by Iain Cameron
‘Hang on a minute though,’ she said, sitting upright, ‘some people carry their passports around with them for ID purposes and others might take it out to do something specific, like open a new bank account.’
‘I know. I needed to do something similar myself a few weeks back, but what about the car? Taking it indicates a strong intention to get away.’
‘What you seem to be saying,’ she said, ‘are some of these factors are more important than others.’
‘I’m starting to think that too and the only way to get to the bottom of it, is to examine the misper file in some level of detail and talk to everyone involved, but I believe if they take their passports and cars, it’s because they intended to scarper. If I’m right, we should be able to eliminate these two cases from this enquiry and not divert our attention away from these three more relevant cases.’
‘I’ll sort it out.’
His face screwed up in concentration. ‘We need to try and build up a picture of these women, who they are, where they lived, and how they disappeared. Fast. We’ll need to meet the detectives in charge of the cases and focus our discussions, as discreetly as possible of course, on the list of key factors and how similar they are to Langton. I emphasise the word ‘discreet’ as I don’t want to stir up a hornets’ nest and encourage the press and Chief Inspector Edwards to come breathing down our necks.’
She nodded. ‘The press would have a field day, criticising the police for arresting the wrong guy.’
‘Don’t I know it, and they were the very ones saying he was the one who did it. Now something you probably don’t want to hear, all this needs to be done by Friday of this week.’
‘Bloody hell, that’s a lot of work. Why so soon, what’s happening on Friday? Are you going away for sleazy weekend with Ms Jones?’
‘I wish, but no I’m not. I’ve got a meeting with Lisa Edwards to finalise the case against Brian Langton, in preparation for handing the whole thing over to the CPS the following week. If we’ve got any chance of stopping his prosecution, or at least putting it on hold, we need to come up with some good evidence to put in front of her.’
‘Well, if we’ve got what I think we’ve got, you’ll have plenty of ammunition because if Langton, Sandford, and the other two women were abducted by the same person, I don’t want to be the one to say it, but I think we’ve got a serial killer out there.’
TWENTY-SIX
DS Terry Hibbert placed three mugs of coffee on the table before closing the conference room door. Hibbert took a seat beside his colleague, DC Holden, with barely a glance at the man sitting opposite. He lifted up a thin file, placed it in front of him but didn’t open it.
‘So, if I understand this right, Detective Inspector Henderson, you’d like to review our Amy Sandford misper case as you can see similarities between it and the Kelly Langton case you’re investigating.’
‘That’s about right.’
The meeting was taking place in Haywards Heath Station, a modern, purpose-built nick housing offices, a computer centre and detention cells, smack-bang next to the town’s magistrates’ court. The central Sussex town didn’t experience the same level of serious crime existing in larger towns in the region like Brighton or Crawley, but with a young population, they caught their fair share of joy-riding, Friday night brawls, and knife crime.
Hibbert, a no-nonsense, straight-talking London detective, transferred to Haywards Heath from Bermondsey two years ago. The official line for the move was to provide a better environment for his girlfriend and her three daughters, but in reality he needed to get away from gangster Harry Lansdowne who had threatened to cut off his balls and feed them to a pet hawk he kept, for his part in nabbing and jailing his right-hand man, Billy Bonds.
Hibbert wore a mop of greasy, black hair over a dark face which he suspected was not sunburn but a throwback to his Southern European ancestry, the hands bore the numerous scars of fights, street brawls and difficult arrests as he always liked to be in the thick of the action, and he possessed a nasty, volatile temperament to match the rugged exterior.
‘Why the hell are you investigating this case at all,’ Hibbert said, looking up, ‘with her old man banged-up?’
‘It’s a good question. There is a review of the Langton case taking place at the end of this week, the final one before we hand over to the CPS and I want to go into this meeting fully convinced Brian Langton killed his wife. At the moment I’m not. So let’s just say I’m exploring other avenues.’
‘Do me a favour. If there’s a link between Langton and Sandford, it would mean there’s a bloody serial killer and I never saw one of them before, not even in the darkest reaches of East London.’
Even with the difference in ranks, Hibbert’s pugnacious nature shone through but despite the provocation, Henderson felt no desire to become his latest browbeaten opponent.
‘It’s too soon to draw any conclusions, Terry. The similarities I can see may be down to coincidence or suggest the two women have run away together. I don’t know but it’s what I’d like to find out. No bodies are in the mortuary, so technically no murder has taken place. I just want to take a look at this case and understand what happened, and for you to give me an idea of what you’re doing with it.’
DI Henderson was in Haywards Heath discussing the disappearance of Amy Sandford, DS Walters in Eastbourne investigating the disappearance of Barbara Dean, and DS Wallop in Crawley reviewing the case of Denise Quinn. Walters’ analysis of missing women revealed five cases but two were shown to be too dissimilar from the Langton case and eliminated from their investigation. Five was reduced to three, but three was still too many in Henderson’s book.
Hibbert put his hand back over the folder. ‘If I do this for you, maybe you can do something for me.’
‘Like what?’
‘Do you know anything about the Dennis King case?’
Henderson thought for a moment. ‘Are you talking about the security guard murdered during an armed robbery in Streatham about a month ago?’
‘Yep.’
‘Not much, other than the basics. Why?’
‘A group of villains strong-armed their way into a warehouse holding precious metals and Dennis the security guard put up too much resistance for their liking and so they shot him in the head. A father of four children and elder of the local church, if you can believe it.’
‘Have we caught them?’
‘Not yet, but this is where you come in. An old mate of mine at the Met believes one of your narks was on the fringes of the heist and knows a couple of the main players.’
‘Who’s the nark?’
‘He’s called Wayne something. Lives on the south coast.’
‘There’s only one nark I know called Wayne,’ Henderson said. ‘Wayne Garrett.’
‘Yep, him. My mate wants to talk to him. Only talk mind, there’s no question of him being in the frame unless he’s closer to the gang than we think.’
Henderson shook his head. ‘Sorry Terry, only last Friday we fished him out of the Channel. He had severe head wounds and knife punctures on his legs, leading us to believe he was tortured before he was murdered.’
‘Aw for fuck’s sake. It’s the only fucking lead we’ve got.’
Henderson gave him a few moments to cool, then said, ‘We think it was somebody local. Upset a Sussex drugs gang, most likely.’
‘Fine, fine,’ he said, as if to himself. ‘I’ll tell my mate.’
Hibbert opened the file in front of him with a resigned air, a man handing over the winnings of a bet but feeling somehow the other guy cheated.
‘Mrs Amy Sandford went missing Thursday last week after leaving the estate agents where she works, to meet a man at a property in Horsham which he said he wanted to rent out. The man, called Martin Swift, called Sandford Properties earlier in the day and made the appointment.’
‘She never returned to the office, doesn’t answer her mobile or respond to text messages and she hasn’t been seen since. T
he car she drove, a white Audi A5 convertible, and the personal items she carried, haven’t been found.’
‘Who reported her missing?’
‘Her husband Chris, about nine o’clock on Thursday night.’
‘I take it you’re looking for her car?’
Hibbert nudged the man next to him. ‘Kenny, your shout,’ he said.
‘Ah right, boss. The registration number is on the national database and a description of it and Mrs Sandford has been sent to all UK police forces. Our patrol cars have been briefed to keep a look out for it by searching lanes and rural roads when they’re out and about, but so far no luck.’
‘I told you before Kenny,’ Hibbert growled, ‘where do you see the word ‘luck’ in police work?’
‘Sorry boss.’
‘We conducted a basic search of the family house in Crawley,’ Hibbert continued, ‘and at the offices of Sandford Properties in Haywards Heath, an estate agent business Mrs Sandford owns with her husband, Chris. Between these two places, we uncovered many of her personal belongings, other than what you would expect to find in her handbag.’
‘What did you find?’
‘Credit and store cards, make-up, cash, her passport, laptop; you name it. Everything except her purse, phone, address book and a couple of other bits and pieces.’
In his head, Henderson ticked off many of the items on their MO list.
‘This appointment with Mr Swift…’
‘We’ve investigated it,’ Hibbert said shaking his head, ‘but drew a blank. A bloke called Davidson went into another estate agent in Horsham about four weeks ago and paid three months money up front and provided all the necessary references. The estate agent in question can’t get hold of him on any of the telephone numbers he supplied and at this moment, our focus is on the references and finding out if they are genuine, but I have my doubts.’
‘Did you get a description of Davidson or Swift?’
Hibbert shook his head. ‘Davidson did the rental by email and Swift made the appointment with Mrs Sandford by phone.’
‘What about her office? Did they keep a record of the call?’
‘Nope. The guy who took the call from Swift wrote his number on a piece of paper and gave it to Mrs Sandford, which she took it away with her. We’ll try to pick the number up from phone records when we get them, but I’m not betting my mortgage it’ll connect with our man.’
‘You think Davidson and Swift could be the same person?’
Hibbert shrugged. ‘Could be, might be a lover, friend or a relative for all we know.’
‘What about friends and family? Did she have plans to go away, or was she suffering from any sort of illness?’
‘We’ve made a start,’ Hibbert said. ‘We’ve talked to her husband and parents at the school the kids attend.’
‘Which school is it?’
Hibbert spoke wearily as if at the end of the day and not the start. ‘On Wednesday morning last week, Mrs Sandford dropped her two boys, Phillip 11 and Jennifer 8, off at Leapark School before heading into work. She does it every morning and picks them up again in the evening at four-thirty or an hour or so later if they’re at a school club or something. Her husband does it now and again, to give her a break.’
Bloody hell, Henderson thought, it mirrors Kelly Langton, but he kept his cool and said, ‘Very noble of him, I’m sure.’
A hand slapped the file. ‘That’s all we’ve got, so if there’s nothing else Detective Inspector...’
‘One more thing. Where are you planning to go from here?’
Hibbert crossed his arms and creased his face in concentration. It would be an ugly face at the best of times but now it looked malevolent. Why a woman would trust him in the same house as her three daughters was anyone’s guess.
‘The next stage is to step up the public appeal and interview a wider network of her friends. Her old man, Chris Sandford, is doing his bit by sticking her picture up in the offices of estate agents all over the South East. He’s head of some regional association or something, and like every bloody estate agent it’s been my misfortune to meet, he’s a mouthy bastard and them upstairs,’ he said, pointing at the ceiling ‘think he might cause us a whole load of grief.’
‘Not so good.’
‘Yeah, but if he thinks we’re a bunch of small town cops who can’t tell their arses from their elbows, he’s got another think coming. I can play dirty too.’
‘What’s your sense,’ Henderson said, ‘what do you think’s happened to her?’
Hibbert leaned over the table to face him. ‘To us in the sticks, we don’t assume every woman who runs off with her boyfriend falls into the clutches of an axe murderer, as you boys from Head Office seem to do.’
‘Watch your tongue, DS Hibbert and don’t make light of a serious enquiry.’
He smiled a devious little smile. ‘Your so-called connections with the Langton case will mean nothing if we convict Sandford’s husband.’
‘What makes you think you can do that?’
‘His alibi for the afternoon she disappeared is full of holes.’
‘How?’
‘He left the office half an hour after she did and stayed out for the rest of the day. I mean, he told us he went shopping before viewing a couple of properties but it doesn’t stack up. Show me a man who likes shopping and I’ll show you a bloody liar. He said he bought a take-away lunch but afterwards felt unwell and went home to lie down. Later, he called his secretary and told her he wouldn’t be back in. ‘
Henderson walked back to the car, deep in thought. The Sandford case had many, if not all of the hallmarks of the Langton case, but as much as this exercise was trying to prove his reservations about Brian Langton had some foundation, he could not believe, or didn’t want to believe, both women were taken by the same man.
He felt some sympathy for his Haywards Heath colleagues as Mr Sandford sounded like a man who might cause them a lot of trouble and would add to the pressure the detectives were under, but Hibbert was an unlikeable toad and he deserved much of the grief coming his way.
The police station was located close to the town centre and as a result, there were plenty of road signs directing him back to the A23. He decided to give his brain a rest from missing women and surly coppers and turned on the radio. It was still tuned to Radio 4 from earlier and he left it a few moments to see what came on.
It was Women’s Hour with an interesting piece about the number of lesbians appearing in mainstream drama, a subject which stirred his interest as he’d watched something the other night when the heroine all of a sudden announced she was gay. The actors feigned surprise but it was genuine on his part as there was no sign of it before and he cursed lazy scriptwriters for trying to spice up a weak story. No wonder he didn’t watch much television.
His phone rang and brought this small dose of R&R to a close.
‘Angus, Lisa Edwards here. Where are you?’
‘On my way back to the office. I was at Haywards Heath nick.’
‘Do you know DCI James there?’
‘I do, but I was talking to that poor specimen of a human being, DS Hibbert.’
‘I don’t know him but James called me complaining in words of one syllable about you muscling in on one of their cases, and he’s not too happy about it.’
Henderson knew James to be a perfect companion of Hibbert, taciturn, aggressive and a man who climbed the slippery slope with a record number of convictions and a reputation for clearing up low-level crime with a heavy hand.
‘It takes a lot to make DCI James happy,’ Henderson said.
‘I realise there’s a bit of bluster and chest thumping going on but what are you doing?’
He explained the purpose of his trip but steered clear of mentioning what Walters and Wallop were doing.
‘What do you mean there’s a connection between the two cases?’
‘The similarities between the Langton and Sandford cases are uncanny, down to how the women look, thei
r background, age.’
‘Good God.’
‘I’m not jumping to conclusions and suggesting there’s a serial abductor or killer but…’
‘I bloody hope not.’
‘I’m not ruling it out either, although the connections between the two women might also suggest they did this together, or the person assisting them used the same method to help them disappear.’
‘I understand. I won’t ask how you found this out, you can save your explanation until we meet on Friday, but Angus, no word of this must reach our lords and masters and nothing, repeat nothing must appear in the press. Am I being clear?’
‘As day.’
‘The slightest word and it would generate scepticism and panic in equal measure, the fall-out of which would see your head rolling down the street a minute or so before mine.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
‘So this nark of yours not only knew about the drug shipments coming into Shoreham,’ DS Walters said, ‘but he also knew something about an armed robbery in Streatham and the murder of a security guard. Where did you find him, Criminals Inc.?’
‘I’m not at liberty to divulge my operating methods,’ Henderson said, half in jest.
‘Fair enough but he did involve himself with some heavy characters and any one of them might have been tempted to chuck him overboard in concrete underpants.’
‘You have an interesting way with words.’
‘Maybe I’m dyslectic, it’s all the rage nowadays.’
‘Not being able to spell doesn’t make you dyslectic, thick maybe, but nothing medical.’
‘Cheeky git,’ she said, punching his arm, ‘but the guys who dropped him in the drink must be bloody incompetent for the ropes to have come loose like they did.’
‘If you want to get rid of somebody, the sea’s a great place to do it as there’s a hundred and one things that could happen.’
