Authors: Lindsay Ashford
‘So you’re saying, what?’ Megan spread her hands, palms up, on the table in front of her. She and Delva were back in the canal-side bar, but this time all either of them could face was black coffee. ‘You think Moses Smith’s death was something to do with a miscarriage of justice that happened thirty-odd years ago?’ She couldn’t stomach the idea that Dom Wilde had lied to her. She was trying to reason this out in a logical way. But it wasn’t easy to conceal the panic she felt inside. She consulted her notebook. ‘Moses was born in 1960. When were the Birmingham Six arrested – early seventies, wasn’t it?’
Delva rummaged in her bag for the newspaper article. ‘1974,’ she said.
‘So he’d have been fourteen.’ Megan pursed her lips. ‘A bit young, don’t you think?’
‘Could have been his father, then, couldn’t it?’
‘His father?’
Delva nodded eagerly. ‘What if Moses Smith’s father was one of the cops who beat the Birmingham Six up when they were arrested? What if he died while they were inside so they took revenge on the son instead? Or…’ she paused, wagging her finger at Megan, ‘what if they thought that killing his son – and his grandson – would be more fitting revenge than killing the cop himself?’
Megan took a gulp of coffee, piecing together the implications of what Delva was suggesting. ‘Okay, she said. ‘Let’s just assume for a moment that you’re right. It would
mean that two of the Birmingham Six – accompanied by Carl Kelly – went straight round to Moses Smith’s place after being let out of prison. They killed Moses and his newborn baby, but left his girlfriend alive.’ She looked askance at Delva. ‘You were part of that media storm that engulfed them the minute they walked out of court. Do you really believe they’d have had the inclination – or more importantly, the opportunity – to go and murder somebody?’
‘Well, I s’pose it does sound a bit far-fetched when you put it like that,’ Delva frowned. ‘But they could have sent someone to do it for them, couldn’t they? Carl Kelly and some of his mates, I mean.’
‘It’s possible, yes. But why wait till you get out of jail to do that? If you’ve got someone on the outside who’s willing to kill one of your enemies, you could make it happen anytime.’ She rubbed her chin with the heel of her hand. ‘I remember seeing those men on television when they came out. They were absolutely broken. The idea that any one of them could’ve ordered something as brutal as the killing of a baby is unimaginable. But let’s suppose they had: why would they hide him away, then rebury him seventeen years later in his father’s grave?’
‘I don’t know,’ Delva shrugged. ‘Guilt?’
‘But none of it explains why Carl Kelly was killed, does it?’
‘I suppose not.’ Delva fiddled with the handle of her coffee cup.
‘I’m not sure we should rule out some sort of link, though, even if it’s not direct.’ Megan took another sip of coffee. ‘There could have been some old friend or supporter, who, unknown to them, wanted revenge. Perhaps it had lain dormant in that person’s mind, but the sight of them all being released triggered something: some lynch-mob mentality.’
Delva drained the last of the coffee from her cup. ‘It’d be
interesting to know if Carl Kelly had any connection with the Birmingham Six. Could he have been a schoolfriend of a son or daughter of one the men? Or a drinking pal, or something.’ She leaned back in her chair. ‘I interviewed several members of the men’s families when they got out. I’ve still got the numbers, although I know some of them have moved away.’
‘What would you say, though?’ Megan frowned. ‘I mean, if there was some direct link with Moses Smith’s murder, they’re hardly likely to tell you, are they?’
‘I know,’ Delva shook her head. ‘I’d have to come up with something innocent-sounding.’ She stared at the table, her lips pressed together in concentration.
‘I think it might be better if we came at it from a different angle,’ Megan said. ‘We could try finding out if Moses Smith’s father or any other male relative was in the Serious Crime Squad at that time. If so, we’ve got a possible motive.
‘You’re right,’ Delva nodded slowly. ‘I could get some of the research team at BTV onto it if you like. One of them’s an ex-copper – he should have some connections we can use.’
It was dark by the time they left the bar. Megan drove home on automatic pilot. She was thinking about Dom Wilde. He hadn’t responded to the message she’d left at the prison office. Was he avoiding her now because, as Delva had suggested, he’d lied about Carl Kelly? She knew there could be several explanations for his failure to get back to her; the most likely being that he hadn’t received the message. It wouldn’t be the first time the admin people had cocked up in that respect. But Delva’s words echoed in her mind. ‘Okay,’ she said out loud, ‘if he’s holding something back about Carl,
that implies he was involved in the murder. Either he gave Carl that lethal dose or he turned a blind eye while someone else did it.’ She ran this scenario through her mind. It meant Dom had some link with whoever wanted revenge on Carl – or that the revenge was his. ‘Hang on, though,’ she said. ‘If that was the case, why would he have told me Carl had given up drugs?’ She nodded as she thought it through. It would have been so much more convenient for him to make out that Carl was a regular drug user: his death would have seemed unremarkable. No, she reasoned, it was
counter-intuitive
for Dom to flag up the man’s abstinence if he was anything other than innocent.
She heaved a sigh of relief, her thoughts turning to the baby lying in the mortuary. The post-mortem had bought them no closer to establishing the little boy’s identity. Alistair Hodge had talked about extracting DNA from the tissue but he wasn’t confident that any would have survived the process of dessication. And even if it had, Megan reflected, what would you compare it with? Unless someone came forward with information about the child’s family, the DNA would be useless.
The idea that the baby had been murdered as an act of revenge was hard to stomach. The post-mortem had revealed no marks on the body but in its mummified state only the grossest injury would have been apparent. The child could easily have been suffocated with a pillow over his face, but the tell-tale signs of such a death would have been erased as the body dried out.
He could have been stillborn or died within hours of his birth, but if that was the case, why would the mother have concealed her baby boy instead of giving him a proper burial? The other alternative was that the mother had killed him herself. Megan tried to imagine that scenario. Had the mother been a teenager, terrified of her parents finding out,
as Alistair Hodge had suggested, or an older woman with a different reason for wanting to dispose of her child? It was hardly surprising no one had come forward: even if the baby was stillborn, concealing it was still a criminal offence punishable by two years in jail. Typical of the legal system to be so outdated and so condemning, she thought. Ethically, concealing a stillbirth was no different from opting for an abortion. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel as the familiar feeling of regret welled up inside her. This was all getting too close.
Her mind was in a whirl as she drew up to the house. Annoyingly someone had parked right outside her front door. Other cars were parked nose to tail all along the terrace, so there was no option but to drive round the block until she found a space. She stomped back towards the house, wishing she hadn’t stuffed so much into her briefcase. Suddenly her body tensed. There was a flicker of something in the pool of lamplight to her left; someone in the car outside her door. A man or a woman? She couldn’t tell. She didn’t recognise the car. A wave of irrational fear engulfed her. Who was waiting for her at this time of night? A mugger? A stalker? A rapist? She quickened her pace, berating herself for getting paranoid. As she grasped the catch on the gate she heard the click of a car door opening. She wanted to run but she was rooted to the spot.
‘Meg! At last!’
She spun round. ‘For fuck’s sake, Jonathan! You frightened me to death! Why aren’t you in Sydney?’
‘And I love you too, darling!’ he grinned back. ‘The trial finished early. I wanted to surprise you – and I certainly seem to have done that!’ From behind his back he produced a bunch of flowers.
She bashed him on the leg with her briefcase, her lips sliding into an unwilling smile. ‘Sod it! Why can I never be
cross with you for more than thirty seconds?’ She punctuated her words with more jabs of the briefcase.
‘Ow!’ He darted past her, through the gate. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
‘I suppose I’m going to have to,’ she tutted. ‘Can’t let you loose on a decent neighbourhood at this time of night!’
The hall light revealed that his flowers were wilting at the edges. The large yellow sticker and bar code betrayed a hasty purchase from a garage forecourt.
‘All the way from Australia, are they?’ She curled her lip at the withered bouquet as she plonked it down on the kitchen table.
‘Got you this as well.’ He turned his big puppy dog eyes on her.
‘What is it?’ She peered into the red, white and blue British Airways bag.
‘It’s DKNY
Be Delicious
.’ He wiggled his eyebrows at her. ‘Very fruity, it said in the in-flight sales blurb – but we’ll have to find out, won’t we?’
‘Hmm.’ She dodged away as his hand went round her waist. ‘It’s a nice thought,’ she said, reaching for the kettle. ‘Can I try it in the morning? I’m knackered and I’m wearing Eau de Morgue at the moment.’
‘Oh.’ He pressed against her as she turned on the tap. ‘Only trouble is, I’m going to have to be off pretty early tomorrow.’
‘How early?’
He nibbled her ear. ‘Crack of dawn, I’m afraid. I’ve got to get the hire car back to Cardiff by nine and I need to see Laura.’
She pulled away from him, ramming the kettle back on its stand. ‘Oh, I see! That’s why you’ve come on a Thursday night, is it? Wanted a quick shag before you go off to see your darling daughter?’ She’d never spoken to him like this
before. She’d tried so hard not to criticise; not to nag. But she was tired and she was mad and she was fed up with playing second fiddle. No:
third
fiddle, actually. It was his work first, then his daughter, then her.
‘Meg, I’m sorry.’ He took her hand in both of his. ‘I know we planned to make this a weekend for us. But Laura’s having a really hard time at the moment. She’s being bullied at school. She needs me and I can’t let her down.’
She pushed him away. ‘But you’re not bothered about letting me down!’ Even as she said the words she knew she was being unreasonable. How could she put her own needs above those of a kid who was suffering in that way? But despite the voice of reason inside her head, she folded her arms across her chest and glared at him.
‘She’s only fourteen, Meg. I feel I’ve already failed her by walking out on her mum. I don’t want her to feel that all I ever do is abandon her.’
Megan’s eyes dropped to the floor. How could she argue with that? He was right, of course. But it was like torture, having him here for a few brief hours. There was no time for anything…she struggled to find the right word. For anything of
substance
.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘You’ve had a hard day and now I’ve made things even worse.’
‘Oh, it’s not your fault.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘It’s just that I sometimes wonder if it’s all really worth it.’
He reached out, placing a hand on each side of her face. ‘It
is
worth it – at least for me.’ She could feel his warm breath on her skin. ‘It’s not about sex, Meg. I know that’s how it might look but it’s not true.’
‘So what is it about then?’
‘Companionship. Friendship…’ he hesitated, searching her eyes. ‘Love?’ He reached past her and flicked the switch of the kettle. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Put your feet up while I
make a coffee, then you can tell me about your day.’
‘Are you sure you want to listen to this?’ She paused in the middle of describing the post-mortem on the baby. ‘You must be absolutely shattered yourself; how long was the flight?’
‘Twenty-one hours,’ he shrugged. ‘Don’t worry – I’m used to it. And anyway,’ he leaned forward to top up her coffee, ‘I want to know more. Have they run a DNA test yet?’
She shook her head. ‘I was about to tell you: they’re not sure they’ll be able to extract any.’
‘Why not?’
‘They think the flesh is too dessicated.’
‘What about the teeth?’
‘What teeth? It was a newborn baby.’
‘Ah,’ he nodded, ‘No teeth visible, but they’d have been developing in the gums and you could still get DNA from them.’
‘Really?’ Her eyes widened. ‘That would never have occurred to me.’
He gave her a wry smile. ‘Glad to hear I’m not completely bloody useless!’
She poked him in the ribs. ‘Not
completely
. But there’s something else,
Professor Andrews
,’ she sat back, eyeing him over the rim of her mug. ‘We’ve got the DNA – what do we do with it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, we’ve got nothing to compare it with, have we? We don’t have any relatives. It’s been on the telly, in the papers, but no one’s come forward. Not a dickie bird.’
He looked at her askance. ‘Are you winding me up?’
‘No,’ she frowned. ‘Why would I?’
‘Well, isn’t it obvious? You’ve got a
body
.’
‘A body? You mean the baby?’
‘No: the one in the grave where the baby was found. You can get his DNA and see if there’s a match.’
She blinked. ‘You’re talking about an exhumation?’
‘It’s common practice,’ he shrugged. ‘All you need is a court order from a magistrate.’
‘Hmm,’ she looked him up and down, nodding slowly. ‘You’re right: you do have your uses – I’m just glad I don’t have to pay for your professional services.’ A smile creased the corners of her eyes.
‘Not in money…’ he arched his eyebrows. ‘But I don’t come cheap…’ he slid his arm around her waist. She flinched momentarily as his fingers found the flesh between her blouse and the waistband of her trousers. Sensing her discomfort he pulled away. ‘Shall we have a good long soak in the bath?’ He gathered up the mugs. ‘Why don’t you go and run it and I’ll get us some wine. Have you got any of that Chablis?’