The Silver Knot (Forest of Dean Investigations Book 1)

by T J Harris

  “Anything else.” Carver paused, looking round. “Everybody got something to do? Right, get on with it then.” He dismissed them and they headed off in different directions with a buzz of determination. Carver headed for the canteen. He could work on his strategy for the second talk with Brooks and get something to eat while Moss sorted the press statement. It was going to be a long evening.

  On his way back he popped his head round the lab geek’s door. “Hi Steve”, he called in a friendly tone, although he always dreaded getting stuck in this office for too long. It wasn’t always the horrific graphic images that Hunter managed to recover from suspects’ computers and smartphones that bothered him, though some of them would live in Carver’s memory for years. Hunter was one of those brilliant people who couldn’t help showing off quite how brilliant he was. He got away with it, well, because he really was that good.

  “Evening Inspector” the be-spectacled lab tech appeared from behind a bank of monitors. Unlike the rest of the CSI team who sat in pods in the open plan space, their monitors in plain sight, the nature of what Hunter found on the PCs, laptops and phones that they sent him to pry into, required a little more privacy and discretion. They were not part of operation Yewtree, the massive search into historic child abuse, but that didn’t mean they didn’t get their fair share of sickos coming through the station.

  “Have you got anything on that laptop from the Helen Brooks case?” Carver stayed in the corridor, holding the door open, hoping he could escape quickly if the answer was no.

  “As a matter of fact, I have. Come in and I’ll take you through it.”

  Resigned to his fate, Carver manoeuvred around the tech’s desk and sat in the chair he was offered. Hunter’s hand played with the tablet to his right and the twin screens cleared then became populated with the digital props he would need to take Carver through his findings.

  “Clever girl our Helen” Hunter started, “most of the content is work stuff I think. She was a scientist wasn’t she?” He didn’t wait for confirmation. “A lot of it is data on fatigue and stress.”

  “She worked for some sort of engineering company, I didn’t think she was a psychologist.” Carver said, looking confused.

  “Not that sort of stress.” the lab tech laughed. “She seems to have been working on the effects of repeated load stress on engineering steels. It’s quite interesting, the data relates to 316L which is a stainless steel used in all sorts of industries but the other data is for an Inconel. That’s a Nickel based alloy, very high strength. She was looking at data from long service samples…”

  “Steve!” Carver cut in. The guy’s enthusiasm was one thing, but this did not sound all that relevant to why the victim would have been found strangled in the forest.

  “Sorry Boss”, Hunter took a breath. “I did a scan for the most recent files she was working on. There was a PowerPoint presentation she was writing, which according to the title screen.” He brought up a file on the monitor showing the company logo with Helen’s name and position. He pointed towards the name of a conference at the bottom of the slide. “It was going to be presented at an energy industry conference next month. It’s pretty grim reading actually, she has data suggesting that sixty percent of the UK’s power stations are aging to an extent where they will have to close in the next ten to fifteen years. Apparently current energy policy is way behind in filling the gap. Given the audience, she obviously wasn’t afraid to ruffle a few feathers.”

  Carver contemplated the notion. “It might be interesting, can you send me a copy of the presentation.”

  “Sure. Other than that it is fairly normal stuff. Her email is mainly work, friends and family, nothing of note there, but she did have her secrets.” Hunter’s eyes twinkled the way they always did when he was about to show off.

  Carver’s ears pricked up. “Oh Yes?”

  “She had deleted her internet browsing history, that’s a bit unusual, especially assuming she was not expecting to have someone like me look through her files. Like most people though, she only did a partial job. The trouble with modern operating systems is that they leave digital detritus all over the place. If they were better designed, we wouldn’t have to keep buying bigger and bigger machines.”

  “I hear that,” replied Carver, “My son was banging on about needing more storage space only this morning.” He recalled the argument he had over breakfast that something, which was supposed to be state of the art just last year, was apparently obsolete.

  “There are two other main folders that get filled up as you surf.” continued the tech, happy that he had managed to capture the Inspector’s attention. “There’s this one which contains what we call Temporary Internet Files or TIFs.” He opened a window on the main screen. “This one is mostly made up of images that are cached so that when you re-visit a page, the download is speeded up. Working through this you can re-construct the browsing history really quickly. Then there are the cookies, and you can do much the same with them, but the TIFs give a fuller history since you get a page by page record rather than just site by site. Plus, not all sites use cookies, so that can leave gaps too.”

  “So, what did she want to keep to herself then?”

  “There’s nothing out of the ordinary in most of the sites she visited, but I did notice she went to an online email service quite a bit. I thought that was odd seeing as she has both her work and private emails on the machine already. I opened the site and she had saved the login and password so it logged in automatically and I was able to have a look around. She was being a naughty girl.” He opened a further window showing a screenshot of the mail service web page and paused to allow the Inspector to catch-up.

  The page looked unremarkable to Carver, the inbox was empty and the only highlighted word on the whole screen said ‘Drafts’. He gave up. “What am I looking at?”

  “It’s a digital dead-drop.” He opened another screenshot that showed the contents of the Drafts box. “Two people, each knowing the login and password write messages to each other but never actually send them. They write their message then save it as a draft. When the other signs in they can pick up the message without anyone ever knowing or finding it by accident. Pretty cute eh?”

  “So what are the messages about?” Carver suspected he already knew and was not surprised to have Hunter confirm it.

  “Our Helen was playing away. Some of it is pretty graphic, what they’d like to do to each other, and so on. But there are also arrangements for meeting up, hotel room details, that sort of thing.”

  “So it’s definitely a real relationship, not just chat-room flirting?” Carver’s mind was racing ahead now. Perhaps the husband had a motive after all, but now he wasn’t his only suspect.

  “I would say so.” He flicked up one of the drafts onto the screen.

  ‘I want to sit on your face again, it drove me crazy and I can’t believe how hard it made you…’

  “That sounds pretty real to me.” smiled Hunter.

  “It carries on like that going back for five months, but they changed this week.” He pulled up another screenshot showing a draft saved on the 11th July at 23:52. “This is from Monday night, so three days ago.”

  ‘I’m sorry not to have been in touch for a while, I’m back from the Lakes now and we need to talk. I can’t carry on like this. I can’t keep lying to him. I want to end it.’

  “Was there anything since?”

  Just this one, he opened one last screenshot. It was just one line and read:

  ‘New Fancy Car Park, 7am Thursday’

  “That’s all. That’s the last message.” said Hunter, sitting back in his reclining chair and swivelling to face Carver.

  “So, how do we find the boyfriend?” Carver was keen to find this guy and have a serious chat with him.

  “The email account is set up in the name of John Smith with an address and postcode that don’t exist, so there’s not much we can do with that. On some of the early emails he signs off as Sean, whic
h is probably genuine as there would be no reason to conceal his identity from her. They must have felt safe in this environment otherwise they would have deleted the messages as they went along. They probably liked to read back over them late at night.” He winked at Carver. “I’ve pulled off copies of everything in case someone logs back in to destroy the evidence. I’ve got digital and paper hardcopies sealed into evidence.”

  “So it’s a dead end?” Carver looked concerned.

  “Afraid so, unless you want me to try and lure him out?”

  “You can do that?” he paused. “I don’t want to tip him off, but it could be hard to find him otherwise.” If they were being this careful it’s unlikely there will be much physical evidence that she had another man in her life.

  Hunter told Carver what he had in mind. It was a little unethical but he needed to track down the new lead.

  “Do it.” commanded Carver. “Straight away if you can, I expect he’ll be covering his tracks soon enough, even if he’s not involved in the death.” It always amazed him how people couldn’t resist tidying up after themselves when they had a guilty conscience. This guy would know that the dead-drop was safe and could never be traced back to him, but the temptation to go back in and clean it all away would be like an itch.

  The tech twisted his chair back and leaned over the desk, his hands moving seamlessly from keyboard to tablet and back again before he looked up. “It’s done.” Carver noticed a new message sat in the draft folder entitled ‘Sorry’.

  “Thanks Steve, that’s great work. Keep me posted.” Carver got to his feet. This kind of progress had warranted a fresh coffee, he checked his watch and left.

  Chapter 4

  Carver let Moss drive back to the Brooks’s house while he called the DCI. He needed to update him on the case and also let him know what support he would need for the investigation now he had more leads and another suspect to track down. They agreed to request a further three officers from the neighbouring forces. Moss had suggested a DS Pramanik from Avon who she had met at the last Operation Brunel investigation, likening him to a bloodhound and promising him that he was Carver’s kind of cop. The DCI promised to do what he could to get them onto the team by the morning briefing. Carver set it for 8am to allow for travel time.

  It was turning into a perfect July evening as they approached Perrystone Hill. Swallows sliced through the air hugging the hedges, flicking here and there to snap up their prey. They turned into the lane leading to the small hamlet as two teenaged girls riding horses trotted along the lane towards them, Moss stopped the car for them to pass, they waved cheerfully as they past, their long blond ponytails swishing in unison with their horses’ stride. “How the other half lives.” Moss couldn’t resist muttering. She had never seen a real horse until police training.

  “They didn’t teach riding at your school then?” Carver teased.

  “No, we did think about putting in some stables at home, but then where would we have kept the wheelie-bin.” Moss stressed her Manchurian accent. She’d been brought up by her single mother in a cold and tatty council terrace, attended a crap comprehensive and had nearly followed her best mate into borstal at the age of thirteen. It was her geography teacher, of all people, who had saved her. She had told her that she was clever and that she could do something about all the injustice she felt, she had suggested the police as a career and given her some leaflets. The young rebellious teenager had laughed at first, but somehow the idea took root. She started to stay in most evenings, even getting a job at the weekends. At sixteen she started working for the Manchester Met with her seven GCSEs and then, two years later joined the force as a probationary PC. She had not looked back since, but still found the contrast between her upbringing and that of these two girls a little hard to take.

  For the second time that day, they pulled into the drive and through the open gate to Hillview Cottage, parking behind a sleek silver-grey coupé. “His and Hers matching Mercedes, that’s nice.” Moss muttered as she turned off the engine.

  Tony Brooks was standing at the front door when they walked down the path. He looked older than he had that afternoon. He was still wearing the same suit trousers and shirt. His face was puffy as if he had been crying. “Margaret’s just left.” He said, “She offered to stay but she has her grandchildren this week so I insisted that she go.” He turned and walked into the entrance hall then through to the large lounge they had spied through the window earlier. The two police officers followed him into the room.

  “Shall I make some tea?” suggested Moss.

  Brooks shrugged his shoulders. “That’s all everyone wants to do. Very British isn’t it. Sorry your wife’s dead, have some tea!” He almost spat out the last word, then stopped. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” he repeated and slumped down in an armchair. Moss sat on the sofa next to Carver and took out her pad.

  Carver had no intension of questioning Brooks about his wife’s affair, not yet. He wanted to make him comfortable talking, he felt that judging by how the man was coping with the death of his wife, that dragging her memory through the mud at this stage would be counter-productive. He wanted to get the background, get the man talking. Lots of suspects caught themselves out when they relaxed and often said things they later regretted.

  “We’ve arranged a time for you to come and formally identify your wife.” He started. “The post-mortem is tomorrow morning so we thought 10:30 at Gloucester Royal. Is that OK?”

  Brooks nodded in silence.

  “Is there someone who can come with you for support, I’m sure it won’t be easy for you.” Carver continued.

  “My sister is on her way here from Oxford. She’s going to stay for a few days, at least through the weekend.”

  “Oh good.” Carver was speaking softly, full of compassion. Moss sat quietly watching her boss at work. “Perhaps you could tell us a bit more about Helen.” He paused, “Do you mind us calling her Helen?” Brooks shook his head. “She was a scientist we understand.”

  The conversation developed slowly while Moss took notes. They learned that Helen Brooks had been a materials scientist. She had specialised in metals, especially how they perform over long periods under high temperatures and pressures. Brooks was obviously very proud of his wife and seemed knowledgeable about her work. He explained how she had been examining pipe work from the nuclear power stations reaching the end of their design life. The man explained how there was considerable effort going into extending their use, at least until the next generation of stations were built. Her role was to help prove that the metal work could cope with the extra time in service. Carver imagined him getting on very well with Steve Hunter as he tried to explain the phase changes of stainless steels over long time periods. Most of it went over their heads but Moss took notes anyway, determined not to show her ignorance. She would be spending some time on Wikipedia later, that was for sure.

  “She’s done a lot of work comparing the micro-structure of the metals with their mechanical performance. The effect was known when the plants were built and it was factored in, but it’s the first time it has been able to be validated with real in-service components…” Brooks looked up and noticed that he had now lost his audience. “Sorry.” he said again then added “She was due to talk about it at a conference next month.”

  “Oh yes?” Carver prompted, not giving anything away.

  “Yes, she’d been working hard on the presentation. I think she was a little nervous but was looking forward to it.” He stopped and Carver noticed his eyes were welling up again.

  “How long had she been working for Engineering Analytics?” Carver asked, keen to keep the man talking.

  “About 5 years. We moved from Sussex so she could take the job. I found the job at SEMSoft about six months afterwards. She loved it.” It was the first time he had used the past tense and they all noticed the change. “I still can’t believe she’s gone.” He paused. “They have been working her very hard, but she thrived on it. She spend a lot
of time away, not long periods but every couple of weeks she has to visit the National Nuclear Laboratories in Cumbria or Warrington. They have specialised equipment there and often the samples can’t be moved out of their secure facilities.” Carver made a mental note to check that last statement with her boss, imagining that it might not have been as often as she had led her husband to believe.

  “How long were you married?” Carver asked, changing tack.

  “We had our silver wedding anniversary last weekend.” Brooks’s voice trailed off and he started sobbing. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it. I’m doing my best.” He apologised, looking embarrassed.

  “How did you celebrate it?” Carver prompted, suspecting he already knew.

  Brooks smiled weakly, “At least we had that. We went to the Lake District. Helen knows this little guesthouse near Workington that she uses when she visits the labs up there. I wanted to take her away somewhere special, you know, a safari or somewhere exotic. She’d always fancied Mauritius but she had too much work on to take a long break. It was as much as I could do to get her to take the time off to visit the Lakes. It was really nice though, we had fun.”

  “What did you do?” prompted Carver. Brooks went into detail about how they had driven up on the previous Thursday afternoon, the 7th, getting to the guesthouse in time for supper. “It was a great little place, excellent food and really friendly.” he commented. He recounted how the Friday had been their actual anniversary, it seemed so long ago to him now, but it had been less than a week since they had enjoyed the relaxed breakfast while planning their day. He had pushed the boat out with the full English breakfast while Helen had opted for smoked salmon and scrabbled egg. The chef had prepared them a packed lunch and they had set off to explore the West Lakes. On the main road back towards Keswick, Helen had spotted a sign that advertised osprey viewing so they had turned off and parked up in a lay-by by the water. They wandered along the lakeshore holding hands, with Tony claiming to spot osprey after osprey but they had all turned out to be seagulls.