‘I see.’
‘So it’s in all of our interests to get as much evidence together as possible and create a nice watertight case from the start. Then the defence has no room for manoeuvre and is more likely to go with a guilty plea to get a lesser sentence for the accused.’
Hart smiled. ‘You’ve convinced me, Sergeant. You’ll have full co-operation from this office. Let’s get the bastard who did this thing.’
30
Monday
Sean Gibson was gaunt and bony, with yellow skin that barely covered the network of veins and arteries in his body underneath.
When Fry saw him on Monday morning, she was reminded of Juliana van Doon’s description of a waste product in the blood, bilirubin. It caused the yellow colour in bruises, and it was also what turned the skin yellow if there was too much for the liver to get rid of. But Sean Gibson wasn’t suffering from jaundice. The colour of his skin was the result of age, and a body abused by alcohol and drugs, not to mention a bad diet.
Sometimes, Fry wondered if the human race was evolving in reverse, gradually regressing to stunted troglodytes with primitive language skills and shorter lifespans. Sean Gibson was well along that evolutionary path.
DCI Mackenzie’s team had Gibson in an interview room, sweating it out as he made a world record attempt for the number of times he could say ‘no comment’.
‘We’ve pulled his brother in too,’ said Mackenzie. ‘He had a trail bike hidden in a shed at his address. The tread on the tyres matches the tracks made in the wood.’
The DCI had called in to see Fry while a DS from his team took over the interviewing. He was a big man, over six feet tall and wide across the shoulders, and he had the air of a rich uncle visiting distant cousins. Fry recalled the first time she’d worked with him. He was the only person who could ever have thought she was a farm girl. Everything was relative.
‘The theory we’re working on is that the Gibson brothers were aware that the Nokia mobile phone had been left behind at the crime scene and were making an attempt to retrieve it when they thought it would be quiet. Lucky your local farmer Mr Maskrey spotted him. Though obviously we can’t condone the use of a shotgun.’
He gave each of the local CID officers a shrewd stare, weighing them up in that way an experienced officer did, even with colleagues. His gaze dwelled briefly on Gavin Murfin, then moved on to the younger DCs, who seemed to meet with approval.
‘They would have had to watch the forensic teams working at the scene,’ said Mackenzie, ‘to be able to tell when the water level had fallen sufficiently and there was no one around. I don’t know how they did that.’
‘From the rocks above,’ said Fry automatically.
‘Oh? Well, you’re probably right, DS Fry. Local knowledge and all that. But we were lucky that your vagrant identified Ryan Gibson.’
‘My vagrant? Do you mean the man who calls himself Spikey Clarke?’
Mackenzie looked at her with his head tilted on one side. She’d seen that mannerism in him before, and she’d come to dislike it.
‘Didn’t you know that Mr Clarke witnessed the incident with the farmer and got a good look at the biker?’ he said.
Fry shook her head. Mackenzie reached out a hand, and for a moment she thought he was going to pat her on the arm consolingly.
‘Well, don’t worry, Diane. It’s all dealt with now. And we’re getting some useful results from the analysis of Mr Turner’s computer too. That’s a bonus.’
As soon as his back was turned, Fry cursed under her breath. This wasn’t supposed to be the way it went.
‘I’m very glad we were able to raise the priority of this inquiry and move against some known suspects,’ said DCI Mackenzie before he left. ‘Thanks to good intelligence.’
Irvine looked at Fry when he’d gone. ‘What intelligence, Diane?’
Fry threw her hands in the air. She didn’t know. But she was afraid she might be able to have a good guess.
Later that day, it struck Fry that Nathan Baird was almost as thin and gaunt as Sean Gibson, though perhaps for a different reason. But only perhaps. His sharp cheekbones were a design feature, like the oak finish desk in his office at Prospectus Assurance.
‘Insurance fraud?’ he said. ‘Yes, everyone regards it as a victimless crime. But the fact is, fraudulent claims add about fifty pounds a year to the insurance bill of every honest customer. Undetected claims fraud costs the industry more than two billion pounds a year. And it’s rising every year.’
‘What type of fraud?’ asked Fry.
Baird gestured at her eagerly. ‘Home insurance frauds are the most common, though the highest-value claims are in the motor insurance sector – that costs nearly six hundred million pounds a year. We’re talking big numbers either way, Sergeant.’