by Unknown
He laughed silently, overcome by the irony.
‘The lawyer’ll tell you – we’re looking at a deal that’ll get us an open prison. One last chance. So I told Bryan we’d stop. I gave him a bottle of the Green Dragon – I told him if he wanted the stuff there’s a bloke on the docks can get it. But, like, it costs too – top end, two-fifty quid, more. It’s money he hasn’t got. But that was going to be his problem, not mine.’
‘What time did you see him?’
‘Three – maybe half past. I met him up on that ledge where he smoked. I told him again, that it was over. He wasn’t happy but, like, what’s he going to do about it? He said he’d find someone else. I told him, that’s dangerous, but if he wanted to, it was his life. But I was out of it. I left him about four – alive as you or I. Well, maybe just you.’ The effort of speaking had overcome him, and the laugh made him choke. Then he’d closed his eyes and slept.
Shaw sipped his Guinness. The Red House was silent.
‘So, there was a drugs trade. But Bryan Judd didn’t die trying to get out of it. He wanted in, not out.’
‘We believe this stuff?’ It was DC Lau, a bottle pressed to her lips. ‘What if they argued anyway? Judd might have gone for him, they struggle, and whack!’ She knocked the bottle on the table top.
‘What was there to argue about?’ asked Shaw. ‘Holme was going down – and they needed his expertise to do the switch. And we’ve checked his story with the brief and it all matches up. They’d agreed a change of plea, to guilty. There was too much hard evidence – CPS has the case, I’ve looked at the file. No, Holme was up for a plea bargain and there was a good chance he’d get it. There was nothing Bryan Judd could do about it.’
Chatter filled the room.
‘Let’s put drugs to one side,’ said Shaw, and the room fell silent. ‘I’m not saying forget it – I’m saying to one side, for now.’
Birley went to the bar to get refills, while Shaw nursed the Guinness, reading some of the reports from door-to-door. And three notes. The first was a progress report on tracking down Pete Hendre, the hostel resident Shaw had saved from the burning upper floor of number 6 Erebus Street, who’d slipped out of the Queen Vic despite police surveillance. CID at Hunstanton had checked out the church where he worked as a volunteer – no sign, and nothing at his flat, a one-room bedsit in sheltered housing in the town. But Shaw recalled that Kennedy had said Hendre was in town to see a solicitor about a will. Maybe it was an appointment he couldn’t afford to miss. He scrawled a note to remind himself to get a message out to the local branch of the Law Society, see if they could track down the lawyers.
The second note was from Newcastle CID. He flicked over a few pages. They’d traced Ben Ruddle, the teenager who’d got Norma Jean Judd pregnant in 1992. He’d been released from Deerbolt, County Durham, in 1994, having been found guilty on the burglary charge. There was no record of him returning home. He was back inside in 2000, for burglary again. The case came up at Castle Barnard, County Durham – thirty-one other offences of a similar nature taken into account. Out eighteen months ago from Acklington, again County Durham. Probation service had a record of him working in a market garden, outside Middlesbrough. He went missing six months ago, after picking up his wages. Teesside Social Services had a record of him turning up in a homeless shelter: six nights. He was interviewed – then, next day, off the radar.
‘Middlesbrough,’ said Shaw, handing the note to Valentine to read.
The third note was from Twine. The Military Corrective Training Centre at Colchester, the military’s last remaining ‘glasshouse’, had contacted St James’s. They needed help tracking down Petty Officer Andrew Sean Judd, who had absconded from custody while serving an eighteen-month sentence imposed by a military court at Portsmouth. He’d stolen canteen supplies and sold them on to corner shops in the city. Judd had been missing for three weeks. His home address was still listed as 14 Erebus Street.
Valentine read that note, too.
‘Let’s dig a bit more on both of those,’ said Shaw. ‘This final Ruddle interview – with the social – see if we can get a transcript. And pictures. Colchester will have a mug of Sean Judd, and Acklington’ll have Ruddle. Let’s get both.’
‘What you thinking?’ asked Valentine.
‘I’m thinking I’d like to see the faces.’
Shaw stood, fished a handful of drawing pins from his pocket, and pinned a foolscap piece of white paper onto the jaundiced wallpaper. Someone whistled and a couple clapped. It could have been a drawing of anyone, but there was no doubt that in its own way it was a work of art. Shaw’s skills as a forensic artist were known to them all – he gave regular lectures at Hendon, the Met’s training centre, and was one of only half a dozen officers with the qualification in the country. He wrote articles for Jane’s Police Review. But seen in the flesh, as it were, the result was startling. This wasn’t a police ID with pencils. It was a living person, a classic example of the kind of animated graphic which was making forensic art part of mainstream police work around the world, replacing the disjointed jigsaw of the traditional photofit.
It was a striking face. The principal feature was the gap at the bridge of the nose, especially wide, pushing the eyes apart. One of the front teeth was chipped. The bone structure was heavy, the hair thick and black; but the jaw was an oddity, unusually fine, weak even, and dimpled. It wasn’t a face you’d forget.
Shaw was proud of this because it was the first time in a live investigation he’d used the techniques of age-progression to produce an image. And it was the first piece of work he’d done since losing his right eye a year earlier. He’d been told by the occupational therapists that his ability to sketch – and to take photographs – would actually improve with monocular vision. In effect he didn’t have to close one eye, the classic artist’s pose. What he saw now, with one eye, was a 2D flat image – exactly the image he could transfer to the sketch pad. He hadn’t believed them, but now he could see the proof.
Shaw cut the chatter by tapping his Guinness glass with Twine’s Mont Blanc.
‘OK. I’ll come back to our friend here. But first – the big picture. We’ve all read the briefing note, so I won’t waste your time. The last few hours of the inquiry have opened up two possible ways forward. First, Jan Orzsak and Andy Judd. They’re tangled up together in the case of Norma Jean. Did one of them go up to the hospital last night – the anniversary of her disappearance? We need to re-examine the Orzsak alibi minute by minute; that’s a priority for tomorrow. The father’s still an outside possibility – let’s dig some more. George will put together a team. And when we can, let’s gently see if we can get Ally Judd and the priest to talk – what if Bryan Judd knew about their affair? Come to that, is it an affair, or is it just gossip?
‘Which leaves our major line of inquiry: illegal organ disposal. A human kidney was found under Judd’s body on the hospital incinerator. Question: is this a one-off illegal transplant in which Judd plays the key role of incinerating the incriminating tissue, or just a glimpse of a wide-ranging illegal system of organ trafficking and transplant run from within the hospital? If it is, and we have to be prepared for that, we’re looking for two groups of people.
‘One – clients. The rich, the unscrupulous. So far we’ve haven’t had a whiff. So let’s think about that. Two – donors, either willing, or unwilling. Pete Hendre, the man we got out of the top floor at number 6 when the place was on fire, said he didn’t want to come out because there was someone in the street he was afraid of: the Organ Grinder. Just that. I said afraid, but terrified is closer. Hendre’s done a runner – we need to find him. And we’ve got a missing person, violently abducted. The man with no name except Blanket. Someone came and found him under cover of darkness. Someone offered him a “deal” – which he declined to take. And there’s a chance that that someone was Bryan Judd’s killer. Obvious question: was Blanket, is Blanket, an unwilling donor? If he is we need to find him, fast.’
&nbs
p; Shaw put a finger on the sketch. ‘I think this is what he looks like. We don’t know his name. He’s a tramp who says he’s spent most of his life in Middlesbrough but has no accent to match and, according to Liam Kennedy, an unnerving amount of local knowledge. He was never seen without his blanket coat. Last night he was dragged, unconscious, out of the Sacred Heart of Mary by an unidentified man. The coat – which was left behind – was marked on the back with a rough sketch of a candle. I repeat, we need to find him. Let’s call in a few favours, try all our contacts, really rattle the cage. Separate question: who is he? We don’t know. But two long shots: Sean Judd – the victim’s oldest brother – is on the run from the Colchester military prison. Did he come back to Erebus Street? If he did, he’d know the Red Caps would be watching the house – or getting us to – so was that why he hid in the hostel? Or is it perhaps Ben Ruddle – the father of Norma Jean’s baby? Did he have unfinished business on Erebus Street? After all, if Norma Jean was murdered then the killer robbed him of two things – a wife-to-be, perhaps, and a child.’
They all studied Blanket’s face. Campbell, her six foot two inches perched on a tiny stool, asked the question they all wanted answered.
‘This image – where did it come from?’
‘Blanket’s possessions included a snapshot of a small boy in 1984. The picture – like most from that far back – is actually very high quality. I blew it up, then aged it thirty years. It’s not rocket science – but then it doesn’t have to fly.’
Everyone laughed except George Valentine.
‘How do you do it?’ asked Birley.
‘The FBI leads the world in this. In the eighties they started using it to track down missing kids. Usually there are two methods combined. On one hand you study the family and see if you can pick out genetic patterns. On the other there are general principles of craniofacial development – it’s obvious stuff, just look at your own kids if you’ve got any. Their faces grow down, and forward. Stuff like that. But the good news for us is that most faces retain an essential lifelong look – for anyone taking notes that’s gnomatic growth. We’ve all done it – looked at family pictures and instantly recognized Grandad seventy years ago. The trick is spotting what elements of the face will remain static.’
He sipped his Guinness. ‘Lecture over. The health warnings are clear, though – we’ve got no DNA input here, no parentage to feed into the mix, and I’ve used my instincts not a computer program to run the progression forward. That might be a plus, maybe not.’
‘Does it look like Sean Judd?’ asked Twine. ‘I mean, does it look like the family?’
They all looked then, trying to see Bryan Judd’s face.
‘Maybe,’ said Shaw. ‘But maybe not. We’re getting pictures of Sean Judd and Ruddle. We might strike lucky. Until then, keep an open mind. I ran it past Kennedy and he says it’s a close likeness – but then he didn’t really see that much past the curtain of hair so let’s not get too excited. Anyway, there is no doubt it’s the best picture we’ve got. You’ll all have a copy tomorrow. And I’ll get one to the Lynn News, Look East and Anglia Tonight.’
They drank in silence.
‘Paul’s going to go on summarizing all the evidence,’ continued Shaw. ‘Statements, anything we think’s relevant, all boiled down into a single online file. A thousand words, no more, every day. I want you all to read it when it’s posted. We’ll update as we go along. It’s links we’re looking for, so I want everyone up to speed. The organ transplant information remains confidential. Talk to nobody. If I see it in the press I’ll find out who leaked it. That’s not an idle promise.’
He stood, then drained his pint. ‘My round.’
He bought everyone a drink except himself. The sometimes cloying bonhomie, the esprit de corps of the CID, was never his natural environment. He could imagine his father staying late, chewing over the fat, eking out ideas. But that wasn’t his style. After being knocked out of a darts match at nine thirty he bought a few more drinks then slipped out to the loo in the yard, and from there through a gate in the fence, straight out into the street. The windows of the pub were open so that the sounds flooded out into the flagged street. He walked away from the noise of other people.
24
He’d booked the video suite at St James’s for nine forty-five. A windowless room behind the front desk, stinking of Flash and stale coffee. Closing the door he sat down, knowing that if Lena knew this was what he was doing, she’d effortlessly unleash that high-pressure anger he knew she kept just beneath the cool surface of her skin. Because this wasn’t what she’d meant when she said he needed to make or break the Tessier case; the chances of him finding anything on the video that was new after thirteen years was close to zero. No, this was an obsession, and he was feeding it. He felt furtive, guilty, and strangely excited. Outside, the desk sergeant was trying to book in a pair of drunks picked up on the quayside, their voices overloud, cloyingly cooperative. Around him he could hear the sounds of St James’s: a phone ringing unanswered, cars being shuffled in the vehicle pool, the cleaners running floor-polishers upstairs in CID.
Slipping in the video cassette he’d picked up from records he concentrated on the black, flickering screen, until he saw a white caption roll up.
I.O. DI Ronald Blake.
Tape owned by BC KL&WN.
Case. GV 5632 HH.
Then a picture, the usual grainy CCTV footage, black and white, made worse by the late-night lighting and a steady drizzle.
A T-junction Shaw knew well, where the road from Castle Rising crossed a long straight stretch of the B-road which ran out towards one of the bird reserves and a few lonely farmhouses. A deadly spot, even now, because of the thick woods which obscured the view left and right as you approached the junction. There’d been crashes before, despite warning signs, not least because the arrow-straight mile of open road was a magnet for joyriders. The junction was lit by a set of high lights on which was set the CCTV camera. The ticking digital clock showed the time on screen: 12.31 a.m. No date. But he knew that: 21 July 1997.
Shaw found himself trying not to blink in case he missed it. A fox trotted happily across the picture from the woods towards the village. Then the first car, on the dual carriageway, swishing past at a steady 60 m.p.h., wipers going.
A rat dashed along the verge.
Then it happened, so quickly it made him jump. A car crossing the picture on the dual carriageway at 60 m.p.h. – perhaps a little faster. And out of nowhere a second car, from the village, cutting across, swerving at 80, 85 m.p.h. It caught the first car side-on, shunting it to the far carriageway, where it turned over once and then bounced on its suspension. Then an unnatural stillness. The street lights caught the smashed glass on the tarmac. The second car, the one that had caused the accident, had left the picture.
He replayed it to that point in slow motion. Since the tape had first been viewed in 1997 new technology allowed the images to be viewed in separate frames, enhanced, magnified. But Shaw saw nothing new, except perhaps the smudge of debris and splinters at the point of impact, like a breath on a cold day. He froze the film several times and zoomed in on the licence plate of the second car but a combination of the speed and the poor film quality made it impossible to read.
Then he let it run on – still in slow motion. The second car, its bonnet buckled, trundled back into the picture, at the edge of vision, up on the verge in the shadows under some trees. Nothing moved for forty-five seconds – then three youths got out, two from the rear seats, one from the driver’s. In the shadows where the car was Shaw could just see the windscreen and the wipers still wiping. The three wore baseball caps, T-shirts, jeans, and each had something wrapped round his lower face – a sweatshirt, a football scarf… That’s what they’d done in that dead forty-five seconds – because they knew there were cameras, so they’d masked their faces. The three walked to the other car and peered in through the shattered side windows. One of them vomited at his feet, the other two st
arted fighting, pushing, almost hugging. Then they all stood still, watching a spreading black stain which had formed beneath the passenger-side’s buckled doors.
One walked towards the CCTV mounted by the T-junction and looked up between the peak of his cap and the scarf round his neck and lower face. Cool, appraising. He looked back at the Mini parked under the trees, perhaps satisfying himself the camera couldn’t read the plates. But they couldn’t be sure the camera hadn’t caught the licence number on the way past, thought Shaw. Another one of the three went to the far side of the wrecked car and pulled open a door, leaning in, appearing again holding something in the crook of his arm. Something fragile, something wrapped. Then they all went back to the car. When they drove off they backed out of the picture, to avoid getting close to the camera again. The victim’s car stood alone, and Shaw watched it until he saw a small movement in the rear side window – a hand, splayed once, then dropping out of sight.
The written report which went with the CCTV had formed the basis of the press article Shaw had read to Lena and laid out the details found at the scene: the two dead OAPs in the rear seats. The driver, neck broken, but still alive. The tyre marks. And the evidence of the CCTV itself – a narrative description of the film Shaw had just watched. No IDs possible for the three men, or the car, although the paint job on the vehicle was distinctive – a central white band over the doors and roof – leaving the boot and bonnet in another colour. From the hue it looked grey-blue.
The film was eight minutes long, and Shaw watched it six times. At first he concentrated on the fragile bundle, not mentioned in the report. Too small for a child. It was a guess, and only a guess, but it may have been that the original CID team had withheld the fact one of the youths had taken something from the car – a detail they could use to weed out crank confessions. But what was in the bundle?
