He turned to Freneton. “Ma’am?”
As the detective superintendent stood, Jennifer made the normal assessment of a fellow female. She was tall — about five nine or ten, Jennifer estimated — and there was clearly no waste on her. Her obsession with physical training was well known, as were her unarmed-combat skills — her tendency not to pull her punches in training had left more than one of her trainers with a reason to dislike her.
Jennifer herself was no slouch when it came to personal defence. She had passed all the police training with the highest marks and she had dabbled in karate, but had never really had the time to take it to a serious level. She noted the fluidity of Freneton’s movements under her handmade, dark grey cashmere suit trousers and jacket, and reckoned that although the woman was around fifteen years her senior, her extra height and reach, combined with an uncompromising ruthlessness, would make her a difficult opponent. Not that Jennifer had any thoughts of taking her on. It wasn’t wise to engage in a fistfight with your senior officers.
Jennifer’s eyes moved to the superintendent’s face and hair. Her close-cropped but expensively cut dark brown hair showed no sign of help with its colour that she could see – everything looked real all the way to the roots. But it was her eyes that really caught Jennifer’s attention. Pale blue, they were cold and humourless as she continued to look slowly around the team before speaking. No wonder she’s known as the Ice Queen, thought Jennifer. The sarge reckons she lowers the temperature of any room by ten degrees, minimum.
Olivia Freneton didn’t have to wait for silence as she stood; everyone was motionless, any thoughts of comments to neighbours after the DCI’s speech abandoned.
“I want to add to what DCI Hurst has said by congratulating you all on your work so far in this case,” she began, her voice without accent; flat and emotionless. “To have an arrest this quickly is not only good for the reputation of the force, it will reassure the public that we will not tolerate vicious criminals on our streets.
“As you know, I am new to this city, still learning the ropes, but the reputation for results you as a squad have achieved in the short time you have been together is clearly well deserved. I am impressed with your teamwork and I feel confident that you will only build on the already strong foundation of the case against this man Silk in the coming days. I understand that as a public figure in the entertainment world, despite his reputation within the industry, he still has a strong fan following. It’s important that there be no sympathy vote for him, that the press don’t suddenly want to fight his corner. We need to show the world what a cold, calculating killer Silk is, so the more you find, the better.
“To that end, I should like to underline the need for the three of you heading for Silk’s house to be as thorough as possible in your search. As DCI Hurst said, the weapon initially used on Miruna Peptanariu has yet to be found. At present, all we know is that it had a rounded end. It’s unlikely to be as large as a baseball bat, but it could be similar. Or it could be one of the many types of truncheon available online. Look for anything similar in his house; he might have more than one, and check any computers for a history of searching for them, or online purchases. You never know, he might have slipped up; he’s certainly shown himself to be rather sloppy so far. Also look for any heavy-duty plastic bags. I spoke to the pathologist and he reckons that something fairly thick would be a better choice when suffocating someone that way; less chance of it being bitten through.
“More generally, I should add that the senior command are delighted with progress so far and they have indicated to me that you have their full support. We’ll devote whatever time and resources are necessary to completing the case against this man so that we, and the public, can rest assured that he will pay for his crime.”
She turned and nodded to Hurst before marching out of the room.
Sergeant Bottomley broke into Jennifer’s thoughts. “Come on, Cotton, now we’ve had the benefit of advice from on high, you’re going to show me your driving skills, and if you’re lucky, I’ll stand lunch once we’re done at Silk’s place.”
Jennifer grinned at him. “Lead on, sarge.”
She liked Bottomley; he was old school, a career sergeant, not a go-getter, but a solid workhorse who recognised talent when he saw it and who was willing to share his extensive experience with his juniors. Freneton could learn a thing or two from him, she thought. You’d think that with all the courses she’d been on, one of them would have covered basic smiling.
The next two days were taken up with legwork, searching, collating, endless phone calls and trawling through public and restricted databases. The Thursday morning briefing was delayed by two hours after Hurst was advised that a raft of forensic results would be ready that morning. He wanted the team to enjoy them all.
Finally, at eleven thirty, everyone was gathered in the briefing room. The mood was even more positive than it had been two days before, unconstrained this time owing to the absence of superintendent Freneton who was attending a meeting of a Home Office committee on which she sat.
Hurst marched in armed with a burgeoning file that he banged down on the desk alongside him.
“Right,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Rob, perhaps you’d like to start with what’s been found about Silk’s background.”
McPherson stood. “There’s nothing particularly profound in Silk’s recent history, and I should say here that any thoughts of linking him with other prostitute murders in the city can be forgotten — he wasn’t here when they happened and he has solid alibis for all of them. In fact, when two of them occurred, he wasn’t even in the country.
“However, there’s something in his history that might be significant. We’ve discovered that he was married for three years back in the eighties to an Antonia Frances Caldmore. They were divorced in 1988, a month after the car crash in which Silk was driving that killed the actor Dirk Sanderley. It was this accident that buggered Silk’s career. Up until then, he had been a rising star.
“Because he was driving and under the influence of drugs and alcohol, he was blamed. Sanderley was also stoked with booze and drugs, but that seems to have added fuel to the anti-Silk lobby — they blamed him for Sanderley’s habit. Lucky for him, he’s a good actor and through persistence over the years, he has made a living in the profession, but there are plenty of people who would rather not see his face on the TV or in films, especially directors.
“Getting back to his marriage, what’s interesting is that we’ve tried to find Ms Caldmore, but she seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. There’s no one with that name matching her age and description living in the UK, her passport expired in the early nineties and wasn’t renewed, and there are no credit cards or bank accounts that we can find. Nothing. There was a driving licence issued back in the late seventies to someone of that name, but it was the old booklet type that’s never been renewed and the address never updated.
“We’ve tried seeing if she changed her name, but Deed Poll records can be difficult, and back then, when they were far less computerised, records remained in local offices. It would be a huge job to follow it up.”
Hurst interrupted. “What does Silk say, Rob?”
“He says that he has no idea where she is. According to him she went abroad after the divorce, although she hardly spoke to Silk at all after the car crash. It seems she hated her ex and wanted nothing more to do with him.”
Hurst frowned. “Seems odd that his ex-wife could disappear so completely from his life. Were there any kids?”
McPherson shook his head. “None that we know of.”
“Wonder if he did for her as well,” piped up Bottomley. “Maybe he was responsible for the death of the other actor like the acting community thinks. If Sanderley was doing better than he was, perhaps he was jealous. Perhaps Sanderley was banging his ex-wife.”
McPherson sighed. “Ifs and buts and maybes, Neil, and it all happened over twenty-five years ago. His ex-wife�
�s disappearance wasn’t regarded as suspicious at the time; certainly there was no investigation.”
Hurst nodded his agreement. “Exactly, Rob. It’s not relevant to the present case and we don’t want to get distracted trying to dig up stuff from the dark ages. We’ll keep a note in the file and move on.”
Jennifer Cotton raised her hand from the notepad on which she’d been scribbling.
“May I add to that, boss, that we found nothing at Silk’s house regarding his ex-wife — no papers, letters, no old photos stuffed away in a box, nothing.”
“Looks like he blotted her out of his memory too,” grunted Hurst. “OK, Neil, let’s hear the good news about Silk’s house.”
The sergeant opened his notebook, although he knew it by heart.
“Basically, we found clothing that matched that shown in the various CCTV footage. By found, I mean there was no attempt to hide it and it hadn’t been washed.
“There was a pair of jeans, a pullover and T-shirt all lying on a chair in Silk’s bedroom, and a cream linen jacket hung over the back of the chair along with a woollen scarf. There was a dark blue baseball cap on a chest of drawers in the same room. They’ve all been bagged and seized, along with other items that are similar from Silk’s wardrobe and chest of drawers. But I reckon the stuff lying over the chairs is what we were after, and I’ve flagged it for priority processing by the lab.”
“Excellent,” said Hurst. “Anything else?”
“Nothing of interest on his computer, and no stash of baseball bats, if that’s what you mean.”
A mild titter of amusement floated around the room.
Hurst silenced them by raising a palm.
“Well, as you know, I like to leave the best bit to last. The new lab on the ring road is proving very efficient. What they’ve found so far is absolutely clinching the case.
“We’ve got what appears to be Silk’s hair on Miruna’s clothing — it’s the right colour and length, although without roots they can’t of course do the DNA; there are traces of theatrical make-up on the faux fur collar of Miruna’s jacket that match make-up found on Silk’s pullover; there are synthetic fibres from that collar in the car; there was one of Miruna’s dyed orange hairs in the car too and there are fibres on the knees of Miruna’s jeans that match the carpet in the X-Trail’s footwell. In addition, there is DNA matching Miruna’s on the shoe found in the X-Trail and last but not least, Miruna’s fingerprints in the car.
“So, we are now in absolutely no doubt that Miruna was in Silk’s car, that is, we’re not dealing with a stolen X-Trail that someone had stuck Silk’s number plates on. It’s definitely Silk’s car. What that means is that the images of the driver shown on the CCTV footage that look like Silk must be him.”
He paused, letting his team absorb the information. Then he continued, his voice triumphant.
“You might say that all that only points to the car and since the CCTV footage of the driver doesn’t show Silk’s face, there’s an outside chance it could be someone else. Well, there’s also the debris under Miruna’s fingernails. And what that contains, as well as fibres that we’ll be comparing with Silk’s pullover and scarf, is skin debris that is bloodstained. The lab has profiled the DNA and it’s Silk’s. No question; a perfect match.”
There was a collective ‘Yes!’ around the room as the team members all grinned at each other in delight. Hurst held up his hands again to quieten them.
“And thanks to DC Cotton’s eagle eyes,” he continued over the hubbub, “we have the source of the skin and blood — the scratches on Silk’s neck that he conveniently cannot explain.”
Jennifer was blushing at the mention of her name, but there was something else she wanted to know. She put her hand up.
“Yes, Cotton.”
“Did the barman from the Old Nottingham have anything useful to add, boss?”
Hurst pulled a face. “Unfortunately, not much. He normally shares a drink with Silk when he gets back from the theatre — Silk’s treat, apparently — which he did on Friday night as usual. According to him, Silk seemed perfectly normal, not pissed or anything. After he’d had his drink, he was busy checking in a busload of Korean businessmen for about an hour so he didn’t notice when Silk left the bar.
“The only thing he did say was that there was a woman in the bar when Silk arrived, a businesswoman in a smart business suit, is how he described her. Said she was middle-aged, but he couldn’t remember anything about her, like her height or hairstyle and colour. He doesn’t know if she spoke to Silk or when she left.
“However, we’ve checked the hotel CCTV and there’s footage of Silk going up in the lift alone at eleven forty-one. No sign of a business type then or at any time later.”
“Did we get a name?” asked Jennifer.
“No, the barman had never seen her before. She didn’t go up in the lift, so she probably took the stairs. But since the CCTV doesn’t cover the corridors, we don’t know which floor or which room she went to. However, given the chain of events, I don’t think she’s of any significance.”
“But we have a list of guests from the hotel on Friday night?” persisted Jennifer.
“Yes, Cotton … that is, I think we do.”
Hurst looked to McPherson for the answer.
“I’ve got it here, boss,” called out Derek Thyme.
“Is there a reason you think it’s important, Cotton?” asked Hurst.
“It’s only that Silk is adamant that he can’t remember anything from the time he left the theatre until late the following morning. But we now have the barman saying that he saw Silk returning, and there’s no indication from him that Silk is either drunk or the worse for wear in any way, which kind of contradicts what Silk says. I was thinking that if it became necessary, we could probably identify the woman from the guest list and ask her if she noticed Silk in the bar, spoke to him perhaps, and whether he was out of it or perfectly rational.”
“Good thought, Cotton,” said Hurst, once again impressed with Jennifer’s attention to detail. “However, given the barman says he was fine, I think for the time being we don’t need to go to the time, effort and cost of locating her. I’ll put a note in the file and we’ll follow it up later if necessary.”
C hapter 13
The following Friday, Jennifer was again asked to sit in with Rob McPherson for another interview with Henry Silk, now under arrest on suspicion of murdering Miruna Peptanariu. The entire team was hoping that with the huge amount of evidence they now had against Silk, he would capitulate and confess.
McPherson carefully went through all the formalities before reading out a detailed summary of the results they had gained so far. After each result on the list, he stopped to ask Henry if he could explain the findings. To McPherson’s irritation, the answer in each case was that he couldn’t.
By now, Henry had got over the initial shock of the weight of evidence against him and was starting to think more clearly. He knew full well that he wasn’t guilty of killing the girl. Apart from anything else, he didn’t use prostitutes, he never had, and he had no strong feelings about them or their trade. Everyone has to earn a crust.
The main thing that worried him was his lack of recall for many hours from late on Friday through to the middle of Saturday. Apart from the odd flashes in his mind of unconnected images that made no sense, he didn’t remember talking to anyone in the bar apart from Michael, and that was only briefly. However, he decided that he must in some way have been drugged and then a series of events set in place that involved killing the prostitute and framing him for the crime.
What he couldn’t understand was who and why. Yes, he had plenty of enemies in the industry, people who would rather he wasn’t around. But would they go to this extent, with all the inherent risks involved? If they hated him that much, why didn’t they simply have him killed? It would ultimately be less risky, although of course he would just be dead, whereas now he was likely to be spending many years in prison, his name and r
eputation ruined. That thought was both frightening and depressing. Perhaps that was what whoever had done this was trying to achieve. But why?
He had talked it through with Charles Keithley, who was not only his solicitor but also a good friend of many years. Together they had drawn up a list of everyone they could think of in Henry’s world — fellow actors, directors, producers, agents, distributors, film crew in general – who would have the means, opportunity, motive and intelligence to carry this out. Most failed the intelligence test while those remaining failed the rest.
“Quite frankly, Henry, there’s no one,” said Charles Keithley sitting back in the uncomfortable upright chair in the legal interview room at the prison where Henry was now being held. “There’s not a single soul on this list who has the wit to go through with it, let alone the opportunity and so on.”
He leaned forward and put his hand on Henry’s arm. “I know it wasn’t you, Henry. That’s not from some ill-considered faith in you. I know. I know you as a person and a friend. I know what you’re capable of and what you would and wouldn’t do. I knew you in your younger, wilder days, and I’ve seen how you have coped with adversity in the form of rejection by narrow-minded morons in your industry. I’ll help you as your solicitor in any way I can, but at the moment, like you, I’m totally at a loss. The police seem to have a cast-iron case with evidence that I agree must have been planted, but in such a clever way that it’s beyond my comprehension.”
“Thank you, Charles,” said Henry. “I appreciate that more than I can say. I know you will do all you can, that you will scrutinise everything the police have. And if you do clear my name, I want it to be because you’ve found out the truth, not because the police have made some procedural cock-up, which frankly must be incredibly hard not to do with all the hoops they have to jump through. That wouldn’t be enough; it would in many ways be worse since I’d be free but guilty in the eyes of the world. Certainly still ruined, never able to hold my head up wherever I went. No, we have to find the truth.”
Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller Page 9