This is a short story inspired by one of those 'what if?' moments. Feedback will be gratefully received.
In the Frame
Detective Inspector Gemma Burton stood by the flapping crime scene tape. She looked past the huddle of police officers and out across the choppy estuary towards Spurn Head. Insistent calls of sea birds were accompanied by the distant electronic warbles and thump of music spilling out of a deserted arcade on the promenade. The cold onshore breeze whipped loose strands of grey-blond hair across her face.
‘Are you alright, ma’am?’ asked Detective Constable Robert Ashton.
‘Sorry, Rob, yes I'm fine.’
Ashton wrote Burton’s name on his clipboard and held back the tape to let her into the cordoned off area of beach. She thought he looked cold and that he should zip up his old anorak to keep the paunch warm. Burton kept her thoughts to herself and walked towards the body.
‘What have we got, Niall?’ Burton asked
Detective Sergeant Niall Cartwright stood up. He had been crouching on his haunches by the body.
‘Not every day something like this washes up at Cleethorpes, boss.’
‘First thoughts?’
‘Two gunshot wounds. One to the head above the ear, one in the middle of the chest. He's been in the water for some time. No ID.’
Burton stepped forward. The bloated body was lying on its back with the face turned to the side away from her. She looked at the obvious bullet wounds. The clothing consisted of dark trousers and black fleece jacket.
‘Looks like he was dressed for work,’ said Burton. She walked round to the other side of the body.
‘Oh, shit.’
‘Boss?’ asked Cartwright.
‘I know him.’
*
‘I'm looking at the statement of DC Robert Ashton, DI Burton. He says you seemed distracted when you first attended the crime scene on the beach,’ said Detective Superintendent Dawn Pascoe.
The interview room at police headquarters was familiar. It was just the angle of view Burton was unaccustomed to. She was used to being on the other side of the table. The temperature, as ever, was too warm. She had asked, once, whether it was kept that way on purpose. No-one seemed to know. It was useful though. Suspects with no intention of telling the truth felt uncomfortable when sweating before opening their mouths.
‘It had been a long day,’ said Burton, ‘and I was about to knock off when I got the call. There were no other officers of my rank available and the boss wanted me to take charge of the scene, together with the initial investigation.’
Pascoe looked down at her papers while Burton stared over her head at the one-way window. She wondered if anyone was on the other side.
‘Was it more to do with the fact you had a good idea whose body was likely to have been washed up and you were thinking through how to play it?’
‘I hadn't got a clue who it was until I saw the face,’ said Burton. She had lost track of how long the interview had been going on and glanced at the counter on the digital recorder: 37 minutes. Burton told herself to continue keeping it calm and collected.
Pascoe closed the file on the desk and sat back in her chair. Burton looked into the hazel eyes. The expression gave nothing away. Pascoe stretched upwards then placed both hands behind her head. She may have wanted to look like she was being relaxed but the muscles round her jaw remained taut.
Burton guessed the other woman was a similar age to her. They probably came up through the ranks at the same time. That would give Pascoe around twenty years in the job. There was no grey in the brunette hair. She looked like she cared about her appearance and, Burton thought, seemed happy with a little judicious use of hair dye.
‘You know as well as anyone, DI Burton, how this goes. You're a police officer and, as such, the expectation is you hold nothing back, whether you’ve had legal advice or not. I remind you what the caution means. If you fail to mention, now, something you later rely on in court a jury may draw adverse inferences.’
‘I don’t need you to explain the caution and I’m not holding anything back. I repeat what I've been saying all along; I had no inkling who the body on the beach belonged to until I saw the face. I haven't seen or had any contact with my former husband, Detective Chief Inspector Nicholas Burton, for more than four years. I have no knowledge of how he was killed and I'm certainly not responsible for his death.’
Burton was under no illusion that a simple statement of denial would see the end of it. Once the Professional Standards Directorate had its teeth into you, she thought, there was no letting go.
‘I may be in the frame because he was my ex and I was on that ferry but there’s a simple reason it won’t stick, DS Pascoe,’ said Burton, ‘I didn’t do it.’
*
As she flicked through the file Pascoe rehearsed in her mind the briefing she was due to deliver to her boss. He liked brevity and an absence of unsubstantiated speculation. She made a mental note of the essential facts.
Gemma Needham, as she was then, and Nicholas Burton had first met at police training college and married soon after they passed out. They split five years ago. There had been no children. After the divorce Nicholas transferred to the National Crime Agency. Gemma remained in her local CID. She was well respected.
Nicholas had been working undercover in counter drug importation. The suspicion was that the Rotterdam to Hull ferry was being used to smuggle class A drugs into the UK and Nicholas was deployed as a member of the crew. There had been no contact with him after he sailed from Rotterdam five days before the discovery of the body.
The passenger manifest showed that Gemma Burton was aboard the ferry when it sailed. She was, she had stated in interview, travelling alone and had been to Rotterdam to visit an old university friend who, having taken a sabbatical from work, was due to leave for Malaysia.
Pascoe had not placed Burton under formal arrest prior to the interview. Although the reality was there wasn't much choice, she had been questioned as a volunteer. Afterwards Pascoe warned Burton to make herself available if needed again but let her go without imposing bail or suspending her from duties. Other than supposition based on the coincidence of Nicholas and Gemma being on the same ferry together at the likely time of death, there was little concrete evidence supporting the theory Gemma was involved.
There were lines of enquiry to follow up. No witnesses to anything significant on the ferry had come forward but the CCTV footage seized from the vessel needed to be viewed. It had been established that the friend Burton referred to existed but he had travelled to the Far East and it was proving difficult to contact him. Pascoe intended having a good look at Gemma Burton’s personal life.
*
‘I think there is a danger, Dawn,’ said Detective Chief Superintendent Dan McFarlane, ‘of getting too hung up on the presence of Gemma Burton on the ferry. Nick, after all, was undercover and the people he was after are not averse to permanently removing anyone who gets in their way. There are the two bullet holes. The double tap has professional hit written all over it.’
‘Gemma Burton would know that. It may well have occurred to her to make it look like a paid job,’ said Pascoe.
McFarlane swung round in the office chair, presenting his profile to Pascoe while he skimmed through the file she had handed to him. The desk between them was uncluttered. Papers requiring his attention were in a neat pile. A computer screen was paired with a single framed photograph. Commendations, qualifications and a constabulary rugby team picture adorned the wall behind his desk.
‘I’m just not sure about this,’ said McFarlane, ‘it’s a heck of a coincidence but, if she is responsible, Gemma Burton put herself right in the frame by being on that ferry. What’s her motive?’
Pascoe watched without responding as McFarlane steepled the fingers of both hands under his chin.
‘It’s too soon to jump to any conclusions, Dawn. Follow up the lines of enquiry and come back to me with what you get.’
*
Burton knew from the looks she was seeing around the station that the word was out. In direct conversation everyone was fine. It was the sideways glances and whispered conversations between colleagues in the open plan office that confirmed they knew. She was in the frame for killing her ex-husband and PSD were gunning for her.
Taking her off the investigation as soon as she had disclosed the identity of the body had been the right thing to do, of course. She still had a large case load but Burton was struggling to concentrate on anything else.
The thought that she had been on the ferry at the same time Nick was shot and dumped in the sea was shocking. That was the best word, she thought; shock. She felt shock. It surprised her. Victims of crime were described by police officers all the time as being in a state of shock but Burton had not realised, until now, how it must feel.
There was a sense of guilt as well. Burton hadn’t seen Nick for years. There were recriminations when they first separated but the divorce had been quick. She had not been looking to have an affair but, when it happened, Burton realised what it said about the state of their marriage. She told Nick that she wanted out and, after he had come to terms with what had happened, and why, there was a clean break. Burton questioned what she should feel now. Was it wrong that she felt less of a sense of grief than a burning need to clear her name?
Burton was well aware how toxic the stench of suspicion surrounding a police officer could be. She thought about the many occasions she had interviewed suspects, listened to protestations of innocence then warned against interfering with subsequent investigations. People in the frame for offences tended to make things worse for themselves when attempting to prove their own innocence. Burton knew she was a good copper, though, and felt she couldn't trust Dawn Pascoe’s investigation to fully exonerate her. She needed more than mere confirmation that there had been no involvement in Nick’s death. Burton had to soak the suggestion in bleach and eradicate any hint of a stain.
*
DCS McFarlane picked up the ringing mobile phone from his desk.
‘We’ve got her, boss. We’ve got Gemma Burton.’
‘Where are you, Dawn?’
‘I’m at a local authority owned holiday chalet in Humberstone. The letting is in Burton’s name. We’ve found a gun and it looks like the right calibre.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said McFarlane, ‘how incredibly careless. I want Burton back for a further interview while we get the forensics on the gun sorted. This time, Dawn, bring her in under arrest.’
McFarlane hung up the mobile phone. As he did so a new email alert flashed at the bottom right of the computer screen on his desk. His first reaction was to leave it until later then noticed who it was from. He clicked and leaned a little closer to the screen. When McFarlane had finished reading he sat back in his chair and looked at the photograph of his wife.
‘A woman scorned, eh love?’
*
Dawn Pascoe looked across the interview room desk. Dan McFarlane was sitting in the opposite chair and holding a print-out of an email with its attachments. His head was framed by the one-way window behind him.
‘Dawn,’ said McFarlane, ‘I need to caution you. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you rely on in court. Anything you do say can be given in evidence. Do you understand?’
‘Are you being serious?’
‘I have to ask. For the benefit of the recording, DS Pascoe, do you understand the caution?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Pascoe.
McFarlane explained that he wanted to question Pascoe about the contents of an email sent to him by Gemma Burton. He had received it, he said, after Pascoe called him from the chalet.
Burton stated that she had been able to access her ex-husband’s personal email account. He had the same address as the one used when they were married and, on a hunch, she had discovered he had not changed his password in over five years. Attached to her email were screenshots of exchanges between Pascoe and Nicholas Burton. From the content it was clear they had been in a relationship but he had ended it. She had pleaded with him. He had admitted to having feelings for Gemma, still, and had said he could never love Pascoe in the same way.
McFarlane went on to describe how Burton had made her own enquiries with the ferry company. She had attached the passenger list she was given to the email. McFarlane had checked it against the copy Pascoe provided when she briefed him. There was an obvious discrepancy. Missing from the initial version he had seen was a single passenger’s name: Dawn Pascoe.
‘It all makes your attempts to frame Gemma Burton look very clumsy, Dawn. Taking advantage of her trip to Rotterdam was, I concede, clever. You had to go through the motions with the interview, even though you knew she wasn't guilty, but the discovery of the gun was way over the top. Gemma is no murderer and she's certainly not stupid. How could you believe the idea that she stashed the murder weapon at her own holiday chalet would receive more than a moment of serious thought?’
Pascoe was looking at the backs of her hands. They rested palms down on the desk in front of her.
‘What were you going to suggest was the motive, Dawn? The fact they divorced years ago? Was it that Nicholas received promotion and Gemma stayed a whole rank below him? Perhaps you planned to concoct evidence that Gemma was involved in the drugs trade? All ridiculous. You were the one with the motive. It was you who was dumped because Nicholas Burton still loved his ex-wife. It was you who murdered him, DS Pascoe, and you wanted Gemma Burton to go down for it.’
Pascoe lifted her eyes and stared at her boss for several seconds.
‘I’m not answering any questions until I've spoken to a solicitor.’
*
Gemma Burton looked through the one-way window at the scene in the room beyond. It had been Dawn Pascoe who had said what was expected of a police officer in an interview under caution. Now she was the one refusing to answer questions without the benefit of legal representation. Burton smiled and left the observation room.
