“Yeah. You don’t seem surprised.”
“I’m not. And as soon as I’ve devoured that pie I can see coming, I’ll tell you why.”
Once we’d eaten, he bought us another round – no whisky, this time – and continued. “This Adamson-Woods business is a good story, but DCI Martindale and his squad are keeping it to themselves. Luckily, I have other sources. Apparently Woody was a suspected paedophile. That was why he moved up here from Essex. Not because his wife died, but because it became too hot for him.”
“What about the wife’s death? Could there be anything in that?”
“Nah, she’d been terminally ill for a while. It didn’t surprise me that the creep had been in the Army Cadet Corps in Colchester after he retired, though the kids there might have been a bit too old for him. You can see my interest, naturally: world-class athlete’s grandfather exposed as a kiddie-fiddler.”
“Do you think it might have something to do with his death?”
“Yeah!” Fielding had his glass to his lips, and narrowly avoided spilling his drink all over himself. “You don’t believe that Northern Ireland bullshit?”
“No. I assume most of the locals in East Rudham know about these allegations?”
“Exactly right. It didn’t take Woody long to start sniffing around some kids there. Someone with the right connections looked into his background – you know the score. Even though you’re freelancing, I’m quite happy to give you everything I have on the murder, but I’ve got to be back in the office in a few minutes. What do you have to tell me about Cowan?”
“In truth, I’d planned to fob you off at this point.” Fielding’s face fell, so I continued quickly, “But I’m not going to. I’m not very good at first impressions, but you seem like a decent feller. If you can give me your word that you won’t jeopardise the police inquiry, then I’ll tell you something no other reporter in the country knows.”
“What do you mean by jeopardise?”
“What I’m about to tell you concerns an ongoing investigation. You can’t use it until I give you the all-clear.”
“You’re worse than my damned editor! It might be too late by then.”
“It won’t. I’m an official consultant and I’ll know as soon as there’s an arrest.” I considered Vaughan, and added, “Which might be soon at the rate things are going.”
“And I’m just going to have to trust you on that?” he asked.
“Just like I’m going to have to trust you to wait. If you don’t, not only will I lose my job, but I’ll probably be charged with obstruction, interference, and anything else they care to throw at me.”
“Alright, alright. I’ll wait.”
I hoped I hadn’t misjudged him. “Your word?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s a serial killer in the Army. The killer has murdered at least four soldiers so far; the latest one was two weeks ago, near York.”
Fielding’s mouth opened, but he said nothing for a few seconds. “That’s phenomenal. Talk about a good story…wait – hold on a minute! It’s not Cowan is it – the killer?”
“Keep your voice down!” After hearing about her grandfather I felt too sorry for Cowan to bring her any more trouble. She had enough crosses to bear.
“Sorry.”
“No, it isn’t Cowan. She was the last victim’s running coach; that was the only connection.”
“You sure? You seem a little too interested in her grandfather. Come on, what’s the real story?”
“The only story is that I stumbled onto Adamson-Woods via Operation Claymore – the codename for the inquiry – and I thought the Northern Ireland connection was a smokescreen. Obviously, I was right.”
Fielding frowned in disbelief. “So you came all the way down here from York?”
“I’m on my way to Colchester; it was en route. Should we do this later?”
“Are you crazy? No chance.”
“What about your editor?”
Fielding checked his watch. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” He removed a mobile phone, a pen, and a notebook from his jacket pocket. He switched off the phone and opened the notebook to a blank page. “Shoot.”
I gave him the names of all four victims as well as the dates, times, and places of their murders. I also gave the cause of death, but didn’t mention they’d all been found naked.
“What about the suspects?” he asked.
“I can’t tell you that – not until they make an arrest.”
“Alright. So if Cowan was only,” he checked his notebook, “Haywood’s running coach, how come you’re investigating Woody?”
“Cowan was one of dozens of Haywood’s associates interviewed by the police. Her alibi was that she spent the weekend down here with Adamson-Woods. The North Yorkshire detectives aren’t interested, but I’m a nosy military cop with too much time on his hands.”
“You’re thinking maybe she murdered Haywood, but didn’t trust Woody to keep quiet, so came back and bumped him off?”
“She was in Harrogate when Adamson-Woods was killed.”
Fielding tapped his pen against his teeth. “But you’re still here.”
“I told you; I’m on my way to Colchester.”
“Working on Claymore?”
“Yeah.”
Fielding regarded me for a moment. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what’s in Colchester?” I smiled and shook my head. “Then answer me this: why come to me? Why haven’t you gone to Martindale and the police?”
“Because it’s complicated. I’m…freelancing, as you said. The North Yorkshire cops came to me. I gave them what I could, but then Adamson-Woods grabbed my interest. Different county, different cops, different case. I’d read your articles, so I rang you on a whim.” I shrugged. “There’s nothing more to it.”
“Alright, I’ll buy it. But are you sure the coppers will let you know when they make an arrest?”
“I am. Tell me about Adamson-Woods the paedophile.”
He glanced at his watch again. “I’m going to have to keep this short. When Woody retired, he and his wife bought a house in a village called Chappel, a couple of miles outside Colchester. He was very friendly with the neighbours’ kids, and started taking some of them down to visit the garrison. He’d been doing this for about a year when one of these kids was overheard by a school teacher, telling a friend he’d been abused. The kid was questioned by the teacher and then his parents, but wouldn’t say anything. There was a similar case the next year – that would be 1980 – by which time most of the local parents were aware of his reputation.”
“And the next year he joins the Cadet Corps,” I volunteered.
“There was no reason to stop him. No arrests, no charges – he wasn’t ever even interviewed until 1985, when a ten-year-old went missing. The kid was the younger brother of one of his cadets and had been seen with Woody. Again, no arrests, no charges, but he resigned from the Corps a few months later. I assume the Army put pressure on him. His real problem came in 2002, while his wife was dying. An eighteen-year-old named Martin Coleman who was in prison for various violent and drug-related offences claimed Woody had abused him ten years before. Coleman wanted to press charges and Woody was arrested. The CPS wouldn’t take it to court, though, not enough evidence.”
“But Adamson-Woods decided to bug out?”
“Exactly right. Everyone knew about him by then, so he moved to East Rudham. Three years later, Coleman came round and threatened him. The poor bloke was on one of his rare furloughs from custody and ended up resisting arrest when Woody called the coppers. Word spread through the village like the proverbial wildfire. That’s when the somebody with the connections I mentioned decided to look into things. Woody had already been taking some of the local kids on trips down to the Army and Air Force bases at Swaffham and Thetford. You can bet all that stopped in a hurry when they found out about Chappel.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t move again,” I said.
“Who
knows how his sick mind works.”
“Tell me what you didn’t print in your article about the murder.”
Fielding ran his hand through his hair. “Not much. A couple of the villagers seem to think Woody associated with a man named Bourg in Cromer. Bourg is on the sex offender’s register. My theory – and this is purely speculation – is that it was a falling out amongst thieves. I think Woody became a threat to Bourg in some way and Bourg killed him.”
“What do you know about Bourg?”
“Not a lot. He used to own a newsagent’s in Spalding, in Lincolnshire. He was arrested for indecently assaulting and raping nine teenage boys over a five-year period. He spent six years in prison and then moved to Cromer two years ago. I don’t know how he met Woody, but I know he visited occasionally. And the coppers have told me to keep away, which makes me suspicious.” Fielding checked his watch again. “If I don’t go back to work, they really will sack me. Are you hanging around for a while?”
“I’m not sure. Why?”
“I’m covering the funeral tomorrow. It’s in Fakenham Parish Church. Fancy coming along?”
I’d arranged to meet Webber at 37 Section first thing on Monday, so I wasn’t in any rush, and had been considering going to the funeral anyway. I had a number of conflicting emotions where Cowan was concerned, and while I wasn’t absolutely clear about my intentions, I definitely wanted to meet her again. I was curious about the exact nature of her relationship with her grandfather. She must have known about the allegations, but she’d continued to visit him. Was she naïve, like Bavister’s wife, or was there more to it? I also wanted to apologise for what had happened with Lawson. I couldn’t blame him for trying to rattle her, but I didn’t want to make an enemy of her. I’d pay my respects at the funeral and then head for Chalkney Wood.
“Yeah, okay. Give me your mobile number and I’ll call you to confirm.” Fielding scribbled it in his notebook, tore out the page, and handed it to me. “Do you know if the police have Bourg under surveillance?” I asked.
“I doubt it, but – like I said – they won’t tell me anything.”
“I don’t suppose you know whereabouts in Cromer he lives?”
His brow creased. “I might. Why?”
“I told you I’m a nosy bastard and now I’ve got even more time to kill. It would also be useful to know who he lives with.”
He smiled, took the piece of paper back, and wrote the address down. “You didn’t get this from me.”
“Of course not.”
“He lives alone, as far as I know, and I’d like to hear what he has to say for himself – if anything.”
“You will.”
We shook hands again, thanked each other, and he hurried back to work.
I sat and stared at my half-empty Guinness for a while, processing all the new information and thinking about Cowan some more. Poor girl the neighbour had called her. Poor girl indeed. I decided that Adamson-Woods had either abused her as a child and retained some kind of dominant influence over her as an adult, or she’d been oblivious to his true character. I wanted it to be the latter, and convinced myself it was the more likely option, as all the victims Fielding had mentioned had been little boys. Nothing could take their suffering away; I just hoped Cowan hadn’t suffered with them.
My dark thoughts were interrupted by my phone: Lawson.
“Hello, Alex.”
“Are you still in Colchester?”
“King’s Lynn.”
“What the fuck are you doing there? Never mind. A funny thing happened on the way to the forum. While the governor interviewed Vaughan yesterday, I went to his quarter with a search warrant. The fat man has a collection he calls militaria, but is actually all SS Totenkopfverbände and Einsatzgruppen, the camp guards and executioners. While we were there Mrs V told me she wanted to see us today while hubby was at work. Guess what she told us?”
I had no idea, but Lawson’s excitement was obvious. “Vaughan knew Keogh?”
“Better than that. The fat man was out of sight from noon till four o’clock on Sunday the fourth. He came back all hot and bothered and wouldn’t tell her where he’d been. We went to the barracks to find him and his boss said he hadn’t turned up for work. Back at his quarter we found Mrs V in tears. He’s packed a bag, taken the car, and legged it!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Lawson made up my mind for me. If the MIT were hunting Vaughan, then it seemed my role in Claymore was indeed over. I could have cancelled my appointment with Webber, picked Siân up, and gone back to York. I probably would have if it hadn’t been for the skirmish on Tuesday and my stubborn streak. Siân was safer with Maikel until Mac discovered whether our assailants were soldiers or not, and I wasn’t going anywhere until I’d seen Webber, even if Vaughan confessed to all four murders. I had four days to wait and the better part of twenty-four hours before Adamson-Woods’ funeral, so it was either spend the afternoon finishing The Gift of Death or go to Cromer on a fool’s errand. I chose the fool’s errand.
I finished my Guinness and walked back to the Bank House. I changed into a polo shirt, chinos, and leather trainers, and had a chat with the manager. Mr Harris was Irish, but he’d spent most of his life in East Anglia, and possessed that rare gift of being able to keep directions simple. I had deliberately bought a car without Sat Nav, and following directions was preferable to pulling over every few minutes to check the map on my phone. I was back on the A148 by three, headed east, all the way to the sea. Cromer was forty-five odd miles away, an hour to an hour and a half’s drive depending on the traffic. I made good time through the Rudhams, skirted around Fakenham, and passed the quaintly named village of Little Snoring.
The mission on this occasion was mundane, my sole intention to ask Bourg a few questions about his buddy Adamson-Woods. I didn’t have a plan as such, but there was a chance I’d be able to persuade him to talk. Bourg was a convicted and registered sex offender, and might not want his neighbours – or the staff at the Sun – to know about his predilections. Or, he might not care, in which case I’d just play it by ear. Whatever happened, however, I wasn’t going to risk doing anything illegal. If my journey to the coast proved as unproductive as I suspected, at least the drive itself was pleasant, through picturesque countryside on a bright and breezy spring afternoon.
Mr Harris had told me to look out for the Decorated Gothic tower of Cromer Parish Church – apparently the highest in East Anglia – and I saw it long before I reached the town. He couldn’t recall Cliff Drive specifically, but knew that the cliffs of Cromer were to the south-east of the town centre, in between the pier and the golf club. My instructions were to find the church and then follow the signs for the Royal Cromer Golf Club. The fields gave way to houses and streets and I passed Cromer railway station, my next landmark. I was forced to turn left instead of right at the first intersection, but ended up in Church Road anyway.
The signs took me onto Overstrand Road, which sounded promising, and I saw Cliff Avenue off towards the sea. I’d already left the tiny town centre behind, and the area atop the cliffs boasted several greens, plenty of trees, and a host of B&Bs, hotels, and guesthouses. Cliff Drive was next up, a crescent which ran parallel to the coastline and then looped back to Overstrand Road. I found Bourg’s place quickly, a mansion squeezed in between a smaller house to the north-west and a B&B to the south-east. I drove past, took the dog-leg back to Overstrand, and then parked up on the roadside before I reached the intersection.
I locked the car and walked back to the shore. The sea breeze was strong, tugging at my shirt, but the sun warm, and the air fresh and salty. I’d been looking forward to the sight, smell, and sound of the sea, but they were lost on me as I turned left at the dog-leg. In truth, I was a little nervous about meeting Bourg. I had no idea what to expect. I’d been lucky enough to deal with very few sex offenders as a military cop. There’d been half a dozen rapists, but no child molesters. The aftermaths of the rapes I’d seen had disturbed me, and would st
ay with me forever, but child rape seemed one step closer to evil. I wondered what sort of monster awaited me.
The sea came into view, then Cromer pier, which looked at least two hundred metres long. I could still see the church tower, so I knew exactly where I was. I kept an eye out for plainclothes police officers, though I imagined they’d be tucked away in one of the nearby houses if Bourg was under surveillance. I hoped he wasn’t, but it was all the more reason to behave myself. I smiled at an elderly couple out for a walk, and heard children playing close by. I repressed an involuntary shudder as I crossed Cliff Drive.
Like most of the buildings with a sea frontage, Bourg’s home filled the whole width of the plot of land. The residence was built on two levels, consisting of a house on the lower left and a bungalow on the upper right. The bungalow joined the house as a mezzanine floor, and had a double garage on the other side. The red-brick driveway was about twenty metres long, matching a very tall chimney that gave the roof a distinctive profile. There was no gate, wall, or hedge for privacy from the road, and only a low timber fence to mark the boundaries with each neighbour. The lawn was flat and featureless, with the exception of a cluster of birdbaths in front of the garage.
The transparency seemed overstated to me, and made me more rather than less suspicious. At a rough estimate, the property must have been worth half a million pounds. Anyone who paid that kind of money would expect some kind of seclusion from their neighbours, especially when one of them was a B&B packed with tourists. Bourg was protesting too much and my skin crawled at the thought. I also wondered how a man who had spent six of the last eight years in prison could afford the place, but that wasn’t really the issue. The issue was: how could a man who had ruined the lives of nine children serve a mere six years in jail, and – more importantly – how many more lives would he ruin in the future?
Steps led down to the front entrance, a very ordinary PVC door which looked out of place in such a grand design. I overcame my revulsion and knocked loudly. No answer. Thirty seconds later, I tried again. While I waited, I noted that access to the rear of the premises was via a narrow pathway to the left. I was about to knock again, when I changed my mind, and followed the path. I hopped over a gate, and landed in the back garden. If anyone – cop or otherwise – asked me what I was doing, it was quite natural to assume that Mr Bourg was sitting in his garden, enjoying his sea view.
Bloody Reckoning Page 20
