by M. J. Ford
Ingliss nodded, as if weighing up Ben’s response. ‘I’m not familiar with the details of the case,’ he said, ‘but I struggle to fathom Alan’s involvement.’
‘We have a clear line of evidence that he abducted a little boy, locked him up, and then killed himself,’ said Jo. She couldn’t help but notice that Ingliss’ opinion of Alan Trent was almost identical to that of Laura Phelps.
‘And all I can tell you is that is wholly out of character,’ said Ingliss.
‘Thanks for the insight – but it doesn’t change anything,’ said Jo. ‘Let’s go back to your whereabouts this last weekend.’
‘Let’s see.’ He looked skyward, then counted off on his fingers as he spoke. ‘I went shopping on Saturday morning. There was a fete in the village, and I ran the raffle. Following that, I went home. I would have seen my neighbours around eight – we press flowers. On Sunday morning, I went to church, and following that I visited a nursing home where I read to the residents on a fortnightly basis.’
‘A verifiable saint,’ said Ben.
‘Make any trips to the west of Oxford?’ asked Jo.
‘I did not,’ said Ingliss. ‘And I am no saint, detective. To err is human, as you will know. It’s how we address our mistakes that matters most in God’s eyes.’
A heavy silence filled the room, and Jo felt the blood rush to her cheeks.
Finally, Ben spoke. ‘Is that what you call making a child wank you off? A mistake?’
Ingliss took his time. ‘I suppose it depends on your perspective. What the church calls a sin, you call a crime. A psychologist might say it was an inevitable outcome based on the fact Trent’s own father raped him as a child. In anyone’s eyes, however, Trent was punished. Don’t you believe in second chances?’
Jo glanced at Ben. His eyes were burning.
* * *
Jo suggested a break so they could ascertain a few things, and left Ingliss in the IR.
‘What do you reckon?’ she asked Ben, staring at the monitor in the AV suite. Ingliss sat straight-backed in his seat, staring straight ahead. She ignored her gut, which was telling her that this was the wrong tree to be barking up.
‘Alibi’s hardly gold standard,’ said Ben.
‘We could search his vehicle,’ said Jo. ‘Maybe his house.’
‘You think Stratton will go for that?’
Jo doubted it. ‘Not on the current intelligence.’
‘Well, let him sweat a bit,’ said Ben, ‘then we take another crack.’
For the next hour, they followed up on Ingliss’ story, going in from time to time for clarifications. One by one, the facts checked out. Ingliss had worked at HMP Bullingdon until a couple of years ago, the very place Trent had served his time. His neighbours expressed great concern on learning he was in custody, and confirmed the flower pressing, plus other movements. Jo drew up a timeline, and slowly the window for a round trip to RAF Bampton Castle shrunk. To her eye, there was no obvious match to the prints found there either. She asked Ben to look also, and his face said it all. Still, they had them scanned to the lab for confirmation. And to cap it all, Ingliss had worked as a missionary throughout the eighties in South America, attached to a church in Kent, with zero links to Bradford-on-Avon or even Somerset and the surrounding counties.
At close to ten p.m., they decided to release Ingliss. He took it with surprising grace, choosing to make his own way back to his car rather than waiting any longer for a squad vehicle. His parting shot was to enquire politely where he could find reimbursement for any parking fines he might have incurred.
‘It was worth a try,’ said Ben.
‘Was it?’ said Jo. ‘We’re no closer to finding Trent’s accomplice.’
Ben stroked his jaw. She’d seen the gesture a hundred times, at work and at home, and she braced herself.
‘If he had one,’ he said.
‘You can’t still think he worked alone.’
‘All you’ve got is what Niall said. A kid who’s been through an unbelievable trauma. He’s not reliable.’
‘I’m very aware of that,’ said Jo. ‘But Phelps, Ingliss, the colleagues from the college, none of them think Trent was capable.’
‘No one ever does.’
‘I don’t either,’ said Jo. ‘What was all that, in there, if you don’t believe me?’
‘It’s not about what I believe,’ said Ben. ‘It’s about what we can prove. You look knackered, Jo. Take a break. There’s nothing to be gained from killing yourself.’
She wanted to argue, but she didn’t want an argument. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she conceded.
‘Aren’t I always,’ he said, brighter. ‘We could get a drink if you like. My hotel bar’s pretty decent.’
He said it lightly, but the question gained weight as it hung in the air. Jo glanced at the clock, sorely tempted. In the last few hours, the awful history of their relationship had barely entered her mind. They’d just been two colleagues, getting on with the job.
‘Look, no thanks. I wouldn’t be good company. I’ll finish up a few bits here.’
Ben looked disappointed, and she knew she’d made the right choice.
‘See you tomorrow then,’ he said.
Jo waited until he’d left, and she knew she must be tired; she’d been so close to going with him. And Christ knows where that might have ended up.
She went straight to a computer and logged on to the database, filtering for registered SOs in the area. There were fifty-three within a five-mile radius of Oxford city centre, and with her phone at her side, she cycled through the files.
She fully expected not to find anything, so it was a pleasant surprise that one of the images near the end of the list was undoubtedly the young man with the ponytail who had fled through the window. Lee Burgess was twenty-six years old, and had a conviction from five years prior for a single count of sexual activity with an underage girl of fourteen and causing a juvenile to be exposed to sexually explicit material. He had served four years. Jo took in the details with a dispassionate eye – the child in question had been his stepsister, and he’d also been having a simultaneous sexual relationship with her mother. The mind boggled. Jo was not unused to seeing such dysfunction, but it still took her a moment to fathom what she was reading.
‘What a charmer,’ she muttered to herself.
There was an address listed for Burgess, who wore a tag while out on licence. He was forbidden from contacting either his victim or her mother, and had to sign in at his local station – Cowley – weekly. They listed his employer as Prefecta Processing, based on the Botley industrial estate.
She phoned the place, pretending to be his mother, and learned his next shift started at six in the morning.
With a few hours to kill, she went back to her brother’s in Horton to have a wash and grab some clean clothes. They’d had a slipper bath put in, and she could just imagine sliding into the bubbles. But as she turned into the drive, her heart sank at the sight of the BMW already pulled up.
Ben.
What was he playing at? Jo left the engine running and sat for a few moments. She could turn around and drive off, but where to? And they’d have heard the car. Better to be a grown-up.
She switched off the ignition and climbed out, heels crunching up to the front door. So much for the hot bath.
The adults were all in the living room, with the double-doors to the entrance hall open. They looked up as she came in. Ben stood from the sofa.
‘Evening, Jo.’
‘Is something the matter?’ she asked.
‘Not at all,’ said Ben, coming towards her. Amelia and Paul remained seated. ‘I just dropped by – would you believe Carter’s come up with something useful?’
She folded her arms. It had been less than an hour ago when she’d said goodbye at the station.
‘You could have called.’
The look on Paul and Amelia’s faces was sombre, and she felt guilty. They didn’t need this in their house.
‘What is it?’ she said.
‘We’ll leave you to it,’ said Paul, standing up to close the living room door, leaving Ben and Jo in the privacy of the foyer. She had the horrible feeling they were listening from the other side.
‘What have you got?’ she said.
Ben looked hurt, but his voice didn’t betray it. He took out his phone.
‘The daughter of the owners – she went back by the house. Anyway, there was a tonne of junk mail – amazing what still gets delivered. She was chucking it all out, and she found this.’ He flipped the phone over. ‘Some sort of architectural drawing by the looks of it.’
‘Are those plans?’
‘Indeed they are,’ said Ben. ‘A layout of the house in Bradford-on-Avon.’
Jo used her fingers to zoom in on an ‘X’. It was beside a rectangular shape that must have been the pool.
‘That’s where the body was found. Sorry, where’s this from?’
‘That’s the thing,’ said Ben. ‘It was postmarked April, nearly two years back – came through the Oxford sorting office. It’s just been sat on the doormat of the house all this time. Anything with the family surname was on a re-direct, but this just had an address so it got delivered along with all the other crap. But I haven’t shown you the best bit yet. On the reverse …’
He flipped to the next image, where there were four words, cut from fractured newspaper print.
PLEASE BURY HIM PROPERLY.
‘That’s a hell of a guilty conscience,’ said Jo. ‘Prints on the envelope?’
‘Probably several,’ said Ben. ‘It’s at the lab now.’
Jo stared at the image. It was a confession, just not a signed one, and it ruled one thing out.
‘Trent would have been banged up then,’ she said, airing her thoughts.
‘But whoever sent this is likely to still be around now,’ said Ben. ‘Your accomplice theory is looking more plausible.’
‘Stratton has to at least give it a hearing,’ Jo agreed. ‘If these are the plans from the architects that makes it pretty certain it was one of the workers on the site.’
‘That’s what I’m focused on,’ said Ben. ‘The Trent mugshot didn’t ring any bells with the pool guy though? Maybe let me talk to Stratton.’
‘Man to man?’ said Jo, with a smile.
‘It’s not that – I just know things have been awkward.’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ve got this funeral tomorrow. Give me a call and let me know what he says.’
‘Sure. And sorry – you’re right. I should have called.’
His conciliatory tone caught her off guard. ‘No – it’s fine. It’s been a long day.’
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘I’ll be off then,’ he said. ‘Say goodbye to your brother and Amelia for me. And look, I’m sorry.’ He jerked his head back towards the living room doors. ‘I thought they knew.’
As he passed her, towards the door, he touched her arm fondly.
What he’d just said sank in. As he left, and the door closed, she went into the lounge to face the music. Paul and Amelia weren’t standing with their ears to the door, but were together on the sofa again, Paul on the iPad, Amelia with a paperback.
‘He shouldn’t have come here,’ she said.
‘I’m glad he did,’ said Paul. ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’
Jo felt like she was being cross-examined. She hadn’t even taken off her coat. She wished she had booked into a hotel now.
‘It’s no big deal.’
‘You’ve been together for over ten years.’
Hand still on the door frame, she half looked their way. ‘Did he tell you why?’
‘The gambling,’ said Paul. ‘He didn’t go into detail, but he said he’d lost a lot of money.’
Jo laughed. ‘He lost all our money. Everything we saved.’
‘Christ,’ said Amelia.
Jo wondered if he’d mentioned the miscarriage too. She wasn’t going to bring it up.
‘He cares about you,’ said her brother. ‘A lot.’
‘It’s too late for that,’ said Jo. She started up the stairs.
‘He’s getting help, you know,’ said Amelia. ‘Gamblers Anonymous.’
‘Is that what he said?’
‘I don’t think he was lying. He knows he’s got a problem.’
‘Look, I’m tired,’ said Jo. ‘Can we do this another time?’
‘We don’t have to do it at all,’ said Paul. ‘We’re just worried about you.’
‘I’m fine, honestly,’ said Jo. ‘And so is Ben. When this case is finished, we’ll be going our separate ways. It’s just a bit complicated at the moment.’
As she traipsed up the stairs to her room, she wondered if she was lying to herself. Leaving Ben, moving out, it had all seemed so simple at the time. But here they were, months later, and still the connections were there, like little tangles impossible to unravel.
It was a bit like the two clown cases. They were linked, just in ways she couldn’t see at the moment. It was like trying to untie a knot in the dark.
Whoever sent that note, if he was the same person who had co-opted Alan Trent – he was out there, now. He might be desperate, he might be scared, he might be invigorated.
He could strike again at any moment.
* * *
She should have been exhausted, but with the fresh air blasting through her window she felt wide awake as she drove into the industrial estate in Botley just before dawn. It was the sort of place that never slept. Floodlit yards and warehouses lined each side, many with loading doors open, men – and it was only men – smoking outside, or operating forklifts in hi-vis clothing. She followed the signs to Prefecta Processing, a vast grey windowless structure at the edge of the estate. She entered the fenced-off area, past an open truck being filled with pallets. There were parking spots designated to various names, but all were empty, so she pulled up across two, right outside a door to the reception area.
She found the front desk empty, but there was a buzzer, which she rang. No one came, so she opened the counter and was about to let herself through a rear door when a man in a boiler suit carrying a toolbox came the other way. She heard the clank of heavy machinery from the other side.
‘Can I help you?’ he said.
Jo opened up her badge. ‘I need to speak to one of your employees. Name of Lee Burgess.’
The man squinted at the badge. ‘Stay here – I’ll find someone. You can’t go back there – health and safety.’
Jo waited in the tiny reception area, vaguely scanning the certificates on the wall, all related to hygiene and cleanliness. She gathered Prefecta dealt mainly with supplying canned goods to supermarkets. She didn’t know what Burgess’ role was, but she imagined it was the sort of thing that would be automated within a decade.
The man himself arrived only a couple of minutes later, dressed in a hairnet, blue booties and gloves, as well as white overalls. He could have been a crime scene officer, if he didn’t look so absolutely terrified. He was accompanied by a fat man with substantial sweat patches emanating from his armpits.
‘What’s this about?’ Burgess’ companion asked.
‘I need to talk with Mr Burgess, in private.’
‘Is he in trouble?’
‘I ain’t done nuffink,’ Burgess said.
‘No,’ said Jo. ‘He’s just helping us with some enquiries. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.’
Burgess’ boss looked contemptuous. ‘See that it doesn’t. He’s only just come on.’
‘Shall we go outside, Lee?’ asked Jo.
He nodded, pulling off the gloves and boots, folding them in his hands and placing them on the desk.
Outside, he looked around sheepishly, unzipped the overalls and pulled out a packet of cigarettes with a lighter inside. He had a thin fuzz on his cheeks, and a sickly pallor over old acne scars. As he lit his cigarette, the flame trembled.
‘You ran away before I could talk to you earlie
r,’ she said.
He took a long drag. ‘What do you want?’
‘I need to talk to you about Alan Trent.’
‘Who?’
Jo let him smoke. Sometimes silence was the best weapon, and only ten seconds passed before he added, ‘Look, I didn’t even know him that well.’
‘How long had he been coming to your little Monday circle jerk?’
Lee bristled, flicked the cigarette in a dancing shower of sparks. ‘Go fuck yourself.’ He started walking back towards the door.
‘Your colleagues know about that tag you wear?’ she asked.
Burgess stopped. For a moment she thought he might even go for her, but he just turned slowly.
‘Yeah, they do actually,’ he said.
Jo stared back.
‘What’d you tell them? That she looked eighteen? Thing is, you knew she wasn’t, didn’t you?’
Burgess shook his head, looking at the ground. ‘You fucking people. Just can’t leave it alone. I did my time.’
‘Four years?’ said Jo. ‘I bet there are people on your shift who’d cut your dick off if they knew.’
Burgess shot a glance back towards the door, then edged nearer to her. ‘I’m just trying to get my life back,’ he hissed.
‘And I don’t want to stand in your way,’ she said. ‘So tell me about Trent.’
‘I told you, for fuck’s sake. I saw him once a fucking week.’
‘For how long?’
‘I dunno. A couple of months.’
‘We spoke to Ingliss earlier. Interesting chap.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Oh, he thinks you’re all troubled souls,’ said Jo. ‘To hear him talk, you’d think Trent was the victim, not the boys he fiddled with.’
‘I don’t know nuffink ’bout that.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Jo. ‘So what did you talk about, at your meetings?’
Burgess stooped, picked up the butt, and relit it.
‘Stuff,’ he said.
‘You’ll have to do better than that, Lee. Come on, give me a clue. Was it football? Was it God and forgiveness?’
‘You wouldn’t get it.’
‘Try me.’
