by M. J. Ford
And if you’d asked twenty-seven-year-old Jo, she’d have said she knew him just as well.
As it happened, the drugs in the flat were just the start of it. On day six, the people in the apartment below complained to the council about a leak in their ceiling and a bad smell. It turned out that Marek’s girlfriend’s grandmother had been dead (natural causes) for close to a month. Instead of reporting the death, Marek and his heroin-addled partner had wrapped her in bedding and left her on the floor, clearly untroubled by the morality of the situation or the stench of her liquefying corpse. Marek had served four of eight years then been deported. The girlfriend, as she remembered, had OD’d while he was inside, leaving an eighteen-month-old to the ‘care’ of the state. Jo wondered vaguely how the little boy was doing now.
Movement on the other side of the road shook her from her thoughts. A middle-aged man with grey hair at the temples in a zipped-up Puma jacket arrived at the hall and walked straight to the rear door, crushing a cigarette into the wall. He tried the handle, but it didn’t open, and Jo watched him look around with an annoyed expression on his face. The car’s clock said it was ten to seven.
Jo stayed in her seat, lifting her phone just above the door frame and taking a picture through the window.
No one else came onto the scene for a few minutes, but at seven on the dot two men walked up together, greeting the first with nods. One was young – perhaps early twenties, with a narrow face and a ponytail, maybe six-one. His companion looked to be twice his age, bald, wearing an open leather jacket with a gut straining his T-shirt beneath. He took a key from his back pocket, and opened up the door. The three of them went inside. Jo photographed it all.
The minutes ticked past. Did they know Trent? If they did, and if they hadn’t been living on Mars, they were probably talking about him inside. She hadn’t really known what to expect, but was still a bit disappointed at the low turnout and the lack of menace the men exuded. It was still by far the most promising lead though, and if Trent’s accomplice did belong to the group, there was a chance he was lying low.
Ben would probably have banged their heads together. He’d have burst in, made them panic, and got a list of names. But that wasn’t her style. Plus, as a lone female, it maybe wasn’t the best course of action. Chances were they’d run at the first sign of trouble and that would be it. Her best angle was to go back with the photos, cross-reference with the other detectives, and go through the mugshots. It was a longer game, but more likely to bear fruit. Stratton would approve. She decided to sit tight, get a few more shots as the men left.
A movement in her rear-view mirror caught her eye. Jo froze. On her side of the street, walking quickly, came a man. It was the height she noticed first – he must have been six-four at least. He wore a long beige coat, buttoned right up to the collar. A tonsure of white hair, closely trimmed white beard. A severe, ascetic face, the lips a thin line. Mid-sixties at a minimum.
She sank into her seat as he passed. He stopped a few metres up the street, then looked across at the Meeting House, frowning a little, then glanced left and right, before leaning off the kerb and stepping into the road. He had a loping stride, like he was leaning into a headwind. Jo watched him enter the building before even realising she’d been holding her breath. It came out in a rush.
And suddenly, sitting tight and checking mugshots wasn’t an option.
She reached into her pocket and found her phone. She called Ben, who picked up.
‘What’s up?’
‘I need your help.’ She gave him the broad details quickly, and her location, and to his credit he listened without interrupting.
‘You think it’s him?’ he asked.
Jo tried to remember exactly what Niall had said. Tall, pale skin, hunched.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Under no circumstances go inside,’ he said. ‘Jo, I mean it.’
‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘How soon can you get here?’
She could hear his car door. ‘I’m on my way. Ten minutes. Promise me you’ll stay put.’
‘Promise. And Ben – between us, okay?’
‘Just stay in your car.’
He hung up, and she took another deep breath. No one was going anywhere for ten minutes. Only as she managed to relax a little did it occur to her that Ben was the first number that came to mind. Whether it was their history, or just because she wanted to keep Stratton at a distance, she didn’t have time to dwell. She watched the clock, then the Meeting House, then the street.
At 7.09, a blue car was drifting slowly along the street. It took her a second or two to realise she’d seen the plate, and the model, before, and there followed another few seconds of confusion.
What in God’s name is she doing here?
The car mounted the pavement and parked right across the rear entrance of Meeting House, completely blocking it.
No … no … no. Not now. What are you doing, you fucking idiot?
The passenger door opened first, and a man climbed out with a camera. He tipped it at the building, filming from the off. Rebekah Saunders must have scrambled across from the driver’s seat, because she emerged from the same side, and marched towards the door of the Meeting House.
Jo was out of her own car quickly, and running across the road.
‘Hey! Stop!’
Saunders turned, saw her and frowned, then said something to the camera operator. He directed the lens at Jo herself for a few seconds, then focused back on the hall as Saunders reached the door and tried the handle. It didn’t open, so she banged it several times with the flat of her palm.
Jo reached the blocked gate. ‘What the fuck are you doing? We’ve got this place under …’
The door opened a crack, and the ponytailed young man looked out.
‘How well do you know Alan Trent?’ asked Saunders immediately.
The man tried to close the door, but Saunders had her foot in the way, and used her weight to shoulder through. The cameraman followed. Jo heard shouts from inside.
Jo vaulted the bonnet of Saunders’ car, and headed after them. She was met by the first man who’d entered, coming the other way. He had his head bowed, covered by a magazine, as he barrelled past. Seeing the car parked across the gate, he spun on the spot.
‘What is this?’ he said.
‘Hey, you can’t do that!’
Jo saw the leather-jacketed man pushing the cameraman against a wall just inside the doorway, bellowing, ‘Get that thing out of my face!’ Saunders was already inside, shouting something, and Jo ran in after her. The camera fell onto the ground and smashed.
In the sparsely furnished hall, Saunders was thrusting a Dictaphone in the face of Puma top, saying something about Dylan Jones. Across the other side of the room, the ponytailed younger male was standing on a bench, his upper body already through a window. Jo tried to get there in time, but he overbalanced and his feet disappeared. The man in the leather jacket had opened a fire door and was gone.
‘Are you getting this, Clive?’ said Saunders. She looked back, saw the camera in pieces. ‘Oh bugger!’
Jo shoved Saunders aside, harder than necessary, and went straight for the tall man who’d arrived late. He watched her calmly, too calmly, and she pressed a hand into his chest, pushing him back into the wall.
‘I think there’s been a misunderstanding …’
‘Name?’
‘I’m sorry, who are you?’
‘Detective Masters, Avon and Somerset. What are you doing here?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘I note that you’re declining to answer my questions, so I’m arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to kidnap and the false imprisonment of a child.’
‘I’m sorry?’
She read him his rights. ‘You’ll be questioned at the station.’
Turning around, breathing hard, she saw it was just Saunders and her companion who remained. Both were open-mouthed.
‘What the fuck
are you looking at?’ said Jo.
Jo heard a car screech up, and then pounding footsteps. Ben ran into the building.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine,’ said Jo.
Ben took it all in. ‘What happened to staying in the car?’
‘These two fuckwits decided to show up,’ said Jo.
That seemed to snap Saunders out of her stupor. She held the Dictaphone up.
‘Would you like to make a statement, detective?’ she asked.
If Jo hadn’t been holding the suspect, she might have grabbed the thing and done something stupid.
‘Switch that thing off and get out,’ said Jo. ‘You’re interfering with police business.’
Saunders stared back defiantly, but Ben took her roughly by the arm and steered her towards the door.
‘You heard the detective. Out.’ The camera guy followed meekly.
‘You can’t do this!’ said the tall man, looking outraged.
‘Want to tell us your name now?’ said Jo.
‘Timothy Ingliss,’ replied the man. ‘Really, you’ve made an error.’
‘We’ll see about that. Are you going to come with us nicely, or do I have to cuff you?’
‘Lead the way,’ said the man. ‘I look forward to sorting this out, Detective Masters.’
Outside, Saunders was on the phone already, climbing into her car. Jo left the suspect with Ben and went over.
‘What were you doing here?’ asked Jo.
‘Investigating,’ said Saunders. ‘Same as you.’
‘But how did you find out about this place?’
Saunders tapped the side of her nose. ‘We all have sources. Let’s just say I got a tip-off about Trent’s movements.’
‘Wait, this is about Alan?’ said the tall man.
‘Save it,’ said Jo. She turned her attention back to Saunders. ‘The taxi firm, right?’ she said.
Saunders merely lifted an eyebrow and pursed her lips. Ben looked nonplussed.
‘I called them to follow up one of Trent’s calls,’ Jo explained. ‘My guess is that she got a call earlier today from a driver who wanted a few quid for information pertinent to her recent articles. How’s my guesswork?’
Saunders shrugged. ‘So can we go?’
The sudden sound of sirens approached, and a squad car pulled up. Someone must have called them, and Jo opened her badge to the uniforms as they jogged over.
‘Ma’am,’ said the first.
‘It’s all under control,’ said Jo.
Saunders was lingering.
‘You’re not needed any more,’ said Jo. ‘Please move your vehicle – it’s obstructing the public right of way.’
‘You know we’re on the same side?’ said Saunders. ‘The public have a right to know their kids are safe.’
‘Then let us do our job,’ said Jo.
She managed to convince the uniforms that the disturbance was related to ongoing CID business, so they could cite her on any formal reports, but asked them to remain and get in touch with the Meeting House’s emergency contact. Ben put Ingliss in the back of his car, then came over.
‘You’re a bloody idiot,’ he said, but he said it fondly enough that it didn’t anger her.
‘It went pear-shaped,’ she said.
‘So what makes you think that guy’s involved?’ asked Ben, nodding towards her car.
‘He matches the description that Niall gave me,’ said Jo.
Ben frowned. ‘Jo, it was hardly thorough …’
‘You think I’m overreacting?’
‘Does Stratton know?’ When she shook her head, he blew out his cheeks. ‘You have been busy.’
He didn’t sound entirely approving.
‘I’m not going to just sit around,’ she said, ‘whatever Stratton says. If there’s someone out there still, if he finds another kid …’ She stopped, realising she sounded almost exactly like Rebekah Saunders at the press conference.
Ben touched her shoulder. ‘Look, let me handle the DCI,’ he said. ‘We’ll say it was a joint thing.’
‘You don’t have to cover for me.’
‘I’m not doing it for you,’ he said. ‘I want to put this thing to bed too. If there’s a chance this guy ties into Dylan too …’
‘It’s a possibility,’ said Jo. He had to be pushing seventy. ‘Nothing that links Trent yet then?’
Ben shook his head. ‘I finally managed to get hold of the Building Inspectorate. Figured the pool would have needed planning permission. They’ve given us the name of the firm who put it in. Owner’s selling solar panels now. Anyway, he’s going to draw up a list of the guys who worked for him back then – all cash in hand, ad hoc stuff, and no Alan that he could remember. Doesn’t rule him out, and we’ll run the mugshot by him too. Carter’s liaising with the daughter of the former owner – we’re just trying to get all the paperwork lined up concerning the pool-work itself – in case there’s anything there. But unless we get something biological from Salisbury, I don’t see that we can link it up. Rhani’s digging up everything on Trent from the eighties, but no known connections with the area at the moment.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got it covered. We’ll see if this guy’s got any links to Bradford-on-Avon as well.’
‘See you back at the station then?’
‘Thanks, Ben,’ she replied, and she meant it.
Chapter 19
Ingliss was waiting patiently in the custody suite when Jo returned. She had to double-take. He was eating a biscuit.
‘He’s diabetic,’ said the custody sergeant apologetically. ‘Had to let him test his blood.’
‘I was a little low,’ said Ingliss.
Jo rolled her eyes, and led him to the desk. ‘Anything in his personals?’
The sergeant flipped round the screen. A packet of tissues, a set of car keys, some mints and a leather wallet with an assortment of cards. He’d declined legal representation, but that didn’t mean anything in her experience.
‘What’s the charge?’ asked the custody officer.
When Jo told him, the officer arched an eyebrow.
‘What about my car?’ asked Ingliss. ‘I only paid for two hours. It’s on Iffley Road.’
‘You don’t need to worry about that now,’ said Jo, not a little unnerved by his demeanour.
He’s playing it very cool.
It was only Carrick in CID, and Ben was filling him in as Jo led Ingliss to an interview room. She seated him, and Ben came in too, closing the door.
Jo started the tape and introduced everyone for the record. Ingliss smiled throughout the process. His teeth, though a shade discoloured, looked even enough and the doubts in Jo’s gut intensified.
‘Mr Ingliss, can you tell me what you were doing at the Friends Meeting House on Magdalen Road today?’
‘I was offering support to a group who meet there,’ he said.
‘Offering support how?’ asked Jo.
‘Spiritually, I suppose you might say,’ said Ingliss. Ben scoffed, but Ingliss looked unperturbed. ‘Maybe it would be simpler to say I offer an understanding ear.’
‘And that’s how you know Alan Trent?’ said Jo.
Ingliss nodded. ‘It’s a terrible thing. I didn’t know until I saw it this morning. And, to my shame, a part of me wanted to abandon today’s meeting. But I reasoned their need was greater than mine, and so …’
‘Where were you last Friday evening, between say ten p.m. and Sunday morning?’
‘Over the weekend? I would have been at home, mostly.’
‘In Thame?’ said Jo. Ingliss nodded. ‘Anyone who can verify that? A wife?’
‘Widowed,’ said the man.
‘Now there’s a surprise,’ muttered Ben.
For the first time, Ingliss looked annoyed. ‘You’re being impolite, and my patience is wearing thin. You arrest me on a ludicrous charge, with no evidence that I can see …’
‘Save it,’ said Jo. ‘We’ve arrested you because Alan Trent had an accomplice
who matches your description, and along with your behaviour and your refusal to give us your name when initially requested, I deemed that a reasonable suspicion you were involved.’
‘My behaviour?’ huffed Ingliss. ‘Well, I really couldn’t tell you anything about an accomplice. But if it will help to eliminate me from your enquiries, I should tell you I’m a former prison chaplain, and it’s in that context I first met Alan.’
Jo tried not to look surprised. ‘You’re a priest?’
‘Indeed.’
He might have been lying, but it was as level a performance as Jo had ever seen. Besides, he wouldn’t be the first man of God to have a penchant for young boys.
‘So why does the group describe itself as a residents’ organisation?’ she said.
‘Surely you can appreciate a level of … concealment,’ said Ingliss. ‘The men are rightfully worried about the repercussions should their former crimes be public knowledge. Alan himself suffered terribly in the past.’
‘Hold on a minute,’ said Jo. ‘Their former crimes? They’re all ex-cons?’
This was looking more promising.
‘I prefer to focus on their potential for the future,’ said Ingliss. ‘Whatever crimes these men committed, they’re dealing with them, and God never turns away from …’
And as he was talking, Jo realised why the men had all run. Why one had been shielding his face.
‘They’re sex offenders,’ she said.
Ingliss stopped. ‘I never liked the term, but yes.’
‘You’re ministering to a group of perverts?’ said Ben.
‘To a group of men,’ said Ingliss, looking pained. ‘If I may say, I’ve met dozens of law enforcement officers in my career, and many exhibit the same, how can I put this, blunt understanding of this subject. Are you aware of Alan’s past, detective? His upbringing?’
‘I thought we weren’t dealing in the past,’ Ben fired back. ‘Anyway, my job is to protect the innocent, here in the present, and Alan Trent showed himself to be a dangerous man.’
