Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller (27 page)

When she reached the part about finding a credit card statement hidden among Catherine Doughthey’s photographs, she remembered something else.

“There’s another point that needs following up, sir, that obviously I couldn’t pursue. The credit cards and bank accounts in both Amelia Grace Taverner’s and Catherine Doughthey’s names. They would give us a pattern of spending and dates that might correlate with a suspect’s movements.”

She was now a little hesitant to keep on saying Freneton’s name.

“Ahead of you, Cotton,” said Hawkins, with a self-satisfied smirk. “We should have something later today.”

He checked his watch. “Talking of which, it’s time at least one of the squad I’ve set up was in the office. We don’t want Detective Superintendent Freneton sashaying around, as she’s prone to do, making note of what’s on our desks. Nor do we want her answering any phone calls on our behalf. From the lab, for example.”

He turned to Hurst. “Mike, pop over to McPherson and tell him we’re almost done here and to get his arse into the office.”

As Hurst got out and walked to the DI’s car, both Jennifer and Hawkins sat watching him.

“One other point, Cotton. Who’s this forensic scientist you’ve been hobnobbing with, the one who’s given you insight into further examinations? I hope she’s not from the new lab we’re using on the ring road, ’cause that could put a spanner in the works as well.”

“No, sir, she’s not. She’s the friend of the sister of an old uni friend of mine. She doesn’t live around here. She knew nothing about the case until I briefed her on it. Everything she came up with was based on what I told her.”

Hawkins grunted in reluctant acceptance as he shifted in his seat. He reached forward to start the engine.

“You know, Cotton, this case is a bugger. However it turns out with Detective Superintendent Freneton, it’s looking increasingly as if your Henry Silk has been set up by someone. So sooner or later, the force is going to have a shitstorm on its hands. I can see the headlines now and all the smart-arsed journalists asking how she could possibly have got away with it for so long and how we could have got it so wrong.”

Jennifer smiled to herself. In spite of all the hot air and bluster, Hawkins was starting to sound convinced. She couldn’t wait to relay progress to Henry, and to Charles Keithley.

“Right, Cotton, bugger off home and keep your head down. As soon as we’ve got anything, positive or negative, I’ll let you know. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

C
hapter 31

R
eturning to the SCF at nine twenty, Peter Hawkins was surprised to be told by Mike Hurst that contrary to expectations, Olivia Freneton had not shown up for work that morning.

“Have you called her house, Mike?”

“Yes, sir, first number I tried. There’s no answer; the phone goes to a brief answer message.”

“And you’ve asked around the squad room in case some clown took a message and forgot to pass it on?”

“Yes, sir. She hasn’t called in.”

“Bloody odd, particularly from a stickler for the rules like Freneton. What about her mobile?”

“Left voice messages on that too, sir. And a text.”

“Get onto county HQ, will you? Talk to Doug Watson. He will have been the lucky man coordinating her team yesterday. Check she was there and if she appeared to be ill or anything.”

Ten minutes later Hurst was back in Hawkins’ office.

“Still no answer, sir. But I contacted Doug Watson who said she was there all day yesterday; left at five p.m.”

“How did she seem?”

“According to Doug, she was her usual steely self in the morning sessions. ‘Had forgotten to take her happy pill, as usual,’ is how he put it.”

Hawkins grunted.

“But after lunch,” Hurst continued, “she was different, distracted. Not really at the party, Doug said. They wondered if she’d had a few over the break, but I assured him that she seldom touches a drop.”

“Send someone round to her house, see if anything’s amiss. No, better still, go yourself. She’ll only bawl out a PC if he knocks on her door. If there’s no answer, have a look through the windows. If she’s lying on the floor, we can go back in three days’ time and see if she needs help.”

Hurst stared at his boss. Had he just cracked a joke? Perhaps he was serious. Either way, he wasn’t pleased to have been sent on an errand, but from the tone of the instruction, he was hardly in a position to delegate it further.

“I’ll go now, sir,” was all he said.

On his way out, he bumped into McPherson.

“Busy Rob?”

“Nothing too urgent.”

“Good. Come with me, if you will.”

“Where are we going?”

Hurst could sense several pairs of ears tuning in his direction from the squad room.

“I’ll tell you in the car.”

Doug Watson from Nottingham City and County HQ had been right: the Olivia Freneton who faced the management group the previous afternoon had been uncharacteristically different from the usual brusque, no-nonsense detective superintendent they were used to. Distracted to the point of occasionally stumbling over her script, no more than about twenty-five per cent of her mind was focussed on the discussion she was supposed to be leading. The rest of her attention was many miles away as the potential implications of what she’d discovered swirled around her brain.

It had started during the lunch break with a routine purchase of petrol at a garage three miles down the road from the HQ complex. She hadn’t wanted to eat lunch with the group; being with them through a long and tedious morning had been enough — were these really the crème de la crème from the various forces who were destined to be tomorrow’s leaders in law enforcement?

Olivia kept a list in her phone diary of certain chores that needed her attention on a regular basis. Among these were reminders that purchases were to be made every three months using Amelia Taverner’s and Catherine Doughthey’s credit cards to keep the accounts ticking along. A note that today was scheduled for using the cards had appeared on her screen earlier that morning. It was a simple enough task she’d carry out over lunch: she’d buy petrol with one card and a snack somewhere with the other.

But then Catherine Doughthey’s card was refused.

“Sorry, love,” said the round, middle-aged women at the cashier’s desk in the petrol station. “The message says the card account’s closed. Sure you’ve given me the right one?”

“Absolutely sure,” said the scowling Olivia. “I only carry one. Could you try it again?”

The woman sighed, cancelled the transaction and pulled the card from the reader. She glanced at it disapprovingly, rubbed the magnetic strip on her sleeve and then reinserted it.

There was a silence as they both waited. When the reader pinged, the woman turned the display in Olivia’s direction.

“Same,” she said. “See? It says ‘Card account closed. Contact your bank for details’.”

Olivia took the card, opened her purse and paid in cash.

“I’ll give the bank a call,” she muttered. “There must be gremlins in the system since I certainly haven’t closed it.”

What concerned Olivia was that in all the years she’d had both accounts, none of the cards had ever failed. She wondered if Grace Taverner’s card would be the same. If it was, she had a problem.

She jumped into her car and drove to a nearby village where instead of going to the pub as she’d planned, she headed for a bakery to buy some filled rolls for her lunch. She offered Grace’s card and to her relief the transaction went through perfectly.

However, whatever the glitch was with Catherine’s card, it needed addressing. She took out an ageing Motorola with an even older SIM card, one of several phones she used for anonymous calls.

Five minutes later, having pressed a number of buttons in response to the automatic answering service and been treated to worn-out extracts of over-played classical music, a real person came on the line, a woman with a sing-song accent, her consonants clicking. As Olivia explained her predicament, she wondered where in the world the call centre was located.

“My name is Rose Doughthey. I’m phoning on behalf of my mother Catherine Doughthey who has an account with you that includes a credit card. I was shopping with my mother this morning when she tried to pay for something with that credit card. The payment was refused with a message that the account had been closed. Since that isn’t, in fact, the case, I’d be grateful if you could check it on your system.”

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. Then the woman returned.

“I think there must have been some mistake.”

“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.

Two hours later, she pulled up outside the cottage that until recently had belonged to Catherine Doughthey. The North Yorkshire Properties ‘For Sale’ sign by the gate together with a garden returning to nature said it all. 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 lovely.”

“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.”