Hunted on the Fens

by Joy Ellis

  * * *

  Nikki sat opposite Jeremy Bow. A uniformed officer stood beside her. She had deliberately picked a young PC, a slender, fine-boned lad called Matthew Boyd. She had chosen him over some of the more intimidating men and women available because she had no desire to threaten the mercurial Bow in any way. Matthew would have looked at home in a white surplice and carrying a hymn sheet, and posed minimal threat to the cop-hating Jeremy Bow. Only she knew that beneath the choirboy exterior was a competitive kickboxer holding more trophies than Seabiscuit.

  The room they sat in was dark and smelt of stale whisky and staler smoke. But they had been allowed inside, which was more than Nikki had expected.

  She glanced around and saw a mess of newspapers, empty spirit bottles, dirty mugs and plates — all the detritus of a lone man living in conditions that were nearly squalid. It was the kind of room she’d seen a hundred times on the Carborough Estate in the bad old days, but this was not the Carborough. It was a big Victorian semi-detached three-storey property that had once been a proud family home. But the proud family had been ripped apart by Jeremy’s son’s death, a death he still blamed on the police.

  She turned her gaze to the man himself. Bow’s clothes hung on him. He was skinny and undernourished, close to emaciated. His hair was colourless, worn too long and lank, and his eyes were sunken, shot with unhealthy colours and seemed unable to stay focussed on anything for more than a few seconds at a time. Her first thought was drugs, but then after listening to him talk, she altered her diagnosis to untreated mental illness and a crap diet. His friends — she used the term loosely — had all said he’d gone weird, and now she was inclined to agree. But she was there to make an assessment. Could he be Snipe? She looked at him thoughtfully. If his demeanour was a front, some sort of elaborate cover for his true self, then it was a bloody good one. For one thing, she didn’t think he’d have the strength, physical or mental. Years ago it would have been a different story. Then Jeremy Bow had been a college lecturer, a highly intelligent man and his teenage son, Adrian, had been destined for a similar academic life, until he hit a bad patch and went off the rails. His final action was to get drunk and go joy-riding with a couple of mates. Sadly there had been very little joy around that evening and after a high-speed chase, Adrian lost control of the stolen vehicle, killing himself and his best friend and severely injuring another boy.

  But right now Jeremy Bow was lecturing her about insidious police cover-ups and the wicked actions of corrupt officers and secret undercover operations to discredit honest innocent members of the public. Nikki listened without making comment. She noted that, although his speech was educated, there was also a lot of stuttering, repetition of words and an unstable wildness in the accusations.

  ‘I’m sure that much of what you say does go on,’ she stated, taking advantage of a small break in the tirade, ‘but not here in Greenborough, sir, and not on my watch. If I thought one of my officers was corrupt, he or she wouldn’t have time to draw breath before they were facing an internal investigation.’ She leaned forward, anxious to hold the floor for a bit longer. ‘Someone has killed a young police officer, Mr Bow. A good, promising lad, like your own son was. It’s a terrible waste.’ She looked over to the mantelpiece where there was a photograph of Adrian, a handsome youth with bright intelligent eyes and a warm smile.

  ‘You killed my boy.’ Jeremy hissed. ‘You terrified him, hounded him into driving faster than he was capable of and then you deliberately ran him off the road.’ His eyes flashed maliciously. ‘I found witnesses, but the law closed ranks, didn’t they? They protected their own.’ The eyes became slits in his thin face. ‘I don’t care about your dead policeman. In fact that’s just how it should be. An eye for an eye.’

  Nikki felt Matthew tense up beside her, but she had warned him about what he might hear and to her relief, he did and said nothing.

  She was angry too, but part of her almost felt sorry for the man. He had been so eaten up by grief that he had chosen to deny the fact that when he crashed the car, Adrian had enough drugs in his system to stock a small pharmacy. Jeremy hadn’t even been there, so his allegations were completely without substance. And he had found no “witnesses,” other than bewildered passers-by that Jeremy had actively sought out, trying to convince them that they had “seen” an innocent lad killed by the police. The law had got it right, but because he wouldn’t let it go, the press took Bow’s side. His school chose to highlight the boy’s dashed hopes and dreams and extolled his virtues, not his failings. The media, following other recent high-profile cases, were happy to scratch away at the already tarnished veneer of the police force, and made sure that they were made out to be the villains.

  ‘I’m sorry about your son, Mr Bow, truly I am. I know what it’s like to lose a child.’ The words stuck in her throat. ‘And I’m sorry that what happened broke up your family, but if you know anything about what happened to our colleague, I beg you to tell us.’

  This time he didn’t spit back accusations, instead he stared at her, as if trying to make some kind of connection. Maybe the conviction, the truth in her words about knowing how he felt, had affected him on some level. After a while he said, ‘My wife took my younger son, my lovely little Sean. He was nine at the time and . . .’ his hands moved constantly, winding and unwinding his fingers. ‘. . . I haven’t seen him since. I lost two sons because of your actions.’ The vicious belligerence had melted but bitterness still tainted the man’s sorrow. ‘I think you should go now.’

  Nikki stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, sir.’

  Outside in the car, Matthew let out a low whistle. ‘I don’t know how I didn’t deck him after that comment about Danny’s death.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Constable. You held it together very well. Did you get a chance to check out the other thing I mentioned earlier?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Matthew nodded. ‘He does have a computer, quite a hi-spec one too. It was set up in an alcove just off the kitchen. I saw it as you were talking to him when we went in. There were also two printers and heaps of printed hard copy lying around, plus a laptop carrycase.’ He looked at Nikki earnestly. ‘I don’t think he’s as barking as he made out.’

  ‘He looks a wreck. He clearly doesn’t eat properly and from the scattering of Scotch bottles, he drinks far too much.’

  ‘I agree, ma’am, but I was watching him carefully, and I didn’t like the way he looked at you. Sure his eyes were all over the place, but every now and again, especially when you looked away from him, they were stuck on you like laser beams. I don’t trust him, ma’am, and I don’t think you should either.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Back at the station Nikki listened in total amazement to what Joseph was saying about Cat’s discovery. Soon her stunned expression broke into a smile. Joseph decided that it was the first full-blown smile he’d seen on her face for a long while.

  ‘And she managed all that without access to a police computer?’

  ‘Thanks to Travis, one of his old laptops, and some very unorthodox sites. She said he left her with several ways to track information without going out of the public domain.’

  Nikki’s eyes darkened slightly. ‘You don’t think he gave her anything he shouldn’t, do you? They seem quite fond of each other, and he’s a clever young man, and Cat can be very persuasive.’

  ‘No, guv. She showed me the actual sites. The way Travis explained it to her was this: using the old term, Information Superhighway, or Infobahn, you could compare Google to the M1 and his sites to a back alley in Bethnal Green. They call it the dark web.’

  Nikki sat and leafed through what Cat had uncovered about Magda Hellekamp. ‘We need to get all this verified through official channels as quickly as possible, then sent across to Holland. I’ll contact them now and give them a brief outline.’ She raised her eyes to Joseph. ‘This is seriously good work and one hundred per cent commitment from Cat, especially since she’s so badly injured. It won’t go unn
oticed.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t, ma’am.’

  Before Nikki could lift the receiver, the phone rang.

  ‘Yvonne? It’s a bad line, can you speak up?’ Nikki screwed her face up in concentration as the signal faded in and out. After a while she said, ‘I’ve got the gist of that. Keep me posted. Oh, and ring from a better area next time, this is impossible.’ She hung up, then rubbed her chin thoughtfully. ‘It seems that Brian Faulkner does live at Dredger’s Cottage, but he’s not there, and as far as I could understand, neither is his dog, and that is puzzling Yvonne. She’s had some idea of how she can check it out, but I’m not sure what it was. She’ll ring again later.’ She glanced up at Joseph. ‘Which reminds me, any more news from Tamsin?’

  ‘Not yet.’ He lifted a wrist and checked the time. ‘I should hear soon though.’ He exhaled. ‘I just keep telling myself that every minute that passes is another minute travelling away from Snipe, but hell, now I’m not one hundred per cent sure that she’ll even be safe across the border.’

  Nikki knew what it was like to have a daughter under threat, and empathised totally. His mind would be in turmoil and his heart would be in purgatory until he knew that Snipe was behind bars. But he would also know that if he didn’t keep working at full throttle, Snipe’s capture would not happen. And she had better stop daydreaming and shift herself. ‘Right, I’ll go report this to the super, then contact Holland. And after you’ve talked to your girl, I suggest you get everything together pertaining to Operation Windmill because, thanks to Cat, we have something concrete to give to the Dutch police and we can concentrate on finding Snipe.’ She paused. ‘And we have to get up to Yorkshire and talk to Windsor Morton face to face. I know the local lads have nothing on him, but we need to see that man personally.’

  ‘We do, but what about Jeremy Bow?’

  Her face darkened. ‘I was dead sure we could cross him off the list, but the young PC who accompanied me has given me the heebie-jeebies about him.’

  ‘Who did you take?’

  ‘Matthew Boyd.

  ‘Ah, the little Ninja. Good choice.’ Joseph grinned at her. ‘He doesn’t look like a martial arts pro, but I’m telling you, I’d think twice before I tangled with him. Plus, that lad has extremely good powers of observation. So what was it about Bow that spooked him?’

  She glanced at the clock. ‘Let me go see the super, then I’ll tell you about it. I’ll be interested to see what you think.’

  * * *

  Yvonne walked along the top of the sea-bank. Sun blazed down on her and she began to think that although her idea might have shown results early morning or late evening, she was unlikely to find dog-walkers when the temperature was this high. She and Jimbo had branched left, and their two mates had taken the right-hand path.

  They had walked for over ten minutes when she saw a parked vehicle down at field level. It was clearly some kind of official Land Rover, because she could make out lettering and an insignia on the side door.

  ‘Looks like waterways maintenance to me,’ said Jimbo. ‘Shall I shin down the bank and have a word?’

  Yvonne nodded. The bank was steep with no footpath and she was in smart civvies.

  She watched Jim almost enviously as he slipped and skidded to ground level, then strolled over and began to talk to the driver.

  A few minutes later, he was scrambling back up again, puffing and out of breath. ‘Steeper than it looks!’ Jimbo laughed. ‘Still, that bloke reckons if we walk a couple of hundred metres further on, there’s a slipway that leads down to two land-workers’ cottages. He said they both own dogs so, if anybody is in, it’d be worth a chat.’

  The woman who answered the door was in her late twenties with long hair caught back in a ponytail and a wiry figure. On seeing the police at her door, her face became drawn, making her look thinner than ever. ‘Oh my God! Is it Bill? Has something happened?’

  Yvonne smiled at her and said, ‘No, nothing’s wrong, so please don’t worry. We just need your help,’ adding, ‘as a local.’

  The young woman forced a smile. ‘Thank goodness for that. My Bill works with that big farm machinery, and I’m always afeared he’ll have an accident one day.’ She stepped from the dark doorway into the sunshine. ‘I’m Doreen Lucas. How can I help you?’

  ‘We need to speak to Brian Faulkner. He lives some way back along the sea-bank, on the lane to Dredger’s Quay. Do you know him? Would you know where he is?’

  Doreen gave a weary smile. ‘Oh, Brian, oh dear . . . well . . .’ She paused for a moment and looked hard at Yvonne. ‘I think he’s ill, officer. I mean, not sick as in something physical, but poorly in his mind.’

  ‘He has had a lot of problems,’ said Jimbo, ‘but what makes you think he’s ill?’

  ‘I don’t know him well.’ She stared down at her feet. ‘I don’t think anyone does, but the other day he arrived on my doorstep, and he looked terrible. Pale and sickly, and he’d not shaved or anything.’

  ‘When was this?’ asked Jimbo.

  Doreen considered the question. ‘A week yesterday. Around six thirty in the morning.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Yvonne coaxed.

  ‘He asked me to look after Marti. That’s him you can hear barking out back. Marti is Brian’s cocker spaniel.’ She gave a half smile. ‘Called him after Marti Pellow, because he spends most of his life wet, wet, wet.’

  Yvonne grinned. She had always liked the Scottish group. And she could certainly hear the sharp bark of a dog. ‘Did he say when he’d be back?’

  Doreen shrugged. ‘He gave me food for a fortnight, one of the little dog’s beds and his lead and some toys.’ She pursed her lips. ‘To be honest I thought he’d be back by now, and although he never said where he was going, I suspected it was the hospital.’

  ‘That would make sense.’ Yvonne was thinking out loud. ‘And if it were about a psychological problem, he most likely wouldn’t mention it.’

  ‘He gave me some money too. Far more than I would have expected. Marti’s no trouble and luckily he gets on with Scrappy, my Jack Russell. To be honest, they are company for each other, because I work part-time in the food processing plant on the Greenborough Road.’

  Yvonne reached into her pocket and pulled out a card. ‘You’ve been really helpful. Would you mind ringing me when Brian returns? We are very worried about him.’

  ‘He hasn’t done something wrong, has he?’

  ‘Far from it, Doreen. He’s a good man. It’s his safety we are concerned about.’

  As they walked back up to the sea-bank path, Jimbo contacted the other crew and asked them to return to their vehicles. Yvonne rang the station and asked Sheila Robbins to ring round the local hospitals.

  They were just driving along the main road into town when the answer came back.

  Sheila confirmed that one week ago Brian Faulkner was booked into the psychiatric unit of Greenborough General for a full mental health evaluation, but he had never turned up. Sheila had been asked if she knew whether they should send him another new date for admittance.

  Yvonne closed her phone and gloom descended upon her. Somehow she was sure that, new appointment or not, Brian never made it to the hospital, and Scrappy would have company on a permanent basis.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Dave checked his watch. The boss had called a meeting in the CID room at twelve sharp, but all he could think about was the state he was in financially. Since the day he joined the force he’d always been in the black. He and Margaret had never lived beyond their means and, having no children, their money was their own. They had budgeted, invested, scrimped and saved to get their own home and make it comfortable. They had even taken advice on how best to save the money left to Margaret by her parents, and after years of watching every penny, they had finally felt secure. Wonderful! That had lasted for a single year, then Margaret had begun to show signs of dementia. Now some evil bastard had stolen every penny.

  As Dave walked slowly along the
corridor to the murder room he felt deep resentment and bitterness welling up inside him. The bank had assured him things would be sorted out, but right now he had a wife in an expensive care home and not a brass farthing to his name. If he ever got hold of Snipe, he would kill him. Plain and simple. He’d put his hands around his throat and choke the life out of him. And it wasn’t all about the money, although that was bad enough. The most important people in his life, apart from Margaret, were the team. And Snipe was taking each one of them in turn and crucifying them.

  He entered the room and felt a cold determination descend over him. His own situation was out of his hands, and Margaret was beyond his help, but hunting for Snipe was an action he could take. He would give his all to the search.

  Dave sat down and willed his mind to concentrate on every word the boss was saying. He had a job to do and he was bloody well going to do it.

  ‘I know you will all be pleased to hear that Operation Windmill is going to be taken over, mainly by Holland. Thanks to DC Cat Cullen, and her back-up crew, Travis and Stuart from IT who put her on the right path, we are now pretty sure that Magda Hellekamp’s death had nothing to do with shady business deals, money, or industrial espionage. The motive seems to have been hate, a purely personal vendetta. Our contract killer, the late Mr Keller, was hired by her cousin Daan, who had been terribly injured by Magda’s stalker, and who blamed her for his misfortune.’ DI Galena leaned against the edge of a table and added, ‘Obviously it’s too soon to have received official confirmation from Holland, but unofficially, using Cat’s pathway, the Dutch officers have already traced the emails that Magda received back to the cousin, and he is now helping the police with their enquiries. I’m reliably told that he is “cooperating.”’ She gave a wry smile. ‘I am also told that he is as mad as a box of frogs.’