by L M Krier
‘Megan, are you all right on the FGM today without Jezza? If you need extra help, ask Susan Heap from Uniform. She has the training. I’ll clear it with Inspector Turner if you need her. I want it wrapped up as soon as possible. Leave people in no doubt that everyone is welcome here but they must live by our laws, and mutilating young girls is against them.
‘I’d much rather be doing something practical instead of all this paperwork, but I’m in my office if you need me for anything.’
Stanley Harrison had sounded irritable, tetchy, when he’d replied to the message Rob O’Connell left on his answerphone. He’d grudgingly agreed to a visit from Rob, constantly repeating that he didn’t see how he could help.
He was staying in a cheap hotel out near the University. It looked as if it had been a pub in a previous life and managed to retain a lingering smell of cheap beer. Harrison was waiting for him in what had clearly been the bar, now a dining room of sorts. They sat on upright and uncomfortable chairs at a pine table. Rob asked for coffees which were delivered, most of the contents slopped over into the saucers, by a young girl who looked as if she considered that she had far better things to be doing with her morning.
‘I still don’t see how you think I can help you. What’s all this about?’
‘It’s just routine enquiries at this stage, Mr Harrison.’ Rob got his phone out and put it on the table between them. ‘Would you have any objection to me recording your answers? It would be much more efficient then me trying to scribble everything down.’
‘If you must.’
Rob could see that he was going to have his work cut out with this interview. Harrison was indeed a strange-looking person and Peter Spencer had been right about the comb-over. It did nothing for him. He would have done better to admit defeat and accept his baldness. Rob wondered if it was an image he cultivated to suit the role of the eccentric historian. His clothes were decidedly old-fashioned, perhaps studiously so. He reminded Rob of a portrayal he’d seen in a film about John Reginald Christie, the Rillington Place serial killer.
‘We’re talking to anyone who may have had a key to a church we’re interested in. I understand from Peter Spencer that his father may have given you a key to his church. Is that so?’
‘Well, he did, three years or more ago, but I didn’t keep it, clearly. I quite liked Robert Spencer. He was intelligent and knowledgeable though he could be incredibly patronising. And intransigent, with some of his ideas. The church itself was of moderate interest to me but I did enjoy the debates with Robert. I didn’t take to his successor. Too happy-clappy for my taste. Trying to be all-embracing. I tried discussing theology with him but it was all a bit superficial. Not the same level of intellect at all as Robert.’
‘Could you explain a bit about what it is you actually do, Mr Harrison?’
‘I research British religions through the ages and places of significance within them. I write about them and give talks on them. I’m occasionally booked to go on cruises for enthusiasts, to deliver lectures there. That’s reasonably lucrative, unlike most of the other work, but a hard way to earn a crust if, like me, you suffer from extreme motion sickness.’
‘Do you know any churches in or around Gainsborough? And what about Hull?’
‘Sergeant – you did say that was your rank, didn’t you - churches are part of my speciality. It would probably save us both a lot of time if I told you the ones I haven’t visited. I have occasionally been given a key to use for my research purposes but I have always returned them. People may think me odd but that oddity does not include a liking for lurking in churches. I visit them for research purposes, that’s all.’
‘I understand you’re also an expert in pre-Christian worship sites too. Pagan? That sort of thing?’
‘That sort of thing, as you put it, is a simplistic and dismissive way of talking about centuries of misunderstood culture, Sergeant, but yes, that is a speciality of mine also.’
‘Have you heard of a place called Lud’s Well, in Lincolnshire?’
The man’s upper lip curled in a sneer. ‘Lud Well. Yes. A ridiculous modern imposter. A sham. Probably Victorian in origin. When I visited there was even a Tampax hanging from the yew tree above the so-called rag well. Mercifully not a used one. The real spiritual site is upstream, where the seven springs rise, of course.’
‘What about Ludworth Moor, near Stockport? Is there a connection through the name?’
‘I know of it. Bronze Age, I think, from memory. What is this line of questioning all about?’
‘It’s just routine, Mr Harrison, as I said. If I gave you some dates, over the last three years or so, would you be able to tell me what you were doing on those dates?’
Harrison was starting to look suspicious now, his small dark eyes narrowing. ‘I think I would want to know more of your reasons for asking me. But yes, I probably could. I keep detailed diaries of all my engagements. For tax purposes as much as anything. Given sufficient notice, I could. But I think I might prefer to take legal advice before I did so, unless you give me more information on why you’re asking.’
‘You’re perfectly entitled to do that, of course, Mr Harrison. But it really is just a matter of routine, at this stage. We’re speaking to anyone who visited certain churches, and in particular, anyone who had a key to any of them.’
The man was looking at him with open suspicion, a touch of hostility showing in those small rodent eyes.
‘Ah, but there’s that phrase. At this stage. I can tell by the way you’re looking at me that you have already made a judgement because of my appearance. You’re trying to hide it, of course, because that’s what you’re trained to do, but I can see it. I’ve seen it so often. I saw it from Robert Spencer and that son of his. I heard them laughing together many times, as soon as I left a room.
‘My hairstyle, for example. I’m aware it’s the cause of mockery but it’s what I choose to do. What else should I do? Shave my head and grow stubble instead, as you have clearly done, when faced with a prematurely receding hairline? Why should I? I am what I am. But it wouldn’t be the first time the British police have made a false judgement on someone based purely on their appearance and apparent eccentricity, would it?
‘I suppose the Spencers told you I’m a homosexual, too, did they? I know it’s what they thought. They both made insinuations and I’m sure the son mentioned me to the new vicar as he was at pains to assure me, when he took over, that the church was inclusive, welcoming everyone of whatever persuasion. I found his words disgusting. I’m not a homosexual. I don’t mind what people do in the privacy of their own homes. But the mere thought of any kind of intimacy between men is repugnant to me.
‘So if it’s all the same to you, Sergeant, I am going to stop here and I would ask that if you want to speak to me further, then you give me more notice so I can arrange for a solicitor to be present.’
With those words, he stood up and left the room, leaving Rob sitting rubbing a hand self-consciously over his shaven head and the stubble on his jaws.
‘So I’m sorry if I screwed up, boss. He was quite difficult,’ Rob said apologetically as he played his recorded interview back to the team at the end-of-day get-together.
Virgil leaned over to him and patted his head affectionately. ‘Never mind, Baldy, it sounds as if you just got off on the wrong foot.’
‘That’s DS Baldy to you, DC Tibbs.’
Ted let it go. Harmless fun. It was the end of a hard week. He wasn’t about to jump on them.
‘I think we could do worse than to take a closer look at Mr Harrison. His homophobic views are not, sadly, all that unusual and may mean nothing. But we can’t overlook the fact that he does tick a few boxes as regards suspect profile.’
‘Already started digging, boss,’ Rob told him. ‘Nothing so far. Not known to us, at least not as Stanley Harrison. But I suppose as he’s an author, that could be a pen-name, so I’m trying to find if he uses any others. I’ll keep looking.’
‘
I think it would also be a good idea to give him that list of dates and arrange another meeting. With his solicitor, if he really does want to go down that route. So let’s make it a formal one. Get him to come here. Check the six dates, when each of the lads disappeared and then were found, and see where he was and what he was up to then and in between.
‘Anything else, anyone?’
‘We have Tony Barlow downstairs, boss. If he was singing any more we could put him in as Britain’s entry for the next Eurovision. I’m just giving him a bit of a break and then I’ll start questioning him some more. You were right. Not only a badly broken nose but a pair of black eyes a panda would be proud of.’
‘I want to see him, hear what he has to say.’
‘Not a chance, boss. We’ve got him on this one, and his oppo. He gave him up straight away. Uniform are just out tracking him down.’
‘Just over the monitor. I won’t go near him.’
‘Still no,’ Jo told him firmly. ‘I’m putting a total exclusion zone round him as far as you’re concerned. If he keeps Edwards out of it, there’s just a chance your friend will pick up the tab for a decent defence lawyer for him. And if said lawyer gets wind that you were even in the same building, he’ll claim all sorts of breaches of procedure. Just leave him to me.’
Ted knew he was right. He didn’t like it, but he had to accept it.
‘Any word from Jezza?’
‘Nothing yet, boss, just a quick call to tell us the lead went cold on them. She’s on her way back. She decided, wisely, I think, that even if they found Tim, a Friday night was not the best time to be trying to find him somewhere safe. He has no stable home to go back to so he’s doubly at risk. The local Uniforms are going to try to keep an eye out for him over the weekend then they’ll try again on Monday. At least that gives us a few more days for those concerned to try to find a place of safety for him.’
‘And Maurice?’
‘He’s been up with Darren and Amy all day, boss,’ Megan told him. ‘Darren’s been a bit calmer today. They’ve not mentioned churches again. Maurice said he’s saying a few more words each time. Today it’s been mainly “thirsty” which doesn’t get us very far but still, it’s progress of a sort.’
‘Right everyone, I think we’ve probably all done about as much as we can for now. Megan, it’s been great having you on the team. Enjoy your well-earned desk job, and keep in touch with us.’
Ted’s phone was ringing as he went back to his office. Bill, to tell him he was clocking off and that he would see him in The Grapes in ten minutes. Ted made a quick call of his own before he cleared his desk.
‘I’m going to be a bit late again tonight. Sorry. I’ve promised to have a quick drink with Bill. He’s a bit low. No doubt I’ll need to run him home afterwards, but I’ll get back as soon as I can. Will you cook or shall I bring a takeaway?’
‘It’s all ready. Just needs heating up when you’re ready for it.’
‘If you get hungry, don’t wait for me.’
‘Are you going to get any time off over the weekend? Walter would like you to take him out for a bit of a pipe-opener, I’m sure. Shall I arrange it?’
‘I will if I can, I promise but the Ice Queen’s given me a lot of homework. If I can’t go, you go for a ride anyway. It’s not fair that you keep missing out because of my work.’
Ted was a bit late, though not much, but it was clear from Bill’s ruddy complexion that he’d made a start without waiting for him. He was on the whisky already. Ted bought him another without comment. Who was he to criticise? He didn’t drink now, but it hadn’t always been that way.
‘How are you doing, Bill? Really?’
‘Really? I’m bricking myself. I know it’s only three months, but I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with myself. I find it hard enough when I’m on a day off, never mind that long.’
‘Could you take a holiday? I could perhaps look after Jack, if he’d be all right with the cats.’
Bill snorted into his Scotch. ‘Jack would be all right, but I couldn’t vouch for your cats. And a holiday? I’ve not been anywhere since Ben died. I wouldn’t know what to do or where to go.’
Ben had been his name for his wife, Brenda. Ted knew Bill was lonely, but he probably hadn’t realised quite how bad things were.
‘I know who I am when I put my uniform on. I’m Bill, the copper. With my medal ribbons. Take that away from me and what am I? I don’t know myself, and that’s what scares me.’
Chapter Nineteen
Superintendent Debra Caldwell was as demanding of herself as she was of any officer under her command. That’s why, on yet another Saturday morning, while her husband and teenage sons had gone off for a weekend’s sailing, she was on her way to the station.
The modern police force was supposed to be inclusive; equal rights for all. Things were improving, with more women at executive level than ever before. Neighbouring Lancashire Constabulary had appointed the first woman Chief Constable in the country in the 1990s and the glass ceiling was slowly being chipped away.
In reality, she knew it was harder than it appeared. She’d always found she had to push herself harder, achieve more at a higher level, than any of her male counterparts. It’s what had earned her the nickname of the Ice Queen, which even her family knew and used. The boys thought it hilarious and apt since she expected as much respect from them as from officers in her division. Even her husband, Robin, an inspector in Traffic, used it ironically, as well as calling her ma’am affectionately in moments of intimacy.
If it had been hard for her to climb the ranks as a woman in a largely male-dominated world, she couldn’t begin to imagine how hard it had been for Ted. She knew he’d had a tough time early on, especially in his SFO days. He’d had to work harder than anyone to be taken seriously and treated with respect, not least because of his small stature and unfortunate surname.
Today she was meeting him to go over the planned press conference details. She’d also been taxed with raising other issues with him. She was not looking forward to that aspect of their meeting. She’d opted for his office rather than her own, thinking he might be more at ease on his own territory. She decided to broach the difficult subject first, over a mug of green tea. Once it was dealt with and out of the way, they could get on with the business in hand.
‘How is Trevor now? Has he fully recovered from his ordeal?’ she began, keeping her tone as neutral as she could.
‘He’s fine, luckily, thank you for asking.’
‘And you think the fact that he was taken is linked to the photograph from the awards ceremony?’
Ted groaned. ‘You’ve been talking to the ACC? He told me my moment of madness was forgotten. I did a daft thing. I was angry. But yes, that’s the only explanation I have to date.’
‘In fact it was the Chief himself who phoned me. He and Mr Evans are concerned about you, Ted. They wanted me to check that you’re happy in your role and feeling valued.’
‘Valued? That’s a modern term that’s getting a bit overused, don’t you think? You know as well as I do that I’m good PR for the force, which is why they took the chance to put me on display, when I’ve always resisted before. I should have been more responsible. I shouldn’t have let Trev put himself in the public eye as my partner. That’s what put him at risk, but I needed to rant at someone and I chose the ACC. Not my smartest career move, no doubt.
‘But you can assure them both that I’m not thinking of quitting. Not at the moment, anyway. Certainly not when we have someone as dangerous as The Preacher to deal with. So perhaps we should just forget my total lack of judgement and discuss how best to deal with that, ma’am.’
His formality told her the subject was closed as far as he was concerned. He could be prickly about his private life and she knew there was no point in trying to press him. He hadn’t quite finished, though.
‘But talking of welfare issues, I am worried about Bill. Is there no way he can start his civilian post as soon a
s he finishes in uniform? He’s starting to sound very low at the prospect of not working. He’s drinking more than usual, too. His job is all he’s got, apart from his parrot, and that’s not much company for three months.’
She shook her head firmly. ‘Whilst I have every sympathy for Sergeant Baxter, we simply don’t have the budget to carry him, even for a relatively short period. He’s been promised the new post in twelve weeks’ time. Most people would be delighted at the prospect of a break.’
‘Bill’s not most people.’
‘Moving on, what do we need to focus on for Monday’s press conference?’
It was her own way of declaring a subject off limits for further discussion. She pressed on.
‘We’ve been incredibly lucky to date that none of the press appear to have picked up on a link between the cases on their own initiative. I’m surprised more wasn’t made of the first case, especially with the subsequent death of Robbie Mitchell.’
‘I can probably explain that. There’s still a school of thought which holds that homosexuality is so perverse that everything about it is aberrant. That instead of it being about loving relationships, it’s full of deviant practices. Auto-eroticism, for example.
‘Even though Robbie Mitchell wasn’t gay, he had been going to gay clubs with a friend. I’ve read through the press coverage of his inquest, such as it was. There are some passing references to him having been subjected to some form of torture whilst being held against his will prior to his death, but that’s all. If I had a fiver for every time I’ve heard someone say that gay people are more promiscuous than straight ones, I’d be retiring now, never mind Bill.
‘I may be wrong, and I hope I am, but the cynical side of me thinks someone may have looked at the details and decided he was a young lad, experimenting with his sexuality, who got into an abusive relationship which sent him spiralling into depression.
‘I’ve managed so far to fob off our local hack, Penny, with not a lot of detail. But I’ll make sure she knows that there’s a possibility of a big story coming on Monday, to get her on side.’
