Denial of Murder

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘You reckon?’ Victor Swannell, sitting beside Frankie Brunnie, cast his eyes around DS Darwish’s office. He saw it to be neat, functional and cold, with a police mutual calendar as the only decoration.

  ‘Well, I’d say so,’ Darwish replied cheerfully. ‘Most murders are handled locally – there are very few that require the expertise of you gentlemen from New Scotland Yard. In fact, we had one such murder last week. It was all wrapped up in half an hour.’

  ‘Half an hour?’ Brunnie gasped. ‘That was quick. I must say that you didn’t mess around there.’

  ‘It was all the time it needed.’ Darwish smiled. ‘Picture it, if you will. Two derelicts living in a bedsit, sharing a room plus cooking facilities in a house which was falling apart around them with wet rot and dry rot and subsidence and everything else that can make a house crumble into dust. It was, quite frankly, astounding that the building was still standing upright. It looked like a gentle breeze would knock it over. Anyway, it was condemned by the local authority and about to be demolished. The council had found alternative accommodation for those two old geezers. They were in their fifties and were to be rehoused separately. So they started to divide up the flat but they argued as to who should take the television and the argument escalated into a fight. One pulled a blade … quite a serious shiv … an old military bayonet, in fact … and it did the job it was designed for all right. One was dead and the other collects a life sentence, all over a battered old television, an old black and white set. It had no value at all. Even a charity shop would not accept it as a donation. I dare say it was all a matter of pride and principle rather than the value of the television as an item of property … but that is your average murder. Here, in Acton, all over the rest of London, all over the rest of the country, all over the rest of the world, in fact, and it was the nature of the murder of Janet Frost, pale little waif and stray that she was. She was the victim of Gordon Cogan and all he could say was, “I don’t remember doing it”. You know, I often wish real murders had the mystery and the richness of quality of the murders featured on TV dramas – that would make our job so much more interesting. But it’s always … nearly always, grubby, cheap and impulsive; humanity at its lowest, at its worst.’

  ‘Such was the murder of Janet Frost, you say,’ Brunnie replied. ‘I am so pleased you said “nearly” by the way.’

  ‘All right, I dare say that you need the occasional murder of quality,’ Darwish grinned, ‘but yes, that was the way of the murder of Janet Frost. It was just like that. Just as I have described. They lived on top of each other in a house full of lowlifes, alkies, smack heads and cheap brasses; it was a real den of thieves. The perpetrator, Gordon Cogan, had been a schoolteacher until he ran away with one of his pupils – took her to the west coast of Ireland. He was lifted by the Irish boys and when his case came to court he went in front of Mr Justice Father Christmas who says Cogan’s lost everything so no prison sentence is needed, and sends him down for six months backdated to the date of his arrest so he walks out of court that very day. Would you credit it?’ Darwish shook his head. ‘Raping and abducting a schoolgirl – he should have got a ten-year stretch for that at least. At the very minimum he should have collected a full decade. So he fetches up in a dosshouse in Acton Town and, lo and behold, who’s across the corridor but another little girl, so he goes into her drum and chokes the life out of her, doesn’t he? You see, that’s what lenient sentencing gets you – it gives out the wrong message, let’s ’em think they can do it and get away with it.’

  ‘You reckon?’ Victor Swannell said for the second time.

  ‘Yes, of course … I mean, if that little toe-rag Cogan had got the ten-year stretch he should have got, Janet Frost would still be alive … or then again maybe not given the way she was putting away the heroin, but she would have lived a bit longer anyway.’ Darwish leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desktop, clasping his huge hands together. He wore a light blue shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled up cuff over cuff and an expensive-looking watch around his left wrist. He beamed at Swannell and Brunnie. ‘I hope Mr Justice Father Christmas reassessed his sentencing values after that murder. He would have read about it. He let the little pervert out for abducting and raping a schoolgirl because he’s done six months on remand and within a matter of weeks he’s strangled another young girl. There was no clear motive, just theft, and a little passion possibly, when he was under the influence. He was no great shakes as an example of British manhood, he was a weedy little non-descript of a man, but despite that, Janet Frost was no match for him.’

  ‘A small girl?’ Brunnie asked.

  ‘About the size of your average twelve-year-old.’ Darwish held eye contact with Brunnie. ‘His DNA was all over her body and also all over her room: on her shelves, in her drawers, her cupboards, everywhere. And I mean everywhere. He’d rifled her room, plundered it, ransacked it, really gone to town and there she was in the middle of it, a little naked body with a massively bruised neck and his DNA all over her … not just round her neck but all over her … No indication of sex, though, but he went all over her room. Robbery when under the influence, or so we assumed, but she had nothing of value so he took a pair of her thongs back into his room … filthy little pervert … he runs off with a schoolgirl, then he murders a seventeen-year-old for a single item of her underwear.’ Darwish grinned and shrugged his shoulders, ‘Like I said. Open and shut.’

  ‘What did he say had happened?’ Brunnie asked.

  ‘He claimed he had no recollection, like I said,’ Darwish replied. ‘I slapped him around a bit but he still said he couldn’t remember anything.’

  ‘You did that?’ Swannell raised an eyebrow. ‘That could have backfired on you.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Darwish replied. ‘I mean, within these four walls, of course, I mean between you and me and the gatepost.’

  ‘Dangerous confession,’ Swannell growled. ‘It could still get you into bother.’

  ‘Come on, he got what was coming to him and it was a long time coming if you ask me … a very long time coming … the rape of a schoolgirl … then he murders a teenager for her underwear … and all he could bleat was, “I don’t remember, I don’t remember”. But it was a solid conviction, and so we were well happy. Why all the interest in the little toe-rag? Is he under suspicion for another felony?’

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ Brunnie replied coldly. ‘He’s dead. He’s been murdered.’

  ‘Has he now?’ Darwish smiled a broad smile and once more put his hands behind his head. ‘Well, there’s justice for you, as my old Welsh grandfather would have said.’ Darwish’s smile was broad enough to reveal a gold-capped molar.

  ‘Yesterday,’ Swannell added, deadpan. ‘The body was found in the street in Wimbledon.’

  ‘That was Cogan?’ Darwish slapped one of his mighty palms on his desktop. ‘I heard about that on the radio. No name was mentioned, just that a body had been found … police appealing for witnesses, et cetera. Well, that’s a turn-up for the books and no mistake … and Wimbledon … Acton to Wimbledon, that is quite a social climb. Didn’t he go up in the world?’

  ‘Hardly,’ Brunnie replied, ‘he was living in a bail hostel in Kentish Town when he was iced. We believe his body was dumped in Wimbledon after he was murdered elsewhere.’

  ‘I see,’ Darwish replied.

  ‘There were no CCTV cameras where his body was dumped,’ Swannell explained. ‘Somebody knew what they were doing – someone was CCTV savvy.’

  ‘So …’ Darwish pursed his lips, ‘someone didn’t like him. That I can well understand. But yes, I gave him a right pasting in the cells when he came back from the Magistrates Court after his solicitor had left.’ Darwish paused, noting the expressions on Swannell and Brunnie’s faces. ‘Well, he was getting away with too much, wasn’t he? Abducting and raping a schoolgirl … then he strangles a tiny little seventeen-year-old. She could have turned her life around, or she’d be dead within a year anyway … we’ll n
ever know … but the point is that time was on her side, it could still all have been ahead of her. With treatment and rehab she could have had a life. Cogan got money for a bottle and when he’s tanked up and gets a bit angry about this and that and forces his way into her room, very usefully for us he drops his DHSS signing-on card on her carpet, chokes the life out of her and steals her undies. His DNA is all over the shop … I mean, everywhere, like I said … and would you credit it, does he even try to help himself? No … the stupid oaf pleads not guilty. Anyway, he was found guilty, goes up before Mr Justice Very Sensible this time and collects a life sentence. He changes his plea once inside, works the system and gets parole after fifteen years. Me, I would have thrown the key into Old Father Thames and left him to rot. That’s the sort of justice that I understand.’

  ‘Yes,’ Brunnie replied sourly, ‘I think that you would have done just that. I can quite easily see you doing just that.’

  ‘The fact is, gentlemen,’ Darwish snarled, and in doing so revealed an alarming side to his personality, ‘that you know and I know that there are just some people who should not be let out on to the street, and Gordon Cogan is … was one of them. So he’s been topped – why am I not surprised? Why am I not very, very, very upset? What happened to the little pillock?’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ Brunnie replied, ‘but he was filled in with great determination. Someone made a right jigsaw puzzle of his skull.’

  ‘Right now we are just gathering as much information as we can,’ Swannell explained calmly. ‘We’re looking for a motive … getting some background information … you know the score.’

  ‘It was probably a bit of good old-fashioned street justice,’ Darwish offered. ‘A guy like that will upset a lot of people; he will make a lot of enemies. All those girls … all those angry relatives …’

  ‘All what girls?’ Brunnie asked. ‘He had other victims?’

  ‘Well, on the basis that we only ever get to hear of about ten per cent of what goes on, it’s highly likely that Cogan had other victims,’ Darwish explained, ‘and each victim would have had a father or an older brother …’

  ‘I see,’ Brunnie replied. ‘But speaking of victims, what can you recall about his victim in the bedsit, Janet Frost? Apart from the fact she was very small and that she was a heroin addict?’

  ‘Not much else.’ Darwish picked up the handset of the phone on his desk. ‘Just a moment, please …’ He pressed a four-figure number and when his call was answered he said, ‘Hello, DS Darwish here. Can you send up the file on the Janet Frost murder? It will be dated about fifteen years ago. A geezer called Cogan was convicted, so it will be filed under his name, C.O.G.A.N. OK. Great, thanks muchos, me old china, muchos.’ He replaced the handset and informed Brunnie and Swannell that the file was being sent up from the collator’s office.

  ‘Just DNA?’ Brunnie asked.

  ‘Sorry?’ Darwish clasped his meaty hands together on his desktop. ‘What do you mean, just DNA?’

  ‘I mean was it the DNA evidence alone which convicted Cogan of the murder?’ Brunnie clarified.

  ‘And his signing-on card in her room, and her clothing in his room and his previous convictions, the whole snowball effect … but yes, mainly the DNA evidence was used to obtain the conviction,’ Darwish advised. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Were his fingerprints found in her room?’ Brunnie pressed.

  ‘I don’t think we dusted for them, come to think of it,’ Darwish replied. ‘They were not produced in evidence.’

  ‘You didn’t dust for his prints?’ Swannell could not contain his surprise. ‘I would have thought that that was an elementary step.’

  ‘Hey …’ Darwish held up his hand, ‘don’t shoot the messenger, squire. Don’t shoot the messenger. I was only a junior detective constable at the time; in fact, I was only very recently promoted from uniform. I was not the officer in charge of the investigation … he is long retired … but as I recall we broke in after a tip-off. Found him hung-over … barely with us, and her knickers on his bedroom floor. We found her body in the next room. The white coats found his DNA everywhere, like I said, and his DNA was on the database because of his previous offences. So it was like game, set and match. No need for fingerprint evidence … no need for independent witnesses.’

  ‘That conviction wouldn’t stand today,’ Brunnie said calmly. ‘All you really had was the DNA and that by itself isn’t sufficient for a conviction. Not these days, not in the UK.’

  ‘It was all that was needed fifteen years ago,’ Darwish replied in a defensive manner. ‘We were well happy with the result. Very well happy. And he changed his plea to guilty anyway, so fingerprints or no fingerprints, it was a good result. It was a result we can live with.’

  There was a soft, referential tap on Darwish’s office door, in response to which Darwish shouted, ‘Come in!’ The door opened and a tall, Nordic-featured young policewoman, dressed in a white shirt and a black skirt entered the room carrying a manila folder. ‘The file you asked for, sir.’ She spoke in a strong, Irish accent as she handed the file to Darwish.

  ‘Thanks, Clodagh.’ Darwish took the file from the hand of the policewoman who turned and left the office quietly, shutting the door behind her. Darwish pointed with relish to the closed door and said, ‘That’s the fittest bit of skirt in this nick … lovely … I like ’em like that.’ He held up the file. ‘And I like files like this. See how thin this file is? Open and shut. You often get a file on a murder case as thin as this because murders are the easiest of crimes to solve. It’s … it’s lovely, that’s what it is … lovely … a thing of beauty … like Irish Clodagh there … a thing of beauty. So we put a nasty away for life, then he comes over all guilty and repents, wins parole, out to rape and murder again except some good citizen tops him.’ Darwish laid the file on his desktop and opened it. ‘Yes, here we are … victim … Janet Frost, seventeen … next of kin out in Dagenham.’ Darwish turned the file round and handed it to Brunnie. ‘You think her family had it in for Cogan?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ Brunnie took the file and copied the address of Janet Frost’s next of kin into his notebook. ‘But … well, such is not unknown … as you have suggested … such has happened before. We can’t jump to any conclusions, largely because there was a development during the night, which has complicated things somewhat.’

  ‘Or clarified them,’ Swannell added, ‘depending on how you look at it.’

  ‘Oh?’ Darwish queried. ‘A development?’

  ‘Yes …’ Brunnie handed the file back to Darwish, ‘a woman’s body was found in the same place … the exact same location that Gordon Cogan’s body was found … the exact spot … and a motor vehicle was found burned out at exactly the same place where the vehicle which we believed was used to transport Gordon Cogan’s body was abandoned and set on fire.’

  ‘Oh …’ Darwish leaned back in his chair. ‘Now that is most interesting. I see your point, gentlemen.’ Once again he cupped his hands behind his head. ‘I see what you mean, that is a bit iffy, very iffy indeed. It suggests a link between the two bodies … it suggests a very strong link indeed.’

  ‘Exactly our thinking,’ Brunnie added as he stood up, ‘but we can’t afford to overlook the possibility that the Frost family took their revenge and we’ll be paying a call on them. We are keeping an open mind.’

  ‘Thanks for the background information and the details of Janet Frost’s relatives.’ Swannell smiled as he also stood. ‘It’s much appreciated.’

  John Shaftoe pondered the corpse which lay face up on the stainless steel table. He saw a particularly dark-skinned, large-boned Afro-Caribbean woman in her middle years. He glanced at Tom Ainsclough who, as had been requested, was observing the post-mortem for the police.

  ‘She was found in the very same place that the body of Gordon Cogan was found,’ Ainsclough said.

  ‘Yes … yes,’ Shaftoe turned his attention back to the corpse, ‘I noticed that when I attended the scene this mo
rning. I assume that the police are linking the two incidents?’

  ‘We have to assume a link until we know otherwise, sir.’ Ainsclough turned his head as he choked briefly on the formaldehyde-laden air in the pathology laboratory, ‘but a link seems extremely likely.’

  ‘Yes … yes … I would think that that would be the sensible thing. It seems far too coincidental otherwise.’ Shaftoe continued to look at the corpse. ‘Do we have any identification yet?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Ainsclough nodded. ‘We took her fingerprints this morning at the scene … well, that is to say at the location where she was found. She is quite well known to us. She is one Cherry Quoshie, aged thirty-seven years.’

  ‘How are you spelling that?’ Shaftoe asked. ‘It’s an unusual name.’

  Ainsclough told him.

  ‘OK, the deceased is one Cherry Quoshie … that’s Q.U.O.S.H.I.E.,’ Shaftoe spoke into the microphone, ‘pronounced ‘Kwoshie. So the name, the next case number and today’s date, if you please, Helen … she is thirty-seven years of age.’