Irrefutable Evidence

by David George Clarke

  She read out the card number along with its expiry date.

  “Is your mother there now?” said the woman. “You’ll understand that it’s her I have to speak to regarding her card.”

  “I’m sorry, but she’s taking her afternoon nap. She’s eighty-six, you see. I’m not asking you to reactivate the card; all I want to know is what the problem is so that I can explain it to her. She was very unsettled by it; she felt as if she’d been accused of doing something illegal. You know what old people can be like.”

  “Yes, of course,” said the woman, her tone now softened with some sympathy. “Let me see, according to the data I have here, the account associated with that card was closed, er, yes, six weeks ago.”

  There was a pause during which Olivia could hear the tapping of some keys.

  “I think there must have been some mistake,” said the woman after a few seconds.

  “Mistake?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, Ms Doughthey, but according to this, we were told that your mother had died.”

  “Died? That’s ridiculous,” ad-libbed Olivia. “Look, I think I know what’s happened. My brother has been given power of attorney and he has probably closed the account. His high-handed dealing with my mother’s affairs has been extremely upsetting, especially when she’s quite capable of looking after herself.”

  “I’m afraid that there’s nothing I can do at this end,” said the woman.

  “I know,” said Olivia. “It’s my damn brother!” She let her voice level rise to keep the woman onside. “He really pushes too far at times. I’ll take my mother to the local branch and deal with it.”

  Olivia sat back in the driver’s seat of her car and stared through the window. Damn, that was one half of her safety net gone. She knew it would have to happen one day; after all, Catherine was eighty-six.

  Knowing she’d be hard pushed to mimic an old lady, even over the phone, she’d given Catherine’s daughter Rose’s name to the bank’s call centre. She’d better check that Rose was still in this world too — it was essential to Olivia’s contingency plans that she didn’t shuffle off just yet.

  And what about Grace, that sweet little old lady she had used for so many years? She was now eighty-four; she’d better still be alive.

  Checking the time, she realised that she needed to get back to the afternoon’s grind. First thing in the morning she’d drive over to Pateley Bridge to find out exactly what had happened to Catherine. She could make some excuse to Hawkins later.

  All through the afternoon, Olivia tried to reassure herself that if Catherine really had died it was a minor inconvenience, nothing that couldn’t be solved. It was time she made some more up-to-date arrangements anyway. Why was it then that she had a hollow feeling in her gut, a sensation of the thread she had so carefully spun beginning to fray as it unravelled?

  The following morning, Olivia left her house in the Nottingham suburb of Wollaton at seven. Little did she realise that as she approached the M1 junction 26 slip road at seven fifteen to head north, Jennifer Cotton was three cars ahead of her, about to head south to Trowell Services for her meeting with Peter Hawkins.

  The first thing she noticed when she pulled up outside the cottage that until recently had belonged to Catherine Doughthey was the North Yorkshire Properties ‘For Sale’ sign by the gate, together with a garden returning to nature. A quick glance through the windows removed any final doubts: the house was empty; Catherine Doughthey must be dead. Nevertheless, Olivia wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth, the most convenient horse being in the estate agent’s local office near the bridge over the river Nidd at Pateley Bridge.

  “Serenity Cottage, madam? Lovely property and in top condition for its age,” said the keen young salesman whose name badge identified him as Mervyn. He stood to reply to Olivia’s enquiry, his smile all encouragement as he held out his hand, delighted to have a customer so early in the day.

  Indifferent to his enthusiasm, Olivia ignored the hand.

  “The garden seems rather overgrown,” she replied. “How long has it been empty?”

  “Let me see,” said the salesman as he tapped on his keyboard, an action that immediately lost him many points in Olivia’s inflexible book. Having details of all his properties at his fingertips shouldn’t mean having to use those fingertips to tap on a keyboard; they should be in his head. What else had he got to do?

  “Two months,” beamed the young man, oblivious to Olivia’s unspoken criticism and dark looks. “The previous owner died and her son inherited the cottage. But he had no use for it so it’s up for sale. Between you and me, I think he’d accept well below the asking price,” he added with a knowing wink.

  Not from what I remember of Geoffrey Doughthey, thought Olivia.

  Grace Taverner was sitting in an armchair with her second cup of tea of the morning listening to Radio Two, Languid’s preferred station. She frowned when the sharp knock sounded on her front door.

  “I don’t think we’re expecting anyone, are we Languid?” she said as she put down her cup and saucer. The pampered feline’s self-satisfied purring didn’t miss a beat.

  Grace stood and tottered into the hallway.

  “Hello, Grace,” said Olivia as the front door opened.

  “Diana! What a surprise! Oh, how lovely. Come in, come in. Why didn’t you call? Languid, look who it is.”

  Languid looked up and immediately pulled his lips back in a snarl, the fur on his head rising. All his animal instincts told him this human was not to be trusted, never had been.

  “Languid!” chastised Grace, “That’s no way to behave.”

  Olivia gave a mirthless laugh. “I shouldn’t worry, Grace, for some reason your cat has never liked me. His predecessor didn’t either.”

  “Sit yourself down, dear, I’ll put Languid in the kitchen. He’s very naughty. Would you like some tea?”

  “Thanks, Grace, that would be perfect.”

  “When did you arrive? In England, I mean,” called Grace from the kitchen.

  “A week ago,” Olivia called back. “I couldn’t get up here before. Quite a lot to do in London.”

  “Oh, I hope you haven’t gone to any trouble,” said Grace putting a cup and saucer on the coffee table. “But, you know, it’s so nice to see you, dear. Would you like a biscuit? Or perhaps some lemon cake? I made it yesterday, my special recipe.”

  “Not at the moment, Grace, I’m still full from breakfast. Sit down and tell me all the news.”

  Grace’s face fell as she remembered the most important news.

  “Oh, dear, I’ve such sad news, I’m afraid. It’s about Catherine. I’m sorry to say that she passed away two months ago. It was very peaceful. The doctor said it was in her sleep. Best way, don’t you think? Just nod off and not wake up. I hope I go like that, when my time comes. Although I don’t know what Languid would do.”

  Starve to death, for all I care, thought Olivia.

  “Grace, that’s so sad. You two were such close friends. What’s happened to the house?”

  “Geoffrey couldn’t put it on the market fast enough, horrible man. He sold everything in it he could, and what he couldn’t sell, he threw away. He has no soul, that one.”

  “What about Rose?”

  “I don’t think she really understood any of it. According to Geoffrey, she didn’t seem to register her mother’s death.”

  “But she’s OK otherwise?”

  “Oh, yes. Happy in her own little world, poor thing.”

  Grace spent the next ten minutes chatting inconsequentialities while she bustled in and out of the kitchen fetching more tea and the lemon cake. Languid hovered by the door scowling at Olivia. Not only was her very presence an affront but also she was sitting on his sofa.

  Olivia was beginning to feel reassured that nothing worse than the inconvenience of losing Catherine Doughthey’s credit card had happened when Grace gasped and looked up from her tea.

  “Oh, Diana, I nearly forgot, what with all our
chitchat. A most interesting thing happened a few days ago.”

  Olivia frowned, wondering what ‘interesting’ meant.

  “I had a visit from a bank official, a young woman. She wasn’t from my bank but the one that we went to for that credit card you use in my name.”

  “The North Western Bank?” Olivia felt herself tense as she asked the question.

  “Yes.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She said she was conducting a customer survey and started asking me about credit cards. I was a little confused because as you know, I don’t have a credit card and I don’t bank with the North Western Bank. Anyway, she produced some papers she said were my account statements and I’m afraid that I told her that although the card was in my name, it was for you. When I told her why we’d made the arrangement, she seemed quite happy; assured me it wasn’t a problem. I hope you don’t mind, Diana.”

  She did mind, she minded very much. She wanted to reach out and wring Grace Taverner’s withered neck.

  “No harm done, Grace, I’m sure,” said Olivia, measuring her tone with care. She didn’t want to alarm the old woman. “What else did she say?”

  “I told her about the problems you’d encountered here because you live in Australia. She understood the thing about exchange rates, which is just as well because I don’t, and she said that she could arrange something if you contacted her. She was very interested in you; she said she’d always wanted to go to Australia. I told her a few things about you, not much, naturally; it wasn’t her business.”

  Grace had decided that the lie was only a small one.

  “No harm done, Grace, I’m sure.”

  “Of course not. She wanted to see your picture.”

  “Picture?”

  “Photograph, I mean. I showed her one of you and me that Martin took in the garden. Do you remember?”

  Olivia remembered but she could hardly speak. Her life was getting more difficult by the minute. With effort, she managed the slightest of nods.

  Oblivious to the electricity she was generating, Grace blithely continued.

  “I thought you would, dear. Of course, we got talking about Catherine too; she thought it was wonderful that you were so kind to her. I showed her a photo of you with Catherine as well.”

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Geoffrey gave me a box with a lot of photos in. It was among those.”

  “Seems a bit nosey to me, Grace, for a bank official. Did she want anything else?”

  “Oh no, dear, she was a sweet girl. Languid really took to her. Although I did think it a bit strange when she called me on the telephone a couple of nights ago. Quite late it was.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Said she was writing her report and thought of me. She asked me about car insurance.”

  “But you don’t drive any more, do you?”

  “No, of course not. I told her about my old Morris Minor Traveller and how you used to look after it for me, kept it running long after its time. I told her you were brilliant with cars. She said that she used to have one too, a Traveller, but that mine sounded far better than hers.”

  Alarm bells were now clanging in Olivia’s ears. This was ancient, forgotten information that should remain buried.

  “Sounds like this lady and I should talk,” said Olivia through clenched teeth. “What was her name? Did she leave a number?”

  “Yes, dear, I’ve got her card over here.”

  Grace stood and walked over to a desk.

  “Where is it? Ah, yes, here we are. She asked me to call her if you made contact; said she’d really like to meet you. I could call her now, if you like.”

  “That’s fine Grace, I can do it.” Olivia took out a pen and pad from her bag. “Let me write down the number.”

  Grace read it from the card. Olivia looked up, waiting.

  “And her name?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. It was Jennifer Cotton.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Grace Taverner was still chatting away, oblivious to the bucket of ice-cold water she had flung over her visitor. But hardly a word registered with Olivia; her mind was fully focussed on working out what had happened.

  Olivia didn’t think like most people, didn’t react emotionally to situations that would have most people running scared. Hers was the mind of a cold-blooded, calculating killer who took full advantage of her intelligence, never allowing personal feelings to interfere with the execution of her plans. And if something happened to the detriment of one plan, another would be pulled from the mental pile to replace it.

  Confident in her ability to act and react, to adjust, fine tune, realign and move on, Olivia was impervious to worries about being caught. She was too good for that. She spent hours brainstorming, mind mapping, plotting outcomes, second guessing behaviour and formulating plans to cover as many eventualities as she could imagine. Her main reaction to any apparent setback was to collect and analyse all available data, formulate her response and implement a revised way forward. Her contingency planning had, of course, covered the possibility of her being discovered, and she had several avenues she could follow for an exit strategy. That wasn’t the issue; she felt confident she could escape. The issue was the how and the why of her discovery, and who should pay the price for getting in her way.

  She had to admit that she had underestimated Jennifer Cotton. It had been obvious from the day of the young officer’s arrival several months previously that she had a good brain. That she was way above average in her detective skills, with a logical approach to problem solving, only served to enhance the pleasure derived from outwitting her. But what blindsided Olivia, as well as her colleagues, was discovering that Henry Silk, a man so carefully chosen, was Cotton’s father. Given that neither Silk nor Cotton knew of their relationship, it wasn’t surprising that Olivia hadn’t included that scenario in her contingency plans.

  If she was honest with herself, Olivia was cross that she had let Silk and Cotton’s relationship get the better of her. While she’d taken perverse delight in destroying Cotton’s career, she now knew that not having Cotton around to watch had been a mistake. The girl was tenacious and clearly she was going to make every effort to disprove the case against her father.

  She sighed silently and looked across at Grace. Her persistent prattle was undermining Olivia’s concentration. She needed to get away from this old fool who had inadvertently ruined everything. Her initial reaction was to kill her and her cat. It would be quick and easy; but was it wise? If Grace’s body happened to be discovered before Olivia had a chance to cover her tracks, she could be creating trouble for herself. No, for now, there were far more urgent things. Once all the dust had settled, Grace Taverner and her cat’s continued existence could be further considered.

  With an excuse of a meeting in York that had slipped her mind, Olivia said her goodbyes and left. No sooner had she gone than Languid reclaimed his right to the sofa, but not before he had turned a large number of circles on its cushions to drive away any residual demons.

  Olivia hit the road. She needed to get to her house to retrieve some essential things before anyone parked a police car outside it. She was a skilled driver — police driving courses had ensured that — and if necessary, she had a blue light and siren she could attach to the roof to clear a path through any hold-ups.

  As she sped back towards the motorway, she focussed her mind on events. What had put Cotton on to the credit cards? She would have seen the guest list for the Old Nottingham hotel, but that wouldn’t have meant anything on its own — Amelia Taverner would have been just one more unknown name on the list. She must have somehow learned of one of the other murders, noticed a similarity, and checked the guest list of the hotel where Olivia’s target had stayed. From there an obvious next step would be to search for reports of other prostitute murders with the type of irrefutable evidence that Olivia had provided, cases where the suspect had stayed in a hotel on the night of the mur
der. If she was good, Cotton would have found five cases, three where Amelia Taverner had stayed in the same hotel as the suspect on the night of the murder, and two where Catherine Doughthey had done the same. If she then traced both names to Pateley Bridge, a visit to dear Grace would almost certainly have confirmed Olivia’s connection to both women.

  Olivia ran a hand through her short hair and paused. Hair. Blond hair must have been found on Silk’s clothing or in his car. The dead prostitute had dyed orange hair, so the blond hairs found might have given Cotton the idea that the real culprit was a woman. She gave a rueful smile; Cotton was a good adversary, there was no doubting that.

  What Olivia needed to assess right now was the extent of the damage. Was what Cotton had unearthed enough to ruin her future with the police? Had Cotton already told her ex-colleagues, and more to the point, did they give her theories any credence? Even if she hadn’t told the police, she would undoubtedly have discussed what she’d found with Silk and his lawyer. If it worked for the lawyer, he would not be likely to let it go.

  But what actual evidence did Cotton have? There was the credit card use and the links to Grace and Catherine, which now meant Grace since Catherine was dead. Grace could also be removed, but killing her at this stage would serve no purpose, apart from the pleasure of wringing her neck, since there were plenty of people still living in Pateley Bridge who knew of Olivia’s connection to both Grace and Catherine. And Cotton would almost definitely have made copies of the photos of Olivia with both women. The credit card use in the hotels would be damaging — what possible reason could Olivia give for having been in those hotels at those times and, as a police officer, not reported the fact? That on its own was probably enough to screw her. It didn’t of course make her the murderer. What else did they have? — blond hairs they could link to nothing and CCTV footage. Was that a potential problem? Could she be one hundred per cent sure that nothing on any of that footage linked her with Henry in the current case or with the other culprits in the old cases? She’d been careful, very careful, but … However, assuming the CCTV got the police nowhere, she could think of nothing else. Her planning had seen to that.