The dogs in the back of the Range Rover barked their annoyance at having to remain locked up but whilst the police dog was working, Cyril had insisted that they remain in the car, much to the farmer’s anger.
The police dog worked its way around the various pieces of machinery and parked vehicles, occasionally doubling back to have a second check. It continued working until arriving at the cold store that was positioned on two steel trestles. The dog moved more slowly before sitting in front of the double doors. The handler stroked the dog and it gave a short bark but remained unmoved. The handler tipped his head towards the container.
“It might be something, it’s the most active he’s been, but don’t get your hopes up, he’s not really enthusiastic, Sir.”
The farmer frowned. There’s nowt in this. It’s not been opened for ages.”
“Do you have the keys?” Owen requested. He already resented his arrogance.
He threw the keys to Owen who checked the two locks and pushed in the key. It wouldn’t turn.
“Wrong key!” Owen gave the farmer a look that would unnerve a front row rugby forward before tossing the keys back at him with a force that made him deliberately miss the catch. “Are they right?”
“Them’s right ones.” He retrieved them from the grass. “Can I check ‘em?”
Owen moved his hand, as if to say, after you, Claude.
The farmer fumbled with the keys, each time he would try to turn it in the lock. He increased the force and looked round with a puzzled expression. He removed more keys from his jacket and checked the label attached to each one. He shook his head.
“Shit! These should open this. These locks look newer that I remember. Give us a minute.”
He took out his mobile and dialled. There was a pause. “Cold store keys. Have you changed the bloody locks?” There was a silence. “Why? What the bloody hell for and why didn’t you tell me you dozy sod? Get your arse here now with the bloody keys and be sharp!”
The farmer’s face was red, not from embarrassment, but from anger. “He can do bugger all that lad o’ mine. Needs a firm kick up the bloody arse for wasting my bloody time.”
“And mine,” added Owen. “Why was the lock changed?”
“He said that when he came a couple of week’s ago someone had put a different lock on the door, only a cheap one so he says he cut it off and he put these on. He’s bringing the keys. He’ll be five minutes. Shall we check everywhere else?”
“Now why would someone do that?” Cyril enquired, a look of total innocence etched on his face. “Well?”
“How the bloody hell do I know, it’s news to me. You’d better ask that son of mine when he arrives.”
Owen gave Cyril a knowing look before organising a uniformed officer to stay by the door of the cold store whilst the others checked the caravans and the other containers. Most held junk, metal and pieces of obsolete farm machinery.
“If you don’t lock stuff away the Tinkers will nick it. Trust me, I know and your lot does bugger all to help once it’s gone. Just look at the number of church roofs that have lost their lead.”
Owen put his hand to his head and just stared at him. For once words failed him.
A motorbike splashed through the few puddles and pulled up next to the farmer who swiftly swatted the rider on the side of the helmet before holding out his hand. The rider passed over two keys. “That’s from me. They want a word.”
Cyril smiled as the farmer handed two keys to Owen; he had learned one lesson at least that morning. Owen walked round the police dog; it waited patiently, the slow, metronomic wag of its tail brushing the dirt aside, but there was little from its general demeanour to suggest that there would be anything. Owen slipped the key into the lock and the first sprang open. He then did the same with the second. He turned to look at the dog handler.
***
Liz parked a little higher than Hampsthwaite Chapel. She looked down the road; it was quiet for the morning. All she really wanted to do was look around the outside of Pamela’s house. If John Melville, the bloody neighbourhood spy, were true to his word he would be about to walk the dog. She needed just to wait and watch. She looked at the dashboard clock. 08:22. Her stomach rumbled. She lifted some tinfoil from her bag and unwrapped a piece of cold toast. She was prepared to wait until nine.
At 08:31 she saw the dog appear at the top of the drive quickly followed by John Melville who reined in the lead. He checked for traffic. Liz instinctively lowered herself into the seat hoping that he wouldn’t see her. Her heart sank as he turned up towards the car. Dropping her toast onto the passenger seat, she turned the key and moved away from the kerb before indicating to turn right down Hollins Close. She kept the car running and watched the end of the road through the rear-view mirror. The dog crossed the road followed again by Melville, his arm outstretched giving the impression that the dog had full control. ‘Strange for an ex Police dog handler’, she thought. Cautiously she waited for a few minutes and then headed back to the main road. John Melville was disappearing round the corner. With luck he would be away for at least thirty minutes.
Parking by the Chapel she quickly crossed the road. The familiar crunch of gravel on this occasion disturbed no one. The garage door yawned. Moving quickly down the side of the house she cautiously peered into the darkness. She flicked the torch on her phone and the disorder quickly became apparent. A sudden movement from a dark recess caused her to jump backwards; a feral cat bolted for the door. Her heart quickened even more. There was nothing else of interest that she could see.
The back of the house was as untidy as the front; the remains of a once- organised, partitioned garden was just visible beneath the rampant summer growth. A trellis was held drunkenly vertical by the strength of the climbing rose. Ivy clung to the garage side, its spidery, inquisitive fingers delved rudely under the wooden bargeboards and then spread onto the corrugated, asbestos roofing. She turned and looked at the house windows, those down and up; a small garden had sprouted in the gutter. Liz moved towards the downstairs windows. The kitchen seemed surprisingly ordered, so too was the lounge apart from a few dead flies and bluebottles that had expired on the dusty sills. It was then that she felt uneasy, a sensation that caused the hairs on her neck to tingle and to feel as though they were standing. She felt as though someone or something was watching her. She had seen nothing other than the cat but the feeling was intense. She stepped back and looked to the bedroom windows again. One of the curtains didn’t seem the same, as if it had been moved slightly at the corner from when she had first glanced at the windows but then, on closer inspection, she wasn’t sure. She stared at each frame for a few seconds trying to penetrate the inner darkness. There was nothing.
Moving to the front of the house, she knocked on the door as loudly as possible and listened. Again nothing. She moved to the front window, all seemed ordered. Even the upstairs curtains still had the limp left corner; they had not moved since her last visit.
She returned to the rear of the property once more and stood in the centre of the garden. She looked again at each window. The sensation returned; she felt again invisible eyes. She turned to look at the garage window that was partially covered by the ivy and grime; it was only then that she realised where the watcher was.
***
Owen moved towards the cold-store door and the farmer stepped to one side. The dog stood in anticipation, its head forward. Cyril noticed the electric cable strung across from the main building on a catenary wire.
“Is there power to this?” Cyril asked before Owen twisted the handle to release the mechanism that locked the top and bottom of the metal door.
The farmer pointed to his son. “Lights, put ‘em on.”
“Open, Owen, and let the dog in first as soon as we have light.” Cyril nodded to the handler.
The door swung open and the dog entered followed by the handler. Owen watched from the door. The dog worked its way round before climbing on boxes and plastic drums. It sat and t
hen barked. The handler moved and looked behind a steel barrel.
``Sir, there’s some clothing.”
“Bring the dog out. Owen, close the door and lock it, then ring for Forensics.” Cyril pointed to two of the uniformed officers. “Nobody comes near. I want one of you by the door, please, and one at the bottom of the driveway.“
He turned to the farmer and his son. “I need you both at the station this morning for fingerprints and DNA samples. I require a few more answers, particularly from you.” Cyril pointed to the son. “And if you say one word…” he then pointed to the farmer. “The Detective Sergeant here will caution you and arrest you this very minute.”
Owen smiled and moved forward.
“I’ll drop the dogs home and we’ll come right away. Do I need a lawyer?”
“No, we need finger prints and DNA and some answers to eliminate you from our enquiries…it’s called co-operation, Mr Gregson, if that word is at all part of your vocabulary.” Cyril realised that he’d used the farmer’s name for the first time since his rude introduction. He was slipping.
***
Liz slowly turned and looked at the rear of the garage. She jumped backwards. The wide-open eyes returned her gaze, staring through the breach in the ivy. The skin appeared unnaturally pale and dirty, the head, bald. She looked with more care once her heart rate had returned to near normal and then she smiled. She felt so foolish she let out a laugh. Now, her confidence returned, she stepped towards the voyeur before quickly moving away the tendrils of ivy that held it upright. The limbless mannequin stared blankly, the eyelashes on one eye were all that remained of hair. It fell backwards, no longer supported by the tendrils, then, even they vanished. She smiled again.
“What do you bloody well want?” a voice boomed loudly from just behind her.
Liz jumped again for the third time. “Shit!” she squealed, stepping away from the trapped, prostrate plastic torso. Her eyes focussed on the man standing yards away.
“Mr Melville you very nearly gave me a bloody heart attack.”
The man’s facial expression didn’t change. “So what do you want?”
Liz slipped her hand into her jacket and brought out her ID. “We’ve met before, Mr Melville, we spoke about Pamela.”
He didn’t look at the ID, he simply stared straight at her.
***
Cyril looked at Owen as Mr Gregson and his son left. “Father knows nothing but the son… How old would you say he is, Owen?”
“Could be anything from late thirties to late forties. Looks as though he’s had a rough life. Father’s a bully and an arrogant git. I could have smacked him on more than one occasion, the bastard.”
Cyril simply smiled. “I’d give money to see that, Owen.”
Within the hour, the tests had been completed and Jason Gregson was sitting in front of Owen whilst in another interview room Cyril faced his father.
“Does your father often hit you in public, Mr Gregson, or was that chastisement we witnessed a one off?”
Jason sat, his head down. He first shook his head and then nodded. “He’s always like it, has to show he’s boss. Doesn’t beat me like he used to. Christ, as a kid I was black and bloody blue.”
“Any particular misdemeanour?” Cyril asked, but seeing the quizzical, vacant look on the man’s face, he simplified the question. “Why?”
“You name it, he’d belt me for it.”
“What’s usually kept in the cold store?”
“It should be junk but I put stuff in that I don’t want him to see or know about. He rarely goes in. Checks the place but doesn’t take the keys, just walks round the area with the dogs. If there’s owt to drop off or collect then that’s my job. He had a bit of a thing for the woman who lives in the bungalow a while back, used to get his cocoa there regularly he said, until they fell out.”
“When was that?”
“He’s always falling out with women, treats them like cattle. They have to be there when he wants, always wants his own way. Fell out with her a couple of months back. Now she gets her own back by complaining to the Council. Does the old man’s head in.”
“How many lady friends has he had?”
“Christ, loads, ever since mother left.”
“So when did he meet Mrs Young?”
Jason looked puzzled. “Didn’t meet her in that sense, she’s a tenant.”
***
Liz began to control her breathing and smiled before moving towards John Melville. “Where’s Sam?”
“Why are you here? You know she’s away. You have a warrant to come snooping?”
Liz was taken aback; she neither liked his aggressive attitude nor his rudeness. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do shall I? I’ll go back to the station and get a warrant to search this property here and also…” she turned to Melville’s house.
“…and then this one. Seems to me that people who are so defensive and aggressive have something to hide.”
John Melville smiled and folded his arms. “That’s bloody true, love. We have something to hide and it’s called liberty and privacy. Now if you coppers think you’re above the laws of this land then please be my guest but, girl, as some actor said…make my day. I can assure you there will be trouble. Now leave before I call the police, you’re trespassing.”
Liz glanced up the drive and two people were looking back towards them.
“Are you alright, John? Do you want us to call the police?”
“You were seen, Neighbourhood Watch, it’s a wonderful thing. They contacted me.”
“I think she’s just about to leave, but thank you.” He waved to the couple.
Liz turned and walked up the drive. The dog barked from behind the closed, front door. Her face was red as she passed the two spectators and her blood was boiling.
***
Cyril looked at Gregson. “What’s with your lad? He seems to me to be lacking in confidence and a degree of common sense?”
“Aye, and do I bloody well know it, that’s why he’s still at home, nobody ’ll have him. Bloody useless at school apart, that is, from getting into trouble. His mother used to despair but she left ages ago.”
“Why was that?”
“Caught me with another woman. Christ, we always had people working the farm and usually one thing led to another. You know what it’s like.”
Cyril made no comment. The pause encouraged Donald Gregson to continue.
“All he seems to do now is maul on the bloody computer and for a man of his age its probably porn he’s surfing if that’s the right term.”
“Your son is forty-three, Mr Gregson?” Cyril received a confirming nod. “Is he in a relationship, has he ever been married?”
“Married? Bloody hell, he can’t look after himself let alone a woman on a permanent basis. Always thought that good for nothing lad of mine might be bent, homosexual like, but he goes out with women. What he does with ‘em, apart from spend money, I don’t know. Maybe that’s why he looks at the Internet so much…gives him a clue like.” He laughed but didn’t get a response.
Cyril changed the subject. “When was the last time you personally opened the cold store?”
Gregson raised his eyebrows. “Maybe twelve months. That’s Jason’s task, or one of them. He tends to use it most. I didn’t even notice that the locks had been changed when I was there a week back as nowt up there is new…mainly old junk but thought nowt of it.”
“So the clothing?”
“Never seen it before, didn’t see it today for that matter, Inspector. I’ll have to take your word that it was found. I couldn’t have told you what’s in half of the containers up there. I’ve a better idea now.”
“I’ll be five minutes. I’ll get someone to drop in a coffee.”
“Two sugars and a biscuit would be perfect.”
Cyril tapped on the door to Interview suite three and entered. “A word.”
Owen came outside.
“Get him a coffee, I want to swap round, yo
u know the drill.” Cyril copied Owen’s notes and read them whilst Owen took Cyril’s.
Within five minutes Cyril entered and looked at Jason whilst Owen took great delight in visiting Donald Gregson.
“Jason, your father tells me that you like the Internet and that you probably view pornography.” It was the casual way that Cyril introduced the subject as his opening gambit that shocked Jason.
“There he goes again.” Jason looked straight ahead there was a note of defiance in his stare that surprised Cyril. “To say he’s my father… he knows nothing about me.”
“Are you in a relationship at the moment, Jason?”
“What has that got to do with anything?” He looked into the coffee cup. “At this minute? No. Do you know how hard it is meeting women when you’re my age and work the hours I do?”
“When did you last visit the cold store?”
“About two weeks ago, it was then I noticed that the locks had been changed. Someone had put a cheap lock on the doors. The old ones were knackered so it wasn’t difficult to remove them; they were more for show than practical. I thought it were yobs as they’d made what looked like a den, made like a bed. Noticed cig ends, some booze bottles, probably nicked and outside were a couple of used condoms. Could have been youths using it for sex and drugs and booze.”
“Do you use it for that purpose, a place of your own?” Cyril didn’t take his eyes from Jason’s face.
“No and I don’t like what you’re suggesting.”
“The kids, is that where the clothes came from do you think?”
Jason just lifted his shoulders. “I just tipped the stuff over the barrel and cleaned their rubbish before getting two new locks.”
***
Owen stared at Donald Gregson for what seemed like minutes. “You’re a bit of a bully from all accounts; I witnessed that when your son arrived on the motorbike. Bullied him when he failed at school, not happy with the way he works, belittle him. Goodness the man’s forty-three… when are you going to leave him be?” Owen didn’t wait for a reply. “What’s all this with Mrs Young?”
Flesh Evidence: a heart-stopping crime thriller Page 13
