What’s Truth Got To Do With It?
David Crigman
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Librario
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Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2006 David Crigman
David Crigman has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the author’s permission.
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Table of Contents
About the author
A practising QC specialising in criminal cases. Educated at King Edward's School, Birmingham, and University of Leeds. Of indeterminate age. Married with one son. Frequently escapes the Courtroom to travel to remote places. Sometimes not sure what to do when he gets there.
Author’s Note
This novel is the first in a trilogy featuring the character Naomi Nicholas.
The constituent books are entitled:
What’s Truth Got To Do With It?
The Molecule Man
In Death We Trust
The time period covered within the whole trilogy runs from the mid- 1990s to the current day. Thus, the events in “What’s Truth Got To Do With It?” occur at the beginning of that time period and are deliberately set at a time prior to the enactment of The Criminal Justice Act 2003 which changed parts of the Law relevant to this story.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or criminal cases, or locales is entirely coincidental
PROLOGUE
There was something incongruous about the couple dressed in black as they emerged hurriedly from the doorway, turning sharp left into the dark alleyway beyond and heading towards Fleet Street. His hand upon her right arm appeared a touch too heavy, her head was turned almost defensively away from him and neither their step nor the contours of their bodies seemed in harmony. The bearded male was shorter than the female and significantly older with thread-veined cheeks, blotched complexion and drooped, puny shoulders. Yet she was so elegant and so strikingly beautiful. Beautiful, but acutely uncomfortable in his presence, as he talked at her incessantly, repeatedly thrusting his face towards her as they walked, their footsteps on the cobbled pathway echoing ominously off the high-walled buildings.
Displaying an agility and speed of foot that took her completely by surprise, he propelled her suddenly and violently into the narrower adjoining alleyway where there was no light at all. Whilst his timing was skilled, it was luck that decreed the absence of any passers-by as his wet mouth now urgently sought hers. His arms were wrapped tightly around the woman’s waist as his full weight forced her back against the crumbling brickwork of the wall behind, grinding the sharp particles of red brick into the fabric of her black, tailored jacket.
Still talking at her, his left hand moved clumsily to her breast and clutched fiercely at the prize he had been coveting all evening whilst his right hand went directly up her skirt and into her pants, his nails catching the top of her stockings and scratching her inner thigh. Surprise, disgust and fear had effectively paralysed her and it was not until she felt his fingers actually seeking entry that she was able to react. His excitement was intense as he probed and squeezed, still leaning heavily against her, his rough beard against her soft cheek whilst his breathing came in quick gasps. As his tongue forced its way into her mouth, her mind gradually came under control. Despite this attack being in the middle of London, there were no people to help her. Fleet Street was over a hundred yards away. This alley was unused at night. She was alone. In the pitch black. And this man had power. Should she succumb or should she fight?
CHAPTER 1
CROWN PROSECUTION SERVICE
STATEMENT OF EVIDENCE
WITNESS STATEMENT
(Criminal Justice Act 1967 Section 9; Magistrates Courts Act 1980
Sections 5A(3) (a) and 5B; Magistrates Courts Rules 1981 Rule 70)
Statement of: CHECKLEY, SARAH ANN (nee PARKES)
Age if under 18: OVER 18
Occupation: HOUSEWIFE
This statement, consisting of 14 pages, each signed by me, is true to the best of my knowledge and belief and I make it knowing that, if it is tendered in evidence, I shall be liable to prosecution if I have wilfully stated anything which I know to be false or do not believe to be true
Signed: S. A. CHECKLEY
I am the above named person and reside at Blossomfields, Alwoodley, Leeds, with my husband, Paul Michael Checkley and our three-year-old daughter, Emily. I am giving the information contained in this Statement to police officers from my bed in Ward 17 at St James’s Hospital. The doctors have told me that I am still in shock but I have a very clear recollection of what happened.
Last Tuesday, at about 11 p.m., I was downstairs in the kitchen of our house making myself a drink before retiring to bed. My husband was out, attending a black tie boxing event at the Mountjoy Hotel in the City Centre and was not due back until after midnight. Our daughter had gone to bed at about 8 p.m. and I had been watching the television alone in the main sitting room since that time.
Whilst in the kitchen I thought that I heard the sound of breaking glass. It was a faint sound and I formed the impression that it came from the area of my husband’s study on the first floor at the end of the house, furthest away from where I was in the kitchen. Our property is gated and has sophisticated security lighting and alarms. The alarms were not yet switched on as my husband was still out but I would have been aware of the exterior security lighting coming on if an intruder had entered the grounds of our house. I am sure that these lights had not been activated.
I stood in the kitchen for a moment listening but could hear nothing. There is a telephone in the kitchen and I tried telephoning my husband on his mobile phone but it was switched off. I did not leave a message. I knew that I must check that my daughter was all right but was nervous about leaving the kitchen. Remaining unsure that I had actually heard the sound of glass breaking, I was reluctant to phone the police. Our property is remote and I knew it would likely take any police vehicle several minutes to arrive and, in reality, I was unconvinced that anybody could have got into our house.
There is a large broom cupboard in the kitchen close to the back door in which my husband keeps his golf clubs. I went to the cupboard and pulled out a club at random. It was a Number 5 iron. Armed with the golf club I walked across the kitchen towards the door leading into the hall. When I was a few feet from the door I saw that the door handle was moving downwards very slowly. I froze on the spot. I knew instinctively that it would not be Emily as she never wakes up in the night once she has gone to sleep. I realised that there must be an intruder in the house.
I quickly moved to a position behind the door. I was barefoot and made no noise. The handle was continuing to move downwards and the door was very gradually beginning to open inwards. I knew that I would only have seconds to decide what action to take because when the door came into contact with my body the intruder would be immediately aware of my presence.
I manoeuvred my body and arm into the best position to get a good swing with the golf club, but my movement was restricted by my proximity to the wall and so I slid my hand down the shaft of the club which, whilst reducing the force I would be able to apply, gave me more room to swing. These thoughts and actions were taking fractions of a second, but my mind was racing to the clear conclusion that I was prepared to use the club and must make sure that I did so with as much force as I could achieve in the circumstances so as to disable the intruder. I was so petrified that I felt as if I had left my body and was watching my own actions from a distance.
The door opened 2 or 3 feet and I saw the rear and right hand side of the upper body of a person begin to edge into the room. The head was craning forward, obviously enabling the man to look into the kitchen as he entered. I only had time to observe that the head was completely covered in some kind of material and that the upper body was wearing a closefitting, dark coloured shell suit type of garment. By this time he was half a step into the kitchen and was still pushing the door open. Within less than a second he would either turn and see me or at least sense my presence. Despite all of my efforts at self control, I actually heard myself involuntarily whimper in terror, prompting the head to turn sharply towards me and then the body began to surge forward. I took one step out of the corner and swung the golf club with all my force at his head. He must have turned at the last moment because the contact was with the back of his head and the back of his neck. Whilst my movement had been restricted and the arc of the swing lessened by my low grip on the shaft, I knew that I had delivered a heavy blow and was not surprised to see him stagger as if he was going to the floor. My intention was to press the panic alarm button on the landing which would alert the police through a call centre, grab Emily and then run to the car and drive away.
I heard him struggling to breathe and gasping in pain and then he collapsed on to the floor. The way he fell suggested to me that whilst he was badly hurt, he was still conscious and I knew that I had to act and move with great speed. It did occur to me to strike him again but I thought if I swung the club at his head with a full, unimpeded swing now available to me, then I would probably kill him and so I did not strike for a second time.
I did not take in very much more about him except for the covered head, dark upper clothing and the shell suit bottoms but I did particularly notice his footwear. He was wearing very thin shoes, which looked to me like ballet shoes. I could see that he wore poor quality, black socks and that he was white. It was only the skin of his left lower leg above the sock becoming exposed as he went to the ground that enabled me to see that he was white. He wore beige, tight, rubber gloves, like surgeon’s gloves, so that no other part of his skin was visible. I could now also see that the garment covering the whole of his head and neck was a navy blue, fullface ski mask, to which an additional section of material had been sewn at the bottom, so as to create an extra skirt which extended the coverage cross his upper chest and back.
All of these observations and decisions took, literally, a split second, for as I looked I started to run out of the room. I had to jump over him as he went to the ground and I feared that he would reach out and grab my legs, but I made it through the door. I was wearing jeans and a woollen sweater but, being barefoot, I actually felt my foot brush against the material of his upper garment as I leapt through the door. I have a vivid memory of the sensation of my skin against the material and I remember that the material felt soft and smooth. The sensation of that physical contact with him made me actually vomit as I ran to the stairs. I tried to shout Emily’s name but my throat felt constricted and my voice had no power.
We have three flights of stairs, with two quarter-landings where the staircase turns. The nearest panic button was on the second quarterlanding. I could only have been three or four steps from it when his hand caught my ankle. I had not heard him in pursuit, perhaps because my brain was just teeming with fear.
The grip of the rubber glove on the bare flesh of my ankle petrified me. I tried to scream but could only make feeble, animal-like whimpers as he dragged me backwards down the stairs into the hall. I was on my back and side and bumped down every step, dropping the golf club as I went. His grip was like a vice. I begged him to stop. He did not speak. At the bottom of the stairs I lay on my back and he stood above me. I could now see clearly that he was wearing ballet shoes. They were black.
I began telling him that he could take whatever he wanted, but before I could complete even a few words he lifted one of his legs and stamped with all of his weight and force on my stomach. I had never experienced such pain. I could not breathe in or out, nor could I shout. It felt as if his foot had smashed all of my internal organs against my spine. I did not believe that I had any chance of surviving. I thought he would also kill Emily if he had not already done so.
Through the pain I saw him lean down and reach out towards my chest. The area at the bottom of the stairs where I lay was lit only by the light coming from the kitchen and it was only as his hand passed close to my chest that I saw the knife. The blade was long and narrow, like a filleting knife. He held it with his thumb uppermost and sliced me in an upwards direction. It was done slowly and deliberately with the blade ripping open my jumper at waist level and the blade entering my body at just above my navel and being drawn up my body and running straight between my breasts.
I was still in such pain from the stamp that I could not feel myself being cut, but I could feel the wetness and stickiness of my own blood flowing from the long wound. The knife was so sharp that he was able to cut me open with seemingly very little effort. I have been told by the surgeon who operated on me later that the wound was fourteen inches long and between one and two inches deep. The surgeon’s view was that he had not intended to kill me, but to terrify me and disfigure me. His mask had slits for the eyes but I could see nothing of them. He had still not spoken and the effects of my blow with the golf club appeared to have worn off. Now I had no doubt that I was going to be killed.
He bent down over me and squeezed my lower face in a pincer grip with the thumb and fingers of his right hand. I remember smelling the rubber of his gloves. I could not see the knife, but he must have transferred it to his left hand for I then felt it slice open my jeans and pants at crutch level and could feel the coldness of the point of the blade pressing right between my legs. I waited for him to cut inwards and upwards but instead he spoke. I can remember his exact words. They were spoken in a grating voice with his face only inches from mine and, as he spoke, he was beginning to penetrate my vagina with the knife at the same time as increasing the pressure on my face.
“I know there’s a safe in the house. Take me to it or I finish opening you up, you privileged bitch.”
Despite the voice being partially muffled by the mask and, despite my pain and terror, I was able to recognise the lilt in the voice and the hardness of the accent. This man had been brought up or had lived in the north-east of England.
There is a small safe fitted and hidden beneath the floor of our bedroom. I have no idea how he knew of its existence as my husband and I are extremely discreet and cautious about such matters. Access to the safe is gained by rolling back a rug and lifting a specially constructed trap door. The safe itself is a combination safe and I do know the combination. I also knew that inside the safe was most of my jewellery which is valued at approximately £250,000, some important documents including our wills and house deeds, about £200 in cash and in excess of £20,000 in American dollars which is something to do with a business arrangement made by my husband last week. Normally we only kept important documents and my jewellery in the safe, with a small amount of cash.
I immediately told him that the safe was in the bedroom and I would open it. As soon as I agreed he released his grip on my face and removed the knife from between my legs. He began to stand up and so did I. I was losing a lot of blood from my wound and pressed the damaged jumper to my chest in an attempt to stem the flow. I was already feeling light-headed from the loss of blood and trying to get to my feet made me feel as if I was going to pass out. Seeing that I was in such difficulty he grabbed me by the hair, yanked me on to my feet and dragged me towards the stairs. It was as I reached the first stair that the front door opened and my husband walked in.
This time I did manage to scream out a warning to my husband. Even in the poor light I could see the shock registering on his face as he tried to take in this terrifying scene. For a second there was no movement by anyone, just the sound of my scream. Then, my husband launched himself at the intruder, throwing himself forwards and trying to grab the man around the neck. I doubt that my husband ever saw the knife as it flashed with such deadly speed straight into his chest. It was not like the slicing movement with which he had slit open my body. It was a precise, forward thrust delivered with force and obvious expertise. Once the blade was embedded in my husband’s chest, I actually saw the man turn the blade within the wound, before pulling it out. Paul grunted but said nothing as he fell sideways like a dead weight to the floor. The intruder leant over him and stabbed him in the side of the neck and I could see the blood gushing from the wound. I realised he must have hit an artery because the blood shot from his neck like a fountain with horrifying velocity.
The intruder had released me but I was quite useless. I ineffectually grabbed at him, trying to pull him off my husband by wrenching on his balaclava mask at the back, but he elbowed me violently in the stomach where I was already cut. He knocked my hand away and I felt material tear as I fell backwards. By now I was struggling to retain consciousness. As I collapsed to the floor I saw the intruder running, soundlessly, out of our front door. I remember thinking of those grotesque ballet shoes.
I crawled on my hands and knees to the telephone in the kitchen and dialled 999 and asked for the police and an ambulance. The white phone was covered in my blood as I replaced the hand piece and started to drag myself back into the hall to help my husband. It was only after putting the phone down that I realised that I had something in my other hand. It was a part of the piece of material that had been sewn on to the bottom of his mask which must have come away as I wrenched at his balaclava. I threw it on to the kitchen table before staggering back into the hall. My husband lay slumped in the same position in a pool of blood. He was not moving, nor making any sound. I struggled to turn him on to his side, put my ear to his mouth and did detect some signs of breathing. The gushing had stopped and the gash in his neck was now oozing rather than pumping blood. I did not try to remove his overcoat to see the chest wound but crawled back into the kitchen, grabbed some tea towels and pressed them with all my might against the sites of the two injuries. It was hopeless, as it was obvious that he was dying. I prayed that Emily was unhurt but I knew that I did not have the strength to get up the stairs.
Apparently, I was slumped over my husband, still holding the towels on his wounds, when the ambulance arrived and the paramedics eased me away from the body. The rest you know from the paramedics and police officers who arrived at the house. As I was carried out to the ambulance one of the paramedics informed me that Emily had not been hurt and was upstairs with a policewoman. I have undergone surgery on my abdomen and chest and have been told that the stamping to my abdomen may have caused serious injury to my liver. The long knife wound will leave my body badly disfigured but it did not penetrate any vital organ.
I have made this statement from my hospital bed over a period of two days and will add any further details that I may remember at a later stage.
Signed
Sarah Checkley
* * *
The adrenalin was coursing through his veins as he raced up the long drive and made for the lower section of the perimeter wall, which he had identified as the weak point in the property’s defences when he’d first cased the joint, after learning about the safe from that loser in Wakefield Gaol who’d got nicked trying to pull a job there before. Whilst he was in a fury that he had failed to get into the safe, this was the kind of circumstance in which he was at his best. Acting on instinct, athleticism and guile, he entertained no doubt that he would evade arrest. Scaling the wall in one fluid movement, he made for the thick bushes on the far side of the road where he had hidden the stolen mountain bike, straddled it and headed for the parkland just over two miles away, where the stolen hatchback Escort on false plates was parked. It would take him only five minutes to cover the distance and, with the balaclava rolled up so as to appear like a simple woolly hat, he reached the car without incident. It was pouring with rain and the streets were deserted. Even if anyone had seen him, the Checkleys’ blood on the front of his dark, wet clothing was indistinguishable from the effects of rain in the dark of the night.
The car was parked in a quiet, unlit road running alongside the park and the hatchback was opened, the bike stored within and the immediate escape completed within seconds. Driving at leisurely speed, with the balaclava now removed from his head and lying on the passenger seat, he kept on the minor roads all the way to Rotherham. It was only as he left Leeds well behind and adjusted to the prospect of a long night ahead that he became aware of the dull ache in the back of his head and neck where that bitch had landed the golf club. As he gingerly rubbed the large lump and contusion that had developed, he lamented that the husband had come home as early as he did, otherwise he would have made her pay even more dearly for that blow. En route he did not espy a single police vehicle. There was no hot pursuit. He had not been seen at any crucial time. The only flaw was the missing piece of material that he had sewn so tightly to the bottom of the balaclava. It had been designed to keep the neck well covered, even if somebody tried to pull the balaclava up. He strained to remember when it had come off, but remained confident that its loss could represent little threat to him, although he now noticed that there was blood on his hand from rubbing the back of his head and the bottom of the inside back of the balaclava also felt damp and sticky.
On the desolate outskirts of Rotherham he pulled into a dark recess of a public house car park and grabbed the red Manchester United holdall from the floor behind the driver’s seat. He removed every item of clothing that he was wearing including the bloodstained rubber gloves, underpants and those special lightweight ballet shoes that helped him climb with such agility and made no sound. Awkwardly, in the tight confines of the car, he pulled on the spare set of clothing that he had brought in the holdall, which included the thick pair of leather gloves that he would need in a moment. The balaclava and all of the discarded, bloodstained clothing he thrust into the holdall. As he pushed in the special shoes a smile of satisfaction crossed his lips. The bastards would never outwit him.
The deadly knife had been down his sock, pressed against the flesh of his leg, so that he could feel it at all times, for he could not afford to drop it. Now he pulled it out, still bloodstained along the full length of its blade and slipped it into the bag amongst the clothing, followed by the black nylon socks. The weapon had done its work well, and serve the privileged bastard right.
Across the road a couple of youngsters, huddled against the rain, were slowly making their way towards the car park and he watched them intently in case they looked in the direction of the car, but they were simply cutting through to a walkway in the opposite corner and they passed harmlessly from sight. There was no one else around as he eased himself out of the car and, toting the holdall, walked briskly down the main road before turning right into the bleak area of the old, run-down foundry. The building containing the small furnace was only just inside the iron gates and, as his meticulous inspection last week had established, the gates were not locked at night and the bored security staff were slack. No surprise really, as there wasn’t much worth stealing. Slipping silently through the gates he could see that the doors to the furnace area were open and unguarded and, protected by the thick leather gloves, he was able to pull open the lower furnace door without the need for any tool. The blast of the intense heat hit him full in the face as he bundled the holdall into the fierce redness and rapidly pushed the door closed. In seconds the evidence would be reduced to a handful of ashes.
South of Rotherham he took the motorway as far as the first Nottingham exit. The roads were quiet and, by the time he reached the narrow country lane he was seeking, it was after two o’clock in the morning, but he felt stimulated and alert. Double-checking that there was no person or vehicle in sight, he stopped just beyond the river bridge and dragged the bike out of the rear of the vehicle. The water was deep here and the noise of the splash as he hurled the bike into the river echoed through the night. For a moment the bike seemed to float downstream, but soon its weight sucked it beneath the blackness of the swirling waters and into oblivion, bringing a smile to the thin lips of the white-faced man. Exquisite moments such as these brought him an almost primeval sense of elation, as he travelled back to the times of his ancestors and felt the dangers of the naked hunter. The predator seeking its prey. The kill. Now the survival.
By 5 a.m. he was in the middle of a vast tract of derelict industrial wasteland. Where once the factories had belched their smoke and the iron wheels had turned twenty-four hours a day, there was now an empty silence. The lights of West Bromwich could be seen to the west and a few miles further to the south he could just make out the grim outline of the northern edge of Birmingham. As he emptied the red petrol container all over the cheap plastic upholstery of the Escort, he spat with venom in the direction of Birmingham. Over a year of one sentence had been spent in that cesspool they called Winson Green, when he had to be transferred out of Strangeways because of the troubles, and they had treated him like a dog. Caging him in a cell for twenty-three hours a day and feeding him pig swill. Still, he’d had the last laugh for they had never discovered who stuck the ‘G’ Landing officer in the back with a sharpened spoon.
Throwing the lit match inside the Escort caused immediate ignition and the blaze lit up the abandoned yard, revealing the full extent of the dereliction in all its squalor. Torching stolen vehicles in this area was as common as shoplifting, but that didn’t mean that the police wouldn’t send a car out if somebody did bother to report it and so he hurried away from the scene, head bowed, hands thrust deep into his pockets and made for the Bus Depot which was a couple of miles away.
From there, indistinguishable from the hundreds of other early morning workmen, he would take a bus to Wolverhampton Railway Station to catch the 6.40 to Manchester and then across to Sheffield. By mid-morning he would be back in his flat, showering away the evidence of the night’s activities and watching the video of the previous night’s documentary on the Amazon Basin, in case he should ever need an alibi. Once that was erased and the video machine and tapes had been smashed and abandoned at the landfill, he would grab a few hours’ shuteye and think about the next job. After all, adrenalin rush apart, this venture had been a serious failure.
Resources at the decaying Leeds North Central Police Station were down to an all-time low and, recently, the Policy Committee had actually issued a directive to stop prosecuting minor offences of dishonesty because the undermanned Force was already being suffocated by the existing paperwork, thereby giving the twopenny-halfpenny crooks a free hand to pinch and cheat at will. The very fabric of the bleak Victorian building exuded an aura of failure and inability to cope with the modern demands of an ever-increasing crime rate, whilst the disenchanted officers wandered hither and thither at a snail’s pace, dragging the heavy, brown bags of Court exhibits up and down stone staircases, filling in endless forms amidst constant grumbling from their colleagues and abuse from the hapless prisoners penned in the steeldoored cells below.
Detective Chief Inspector Ernest Noble had retreated to his spartan office amidst the out-of-date calendars and obsolete charts that littered the walls and was presently seated at his battered desk in disconsolate mood, his face redder than ever, as a result of blood pressure so high that his doctor had advised early retirement, but Ernie Noble had no intentions of being put out to grass quite yet. Overweight he may be, and the faded blue British Home Stores suit may have appeared stretched at all vulnerable points, but he still knew how to work a case and put a rogue out of circulation. While statistics-driven bureaucrats may have sapped the morale of some, turning them into ineffectual pen-pushers, there remained a nucleus of hard-nosed, old-fashioned thief-catchers who could be relied upon to get the job done. The fleshy face sagged, particularly around the double chin, and the few remaining strands of hair lay flat and lifeless across the dome of the head, but the mind within still operated as keenly as ever. Deep furrows were etched into the brow as he sat, tapping the point of his chewed biro on the coffee mug-ringed blotter on his desk and pored yet again over the opening paragraphs of the police report on this wretched Alwoodley murder. The edges of the blotter had turned up with age and the doodles of a thousand empty minutes converged into a meaningless blue-black kaleidoscope.
Like he’d always said to the top brass, the only answer was zero tolerance. If you let the criminal classes get away with it at the bottom end, then you sent a message to the top end and, sure enough, in the last two weeks alone they’d had five robberies, two aggravated burglaries and now this Checkley murder in Alwoodley. It was a real shocker with “professional” written all over it and the enquiry had got precisely nowhere in several days of intense police activity, even with the unusual luxury of specially funded extra manpower. The fat index finger turned each page slowly as he reassessed the grim facts within the report.
YORKSHIRE (SOUTH) CONSTABULARY
DIVISION HEADQUARTERS
STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL
POLICE REPORT (PRELIMINARY)
RE: MURDER OF
PAUL MICHAEL CHECKLEY
This preliminary report has been prepared by Detective Chief Inspector Ernest Noble. Copies are to be provided ONLY to Superintendent Clive Playford QPM and the 12 Officers specified within the Briefing Orders relating to Operation Lexington as Code Blue Authorised Officers
1: Antecedent History of the Deceased : Paul Michael Checkley
Managing Director of Checkley Textiles PLC. Self-made millionaire businessman with numerous commercial interests. Owns two clothing factories in Leeds and three fabric manufacturing factories in Oldham. Until recently was a Member of Board of Directors of Premier League Football Club until boardroom dispute led to resignation. Qualified Private Pilot and flies company’s Lear jet. In top 500 of Sunday Times List of “Britain’s Wealthiest Men”. Described by associate sources as “very tough negotiator in business but essentially straight”.
Married twice.
Firstly to Penelope Heston (daughter of Lord Heston), divorced (wife's adultery) after 2 years. No children.
Secondly to Sarah Parkes (28) . ex senior British Airways air hostess Living together at family home (Crime Scene) at time of offences.
Has homes in Leeds, London, and Barbados. One daughter (Emily) aged 3.
Checkley was 5. 8. and about 11 stone. Whilst, on Mrs Checkley.s description, shorter and lighter than the intruder there is no doubt that he would not have hesitated to confront him on discovering him within the premises, as he kept himself extremely fit and had arrested and detained a man in a previous attempted burglary at the house.
2: The Pathology. Report by Dr Peter Mitchell. Home Office Pathologist.
Name of Deceased : Paul Michael Checkley (aged 35)
5. 8. tall and weighing 11 stone 4lb. Medium build.
Had sustained 2 major injuries, each of them would have been fatal in its own right. The first was a penetrating incised wound to the left centre of the chest. It was just over 1 inch long and, on internal examination, was found to have passed inwards and slightly upwards tracking through the chest wall and severing the aorta. The minimum depth was 6 inches. The aorta had been severed right through the full thickness of the vessel. The amount of lacerating damage to the surrounding tissue was so extensive that whatever instrument had been used must have turned violently in situ, either by the movement of the deceased.s body or, more likely, by the turning of the hand that held the instrument. The wound had caused massive haemorrhaging.
The second injury was to the left side of the neck. This was a deep penetrating stab wound that had severed the carotid artery and sheared off the right hand edge of the jugular. The surface length of the injury was also 1 inch and the depth was such that, if it had penetrated one inch further, the blade would have exited on the other side of the neck. There was extensive injury to the windpipe and throat with haemorrhaging on a scale even more profuse than that caused by the first injury.
Both injuries were consistent with having been caused by the same instrument which, in my opinion, was a single-edged, very sharp knife with a blade of at least 5 inches in length.”
Noble’s wise grey eyes under the heavy eyebrows wandered momentarily \from the well-thumbed pages with their stark recital of the facts of death and came to rest on the tarnished silver photograph frame at the far corner of his cluttered desk. Years of being pressed up against the orange plaster of the wall by wire baskets, lever arch files and coffee mugs had cracked the glass but the rugged features of the grinning young man in his cricket whites clutching the red, seamed ball transported the Chief Inspector’s mind back to another time. Beryl had always wanted a son but their marriage had seemed destined to remain childless until, on her thirty-fifth birthday, the doctor had given her the stunning news. They had called him Leonard in honour of the finest batsman that Yorkshire had ever reared and when, twenty years later, the boy had opened the bowling for his County, a dream had been fulfilled. What a day that had been. Lunch in the Pavilion at Headingley on the Chairman’s table with Beryl at his side and then, to cap it all, the boy had taken three wickets for twenty-six in the afternoon session. Noble quickly forced his eyes away from the photograph as the pain of the two hammer blows flooded back. The specialist’s verdict on Beryl had been coldly delivered in October of that same year and by December she was dead. Leonard’s standard of cricket had declined and when, a couple of seasons later, the offer of a teaching and coaching job at a school in Queensland came his way, he had seized it with both hands and emigrated to Australia. Father and son had seen each other barely half a dozen times since.
Shifting his bulk in the hard chair he deployed the psychological device that bitter experience had taught him and let murder occupy his mind and allowed concentration on the anguish of others to ease his own pain. It had been his idea to give the press no indication at all of how the victims had been attacked. Suppression of that kind of crucial information was often invaluable when they came to interview a suspect who might blurt out an unreleased detail. The trouble this time was that they hadn’t turned up any evidence pointing towards a single suspect. Even the narks were silent and seemed to know nothing. Jane Bewley at the Forensics Science Laboratory had promised him some news today and so, yet again, he meticulously picked his way through the clinical details of the preliminary forensic findings set out in the report.
3: The Forensic Evidence
Scenes of Crimes Officers made the following findings:
[a]The filaments had been removed from the exterior heat-activated security lights.
[b]Entry to the house had been effected by breaking a small window on the first floor. The intruder had climbed on to the roof of the conservatory to reach this window. Without a ladder or an accomplice this would require significant climbing ability. No evidence of fibres was found on the conservatory roof or wall beneath the window, indicating that he wore man-made outer garments which are less likely to have shed fibres than those made of natural materials.
[c]The golf club which had been used to strike the intruder was a No 5 iron and has been submitted to the Forensic Science Laboratory to see if any fibres can be detected on the club face.
[d]There was no evidence of any fingerprints at or near the point of entry. [In view of the surviving victim.s account that she actually observed thin rubber gloves on the intruder.s hands, attempts at fingerprint lifts were limited to the point of entry]
[e]The piece of material torn from the bottom of the intruder.s balaclava/ mask has been submitted to the Forensic Science Laboratory to see if it bore any blood/hair/skin capable of DNA analysis.
[f]There is no sign of the murder weapon despite extensive searching in the grounds of the house and beyond. It can only be assumed that he took the weapon away with him for disposal elsewhere.
[g]In view of the surviving victim.s clear description of the intruder.s footwear, attempts were made to identify footprints within the pools of blood at the scene and/or material that may have been shed from the bottom of this type of footwear. These attempts were unsuccessful. There was one footprint in blood which was capable of some tentative analysis. On balance it was likely to have been made by footwear of size 8. 10. It had left no sole tread pattern. This may be because the sole had no pattern, as in a ballet shoe, or because the print is too light and imperfect. It is recorded that the female victim.s shoe size is 5 and the deceased was wearing size 8. The soles of the deceased.s shoes had no pattern but had a manufacturer.s logo visible to the naked eye stamped into the sole, but this was extremely worn and faint.
[h]There were extensive areas of blood in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. It was in pools on the floor and in heavy spots and runs on the wall opposite the bottom of the stairs in the hall. The distribution and pattern on this wall was consistent with an arterial spraying of blood from a fallen victim.
One large pool was in the immediate area where the body of the deceased had been found. The second was directly at the bottom of the stairs.
Various swabs were taken for comparison with samples taken from the deceased and the surviving victim.
[i]There was no sign of blood in the area of the kitchen doorway where the intruder had been struck a heavy blow across the back and side of the head and neck. If this blow had caused bleeding it is likely that the blood had been absorbed into the balaclava/mask, although there is a possibility that some of the blood may have run onto the material torn from the mask, but none is visible to the naked eye...
Suddenly the harsh ring of the telephone interrupted his reading and the Chief Inspector stretched out a weary arm to pick up the receiver.
“Noble,” he grunted charmlessly.
“Morning, Chief Inspector. This is Jane Bewley at the Forensic Science Lab. I promised I’d ring you today. We’ve just completed running that crime sample from the Checkley murder. You know, checking the DNA Database against the partial profile raised from the trace of blood on the black material that was torn from the mask?”
“Yes,” replied Noble anxiously, “I’ve just been taking another look at the Forensic Report. What’ve you come up with? Precious little, I suppose.”
The younger voice on the other end of the telephone spent much of her time talking to disenchanted police officers, their appetite dulled by bureaucracy, resigned to just serving out their time until the pension kicked in, and she had learned not to let them bother her. Give them the information the tests had turned up and let them moan and groan to their heart’s content was her policy, but she’d always had a soft spot for Ernie Noble and the old hands at the lab claimed that he was the pick of the bunch. Perhaps a little gruff at times but principled and decent.
“Actually, it may be of some use to you, Chief Inspector,” she continued cheerfully. “Two profiles on the Database may be a match with the DNA recovered from the material torn from the attacker’s mask. We only raised a partial profile from the piece of material and so you’re only likely to get a fairly weak match on that kind of evidence. Anyway, the two names identified are Raymond Arthur Doyle and Gary Peter Trevors. No doubt you’ll research them in the Criminal Records Files…”
“I don’t need to research Trevors,” interrupted Noble, his spirits immediately lifting as the first real lead emerged. “He’s got a record as long as your arm. Vicious bastard. Loner. This is just his cup of tea. The other one, Doyle, rings no bells, I’ll have him checked now. What kind of frequency of match are we talking about here?”
There was a short pause on the other end of the phone as she consulted her notes before the carefully worded answer was provided. “You certainly won’t have a strong enough match to obtain a conviction against anyone on this DNA evidence alone. You’ll need something else. The chances of a random match with this crime sample is about 1 in 600. In other words, in a city of 600,000 people, over a thousand would match.”
“That’d do fine for me if Trevors was one of the thousand,” came the
cynical response.
“Yes, but you’re a policeman, not a juror, aren’t you,” laughed the young girl.
“But juries like DNA evidence. Solid science. Doesn’t lie,” replied theChief Inspector.
“In scientific terms the statistics aren’t strong enough on their own in this case,” the scientist insisted. “Like I said, you’ll need something else.”
“I’ll find it, love. You’ve given us a start and I’m grateful for that,” he answered as he pressed his finger on the receiver rest, cutting off the call and immediately dialling the internal number connecting him to Perry’s office.
Ronald Perry. The hungry new Detective Sergeant who had been allocated to him last month and whose addition to the team had served only to contribute to Noble’s low spirits and frustration. A reputation for sailing too close to the wind had preceded his secondment to North Central, but Noble had refused to prejudge the man. Coppers’ gossip was notoriously unreliable. On the other hand, Noble’s observations suggested that Sergeant Ron Perry was driven by a determination to nail the villains at any cost. The line between those who offended and those who apprehended could be fairly narrow at the best of times but “The Peril”, as he was universally known, hailed from the same council estates where many of the most criminally active families resided and he shared much the same sense of morality. Going to school with them, sharing the same women with them and breaking the rules with them, albeit from different sides of the fence. The result was that he was equally despised by both villains and coppers alike. Much of his history remained unknown to Noble who had struggled to keep an open mind, but even Perry’s physical appearance provoked an instinctive sense of mistrust. Tall, birdlike, sharp-featured and with the tiresome habit of always craning his head on its long neck right into your space when you were talking to him.
“Perry,” he barked as soon as the phone was picked up at the other end.
“I want you to run two names on the CRO files right now. Raymond Arthur Doyle and Gary Peter Trevors. I want to know their present whereabouts and fast.”
“Is this the Checkley enquiry, sir?” asked Perry.
“Of course it’s the Checkley enquiry. That’s why it’s urgent.”
“Then I can tell you that you can forget all about Doyle, sir. I locked him up last year for an armed robbery in Chesterfield. He got twelve years. So unless he did a Houdini out of HMP at Durham, he’d seem to have a pretty good alibi,” came the smug reply.
“Well, check with Durham that he didn’t fly the coop and then trace the whereabouts of Trevors. He’s such an active criminal that there’s a good chance he’s inside as well.”
“What’s the evidence that it may be Trevors then, sir?” enquired Perry.
“DNA. But only 1 in 600. Pretty thin stuff, really.”
“Then, we’ll be needing some more won’t we, Chief Inspector? We’ll have to find a little bit extra to sweeten the pot. I’ve heard of Trevors. He was a target criminal on our Division only a couple of years ago. Big time. Violent. Operates solo. Do I remember rightly?”
“You do remember rightly. Go and do your homework and let me know where he is. But, as to little bits extra to sweeten any pots, be warned by an old soldier. We play enquiries of this importance by the book, do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal clear, sir. I was only meaning that once we’ve got a name it becomes easier to know where to go looking for evidence.”
“So that’s what you mean by sweetening the pot, is it?”
“Exactly.”
“You find out Trevor’s whereabouts. If he’s in the nick we can forget about him. If he’s out, I want to know where he lives, who he sees, who he’s screwing, where his money’s coming from, which boozers he’s using, what snouts we may have on his territory. You got all of that?”
“Loud and clear,” came the hollow reply.
“Don’t you mess me around, Perry. You’re still new here. Never forget you’ve got me breathing down your neck. We operate within the rules. No exceptions. Straight dealing. By the book. Then get back to me,” demanded Noble urgently.
“I’ll be back to you very shortly,” the Sergeant replied, gently replacing the receiver. “Straight dealing? By the book?” What kind of way is that to catch today’s shit, Perry thought to himself as he sat back in his chair, smiling. Leeds North Central needed bringing up to date. You get these bastards locked up any way you can. Then the smile broadened for he could smell a big result here. A really big one.
Back in his office on the third floor Noble swung his feet on to the grey metal desk, 1970s Home Office standard issue, and looked out of the unwashed panes of the old sash window at the industrial panorama beyond. The new buildings in the city centre that had given Leeds its contemporary, racy image of vibrancy and energy were not visible from this side of the building as his view was across the police station yard towards the railway lines, the empty factories and mills and the rows of terraced houses beyond. Somewhere out there, within the teeming masses, a killer was lurking and Ernie Noble intended to catch him fair and square. Picking up the report again he continued his reading, concentrating hard on every word in the light of Jane Bewley’s encouraging findings.
4. First Report from the Forensic Science Laboratory
[a]Blood samples have been obtained from the sample blood provided from the deceased ( Paul Michael Checkley ) and the surviving victim ( Sarah Checkley ). Full DNA profiles have been raised from both samples. The 2 victims have different DNA profiles.
[b]With one exception (see Para [e] below), the blood found at the scene is made up of 2 separate DNA profiles. In some places the blood samples match the profile of the male victim, in other places they match the profile of the female victim. In some places the sample contains 2 profiles, a major profile and a minor profile; where this has occurred the 2 constituent samples match the 2 victims. profiles respectively.
[c]In each sample referred to in [b] above, the chances of a random match with either victim respectively is less than 1 in a billion. This represents extremely strong evidence that the blood at the scene is that of each of the victims. Where 2 profiles were raised from one sample this is very strong evidence that the blood of each victim has mingled after each has been wounded.
[d]With the one exception referred to in [b] above no sample of blood recovered from the scene raised a DNA profile which differed from either victim.
[e]The exception hitherto referred to relates to a trace of blood recovered from a piece of black material allegedly attached to the assailant.s mask and ripped off during the struggle.
This trace of blood was at the top edge of material close to where strands of black cotton remained, presumably the means whereby the material was attached to the balaclava.
The trace of blood recovered was human blood and raised a partial DNA profile, differing from either profile attributable to the victims.
If the wearer of that material had been struck with a heavy instrument and injured, it is possible that the injury exuded blood of which this is a trace.
Running his yellow highlighter pen heavily over every word of Paragraph [e], Noble felt that sharp tingling down the back of his policeman’s neck that always occurred when the first real clue in a case began to emerge, before pressing on with his reading.
[f]A partial DNA profile is likely to produce only limited evidence of a match with any profile obtained from a suspect or from the DNA Database. The trace of blood is so small that even enhanced DNA techniques will not improve upon the profile produced.
[g]As it is possible that this blood is the assailant.s blood, comparisons are presently being made with profiles on the Police DNA Database to see if the profile provides any kind of match with any known criminal.
[h]Fibres were recovered from the head of the golf club with which the female victim states that she struck the assailant. These fibres do not match fibres recovered from the seized material. These fibres are wool, of a type and of a dye commonly used in the production of woollen headwear, handwear and footwear.
This finding supports the proposition that the recovered material bearing a trace of blood was attached to the article that shed the fibres on to the golf club rather than being a constituent part of it. Thus, blood from any injury may have seeped downwards on to the recovered material or any injury may have bled on to the material and on to the article that has left its fibres on the head of the golf club.
[i]The footprint in blood identified at the scene is imperfect. It is likely to be of size 8 . 10. Sizes do vary to a degree according to the manufacturer but, applying laboratory measuring techniques, the tentative scientific view is that it was probably made by a shoe towards the larger end of that bracket rather than the smaller.
[j]The footprint displayed no pattern or tread.
[k]The female victim was apparently barefoot and is size 5 and can therefore be safely eliminated as a source of the print.
[l]The footprint has been compared to the recovered shoe of the male victim. This was a size 8 with a smooth sole and heel although, originally, the manufacturer.s logo was stamped upon the sole, it is so faded as to be unlikely to have left any imprint within the blood.
It is therefore possible that the male victim’s shoe was the source of this print but this is unlikely because forensic opinion is that this print was more likely to have been made by a shoe size of about 9 1/2 or 10.
Noble went back to Paragraph [g] and, highlighting it in yellow, entered the updated information in the margin. “Odds of a random match are 1 in 600.” That was the key. Jane Bewley had done her tests and had indeed matched the partial profile on the inside of the material wrenched from the killer’s mask with two known criminals. Tossing the report back on his desk the Chief Inspector eased himself slowly out of his chair. Jane was absolutely right in expressing a cautious approach because the statistics of the match were only fairly weak, but, unlike him, she’d never seen the Collator’s Intelligence File on Trevors. This crime was right up that bastard’s street.