“Oliver Chen?” I asked.
“Who's asking?”
“Someone interested in your relationship with Marcus Webb. And with Elliot Harrow.” I showed him my phone—screenshots of the transactions, his name, his account numbers. “We can have this conversation inside, or I can have it very loudly on your doorstep where your neighbours can hear. Your choice.”
He let me in.
The house smelled of cigarettes and old takeaway. Chen led me to a sitting room that was cluttered but clean and sat down heavily, looking at me with the tired resignation of a man who had been expecting this moment for years.
“What do you want?”
“Information about how evidence suppression actually works. The physical process. Who handles it. Where it goes.”
“And if I don't tell you?”
“Then these financial records go to every news outlet in London. Your family finds out you've been taking bribes. Your pension disappears. Your legacy becomes a cautionary tale about corruption.” I kept my voice flat and clinical. “Or you cooperate and maybe I find a way to keep your name out of the public reports.”
“You can't promise that.”
“No. But I can try, which is more than you'll get from Harrow when this all comes down.” I leaned forward. “He's burning everyone connected to him. Webb's already in protective custody. How long before Harrow decides you're a loose end?”
Chen's hands were shaking. “What do you want to know?”
“Lily Rourke's case. Three years ago. Evidence was sealed, the autopsy altered, witness statements removed. Walk me through it. Every step.”
He did—reluctantly, with the particular shame of a man who had compromised himself in small increments until the total became unbearable.
The evidence had come to him from the crime scene through a standard chain of custody. He'd logged it properly and filed it in the secure room where all sensitive materials were stored. Then the suppression order came through, signed by Judge Reeves and countersigned by DA Brennan. Chen had pulled the evidence and transferred it to a different storage location, one that wasn't officially catalogued, where it could be accessedprivately, altered if necessary, and eventually destroyed without a record.
The autopsy report had gone through a similar process. Dr Quinn's original findings had been filed, then recalled under the suppression order. An altered version had replaced it in the official record, and the original had disappeared.
The witness statements were the same. Collected, filed, recalled. The ones that contradicted Harrow's preferred narrative had been removed from the file entirely. The ones that supported it had been kept and emphasised.
By the time the trial happened, Ethan had been convicted based on a version of events carefully curated to ensure a specific outcome.
“Who gave the order to alter the autopsy?” I asked. “Not the suppression order. The actual instruction to change Dr Quinn's findings.”
Chen hesitated. “It came from Harrow directly, through Webb. Special handling. Twenty thousand for the pathologist who made the changes.”
“Name.”
“Dr Simon Graves. He's since left the country. Works in Dubai now.”
I made a note. Another thread to pull, another person to track down and pressure into testimony.
“And the original evidence? Where is it now?”
“Destroyed. Burned three months after the trial concluded. Standard protocol for suppressed materials.”
“So there's no physical evidence left.”
“No. Just the digital records showing it existed, and the people who remember what it said before the alteration.”
I pulled out my phone and showed him another photograph. My partner. Detective Inspector James Crawford. Dead three years, on the same timeline as Lily Rourke.
“What about this one?” My voice stayed level despite the tightness in my chest. “A detective who died during a corruption investigation. Officially ruled a suicide. I know it wasn't. Tell me you handled evidence suppression for this case too.”
Chen's face went grey. “I don't?—”
