by Anita Waller
Dunbar heard the laughter in the woman’s voice and saw the grin on her father’s face. Clearly a good relationship.
He waited without touching on the subject of Treverick until she had brought in the tea and biscuits and then was somewhat surprised when she joined them. She looked at him.
‘My name is Elaine Wright and if this man is who you are looking for, then I knew him too. I’ll just sit and listen to what you two have to say.’
‘Mr. Taggart...’
‘Tony. Call me Tony. Let me tell you what I know and then you can make your mind up. Until my retirement four years ago, I had a very busy, very large photography studio in Bude. I inherited it from my father so it’s been there for some time and the business still continues with my son to this day. When I handed everything over to Stewart, he closed down the premises for about two months and did a complete refurbishment job. I have a garage here, so we moved everything into it, many years of proofs, paperwork from pre-computer days, old cameras, screens ... everything, so he had a blank canvas to work with. Of course, it’s now too posh to move it all back,’ he finished with a twinkle in his eye.
Dunbar grinned. ‘Of course. So you’re lumbered with it all.’
‘Yep. Now, to go back to the time you’re interested in. In 1965, January, I think, a young man turned up and asked for a job. He had brought a portfolio with him of his photography work and a diploma from some college he had attended. I honestly can’t remember any details of that diploma. However, his photographs were outstanding. We had a chat and he said he would work for free for a month and if I wasn’t happy, he would walk away. Well, I was happy and we had a really good relationship. He was particularly good with the children; they responded to his instructions and we achieved some cracking pictures that were down to him. I trusted him and left him many times in the studio on his own when I had outside work. He was also very good at weddings, came back with some truly artistic shots before artistic shots became the norm.’
He paused for a moment and then reached behind him. Elaine immediately stood up and handed him the cardboard box he was trying to reach. He took off the lid and reached inside for a photograph. It was paper clipped to a newspaper cutting of one of the pictures released by the police.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘This is the man I knew as Carl Jameson. He was with me for just over a year and then suddenly, unexpectedly, he said he had to go up north to look after his sick mother. I told him to keep in touch and he would always have a job with me whenever he wanted and hoped he would return to Bude one day. I gave him a cracker of a reference and off he went. I pushed him for a telephone number and he gave me one and I tried to call him a few times but it never worked. I never heard from him again.’
Dunbar placed the pictures side by side on the coffee table and knew he was looking at Treverick.
The shape of the head was the same, the eyes were the same, the nose was the same – the hair was a different colour but this was Treverick.
‘Did he know you had this picture?’
Taggart shook his head.
‘No, I was taking random shots of the studio to make a new advertising brochure for us. I intended putting Carl’s name on it as an associate photographer, so I took a couple of shots of him at work. He left before the brochure reached production.’
‘Did you take anymore?’
‘Yes, several. I just think that one shows his full face better than the others. You can compare face shape with that one. Here, you might need all of this,’ and he handed Dunbar the box.
Dunbar lifted the photographs out of the box to look at them more closely. At the bottom of the box was a comb, a toothbrush and a part used tube of toothpaste.
He looked at Tony Taggart without speaking, and Tony nodded. ‘His. He left them in our little washroom area when he left in 1966 and because I thought he would return, I put all this little lot into a box to save for him.’
Dunbar looked at Elaine. ‘Obviously I need to take all of this. We are going to have to release this new name to the press in the hope that it will trigger further memories in people. We have no idea where he is now or what he is calling himself so we’re basically trying to track his life. Is there anything else you can remember about him to add to your father’s excellent memories?’
She nodded. ‘I was born in 1959. In 1966, I was seven. If I am reading between the lines of this horrific case – yes, I went on the internet – then you will know he likes seven year old little girls.’
Dunbar saw Tony stiffen and knew that whatever Elaine was about to reveal, it was news to him.
‘He touched me. That day Dad had an outside event to go to. Mum was in hospital because she’d just had my brother, Stewart, and I was off school with tonsillitis. I had to go to work with Dad because there was nobody else to look after me. Dad asked Carl to keep an eye on me while he went to the shoot and I remember him saying she’ll probably sleep anyway. I got on to the couch in the studio and fell asleep. He woke me up by taking off my clothes. He was touching me all over and his camera was at the side of him. I am assuming he had taken pictures of me. I really couldn’t think of anything beyond not being able to swallow and my temperature was raging. I said don’t do this but he said he was just cooling me down. Because he was an adult, I believed him. And then he used his fingers to rape me. I cried and after he had finished with me, he gave me some tablets to take which I remember him crushing in a spoon so I could swallow them. I fell back to sleep and by the time I woke up he had gone.’
Tony Taggart looked sick. He had not known of this.
‘I didn’t say anything to Dad because I didn’t know what to say. You don’t talk to your Dad about such things. By the time Mum came home from the hospital a week later the bleeding had stopped, so I threw away all my pants and just put it out of my mind.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘She never understood what had happened to my pants. So, Inspector, Do you need any more proof that it’s him?’
Chapter 22
Dunbar pointed to all the photographs on the board and said,
‘Carl Jameson. We are just waiting for confirmation with any DNA we can get from the comb or the toothbrush but we have clear fingerprints on the toothpaste tube anyway. Carl Jameson was his name in 1966. I believe he stopped being Carl Jameson when he became Brian Lazenby in October 1970. That’s when he joined the BBC. So, we have a bit of a timeline going now. He was released from prison in February 1960 and he spent the next four years or so building a new identity so that by the time he joined Taggarts in January 1965 he was Carl Jameson.
‘I actually think he might have stayed in Bude longer but he molested the seven-year-old daughter of Mr. Taggart so must have decided it was time to move on. He left the same day that the attack occurred which is why he slipped up and left his toiletries at the studio. He disappears in March 1966. He then surfaces again in October 1970 when he joins the BBC as Brian Lazenby. He builds a considerable reputation at the BBC over the next four years and meets John Thornton and his family in February 1974. This has been his aim since he was sent to prison.
’Amy Thornton was always his target and so he hunkered down for the long wait. He had nothing to rush for, nobody suspected he was anything other than a BBC producer called Brian Lazenby and he waited.
‘As you all know he married Amy in July 1992 then killed her on the same day. That’s when he stopped being Brian Lazenby. He then worked on the new identity of Liam Ryland. And that’s where we are at the moment. He must have changed his name by now because Liam Ryland is all over the news.’
They were all writing notes and he realised they now all had the somewhat complicated timeline committed to a listing, just in case they needed it.
Tony Taggart and Elaine Wright had completed the picture for them and they now had to get this new name out in the wider arena. He felt guilty at what Tony was now going through but had nothing but admiration for his daughter. It couldn’t have been easy for her talking about it in front of her father.
The seco
nd television interview felt easier for him and he delivered the news that information received had led them to believe that Treverick had also used the name Carl Jameson between 1960 and 1970. They would now like to speak to anyone who had known him under this different name. He once more listed all the names they had and finished off the broadcast with a repeat viewing of the pictures, plus two from the box given to him by Tony Taggart.
Five days later, it came as something of a surprise to receive a telephone call from a young woman who said her name was Marcia Ann Shaw and that she believed she knew Liam Ryland. She said on her voice mail message that she had just returned from a holiday in France and had only just seen the television broadcast.
Dunbar tried three times to reach her before finally getting a response. She explained she had been at work and he was very welcome to call and see her. Yes, she would be in that night, and yes, he could set off straight away. If he wanted milk in his tea he would have to bring his own. She didn’t take milk.
Dunbar liked the sound of this young woman.
Her home was in Wadebridge and he drove there thinking about nothing but the case. They were getting information now but nothing was leading them towards where Treverick was at the present time.
He pulled up outside a small terraced house and as he lifted his hand to knock on the door, it opened. Marcia Ann Shaw was a beautiful woman of about thirty years, possibly a little older, with skin that gleamed like ebony. Her brown eyes smiled along with her lips as she said,
‘DI Dunbar?’
He showed his ID and followed her into her home. She led him into the lounge and he smiled at the decor. Pure Africa. Leopard print wallpaper, bright oranges and greens and a beautiful dark brown leather settee afforded warmth that he welcomed. He sat down and she offered him a drink, albeit without milk.
‘No, you’re ok,’ he laughed. ‘I don’t need one. So, you think you know Liam Ryland?’
She nodded. ‘Pretty sure it’s the same person. It was ten years ago but...’
‘Ten years?’
‘Uh-huh. I met him in a pub in Padstow. I went there for a job interview. I didn’t get the job, by the way.’ She grinned and sat on the curved part of the angled settee.
‘How long did you know him for?’
‘Well, technically, one night. He was a real charmer, knew the right words to say, told me his name was Neil.’
‘So...?’
‘So how did I know he wasn’t Neil? He dropped his wallet. I found it under my bed the day after. It had a five-pound note in it and a driving licence. I kept it for a couple of weeks and then posted it off to him. I thought he might call back for it but he didn’t. That’s why I waited two weeks. Anyway, I never heard from him after this and I actually tried to find a telephone number for him a few months later but he didn’t exist at the address on the driving licence.’
‘You wanted to get in touch with him a few months later?’
She nodded and stood up. ‘Yes. I had good reason.’ She walked across to the mantelpiece and picked up a photograph frame.
Dunbar took it from her and looked at the smiling child in the picture. He was clearly mixed race and looked to be about seven or eight years old.
‘That’s Matthew. He’s ten now and there’s just the two of us. He’s a bit of a rogue, but also a bit of a charmer. It’s awful to say this but he reminds me in so many ways of the man I slept with that night and never saw again. It’s the smile, the laugh...’
‘We need a DNA sample from your son. That way you will know for definite...’
She interrupted him. ‘I’m not sure I want to know, if this man is who you say he is.’
‘And you want to spend the rest of your life worrying if your son is the son of a rapist and a murderer? It’s better that you know the facts so that you can deal with them.’
‘I know you’re right. Matt knows the circumstances of his birth. I’ve always been honest with him about it, but this is another matter altogether. He’s not old enough to know the real facts about his genetic father.’
‘I’m inclined to agree with you on that but when he becomes an adult you may want to talk him through it. Don’t let him find out by accident.’
He stood to leave and confirmed he would be in touch about the DNA sample.
‘You don’t want the wallet then?’
‘What?’
‘The wallet. I posted it to him but the address was false. I had put my address on the package so it came back to me when Royal Mail couldn’t deliver it.’
‘You’ve kept it? For ten years?
‘Yes. I put it away in a cupboard still wrapped in the brown paper and forgot about it until this cropped up. I couldn’t bring myself to just get rid of it. Fished it out when I saw the news.’
She moved to the sideboard and took a package out of the drawer. ‘Hope it helps,’ she said as she handed it to him.
The wallet contained very little. The five-pound note was still there, as was the driving licence in the name of Liam Ryland. There was a small newspaper cutting about the opening of Amy Thornton’s business, Optimum, and a larger newspaper article about John Thornton. It detailed all his books and was promoting a book signing in one of the big department stores in the West End of London. Dunbar passed it on to forensics but didn’t imagine they would get anything from it.
He felt strangely at odds with himself now he knew of the existence of a child of Treverick’s. How would that child cope when he found out what his father was? How does anyone live with the knowledge that his or her father has killed and ruined lives? Matthew hadn’t been there so he hadn’t met him, but he acknowledged to himself that he wanted to. He would arrange to take the forensic colleague down to Wadebridge to get the DNA; it was a loose end he needed to tie up.
Chapter 23
The funeral cortege left Moorgate Manor amidst such heavy-duty security that everywhere that Pilot looked seemed to be thronged by policemen and Mark’s associates. He held tightly to Pat who seemed on the point of collapse. Looking ashen, the quietest of the Farmer children, thirty-two year old Bryony was with Tilly, her partner of three years.
Bryony couldn’t imagine a world without her Dad. He had been the first one she had told when she had asked Tilly to move in with her and his support had been total. Any problems she had encountered he had been her first port of call and she was quite simply bereft. Tilly was doing her best but David hadn’t been her dad. He was Bryony’s and she was going to miss him so much.
What she really couldn’t cope with was that her Mum and Dad had kept quiet about the problems with this man. Pat had explained that because they lived in Aberdeen, they figured they were about as safe as they could be, as was Rhys in Australia. Treverick wanted the people who had been there when he was sent to prison and who had been close to Amy Thornton.
It had been a long and uncomfortable evening when they had sat around the fire in the large sitting room at Moorgate with the Farmers, Buckinghams and everyone on the periphery. Pilot had taken the lead and the discussion that ensued had left nobody in any doubt about the depths that Treverick would plumb. Bryony had sobbed through most of it. Her parents had coped with so much and along with his bodyguard, her father had paid the price.
Mark Carter had been at the family meeting and had relayed details of Alan Shimwell’s funeral. Alan’s family had asked that it be kept private. His wife had said that Alan would not have wanted anyone to face the possibility of attack at his graveside, so she had requested a quiet affair. It had been close family only but the presence of police officers had been obvious. The funeral had passed without incident and now his wife and baby daughter were staying with her parents for a few days.
David’s funeral was huge. Many people had to stand outside the church for the commendation. The burial in the cemetery grounds was overwhelming. Pat needed to get home; she would come the following day to say her goodbyes. Her red rose landed on the coffin with a thud followed by dozens of others coming from all di
rections. The wreaths were piled high on the mounds of soil at the side of the newly-dug grave and she gave them just a brief glance as she moved away at the end of the graveside committal. She would read all the cards tomorrow. Today she wanted to go home and weep until she passed out from exhaustion. In fact, today she wanted to die.
Daniel put his arm around his mother and escorted her to the lead car while his long-time partner, Erin, stayed at the graveside for a few moments longer. She needed time to say goodbye to this man who had been so welcoming towards her and who had supported their venture into property refurbishment in both a financial way and as an advisor. They had asked for a loan to buy their first property and he had given them the stake they needed with no repayment strings. David had been the person she could see Daniel becoming and she offered her thanks to the man now inside a coffin, who had treated her so well.
Slowly, they all drifted away and when there was no one left, the soil at the side of the grave was placed back into the hole, sealing David away forever. The cemetery staff placed the many wreaths on top of the mound and cleared everything away before walking back down to the gatehouse to clock off for the day.
Dunbar walked across to the grave and solemnly moved around it looking at the names on the wreaths. There were so many he didn’t recognise, so many people who had been friends with this man. The wreaths from the family said everything that needed to be said and he wiped away a small tear. Policemen don’t cry he told himself.
He said his own prayer, used his own words and thoughts, albeit awkwardly. He didn’t pray; didn’t even know if he believed with any conviction but he gave it his best shot and hoped somebody was listening.
Somebody was.
Treverick had stayed behind the wall until he had seen Dunbar walk away. He had thought everyone would have been gone by now but Dunbar and his guilt must have decided to stay a little longer.
He had guessed Dunbar was blaming himself. He was supposed to protect them all and hadn’t been able to do it. He had watched him wipe away a tear and it had given him joy. And then the little prayer had built on that feeling, although Treverick wasn’t sure God would want to hear the word bastard in any prayer.
