‘Well, Mr Dryden,’ Judge Calthorpe said. ‘Have you had enough time to review the evidence on Voice Stress Analysis introduced by Mrs Ferguson yesterday?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Excellent. Shall we proceed?’
‘Of course, my Lord.’
‘Is the defence ready, Mrs Ferguson?’
‘Ready when you are, my Lord.’
‘If there are any surprises today Mrs Ferguson, I won’t be so forgiving.’
‘I understand, my Lord.’
‘Good morning, Sergeant.’
‘Good morning.’
‘I trust you’ve had the opportunity to read the report from Dr Woolf?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘And you read his conclusion?’
‘Yes.’
‘For the benefit of the jury, let me read what Dr Woolf concluded:
Each deceptive response has been quantified in a range of 90 – 98 percent. It must be noted that protocol dictates that any measurable deceptive stress begins at 80%. The findings are that the measurable deceptive stresses are 10-18% higher than the first point of measurable deceptive stress. It is therefore concluded that the caller is being untruthful.’
‘My Lord?’ Dryden said as he jumped to his feet.
‘Yes, Mr Dryden?’
‘Yesterday you objected to my perceived selection of the available evidence, and yet Mrs Ferguson is doing the same.’
‘In what way?’
‘Like your lordship, I’ve read the report. I also stayed up past midnight last night to speak to Dr Woolf on the phone. He makes it quite clear that the 999 recording is far too short to draw any accurate conclusion. But Mrs Ferguson has failed to divulge that caveat.’
‘Mrs Ferguson?’
‘As Mr Dryden has already informed this court – VSA is unproven technology. So, by definition, the conclusions are always subject to a caveat. However, it doesn’t get away from the fact that Dr Woolf was of the considered opinion that the caller was lying. What do you have to say to that, Sergeant Foster?’
‘I suppose it’s possible that the caller was lying, but not in the way you mean.’
‘What are you saying, Sergeant?’
‘The caller could have been acting under the instructions of Mr Naseby.’
‘My Lord!’ Gollum protested.
The judge spoke to the jury. ‘The jury will ignore the Sergeant’s last unsubstantiated statement.’ He peered over his glasses at Foster. ‘Sergeant . . .’
‘If I may, my Lord?’ Gollum said.
‘I don’t want a feeding frenzy in my courtroom, Mrs Ferguson.’
‘I’ll try to restrain myself, my Lord.’
‘You mentioned the possibility that my client might have instructed the caller to make that 999 call?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you mean by that?’
Dryden bobbed up again. ‘My Lord?’
‘What is this time, Mr Dryden?’
Jerry looked around at the rapt faces of the other students and smiled. Observing a court in session was like watching an unfolding drama on the television, but with continuous interruptions.
‘My Lord?’ Gollum said.
‘Yes, you tell him, Mrs Ferguson.’
‘Your client opened the door, Mr Dryden. Judge Calthorpe closed it again, but I’ve decided that it might be useful to open that door and stick our heads through to see what might be lurking there.’
Dryden sat down.
Gollum had out-manoeuvred him again.
‘Explain what you meant by your statement, Sergeant.’
‘Just that, Naseby could have arranged the whole thing.’
‘In what way?’
‘He could have paid the man to make the call.’
‘I don’t know about the jury, but I am totally confused, Sergeant. Did you consider that as an option at the time of Mr Naseby’s arrest?’
‘No.’
‘No? So, it’s an idea that came to you later, and you followed it through by checking . . .’
‘No.’
‘I see . . .’
Jerry saw people squirming in their seats in anticipation of the mauling that Sergeant Foster was about to get.
‘Isn’t this another example of your appalling police work, Sergeant? Not only am I astounded that your superiors put you in charge of this investigation in the first place, but I’m also flabbergasted that they allowed it to proceed in the negligent way that it did. I’ll be surprised if you still have a job after my client has been set free. And it will be my strong recommendation that he seeks substantial damages for wrongful arrest from the Metropolitan Police Force. There were so many other lines of inquiry that you could have pursued to confirm my client’s innocence, and yet you sat back and did nothing. You have no idea who the 999 caller was, and yet you have the temerity to suggest – without any evidence whatsoever, because you couldn’t be bothered to get any – that my client instructed him to make the call. It’s a mess, Sergeant. The whole case against my client is a mess. In fact, it beggars belief how the CPS thought fit to even bring this mess into your lordship’s courtroom. I’d like to move for a dismissal of all charges against my client, my Lord.’
‘I’m surprised it’s taken you this long, Mrs Ferguson,’ the judge said. ‘On what grounds?’
‘I’m spoilt for choice, my Lord – lack of evidence; conflicting evidence; the lack of diligence shown by the police in the conduct of the investigation . . .’
‘I’ll expect a motion for dismissal in my chambers by two o’clock this afternoon, and I’ll give you my decision at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.’
‘Thank you, my Lord.’
‘All rise.’
The judge left the courtroom.
Jerry saw Gollum glance up at the public gallery and wink at her. Yes, she thought, Gollum had it in the bag. Manning Naseby was going to get away with murder. What was Bronwyn doing? Why hadn’t she heard from her?
***
‘You stated at the hospital that you became lost while trying to exit the railway sidings and found Lily Andrews wandering about naked and confused – is that right, Mr Kennedy?’ Xena asked.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
They were in Interview Room 2 with the digital recording running.
‘Are you sure you didn’t enter one of the buildings?’
‘Yes, I’m sure. We found the young woman and took her straight to hospital.’
‘There seems to be a discrepancy of about twenty minutes between the time you should have arrived at the hospital and the time you were recorded as arriving.’
‘Maybe the drive to the hospital took longer than we expected, maybe the staff at the hospital recorded the time wrong, and I know that’s easily done . . .’
‘You took your shotgun into the building with you?’
‘The only reason I take my shotgun out of the cabinet these days is to clean and oil it. I keep meaning to sell it, but . . .’
‘I have five dead bodies in a walk-in freezer, Mr Kennedy.’
‘That’s nothing to do with me.’
‘They were all shot – executed – with a shotgun, and you own a shotgun.’
‘I haven’t fired my shotgun in months.’
‘We know that Lily Andrews was in that walk-in freezer.’
‘As I’ve said many times, Inspector. My wife and I found Miss Andrews wandering around dazed and confused outside.’
‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘Yes, unless you have evidence that contradicts our version of events?’
‘We’ll get the evidence.’
‘I find that hard to believe, DI Blake. You should be out there looking for the real killer instead of harassing two grieving parents. Although, to be honest, if somebody did shoot those five men and rescue Lily Andrews, then maybe he deserves a medal instead of being hunted down like a criminal.’
‘The person is a criminal, Mr Kennedy. Vigilante justice is criminal justice and against the law.’
‘Maybe for certain crimes it shouldn’t be.’
‘Is there anything else either of my clients can help you with, Inspector?’ Mr Kennedy’s solicitor – Mrs Dawn Dunne – said. ‘Mr and Mrs Kennedy have been more than helpful in answering your questions, but as you’re well aware they are still grieving the horrific loss of their daughter. So, if you’re not going to charge either of them, then I suggest you let them go home.’
Xena and Stick stood up. ‘You and your wife are free to go, Mr Kennedy. Please don’t attempt to leave the country.’
‘Innocent people have no reason to run away, Inspector. All my wife and I want to do now is bury our daughter, and make a start in putting our lives back together.’
‘We’re not going to prove they did it, are we?’ Stick said, once Mr and Mrs Kennedy – accompanied by their solicitor – had been escorted out of the station.
‘You’re glad, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who’d have thought they would have destroyed all the evidence.’
The corner of his mouth creased up. ‘Who’d have thought they’d have known how to destroy all the evidence.’
‘Lily Andrews knows what happened.’
‘She maintains that she can’t remember anything that happened in that room. Loss of memory after a traumatic experience is fairly common.’
‘You believe her.’
‘It doesn’t matter whether I believe her or not. Even if she’s lying, you can’t do anything about it. The Kennedys rescued her from weeks of torture and certain death, and killed her attackers. Lily Andrews will never turn them in. They gave her justice, most victims don’t ever get that. If I was Lily, I wouldn’t turn them in.’
‘I expected more from you?’
‘More what?’
‘More everything.’
‘If you were in Lily’s shoes, would you turn the Kennedys in?’
‘It makes no difference what I’d do, you still have a mountain of computer-generated forms to complete.’
‘You wouldn’t. I know . . . Me? You’ll do your share though, won’t you?’
‘No, I don’t think I will. I think I’ll go home.’
‘But . . .’
‘Now, if you’d have taken my side instead of their side I might have been more inclined to help you. The thing is, Stickamundo – we didn’t catch anybody. We began this investigation with a dead body and the expectation of our superiors that we would solve the crime and bring the killer to justice, but the Kennedys pieced the whole thing together before us and then executed the perpetrators. We know that the Kennedys killed those five men, but we can’t prove it – they’re going to get away with mass murder. So, you and I didn’t catch anybody. We’ve been wasting our time for three days. I feel a relapse coming on, so I need to go home and lie down.’
‘Are you going to use that as an excuse to go home every time there’s some work to be done?’
‘Or . . . as the DI, I could just order the DS to do all the work and go home.’
‘Yes, you could do that.’
‘But instead, I’m making you feel good about yourself by helping your superior officer in her hour of need.’
‘I forgot how caring you can be.’
‘It’s a good job that I reminded you then, isn’t it?’
***
‘Well?’ he said to Richards, as he joined her outside the bungalow and began stripping off the forensic suit.
‘They used to work together on Accident and Emergency.’
‘And?’
‘A boy called Michael Higgins died in their care. The mother – Mrs Sandra Higgins – was devastated and blamed the nurses . . .’
‘What did he die of?’
‘Anaphylactic shock after being given a penicillin injection.’
Parish shook his head. ‘How could he have died when he was already in the A&E?’
‘Apparently, they were inundated with casualties from a multiple vehicle pile-up on the A12 that day, which also involved a coach full of schoolchildren and an overturned chemical tanker. After giving Michael the penicillin injection, the two nurses were called away to deal with the incoming casualties from the RTA. His mother had to go to the toilet shortly after they’d left. When she came back she thought her son was asleep, so she dozed off in the cubicle herself. It was an hour and a half before Mrs Gifford returned to find the boy cold and dead.’
‘I can understand why the mother might feel aggrieved.’
‘There was an internal investigation into Michael Higgins’ death, but no blame was attributed to either Sheila Flack or Annette Gifford. Sheila Flack apparently asked the mother whether her son was allergic to penicillin – she said no, and that’s what was recorded on the notes. The mother, of course, said she was never asked about any penicillin allergy, and even if she had have been she wouldn’t have known because he’d never had penicillin before.’
‘How old was the boy?’
‘Three.’
‘So the hospital blamed the mother for her own son’s death?’
‘Yes, and they also suggested that if Mrs Higgins hadn’t left her son alone, he might still be alive.’
‘Dear me. Not a good outcome for the mother. You can understand why she might want revenge.’
‘If she is the killer.’
‘Of course. What do we know about Mrs Higgins?’
‘She lives alone.’
‘No husband?’
‘He was a coach driver, and died in an accident in Germany six months before she lost her son.’
You’ve sent a squad car?’
‘I have.’
‘Let’s go then.’
They headed down the A406 and joined the A12 to 54 Albert Road in Ilford.
Two uniformed officers were waiting for them outside the property.
‘Nobody in, Sir,’ a tall constable with a broken nose said.
‘Name?’
‘I’m Peter Moore and this is Brian Johnson,’ he said.
‘Request permission for a forced entry, Moore.’
‘On what grounds, Sir?’
‘On the grounds that we need to get inside.’
He nodded.
‘Do you think she’s in there?’ Richards asked.
‘My ability to see through walls doesn’t work in Ilford.’
‘What if . . . ?’
‘We’re on, Sir,’ Moore said. He strolled up to the front door and shouldered it open as if he did it for a living. ‘Do you want me to go first?’ he asked.
‘Go upstairs with DC Richards, I’ll look downstairs.’
On a worktop in the kitchen he found an empty vial of Fentanyl with Cyrillic writing on the label, but there was nothing else to suggest that Sandra Higgins might be the killer they were looking for. He slipped the vial into a plastic evidence bag and left it where it was for forensics.
The rooms were spotless. He looked at the family pictures on the walls and on a cabinet with glass shelves. He had the feeling that it used to be a happy home, but now it felt cold and empty.
Richards and Moore came down the stairs.
‘Anything?’ he asked.
‘The boy’s bedroom is a shrine,’ Richards said. ‘There’s a prayer book open on the bed, and the two prayers that were on the bodies have had the page corners turned down . . .’
‘I found an empty vial of Fentanyl in the kitchen,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve found our killer.’
‘I don’t think she’s finished yet.’
‘Because?’
‘There’s a third page corner turned down.’
‘Oh?’
He followed her upstairs. On the bed was an open prayer book as if someone had been kneeling on the rug at the side of the bed praying. There was a small white pad on the bed as well.
‘That’s what she wrote the prayers on,’ Richards said.
He found a pencil in a Rupert the Bear pencil case on top of Michael Higgins’ chest of drawers, and ran the lead over the top page to reveal a prayer:
God in Heaven hear my prayer,
Keep me in thy loving care,
Be my guide in all I do,
Bless all those who love me too,
Amen.
‘Why has she . . . ?’ Richards started to say. ‘Oh God! She’s going to kill someone else, isn’t she?’
‘I don’t think she’s been back here since she killed Sheila Flack, so the question is: Where’s she gone?’
‘You mean: Who’s she going to kill?’
‘Did Annette Gifford say there was anyone else there?’
‘No.’
‘Ring her.’
Richards called the VSO – Mabel Stafford.
‘Hello, Mabel . . . Yes, I’m fine . . . Yes, he’s fine . . . No, I don’t watch QVC . . .’
Parish took the phone off her. ‘Stafford?’
‘Hello, Sir. How are you?’
‘Put Mrs Gifford on the phone.’
‘She’s in the bathroom, Sir.’
‘Well drag her out of the bathroom – it’s life and death.’
‘Will do, Sir.’
He heard Stafford climb the stairs, knock on the bathroom door and tell Mrs Gifford to open it because she had . . .
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Inspector Parish.’
‘Yes?’
‘Was there anyone else involved in the care of Michael Higgins?’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Like who?’
‘You tell me. Who was he seen by?’
‘I saw him. He had a terrible chest infection.’
‘Did you give the penicillin injection?’
‘Yes, but Dr Gupta . . . of course, Dr Gupta examined him and prescribed the penicillin, and then he pronounced Michael dead.’
‘Do you know Dr Gupta’s first name?’
‘Sanjay.’
‘Thank you.’
He passed the phone back to Richards. Phone the Personnel Department at the hospital, we need to know where Dr Sanjay Gupta lives.’
‘He might be at the hospital.’
‘Check.’
He paced up and down by the side of the car.
‘Got it.’
‘He’s not at the hospital?’
‘Day off. He was on duty over the weekend.’
‘Let’s go.’
Dr Gupta lived on the other side of the A12 at 15 Mendip Road.
‘Would you like us to clear the way on a blue light, Sir?’ Constable Moore asked.
‘Kind of you to offer Moore, but it’ll be less complicated if we use our own blue light. You stay here in case Mrs Higgins returns.’
‘And arrest her.’
‘Yes.’
‘No problem.’
‘You’d better drive,’ Richards said.
‘Of course, you haven’t done the advanced driving course yet, have you?’
‘No.’
They swapped seats.
He put the blue light and siren on, and set off along the A118 towards Ley Street. He’d never forgive Bob. If there was one thing he enjoyed more than anything else, it was haring-scaring through the streets at a hundred miles an hour with the blue light flashing and the siren blaring. A Vauxhall Corsa ruined everything. He felt like Noddy driving around Toyland in his red and yellow taxi: “Parp, Parp” went the horn; “Jingle, Jingle” went the bell on his little blue hat.
‘Maybe you can take the advanced driving course while your mother and I are away on holiday in . . .’
‘I can’t believe you’re taking one child, but leaving the other one at home alone to fend for herself.’
‘Jack’s a toddler.’
‘So, because I’m slightly older that your son and heir, I’m treated like an outcast, an unwanted child, an ugly duckling . . .’
‘Twenty years older.’
‘Age shouldn’t matter.’
‘And somebody’s got to look after Digby.’
‘That’s what boarding kennels are for . . . There’s a truck coming, you know.’
He swerved round the truck. ‘Have you seen the price of boarding kennels for two weeks?’
‘Two weeks! What am I going to do on my own for two weeks?’
‘Digby will keep you company.’
‘You’re a pig. Where are you going?’
‘Bora Bora in Tahiti.’
‘I’m never going to speak to you again.’
‘Starting when?’