There was no CCTV on the quarter-mile driveway up to the Barrowmans’ house, nor on the first ten-mile stretch of road. The cameras only kicked in two miles outside Chipping Norton and there were a couple of turn-offs before that, so the burglars could have bypassed Chipping Norton altogether.
However, on CCTV from some of the surrounding villages, Bevan had managed to get footage of an unmarked, three-horse trailer driving past the same camera a number of times. What really caught her eye was the muddied number plate. In itself this wasn’t unusual as most horseboxes were constantly sprayed with dirt and muck from the stables. But she knew that if this horsebox had been to a stable, it should have been muddy everywhere; and this horsebox had no mud on the wheel arches, sides and tail ramp. Just on the number plate.
Bevan played the CCTV footage for Gifford and he agreed that this could be an ideal way to transport a team of burglars and an array of stolen property. Then Gifford started to get ahead of himself. ‘Ay! Remember that biker we clocked on a number of the burglary nights? We thought he was a tourist. Paid him no heed ’cos of looking for a big vehicle.’ Gifford tapped the screen of Bevan’s monitor, leaving a buttery fingerprint from one of Canteen Barbara’s pastries. ‘Bet he’d fit in that horsebox. Could be a scout. Doing recces.’ Gifford grinned. He didn’t get them often, but he knew a good idea when he had one.
Bevan’s smile slowly faded and was replaced with a frown, as a thought was being dredged up from the depths of her mind. Gifford was walking away by the time Bevan’s thought was fully recalled. ‘Sir . . . Oaks’s cousin, Blair . . . Did I ever tell you about that thing she said about her mum’s neighbour’s kids finding a horsebox in a lake?’ Gifford turned with a blank expression. ‘Sorry, sir, I’m just trying to remember it properly. About eight months ago, two kids found a horsebox submerged in a lake out Cirencester way. They rowed out to it and found a dead body inside. Well, it was more of a skeleton. Blair’s mum reckoned the horsebox was just dumped; it happens sometimes out there. It could have been fully submerged until the water level dropped for some reason and its roof broke the surface. Once the carrion crows got wind of a free dinner, they came down in a flock. It was like that Hitchcock film, she said! Anyway, Blair says that her mum said it was a tramp who crawled into the horsebox for warmth and then died. Then, I dunno, maybe kids pushed it into the water not knowing he was there? But what if he wasn’t a tramp?’
Gifford paused for a moment, then nodded. ‘You better get on to the Wiltshire lot and see what you can find out.’
*
By early afternoon, George was allowed back into his study to collect his computer and any paperwork he needed. He then brought it all into the kitchen to catch up with his work. Sally pottered around making enough sandwiches to feed an army.
Jack stood right in the middle of the wide hallway and turned on the spot taking in every detail. All of the furniture in this house was immaculate, but none of it looked used. It certainly didn’t feel like a home. Even the family portraits looked as if they were just for show. Jack also noticed how much artwork had been left hanging on the walls and wondered why the burglars had not stripped the place bare as they had done in other properties. Perhaps the unexpected presence of Mathew had forced them to cut their losses; or perhaps George Barrowman’s artwork was as fake as him.
Sally went to the kitchen door and shouted, ‘Who’s hungry?’ Masked heads popped up from beneath desks and windowsills, and around doorframes. Sally then headed upstairs, past Jack, saying, ‘Mathew should have showered by now. I’ll see what’s keeping them.’
Back in the kitchen, George was distracted from his work by a seemingly endless stream of CSIs and police officers who had swooped in to snaffle sandwiches and then scurry back out. Seeing as the heavy police presence was already disturbing George, Jack decided to try and build some bridges by asking him about the gold market.
For the next ten minutes, Jack listened to George explain its ups and downs in various countries across the world. Jack could see that George was very good at what he did. And he had to be. He worked in a high-stakes world, where one false move could destroy a fortune. Jack figured that’s why he’d had a go at Gifford – because Gifford wasn’t as good at his job as George was at his. So, Jack knew that all he had to do to keep George cooperating was to measure up to his standards.
Suddenly Mathew raced into the kitchen, looking very agitated, arms in the air, shouting, ‘Masked men! Masked men!’ He flapped his hands just above his shoulders, grimaced as if he was in pain and, in between words let out a high-pitched ‘eeeeee’ sound. As soon as he saw Jack, he headed straight for him. As Mathew was over six feet tall, Jack’s instinct was to bring his hands up to defend himself against a possible attack – but by the time Mathew had moved across the kitchen, George was standing in between them. ‘Calm.’ George spoke in a slow, quiet voice. ‘Calm. What’s the matter?’
‘Masked men! Masked men!’ Mathew repeated. Although an adult, right now Mathew seemed like a little boy needing his dad for comfort. George took Mathew by the wrists and explained that the ‘masked men’ were policemen and were nothing to be afraid of. Mathew put his hands heavily on George’s shoulders and squeezed in a pulsating, grasping motion. Jack could see this physical contact was comforting and regardless of the discomfort, George put up with it.
Within seconds of Mathew entering the kitchen, he was followed by Sally and a handsome young black man. He was tall and muscular with wide, body-builder’s shoulders. ‘This is Nathaniel Jones,’ George said. ‘He’s Mathew’s tutor-cum-carer-cum-minder-cum-anything else he might need. This is DS Jack Warr from the Met.’
Nathaniel gave Jack a backwards nod, then focussed on calming Mathew down. He put his hands firmly on Mathew’s shoulders and squeezed hard, just as Mathew had done to George. ‘Come on, Matty. Shower.’ Nathaniel glanced at Jack. ‘I’ll give you a shout when we’re done. Sorry it’s taking longer than usual.’
In the study, Oaks was in his paper suit with his mask tucked under his chin. He stood in the centre of the room, on a twelve-inch-square metal plate so as not to make footprints in the thick carpet. Four CSIs meticulously worked their way from the study door to the open safe. As the sun shone in through the tall sash windows, it glistened off a small patch of something shiny at the top of George’s tan-coloured leather office chair. The shiny stain was around the area where a person’s head might touch when leaning back, or where you might grasp the chair if walking behind it.
‘What’s that?’ Oaks said to the room in general. The CSI nearest to him followed his pointing finger to the chair. They then dipped their head and moved from side to side until the sun caught the shiny patch, and they were able to see what Oaks was seeing. They agreed that the substance looked oily, which seemed out of place in such an immaculate study. ‘Take a sample, please,’ Oaks requested.
The CSI collecting the sample from the office chair tugged an imaginary forelock, saying, ‘Yes, Willy. Right away, Willy.’
Oaks blushed, smiled and turned towards the door where Jack was now looking in at him from the hallway. Oaks moved across the metal plates towards Jack and dipped under the police tape. ‘That’s my Auntie Helen. Well, she’s my cousin really, but ’cos she’s got twenty years on me, I’ve always called her Auntie.’
Jack laughed. ‘Everyone knows everyone. I get it. You’re doing fine, Oaks. Listen, when you get back to the station, I need you to do something for me. Get a warrant to check George Barrowman’s accounts. You’re looking for a jewellery purchase – a string of pearls.’
Oaks shuffled uncomfortably, saying that he’d need to ask DI Gifford to authorise the request, and he was fairly sure that he wouldn’t do it.
‘No worries,’ Jack said. ‘I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I’ll sort it myself.’
Oaks’s eyes lifted and looked over Jack’s shoulder. Jack turned to see Nathaniel standing behind him with a look of simmering anger on his face. He held out his mobile p
hone and Jack saw a photo of Mathew, shirtless, towel round his waist, hand in the stream of shower water, as though checking the temperature. On his back, he had four dark, deep-red bruises, each one was eight to ten inches long.
‘They weren’t there yesterday,’ Nathaniel said. ‘He showers every night, so I know they weren’t. And, before you ask, Mr and Mrs Barrowman have never laid a finger on him. Nor have I.’
Jack and Oaks looked intensely worried. Was this why Mathew raced into the road screaming? Was he brutally attacked by the burglars? ‘I need to speak to him,’ Jack said.
Nathaniel held Jack’s stare.
‘No. Matty will be able to recall the events of last night, for forever and a day, so you don’t need to worry about that. But right now I’m going to break this news to his parents and then get him to hospital. Come back tomorrow.’
Jack was about to protest when Nathaniel went on. ‘I’ve been Matty’s carer for seven years. We’re mates after all that time and he trusts me to look after him. I get that you’ve got a job to do, but so have I. Believe me, you get one chance with him, DS Warr. If he decides not to like you, you’re screwed. I want him to talk to you and give you everything you need to catch the bastards who hurt him. That’s why I’m saying you have to wait.’
Nathaniel didn’t give Jack the opportunity to reply. He took his mobile back and headed upstairs.
Jack turned to Oaks. ‘Get everyone down here. Tell them we’re looking for a weapon that matches the length and width of those bruises on Mathew’s back. A baseball bat, maybe? Garden rake or spade? Go with him to the hospital in case he says anything. I trust Nathaniel, but if Mathew opens up, you need to hear it.’
As Jack thought about the violence Mathew must have experienced at the hands of strangers, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes darkened. Oaks recoiled, ever so slightly, as he saw something in Jack that had not shown itself before. Oaks thought that if the burglars walked into the room at that moment, they would not leave alive.
CHAPTER 9
On the way to the hospital, Oaks got a phone call, which Jack answered as Oaks was driving. Jack put the phone on speaker and, before he could say anything, DC Ronnie Davidson’s voice piped up, ‘’Ere Will, I got a message for your new girlfriend. Elli called and said . . .’ At this point Davidson started to mimic Eloise Fullworth’s voice. ‘Oh, Jack, Jack from the Met, it’s Elli. Maisie’s home if you’d like to come and speak with her. And when you’re done with my daughter, maybe you and I can . . .’
Jack interrupted before Davidson said something that crossed the line between taking the piss and rank insubordination. ‘Thank you, DC Davidson. I’ll interview Maisie on the way back to the station. Oaks is going to the hospital with Mathew. And you, Davidson, when the rest of the team get the order to go to Barrowman’s house and search for a murder weapon, you’re going to stay there and finish the social events calendar.’
Davidson spluttered for a reply, as Jack continued. ‘I don’t have many rules, but not taking the piss out of the victim is definitely one of them. If you’d like to argue your case when I get back to the station, I’m happy for you to try.’ Jack ended the call and put Oaks’s mobile back into the money tray in between the front seats. He looked over to see Oaks’s face in a fixed grimace of embarrassment.
‘Tell you what, Oaks, come and interview Maisie with me. You won’t be allowed in the clinical areas whilst Mathew’s being examined anyway, and you were the officer who originally interviewed her, right? You’ll know if her story has changed in any way.’
*
Maisie was a beautiful, slender girl with an extraordinary amount of curly, jet black hair. She looked like she was making no effort at all with her appearance, right down to wearing a tracksuit that was far too big for her. Jack knew this look: Maisie was scruffy-by-design – setting the bar low so when someone told her how terrible she looked, she could just say, ‘Yeah, I know.’ In his time as a police officer, Jack had come across many women with self-image issues and, seeing as he already knew Maisie had struggled with anorexia in the past, her appearance was no surprise to him.
Mrs Fullworth, however, clearly found Maisie’s appearance embarrassing. ‘Maisie’s a little under the weather,’ she explained. ‘So, she’s having a tea-and-sympathy day in the house, aren’t you, darling? Not going out, so no need to make an effort.’ Maisie looked away and said nothing.
Jack ignored her mother’s words. ‘Maisie, could you show me your bedroom?’
Mrs Fullworth quickly cut in. ‘Maisie can’t go in that room anymore. So, I’ll come with you in case she gets upset.’
Jack kept his attention focused on Maisie. ‘Do you want an appropriate adult, Maisie? You don’t need one, but of course your mum can come if you’d like. It’s completely your choice.’
Maisie’s eyes twinkled and she headed upstairs. Jack turned to Mrs Fullworth. ‘DC Oaks will keep you company down here.’
When Jack got upstairs, Maisie was sitting on her old bed quietly waiting. This room was childish, as though stuck in a time-warp. The only mature things were several pieces of artwork torn out of a sketch pad and stuck up with sellotape but, to Jack’s untrained eye, highly accomplished. ‘Mum says this tracksuit makes me look like I belong in a young offenders unit,’ Maisie said.
Jack snorted, which immediately put Maisie at ease. ‘I can’t remember much about the night it happened.’
Jack nodded. ‘I’m going to try and help you but, if you can’t remember, it’s no problem.’ He didn’t want Maisie to think any less of herself than she already did. ‘Can you sit where you were sitting when you saw the intruder, please?’ Maisie scooted up the bed, until she was seated on top of the pillows. Jack then moved to her wardrobe and opened the door, so that the mirror reflected the stairway just outside Maisie’s bedroom. It was a shorter mirror than he’d expected, not quite full-length; to fit the whole person in, they’d have to be standing a good distance back from it.
Jack asked Maisie where the burglar was when she noticed them, and she directed him to the second stair down. This wasn’t helping: he needed to be seeing what Maisie was seeing. Jack shouted down to Oaks to join them, then told him to stand two stairs down while Jack moved to the bedside. He said, ‘May I?’ and Maisie got off the bed so he could sit where she’d been sitting.
‘You told my officer – this officer in fact, DC Oaks – that you thought the burglar was over six feet tall. You said that because DC Oaks told you that he was 5’11”, you thought the burglar seemed to be a couple of inches taller than him. Is all of that correct?’ Maisie nodded. Jack looked at Oaks in the mirror. His head was bowed in shame as his rookie interview mistake quickly sank in. ‘How about now, Maisie?’ Jack stood up and Maisie sat back down on the bed. ‘Look at DC Oaks in the mirror – lift your head up, Will – and tell me how much he differs in height from the burglar.’
Maisie grappled with the memory of that night and, as she took herself back in time, her breathing became more rapid.
‘There’s no difference. I can’t see his hair. The top of DC Oaks’s head is cut off by the top of the mirror, just like the burglar’s was. If anything, DC Oaks is a little taller than the man I saw.’ Jack then asked about size and shape and Maisie confirmed that Oaks and her unidentified burglar were of a similar build.
Back in the kitchen, Oaks remained silent as he prepared himself for a well-deserved bollocking on the drive to the hospital. Jack thanked Maisie for being so helpful and then, quite out of the blue, he asked her what she wanted to be. Maisie glanced at her mum before saying that she’d probably go into the law, like both of her parents. Jack was not deterred by her passionless answer. ‘Your mum mentioned that your Aunt Lisa is an art therapist. Is the artwork in your old bedroom yours?’ She nodded with a tentative smile. Jack knew full well that it was, and he also knew that Mrs Fullworth would hate what he was about to say. ‘You’re very talented. What does your Aunt Lisa think?’ Maisie confirmed Jack’s suspicions tha
t no one outside of the house had ever seen her work. ‘You should show her. I don’t take after my parents. I take after my Uncle Simon. Took me a long time to find my path, Maisie, but, when I did . . . it’s liberating. Take very good care of yourself.’ Jack threw Maisie a wink, which made her smile properly. ‘Smile more, Maisie Fullworth. It suits you.’
On the drive to the hospital, Jack had no time for Oaks’s apologies about his error in interviewing Maisie.
‘We now know that the person who broke into Maisie’s house was about my build but was probably shorter. I’m so sorry, sir. We’ve been on the wrong track with this for months.’
‘Get over yourself,’ Jack said briskly. ‘You’ll make worse mistakes than that. Anyway, you didn’t waste my time, you wasted DI Gifford’s.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Maisie could even have seen a woman, don’t you think?’
Oaks pulled up just outside the A & E department of Cheltenham General. ‘Tread carefully with Nathaniel,’ Jack warned as they got out. ‘He’s protective of Mathew, so he’ll let you know he’s in charge. And that’s fine. Your presence is to let Nathaniel know that the second Mathew’s ready to speak, we’re ready to listen. Ignore George Barrowman altogether – he’ll no doubt ignore you. He’s not the one we need to keep on-side anyway; that’s Sally.’ Then Jack got back into the driver’s seat and Oaks headed for A & E. As Jack pulled away, he shouted one more instruction. ‘Text me every hour. Whether there’s anything to say or not.’
*
At the station, a calendar of social events for the next twelve months was plotted out in great detail on one of the whiteboards, an overlapping, chaotic mess that would be a nightmare to police. The most obvious problem was the upcoming annual equestrian event that lasted for an entire week and was, at some point, attended by everyone in the local area.
Gifford stood in front of the whiteboards with DC Bevan, admiring their hard work. Davidson avoided Jack’s eye by burying his head in a computer screen. The rest of the desks were empty as everyone else was at the Barrowmans’ searching the property for the weapon used on Mathew. Gifford seemed to be on a high from his productive afternoon so, for now, Jack kept quiet about Maisie’s revelation regarding the height of her burglar and allowed Gifford to go first.
Judas Horse Page 9
