Page 46

FORTY-FIVE

When Thorne reached the bottom of the stairs, he turned and all but ran into DI James Greaves.

In typically British fashion, both said ‘Sorry’, neither of them meaning it.

‘In a hurry?’ Greaves asked.

‘Kind of,’ Thorne said. He carried on towards the exit, then stopped, unable to pass up the opportunity. He jogged back to the stairs and caught Greaves up. ‘I meant to ask . . . why are you actually here?’

‘Seriously?’

‘Well, this is a major investigation and we’re trying to do our jobs, and having you hanging about the place is a bit disconcerting.’ Thorne manufactured a smile. ‘That’s all.’

‘OK, that’s fair enough, I suppose.’ Greaves nodded, serious. ‘Look, I’m well aware that, above everything else, this is a murder case, but—’

‘Six murders,’ Thorne said. ‘And counting, possibly.’

‘Understood, and I’m not trying to get in anyone’s way. But we both know what the background to these murders is and it obviously has implications that are well within the remit of the CCU.’ Greaves waited until he was confident that had sunk in. ‘I’m trying to do my job, too.’

They stared at each other for a few seconds. A female officer came down the stairs and they both stepped aside to let her pass, smiled and nodded.

‘Who brought you in?’ Thorne asked, when the woman had gone.

‘Is that important?’

‘I’m curious, that’s all. How you found out about the background to these murders. Those implications you mentioned.’

‘Nothing wrong with being curious,’ Greaves said. ‘But you must already know I can’t reveal that information. When coppers are investigating coppers, they need to protect their sources more than anyone, don’t you think?’

‘Worth a shot,’ Thorne said.

‘Yeah, worth a shot.’ The man from the CCU began walking up the stairs. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’ He took a few more steps then raised a hand without turning round. ‘Maybe catch you around . . . ’

Thorne turned to head back down towards the exit, thinking that, if Greaves’s investigative skills were on a par with others in the Counter Corruption Unit, he’d be lucky to catch a cold.

‘What’s with all the cloak-and-dagger bollocks?’

Thorne had been mooching around the car park for five minutes, getting increasingly chilly and annoyed, before he’d finally spotted Phil Hendricks emerging slowly from behind a police van, looking rather pleased with himself.

‘Just being careful, mate.’ Hendricks narrowed his eyes and tapped the side of his nose theatrically. ‘Keeping everything hush-hush, like you said.’

‘Yeah, but—’

‘I was thinking about a disguise of some sort, going the extra mile, you know.’

‘What do you want , Phil?’

‘Well, you could bow down to me if you like, but that might be pushing it, so I’ll settle for a sausage roll to go with that Scotch egg next time we’re in the pub. Actually, a simple “thanks very much” would be nice.’

Thorne waited, growing ever more impatient.

‘OK then, so . . . ’ Hendricks leaned back against the van and folded his arms. ‘Your DNA problem.’

‘Yeah.’ Thorne shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his leather jacket and hunched his shoulders against the chill. ‘Me, Nic and Russell were upstairs trying to make sense of that when I got your message.’

‘It’s definitely a conundrum,’ Hendricks said. ‘You’re as certain as you can be that Peter Brightwell’s DNA was planted by person or persons unknown, only you can’t figure out how they came to have it in the first place.’

‘Not as yet, we can’t.’

The pathologist shook his head and sucked his teeth, milking it. ‘ I can, though. I can and I have.’

Now Thorne himself checked to make sure there were no other officers nearby before stepping close. ‘Go on then, genius.’

‘I presume we’re talking about a standard early evidence kit,’ Hendricks said quickly. ‘The one that was put together after Siobhan Brady was raped.’

Hendricks, being a medical professional, had used the correct and legally acceptable terminology.

An early evidence kit (EEK) was a collection of forensic samples provided by the victim and assembled following an alleged sexual assault, though most coppers – Thorne included – still called them ‘rape kits’.

‘Far as I know.’

‘So, urine sample, mouth swab, whatever . . . and some kind of tissue or wipe used to collect traces of semen.’

The pause told Thorne that this was the crucial element. ‘Right.’

‘You told me that Tully had arrested Brightwell before.’

‘Yeah, a couple of weeks before, after he’d allegedly attacked a sex worker. Tully was the first officer at that scene.’

‘That would have been at the sex worker’s home, correct?

’ Hendricks waited for Thorne to nod. ‘Good. So, every chance there’s going to be, I don’t know .

. . packets of condoms dotted about, lube and toys and shit, all the usual bits and bobs your average sex worker might need.

That kind of stuff, just lying around the place, while PC Tully’s making a nice thorough job of checking the room out.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I’d be amazed if that didn’t include a few used tissues tossed in a bin. ’

‘Fuck . . . ’

Hendricks nodded, seeing Thorne get it. ‘Yeah, fuck . Tissues that our sex worker uses to wipe herself off once the client’s finished. Specifically, in this instance, once Peter Brightwell’s finished.’

‘Hang on. What if he was wearing a condom?’

‘I tell you who was wearing one and that’s Tully, when he was raping Siobhan Brady. Which is the only reason they never found any traces of his DNA.’

Thorne had already reached the same conclusion himself. If Tully’s DNA had been found, it would have been matched with the sample on record on the Police Elimination Database. ‘But what about Brightwell? If he was wearing one . . . ’

‘I’m almost certain he was,’ Hendricks said.

‘Because otherwise the sex worker’s DNA would have shown up on that tissue as well.

So, the condom Brightwell used would have been knocking around somewhere in the sex worker’s flat and – sorry for putting this picture in your head – it’s not a big deal to transfer the contents on to a tissue later on.

Either way, easy enough for Tully to pop the offending article into a plastic bag and stuff it in his pocket.

’ Hendricks shook his head. ‘Now, PC Fuckface has got himself a get-out-of-jail-free card next time he fancies raping someone.’

‘Him and his shadowy mate,’ Thorne said. ‘The one who likes coming along to watch.’ He turned and stared into the distance, still trying to take it all in.

‘You’re welcome,’ Hendricks said.

‘OK, well, that’s half the problem solved, but . . . ’ Thorne stopped speaking as a pair of uniformed officers walked past, twenty or so feet away.

When the officers had gone, Hendricks said, ‘You seriously think your leak might be coming from someone at this station?’

‘Could even be someone on my team,’ Thorne said. ‘Every chance, I reckon.’

‘Why, though?’

‘Fuck knows,’ Thorne said. ‘Blackmail’s still a possibility. Someone with a serious grudge, been passed over for promotion, maybe. Or just someone with a screw loose. I don’t really care why.’

A squad car nosed around the corner on its way out of the car park. The driver sounded his horn and waved at Thorne. Thorne waved back.

Hendricks waved too, though he had no idea who he was waving at. ‘Half the problem, you said.’

‘Yeah, it’s all very well knowing how they got hold of Peter Brightwell’s DNA – and rest assured, that sausage roll will be coming your way—’

‘Now I’ve had time to think about it, I’d prefer the bowing—’

‘—but how did they get it into Siobhan Brady’s rape kit?’

‘Buggered if I know,’ Hendricks said. ‘I can’t figure it all out for you.’

Thorne paced back and forth, thinking aloud.

‘Tully wouldn’t have been there when the kit was being put together,’ he said.

‘And neither would any other copper, come to that. OK, an unconnected female officer, maybe , but it’s normally done by healthcare professionals at a Sexual Assault Referral Clinic or a specialist Haven. So, how’ve they done it?’

Hendricks spun one of the large metal rings in his ear.

‘Lab’s the obvious place. I mean, you’re already thinking along those lines anyway .

. . someone on the inside helping them out.

That’s why you’re going to see this bloke at Fin-Cel, isn’t it?

His name’s Matt Parkinson, by the way and it goes without saying that I’ll want a full report. ’

‘Yeah, but hang on—’

‘Mainly, whether he’s still fit, obviously.’

‘That particular rape kit didn’t go to Fin-Cel,’ Thorne said. ‘Anyway, I think having people willing to help out rapists by tampering with evidence at two different labs might be stretching things a bit.’

‘Well, they obviously did it somehow.’

They both turned at the sound of heels on tarmac, to see Nicola Tanner walking purposefully towards them.

‘Hey, Nic,’ Hendricks said.

‘Phil,’ she said.

‘You’re just in time for Tom to tell you how brilliant I am. Yes I know, nothing you weren’t well aware of already, but—’

Tanner cut him off, staring at Thorne. ‘We need to head back in, Tom.’

‘Blimey, who’s rattled your cage?’ Hendricks asked.

Now, she looked at both of them. ‘Somebody shanked Craig Knowles in prison.’