Solid Proof: A dark, disturbing, detective mystery (Sgt Major Crane crime thrillers Book 8)

by Wendy Cartmell

  “The transactions were for several appointments to see Janey Cunningham, nee Carlton and were payments for sex. The last appointment was immediately before her approximate time of death. The payments were made through her website which is controlled by the Mayfair Club, hence that name appearing on your credit card statement.”

  Tyler Wells had gone from being red faced with anger, to white with shock when told that they had searched his house, to his current grey visage, which reminded Crane of wet cement.

  “You’re talking about that woman who went missing, aren’t you?” Tyler asked. “The model. That’s why you’re here,” he pointed at Crane. “Her husband is in the army. Major someone or other. I saw it on the news.”

  “Cunningham,” confirmed Crane. “Major Cunningham.” Crane leaned across the desk, being deliberately threatening. “You seem to know quite a bit about the case, Mr Wells. Following it are you? Watching the news every evening, trying to catch even the smallest of items about her? I bet you read every paper you can get your hands on, as well. I’ve met killers like you before. They need verification of their abilities. Need to bask in the glory of the publicity they are generating.”

  Tyler sat back in his chair, open mouthed, but silent. Trembling in fear like a mouse cornered by a cat.

  “Was seeing her at the Mayfair Club not enough for you?” Anderson asked.

  “Eh?”

  “You’ve been identified by people who regularly attend the Mayfair Club, as a customer named Zane. It’s a swinger’s club, where in the past you were a regular sexual partner of Janey Cunningham.”

  “Zane? Who the hell is Zane?”

  “Weren’t you listening, Mr Wells? Zane is the name you used at the Mayfair Club.”

  Crane did his leaning-in thing again saying, “I take it you couldn’t get enough of her? What was it? Was she bored with you? Wouldn’t sleep with you anymore so you had to pay for it? Three times? Her husband has confirmed that you came on too strong at the club, that he thought you were creepy, obsessed. Oh and by the way,” continued Crane settling back in his chair and dropping another bomb, “He’s identified you as the man he and his wife knew as Zane as well.”

  “Stop! Stop it!” Tyler shouted standing and holding his hands over his ears. “Her husband? I’ve never met him. I’ve never met any of them.”

  “Sit down!” It was Anderson’s turn to shout.

  “Now!” bellowed Crane.

  Wells looked from one to the other, to the door, to the glass viewing panel, as if desperate to flee, but of course there was nowhere for him to go. So he sat down, as instructed, slouching in his chair, emotionally spent, wiping tears from his face in a scrubbing motion.

  “Where were you on the night of her murder?” Anderson asked.

  Crane was glad they were getting to this part of the interview. To be honest he was a bit wrung out himself. He couldn’t decide whether Tyler Wells really didn’t know what they were talking about, or was a bloody good actor. His fear could be from getting caught, just as easily as from being wrongly accused.

  “When?”

  Anderson supplied the date.

  Tyler heaved a resigned sigh. “I don’t bloody know. At home I expect, with my family, where I normally am when I’m not at work.”

  “Well your wife remembers. Or at least she knows where she was. She was away with the children visiting her parents. You were at home, alone.”

  That wound Tyler up, as though Tyler had a key in his back and Anderson had obligingly turned it.

  “You’ve talked to my wife? How dare you! Leave her out of this!”

  “Out of what?” cut in Crane. “Your obsession with Janey Carlton? Your murder of Janey Carlton?”

  “I haven’t murdered anyone, I’ve never met her, and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Tyler had begun to cry again, but this time the tears ran down his face unchecked and trickled along his neck to soak into his shirt collar.

  Anderson said, “That isn’t a very novel approach, Mr Wells. I would have thought someone of your intelligence would have come up with a better excuse than that. Simple minded criminals say they are innocent all of the time and guess what?”

  “What?”

  “We don’t believe them either.”

  The two detectives said nothing and Crane watched as the vocalisation of their disbelief shut out the small ray of hope Tyler Wells had left; hope that this was all some dreadful mistake. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

  Then, coughing to clear his throat, he said, “Right that’s it. I’ve had enough. I want my solicitor. I’m not saying another word until I get one.”

  Anderson closed his file and said, “Very well. Your wife’s organising that. I expect someone will be here soon or maybe not so soon. You know what the traffic is like at this time of day.”

  “I’d also like to go to the bathroom and I want something to drink.”

  “Of course. How about a good book as well to help pass the time?” Crane said sarcastically as he stood, “A good murder mystery perhaps?”

  44

  Ken Brown, the Marine Police Unit officer thought that it was highly likely that the bodies had been dropped into the river from another site and made their way towards the bank where they were found.

  “What do you mean?” DC Saunders asked. “The girls were weighted down. Wouldn’t they have just sunk and stayed there?”

  “Not necessarily,” came the reply. “With the tide, currents, passing vessels and such, it is highly likely that they were swept up in the wake, the weights bumping along the bottom and coming to rest here.”

  Saunders deliberately avoided looking at the three girls who had been rescued from the Thames. Well, not rescued exactly, but liberated at least. They were in various stages of decomposition, even Saunders could see that, and the pathologist had promised he would try and identify which girl had gone in first and give them a possible time line. But it would take some work back at the mortuary, so not to expect results straight away.

  “Any ideas where they came from then?” Saunders gazed out over the now peaceful waters.

  “I reckon there is as good a place as any,” Brown said, pointing to the island just upstream from them. “I reckon you should start with Taggs Island.”

  “How in hell am I supposed to get there?” Saunders looked with dismay at the bridge leading to the island, which was on the opposite bank of the Thames. Having to drive round would take him ages.

  “I’ll give you a lift,” the man grinned and walked towards the police launch. “Hop in.”

  Saunders sat behind the officer, who was dressed in what could best be described as army fatigues in blue and whose bald head seemed to gleam in the weak sunshine that was breaking through the grey clouds. Brown had given him a glimmer of hope. If the girls had come from Taggs Island, at least it was a line of enquiry. Someone may have seen something, heard something, or noticed the strange behaviour of a neighbour. Anything at all would be good, for they had bugger all else.

  As they pulled up into a small break between the houseboats, Saunders clambered out and waved his thanks to Brown. Scrabbling up the bank he came face to face with a woman who was watching him, consternation written all over her face, clearly wondering what the hell he was doing.

  “Afternoon,” he called as he pulled himself upright, after slipping on yet another wet patch of mud. “Wonder if you can help me?” he asked, grabbing his identification out of his pocket. “DC Saunders, Metropolitan Police, is there, um, anyone in charge here?”

  “In charge?” the woman looked askance. “Well, I suppose you could talk to a committee member,” she said, stuffing her hands in the pocket of her fleecy jacket. “What’s it about?”

  “I’d rather not say at the moment. Can you point me in the direct of a committee member then?”

  “I think Jeff is in,” she said. “He’s in The Falcon, three boats down,” and she turned and pointed downstream. “The only way to get
there is to walk through this gap here to where the gardens end. Turn to your left and walk along the track. There’s a sign up with the name of his boat on it, so you can’t miss it. Walk through his garden to the front door.”

  ‘Front door’ seemed an incongruous phrase in relation to a boat, but Saunders did as she asked. As he walked, he looked around in amazement at the gardens accompanying the houseboats. Some were large with garages and sheds, others small with tiny lawns and flowers. Some boats were hidden behind trees and hedges, others exposed to the track. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but was pretty sure it wasn’t something as suburban as this. If anything, he’d just expected a kind of tow path and the boats plonked alongside it, rather like a canal bank. Turning into the garden marked with the name ‘The Falcon’, Saunders walked into one of the smaller gardens and up to the front door. From this side, the houseboat looked just like a house. A two story dwelling with a pitched roof. You couldn’t see the river. The only indication it was on the river being mooring lines stretching from each end of the structure, tying the boat securely to the bank.

  His knock was answered by a man Saunders thought was probably mid 50’s, with a wiry body; but could have been older, as his weather beaten face indicated. He had on a blue smock affair of the type sailors wore, over jeans and navy deck shoes.

  “Yes?” the man said.

  Saunders introduced himself and said he was looking for a committee member named Jeff. Once the man had confirmed that was him, he was invited on board. If Jeff Buckley said anything else, Saunders didn’t hear it. They walked into a living room that stretched the full width of the boat and the wall facing the river was made up of glass panels. Saunders stared in amazement as the weak sunshine streamed in, the glass magnifying the light, so the sunbeams filled the large room, glinting off round, metal-edged port holes and sunken lights in the ceiling. The furniture was large and comfortable and Buckley indicated an easy chair, which Saunders sank into.

  “I’m afraid we’ve had a find of sorts on the opposite bank, just downstream from here,” Saunders said, pulling himself together and drawing his eyes away from the windows.

  “Mmm,” Jeff murmured, “I noticed the activity. Been at it most of the day haven’t you?”

  “Yes, not the best job I’ve ever been on.”

  “So what did you find?” Jeff played with his long dark hair, which hung to his shoulders and was highlighted with grey streaks.

  “I’m not at liberty to say at the moment, sir, but suffice it to say we’ll need to be interviewing the residents, tomorrow most likely.”

  “Sounds like you’ve found a body to me,” Jeff said looking at Saunders closely.

  But Saunders didn’t reply to that comment, saying instead, “How many boats are there moored around the island?”

  “62. We’re all registered with TIRA, the Taggs Island Residents Association and the association owns, and is responsible for, the island. I’m one of the committee members.”

  “I’ll need a list of all the residents, please.”

  Jeff seemed to ponder this request, taking his time before answering. “We’re very private people here,” he said. “I’m not sure I should be giving you that sort of information.”

  “That’s as maybe, but I’m going to have to insist.”

  “It’s serious then, your ‘find’,” and Jeff motioned towards the river with his head.

  “Very.”

  “Alright, give me a minute,” and Buckley stood and left the living room and could be heard walking through the boat.

  Saunders stood and admired the view for a while. He heard mumblings from the other end of the houseboat and assumed Buckley was checking his request with another committee member. But it wasn’t long before the man returned with pieces of paper in his hand.

  “Can I ask that you keep this information confidential and that you can confirm it is only used as part of your enquiry?” he asked.

  “Absolutely, sir,” said Saunders and took the proffered papers. “How many of the residents own a small boat?”

  “Most of us have small rowing boats or ones with an outboard motor, that’s nothing unusual here. We are a water based community. The only way in is via a boat, or the small bridge linking the island to the mainland. Look that’s what I mean.”

  Saunders watched a resident puttering over from the opposite bank of the River Thames. As the small vessel drew near, Saunders could see shopping bags on the floor of the boat. The man arrived at his home, tied up the boat, got out and pulled out three bulging carrier bags from a well-known supermarket. Who’d have thought such a life possible, only a few miles from the centre of London, Saunders thought to himself.

  “That reminds me, how am I going to get back over there? I came on the police launch,” he said.

  With a chuckle Jeff said, “No worries, I’ll take you back,” and pointed to a small rowing boat moored alongside.

  45

  After a well-earned fag break, Crane walked back through Aldershot Police Station to Anderson’s office and found the policeman sitting at his desk with a bunch of papers in his hand.

  “Oh, there you are,” said Anderson. “These have just come through from the Met.”

  “What are they?”

  “Papers and correspondence found in Wells’ house.”

  Sitting down, Crane asked, “Anything of interest?”

  “Well, the usual mortgage documents, insurance policies and birth certificates for his kids.”

  “Any birth certificate for him?”

  “Hang on,” and Anderson flicked through the pile.

  “Here we are,” he said. “But it’s not a birth certificate,” and he handed it to Crane.

  “What is it then?”

  “It’s a certified copy of an entry in the Adopted Children Register, which is the equivalent of a birth certificate for an adopted child.”

  Crane smiled, slowly. “Adopted, eh?”

  Anderson nodded and shouted for a passing detective constable, “Oh, Simon,”

  “Yes, Guv?” asked the young man, who Crane was sure should still be a school.

  “Trace this set of parents for me would you?” said Anderson and Crane handed the lad the copy of the Adoption Certificate.

  “But… I was just going for lunch.”

  “And now you’re not. Right?”

  A flush crept up the young man’s face. “Right, Guv.”

  “Excellent, you’ve got five minutes,” he called to the DC’s retreating back. Turning once more to Crane, he said, “We’ve not had any word through from the Catholic home that arranged for the adoption of Janey’s child, they are still stalling. So are the adoption authorities. So maybe we can get some information from Wells’ adoptive parents. Perhaps they know who Tyler’s birth mother is.”

  “Isn’t there some way of adoptive children being able to trace their birth parents?”

  Anderson nodded his agreement. “Yes, several ways, but they are all insistent that the only people they assist are the birth parents and the child of those parents. They won’t help anyone else, not even the police. Adoption records are very closely guarded; otherwise people won’t have faith in the system. It ensures anonymity for the parent whilst the child is growing up. Once a child reaches 18 he or she can start looking for their birth parents, but that parent always has the option of not wanting to be identified or the choice to accept or reject a child who reaches out to them. And vice versa, of course.”

  “I wonder if Janey ever reached out to her child.”

  “I shouldn’t think so, not someone in her position, well known, rich, successful and very visible in the media. The fall-out would probably affect her career and as it was doing badly already…” Anderson let the words hang.

  Exhaling a deep breath, Crane said, “Yes, I guess you’re right. But that may be one of the reasons she became so flaky. You know, drugs, alcohol, sex. Maybe her adopted child played on her mind as well as the downward spiral of her career.”
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  “It seems to me she was on a pretty downward spiral herself, becoming more and more extreme in her search for gratification.”

  “Pretty fucked up, really,” said Crane and finished the last of his coffee, just as the young DC came back.

  “Here you are, Guv, details on Mr and Mrs Wells. Both alive, both retired, no criminal records, residing in Surrey.”

  “Thanks,” said Anderson taking the proffered piece of paper. At the young man’s raised eyebrow he said, “Off you go to lunch, then,” and was rewarded with a grateful smile.

  “So Tyler seems to have been adopted by a middle class couple and had a good upbringing.”

  Anderson nodded. “That’s what I suspected. The thing that bothers me is that he doesn’t seem the type.”

  “The type?”

  “The type to go around finding his birth mother, sleeping with her and then killing her.”

  “Why, just because he’s got a lot of money and went to a good school?”

  “No, it’s not just that. He does seem to be what he claims to be; a family man who works hard to support them and to give his children a good start in life.”

  “So you think his fear of us is because he didn’t kill Janey Cunningham and is being wrongly accused as he keeps saying. Not because he’s afraid he’s been caught.”

  “Yes, something like that.”

  “Well, there’s one way we’ll know for sure,” said Crane.

  “DNA,” said Anderson.

  “Exactly. And if he’s as innocent as he claims, then he shouldn’t have a problem giving us a sample of his DNA, to give us solid proof that it wasn’t his semen inside Janey.”

  “Let’s go and see what he says then, shall we?” said Anderson getting up.

  46

  Tyler had never been so happy to see a solicitor. Not that he’d had many dealings with one in the past, only using a local firm when he and Penny had moved house, or when they’d made their wills. He didn’t know the man, but that didn’t dampen his enthusiasm. Just the contact from another human being who was on his side and would help him get out of this Godforsaken place and home to his wife and kids, was enough.