Eye of the Raven (21 page)

‘
Ah yes, Cuddles,’ said Steven.

‘
What kind of car did
you
drive up in?’ sneered Verdi.

‘
Filthy lucre, Paul,’ said Steven getting up to leave. ‘Can’t buy you love . . . or class.’

‘
Get the fuck out of here.’

‘
Just out of interest,’ said Steven, pausing and turning round. ‘You weren’t such a hot shot with your defence of David Little. What was the deal there?’

‘
Little got what he deserved,’ said Verdi. ‘He was guilty. Now get out!’

Feeling bad about his clash with Paul Verdi, Steven set off back to Edinburgh and sought comfort in the fact that the rain had given way to some afternoon brightness. He found sunshine therapeutic. He stopped the car by the beach near Longniddry and got out to admire the sparkle on the waves as seagulls wheeled overhead and a solitary windsurfer, clad in hooded wet-suit, braved the cold of the Firth of Forth. He sank his hands deep in his pockets and set off for walk along the beach.

His gambit of trying to put Verdi on the back foot by going on the offensive hadn’t worked and now he was in no doubt that he had made a potentially dangerous enemy. He hadn’t really expected Verdi to cave in and confess all but he regretted allowing his instant dislike of the man to have played a part in his conduct of the interview. He saw this as weakness. The only positive thing that he could take from the encounter was a strengthening of his belief that there really had been some kind of criminal association between Verdi and the forensic lab during Lee’s time. The look in Verdi’s eyes when he’d broached the subject had told him that he was on the right track. Proving it however, would be quite a different matter.

Steven took a handful of pebbles down to the water’s edge, and started skimming the flat ones out over the surface, taking childish pleasure in counting the number of skips they made before disappearing. His mood changed however, when another childhood game came to mind and with it, dark thoughts of Hector Combe and Julie Summers. ‘This little piggy went to market. Snap! This little piggy . . .’ With a shudder he returned to the car and resumed his journey.

He had just joined the bypass, intending to skirt round the south of the city to avoid town traffic when his phone rang. It was McClintock.

‘
The brown stuff’s about to hit the fan big time,’ said McClintock.

‘
Make my day.’

‘
The word is that some screw at the Bar-L has just funded his summer hols by blabbing to the papers. He’s told them about you having the DNA tests on Little repeated. The
Record
’s going to run the story tomorrow.’

‘
Shit,’ said Steven.

‘
The brass are spitting nails.

‘
Thanks for the warning,’ said Steven.

‘
Have you seen Verdi yet?’

‘
I’m on my way back at the moment. I don’t think we’ll be exchanging Christmas cards.’

‘
Jesus, is there anyone left that you haven’t managed to alienate?’ asked McClintock.

‘
You’re right,’ said Steven. ‘I should give up the assertiveness classes.’

‘
When will you get the results?’

‘
Tomorrow,’ replied Steven.

‘
If Little’s still in the frame, I suggest you leak that information as quickly as possible. It might help stem the damage.’

‘
Will do,’ said Steven.

The morning papers did not make for good reading as Steven worked his way through a second pot of coffee at breakfast. The police force’s worst fears had been realised and the press took the opportunity to list their failings in the Summers case all over again. The Mulveys’ suicides and the subsequent resignations were revisited in detail along with a new suggestion that the police still hadn’t got it right. There was an implicit suggestion that new DNA tests heralded the case being reopened by the Home Office. One of the tabloids ran with the headline, ‘Will Julie Ever Rest in Peace?’ while another jumped the gun with, ‘Julie Case Re-opened.’

Steven half expected it to be the police when his phone went off but it was Susan Givens at the university.

‘
I’ve got your results,’ she said. ‘Want to come over?’

Steven resisted the urge to ask her what she’d found over the phone and said that he’d be there in half an hour. His next caller was John Macmillan.

‘
How in God’s name did this happen?’ Macmillan demanded by way of greeting.

‘
I take it you’ve seen the Scottish papers then,’ said Steven.

‘
The fax machine has been spewing out little else for the last hour. How did they get on to it?’

‘
A prison officer at Barlinnie,’ said Steven.

‘
Damn him.’

‘
I’m just about to go over and get the results of the tests,’ said Steven. ‘That at least should put an end to conjecture.’

‘
If they confirm Little as the killer, Lothian and Borders Police are going to add humble pie to your diet for some time to come. Call me when you know.’

As he drove over to the science campus at the university Steven found himself uncertain of what he was hoping for. He was in what the papers liked to call a no-win situation. If Susan Givens confirmed the earlier DNA fingerprint findings, then Hector Combe’s claims were nonsense – as common sense decreed they must be – this would signal an end to the affair and he would have achieved nothing but the re-opening of old wounds. If, on the other hand, she found discrepancies which pointed to a miscarriage of justice, it would be too late to rescue David Little: he was already on death row and there was no way back.

‘
Good morning,’ said Susan Givens. She slid a copy of
The Herald
newspaper across her desk towards him. ‘I see that your concerns have been made public.’

Steven glanced at the heading, ‘Ill fated Summers Case to be Re-opened?’ and nodded. ‘I could have done without that,’ he said.

‘
I’ll bet,’ said Susan, getting up and moving over to another desk where she switched on a light box of the type used by doctors to view X-rays. Instead of being on the wall this one lay flat on the desk. She placed two photographic negatives side by side on the surface.

‘
The DNA profile on the left is the one I obtained from the David Little buccal smear that you took at the prison the other day; the one on the right is from one of the semen samples stored by the forensics lab.’

‘
They’re the same,’ murmured Steven, seeing immediately that the band patterns were identical.

‘
They are,’ agreed Susan. ‘Your man is guilty.’

Steven felt a sensation of extreme tiredness sweep over him. He hadn’t realised that he’d been so tense and now he felt positively deflated. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Thanks for that.’

Susan put another photograph on the light box and said, ‘This is the DNA fingerprint of the original buccal smear taken from Little at the time of the murder. As you can see, it matches the others. It was taken from him all right. There was no mix-up.’

‘
Game, set and match,’ said Steven. ‘I’m grateful to you, Doctor.’

‘
There is one odd thing,’ said Susan, rearranging the photographs and handing Steven a hand lens. ‘If you look closely you’ll see a phenomenon we call ghosting.’

Steven bent down to examine the photos and asked, ‘Do you mean these faint extra bands?’

‘
That’s right. They weren’t present on the prints that the prosecution submitted in evidence.’

‘
So you were right about them cleaning up the pictures? said Steven.

Susan shrugged. ‘Some might argue that the extra bands have something to do with long time storage of the samples.’

‘
But you don’t think so?’

‘
I’d still bet on a clean up,’ said Susan.

Steven, remembering their earlier conversation about what kind of alteration was acceptable, asked the question.

‘
A toughie,’ smiled Susan. ‘Usually ghosting occurs as the result of small amounts of material leaking away from the inoculation wells and causing faint bands at the side of the main track – a simple mechanical fault, if you like – but these are different. The extra bands aren’t ghosts of the originals because they occur at different positions and they also occur in the same track as the major bands.’

‘
What do you think that means?’ asked Steven.

‘
Possibly breakdown products because the samples are old.’

‘
But if that were the case, they wouldn’t have been present on the original gels so there would have been no need to clean them up?’ suggested Steven.

‘
Good point,’ conceded Susan. ‘The truth is I simply don’t know.’

‘
Would an expert viewing these gel photographs at the time have noticed that they had been cleaned up?’ he asked.

Susan said, ‘Almost certainly. The technology wasn’t good in these days. Gels were usually a bit messy so a very clean one would immediately have aroused suspicion.’

‘
If it had ever been shown to an expert,’ murmured Steven, thinking about Verdi’s failure to question the prosecution evidence.

‘
I take it it never was?’ said Susan.

Steven shook his head and said, ‘Do you think the presence of these ghost bands would have been grounds for questioning the evidence?’

‘
No,’ said Susan firmly. ‘I daresay some lawyers might have tried it but the bottom-line as far as science is concerned remains that the semen came from David Little. There’s no doubt about that.’

‘
As long as that’s clear,’ said Steven; he took another look at the gel photographs lying on the light box and murmured, ‘Truth lies at the bottom of a well.’

‘
Who said that?’ asked Susan, smiling at the pun.

‘
It’s a Greek proverb,’ said Steven.

‘
Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes
,’ said Susan.

‘
I fear the Greeks . . .’

‘
Even when they bring gifts,’ completed Susan. ‘Virgil. A Roman sentiment.’

Steven smiled and said, ‘Thanks for your help. I appreciate it.’

‘
You’re welcome. I’m sure the university will charge the Home Office handsomely for it.’

‘
Don’t you get paid personally?’

‘
That’s not the way the university does things,’ smiled Susan.

‘
Then maybe I could buy you dinner?’

‘
That would be very nice,’ said Susan, sounding at first surprised and then pleased. ‘Thank you.’

‘
I’ll be away this weekend – I’m going down to Dumfries to see my daughter – but I’ll be back on Monday. How about Monday night?’

‘
Fine,’ said Susan.

Steven left, saying that he would call her at the university on Monday to finalise arrangements. He was already looking forward to spending the evening with her. He suspected she knew a lot about a lot and he enjoyed the company of bright women.

Steven wondered which of the three he should tell first, Macmillan, McClintock or David Little. He decided on Little because it seemed only right although he knew that Little was a man almost beyond caring. Forty-five minutes later he was standing in an assistant governor’s office at Barlinnie, hearing him say, ‘I think we know who talked to the papers but we can’t prove it.’

Steven nodded. He didn’t much care because the damage had been done. He was not interested in apportioning blame after the event. ‘The tests confirmed Little as being Julie’s murderer. I’d like to tell him personally,’ said Steven.

‘
Well, thank Christ for that. Claiming wrongful conviction seems to be a national sport these days. Little’s been moved. He’s not well. I’ll get someone to take you down.’

Steven had to wait for a few minutes before being escorted to see Little by the same prison officer who’d accompanied him on the last occasion, the man with the harelip. Steven would have put money on him being the source of the leak but he didn’t give any outward sign of this. He did wonder however, if the same man was under suspicion by the prison and this was why he’d been detailed to accompany him again. This time the authorities might be counting on him leaking the new result to the papers.

As they walked along the corridors it became clear that the prisoners had their own ideas about what had been going on. A muted chorus of, ‘McGregor’s off to sunny Spain, Viva Espa
ñ
a,’ broke out to mark their progress and brought an angry flush to the cheeks of the officer. Steven pretended that he had heard nothing. His inner feelings of amusement evaporated in an instant however, when he saw the state of Little.

Little had been moved to accommodation of the type used for prisoners who were ill and required medical care but who were not going to be moved to hospital for whatever reason. Little was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling and taking rapid, shallow breaths. If anything he seemed even paler than last time and his cheekbones were making him look positively skeletal.

‘
It’s you,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Come to tell me it’s all been a horrible mistake.’ He tried to laugh but a cough beat him to it and seemed to rattle his very ribs. He picked up a metal bowl that sat beside his bunk and spat into it. His lack of energy and co-ordination made it a messy business and bloodstained sputum trickled down his chin as he fell back on the pillow, seemingly exhausted.