Denial of Murder by Peter Turnbull Page A

accept it as a donation. I dare say it was all a matter of pride and principle rather than the value of the television as an item of property … but that is your average murder. Here, in Acton, all over the rest of London, all over the rest of the country, all over the rest of the world, in fact, and it was the nature of the murder of Janet Frost, pale little waif and stray that she was. She was the victim of Gordon Cogan and all he could say was, “I don’t remember doing it”. You know, I often wish real murders had the mystery and the richness of quality of the murders featured on TV dramas – that would make our job so much more interesting. But it’s always … nearly always, grubby, cheap and impulsive; humanity at its lowest, at its worst.’
    â€˜Such was the murder of Janet Frost, you say,’ Brunnie replied. ‘I am so pleased you said “nearly” by the way.’
    â€˜All right, I dare say that you need the occasional murder of quality,’ Darwish grinned, ‘but yes, that was the way of the murder of Janet Frost. It was just like that. Just as I have described. They lived on top of each other in a house full of lowlifes, alkies, smack heads and cheap brasses; it was a real den of thieves. The perpetrator, Gordon Cogan, had been a schoolteacher until he ran away with one of his pupils – took her to the west coast of Ireland. He was lifted by the Irish boys and when his case came to court he went in front of Mr Justice Father Christmas who says Cogan’s lost everything so no prison sentence is needed, and sends him down for six months backdated to the date of his arrest so he walks out of court that very day. Would you credit it?’ Darwish shook his head. ‘Raping and abducting a schoolgirl – he should have got a ten-year stretch for that at least. At the very minimum he should have collected a full decade. So he fetches up in a dosshouse in Acton Town and, lo and behold, who’s across the corridor but another little girl, so he goes into her drum and chokes the life out of her, doesn’t he? You see, that’s what lenient sentencing gets you – it gives out the wrong message, let’s ’em think they can do it and get away with it.’
    â€˜You reckon?’ Victor Swannell said for the second time.
    â€˜Yes, of course … I mean, if that little toe-rag Cogan had got the ten-year stretch he should have got, Janet Frost would still be alive … or then again maybe not given the way she was putting away the heroin, but she would have lived a bit longer anyway.’ Darwish leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desktop, clasping his huge hands together. He wore a light blue shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled up cuff over cuff and an expensive-looking watch around his left wrist. He beamed at Swannell and Brunnie. ‘I hope Mr Justice Father Christmas reassessed his sentencing values after that murder. He would have read about it. He let the little pervert out for abducting and raping a schoolgirl because he’s done six months on remand and within a matter of weeks he’s strangled another young girl. There was no clear motive, just theft, and a little passion possibly, when he was under the influence. He was no great shakes as an example of British manhood, he was a weedy little non-descript of a man, but despite that, Janet Frost was no match for him.’
    â€˜A small girl?’ Brunnie asked.
    â€˜About the size of your average twelve-year-old.’ Darwish held eye contact with Brunnie. ‘His DNA was all over her body and also all over her room: on her shelves, in her drawers, her cupboards, everywhere. And I mean everywhere. He’d rifled her room, plundered it, ransacked it, really gone to town and there she was in the middle of it, a little naked body with a massively bruised neck and his DNA all over her … not just round her neck but all over her … No indication