‘Videotrue has examined the CCTV footage of Fly and the expert has stated that there is red on his hand. He is willing to testify that it’s blood,’ Harriet says.
Davy feels an air pocket rise beneath his ribs, like heartburn or wind. It spears him and causes him to shift position in an attempt to dislodge it without making a rude noise.
‘Are you joking?’ Manon is saying.
‘I’m not joking, no.’
‘You can barely tell who it is. That footage is so grainy it could be Kim Kardashian in a hoodie. And anyway, you know full well that CCTV forensic science is the biggest load of bullshit since, since … You might as well consult some crystals. There’s no red on his hand, you know that, Harriet. Don’t do this. Don’t go down this road. Fucking hell.’ She is backing away, breathless, she starts to cry.
Davy’s heartburn is worsening. She’s right – Manon is right. Forensic CCTV analysis is dubious at best; at worst, it is guesswork destined to fulfil the needs of whoever commissioned it. Some expert witnesses in the States, so he’s heard, have even started asking police, ‘And what would you like us to find in this evidence?’
He knows where it can lead, that expert witnesses set great store by being experts and that their grip on righteousness can become vice-like in the face of doubt. The more their expertise is questioned, the more staunch they become. You only have to look at that shaken baby fella, Sir Roy something, and the way he put grieving mother after grieving mother in prison. You only have to look to America, where you can hire anyone to be your ‘expert’ and pay them to lay before the court their smoking gun. Davy is not happy being on Harriet’s side of the Videotrue evidence.
‘Anyway,’ Harriet is saying, in the same hush used by undertakers when handling the bereaved, ‘I’ll leave you to think about it.’ She goes out, leaving the door ajar. Manon slowly picks up her bag from the table at the edge of the room.
‘Wait,’ says Davy. He closes the door.
‘What?’ she says. ‘D’you want to arrest me under some fabricated charges as well?’
He has perched against the desk, his elbows bent behind him.
‘Something about this case isn’t right, Manon,’ he whispers.
‘No shit Sherlock.’
‘I’m feeling …’ he says, and he can’t look at her, instead fixes his gaze on his shoes, ‘I’m feeling unsure about certain aspects, that is to say, certain elements—’
‘Fuck’s sake, Davy.’
He looks up, meets her eyes. ‘I think we’ve narrowed too early. Stanton was very clear that Fly was good for it, that it was tidy.’
Manon is silent, waiting for him.
Davy whispers, ‘I think there are other avenues which haven’t been looked at. Stuff to do with Ross’s work in the City, his firm Dunlop & Finch. There are these emails, right, about a Chinese delegation coming to London and they’re wining and dining them, to get their business.’
She has perched next to him. ‘Go on.’
‘Just before he dies, there’s an email from his boss, van der Lupin, saying, “Vis-à-vis what happened at my house last week, it better not happen again. I’d strongly advise you to cut those ties.” Well, if that’s not a threat, then I don’t know what is.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then there’s another email, saying, “Xi Ping minded to sign with us provided the Carlton problem has been dealt with.” I think, at the very least, we should’ve found out what the Carlton problem was, don’t you?’
‘Where is this material?’
‘The emails have been pushed aside because they’re not relevant to the prosecution case against Fly. They’re in the low-priority folder on the Operations drive. You know, they’re not even going to be included in disclosure. So if you, y’know …’
‘Had a little rummage?’
‘Yes,’ whispers Davy, glancing at the door. ‘Well, you wouldn’t be breaking any protocols because you have access to the O drive anyway, don’t you? I mean, you’d be working on the O drive for your cold-case work so that’s not going to raise any alarm bells if they check your computer.’
She puts a hand on the top of his arm and lets it rest there.
‘What about Ross’s relationships?’ she asks.
‘You can look at the call data, that’s on the O drive too,’ says Davy. ‘There are lots of calls, between Ross and Ellie – very high frequency. There is also high traffic to another number, unknown 618. ‘
‘I’m so sure it’s a relationship thing. He was the world’s biggest love rat. It’s not Fly – you know that, right?’
‘I don’t know anything any more,’ Davy says.
‘You know me,’ Manon says.
‘Yes, I know you.’
Davy smiles at her.
‘I need to ask a favour,’ she says and at that moment he’d do anything for her, so guilty does he feel. ‘Can you watch Fly for me? I know you won’t be his favourite person but he’s taken me off his AV list, whereas you can just barge in without asking him. He’s got cuts up his arms.’ This causes her voice to swell and she wobbles out the words, high and tender. ‘They say he’s done it to himself. That Neil guy is a dick—’
‘A massive one,’ agrees Davy.
‘That place is eating into him, destroying him. I’m really worried. Will you go? Keep an eye out, make it clear to Neil that you’re all eyes on Arlidge House, duty of care, all that. Make sure nothing bad happens while I sort this out.’
‘Course,’ Davy says, and it makes him feel better to be able to do something for her.
Manon
‘Look for the affair,’ she mutters, clicking on the O drive. Manon has checked her area is deserted before getting into the Jon-Oliver Ross folder. On the A4 notepad beside her keyboard, she has scribbled Xi Ping? Emails? J-O ex-girlfriend?
Experience tells her the ex will go to the heart. The ex will know everything. The ex might even be their perp. She is trying to suppress mounting panic about the Videotrue evidence. She and Mark must send the same footage off to their own expert, so they can knock it down, tell the court what she knows: there is no red on his hand.
The first thing she notices is the volume of calls between Ross and Ellie, perhaps because she knows Ellie’s number off by heart and so the number leaps out from the grey lines of call data. A couple of the calls have lasted twenty and thirty minutes, late in the evening. What were they discussing at such length? Solomon?
She works her way through the call data, line upon line, through December, November, October, September. As she works backwards, she sees another number take over in frequency from Ellie’s, like batons in a relay. Unknown 618. Look for the affair, this is the affair, she’d put money on it. But the calls fade out as Ellie fades in. She must locate this person, ask her why. She texts Davy.
When did you last update the trace on unknown 618? Can you renew?
She prints a couple of documents to take home, the printer humming contentedly as her mobile vibrates. A text from Davy.