Read Online Fifty Two Weeks of Murder by Owen Nichols - Free Book Online
Authors: Owen Nichols
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comparison. He’ll have somewhere that your records won’t show and all of his accounts offshore.”
“Might I ask that we take some fingerprints and DNA samples? As a twin, it would provide vital data that may help us catch him more quickly.” Lord Buckland turned back to Anders, who had asked the question.
“Twins don’t have the same fingerprints Miss Anders. I’d have thought that someone with your training would know that.” She gave him an easy smile and Lord Buckland found himself charmed by her.
“I am aware of that sir, but your fingerprints are not only shaped by your genes. During your time in the uterus, the maternal nutrition, blood pressure and your own position in the womb will have affected the growth of your fingers during the end of the first trimester. The whorls and ridges on your hands will have some similarities with your brother. It would help make a partial match.” Lord Buckland grinned and winked at her.
“Thank you for the lesson Miss Anders, I’d be more than happy for you to take some samples.” At this, Blackwell coughed politely and stood up, scraping his chair loudly on the wooden floor, the sound echoing around the chamber.
“At this point, I must intervene and recommend that my client does not provide any samples. I will not have it in the public domain that DNA and print samples have been taken. My client’s reputation would be damaged beyond that which it already has.”
“Not helping in our investigation is equally damning,” snapped Anders. She’d taken an instant dislike to this unctuous man who used the law as a weapon, his tone and demeanour insidious and reptilian.
“Then he will provide samples when it is clearly proven that, in doing so, he will further your investigation. You have his brother’s written confession, posted for the whole world to see. That is sufficient for now. You are conducting a manhunt, not a murder investigation.” Anders made to reply, but Mal stepped forward, his voice calming the increasingly heated debate.
“We are not governed by the Freedom of Information Act. Lord Buckland here ensured that the NCA was exempt from that. No one will know if he has given samples. All our work is done in-house.”
“Your department is less than a week old Mr Weathers. It is untested and not yet proven to be secure.” Francis opened his hands in a gesture of apology.
“I’m sorry, but I need to abide by his instructions. There’s little point in paying him so much otherwise. If I can help in any other way, please let me know.” Mal gave him a brief smile and shook his hand as he made to leave.
“Thank you Lord Buckland,” he said and strode to the exit. Anders followed, but Francis called after her.
“Miss Anders, before you leave, let me tell you a little about this Palace.” He walked with her to the exit as Mal waited at the door. “It was built in the eleventh century, but in fifteen twelve, it was destroyed by fire. After that, it was rebuilt and became the House of Parliament. In eighteen thirty four, it was burnt down once more and during the Second World War, it was bombed no less that fourteen times. The statue you walked past on your way here, the one of Richard the Lionheart. It was blown from its pedestal and its sword bent. But it did not break. That became the symbol for democracy during the War. This whole building represents this nation’s commitment to democracy and social justice. My brother will cause chaos and attempt to undermine the very values this society has been built on for over five hundred years. He must not be allowed to succeed.”
As they reached the door, he wished them good day and turned smartly on his heels, his footsteps echoing off the Royal Gallery walls. Anders and Mal let themselves drift with the tide of humanity as it poured through the Palace and found themselves deposited on the steps of St Stephen’s entrance. Mal shook his head, a dour look on his face.
“We’re not going to get
“Might I ask that we take some fingerprints and DNA samples? As a twin, it would provide vital data that may help us catch him more quickly.” Lord Buckland turned back to Anders, who had asked the question.
“Twins don’t have the same fingerprints Miss Anders. I’d have thought that someone with your training would know that.” She gave him an easy smile and Lord Buckland found himself charmed by her.
“I am aware of that sir, but your fingerprints are not only shaped by your genes. During your time in the uterus, the maternal nutrition, blood pressure and your own position in the womb will have affected the growth of your fingers during the end of the first trimester. The whorls and ridges on your hands will have some similarities with your brother. It would help make a partial match.” Lord Buckland grinned and winked at her.
“Thank you for the lesson Miss Anders, I’d be more than happy for you to take some samples.” At this, Blackwell coughed politely and stood up, scraping his chair loudly on the wooden floor, the sound echoing around the chamber.
“At this point, I must intervene and recommend that my client does not provide any samples. I will not have it in the public domain that DNA and print samples have been taken. My client’s reputation would be damaged beyond that which it already has.”
“Not helping in our investigation is equally damning,” snapped Anders. She’d taken an instant dislike to this unctuous man who used the law as a weapon, his tone and demeanour insidious and reptilian.
“Then he will provide samples when it is clearly proven that, in doing so, he will further your investigation. You have his brother’s written confession, posted for the whole world to see. That is sufficient for now. You are conducting a manhunt, not a murder investigation.” Anders made to reply, but Mal stepped forward, his voice calming the increasingly heated debate.
“We are not governed by the Freedom of Information Act. Lord Buckland here ensured that the NCA was exempt from that. No one will know if he has given samples. All our work is done in-house.”
“Your department is less than a week old Mr Weathers. It is untested and not yet proven to be secure.” Francis opened his hands in a gesture of apology.
“I’m sorry, but I need to abide by his instructions. There’s little point in paying him so much otherwise. If I can help in any other way, please let me know.” Mal gave him a brief smile and shook his hand as he made to leave.
“Thank you Lord Buckland,” he said and strode to the exit. Anders followed, but Francis called after her.
“Miss Anders, before you leave, let me tell you a little about this Palace.” He walked with her to the exit as Mal waited at the door. “It was built in the eleventh century, but in fifteen twelve, it was destroyed by fire. After that, it was rebuilt and became the House of Parliament. In eighteen thirty four, it was burnt down once more and during the Second World War, it was bombed no less that fourteen times. The statue you walked past on your way here, the one of Richard the Lionheart. It was blown from its pedestal and its sword bent. But it did not break. That became the symbol for democracy during the War. This whole building represents this nation’s commitment to democracy and social justice. My brother will cause chaos and attempt to undermine the very values this society has been built on for over five hundred years. He must not be allowed to succeed.”
As they reached the door, he wished them good day and turned smartly on his heels, his footsteps echoing off the Royal Gallery walls. Anders and Mal let themselves drift with the tide of humanity as it poured through the Palace and found themselves deposited on the steps of St Stephen’s entrance. Mal shook his head, a dour look on his face.
“We’re not going to get
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