Reprobates

by Bridgestock, RC

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jane Simpson was due in the Magistrates’ Court at two o’clock, when CPS would apply for her to be remanded in custody. Dylan knew from experience, and as a matter of course that the defence would ask that she be bailed. They would tell the magistrates that she was vehemently denying all charges with good cause. Most of the time Dylan could write the script for the defence’s approach before he got there.

  Jacki Stanley a very experienced Crown Prosecutor had broached Dylan to see if he would give evidence at the remand hearing, which she felt would add weight to the application. He didn’t mind, he wanted Jane Simpson where she couldn’t obstruct the ongoing investigation.

  ‘It’s a difficult one for the Magistrates but if they listen carefully to the evidence they won’t let the defence pull the wool over their eyes,’ Jacki Stanley said.

  ***

  There was a note waiting for him on his desk at the station. A Mr Fisher had telephoned asking if he would call.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ he asked Lisa.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. He insisted on speaking to you. Wouldn’t leave a message.’

  Although he was still standing Dylan picked up his phone and commenced to dial.

  ‘He’s the boss over at the mortuary isn’t he?’ asked Lisa.

  ‘Yes, Derek Harper’s boss.’

  ‘Mr Fisher. Jack Dylan. I’m returning your call.’

  Dylan sat. His elbows were on his desk. His chin on his fist as he listened with intensity. ‘You mean by “let him go” I take it that you’ve sacked him?’ he asked. Lisa’s ears pricked up and she stopped what she was doing.

  ‘Yes, I caught him taking a picture of a deceased lady on his mobile phone today. It appears he has a fascination with tattoos. I ordered him to erase the image immediately. You can be assured you can forget about him. He won’t be causing you any more problems. The matter has been dealt with. I wanted you to know.’

  ‘Do you have Harper’s home address, just in case we need to speak to him?’

  ‘I do but... It’s number 5, Hawthorne Terrace but… I don’t think…’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll get that fed into our system.’

  Dylan handed the information to Lisa. ‘For the attention of the Incident Room staff, too,’ he said.

  ‘Sure,’ she said.

  In the Incident Room he saw Vicky and Paul Robinson in deep conversation.

  ‘Vicky, Paul, my office please, we need a quick scrum down before court,’ he said.

  ***

  It was almost time for the court appearance and Dylan picked up his briefcase. DC Andy Wormald was working with PC Tracy Petterson who they had managed to draft in on secondment. The defendant’s telephone data had been received but they still needed to firm up on an address for Billy Simpson. ‘Before you ask I’m coming to Magistrates Court for the remand of Jane Simpson but I was thinking County Court records might help us get an address, especially if they had filed for divorce,’ said Dylan. ‘And make sure everything is recorded on action forms, Vicky for the Incident Room, continuity and disclosure and I’ll update the policy log.’

  ***

  According to Detective Sergeant Paul Robinson who was hard at work on the Kirsty Gallagher enquiry a vast amount of exhibits had been removed from her house. Swabs from the gas pipe had been taken and fingerprints lifted from the empty drawers in her bedroom amongst other places of interest to them.

  ‘We are going through her letters, diaries etcetera to see if we can build up a background picture for her. She certainly liked her foreign holidays to exotic climes, but it appears she kept herself very much to herself.’

  ‘Still interviewing people?’

  ‘Yes. One interesting development is that one of the staff at the funeral directors where she worked for a short time suggested that the photograph from her car we showed him, looked like one of their employees.’

  ‘Ensure the policy log is up to date and everything goes through the relevant Incident Room. There should be no mix ups with names to each of the investigations which are now called Pullman for the Kirsty Gallagher enquiry and Mallard for the Billy Simpson murder.’

  ‘We sound like a group of chuffin’ train spotters. Which weirdo at HQ thinks up these bloody names?’

  ‘Talking of weirdos, after Court I think we need to visit our mortuary attendant Derek Harper. He’s been fired.’

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘Yes. I reckon it could be an interesting visit. Let’s see what else he will tell us now he’s been sacked by Fisher,’ said Dylan.

  ***

  The Magistrates’ Court was full with a relentless, chattering crowd: some of whom Dylan noticed had brought provisions. They were settled for the afternoon it seemed. There was a number of interesting cases listed.

  It was raining outside and the courtroom smelt of wet clothes. The windows looked dirty and the room had a green glow about it due to the lighting.

  Courts, both Magistrates’ and Crown Court used to be imposing places and people had respect for them. In the past visitors wouldn’t dare utter a sound or behave improperly within their walls for fear of contempt, thereby receiving the full wrath of Magistrate or Judge presiding. Nowadays it appeared people treated them as nothing more than a place of entertainment. The lead magistrate, one of three, was a large, stocky lady with a square face and a flat forehead: she had a mass of wild, thick grey hair and deep set eyes. Now and again she took a sip of water from a glass on the desk in front of her.

  Jane Simpson was brought up from the cells by a police officer and sat in the dock. She looked weary and tired, but steadfast and determined. Simpson’s expression suggested to Dylan that she was ill at ease. She sat with her hands clasped tight in her lap until she was asked to stand, by the lead magistrate.

  Dylan took the witness stand, when asked to do so. He looked about the public gallery and hoped that there would be someone, a lone male that perhaps appeared to be supporting Jane Simpson. Much to his disappointment there was no one to fit that description. Having given his name and occupation he took the oath and spoke to the Magistrates.

  ‘Your worships, I have attended this afternoon to reinforce the serious nature of the case before you, for which Jane Simpson appears charged with murder. The facts are not as they appear at face value. I confirm we have no evidence of a break in at the defendant’s house, one murder weapon is proving to be elusive and the injuries to Mrs Simpson’s ex-husband, according to the pathologist, are not consistent with how she states they were caused. Her account of what took place that night is a lie. She would have us believe that she was attacked by a masked intruder and his fatal injuries were caused by her defending herself. At her trial this will be proven to be false. Jane Simpson has no ties to the area and because her story has not been accepted, I believe she may abscond. It may be that there is also an accomplice out there and that she will interfere with the course of justice, thereby obstructing the investigation, if she is released on bail. This murder was premeditated and the aftermath, such as her arrest, was anticipated in my view. I feel that given the opportunity she would not make herself available for a future trial.’

  Jane Simpson kept her head bowed. She was very still and silent.

  Yvonne Best her solicitor had no questions for Detective Inspector Dylan but told the Court that in her view she thought her client was lucky to be alive after such an attack by an intruder. She stated her client denied knowing him due to the mask he was wearing, until she saw the photo of her dead ex-husband taken at the scene by the police, with the mask removed. ‘My client will abide by any restrictions placed upon her, no matter how restrictive,’ she said. ‘Prison, I’m sure you will agree is no place for her. She is the victim in this case.’

  Dylan was impressed with how she pleaded her client’s case but hoped the magistrates would remand Jane Simpson nevertheless. He observed the countenance on the faces of the magistrates before they retired to the back room, asking the clerk
to join them.

  Ten minutes later they returned to inform Ms Simpson that she would be remanded in custody. When Dylan heard the ruling he was conscious of a feeling of great relief.

  Jane Simpson didn’t flinch when the police officer alongside her touched her arm. She was ushered from the dock and back down the steps, to the cells. Dylan wondered if Jane Simpson had expected the ruling. He knew her solicitors Perfect and Best would be appealing to a Judge in Chambers at the first opportunity and there she may well get bail. Dylan was aware that her solicitors would be considering this, but would make enquiries to see which judge was where before making the appointment. Some Judges were known for being more sympathetic and others were renowned for their hefty sentencing and lack of compassion for the offender. One thing for sure, the legal team would be ensuring all the legal aid forms were completed and signed promptly. A murder enquiry was a good source of income for them.

  Dylan left the courtroom with Vicky. The sky had cleared and he was feeling restless.

  ‘Come on, let’s go see what Derek Harper has got to say, shall we?’

  ‘Do we have to, he gives me the heebie jeebies?’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re probably not his type, Vicky... you’ve got a pulse and don’t have a tattoo,’ he said, with a glint in his eye. ‘He’s been taking pictures of dead bodies and has a fascination with tattoos seemingly. Let’s see if we can find out what he’s up to.’

  ‘Urgh...’ she said, taking the packet of Dylan’s mints out of her pocket and handing one to him. ‘How do you know I haven’t got a tattoo?’ she said.

  Chapter Seventeen

  On the officers’ approach to Derek Harper’s house they could see that the downstairs curtains of Number 5, Hawthorne Terrace, Lee Mount were closed. As they got nearer they could see the linings were badly discoloured and haphazardly hung.

  ‘Just so you know if we get offered a drink, I’ll be refusing,’ said Vicky.

  ‘You’re not the only one,’ said Dylan.

  ‘Bet his neighbours love him,’ Vicky said, easing her scarf from around her neck as they arrived at the gate. She stopped. ‘But it’s just how I imagined his house would be, horrible and creepy... just like him.’

  The gate was rusty and Vicky winced as she cut her finger on the catch. Blood seeped from the wound; her shoe found the gate and she kicked it the rest of the way open. Bouncing to and fro off the wall it broke away from its hinges and crashed to the floor. ‘Oops,’ she grimaced standing it carefully against the overgrown hedge. Dylan shook his head and sighed.

  The two walked up the short path and turned down the ginnel at the side of the house before finding the back door. They were careful as to where they trod. The path was littered with debris held up by clumps of weeds. As Vicky stood under the porch and knocked on the door, Dylan scanned the back yard with his expert eye. They both paused, cocked their heads and listened for a moment. Vicky reached forward and gave the door handle a turn but it was locked. They looked at each other. Vicky shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyebrows at Dylan then turned and followed him around the corner and into the back yard. It was surprisingly empty, quiet and still. There was a brick built shed behind them that might have once been a coal bunker and attached presumably would have been the outside toilet which was standard for the type and age of the terrace house.

  ‘God, it stinks out here.’

  ‘Probably the drains under the yard from the old khazi. Outside toilet to you, Vicky. A bit before your time,’ said Dylan.

  ‘My granny had one at the farm and she used to have us cutting newspapers up into squares and threading it on string to put behind the door.’

  Most outside toilets had been knocked down long ago and Dylan could understand why when he smelt the aroma which was making Vicky now gag into a tissue. The old soot-blackened brick walls were in shadow, and so too was a tree that pushed its foliage through into the light. The buds of its leaves were making an appearance and old, dark brown, rotting leaves lay beneath it on the flags.

  ‘The mints not working?’ asked Dylan.

  ‘No, not this time,’ she said. She clenched her teeth, shuddered and showed him the goose bumps that had arisen on her forearm.

  Dylan walked across the flagstones and hammered on the door with his fist. To his surprise it was answered immediately. Stood before them in a grubby white vest and Y-fronts was Derek Harper. He had a grey tuft of hair on his chin like a tusk and looked a lot older now than his years.

  ‘What do you want, I’m busy,’ he said, clearing his throat and spitting into a filthy rag that he used as a handkerchief.

  Dylan re-introduced themselves to him.

  ‘I know who you are. Like I said, what do want? You lot cost me my job, isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite us in?’ Dylan said walking past him into the kitchen.

  ‘And get some clothes on will you. That’s not a pleasant sight,’ Vicky said, walking in behind Dylan. Her eyes strayed everywhere in the room other than look at his half naked frame. The kitchen had a heavy cooking lardy smell about it. The doors leading off it were firmly closed. Harper muttered something that neither officer could make out, his upper lip appeared to writhe back from his teeth. He turned and reached for a greasy mac that had been strewn over the back of an upright, plastic chair.

  ‘Well? What do you want?’ he asked

  ‘Sit down. We’ll ask the questions.’

  Harper sat.

  ‘Tell me why you were taking pictures of naked dead bodies?’ asked Dylan.

  Derek Harper’s every movement had a deliberate hesitation as if he was used to waiting on an order.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Fisher told you. I might have known. He said to get rid of it. Come on, it was a joke.’

  ‘And who the hell do you know who would find that sort of thing funny?’

  His face was grey and tense. His long neck showed the strain.

  Dylan sat down very carefully as though he considered if the seat was fit for purpose. He leaned towards Derek Harper. Derek Harper was hesitant. His lips were pale.

  ‘Some people I know do but I’m not going to name them.’

  Dylan raised his eyebrows and tilted his head back slightly as he did so. ‘The dead body. It was a female wasn’t it?’

  ‘A dead female? Yes. Look it was just a one off.’

  ‘Can we have a look at your mobile, Mr Harper?’

  Vicky flinched as if she’d been bitten, and bending down rubbed her leg above her boot with frantic fingers. Derek Harper looked at her for a long moment. ‘Why? I told you I erased it,’ he said, his purposeful gaze returning to Dylan’s face.

  ‘And if we believed everything people told us, Mr Harper, we’d never get anywhere. Mobile phone, please?’ he asked, holding out his hand.

  ‘Battery’s flat.’

  ‘Mobile!’

  Harper hesitated, his eyes grew darker.

  ‘Don’t you need a warrant?’

  ‘Do you want me to get one? We...’ he said, glancing up at Vicky. ‘We were hoping you’d co-operate. Or do you have something to hide?’ he asked, staring at Harper with sharp, squinty eyes and a hard mouth drawn in a tight line.

  Derek Harper’s face twitched, his brows knitted together tightly. Dylan knew he had touched a nerve. Now, which way was Derek Harper going to play it, he wondered.

  ‘It’s in my den,’ he said getting to his feet. ‘If you’ll just wait there.’ He turned. The officers were right behind him. ‘I’ll get it. I said wait there,’ he said, turning to face them with his hand raised. With a speediness he didn’t look capable of he opened the door and slipped inside the adjoining room. He attempted to close the door but Dylan just as rapidly put his foot out to stop it.

  ‘Just making sure you don’t try anything,’ Dylan said when Derek Harper came nose to nose with him.

  Derek Harper took his hand from the door jamb and stepped back into the den. Dylan’s foot kicked it wide open.


  What the officers saw inside didn’t seem to belong to the rest of the house. There were two large computer screens facing them, one with a web cam attached and in front of a big modern desk was two tall, leather executive chairs that Chief Superintendent Hugo-Watkins would have been proud to own.

  ‘Welcome to my little den,’ he said, thrusting his hand in the far side desk drawer. His fingers closed on the object he sought and pulling it out he forced himself to put the mobile phone into Dylan’s outstretched hand. Turning towards the officer he held out his arms as if to usher them, albeit not touching them, back into the kitchen.

  Dylan passed the mobile to Vicky.

  Derek Harper closed the den door and stood with his back to it.

  ‘What are you hiding, Derek?’ Dylan asked watching intently for any reaction.

  ‘Nothing, I’m not hiding anything. That’s mine. It’s private. I don’t like people messing with my things.’

  Vicky addressed Derek Harper. ‘It’s flat, the battery’s flat,’ she said, indicating the phone. ‘Where’s your charger?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I don’t know.’ He was trembling.

  ‘Convenient. Derek, what’s the problem here? If there’s nothing on the mobile to incriminate you, why the stalling? We are going to check it either here or down at the station. Your choice.’

  Dylan had his back to the kitchen window. He watched Harper go back into his office. Within seconds he returned with a lead. Vicky plugged it into a socket in the kitchen and was soon looking at pictures on its camera. Her breathing was laboured as she stared intently at the images.

  ‘And now we know why you didn’t want us to look, don’t we?’ she said.

  ‘I should have erased them, shouldn’t I?’ he asked.

  ‘You shouldn’t have taken them in the first place. You have no idea of the seriousness of this, do you?’ she said, holding the phone out for Dylan to see a selected image.

  ‘What else are we going to find, Mr Harper?’ Dylan said.

  Derek Harper was physically shaking and he paused before replying.