When she started with her plans for framing her targets, the UK’s DNA database was like manna, a wonderful gift. Under the rules applying at that time, anyone arrested for a recordable offence — a crime you could potentially go to prison for, which was most of them — would have their DNA profile added to the national database forever, or so it seemed at the time. All she had to do was establish that a target had been arrested for something minor, normally drink driving, then get hold of his DNA and plant it.
The obvious choice for DNA was semen that she’d put into the vagina of the prostitute the man would be charged with killing — a messy business she didn’t enjoy for one moment. Not so much putting it in the girls – that was easy using a syringe with no needle attached – but the getting hold of it. For that she’d had to have sex with the man using a condom, keep the condom without his knowledge and then plant the semen in the girl the same night while the target was out cold from Rohypnol. The first couple of attempts were disastrous. The sex was easy, although as always she hated it, but administering the drug hadn’t worked as it should: one target had simply walked away. However, practice makes perfect.
Then the law changed. All the DNA for minor offences was thrown away meaning she could no longer rely on the initial link to the suspect coming from that sort of evidence. She’d actually been quite relieved since she increasingly hated the sexual side of her activities. She had started to take advantage of the CCTV systems that these days were everywhere, disguising herself in the clothes of her target and making sure she appeared on camera. Once the link had been made, there was the fibre and fingerprint evidence she’d plant and then, to gild the lily, some DNA. In the Henry Silk case, the use of a mannequin hand with false nails had been sheer brilliance. She’d fully intended to use that again, and she would, one last time. But that didn’t allay her anger at being discovered, nor the need for the discoverer to pay. There was no doubting it: Jennifer Cotton was too clever by half.
While she was a formidable adversary against whom Olivia would enjoy pitting her wits, this sort of battle was all about winning, and you can only win once; the ultimate victory. Jennifer Cotton had to die and Olivia would delight in making her death painful, the end lasting long enough for the girl to appreciate fully that while brains were one thing, ruthless cunning was something else entirely.
She would make Jennifer Cotton the finale to her spree, call at her house in the Park after she’d dispatched the hapless prostitute and planted all the evidence on sucker from the bar at the hotel on Tuesday evening. She’d talk her way in, overcome the girl and spend a few hours watching her die slowly, enjoying every moment of her anguish.
But before killing Cotton, and before making her plans for the Fields View Hotel, there was the first part of her killing spree to organise. She had been tempted to leave it out, leave Henry Silk alive and let the joy of his now-inevitable release from prison be shattered when he learned of the death of his daughter.
However, her original plan for Henry was better. He had to die too, and he would be the first to go.
C hapter 35
At eleven o’clock the following Tuesday morning, Derek Thyme sat back from his computer screen to reread in disbelief the third of three emails that had arrived in rapid succession over the last two minutes.
“Christ on a bike!” he stammered. “I don’t believe it.”
He swivelled his chair towards Rob McPherson who was, as usual, at war with his own computer, his long-suffering keyboard bearing the brunt of his anger.
“Guv,” said Derek, his voice taut with concern. “I think you should take a look at this.”
“What is it, Thyme? Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“With respect, guv, I think this takes precedence.”
“It better be good, Thyme. If what’s on my screen disappears into the black hole of cyberspace, I’ll be sending you after it.”
Ignoring the rant, Derek got out of his chair and indicated to the DI to sit.
McPherson sat while Derek used the mouse to scroll to the first email.
“Read that one, guv, then I’ll pull up another.”
McPherson grunted as he let his eyes absorb the text.
“Next,” he ordered, as he finished reading it.
Derek called up the next one, let McPherson read it, and then clicked on the final one.
“Christ, Thyme, this is serious!” yelled McPherson, jumping from the chair and nearly colliding with Derek. “Have you forwarded it to Hawkins and Hurst?”
“Not yet, guv.”
“Never mind. You can brief them directly; it’ll be quicker. Come on, man, move it!”
He ran for the door and turned in the direction of the DCS’s office, banging on the partition glass of Hurst’s office as he ran past.
“Mike! You need to hear this.”
Peter Hawkins looked up from his computer as his three officers burst into his office. “Where’s the fire, gentlemen?”
McPherson turned to Derek. “Thyme?”
“Yes, guv,” answered Derek. He took a step towards Hawkins’ desk.
“Sir, a couple of minutes ago, I received the information on the deaths of the other three culprits we now think Detective Superintendent Freneton might have set up, the two who topped themselves and the one killed in a fight in prison.”
Hawkins glared at him, but remained silent.
Derek hesitated, then ploughed on. “Well, sir, the thing is that the other party involved in each of them, that is the brawl in which he was deemed to be an innocent victim, and the two suicides, he was the same con.”
Hawkins’ glower deepened. He hadn’t understood a word.
“Any chance you could stop talking in riddles, man?”
“Sorry, sir. The con, his name is Norman Bryan Edmunds, was the other party in the fight in which Timothy Backhouse was killed in Maudslake prison in 2012.”
“Why is that important?”
“According to the info I’ve received this morning, he was known to have befriended Colin Edgerton in Maudslake prison in 2007 shortly before Edgerton hanged himself, and then he shared a cell with Gregory Walters in Sunshore prison in 2009. And Walters didn’t hang himself, he OD’d with Rohypnol.”
“The drug found in the Bristol case?”
“Yes, sir, and if Silk was set up, it could have been used on him; the symptoms he described would fit.”
“How come this Edmunds was moved to Sunshore and then back to Maudslake?”
“He’s a lifer, sir, and an extremely violent one. The prison authorities have been experimenting with moving his type around to prevent them from establishing their own fiefdom in a prison.”
“You think Freneton had a hand in arranging it?”
“Not sure, sir, but she knows him. She was a detective sergeant in Leeds in 2006 when Edmunds was sent down for murdering two security guards in a warehouse robbery. They were particularly vicious killings. He’s serving a minimum of twenty-five years, with no consideration of parole before 2031. Freneton was on the team that put him inside and apparently she conducted most of the interviews.”
“With plenty of opportunity for off-the-record heart-to-heart chats,” mused Hawkins to himself. “What else do we have on him, Thyme?”
“Not much, sir. He was married — his wife divorced him in 2008. They had one child, a daughter born in 2001 he’s apparently very attached to.”
Hawkins nodded. “Could be a lever — threaten to harm the daughter. Where is he now?”
“That’s the thing, sir. After the fight in Maudslake in 2012, he was transferred to Skipshed.”
“Skipshed! That’s where Silk is.”
“Yes, sir.”
McPherson was starting to get agitated. He had seen the emails and needed no convincing of the urgency of their problem.
“Sir,” he interrupted. “With respect, I really think we need to act on this. It’s true that the deaths of these three cons happened after their trials, between one and a half an
d two years after, in fact, whereas Silk’s case has yet to go to trial. But if Freneton is involved in all these cases and for some reason wants her victims dead, then Silk could be in danger.”
“How so?”
“Freneton’s disappeared, hasn’t she? I mean, she hasn’t turned up this morning or yesterday …”
He turned to Hurst whom he knew had been trying to contact her.
Hurst nodded. “That’s right. She isn’t answering her mobile, in fact, it seems to be turned off. One of the uniforms I sent round to her house earlier called me a few minutes ago to say there’s no one there. I was about to contact the techies to see if there’s any way of tracing a phone even when it’s turned off.”
Hawkins shook his head. “There isn’t. Don’t waste your time.”
“The point is, sir,” said McPherson, cutting in again, “it would appear that Freneton is aware that we’re on to her. Don’t know how, but she’s nobody’s fool, as we well know. If she knows then she’ll also realise that the case against Silk will likely be dropped. He’ll walk. So there’s a chance, if she was planning to have him killed at some stage, either in a fight or by somehow persuading him to top himself, that she will want to do it soon.”
“You’re right, Rob,” said Hawkins as he reached for his phone. “Obviously Edmunds is the danger here. If I get the prison to isolate him immediately, we can get over there and interview him. If he is behind some or all of the other killings, and he’s somehow been told by Freneton to kill Silk, then with a bit of persuasion we’ll not only prevent the killing, but we might also get something more concrete on Freneton.”
He scowled at the phone dial, but changed his mind.
“Ann!” he yelled to his secretary. “Get me the governor of Skipshed prison. Tell him it’s extremely urgent, a matter of life and death.”
C hapter 36
Norman Edmunds was an uncompromisingly violent man whose very presence radiated aggression. At six foot four and two hundred and fifty pounds, his muscular frame looked as if it would burst through his drab prison garb. His huge head was shaven, what little neck he had rippled with rolls of thick flesh, while his face was that of a prizefighter — a nose that had lost all indication of its original form and heavy, misshapen brows knitted over dark, brooding eyes. His arms were sleeved with tattoos that extended to his neck, lower face and much of the top of his head.
Before Peter Hawkins’ arrival, Edmunds was escorted from his cell by two of the biggest guards in Skipshed prison to the special security interview room where his chained wrists were attached to a ring bolted to the floor. The table in front of him was also bolted to the floor, as was the chair on which they sat him. He was never allowed to be with a visitor unmanacled.
Governor Harold Maskerton met Hawkins in the prison’s guest car park. They had known each other for many years, serving on various Home Office committees covering law and order, and while they had a certain mutual respect for each other’s jobs, they were anything but pals. About the same age, Maskerton was as thin as Hawkins was fat and slightly shorter. He wore a carefully trimmed beard, grey now with the passing years.
“What do you want with Edmunds, Peter?” he asked as soon as Hawkins climbed out of his car, not bothering with any niceties. “Whatever it is, all you’ll be likely to get is his usual barrage of verbal abuse.”
“Confidential enquiry, Harold, I’m afraid. It’s sensitive, horribly bloody sensitive.”
He turned as Rob McPherson walked round from the passenger side of the car. “Do you know DI McPherson, Harold?”
“Don’t think we’ve met,” replied Maskerton with the briefest of glances towards McPherson. His eyes returned immediately to Hawkins.
McPherson let the rebuff ride over him, but nevertheless wished he had stayed in the SCF where Mike Hurst was continuing his attempts to contact Olivia Freneton while Derek Thyme was searching out more background on her connections to any other convicts with a violent reputation.
McPherson’s reply, directed to the side of Maskerton’s head, was voiced with a sharp edge of sarcasm. “No, not had the pleasure.”
Maskerton ignored him. “He’ll be shackled,” he said to Hawkins. “It’s the only way he’s allowed to see anyone, including his daughter.”
“How many guards?” asked Hawkins.
“Two. Why?”
“Do they hover or stand back?”
“Your choice, but I wouldn’t have them stand too far back, if I were you. Edmunds can move like lightning for such a big man, even if he is shackled.”
“I’ll bear it in mind. What I want is to be able to talk to Edmunds in confidence. It might be the only way I can get through to him.”
“I can’t let the guards leave the room.”
“Not asking, Harold. I only want them to keep their distance. I’m thinking of interviewing him on my own, leaving Rob here to enjoy the view of the Derbyshire hills. One police officer with Edmunds is more than enough — I know how much he hates us.”
“He hates any form of authority, Peter. Watch your step; he’s a mean bastard.”
Norman Edmunds frowned through his deeply furrowed brow as Hawkins entered the interview room and sat opposite him. One corner of his upper lip lifted in a snarl and his broad Birmingham accent cut through the room.
“Wha’d’ya want, copper? You’re taking up me valuable exercise time. I gotta keep fit; it’s the only way to survive in this shithole.”
Hawkins had met plenty like Edmunds during the course of his long career and even though the man was probably the biggest he’d ever faced, he remained unfazed. He deliberately waited ten seconds before replying, his eyes fixed on the bridge of Edmunds’ nose.
“Let me put what I want this way, Norman. You answer a few questions to my satisfaction and you can be back with the boys playing snakes and ladders in no time. Waste my time and the interview could drag out for hours. You might miss your playtime altogether.”
He paused, waiting for any sign of a reaction, but Edmunds’ face didn’t flinch.
“It’s come to my notice, Norman, that you and I have a mutual friend,” he continued, this time speaking quietly so that the guards would find it hard to hear.
“No friends of yours is gonna be a friend of mine,” growled Edmunds.
“Oh, you’d be surprised. This one’s certainly very close to me, and I suspect she is to you. She works for me, and works hard. My kind of person: doesn’t always follow the rule book too closely, if you follow me.”
The blank stare in Edmunds’ eyes gave no indication whether he’d even heard.
“She was telling me about your family, Norman. Pity about your wife divorcing you like that. Not very nice for you to think of someone else shacked up with her, sharing her bed. Quite a looker, your wife, from the photos I’ve seen in your file.”
Edmunds’ scowl deepened farther and his chains rattled as he clenched his huge fists. The guards, clearly jumpy, edged a step closer, but Hawkins held up his hands, telling them with a sharp glance to stay put. He turned his eyes back to Edmunds.
“And how old would your little girl be now? Let’s see. Thirteen, is it? Difficult age for a girl, especially one from your neck of the woods. She could get into all sorts of trouble, meet all the wrong people. Pity that. I’ve heard she’s a bright little thing; pretty too, like her mother.”
Edmunds’ breathing had become rapid, rasping, the air taking a torturously unnatural path through his nasal passages as a result of all the pounding they’d taken over the years.
Hawkins could now see something else in the convict’s eyes. Anger. He was trying to work out what Hawkins was about.
Edmonds suddenly sneered, his mouth coming about as close to smiling as it might. “She’s got something on you, copper, ain’t she?”
“Your daughter?”
“You know who I mean, copper. She must’ve sent you here to run her errands. What did the screw say you was? Chief Super? Bit senior to be an errand boy.”
/> He waited to see if his ridicule was having any effect. When Hawkins didn’t react, he continued. “Or maybe you’ve joined her little club. Dish out your own form of justice, do you? Wanting to get suckers like me to do your dirty work. Well, you can forget it, copper. I ain’t doing nothing for you.”
Hawkins sat back in the uncomfortable chair, shifting his position to accommodate his aching back.
“You were her snitch, weren’t you, Norman? Back in Leeds, back before you let your pathetic temper get the better of you with those two security guards. They were Irish, weren’t they? Got many paddies in here, have you? Bet they’d love to hear about how much you admire them.”
Edmunds snorted. “Don’t think a few Micks’re gonna worry me, do yer?”
“No, but the Micks might worry your daughter, Norman. Want to make sure that she’s educated in the ways of the world, if you follow me.”
This time the rattling of the chains was louder.
“You bastards are all the same, ain’tcha. You sound just like her.”
Hawkins smiled and held out his arms. “She taught me well, Norman.”
Edmunds was no longer listening; his short fuse had burned its length.
“Christ, I’d like to get her on her own in here for five minutes. She might be tall and fancy herself at karate and stuff, but I’d fucking flatten her. She’d be pulp. Her and her fancy name. Olivia Freneton. I’d fucking Olivia her. She’d be pleading for me to kill her.”
Hawkins could hardly contain his delight. Edmunds had said her name.
But he needed more.
“Is that right, Norman? Well, you can imagine what would happen to your daughter if you did. Olivia has a long reach.”
Hawkins waited again, but Edmunds’ head of steam appeared to have fizzled out.
“Eight years, Norman. Eight slow, tedious years. That’s a long time to have been doing someone’s dirty work. And how much longer will it go on before she decides you’re a liability, a danger to her, that you might say something? Like you just did, in fact. She wouldn’t be very pleased to hear it, would she? But even if I decide not to tell her, she’ll know that you’re becoming a risk. You see, Norman, sooner or later, sooner probably, it’ll be your name on the ticket. It’ll be you someone is waiting for in the shadows, waiting with a sharp knife.”
Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller Page 28