Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller (20 page)

C
hapter 24

J
ennifer didn’t enjoy driving in England. Although it was more ordered compared to Italy, where cars would routinely follow at a distance of around six feet at speeds of eighty mph or more and overtake in the most suicidal of situations, the sheer density of traffic on British motorways and main roads never failed to frustrate her. She wondered if so many cars and trucks could actually have a purpose or if people were on the roads solely because they enjoyed traffic jams.

The drive from Nottingham to Pateley Bridge was a little over a hundred miles. Mostly motorway, apart from the road through the Dales from Harrogate, the journey would probably take her a couple of hours, given the heavy Monday morning traffic. As she made her way north along the M1 motorway, she thought about her visit to Skipshed prison the previous Friday.

Sitting in the visitors hall waiting for Henry to be brought from his cell, Jennifer realised she had been itching to see him again. She had missed him and suddenly felt guilty that it had been over three weeks since her last visit. There had been a couple of brief phone calls, but they weren’t the same. He had been guarded in his conversation, acutely aware of possible eavesdroppers.

When Henry was escorted in, his smile at seeing her told her he felt the same. She stood. She was allowed physical contact and this time she didn’t hold back as she hugged him.

“Henry, how are you? I’m so sorry that it’s been so long.”

She continued to hold his hands as they sat down, her smile warm as she scrutinised him.

“You’ve lost more weight. That’s not good. Is there no way I can get food to you to supplement your diet?”

Henry’s eyes creased as he smiled back at her.

“You don’t have to worry, Jennifer, I’m fine, really. I’ve been passing the time doing a lot of exercises in my … cell. I’m fitter than I’ve been for a while.”

He paused, squeezing her hands.

“You know, it’s so good to see you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’re doing on my behalf. I can’t believe it. You should be concentrating on sorting out your own life, your future, your career.”

Jennifer was shaking her head. “None of that matters until we’ve sorted out yours, Henry. The more I look into your case and the others I’ve discovered, the more I realise that you’ve been the victim of a huge set-up. God knows why, but you have. I’m determined to get to the bottom of it and I’m equally determined not to let it go to trial. That would result in a huge miscarriage of justice.”

Henry swallowed hard as he felt his emotions taking hold. “You’re an angel, Jennifer,” he said, shaking his head slowly.

He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Charles has kept me up to date with what you’ve discovered. He’s champing at the bit, you know. He wants to take it all to the Crown Prosecution Service. Insist they drop the case.”

“No,” replied Jennifer, “there’s still not enough. And even if they did drop it, your name would continue to be dragged through the mud. The press would act like you’d got off on a technicality. You’d still be guilty in the court of public opinion. We’ve got to find out who the real killer is, show that you were entirely a victim.”

“Do you think we’ll be able to do that?” he said, then he chuckled. “Listen to me, I’m saying ‘we’ when all I’m doing is sitting in this place watching as events unfold, contributing nothing. What I meant was, do you think you’ll be able to do that?”

“You hardly have much choice over your location,” said Jennifer, “but yes, I get more confident every day. With the four other cases that are so similar, I think we can crack it.”

“Four?”

“Yes, I completed my little tour of hotels this morning in Newcastle. Someone calling herself Catherine Doughthey stayed in the Highgate Hotel about half a mile south of the city centre on the night of the seventeenth of September, 2009, which was the night of the murder of a prostitute called Inka Cropfen. The man arrested and later charged and convicted of her murder, Gregory Jonah Walters, also stayed in the Highgate that night.”

“Gregory Walters,” repeated Henry, his eyes roaming the room for inspiration. “No, the name means nothing.”

“Did you expect it to?” asked Jennifer.

“I’m not sure. It’s occurred to me that whoever has set me up might be on a vendetta against a number of men who have crossed her in some way. So perhaps we are all connected. I’ve thought long and hard over the other three names – Rees, Backhouse and Edgerton, and I can’t think of any connection. And neither can I now with Walters.”

Jennifer nodded. “Pity, but it’s a good point. Perhaps there could still be something that is significant in the background of all five of you, even if you don’t know each other. I’ll check further.”

“Probably a long shot,” said Henry, shrugging his shoulders. “But getting back to what you found at the hotel in Newcastle, isn’t Catherine Doughthey the name of the woman who—”

“Stayed at the Bristol View hotel on the night of the murder there last year? Yes. I’ve told Charles about it. I called him from my car on the drive back to Nottingham, but he obviously hasn’t had the opportunity to call you.”

“That’s brilliant, Jennifer. Do you think these two people, Amelia Taverner and Catherine Doughthey, are the same person?”

“I don’t know. But there are people with those names living in the same village, Pateley Bridge, in North Yorkshire. Whether they are one and the same remains to be seen. I hope to find out on Monday.”

“Monday? How?”

“I’m driving up to Pateley Bridge and I’m going to knock on their doors.”

Henry’s face clouded over.

“Jennifer. You can’t do that, not on your own. We’re dealing with a cold-blooded serial killer here, someone who wouldn’t hesitate to kill you to escape or to silence you. Tell me you’re not intending to go on your own. Can’t your policeman friend, Derek Thyme, the Olympic runner, can’t he go with you?”

Jennifer smiled. “That’s not going to happen for two reasons. Firstly, he is, as you say, a police officer and he’d be for the high jump rather than the one hundred metres if he was found to be moonlighting on a case with me, and secondly, I think more than one person might make whoever Amelia Taverner or Catherine Doughthey really is or are disinclined to speak. Especially a six-foot-two West Indian, even if he has got the most amazing set of white teeth and a huge smile.”

Henry’s eyes crinkled. “Sounds like you’re attracted to him.”

“Attracted to him! I’m going to kill him when I next see him. You should see how he set me up with his detective constable mate in Bristol. I was shredded for a few moments and I intend to exact my revenge.”

“Actually, it sounds like he’s watching out for you. But seriously, can’t you have a backup plan when you go to Pateley Bridge?”

Jennifer smiled to herself when she thought of Sally’s comment about telling the police where to look for her body. She was still smiling as she drove through Glasshouses and descended the steep hill into Pateley Bridge.

She had decided to try the address for Amelia Taverner first. Her satnav guided her through the village and out onto a quiet road that followed a meandering stream. After about half a mile, when the soft-spoken male voice announced that she had reached her destination, she stopped the car and looked up to see three detached cottages set back from the road. They were on rising ground that would give them plenty of protection from flooding if the nearby stream developed ambitions of becoming a river, and well separated from each other by substantial and picturesque gardens. Number seventeen, Amelia Taverner’s home according to Jennifer’s searches, was the middle cottage of the three.

She had decided against knocking on the door and asking for directions. That seemed a bit lame when there was a perfectly good visitors centre back in the village, although if Amelia Taverner turned out to look like a serial killer, she could always revert to that story. The problem was she didn’t have any clue as to what a serial killer might look like, especially a female one. Piercing blue maniacal eyes? A bloodthirsty leer? Jennifer shuddered and put on the plain-glass, black-rimmed spectacles she’d decided to wear to help with the navy-blue suit that she hoped made her look like the bank employee she was going to claim to be. She was carrying a soft briefcase slung over her head and shoulders with a long strap — she wanted to keep both hands free, just in case.

The entrance to number seventeen was straight out of every painting of an English country cottage and garden. A metal trellis covered in large pink and red roses formed an archway that led onto a paving stone path bordered by more rose bushes, the blooms spectacularly large, the soft yellows and creams alternating with vivid, crisp whites. Their perfume hung in the air as the morning sun, filtered through the abundant foliage of nearby trees, painted a dancing light across them. Jennifer gazed at the scene in disbelief, doubts about the accuracy of her online research increasing by the second. This setting was totally incompatible with a cold-blooded killer, so despite what the search engines had told her, there must be another Amelia Taverner somewhere else in the country. However, now she was here, she might as well rule this one out.

She was about to knock on the cottage’s powder blue front door when it opened and an old lady appeared, a wicker basket over her left arm and a pair of pruning secateurs in her right hand. Jennifer eyed the secateurs with some alarm.

The old lady stopped abruptly and looked up at her.

“Oh, my dear, you gave me a fright; I didn’t hear the gate. I told Martin not to oil it; the squeak was quite useful, you know, announced any visitors I might have, not that there are many. May I help you? You look rather puzzled.”

Jennifer stared at the woman in surprise. She was slightly built and appeared to be well into her eighties. At no more than five foot tall, she was nothing like what Jennifer had been expecting.

“Um, yes, I hope you can,” stuttered Jennifer. “I’m looking for a Mrs Taverner, Mrs Amelia Taverner.”

The old lady smiled and cocked her head. “Well, dear, you’ve found her, although no one calls me Amelia. I always thought it was too grand, a daft notion of my mother’s. I’m known as Grace. It’s my second name, but I always preferred it. My late husband did too.”

“I’m sorry,” started Jennifer, “did he …”

“Oh no, dear, he passed away thirty-five years ago. Heart attack. So young, really. Always smoked, that was the trouble. We didn’t know then, did we?”

Jennifer took a breath and gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Taverner, I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Jennifer Cotton. I’m, er, I’m with the North Western Bank. We’re conducting surveys with some of our long-standing customers with a view to enhancing our service quality. As you probably know, we pride ourselves on the personal touch, so, well, here I am. I was hoping you could spare a few minutes.”

A flicker of confusion passed over Grace Taverner’s face, but it quickly passed.

“Of course, dear, if that’s what you want, but I can’t imagine how I can offer much of value to you. Certainly not enough to warrant your driving all the way out here. I take it you’re not from the local branch?”

“Eh, no, I’m not. I work at the Harrogate office.”

“Exactly. Well, dear, ask away, but would you mind if we talked in the garden? It’s a lovely day and I really need to carry on with my dead-heading.”

She waved the secateurs in an alarmingly wide circle, causing Jennifer to take a nervous step backwards.

Jennifer opened her bag and retrieved a notepad.

“Um, the first thing I wanted to ask you, Mrs Taverner, is whether you are satisfied with our credit card services. Obviously we’re always concerned about fraudulent use and we—”

“Well, you needn’t worry on that score,” Grace interrupted. “I don’t have a credit card. Never saw the need. I like to pay my bills on time, not run up a huge amount owing to the bank. It doesn’t seem right.”

Jennifer frowned. “Really?”

She fished into her bag and retrieved a sheaf of papers she had prepared. They were her own bank statements retrieved from a box file dating back to the days before online banking, but she had no intention of letting Grace Taverner look too closely at them.

“According to our records, there’s a credit card issued in the name of Amelia Grace Taverner that is active, and indeed used from time to time.”

She pretended to study the top sheet before adding, “Oh, dear, I hope there hasn’t been a mix-up. Do you perhaps have a daughter with the same name as you?”

The old woman’s eyes became suddenly wary.

“No, I don’t,” she replied quietly. “I was never blessed with children.”

Jennifer pressed on. “Do you get any letters from the bank relating to a credit card?”

“No, dear, I don’t.” The old lady’s voice was little more than a whisper. She glanced nervously at Jennifer before looking down at her hands. “Not any more, anyway. I used to, but they stopped, more or less. I still get the occasional one. It’s all to do with this Internet thing that I really don’t understand at all.”

Jennifer realised that she was onto something, but also that she must be gentle.

“So, you had a credit card but don’t any more?”