‘There are at least five people in this gang, and there’s also an inside man. This gang went to the Barrowmans’ thinking the place was empty, so there’s also an electronics expert, because they expected to have to bypass the high-tech security system. They use a scout on a motorbike to clear the way, and they use a horsebox to get the bigger stuff out. They wouldn’t have known till they arrived that Barrowman’s artworks and furniture weren’t worth nicking, so let’s assume they came prepped with a horsebox.’
Gifford piped up. ‘We’ve got our biker and our horsebox on CCTV, but it gives us nothing useful as yet.’
‘It does,’ Jack explained. ‘It gives us patterns. The roads round here are straight and long. No back alleys and a limited number of short-cuts. They have to be staying somewhere. They have to have a base. There will be a geographical pattern that our biker and our horsebox are drawing across your landscape. We just need to find it.’
Both men looked at Bevan. ‘I’ll find it, sirs,’ she said with a grin. Then she spun her chair round back to her computer and began furiously tapping away.
*
In the next thirty minutes, Jack and Gifford worked together to allocate the right job to the right officer. One was tasked with enhancing CCTV images of the men who entered the Barrowmans’ property to establish height and build. A second was tasked with trying to track the horsebox. And two were sent back to the house to supervise the CSIs in cordoning off the bushes either side of the driveway gate so they could be examined for footprints at first light. The only fly in the ointment was the arrival of the forensics report on Mr Bright-Cullingwood’s office space, which revealed one set of unidentified fingerprints, which showed no match to anyone on the CRIMINT database.
A text message from Oaks pinged through:
Mathew’s got the all clear. They’re heading home in an hour.
‘Bevan,’ Jack said. ‘Find Sergeant McDermott for me please.’ It was seven o’clock and Jack wanted to be at the Barrowmans’ house by eight the next morning to interview Mathew. ‘She’s got twelve hours to teach me everything she knows about Game of Thrones.’
CHAPTER 10
At the station, Gifford was running the show. At the Barrowmans’ house, Jack was the one leading the investigation. And Oaks had stepped up to lead the charge on the streets.
An hour and twenty minutes away from Chipping Norton, in Newbury, DC William Oaks and DC Ronnie Davidson were arriving at a racing stables owned by the aptly named Steven Goodwin. The closer examination of CCTV from the Barrowmans’ home had revealed a safety label on the tailgate of the horsebox, with a code number on it that ultimately identified where and when it was given its annual once-over. Oaks had already spoken to Goodwin on the phone and he’d confirmed that three days earlier, he’d rented a three-horse trailer to a Mr Smart. The trailer had been returned in the early hours of that morning and was now tucked away behind the stables waiting for Oaks and Davidson to take a look at it.
Oaks walked up the ramp of the suspect horse trailer. ‘Can you smell that? Disin-fucking-fectant. Jeez, Ronnie, the floor of this trailer has got less trace evidence on it than my bog seat.’ There were four other identical trailers in the main yard, all of which had been rented out to Mr Smart on numerous occasions over the previous three years. He always paid in cash and the keys were always left underneath a wheel arch, as he always collected and dropped off in the early hours.
As Goodwin approached, Oaks tried to hide his disappointment. He didn’t want Goodwin thinking he’d done anything wrong by cleaning the trailer so thoroughly, but Goodwin realised his mistake. ‘I’m sorry,’ Goodwin started, ‘if I’d known, I’d have left it as it was. But it’s booked out again this afternoon, so I . . . I cleaned it about an hour before you called.’ Then he quickly added that he’d of course cancel the afternoon booking and the trailer would remain where it was until Oaks was done with it. ‘It smelt of petrol,’ Goodwin said, desperate to make up for destroying all of their evidence. ‘And there were muddy tyre tracks inside.’
Oaks shared their suspicions that one of the gang rode a motorbike. ‘Yes, they could have been motorbike tracks,’ Goodwin agreed. ‘But there were also double tracks. Like a quadbike.’
Davidson stood in Goodwin’s yard, holding his mobile away from his ear. ‘A fookin’ quadbiiike!’ Gifford’s Midlands accent came to the surface as he ranted. ‘That means they had two recce vehicles, one of which can approach any property, over any nobbin’ terrain!’
Goodwin kept detailed records of everyone who hired his horse trailers, so he was able to provide a driving licence and phone number for Mr Smart. Oaks knew that both would be fake, but at least they would provide a starting point for two new lines of enquiry.
‘So, you left the keys under the wheel arch as requested and, in the morning, the horse trailer was gone?’ Oaks asked.
Goodwin confirmed that Mr Smart paid in full upfront, so he was more than happy to accommodate his requests. It wasn’t unusual for people to collect hire-vehicles during the night, because driving on empty roads was better for the horses and many of the local events and competitions started early. The trailer had been returned in much the same way: in the dead of night, with no witnesses.
‘I saw them.’ Oaks spun round to see a young lad with a broom in his hand. He was small, wearing tight clothes that showed off his lean body. Oaks guessed that he was in his late teens and definitely a jockey in the making. ‘I didn’t see them bring the trailer back, but I saw them pick it up.’
The stable boy’s name was Justin Estrada. It turned out he was of Guatemalan descent, born in Gloucester and had always yearned to be a jockey. He was the perfect build and temperament. He flowed as he walked, almost as if he was floating, and the animals adored him. He explained how he’d been woken at around two in the morning by the sound of a motorbike. He got up and looked out of his window, as he was worried that the noise might disturb the horses. As he looked down into the yard, he saw a figure get off the back of the motorbike and head straight for the keys under the wheel arch. By the time the keys were retrieved, a car had reversed into position in front of the trailer. It took them no more than five minutes to hook up – then they were gone.
Oaks asked Justin if he could describe any of the men he saw, but he shook his head. ‘I didn’t see much. The guy who got off the back of the bike was just ordinary. He was average height and build, and he never took his helmet off. The guy who drove the car was wearing a dark hoodie and dark jeans. I never saw his face, but he was heavy-set, you know. His hoodie was tight on his biceps and around his chest. Oh, and he wore black Adidas NMDs. With the red sole. The R2, I think. Could have been the R1, but I think it was the R2.’
Oaks stared at Justin, open-mouthed. The kid had said he hadn’t seen much and then narrowed the perp’s footwear down to a specific design of trainer. Justin grinned, knowing he’d done well. ‘I sell collectable trainers online, see. The R2 isn’t collectable yet, it’s too new, but it will be.’ Oaks double-checked that Justin was certain about what he’d seen. ‘The security light went on when the bike pulled into the yard. Definitely Adidas NMDs.’ Oaks shook the lad’s hand and wished him all the luck in the world in his endeavours to be a jockey.
*
Ridley called while Jack waited in the kitchen for Sally Barrowman. Jack opted to call him back after he’d spoken to Mathew. There’d hopefully be more to say then. Mrs Thorburn, the housekeeper, put a plate of biscuits and a pot of tea down in front of Jack and then began unloading the dishwasher. She clearly wasn’t in a good mood and when Jack asked what was wrong, she said she’d been given a verbal warning by Mr Barrowman for keeping Mathew’s contraband takeaways a secret for all these years. After giving her statement, she’d had to admit to finding takeaway containers in the bin on numerous occasions. She wasn’t bothered about the warning itself, though; she was more worried about having to tell tales on Mathew from now on, knowing it would damage their relationship, possibly beyond
repair.
When Sally Barrowman joined them, Mrs Thorburn kept her head down and neither woman acknowledged the other. ‘Mathew’s ready.’ Jack could hear the unease in Sally’s voice.
‘Mrs Barrowman, I won’t do anything to knowingly upset Mathew. But we can’t lose sight of the fact that your son is the only person to have had any direct contact with the—’
‘Contact?’ she almost yelled. ‘Is that what you’re calling it? He was assaulted. He’s traumatised. He’s tremendously vulnerable, and the second I think he’s had enough of you, you will leave his bedroom. If you can’t promise me that right now, DS Warr, then you can get out of my house!’
The gentle, subservient housewife had gone, to be replaced with a ferociously protective mother. Jack wondered if perhaps George Barrowman was not the head of this household after all.
Sally went on to explain how, at the hospital, even though Mathew was escorted straight through to a side room, he had still been scared and agitated by all of the people and all of the beeping machines they were trying to attach him to. It took them hours to examine him properly and, when it came to persuading him to go into the X-ray room, it was an almost impossible task. ‘He’s had so many bad experiences with hospitals and doctors . . . he can’t help the way he reacts. It’s the same with the police. Matty has been horribly mistreated by some of the police in his time, because they’ve assumed him to be naughty instead of poorly.’
Jack remained respectful in the face of Sally’s motherly fears, but he wasn’t going to completely give in to her. ‘I’m in your home, Mrs Barrowman, asking to interview your vulnerable son; so, you’re the one who’s making the rules here. Create an environment that Mathew will be happy with, then tell me how to behave and I’ll do it. I’m not going to go against your advice. But I’m also not going to leave without speaking to him.’
By the time Jack had finished speaking, Sally had tears in her eyes and he wasn’t sure why. ‘I’ll stay down here.’ Her voice had become nothing more than a whisper. Jack felt compelled to ask her if she was OK. ‘Mathew said he didn’t want me at the hospital, so I haven’t seen his injuries and George won’t tell me anything. Are they terrible? Was he frightened for long, do you think?’ Sally’s eyes begged Jack to say something comforting.
‘I think it was over quickly. I think he didn’t fight back and gave them no reason to continue hurting him. With professional gangs like this, they just want to get in and out as quickly as possible. They would have wanted Mathew to be scared and be quiet . . . which he was.’ Jack hoped she believed him. In reality, he suspected the gang took pleasure in beating Mathew and stealing his pizza, and from the extent of his injuries, that once Mathew was on the ground, the gang continued to beat him.
Sally shook her head sadly. ‘I wish I’d never gone to that fucking charity auction.’ She sighed. ‘Nathaniel is already upstairs. Knock and he’ll let you in.’
Jack headed up the winding, double staircase, pausing to look at the family portraits lining the panelled walls. Mathew was in most pictures, but his face was always turned away from the camera and he rarely smiled. Not that he looked sad; it was just as though he was in a perpetual state of deep thought. One photo, taking pride of place on the landing where the staircases met, was of Sally, George and Mathew, aged about eight, running around the garden playing what looked like a game of tag, and it stood out from the rest. The glee on Mathew’s face was so animated and unrestrained that Jack couldn’t take his eyes off the image. It was slightly blurred and the composition was awful, but this photograph was clearly positioned there to be the first one this family saw in the morning and the last one they saw at night.
Jack felt his heart quicken with parental understanding, and once again he thanked his lucky stars that his daughter was, as far as he knew, a healthy little girl who was on track to live a normal, happy life.
‘Took two hours to get that, apparently.’ Jack turned to see Nathaniel standing outside Mathew’s bedroom. ‘It took Matty a while to get the hang of why he’d want to run away from his parents but, once he twigged that dodging a touch from your mum or dad was actually fun, there was no stopping him. Matty’s in a good mood and is looking forward to your chat. Give him his space though, and please don’t touch any of his things.’
Mathew’s bedroom was bright and light. It was really just a white box; a blank canvas on which he could display his obsession with Game of Thrones, with myriad posters, character figurines and other merchandise, as well as DVDs, well-thumbed books and T-shirts. Mathew sat at his desk, playing Game of Thrones Ascent which was being displayed simultaneously on two large Mac screens and was hooked up to surround sound, though at the moment the sound was nothing more than a dull buzzing coming from the headphones which were hooked over the back of Mathew’s chair.
Mathew paused his game and spun his wide, heavy leather gaming chair, so that he was side-on to Jack. ‘Well, well, well.’ Mathew’s deep, resonating voice was a surprising contrast to the high-pitched screaming Jack had heard on the police bodycam footage. ‘It’s the diminutive Detective Sergeant Warr.’
Nathaniel leant close to Jack and explained in a whisper that Mathew had a thing about height: anyone perceived to be below around 5’10” was referred to as ‘diminutive’, and anyone above 6’5” was ‘Hodorian’ after the Game of Thrones character, Hodor. Anyone in between those two heights was of no interest to Mathew at all. Mathew stood, walked over to Jack and, whilst keeping his eyes averted, offered his hand. Mathew’s grip was uncomfortably firm and accompanied by one single, violent up-and-down shake. Then he let go and returned to his chair. ‘What do you want to talk about?’ he asked.
Jack glanced at Nathaniel for any indication that Jack shouldn’t start his questioning, but Nathaniel had his hands in his pockets and was smiling, so Jack took a deep breath and began. ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mathew. I’m loving your Game of Thrones stuff. Have you played The Sword of Darkness?’
Nathaniel’s smile disappeared and he audibly groaned.
As Mathew began talking animatedly about The Sword of Darkness, he swung back and forth in his chair, shifting between the different voices as he recounted the entire game narrative. At certain moments, Mathew even stood up and excitedly acted out some of the most thrilling fight scenes. Jack could see he had forgotten himself – just like the little boy in the picture at the top of the stairs, playing tag in the garden with his parents. Exactly thirty-two minutes later, Mathew stopped talking as suddenly as he’d started. He then sat perfectly still, like a wind-up toy that had finally run down.
Nathaniel breathed a sigh of relief and threw Jack a warning look that very clearly said, ‘Don’t ask him anything else about Game of bloody Thrones!’
‘Mathew,’ Jack began, ‘will you talk to me about the night the men broke into your home?’ Mathew laced his fingers together, sat forwards in his chair and bowed his head. His eyes remained open and he looked as if he was concentrating, waiting for a question to be asked. ‘Can you remember how many men there were?’
Mathew briefly raised five fingers.
‘Were the men diminutive or Hodorian – or neither?’
Mathew thought for a moment, then said that three men were diminutive and two were neither.
‘Were all the men masked?’
Mathew nodded
‘OK, Mathew, then—’
‘Oberyn Martell,’ Mathew said quickly.
Jack stopped and let him continue.
‘Oberyn Martell took his mask off.’
Jack looked around the bedroom walls, desperately trying to recall what the hell Oberyn Martell, who he knew was a character from Game of Thrones, actually looked like. His eyes paused on a poster of the House Martell family tree: Oberyn was a handsome young man with Mediterranean looks and a perfectly trimmed jawline beard and moustache.
‘He couldn’t eat my pizza through the hole in his mask, so he lifted it up.’ Mathew put the palms of his hands tightl
y over his eyes and his voice shot up in pitch. ‘If he wanted me to share, he should have asked!’
Nathaniel nodded to Jack, indicating that Mathew was OK: he was getting upset, but he was coping.
Mathew’s tearful, increasingly frantic voice spat out words through his fingers. ‘They hit me and hit me and hit me. And then Oberyn Martell promised to only hit me one more time, but that was a lie.’ Mathew dropped his hands and leapt to his feet, his face wet. He looked towards, but not directly at, Jack, stepping quickly from foot to foot as he inched forwards. ‘I was so still, DS Warr, as still as a sleeping lion. For a long time. All the while they ate my pizza, I never moved.’ Jack had been told not to invade Mathew’s personal space but now Mathew was invading his. What should he do? Nathaniel once again gave a reassuring nod, so Jack stood his ground.
As Mathew continued, he began to sob, loudly and painfully. ‘And when they left, they took the pizza box with them and I shouted, “Please put that at the bottom of the bin!” ’cos Mum doesn’t let me have pizza. But Oberyn Martell just hit me again really hard on my back and shouted, “I’m the boss!” And again. Before running out of the house to catch up with his friends. I got up and I ran after him. “Please give me the box,” I said. “My mum will be so cross!” And do you know what Oberyn Martell did, DS Warr?’
Mathew was now standing so close to Jack’s face, that Jack’s eyes couldn’t bring him into focus. Jack shook his head.
‘Oberyn Martell put the pizza box in the bin for me. Right at the bottom, so Mum would never find it. That was nice of him.’ Mathew returned to his chair, put his headphones on and pressed play on his game.
CHAPTER 11
Ridley was stuck behind a ‘car v cyclist’ Road Traffic Collision near Vauxhall and hadn’t moved in over thirty minutes. All around him, irate drivers shouted at their passengers or into their mobiles or at the inconsiderate dead cyclist lying under a white sheet in the road ahead. Ridley was comparatively serene: he was working on his mobile, making lists and planning his day.
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