For my sister Gilly, my best critic and casting director, who is always encouraging and positive, and never negative.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Readers’ Club
Letter from Author
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
The Cleveland Nature Reserve was a cluster of lakes situated between Cirencester to the north and Swindon to the south. The reserve was just a small section of the Cotswold Water Park which consisted of hundreds of lakes with fishing sites and water sports, intercut with cycle paths, farms and walking routes. Home to thousands of species of flora and fauna, it was only marred by the presence of the occasional, unexpected area of quicksand – proving that even the most beautiful things can hide a more dangerous side.
Jamie and Mark often cycled along Spine Road which, as the name might suggest, ran through the centre of this cluster of lakes. They’d go fishing, watch the people on jet skis and beg free cans of pop from the Waterside Café. But today, they were distracted by a strange sight in one of the lakes: dozens of crows on the surface of the water! The brothers, aged 12 and 13, didn’t know much about biology, but they did know that crows could not land on water. Each time the wind blew tiny waves across whatever they were standing on, the birds panicked for a second and created a cloud of black wings all flapping at the same time. But they didn’t fly away; something was keeping them there, in the middle of the lake, on their strange, out-of-place platform.
Twenty minutes later, Jamie and Mark had cycled round to a small rowing boat that they’d hidden many months ago, tied to the low, overhanging branches of an old tree. They slid it into the water and set off. Mark, being older and stronger, always did the rowing.
As they got closer to the mass of birds, it became clear that the crows were standing on the roof of a horsebox, most of which sat just above the surface of the water, by no more than an inch. They began to shriek and flap in a unified show of force, endeavouring to keep their prize – whatever it was. The boys could now see that the birds were focussing their attention on a tear in the metal roof, about six inches in diameter.
‘Climb up then,’ Mark instructed. Then he swung one of the oars through the air and the crows flew away in all directions, creating such a foul-smelling down-draught as they went, that the boys screwed up their faces and held their noses. Jamie thought he was going to puke and said he didn’t want to climb on top.
‘I’m scared it’s gonna sink!’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Mark said. ‘It must already be sitting on the bottom, so it can’t possibly sink any further.’
Reluctantly Jamie removed his T-shirt and tied it round his face like a mask then tentatively climbed onto the roof. He shuffled towards the six-inch hole, trying to keep his balance as the roof began to wobble, and peered down into the pitch-dark water.
‘Nah, there’s nothing,’ Jamie quickly decided, desperate to get back to dry land or at least into the rowboat. But Mark wasn’t prepared to give up that easily.
‘Push it with your foot and make the hole bigger,’ he said. Above them, the crows circled and cawed angrily.
Jamie pushed his toe into the hole, trying vainly not to get his trainers wet. Egged on by his brother, he began stamping down as hard as he dared on the ripped edge of the horsebox. Finally, it gave way by another inch or two, sending a bubble of old, trapped air up into Jamie’s face. The stench was so rancid, that Jamie immediately bent over and puked into the lake, while his foot slipped through the hole filling his trainer with filthy water.
Mark started laughing, But Jamie did not see the funny side. ‘I only just got these trainers for my birthday! I’m coming back . . . this is stupid!’
‘You’re wet now,’ Mark giggled. ‘Stamp on it, go on. Make the hole big enough to see inside. Go on, Jamie! Don’t be a baby!’ Mark knew exactly what to say to rile his younger brother.
Jamie angrily started jumping up and down on the roof of the horsebox, splashing Mark in the process. They were both soaked now, but it didn’t matter – despite the horrible smell, they were having fun.
With each jump, Jamie brought his knees up to his chest, getting as much height as he could. And each time he landed, the hole opened up a little more. Until, with one jump too many, the roof finally split completely and gave way beneath his weight.
To Mark’s horror, Jamie disappeared beneath the surface and into the submerged horsebox.
The next five seconds seemed to last forever. Not knowing what else to do, Mark held his breath, as though he too was underwater. Finally, Jamie bobbed back up, gasping and slapping the surface of the water with his palms. He snatched at the air, trying to find the oar being waved above his head until Mark managed to guide it into his hands, pulling his little brother to the wall of the horsebox. Jamie draped his armpits over the top of the wall, wiped his face and gradually let the wonderful realisation that he wasn’t going to die sink in.
Mark was as white as a sheet, as the thought of what could have been spun round in his head. But Jamie, knowing that he’d now earned enough cool points to last a lifetime, began to laugh and this finally gave Mark permission to relax. The boys grinned at each other then started laughing hysterically – until Mark’s expression suddenly changed when something broke the surface of the water behind his brother.
Mark couldn’t see what it was at first, but gradually the thing bobbing about, just inches away from the back of Jamie’s head, turned and twisted in the water until it was suddenly, sickeningly, recognisable. The human skull didn’t have much flesh attached, but it was enough to drive the carrion crows crazy as they wheeled about in the sky above, so near and yet so far away from such a tempting feast.
‘Jamie . . .’ The serious tone in Mark’s voice made Jamie stop laughing and pay attention. ‘Grab the oar. I’ll pull you over the side, then you swim to the boat.’ The old, rotted corpse bobbed back and forth as Jamie kicked his legs, and then he jerked as he felt something cold and slimy brushing against him. Feeling suddenly sick again, he turned his head to see what it was.
Jamie’s scream was loud enough to finally scatter the crows from the sky.
*
After solving the Rose Cottage murder, whilst also bringing to a close the investigation into the biggest train robbery ever seen in the UK, Detective Sergeant Jack Warr’s reputation for doggedly following his instincts, regardless of how dubious that course of action seemed to everyone else, was known and respected throughout the Met. He was the detective who assessed people quickly and read them accurately; he could be hands-off one minute, and in-your-face the next; but he always seemed to know how to find out if you had anything to hide. Above all, he was uncannily adept at predicting what criminals were going to do. It was almost as though he could think like them.
His boss, DCI Simon Ridley, known to be one of the most anal men on the force, continued to be the perfect counterbalance for Jack’s gut instinct and, together, they now made a formidable team. Jack was exactly the type of intuitiv
e officer that the Wimbledon Prowler case needed. Above all, the Wimbledon Prowler case seemed to simply need a fresh pair of eyes. And Jack’s eyes were particularly attuned to finding the right detail, at the right time, in the most unlikely of places. So DS Jack Warr was sent on loan to Wimbledon.
Through the summer months, the Wimbledon Prowler brazenly walked the streets with a tennis racquet in his hand, blending in with a thousand other part-time sports fans. And in the winter months, he hired a mobility scooter and moved freely around the Common being ignored by everyone because no one wants to get caught staring at a disabled person. Two disguises allowing him to hide in plain sight, so that any CCTV that did happen to capture him would not provide the police with an accurate description of ‘their man’. He was smart, bold and arrogant. He knew how people behaved. And he knew how to manipulate them. So, for five years, the Wimbledon Prowler evaded the police and all of their endeavours to catch him. The case had gone stale.
Between 2016 and 2021, the Wimbledon Prowler systematically terrorised this area of South West London. Sometimes there were months in between burglaries, but DS Richard Stanford always recognised the MO within a minute of entering any targeted house and could separate the Prowler’s burglaries from any others.
‘When you walk into a burgled property,’ he would say, ‘you can tell who’s done it quick enough. Some sneak in whilst the family sleeps, showing off how bold they are; some break in when the house is empty. Some cause as much damage as possible, to make evidence collection and fingerprinting a nightmare. Look in the fridge – if the food’s gone, we know it’s likely to be Jacko. Big Tony nicks kids’ toys for himself, along with small electronic items that are easy to sell on for a tenner a pop. Some villains go straight for the car keys. Some focus on jewellery, meaning they’ve probably already got a fence lined up. And if the house looks like it’s not been burgled at all, apart from an attic window being forced . . . then we know it’s more than likely to be the Wimbledon Prowler.’
The Prowler’s MO was to target houses where the roof was accessible via a lower extension, and people who owned a cat. When the owners were out, he’d enter through an attic window, as they were rarely-to-never attached to the security system. And all internal alarms would normally be off to allow the cat to move freely around the home. Once inside, he’d disarm the security system and eventually leave via the back door. Sometimes he got it wrong, of course. Sometimes the attic window was alarmed. Sometimes the cat was confined to the downstairs, so the upstairs sensors were active, but he’d discover that within seconds and manage to escape via a door before the police got close. DS Stanford’s biggest problem was that the Prowler was patient. He could go months without burgling. Which meant he could easily fall off the police radar and his escapades just be added to the growing pile of unsolved crimes.
The first thing Jack did after getting up to speed with the Prowler case, was call a retired detective constable called Mike Haskin – the man who’d spent three weeks chasing down the Alley Burglar back in 1995, to tell him what he could remember . . .
*
After three weeks of sitting on gravelled rooftops and behind thorny bushes, DC Mike Haskin’s team was tired, cold, pissed off and the laughing stock of the station. But they followed him regardless, because they were certain that he was right.
Mike had returned to each of the burgled premises and interviewed the owners for himself, learning along the way that, as well as the twelve burglaries they knew about, another seventeen had gone unreported. This was down to the fact that this working-class community did not believe for one second that the police were capable of finding their own arse with both hands – let alone finding a burglar who had already evaded them for several months.
Tonight, Mike’s team were just forty-eight hours away from having the plug pulled on the investigation – something they would never live down. The Alley Burglar was now just two days away from getting a free pass by having his escapades scaled right down from a full-on surveillance op to a distant memory.
The target zone was in lockdown, with a covert officer on every possible ground exit. They knew the footprint of his target zone but had no intention of going in after him – his nickname of Alley Burglar was well-earned. The vast expanse of shops and residential properties gave him far too many unlit escape routes, places to hide and short-cuts to take.
It was the ‘rat in a maze’ principle – if you follow the suspect into the maze, you’ll get lost; so, you tactically cover all exits because, eventually, the suspect has to come out.
With rooftop vantage points and ground-level runners ready for their moment in the spotlight, Mike was confident this time they’d get their man. He had to be. He was running out of time.
Mike’s team were all using basic-issue radios, meaning that their communications were competing with every other officer’s on duty that night, and ‘radio silence’ was impossible. So, the volume was turned down on everyone’s handset until the second the chase was on. They needed to be invisible and silent.
The rooftop lookouts were so far away from background noise such as traffic and footfall that every crinkle of their jackets could be heard in the surrounding silence. This meant hours of sitting in exactly the same position in the hope that, when the time came, they’d still be able to move their legs and run.
Operation Midnight progressed through its first week and into its second. Then at 3 in the morning, on the final night of the longest stakeout Mike had ever been in charge of . . . it happened. As the metallic noise echoed round the empty streets, it was impossible to work out where it was coming from, so the team stayed put. And listened. Their minds filled in the blanks as they each tried to figure out what they were hearing and which direction it was coming from – the consensus being that someone was standing on a dustbin and scrabbling up hard guttering.
Mike’s heart was beating out of his chest as he stretched his cold, seized-up leg muscles, getting ready for action. ‘All units stand by, stand by. Radio silence.’ His eyes scanned the darkness as he listened and his brain automatically filtered out the sound of foxes feeding, rats foraging and the homeless turning over in their sleeping bags – so that all that was left was the sound of his burglar creeping around his well-trodden rat-run.
Then there was an almighty crash, forcing Mike to instruct his men to go overt: torches went on, and everyone came out of hiding and raced towards the noise, while black-clad police officers looking like ninjas scrambled across rooftops.
Beneath them, their burglar was on the run. The officers covering the ground exits resisted the instinct to close in and help; instead they held their positions and waited for the perp to come to them. Radios burst into life with a running commentary of street names and compass directions. Occasionally, Mike heard the words ‘lost him, lost him’ but they were quickly followed by ‘chasing suspect, chasing suspect’ as another officer took up the pursuit. It was thrilling and excruciating at the same time. Mike wasn’t near the actual chase; he was on one of the exits with a couple of his men, willing the burglar to come his way so he could be the one who physically caught their man. But then he heard ‘suspect detained’ And it was all over.
Every officer now left their position and headed for the rendezvous point, all wanting to see who they’d spent three and a half weeks hunting. In the back of an area car sat a small, wet, dirty man, hands cuffed behind his back. He smelt of beer and BO and, as Mike shone a torch in through the window, he could see that the man was crying. He figured he was a druggie, stealing to feed his habit. He’d targeted a working-class area because it meant that there’d be no alarm systems to bypass. He was a nobody who would not be missed.
Many officers would have seen this man as small-fry, almost harmless, but looking at him Mike knew the truth: when a person commits crime for fun, they can take it or leave it; but when a person commits crime because their life depends on it, they can become a killer in the blink of eye. If you don’t catch t
hem in time, they can be the ones you read about in the news.
*
Ridley had attended Mike Haskin’s retirement party some months earlier and had spoken so highly of Mike’s dogged determination and unwavering self-belief, that Jack had remembered his name. Ridley had even mentioned the Alley Burglar case, explaining how Mike had stuck to his guns, even when his DI had lost faith in him. If Ridley had taught Jack anything over the years, it was to respect the talents of others and to be humble enough to surround himself with exceptional officers who shone in the areas that he did not. Ridley had wanted Jack on his team for this very reason, and now Jack wanted Mike on his.
DS Richard Stanford was personally grateful for their help on the Wimbledon Prowler investigation, but unlike Mike Haskin, he had struggled with the silent derision from others on the force because he hadn’t yet got his man. He knew it should be water off a duck’s back, but, for some reason, it cut deep. The Wimbledon Prowler case was becoming the bane of his life and, worse, he’d lost the enthusiasm of his men. On one occasion, a cocky little PC by the name of Denny McGinty had loudly fake-yawned during a morning briefing and Stanford had gone ballistic in frustration and embarrassment. That was the moment that his boss had called Ridley, and Ridley had called Jack.
Jack Warr and Mike Haskin sat quietly and patiently in front of Stanford as he laboriously laid out all of the details of the investigation. It was clear he’d done nothing wrong as such, he’d just lacked imagination and the ability to step outside the rather sterile and restrictive box of police procedure and into the dirtier, messier world of the career criminal.
‘Sir . . .’ Jack interrupted during one of Stanford’s pauses for breath. ‘Mike has been where you are, and he got his man. Now, he’s going to help us get yours.’ Jack smiled, making sure that his deep brown eyes smiled too. ‘When going forwards isn’t working, go back.’ For the first time since they’d arrived, Stanford dared to relax and sit down.
For the next two hours, Stanford gave Mike the floor and he talked them through the Alley Burglar case. Stanford made copious notes, highlighting potential new approaches. Mike drew a map showing where all of the burglaries in his operation had occurred and, by the time he’d finished, a familiar fish-shape pattern was clear to see. Mike explained what Jack and Richard were now looking at. ‘The first burglary we knew about wasn’t the first one he did, our second wasn’t his second and so on. It was only when we caught him that this fish-shape emerged. Our perp lived in a squat situated right in the middle of the fishtail. His first burglary was the closest to his squat, out to the left – the top of the tail fin. His second burglary was the closest to his squat out to the right – the bottom of the tail fin. Then he went further and wider as he got ballsier, until he drew a fish across his self-selected patch. This pattern allowed us to predict roughly where his next burglary would take place . . . and that’s how we caught him red-handed.’
Judas Horse Page 1
