Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller (6 page)

The path through the trees to the clearing was narrow, which guaranteed that both Henry’s clothing and Miruna’s would snag against the branches and twigs that reached across the path. All the scientists had to do was find fibres and work out the scenario, all of which would add to the convincing case against Henry.

Satisfied that Miruna’s body was well hidden in the bushes, Amelia returned to the car to tidy up. She picked up the side-handle baton from the driver’s seat where she’d dropped it and pulled out the main grip extension – the part bearing Henry’s fingerprints – letting it click into place. Shining the torch briefly onto the surrounding trees to find the best direction, she threw the baton hard and high, away from the path to the clearing where Miruna’s body now lay. If it were found, all well and good; if not, there was plenty of other evidence. The prints on the baton grip extension would be icing on the cake, and no one would expect that someone planting evidence would be so cavalier as to risk it not being found.

She finished her tidying by putting the reclined passenger seat back in an upright position and sliding the seat forward, checking as she did that the girl’s shoe was still well hidden. Finally, she took the girl’s phone from her pocket – she had removed it from the girl’s jacket when she left her in the bushes. She had no use for it so she switched it off and threw it into the woods.

Every box now ticked, she climbed into the car and headed back to Nottingham, keeping the sun visor pulled down as she had on the outward trip, her leather gloves now back on her hands over the surgical gloves as she gripped the wheel.

It was twenty minutes to three by the time she parked Henry’s car at the back of the Old Nottingham. This time she took the stairs all the way to the second floor — she didn’t want to risk a chance meeting with Michael. However, as she walked past the lift door on the second floor lobby, she deliberately came close enough to make sure that the CCTV camera would capture a fleeting glimpse of her.

Back in her room, she took off the baseball cap and carefully searched it for blond hairs from the wig. If the forensic scientists were later to find blond hairs in it, their presence would strengthen the case for Henry not being the murderer, that someone had dressed up in his clothes, someone wearing a wig. Finding one or two elsewhere on his clothes or on the dead girl didn’t matter: without a source they were of little value, but it was important that any in the cap were removed. Her diligence was worth it: her search produced a solitary hair that she lifted out and dropped into the holdall for later disposal.

Another box ticked, she walked back to Henry’s room carrying the baseball cap in her gloved hand. The click of the magnetic lock sounded brutally loud in the silence of the hotel but it made no difference: Henry hadn’t moved.

After carefully taking off Henry’s clothes, she left them on the end of the bed. She had no plans to try to dress him again – dressing an unconscious man was considerably more difficult than undressing him and there was always a risk that he might rouse from his slumbers. When he found his clothes, Henry would assume that he’d been compos mentis enough to undress.

She had none of her own clothing with her since she was confident from the lack of any noise from other rooms that even the Korean businessmen were asleep, so there was little risk in skipping down the corridor to her own room in her underwear. If she did happen to bump into one of them, she’d wink at him and disappear into her room, leaving him with a tale to tell that would most likely be put down to a vivid, booze-induced imagination.

After one final check around the room, Amelia put Henry’s key card on the desk and opened the door. Once she’d shut it, there was no returning.

Half an hour soaking in a steaming bath left Amelia feeling relaxed and delighted with her night’s work. One hooker fewer on the streets of Nottingham — the girl was scum to her, not worth another thought — and one public figure about to fall spectacularly from grace. She lay in the water, luxuriating in its heat as she ran through everything in her mind. It had been a truly professional job. Henry Silk would soon have the full force of the law bearing down on him, and with no alibi and a mountain of evidence to implicate him, there was little chance of anything he said being believed. She had set up his destruction, as she had with others previously, but this fish was bigger. All she had to do now was sit back and watch him being reeled in, twitching and jerking like a man on the end of a noose. But unlike a man in his death throes, Henry Silk would suffer the degradation she had created for him for as long as she chose, after which she might consider mercy. That his life would become a living nightmare gave her a sense of satisfaction like no other.

C
hapter 9

Monday 2 June, 9 a.m.

T
he receptionist at the Old Nottingham Hotel was the same bored twenty-year-old who had checked in the mousey Amelia Taverner the previous Friday. However, after a weekend experimenting with some new tablets her boyfriend had bought, she would have found it difficult to describe Amelia even if her life depended on it.

Jennifer walked round the reception desk to the girl’s side and gave her a reassuring smile — the girl had looked immediately furtive when she and Derek Thyme had announced they were police officers. “Was it you I spoke to earlier on the phone, Sheryl?” she asked, reading the receptionist’s name badge.

“No,” said the girl, “I was a bit late this morning.” She glanced sheepishly in the direction of what Jennifer assumed was the manager’s office. “It would have been Denise you spoke to. She covered for me till I got here.”

“Hectic weekend?” asked Jennifer, noting a residual glassiness in the girl’s pupils.

“Yeah, I—” Sheryl stopped as she remembered who Jennifer was. “Yeah,” she repeated less enthusiastically, and looked down.

“Don’t worry, Sheryl, I won’t let on,” said Jennifer.

Sheryl was suddenly defensive. “Let on what?”

Jennifer waited a beat before continuing.

“I can see it in your eyes. Whatever it was you were taking, it was strong, and having seen a lot of users, I can assure you it will be addling your brain.”

“Don’t know what you mean. I’ve not done nothing.”

“As I said, Sheryl, I’m not here to find out about your weekend. I need some info about one of your guests. His name is Henry Silk. A regular, I think.”

Suddenly Sheryl was only too pleased to help. She needed to keep this cop onside, but she was also concerned that the police were interested in Henry Silk.

“You’re right, he is a regular. Right gorgeous, he is, even though he’s old enough to be me dad. A real gentleman, completely different to the bloke he plays on the telly. That Jake Morrison in Runway is a right sod. Mr Silk’s nothing like that.”

She was starting to warm to her theme. “I went to see him last week in the play — I was working days, same as this week, so I could. He was brilliant. Really evil. Dunno how he does it.”

“When did he check out, Sheryl? Sunday, after the final performance on Saturday night?”

“No, it was Saturday lunchtime, although he left his car here until Saturday night. Told me he was driving straight down to London after the play finished. I bet he’s got a penthouse or something; somewhere really smart.”

“So you spoke to him on Saturday? What time was that?”

“It was around lunchtime, which is unusual for him. I mean, he’s never down early for his breakfast, but he’s always there. But Saturday, he missed it.”

“How did he seem?”

“What’s he done? I don’t want to get him into no trouble.”

“You won’t, Sheryl, you’ll be helping him and helping us as well. So, how was he?”

“Well, he looked right dreadful, all bleary like. Sort of puzzled.”

“Puzzled?”

“Yeah, like he didn’t know where he was.”

“Did he say where he’d been?”

“He’d been in his room. He told me. Overslept, he said. Said he thought that the play had been harder work than he thought. So I got him a cup of coffee — strong, black, like he always takes it — and sat him in the restaurant with it. I think he might’ve had a sandwich. Do you want me to check?”

“No, it’s OK, we can talk to the kitchen staff later if we need to.”

Derek looked towards the bar. “Does Mr Silk have a drink at all when he comes back after a performance?”

Sheryl nodded as she looked Derek up and down. The female cop had been so pushy that she’d hardly noticed him. Quite good looking, for a cop. Tall too. And black. Her boyfriend Wes was black.

She gave him what was meant to be a coy smile. “Every night, like clockwork. Marches in, all theatrical, and has his vodka and tonic.” She looked around before leaning towards Derek and dropping her voice. “Normally buys whoever’s on duty one too. Such a gentleman.”

“Just the one?” asked Derek.

“Always,” nodded Sheryl. “But I happen to know that he keeps a smart bottle or two in his room. The maid what does his room just loves him. Told me that she’s cleared more than one empty bottle from his bin. Fancy stuff too, she reckons. Wouldn’t know, myself, don’t really drink much.”

She glanced at Jennifer in time to catch her knowing look and suddenly stared at her feet.

Derek felt he’d got the receptionist’s confidence.

“Didn’t happen to say where he’s gone this week, did he, Sheryl? Another town with the play?”

“No, the play’s finished. He told me later what he was doing. Once he’d had a bite to eat and more coffee, he seemed OK. That was when he checked out and told me about his car.”

“What about his car?”

“That he was driving down to London, like I said.”

“Yes, of course. So he’s in London.”

“Yes, but he said he was going to be filming for the telly. Outside stuff, he said. They do it all at Luton airport, you know. I knew that coz it was in Celeb magazine.”

She smiled as she remembered something.

“He was really sweet. I gave him a photo of the actress who plays the airport manager’s secretary, the dizzy one, Beryline Hertford. Me dad thinks she’s wonderful. Mr Silk said he’d get her to autograph the photo. Bring it me in a couple of weeks when he’s back.”

“Sounds like he’s quite a guy,” interrupted Jennifer. She wanted to move on. “The other thing we’d like to know about is the CCTV that you’ve got here. I’ve been looking around but I can only see a couple of cameras. Are there more?”

“There’s not many, no,” said Sheryl, shaking her head.

She pointed around the lobby. “There’s that one looking at the door, there’s one up there, above us, looking at where we are, and there’s one in the bar, but that’s aimed at the till.”

“Aren’t there others?” prompted Jennifer. “There must be one in the lift, surely.”

“Yeah, and outside the lift on each floor, except here in the lobby. There’s one in the car park too.”

Jennifer looked up at Derek. She could see he was thinking the same thing that she was. If there was footage of Henry leaving the car park late on Friday evening and then coming back in the early hours of Saturday morning, that would more or less clinch the case.

She turned her attention back to the receptionist.

“Right, Sheryl, we’re going to need to look at the recordings from each of the cameras starting from the middle of last week until Saturday afternoon.”

Sheryl shook her head. “I can’t give you those, they’re nothing to do with me. You’ll have to talk to the manager. Hey, what’s this all about? Is Mr Silk in some sort of trouble?”

Jennifer ignored the question.

“Where’s the manager’s office?” she said.

“I’ll call him for you,” said Sheryl as she pressed a button on the phone in front of her and lifted the receiver.

“Hi, Mr Jackson, it’s Sheryl on reception. There’s a couple of police officers here who want to talk to you. Shall I send them through? Oh, OK.”

She put the receiver back on the cradle. “He says — Oh, here he is now.”

Jennifer turned and saw the concerned-looking manager as he hurried from his office. She walked towards him, wanting to avoid Sheryl’s interruptions and get the CCTV recordings as soon as possible. She looked back and was pleased to see that Derek had got the message and was distracting Sheryl by asking her more questions.

The manager blanched when Jennifer mentioned a murder inquiry and, concerned for the reputation of his hotel, he willingly handed over the discs once he realised that stalling for a warrant would gain him no favours.

Fifteen minutes later, Jennifer and Derek were hurrying out of the hotel with the discs and signed paperwork releasing them into their custody.

Jennifer tossed Derek her keys. “You drive, I’ve got to make a couple of calls and I don’t want to waste time.”

Back in the SCF, they headed for Mike Hurst’s office where they found the DCI talking to Rob McPherson.

Hurst held up a hand as Jennifer was about to launch forth with what they’d discovered.

“From the look on your face Cotton, I’d say you’ve made some progress. Am I right?”

“Yes, boss, I—”

“Well, to save time, let’s get Bottomley in here too.”

He shifted his eyes to Derek. “Thyme.”

Derek scuttled out of the office and was back within thirty seconds followed by the detective sergeant.

Hurst sat back in his chair. “Right, Cotton, let’s hear it.”

“Well, boss, from what the receptionist at the Old Nottingham has told us, it would appear that Henry Silk could be very involved.”

She went through everything from the hotel, holding up the bag of CCTV discs as she explained the manager’s cooperation.

“You’ve got them all signed for I hope, Cotton. We don’t want to bugger up the chain of evidence.”

“All sorted, boss. Boss, on the way back, I called Luton airport security and they confirmed that the TV company that makes Runway Two-Seven is filming outside shots there for the next three days. In fact they’re already there; something to do with the light. Apparently they have a spot on the airport perimeter they use that gives them background of planes taking off and landing during whatever action is being filmed. That ties in with what Silk told the hotel receptionist, but just to be sure, I asked the security guy to quietly check if Silk’s car is there, and it is.”

“Good work, Cotton. Both of you, in fact,” said Hurst.

He turned to McPherson. “Rob, I think you and Neil should head for Luton airport and have a chat with Mr Silk. If his car matches the one in traffic’s CCTV, we need to seize it and get it back here. Sounds to me like Mr Silk has a lot of explaining to do.”

McPherson and Bottomley made for the door, but Jennifer hovered where she was. Hurst looked up suspiciously.

“What’s the matter, Cotton? You look like someone stole your pet rabbit.”

“Well, I was thinking, boss, that having a female go along too might distract Silk a bit, perhaps loosen his tongue.”

“He’s probably murdered a prostitute, Cotton. Do we really need to distract him?”

“He’s got something of a reputation as a ladies’ man. It might help.”

Hurst kept a deadpan expression.

“You’re right. Who do you suggest we send along?”

Jennifer caught the tone in his voice.

“I think perhaps someone who’s a big fan of the series, knows about the cast and who would love to have the opportunity to see it being filmed. No, forget that last bit. I meant, someone professional enough not to be overawed by the whole TV razzmatazz.”

“OK, Cotton, you can go, but don’t forget that Mr Henry Smooth-as-Silk is a killer.”

Jennifer raised her eyebrows a fraction, but said nothing more. She was shocked that Hurst’s position on Silk had gone from victim of car theft to murderer in the space of a few hours. Old-school thinking or instinct that comes with years of experience? She wasn’t sure.