Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller by David George Clarke Read Free Book Online

that they are scared — we’ve no information yet as to who her pimp is. They’ve told us conflicting stories — some say Miruna was a popular girl with a number of regulars; others say she didn’t have any. They are probably all lying and competing against each other for the favours of any of Miruna’s more lucrative clients.
    “The search of her room has given us some background about her, but little about her professional life. She obviously played it carefully; she must have been quite streetwise for her age.
    “There was an ageing laptop on which there were several emails to and from her family back in Romania. We’ve had a uniform who is half-Romanian translate them for us and it would appear that the family is under the impression she works as a model for the Hyson Modelling Agency. The company is real — DC Cotton managed to raise them even though it was Sunday afternoon — but they have never heard of her. She must have got the name from the Internet. Apart from her clothes, which were cheap, and her laptop, she had few possessions of any significance. The laptop has been seized for examination. Yes, Cotton.”
    Jennifer had put up her hand. “What about her mobile, boss?”
    “Not yet been found. However, we have the number so the techies should still be able to link calls and texts from the records of the service provider.”
    He turned to the many photos attached to the whiteboards.
    “Where we have made good progress is with the street cameras. A quick run through yesterday afternoon showed what appeared to be Miruna getting into a vehicle, a dark Nissan X-Trail, on Forest Road West at three minutes past one on Saturday morning. The lighting wasn’t so good and the plate was partly obscured, but we got a partial number to run. Other cameras picked up the vehicle with what looks like Miruna in the front passenger seat leaving the city and heading north. One shot gave us more on the number plate, enough in fact to give us a full number: LJ11TTV. The vehicle is registered to a Henry Silk who lives in Hampstead, London. This information only came in a few minutes ago so we haven’t yet tried to contact Mr Silk.”
    Jennifer raised her hand again.
    Hurst cocked his head to one side, the look in his eyes telling her that the interruption had better be worth it.
    “Is that the same Henry Silk who’s an actor on the TV soap Runway Two-Seven, boss?”
    A mutter of amusement went around the room as Hurst voiced what they were all thinking.
    “I’m surprised you’ve even heard of Runway Two-Seven, Cotton. Not your normal cup of tea, from what I’ve been told.”
    Jennifer blushed. In the short time she had been in the SCF, she had gained a reputation as the group’s intellectual, preferring to read the classics on her Kindle and talk about arty, foreign films. She was also known to be fluent in French and Italian.
    “I do allow myself a couple of vices,” she said defensively, “and Runway Two-Seven’s one of them. Henry Silk has quite a reputation for his bad boy character but,” — she paused as the ribbing got louder, and then raised her voice — “if it is him, the fact that he was appearing here at the Theatre Royal all last week could be significant.”
    The ribbing suddenly stopped as the group realised that the case might well have just moved significantly forward. Jennifer raised her chin towards them and continued.
    “There was an advert in the Post for the play he was in, and then when I passed the theatre a few days ago, I saw a large poster with Silk’s photo and name on it.”
    She paused again; she could see the DCI’s mind was in overdrive. But before he could speak, one of the civilian intelligence officers put his hand up and launched into his own question.
    “You said that the girl’s face was visible on the CCTV footage, sir. Was the driver’s face also shown?”
    All eyes turned to Hurst, who put up his hands.
    “Hold on a minute. We haven’t yet confirmed whether