by Wonny Lea
Harry looked most unhappy with that suggestion, so Martin picked up the phone and after a quick glance at the internal directory punched in 7217 and was greeted by the ‘I am a very important person’ voice of Mrs Painter.
With none of his usual pleasantries Martin spoke. ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Phelps. Harry has put together an excellent package and I am totally happy with the arrangements. Both Detective Sergeant Pryor and I will be travelling and so as you will know both our signatures are required on the RT1 form. At the moment my sergeant is investigating a murder and is unavailable to complete your form but it will be on the desk of Superintendent Bryant by fifteen hundred hours. Good afternoon.’
Not waiting for any response, Martin replaced the receiver, and was rewarded by the look of relief and even a slight grin on Harry’s face as he left the office. At the same time Martin felt disgusted that his action was needed in the first place.
He looked at his watch and was surprised to see that it was already twenty to three. He was tossing up whether to spend an hour in the Incident Room or come up with some objectives for the trip to France when the door opened – Alex and Matt were back and obviously had some news.
‘You first,’ said Matt looking in Alex’s direction. ‘Give us an update on the possibility of forensic facial reconstruction.’
‘More than a possibility,’ returned Alex. ‘We were wrong about Prof. Moore’s opinion of the process – in fact he is quite taken with it. Apparently he attended the same seminar as you in Oxford last year and since then he has seen two examples of reconstruction by Professor Henrietta Van-Bruggen and apparently they were both spot on.’
‘Yes, that’s the woman who gave the lecture,’ said Martin. ‘I remember expecting her to have something of a Dutch or German accent, but she was fluent American!’
‘Well, she’s in Cardiff at the moment. Do you remember on Monday, when Prof. Moore made a hasty exit from the Coopers Field Murder briefing? Apparently at that time he was already ten minutes late for the start of a lecture he was supposed to be giving at the Cardiff International Arena. Prof. Van-Bruggen took his place and he filled her slot later that afternoon, and then they did a joint question and answer session that was, according to the feedback, quite outstanding.’
‘I’ll bet it was,’ said Martin. ‘I remember her session in Oxford, and as they both love an audience I could well imagine them being a superb double act – but how does that help us?’
‘I spoke to Prof. Moore, and he seemed to think the visiting professor would jump at the chance of showing off her skills in a real live criminal investigation. She is doing a UK lecture tour and this would apparently boost her credibility no end. Anyway, I wouldn’t mind betting she is already here, because Prof. Moore was last seen driving his Lexus towards Cardiff University on a mission to bring her back.’
Martin nodded. ‘That’s good. So it’s possible that by tomorrow we could have an image of the dead woman worthy of circulating in the hope of getting her identified.’
Matt was keen to interrupt. ‘The other thing we have to tell you is not going to make much sense but it is an absolute fact. When I went back to Miss Forrester’s house she was able to confirm that she had not touched anything in her sister’s room since she disappeared and that the drinking glass and the books on the bedside table did belong to Daphne Mansfield. She was more than happy for me to take them, and Alex didn’t have any trouble getting prints from one of the books and the glass.’
Alex took up the thread. ‘We used laser technology to scan the fingerprints of the body and we have two partial prints from the book and the glass and together they almost make a complete print. It would obviously be more conclusive if we had a total print but even with what we have I believe there is no doubt that there is a positive match.’
There was a moment’s silence as Martin’s brain took in the implications of this information. ‘We have a body that in terms of height, weight, medical and dental history and now fingerprints match Mrs Mansfield, but DNA that we know comes from her hairbrush is not a match – you’re right, it doesn’t make any sense. I think I know all I should do about fingerprints, but tell me if I am wrong. People have the same fingerprints all their lives; there’s no change as we get older, is there?’
‘No change,’ agreed Alex.
‘There is a generic element to our fingerprints, but that’s only a general thing, and even identical twins, who will have the same DNA, will not have the same fingerprints – similarities yes, but not the same.’
Alex nodded and Martin continued. ‘When we were having our forensic lectures, I remember being very interested in the identical twin situation, because with everything else including DNA being a match you would expect fingerprints to follow the trend. It’s all down to the fingerprint ridges apparently, and the differences may well be the result of early stress or movement in the womb.’
‘Well remembered,’ interrupted Alex. ‘Family members may share a general pattern of ridges, but specific pattern or fine detail is unique. Consequently no two people have the exact same pattern, and for over a hundred years we have had the science of fingerprinting, much to the chagrin of criminals worldwide.’
‘Exactly,’ concluded Martin. ‘Fingerprints have served us well and you’re telling me that those of the body and those taken from Mrs Mansfield’s room are a match.’
‘Because we’ve taken two part prints – one from the glass and one from the book – any good defence counsel would try to rubbish our conclusions but I have seen both sets under the microscope and I am convinced they are the same,’ argued Alex.
‘So there are just two things standing in the way of identifying the Coopers Field body as Mrs Mansfield, and they are the DNA results and the sighting of her in France after the time of the murder. Let’s take the DNA results first. If the body is Daphne Mansfield why was the DNA taken from her bedroom and provided by her sister not a match?’
Matt responded. ‘Maybe it simply wasn’t her hairbrush – or maybe her sister or her daughter had used it.’
‘OK – but we know that DNA is passed down from one generation to the next and some parts remain almost unchanged, so even if the hairbrush actually belonged to her sister or her daughter we would be looking at enough of a match to be asking questions.’
‘The other thing is why would the French housekeeper tell Miss Forrester she had seen Daphne in her daughter’s car if she hadn’t?’
‘Perhaps her employers told her to say she had,’ replied Matt. ‘What exactly does Miss Forrester say happened when she phoned her niece’s home to find out if her sister was there?’
Martin picked up the relevant part of the report he had been scanning and read aloud. ‘The French housekeeper had answered the phone and told Elsie that Monsieur et Madame Lefevre had called in that morning to collect some papers needed for taking Madame’s mother back to Maison de Retraite. The maid apparently said that Madame Mansfield was sitting in the back of the car but did not get out as her legs were too stiff and in any event Monsieur Lefevre was in a hurry.’
Matt butted in. ‘So the maid may not even have seen Mrs Mansfield sitting in the back of the car, it’s possible she was just told that by Monsieur Lefevre when he rushed in to get whatever documents he seemed to need. Perhaps she was already dead and perhaps they had killed her and left her in Coopers Field. I can understand why they would strip her of any clothes that may be identifiable but I don’t understand the pile of new clothes. What’s that all about?’
Matt continued asking and answering his own random questions before Martin, who was looking through his office window, suddenly stopped him and handed him the folder left by Harry. ‘Sign the top form and take the folder down to the Super’s office, quick as you can. It’s now five to three and I promised Harry it would be on Superintendent Bryant’s desk by three o’clock.’
‘Who’s Harry and what am I signing?’ asked Matt.
‘I suppose you could say that Harry is
our travel agent and these are our travel papers,’ replied Martin. ‘I spent hours this morning with a gutsy old lady who managed to convince me that her sister would never have gone to France of her own free will and without even saying goodbye. Even if she isn’t our body, she is someone who may require our help, on the basis that she may have been abducted. I don’t have the level of evidence to convince the Super of the need for us to follow it up so that’s why I’ve kept the forms until now. I’ve just seen him get into his car at the front entrance, he’s always five minutes early – would make a hopeless criminal, far too predictable. So if you get these forms onto his desk within the next couple of minutes I’ll have kept my promise and we will be able to travel in the certain knowledge that I have to some extent obeyed the rules.’
Matt didn’t read the detail but signed the form and was halfway through the door when he asked the obvious question. ‘When are we going?’
Martin and Alex didn’t need much imagination to guess the look on Matt’s face when he heard the reply.
‘Pick you up at a quarter to four tomorrow morning – don’t be late!’
Chapter Eleven
Going to Nantes
‘I thought it would be pitch black but the sky is already getting lighter,’ remarked Matt. They had been travelling just over an hour, had crossed the Severn Bridge and were well into English territory, making excellent progress. ‘It’s not exactly busy, but it still amazes me how many people are on the road at this hour of the morning.’
‘The official sunrise time this morning is five thirty and the weather forecast for today is good, so within the next half hour or so it will really be daylight. Let me know if you want to stop at any point, because unless you do I’m happy to do this journey without a break. I feel quite surprisingly wide awake,’ said Martin. ‘I know this route very well as my Aunt Pat had relatives living in Parkstone. We spent at least a week with them every summer holiday, but I’m sad to say I’ve only visited twice since she died.
‘That happens,’ responded Matt. ‘When we were kids our parents took us to Bournemouth seven years in a row as a friend of my dad had a holiday cottage. Last year my eldest sister, Laura, took her family on a caravan holiday in the same area and they came back after two days. Laura said she kept expecting Mum and Dad to be sitting on deckchairs and looking out for them as they had done when she was last there. It spooked her and she has vowed to take her family somewhere different every year and not turn any one place into a potential shrine.’
They fell in to a companionable silence, and both men took in the beauty of the countryside as the sun woke up and the shadows of the night were lifted to reveal England’s green and pleasant land. Weeks of constant rain, followed by just a few days of warm sunny weather, had transformed the landscape, and now the green of the hills and the view of animals grazing in the pastures were just like a verse by William Blake.
After less than two hours’ driving, Martin turned the car onto the A350, and heading in a south-easterly direction soon had Poole well and truly in his sights. ‘We should be there within the next half hour, and that will give us plenty of time to stretch our legs with a walk around the harbour, before going to the ferry port. I don’t want to be among the first cars onto the ferry because that will mean we’re the last off when we reach Cherbourg. We can get coffee and something to eat on board.’
The very thought of food sent Matt’s stomach into a merry dance: after all, it was twelve hours since he had fed his gastric gremlins, and they were getting decidedly restless.
An hour later they were each settled on one of the reclining seats, looking out over the waves. Catering for cousins on both sides of the Channel, the on-board café had offered English- and French-style breakfasts and a good selection of coffee. Soon after eating an assortment of soft bread rolls with some ham, eggs, and cheese, Matt pushed the back of his chair into a more comfortable position and closed his eyes.
Martin looked at his relaxed sergeant and commented. ‘I thought the idea of a strong black coffee with an ‘extra shot’ was to wake you up – not send you to sleep!’
Matt opened one eye and grinned. ‘It was, boss, but it takes some time to work on me, so if I have a doze now and then get another similar coffee when I wake, I’ll be buzzing by the time we get to Cherbourg.’
They seemed to be positively gliding at high speed across the water and Martin picked up a brochure displaying details of the aluminium twin hulled catamaran that was ferrying them. It was scheduled to get them from England to France in slightly less than two and a half hours and it was the first time Martin had used the high-speed service.
Perhaps the next time he used it he would have Shelley with him. He quite fancied the idea of a short break in Paris, but they were going to the Edinburgh Festival in August, so maybe September. It made Martin feel good to be planning ahead for a future that included Shelley, and just for a moment he lay back, listening to the sounds of the ocean, and wondered where they would be a year from now.
Not just for a moment. It was almost one and a half hours later when Martin looked up to see Matt towering above him holding two large cups of coffee. ‘I thought I was meant to be the sleepyhead,’ he joked. ‘You’ve been out like a light and I thought I was going to have to wake you when we arrived.’
Martin gratefully accepted the coffee and shook his head. ‘Last thing I remember was looking at the waves, but they must have been more hypnotic than I imagined – certainly more effective than counting sheep.’
‘We’ll be docking at Cherbourg in about half an hour,’ said Matt. ‘I assume you would like me to drive for a bit. I’m happy with driving over here and welcome the opportunity; anyway, it’s easy now that we can just follow the instructions on the sat-nav and don’t even have to read the foreign road signs. Do you have any plans for when we get to the Lefevres’ family home?’
Martin looked at his sergeant but was reluctant to confess the sketchy nature of his plans and just said his main objective was to interview the couple regarding the period of time they were last in Cardiff and the circumstances under which Mrs Mansfield apparently left with them. ‘I’ll fill you in with some extra bits of information on the journey – you know of course that their home is a bit further on than Nantes, probably about twenty minutes’ extra driving time, and heading back towards the coast?’
Matt nodded and the two of them walked around the deck, stretching their legs, and making use of the toilets before heading for the car. It wasn’t long before they were given the OK to roll off the ferry and Matt turned on the ignition of Martin’s car. Their strategy had worked well, and within minutes they were the fifth vehicle to move onto French soil.
An hour after leaving Cherbourg they were on the E3 heading southeast and making good time, having mercifully missed the rush-hour traffic on both sides of the Channel. Two hours into the journey and with only the occasional direction needed from the sat-nav they just followed the road ahead and already Nantes was signposted. Twenty minutes later they were, according to the road signs, entering Pays de la Loire and Martin suggested they stop at the next petrol station to use the loo, get a coffee, and stretch their legs.
Matt answered. ‘Well, I’ll make the stop at the next manned petrol station because according to my youngest sister, the loos in the unmanned petrol stops are without exception pretty disgusting.’
He made a face as he delivered this piece of news, and Martin laughed as he imagined Matt’s sister and her three young daughters making a similar face when they had told him to avoid this experience.
When they resumed the journey it was with Martin back in the driving seat and Matt relating a story about the only other time he had been to Nantes. Unsurprisingly, he had made the trip with his sisters, this time two of them and consequently six nieces. Martin assumed his sisters’ husbands were also there, but the females of the group always seemed to dominate Matt’s stories.
‘We went to see a project called “The Machines of the
Isle of Nantes”,’ continued Matt. ‘It was very impressive. The highlight for the girls was this huge moving mechanical elephant that they could actually ride on. Apparently it’s the second elephant that’s been built, the first one was constructed for a play performed to mark the centenary of Jules Verne’s death. This play, by all accounts, was performed in lots of locations worldwide – although I confess I had never heard of it. For some reason, the original elephant was destroyed, and then this new one was built with the capacity to carry – oh, I would think forty to fifty people. It’s huge, probably more than twelve metres high. It’s made of wood and steel and I particularly remember being told it weighs forty-five tons and that’s the equivalent of about sixty full-grown Indian elephants. It’s got loads of articulated parts and trundles along, not very quickly mind you, taking tourists on a forty-five minute circular ride.’
Martin drove as instructed by the navigation system and they headed for a bypass that took them back into a more rural setting. Matt’s story had been an interesting diversion but now Martin needed to focus both their minds on what lay ahead and he briefed Matt on what he wanted to get from the visit and what he had discovered before leaving the office yesterday.
‘I want to officially interview Monsieur et Madame Lefevre but when I contacted my opposite number in Nantes, to ensure we wouldn’t be treading on any toes, I was surprised to learn that they are known to the police, or at least he is. It’s regarding matters of fraud and other white-collar crimes, but nothing is proven as yet, although his business is being scrutinised and they expect to be making an arrest in the not-too-distant future.