by Ted Tayler
Alex remembered the Monday of his accident. The thirtieth of October 2017. The day before Halloween. It started sunny, but cloud built up by noon. There was a breeze, but the temperature hovered in the low teens centigrade.
Alex had been after another bad guy: blue lights, bold manoeuvres, at ton-plus speeds. Out on the Shrivenham bypass, the chase ran for over three minutes. A wail of sirens followed him as colleagues in cars raced to catch him.
The pursuit began when Alex pulled up at traffic lights behind a car he thought seemed familiar. He was sure he recognised the registration. The control room confirmed the vehicle belonged to a serial offender with an outstanding warrant. Alex switched on his flickering blue lights, as a signal for the car in front to pull over. When the traffic lights changed, the car accelerated away.
“Vehicle making off,” Alex radioed to his station’s control room.
“Speed five-zero. fifty miles per hour.”
He gave chase. Everything escalated after that - 60, 80, 100mph.
As they approached the next intersection, the red light turned green. Alex turned left to follow the car. Both vehicles accelerated back up to eighty miles an hour.
Out of nowhere a BMW i8 came from behind, sped in front and cut him off. Alex swerved to avoid hitting the rear of the sports car. He lost control and flew into a curb. Everything went black.
The chase lasted six and a half minutes from start to finish.
The aftermath of a chase gone wrong, though, can be measured in months and years, not minutes and seconds.
Thousands of police chases had occurred since Alex joined the Motorcycle Section. They abandoned some, or they petered out. Many concluded with arrests, and some resulted in serious injury or death. There had been one hundred deaths in the previous five years.
Those police chases resulted in tyre-streaked roads, yellow tape, and emergency service vehicles. They meant drivers, passengers and pedestrians killed. Partners and relatives left behind.
Who were these people the police chased? Most had mental health issues. Or were young men who distrusted authority.
What was the crime the driver had committed? Possession of marijuana with the intent to supply. Did the BMW driver act in the manner he did because he was associated with the criminal? Did he think it was clever stopping the police from catching someone who was a total stranger? Alex had learned the other car just kept driving.
Nobody identified the driver. The i8 carried false plates.
They would never know. Maybe it was merely an accident.
Within hours of his crash, police referred it to the Independent Office for Police Conduct, which started an independent investigation. They took statements and downloaded dashcam and CCTV footage. They cleared Alex of any wrongdoing.
The chase can become a heightened, erratic thing, with loads of unpredictable events. Maybe no police chase is typical. Refined guidelines helped reduce risks. The policing manual reminded officers to assess and reassess. Had the dangers of continuing this particular chase outweighed the reason for starting it in the first place?
Alex asked himself that same question every day since the thirtieth of October 2017.
As a pursuit rider, he needed to radio the control room constantly. He described circumstantial detail from the road and other risk factors. He had to get permission to continue. If control said stop, he had to stop. The control room decision depended, almost entirely, on Alex’s accurate verbal description of the chase to make its decision.
Did he give them the right level of detail? Could he have ended the chase?
Alex remembered coming round after the accident. He had no clue how long he’d been unconscious. He lay on his back in the road. Alex saw familiar faces around him. Colleagues from Gablecross, the Swindon HQ; the first responder paramedics he’d chatted to on previous shouts.
Things started to blur when they lifted him onto the stretcher. Then he was pushed towards a helicopter. Alex flew to Great Western Hospital, where he went straight into surgery.
Alex didn’t understand what happened. Why am I not moving; why can’t I move my legs? Why am I here? Why is this happening?
Even as the helicopter hovered above the helipad, those thoughts became: -
This can’t be real. I’ll wake up in a minute, and it will be a bad dream.
As the hours passed, that became: -
Was this reality? How will I continue working? What’s the point if I can’t ride again?
Alex received injuries to both his legs. His left femur required nailing inside the bone, so they put a metal rod down the centre, and bolts in the knee. They inserted pins in the upper hip and at the top of the femur of his right leg. He broke his thumbs, and both wrists were damaged.
He would be a nightmare for airport security.
His lungs collapsed, and he had two chest drains inserted to keep them inflated. Once safe to move, he went for a scan to assess the damage. It was touch and go whether he would live. Alex knew nothing of this, but by the time he returned to the ward, his family had arrived.
Alex’s parents, and his younger sister, Paula, sat by his bedside when he next awoke.
They were noticeably distressed at seeing him in his bed-ridden state. Alex felt their sorrow. There had been dark days and even darker nights. His physical wounds slowly healed, and the pain levels eased. Alex was never a religious man, but he gave thanks to whatever superior being was responsible for his paralysis being temporary. Even if it meant he knew how bloody painful his legs felt.
When family and colleagues visited, he started to sense a more positive vibe. He must be making progress, even if he couldn’t let himself believe it. The mental wounds could have burrowed deep inside his head if those positive vibes hadn’t encouraged him. He recognised there was a way back. It would be a long, hard road, but he resolved to follow that road to the end. Even if the motorcycle pursuit role were out of the question, he would make it back to a desk in CID. His brain remained sharp. His skills as a detective were in high demand.
It had been a slow process, but he learnt to walk again. Alex suffered blurred vision for a while, and he became nauseous every time he attempted to sit upright. His muscles had wasted away with the enforced inactivity of the previous weeks. A full recovery was always his primary goal. When he transferred to the rehabilitation unit at the hospital four weeks later, he worked harder than most at the exercises given to him by the physiotherapists.
His road to recovery had been long and slow, just as he imagined. He was frustrated at being off work, not being able to do the simplest tasks. Until recently he only had full use of one arm, and one leg. His trips to the gym, plus his physio, paid dividends. The day he could be fully mobile was close enough to touch.
When he went home for the first time, Alex’s family and friends had renovated his flat to make it more wheelchair accessible. The first thing he did was to get the flat valued. Someone with a greater need than him should have it, he thought. As soon as he could walk unaided that flat would go on the market.
“How far have you got, Neil?” asked Lydia. “I’ve finished pinning the murder scene photos and the map of the area onto the boards.”
Alex wheeled his chair across to join his two colleagues.
“These aren’t in any order you understand,” said Neil, “but here’s my list, for what it’s worth.”
Neil turned his screen so they could see the names he had included.
James Bosworth was thirty years old at the time of the murder, and a self-employed electrician.
Now forty-five-years-old, married with three sons. Wife’s name Sammie, twenty-eight-years-old, a mobile hairdresser. James still runs his own business. Lives on the Westbourne Estate.
Krystal Warner, twenty-four when Trudi died. Unmarried. Krystal has got her name over the door at the Ring O’Bells. She’s been running it for twelve years. She’s thirty-nine now — another one who is easy enough to find.
Trudi’s parents are Ray and Kath.
Her Dad turns sixty this year, Mum’s three years younger. Ray works as a gas fitter, Kath stacks shelves in a supermarket on the outskirts of town. They live on the Westbourne Estate.
The taxi firm that took Bosworth and Warner home went out of business in 2008, and its owner retired to Lyme Regis. The original file listed the driver’s name as Saeed Gill. He was fifty-five-years-old back then. Now retired, Gill lives in Swindon with his family.
Amy Hobbs was the girl in the office. I found her details tucked away in the murder file. They never interviewed her; without any reason supplied. Amy was twenty, an unmarried mother of an eight-month-old son. She’s married now, and her son has an eight-year-old sister. Amy Pollock lives on the Greenwood Estate.
Gary, the bar manager at the Ring O’Bells; his surname was Smith. No idea why they didn’t include that in the stuff we’ve seen so far. He died in 2011 — heart attack. His wife, Maggie Smith, is now sixty-six, suffering from lung cancer. A heavy smoker for fifty years. Stage Two at present. One of the main reasons she and Gary pulled out of the pub trade was the smoking ban. She couldn’t hack it.
Steve Li and his wife Mary, are retired from the restaurant business now. Both in their early seventies. They came here from Hong Kong in the late Sixties and opened the Imperial Dragon. They anglicised their first names when they arrived in the country to fit in with the locals. The place has always been popular, and Steve’s son Jason runs the restaurant now. They still live in the same house at the posh end of town. There must be money in spring rolls.
Tony and Tristram Virgo, fifty-two and fifty respectively, moved to Benidorm in 2016. They sold their hairdressing salon when Tony hit fifty. Both semi-retired now, working three days a week out of a mobile home next to their place on a massive ex-pats caravan site. I think they call that ‘living the dream.’ They’ve got six Yorkies now. Bubble and Squeak have gone to the pet cemetery. There’s no information on names for the current brood.
Alex and Lydia listened intently to Neil’s commentary on what they saw on the screen.
“I wonder who will go to Benidorm to interview them?” asked Lydia.
“Fat chance,” said Neil, “Tony only found the body the next morning. I can’t see how he can help us. Tristram was at home. There was no indication either of them even knew Trudi. They weren’t her type. I was getting desperate to add a few names to the list, to be honest.”
“We can face time them,” said Alex, “maybe they picked up something useful in the salon after the murder. I understand it’s a great place for gossip.”
“Viewing the problem with hindsight gave us the breakthrough last week,” said Lydia, “maybe something they say will offer us another lead?”
“Lightning doesn’t often strike twice,” said Gus. He’d finished chasing camera installers on the phone. A Bristol firm promised Gus would be safe and secure by the weekend. Gus once again had his eyes focused on the case; next week, he could also have his eyes on the bungalow via his smartphone.
“Neil, have you sent any requests for assistance to the Hub yet?” he asked.
“Not so far, guv. Have I missed something obvious?”
“Well, we know Lewington didn’t do it. The original investigation concentrated at the outset on the people I see you’ve listed. They learned very little from them except where Trudi had been that night and her character. Do we believe a name from that list raped and stabbed her? If not, then who might attack Trudi like that? Valuable time was lost in identifying the real culprit when everything focused on pinning the crime on Lewington.”
“We could use a list of known sex offenders living in the region back then,” said Alex.
“That will be a start,” said Gus, “work your way through that to see if anyone hasn’t got an alibi. I haven’t got a clue what I did fifteen weeks ago, let alone fifteen years, but you never know. It’s not the top priority. We’ll try to prioritise those interviewed originally; then dig deeper if needed.”
“This could have been a revenge attack,” said Lydia, “what about former lovers?”
“That might be a long list,” said Neil, “who knows the answer to that one? Krystal Warner might be a help. No doubt there were plenty before they met. If you were one of her conquests, would you come forward this long after her death to volunteer information?”
“Nobody said this case would be easy, Neil,” said Gus, “Lydia’s right though. We can’t discount a former boyfriend or a one-night stand. When I said to think outside the box, Neil, that can be what you uncover. A million questions with no guarantee of an answer. Let’s put these initial witnesses in order.”
“I suggest we start with Krystal Warner,” said Neil, “we can check her recollections of the whole day of the murder. Plus, she has to be our best bet for the most likely ex-lovers with a grudge.”
“Okay, Neil, let’s make her our first appointment. If you can arrange that, Alex and I will visit her. The Ring O’Bells is wheelchair-friendly.”
“James Bosworth should be next, guv,” said Alex, “his story didn’t gel with Krystal’s, and he might have a different angle to offer on the ex-lovers.”
“What’s your thinking behind that, Alex?” queried Gus.
“Krystal and Trudi were great mates, guv. Some of those sexual relationships were shared. Her assessment of whether the guy involved might look for revenge could be coloured by how she felt about him. Bosworth was a recent boyfriend of Krystal’s, but he’s local. So, he might have a more impartial view on who Trudi fell out with, and why.”
“I take your point, Alex. Remember that point when we compile a set of questions for him. I’m interested in the timeline on the night. As you said, Bosworth and Warner’s versions of what happened didn’t match, did they?”
“Maggie Smith should be your third interview, guv,” suggested Lydia. “So much of Trudi’s social life centred on the pub. Nobody believed Gary Smith was ever involved with her, but Maggie might have thought differently. Even if Gary showed no interest, Maggie would have spent hundreds of hours behind the bar people-watching. She would have picked up the vibes of ill-feeling between one of her customers and her barmaid.”
“Exactly,” said Alex, “and she would have said something too. Either to Gary, Trudi, or the bloke responsible, because she and Gary employed Trudi purely for her busty barmaid attributes. She kept the punters rolling in and helped them to part with their hard-earned cash. The last thing they wanted was for Trudi to walk out because an ex-lover pestered her. Or bad-mouthing her every time he came in for a pint.”
“We have another potential category to look for,” said Gus. “Had Trudi attracted a stalker? What if the guy we’re looking for wasn’t an ex-lover? What if they were a sad case who fancied her, but Trudi never gave him the time of day? We need to add another line of enquiry for the Hub to pursue. Was there anyone cautioned or charged with stalking or similar offences around the time of the murder? Let’s spread the net to five years either side.”
“On it, guv,” said Neil, “what about the taxi driver next, Saeed Gill?”
“Let’s leave him until after Lydia and I talk with Amy, the girl in the office that night. She’s still young; she may remember a minor detail that will help. Amy Pollock, is that right?”
“Yes, guv,” said Neil. “I guess that leaves us with the three couples on the list. Does it matter what order we interview them? The Li’s, the boys from Benidorm, and Trudi’s parents.”
“Not really, their input will be minimal. Okay, the order’s agreed,” said Gus. “Get the meetings scheduled as soon as possible. Keep your fingers crossed a genuine lead comes from those interviews. If not, we’ll be up to our neck in sex offenders and former lovers until Christmas.”
“Never a dull moment here, is it,” said Lydia.
“Boredom is the root of all evil,” said Gus.
“Was that from your philosopher friend again, guv?” asked Neil.
“Correct, Neil. He would have reminded you that the man responsible for t
his brutal killing is a human being. Never lose sight of that. Lists of sex offenders or stalkers aren’t inanimate objects; they’re real people. He once wrote - when boredom advances, evil spreads. This can be traced to the very beginning of the world. The gods were bored; therefore, they created human beings.”
CHAPTER 6
Gus left work at five o’clock on the dot. The team were still hard at it. They were updating the Freeman files and logging interview dates for the diary. He had decided to vary his trips to and from work, both the times and the routes, wherever possible, to confuse those tailing him.
He was eager to hear from Suzie Ferris. Gus hoped it wouldn’t feel awkward after last night and the note she’d left. As much as their relationship interested and excited him, his safety being at stake concerned him the most.
Gus noticed the car in his rear-view mirror as soon as he left town. It had joined the main road from Crook’s Way. If it related to yesterday’s break-in, Gus hoped they would have been more discreet.
Suzie Ferris must have got the ACC to agree to share his protection duty with the town’s officers. Gus gave the driver a wave. His shadow flicked his headlights on and off.
Gus made a mental note to suggest to the ACC that escorts needed more lessons on how to run covert surveillance.
No nasty surprises awaited him when he got home. He planned to cook, eat, and clear away his dinner things before the glazier arrived at six-thirty. Suzie Ferris was calling sometime this evening.
At around twenty past six, Gus wandered out of the bungalow and crossed over the lane to the car that tailed him home. He knocked on the window. The driver was reading the newspaper.
