm to be abnormal?’

  ‘A variety of things. You’ll find abnormal sperm in most samples, but it’s the percentage that matters in terms of fertility. There’s no way any of those are going to swim far enough to fertilize an egg.’

  ‘How common is something like this?’

  ‘I’m not an expert, but it’s commoner than you’d think.’

  Eve took a deep breath. What were the odds, she asked herself again. She didn’t believe in coincidence. ‘Going back to the man in jail, how would his sample differ?’

  ‘With somebody who’s had a vasectomy, you’ll still have seminal fluid, and you might just possibly see a few red dots, depending on how well the operation was performed. But nothing like the number you’d expect in a healthy sample, or a sample like this one. Whoever he is, the man who attacked you certainly couldn’t father any children.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  ‘I don’t see why somebody would go to the trouble of trying to steal this,’ Eve said, closing Dan’s file on the Sean Farrell case and handing it back to him.

  She had leafed through it and, although it was full of interesting material relating to Jane McNeil’s murder and Sean Farrell’s trial, none of it was new to her, and none of it particularly sensitive. Bar the interviews with Farrell and various members of his family, most of it was in the public domain, if somebody had the will and the nous to look for it.

  ‘There’s got to be something else they’re after,’ she said firmly, studying Dan. But there was no visible reaction.

  He stared at the cover blankly for a moment, then tossed it down on a pile of other papers beside him. They were in his office in Earl’s Court, Eve sitting on the sofa under the window, Dan perched on the edge of one of the desks facing her, chain smoking. Even though she’d opened the window a few inches, the air was thick with smoke and the smell was making her feel nauseous. Zofia was at her desk, behind where Dan was sitting, typing something at considerable speed into her computer. Occasionally she would glance down at a notebook, which lay open beside her on the desk, but most of the time she stared fixedly at the screen as though engrossed in what she was doing. However, it was clear from little sideways movements of her eyes that she was listening closely to their conversation.

  Eve decided she didn’t care. Zofia could listen in as much as she liked. It had been a long day and it was the least of her worries. Shocked by what had happened to her, as well as in a cloud of despondency about the imminent ruling by the CCRC on Sean Farrell’s case, Dan had been happy to keep her company and act as her chauffeur for the day. He had waited patiently for her outside the hospital while Margot had examined her, then had driven her back to her flat, where he had again waited outside without complaint for three quarters of an hour while she showered and changed. He was even prepared to drive her back to Marlborough, if that was what she wanted, but she had decided to stay in London. She couldn’t face returning to the cottage. Luckily, he had understood not to try and probe her about w
hat had happened, although at one point she feared he was going to put his arms around her to hug her and she had turned quickly away. She felt too fragile. Even the smallest kindness, the warmth of human touch and sympathy might make her fall apart. However difficult, she had to try and block out, for the moment, what had happened.

  A gust of wind rattled the window above her as a burst of icy rain peppered the glass like a handful of lead-shot. She shivered and wrapped her cardigan tightly around herself.

  ‘OK, Dan. Answer me this. Did you take the Sean Farrell file from Mickey Fraser’s flat?’

  A look of genuine surprise crossed his face. ‘No. I told you, the files were thrown on the floor. I had no idea what was there. Is it missing?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘How do you know? Did the police tell you?’

  She nodded. ‘Fagan said it’s the only file unaccounted for in Mickey’s flat, when they put everything back together. I’d say whoever took it – let’s assume it’s Mickey’s murderer – came here, or sent somebody here, to get your file too. Which means there’s something they want, that they think might be in your file perhaps, or in your possession. Once again, Dan, have you any idea what it could be?’

  This time doubt and stubbornness clouded his face. She leant forwards towards him and met his gaze, lowering her voice, as though it were just the two of them in the room.

  ‘We have to trust each other, Dan. We’re all we’ve got. If it will help, short of your having actually murdered Mickey, which I’m sure you didn’t, you have my word that I won’t tell anybody, without your permission, whatever it is you’ve done. But I know you’ve done something, or got something you shouldn’t have, so don’t try and bullshit me.’

  She stared at him for a moment, wondering what it would take to get through to him. In his eyes, she was a stranger and, worse still, a policewoman. Years of ingrained mistrust were hard to overcome.

  ‘The stakes are already very high, and getting higher,’ she continued. ‘Think it through. Mickey was murdered, he was tortured, presumably to extract information. His flat is turned upside down and a file is missing. I start asking questions about Jane McNeil’s murder and look what happens to me. Next thing we know, your office is broken into and somebody tries to steal your file. It all points to Mickey having found out something – some hard evidence, possibly – that relates to Jane’s murder and Sean Farrell’s innocence.’

  ‘I’m not stupid,’ he said morosely.

  ‘Where it is now is anyone’s guess, but they clearly want it badly and think you have it. They’re likely to come back again.’

  There was no reaction on Dan’s face. He took out the pack of Camels from his pocket and, hand trembling slightly, lit up again, blowing a couple of perfect rings into the air.

  ‘You smoke too much,’ she said, waving away the smoke as it drifted towards her.

  ‘Yeah, and I drink too much too. But who’s counting? Don’t you have any vices?’

  He stared at her challengingly, his eyes watering and a little bloodshot, which made the blue of his irises even more intense.

  ‘Of course. But we’re getting off the point.’ More pressing than anything was what Dan knew, what he was holding back.

  He gave her a weary look. ‘OK. What about the man in Covent Garden? I mean Nasser, the one who died, who wanted me to follow him. Where does he fit in? And what about the other one, the younger man, who called me on Mickey’s phone and said he was Mickey’s friend?’

  ‘I don’t know. I need to speak to Andy to see if he’ll tell me exactly what happened, if he’s found out who they are and what their connection to Mickey is.’

  ‘You think they killed Mickey?’

  ‘If they did, or worked for whoever did it, I don’t see the point of getting in touch with you and luring you to Covent Garden.’

  He nodded. ‘That was what I thought.’

  ‘Either they had some scam of their own going on the side, or it’s just possible they had nothing to do with the murder. Which begs the question, why, apart from wanting money, get in touch with you? You say he knew Mickey was dead?’

  ‘Yes. The younger one, Hassan, did, at least. He sounded genuinely upset.’

  ‘Maybe he was Mickey’s friend. But how come he has Mickey’s phone, unless he stole it? You really have no idea who this man is?’

  He looked affronted. ‘No, I do not,’ he said emphatically and, for once, she believed him. ‘How the hell do we go about finding him?’ he asked after a moment.

  ‘We don’t. We need to stick to what we’re doing for Sean and forget about the rest. Leave it up to the police.’ Fagan would be throwing all his resources at finding the man. ‘Come on, Dan. There must be something. There has to be. It’s me, Eve, you’re talking to. Not the police.’

  ‘You are the police,’ Zofia muttered from behind her computer.

  Eve looked over at her. ‘No, Zofia. I’m not here as a policewoman.’

  Zofia shook her head knowingly, still staring at the screen. ‘Once police, always police.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Eve said.

  Zofia swivelled around in her chair to face Eve, her face red with emotion. ‘I don’t get why you here. Who sent you? Why you interested in Sean Farrell, may I ask?’ She gesticulated with her hand for emphasis.

  ‘No Zofia, you may not ask,’ Dan said sharply, twisting around to look at her. ‘I told you before why Eve’s here.’

  ‘I don’t believe her,’ Zofia said, her chin jutting out like a stubborn child’s.

  ‘Well I do,’ Dan said. ‘And that’s all that matters. So, just shut the fuck up for once.’

  Zofia shook her head angrily. ‘OK. But you are fool, Dan. You see. She get us all in trouble.’ Her ample chest heaving, she faced her computer again, muttering something to herself in Polish, the apparently universal words ‘idiot’ and ‘cretin’ discernible in the mix.

  Eve stood up and stretched her arms and shoulders. ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’m off home. You’re on your own now, Dan.’

  ‘You’re chucking in the towel?’

  ‘No. I’ll carry on doing whatever I need to do. I’m just finished working with you, unless you come clean. It’s your choice.’

  Dan studied her for a moment. She saw a mixture of emotions cross his face. Perhaps he thought she didn’t mean it, or perhaps he didn’t care any longer. Zofia was staring at him, eyes stretched wide, willing him to keep quiet.

  Eve picked up her bag and coat and turned to go. She was almost out of the door when Dan called out.

  ‘Wait!’

  She turned around. He stubbed out the remains of his cigarette and slowly and stiffly stood up.

  ‘Don’t trust her, Dan,’ Zofia shouted, springing to her feet and taking a step towards him as though she physically intended to restrain him.

  Dan shook his head. ‘She’s right, Zofia. We’ve got to trust her. We’ve got nothing to lose.’

  ‘You being bloody stupid, Dan,’ Zofia shouted.

  ‘Maybe. It won’t be the first time. But there’s nowhere left to go. It’s just one more week.’ With a loud, throaty sigh he turned his back on Zofia and walked over to where Eve was standing. ‘Let’s go and get a drink.’

  He grabbed his coat from the hook by the door, waited for Eve to put on hers, then followed her down the stairs and into the street. They walked in silence for a couple of blocks until they came to a pub just after the Tube station. ‘This will do,’ Dan said abruptly, holding open the door for her.

  Inside, the lighting was dim. The cavernous, high-ceilinged room was almost empty, apart from a middle-aged man sitting at the bar reading a copy of the Evening Standard and a pencil-thin young girl, who looked no more than sixteen, wearing an apron, who was busy lighting the myriad of candles scattered around the room.

  ‘What will you drink?’ Dan asked.

  ‘Let me get these.’

  He held up his hand. ‘I can afford to buy you a drink,’ he said sharply.
‘It’s the least I can do.’

  ‘Diet Coke then, with ice and lemon,’ she replied, wondering if he was usually so touchy about everything.

  While he went up to get their drinks, she chose a table in a far corner of the room and sat down on a comfortable-looking velvet sofa. Van Morrison was blaring cheerily through the speakers, something about precious time slipping away, which was ironic, Eve thought. She hoped Dan wasn’t listening. She watched as he had a brief interchange with the young girl, who was now behind the bar, making her laugh flirtatiously at something, as he placed his order. His face lit up in response, giving her a wide, confident smile. Momentarily he looked like a very different Dan to the version she was used to dealing with.

  ‘Come and sit down here,’ she said quietly, pointing to the seat beside her when he returned with their drinks. She shifted her bag and coat to a nearby chair and moved over to make room. ‘I don’t want anyone to hear what we’re talking about.’

  He sank down next to her, leaned back heavily against the cushions and put his feet up on the seat of a chair opposite. He took a large mouthful of his drink then, with a heavy sigh, turned to face her.

  ‘I don’t know why you still want to carry on, after what’s happened to you.’

  ‘Because I have to,’ she said. ‘I’ll survive.’ As she said it, she knew she would. It struck her that she didn’t feel altered as a person, less of a woman, less able to confront the world, less anything, whatever somebody had done to her. She would not be defined or broken by what had happened, however fragile she felt inside. The will to keep going and move forward was still reassuringly there. ‘There are worse things.’ Seeing the shocked look on his face, she added: ‘Think about what happened to Mickey.’

  ‘I think of nothing else.’ He took another swig then put the glass down on the coffee table. ‘We’ve had difficult and disappointing cases in the past. But nothing ever like this. Four of us set up 4Justice, hence the “four”. Myself, Kristen, and two other journalists. We raised money for the charity and co-opted a load of experts as advisors, who were prepared to give their time for free. We thought we had it made, that we’d set the world to rights. Maybe we were naïve, seeing ourselves as crusaders for justice and that sort of crap, thinking we could really change things. We’ve helped free a number of people who shouldn’t have ever been put inside, so it hasn’t all been wasted. We have made a difference …’