Irrefutable Evidence

by David George Clarke

  For the first time, a smile flickered at the corners of Jennifer’s mouth, softening her whole face. Henry felt his heart melting.

  “No, it wasn’t the evidence,” she said. “They were worried about the fallout, especially the senior types. It all gets absurdly political in the elevated ranks — the chief super, assistant chief constable and above are all paranoid about the press. I think their idea of hell would be a never-ending phone call from a tabloid editor with dirt to dig and a direct link to Whitehall.”

  Henry’s eyes creased; he liked his daughter more each second. He took a deep breath.

  “Anyway, Jennifer, your mother? And, of course, your father. Who were you told was your father?”

  “My mother’s name is Antonella Cotton, She is, or rather was, a fashion designer, not a particularly special one, but as it turned out, that didn’t matter. She worked in Milan, which is where she still is, and where I was born and brought up.”

  “Why didn’t it matter?”

  “She married Pietro Fabrelli, the boss of the fashion house she worked for. You’ve probably heard of him, most people have. He’s my stepfather, and a generous one too.”

  “Pietro Fabrelli! Wow! I’m impressed. Have you always known he was your stepfather, rather than your father, I mean?”

  “Yes, I have. My mother never tried to hide it from me that my real father was a newly qualified doctor, a brilliant man with a stellar future ahead of him, she said, who was killed in a car crash in Europe along with two friends.”

  “Did she say where?”

  “Somewhere in the former Yugoslavia. His name was Simon Jefford.”

  Henry shook his head. “That name doesn’t mean anything to me, I’m afraid. Have you checked, about him and the crash, I mean. You were a police officer, it should have been easy enough.”

  “No, I had no reason to, and anyway there are strict procedural protocols these days for searching the police databases. You can’t just dive in and check up on someone or something if it’s not part of an ongoing investigation. All access is logged and it’s taken very seriously if someone takes a wander around the files.”

  “Interesting. So it’s not like they show it in films or on TV?”

  “You must be joking. In movies they get information so quickly that it’s there almost before the crime has been committed.”

  “You have to take shortcuts if you want to squeeze all the action in to an hour or so,” said Henry, smiling.

  He paused, his eyes roaming over Jennifer’s face, taking in her features, her hair, the set of her jaw.

  “Could you tell me more about your mother? What’s she like? Have you told her about me?”

  Jennifer frowned briefly, making a decision. She reached into her pocket, brought out a photo and catching the eye of the nearest guard, raised her eyebrows in question. The guard sauntered over, taking his time.

  “May I show this to him, please?” asked Jennifer.

  “Who is it?” said the guard.

  “My mother.”

  “OK, this once, but you shouldn’t bring anything in with you, and Silk, you can only look; you’re not to touch it.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Henry automatically, his jaw clenching.

  Jennifer dropped her eyes, realising it had been a difficult moment for him.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  She held up the photo for Henry to study.

  “Antonia,” he said, nodding. “It had to be, really.”

  “Antonia?”

  “Antonia Caldmore. At one time, Mrs Antonia Silk, although she always preferred to use her maiden name.”

  “She was your wife? When?”

  Henry looked back at the photo that was now lying on the table.

  “Mid to late eighties. Ours was not a marriage made in heaven. It only lasted three years and even then there were dalliances on both sides. We were too young and both in crazy industries. Antonia was twenty and I was twenty-two. She was very impressionable, thought she was going to make it big in the fashion world, especially once she had made connections in the acting profession. To be honest, I’m not actually sure why we got married; I suppose we thought we loved each other.

  “I was doing OK, beginning to get known, but, as for many, the parties and the liberal life were huge distractions. My best mate was Dirk Sanderley, who was really going places. Some people thought I was following in his wake, but that wasn’t actually the case. He was a good actor, but without wishing to brag, I think I was every bit as good. What he did have was the charm and the extra special good looks. Looks are like fashion, you know, they have their time, and Dirk’s were perfect for that time.”

  “I’ve seen photos of him,” said Jennifer, “and a couple of the things he was in. He was a bit too moody for my taste.”

  Henry was amused. “Prefer them softer, do you, Jennifer? But you’re right, if he were starting out today, he might not cut it quite as easily.”

  He sat back, relaxing a little, realising that he was enjoying her company.

  “Anyway, I knew Antonia was attracted to him, but he was my best mate and he respected the fact that she was my wife. Or I thought he did.

  “At the time, Antonia and I were well on the way to divorcing. There was yet another party, this time in France at a film festival. I had been drowning my sorrows for a while and people were used to seeing me the worse for wear. Ironically, at that party, I had almost nothing to drink and I smoked only one reefer. Nothing else, although the lies put out in the press at the time told a totally different story. Dirk, on the other hand, was out of it. He was high and plastered. And when he was like that, he became aggressive. I stepped in to prevent him having a punch-up with a weedy and obnoxiously whiney American film director — Dirk would have flattened him and probably spent the rest of his life paying off the damages. As it turned out, the rest of his life amounted to about an hour, so perhaps I should have left them to it.

  “I decided we should go home. We argued but we ended up in the car with me driving. He was impossible, kept on grabbing the wheel, insisting he should drive. I fended him off a few times, but then on a tight corner, he did it again. I was going a bit fast and we drove straight into a tree. I woke up two days later to find that Dirk was dead and I was a pariah. According to the press, who were all over it, I’d killed Britain’s biggest box office talent since Olivier. They crucified me with lie after lie. I didn’t get any work in the UK or the US for several years.

  “I only saw Antonia a couple of times after the crash. Initially, I thought she’d come to support me, but she was foul. I was stupid to think otherwise since the divorce was now through. She blamed me completely, really over the top. Now I think about it, she would have known by then that she was pregnant and maybe she thought someone else was the father. I later heard whispers about an affair with Dirk, but I dismissed them as gossip. Perhaps they weren’t, perhaps they were true and she thought he was the father of her unborn child.

  “The last time I saw her, she behaved in the same vitriolic way. She still didn’t look pregnant so I had no notion. She informed me that she never wanted to see me again, that she was going to disappear out of my life forever. I thought she was being typically melodramatic, but she was right. It was like she was lifted up and transported to somewhere I had no knowledge of. From that day to this, there hasn’t been a single word. Not that I’m blaming her; I didn’t try either. I had my own problems and it took all my time getting round them. By the time I started to get a bit of work, I’d pretty much forgotten about her.”

  Jennifer sat in silence, staring at him, trying to come to terms with the truth.

  Finally she took a deep breath. “If that’s all true, then everything my mother told me about my father was made up. There was no Simon Jefford; she invented him as part of the story to exclude you. I don’t know what to say.”

  Henry pursed his lips. “I’m sorry to have broken it like that; I had no idea.”

  Jenn
ifer was only half listening. “It never really dawned on me before, I must be stupid, but there’s only one photo that I was shown of the person she called Simon Jefford. Now I realise it could have been anyone, an old boyfriend, anyone. It’s strange though, the person you described doesn’t sound a lot like my mother. She was devoted to Pietro and I don’t think there were others. It’s true that she was a party animal and she liked being the centre of attention, but it never occurred to me that her behaviour was more than mild flirting.” She shrugged. “Who knows? Perhaps I’m being naïve. I’d certainly agree that she has a temper, especially when she can’t get her own way.”

  Henry leaned forward, elbows on the desk, chin on his hands.

  “From what you say, she’s clearly never mentioned me to you. She’s going to be pretty surprised, angry I should think, if you choose to tell her. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.”

  Jennifer shook her head, a wistful smile on her lips. “I have — told her, I mean. She was neither surprised nor angry. As I expected, she just smiled and talked about the weather. It’s a coping mechanism.”

  Henry frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  For the next few minutes, Jennifer explained the details of her mother’s rapid decline into dementia and the stage it had now reached.

  “Three weeks ago when I flew over to get a buccal swab for her DNA profile, she thought I was a nurse.”

  Henry was genuinely shocked. He reached out his hand to touch Jennifer’s arm, a move that surprised her, but she didn’t pull away.

  “How terribly sad, Jennifer. I’m so sorry.”

  “Yes,” she said, “it is. She’s so lucky to have Pietro; he’s utterly devoted to her, and as I said, before she started to lose it, I think she was to him. He’s put her in the best possible hands; the home she’s in is top-notch and super-expensive.

  “He’s always been more than generous to me too. Paid for my university education here in England and supported me when I said I wanted to be a police officer. He even set me up with a smart apartment in Nottingham when I got my first posting in Newark. I didn’t want to live there and it’s not a bad drive. That’s why I was able to chuck in the job without having anything else. I’ve got no mortgage to pay and I’ve got income from stocks that Pietro bought in my name years ago, so I’m under no pressure to rush into something else.”

  “Lucky girl. Do you think he knows about me?”

  “I really don’t know, but I somehow doubt it. My mother never talked about her early life. She always dismissed my questions as too tiresome when I was growing up. For her, it was as if life started once she moved to Milan. Anything before that wasn’t talked about. She’s led an entirely Italian life for twenty-five years, hardly ever speaking English. With her dementia, she might not even understand it anymore.”

  Henry looked down. His hand was still on Jennifer’s arm. He smiled slightly in embarrassment as he withdrew it.

  “That’s a sad tale, for her and for you. I’m sorry. And I’m amazed that she’s managed to keep everything from you for all these years. She must have really hated me and blamed me for being responsible for the death of the man she thought was your father. Tell me, did she ever mention her own parents?”

  “Only that they were killed in a train crash in Turin some years before I was born. Her father was Italian, hence her original surname, Cotone. Her mother was English.”

  When Henry didn’t react, Jennifer picked up the significance immediately.

  “You’re now going to tell me that’s not true, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t want to upset you, Jennifer.”

  “You might as well come out with it. I’m quickly getting used to the idea that my mother lied about her life.”

  Henry slowly brought his hands together in front of him.

  “To my knowledge, Edward and Pauline Caldmore never left these shores. He was a bank manager in St. Albans, she a teaching assistant in a nursery school. They were nice, ordinary people whose only child, Antonia, was pretty wild. She wasn’t lying about them being dead, and it was a train crash. But in the north of England when Antonia was nineteen, a year before we were married.”

  “So I’m not in any way Italian?”

  “I’m not so sure about that, after all, you were born there. Do you have an Italian passport?”

  “I do, as well as a British one. Pietro organised the Italian one when I was very young, probably through the system known as ‘clientelismo’. He’s powerful enough to gain favours when he wants them in exchange for certain bureaucrats’ wives being dressed in the latest fashions. It’s how much of Italy works, but I don’t question it too closely.”

  “And you a police officer! But it means legally you are Italian even if your parents were not. And you’re fluent in the language—”

  “Native speaker.”

  “—Exactly. And you love the country, like I do. Italy’s been good to me too. I’ve had plenty of work in Rome, thanks to my speaking Italian. I won’t be as good as you, but I get by.”

  “You’re one big surprise after another.”

  He grinned at her and held out his palms in a typically Italian gesture.

  She laughed, which thrilled him.

  “Look, Henry — you don’t mind if I call you Henry, do you? I mean, I don’t think I can call you daddy, or even babbo.”

  “Henry is perfect, Jennifer, and I promise not to call you sweetheart or darling.”

  She laughed again. “People will just think you’re a dirty old man if you do. But what I was going to say was, do you mind if I continue to work with Charles Keithley? I like him and he’s pulling out all the stops for you. I want to help, to explore every avenue for you. I don’t think the police did a particularly thorough job. We were all guilty of accepting what was there in front of us without really questioning it.”

  “Jennifer, I’d be delighted. That’s the best news I’ve had since I was arrested. But please be careful. Don’t go sticking your neck out. I don’t want you getting into trouble.”

  “I’m no longer a police officer, so they can’t stop me as long as I don’t use anything I found out before, and I don’t start trying to persuade any of them to help me.”

  She looked around the room. “This place worries me. And you do too. You’ve lost weight and frankly, your complexion is grey.”

  Henry shrugged. “The food’s terrible. I’m a fussy eater in that I avoid a lot of things that are staple here. It makes it difficult. And the sheer monotony of the place is relentless. You couldn’t begin to imagine how much cons look forward to visits like this. I’ve only been here a month and it’s such a special occasion. The thought of twenty-five years is too horrible to contemplate, especially when you’re innocent.”

  He paused and fixed his eyes on hers. “You do believe I’m innocent, don’t you? You’re not just doing this out of some misguided sense of loyalty to your long-lost father?”

  Jennifer took a deep breath. “My conviction of your innocence gets stronger every day, and this visit has certainly helped. But I still don’t know you well enough to work out whether you’re a bloody good actor spinning me and everyone else a clever line, or whether it’s the truth.”

  Henry nodded in appreciation. “Well, that’s forthright enough. All I can say is, yes, I am a bloody good actor, but I can assure you that I haven’t been acting today. It’s all me.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sally Fisher picked up her phone and glanced at the screen. The caller’s number wasn’t one she recognised.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, my name’s Jennifer Cotton. I was given this number by Petra Moorfield. Is that Sally Fisher?”

  “Yes, it is. Are you a friend of Petra’s?”

  “Er, no, not exactly. I’m a friend of Morag, her younger sister; she was a flatmate of mine when I was at uni.”

  Always suspicious of cold callers or people trying to get a backdoor to her art-forgery-expert husband Ced, Sally kept up the q
uestions.

  “I remember the name. Morag, I mean. She was at Leicester, wasn’t she?”

  She knew she hadn’t been: her response was another test for the caller to pass.

  “Leicester? No, I don’t think she ever went there. She was at Nottingham with me. Well, we didn’t read the same subjects, but we shared a flat with a couple of other girls. Her subject was maths, while mine was English and Italian literature.”

  “And why did Petra give you my name?” continued Sally, although she was relaxing now. The voice on the other end sounded genuine enough.

  “I remembered Morag saying that her sister was a brilliant biochemist with an interest in forensic science, won some prizes when she was with you at Manchester. When I spoke to her, Petra, that is, she said that she’d moved on to other biochemical studies and suggested I call you. You see, I have a few forensic questions that need someone experienced in the field to answer. I was hoping you might be able to help me. You are a forensic scientist, aren’t you?”

  Sally was now happy to continue.

  “I was. I’m now a full-time mother of one little girl and expectant mother of another child, sex as yet unknown. My husband is desperate for a boy; he’s already planning lots of male-bonding ironman stuff, but Claudia-Jane and I reckon we’ll be more than a match for them.”

  “Claudia-Jane?”

  “My daughter. What’s it about? I’m about to go out to a toddler thing.”

  “It’s all rather complicated to discuss over the phone. I was wondering if I could pay you a visit. But I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

  “You’re a sort of friend of Petra who I’m still vaguely in touch with, so it’s no problem, as long as you don’t mind having Claudia-Jane crawling all over you.”

  “Sounds fun. How old is she?”

  “Two-and-a-half going on twelve.”

  Jennifer laughed. “Would the day after tomorrow be OK? Late morning?”