*
MacKenzie arrived back at Cragside to supervise what was supposed to be a simple forensic process, along with Tom Faulkner who came armed with a job lot of buccal swabs. He and his team of CSIs had returned for another day at Cragside to continue sweeping the area where Alice Chapman’s body had been found the day before, as well as the uppermost tower room where she had spent most of her working day. It should have been an easy task to take half an hour away from his ordinary duties to swipe the inside of each person’s cheek, having already obtained their voluntary consent on condition that the record would be destroyed afterward if it proved irrelevant to their investigation. Instead, they were met at the door by a smug-looking Martin Henderson, flanked by what could only be his solicitor. After so many years in the business, MacKenzie had learned to spot one at fifty paces.
“Good morning,” she said mildly, reaching for her warrant card.
It was thoroughly inspected.
“I have an appointment at nine-thirty to take DNA swabs,” she continued, in a no-nonsense tone. “Is everybody assembled?”
“I’ve told them all to get on with work as usual and you certainly can’t disturb the Gilberts because they’re resting,” Henderson sneered. “I’ve discussed it with my solicitor and she tells me that the detective constable had no right to coerce our consent yesterday.”
The solicitor bobbed her brassy blonde head and gave MacKenzie what could only be described as a very female look.
Her Irish hackles went up.
“There was no coercion involved whatsoever, and I resent the implication. Detective Constable Lowerson was fully within his rights to seek voluntary consent,” MacKenzie shot back.
“Ah, but the consent isn’t valid if we’re bullied into it,” Henderson told her. “Besides, you need to arrest me before you can take a sample. I know a bit about the law, you know. I did a night course.”
“Well done,” MacKenzie crooned, wondering if it was obtained from the University of Moronic Behaviour. “Would you like a medal?”
“Did you hear that?” he almost shouted at the woman standing silently beside him, racking up billable hours. “She antagonised me. I’m starting to feel harassed.”
MacKenzie gave him a withering look.
“You know, I’m really starting to wonder why you’re the only person raising obstacles to this enquiry,” she said, ever so softly. “It makes me wonder what it is you’re hiding, Mr Henderson.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he spat.
MacKenzie held his skittish gaze for a moment, measuring the man, then smiled pleasantly.
“In any event, it’s very convenient your lawyer is here. Since you are now repudiating your consent, that leaves me no choice but to enforce section sixty-three, sub-section four of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984. Thanks to your extensive legal knowledge, I’m sure you’re already aware, Mr Henderson, that it empowers me to take a non-intimate DNA sample prior to charging you with an offence where it will tend to disprove…or prove your involvement in a recordable offence.”
His face lost colour and he turned to the woman standing beside him like a dummy.
“Melissa? Say something!”
“I’ll be happy to stay on for an extra hour,” she said, consulting an expensive watch on her bony wrist. “There’ll be a surcharge, of course.”
MacKenzie gave them another smile as she swept into the house.
“I’m so pleased we were able to clear up that little misunderstanding.”
CHAPTER 20
Thanks to Henderson’s interference, it took MacKenzie forty-five minutes to locate the eight people who had agreed to give a DNA sample. Having followed the advice of a seemingly legitimate solicitor and influenced by their officious estate manager, the staff had gone about their ordinary business. Unfortunately for the police, that took them to all corners of the vast estate and cost the investigation valuable time.
Which was surely the intention.
The Gilberts were the easiest to find. Cassandra and Lionel kept to their rooms upstairs while they recovered from the flu virus which, by now, was starting to spread to the rest of the household. Maggie, the housekeeper, was on hand to take care of them and had begun to develop a sniffle herself. Henderson had stormed off immediately after his cheek had been swabbed and hadn’t been seen since. Charlotte Shapiro had been found in the nursery with all six under-gardeners, discussing plans for an undeveloped area in the north-west gardens. There were no other staff members on site while the estate remained cordoned off and the forensic work continued.
MacKenzie finally found Dave Quibble in the drawing room, where he was crouched beside a table near the door poring over a large porcelain lamp with a painted shepherdess on the side.
“Sorry to disturb you,” MacKenzie said. “We’re ready to take the swab from you now, Mr Quibble.”
“Ah,” he stood up straight and turned to greet MacKenzie, whom he hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting before.
He didn’t know what he had expected from a female detective inspector, but it certainly wasn’t an attractive redhead with direct green eyes and an Irish accent that could have melted butter.
“Very pleased to meet you,” he said, a bit flustered.
MacKenzie dutifully shook his hand.
“This should only take a minute, Mr Quibble—”
“Dave.”
“If you’d like to follow me to the staff room.”
As they walked down the long gallery toward the main stairwell, MacKenzie tried to put him at his ease by asking some basic questions.
“I understand you’re the conservation manager,” she began. “That must be a lot of work.”
“Oh, it never feels like work,” he said. “I love my job, especially the electrics in this place. Absolutely fascinating.”
MacKenzie had done a bit of research on the old house.
“I understand everything operates on hydro-power, as far as possible.”
“Yes, that’s right. You just caught me trying to figure out how on earth the fuse was blown the other night.”
“And, have you figured it out yet?”
“Well, we’ve been looking around the house now that the CSIs have finished inside the main rooms to see where the problem lies, although I suspect I’ll have to call in an electrician. I happened to notice that one of the old lamps had a frayed cord and there’s a wine spillage on the carpet nearby. I wonder if somebody spilled a drink on it and managed to blow the fuse.”
MacKenzie thought back to the statements she had taken on Sunday and of Charlotte Shapiro, but said nothing.
“I hope you get to the bottom of it,” she murmured.