by Angie Smith
As they gathered round he wrote MATELAND at the top centre of one half of the board and HUSSAIN at the top centre of the other half. Under the names he wrote their respective Roman numerals and under Mateland he wrote Dawn Mateland and alongside it John Wright; under Hussain he wrote Julie and Edward Noble.
“Right everyone, let’s have a quick update. Who wants to go first?”
“I will,” Jacobs said. “I’ve interviewed both Julie Noble and her husband Edward; he knows about the affair, but claims he only found out recently when his wife spilled the beans about why she’d been called to give evidence at the inquest. This is backed up by texts between them. She can’t think of anyone who would want to harm Hussain and is dumbfounded that his death is being treated as murder. Their phone and computer usage doesn’t have anything suggesting any involvement in the crime or contact outside their immediate family. Oh, and Julie Noble is adamant that 1116 or MCXVI doesn’t mean anything other than the time Hussain sent the e-mail.”
Woods put question marks against their names on the white board.
“I’ve also,” Jacobs went on, “been to see Hussain’s wife and, like Noble, she can’t think of anyone who might have wanted to kill her husband; neither can she throw any light on the numerals. However, Hussain’s elder brother was there and on the way out he followed me into the garden. Obviously not wanting Hussain’s wife to hear what he was going to say, he mentioned that his brother had been seeing a white woman about thirty years ago and when the relationship broke down she’d committed suicide. Now, he couldn’t remember her name, how old she was, or where she was from, but he said she’d hanged herself.”
“Have you managed to find out who she was?” Woods asked, chewing the pen top.
Jacobs shook his head. “Not yet, I’m still digging. I know Hussain was living in West Yorkshire at the time and where he was working, but the company has long since folded, and the two owners are no longer living; trying to trace people who worked there is proving difficult. Also, I’m looking at the records of women in West Yorkshire who hanged themselves at that time and I’ve got a list of names, but I may have to widen the search as she could have been from outside the area.”
“That’s good work, Chris; stick with it.” Woods said, writing female suicide victim and a large question mark under Hussain’s name.
“Aye, I’ll go next,” McLean said. “As you know, we’ve been able to discount David Brunt, so I’ve focused on our two friends up there. Dawn Mateland’s and John Wright’s phone, e-mail and internet usage has been fully checked out now and appears to be clean; there’s no evidence suggesting a link to the crime. I’ve spoken to a few of Mateland’s team and asked if they can suggest anyone who’d want to see him dead. You’d be surprised how many people detested him up there, but no-one could come up with a name.”
Woods jumped in, “I can’t determine what significance 916 has to Mateland. I’ve looked at old case file numbers, historic events in that year, I’ve discovered there’s a Ducati 916, an Alfa Romeo 916 and a film, but I’m jiggered if I can find a link to him.”
“Aye, I’ve also been searching for a link between Mateland and Hussain and again I can’t find one. As far as I can tell they never came into contact with each other, were from totally different backgrounds, and were from opposite ends of the social spectrum.”
Woods pondered. “The link must be someone who’s had dealings, disputes or major issues with them both.” He looked at Jacobs, “Chris, we need to know who that suicide victim was and if there’s a link to Mateland.”
“I’m on it.”
Woods turned to Barnes. “How about you, Maria, have you got some good news?”
“I’ll start with the security bolts and the special serrated tool used to dismantle and reassemble the bridge cage. The manufacturers gave me a list of all their local suppliers, and one in Ossett, which is only a couple of miles from the bridge, confirmed they sold sixteen bolts and a tool to a Mr Mateland, who paid cash, one week prior to the murder.”
“He’s taking the piss,” said Woods. “Let me guess, there’s no CCTV footage at the suppliers.”
“Correct,” Barnes said as she rubbed her eyes. “However, moving on to the metallic-blue Peugeot 206, I’ve found one that was stolen from Headingley two weeks prior to Mateland’s murder - just before the clone car was recorded travelling around Wakefield. Unsurprisingly the stolen Peugeot was recovered burnt out in the Harrogate area the day after Mateland’s murder. It was a complete write-off and not much was left, but the odometer reading and discussions with the owner indicated that it had travelled approximately 6,000 miles in the two weeks. Having said that, there’s no evidence on the ANPR — either on its original plates or its clone plates — of it using routes, other than when it’s following Mateland or when Brunt’s on his normal driving regime. It’s all very strange.”
“Give us the two reg numbers.” Woods asked, writing them under Mateland’s name on the board.
“And the mystery deepens,” Barnes continued. “The Peugeot stolen in Headingley wasn’t recorded on any of the traffic cameras or ANPRs in the area that night. I’ve also checked for the reg of the cloned car, just in case he changed plates straight away, but I can’t find any trace of that either. I’ve already checked for any covered trailers or car-transporters in the area that night and there weren’t any.”
“That’s really good work Maria,” Woods said. “Can I suggest you check all the metallic-blue Peugeot 206s that were recorded travelling around Headingley on that night, and then contact the owners and check if they were in the area. My guess is that there will be one who wasn’t and then that’s our second cloned car. It appears he’s been switching plates around to throw us off the scent.”
“Okay,” Barnes replied. “But that level of intent indicates astuteness.”
Woods spotted the corners of her mouth rise slightly as he scribbled astute on the board.
“Now the good news,” she said. “I’ve found a silver Mitsubishi Shogun that on three separate occasions had been following Hussain and it’d also followed Julie Noble’s car back into the hospital car park after one of her usual midday romps with Hussain.”
“Well done,” Woods said looking relieved. “How’ve you managed to do all this in such a short time? Have you been working all night?”
“Yes,” she replied regarding him with puzzlement.
Woods looked astounded. “Really?”
“Yes, really. Have I done something wrong?”
“No, on the contrary. I thought I was the only one who did stupid things like that.”
“Stupidity is someone demonstrating a lack of intelligence, perception, or common sense; how can you say trying to help you solve two murders is stupid?”
Woods paused and thought long and hard; he carefully framed his words, “Maria, I’m sorry, I wasn’t meaning to ridicule you, far from it, you’re anything but stupid, and I really appreciate the effort you’re putting into this.”
McLean looked at Jacobs and raised his eyebrows.
“Okay,” Barnes said moving on. “I’ve got a mug-shot of the driver; he followed Noble into the hospital building on foot and was picked up on the camera in the entrance.” She handed the image to Woods. “As you can see he’s around six foot, approximately 90kg, muscular, thick black curly hair, beard and moustache.”
“Fantastic, it’s a pity he’s wearing sunglasses,” Woods said.
“Now the bad news; you’ll be sorry to learn the Shogun’s also a clone. The registered keeper confirms that he’s never been anywhere near Scammonden Dam or the hospital; in fact his Shogun was at Manchester Airport in the car park for the two weeks it was supposedly following Hussain. You might guess where this is leading. A silver Shogun was found burnt out in North Yorkshire on the night Hussain was killed; it’d been stolen three weeks previously.
Woods shook his head. “Give me the reg of the cloned and stolen Shogun,” he said, writing on the board as Barnes obliged.
“What are the odds of there being another cloned Shogun just to make things even more difficult for us?”
“Pretty short,” Barnes replied. “There’s not much evidence on the ANPR of either number, apart from when it’s following Hussain.”
I don’t believe it, was on the tip of Woods’ tongue, but he decided against provoking a response about believability. “So to recap,” he said, “we’ve no link between Hussain and Mateland yet, no idea about the significance of the numerals yet, we’ve a reasonable e-fit, a fairly reasonable image and at least two clone vehicles that have been driving around the area. We need help.” He looked at Barnes. “How do you fancy going on Crimewatch?”
“Really?”
“Really,” Woods replied smiling.
Chapter 6
Friday 18th May – Friday 25th May.
As the grandfather clock in the main entrance foyer struck three Pauline checked out of the private Country Club Rehab Clinic. She made her way towards the main entrance doors.
“Pauline.”
She spun round and smiled as Dr Rosco approached.
“I’m pleased I caught you,” he said.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done for me this week,” she responded. “Coming here was the right decision; more than anything it’s helped improve my state of mind, and I’m now feeling positive about the future.”
“No problem, it’s been a pleasure having you here. I wanted to say goodbye and wish you a safe journey.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll see you next week in clinic.”
“You’ve got my mobile number; contact me at any time if you need help or advice.”
“I will.” She headed out of the door and squinted in the bright sunlight as she walked over to the Range Rover. With the warm air soothing her mood she was keen to return home; but on the way she needed to collect the dogs.
It was therefore just after 4.30 p.m. when she drove up the lane leading to the farmhouse. As she approached the entrance she spotted a silver Mercedes four-by-four parked on the grass verge opposite the gates. “Look who’s here boys,” she said. The dogs barked and wagged wildly as they spotted Plant step out of the vehicle and wave.
“Hello, Handsome,” she said as the window descended. “I wasn’t expecting you until next weekend. This is the perfect end to a good day.”
“Hello, Sexy,” he leaned in through the window and gently kissed her lips. “I finished earlier than anticipated; I tried to ring, but your phone’s not on.”
“Sorry, the battery died; I forgot to charge it.”
“Lisa said you’d be back around four.”
“How long can you stay?”
“A week, if that’s okay with you.”
“Excellent,” she beamed.
“You’re looking well; is everything good?”
“Yes, all good. Let’s go inside and freshen up; we can go out for dinner this evening.”
Monday 21st May.
Woods’ mind wandered as Foster rambled on about the investigation; he had been summoned to the Chief Inspector’s office and expected yet another subtle reminder of the importance of a speedy conclusion. He was tired of this endless sermon and considered his time would be better spent catching the killer.
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Greg? GREG!”
“Sorry… Is what a good idea?”
“Barnes on Crimewatch.”
“Why shouldn’t it be? She’ll have a greater impact on the viewing public than I ever could. They’d take one look at me and think supercilious, arrogant, know-it-all.”
Foster smiled. “No problem with your self-awareness though.”
Woods ignored the quip. “Maria’s impressed me with her determination and drive, and I’m starting to wonder what all the fuss is about.”
“Well, on your head be it.”
Nice to know I’ve got your backing. “I like working with her and she appears to reciprocate.”
“Be careful, Greg.”
“She’s quirky, I’ll admit that. But I’ve noticed she has an aversion to how some men behave, and she doesn’t like smarmy comments or remarks about her sexuality. If you steer clear of those she’s fine. She’s got the makings of a good detective, just give her a break.”
“Alright, point made. Now, moving on, I understand you’ve got a slot on this week’s show.”
“Yes, Thursday evening. They’re intending filming tomorrow; we’ve discussed the salient points and we’ll be concentrating on Mateland’s murder, with a link to Hussain’s. We’ll only mention the Roman numerals which were painted on the bridge, we’ll withhold the ones in the e-mail; we don’t want to invite copycat imitations.”
“You’ll brief Barnes.”
No, I’ll leave her to her own devices. “Of course I will.”
“Good luck.”
Woods stood up, “I’ll keep you informed.”
“Thanks, I’ll need to update the Chief.”
“Don’t worry I know how important a speedy conclusion is,” Woods muttered striding towards the door.
When he stepped back into the Incident Room he headed straight for the coffee machine.
Barnes approached. “Can I have a word?” she asked quietly.
“Sure.” He grabbed a drink and went with her into his office.
“I did what you said and checked all the metallic-blue 206s recorded in and around Headingley on the night the clone car was stolen. There were a total of five. I’ve spoken to the owners and, as you suspected, all but one confirmed they were in the area that night. The one who wasn’t is an elderly guy who hardly ever goes out after dark. I’ve traced the movements of the vehicle and it heads out of Leeds towards Wakefield. I’ve got imaging specialists working on enhancing the shots of the car to see if we can get a better look at the driver.”
“Good work again, Maria, I’m impressed. If they come up with anything, we can show it on Crimewatch.”
“Err…” she looked hesitant. “I, err, wanted to check that you’re absolutely sure you still want me to present the evidence.”
“I’ve never been surer.”
“What about Foster?”
“Actually we’ve just been discussing it; he’s absolutely no problem with you being on the show. In fact he thinks it’s a great idea. He said the viewing public will respond better to you than they would to me.” He smiled inwardly.
She looked perplexed. “Oh, I thought he didn’t like me.”
“Well I’ve never got that impression,” he lied again, but in his view it was only a white lie and it was intended to boost her confidence.
She frowned; it was clear she was unconvinced. “Right then, I’ll look forward to it,” she said. “I won’t let you down.”
Thursday 24th May.
Woods was anxious. He’d drafted in extra staff and provided additional phone lines in the Incident Room, all in preparation for the BBC’s Crimewatch programme scheduled to be broadcast at 9.00 p.m. The West Yorkshire murders were last in the running order and Woods was therefore expecting an influx of calls around 9.50 p.m. onwards. Someone had taken orders for food and a Chinese take-away had delivered the necessary sustenance.
Woods, McLean, Jacobs and West had been joined by one other detective inspector, four detective sergeants and three detective constables, all having been thoroughly briefed on the investigations. The twelve officers were ready and a TV monitor had been installed so that the show could be watched up until the calls started coming in. The BBC was to give out three contact telephone numbers: Crimewatch, Crimestoppers and the Incident Room in Wakefield. In addition Facebook, Twitter and web page information details would be broadcast.
McLean appeared at Woods’ door; it was 8.55 p.m. “Aye, how many do you think? Jacobs is running a book.”
“We haven’t got time for this. Jacobs should be tracing that suicide victim.”
“It’s just a bit of fun to release some tension; a couple of quid and a number, that’s all I need. You co
uld win twenty four pounds.”
Woods sighed. He put his hand in his pocket and grudgingly handed over a two pound coin. “Two hundred and twenty, in total,” he said. “Including Crimewatch and Crimestoppers.”
McLean smiled. “Cut off time midnight.” He walked back out and Woods heard him shout, “Aye, two-twenty.”
He valued McLean, both as a colleague and a friend; they had worked together for over fifteen years, got on well, and there was mutual respect. McLean had a passion for the horses and was an avid gambler, some said a professional gambler, but he never let his passion interfere with his work and Woods appreciated that. Occasionally the pair socialised, sometimes going to nearby racecourses, sometimes visiting the local where they could enjoy the various malt whiskeys on offer. In contrast to Woods, McLean was small in stature with a warm friendly personality; he was always immaculately dressed and spoke with a very slight Scottish accent. Woods’ only criticism of him was his annoying habit; saying ‘Aye’ at the start of most sentences.
Right on cue, at exactly nine o’clock, McLean called out, “Aye, we’re off and running.”
Woods stepped out of his office and across to the TV monitor.
“Where’s Psycho?” West said, looking up at the screen.
“Sharron,” Woods barked, “her name’s Maria.”
“Sorry.”
The programme’s opening sequence played out and then one of the presenters gave an outline of what was coming up.
“Let me know when we’re on,” Woods requested, going back into his room. A number of detectives stayed around the TV monitor, but McLean, Jacobs, West and a couple of others went back to their desks and continued working.
For the next forty-five minutes the programme continued, following the usual format. Woods then heard McLean shout, “Aye, we’re up next, Greg.”
The preceding crime feature concluded and the presenter commenced the introduction to Mateland’s murder; she gave the background to his role in the police force, together with the date, time and the location where he was murdered. As she stopped speaking her voice faded out and footage started of an actor — playing Mateland — leaving home and getting into a BMW car.
