Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller (7 page)

C
hapter 10

T
he drive from Nottingham to Luton took them a little over two hours. Longer than it should but, as ever, there were sections of the M1 motorway under repair. An hour into the journey, McPherson took a call from Derek Thyme about the post mortem findings.

“OK, Thyme, I’m putting the call on speaker so that all three of us can hear it.”

“Right-o guv. First up, as well as confirming the cause of death as being asphyxiation with a plastic bag, Dr Lawson has also confirmed that there was no evidence of any sexual activity immediately prior to death. Nothing on any of the swabs.”

McPherson grunted. “They probably had an argument that got out of hand before they got around to anything. She was probably demanding too much money. Greedy lot, the girls on Forest Road.”

Sitting in the back of the car and listening intently to the conversation, Jennifer wondered how he knew.

“What about the injuries to the head?” continued McPherson.

“The doc also confirmed that they were from a blunt, rounded object and by themselves wouldn’t have been life-threatening.”

“So, nothing new, Justin.”

“No, guv. The clothing has been sent to the lab and samples from the girl to toxicology.”

“Right. Let’s hope that new lab we’re using — what’s it called?”

“Forefront Forensics.”

“Yes, well, let’s hope they’re keen enough to get the results out quickly. What are you doing now, Justin?”

There was a pause and Jennifer smiled to herself; she could imagine the look of confusion on Derek’s face.

McPherson sighed. “Apart from talking to me, I mean.”

“Oh, right, guv. I’m about to start looking at the CCTV footage from the hotel.”

“Keep me posted on anything you find.” McPherson ended the call and turned to Jennifer. “What else do you know about Henry Silk, given that you’re such a fan, Cotton?”

Jennifer ignored the sarcastic tone.

“From what I’ve read, guv, he’s something of a loner. He’s got a reputation of being a talented actor, particularly in character parts. Apparently he can put on all sorts of regional and foreign accents.”

Neil Bottomley, who was driving, chimed in.

“Funny how some actors can do that and others can’t. You’d think it would be part of their training.”

McPherson grunted his lack of interest in accents.

“So why do you say he’s a loner?”

“It’s what the magazines say, guv, I don’t know the man. It seems there was an incident many years ago. In the late eighties, I think. He was blamed for the death of that actor they called the British James Dean.”

“Dirk Sanderley?” suggested Bottomley.

“Yes, that’s the one. I don’t know much about the incident except that it was a car crash and Silk was driving. It put a blight on Silk’s career. Even after all these years, he can’t get work with any of the big studios in Hollywood, all of whom were raving about Sanderley at the time. Seems very unfair to me. Several other actors from Runway have got good parts in Hollywood films or TV series and they’re not a patch on Silk.”

Another grunt from McPherson. “I shouldn’t feel too sorry for him, Cotton. After our visit today, Silk might well be putting his acting career on permanent hold. Unless they do Christmas panto where he’s going.”

“Guv, we haven’t …” started Jennifer, but then thought better of it.

“Haven’t what?”

“Doesn’t matter,” replied Jennifer quietly. She wanted to talk about the criminal justice system being based on the premise that a person was innocent until proven guilty, but she knew what the response would be: that was the job of the courts — judge and jury. The job of the police was to catch the criminals and to present the facts to the CPS, the Crown Prosecution Service,for consideration. What concerned her was that they hadn’t even spoken to Henry Silk and yet her bosses were already thinking the case was done and dusted
.
She hoped that the passing years would not make her so blinkered, that she would always be able to keep an open mind.

Rob McPherson had called ahead to the local police in Luton who had in turn asked the airport division to send two patrol cars in case support was needed. They waited half a mile down the road for the unmarked CID car and the three cars swept into the filming location together, causing immediate consternation to the director, who yelled at his harassed assistant.

“Anthony! What are they doing there? We haven’t ordered any police cars for today or even for this week. And they are right in the way just as we’re ready to start.”

He paused, his weekend hangover threatening to return.

“Why is nothing ever easy?” he whined. “You arrange for the plods to be here and they’re late; you don’t arrange it and they’re in your face. Get on over there and politely but firmly tell them to shift their uniformed backsides.”

He pivoted on his foot and marched off in the direction of a group of actors standing by an airport vehicle being used as a prop on the tarmac.

“Sorry,” he said, reaching for a cigarette before jamming the packet back in his pocket in frustration as he remembered the smoking restrictions on or near the runway. “Those boys in blue are in the way. We’ll get them shifted, pronto. Jesus!”

Henry Silk cast a wary eye to the clouds scudding across the sky.

“I’d suggest sooner rather than later, Jonty. This weather doesn’t look like it’s going to hold. If we’re not careful, we’ll have to reshoot the whole lot in rain gear.”

The director slapped the palm of a hand to his forehead.

“I can’t bear to even think that might happen; I’ll sue the buggers. Don’t they know how much delays like this cost?”

He turned to look for his assistant.

“What’s taking Anthony so long? Oh, God, what are they doing?”

He could see that despite his assistant’s protestations, none of the police cars had moved and now three people — two men and a young woman — were marching towards him with Anthony half-running along behind them.

The director had had enough. He thrust his clipboard into the nearest pair of hands and stormed off towards the approaching group, booming at them from a distance of twenty yards.

“Listen, I don’t know who you are but I need those police cars and that other car out of here now. Not in a minute. Now!”

Jonty Peters was an imposing figure. At six foot four, with a shock of wild grey hair and matching bushy eyebrows, vivid blue eyes and a florid complexion from over-frequent sampling of his extensive collection of single malts, he was used to getting his own way. At five foot six but built like a bulldog, McPherson was having none of it. He pulled his warrant card from his pocket and held it up.

“Detective Inspector Robert McPherson of Nottingham City and County Serious Crime Formation. These are my colleagues Detective Sergeant Neil Bottomley and Detective Constable Jennifer Cotton.”

“And that interests me because …”

McPherson narrowed his eyes, but bit his tongue.

“We need to talk urgently to a Mr Henry Silk of Lambton Court Gardens, Hampstead. We have reason to believe that he is working on your set.”

“Working on my set!” yelled Peters. “He’s more than working on my bloody set. He’s the lead actor in today’s filming. Filming that costs a lot of money and which you are interrupting. Tell me, Inspector, to whom do I send the bill for this unacceptable delay?”

“If you’d calm down, sir, we can probably get this sorted out very quickly,” lied McPherson, knowing full well that it would be anything but quick. “Now, perhaps you could point out Mr Silk.”

“God! What planet do you live on, Inspector? I can only assume from that request you’re not one of the legions, millions should I say, of fans who are riveted nightly to this programme. Fans who will be extremely unimpressed by police harassment on the set of their favourite show.”

McPherson had had enough. “If you want to make a complaint sir, I suggest you go through the normal channels. Now—”

He stopped as Jennifer tapped him on the shoulder.

“He’s over there, guv, the one dressed in the black uniform trousers and white shirt.”

“Fetch him, Cotton, will you?”

“Now look here!” protested the director as Jennifer walked off. He reached out to stop her but McPherson blocked him.

“I didn’t get your name, sir.”

“Jonty Peters. I’m the director and I shall indeed be making a formal complaint.”

“Well, Mr Peters, I should advise you that obstructing the police in the commission of their duty is a serious offence, as is assaulting a police officer, which you just came very close to doing. I’d also advise you to back off or this might well take all day.”

Peters had met his match. “Look, I’m sorry, Inspector,” he said, wilting. “You must understand that I’m under a lot of pressure here. If we don’t move forward with the filming, the whole schedule is stuffed. Already the weather is not playing ball and now …”

Arsehole, thought McPherson.

“We’ll be as quick as we can, sir,” he said, walking away, followed closely by Bottomley.

Jennifer walked over to the group of actors. The women glanced at her, logging in microseconds her trim, well-toned figure, her pretty, open features, her short but stylish dark brown hair and her no-nonsense, well-cut pants suit. The men merely registered a good-looking twenty-five-year-old as their eyes roamed her figure.

Henry Silk was talking quietly to one of the younger actresses and had his back to her as she approached.

Jennifer coughed. “Mr Silk?”

Henry turned and let his eyes stay on hers, the corners of his mouth lifting in a slight smile. She was an attractive young woman, to be sure, but there was something else about her, something vaguely familiar. But then again, he’d met so many women of that age, and the older he got, the more they seemed to come out of a mould.

Jennifer felt rather intimidated to be face to face with not only Henry Silk, but also with a number of other familiar faces from the soap she regularly watched. She took a breath and held up her warrant card.

“Detective Constable Jennifer Cotton of the Nottingham City and County Serious Crime Formation. Would you mind coming with me, sir? My colleague, Detective Inspector McPherson, would like a word.”

Henry shrugged his shoulders and grinned at the rest of the bemused cast. “Lead on, Detective Constable, lead on.”

Meanwhile, Jonty Peters had recovered his equilibrium and was now pacing after McPherson. Bottomley heard him and leaned forward to the DI.

“Rob,” he said, nodding his head in Peters’ direction.

McPherson growled and turned to the director. “I’ll give you a shout if I need you, Mr Peters. In the meantime, we must talk to Mr Silk on his own.”

Peters started to protest but then thought better of it. He stopped and stood where he was, looking like a lost child.

Henry Silk walked up to McPherson and held out his hand.

“Henry Silk, Inspector. How may I help you?”

The DI ignored the outstretched hand and got straight to the point.

“Could you please confirm, sir, that you are Henry Silk of number thirteen Lambton Court Gardens, Hampstead?”

“I am, Inspector, yes.”

“And are you the owner of a dark green Nissan X-Trail registration number LJ11TTV?”

“Yes.”

“Could you also confirm that you were in Nottingham last week from Sunday until Saturday?”

“I was, yes. I was appearing in a production of ‘The Ripper Returns’ at the Theatre Royal. Perhaps you saw it.”

“No, sir, I didn’t. And where—”

He was interrupted by a pointed cough from Jennifer, to whom the line of questioning sounded like an interview, and under the rules, all interviews had to be recorded using audio and video. Also, if the questions were deemed to be an interview, the clock would immediately start ticking on how long they could hold Silk. It would be better to take him to Nottingham and start the whole process there.

McPherson got the message and scowled.

“Actually, sir, it’s your car we’re interested in at the moment. Do you have it with you today, the Nissan X-Trail?”

Henry frowned. “I do, yes. Why?”

“We have reason to believe that your car was used in the commission of a crime in the early hours of last Saturday morning. Could you show us where it’s parked?”

“That’s crazy, Inspector. My car was parked at my hotel the whole of Friday night and Saturday. It can’t possibly have been used in a crime. If it had been stolen, I should have known. After all, car thieves don’t normally return cars to where they stole them from, do they? Especially a secure car park. What sort of crime do you think it was used in?”

“A murder.”

“A murder? Inspector, you can’t think … look, there’s obviously been some enormous mistake. I was asleep in my room on Friday night. All night. And my car keys were in the room with me.”

He tried to picture being in his room on Friday night, but all he could remember after leaving the theatre was waking up late the next morning with what felt like a giant hangover. There was a vague, fleeting fragment of memory, way in the back of his mind, of raising a glass and toasting ‘cin cin!’ with someone, but he also remembered that when he put away his Belvedere vodka bottle on Saturday morning, a more seriously depleted bottle than he expected, there was only one glass next to it.