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- Herausgeber: Next Chapter
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
When Chloe Macbeth begins to receive threatening letters, she has no doubt who is behind them: David Jarrett, languishing in jail for the murder of his adoptive parents.
Jarrett is convinced that Chloe - out on parole following a conviction for GBH - is the real killer. But have the previous crimes in Jarrett’s past finally caught up with him?
When a local businessman is stabbed to death in a street altercation, DCI Grace Swan and DS Terry Horton find themselves pitted against the most dangerous criminal they have ever encountered: the Mannikin Killer. Can they track him down before he kills again?
Find out in 'I Know It Was You', the second book in the DCI Grace Swan Thrillers series by Giles Ekins.
This book contains graphic violence and some strong language, and is not recommended for readers under the age of 18.
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I KNOW IT WAS YOU
DCI GRACE SWAN THRILLERS BOOK 2
GILES EKINS
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Chapter 147
Chapter 148
Chapter 149
Chapter 150
Chapter 151
Chapter 152
Chapter 153
Chapter 154
Chapter 155
Chapter 156
Chapter 157
Chapter 158
Chapter 159
Chapter 160
Chapter 161
Chapter 162
Chapter 163
Chapter 164
Epilogue
Chapter 165
Chapter 166
Chapter 167
About the Author
Copyright (C) 2022 Giles Ekins
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter
Published 2022 by Next Chapter
Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)
Cover art by CoverMint
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.
Dedicated to Patricia with my love, as always.
PROLOGUE
A KILLER REVEALED
‘I know it was you, you fucking bitch!’
Jesus shit, I near on had a heart attack! I could feel the colour draining from my face, I was hyperventilating, and my heart was pounding at a thousand miles an hour. My legs turned to jelly. and I had to lean again the wall to hold myself up.
Although the letter was unsigned, I had no doubt who had sent it. None whatsoever!
David Jarrett, the man whom I framed for the murder of Donald and Janet Jarrett, his adoptive parents and who was now serving 32 years in jail.
Murders committed by me, Chloe Macbeth, strangling Janet before hanging her from a beam in the garage. I made it look as though she had committed suicide in remorse after battering her husband Donald to death with a hammer.
I’d been careful, very careful, to cover my tracks. Taking every precaution. Putting on decorator’s nitrile gloves and wearing David’s clothes as I swung that hammer at Donald’s skull.
I’d made sure that the clothes I’d worn, David’s clothes, had been discovered by the police. Those clothes, liberally spattered with Donald’s blood and hairs taken from David’s hairbrush had been instrumental in convicting him of the killings.
I had good reason, very good reason, to hate David Jarrett for what he did to me and his sister Julia.
You see, we’d both been sexually abused by the bastard when we were young girls. He’d started on Julia when she was about eight and I was eleven or twelve when he inveigled me into joining in what he called the ‘brother and sister games.’ Whatever the fuck you call it, it was the sexual abuse of minors.
And then finally, David raped Julia, my very best friend ever. After the rape Julia’s life turned to rat-shit and eventually she turned to drugs and died from a heroin overdose. Killed by David Jarrett just as surely as if he had plunged that needle full of that almost pure heroin into her arm himself.
And eventually he would have raped me if I had not put a stop to the abuse by threatening to report him to the police. Wish to fuck I had reported him. Would have saved a shitload of grief later on.
As for Donald Jarrett, David’s father, he was the one who raped me, even though I had been a virgin at the time. OK, David’s grubby fingers had been inside me, but never a penis.
So, like father like son or I should say like son like father. Whatever, they were both raping bastards.
And like Julia, my life turned to shit. After the rape and suffering from RTS, Rape Trauma Syndrome, (which nobody believed), I glassed a guy who groped me in a pub. For that, I served 2 years of a 4-year sentence for Grievous Bodily Harm. Even though I was the victim! A guy grabs your arse and tries to grope your pussy and you’re the one who ends up in jail.
Where’s the justice in that?
So, to my mind, Donald and David Jarrett, rapists both, deserved all they got. In Donald’s case a coffin and a six-foot-deep hole, whilst for David, a life sentence with a minimum term of 32 years.
But Janet’s death was simply unfortunate. During an argument between us, I believed (and still believe) that Janet had come at me with a pair of scissors in hand. In self-defence I had seized her by the throat and unintentionally strangled her. God, she died in seconds. Literally seconds.
Which meant of course that Donald now had to die. Made to look as though Janet had attacked and killed him in anger (for good reasons which will I explain) and then had committed suicide in remorse.
The perfect plan. Except! Except for that pesky fucking hyoid bone.
The hyoid bone, that horseshoe-shaped bone in the throat, which if fractured, strongly indicates throttling or strangulation. Janet’s hyoid bone was fractured, so it was evident that she had been strangled and could not therefore have battered her husband to death. Pity!
The best laid plans of mice and men, eh?
So, therefore, David had to be framed for their murder.
However, we need to get some perspective here. Some background. Context.
Firstly, I did not go to the Jarrett’s house with the intention of committing those murders.
Let’s be clear on that. OK?
It was only after Janet attacked me with the scissors that I killed her and decided to make it look like she had killed her husband in anger and then hanged herself.
You see, after Julia’s death from a heroin overdose, she supposedly accused her father Donald of sexually abusing her. It was highly publicised at the time, the papers were full of it, with headlines such as an ‘accusation from beyond the grave’ or ‘the message from a dead girl.’ You might remember it.
Janet believed, absolutely believed, that Donald had molested Julia which was why she had gone off the rails and into drugs. Drugs which eventually killed her.
That accusation ‘from beyond the grave’ did occur, but it wasn’t Julia who made it.
It was me, Chloe Macbeth.
By means of an elaborate audio illusion perpetrated at a spiritualist meeting, Donald was accused of child abuse, and he was ruined. Overnight he became a social pariah and it served the bastard right. I won’t go into the details of how the illusion worked but I did write it all down. The rapes, the murders, and the illusion are all detailed in a file on my laptop, but nobody, but nobody has ever seen that file.
However, I’m not computer stupid, I know that even if I deleted that file, forensics analysists can find it. There will always be footprints leading to the stuff you don’t want found.
So, if things began to look serious, I’m going to have to destroy that hard disk.
The first rule of criminology: don’t leave incriminating evidence on your hard disk.
And now David Jarrett suspects that I am the real killer and is sending me these fucking letters.
I know it was you, you fucking bitch!
ONE
Mohammed Khan eased his new car, a Mercedes Benz S-Class saloon, through the tightly packed traffic on Midland Road in central West Garside, a small Yorkshire industrial town some sixteen or so miles to the north-west of Sheffield, huddled close and pushing up into the Pennine hills.
The autumn afternoon was clear but there was a hint in the air that the evening could turn chill and misty, with a forecast for rain before morning.
Khan had bought the car, gleaming and a highly polished black, only the week before and it was his pride and joy, costing the best part of £75,000. It was a car he had coveted for a long time and although a successful and wealthy businessman, he had previously disdained ostentatious displays of wealth, considering it vulgar. But now, with his business well-established and financially secure, he felt that he could at last indulge his passion, even though he told his friends and fellow worshippers at his mosque that it was really his wife Farida who wanted the car.
‘For myself, I was very happy with the Volvo, but she insisted, what can you do, eh? You have to indulge your wife sometimes.’ He would say. And his friends would smile and nod in agreement, knowing full well who had really coveted the S-Class.
Roadworks on Midland Road had forced all traffic, coming in either direction, into a narrow strip of highway and to one side, for about fifty yards the pavement was under repair, impassable, forcing pedestrians out into the road.
Mohammed Khan was in no hurry, but he was concerned how close cars and especially buses were to the Mercedes as they passed in the opposite direction, several times he feared his wing mirror would be clipped.
The junction of Midland Road and Chapelgate seemed gridlocked and even when the traffic lights were at green, only one or two cars managed to get through the lights.
Mohammed, aged 53, lightly drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Not that he was impatient, but he hated to be idle. All his life he had worked hard long hours, long stressful hours as he built up his businesses, importing high quality silks and other fabrics from Asia, particularly from Pakistan.
Born in West Garside, at the age of 15 with the aid of a loan from his uncle, Mohammed had rented a stall in Garside market and began selling lengths of cloth and cheap imported cotton dresses. From that humble start, he had built up his business with fabric shops throughout Yorkshire, Lancashire, and the North-East, branched out into clothing stores, rental property, the import of Asian foodstuffs, and money transfer outlets serving Pakistanis and the wider Islamic community.
He served on the local council as a Liberal Democrat and was on the board of several charities. As a devout Muslim, blessed by Allah, he believed it was his duty, zakat, to give back to those less fortunate, the giving of alms being the Third Pillar of Faith in Islam.
He was a family man with three sons and two daughters with another child on the way. He was well-respected in his community and was a prominent member at his local mosque.
The traffic moved forward two cars and Mohammed slowly edged onwards, put the handbrake on and shifted into neutral as he waited for the next snail crawl towards the lights, still several cars ahead. From the mirror he lifted down his misbaha, the prayer beads that he always carried with him. The rosary contained ninety-nine beads, one for every name for Allah, with two smaller beads separating every thirty-three beads. He passed the beads through his fingers as he mentally recited the prayers, thirty-three times ‘subhan Allah’(Glory be to God) thirty-three times Al-hamdu-lihah (Praise be to God) and was just commencing with the thirty-three times recital of ‘Allahu Akbar (God is the greatest) when he heard the scrape of metal towards the back of the car. Swiftly unbuckling his seat belt, he opened his door.
A youth pushing a bicycle between the tightly packed rows of cars had scraped the Mercedes, caused a 12” scrape to the rear, just behind the rear passenger door. He tried to push on, but Mohammed ran and swiftly seized the handlebars of the bike, preventing the youth from getting away.
‘Look at the damage,’ Mohammed said to the youth, pointing to the scratch.
‘Nah, not me pal. Must have been there before.’
‘No, I heard you, I heard you scrape the bicycle across the back of the car.’
‘Nah, told you, not me,’ the youth answered belligerently.
‘I heard it, I heard you scrape the bicycle, this bicycle, against the car.’
‘How many more fucking times, it weren’t me. Now fuck off Paki and let me pass.’ But Mohamed held onto the handlebars, determined that the youth accept responsibility for the damage.
In Mohammed’s world, you accept accountability for your actions. The youth had damaged the car and should say so and apologise. At this point, Mohammed was not even looking for the youth to pay for the repairs, but he must accept what he had done.
‘You, tell me your name, apologise, and that will be the end,’
The youth, aged maybe eighteen or nineteen, wore jeans, a grey sweatshirt with the hood up and tied tightly to his head by the drawstrings, making it difficult for Mohammed to fully see his face. All he could see were hate-filled eyes and thin lips turned up in a sneer.
‘Apologise to a fucking Paki, you must be joking. I’m saying it again, it weren’t me, so let me fucking get past.’
The traffic lights had now twice turned green but the cars behind Mohammed’s Mercedes had been unable to move and there was a cacophony of blaring horns as the youth again tried to get past. Khan kept hold of the handlebars, still demanding that he accept responsibility for damage to the car.
‘Who is going to pay for this?’ he shouted, pointing to the scratch again, his temper flaring. He had tried to be reasonable, if the youth had apologised that would be the end of it, and he could have moved on. But no longer, the youth’s racism and refusal to accept blame had exacerbated the situation well beyond the point of rationality.
‘Not me, you fucking Paki, if you’d stayed in Pakiland, where you belong, this wouldn’t have happened, now would it? So, fuck off out of my way!’ and he pushed the bike into Mohammed’s knees, determined to get way.
But Khan still held onto the handlebars, equally determined not to let go until the issue had been resolved. There had been damage to his new car, and somebody had to accept the blame.
The youth struggled again to wrench the bike away from Mohammed’s grasp, but then he suddenly pulled a knife from his belt, stabbed Mohammed Khan once in the chest and, as Khan collapsed, he pushed past, mounted the bike, and sped off, bloody knife in hand.
A driver from one of the backed-up cars rushed and tried to assist Mohammed, taking off his jacket and wrapping it across his chest, pressing it to the wound and then turned the heavily bleeding man onto the recovery position as another motorist called 999, urgently requesting police and an ambulance following a violent stabbing in Midland Road.
Although the ambulance crew responded as a Category 1 call, the most serious call, and were on the scene within eight minutes, the paramedics were unable to save him, and Mohammed Khan was declared dead at the scene.
The police were on the scene shortly afterwards and the first responders reported to CID that the incident was an apparent murder scene and that an SIO - Senior Investigating Officer - and detectives from West Garside CID were urgently required.
Meanwhile police took control of the situation, diverting cars, buses, and vans away from Midland Road whilst uniformed officers took brief statements from all the vehicles in the vicinity of the murder, only allowing the backed-up traffic to move after registration numbers and names and addresses had been taken.
In her office in Concordia Court, the recently built HQ for West Garside police, DCI Grace Swan was reviewing the details of a Cold Case, the murder of an elderly widow found battered to death in her home in 1997, when the call came in reporting the incident on Midland Road.
‘Show me attending,’ she said and then shouted to DS Terry Horton. ‘Terry, a stabbing on Midland Road, the victim is presumed deceased. Let’s go.’
‘OK,’ Terry responded, grabbing his jacket, and hurried behind Grace down to the car park and her red Alpha Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio.
TWO
As soon as they got to the scene and had made a quick assessment, Grace’s first action was to call in Crime Scene Investigators from the forensic service in Wakefield who were on site less than one and a half hours later. The site had been secured by ‘Do Not Pass’ tapes and the forensically suited CSIs began their painstaking fingertip investigation of the road and surrounds, marking where blood drops had fallen from the knife.
Grace also requested that dash-cam footage from any car in the vicinity of the murder be handed to the police and that all roadside CCTV footage be forwarded from the Traffic Department.
Other officers began to search the main roads and side roads in case the assailant had dropped or thrown away the knife.
Once Grace was satisfied that the scene was secure and that the CSI Area Forensic Manager was in place and had taken her instructions, she headed back to her office where she commenced formatting the Policy File, entering such information as had already been gathered. The Policy File was a vital document, the document into which every aspect of the investigation, all the evidence, would be recorded, forming the basis for any prosecution that might follow.
In her absence the Office Manager had allocated the Major Incident Room, the MIR, which would be used by Grace and her assembled team during the investigation. It was late, and she still felt chilled from the long cold hours spent at the murder scene where the threatened rain had started, further compromising the forensic search for vital clues, as blood spots etc, might get washed away.
Completing her notes, Grace decided to head home, take a shower, grab a few hours’ sleep and then be ready for the briefing meeting to be held the next morning with the investigating team.
THREE
As she entered the MIR, Grace looked around at the familiar faces. She had requested that the same team who had been with her during the investigation into the murders of Donald and Janet Jarrett murder be assigned to this investigation. (see ‘Dead Girl Found’ published by Next Chapter Publishing in 2020)
Terry Horton had already set up whiteboards with a map of the murder site, the position of the body highlighted together with crime scene photographs, including those of the body of the victim.
‘Good morning, everybody,’ she said as the team settled down at the conference table, cups of coffee and briefing notes in front of them. ‘This is the first briefing of the operation that central computer has designated ‘Operation Chatsworth’ For the record I am DCI Grace Swan, the SIO. DS Terry Horton will be the Deputy SIO. Again, for the record, please identify yourselves’
‘DS Terry Horton, as the DCI has stated, I am the D/SIO.’
‘DS Fred Burbage.’
‘DC Emma Cox.’
‘DC Jessica Babalola.’
‘DC Brian Endcliffe’
‘DC Danny Moss.’
‘So, you made it, lad?’ said Fred Burbage, looking quizzically at the young detective. Danny Moss had still been in uniform on a three-month assignment as part of his CID training during the Jarrett investigation and Grace had been impressed with the young trainee and had specifically requested that he be assigned to this investigation.
‘Aye, it’s good to be back,’ answered Danny, ‘so I can now show you how it’s done these days, we’ve got things like computers and DNA profiling. Wouldn’t have had those things back in your day, would you Fred?’
‘Less of the cheek, sonny. You’ve still got to get your boots broken in. You started shaving yet?’
The two men grinned amiably at each other, the older, cynical world-weary Fred Burbage, who looked as though he slept in his clothes and ate his breakfast from his tie, and the young fresh-faced Danny Moss who together had formed a surprisingly good partnership, trading insults and banter in jovial good grace.
‘OK, OK, you two,’ said Grace, ‘let’s get on with it. This is day one following the death of a male victim now identified as a Mr Mohammed Khan. Mr Khan, who was the driver of a Mercedes Benz was apparently stabbed to death during an altercation with an as yet unknown cyclist. A witness, Derek Jefferson, who was in the car immediately behind Mr Khan, heard the two arguing. Mr Khan claimed that the cyclist had scratched the car with his bike, which was denied. Mr Jefferson also heard some racist remarks aimed at the victim, who is of Pakistani origin.
Two other witnesses clearly saw the cyclist, whom they described as a young white male wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt, pull a knife from about his person and stab Mr Khan, who unfortunately died at the spot. The killer then rode away at speed on his bicycle.’
Grace walked over to the third whiteboard, picked up a black Sharpie, and wrote:
WHAT + WHY +WHEN + WHERE + HOW + WHO, the standard formula for every murder investigation.
‘What? The murder of Mr Mohammed Khan, stabbed to death on Midland Road,’ she said.
‘WHY? An apparent altercation between a motorist and a cyclist, possibly with racist implications.’
‘They’re a bloody nuisance, these cyclists,’ grumbled Fred Burbage, ‘some of them think they own the road, ‘specially if it’s a group of them. And why they have to wear that bloody ridiculous skin-tight Spandau clothing, God only knows.’
‘Thank you, Fred, your insights are always appreciated, and I think you’ll find it’s Spandex not Spandau,’ answered Grace with a smile.
‘Spandau, Spandex, whatever, they still look like twats’
Even though the murder investigation was taken very seriously, it helped everyone if there could be a little levity from time to time
‘As for them stupid helmets they wear, they look like pie crusts, don’t they? Never had nowt like that in my time’ Fred persisted, as always determined to have the last word.
‘Would’ve thought you needed a helmet, sat up there on top of your penny farthing, it’s a long way down if you fall, in’t it?’ joked Danny.
‘Cheeky sod.’ Fred responded.
‘Thank you, Fred. Thank you, Danny,’ Grace interceded. ‘WHEN? This can be timed precisely as the call to the emergency services was taken at 4.17 yesterday evening, probably no more than a minute, or at most two, after the stabbing. When we get the CCTV and dash cam records from vehicles in the vicinity, we can precisely pin down the moment.
WHERE? Midland Road, close to the junction with Chapelgate,’ Grace said, rather unnecessarily pointing to the location on the pinned-up map.
‘HOW? Again, there is no ambiguity, Mr Khan died from a single incised stab wound to the chest and died from blood loss at the scene.
WHO? The big question, who?’
‘N doubt some scrote who should’ve been drowned at birth,’ said Fred vehemently.
‘Yeah, second that one, there should be stronger laws against carrying a knife, fifteen years at least,’ Danny said. ‘Maybe twenty.’
‘Nobody has need to carry a knife’ added Jessica Babalola.
‘They claim it’s for self-protection, don’t they, these thugs?’ Brian Endcliffe added. ‘It’s all total bollocks, of course, they carry ‘cos it makes them feel big, no other reason.’
‘I think we all agree that the epidemic of street knife crime has to stop. This is not the first stabbing here in Garside and won’t be the last, but this is the only fatality,’ said Grace, returning to her seat.
‘So far! The only fatality so far! Stop and search,’ Jessica, an attractive woman of Nigerian heritage, said fervently, ‘it’s not the only answer but it helps, and don’t think I subscribe to this nonsense that it’s only black people who get searched. Black, white, brown, yellow. If they look dodgy, search ‘em! I don’t care what these bleeding heart liberals say about stop and search being a breach of human rights. If you’re not carrying, why should it worry you if it helps keep you safe?’
‘Well said, Jessica,’ said Grace, ‘but we have to concentrate on this particular stabbing. We can save the world afterwards, so let’s get to it. Fred!’
‘Yes, Boss, er Grace,’ DCI Swan did not stand on ceremony with her team, not for her the formal ‘ma’am’ that so many senior female officers insist upon. They were a team and she believed they worked better as a team without rigid formality. But even so, the team had no doubts who was boss and could feel the sharp edge of her tongue if needs be. Fred Burbage in particular had felt the lash of her wrath when he made crass inappropriate remarks deemed racist or sexist. However, he still found it hard to break the habit of his long police career not to refer to his team leader as ‘Boss.’
‘Fred, I want you to act as Receiver again. You did a good job before and you know the routine. All information to be channelled through you. Everything to be indexed, collated, cross checked. Everything, phone calls logged and followed up, Anything you consider of particular importance or relevance you send to me first.’
‘OK Grace, I’m all for that again. Anyway, I’m too old for chasing about all over the place. A nice cosy desk and a pot of tea’ll do for me,’
‘More like Horlicks, I should think, I’m surprised they let you out of the old folks home unescorted, Fred!’ Danny grinned at him.
‘Cheeky sod, I can still clobber you with my Zimmer frame, you know.’
‘Brian!’ Grace said firmly, to bring the briefing back on track.
‘Yes, Grace.’
‘Brian, I want you to dig into the victim’s history and background, his family, his businesses, is there anything there that might have motivated an attack. We can’t simply assume that this was a random attack, a road rage incident, we need to look at all possibilities. OK?’
‘Yes, Grace, I’ll get right on to it.’ answered Brian. At 6’4” and with the build of a second row forward, Brian Endcliffe was a formidable sight. He was solid and effective, but he probably would never rise above his rank of Detective Constable. Brian was a follower, not a leader.
Grace took another drink from her now cold coffee and consulted the notes she had made last night.
‘Emma and Jessica.’
‘Yes Grace?’ they responded almost simultaneously. Emma Cox, a size twenty blonde, comfortable in her size and gay sexuality, the ends of her shoulder length hair dyed a vibrant pink and the diminutive Jessica, who at barely 5’2” represented the county in taekwondo and was a black belt in karate.
‘I want you both to start scrolling the CCTV and dash cam film, traffic was able to collect most of them from the vehicles nearby. If we are lucky, we should be able to identify this man.’
‘OK, Grace, I’ll start on the CCTV,’ answered Emma, ‘Jess, do you want to take the dash cam stuff.’
‘Yep, will do.’
‘Danny, would you please assist Emma and Jessica, you’ve got sharp eyes, take it turn and turn about, it’s mind-boringly tedious and you each need a break away every hour or so, so that nothing gets missed. This killer is on those tapes. Find him.’
‘I’d bet what’s left of my career that this scrote is known to us,’ said Fred. ‘These hoodie creatures don’t come out of nowhere. He’s there on’t CCTV tapes. You find ‘im girls, and I bet you a doughnut that I’ll know who the scrofulous little turd is.’
Grace nodded, sure that Fred was probably right in his theory, secretly amused at Fred’s use of the word scrofulous, wondering if he even knew what it meant. Fred Burbage was not generally known for his extensive vocabulary.
‘Terry, will you please coordinate with uniform and get them interviewing all the shops and premises along both Midland Road and Chapelgate. Then, if you could commence interviewing the witnesses. Start with,’ she consulted her notes, ‘Derek Jefferson, he was in the car immediately behind Mr Khan and had the clearest view of the incident.’
Grace checked her notes again, and then checked once more, convinced there was something she had not taken care of, but nothing more came to mind.
‘OK people let’s get to it, meanwhile I have to go to Sheffield for the post-mortem. No need for anyone else to come, unless, Danny, you want to come?’ she said with a smile, remembering how much Danny had hated the experience when he accompanied Grace to the autopsy of Donald and Janet Jarrett. An unpleasant task but one that Grace thought necessary as part of his learning experience.
‘Er, no thanks… er… Grace, I’ll give it a miss. Maybe next time,’ he answered with a wry smile. He would have to be carried kicking and screaming before he ever went near an autopsy again. ‘Besides, I’ll be of more useful helping Jess and Emma.’
‘If you’re sure? It’s no bother?’
‘Quite sure, thanks,’
Before leaving for the Medico-Legal Centre in Sheffield, where the post-mortem of Mohammed Khan would be held, Grace issued a prepared statement for the press; ‘This is an horrific incident in which a dedicated father and husband has lost his life. Our sympathies go out to his devastated family who are being supported by specially trained officers. We ask that they be left alone at this tragic time so as to come to terms with the enormity of their loss.
Our enquiries into this death continue and further statements will be issued as and when appropriate.’
FOUR
Finding CCTV images of the killer was not difficult. The cameras at the junction of Midland Road and Chapelgate clearly showed the youth on his bike, up from the saddle, pedalling as hard as he could, swerving in and out of traffic but none of the images gave a clear view of his face.
Frustrated, Jessica and Emma called up the CCTV footage from other cameras, but the killer suddenly turned down a narrow alley called Toronto Walk and out of sight of the roadside coverage.
Meanwhile Danny Moss was studying footage taken from the dash cam of Dennis Jefferson’s Skoda Octavia, the car immediately behind Mohammed Khan’s Mercedes at the time of the attack.
For most of the footage, the killer’s back was to the camera, there was a brief sideways glimpse of a nose and part cheek as he passed in front of the Skoda and then Danny could clearly see the scrape of the cycle pedal against the side of the Mercedes. The subsequent altercation was obvious, shouting, pointing, waving of arms, the pushing of the bike into Mohammed Khan’s knees, and finally a flash of agony at the fatal stabbing.
Danny had to stop the film at that point.
Watching the murder take place in front of his eyes was a chilling shock, and even though he was expecting to see it, it still rocked him back in his seat. ‘Holy shit,’ he muttered, shaken to the core that something so petty, so innocuous as a minor scratch to a car could lead so rapidly, in less than three minutes, to a man’s death.
After he had recovered his breath, he rolled the film again, peering closely at the screen as the killer pushed the dying man aside and mounted his bike. For a brief second, he turned back to look at his victim and Danny froze the image. He could just about discern a face.
‘Fred,’ he called, ‘Come have a look. See if this is one of those turds you were talking about?’
Fred hurried across and bent over to study the screen. The killer’s face was half hidden by the neck and collar of the hoodie and the hood which had been pulled down over his brow.
‘Yeah, yeah, the little sod looks familiar all right. I know this fucker, sorry girls, this scrote from somewhere.’
Fred grimaced and closed his eyes as he searched his memory for the illusive name before clicking his fingers. ‘Doherty, aye, Eoin Doherty, a total scumbag from a family of total scumbags. I’m pretty sure that this is him, Danny. Aye, Eoin Doherty, no doubt about it, he’s definitely crossed my path before now.’
‘Fantastic!’ Danny exalted and the two detectives high-fived in delight. Danny then phoned Grace in Sheffield where she was still observing Mohammed Khan’s post-mortem.
‘Good stuff, Danny, well done. Arrest him and bring him in to custody.’
Officers wearing stab vests then arrested a protesting, violently swearing, Eoin Doherty at his home.
‘You’ve got the wrong man,’ his mother Bernice shouted as Eoin was led out of the house, his hands handcuffed behind his back. ‘He’s been here all the time, couldn’t be him. No way, it’s him. Fuckin’ pigs, why’re you always picking on him when he’s done nowt?’
‘Yeah,’ added his brother Gerry who had come to the door. ‘He were playing with me on t’PlayStation else watchin’ DVD’s. All day, he never went out nowhere.’
From the dash-cam footage, Feed and Danny had identified clothes that the attacker had worn and during a search of the Doherty house, similar clothes were found and sent off for urgent forensic analysis, particularly for blood stains.
When Grace returned from Sheffield she read through Doherty’s record and sought other background information from Fred Burbage
By contrast to the industrious and devout Mohammed Khan, Eoin Doherty, 19, was unemployed. He had never held down a job and lived on benefits, as did his single mother and two brothers. Another brother was in jail for violent assault on a local Pakistani shopkeeper.
They lived in a council house in the Firth Hall estate, an estate notorious for violent crime and drug dealing. Bernice, Doherty’s mother, had been issued within several ASBO’s for anti-social behaviour, mostly due to conflicts with her neighbours, the playing of load music through the night, rubbish piled up in what passed for the front garden, throwing dog faeces into a neighbours garden, and the unruly violent nature of her children from when they were barely in school. Neighbours from Hell did not come close, thought Grace as she read the reports her team had put together.
As for Eoin Doherty, he was a member of the English Defence League, a far-right organisation deplored for its racist and anti-Semitic views. He also subscribed to neo-Nazi and anti-Semitic web sites online. He had a criminal record for burglary, car theft, and a racially motivated hate crime, once calling a Syrian refugee, a ‘fucking sand-nigger!’
‘OK,’ she called to Terry when she’d finished reading, ‘let’s do this, let’s see what this charmer Eoin Doherty has to say for himself.’
FIVE
Doherty stared malevolently at Grace and Terry as they entered the interview room.
‘About fucking time,’ he snarled, ‘what’s this all about anyhow, I’ve been here hours?’ but he got no response from either detective.
‘This is a digitally recorded interview with Mr Eoin Doherty,’ Terry said calmly, switching on the recording device. ‘Present are DCI Grace Swan and DS Terence Horton.’ Terry checked with the clock on the wall. ‘The time is 5.25pm. Eoin Doherty, you have been arrested under suspicion of having murdered Mr Mohammed Khan. You are being interviewed in connection with this murder. Do you understand?’
Doherty, yawned, or pretended to and then nodded.
‘Please answer, a nod is not sufficient for the tape,’ said Terry.
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m being interviewed because some Paki got offed. But not by me.’
‘Do you want a solicitor present? You are entitled to a duty solicitor if you wish,’ asked Grace.
‘Nah, fuck it. If I ain’t done nowt, what do I need a brief for, eh? Doherty answered smugly, leaning back, trying to look cocky.
‘OK, it is duly recorded that Mr Doherty was offered the services of a duty solicitor but has declined’ said Grace and then nodded to Terry who opened up a laptop and began showing Doherty the dash cam and CCTV images, the images also shown on a large screen on the interview room wall.
‘Mr Doherty, I’m showing you some CCTV and dash-cam footage. Are these images of you? Is it you on this bicycle?’ Terry asked.
‘No fucking way, man. Look at it? That dash-cam,’ he said pointing at the footage on the large screen, ‘it could be of anybody, how the fuck can you say it’s me, eh? Look at it! Whoever it is, he’s got his hoodie up, can’t tell who it is. Anyhow, what’s all the fuss about? It were only some fucking Paki, good on whoever done it, I say.’
‘He was a married man with five children and his wife is pregnant. How do you think they feel about it?’ Terry, the father of two daughters, asked indignantly.
‘Don’t give a shit what they think about it, do I? Five kids you say and another on the way, yeah, always breed like fucking rabbits, don’t they? Least he’ll not be breeding any more Paki bastards. So for me, it’s one down and five to go. Seven if you include his missus and the brat inside her!’ Doherty said, smirking at his own perceived cleverness.
Grace and Terry looked at each other in disgust, more than ever determined to bring this nasty little racist killer to justice.
The interview was proving fruitless as Doherty continued to deny any involvement and so he was returned to his cell where he could be held for twenty-four hours before being charged. The first twenty-four hours in any murder investigation are crucial, the so called ‘golden hours’ although Grace could request an extension of Doherty’s detention if she needed more time to gather sufficient evidence to charge him. The dash-cam footage was simply not enough.
Although footage from the Skoda dash-cam did appear to indicate that the attacker was Eoin Doherty, well known to Fred Burbage and Garside police. the images were not sufficiently clear for positive 100% recognition. As the attacker had the hood of his sweatshirt up, a good defence lawyer would undoubtedly challenge the identification as unsound, particularly as facial recognition technology had proved inconclusive.
Even when several witnesses picked Doherty out from a stack of photographs, none were sufficiently positive to make the case secure. Comments such as ‘I think it’s him, but I can’t be certain,’ or ‘It looks like him, but I couldn’t swear to it in court,’ would be enough for a defence lawyer to cast doubt in a jury’s mind.
Grace needed more evidence.
She needed to find the knife and the bike he was riding at the time, neither of which were found at his house. Police searched road gullies and rubbish bins close to Doherty’s house, looking for the knife but without success.
Grace and Terry next studied a map of the town, tracing possible routes Doherty would have taken as he fled the murder scene on that bike. If it was not at his house, where had he dumped it? And where could he have disposed of the knife?
‘Mohammed was killed here,’ said Terry, pointing to the location marked with a red pin, ‘and Doherty lives on the Firth Hall estate, 87 Bentham Street, here.’ He traced his finger along three possible routes, all of which came within close proximity to the West Garside Canal, which led to the Victoria Docks in Sheffield. ‘That’s where he’s dumped them,’ Terry declared, ‘I’d bet my miserable pension on it.’
‘I’ll not take you up on that, Terry. You’re right. That’s where he will have tossed them.’
‘Just goes to show how stupid he must be, it’s obviously the first place we’re going to search’
Grace was already on her phone, requesting for police divers to search the canal. Once the diving team was in place, Grace and Terry drove to the canal to coordinate the search as floodlights were lowered into the waters.
It did not take long.
Within an hour, an Apollo Slant Mountain Bike was pulled out of the murky canal.
The bike had a security mark which had been fitted by the police at an advertised event held in the market square and a check of the records identified the bike as one which had been reported stolen from the garden of a house in Easedale two days ago, the morning of the murder.
‘Can’t believe it,’ Martin Hopkins, the aggrieved owner of the bike had said when he reported the theft, ‘Couldn’t have left it outside in the garden for no more than a minute or two. Just nipped back inside to get my helmet and gloves, come back and it’s gone. Gone. Nowhere in sight. Couldn’t believe it, thought I was going mad.’
However, Easedale is within easy walking distance of the Firth Hall estate where Doherty lived.
Although an attempt had been made to wipe off fingerprints, the print of a thumb and two fingers were found on the lower frame and identified as Eoin Doherty’s. Still not enough evidence to be conclusive.
Two hours later, despite the murkiness of the water, a kitchen knife with a 6” blade was recovered, meanwhile Doherty was detained overnight.
Early the following afternoon Grace received confirmation that Doherty’s prints were found on the handle of the knife, as were traces of Mohammed Khan’s blood.
Doherty was subsequently interviewed a second time.
SIX
Despite being held for hours in a cell, or possibly because of it, Doherty’s truculence had not abated. ‘This is police harassment,’ he shouted as Grace and Terry entered and sat down opposite him. ‘Gonna sue you, bitch,’ he snarled at Grace, who chose to ignore him. To respond would give Doherty the impression that he had succeeded in riling her.
He again rejected the services of a duty solicitor, ‘I’m innocent,’ he repeated, ‘so why do I need a fucking solicitor?’ whilst at the same time claiming that he was being ‘fitted up’
Once the interview formally commenced, Terry operated his laptop and brought up an image of the Apollo Slant Mountain Bike recovered from the canal.
‘I am showing the suspect the photograph of a mountain bike, exhibit number MK/12D. Eoin, have you ever seen this bicycle before?’ Terry asked.
‘Nah, nah, never.’ Doherty said, but his eyes betrayed agitation.
‘It was recovered from the canal earlier today. Are you sure you’ve never seen it before?’
‘Well, maybe seen other bikes, similar bikes around, dead common aren’t they, know what I mean? But not that one.’
‘Are you certain, look again?’
‘Nah, told you, never seen it before.’
‘If you have never seen this particular bike before, how do you account for your fingerprints being on it?’ Terry asked, leaning forward to gauge Doherty’s reaction.
The shock on Doherty’s face was total. He gulped heavily several times, his eyes darting left and right as he sought to talk away the damning evidence. Grace could almost hear the cogs of his brain turning, wild thoughts and excuses, outrageous lies and desperate ideas all tangled up in his seething braincells.
Grace and Terry wait patiently for Doherty to come up with an answer, enjoying his discomfort as he wriggled on that baited hook.
‘Yeah, remember now,’ he said at last, ‘borrowed it a few days ago from a kid in Easedale.’
‘Of course, you did,’ said Terry, barely able to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. ‘What’s his name, this generous kid from Easedale who lent you his bike?’
‘Er… can’t think just at the minute.’
‘You can’t think of the name of your kind friend who lent you this very nice bike?’ Terry pressed.
Doherty shook his head confusedly. ‘Yeah, got it …Wayne, yeah Wayne.’
‘Wayne?’ queried Grace. ‘Wayne who?’
‘Er…Rooney’ Doherty answered with the first name that came into his head.
‘Wayne Rooney lent you this bike?’ Terry said incredulously.
‘Nah, nah Clooney not Rooney, that’s it. Wayne Clooney.’
‘Wayne Clooney? Thank you. Eoin,’ said Grace, ‘he shouldn’t be too hard to track down, and verify your story, should he? Terry, would you please check the Electoral Register for families called Clooney in the Easedale area.’
A look of panic crossed Doherty’s face as he realised his rapidly put together story was falling apart. ’Yeah, yeah,’ he said, ‘Yeah, I nicked the bike, it was in some stupid sod’s front garden, just asking to be nicked weren’t it? But I only kept it for a couple of days because…because somebody then nicked it from me.’
‘When was this? When you stole the bike and when you say it was stolen in turn from you?’ Grace asked quickly.
‘Must be what?’ Doherty stopped to think, working out the timescale in his head as Grace checked her notes, not that she needed to as every moment since receiving that first telephone call advising of a stabbing was imprinted in her mind.
Mohammed Khan had been killed on Monday afternoon, the first briefing was held early Tuesday morning, then the post-mortem. Danny and Fred’s identification late that morning, Doherty’s arrest and the first interview just after lunch. The canal search that afternoon and the recovery of the bike and knife as Doherty held overnight. Now it was late Wednesday afternoon and Grace and most of her team had had little in the way of sleep. That could come later. Maybe!
‘Yeah, must have been three or four days ago, maybe even five,’ Doherty answered confidently.
‘Which is it, three, four or five days ago?’ Grace pressed.
‘OK, five days ago, definitely five days ago, Saturday. I nicked it in the morning, went for a drink at the… ‘Black Bull’ on Fulford Street and some bastard half-inched when I was inside having a pint or three.’ Doherty smirked, sitting back, well pleased with himself.
‘So, you’re saying you stole this bike on Saturday, is that correct?’
‘Told you, didn’t I?’
‘That’s strange, the owners of that bike were away all weekend and locked the bike in the garage. Did you break into the garage as well?’ Terry asked, a thin smile crossing his face.
‘Course not, must be a different bike then, in’t it?’
‘Afraid not. You see this security mark?’ Terry asked, showing Doherty a close-up, ‘it tells us exactly who owns the bike, a bike which was stolen on Monday morning. Not Saturday. A bike with your fingerprints on it.’
‘A bike that dash cam and CCTV show you riding on Monday, both before and after you stabbed Mohammed Khan to death!’ Grace pressed, watching the colour bleed out from Doherty’s face.
‘Told you, it weren’t me. Them films, dash cam films, could be anybody on the bike.’
‘However, it was you. We know it was you.’ persisted Grace.
Doherty paused for a moment, wiped his nose on the back of his hand before asking for a break. ‘Need a piss,’ he said crudely, trying to take back some control of the interview. Grace nodded OK to Terry, who switched off the recorder and Doherty was then escorted to the washrooms.
‘Yeah, yeah, OK, so you got me,’ Doherty said, once the interview recommenced. having thought of his answer whilst in the toilet. ‘I did nick the bike Monday morning, but I dumped it near them railway arches, them arches where trains don’t go over no more.’
‘Victoria Arches?’
‘Yeah, ditched it there.’
‘Why? Because you knew that you had been seen on that bike after the stabbing.’ Terry pressed, leaning forward into Doherty’s space.
‘Nah, not me, told you. it were… too small, that’s why, kept banging me knees on the handlebars.’
‘OK. Let’s move on to another topic, ‘said Terry after a pre-arranged nod from Grace. ‘I’m now showing the suspect an image of a knife, a kitchen knife of Chinese manufacture with a 6” blade. Tell me Eoin, have you ever seen this knife before?’
‘Shouldn’t think so. Don’t do much cooking, do I? Mostly pizza, kebabs, and fish ‘n’ chips for me. oh, and burgers, love a good burger, me,’ Doherty answered with a cocky grin, even though he was clearly agitated about the presentation of the knife to him.
‘So why would your fingerprints be on this knife, Eoin?’
‘Probably cut me burger or pizza up with it, that’s why?’
‘OK, fair enough, but why would this knife, which also show traces of Mohammed Khan’s blood on it. have been found in the canal?’ Terry asked. Doherty rocked back in his chair, convinced he had thoroughly wiped the knife before throwing it into the canal. He thought furiously, thinking of ways to explain it away.
‘I… er, it were nicked from the house one day. Months back. Yeah. That’s it. You ask me ma, she’ll tell you.’
‘I’m more than certain that your mother will perjure herself for you, but do you honestly believe that we are going to accept that somebody broke into your house to steal a £5 kitchen knife?’ Grace asked, the disbelief at the ridiculous story evident in her voice.
‘Believe what you fucking like, it’s the truth.’
‘So, what you are saying is that you stole this bike,’ Terry stated, pointing to the image on the screen, ‘which you then later dumped by the Victoria Arches and that somebody, somebody unknown, had previously broken into your house to steal this knife,’ again bringing up the image, ‘and that this same unknown kitchen knife thief, in a million to one chance suddenly found the bike you stole and then abandoned and that he must be the killer. Is that it? Not very plausible is it?’
‘Maybe, but all I know is that is that not me as killed that Paki.’
‘His name was Mohammed Khan.’
‘Whatever, still not me as did him.’
‘Do you expect us to believe that nonsense and just let you go,’ Terry snapped.
‘Don’t give a shit what you believe, that’s what happened, and I’m saying nowt else,’ he said with false bravado, as if saying loud enough and often enough would make it true. And then, as if suddenly remembering how a tough-guy hard-man is supposed to act, the only thing he would say in answer to further questions was ‘no comment’
At that, Grace terminated the interview and then sought and obtained an extension to Doherty’s detention.
SEVEN
The clincher came when the forensic examination of Doherty hoodie sweatshirt revealed traces of Mohammed Khan’s blood.
Even though Doherty’s mother had washed the sweatshirt in the washing machine, she had washed it in a cold wash cycle using a non-biological powder, in a mistaken belief that it was the most effective method of washing away blood stains. She was wrong and Mohammed Khan’s DNA was identified on the sleeve and the front of the sweatshirt.
Even when confronted with this evidence, Doherty continued to deny his guilt, loudly accusing the police of ‘fitting him up’ just because he did not like ‘Pakis taking over the country.’ and then reverted to ‘no comment’ for all subsequent questions.
Eoin Doherty was then charged with the murder of Mohammed Khan, remanded in custody and then tried at Sheffield Crown Court five months later.
At the trial, Grace gave her evidence in a clear and professional manner. The Policy File clearly indicated the steps taken by Grace and her team to identify Eoin Doherty including the dash-cam footage shown to the jury. The forensic DNA evidence was irrefutable and Erika Berger, the Home Office pathologist was able to demonstrate that blade of the kitchen knife exactly fitted in the wound to Mohammed’s chest. The defence tried to claim that the knife wound could have been caused by any knife of similar size but was unable to seriously refute the forensic evidence.
However, even when confronted with all the evidence, Doherty still denied he was the killer and relied on the alibi given by his mother and his two brothers that he had been at home playing on his PlayStation at the time.
The jury quickly returned a verdict of guilty for the murder of Mohammed Khan and Doherty was sentenced to life imprisonment with a minimum term of twenty-three years, additional time added due to the racial aspects of the murder.
As he was led from the dock, he gave the Judge the Nazi salute as several members of the EDL in the public gallery chanted his name in support.
Bernice, Gerry, and Martin Doherty were later all convicted of attempting to pervert the course of justice and received lengthy jail terms. On their release from prison, the Doherty family will face eviction from their council house, much to the delight of their long-suffering neighbours.
Grace and Terry took their team out to celebrate the result A nasty racist thug had been taken off the streets and his victim’s family finally had some sense of justice.
‘But what a waste of a human life,’ Grace said. ‘A moment’s anger, a sudden stab with a knife, and a very good man lies bleeding in the road whilst scum like Eoin Doherty could still have thirty or forty years of life even after leaving prison.’ Grace was not an advocate of capital punishment but did sometimes feel that it would be appropriate in some cases.
However, the killing of Mohammed Khan was not the only murder that Grace had under investigation.
EIGHT
Was she the one?
It had been a long search to find her. But was she the perfect one? That was the question?
He still wasn’t sure, but the pressure was growing incrementally by the day.
Was she the one, he agonised again? How much longer could he wait?
He watched her from afar, vacillating on the decision.
Not yet, he decided, he would contain himself until he was certain. But for how much longer?
How much longer before the pressure, the tension, became overwhelming?
He had to be certain, there was just too much at stake.
He flipped open his laptop and accessed the Darknet, using TOR, the Onion Router, searched through his favourite sites and downloaded some files.
NINE
David Jarrett still seethed with indignation and anger.
In prison, serving a sentence of thirty-two years for a crime he did not commit.
When first sentenced, he’d been held in HMP Wakefield, the Category A prison that is home to some of the most evil and dangerous men ever convicted and known as ‘Monster Mansion.’
Amongst those who have been incarcerated there are the likes of David Harker who killed and dismembered Julie Patterson and ate some of her flesh with pasta. Ian Huntley the notorious killer of ten-year-old Holly Wells and Jessica Chapman is serving a minimum of forty years, although now transferred to Frankland jail in Durham. Roy Whiting, a known paedophile who abducted and murdered eight-year-old Sara Payne is another killer serving a minimum of forty years.
Doctor Harold Shipman killed at least 218 victims, mostly elderly ladies, and received a whole life tariff. However, he had the good grace to hang himself in his cell.
Ian Watkins, the singer with the group Lost Prophets who had been sentenced to thirty-five years for child sex offences had also spent time at Wakefield, as did Mark Hobson who killed four women, including his girlfriend and her twin sister. Hobson also attacked fellow inmate Ian Huntley with boiling water, but as he was already serving a whole life sentence, the attack made no difference to the length of his incarceration.
‘Should have been given a medal,’ David Jarrett thought sourly.
Levi Belfield, killer of at least two women as well as thirteen-year-old Milly Dowler is another who will never be freed. It is suspected that he has killed others and investigations continue.
Mark Bridger, the notorious killer of five-year-old April Jones is also serving a whole life tariff. He was attacked in Wakefield, slashed across the face with a prison made knife but his request for a transfer to another prison was denied.
David had been at Wakefield for almost a year when a prison officer came to his cell and told him. ‘Mr Jarrett, get your stuff together, you’re being transferred,’
‘Where? Why?’
‘Can’t say, just get your stuff together, you’ve got an hour.’
He was then relocated to HMP Full Sutton, a high security category A and B men’s prison near York.
Although more modern than the largely Victorian era Wakefield, Full Sutton was no holiday camp. Over the years it had become notorious for gang violence and the high level of drug taking by inmates. And had housed the likes of Charles Bronson, dubbed Britain most violent prisoner, as well as Donald Neilson the infamous murderer known as the ‘Black Panther’ who robbed and murdered at sub post offices and kidnapped and murdered seventeen-year-old Leslie Whittle. Serial killer and necrophile Dennis Nilsen, who killed and dismembered at least twelve men in North London was another killer held at Full Sutton until his death in 2018 whilst child killer Colin Hatch had been murdered there. The prisoner responsible had also attacked Ian Huntley, a one-time inmate.
And now David Jarrett is in Full Sutton but although he is a convicted killer, it has earned him little respect in the jail. A man who has supposedly killed his parents does not rank highly in the hierarchy of prison inmates.
However, he is largely left alone, unlike the nonces and child killers who will always have a hard time in whatever jail they are housed. ‘Serves the bastards right’ David thought.
‘So, if it wasn’t me who killed Donald and Janet, then who did?’he repeatedly asks himself. He wrestles with the dilemma every waking moment and always returns to the same conviction.
‘It had to be Chloe fucking Macbeth! Had to be! She hated my guts, always had done. If her fingerprints were all over the house, so what? She practically lived there when Julia was alive. The police would attach no significance to her prints everywhere.
Even if they found her prints on that hammer, she could still claim she had handled the hammer years ago and nobody can prove otherwise.
He had to think rationally.
‘First thing, stop behaving like a twat.’
