by Angie Smith
Woods was smiling. “It’s nice to know someone else is on the ball.”
Greenwood shouted one of his colleagues across and asked for the measurements to be taken. He then turned to Woods, but before he could speak Woods asked him to get a maintenance crew up on to the bridge.
“I get where you’re going with this, but the cage hasn’t been touched, look, all the security fixings are intact, you can’t undo any of these bolts without damaging them. There’s no evidence of tampering.”
“Look up here,” Woods pointed to the 75mm square mesh caging, “the paint’s slightly cracked; it looks to me as though this has been bent up.”
Greenwood appeared dumbfounded. “So what you’re telling me is someone placed a marker on one of the cones at the exact point where you’d need to release an object to smash through the windscreen of a vehicle travelling at 50mph. They’ve dismantled the caging, dropped the drain cover, and reconstructed it using new bolts that have a pin which snaps off at the required torque. And then they’ve painted the bolts to cover their tracks.”
Woods nodded.
“So was Mateland the target, or unlucky to be travelling up the motorway late last evening?”
“I think he was the target.”
“What if he’d have been in the outside lane?” Barnes asked.
“Look at the central reservation. There’s an identical piece of reflective tape on the barrier; exactly in line with the cone. This wasn’t just chance. It was murder.”
Pauline Crean was reading the Yorkshire Post newspaper and relaxing in her suite, at the private Country Club Rehab Clinic, which was located in the Lake District, about three miles out from Lake Windermere. The clinic offered help with a wide range of psychological and mental health related issues. Treatment programmes were tailored to individual patient’s needs, and delivered in a safe, secure and caring environment - which the clinic stated would ensure a speedy recovery. The mission statement read that the clinic would empower patients to take control of their lives by providing the highest quality of care and support to promote positive outcomes. There were a range of treatment options available, which included counselling, acupuncture, aromatherapy, herbal medicine, detoxification, massage, dietary advice, reflexology, reiki, shiatsu and exercise.
Prior to checking in, Pauline had met on four separate occasions with Dr Damien Rosco, a personal psychologist based at the clinic, and after discussing the issues affecting her it had been mutually agreed that she would benefit from a full week’s programme of treatments. Although expensive, she considered the £1,500 per night price tag to be worthwhile, provided at the end of it she could return to a more normal existence. She had arranged for the dogs to go into kennels, and for Lisa, the teenage girl from the neighbouring farm, who usually helped with the horses, to look after the stables in her absence.
After several therapy sessions Pauline was beginning to regain some of her old self-confidence and all the early signs were in favour of a positive outcome. However, as she was reading the morning paper, she suddenly inhaled sharply and slowly reread the article that had caught her eye. I can’t believe it, after all these years he’s finally done the right thing and committed suicide… If he’d done that thirty years ago Shelly would still be alive. She placed the paper on the coffee table and folded her arms; tears were streaming out of her eyes.
“Shall I go and help them work it out?” Barnes asked, looking over at Greenwood and his colleague, scribbling away on a piece of paper. “I bet they’ve had to google it.”
“No, let them figure it out. Then they’ll know how to do it in the future,” Woods replied, still watching the motorway traffic and lost in thought.
“You really think so?”
“No, but that’s what I’d like to think. You can check their calculations.”
“That’ll go down well with the Adonis.”
“All right, Clever Clogs, what’s standard gravity?”
A crooked smile slowly materialised on her face. “9.5 metres per second squared,” she said, scrunching up her nose.
“It’s actually 9.8 metres per second squared,” Woods corrected.
“I know that, I just wanted to make sure you did. It’s 9.80665 to be precise.”
Woods laughed out loud. “Yes it is, point taken.”
“You’ve laughed and smiled more today than I’ve seen in the last month. Usually you’re angry all the time.”
“I’m not angry,” Woods protested. “I’m permanently irritated.” He smiled again, “but today’s different.”
“Oh, here’s Einstein,” she said. “He must have finally figured it out.”
Woods looked up to see Greenwood approaching. “You’re right Superintendent. The cone is 25.727 metres away from the face of the bridge. The distance the object had to fall was 6.5 metres, which would take it 1.151 seconds, and a vehicle travelling at 50mph would take 1.151 seconds to travel 25.727 metres.”
“Bingo,” Barnes said.
“Do you want to go over the figures with them, Maria?” Woods prompted.
“I’ve just done it, they’re correct: 50mph is 22.352 metres per second, multiply by 1.151, equals 25.727 metres. Do you want me to use a calculator?”
“No, I’ll take your word for it,” Woods said, amazed by her mental arithmetic. “Right Mick, where’s that maintenance crew? We need to rip this bridge apart.”
“On their way,” Greenwood replied. He turned to Barnes, but she was walking away. “Maria,” he called; either she didn’t hear or pretended not to.
Fifteen minutes later the crew arrived, bringing a compressor, generator and a selection of air tools. Woods explained he wanted the steel cage structure dismantled on the bays over the northbound middle and outside approaching lanes.
After three minutes the eight bolts holding the cover plate over the middle lane bay had been removed. “These have come out really easy,” the engineer said. “We’ve got a special tool with serrated teeth, which we hammer on to the bolt heads, but these are new bolts, and look this paint is fresh, it’s hardly set.” He handed them to Woods, who placed them in an evidence bag.
“Where would you buy the tool with serrated teeth?” Woods enquired.
“From the company who manufacture the security bolts.”
“Have you got their name?”
The engineer went to his van and brought an invoice with the company logo on. Woods gave it to Barnes, asking her to make enquiries regarding recent sales of the tool. Finally the cover plate was removed exposing the joint between the lower 25mm mesh and the higher level 75mm mesh. Greenwood then tried to bend the 75mm meshing up, but two metal tie straps on the columns were holding it at each end. One of the maintenance crew quickly snipped the tie straps. “These are new too,” he said, handing them to Woods.
Greenwood then managed to bend up the whole section of square meshing. “I see what you mean,” he said to Woods. “You could easily drop a drain cover straight off here.”
As the engineers worked on the bay over the outside lane, Woods went to the cover plate which had been propped on the opposite side of the bridge. “What’s this?” he asked.
“No idea,” the engineer said, just as the adjacent cover plate was removed and brought over.
“Look it’s on that one too,” Woods said.
The engineer got closer and examined both plates. “This is new paint. It looks exactly the same as that on the fixing bolts.”
“Take the cover plates off the two adjacent bays,” Woods said, frowning, “and let’s have a look at them.”
Ten minutes later the plates on the bays over the inside lane and the central reservation were removed. “Nothing,” said the engineer.
Greenwood was busy photographing the evidence. “So why paint CMXVI on the back of the plates?” he asked Woods.
“Good question. Is John Wright at work today?”
“No, didn’t you know? He was suspended a couple of weeks ago. Mateland was having him investigated for
misconduct. Something about botching up an investigation. John told me it was all bollocks, and that there was no evidence whatsoever, he said Mateland had invented it to get him off the team.”
Woods spun his head and looked at Barnes.
“Something about protocols,” she said, scrunching up her nose.
Chapter 4
Wednesday 16th May – Thursday 17th May.
Detective Superintendent Greg Woods and Detective Sergeant Maria Barnes arrived at PC John Wright’s house shortly after two o’clock in the afternoon. At Barnes’ insistence they’d called for a sandwich on the way. Her hunger surprised Woods, as she’d already devoured a large bacon, sausage and tomato bread roll at around ten o’clock, and her slight build and delicate frame suggested her calorie intake was minimal. Disproving his assumption she’d just munched her way through a six inch oven roasted chicken breast sandwich, and was sipping the last remnants of a large Coke as they pulled up.
“Where do you put all those calories?” he asked.
“I go out running, go to the gym, swim and keep fit. I burn it off. I don’t know how you survive not eating all day. Don’t you ever get hungry?”
Woods shrugged. “Not really. It’s something I don’t get hung up on. I’ll have some cereal in the morning and eat when I get home at night.”
They got out of the car and walked up the path.
Wright was waiting at the door watching them approach. “Hello Superintendent.”
Woods asked if they could go in and they made their way through the house and out onto the patio where Wright appeared to have been sitting enjoying the afternoon sunshine.
“I suppose you’ve heard what’s happened to Mateland?” Woods said, as they seated themselves around the patio table.
“Mick Greenwood telephoned this morning.”
“News travels fast.”
“Good news definitely travels fast.”
“Why is the death of Mateland good news?”
“Oh come on, everyone in the Force knows what a prat he is; I bet you can’t find one person who’s got a good word to say about him.”
“What about his wife?” Barnes interjected. “Does she have a good word to say about him?”
Woods shot her a glance, but did not speak. Normally he might have snapped and made some derogatory comment at an officer interrupting his line of questioning, but on this occasion he approved and there was the hint of a smile.
“You did see us, up by the bridge that day. I wasn’t sure you’d recognised me.”
Barnes nodded.
“Did you tell Mateland?”
“No! Why would I tell Mateland? And what was there to tell? You could have just been talking.” Woods saw her lips seal tightly as if holding back a smile.
“Well someone told him, and you don’t exactly have a reputation for being tight mouthed. Do you?”
“I don’t have a reputation for screwing around either,” she snapped.
“All right Maria,” Woods jumped in. “Did Mateland confront you about it?”
“No, he never said a word to me; I didn’t know he knew. I was called into his office one afternoon and told, pending an investigation, he was suspending me. I was dumbstruck. I didn’t know it at the time, but he’d had it out with Dawn — his wife — that morning; they had a blazing row and he ended up knocking her about. She was in A&E when he was suspending me.”
“Is she okay?” Barnes asked.
“Yes, but it’s no thanks to Mateland. He’d told her he was sacking me and if she was thinking of leaving him for me, she’d better think again as I wouldn’t have a future in the Force.”
“Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive,” Barnes quoted.
“So where were you yesterday evening at around 9.00 p.m.?” Woods asked.
Wright laughed. “You honestly think it was me on the top of the bridge smashing a drain cover through his windscreen? I might have smashed my fist through his ugly face for what he did to Dawn, but I’m not stupid enough to do him in. It was probably kids acting about.”
“It wasn’t kids acting about, it was murder.”
“Murder!” Wright echoed, appearing shocked.
“So where were you yesterday evening?” Woods asked again.
“Here watching TV.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“No, I live on my own. My wife left me eighteen months ago.”
“What significance has CMXVI to you, or Mateland?”
“What?”
“CMXVI. They’re Roman numerals. Nine hundred and sixteen.” Barnes said.
“I’m not sure; it’s something I know nothing about. As for Mateland, ask Dawn.”
“When were you last on that footbridge?” Woods asked.
“I’ve never been on it.”
“So there won’t be any footage of you, recorded by the traffic camera at Junction 39?”
“No. I’ve never been on the bridge, honest. Dawn and I go up there. . .”
“To talk,” Barnes interrupted.
“Maria,” snapped Woods.
“We go there to be alone, and we’ve never gone anywhere near the footbridge.”
Woods leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his bristle hair. “What’s standard gravity?” he asked.
“Err, the stuff that keeps us on the ground,” Wright replied, looking puzzled.
“Right, we’ll need to take your computer and any mobiles you have. And I don’t want you contacting Dawn Mateland until we’ve spoken with her. Understood?”
“There are some intimate texts between us on the phones and the same goes for e-mails.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not interested in that sort of thing,” Woods said.
Wright handed over two mobiles and a laptop and disconnected the computer. “You won’t find anything incriminating.”
“That’s what they all say,” Barnes said, placing the seized items in sealed plastic bags.
They carried the evidence out to the car and placed it in the boot.
“Come on, we need to get over to Penistone and interview Mateland’s wife,” Woods said, jumping in the car. “While I’m driving can you ring McLean and tell him to get hold of all the CCTV footage of Mateland travelling to and from work over the past month. I’m interested in the motorway cameras, and the cameras at the Traffic Unit where he was based up at Junction 41. I’m looking for anyone taking a particular interest in his activities.”
“Do you think Wright had something to do with this?” Barnes asked.
“Do you?”
“I don’t think he’s smart enough.”
“To be honest, neither do I, but we’ll have his landline, mobiles and computer checked out first.”
“It’s funny that Greenwood’s first reaction was the bridge cage was intact, with no signs of tampering. He never considered anyone might dismantle the cover rail, bend up the meshing and then reconstruct it. Just because there were no marks on the bolts, he totally dismissed the possibility they might be new and newly painted.”
“Well he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer,” Woods pointed out.
“So what drew your attention to the possibility the cage may have been dismantled? Was it the reflective tape?”
Woods nodded slowly. “And the fact that the cone was out of sync with the others. I concentrated on the traffic and, because of the average speed cameras, ninety-nine per cent of vehicles are travelling at 50mph. I imagined dropping an item on random cars as they passed the marker, and each time I got the impression it would have gone straight through the windscreen. Then, I closely inspected the caging and spotted those tiny cracks in the paintwork where the meshing had been bent.”
“I’m impressed.”
“The question is, who would go to the trouble of disguising their actions, selecting the most difficult bridge that you could imagine, and then leave a calling card in the knowledge it might never be found? If it had been up to Greenwood we’d be lo
oking for someone who’d thrown the drain cover from the side of the carriageway.”
“Maybe he,” she paused, “assuming it is a he.”
Woods waited. He sensed she was concentrating.
“Half of the bridge is unseen by cameras.”
“True.”
“The roadworks are keeping the speed of vehicles at 50mph.”
“Yes.”
“And there are only two lanes open thus reducing the number of lanes the target vehicle would be in.”
Woods looked away. He was impressed with her deductions but there was something troubling him. “But why paint CMXVI on the back of the cover plates?”
“That’s a good question, but, for what it’s worth, here’s my theory. Because Mateland was a police officer they knew the detective investigating his death was likely to be one of the better ones who would eventually work out how it had been committed and find the numerals; but just in case, they left a subtle clue, i.e. the reflective tape. Think about it, they could’ve easily removed it after coming down off the bridge. They’d covered their tracks up there, why leave the reflective tape?”
“They’d have been seen by the queuing traffic.”
“Yes, but there would have been several vehicles stopping and a number of people trying to assist at the scene. All our killer needed to do was come out of the darkness down the banking and onto the shoulder; no-one would think he was anything other than one of the drivers who’d stopped further up the carriageway. He could walk to the cone, pretend to be straightening it and remove the tape.”
“What about the bit on the central barrier?”
“Likewise, he could’ve gone over to the barrier, removed the tape while chatting to some of the drivers who were queuing, then disappeared off into the darkness.”
“But what’s CMXVI to do with this?”
“Solve that and you solve the crime.”
