by Angie Smith
“We had a bit of a heart to heart when he arrived on Friday, and he’s promised he will this time, but I’m getting fed up of feeling like this; it’s torturing me. The only time the pain goes away is when I’m sleeping. As soon as I wake it’s there, just like a dagger in the heart. Perhaps it would be better if I could go to sleep and not wake. . .”
“You scare me when you say things like that. Maybe it’s time to move on; look for someone else.”
“Yes, but that’s easier said than done.”
“Pauline, you could have any man you wanted, just look at what you’ve got to offer; you’re beautiful, intelligent, sophisticated, you’ve wealth beyond most people’s dreams.”
“I don’t want someone who only wants me for the money; I need someone to love me, care for me, appreciate me, and most of all make me happy. All the money in the world doesn’t buy that. I just wish I could shake off this depression; it’s like a dark cloud that follows me around.”
“Have you considered counselling? Some professional support might help.”
She hesitated. That’s not a bad idea. “Could you recommend anyone?”
“Not really, but I’m sure you’ll be able to find some expensive clinic the celebs use.”
“Mmm…” she was thinking again. “I’ll start looking in the morning; I can’t fight this alone anymore.”
Friday 30th March.
Detective Inspector Higgson’s investigation into the death of Abdul Hussain concluded that suicide was the most probable cause. There was clear evidence of difficulties in Hussain’s private life and of work-related pressures. On the night of his death he’d left home just after nine o’clock intending to pick his son up in Slaithwaite. But on the way something caused him to deviate and instead drive up to Scammonden Dam and park in the car park where he and a work colleague — Mrs Julie Noble — regularly ate lunch together. His phone had then been switched off between 9.21 and 11.12 p.m. A suicide note in the form of an e-mail had been composed and sent to Julie Noble at 11.16 p.m., with the phone being once again turned off one minute later. The suicide note ended with roman numerals, indicating the time; a usual ruse of Hussain’s, reinforced by Mrs Noble and other work colleagues. After sending the e-mail it was presumed Hussain had got out of the vehicle, leaving his keys and taking an 18mm rope. He then set the car alight with an accelerant - the remains of a plastic petrol can had been recovered from the burnt-out wreck. Either splashes from the accelerant or sparks from the fire caused two small burn marks on Hussain’s neck. It then took him around thirty-five minutes to walk the two and a half miles around the dam up to the bridge, where he tied the rope to the balustrade railings and hanged himself. Only Hussain’s fingerprints were discovered on the handrail where the rope was secured and the west-bound traffic camera at Junction 23 of the M62 motorway had not recorded any activity on the bridge that night as it was a new moon and in complete darkness.
Higgson’s report was finalised and ready for the coroner.
Chapter 3
Wednesday 16th May.
Detective Superintendent Greg Woods was forty-nine, married, with twin teenage daughters; he was six foot, four inches tall, of slim build, with very short bristly fair hair, giving the appearance of being almost bald. He rarely smiled, had chiselled, well-defined features and his presence was both noticeable and intimidating. Woody, as he was sometimes called by his colleagues in the West Yorkshire Police, headed up the Murder Investigation Team and was renowned for solving high-profile cases.
He was known for being a perfectionist with a lightning quick brain that focused on detail. He hardly ever needed to take written notes and possessed the exceptional ability to recall historical criminal investigations with pin-point accuracy.
Woods’ ethos was based on experiential learning, and his high expectations, combined with his inability to accept that humans were fallible, formed his main weakness. Consequently, he did not suffer fools and his reputation preceded him.
Unusually for Woods, as he drove into the Police HQ car park, he was running late. Damn, he looked at his watch; and, while awkwardly trying to put on his jacket, he sprinted over to the building. He ran up the stairs two at a time. “Morning everyone,” he shouted as he entered the Incident Room. “What the hell’s wrong with the traffic?” he asked no-one in particular, as he headed over to his office.
“Aye, the motorway’s closed between 39 and 40,” McLean called across.
Woods nodded an acknowledgement, but didn’t respond. Instead he disappeared into his room and scanned through the various messages scribbled on pieces of paper scattered around his desk. Nothing too urgent, he thought as he grabbed his briefcase and went back out into the room. “I’m going up to see Foster; I should’ve been there at 9.00. Hopefully he’s been delayed too.”
“Is this a first?” Barnes asked sardonically. “Should I write it in the almanac?”
“Haven’t you got work to be getting on with?” Woods snapped as he headed for the door, catching sight of her waving and smiling sweetly at him.
“Aye, you’re pushing your luck, Maria,” McLean said. “He doesn’t take kindly to being ridiculed.”
“Oh, I don’t know; he’s not as bad as people would have you believe.”
“Aye, he is, you’ve only been here a month. Don’t get on the wrong side of him, not if you’re planning on staying around.”
Woods knocked on Detective Chief Inspector Malcolm Foster’s door. He listened carefully and after a few seconds he heard Foster say, “Come in.”
Damn, how’s he managed to get through the traffic? He walked in and said good morning.
“I thought we were supposed to be meeting at 9.00,” Foster said, glancing at his watch.
“Sorry, it took me thirty minutes to get across town.”
“The motorway’s closed.” Foster again looked at his watch, but this time purposefully. “Nevertheless, I’ve another meeting at ten, so we need to get a move on. The reason I wanted to see you was to ask how Barnes is fitting in.”
Woods’ hackles rose. He’d raced to the meeting thinking there was some important reason he’d been summoned, only to discover it was to discuss his new detective sergeant. “It’s difficult to say. She appears to be getting on with everyone, but they’re all very wary and are keeping their distance. I’ve decided to have her reporting to me, which has ruffled a few feathers, but after our last discussion I thought it better if she had strong leadership; someone who doesn’t tolerate the sort of behaviour she’s been accused of in the past.”
“That’s exactly why I chose you. I don’t want any repetition of the fanciful accusations she’s come out with.”
Woods sighed; this wasn’t news, he’d heard it all before, but Foster continued, “She’s got an overactive imagination that will land her in serious trouble. You’re her last chance, Greg. Any more problems and she’s out.”
Woods rubbed his chin, and decided to throw a spanner in the works. “To be honest, she’s got the makings of a good detective; if you keep her busy she produces some excellent work, you just need to push her to get the best results. I think. . .” He stopped mid-sentence allowing Foster to answer the telephone. He could only hear half of the conversation, but got the gist of it.
Foster replaced the receiver. “Did you know Paul Mateland at the Motorway Unit?”
Woods nodded. “I wouldn’t say he was on my Christmas card list.”
“He was killed last night on the motorway. Someone threw a drain cover off the footbridge between 39 and 40; it smashed straight through his windscreen.”
Woods frowned. “If I’m not mistaken, that bridge is covered with a steel cage to prevent that sort of thing.”
“They must have thrown it off the top then. Will you get out there now? The Accident Investigation Team is on site; you’ll need to speak to Sergeant Mick Greenwood.”
“That’s ironic; Mateland’s team investigating their leader’s demise.”
“I’ll need you t
o head up the investigation; the Chief Constable will want a speedy conclusion.”
He stood up. “Okay, I’m on my way.”
When Woods returned to the Incident Room he looked around. Where is she now?
“Aye, she’s in the canteen, if you’re looking for Maria,” McLean said.
Woods sighed. He put his briefcase in the office and came back out. “Mateland from Traffic was killed last night.”
“What happened?” McLean asked, looking aghast.
Woods gave the detective inspector a quick update and then made for the door. “I’m heading out there now, that is, if I can find madam.”
“Aye, good luck,” McLean said quietly to himself.
Woods bumped into Barnes on the staircase; she was carrying a sandwich, “You’ll have to eat that in the car,” he said brushing past her. “Come on we haven’t got all day.”
“Where’re we going?”
“Motorway footbridge between 39 and 40. I’m thinking of throwing you off. Do you know how to get to it on foot?”
“Y… yes,” she replied, running after him.
He glanced over his shoulder and noticed her scowling. “It was a joke, Maria. You’ll need to get used to my sense of humour.”
She caught up with him as they reached the car park, “A joke is a story, anecdote or wordplay that’s intended to amuse. I didn’t think your comment was very amusing - did you?”
“No, Maria, you’re absolutely right. It wasn’t.” He shook his head slowly and sighed, “I’ll try harder next time. So how do we get to the bridge on foot?”
“It’s easier if we go in your car.”
“Yes, Maria, I can appreciate that. I wasn’t intending walking there, I just didn’t think you could actually drive right up to it.”
They arrived at his car.
“Oh… I see, well yes you can. I go out running that way on an evening. Why are we going there?”
“Inspector Mateland from the Traffic Unit was killed last night. Someone threw a drain cover off the bridge.”
She stood motionless.
“Come on, get in,” he gestured, opening the car.
She climbed in the passenger seat and fastened the seat belt. “I wonder if this has anything to do with PC Wright,” she said.
“Why do you say that?”
“He’s having an affair with Mateland’s wife.”
Woods hesitated. “Are you sure, or is this gossip you’ve heard in the canteen?”
She scrunched up her nose and appeared wounded. “No, it’s a fact. I’ve seen them both together up by that very bridge.” There was absolutely no doubt in her words.
Woods rolled his eyes. “How do you know Mateland’s wife?”
“I don’t, but I know John Wright; he works in Mateland’s team.”
“Yes, but how do you know he’s scr...” Woods hesitated, “having an affair with Mateland’s wife?”
“A few weeks ago I was out running up by the bridge and I saw two cars there; John Wright and a woman were sitting in one of them, obviously up to no good. Wright clearly recognised me because he looked away and tried to hide his face, so I made a mental note of the registration numbers and when I got to work the next day. . .”
“You checked them out on the systems,” Woods exclaimed, raising his eyebrows.
“Yes, one belonged to Wright and the other to Mateland’s wife. I recognised her from the photograph on her driving licence. You see they’re having an affair.”
“Maria, we need to have a long hard discussion about protocols.”
“You won’t be saying that if it turns out to be John Wright who threw the drain cover off the bridge.”
Woods was becoming exasperated. “It still doesn’t prove they were having an affair. They may have just been talking.”
“They were half dressed, for goodness sake, what kind of talking do you call that?”
He stared at the dashboard. Why did I agree to have you in my team? He put the keys in the ignition and started the engine. “Which way do we need to go?”
As they pulled up at the bridge it was still cordoned off with police tape and there was a PC preventing unauthorised access.
“I didn’t even know this dirt track existed,” Woods said looking around.
“The farmers use it to access the fields.”
“Is this where you saw Wright and Mateland’s wife?”
“Yes, up there,” she pointed. “It’s lovely place for a chat.”
Woods was annoyed. “Maria… I cut you more slack than anyone else in the force, don’t be facetious. Otherwise we’re going to fall out.” He could tell she was stifling a smile.
“Sorry, it was a joke,” she said. “You’ll need to get used to my sense of humour.”
He chuckled, and smiled uncharacteristically. “Touché, Maria… touché,” he echoed, “Come on, let’s go find Greenwood.”
“Oh, great. The man who believes he’s God’s gift to women. I bet it’ll be less than ten seconds before he’s trying to chat me up.”
He didn’t respond; instead he was out of the car and walking over to the PC; he held up his ID and was allowed through. Barnes scurried along behind. Before going onto the bridge he stopped and examined the semi-circular steel cage that surrounded the walkway.
In effect the bridge was not dissimilar to a large animal enclosure. The metal cage over the walkway enabled pedestrians to walk through, but prevented anything of significant size being dropped onto the traffic. The 4.5m diameter semi-circular structure was constructed in 2m long sections; there were thirty-five bays in total, making the overall length of the cage 70m. Each of the thirty-six semi-circular column posts were in two halves, bolted together at the top and fixed to the bridge deck; they were connected together by horizontal box rails positioned equally around the semi-circle and these were lined with square mesh caging: 25mm square at low level and 75mm square at higher level, with horizontal plate covering the joint between the two. The fixing bolts were security fastenings and the nuts had been welded to the structure to prevent removal. In addition there was an extending section of metalwork outside the cage, five bays from each end, which formed a greater semi-circle above the extremities and was there to deter anyone from walking out on top or around the sides of the cage.
Woods stood pondering. Whoever designed this did an excellent job; it’s virtually vandal proof. He walked onto the bridge. The motorway below had been reopened and traffic was finally free-flowing, but there was a 50mph speed limit in place due to extensive roadworks on both carriageways; only the middle and outside lanes were open. He turned to Barnes. “Maria, take some photos of how the cage is constructed, the bolts, fixing and the various rails.”
She did as requested. Meanwhile he spotted Greenwood at the far end of the bridge chatting to a young female PC; he headed towards them, but something caught his eye on the northbound carriageway. He stopped, went over to the rail and looked down on the approaching traffic.
Greenwood approached them. “Hello Superintendent,” he said, and then turning to Barnes, “Hi Maria, it’s good to see you again. I note you’re working with the big guns now; I’m impressed.”
“I was wrong; five seconds,” she said.
But Woods was concentrating on something else. “What’s the story, Mick?” he asked, still watching the oncoming traffic.
“Mateland was travelling up the northbound yesterday evening at 9.30, on his way to work to start the night-shift at 10.00. The cameras at Junction 39 show he was travelling in the middle lane doing 50mph, and there was light traffic with no HGVs in the vicinity as he started to approach the bridge, so the drain cover didn’t fall off the back of a lorry.”
“Does the camera at 39 record activities on this bridge?” Woods asked.
“Only the half over the southbound, that area of dense trees down there.” Greenwood pointed half a mile down the northbound embankment. “They block its view of this half.”
“How convenient,” Barnes sa
id.
Greenwood then turned around and pointed up the carriageway. “Can you see the green paint marking on the road surface, about 250 yards further on? That’s where Mateland’s car veered off through the traffic cones, across the inside lane and up the banking. Can you see the marks on the tree? Well, it hit that and then flipped over and rolled back down onto the shoulder. The drain cover was embedded in his chest when he was pulled from the vehicle.” Greenwood stopped speaking.
“Go on,” urged Woods.
“Well, we first checked out the cage in here,” he pointed to the internal structure. “It’s intact, there’s no evidence of it being tampered with, so we thought the drain cover had been thrown off the top, bearing in mind it would take a couple of people to throw something that weight and size. But we’ve had SOCO checking and there’s no evidence of anyone having been up there, so now we’re thinking more along the lines of someone running from the side, across the inside lane and throwing the drain cover at the vehicle, over the top of the traffic cones.”
Woods shook his head. “I don’t think that happened.”
Greenwood appeared puzzled. “So what’s your theory?”
“Look at the cones,” Woods said, spinning round and pointing down the carriageway. “They’re all evenly spaced, apart from that one.”
Both Greenwood and Barnes peered at the cones.
“Which one?” Barnes asked.
“That one, with the bit of reflective tape on the top. Mick, get someone to measure the exact horizontal distance from this edge of the bridge to the top of that cone, then measure the height from this rail” — he was holding the cover plate over the joint between the two different square meshes — “down to the carriageway and then subtract the height from the ground to the centre of Mateland’s windscreen.”
“Okay, but what’s that going to prove?”
Barnes answered, “if Mateland’s car was travelling at 50mph you can work out how far it’s travelling per second. If you know the exact height the object has to fall you can calculate how many seconds it will take. Therefore you can get the exact distance the vehicle has to be from the bridge when the object needs to be released. Simple, just like you.”
