Eye of the Raven (3 page)

Currie and his team could hardly believe it when DNA evidence from the forensic lab said that a mistake had been made and that Mulvey was innocent of the crime. In an embarrassing
volte-face
, they were forced to release Mulvey and start the hunt all over again. For Bobby Mulvey however, it was a case of out of the frying pan into the fire. He was set upon that same night by a mob who were unaware of the real reason for his release and who had put it down to some legal loophole being exploited by some clever-dick lawyer in an age when the system always seemed to be on the side of the offender.

This had been due to Currie and his superior, Supt. George Chisholm, being extremely reluctant to admit their mistake in public and even less keen to explain the circumstances under which Mulvey’s ‘confession’ had been obtained. They had issued a fudged press statement listing ‘technical factors’ as the reason for having let Mulvey go and carefully avoided using words like ‘innocent’ with reference to Mulvey or ‘mistaken’ with regard to themselves. They had removed the police guard on the Mulveys’ home and it was only hours before Bobby Mulvey was dragged from it and beaten senseless. Not content with that, one of the mob had carved the words ‘rapist’ on his back with a Stanley knife while his mother looked on helplessly.

Bobby Mulvey spent three weeks in hospital recovering from his injuries during which time his mother decided that enough was enough. She recognised that she was getting too old to look after her son and that no one else would do it when she was gone – especially after seeing what the establishment in the shape of the police had put him through. Mary Mulvey had mixed a cocktail of every pill and sleeping tablet she could find in the house and added it to the cocoa that she and her son had every night before bed. She and Bobby ended their lives together on the carpet of their living room floor, the outside walls of their cottage daubed with obscenities and its broken windows letting in the winter rain.

Currie, now under almost intolerable pressure to find Julie’s killer and make an arrest, could hardly believe his luck when the forensics lab came up with a DNA match for the crime. The suspect, David Little, a professional man living with his family in the same village as Julie, had given a DNA sample along with all the other males in the village at the outset of the murder investigation. He didn’t have a police record but he had previously been reported to the police for being in possession of pornographic material found on his computer at work. He had subsequently been released without charge.

Little’s DNA fingerprint proved to be an exact match for the semen found in the victim and it transpired that he knew Julie quite well. She had acted as a babysitter for him and his wife on several occasions in the recent past. Little had maintained his innocence throughout but the evidence against him was so overwhelming that he went down for life with a judge’s recommendation that he spend at least twenty-five years in prison.

In the aftermath of the case the tabloid press, wishing to distance themselves from all blame and looking for a new angle to sell papers, decided to concentrate on the Mulveys’ tragic suicide. They suddenly felt the need to ‘expose’ what they called ‘the heavy-handed methods’ used by the police in the investigation and cited this as the main reason for its tragic outcome for the Mulveys.

They openly accused the force of being responsible for the deaths of ‘two of society’s vulnerable people’, charging them with the age-old tactic of picking up the ‘local loony’ as a quick fix whenever public interest was high in a case. In doing so they managed to broaden their remit by resurrecting doubts that had been expressed about several other cases over the years. The public at the time had been happy to jump on the press bandwagon, mainly to assuage their own guilt in the affair.

Currie had been forced to take early retirement from the force on health grounds, as had his superior officer, George Chisholm. George Hutton, the police surgeon who had failed to protect Mulvey and process the complaint lodged by his mother about the injuries he’d received at the hands of Currie and his team was also put out to grass, as was the forensic pathologist involved in the case, Ronald Lee.

‘
So why the hell would Combe pull a stunt like that?’ muttered McClintock, still sounding puzzled.

‘
No doubts at all?’ ventured his sergeant.

‘
The DNA evidence was perfect,’ said McClintock. ‘It was a one hundred percent match for Little. The odds against it being wrong were countless millions to one.’

‘
So maybe Combe just wanted to make trouble for the force by bringing up that Mulvey business all over again?’

‘
I think I like that idea better,’ grunted McClintock. ‘That would be entirely in the bastard’s nature.’

‘
So we just forget it?’

‘
No, we do things by the book. We dig out the file on the Julie Summers case; make sure there was no margin for error – as indeed there wasn’t – and then we’ll forget it.’

An hour later, when he came back from a meeting with his superintendent who had been telephoned personally by the governor of The State Hospital about the confession, McClintock found the Julie Summers file on his desk. The first thing that struck him was a small sticker on the front cover saying that a copy of any material added to the file after the closing date of May 4th 1993 should be forwarded to the Sci-Med Inspectorate at the Home Office in London without delay.

‘
Wonder what their interest was . . .’ murmured McClintock. He knew that they were a small body concerned solely with hi-tech crime in science and medicine. He supposed that the so-called confession of Combe to the murder would have to be appended to the Summers file . . . or would it? McClintock toyed with the notion of burying it somewhere else but then thought better of it. There was always a chance that the story might leak out to the press. Half the bloody nation seemed to be on the phone to the papers these days. No, he would play this strictly by the book and forward a copy of the confession to London. The chances were that Sci-Med would probably just file it themselves after seeing it for what it was – the ramblings of a now dead psychopath.

* * * *

John Macmillan, head of the Sci-Med Inspectorate looked thoughtful as he closed the Julie Summers file in front of him and pushed the desk intercom button. ‘Send Dunbar in will you, Miss Roberts.’

In the outside office Steven Dunbar smiled at Jean Roberts as she indicated that he should go through. ‘Don’t let him bully you,’ she said conspiratorially.

‘
I’ll try not to,’ replied Steven in a stage whisper. In truth he got on very well with John Macmillan and had done ever since joining Sci-Med as one of their medical investigators.

The Sci-Med Inspectorate had been set up under the directorship of Macmillan as a small, specialised Home Office unit whose function it was to investigate possible wrongdoing in the world of science and medicine. These areas of modern life had become just too technical for the police to keep up with and, while they had specialised units to deal with fraud and crime in the art world, they were often very much at sea when it came to many areas of science and medical technology. Sci-Med’s small team of specialist scientists and doctors filled the gap and carried out preliminary investigations to establish facts before – if necessary – handing over their findings to the police with their recommendations.

Although Steven had qualified as a doctor, he had never practised medicine in the conventional sense. He had joined the army straight after his registration year and had served with the Parachute Regiment and on attachment to Special Forces on assignments that had taken him all over the world. In the process, he had become a specialist in field medicine, having been called upon to apply his medical skills under a variety of trying and testing conditions ranging from surgery under the stars in Iraq to setting broken bones in the South American jungle.

He had known well enough when he left the forces in his early thirties that there would be no call for his particular medical skills in civilian life and also that it would be too late for him to train in any other field. The career bandwagon would have passed him by. He had been preparing himself with a heavy heart for life as an in-house physician with some large commercial concern or looking for some clinical post with a pharmaceutical firm when, to his great relief, he had been approached by the Sci-Med Inspectorate and offered something much more attractive and quite different.

Sci-Med had been looking to recruit a new medical investigator and they were looking for a physically fit, medically qualified man with a record of achievement and resourcefulness. Steven fitted the bill. He had been tested under conditions of extreme pressure and had come through with flying colours. Sci-Med understood that there was a world of difference between the team-building games of corporate enterprise and real life situations where the stakes were always so much higher. A couple of days abseiling and clay pigeon shooting was a universe away from coping in situations where real bullets flew and the margins between life and death grew alarmingly narrow. Steven had gone on to become one of Sci-Med’s best investigators.

‘
Two days ago I received an update to a file from the Lothian and Borders Police in Edinburgh,’ said Macmillan. ‘They were updating it and found our sticker on it.’

‘
Something interesting?’ asked Steven.

‘
I’m not sure,’ replied Macmillan. ‘I don’t know if you remember the case but some eight years ago a man named David Little was convicted of the particularly brutal rape and murder of a thirteen year old schoolgirl in a village outside Edinburgh.’

‘
I remember,’ said Steven. ‘It was headline news at the time. The girl had been babysitting. Little was some kind of academic who lived locally. What was our interest in the case?’

‘
Little wasn’t just any old academic,’ said Macmillan. ‘Dr David Little was a leading medical scientist, a leader in his field who had just been recruited from Harvard to set up a new research unit at a hospital in Edinburgh.’

‘
He’s American then?’

‘
No, he’s English, but he had been working in the States for the usual career reasons of better facilities, more money, greater academic freedom etc. He had however, been tempted back to the UK with a big money offer to set up his own unit here in the UK with joint funding from the Wellcome Trust and the Medical Research Council.’

‘
What exactly was his field?’

‘
Cell biology. He was an expert in stem cell technology. ‘His aim was to make organ transplants a thing of the past and he reckoned he could do it in ten years. The idea was to persuade patients’ own stem cells to repair damaged organs so there would be no need for the introduction of any foreign tissue and the problems of rejection that always brings.’

‘
The stuff Nobel prizes are made of,’ said Steven.

‘
Quite so but instead he raped and strangled a schoolgirl and ended up in prison for the rest of his natural life.’

‘
From what I remember of the case, prison was too good for him,’ said Steven.

‘
A view shared by many,’ said Macmillan thoughtfully.

‘
So what was the update about?’

‘
A convicted killer who’d been serving life in Scotland’s State Hospital at Carstairs for multiple murder, a psychopath named Hector Combe, confessed on his deathbed to a local clergyman that
he
carried out the crime.’

‘
But there was never any question about the evidence against Little,’ said Steven.

‘
Absolutely not,’ said Macmillan. ‘A perfect DNA match: his semen was recovered from the girl. You can’t ask for better than that.’

‘
So Combe couldn’t have done it.’

‘
No, he couldn’t,’ said Macmillan. ‘Which begs the question, why confess to a crime you didn’t commit?’

Steven shrugged. ‘Maybe he was confused. You said he was dying?’

‘
Of cancer. The report suggests that he was quite lucid when he made the confession. He died shortly afterwards but he was adamant that it was Julie Summers he’d killed. The local police think that he was just trying to cause trouble for them by digging up the past. They took a lot of flak over the case on account of the suicide of the original suspect and his mother. The blame for that was laid at their door by the press at the time. They’ve no desire to see it all over the papers again.’

‘
Understandable. So where do I come in?’ asked Steven.

‘
Take a look at the case file. If you agree with the police assessment we’ll forget it, if not pick away at it, see what you come up with.’

‘
He that pryeth into every cloud may be hit by a thunderbolt
,’ quoted Steven with a smile.

‘
But that’s what we pay you for,’ replied Macmillan, handing over the file and adding, ‘Miss Roberts has prepared some extra material for you. Collect it on the way out.’

Steven left the Home Office and took a cab back to his fifth floor apartment in a converted warehouse near the river. It wasn’t quite on the river – Sci-Med pay didn’t quite run to that – but it was only one street back so he could actually see the Thames through a gap in the buildings along to the right. He made himself some coffee and sat down by the window to read through the background material he’d been given.