by Jay Nadal
“Even more reason to find him. I think he has a few questions to answer. What else have we got?”
Mike flicked through his notes. “I contacted Dolores. There’s no sign of the missing and elusive Pastor Xabi. No one claims to know his whereabouts, and even if they did, she believes that there’s an underlying fear of saying too much. Most of the asylum seekers believe that the pastor is a witch doctor, and therefore believe he has incredible powers. That those powers can allow him to cast spells from a distance if someone crosses him. Now, whether you choose to believe that bullshit or not, it’s enough to frighten the living daylights out of these people. And keep them quiet.”
Scott scratched his forehead and paced around the floor. They now had a manhunt for two suspects. Both appeared to be experts in remaining covert and undetected.
“We need to find Daniel Johnson. How is a different matter altogether. He’s not been seen for two days now. That’s not unusual, because according to his dad, he can go on one of his survival forages for up to two weeks.”
“Needle and haystack springs to mind, Guv,” Raj added.
Scott turned towards Mike. “You’re the best man for this. Back in your army days, you were used to surviving on rations, staying undetected, and living rough. Do you have any thoughts on where we should start looking for him?”
Mike stood up and walked over towards a large map of Sussex pinned to one wall at the back of the office. He traced his finger across the paper. “The problem is, Guv, from Winchester in the West to Eastbourne in East, we’re hemmed in by the South Downs National Park. You’ve got a landscape covering over one thousand six hundred square kilometres of farmland, ancient woodland, and lowland heaths, plus all the villages and towns. As Raj said, needle and haystack.”
Scott had to agree, but there had to be a way to narrow down their search. “I know, but if you were in his shoes, what would you do to avoid being detected?”
Mike stared hard at the map and blew out his cheeks. “I’d stay away from centres of population, and the main roads. I’d stay close to streams where I could get water to purify into drinking water, catch fish for food, and carry out basic personal hygiene. Ideally, a stream close to a dense area of woodland to provide shelter or material for shelter.”
Scott nodded, impressed by Mike’s assessment. “Great. Can you look into that? I also suggest we look at his phone records and see if we can get a triangulation on the last time it was used. He may use a compass feature on his phone in which case it has to be on, or some type of mapping feature.”
Mike nodded as he made some notes. “Shall I check to see if his car reg has pinged up on an ANPR anywhere?”
“Yep. If it has in the last forty-eight hours, then at least it’ll give us his travel direction in order to narrow our search.”
Abby took a call whilst Scott talked to Mike. She waved her phone in Scott’s direction. “Guv, it’s the super.”
Scott took the call as the team quietened and hurried about their to-do list. Scott punched the desk and broke the silence. “I apologise for my language, Sir, but they’re taking the fucking piss.” He ran a hand through his hair, as frustration contorted his face, and furrowed his brow. “They know we’re in the middle of a murder investigation, and they don’t think about informing us first?”
Scott fell silent as Meadows continued to update him before hanging up. He hooked his hands behind his head and sighed. All eyes were trained on him.
“Guv?” Abby queried, the only one brave enough to ask him.
“The Home Office just raided the Whitehawk estate and arrested six families seeking asylum. According to them they have failed the asylum process and are removing them to a detention centre near Gatwick.”
Abby rolled her eyes as the others exchanged glances of frustration and surprise.
“They’ve been on our patch conducting surveillance for the last few weeks without telling us. We knew nothing about it. Even the super just found out.”
“Surely, they just can’t stroll into town without informing us, and then leave us to pick up the pieces?”
“They can, Abby. The Home Office swoop was supported by the local MP. No doubt he thought it was good for his reputation, and a way of showing his support for the local community.”
Scott’s mind turned cartwheels. He needed to break this case. The taking of a child’s life was sacrosanct in his view. He couldn’t comprehend what those two little boys had gone through in their final moments of life. He needed to find justice for them, because they deserved it. A major plank in his enquiry, and a potentially valuable source of information, had just been removed. The screw had tightened, and Scott felt it as his stomach churned.
25
“You do know we are going to get in a lot of shit for this?”
Scott continued to stare at the road. “I know. That’s why I gave you the option to stay back at the station. If the shit hits the fan, I didn’t want to take you down with me.”
“You’re all heart, Guv.”
“Besides, this Alistair Woodman has been in contact with the Home Office. I think if we can appeal to his better side, he may be able to reverse the Home Office’s decision. The last thing we need is to scare the very same people whose help we need. And frankly, the Home Office has really screwed things up for us.”
Alistair Woodman appeared to have his finger in every pie. He enjoyed a degree of celebrity status in Brighton. Wherever there was a social event where dignitaries were invited, you could be sure that Alistair Woodman would be there. With connections that seem to extend beyond Brighton, the man carried significant clout. And it was this leverage that Scott hoped to use.
Woodman lived in Ovingdean, a small village to the east of Brighton. It was close to the larger coastal village of Rottingdean about a mile away, but retained its exclusivity. Scott had a brief opportunity to look into Woodman prior to setting off.
“Fucking hell,” Abby exclaimed, as they pulled in through electric gates and cruised along the long gravel drive.
The Oving, as it was known, dated back to the 17th century, with later additions. It had been described as one of the oldest and most historical residences in Brighton. The sheer splendour of the property left those who visited in awe. The north side, which was the original entrance, represented the oldest part with flint walls and stone quoins, similar to those of the church close by. Over the years, the house had seen many architectural changes.
As a Tudor manor house, The Oving had servants’ quarters and a cellar. The most noticeable change was the addition of the south-west Georgian facade, which now contained the main entrance to the house.
“Did I tell you he was born into aristocracy?” asked Scott as they stepped out of the car and admired the grounds. “This pile has been in his family for generations. It goes all the way back to the 17th century.”
Abby shook her head commenting, “This isn’t a house. It’s a flipping mansion, or an estate, or whatever the toffs call it. It must be worth a bomb.”
“It’s been valued at about three million pounds.”
Abby stared in bewilderment as she took a moment to survey the grounds.
The setting couldn’t have been more opulent, set in beautiful, walled gardens of three-quarters of an acre. To the front, the formal garden was arranged in six rectangular beds, enclosed by box hedging and each with a central clipped yew surrounded by flowering shrubs and roses. Brick and gravel paths separated the beds. To one side, a wrought-iron gate led to the side garden, laid to a large lush lawn, Yorkstone terracing, a selection of well-stocked herbaceous borders and lavender beds.
Abby could see an octagonal summer house adjoined to the terrace and mature trees to the boundaries that provided the necessary privacy. Off to the right of the property, Abby spotted a four-car garage.
“This is crazy,” she muttered as they approached the front door. There wasn’t an inch of brickwork visible as creeping ivy sent its tendrils to every corner, spreading runners ov
er the brickwork, and covering it in dark green leaf. It makes the walls look like something out of the “Secret Garden” in a child’s book, Abby thought.
It was a few moments before someone answered the door. A small, thin black man acknowledged them. He wore a black suit and white shirt. Scott put him at around his mid-forties, but he could have been older. He looked tired and weary, making little effort to maintain eye contact. He stood to one side and looked at the floor as both Scott and Abby walked in.
“We are here to see Mr Woodman.”
Closing the door behind them, the gentleman led the way. His footsteps were light, soft, and measured. His arms stayed still by his sides, a behaviour that Scott found unusual. When most people walked they swayed their arms, but not this man.
They walked along a large opulent hallway. Large paintings adorned the walls, and an intricate red, tiled Edwardian floor added depth and character. Most of the doors they passed were closed, but Scott spotted one room which appeared to be a large games room. A pitched, timber-beamed ceiling contrasted to the bare brick walls and impressive fireplace.
Scott took a double take as he noticed the skull and horns of an animal above the fireplace. Scott couldn’t identify the species, but the mounted remains resembled a wildebeest. A large snooker table sat in the middle of the room. No expense had been spared here.
They were waved into a room that Scott imagined was one of several reception rooms. The room itself didn’t concern Scott, but something in the eyes of the man that had greeted them did. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He looked frightened, perhaps even nervous. Scott couldn’t be sure, but there appeared to a nervousness in the man. He gave one solitary bow of his head before taking a step back as a smartly dressed Alistair Woodman breezed in. His eyes bore down on the black man, who glanced at the police officers before exiting the room.
Woodman was a tall thin man, with a long face. He wore a dark grey suit, white shirt, and patterned tie. Round, thin, metal-rimmed glasses framed his face. Despite having dark brown hair, he had strong accents of grey on the sides. He strode towards Scott and Abby, extending a hand. Scott and Abby introduced themselves to him before he asked them to take a seat.
“How can I help you, Inspector?” he asked with stiffness in his voice. “If it’s to attend any events, then it’s something done through my press secretary. Although a simple phone call from your superiors would have been able to confirm my availability for any such event.”
Scott and Abby exchanged looks and unspoken words. Woodman’s voice was stiff and upper crust British, the type of strong British accent that developed through years of boarding school, Oxbridge, and mixing in high society.
“Actually, Mr Woodman, we’re here about an investigation. The murder of two young boys on the Whitehawk estate.”
Woodman frowned and pulled his shoulders back, as his eyes narrowed. “Yes, very unfortunate. Such a tragic sequence of events. Please do let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you, although I’m not entirely sure what that would be?”
“Well, I hope that you can help. You see, we’re striving to gain the trust of the local asylum community on the estate. We believe that they could help us with our investigation, and help us to build a bigger picture of those who may have been involved in the murder of these two boys.”
Woodman nodded but remained silent as his steely eyes locked on to Scott’s.
“The Home Office executed a raid, and I hasten to add, without our knowledge or consent. They removed six families to a detention centre. I believe that has seriously damaged the relationship that we were trying to build with that community. And I wondered if you’d be able to get them to reverse their decision until we’ve completed our murder investigation, or at least smooth the way for us so that we can maintain a dialogue with those families.”
Woodman cleared his throat, and crossed one leg over another before splaying his arms out along the top of the sofa in a rather flamboyant style. “I’m not sure that would be helpful to your investigation. I saw your press conference yesterday, and you seem to have identified someone that you believe is a suspect. So surely it makes sense to exhaust that line of enquiry first?”
“He’s certainly a man of interest to us. And someone we’d like to speak to. But we believe that those families are too frightened to speak, so having them holed up in a detention centre will not help our case.”
“Inspector, I have no jurisdiction over a Home Office decision. Yes, it’s unfortunate that they carried out a surveillance operation without your prior knowledge. They have a job to do just as much as you do. They need to remove those who have no entitlement to be in this country. We already have enough pressure on our social services. They could have obtained asylum in several countries on the European continent prior to arriving in the UK. By sending them back, they will now have the opportunity.”
“Mr Woodman, I don’t think it’s as simple as that. I’m not here to judge whether they have a legal entitlement to be here or not. My job is to investigate a double murder. But clearly, those who are escaping persecution, war, drought, or famine, deserve to be protected?”
Woodman shook his head. “That may be, Inspector, but my job is not to represent them. My job, and one I was duly elected to do, is to represent the people of Brighton. Now you know, and I know, that the Whitehawk estate has experienced its fair share of publicity, with crime, unemployment, poor social housing, and the list goes on. The local community takes a very dim view of people who sponge off our state. Economic migrants who have no right to be in this country. I am voicing their concerns. It doesn’t matter whether they’re African, Syrian, Ugandan, Eritrean, or any other background, the view remains the same.”
Abby sat tight-lipped as she let the dual play out between the two men. She could guess how Scott felt. Her own opinion of Woodman fast disappeared down the plughole as she listened to his contrived and self-centred arrogance.
“Off the record, as you know, the Whitehawk estate is predominantly a white community, so there is tension between my white constituents and a very small immigrant population that we have scattered around the estate.”
Scott tensed his jaw as he listened to the man’s twisted mentality. Racism could take many forms. However, Scott found it abhorrent that a Member of Parliament displayed a clear contempt for those who had suffered misfortune.
Scott raised his voice in frustration. “Mr Woodman, you’re entitled to an opinion, but once again I’m not here to discuss race either, nor a person’s entitlement to be here. I’m investigating a series of murders. All I’m asking from you is the opportunity for you to discuss with the Home Office the possibility of them reversing or delaying the deportation process until we’ve completed his investigation.”
Woodman’s face shuddered with anger. “Inspector, we’re going round and round in bloody circles. I have no influence over the Home Office, nor do I wish to interfere with one of their investigations. I strongly suggest that if it concerns you that much, you raise it with the chief constable.”
“And that’s it?” Scott tried his hardest to remain calm. Sweat prickled his back as he felt his pulse throb in his temples.
Woodman stood. “Inspector, Sergeant, I think I’ve been more than courteous in allowing you to come into my home. But you’ve now outstayed your welcome. My butler Stephen will show you out. Stephen! Step…” he shouted.
Stephen, as they now knew, was the man who had greeted them at the door. His thin frame appeared in the doorway before Woodman had even finished calling his name.
“The police are leaving now, so show them out. Good day to you both. If you have any further questions, then please contact my press secretary Priscilla Matthew-Jones in the first instance.” With that parting comment, he turned and left through another door. His rapid footsteps reverberated down the stone corridor, accompanied by mutterings.
“That went well,” Abby said puffing out her cheeks.
“I thought so, too,”
Scott replied rolling his eyes.
Scott had ruffled a few feathers. Within minutes of arriving back in the office, he’d been summoned to Meadows’s office. His gamble had been against his better judgement, and it had backfired.
“What on earth possessed you to see him?” Meadows fumed. He paced around his room glaring at Scott. “I told you the chief constable wasn’t happy with receiving a call from Alistair Woodman. Within minutes of you leaving Woodman’s home, he was on the phone to CC Lennon bending his ear about harassment, unethical behaviour, and a waste of police time.”
Scott couldn’t help but laugh. “Unethical behaviour? The man is a racist. I merely went there to see whether or not he would have some influence in trying to delay the Home Office’s decision to deport the families. Those families could help us to unlock the reasons behind these murders, and flush out Xabi. They are frightened individuals. We’re doing whatever we can to gain their trust. And then the Home Office ride roughshod over all of us.”
“That may be, Scott, but the man has clout. Everyone up there has clout,” Meadows added, pointing up towards the ceiling. “I don’t particularly enjoy getting a call from the chief constable asking me why my officers are interfering with Home Office protocols.”
“Sir, I’m trying to run a murder investigation, a double murder investigation. If we had known that the Home Office was about to do a raid, we could have at least told them to hold off for a few days, or even a few weeks until we had closed this case.”
“Scott, it will not happen. You, me, or anyone else in the station cannot overturn a Home Office decision. We can’t go around asking for favours from MPs. Make do with what you’ve got, and don’t go knocking on Woodman’s door again. Clear?”
Scott conceded on this occasion. He could see both Meadows and Lennon were in a difficult position. Nevertheless, it annoyed him how his job could be impeded by the handcuffs of political influence.
26
