by Angie Smith
“Couldn’t they find anyone ugly enough to play Mateland? He’s nothing like him,” Jacobs said loudly. Muffled laughter rippled around the room.
Woods however, was having none of it. “Chris, two men have died, and this is a serious murder investigation, it’s not a game of Cluedo.”
“Sorry, Boss.”
“The next one who makes a wisecrack is out. Understood?”
The team acknowledged the threat as the narrative and footage shot from inside the car — depicting Mateland travelling on the motorway — continued. When the vehicle reached the footbridge the screen went black and the commentary described the outcome of events. The picture returned to the presenter who was introducing Barnes as one of the detectives involved in the investigation.
“She’s had her hair done,” West said.
Woods glared at her.
“It’s just an observation. She looks really smart and professional,” she added, cringing.
The presenter asked about the object dropped from the bridge.
“It was a drain cover similar to this one,” Barnes replied, tilting the object up off the desk, “As you can see it’s quite heavy.”
“You’d like to know where it came from.”
“Yes it was probably removed from a road in the days leading up to the murder, and we’d like to hear from anyone who noticed one going missing in the area, or any suspicious activity around one.”
“Aye, she’s confident and calm,” McLean said, “and she’s doing a fantastic job.”
“I agree,” added Jacobs nodding.
The faintest of smiles appeared on Woods’ face. “I’d be a nervous wreck,” he lied, as his respect for her instantly magnified. Unlike some detectives appearing on the show she wasn’t contrived, staged or false; she interacted seamlessly with the presenter and was completely natural and alluring. For the first time he noticed how attractive she was; her high cheekbones, freckled complexion, deep dark brown eyes, and her curly flowing locks. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? Probably because he wasn’t interested; he came to work to work, not to become embroiled in extramarital affairs. That was professional suicide, and he’d seen it happen to so many of his colleagues. It wasn’t going to happen to him, no matter how attractive Barnes was.
He refocused on the presenter as she stated she understood that the bridge cage — at which point a picture of the structure appeared on screen — had been dismantled and the object dropped from the rail. Barnes confirmed this, and gave a brief explanation of how this was done.
“So whoever did this must have had a detailed knowledge of how the cage had been constructed?” the presenter said.
“Yes, this person most likely spent time studying the metalwork, because not only was it dismantled it was reconstructed after the crime had been committed.”
“You have an e-fit of a man seen taking a particular interest in the footbridge?” the presenter said, as the image was shown.
“Yes,” Barnes replied, giving a fuller description of the man and asking for anyone who had seen him to contact the police. The presenter then made the point that the man could be completely innocent and, if so, they should come forward to be eliminated from the investigation.
“I understand you’re also interested in tracing the movements of a metallic-blue Peugeot 206.”
“Yes we’d like to hear from anyone who’s seen this vehicle travelling around the area, in the two weeks leading up to the murder.” A shot of the car appeared. “We know it was stolen in Headingley, Leeds, on the night of Saturday the 28th April, and that it has been using three different registration numbers.” The numbers were shown and then the enhanced image of the driver from the traffic cameras appeared. Barnes asked if anyone could identify him.
“The killer also left you a rather strange calling card which we can see here.”
“Yes, these Roman numerals were painted on the bridge structure, before it was reassembled.”
“The numerals represent nine hundred and sixteen, or nine, one, six,” the presenter clarified.
“That’s correct; we’d like to hear from anyone who might be able to throw some light on the significance of these.”
“This murder is being linked to another one, also involving a motorway bridge,” the presenter said.
Barnes briefly outlined Hussain’s murder, as images appeared on screen of Scammonden Bridge, the four-by-four, including the two registration numbers it had been using, and finally footage of the man following Noble in through the hospital main entrance. Barnes and the presenter then went over the information the police were particularly interested in hearing about, and stressed that the e-fit, CCTV footage and image from the traffic camera were all thought to be the same individual using different disguises. Barnes finally emphasised that they were keen to know about anyone having a dispute or grievance against either Mateland or Hussain.
As the presenter wound up the story the three contact telephone numbers were given out and appeared on screen.
“Aye, brace for impact,” McLean said, as telephones immediately started ringing; the detectives already seated snatched up their phones as the others sprinted back to their desks. The Incident Room was being bombarded with calls.
Twenty-five minutes later the calls were still relentless and Woods was busy taking details from someone naming an individual who had had a major dispute with Mateland back in the 80s. As he scribbled away West appeared waving, trying to attract his attention. He thanked the caller for the information, said someone would be back in contact, and then replaced the receiver. Immediately the phone rang again.
“I’ll get that,” yelled West. “Go to my phone, there’s a Dr Smith who wants to speak to you urgently.”
Woods dashed out of the office and across to West’s phone; he introduced himself and listened to what Smith had to say; as he did he looked down at his watch. “I’m on my way,” he said. He scribbled a note and went to McLean, who was speaking on the phone. He held the piece of paper up:
Possible third murder
On my way there now
Speak to you later
Friday 25th May.
It was forty minutes past midnight when Woods returned to the Incident Room. The calls had all but abated and some of the detectives had left. Only Jacobs, McLean and West remained, all busy sorting through the calls.
“Well?” McLean said looking expectantly at Woods.
“It’s all the hallmarks.”
McLean shook his head. “Aye, who this time?”
“An old guy in a nursing home, James or Jim Broadbent. He’d been ill for some time and was dying, but when he passed away he was found with MCCCXVI written on his left hand. The doctor thought the old guy had done it before he’d died, but with it ending XVI he’s now having second thoughts. I’ll need someone to go out to the nursing home and look at the CCTV footage for the day he died.”
“I’ll go,” West said.
“Hang on a second, that name rings a bell,” Jacobs said. “One of the co-founders of the law firm where Hussain worked back in the 80s was a Jim Broadbent; died a couple of months ago.”
“7th March, it must be the same one,” Woods said. “We’ll need to trace everyone who was working there in the 80s. Maybe there’s a link to Mateland and a lead to the killer.”
“I’ve already tried, but both Broadbent and a Christian Bulmer who co-owned the company are dead, and it ceased trading in the mid-90s. The only records are at Companies House, I can’t trace any of the employees. It was Hussain’s wife who told me he’d worked there, but she couldn’t remember any other names.”
“When did Bulmer die?”
“January.”
“This year?”
“Yes, killed in a boating accident off Tenerife.”
“Oh shit… I suddenly can’t hear anything because of the alarm bells ringing in my head. Get the file on Bulmer’s death.”
“He was living in Los Cristianos; I’ll have to contact the Spanish
authorities.”
“Okay, first thing in the morning.” Woods turned to McLean. “Now, how’ve we done?”
“Aye, 331 calls; must be some kind of record. We’ve sorted them into categories: named suspects, vehicle sightings, suspect sightings, general information and points of note. The majority relate to Mateland; we’ve thirty-nine sightings of the Peugeot, sixteen of the man on the bridge, twenty-eight names for the man in the photo-fit, twelve for the Peugeot driver, and amazingly 137 names of people having disputes with him.”
“What about Hussain?”
“Twenty-two names for the man driving the four-by-four and sixteen sightings of it. The remaining sixty-one calls relate to information about the numerals on the bridge. We’re just about to go through the named suspects and check for duplications and we’ll concentrate on those first.”
“Is anyone staying the night?”
All three detectives nodded.
“Great, let’s get weaving.”
It was 2.30 a.m. as the driver of the BMW drove slowly into the off-road shale car park on the outskirts of an industrial estate in St Albans. His headlights illuminated just one other vehicle there, at the far side. He drove up to it and parked alongside. He switched off the engine, got out of the BMW and slid straight into the passenger seat of the dark coloured Audi A6.
“Did you see Crimewatch?”
The Audi driver shook his head.
“It’s available for the next twenty-four hours on BBC iPlayer. You need to watch it.”
The Audi driver said nothing.
“It featured two murders in West Yorkshire: a man hanged from a motorway bridge and a police inspector who had a drain cover smashed through his windscreen, also off a motorway bridge.”
The Audi driver remained silent.
“Williams has resurfaced.”
“Are you sure?”
“The hanging was made to look like suicide; in fact that’s what the police originally concluded. And the bridge the drain cover was dropped from had a secure semi-circular steel cage surrounding it, which was not only dismantled, it was reassembled in an effort to disguise how the murder was committed. In addition, there have been numerous cars cloned and the suspect has multiple disguises. If you look closely at the enhanced shots you can see the resemblance.”
The Audi driver sighed.
“And if you still have any doubts, Roman numerals were painted on the bridge structure, and although it wasn’t revealed on the programme, they were also written in the suicide note; I’ve accessed the police files.”
“Well he’s taken his time, but we always knew sooner or late he’d show up.”
“So now we have a big problem. In fact we have two big problems,” the BMW driver said.
“What’s the second one?”
“The investigating officer is Detective Superintendent Greg Woods. I’ve done some checking and he’s not your normal run-of-the-mill detective, he’s highly regarded and has a reputation for solving high profile cases.”
“Then we have to get to Williams before he does - you know what the consequences will be if we don’t.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Get someone that can keep us up to date with the investigation, and get your guys concentrating on Williams.”
“Do we want him brought in?”
“I think we both agree that he’s too much of a risk; he needs to be silenced.”
“What about Woods?”
“If he’s as good as you say, he could be useful and lead us to Williams, but if he becomes an irritant, then remove him from the equation. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Now disappear; contact me when Williams is no longer a problem.”
Around 6.30 a.m. the sixty-two named suspects — drivers of the Peugeot and four-by-four, and the man in the photo-fit — had all been checked for duplications and against the police computer; there was a shortlist of thirty-five who needed to be interviewed. It had been a long night and the detectives were finally going through the 137 named individuals who had previous disputes and grievances with Mateland. These needed to be checked for duplications and against the shortlisted thirty-five.
“I’ve got another person naming Gerrard Crean as someone having a dispute with Mateland back in the 80s,” West said.
“Aye, that’s four,” McLean acknowledged.
“In fact they claim this dispute ended with Mateland getting the scars on his face,” she added.
Woods was looking at his computer. “One of the callers mentioned that Crean lived in Hawes.”
“Yes,” West confirmed.
“Normally I’d say we could forget him; I’ve just discovered he was killed in a car accident two years ago. But there is something about the 80s. . .”
At that moment Barnes walked into the room. “Good morning everyone.”
“Good morning and well done, you were fantastic,” Woods said, smiling.
“Aye well done, Maria,” McLean endorsed, as both Jacobs and West added their compliments.
“Was it as manic there as it was here?” Jacobs asked.
“It sure was. There’d been a steady influx of calls about the other crimes, but as soon as the numbers were given out on our story it went absolutely crazy. Calls were being diverted up here and still people couldn’t get through.”
“Aye, in total 331 calls,” McLean said.
“Anything of interest?”
Woods quickly updated her.
“I’ve been thinking about the woman who committed suicide,” Barnes said, sweeping the curls from her forehead.
“I’m struggling on that,” Jacobs admitted. “I’ve obtained a list of all the women who hanged themselves between 1980 and 90. I thought Hussain’s brother might have been out on the timing so I started when Hussain was sixteen and concentrated on the following decade. Bearing in mind he was married in 82 when he was eighteen… There were sixty-four women between the ages of sixteen and fifty who’d hanged themselves and I’ve obtained all the inquest details, but there’s no mention of Hussain.”
Woods noticed Barnes had that strange look on her face that usually meant she was about to say something significant.
“Can I suggest that we look at all the people who had grievances against Mateland and then cross check these with the names of the women,” Barnes said.
“Good idea,” Woods reinforced.
“The link may be through marriage though, so we’ll need to check spouses.”
Woods nodded.
“How many names have we for grievances against Mateland?” Barnes asked.
West quickly totalled them up. “Twelve mentioned by more than one person and ninety-eight others.”
“I’ll start with the twelve. Chris can you let me have sixty-four suicides?” Barnes asked.
It took her less than thirty minutes. “Bingo,” she shouted.
Woods was straight at her side.
“Gerrard Crean was married to Pauline Reynolds whose twin sister Shelly committed suicide at the age of twenty-two in 1984, and both Shelly and Pauline studied law at Liverpool University. I’d wager they both worked at Broadbent’s law firm.”
“Maria, you’re bloody brilliant,” Woods said.
“There’s no need to swear.” She sounded indignant. “But if my assumption’s correct we’ll have a link between Mateland and Hussain, and if Broadbent’s and Bulmer’s deaths are connected, a link there too.”
Woods looked at his watch. “How long will it take us to get to Hawes?”
“Couple of hours,” Jacobs said.
“Come on, Maria, if we leave now we’ll be there just after 9.00. Sharron, keep me updated on what you discover at the nursing home. You two can make a start on interviewing the named suspects. Right Maria, I’ll treat you to breakfast on the way, but you’ll have to eat it in the car.”
As Woods neared Hawes his phone bleeped informing him of a text. He passed it to Barnes and asked her to read it.
�
�It’s from Sharron asking if it’s convenient to ring.”
“Call her back and put it on speakerphone.”
Barnes complied.
“I’ve been to Cliff Crest Residential Home and viewed the CCTV footage with the Duty Manager. Broadbent was found dead at 10.48 a.m., but was alive at 10.00 when his morning tea was taken to his room. There’s nothing out of the ordinary on the footage for that morning up until 10.22 a.m. when a grey Volkswagen Polo enters the car park and leaves 21 minutes later. There’s no footage of anyone entering the building by the main entrance during that time, but the manager says some visitors get in through the dining room doors, which aren’t covered by cameras. The Volkswagen is registered to John Thompson whose mother-in-law is one of the residents. . .”
“You’re going to tell me he didn’t visit the home that morning,” Woods said.
“Correct, I’ve just interviewed him. He works at Wakefield Council and was in work that day, with his car in the work’s car park; HR and his boss confirmed this. I’ve got the footage of the Volkswagen from the home and I’m going to get it enhanced, but there are definitely two people in it, a man driving and a woman passenger.”
“Okay, thanks for the update,” Woods said, yawning. “Keep me informed.”
Barnes terminated the call. “Looks like another clone.”
“This is getting out of hand; all I need now is Jacobs telling us that Bulmer’s death is connected.” Twenty-five seconds after Woods stopped speaking his phone rang.
“Speak of the devil,” Barnes said, answering the call; again she put it on speakerphone.
Woods listened with dismay as Jacobs broke the news that he’d contacted the Spanish authorities, who had e-mailed him the report into Christian Bulmer’s death, including photographs of the fishing boat he’d supposedly fallen overboard from. Jacobs confirmed that when he’d enlarged one of the photographs, it had clearly shown MDXVI stencilled on the cabin door window.
