Chapter 12
A Turn of Events
Manchester
DCI Oliver Townsend stared down at the afternoon edition of the paper. The headline read:
JUDGE INDICTED ON FRAUD AND brIBERY CHARGES
Judge Stephen Gilmore of Manchester has been taken into custody on charges of bribery and fraud.
An ongoing investigation by Serious Fraud Office produced evidence for the arrest of the judge.
If found guilty, Gilmore could serve up to ten years in jail and be permanently barred from any and all solicitation duties. He is awaiting a court date.
Oliver clicked his tongue. “Well, well. They finally caught up with you, you bounder.” Now it was a matter of clearing Henry’s name. It would entail some surreptitious activity, but Oliver had been waiting for this opportunity for a decade.
Oliver recalled Henry’s telling of the incident.
There were two men. The counselor was struggling with the one in a camel-hair coat, who began to poke a gun at his chest. The gun went off, the counselor fell to the ground and the men took off.
Henry ran to assist the bleeding man. Unthinking, Henry moved the gun out of the way so he could administer first aid.
When the police arrived Henry was leaning over the victim.
A large envelope filled with several thousand pounds was strewn on the ground.
Henry had blood on his hands. Literally.
It appeared to be an open-and-shut case.
Oliver wondered if they ran the gun for prints, or did they simply assume Henry did it?
Henry never had the opportunity to explain what happened.
It was obvious to Oliver that Henry was being framed by someone who was very influential.
Henry described the man who passed him on his way out of the courthouse, the morning after the incident.
The same man who was recently arrested for bribery and fraud, Judge Stephen Gilmore.
Oliver’s most important challenge was to get a copy of the judge’s fingerprints from the Serious Fraud Office files.
That was going to take some clever and creative thinking.
He also had to review the file from the crime from so many years ago.
He had to get his hands on the weapon and the fingerprint results to be sure they had dusted every nook and cranny of the gun.
If not, he would have to request another test, which could raise a lot of eyebrows.
It would depend on what information the forms required.
He decided he’d put that concern on the back burner.
Oliver didn’t want to do his own detective work while he was technically working for the GMP.
Nor did he want anyone to know what he was investigating.
It could invite interference and meddling.
It was in everyone’s best interest to keep it mum, until he was certain he could connect the judge to a ten-year-old murder.
He waited until the end of the day when the room was quiet, with only he and another detective at their desks. Oliver surmised the younger detective was studying for his next exam.
Oliver logged into the main data source for Greater Manchester and began to search the archived incident reports. It took nearly half an hour to locate the one where Henry was listed as a suspect in the murder, and for evading the police.
Henry’s account of what happened that afternoon behind the bank tracked with what he told Oliver when Oliver went to Henry’s house to warn him of what was coming.
He continued to read through hours of transcripts from Henry’s interrogation.
His story never changed, down to the camel-hair coat the man with the gun was wearing.
A very similar one the judge was known to wear.
If only Oliver could get a photo of the judge’s shoes.
Men rarely change their style, especially the stodgy ones.
He was deep in thought when the other detective approached his desk.
Oliver quickly hit the escape button to turn off the screen.
“Sir. I’m going to grab some takeaway. Can I get you anything?”
“What do ya fancy?” Oliver inquired with a slight smile, carefully concealing his intense mood.
“I’m thinkin’ Indian. Chicken tikka and naan?”
“Sounds good with me.” Oliver reached for his wallet and handed his colleague twenty pounds. “Get me a Stella Artois as well.”
The younger detective looked at him curiously. “It’s not really my place to say, sir, but drinkin’ on the job?”
“I am off the clock.” He pointed his pen to the digital timepiece on the wall.
“Right, sir.” He took the bill, grabbed his jacket, and headed out the door.
Oliver’s challenge now was to gain access to the files that the Serious Fraud Office had against the judge. It was above his pay grade, and his clearance, but he had to get a copy of the judge’s fingerprints for comparison. He came up with an idea and phoned the clerk’s office in London.
“This is Detective Inspector Oliver Townsend, badge number 4372, Manchester. I’m working on a cold case and I need to obtain a copy of fingerprints for someone who is being held by SFO.” Oliver sounded polite and efficient.
The person on the other end was willing to comply. “Right, sir. One moment. I shall connect you to the proper person.”
Oliver took a deep breath and with the same sense of authenticity and authority he repeated the reason for the call to one of the clerks.
Oliver was counting on the fact it was after hours and part-time people were on duty since there was little to do.
Another “Right, sir. Spell the name and please give me your email address.”
Oliver was pleased and horrified it was this easy.
But he certainly wasn’t going to file a complaint.
A few minutes later the clerk announced it had been sent.
Oliver heard the ding on his computer alerting him there was a new email.
He checked his in-box, and there it was.
He hurriedly downloaded the file in case the person on the other end of the phone had misgivings and recalled the email.
“Thanks very much. You’ve been extremely helpful.
” Oliver ended the call and copied the SFO fingerprint file to a flash drive along with the original police report.
It was going to be tonight’s bedtime reading.
He let out a huge exhale then grunted. Have I been holding my breath the entire time?
The younger detective returned with a parcel of food and Oliver’s beer. “Thanks, mate,” Oliver said as he pulled a chair next to the other officer’s desk. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all, sir.”
Oliver grabbed some paper towels and spread them on the desk, and they began to share their dinner.
Light chitchat about the younger detective’s family, and his participation in the department’s cricket team.
Oliver was known to be a private person and kept his personal business personal.
Not that he had much to share. He had been a widower for several years and developed a routine: up early, feed the cat, brew a pot of coffee, eat a scone, shower, ride his bike to work, work until he was finished, and grab some takeaway as he headed home.
On the weekends he’d go to a football game with a few of his friends.
Uncomplicated. Except for one thing. His other activity: his clandestine routine for Henry and Kathleen.
When they finished their food Oliver decided it was time for him to head home and start his new project: clearing Henry’s name.
As he was cycling toward his flat, it dawned on him that he wasn’t sure of Henry’s exact location.
The address was a PO box in Swindon, but that didn’t necessarily mean he lived there.
He also wondered if he should give Henry a heads-up about his project.
As he continued his ride home, the more he thought about it the more he decided he didn’t want to give Henry false hope.
The main thing was to dig into those files and see if his hunch was correct, that they hadn’t done a complete fingerprint scan of the gun.
Twenty minutes later he arrived at his flat and brought his bike into the vestibule. When he unlocked the door, his cat, Watson, was patiently waiting in the kitchen doorway. “Good evening, Watson. And how was your day?” The big black cat rubbed against Oliver’s legs and meowed, “It’s about time.”
Oliver hung his coat, removed his shoes, and padded into the kitchen. He poured two fingers of whiskey for himself and opened a can of cat food for his four-legged pal. “There ye go, mate. Yer pops has got some homework to do, so I’ve got to crack on.”
Oliver moved the morning newspaper off the table and replaced it with his laptop.
He powered up the machine, pulled the flash drive out of his pocket, and inserted it in the computer with the hope of finally resolving this revolting situation.
He rubbed his hands together, took a sip of his drink, and began clicking away.