Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller

by David George Clarke

  He paused again, letting the silence work for him before continuing more softly.

  “I can stop it, you know. Get her off your back.”

  Edmunds grunted as he worked his mouth, baring his cracked and broken teeth. “I’d like to see you try. She’d come after you in no time. You’d be easy meat for her.”

  Hawkins leaned forward, his voice quiet again, his tone conspiratorial.

  “How does she get her messages to you, Norman? She wouldn’t be seen dead in a place like this.”

  Hawkins’ attempt to feed in the question failed. Edmunds saw through him immediately, his harsh cackle echoing round the room.

  “That would be telling, copper. I don’t think you know as much as you’re pretending.” He folded his arms dismissively.

  Hawkins tried not to let his annoyance show.

  “Maybe, maybe not. But I do know this. You can’t say ‘no’ to her, can you? Otherwise your daughter will be hurt, really hurt. Like I said, Norman, I can stop that. Wouldn’t you rather rot in this place knowing that your daughter was under no further threat? What was the threat, anyway? Kill her? Maim her? Have her raped? — passed around a gang until she was pulp? Olivia can do all of that; has done all of that, I can assure you,” he lied. “So tell me, how do you get your instructions?”

  Edmunds looked away for the first time, dropping his eyes and scratching at the folds of flesh that were his neck. He’d made a decision. This copper was obviously on to her so he might as well protect his back. It was now his turn to speak quietly, not wanting the guards to hear.

  “Phone call, phone message actually for these wankers to give me.” He nodded towards the guards. “Never speaks directly to me; they won’t allow it. Tells them she’s my sister. I’ve got one, yer know. A sister. But when she gives her name, she says the names in the wrong order. Right names, wrong order. The screws ain’t rumbled it; they think me sister’s a thicko. They’re the thickos; stupid shits. Me sister’s Maeve Carla Edmunds — always keeps our name even though she gets married from time to time. But when Freneton phones, she says it as Carla Maeve Edmunds. Works every time, not that there have been many times.”

  “And what about the name of the target? How does she give you that?”

  “Target?”

  “The con she wants hurt. How does she give you the name? How did she give you Henry Silk’s name?”

  Hawkins was surprised when Edmunds sat back and threw out another hacking laugh.

  “Is that what this is all about, copper? You been pulling my plonker, ain’tcha. Getting me to give you her name. Well, the joke’s on you, copper. Henry Fucking Silk? Sorry to tell you, but you’re a bit late for that one.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Hawkins, suddenly alarmed.

  The hacking continued; this was becoming a huge joke for Edmunds.

  “Your timing ain’t too good, copper.” He glanced at a clock over the door. “I should think that Silk’s well out of it by now.”

  Hawkins felt a cold shiver of panic in his spine. “But I checked when I called the prison earlier. He was fine and the governor was told not to let you near him.”

  Edmunds let out a bellow of laughter as he wiped the saliva from his mouth onto his upper arm.

  “How did you ever get so senior, copper? You ain’t up to much. You don’t think I do all Olivia’s dirty work for her myself, do you? She might have something on me, but I got plenty on the cons in here too. And it ain’t just these.”

  He snarled and lifted his arms, closing his fists to tighten his massive biceps.

  Suddenly realising he’d said too much, Edmunds changed his tone.

  “Anyway, I ain’t had no message about Silk. I’m not the only one in here she’s got stuff with. But I did hear something. Like I said,” — he looked up at the clock again — “bit late now.”

  He leaned forward and tapped his nose.

  Hawkins shot to his feet and yelled at the guard. “Get me out of here! We’ve got to get to the exercise yard. Move it!”

  One of the guards spoke into a radio and the interview room door opened. Hawkins was through it in a flash, the sound of Edmunds’ mocking laughter in his ears as he breathlessly forced his out-of-form legs to run along the corridor.

  C hapter 37

  Henry Silk was feeling buoyant following a call over the weekend from Charles Keithley with the news from Jennifer. Keithley was convinced that the police would soon recommend that the CPS drop all charges. He had nevertheless had to counsel Henry to be patient, telling him the wheels would inevitably move slowly despite his frequent calls insisting on urgent consideration of Henry’s case.

  “Stay calm, Henry,” he’d said before ringing off, his voice all encouragement and positivity. “I’m beginning to see light at the end of the tunnel.”

  As the row of prisoners shuffled into the exercise yard, Henry took a deep breath and smiled. A warm breeze was blowing from the nearby Pennine foothills as the sun broke through the ambling clouds. He thought he could even hear birdsong. Certainly not a day to be confined in a prison, but at least the afternoon exercise schedule would remind him a little of the freedom that would soon be his.

  The forty prisoners broke from the line and, creatures of habit, headed for their preferred positions, some to natter in conspiratorial tones, some to swagger, some to cut deals, some to play basketball. Others, Henry included, preferred their own company, walking the perimeter of the fenced area like caged animals maximising their space.

  Henry normally kept his distance. He didn’t want to get close to either the convicts or the remand prisoners, most of whom would soon also be convicts. He refused to succumb to their mindset, their acceptance of their sentences and the inevitability of years of mind-numbing boredom. To do so would be to give up, to take the road to conformity and become institutionalised. Once on that road, life was a downward spiral, one that led inexorably to a world far removed from the world outside the fence. He’d spoken to cons who had been behind bars for ten or more years. To a man, they were dulled, their intellects scrambled, their comprehension of the ever-changing, vibrant and dynamic pace of life outside lessened with every passing year. It was no wonder that those who had served long sentences found reintegration with modern life bewilderingly difficult. He sympathised with them, but he was determined never to become one of them.

  Now his head was full of the possibility of imminent and permanent freedom. He would get his life back and maybe some sympathy vote for a change. He might even get some decent parts. And the wonderfully positive thing to arise from his ordeal: the discovery that he had a daughter; the lovely, intelligent and tenacious Jennifer. Without her, he would be doomed to an unbearable life, knowing he was innocent but never able to prove it. He couldn’t wait to get to know her properly, to be part of her world and she part of his.

  A soft, apologetic voice jarred him from his reverie as he paced the compound.

  “Henry.”

  It was Horace Turnbull, the unctuous, former bank manager with whom he shared his cell. Turnbull was serving seven years for defrauding his bank and a number of its customers of three hundred thousand pounds over several years.

  Star-struck, he couldn’t believe his luck in having been put in a cell with what he liked to describe as a major player in the entertainment world. He seemed to think that his crimes had almost been worth it just to rub shoulders with someone so famous. Henry had tried to put him straight, and when that hadn’t worked, had scolded him for aiming his sights too low.

  “Christ, Horace, if you’re going to defraud, to steal, at least make it worth your while. How long do you think that a few paltry hundreds of thousands would have lasted? You should have been looking at millions. Many millions.”

  Horace had explained that it had all been for his demanding wife and high-maintenance daughter.

  “A dear girl, Henry, and one who never misses an episode of ‘Runway’. A constant and devoted fan.”

  “Henry,” repeate
d Horace, his tone now more urgent.

  Henry stopped and looked down at the little man. “What is it, Horace?”

  Horace raised an arm and pointed to a group of large men standing near a basketball hoop.

  “They want to talk to you.”

  Henry looked towards the group.

  “What do they want?”

  “They want you to join their game.”

  “The last time I joined them I ended up sprawled on the ground with a cut lip. Tell them … wait a minute, why are you their messenger boy?”

  “They all had their heads together discussing something in hushed tones when I was walking past. Suddenly an arm reached out and grabbed me, yanked me in amongst them. That big one, the one at the front with the racist tattoos on his arms and hands, he told me they wanted you to play, told me to get my fat little arse over here to tell you. Could you teach me to box, Henry? I’d like to flatten him.”

  Henry smiled grimly at the thought. “I’ve told you to keep your distance, Horace. They are not nice people.”

  He lifted his arms toward the group, mimed throwing a basketball and shook his head to tell them, no, he didn’t want to join them.

  “I should stay on this side of the compound, Horace, if I were you,” said Henry as he turned his back on the group and walked away.

  Within seconds, a huge hand grabbed his shoulder.

  “Didn’tcha get me message, Silky boy?”

  The con’s other hand spun Horace around.

  “What did you tell him, pansy?”

  Henry looked at the hand on his shoulder. The words ‘White Supremacy’ were tattooed across the back against an array of burning crosses.

  “Leave him alone,” snarled Henry. “He gave me your message, but I don’t want to play.”

  He pushed the man’s hand away.

  Tattooed Hand’s eyes caught Horace’s. “Hop it, creep.”

  Horace slunk away through a group of six heavily built men who had materialised to form a loose circle around Henry.

  “Seen you playing, Silky boy,” said Tattooed Hand. “You got a good eye. Want you on me team.”

  Two of the group started bouncing basketballs, the threat in their eyes compounded by the synchronisation of the bouncing.

  Henry’s eyes flitted back and forth between them, then he glanced at Tattooed Hand. As he did, one of the ball bouncers hurled his ball at him, catching him off guard and hitting him hard in the chest. The ball rolled away.

  “Whoops!” said Tattooed Hand. “That wasn’t so good; thought you was better than that. Looks like you need some practice.”

  Without any warning, the second bouncing basketball was hurled at Henry. Henry reached out an arm to deflect it, but the arm was yanked to one side. Again the ball thumped into Henry’s chest.

  He turned angrily to Tattooed Hand.

  “Let me go and I’ll catch it. Otherwise find someone else for your team.”

  The man sneered his reply. “Didn’t quite get that, Silky boy. Still want some practice, did you say?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Henry saw yet another ball flying in his direction. His responses were good and he got both hands up, only to find them grabbed and pulled away. For the third time, a ball thumped into Henry’s chest.

  “For Christ’s sake, man, what’s your problem? Do you want me to play or not?”

  The man’s sneer immediately twisted into a black, threatening grimace.

  “You accusing me of something, actor boy?”

  Henry shook his head in disgust and turned away, only to find his shoulder grabbed again as the man’s hand spun him round.

  “I’m talking to you, actor boy. Show me some respect.”

  Henry had had enough. He turned and faced the man, his hands on his hips.

  “What’s the issue, Cuthbert?” He spat the man’s name derisively.

  A cloud of fury descended over Tattooed Hand’s features. He poked a meaty index finger into Henry’s chest.

  “You don’t never use that name, d’you hear me. Never! No one calls me by that name!”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Henry noticed that the group of large men had now tightened the circle around him, blocking him and Tattooed Hand from the view of the guards. Tattooed Hand delivered a second vicious poke to Henry’s chest, sending him staggering backwards. As he tried to regain his footing, another strong pair of hands pushed him forward so that he almost fell into Tattooed Hand.

  “That wasn’t very polite, actor boy. You picking a fight?”

  Aware that he was being set up, Henry crouched slightly and raised his fists in defence.

  “If that’s what you want, Cuthbert, come and get it. But make it just you and me.”

  This time, Tattooed Hand ignored the forbidden use of his name. He threw his head back with a laugh. Suddenly, with a slight flick of his wrist, there was a knife in his hand.

  Henry instinctively took a step backward, but a foot appeared in his path and he fell heavily onto his back.

  He looked up from the ground to see Tattooed Hand nod to the circle of men. They immediately began jeering loudly as they closed the circle even more tightly. One kicked at Henry as Tattooed Hand casually knelt down over Henry and raised the knife.

  A series of piercing electronic squawks suddenly filled the exercise yard followed moments later by a coarsely amplified voice screaming over a loudhailer.

  “Stop! All of you! Boyston! Put down that knife!”

  The group of men melted away, heads down, doing their best to blend in with the horrified group of prisoners in the exercise yard. They could all now see Henry lying on his back, his hands and arms held protectively in front of him as Tattooed Hand knelt with the knife still poised in the air above him.

  “Drop it, Boyston! NOW!”

  Tattooed Hand’s eyes were fixed in hatred on Henry’s as he calculated whether to carry out what would clearly be a fully witnessed murder, or to stop.

  His hand wavered slightly, and then he slung the knife to the ground. Within moments, a group of guards had dragged him off Henry, thrown him face down on the ground and handcuffed his wrists behind his back.

  “He started it,” yelled Tattooed Hand. “The actor started it. Ask anyone.”

  His reward was to have his face jammed firmly into the concrete.

  C hapter 38

  “He was what!” yelled Jennifer down the phone to Derek. She was close to tears after having listened to the account of the thwarted attempt on Henry’s life.

  “Tell me he’s fine, Derek. Tell me! They should release him immediately. Every minute more spent in that place puts him at risk. Don’t they realise that?”

  “It’s OK, Jen, he’s not injured in any way. Like I told you, the guards got to him in time,” said Derek, trying to reassure her for the third time. “He’s been isolated and the boss is onto the CPS. He’ll be out of there soon.”

  “Not soon enough,” snapped Jennifer.

  Derek waited. He heard her take several deep breaths, followed by a sigh.

  “Sorry, Derek, you don’t deserve my wrath; you deserve a medal. If you hadn’t brought those emails to the high-ups’ attention straight away, Henry would be dead by now.”

  “Yeah,” mumbled Derek, now embarrassed by her praise, “it was a near thing. My opinion of Hawkins has gone up enormously. He’s not just the fatty sitting on his arse in his office I thought he was.”

  “I’m sure your badgering helped,” said Jennifer, still not totally convinced about the DCS.

  “Actually it was Rob McPherson’s badgering; he’s the one that kicked the boss into gear.”

  “Perhaps you can give him a hug from me, then.”

  “I think he’d break my arms if I tried. Anyway, you can do it yourself. The other reason I called is to tell you they want another meeting.”

  “Really? Why? Surely they believe me after all that’s happened?”

  “I’m not sure, what the meeting’s about, I mean. All I know is that
about half an hour after Hawkins and McPherson got back, Hawkins yelled for Hurst. There was a bit of a barney, judging from the noise, then McPherson was called in. Ten minutes later McPherson comes to me and tells me that it’s now OK to call you and tell you what’s happened, and that they want to see you.”

  Jennifer ground her teeth. “I’ll forget for the moment that I was left out of the loop when Henry, my father, was in danger—”

  “They told me specifically not to call you, or to tell you if you called, Jen,” interrupted Derek. “Anyway, there was nothing you could have done, and any delay …” He let the point hang in the air.

  “Yes, you’re right of course,” said Jennifer, now all contrition. “Sorry.” She took another deep breath. “OK, this meeting. Do they want to go to Trowell again? False moustache and dark glasses?”

  “Actually, Jen, they’re getting beyond that. They want to come round to your place.”

  “Who’s they? And when?”

  “All of them. Hawkins’ confidential team. Hawkins, Hurst and McPherson. They want me to bring them round. Like, now.”

  “Who’s manning the phone for your secret squad?” said Jennifer, ever covering bases.

  “Bottomley’s been brought on board. He didn’t know whether to be angry that he’d been left out initially or happy to be in on getting Freneton. Anyway, he’ll be holding the fort in the office.”

  “Bet he’ll be telling everyone too. He’s a bit of a blab.”

  “Hawkins threatened to wring his neck personally if he says a word.”

  Jennifer smiled at the thought.

  “You haven’t said why they want to see me, Derek. What’s happened beyond the attempt on Henry’s life?”