by Angie Smith
Woods sighed, and rubbed his chin. “I like your reasoning; nevertheless I’m not totally convinced. Get the names of the drivers who stopped at the scene from Greenwood, have a chat with them and see if they saw anyone up on the bridge. Reconstructing the cage and painting the bolts would have taken a while.”
“No problem,” she replied, keying Greenwood’s number into her phone.
During the journey to Penistone, Barnes had contacted both Greenwood and McLean. While speaking to Greenwood he’d informed her that when finishing off and reopening the footbridge, an elderly gentleman, out walking a dog, had approached him with information about a man taking measurements and photographs of the footbridge a few weeks earlier. She had relayed this to Woods who immediately asked her to ring McLean back and instruct him to visit the man and obtain a full detailed description. Barnes was awaiting McLean’s call back.
It was almost 5.00 p.m. when the detectives finally arrived at Dawn Mateland’s house; a modest detached property on the outskirts of the small market town, eight miles west of Barnsley and seventeen miles north-east of Glossop. They were invited in and provided with refreshments.
“I wouldn’t say she’s acting much like the grieving widow,” Barnes whispered as Mateland went out to fetch some biscuits from the kitchen.
“I’m sorry to bother you at such a traumatic time,” Woods said, when she returned. “I know it must be difficult for you, but I need to ask you some questions. Paul’s death is being treated as murder.”
“You don’t have to apologise, Superintendent. It’s no secret that I despised him and although this may sound heartless, all I’m feeling at the moment is relief that he’s out of my life.”
Woods frowned. “I see. Err, I understand there’d been a disagreement between you and Paul recently and. . .”
“A disagreement; if you call ending up in A&E with two broken ribs a disagreement, then yes we had. I suppose you’ve been told about John.” She looked straight at Barnes.
“Can we concentrate on Paul first?” Woods said. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm him?”
“Can you think of anyone who wouldn’t?”
Woods hesitated. “I… I know he wasn’t everyone’s favourite person, but there’s a difference between disliking someone and murdering them.”
“Come on Superintendent. Paul had the extraordinary ability to get under people’s skin; he upset, distressed and irritated almost everyone he ever came into contact with. He must have been the most complained about police officer in the Force, not only by the public, but other police officers. I understood he was only promoted to inspector to get him out of the way of the public into that traffic office, behind a desk. Everywhere he went trouble followed, none of our neighbours will speak to us because he’s caused so much trouble around here. He was a nightmare to live with.”
“So why did you stay with him?” Barnes asked, looking for an answer other than the obvious.
“Why do women suffer domestic violence and stay put? It’s the same answer. Although this time I was trying to get away from him, but look what he did,” she lifted up her top and showed the bruising around her ribs.
Barnes sucked the air in through her teeth and grimaced. “You could’ve reported him,” she said.
“He told me he’d got friends in high places and that it wouldn’t do any good. Plus he threatened to have me sectioned if I ever tried anything like that.”
“It sounds like you were trapped and becoming desperate.” Barnes said.
“Don’t think for one second that I had anything to do with this, but when you catch the person who did, say thanks from me.”
“Did the letters CMXVI have any significance to him?” Woods asked.
“I don’t think so. The numbers 666 definitely did.”
Barnes chewed her lip disguising her amusement.
“Can I ask about John Wright?” Woods said.
“John’s the light at the end of my tunnel. A really nice guy who treats me like I’m a person and not an object he owns. What a difference from Paul. You’ll know Paul suspended him when he found out about us; he was having him sacked. Surely that gives you an idea what kind of a shit he was. You couldn’t believe a word he said. You know his broken nose and the scarring on his face? John said he’d told everyone at work he’d been kicked by a horse; well he wasn’t, I know that for sure. Yet he told me someone he was trying to arrest did it. I don’t know what the truth was, but I suspect it was someone he’d upset getting even with him.”
At that moment Barnes’ phone rang. It was McLean. She listened carefully and then ended the call. “Right, we’re looking for a tall, fair haired man, sporty build, wearing a green wax jacket, blue and white checked shirt, green corduroy trousers, walking boots and a tweed cap. Oh and he has a very posh accent.”
“Well that rules out John Wright,” Woods said.
Thursday 17th May.
It was earlier than normal when Woods walked into the Incident Room; Barnes and McLean were already working away at their desks.
“You look like you didn’t have much sleep last night,” Barnes said.
“No, I didn’t; that’s why I’m early.”
“Me too, I couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday, so in the end I thought I’d come in and start trolling through the CCTV footage. I’ve got Mateland’s shift patterns over the past month, so I’m concentrating on the times he was travelling to and from work. I’ve created a matrix of vehicles travelling up to one mile behind him and any vehicle seen outside his work base.”
“Anything of interest?”
“It’s too early. Have you any idea how many vehicles are within one mile of you, when you travel thirteen miles along the motorway?”
“Hundreds or is it thousands?”
“It’s hundreds, but then multiply that by twenty working days and two journeys per day, and you’ll get an idea how complex this is… thank goodness for Excel spreadsheets.”
“That’s good work, Maria, let me know what you discover.” He appreciated her commitment and considered it refreshing to have someone who could work off their own initiative. He turned to McLean. “That old guy with the dog was observant.”
“Aye, he’s retired ex-military with a fantastic eye for detail; he was as sharp as a button. Chris Jacobs is going to see him; we should have a fairly accurate e-fit later this morning.”
“Great.”
“However,” McLean went on, “there’s some bad news. As you know, the footage from the camera at Junction 39 only covers the southbound half of the bridge, and on the day our dog walker spoke to the man he was at the far end, the bit we can’t see, so there’s footage of the dog walker strolling across the bridge, but none of the man. I’d hoped there would be shots of him measuring and photographing the half that’s in view, or at least walking over it, but there’s nothing at all; he must have approached the bridge through the fields on the other side.”
Woods was intrigued. “He obviously knows the northbound half isn’t covered by the camera and he’s keeping clear of the other half. It must be our man. If it was an innocent member of the public with an interest in bridges, or a surveyor, they’d look at the whole structure.”
“I’ve asked Sharron West to go through the footage of the bridge over the past couple of months and check everyone who’s gone across it against our description. Meanwhile, as Maria is busy looking through the motorway footage, I’m going to interview all the drivers who stopped at the scene.”
“I’ve got to update Foster at ten,” Woods said. “Hopefully I might have an interim report from the IT Team on John Wright and Dawn Mateland’s phone and computer usage. From purely a motive point of view they’re both suspects, but my instinct tells me they’re not involved.” Woods chewed his bottom lip and thought for a moment. “Right… I’m going to find out everything I can about CMXVI and what connection it has to Mateland.”
Woods came back from updating Foster at 10.30 a.m.; he
had been able to inform him that early investigations into phone and computer usage of Wright and Dawn Mateland had not identified any unusual behaviour, or anything that could be linked to the murder investigation. Foster had reassured Woods he was pleased with progress, but reminded him of the need for a speedy conclusion to the investigation.
As he walked through the Incident Room door Barnes looked up and smiled. “Bingo!” she shouted.
He strode straight across and looked down at her computer screen.
“See that metallic blue Peugeot 206? It’s been filmed on five separate occasions, all at different times of the day, travelling in close proximity to Mateland. And it’s also been recorded parked outside the main entrance to the Traffic Unit. The registered keeper is Mr David Brunt who lives in Ecclesall in Sheffield. Here’s his driving licence photograph,” she clicked the mouse.
“Fair haired,” Woods observed. “Have we got a clear shot of him driving the car?”
“Not really. I’ve tried enhancing various images, but it appears he’s deliberately looking away from the cameras. See what I mean. . .” she clicked the mouse again and an enlarged picture appeared.
“He knows where all the cameras are, if he’s that careful, the car’s either stolen or a clone.”
“There’s no report of it being stolen,” Barnes quickly replied, beavering away on her computer. “And according the ANPR it’s been recorded travelling around Wakefield and Sheffield, but obviously not at the same times, otherwise it would have been flagged up as a suspected cloned vehicle.”
“I don’t believe this,” Woods said, shaking his head and looking around the room. “Is McLean still out?”
“Yes.”
“Contact him and get him to interview Mr Brunt pronto. I’ve a feeling he’ll be another innocent victim of cloning, and if he is, ask McLean to find out his regular movements, particularly in relation to his driving habits. In the meantime can you trace all the metallic blue Peugeot 206s that have been stolen in the last four weeks?”
As he was speaking Detective Inspector Chris Jacobs came across and waited for him to finish. Jacobs was six years younger than Woods and had worked with him in the Murder Investigation Team for over twenty years. He had a pleasant, friendly personality and a caring nature, was five-feet-nine inches tall, dark haired and of slender build.
“Hello Chris,” Woods said, noticing the detective standing next to him. “Have you got the e-fit?”
“Yep,” replied Jacobs, handing the document over.
“Umm… it’s not that much like Mr Brunt,” Woods said, passing it to Barnes.
“Who’s he?” Jacobs asked.
“I suspect he’s an innocent member of the public.”
“How’s the investigation going?”
Woods updated him.
“Oh, there’s one other thing I need to tell you,” Jacobs said. “You know I’m still in contact with Shaun Higgson? Well, I went for a drink with him last night and I mentioned that Mateland had been murdered and there were roman numerals found at the scene — McLean told me yesterday — anyhow it turns out that Shaun investigated a death a few weeks ago where a guy hanged himself off Scammonden Bridge and wrote numerals at the end of an e-mail he’d used as a suicide note; they depicted the time the e-mail was sent.”
“What were they?” Woods demanded, his senses on high alert.
“Shaun didn’t tell me what the numerals were, but the time the e-mail was sent was sixteen minutes past eleven. 11.16 p.m.”
“That’s MCXVI; the numerals on the footbridge were CMXVI. Chris, that’s no coincidence; two motorway bridges and nearly identical numerals. Is Higgson based at Huddersfield?”
“Yep,” replied Jacobs. “I… I didn’t know what your numerals were, otherwise I’d have asked Shaun to ring you.”
Woods was already on his way out of the Incident Room. “Come on, Maria, chop, chop,” he shouted. “We’re going to Scammonden Bridge - that is, after we’ve picked your predecessor up from Huddersfield Police Station.”
On the way to Huddersfield Barnes first contacted McLean about Brunt. Then protocol dictated she telephone Higgson and inform him to expect them around eleven thirty; he’d promised to have the case file on Hussain’s death ready for them.
“What’s my predecessor like?” she asked as they waited for him in reception.
“Not as smart as you. He’s sloppy and he should never have been promoted to inspector, but. . .”
Higgson came through the door and Woods stopped speaking. He immediately went over and shook Higgson’s hand. He introduced Barnes and then Higgson asked them to follow him to one of the interview rooms. There were no pleasantries or offers of refreshments and it was clear to Barnes that there was history between the two of them. When seated, Higgson passed the case file, which he held tucked under his left arm, to Woods who read it thoroughly and then handed it to Barnes.
“Can you take us up to the dam?” Woods asked. “I’d like to have a look around.”
Higgson agreed, and they were driven there in his car. On the way Barnes finished reading through the case file. Sitting quietly in the back of the vehicle she mulled over the facts; something didn’t quite add up.
When they arrived at the car park it was just after midday and it was deserted, bleak and windswept. Barnes looked around at the discarded sandwich packaging and drinks cartons, then at the half empty rubbish bins. She tut-tutted and stepped out of the car. She was immediately cold. Woods joined her; he wore no overcoat, only his suit jacket over a cotton shirt. He buttoned up his jacket. “This would be around the time Hussain and Noble used to have lunch here,” he said looking at Higgson, who nodded.
“Let’s walk round to the bridge,” Woods said.
“It’s easier if we go in the car,” Higgson offered.
“And warmer,” Barnes added, shivering in the strong Pennine winds.
“I’m walking,” Woods said. “You two go in the car and I’ll see you up there.”
Barnes thought Woods looked totally incongruous, dressed in his suit and city shoes striding off down the lane, his trousers flapping against his rake-thin legs, as she and Higgson drove slowly past him; but he appeared oblivious to both them and the cold. When he finally caught up with them and walked onto the bridge they jumped out of the car and joined him. She was still shivering and it was starting to rain; the wind was driving, and she had to hold up her hands to protect her face.
Woods stopped at the point Barnes recognised from the marks on the balustrade to be where Hussain had hanged. She watched him turn with his back to the wind and rain, and look over towards Huddersfield. There was a small piece of police tape still tied to the bridge railing; it was fluttering and reverberating like a small electric motor humming away. Below on the carriageway vehicles droned continuously, heading west through the Pennines, and as he rested his elbows on the cold, wet, metal rail he stood motionless, clearly deep in thought.
He spun round. “Come on, let’s get off the bridge,” he said, and then looking at Higgson, asked, “have you got digital copies of the pathologist’s photographs?”
“Yes, they were e-mailed.”
“Good, when we get back to the station I’d like to take a close look at those burn marks.”
Higgson looked perturbed, but said nothing.
It was early afternoon by the time they arrived back at Huddersfield Police Station. Woods and Barnes were taken up through the building to where Higgson’s desk was and they waited patiently as he found the photographs Woods was interested in.
“Can you enlarge this one for me?” Woods asked, standing behind Higgson so he could see the screen.
Higgson obliged, but Woods bent over him and took hold of the mouse. “I’m interested in this particular area,” he said, zooming more into the photograph and concentrating on the 18mm ligature mark above the two burns.
“I thought it was the two burn marks you wanted to see,” Higgson queried.
“Look, Maria,” W
oods said, pointing at the screen. “There aren’t two burn marks; there’re four. Two were masked by the ligature.”
Higgson peered at two tiny, faint red marks where the ligature had been; both equidistance from the two lower, more visible, burn marks; he looked up at Woods towering above him.
“Just as I thought,” Woods said. “Those marks are from a hand held stun gun. Hussain didn’t commit suicide; he was murdered.”
Chapter 5
Thursday 17th May – Friday 18th May.
Pauline paced up and down the corridor outside Dr Damien Rosco’s consulting room. She was waiting anxiously for an unscheduled counselling session, after the doctor’s insistence they meet urgently to discuss her sudden mood change.
The door opened and Rosco appeared. He smiled, “Come in, Pauline.”
She entered the dark oak-panelled room and headed to the large black Italian leather sofa; she settled, folded her arms and looked nervously at the consultant seated on the couch to her left.
“What’s happened, Pauline?”
“I’d prefer not discuss it, if you don’t mind.” She could feel her heart beating faster than normal.
“Why?”
“I’m afraid of the consequences, particularly in my current state of mind.”
“Tell me what you think the consequences might be.”
“Unpleasant feelings, anxiety, despair, sleepless nights.” Her eyes flicked down at the dark hardwood floor and straight back up to Rosco; she had an idea what was coming.
“Alternatively, the consequences could be an understanding of why you feel that way, a means of challenging the thoughts that cause those feelings, and a solution to the problem.”
“I guessed you’d say something like that.”
He smiled. “That’s what you are paying me for.”
“We had an agreement, didn’t we? That we’d only discuss things I felt comfortable with.”
Rosco nodded.
