Irrefutable Evidence

by David George Clarke

  “Limitless supply. Italian connections, remember?”

  She put two almost full glasses on the coffee table and sat in an armchair next to the sofa.

  Derek raised his eyebrows. “Wow! You do mean business.”

  Jennifer grinned at him. “Derek, my friend, what I’m going to tell you will knock your socks off.”

  She raised her glass in a toast. “Here’s to a life-changing moment.”

  Derek narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Have you had a few of these already?”

  Jennifer put down her glass and opened the box file. “Shut up and listen. I hope you’re ready for this.”

  She took several folders from the box file and lay them side by side on the table in front of Derek.

  “OK. These are the details of the murders of five different prostitutes in five different cities around the country during the last seven years. One is, of course, the murder of Miruna Peptanariu for which Henry Silk has been charged and is remanded in prison while awaiting trial. And you know about the rather weird circumstances of the Bristol case last year. For each of the other three, a man was arrested, charged and found guilty at trial, and convicted for life.”

  She paused to take a sip from her glass.

  “Right, amazing fact number one. Of the five apparent culprits for these cases, only Henry Silk is still alive.”

  “What!” Derek put down his wine glass and leaned forward to pick up one of the files.

  Jennifer reached out to touch his arm. “No, wait. Let me tell you all about it first, then you can read the details.”

  She pointed to the files.

  “Each of these cases was supported by strong forensics — DNA and fibres — as well as CCTV evidence for four of them. But if you discount the forensic and CCTV evidence, there’s nothing else. And there are no motives, no eyewitnesses, no known relationship between the dead girls and their apparent killers. The MOs for the murders weren’t entirely the same, in fact the first two involved semen found in the girls, which is interesting in itself given what I’m going to tell you in a moment. For those two cases, the DNA profiles matched profiles on the DNA database from previous offences, which in both cases were drink-driving convictions. As you know, that sort of comparison is no longer possible since the Protection of Freedom Act forced the police to throw away all the profiles they’d taken from people arrested for minor offences.”

  She sat back in her chair, hardly able to contain the excitement in her eyes and voice as her story unfolded.

  “But,” she continued, “there is one factor connecting all the cases.”

  “Which is?” said Derek as he took a gulp from his glass. “Hey, this wine’s good.”

  Jennifer smiled. “Straight from the extensive Fabrelli vineyards.”

  “I could get used to it. Now, what’s that one factor?”

  “One woman, two names?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Amelia Taverner and Catherine Doughthey.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “One of them, Amelia Taverner, was on the guest list for the Old Nottingham on the night of Miruna Peptanariu’s murder, which of course was the night Henry stayed there too. She was also staying at hotels in Leeds in 2007 and Manchester in 2012 on the nights of prostitute murders in those cities, the hotels being the ones where the culprits who were subsequently found guilty of the murders also stayed on the same nights.”

  Derek pulled a face. “Interesting coincidence?”

  “Oh, it’s more than that. The other person, Catherine Doughthey, was staying at the Bristol View on the night of the murder down there last year, which is the hotel where the councillor died after apparently murdering a prostitute, and she was also staying in Newcastle in the same hotel as another culprit on the night of a similar murder there in 2009. The details are all there.”

  She pointed again at the files.

  “OK,” said Derek, still not sounding convinced. “Are these two women connected in some way?”

  Jennifer grinned at him. “You betcha. I traced them both to the same village in Yorkshire, Pateley Bridge, and I went to see them. Well, I saw Amelia Taverner; Catherine Doughthey is dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yes, she died two months ago, aged eighty-six.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me right. And guess what? Amelia Taverner, who is very much alive, is a sweet eighty-four-year-old who wouldn’t hurt a fly who’s living in a picture-postcard cottage cultivating roses. But it was her credit card used in the three hotels I mentioned and Catherine Doughthey’s in the other two.”

  “So the credit cards were stolen? No, hang on, that doesn’t make much sense.”

  “Of course it doesn’t, the time frame is too long. Both ladies knew their cards were being used by someone else and they were in full agreement, although they didn’t know what they were being used for. As long as the bills were paid, which they were, they were in no way affected.”

  Derek rubbed his chin thoughtfully, trying to absorb the story.

  “That’s pretty weird. Who were they trusting with their credit cards?”

  Jennifer opened the box file and retrieved another folder. She opened it and took out two photographs and held them up.

  “One of these — this one,” she said, waving the photo in her left hand, “is of Amelia Taverner, although she herself uses her middle name, Grace, and the person she entrusted with her credit card. And this one,” — she waved the second photograph — “is of Catherine Doughthey with the same woman.”

  She handed the photographs to Derek and sat back to watch his reaction.

  Derek’s eyes widened as he studied the two images.

  “Christ on a bike, Jennifer, that’s … Are you kidding me? Come on, you’re having me on. You’ve photoshopped these to get your own back for me getting Norrie to wind you up in Bristol.”

  “Look at them carefully, Derek. They’ve not been doctored in any way. They’re the genuine article. I haven’t forgiven you for Bristol and I’m still planning my retribution, but this isn’t it. This is the real thing.”

  Derek picked up his glass and took another large gulp.

  “Right, Cotton, explain!”

  Jennifer spent the next fifteen minutes telling Derek the tale that Grace Taverner had related a few days previously. Having covered that, she added detail from her Internet searches the previous evening.

  “I’ve checked through Freneton’s postings in recent years. There’s quite a correlation. In 2007, she was in Leeds, but at a different station from the one that handled the prostitute murder in the file; in 2009 she was posted to Sunderland, a short way down the coast from Newcastle; while in 2012, she was stationed in Liverpool, which is not too far from Manchester. From there, she came here to Nottingham. The only place among the five cases I’ve unearthed she wasn’t posted anywhere near to when the relevant murder occurred was Bristol. But guess what? She was on a temporary attachment in Cardiff for two months last year that coincided with the Bristol murder.”

  Derek was still finding it difficult to accept what he was being told.

  “Jen, are you trying to tell me that the Ice Queen is behind these five murders, that she’s set all these blokes up? Why? What’s her motive?”

  “I’ve no idea. But she must be psychopathic and a psychopath doesn’t necessarily need to know his or her victims, all they need is an ongoing motive that’s probably nothing to do with the victims. Hatred perhaps, some sort of vengeance. Maybe she was mistreated as a child. We know that her mother died when she was born and that she lived with her father. Perhaps he abused her and she now hates men.”

  Derek picked up one of the files in front of him and flicked through it.

  “You said that Freneton went to live with this Grace Taverner around the age of fifteen when her father died. How did he die?”

  “In a car accident. His brakes failed and the car plunged off the road in the Yorkshire Dales. I’ve checked the newspaper re
ports from the time. They lived in Harrogate. There was some suspicion that the brakes might have been tampered with, but the accident damage was too severe for the investigators to come to a firm conclusion.”

  She stopped, her brow furrowed. “I wonder what time Grace Taverner goes to bed.”

  She checked her watch: eight fifty-five. She pursed her lips and stared at Derek while she made a decision. Then she picked up her phone and called up the contact list, pressed a number and waited.

  “Hello, Mrs Taverner, it’s Jennifer Cotton from the North Western Bank. I called at your cottage the other day, do you remember? I’m sorry it’s rather late. You weren’t in bed, were you?”

  “Hello, dear, no, I’m a bit of a night owl. Languid likes to listen to the ten o’clock news with me, so we never go to bed before that. But it’s late for you to be working. Are you still in your office?”

  “No, I do quite a lot of my work from home. I was finishing off a report about my interviews in your area when I remembered something I meant to ask you?”

  “What was that, dear? Oh, hold on a moment, Languid wants to pop out and use the garden. He’s so good, you know, always asks. Yes, Languid, it’s that nice Miss Cotton.”

  Jennifer smiled to herself as she heard a door open and close in the cottage. Then Grace’s voice came back on the line.

  “There we are. Now, you were saying?”

  “I was wondering if you drove a car, Mrs Taverner.”

  “Oh no, dear, not anymore. I used to, but my eyesight’s not what it was. I had perfect vision for years; I didn’t need glasses until I was over sixty. But then I got cataracts and although they were treated, it wasn’t the same. I still miss my car though. She was a lovely old thing. A Morris Minor, one of those with the wood on the side.”

  “A Traveller,” said Jennifer. “What a coincidence! My boyfriend had one until quite recently; he loves old cars.”

  She pulled a face at Derek and held up her crossed fingers. Derek smiled, took another gulp of wine and went looking for the bottle. Jennifer snapped her fingers and waved her arm at a credenza by the living room door to show him where the bottles were kept.

  “Unfortunately,” continued Jennifer into the phone, “my boyfriend’s car wasn’t in the best of condition. How was yours? I have a feeling it was immaculate.”

  She heard a chortle down the line.

  “Yes, dear, it was. I was fortunate to have Diana around. She used to tinker with it whenever there was a problem. She was a wiz with cars; did I tell you? About the only thing she had in common with her father. It was quite ironic, really, that he was killed in one. A car, I mean.”

  A silence hung in the air for a few seconds before Grace asked, “Why did you want to know if I drove a car, dear?”

  Jennifer had anticipated the question.

  “The bank has a discount arrangement with one of the big insurance companies which benefits many of our customers. I know you don’t actually bank with us yourself, but I thought it might be useful for you to know. However, if you no longer drive, it doesn’t really matter. I apologise; I’ve disturbed you for nothing.”

  “Not at all, dear. It’s nice to talk to you again.”

  After a further exchange of niceties, Grace said she could hear Languid scratching at the door. Jennifer thanked her for her time and rang off.

  “That was a tall tale,” laughed Derek. “Why did you call her?”

  “She’d told me that Diana, as she knows Freneton, had learned about car maintenance from her father. I wanted to confirm it was true rather than a line with no substance that Freneton was spinning to her. Now I know not only that it’s true, but also that she will have had the knowledge to bump off her father.”

  Derek shrugged. “Do you want me to arrest her on suspicion of murdering him?”

  “No, of course not, but it all fits, don’t you see?”

  Another shrug from Derek. “S’pose so. I mean, she could’ve. When was that?”

  “Nineteen ninety-one.”

  “And when did she join the force?”

  “In ninety-eight, at the age of twenty-three. Graduate entry, like me, but she was fast-tracked, unlike me. She was smart, determined, physically capable, good at all the unarmed combat stuff.”

  “Did you check up on anything prior to 2007?”

  “I checked for similar cases to those five back as far as 1999 and found nothing. Mind you, the farther back you go, the harder it is without access to the police computers.”

  Derek smiled knowingly. “So is that what you want me to do?”

  Jennifer shook her head sharply. “Absolutely not. You mustn’t start accessing the files; all sorts of sirens might go off. No, as I told you, Henry is the only one of the five alleged culprits we know of who is still alive. I’m wondering if Freneton had a hand in that. If she did, then Henry is in real danger.”

  “But I can’t go to McPherson and tell him that you think Henry’s life’s at risk,” protested Derek. “He’ll throw me out of his office. And even with the credit card thing and this Taverner person, and the other one — Doughthey — there’s all the forensic evidence and the CCTV.”

  “I’ve been looking at the CCTV again,” said Jennifer. “Henry’s solicitor has copies, obviously, although I swore I wouldn’t say that I’d seen them, their being sub judice. Anyway, the thing is, I don’t reckon it’s Henry on the CCTV; it’s someone trying to copy him. I don’t know, it’s the way the person is walking.”

  Derek laughed. “Sounds like wishful thinking to me.”

  “Just as identifying him was from what we, the police, wanted to see,” countered Jennifer.

  “Whatever, Jennifer, it still isn’t strong.”

  “I know, we need something else and I might have come up with it. I spoke to a friendly forensic scientist who reckons there could be some mileage in examining the inside of Henry’s clothing, the pullover in particular. The trouble is that the request should, ideally, come from the police.”

  Derek wasn’t so sure. “Ideally, perhaps, but not necessarily. The defence can request for it to be done either by or in the presence of their own expert, so long as they are willing to pay.”

  Jennifer picked up her wine, took a sip and put it down.

  “Yes, but it would still be better coming from the police. Look, I’ve told Charles Keithley everything and he’s agreed not to proceed until he knows whether anyone in the police is going to take it seriously. If they don’t, he’ll blow the whistle. The problem with that is that Freneton will almost inevitably get to hear about it and start covering her tracks. I’m already worried that she might have some contact with Grace Taverner, even though that’s not actually due for several months. Who currently are Freneton’s least favourite people in the SCF?”

  “Ha! Take your pick!” snorted Derek. “Nobody actually likes her but she gets results. And, as you know, her organisational skills are impressive. She’s clearly on her way to the top. But having said that, I’ve also heard that even the ACC avoids her.”

  Jennifer sighed, suddenly feeling the enormity of the problem.

  “In order for this to be taken seriously, Derek, we do need the support of someone in authority, and therefore someone who ideally is senior to Freneton.”

  Derek was shocked. “You mean the DCS! I’m not sure I’d trust him.”

  “No, nor am I. And I certainly couldn’t go to him directly. In fact, I don’t think he’d even agree to see me.”

  “Of course you couldn’t, but neither could I.”

  “But would you be willing to break the ice with one of the others? Try to sell it to McPherson or Hurst; get them on board?”

  Derek grinned at her. “Fell into that, didn’t I? But yes, I could give it a whirl. McPherson likes you, as does Hurst. We could all see he was hopping when your resignation was more or less forced.”

  Jennifer reached out and touched Derek’s arm. “Thanks, Derek. You’re a true friend. But what I am concerned about is that they und
erstand that although you are telling them, it’s on my behalf and you are in the clear, that you’ve not helped me or broken any rules. They must know that I’ve done everything off my own bat, all with info that is already available or that I got from Henry’s solicitor. It’s all legit and not come from police sources via you or anyone else.”

  Derek was still smiling. “You worry too much, Jen. But, hey, what about the bit on the phone just now where you were pretending to work for a bank. Slightly bending the truth, eh?”

  Jennifer tossed her head. “I’m no longer a police officer. I can pretend to be anyone I want. And anyway, I don’t know what you mean. Grace Taverner’s an old lady; she must have misheard me.”

  “Yeah,” grinned Derek, “exactly like I did. But seriously, Jen, thinking about it all and with what you’ve told me this evening, you don’t have to ask me to jump on board and talk to the DI. I have a duty to report it to my senior officers.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Derek Thyme was sprinting to Olympic stardom in the final of the two hundred metres when the runner immediately behind him grabbed him by the shoulder and started shaking it.

  “Derek. Derek! Wake up, for Christ’s sake! You’ve got to get to the office, remember?”

  He was having a hard time registering anything, let alone actually remembering. He stretched and realised he must be on a sofa. He turned his head in the direction of the voice and instantly regretted it as a succession of mortar bombs exploded in his brain. He groaned, turned his face into the sofa and tried to blank out the pain. He wanted to go back to the race.

  “Derek!”

  With a great deal of effort, he swung his legs round and sat up, his head spinning.

  “God, that was a mistake,” he grunted. He looked up and saw Jennifer’s face beginning to focus in front of him.

  Memories of the previous evening slowly started to crystallise as she thrust a glass of water into his hands.

  “Drink this, you soak. Do you know how much wine you got through last night?”

  “I don’t remember you holding back either,” he spluttered as he gulped down the water.