Everything looked and smelled of oak. There was the raised oak platform upon which the judge was sitting slightly left of centre in his leather chair just in case the Lord Mayor of London came in and wanted to sit in on the case. The sword of state hung on the oak panelling behind him, and represented the authority of the Queen to hand down justice on her subjects. The court clerks were sitting on the oak table at the front below the judge. The defence and Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) barristers had filled up the oak tables facing each other in the centre of the courtroom. The jury – twelve good men and true – were sitting on the left, but now seven of the jury were women. How things had changed since the seventeenth century.
Curious members of the public surrounded the lecturer – Professor Gippy Adams-Henry – Jerry, and the other nine course students from the Law Department at King’s College who were crammed onto the oak benches in the public gallery. The stenographer, however – who used to sit in the corner recording every word spoken in court on a stenotype machine – had gone. Now, all the cases in the Old Bailey – London’s Central Criminal Court – were recorded digitally to cut costs.
Dr Hawley Harvey Crippen – who murdered his wife Cora; Ruth Ellis – who shot and killed her lover; and John Christie – a serial killer who strangled at least eight women in his flat at 10 Rillington Place in Notting Hill – had all been found guilty of murder here. Crippen and Christie were hanged at Pentonville Prison, while Ruth Ellis was the last woman to be hanged in Britain at Holloway Prison.
Jerry revelled in the history.
One day, she would be standing down there wearing a gown and wig just like Mrs Carol Hill-Ferguson QC (Queen’s Counsel) – Manning Naseby’s defence barrister.
‘. . . And you were the first officer at the crime scene?’ Hill-Ferguson asked the police officer. Her wig and gown were immaculate, but she had a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. People called her “Gollum”, but not to her face if they knew what was good for them.
Professor Adams-Henry – an old friend and adversary of Gollum’s – had introduced the students to her before the court proceedings had begun for the day.
‘Jerry Kowalski! Yes, I’ve heard about you.’ She passed Jerry a business card. ‘When you’re ready to start your Bar Professional Training Course (BPTC) and pupillage give me a call and we’ll see what we can do.’
Open mouthed, Jerry stared at the card and then said, ‘But I’m a nobody.’
The corner of Gollum’s mouth creased upwards. ‘Yes, that’s true, but a nobody I happen to have heard of.’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ Detective Sergeant Mills Foster said – jerking her back to the present. He wasn’t speaking to Gollum directly, he was answering her through the Judge – Sir Thomas Calthorpe QC – who had been allocated to the case, and had the amazing ability to fall asleep with his eyes open.
‘I’d like you to describe what you saw when you first entered number 24 Somerset Gardens in Hornchurch on January 15 last year, if you’d be so kind, Sergeant.’
‘Of course, my Lord.’ He took out his notebook. ‘January 15 was a Tuesday. It was eight forty-five in the morning and I was on my way to the station when I received a call from the DCI . . .’
‘That would be Hornchurch Police Station in the borough of Havering, and the DCI would be your immediate superior – DCI Derek Reid?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘So, at eight forty-five in the morning DCI Reid was already in work, but you were on your way – a Detective Sergeant . . .’
‘No, my Lord. DCI Reid was still at home. He’d received a call from despatch, but he was having a . . .’
‘Having a what, Sergeant?’
DS Foster was tottering on the cusp between middle and old age. He had sunken eyes, dirty grey hair and terrible dandruff.
Jerry decided that she didn’t like him, which was good, because defence barristers weren’t meant to like the police. The fact that she herself was married to a DCI was conveniently ignored.
‘. . . A domestic, my Lord. His wife was giving him grief because . . . ’
‘I’m sure DCI Reid’s marital problems make for riveting television, but that’s not why we’re here is it, Sergeant? So, you were on your way to the station when you received a call from DCI Reid?’
‘Yes. He told me to go to 24 Somerset Gardens in Hornchurch where a murder had been reported.’
‘Carry on, Sergeant.’
He referred to his notebook. ‘I arrived at approximately five past nine . . .’
‘It took you twenty minutes to travel . . . Where exactly were you when you received the call from DCI Reid?’
Jerry was warming to Gollum. She certainly wasn’t going to win any beauty prizes, but as a defence barrister she was the bees knees. Foster wasn’t being given the chance to settle into his stride. Gollum challenged everything he said, checked his dates and times, made him as nervous as a teenager on a first date. Her objective was to make the police appear as unreliable witnesses, and they hated her for it because she invariably succeeded.
‘On the A124 near Upminster Bridge tube station.’
‘Which, if my internal satellite navigation system is working correctly, is about three miles from Somerset Gardens. So, it took you about twenty minutes to travel three miles . . .’
‘It was rush hour . . .’
‘Please don’t interrupt me when I’m talking, Sergeant.’
He glared at her, and Jerry could see his jaw moving from side to side as he ground his teeth together.
‘Did you stop anywhere en route?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure you didn’t stop for a mug of coffee, a packet of cigarettes, or . . . ?’
Martin Dryden – the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) barrister – stood up. ‘My Lord, the witness has already answered the question. He appears to be adamant that he didn’t stop en route to 24 Somerset Gardens.’
‘Quite,’ Judge Calthorpe said. ‘Move on, G . . . Mrs Ferguson.’
There were some barely audible sniggers from those in the know at the judge’s faux pas.
Gollum ignored the sniggers and smiled. ‘You were telling the court what you saw when you first entered the defendant’s house, Sergeant.’
‘Yes. I walked up the path . . .’
‘What type of house is 24 Somerset Gardens?’
Appearing exasperated, Dryden pushed himself up again. ‘My Lord! The Sergeant is not an estate agent, and if my learned colleague would care to read the notes she’ll discover that 24 Somerset Gardens is a five-bed detached house located in a semi-rural setting as most of the houses along that road are.’ He sat down again.
‘Mrs Hill-Ferguson,’ the judge said. ‘I’m well aware of your penchant for the tortuous method of questioning prosecution witnesses – particularly officers of the law, but I’m sure we would all be eternally grateful if you could – just for once – practise the art of brevity.’
‘I’m grateful to my learned colleague for pointing out what type of house 24 Somerset Gardens is – it must have slipped my mind. Also, my Lord, I’m sure that if Mr Dryden didn’t keep bobbing up and down with his trivial objections things would move along apace. Now, where were we, Sergeant? Oh yes, we’ve established what type of house the defendant lives in, and you were about to describe what you first saw as you entered that house. Please carry on, Sergeant.’
‘Blood – it was like a f . . . like an abattoir.’
‘You went into the house through the front door?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was the door open?’
‘A crack. I stopped to put on plastic gloves and pushed the door fully open.’
‘Didn’t you find that odd?’
‘Odd? In what way?’
‘In the way that people don’t normally leave their front doors open.’
‘I didn’t give it much thought.’
‘Or any thought?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I’d like you to think about it now, Sergeant.’
Foster glanced at the judge, and then at Dryden. ‘Okay.’
‘Why do you think Mr Naseby left his front door open?’
‘He didn’t want his wife to hear him come home.’
‘Ah! So all along, you’ve been working on the underlying assumption that Mr Naseby knew that his wife was having an affair.’
‘Yes. He knew all right, that’s why he killed her.’
‘But what if he didn’t know? Throughout this whole miscarriage of justice, the defendant has protested his innocence . . .’
‘Don’t they all?’
‘Thank you for your valuable input, Sergeant. But when I want you to speak I’ll let you know. At all other times, I would be grateful if you could keep your comments to yourself.’
‘Sorry, my Lord.’
‘Evidence, Sergeant. My understanding is that you and I both work on the basis of evidence. I would be right in thinking that, wouldn’t I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you find any evidence that my client knew his wife was having an affair?’
‘Well no, but . . .’
‘A simple no will suffice.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘If that’s the case, as it clearly is, then everything else collapses like a house of playing cards, doesn’t it? Did the defendant have any other motive for killing his wife?’
‘Not that we could find.’
‘Yes or no?’
‘No.’
‘So, your whole case is based on the belief – unsupported by any evidence – that Mr Naseby knew his wife was having an affair, that he returned home, caught his wife and her lover in flagrante and killed her?’
‘His fingerprints . . .’
‘Sergeant!’ the judge said. ‘Mrs Ferguson has made it quite clear that a simple “yes” or “no” will do.’
‘Sorry, my Lord.’
Gollum grimaced at the judge. ‘Your lordship is too kind.’ She turned her head back towards Foster. ‘Sergeant, please answer the question.’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t have a shred of evidence that my client knew his wife was having an affair, do you?’
‘No.’
‘So, it’s entirely plausible that he didn’t know then, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose . . . yes.’
‘And if he didn’t know about his wife’s affair, then it’s also possible that he had no motive to kill her?’
‘No. Except . . .’
‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
‘How would you feel about a comfort break, Mrs Ferguson?’
‘I bow to your lordship’s perfect timing, my Lord.’
Jerry grinned. Yes, if she wanted to be like anyone, she wanted to be like Gollum. Not in looks, of course, but certainly in the way she peeled off the layers of evidence – if that’s what one could call it – given by police officers in court. Gollum was definitely the bees knees.
***
‘I’m waiting,’ Xena said.
‘He came in here by mistake.’
‘By mistake? There’s a sign on the door, which clearly states that you and I are using this incident room.’
Stick shrugged. ‘Maybe he was distracted.’
‘So distracted that he thought he’d interfere with my case?’
‘Our case. He forgot we were using his incident room.’
‘It’s not “his” incident room.’
‘Sorry, I forgot as well. Anyway, he began looking at what we’d written, and . . .’
‘. . . Decided to add his twopenny worth?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where were you when all this criminal damage was taking place?’
‘I know what you’re thinking, but I was at my desk. I came in after he’d written on the whiteboard.’
‘And then you thought you’d try and appear intelligent by passing the idea off as your own?’
‘I was trying to keep the peace.’
‘You should join the United Nations Peace Corps.’
‘Well, I think it’s a good idea.’
‘It is a good idea, but Parish came up with it.’
‘And because of that you’re not going to use it?’
‘Don’t be stupid. Of course we’re going to use it, but you can tell Parish we didn’t use it.’
‘Me?’
‘You’re the one who let him in here, and then gave him carte blanche to write obscenities all over our whiteboards.’
‘Maybe we can just forget it ever happened?’
‘Then, he’ll be walking round all smug thinking that it was his idea that cracked our case. He’ll think that, before he came in here, we didn’t have two ideas of our own to rub together. No, you have to tell him, and you have to tell him today.’
‘I think you’re being paranoid.’
Xena’s nose wrinkled. ‘Paranoia is a side-effect of working with you, Stickamundo. Right, what else have you been plotting behind my back?’
‘I rang Environmental Health at Broxbourne. They don’t have a separate list of walk-in freezers. All they do is monitor food hygiene at local businesses, and part of those inspections include checking the walk-in freezer temperature if they have one, and the health and safety of the employees working there.’
‘That’s not very helpful. Did you tell them it wasn’t good enough?’
‘Of course.’
‘You didn’t say anything to them at all, did you?’
‘I asked them if they knew of anybody who might keep a list of walk-in freezers.’
‘And?’
‘They didn’t.’
‘They’re about as much use as a chocolate teapot. I’ve a good mind to speak to my local councillor and tell him to . . .’
‘You don’t live in Broxbourne.’
‘Stop nit-picking. Maybe I’ll go all the way to the top.’
‘To the Prime Minister?’
‘Why not?’
‘Do you think he’ll be interested in walk-in freezers?’
‘If he isn’t, he should be – it’s a riveting subject.’
‘I also ran the names of the dance studio clients on the list through CrimInt – nothing, not even a parking ticket.’
‘That’s because parking tickets aren’t recorded on CrimInt.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘How long have you been a detective?’
‘Obviously not long enough.’
‘What about forensics?’
‘Nothing.’
‘They should put Heffernan’s head on a spike outside the station as a warning to others.’
‘About what?’
‘I’ll think of something. Okay, while you’re making up the card array of the different makes of vans, I’ll go and annoy DI Haxell in Missing Persons. After that, we’ll drive up to Ware College and see what they’ve got to say for themselves.’
‘All right. Say “hello” to DI Haxell for me.’
‘Will I fuck. I’ll already have to disinfect myself after talking to her. Everyone . . . well, everyone except you of course, knows that she’s a high-class hooker.’
‘You shouldn’t listen to rumours.’
‘Let’s put the rumours to one side for a moment. Does she wear her skirts a foot higher than everyone else?’
‘Hardly noticeable.’
‘Does she plaster herself with more make-up than they have at Max Factor?’
‘I can’t say I’ve noticed.’
‘”I can’t say I’ve noticed”,’ Xena mimicked. ‘Well, you must have noticed the expensive perfume, the non-regulation plunging patterned bras she wears under her white blouse, the seamed stockings that go all the way . . . ?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘You’re a numpty. And then, of course, there’s the rumours.’
‘None of which are true.’
‘You say that with unusual conviction,’ she said, leaning forward and putting her chin in her hands. ‘How do you know they’re not true?’
‘She told me.’
‘Did she now? And since when were you on speaking terms with the hooker in Missing Persons?’
‘While you were in the hospital . . . and stop calling her that.’
‘Does Jenifer know about your secret assignations with Haxell the hooker?’
‘They weren’t secret, they weren’t assignations, and she’s not a hooker. We were merely talking about work – missing persons if you must know.’
‘And discussing the rumours about her charging men a lot of money for sexual favours after hours?’
‘You have a dirty mind.’
‘Did she ask you for any money, sticky wicket? I bet she’s heard that you’re a multi-millionaire and . . .’
‘Weren’t you going somewhere?’
Xena stood up, opened the door and said over her shoulder as she left, ‘Maybe I’ll ask her myself.’
She smiled and headed for the stairs. If there was one thing worth getting up for in the morning, it was to wind up Stick like a clockwork orange.
Missing Persons had been redesigned. It was no longer a one-person closet reeking of body odour, which was stacked full of paper files and a stand-alone computer. Now, it was an L-shaped room next to the ladies toilets boasting a DI, a Constable and two networked computers.
Some bright spark on the university graduate program had put forward the idea – backed up with pages of mathematical formulae, statistical computations and some nifty-looking charts – that addressing the ever-growing missing persons’ problem would have a domino-effect on all other crimes, so it was being touted as the holy grail.
Unfortunately, although significant inroads had been made into the escalating missing person numbers, there had been no corresponding reduction in other crime statistics. But, as everyone kept saying: “It was early days yet.”
She was about to knock on the door, but before she could a tall thin PCSO she didn’t know came out of the toilet, and a putrid mix of beer and vindaloo wafted out into the corridor with her. Xena gave her a dirty look, but the PCSO simply ignored her. What, in the name of Lucifer and all his legions, had happened to respect and discipline? The police force was going to hell in a handcart.
Holding her breath she burst into Missing Persons and closed the door quickly behind her. ‘Jesus, I don’t know how you pathetic has-beens can work down here,’ she said to no one in particular.
Diane Haxell stopped working and spun round on her chair. ‘Hello, Blake. I’d heard you were back and that the personality transplant hadn’t worked. To what do we owe the pleasure?’
‘Sometimes it works, but it’s a bit hit and miss at the moment. Take this morning as a case in point. Stick and I were discussing the merits of supplementing a DI’s income by working overtime . . .’
‘What do you want, Blake?’
‘You’ve heard about Clarice Kennedy?’
‘Of course.’
‘During the course of your investigation, and I use that term in its loosest sense, did the name “Carl “ crop up at all?’
‘In what context?’
‘As Clarice’s boyfriend.’
‘She didn’t have a boyfriend.’
‘And that didn’t strike you as odd? She was a beautiful woman – why wouldn’t she have had a boyfriend?’
‘Men aren’t the be-all and end-all, Blake. Sometimes it’s good to have nothing to do with them.’
‘We’re not talking about your grubby experiences with men.’
‘I wasn’t, I was talking about women in general. If this job has taught me anything, it’s that men are our enemy.’
‘That’s one thing we can agree on,’ Xena said, thinking of that bastard Tom McDougall.
‘Anyway, who told you she had a boyfriend?’
‘Charlene Kelly.’
‘From the dance studio?’
‘Yes.’
‘We interviewed her. She never said anything about Clarice having a boyfriend.’
‘It was a confidence. At that time, everybody thought Clarice might still be found alive, and Charlene didn’t want to betray a confidence.’
‘About a boyfriend?’
‘Apparently, this Carl is much older than she was. Clarice didn’t want her parents finding out.’
Haxell shrugged. ‘There’s your answer then.’
‘You didn’t come across any other Carl?’
She shook her head. ‘No, but don’t forget that a missing person investigation is a whole lot different to a murder investigation. There’s only so far you can go before you find yourself tiptoeing through a legal minefield.’
‘Yeah – the fucking bastards. They tell us to keep everybody safe in their beds at night, but then they tie our hands behind our back, hobble our ankles together with manacles and chains, stuff a gag in our mouth and put a blindfold on us.’
‘We should go out for a drink sometime,’ Haxell said. ‘Maybe we could solve the world’s problems over a beer or three.’
Xena’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t think I could afford you.’
Haxell’s lip curled up. ‘Maybe we could work out a payment plan.’
‘I’ll give it some thought.’
‘Well, if there’s nothing else . . . ?’
Xena opened the door a crack and gently sniffed. ‘No, nothing else,’ she said, opening the door wide enough to make a run for the stairs.