1
I know what the perfect murder looks like and the slaying of Sian Jones isnāt it. Far from it. Her killer, a no-mark called Danny Mainwaring, left a trail of clues bright enough to land a 747. The trialās just a formality. Heās looking at life and Iām looking at spending my first rest day in two weeks with Megan. Or I was, until half an hour ago.
The corridors in Exeter Crown Court are the usual tense dance of lawyers, witnesses, accused, press and police. In among them, everybodyās favourite Detective Inspector Jon Stride is sitting on a wooden bench outside Courtroom 1. Arms folded, long legs stretched out in front of him, he looks like heās been there days, which he probably has. He frowns when he sees me. He doesnāt know what Iām doing here either.
āI didnāt expect to see you.ā
āMe neither,ā I say, parking myself next to him. āIām meant to be having mother and daughter time over a chococino on Morte Sands.ā I check my watch. āI should still make it if they get on with it.ā CSI appearances at court are surprisingly undramatic. If Iām called at all, Iām usually in and out in minutes.
Iām determined to make my date with Megan. Iāve already got a lot of making up to do with my daughter. I donāt need more. The chococino is my sorry for ducking out of her school art exhibition the previous week. A papier-mĆ¢chĆ© mask Megan had worked on for months had won the school prize and pride of place in the exhibition, but Iād been called to photograph a āfatalā on the Link Road in the north of the county. As I put the phone down on the court clerk this morning, Meganās stare challenged me to choose between her and my job, but it isnāt that simple. It never is. I promised her Iād be back in time to take her to Morte Sands, but she just shrugged and said she was going back to bed. Something inside me shrank and I left determined to prove her wrong.
āHow is Megan?ā
Typical of Stride to remember her name. He knows the names of everyoneās kids in Major Investigations, even the grandkids in some cases.
āStill fifteen.ā
Stride laughs, but he can afford to. His kids have left home. Gone are the days his teenagers sought compensation for all the broken promises and missed milestones.
I nod at the door to Courtroom 1.
āHowās it going in there?ā
āGood. The CCTV evidence is enough to send him down.ā
Thatās my memory of it too. There was ample footage showing Sian giving Mainwaring the brush-off in a club. He then follows her to her halls of residence. They argue outside. He grabs her, but she shakes him off and storms off inside. There are countless witnesses. Mainwaring leaves only to return ten minutes later. His hood up to cover his face, he enters the building when another student leaves the door open. A few minutes later, he re-emerges. Sian is already dead. Thereās so much CCTV, he practically has his own TV show.
Unusually for a murder scene like this, the rest of the forensics werenāt great. Mainwaring may not look like a master criminal, but he knew enough not to leave behind any DNA or fingerprints. All Iām going to do today is confirm that.
āSo why am I here?ā Stride shrugs.
āDefence barristerās a new guy. Thinks heās Judge Judy. Heāll learn, though.ā He nudges my arm. āOnce heās seen you in action, I doubt heāll bother you again.ā
His knack for quietly bigging you up is another reason everyone wants to be on his team, that and his legendary clear-up rate. We have a running joke in Crime Scene Investigation that if any of us are planning murder, weāll check Major Investigationsā duty roster first and make sure Stride is on rest day or, better still, annual leave and preferably on the other side of the world with no Wi-Fi connection.
A woman with a clipboard appears in the corridor.
āAlly Dymond.ā My hand shoots up. I want this over and done with. She smiles gratefully. The number of people who donāt turn up for court is shockingly high. āThis way, please.ā
As I get up, Stride lightly touches my arm, a move so rare it startles me.
āJust go with it, Ally. Youāll be fine. Remember heās as guilty as hell.ā
While I appreciate a pep talk as much as the next person, forensic evidence isnāt like other evidence, the science does the talking and does it well. Thereās little room for argument. Itās why court holds no hand-wringing fear for me, not like other cops. Even the best defence lawyers canāt argue with the facts. Like I say, Iām not sure what Iām even doing here.
I enter Courtroom 1 by a side door. Itās unnaturally quiet given that itās standing room only. The judge clearly doesnāt put up with any nonsense. Iām shown to the stand and sworn in and thereās a brief lull while the prosecution and defence teams whisper and consult their notes.
I avoid looking at Mainwaring, sat with the defence team, heās not worth it, and cast my eye around the courtroom. Sianās mother, Maureen Jones, is sitting in the public gallery at the back of the court, a tissue pressed to her nose, huddled under her husbandās arm. Sianās father, Roy, stares straight ahead, eyes fixed on the wall behind the judge as if a single side glance will invite such horror in that it will break him, and he needs to keep it together for Maureen and Sian, his girls.
The jury leans forward on hearing Iām a CSI. Theyāve seen too many cop shows. It wonāt last. Not when they realize the questions the barrister will ask will be no more challenging than confirming itās my signature at the end of my statement.
My interrogation, such as it is, begins.
āMy name is Ally Dymond. Iām a Crime Scene Manager for Devon County Policeās Major Investigations Unit.ā
My notebook, an A4 ledger thick with times, dates, diagrams, and boxes ticked in triplicate is resting on the witness box. I quickly flick to the relevant pages.
The clock on the wall tells me thereās still time to get to Morte Sands. The defence barrister will stand up long enough to say, āNo questions, your honour,ā and Iāll be on my way.
He doesnāt. To my intense but suppressed irritation, he takes me through my evidence piece by piece. Go cut your teeth on someone else.
āCan you confirm, Ms Dymond, that the fibres recovered from Sian Jonesā jumper matched those taken from a jacket recovered from the defendantās house?ā
āYes. Thatās correct.ā
āMy client argued with Sian outside the club as shown on the CCTV footage. He doesnāt deny that. Is it possible that when he grabbed Sian, fibres were transferred from her jumper to his jacket?ā
Sometimes in this job we have to give answers we really donāt want to because science is science, but it still hurts to do it.
āYes, itās possible.ā
āThank you.ā
He gives me no opportunity to explain that they could also have been transferred when Mainwaring bludgeoned Sian to death, but Iām not concerned. No one thought the fibre evidence was particularly strong anyway and if the boy barrister thinks this will get his client off the hook, he has a lot to learn.
āWas there any blood found on my clientās jacket?ā
Movement catches my eye. Stride enters the courtroom, joining Detective Sergeant Rob Short and Detective Constable Will Lockhart whoāve already given evidence. Come to offer moral support, I suppose.
āNo. There was no blood on your clientās jacket.ā
āGiven the violent nature of Sian Jonesā death, would you not have expected to have found blood on my clientās jacket if he had killed her?ā
Too easy. I address the jury directly.
āNot necessarily. The defendant could have taken it off before he attacked Sian. Or more likely, he washed it when he got home. Any detergent with active oxygen in it will get rid of blood completely.ā
The female jurors are nodding, almost willing me on. Theyāre on my side and with me all the way. The sorry excuse for a human being sat with his defence team shakes his head. Shake away, son. Youāre going down.
āThank you, Ms Dymond. Youāve been most helpful. Iād like to move on to the fingerprint evidence. I understand some fingerprints were also found at the scene, is that correct?ā
This throws me. Why would he be interested in the fingerprints? None of the ones we lifted were of any use ā by which I mean belonging to Mainwaring. We lifted what there was, but if it hadnāt been a murder scene, I wouldnāt have bothered.
āWe lifted twenty-five fingerprint impressions from the scene, but I wouldnāt call them fingerprints, more like smudges.ā
An elderly female juror smiles. Itās in the bag. The boy barrister wonāt be making his name today.
āAnd were they sent by you for analysis at the fingerprint bureau?ā
āYes.ā
He then begins to lead me through all the fingerprints, one by one. Several jurors yawn.
āMs Dymond, could you look at the screen and tell the court if this ā Ref: Radley/11/18/01 ā is one of the ā what did you call them ā smudges lifted from the crime scene?ā
A small television screen next to me flicks into life. Itās a photo of a transparent acetate sheet, but instead of a silvery fingerprint with its sharply defined contours, thereās just a grey smudge where the aluminium powder has tried and failed to search out a loop or an arch, or any pattern that might identify the perpetrator. I check the reference number against my notes.
āYes, it is.ā
A second fingerprint flashes up. Even more of a blur than the previous one.
āWhat about this one, Ms Dymond? Reference Radley/12/18/02.ā
I catch an exasperated sigh before it escapes. Never disrespect the defence no matter how much contempt they deserve.
āYes, and that one.ā
Heās doing Mainwaring no favours. Juries arenāt known for their abundance of patience. Judges even less so.
āMr Lansley-Morton, unless thereās a point to this can we move on? We are due a recess.ā
A few more seconds and I can go. Megan better be out of bed.
āOf course, your honour. Ms Dymond, before you go, can you confirm this final print was lifted from the crime scene? The reference is Radley/13/18/03.ā
A thumbprint flashes on screen. This time, its ridges and whorls are sharply defined, like contours on a map. A textbook lift from a crime scene. Only, Iāve never seen it before. Not that I remember every print Iāve ever lifted, but Iād remember this one. Christ, weād have popped the champagne for that one. This is the kind of fingerprint that makes every detectiveās day, the kind that gets talked about for weeks, the kind that puts murderers away, which is why I know this print didnāt come from the crime scene.
The barrister seizes the silence.
āMembers of the jury, this fingerprint was recovered from a glass found at the scene of the crime and was identified as belonging to my client who, may I remind you, has denied entering Sian Jonesā room.ā Jury members sit up, intrigued the defence appears to have condemned his own client. āMs Dymond, did this fingerprint come from the crime scene?ā
I look at the mark on the screen again. The handwriting inked in black felt-tip pen could pass as mine, thatās for sure, but it isnāt. I loop my āyās. Itās a small detail, but enough for me to know I didnāt write this.
I look to Stride, searching for some kind of telepathic guidance, I guess. His expression is impassive, unreadable, and thatās when his words come back to me. Youāll be fine, Ally. Just go with it.
Oh fuck. It wasnāt a pep talk. It was Stride telling me to perjure myself. Heās stitched me up. But thatās impossible. He couldnāt have tampered with the evidence, not without help. DS Short and DC Lockhart are both staring at me in a way that suggests I hold their future in my hands. Oh God, theyāre all in on it. Short or Lockhart must have lifted a fingerprint from Mainwaringās house. A pot of aluminium powder, a brush and tape are all thatās needed. Someone, maybe Stride, substituted Mainwaringās gleaming fingerprint for one of the original ones before it went off to the fingerprint bureau. Surely, a fingerprint officer would have queried it. Unless the fingerprint officer is in on it too.
āMs Dymond, could you tell the court if this fingerprint was taken from the crime scene?ā
Panic whips through me. How the hell am I going to get out of this? I could brazen it out. Pretend I got confused with the line of questioning. Take ill. Christ, Iām on the verge of vomiting as it is.
In the public gallery, Maureen Jones sits upright and stares directly at me, sensing something isnāt g...
