‘There are no cases with bodies tortured and mutilated like Karen’s,’ Mower said soberly. ‘It would have been front-page news in any case, just as it will be here now we’re releasing some of the details to the press. But I’m having missing persons cases looked at as well – young or middle-aged women who’ve gone AWOL and never been found, though there are hundreds of them. It’s not uncommon, after all. A few cases have been regarded as potentially suspicious, husbands have been interviewed and then ruled out just as we’ve pretty well ruled out Terry Bastable, for the moment at least. But no bodies have ever been found. We’re pulling out records for anyone who has anything in common with Karen, but there’s not a lot to go on. Apart from an enthusiasm for outdoor sex, she seems to have led a pretty ordinary life.’
‘But the sex is an obvious means for a predator to gain access to a victim, anonymous, secretive, either behind closed doors or in remote places. Perfect. We can’t rule out the possibility that there are other cases, even without bodies. He may just have been unlucky with Karen’s body being found so quickly. Anyway, we obviously need to talk to Leroy Green. He’s been off the radar for the best part of ten years. Where’s he been and what’s he been doing during that time, before turning up in close proximity to Karen Bastable’s dead body? Get yourself off to London and see if his family know where he is. We need to trace him – fast.’
‘Right, guv,’ Mower said, turning away to hide the flicker of anticipation in his eyes. Even after years in the north, a night out in his native city was an attractive prospect. He would hit the night spots before pursuing his quarry in the morning, and just hope the hangover was not too dire.
Peter Maxwell’s fury was obvious as soon as DCI Thackeray opened the door of the bleak interview room, with DC Mohammed Sharif close behind him. He had deliberately left Maxwell to stew for half an hour after he had accepted his request to present himself at police headquarters for a further chat. The executive councillor was obviously not used to being kept waiting and his face was flushed with annoyance.
‘I only have a forty-five minute window,’ he said. ‘I’ve an executive committee meeting at two.’
‘I’m afraid I’ll have to intrude on your day for as long as it takes, Mr Maxwell,’ Thackeray said, waving the councillor into a seat as he and Sharif took the two chairs opposite and the DC set up the tape recorder. ‘There are several things we need to clarify with you about the group you and Karen Bastable were members of, and about what happened exactly on the night she disappeared.’
Maxwell scowled.
‘Are you accusing me of something, Chief Inspector?’
‘You mean apart from using what amounts to an outdoor brothel?’
‘No money changed hands,’ Maxwell said, evidently unabashed.
‘Well, I’m not accusing you of anything else. Not yet, Mr Maxwell. We are still at the stage of getting the events clear, in some sort of chronological order, that’s all.’
‘Exactly what, for instance?’ Maxwell challenged him.
‘Well, we’ve now had a chance to analyse all the statements that were taken last night and it seems clear from those that the attention of several people was drawn to the dogging group by you. And they told other people, in a fairly clear chain. Two of the women, Karen herself and her friend Charlene, were told about it by a manager at their work. You are the only person who claimed not to remember who drew your attention to the activities in Bently Forest. Did you initiate them, Mr Maxwell? Was the whole thing your idea, after you picked the idea up from the Internet? Or did someone else introduce you to the group?’
‘Of course it wasn’t my idea,’ Maxwell almost shouted. ‘I just went out of curiosity once or twice, no more than that. Someone showed me an advertisement in the Gazette and said he knew where it was all happening. I can’t even remember who it was now…’ He trailed off, as if not expecting Thackeray to believe what he was saying. But Thackeray did not challenge him on that.
‘How long ago was that, Mr Maxwell?’ he asked. ‘Can you remember that? We have a series of dates fixed by the ads in the newspaper, so we know roughly how many of these meetings there have been. How many have you been to exactly? Did you go to the first one last June?’
‘I wasn’t counting,’ Maxwell said. ‘It was just a casual thing, a couple of times.’
‘Some of the group remember the Lion King as a more regular attender than that,’ Thackeray said.
‘No, no, not really. Not regular at all.’ Maxwell glanced around the cramped interview room with its furniture bolted to the floor and its high window of opaque glass as if seeking an escape route that did not exist. The high colour in his cheeks had receded now and he looked increasingly pale and ill.
‘So let’s concentrate on the last meeting, the night Karen disappeared. We have two witnesses who say that the Lion King had sex with Karen that evening. Is that true?’
Maxwell swallowed hard and then shook his head.
‘I don’t know,’ he muttered. ‘I didn’t know who the women were, what they were called. None of us did. It was intended to be anonymous. It was more enjoyable that way. You could do whatever you liked with no possibility of a comeback.’
Thackeray was aware of Sharif moving uneasily in his chair beside him and flashed him a warning look. He did not want Muslim sensibilities muddying the water.
‘Some people knew who Karen was, not least the man she worked with, so it was not necessarily completely anonymous,’ Thackeray said. ‘I have a description of what Karen was wearing when she got out of her car – as far as that goes. Perhaps you would recognise…’ he glanced down at his notes ‘…hot pants, no bra, but a loose semi-transparent top in a thin purple material. It didn’t hide much, apparently. Does that ring any bells?’
Maxwell shook his head and said nothing.
‘Mr Maxwell, we have Karen Bastable’s body, and there may very well be traces of whoever she had sex with that night. A DNA sample from you will prove one way or the other whether you were intimate with her. There’s really no point in prevaricating about it.’
‘I didn’t kill her,’ Maxwell said so quietly that Thackeray could barely hear him. He glanced at the tape recorder.
‘Could you repeat that for the tape, please.’
‘I didn’t kill her,’ Maxwell said.
‘We’ll come to that later,’ Thackeray snapped. ‘Did you have sex with her?’
Maxwell nodded, wringing his hands together.
‘I must have done. I told you I didn’t know her name.’
‘Did you use a condom?’
Maxwell nodded, and gazed around the room again in near desperation and embarrassment.
‘And where exactly did you and Karen do this? In your car?’ Thackeray persisted, with no trace of sympathy for the man across the table, who was beginning to shake slightly.
‘No, in hers. It was a cold night. We used the back seat.’
‘So if there are traces left by this activity, that’s where we’ll find them?’
‘I suppose so,’ Maxwell said.
‘I ask that for a reason, Mr Maxwell,’ Thackeray said. ‘Karen didn’t apparently leave the forest in her own vehicle. As you probably know, it was found there and it’s now being examined for forensic evidence. But we would also like to know whose vehicle she did leave in, either alive or dead. If you have no objection, I would like to have my forensic team examine your car as well. If you’re telling me the truth, you have nothing to worry about. Their examination will corroborate your story. As will the DNA sample and fingerprints that I am sure you are going to volunteer after we finish this interview.’
Thoroughly deflated now, Maxwell nodded helplessly.
‘I need a solicitor,’ he said dully.
‘That’s up to you,’ Thackeray said. ‘You’re not under arrest and I only have one more question for now. I want you to think back very carefully to last summer and try to remember who drew your attention to the ad in the Gazette that first took you
to Bently Forest. We know pretty well who you told, and who they told, right down the chain to Karen Bastable and Charlene Brough. But who told you, Mr Maxwell? You must remember. I’m sure an invitation to an orgy is not something which crops up every day in the corridors of local government. Somebody set this up, and if it wasn’t you, then I need to know who it was.’
‘I don’t know,’ Maxwell said. ‘I really don’t know. The newspaper was being passed around in the Clarendon bar, getting a lot of smutty comment, and someone said they thought it all went off up at Bently. I simply went up there out of curiosity. I don’t know who placed the ads. I never have known. I don’t know anyone who does know. And that’s the truth.’
When they had delivered Maxwell downstairs to have his fingerprints and DNA swab taken, Omar Sharif followed the DCI back upstairs to the main CID office.
‘Do you think he’s telling the truth, sir?’ he asked doubtfully.
‘He’s probably telling us part of the truth,’ Thackeray said. ‘Unfortunately, the ads in the Gazette were dropped in by hand, paid for in cash, and no one seems to remember anything about who placed them. One of the staff thinks she recalls speaking to a man but that’s about all we’ve got.’
‘Surely they keep a record of advertisers,’ Sharif said.
‘In theory, but they handle thousands every week. They’re looking at their records but with the number of ads going through the system it’s time-consuming, and I don’t suppose the person gave his or her real name anyway,’ Thackeray said. ‘What I want you to do next is have a quiet look at Maxwell’s background. Apart from the fact that he’s one of the council’s high-flyers, we know absolutely nothing about him. Is he married, divorced, cohabiting, has he a family, where does he live? If he’s the mastermind behind this group I want to know everything there is to know about him. We may have to do the same checks for every single one of them, but he seems to be the end of the chain so we’ll start with him.’
‘The prime suspect then?’
‘Well, that’s a bit premature. We need the forensics, as always,’ Thackeray said.
‘You reckon whoever set it up did it with the express purpose of finding a victim?’ Sharif asked. ‘In which case it could be someone who’s never revealed himself at all, couldn’t it? Someone placed the ads and got the doggers up there and then waited his chance to abduct a woman.’ Thackeray could see the distaste in Sharif’s face and wondered how someone from such a puritanical tradition could cope with the excesses of modern Britain, but Sharif did seem to cope with some equanimity with the drink and drugs and sexual licence and inevitable violence that was every police officer’s lot. He balanced on his cultural tightrope very effectively, Thackeray thought, and should go far.
‘It could be,’ Thackeray agreed. ‘If the advertising people at the Gazette can just come up with a name or address or phone number for that first ad last June, that will give us a lead to explore. In the meantime we’ll just have to follow up the ones we’ve got. Log this new task and then get on with it. You’ve met Maxwell, so that should give you a head start.’
‘Sir,’ Sharif said.
Ted Grant paced around his newsroom like Bligh on the Bounty seeking out slackers to flog, his face flushed and his eyes gleaming with excitement.
‘Never mind lesbian headmistresses,’ he roared in Laura’s ear. ‘We could have a full-blown serial killer on the loose here with all the trimmings. Another Yorkshire Ripper. I want you to get up to the Heights and talk to the husband. Then do a trawl through the files and see if any other women have gone missing without trace in the last few years. Bob, let’s go over this press release and see what we can read between the lines. Laura, you’d better sit in on this or you’ll be out of the loop when you talk to Bastable. Come on. Let’s get our backsides in gear. This is a biggie.’
Laura trailed after Bob Baker into Grant’s pokey glass-walled office at the end of the newsroom, and leant slightly wearily against the door to listen to what Baker had brought back from the police press conference at county headquarters. She felt nauseous and knew she looked pale, and had found it difficult to concentrate since she had come back to the office after her doctor’s appointment, where she had told the ever-sympathetic Dr Ali that she was determined to have her baby. She just hoped that Grant would be so fascinated by what Bob Baker was telling him that he would not notice her less than rapt expression. The younger man ran a hand across his floppy blond hair and Laura could see, even from her position behind him, that he was almost quivering with excitement.
‘I don’t think they’re telling us the half of it,’ he said. ‘What I got out of my contacts was that Karen Bastable was one of a group of swingers who were getting together up in Bently Forest and that the cops did some sort of a round-up last night, pulled in more than a dozen people – God knows who – all of them suspects. This could be big, Ted, very big. A national story. There were telly cameras at the press conference – News 24, Sky, the local boys – the nationals will be on their way, if they’re not here already for the other thing, Lezzy Debbie’s love nest. I heard that Vince Newsom’s already on to that one. Bradfield’s going to hit the big time, so we need to be right on our toes.’
Ted Grant cast a sharp eye in Laura’s direction and looked slightly discomforted. ‘Yes, well, let’s leave the headmistress for the time being. She’ll keep. Let’s concentrate on the swingers in the woods…’
‘Well, as I hear it, swingers isn’t quite right,’ Bob said. ‘What they were actually up to was more in the nature of dogging.’
‘Dogging, was it?’ Grant said, and Laura could see that his normally acute antennae had failed to recognise the word.
‘Public sex,’ she said quietly. Ted nodded to himself, unwilling to admit his unfamiliarity with the concept.
‘You reckon Karen Bastable brought it on herself then, do you?’ Baker asked over his shoulder, knowing his question would provoke Laura.
‘It’s all down to consent, isn’t it?’ she said sweetly. ‘And I doubt any woman actually consents to being chopped into little pieces, which from what you say is what happened to this poor woman.’
‘So do we have any idea who they picked up last night?’ Ted asked. ‘Were they giving anything away on that score?’
‘Not a lot,’ Baker said. ‘But I reckon I can winkle out a few names if I hit the phone. No probs. My impression was that there’s a few local worthies been caught with their pants down. Jack Longley looked seriously miffed about something when I saw him. Perhaps it’s members of his golf club putting their putters to unusual use.’ Bob sniggered slightly but Laura was aware that Ted Grant was not looking amused. She knew that he fancied himself as one of the big fish in Bradfield’s small and sometimes murky pond, and wondered if he was afraid he might be caught in any splashback from the dogging scandal when it became public knowledge.
‘I’ll have a word with Jack Longley myself,’ he said to Baker. ‘Leave him to me.’
Baker raised a sardonic eyebrow at that but did not argue.
‘Right, let’s get on with it then, before the lads and lasses from London start milling about and muddying the water. I want us two steps ahead of the nationals on this one. We’ve got the contacts, we know the ground, let’s build on that.’ And with that he dismissed them and picked up his phone, his face flushed with emotion that seemed to Laura to mix excitement and fear.
Laura drove slowly up towards the Heights, where four towering blocks of flats, which had dominated the western skyline of Bradfield since the Sixties, had recently been reduced to rubble. The site of the flats was surrounded by a high security fence but she could see how the streets around the estate had been liberated now that they were relieved of the shadow of what, over the years, had become high-rise slums: the haunt of drug dealers, prostitutes and a handful of families who had not been able to escape to anything better.
She slowed down by the old people’s bungalows where her grandmother, Joyce Ackroyd, would normally have been ea
ger to welcome her with a cup of tea and the latest gossip from the estate, but the old lady would not be able to offer her no doubt caustic views on the sexual scandal, which seemed about to engulf the town, from Portugal. As a town councillor a generation ago, Joyce had been largely responsible for the building of the Heights and had watched its disintegration with disbelief as money ran out for repairs and young people with no jobs, and eventually no hope, descended into despair and violence.
The Bastables’ house was on the edge of the Heights, a tidy-looking road of semi-detached houses, many of which had obviously been bought by the tenants who had put in new front doors and windows, relaid the drives where they parked their cars, and tended the gardens with care. The Bastables were clearly one of the families who had signed up to property ownership, but when Terry Bastable answered her knock on his front door, it was obvious that things were going very wrong behind the white lace curtains that shielded his windows from the street. Bastable was unshaven, his eyes red-rimmed and his beer belly bulging over the waistband of his dirty tracksuit bottoms.
‘Who are you?’ he asked belligerently. ‘Are you from t’police?’ When she told him, his face and shaven pate became even more flushed and he made to close the door in her face.
‘Piss off,’ he said. ‘I’m not talking to no effing newspapers. Don’t you know when to leave folk alone? I’ve got two motherless kids in here crying their bleeding eyes out, and what am I supposed to tell them about how she died? Do you think I want them reading all this stuff on your front page?’
Devil's Game Page 18
