Eye of the raven

THIRTEEN

Feeling bad about his clash with Paul Verdi, Steven set off back to Edinburgh and sought comfort in the fact that the rain had given way to some afternoon brightness. He found sunshine therapeutic. He stopped the car by the beach near Longniddry and got out to admire the sparkle on the waves as seagulls wheeled overhead and a solitary windsurfer, clad in hooded wet-suit, braved the cold of the Firth of Forth. He sank his hands deep in his pockets and set off for walk along the beach.

His gambit of trying to put Verdi on the back foot by going on the offensive hadn’t worked and now he was in no doubt that he had made a potentially dangerous enemy. He hadn’t really expected Verdi to cave in and confess all but he regretted allowing his instant dislike of the man to have played a part in his conduct of the interview. He saw this as weakness. The only positive thing that he could take from the encounter was a strengthening of his belief that there really had been some kind of criminal association between Verdi and the forensic lab during Lee’s time. The look in Verdi’s eyes when he’d broached the subject had told him that he was on the right track. Proving it however, would be quite a different matter.

Steven took a handful of pebbles down to the water’s edge, and started skimming the flat ones out over the surface, taking childish pleasure in counting the number of skips they made before disappearing. His mood changed however, when another childhood game came to mind and with it, dark thoughts of Hector Combe and Julie Summers. ‘This little piggy went to market. Snap! This little piggy..’ With a shudder he returned to the car and resumed his journey.

He had just joined the bypass, intending to skirt round the south of the city to avoid town traffic when his phone rang. It was McClintock.

‘ The brown stuff’s about to hit the fan big time,’ said McClintock.

‘ Make my day.’

‘ The word is that some screw at the Bar-L has just funded his summer hols by blabbing to the papers. He’s told them about you having the DNA tests on Little repeated. The Record ’s going to run the story tomorrow.’

‘ Shit,’ said Steven.

‘ The brass are spitting nails.

‘ Thanks for the warning,’ said Steven.

‘ Have you seen Verdi yet?’

‘ I’m on my way back at the moment. I don’t think we’ll be exchanging Christmas cards.’

‘ Jesus, is there anyone left that you haven’t managed to alienate?’ asked McClintock.

‘ You’re right,’ said Steven. ‘I should give up the assertiveness classes.’

‘ When will you get the results?’

‘ Tomorrow,’ replied Steven.

‘ If Little’s still in the frame, I suggest you leak that information as quickly as possible. It might help stem the damage.’

‘ Will do,’ said Steven.

The morning papers did not make for good reading as Steven worked his way through a second pot of coffee at breakfast. The police force’s worst fears had been realised and the press took the opportunity to list their failings in the Summers case all over again. The Mulveys’ suicides and the subsequent resignations were revisited in detail along with a new suggestion that the police still hadn’t got it right. There was an implicit suggestion that new DNA tests heralded the case being reopened by the Home Office. One of the tabloids ran with the headline, ‘Will Julie Ever Rest in Peace?’ while another jumped the gun with, ‘Julie Case Re-opened.’

Steven half expected it to be the police when his phone went off but it was Susan Givens at the university.

‘ I’ve got your results,’ she said. ‘Want to come over?’

Steven resisted the urge to ask her what she’d found over the phone and said that he’d be there in half an hour. His next caller was John Macmillan.

‘ How in God’s name did this happen?’ Macmillan demanded by way of greeting.

‘ I take it you’ve seen the Scottish papers then,’ said Steven.

‘ The fax machine has been spewing out little else for the last hour. How did they get on to it?’

‘ A prison officer at Barlinnie,’ said Steven.

‘ Damn him.’

‘ I’m just about to go over and get the results of the tests,’ said Steven. ‘That at least should put an end to conjecture.’

‘ If they confirm Little as the killer, Lothian and Borders Police are going to add humble pie to your diet for some time to come. Call me when you know.’

As he drove over to the science campus at the university Steven found himself uncertain of what he was hoping for. He was in what the papers liked to call a no-win situation. If Susan Givens confirmed the earlier DNA fingerprint findings, then Hector Combe’s claims were nonsense — as common sense decreed they must be — this would signal an end to the affair and he would have achieved nothing but the re-opening of old wounds. If, on the other hand, she found discrepancies which pointed to a miscarriage of justice, it would be too late to rescue David Little: he was already on death row and there was no way back.

‘ Good morning,’ said Susan Givens. She slid a copy of The Herald newspaper across her desk towards him. ‘I see that your concerns have been made public.’

Steven glanced at the heading, ‘Ill fated Summers Case to be Re-opened?’ and nodded. ‘I could have done without that,’ he said.

‘ I’ll bet,’ said Susan, getting up and moving over to another desk where she switched on a light box of the type used by doctors to view X-rays. Instead of being on the wall this one lay flat on the desk. She placed two photographic negatives side by side on the surface.

‘ The DNA profile on the left is the one I obtained from the David Little buccal smear that you took at the prison the other day; the one on the right is from one of the semen samples stored by the forensics lab.’

‘ They’re the same,’ murmured Steven, seeing immediately that the band patterns were identical.

‘ They are,’ agreed Susan. ‘Your man is guilty.’

Steven felt a sensation of extreme tiredness sweep over him. He hadn’t realised that he’d been so tense and now he felt positively deflated. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Thanks for that.’

Susan put another photograph on the light box and said, ‘This is the DNA fingerprint of the original buccal smear taken from Little at the time of the murder. As you can see, it matches the others. It was taken from him all right. There was no mix-up.’

‘ Game, set and match,’ said Steven. ‘I’m grateful to you, Doctor.’

‘ There is one odd thing,’ said Susan, rearranging the photographs and handing Steven a hand lens. ‘If you look closely you’ll see a phenomenon we call ghosting.’

Steven bent down to examine the photos and asked, ‘Do you mean these faint extra bands?’

‘ That’s right. They weren’t present on the prints that the prosecution submitted in evidence.’

‘ So you were right about them cleaning up the pictures? said Steven.

Susan shrugged. ‘Some might argue that the extra bands have something to do with long time storage of the samples.’

‘ But you don’t think so?’

‘ I’d still bet on a clean up,’ said Susan.

Steven, remembering their earlier conversation about what kind of alteration was acceptable, asked the question.

‘ A toughie,’ smiled Susan. ‘Usually ghosting occurs as the result of small amounts of material leaking away from the inoculation wells and causing faint bands at the side of the main track — a simple mechanical fault, if you like — but these are different. The extra bands aren’t ghosts of the originals because they occur at different positions and they also occur in the same track as the major bands.’

‘ What do you think that means?’ asked Steven.

‘ Possibly breakdown products because the samples are old.’

‘ But if that were the case, they wouldn’t have been present on the original gels so there would have been no need to clean them up?’ suggested Steven.

‘ Good point,’ conceded Susan. ‘The truth is I simply don’t know.’

‘ Would an expert viewing these gel photographs at the time have noticed that they had been cleaned up?’ he asked.

Susan said, ‘Almost certainly. The technology wasn’t good in these days. Gels were usually a bit messy so a very clean one would immediately have aroused suspicion.’

‘ If it had ever been shown to an expert,’ murmured Steven, thinking about Verdi’s failure to question the prosecution evidence.

‘ I take it it never was?’ said Susan.

Steven shook his head and said, ‘Do you think the presence of these ghost bands would have been grounds for questioning the evidence?’

‘ No,’ said Susan firmly. ‘I daresay some lawyers might have tried it but the bottom-line as far as science is concerned remains that the semen came from David Little. There’s no doubt about that.’

‘ As long as that’s clear,’ said Steven; he took another look at the gel photographs lying on the light box and murmured, ‘Truth lies at the bottom of a well.’

‘ Who said that?’ asked Susan, smiling at the pun.

‘ It’s a Greek proverb,’ said Steven.

‘ Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,’ said Susan.

‘ I fear the Greeks…’

‘ Even when they bring gifts,’ completed Susan. ‘Virgil. A Roman sentiment.’

Steven smiled and said, ‘Thanks for your help. I appreciate it.’

‘ You’re welcome. I’m sure the university will charge the Home Office handsomely for it.’

‘ Don’t you get paid personally?’

‘ That’s not the way the university does things,’ smiled Susan.

‘ Then maybe I could buy you dinner?’

‘ That would be very nice,’ said Susan, sounding at first surprised and then pleased. ‘Thank you.’

‘ I’ll be away this weekend — I’m going down to Dumfries to see my daughter — but I’ll be back on Monday. How about Monday night?’

‘ Fine,’ said Susan.

Steven left, saying that he would call her at the university on Monday to finalise arrangements. He was already looking forward to spending the evening with her. He suspected she knew a lot about a lot and he enjoyed the company of bright women.

Steven wondered which of the three he should tell first, Macmillan, McClintock or David Little. He decided on Little because it seemed only right although he knew that Little was a man almost beyond caring. Forty-five minutes later he was standing in an assistant governor’s office at Barlinnie, hearing him say, ‘I think we know who talked to the papers but we can’t prove it.’

Steven nodded. He didn’t much care because the damage had been done. He was not interested in apportioning blame after the event. ‘The tests confirmed Little as being Julie’s murderer. I’d like to tell him personally,’ said Steven.

‘ Well, thank Christ for that. Claiming wrongful conviction seems to be a national sport these days. Little’s been moved. He’s not well. I’ll get someone to take you down.’

Steven had to wait for a few minutes before being escorted to see Little by the same prison officer who’d accompanied him on the last occasion, the man with the harelip. Steven would have put money on him being the source of the leak but he didn’t give any outward sign of this. He did wonder however, if the same man was under suspicion by the prison and this was why he’d been detailed to accompany him again. This time the authorities might be counting on him leaking the new result to the papers.

As they walked along the corridors it became clear that the prisoners had their own ideas about what had been going on. A muted chorus of, ‘McGregor’s off to sunny Spain, Viva Espa n a,’ broke out to mark their progress and brought an angry flush to the cheeks of the officer. Steven pretended that he had heard nothing. His inner feelings of amusement evaporated in an instant however, when he saw the state of Little.

Little had been moved to accommodation of the type used for prisoners who were ill and required medical care but who were not going to be moved to hospital for whatever reason. Little was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling and taking rapid, shallow breaths. If anything he seemed even paler than last time and his cheekbones were making him look positively skeletal.

‘ It’s you,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Come to tell me it’s all been a horrible mistake.’ He tried to laugh but a cough beat him to it and seemed to rattle his very ribs. He picked up a metal bowl that sat beside his bunk and spat into it. His lack of energy and co-ordination made it a messy business and bloodstained sputum trickled down his chin as he fell back on the pillow, seemingly exhausted.

Steven took out a couple of surgical gloves from the box by the sink and put them on. He picked up a pack of surgical wipes and cleaned Little’s face before dumping both gloves and the used wipes in the pedal bin marked ‘Biological Waste.’

‘ No, I haven’t,’ he said. ‘The tests proved beyond doubt that it was your semen they found in Julie Summers’ body.’

Little shook his head despairingly and resumed his survey of the ceiling. ‘It just cannot be,’ he murmured. ‘I didn’t do it.’

Steven remained impassive.

‘ Christ!’ exclaimed Little angrily after a moment’s thought. ‘I actually allowed myself to believe that you were going to come up with something where the others failed or didn’t even bother. And what happens? I get kicked in the balls again. Fuck! I just can’t win.’

Little’s emotional outburst brought on more coughing and Steven gloved up again before helping him through it. He held his bony shoulders while Little hacked in protest at the pneumonia that was attacking his defenceless lungs. A sudden clunk in the bowl made him look down to see with revulsion that one of Little’s teeth had come out of his gum and now lay in the bowl attached to a stringy piece of bloody tissue. Little’s gums had been retracting with his severe weight loss. ‘I’ll get you some help,’ Steven said.

Little spat out some blood from his mouth and held up his hand. ‘No,’ he said, looking at Steven with eyes that were dark pools. ‘Just fuck off, will you?’

Steven arranged for medical staff to see to Little before walking back to the office with McGregor.

‘ I take it you had bad news for him then,’ said the officer. ‘Good. Maybe that’ll stop the bastard playing the injured innocent from now on.’

‘ Si,’ said Steven as the strains of Viva Espa n a broke out again.

Steven called Macmillan from the car park and gave him the news.

‘ I won’t pretend I’m not relieved,’ said Macmillan.

‘ I’ve just told Little,’ said Steven. ‘And now I feel awful.’

‘ You raised his hopes?’

‘ I didn’t mean to, but yes, I did. For whatever reason — and don’t quote the Boys’ Own Psychiatry Manual at me — the man still clings to the delusion that he’s innocent. He must have seen me as the saviour he’s been waiting eight years for. For my part, I just had to make sure the DNA tests were right.’

‘You intentions were honourable,’ said Macmillan. ‘You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘ Thanks,’ said Steven.

‘ As to whether Lothian and Borders Police are going to share that view, that’s another matter. Have you told them?’

‘ Not yet. I’ll call DI McClintock before I drive down to see Jenny tonight.’

‘ When will you be back in London?’

‘ I thought I might take a couple of days off at the start of the week to clear up here and say thanks to a couple of people. I’ll see you Wednesday, Thursday at the latest.’

‘ You are going to let this go now, aren’t you?’ asked Macmillan.

‘ That’s what I agreed,’ replied Steven.

‘ But the bad feeling remains?’

‘ Yes.’

‘ See you Wednesday.’

Steven drove back to Edinburgh haunted by images of Little’s tooth falling out of his gum and the dead look in his eyes when he’d told him to get out. Even if the man’s proclaimed innocence was down to self-delusion, the feelings inside his head must surely be the same as if he really were innocent, he reasoned and that must come pretty close to being hell on earth. The loss of wife and family, eight years of solitary confinement, the onset of full-blown AIDS and now he had just done his bit to make matters worse. Talk about kicking a man when he was down.

Steven lingered in the shower when he got back, hoping the warm water would wash away some of the stress of the day. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the water cascading off his shoulders, using it as white noise to block out all other thoughts. He sought the temporary absolution that would allow him leave his professional self behind and step into the role of being Jenny’s father again. He wanted to join her world, unfettered by thoughts of his job, thoughts that she must know nothing about with its cast of Hector Combes and David Littles. Tomorrow he would take her and Sue’s two kids to the swimming pool in Dumfries and be an ordinary father and uncle doing what ordinary folk did at the weekends. This was the plan but first he would have to call McClintock. He did that, sitting on the bed, rubbing his hair with a towel.

‘ Thank Christ for that,’ said McClintock when Steven gave him the news. ‘I’m so relieved I won’t even say I told you so.’

‘ Kind of you,’ said Steven. ‘We’ll have a beer before I go back to London, huh?’

‘ Sure thing. Are you going to tell the papers?’

‘ That’s being taken care of,’ said Steven.

‘ Fair enough. Don’t feel too bad about this. You were right about there being a lot wrong with the Summers case but at least we didn’t stitch up the wrong guy.’

‘ There’s still some mileage in taking a look at Paul Verdi’s involvement with the police lab at the time though,’ said Steven.

‘ We can talk about that before you go,’ said McClintock. ‘Want to make it tonight?’

Steven apologised, saying that he was going down to Dumfriesshire. He’d call and fix up something when he got back.

Following one of his practised rituals of the changing of lifestyles, he put on a pair of black Levi jeans and a Nike sweatshirt instead of one of the dark suits he wore during the week. He pulled on a pair of K-Swiss trainers and finally slipped on a tan leather blousson before grabbing his travel bag and heading for the car park. All that was required now was that his mind would play along with the game. It got off to a bad start when he found himself humming Viva Espa n a.

He pressed the remote button on his key to unlock the car door but nothing happened. He tried twice more before realising that it was already unlocked. He must have forgotten to lock it when he’d got back from Glasgow. He didn’t usually forget to do that but then his mind had been on other things. He got in and turned on the radio, searching briefly through the stations for some middle-of-the-road music, before starting the car.

Ella Fitzgerald was singing, Take the A train, when the man who’d been hiding in the back of the car suddenly sat up and clamped something over Steven’s face. He held it there with vice-like fingers. Steven’s attempts to get to grips with his assailant were hampered by the seat’s headrest and by the time he’d changed tactics to trying to prise the man’s fingers off his face, the sweet heady scent of chloroform had subverted his senses and lulled him into unconsciousness.