Breakneck Point
T. ORR MUNRO was born in Aldershot in Hampshire to an English mother and a Greek-Armenian father who moved to deepest Devon after recognising it would be a great place to raise their children. She has a degree in Economic and Social History from Liverpool University and a PGCE in History and English. After university she trained as a CSI, then later became a secondary school teacher. She changed career at thirty-three to become a police and crime journalist and is currently freelance. She has since returned with her family to live in North Devon, the setting for Breakneck Point, but heads to Greece as often as she can. Her time as a CSI provided much of the inspiration for her novel, shining a light on what happens behind the crime scene tape.
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2022
Copyright © Tina Orr Munro 2022
Tina Orr Munro asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © April 2022 ISBN: 9780008479794
Version 2022-03-11
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008479640
To my mum and dad and for my sisters,
Nicky and Dianne. Thank you.
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2: Six months later
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Publisher
1
I know what the perfect murder looks like and the slaying of Sian Jones isn’t it. Far from it. Her killer, a no-mark called Danny Mainwaring, left a trail of clues bright enough to land a 747. The trial’s just a formality. He’s looking at life and I’m 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, everybody’s 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 he’s been there days, which he probably has. He frowns when he sees me. He doesn’t know what I’m doing here either.
‘I didn’t expect to see you.’
‘Me neither,’ I say, parking myself next to him. ‘I’m meant to be having mother and daughter time over a chococino on Morte Sands.’ I check my watch. ‘I should still make it if they get on with it.’ CSI appearances at court are surprisingly undramatic. If I’m called at all, I’m usually in and out in minutes.
I’m determined to make my date with Megan. I’ve already got a lot of making up to do with my daughter. I don’t need more. The chococino is my sorry for ducking out of her school art exhibition the previous week. A papier-mâché mask Megan had worked on for months had won the school prize and pride of place in the exhibition, but I’d been called to photograph a ‘fatal’ on the Link Road in the north of the county. As I put the phone down on the court clerk this morning, Megan’s stare challenged me to choose between her and my job, but it isn’t that simple. It never is. I promised her I’d 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.
‘How is Megan?’
Typical of Stride to remember her name. He knows the names of everyone’s kids in Major Investigations, even the grandkids in some cases.
‘Still fifteen.’
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.
‘How’s it going in there?’
‘Good. The CCTV evidence is enough to send him down.’
That’s 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. There’s so much CCTV, he practically has his own TV show.
Unusually for a murder scene like this, the rest of the forensics weren’t great. Mainwaring may not look like a master criminal, but he knew enough not to leave behind any DNA or fingerprints. All I’m going to do today is confirm that.
‘So why am I here?’ Stride shrugs.
‘Defence barrister’s a new guy. Thinks he’s Judge Judy. He’ll learn, though.’ He nudges my arm. ‘Once he’s seen you in action, I doubt he’ll bother you again.’
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, we’ll check Major Investigations’ 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.
‘Ally Dymond.’ My hand shoots up. I want this over and done with. She smiles gratefully. The number of people who don’t turn up for court is shockingly high. ‘This way, please.’
As I get up, Stride lightly touches my arm, a move so rare it startles me.
‘Just go with it, Ally. You’ll be fine. Remember he’s as guilty as hell.’
While I appreciate a pep talk as much as the next person, forensic evidence isn’t like other evidence, the science does the talking and does it well. There’s little room for argument. It’s why court holds no hand-wringing fear for me, not like other cops. Even the best defence lawyers can’t argue with the facts. Like I say, I’m not sure what I’m even doing here.
I enter Courtroom 1 by a side door. It’s unnaturally quiet given that it’s standing room only. The judge clearly doesn’t put up with any nonsense. I’m shown to the stand and sworn in and there’s a brief lull while the prosecution and defence teams whisper and consult their notes.
I avoid looking at Mainwaring, sat with the defence team, he’s not worth it, and cast my eye around the courtroom. Sian’s mother, Maureen Jones, is sitting in the public gallery at the back of the court, a tissue pressed to her nose, huddled under her husband’s arm. Sian’s 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 I’m a CSI. They’ve seen too many cop shows. It won’t last. Not when they realize the questions the barrister will ask will be no more challenging than confirming it’s my signature at the end of my statement.
My interrogation, such as it is, begins.
‘My name is Ally Dymond. I’m a Crime Scene Manager for Devon County Police’s Major Investigations Unit.’
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 there’s still time to get to Morte Sands. The defence barrister will stand up long enough to say, ‘No questions, your honour,’ and I’ll be on my way.
He doesn’t. To my intense but suppressed irritation, he takes me through my evidence piece by piece. Go cut your teeth on someone else.
‘Can you confirm, Ms Dymond, that the fibres recovered from Sian Jones’ jumper matched those taken from a jacket recovered from the defendant’s house?’
‘Yes. That’s correct.’
‘My client argued with Sian outside the club as shown on the CCTV footage. He doesn’t deny that. Is it possible that when he grabbed Sian, fibres were transferred from her jumper to his jacket?’
Sometimes in this job we have to give answers we really don’t want to because science is science, but it still hurts to do it.
‘Yes, it’s possible.’
‘Thank you.’
He gives me no opportunity to explain that they could also have been transferred when Mainwaring bludgeoned Sian to death, but I’m 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.
‘Was there any blood found on my client’s jacket?’
Movement catches my eye. Stride enters the courtroom, joining Detective Sergeant Rob Short and Detective Constable Will Lockhart who’ve already given evidence. Come to offer moral support, I suppose.
‘No. There was no blood on your client’s jacket.’
‘Given the violent nature of Sian Jones’ death, would you not have expected to have found blood on my client’s jacket if he had killed her?’
Too easy. I address the jury directly.
‘Not 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.’
The female jurors are nodding, almost willing me on. They’re 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. You’re going down.
‘Thank you, Ms Dymond. You’ve been most helpful. I’d like to move on to the fingerprint evidence. I understand some fingerprints were also found at the scene, is that correct?’
This throws me. Why would he be interested in the fingerprints? None of the ones we lifted were of any use – by which I mean belonging to Mainwaring. We lifted what there was, but if it hadn’t been a murder scene, I wouldn’t have bothered.
‘We lifted twenty-five fingerprint impressions from the scene, but I wouldn’t call them fingerprints, more like smudges.’
An elderly female juror smiles. It’s in the bag. The boy barrister won’t be making his name today.
‘And were they sent by you for analysis at the fingerprint bureau?’
‘Yes.’
He then begins to lead me through all the fingerprints, one by one. Several jurors yawn.
‘Ms Dymond, could you look at the screen and tell the court if this – Ref: Radley/11/18/01 – is one of the – what did you call them – smudges lifted from the crime scene?’
A small television screen next to me flicks into life. It’s a photo of a transparent acetate sheet, but instead of a silvery fingerprint with its sharply defined contours, there’s 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.
‘Yes, it is.’
A second fingerprint flashes up. Even more of a blur than the previous one.
‘What about this one, Ms Dymond? Reference Radley/12/18/02.’
I catch an exasperated sigh before it escapes. Never disrespect the defence no matter how much contempt they deserve.
‘Yes, and that one.’
He’s doing Mainwaring no favours. Juries aren’t known for their abundance of patience. Judges even less so.
‘Mr Lansley-Morton, unless there’s a point to this can we move on? We are due a recess.’
A few more seconds and I can go. Megan better be out of bed.
‘Of 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.’
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, I’ve never seen it before. Not that I remember every print I’ve ever lifted, but I’d remember this one. Christ, we’d have popped the champagne for that one. This is the kind of fingerprint that makes every detective’s day, the kind that gets talked about for weeks, the kind that puts murderers away, which is why I know this print didn’t come from the crime scene.
The barrister seizes the silence.
‘Members 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 Jones’ room.’ Jury members sit up, intrigued the defence appears to have condemned his own client. ‘Ms Dymond, did this fingerprint come from the crime scene?’
I look at the mark on the screen again. The handwriting inked in black felt-tip pen could pass as mine, that’s for sure, but it isn’t. I loop my ‘y’s. It’s a small detail, but enough for me to know I didn’t write this.
I look to Stride, searching for some kind of telepathic guidance, I guess. His expression is impassive, unreadable, and that’s when his words come back to me. You’ll be fine, Ally. Just go with it.
Oh fuck. It wasn’t a pep talk. It was Stride telling me to perjure m
yself. He’s stitched me up. But that’s impossible. He couldn’t 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, they’re all in on it. Short or Lockhart must have lifted a fingerprint from Mainwaring’s house. A pot of aluminium powder, a brush and tape are all that’s needed. Someone, maybe Stride, substituted Mainwaring’s 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.
‘Ms Dymond, could you tell the court if this fingerprint was taken from the crime scene?’
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, I’m on the verge of vomiting as it is.
In the public gallery, Maureen Jones sits upright and stares directly at me, sensing something isn’t going according to plan. She doesn’t want to be here, listening to people argue every detail of her daughter’s murder. She’s here because she wants justice for Sian. Because even in the maelstrom of her grief, justice matters. But justice doesn’t look like this. This version is twisted and wrong. No matter how guilty Mainwaring is.
The court grows restless and awkward at my muteness.
‘Ms Dymond, I’m going to need an answer from you.’
I check my notebook as if trying to refresh my memory, but I’m looking for answers I know aren’t there.
‘Ms Dymond, is there a problem?’
‘No, no problem,’ I respond, frantically trying to come up with a game plan. Stride is staring impassively at me.
‘Then, I repeat, was this fingerprint taken from the crime scene?’
The dryness in my throat has spread to my lips. I flick through my notebook again, but the lines are blurred, and my head is spinning.
‘Ms Dymond, please answer the question.’
I take a deep breath to compose myself. There is no way out of this. I shoot Stride a defeated look. His face is unreadable.
‘This fingerprint didn’t come from the murder scene.’
A collective gasp, the kind trapeze artists are used to, the kind my court performances have never drawn before, is released into the atmosphere.