by Neil Watson
Siobhan beamed as she raised her glass and repeated affectionately: “To our Young Sherlock!” It was becoming a habit for Oliver to blush, as he did so one more time.
More wine flowed throughout the evening over dinner. When Ursula’s husband John came home later, he was also in a fine mood. He’d been at his local tavern watching a satellite stream of his beloved West Ham United play soccer against Arsenal, winning two goals to one. All in all, Oliver was enjoying immensely what had turned out to be a great evening with his new work associates, now friends.
And the great evening was just about to get better still when the hospitality at Ursula and John’s ended, and started at Siobhan’s. After saying goodbye to Ursula and John, he and Siobhan walked the mile or so down the road in the clear evening, lit by the moon, both relaxed in each other’s company but not entirely sober. Half way, Siobhan linked her arm through Oliver’s and tugged him closer so she could kiss him, and not just a little peck on the cheek this time.
Oliver responded positively, and looked forward to getting even closer to her. Ten minutes later, the couple were indoors, and Siobhan made a beeline to make them both a filter coffee, put some relaxing music on and adjust the lighting. Everything was clearly set for a night of passion as she gently took Oliver by the hand and led him to a huge sofa that occupied a large portion of the living room. Oliver’s head was in a whirl, partly as a result of the alcohol consumed earlier, but more with anticipation and excitement as he watched Siobhan lift off her top and unhook her bra, to reveal the most exquisite breasts he’d ever seen.
“Come on,” whispered Siobhan in her beautiful half American, half Irish accent that sent quivers through her guest. “Don’t keep a girl waiting!” As Oliver began to also undress, at first removing his shoes and socks, he felt a tingling from within his trouser pocket. He’d previously turned his phone to ‘vibrate’ while having dinner earlier and had meant to return it to ringtone, but had forgotten. Although full of the moment’s excitement, he was suddenly brought back to earth as he realised that this could be a response to his television appearances.
He checked the phone and didn’t recognise the number displayed. At least it wasn’t Sam calling—that could have been awkward. He looked across at Siobhan with raised eyebrow asking for her approval to take the potentially important call. Siobhan thought it would be funny to flirt with him while he was doing his best to maintain a cool and calm voice when he answered, and nodded for him to go ahead. As Oliver began to speak with a tentative “Hello?” Siobhan proceeded to strip off her skirt and dance naked, except for some skimpy panties, only a couple of feet in front of him, while at the same time reaching over to unbuckle Oliver’s leather brown belt. The second time Oliver said “hello?” his voice was considerably higher. His appreciation of Siobhan’s performance was quickly showing an effect, much to the delight of his hostess, while he did his best to concentrate on listening to the caller.
Much to Siobhan’s disappointment, Oliver then sat bolt upright, and the reaction she’d been successfully creating thus far disappeared. Oliver turned his iPhone slightly away from his ear so that she could also eavesdrop in on the conversation.
“Listen up, y’hear,” they heard a gruff, deep voice say to Oliver. Before Oliver had a chance to respond, the voice continued. “You’re the Young Sherlock, yeah? Well, I got some information for you that’ll lead you to the real killer. If you wanna know more, meet me on Monday at The Old Parlor on Main Street. You got that? Capeesh?”
Oliver was alarmed but thrilled. Not knowing where The Old Parlor was, he raised his eyes quizzically at Siobhan, who was now reaching for her blouse in order to cover up. She exaggeratedly mouthed back the word “Paris” at him.
“Is that in the town of Paris?” Oliver asked the caller.
“Man, you’re smart,” the voice answered. “At noon. Don’t be late!” the caller demanded.
“Okay, I won’t. But what’s your name? And how will I recognise you?” Oliver asked.
“You won’t,” came the response. “But I’ll recognise you from the TV. Don’t be late,” he repeated. And with that, the phone call was ended abruptly. Oliver stared at the phone, then looked at Siobhan, not at all comfortable with the formidable tone of his caller.
Siobhan wanted to get the atmosphere back on track and began unbuttoning her blouse once more, but Oliver’s feeling of unease prevented him from responding in the way she had hoped. Instead of being in the present moment, his mind was racing ahead to Monday. He was sure that something was meant to be happening on Monday and he was desperately trying to recall what. He looked at the calendar app on his phone. “Oh, no!” he cried out. “That’s when I’m going to Stateville to meet with Emanuele at ten in the morning. I’ll never be able to get back in time.”
He tapped the key on his phone to get back in touch with the caller. After two rings it answered. “Err, I’m sorry,” began Oliver, apologetically. “I’d forgotten that I can’t make Monday. Can we meet Tuesday instead please?” Despite his politeness, the request fell on deaf ears.
“Look, Sherlock. I ain’t in no mood for games. It’s Monday or never. And if you’re smart and wanna know the truth, I’d suggest you be there.” The red phone button then appeared on screen, indicating that the man had again terminated the conversation.
“Oh, no!” was, once again, all Oliver could think of saying.
CHAPTER 32
(SUNDAY, 21ST JANUARY, 2018)
Case Review
R ealising that their evening’s romantic activities were unlikely to be resumed, Siobhan disappeared to the kitchen to make them both a chamomile tea to replace the coffee that had by now gone cold. While waiting for the kettle to boil, she had an idea, and called into the living room. “Well, I could go,” she suggested. Oliver looked through the half open doorway at the skimpily dressed beauty as she was pouring the hot water into two red mugs.
“No, I couldn’t possibly let you do that,” Oliver answered, after carefully considering her suggestion. “I didn’t like the tone of his voice, and besides, he also made it clear that I’d have to meet him, and no one else.”
“No, not to meet Mystery Caller, silly,” Siobhan giggled. “I meant I could go to Stateville in your place. Now that you’ve made the arrangements for Emanuele to be visited, we mustn’t pass up such an opportunity. If you cancel now, there may not be a second chance before you return to England, so I suggest we strike while the iron’s hot.”
Oliver was bitterly disappointed at the prospect of not meeting Emanuele himself, but he also knew Siobhan was correct. At the end of the day, he concluded, he had to do what was right for the overall story—the big picture, as they liked to call it in America. “Hmm, well…err… he started, very slowly at first, dragging out his words for what seemed ages to Siobhan as she brought the hot drinks through. “. . . Well, I suppose you’re right. I guess I would have to call the Stateville office first thing in the morning and inform them of the change of visitor, and I’ll just have to hope it will be okay with them. But don’t forget it could all be a wasted journey for you—the officer did say there was no guarantee that Emanuele would actually meet me, let alone you. That’s his prisoner’s right.”
“Well, it’s still worth a shot!” Siobhan began. “Okay then, that’s settled. Now, we should drink our tea and get some sleep. I’ve got a busy day lined up for tomorrow, helping Aunt Ursula at the office. Sundays don’t count when you’ve got a newspaper to bring out. And now I think it’ll be best if I travel up and stay at a motel tomorrow evening somewhere near the prison, so that I’ve got no worries about driving north in the Monday morning rush-hour traffic.”
“Crikey! I’d lost track of the days,” exclaimed an alarmed Oliver. I forgot that today is already Saturday. Oh blimey, it’s a good job one of us is on the ball. What would I do without you?”
“Oh ‘blimey’!?” Siobhan repeated Oliver’s expression, accentuating it, then added, with a laugh, a mock Dick Van Dyke ‘Cor blimey, mate, luv-a
-duck!’ “I do love your English sayings. Come on, let’s get some rest.” Having no intention of making up the sofa bed in the lounge, with their teas finished, she led him by the hand upstairs. Before falling asleep, she hoped she might reawaken his interest in at least having a romantic bedroom cuddle.
Despite the late hour, Oliver was unable to resist Siobhan’s charm, and by the time they fell asleep in each other’s arms the two individuals had now become a couple.
The following morning they repeated their energetic activities of the previous night. After dressing and going downstairs for breakfast, Oliver reached for his phone and called Stateville prison.
The administration secretary was very helpful.
“So you want to alter the visitor from yourself to Miss Siobhan O’Mahoney, your colleague? Alright then Sir, we’ll be expecting her tomorrow morning, then. We’ll inform Mr. Emanuele. He won’t believe it—he hasn’t had a visitor in ages.”
***
Across town, Paul Copeland had already left for work by the time his wife had woken. As he was a realtor, Sundays were often one of his busiest days of the week. Katie got up and greeted the morning like she normally did with a hot shower followed by ‘putting on her face’, as she called it—rummaging through the countless jars of make-up strewn all over her dressing table before settling on her old faithfuls, Nivea moisturiser and Avon foundation.
Every day, Katie picked up the Avon jar and every day she sang the doorbell chimes of the advertisement, and every day that amused her. Then, her little luxury would be to dab a tiny amount of her very expensive Prada perfume behind her ears. Perfume was never something that her husband thought to buy her—so she would buy it herself, but without complaint. She found it gave her a feeling of pleasure and self-empowerment that she rather enjoyed.
As she sought the correct bottles among the many others that had been previous birthday gifts from her children, she glanced down and noticed the newspaper cutting that had been left on the chair by her husband. She almost missed it as it was gradually becoming buried under the pile of clothes that she’d picked up off the floor. Sitting on the end of the bed to read it, her mouth opened in astonishment to see that the old case she’d worked on was once again back in the news all these years later.
After applying her fragrance, she decided to cancel the shopping trip planned for the morning, and instead examine the old files that related to the Bike Radio Murder. She was sure that she’d transferred the details digitally, and when she turned her iMac on, she found that indeed she had. Studying the documents, the recollections of her forensic investigation gradually resurfaced. There had only been a handful of her cases where Katie hadn’t been totally convinced that all the facts had emerged. And this, she remembered, had been one of them.
At the time, Katie had had her suspicions that there might have been another male present in the murder victim’s house around the time of the killing, but having no positive evidence with which to prove her hunch, she’d hit a dead-end. Of course, she had verbally discussed her thoughts with John Moores, the police chief at the time of the investigation, but without firm facts upon which to act, he had gone ahead and charged the one person they were unanimously certain was present. That person had been charged, prematurely in Katie’s opinion, but by then she was off working on the next case. The chief, Katie remembered thinking then, had been too keen to close the investigation and add another tick to his list of successful prosecutions. To this day, it was an opinion she still held, and would soon share again.
Further immersed in the files on her iMac, she then came across her own personal ‘off-the-record’ notes that she’d written in 1981, a couple of weeks after the murder. They reminded her of the utter frustration she’d experienced working with a man so much more senior than herself—but, at the time, had she been too weak to speak out against him?
Katie’s still perfectly-clear pencil-written notes to herself gave the same uncertain feeling now as they had done when she had scribbled them down so many years ago:
Sandy Beach Murder Case
1.Fingerprints found on fragments of the plastic pieces (cycle radio) match Yakamoto and Beach, plus there are other prints from person unknown. Moores says this could have been anyone, such as from where it was bought.
2.Based on print clarity and relative freshness, possibility that cycle-radio had also been held by person unknown with some force. Moores suggests extra pressure used when radio was fitted to handlebar at the shop that sold it in Allentown, and he would investigate. I’m still waiting to hear from him.
3.Semen found on waterbed mattress and on Kleenex found at side of bed possibly came from two different men. Moores suggests one sample could have been much older from a previous boyfriend but I believe they were both recent.
4.Hair strands on clothes in bedroom and in blood pool in kitchen was brown in colour. Yakamoto’s and Beach’s hair colour was black. Moores says this could be from anyone coming into contact with victim over time, e.g. at dentist where Beach worked.
5.Beach’s blood found on front door threshold in small dots approx. half an inch diameter—likely to have come from a shoe sole partially stepped in blood on floor where victim was found. Trainers worn by Yakamoto when arrested had similar pattern but dots were slightly larger in size, and were more hexagonal than round. Moores didn’t have an explanation and says he would investigate further, and this was left with him. I have heard no more from him.
I believe that someone else could have been at the scene, and possibly at the same time as when the murder had been committed, but I don’t have the evidence to substantiate that theory. I also think that Moores was too ready to explain away my findings.
Katie Copeland, April 29th, 1981
Katie recalled her emotions of frustration as if they were yesterday. This had been one of the early cases she’d worked on after graduating, and she had been too timid and inexperienced to challenge the chief’s assertions. Had he undermined her work? She remembered him saying in no uncertain terms that she should move on to her next case and leave the hard work now to him. How patronising! He had also hinted at how much influence he had over her career path, a career, he’d pointed out, that had only just begun.
Belittled by Moores, she had vowed never to let that happen again, and fortunately with each subsequent case she worked on she had become stronger. She looked across to her bottle of Prada and acknowledged that a psychologist would have a field day analysing her.
Katie’s empowerment had been gradual, but the dabs behind her ears had somehow kept the Chief Moores of this world at bay ever since.
The thrill of working on such cases came flooding back, and Katie remembered just why she’d studied so hard for the qualifications to do the job she was so proud of—it was something she’d wanted to do from as far back as she could remember, even as a young teenager watching detective stories on television.
She liked the fact that in the world of forensics there was either right or wrong—no in-between. Of course, there would often be an element of speculation and supposition with any case, but what she loved was the possibility of getting to the truth with the use of science.
Looking back over her personal notes, Katie knew she had to check out the DNA of the hair samples and the semen samples. Now that there was someone else, coming all that way from England, who was also keen to get to the truth, she had to act. She made a quick call to her friend David at the lab, guessing that on a Sunday morning he wouldn’t be too busy to grant her a favour—especially if she put on some extra charm in the way she knew he’d find hard to resist. David, it had to be said, adored his food.
“David. Hey there, darling. You know how much I love working with you,” Katie joked. “I’ve got a little something I’d like you to help me with, and I’ll make it worth your while. If you could pull out the box from Stores marked ‘Beach, 1981’, I’ll bring in your favourite Caramel Latte and two Crispy Cremes. No, I’ll make that three!” With such an incen
tive, Katie knew she had David like putty in the palm of her hand. “I’ll be there in half an hour,” she said before quickly hanging up, not giving her foodie friend any time to protest.
Katie’s head buzzed with excitement. How thrilling that the science of DNA had moved on at such a pace in recent years. And with modern technology she knew it would take less than a couple of hours to get some test results—especially if David pulled out all the stops for her, and she’d do her best to make him want to.
She picked up the newspaper article again, and called the number written in italics at the bottom of the page. “Hello? Mr. Markland?” she asked boldly. Without waiting for an answer, she continued. “I may have some information for you.”
***
After having successfully arranged for Siobhan to visit Stateville prison in place of himself, Oliver had gone upstairs to take a shower, leaving his iPhone on the breakfast table next to the packet of Cheerios. After it had rung several minutes later, Siobhan picked it up, but before she’d had any chance to say a word, the woman caller obviously thought she was talking to Oliver.
“Woah! Hold on!” Siobhan stopped her. “Hang on a second. This is Mr. Markland’s phone—but not Mr. Markland himself. Can I get him to call you back in a minute please? He shouldn’t be long.” Just then, Oliver appeared in the room, his hair still wet and with just his underpants on. Siobhan swooned as she turned round and caught a glimpse of his near-naked body.
“Who is it?” he mouthed. Covering the phone with her hand, Siobhan told him it was a woman with some information.
“Great!” said a delighted Oliver as he was handed the phone. This was just getting better and better by the minute. While Siobhan looked in admiration at Oliver’s physique, she also listened intently to a series of ‘Oohs’, ‘Aahs’, and ‘Reallys?’, as well as a few ‘goshes’ that amused her greatly. However, because she was unable to hear the other half of the conversation, she could hardly wait for Oliver to give her the full lowdown on what the call was all about.