Denial of Murder (11 page)

‘I see,' Brunnie replied. ‘But speaking of victims, what can you recall about his victim in the bedsit, Janet Frost? Apart from the fact she was very small and that she was a heroin addict?'

‘Not much else.' Darwish picked up the handset of the phone on his desk. ‘Just a moment, please …' He pressed a four-figure number and when his call was answered he said, ‘Hello, DS Darwish here. Can you send up the file on the Janet Frost murder? It will be dated about fifteen years ago. A geezer called Cogan was convicted, so it will be filed under his name, C.O.G.A.N. OK. Great, thanks muchos, me old china, muchos.' He replaced the handset and informed Brunnie and Swannell that the file was being sent up from the collator's office.

‘Just DNA?' Brunnie asked.

‘Sorry?' Darwish clasped his meaty hands together on his desktop. ‘What do you mean, just DNA?'

‘I mean was it the DNA evidence alone which convicted Cogan of the murder?' Brunnie clarified.

‘And his signing-on card in her room, and her clothing in his room and his previous convictions, the whole snowball effect … but yes, mainly the DNA evidence was used to obtain the conviction,' Darwish advised. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘Were his fingerprints found in her room?' Brunnie pressed.

‘I don't think we dusted for them, come to think of it,' Darwish replied. ‘They were not produced in evidence.'

‘You didn't dust for his prints?' Swannell could not contain his surprise. ‘I would have thought that that was an elementary step.'

‘Hey …' Darwish held up his hand, ‘don't shoot the messenger, squire. Don't shoot the messenger. I was only a junior detective constable at the time; in fact, I was only very recently promoted from uniform. I was not the officer in charge of the investigation … he is long retired … but as I recall we broke in after a tip-off. Found him hung-over … barely with us, and her knickers on his bedroom floor. We found her body in the next room. The white coats found his DNA everywhere, like I said, and his DNA was on the database because of his previous offences. So it was like game, set and match. No need for fingerprint evidence … no need for independent witnesses.'

‘That conviction wouldn't stand today,' Brunnie said calmly. ‘All you really had was the DNA and that by itself isn't sufficient for a conviction. Not these days, not in the UK.'

‘It was all that was needed fifteen years ago,' Darwish replied in a defensive manner. ‘We were well happy with the result. Very well happy. And he changed his plea to guilty anyway, so fingerprints or no fingerprints, it was a good result. It was a result we can live with.'

There was a soft, referential tap on Darwish's office door, in response to which Darwish shouted, ‘Come in!' The door opened and a tall, Nordic-featured young policewoman, dressed in a white shirt and a black skirt entered the room carrying a manila folder. ‘The file you asked for, sir.' She spoke in a strong, Irish accent as she handed the file to Darwish.

‘Thanks, Clodagh.' Darwish took the file from the hand of the policewoman who turned and left the office quietly, shutting the door behind her. Darwish pointed with relish to the closed door and said, ‘That's the fittest bit of skirt in this nick … lovely … I like 'em like that.' He held up the file. ‘And I like files like this. See how thin this file is? Open and shut. You often get a file on a murder case as thin as this because murders are the easiest of crimes to solve. It's … it's lovely, that's what it is … lovely … a thing of beauty … like Irish Clodagh there … a thing of beauty. So we put a nasty away for life, then he comes over all guilty and repents, wins parole, out to rape and murder again except some good citizen tops him.' Darwish laid the file on his desktop and opened it. ‘Yes, here we are … victim … Janet Frost, seventeen … next of kin out in Dagenham.' Darwish turned the file round and handed it to Brunnie. ‘You think her family had it in for Cogan?'

‘Don't know.' Brunnie took the file and copied the address of Janet Frost's next of kin into his notebook. ‘But … well, such is not unknown … as you have suggested … such has happened before. We can't jump to any conclusions, largely because there was a development during the night, which has complicated things somewhat.'

‘Or clarified them,' Swannell added, ‘depending on how you look at it.'

‘Oh?' Darwish queried. ‘A development?'

‘Yes …' Brunnie handed the file back to Darwish, ‘a woman's body was found in the same place … the exact same location that Gordon Cogan's body was found … the exact spot … and a motor vehicle was found burned out at exactly the same place where the vehicle which we believed was used to transport Gordon Cogan's body was abandoned and set on fire.'

‘Oh …' Darwish leaned back in his chair. ‘Now that is most interesting. I see your point, gentlemen.' Once again he cupped his hands behind his head. ‘I see what you mean, that is a bit iffy, very iffy indeed. It suggests a link between the two bodies … it suggests a very strong link indeed.'

‘Exactly our thinking,' Brunnie added as he stood up, ‘but we can't afford to overlook the possibility that the Frost family took their revenge and we'll be paying a call on them. We are keeping an open mind.'

‘Thanks for the background information and the details of Janet Frost's relatives.' Swannell smiled as he also stood. ‘It's much appreciated.'

John Shaftoe pondered the corpse which lay face up on the stainless steel table. He saw a particularly dark-skinned, large-boned Afro-Caribbean woman in her middle years. He glanced at Tom Ainsclough who, as had been requested, was observing the post-mortem for the police.

‘She was found in the very same place that the body of Gordon Cogan was found,' Ainsclough said.

‘Yes … yes,' Shaftoe turned his attention back to the corpse, ‘I noticed that when I attended the scene this morning. I assume that the police are linking the two incidents?'

‘We have to assume a link until we know otherwise, sir.' Ainsclough turned his head as he choked briefly on the formaldehyde-laden air in the pathology laboratory, ‘but a link seems extremely likely.'

‘Yes … yes … I would think that that would be the sensible thing. It seems far too coincidental otherwise.' Shaftoe continued to look at the corpse. ‘Do we have any identification yet?'

‘Yes, sir.' Ainsclough nodded. ‘We took her fingerprints this morning at the scene … well, that is to say at the location where she was found. She is quite well known to us. She is one Cherry Quoshie, aged thirty-seven years.'

‘How are you spelling that?' Shaftoe asked. ‘It's an unusual name.'

Ainsclough told him.

‘OK, the deceased is one Cherry Quoshie … that's Q.U.O.S.H.I.E.,' Shaftoe spoke into the microphone, ‘pronounced ‘Kwoshie. So the name, the next case number and today's date, if you please, Helen … she is thirty-seven years of age.'

‘She has a lot of previous for being in possession of a controlled substance and for soliciting, and also for a string of petty offences like shoplifting,' Ainsclough advised.

‘The controlled substance in question would be heroin,' Shaftoe observed. Then he added solemnly, ‘Just thirty-seven, I would have thought her to be older. She looks an awful lot older but that's what heroin does to a person.'

‘I'm afraid I don't know the details,' Ainsclough stammered. ‘I had a quick glance at the computer printout before leaving Scotland Yard to attend the post-mortem.'

‘Well, she has plenty of track marks up and down her forearms …' Shaftoe ran his latex gloved hands along the arms of the deceased. ‘Really quite a lot, in fact. This suggests she was a long-term, heavy user. Quite a few puncture points are noted … but this here is interesting. Come and have a look at this, if you would.' Shaftoe pointed to a red, circular area, about three inches in diameter, on the inside of the lower left leg of the deceased, close to the ankle. He then turned to Billy Button. ‘Can you photograph this thermal injury here, please, Billy?'

Tom Ainsclough stepped silently forward, dressed in the required green paper disposable coveralls, and stood reverentially beside Shaftoe.

‘That,' Shaftoe spoke quietly, addressing Ainsclough, ‘is a thermal injury. Extreme heat caused that injury. Something metal, heated until it was red hot, was pressed against her leg.'

Ainsclough winced as he noted the angry-looking red circle on the leg of the deceased.

Billy Button gingerly approached the table holding a thirty-five millimetre camera with a flash attachment. Shaftoe and Ainsclough stepped aside to allow the trembling pathology laboratory assistant access to the body. Button made a low wailing sound as he placed a metal ruler by the side of the injury so as to give the photograph scale.

‘Calm down, Billy,' Shaftoe spoke reassuringly. ‘I've told you many times that our patients, like this lady here, are not feeling anything.'

‘Yes, Mr Shaftoe,' Billy Button murmured meekly, ‘but … but the pain of it when she was alive …'

‘Just take the photograph, Billy.' Shaftoe spoke softly but firmly. ‘Just take the photograph.'

Billy Button mustered sufficient self-control to hold the camera steady for a few seconds while he activated the shutter. The camera flashed and Button then retired speedily to the edge of the post-mortem laboratory and stood beside the instrument trolley.

‘The thermal injury is perimortem, and is undoubtedly indicative of torture,' Shaftoe pronounced, ‘especially as it is on the inside of the leg. This lady did not accidentally brush up against something very hot, or fall against something very hot which might have been the case had this injury been on the outside of her leg. This injury was deliberately occasioned to her.' Shaftoe turned to Ainsclough. ‘Do you know if she has any known next of kin?'

‘None that we know of, sir,' Ainsclough replied. ‘It seems that the wretched woman lived alone and that she was alone in the world. She served time in Holloway Prison and on the prison records, which have been copied into the police file, the next-of-kin box has been marked “none given”.'

‘That …' Shaftoe remarked, ‘is quite shameful. Quite, quite shameful. But so many are like our friend here, people who have no relatives at all, and many end up here.' He tapped the stainless steel table. ‘They are found in derelict buildings or washed up on the riverbank at low tide, often in a state of decomposition. They have died and have not been missed.'

‘Indeed, sir,' Ainsclough replied. He too felt the tragedy that was the apparent life of Cherry Quoshie. ‘She had had a hard life, going by her file. She grew up in a series of foster homes and care homes. She was listed as a chronic truant and she grew to be a juvenile offender. She has been known to the police since she was thirteen years of age and went on to commit a series of recordable offences … notably serious assault and possession of a controlled substance with intent to supply.'

‘Ah … so you'll have her DNA on file?' Shaftoe smiled.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Good. I'll extract a blood sample so that we can determine her DNA profile just to belt and bracer her identity,' Shaftoe announced. ‘But the fingerprints have clinched it.' He looked at the corpse, ‘So … Cherry Quoshie … what can you tell us about your life and, more importantly, what can you tell us about your horrible and untimely death?'

‘There is a photograph of her in the file, sir,' Ainsclough added. ‘It's her all right … and her dental records are also in the file. But the fingerprints have determined her identity, as you say.'

‘I see.' Shaftoe paused. ‘You know, I think that that makes it worse somehow, that she's all alone in the world, yet from the outset there is no doubt as to her identity.'

‘Yes,' Ainsclough mumbled, ‘that does seem to make it a bit worse, as you say. Somehow.'

‘But we mustn't let her situation reach us on an emotional level. We have, of course, to remain detached,' Shaftoe advised. ‘We couldn't do the job otherwise.' He forced open the mouth of the deceased. ‘Rigor is beginning to establish itself,' he announced. ‘Summer of the year,' he glanced at his watch, ‘one thirty p.m. Allowing for the chill of the laboratory, I would say that death most likely occurred sometime after midnight. But I won't be tied to that, it's not the job of the pathologist to determine the when of death, just the how of it. As I keep saying to your Mr Vicary, and doubtless will continue to say it, quite frankly the most accurate determination of the time of death is that it occurred sometime between when the person in question was last seen alive by a reliable witness, and the time that their body was found. There are just too many variables in the field of forensic pathology to enable us to be any more accurate.'

‘Yes, sir,' Ainsclough responded.

‘In the tropics, for example, a dead body will actually heat up for a few hours after death, so in such cases the rate of cooling is meaningless,' Shaftoe added. ‘But as I said, I just cannot commit myself on paper as to the exact time of Ms Quoshie's death. But, off paper, I think she died sometime after midnight, in the early hours of this day. Really the issue of time of death is muddy waters and no pathologist – no self-respecting pathologist, anyway – will step into it … not on paper.'

‘Understood, sir,' Ainsclough replied. He added with a grin, ‘Not on paper, anyway.'

Shaftoe peered into the mouth of the deceased. ‘Well, we have some dental work but nothing recent. It is likely that the dental work here dates from the time that she was a guest of Her Majesty but once at liberty it appears to me that she took no care of her teeth … no care at all.'

‘She was last released from prison about five years ago, sir,' Ainsclough advised, ‘so I read.'

‘Yes, that would appear to tie in with the state of her teeth and the build-up of plaque … I would say that there is about five years' worth of the stuff here … and advanced gum disease. She would have had very bad breath. Halitosis just wouldn't be the word in her case. But she hasn't left us any gifts in her mouth. Let's see if she left us any presents anywhere else. There are, of course, two places where a man can leave something for us to find, but a woman has three.' Shaftoe took the starched white towel which had been draped over the genitalia of the deceased and placed it neatly at her feet. He then took hold of the right ankle and asked Billy Button to take hold of the left ankle. ‘All right, gently does it, Billy … slowly pull the ankles apart … there will be some resistance due to rigor but rigor has not fully established itself … so as I said, gently, gently does it.'