Truth Will Out Read online

  That got a laugh, loosened the tension a little.

  He pulled up the image of Gail Hammond easing into the passenger seat of Killbride’s car. ‘Killbride did indeed pick Gail up at Ingatestone Station. He was a licensed minicab driver – that was his job – that was what he was supposed to do. Okay, technically, he should only have picked up passengers who’d booked through his firm – but that’s not a hanging offence.’

  ‘What about the false imprisonment charge?’ someone called out.

  ‘Good point,’ Fennimore said. ‘Why on earth was he still driving a minicab with that kind of record?’ He lifted one shoulder. ‘The fact is he didn’t have a record. Killbride was never charged. The supposed “victim” was drunk, threw up on the back seat, refused to pay her fare, let alone the cleanup costs – and she tried to do a runner. Killbride locked the doors; she called the cops.’ He spread his hands. ‘She withdrew the accusation after she sobered up – even apologized. The question is, why did the police leave the false accusation uncorrected on file – worse still – why was it entered into evidence? Was defence counsel asleep or did he just not give a damn?’

  Fennimore clicked to a photo of the roadway where Killbride claimed to have dropped off his passenger. ‘Okay, so why did he drop Gail off at Parkway?’ A grey railing ran alongside a roadway blurred by speeding traffic. Beyond the railing stood light industrial units and office blocks. ‘Common sense tells you it’s not a good place to leave a young woman at that time of night,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t it?’ He got a few nods of agreement. ‘Well, Einstein said common sense was the collection of all the prejudices acquired by the age of eighteen. So let’s ditch the common sense and do some actual fact-checking instead. Walk twenty yards north-west along Parkway, this is what you see.’ He clicked to the next slide, a picture Fennimore had taken himself, barely a year ago.

  A row of Edwardian red-brick houses stood at a right angle to the main road. Three concrete bollards blocked the street to traffic from Parkway. ‘There’s pedestrian access only at this point,’ Fennimore said. ‘So Killbride couldn’t have turned into the street, even if he wanted to. But walk two minutes down that row, take a right, then a sharp left and you’re in the street where Gail Hammond lived.’

  A few people shifted in their seats.

  ‘Did Ms Hammond go to her flat after all? Her car was parked there – perhaps she decided to drive the rest of the way. Gail was known to keep a “ready bag” in her car with a clean uniform in it – she’d come straight from London, so she wouldn’t have had a uniform with her; maybe she realized she’d have to stop by her flat to pick one up, and took the short cut from the main road.’

  The next slide bore the words:

  ‘Locard’s exchange principle: every contact leaves a trace.’ Gill Grissom, CSI

  The smiles in the audience said they recognized the oft-repeated phrase from the TV series.

  ‘Let’s look at the fibre and blood evidence.’ Fennimore folded his arms and trotted down the steps from the stage into the audience. He offered his hand to a man in the front row and after an embarrassed hesitation, the man took it and they shook.

  Fennimore held up his right hand. ‘This gentleman now has, oh, about fifty shades of grey wool fibres from my jacket on his right hand.’ He got a few smiles from the women at that. ‘And I will probably have fibres from his clothing on my skin – along with sweat and skin cells, sloughed from his palm.’

  A woman a little further along the row wrinkled her nose and Fennimore gave a theatrical shudder. ‘I know …’ He made a feint for a young couple in the front row and they shrank back. Laughter broke out.

  He stepped back, serious again. ‘Every contact leaves a trace,’ he said. ‘It was a hot summer the year Gail Hammond disappeared. Tom Killbride often wore a jacket to work, but he’d take it off if he got too warm and leave it on the seat next to him until he found a moment to stow it in the boot of his car – so his jacket was bound to pick up fibres from the car seat, and carpet fibres from the boot. Picture this: Gail sits in the car. Her trousers and top pick up fibres from the car seat, from Killbride’s jacket, a few fibres from the car boot carpet, too – and she leaves contact trace from her own clothing. Look at the details of the fibre evidence, and you’ll find that trace from Gail’s clothing was found only on the seat of Killbride’s trousers and the back of his T-shirt.

  ‘He was seen cleaning his car the following afternoon. Now, I don’t know about you, but when I’m vacuuming my car, I often sit in the passenger seat to get a better angle on the hard-to-get-at corners on the driver’s side.’

  He saw recognition in some of the faces.

  ‘Every contact leaves a trace,’ he said again. ‘Physical evidence is not proof of guilt. Not everything found at the scene of a crime is relevant to the crime: there are hammers that are not used as bludgeons, knives that are guilty of nothing more violent than slicing a lemon. Fingerprints, DNA, blood – can all prove that someone was present, but it’s the context and interpretation of the evidence that make the case. Or prove innocence.

  ‘The investigator’s job was to look at the evidence from both sides – not to construct a case to prove Killbride was a killer. But the police wanted a result; the CPS wanted a clean, quick prosecution; the family wanted justice for Gail; the public wanted to feel safe on the streets again. So nobody looked for an innocent explanation.’

  He brought them back to the image of green fibres on a microscope slide. ‘Not a single fibre from the rope ligature used to strangle Gail Hammond was found on Killbride or in his car. Why? The prosecution said that was irrelevant – the blood evidence on Gail’s shoes more than made up for that. Gail had scratches on her neck, and a broken fingernail – her parents and her friends said she wouldn’t have given up without a fight – she must have given him a bloody nose. But there wasn’t a mark on Killbride, not a scratch or bruise – and the only DNA under Gail’s fingernails was her own.’

  Fennimore took a moment to look into the faces of the audience and was pleased to see that some were adjusting their earlier judgements.

  ‘The local paper reported on the trial every day, and Gail Hammond’s supervisor rang the police as soon as he saw the news about the blood on Gail’s shoes. You see, Gail was on duty two nights earlier, when Killbride came in to A&E: she’d gone in on her off-duty to cover for a staff absence. Her supervisor gave a statement to the police; he’d been so upset after Gail’s death that he completely forgot to update her work log with the extra hours. The work record provided by the hospital’s human resources department was incomplete. It was possible – even likely – that Gail had come into contact with Killbride during the course of her shift. She wouldn’t even have to get that close: Killbride’s mouth and throat would be full of blood – he’d be coughing and choking. And a vigorous cough can travel at the speed of sound.’

  He waited while they pictured this.

  ‘Oddly enough, the police never got back to Gail’s supervisor. He wasn’t called to give evidence and his statement was never passed on to the defence. In fact, I only discovered this little gem when I interviewed staff personally.

  ‘But the prosecution has to hand over any evidence that might undermine the prosecution or strengthen the defence’s case, right?’ Fennimore dipped his head. ‘To a point. The full disclosure rule only applies to evidence they have in their possession at the time disclosure is made – and that would be before the start of the trial. This came out during the trial, so technically the police did nothing wrong. They didn’t include the notes in the bundle they sent out to me either. Which is why a case reviewer should start the investigation over again, like it was day one. Believe no one, question everything – and remember – everyone lies.’

  He clicked back to the slide of Killbride at his wedding. ‘So we come to Killbride’s “sinister genetic make-up”. After all, the 1960s study found a high percentage of convicted criminals had XYY syndrome. Which was a steaming pile of—’ He fla
shed up an image of Crapshoots and Bad Stats, his popular science text, and got a few smiles.

  ‘The study was flawed by poor sampling and experimental bias. But journalists who couldn’t count to twelve without taking their shoes and socks off started misinterpreting experimental results they didn’t understand, and behold – a medical myth was born.

  ‘XYY males are the same as the rest of us – they get married, raise kids and are no more prone to violence or criminality than you or me.’ He paused before adding darkly, ‘It is true, however, that they tend to be a bit on the tall side …’

  A faint ripple of laughter ran around the auditorium.

  ‘The investigators never checked Gail Hammond’s car – she didn’t use it on the day, so it was dismissed as irrelevant. But what if her car was the crime scene and not Killbride’s?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I just had to know.’

  The next slide showed a red, weather-faded VW Polo.

  ‘Gail’s car,’ he said. ‘Her parents sold it, but eight years on the buyer still owned it. Killbride’s appeal team paid to have the car forensically examined. Trapped under the headrest, they found seven bright green fibres matching those embedded in the ligature marks on Gail’s neck. And here’s the clincher: a fragment of torn fingernail was discovered in the groove of the seat rail runner. The new owner had adjusted it to his leg length the day he drove away in her car, and there it remained for eight years.’

  Fennimore showed them images of the fragment side by side with post-mortem photographs of Gail’s torn fingernail. It was a good match. ‘The fingernail had viable DNA under it …’

  The camouflaged man sat up straight.

  ‘… Gail’s DNA,’ Fennimore concluded, and the man settled back in his seat, mirroring the posture of the man next to him: one leg bent at the knee, the other stretched out.

  ‘It now looks like Gail was abducted and murdered in her own car.’

  The camouflaged man picked up a pen and began doodling on the notepad in front of him.

  ‘If only police had checked Killbride’s claim that he dropped Gail off at the roadside …’ Fennimore said. ‘But all that tosh about highly aggressive XYY “super-males” quite turned their heads. They stopped looking – stopped even thinking.’

  He went to the final slide: a newsprint photograph of a pale but smiling Killbride standing next to his barrister on the steps of the Supreme Court. The headline: KILLBRIDE INNOCENT.

  ‘You got Tom Killbride off, but Gail Hammond’s killer is still out there.’

  Fennimore located the questioner in the middle of the second row. A student, he guessed, but not one he recognized.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, ignoring the confrontational tone. ‘There are no happy endings in such sad tales; all we can hope for is justice. Tom Killbride found justice because of the hard work of people who didn’t even know him. Gail Hammond still waits for hers.’

  ‘The murderer made fools of the police,’ the student said.

  ‘They made fools of themselves,’ Fennimore corrected. ‘They decided that Killbride was guilty and then systematically set out to make the facts fit.’

  ‘The killer cleaned up after himself – he’s smart – forensically aware,’ the questioner said.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Essex Police say they have no new leads in the case.’

  ‘They’re being modest,’ Fennimore said. ‘Justifiably so. But they now have the green cord fibres – which they didn’t have before. The killer thinks he knows what the CSIs are looking for: DNA and fingerprints. So he cleans up before he leaves. But it isn’t all about DNA – it’s about having the determination to keep looking, even when it seems there’s nothing to look for. The evidence doesn’t go away. It will still be there, waiting for someone to come along who is lucky enough or smart enough to see the stupid mistakes he made.’ He checked himself – this was sounding too personal; he could almost hear Kate Simms’s voice, mocking, gently chiding: Listen to the ego talking. This isn’t about you, Fennimore, this is about Gail. He began again.

  ‘The murderer missed the rope fibres. He missed Gail’s broken fingernail – beginner mistakes – amateur mistakes. He was lucky three times over – in the botched police investigation, in the dishonesty of the prosecution, and in Killbride, who made such a plausible stooge. But now we know the real killer is out there. People are looking for him, and he will foul up – even if he never attacks another woman in his sorry life. Even if he never so much as wolf-whistles after a woman in the street. Because these types are impulsive and narcissistic; he’ll lash out at someone who injures his fragile ego, or he’ll drive too fast on a bellyful of booze; he’ll steal, or stalk, or swindle – and he will reveal himself.’

  3

  Salford Quays, Manchester, Wednesday

  Julia Myers looked down at her daughter. Lauren was high and happy as only a six-year-old can be, energized by the music and romance in the film. They walked from the cinema, Lauren holding her hand, skipping, rising on her toes and performing half-pirouettes as she recalled scenes and dialogue, extending her free arm in balletic gestures, re-enacting the role of the heroine. Julia let her prattle, searching the rows for her car, worrying vaguely about the rattle she’d heard on the drive in; they had already paid a fortune replacing the cam-belt – their finances couldn’t stand another expensive repair. The retail park was jammed with hundreds of cars reflecting shards of light and heat. Some had already begun the rush hour journey home, pulling out of parking bays, edging on to the access road. The air smelled of exhaust fumes and ozone; the metallic rasp of bromide catching the back of her throat.

  ‘If I was a princess, I would make my horrible stepsisters clean the steps of the palace on their hands and knees, with a – with a …’ Lauren struggled for an appropriately harsh punishment. ‘A toothbrush!’

  ‘That wouldn’t be very kind,’ Julia said.

  ‘So what? They were cruel and now I would be getting my own back on them.’

  ‘You know, you can be cruel sometimes, too,’ Julia said, knowing her daughter was talking about her own grievances. ‘When you—’

  ‘I’m thirsty,’ Lauren interrupted. ‘I want an Oasis.’

  This was deliberate – a challenge. ‘When you eat the wrong things,’ Julia said, trying to be reasonable, cursing her own weakness for having given in to Lauren’s pleas for ‘just one’ Day-Glo treat while they watched the film. ‘Foods with artificial colourings in them, for instance.’

  ‘Where’s my sweeties? I want them.’

  This was how it always went: explanations met with challenges, firmness with resistance; belligerence too often turning to full-blown tantrums.

  ‘Those sweeties are the reason you’re acting up right now,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not acting up!’

  Julia remained silent, and after a moment Lauren began again, her tone wheedling. ‘You could take out the yellow ones.’

  ‘The sweets are gone, Lauren. All of them. I’ve thrown them out.’ Lauren stopped dead, jolting Julia’s arm.

  ‘They’re mine – I paid for them out of my own pocket money!’

  Julia sighed inwardly: telling Lauren was a mistake; allowing herself to be drawn into an argument was a mistake. Feeling control slipping away from her, she said, ‘I’ll get you some more,’ adding before she could stop herself: ‘The kind without the cranky colours.’

  She offered her hand, but Lauren folded her arms, scowling. ‘Don’t WANT them. They taste like puke.’

  ‘Lauren … now you know that’s not a nice word to use.’ If she could just get her to the car, get her home, she might retrieve the situation—

  ‘Puke, puke, puke, puke, PUKE!’ Lauren yelled, a telling spite in her voice. Her eyes glittered. A hard grey-black sheen in her irises told Julia that it was already too late. She grabbed Lauren’s hand and began marching grimly to the car, aware of disapproving looks from onlookers queuing on the access road.

  ‘Don’
t—’ Lauren moaned, instantly tearful. ‘Do-oh-oh-ooon’t!’ She leaned back, digging in her heels like a fell walker on a precipice, her hand clammy and cold in Julia’s.

  As they passed McDonald’s, she snapped upright, clinging instead to Julia’s arm. ‘I’m hungry.’ Ready to concede, pretending her show of temper had never happened. ‘Mummy, I’m fine – I’m hungry, that’s all. I just want a Happy Meal.’

  ‘I think you’re happy enough, don’t you?’ Stop it, Julia. Stop baiting her and allowing her to bait you. You’re the grown-up here. Get her home and detoxed – it’s not her fault – it’s yours for caving in.

  Lauren twisted her hand and pulled, her damp fingers slipping free of Julia’s. She darted towards the golden archway, heedless of the cars. Julia lunged, her fingertips brushing the cotton fabric of her daughter’s T-shirt. Lauren arched her back, evading her mother’s grasp, her laughter high and hard; the crazy sound of additive-induced mania.

  A gap in the line of cars. Lauren leaped into it as the next car accelerated forward. Julia screamed. Lauren turned, her eyes wide – saw the danger too late.

  A squeal of brakes and the world seemed to stop.

  The car bounced on its suspension, a centimetre from Lauren’s midriff. Then Julia was moving again. She dragged Lauren on to the walkway and crouched in front of her, seizing her by her narrow shoulders. ‘You stupid girl – you could have been killed!’

  A tremor ran through her daughter’s bony frame. Julia pushed back images of Lauren crippled, Lauren broken – pushed hard against the deep black nothingness of Lauren, gone. But Lauren must have seen the horror in her mother’s face: her lip trembled and she began to wail. Julia wrapped her arms around her, scooping her up. ‘All right,’ she murmured. ‘It’s all right, baby …’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mummy. S-s-orry, Mummy …’

  This was also part of the pattern coming down from a high: tears and appalled sorrow. Julia carried Lauren, patting her back as the child continued to sob, soothing her with nonsense until she found the car. The boot was open a fraction and Julia released the catch and slammed it shut with a small rush of relief. No repair bills. Feeling doubly lucky, having got away with leaving the car wide open like that, she lowered Lauren into the child seat. Lauren had subsided into sighs and hiccupping sobs, but clung to her for a second before letting go. Julia helped her with the buckle and wiped the tears from her daughter’s face. ‘Okay?’ she said with a smile, and Lauren gave a single nod, avoiding her eye.