“What do you want to know?”
“Can someone talk to your mother? She’s still alive, I take it?”
Her reply was a caustic snort. “Yes, she’s very much alive and you’re welcome to talk to her. But I don’t think it will help you.”
“Why?”
“She’s in a care home in Milan, a psychiatric care home. She’s suffering from a severe form of early onset dementia. She doesn’t know what day it is, and most of the time she doesn’t know who I am, let alone anyone else. So good luck.”
She folded her arms and looked away.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Jennifer. That’s terrible. How old is she?”
“Forty-eight.”
“Jesus. Milan you say?”
“I told you the other day I was brought up in Italy, in fact, I was born there. But I went to quite a smart international school and in many ways I consider myself as British as you are. Not that being Italian would be a problem for me. Once I’d decided that I wanted to be a police officer, a detective, in fact — much to my mother’s horror, and my stepfather’s — I thought seriously about joining the Italian police. But there are too many police forces there, mostly in competition with one another, and they’re all extremely male oriented. I couldn’t see a future, so I chose to come to England. I was at university here and it seemed the logical way to go.”
“Yeah,” said McPherson, “I can appreciate that, the male-oriented bit, I mean. I watch Montalbano on the telly, even though I have to read the subtitles. Not too many female detectives in that.”
Jennifer smiled. “Once in a while I have to resort to the subtitles too, even though my Italian’s fluent. It’s set in Sicily, as you know, and they use the Sicilian dialect sometimes, which is difficult.”
McPherson could sense she was relaxing slightly. “Tell me about your background.”
“As I said, I was born in Milan some months after my mother moved there in 1988. She’d previously worked as a fashion designer in a small fashion house in London.
“She was engaged to a doctor, Simon Jefford. According to her, he was a real looker and wonderful with it, and he seemed to get more so in my mother’s memory as the years went by. She had a difficult time at my birth; she nearly died and the doctors advised her to have no more children. But I’m jumping ahead.
“Before I was born, in November eighty-eight, back in the summer of that year, Simon Jefford, who had recently qualified, wanted to go on a drive around Europe with his mates, two of his closest friends. It was something they’d talked about and planned to do all the way through medical school. Just three blokes: girl friends and fiancées weren’t invited.
“So off they went in a VW camper and trundled around Europe. But there was an accident in what was then still Yugoslavia. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, outside Belgrade, there was a head-on collision with a huge truck driven by some drunk. It was nighttime and he veered across the road, wiping out the van and killing all three of them.
“Apparently my mother had a breakdown, nearly lost me a couple of times, blamed the whole thing on pretty much everyone and everything she could. She decided she hated England, London in particular — she’s half Italian, did I mention that? She sold up, moved to Milan and got a job in what even then was quite a prestigious fashion house. That’s where she met my stepfather, Pietro Fabrelli.”
“The Pietro Fabrelli? Even a fashion caveman like me’s heard of him.”
“Yes.”
“Blimey, you kept that quiet.”
Jennifer shrugged. Her attitude was that it was no one else’s business and anyway she hated name-dropping. She’d told HR; that was as far as it needed to go.
“He fell for her and they married. Of course, they couldn’t have children, but he always treated me like his daughter. However, he didn’t adopt me, so I kept my mother’s name.”
“Which is …”
“Cotton. She’s Antonella Cotton. Her name was originally Italian, Cotone, but she changed it in England and never changed it back.”
“So she’s actually Antonella Fabrelli, then.”
“No. Married women in Italy don’t take their husband’s family name, only the kids. In my case, as I said, I was a stepdaughter, so I kept the name Cotton.”
McPherson sat back in his chair, feeling more at ease as the conversation progressed.
“You know, Jennifer, I’m inclined to believe you. It all sounds pretty convincing.”
“Of course it’s convincing; it’s the bloody truth!” she snapped. “Do you think I’m making it all up?”
“No, sorry, that didn’t come out right. But what I don’t understand is how, if your mother was expecting you, Jefford would—”
Jennifer interrupted him. “Go off on a jolly?”
“Yes.”
Jennifer’s expression was wistful. “One of her great regrets in life was that he never even knew she was pregnant. She wanted to wait until he returned before she told him; reckoned he wouldn’t have gone if she had, and she knew how much the trip meant to him.”
“Yes, but he wasn’t your father, clearly, so what was her relationship with Henry Silk?”
“I’ve no idea; I wish I had. Ever since the big revelation yesterday I’ve been trawling through every memory I can muster for something. I certainly never heard her mention his name, and living in Italy, we didn’t watch British TV, so I’d never heard of him until I came here as a student and saw Runway.”
She picked up some of the photos and flicked absently through them before tossing them back on the table.
“Listen, if you believe me—”
McPherson shook his head. “I said ‘inclined to believe you’ not that I did.”
“Whatever. But if you were inclined to think that I genuinely didn’t know, then if that’s true, I can’t possibly have compromised the case, can I? And what about Silk, I assume he has no idea that I’m his daughter. I mean, why should he?”
“Why indeed, and I doubt we’ll be telling him. But regarding compromising the case, it’s not that easy, as I think you realise. Even if you didn’t know, the fact remains that you are Henry Silk’s daughter, which places the whole investigation on difficult ground. And whatever we say, there will be plenty of people who don’t believe us.
“As both Freneton and Hawkins explained, it’s a loophole, a bloody embarrassing big one. Everyone will get egg on their faces. Imagine the headlines: ‘TV Star Prostitute Killer Arrested By His Own Daughter Scandal/Farce/Fiasco — make that final word whatever you like. They’ll have quotes from Human Rights Watch, Opposition MPs, anyone they can wheel out. Sky will feature it ad nauseam.”
Jennifer shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do about that; it’s not my problem. And I should imagine that too many people know already for it to be kept quiet.”
“Why? Have you told anybody?” snapped McPherson, his sharp response surprising her.
“No, of course not, not even Derek Thyme, though he badgered me hard enough. Believe me, I was within a whisker of telling him after the way Freneton spoke to me, but I didn’t.”
McPherson wasn’t letting it go.
“The only people who know at the moment are you, me, Hurst, Freneton and Hawkins, together with a few people at the lab,” he said sternly. “They’ve been told that it’s classified, completely confidential, so they won’t blab. The DCS will have to tell the assistant chief constable, who will, of course, go ballistic.”
“What happens now?”
“I don’t know. Do you think your stepfather knows the truth?”
Jennifer thought about it for a moment, then shook her head.
“No, I very much doubt it. He’s always been completely open and considerate in talking about Simon Jefford; he knows how my mother felt about him. I think there would have been an edge if he’d known the truth. But what I meant was what happens now to me?”
As he leaned forward, McPherson’s whole body language changed. They’d reached the difficult par
t. He wasn’t now simply her guv; he was the messenger sent with bad news.
“Freneton wants you transferred out of SCF, probably back into uniform, somewhere out of the way.”
Jennifer ground her teeth. “Like Newark, where I started?” she snarled.
“I’ve no idea; it’s not my call. How come you started off there anyway, and not somewhere down south?”
“Why should I be down south? I was at Nottingham Uni, the original one, not Trent, and I applied to the Notts Force. I like the city and know it well. Seemed logical.”
“Yes, but why Newark?”
“I’ll admit that was a total surprise. There was a bit of a crisis there at the time — they were very short-handed. So I think I was posted by a computer.
“But guv, I really don’t want to go back into uniform. I mean, they do a fantastic job and all that, a really difficult one at times and I have nothing but admiration for them, but it’s not why I joined the force. My career is in CID. If I’m back in uniform, that’s my career down the tubes through no fault of my own. You know how it will work. I’ll be branded.”
McPherson pulled a face. “I’m sorry, you have to believe me that we, the DCI and I, we argued for you, but the Ice Queen is adamant.”
Jennifer pushed her mouth and chin into her hands.
“Since it’s confidential, what excuse will she give?”
“Probably stress. She’ll say you were finding the job too upsetting.”
Jennifer banged her fist on the arm of her chair, jumped to her feet and started to pace the room.
“That’s complete bollocks and she knows it!” she shouted, waving her arms. Her Italian background was coming to the fore. “If she does that, it’ll follow me forever. I’ll spend my career giving Highway Code instruction at schools. You surely don’t think the team will swallow that, do you?”
McPherson started to look sheepish; Jennifer’s future had clearly been discussed in detail.
“No, of course they won’t. They’ll be told that you’ve blotted your copybook big time. Viewed some confidential documents or something, documents that are way above your authority. I’m afraid it won’t help your reputation with them.”
“They won’t believe a word of it.”
“There are ways of making things sound very plausible, Jennifer.”
Jennifer ran a hand through her hair. “Damn it!” she yelled. “I’m being completely stitched up. That’s so unfair. Why is Freneton so against me?”
“Her reputation is formidable, I’m afraid. You’re not the only one, believe me. When she takes a dislike to someone, they’re history. Wherever she’s been posted, there’s a trail of ruined reputations.”
“Bitch. What about Henry Silk?”
“What about him?”
“Doesn’t he have a right to know about me? I am his daughter, after all. And isn’t there a chance he’d find out?”
“How? We’re certainly not going to tell him.”
“Suppose his defence calls for all the forensic reports to be reviewed by their own experts. Wouldn’t they spot it?”
McPherson rubbed his forehead as if it were suddenly paining him.
“Christ, Cotton, you have a way of ruining someone’s day.”
“And you don’t? Anyway, it’s better to anticipate problems and think of damage limitation in advance, wouldn’t you say?”
“Now you sound like her. She’s done nothing since she arrived except bend our ears about contingency planning, worst case scenarios, backups, lateral thinking, plan Bs, Cs, Ds, all the way to Z and back.”
“Pity she’s such a cow, we could get on,” muttered Jennifer.
She stopped pacing and sat down again, her voice now quiet.
“Look, guv, I’ve been thinking a lot in the past twenty-four hours. I knew there was a possibility of my being sent back into uniform and if that’s the decision, then I’ve made up my mind.”
McPherson’s eyes widened. He really didn’t want to hear this.
“Jennifer, I—”
She held up a hand as she bit on the inside of her lip, trying to keep some control in her voice.
“I’ll resign. If I can’t be a detective, I’ll leave. I’m not trying to blackmail you or give you an ultimatum; that’s just the way it is. It’ll break my heart because I’ve always wanted to be a detective ever since I was a kid and I know I’d be good at it. Shit, I am good at it. But I’m not going to be the victim of the whims of some vindictive bitch who’s hell bent on buggering up my career. I’ll do something else.”
“Jennifer, that’s ridiculous, such a waste. Let me talk to Mike Hurst. He’s got Hawkins’ ear, I’m sure they can do something.”
She shook her head. “Sorry, but I don’t believe you. I think their minds are made up too. I’m a problem, an embarrassment, and the best way to deal with it is to lose me in the system.”
McPherson looked at his shoes.
“You realise that even if you do resign,” he said quietly, “you won’t be able to tell Silk, that it’s privileged information.”
“Only until after the trial, surely?”
“No, even after the trial, you’d be on sticky ground.”
“I don’t see why,” she snapped petulantly. “There’s nothing to stop me paying to have my own profile done, and nothing to stop him doing the same, and since I’d no longer be a police officer, there’d be nothing you could do to stop me visiting him in prison. I’m his daughter, after all; I’d have every right.”
“Be careful, DC Cotton, you’ll be treading an extremely dangerous line.”
“I’ll take that risk, guv.”
She gave him a grim, mirthless smile.
“Know what, I’m only going to be calling you ‘guv’ for the next ten minutes, well, couple of days. After that, you’ll have to call me ‘ms’ or ‘madam’ and I won’t give a shit about any lines you or the big bosses care to draw, dangerous or otherwise. There’s something about this case that stinks. You know that as well as I do.”
McPherson stood. He’d had enough.
“No, Jennifer, I don’t. Your being related to Henry Silk has no bearing on the case as far as I’m concerned. It’s a side issue that doesn’t detract in any way from the man’s guilt or the strength and quality of evidence against him.”
C hapter 17
One month later
Skipshed High Security Prison,
Derbyshire
Charles Keithley followed the unsmiling prison officer as he unlocked and relocked a succession of doors in the confusing maze of corridors that led from the visitors reception area to the legal interview room. As always, Keithley had been required to leave everything except his file with the case papers in a locker at reception. No phone, no iPad. He’d even left his car keys rather than set off alarms.
As a visiting solicitor, he was allowed to see his client away from the prying ears of other prisoners. And the one guard sitting at the far end of the room was out of earshot if they kept their voices down.
Henry Silk was sitting at a table in the middle of the room, waiting for him. As Keithley approached, he stood and held out his hand.
“Good to see you, Charles.”
Keithley noticed immediately that Henry’s greeting wasn’t accompanied by his normal half-smile, a creasing of the eyes.
“You too, Henry. Sorry that it’s been nearly three weeks; there’s been a lot of admin stuff with the case that needed going through before I came back to you.”
He paused as they sat.
“You’re looking rather sallow, Henry; you don’t seem your usual self.”
Henry looked up, the ghost of a rueful smile at the corners of his mouth.
“You should try being in one of these places, Charles. It’s dehumanising. Everything is regimented, controlled. And among the inmates, there’s an undercurrent of anger, violence. Many of the actual prisoners, as opposed to those on remand like me, don’t see any reason why they shouldn’t give in to their violent
tendencies. It will make little difference. They’re already locked up in a cell for many hours a day. What’s going to change if they satisfy a blood lust?”
Keithley’s face showed his concern. “Have you been threatened, Henry? I can probably get you moved. It’s ridiculous that prisoners on remand are kept with convicts. It’s not supposed to be like that.”
Henry shrugged. “They always cite overcrowding and ignore any protest. But no, Charles, I haven’t been threatened, and even if I had, moving wouldn’t be likely to achieve much. One of these places is much like another. It would just be more inconvenient for you if they located me hundreds of miles away.
“As it happens, I’m passing the time playing little games. I’m using my acting skills to keep the cons and the guards guessing as to what I’m really like. I change my character regularly. It’s a diversion and I’ve found that it keeps them at arm’s length. They seem to have decided that I’m nuts because my moods are so inconsistent. There’s also a reputation that precedes me of being a tough guy. I suppose I’ve got something to thank that soap for.”
“You heard that they killed you off, your character in Runway, I mean.”
Henry snorted his disgust. “That bastard Jonty Peters couldn’t wait. Jumped at the chance to offload me. So now, even if by some miracle my case is dropped or I’m found not guilty, I can’t go back.”
“There was quite an uproar in the glossies; it wasn’t a popular move.”
“It’s done, Charles, and it will take an exceptional scriptwriter to undo it.”
He paused and sat back wearily in his chair.
“I think what’s probably wearing me down is that my head is still reeling with the whole case. It’s well over a month since my arrest and I keep thinking that I’m suddenly going to wake up from this nightmare.
“I have no idea about anything that happened that night and it’s driving me crazy. I can’t get my head around it. The only thing that’s really keeping me going at the moment is the thought that something will turn up, some clarity of thought will hit me, or something will happen to cast doubt on the evidence.”
His eyes shifted to Keithley. That Henry hadn’t been looking directly at him had worried the solicitor — Henry normally held the eyes of whomever he was talking to, and there would have been far more animation to whatever he said.
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