by Angie Smith
“What about Broadbent?” Woods asked.
“I figured you’d say that; but honestly, what could you do to a sick and dying man, apart from write numerals on the hand that he used to molest Pauline?”
“I hear what you’re saying, Maria, but if it turns out one of the named suspects is the killer, then it’s me that ends up with egg on my face; I want the interviews completed.”
Barnes’ expression conveyed she was unconvinced, but Woods continued speaking to her. “Can you start checking out the Creans? I’d like to know everything about them: who they associated with, what they did or, in Pauline’s case, does, and I’d like Pauline’s telephones tapped. I also want to know who she’s been in contact with over the past six months; and take a close look at what’s known about Gerrard’s death. I’ll sort out the warrant.”
Bingo Barnes thought. “No problem, I’m on it,” she said smiling.
“Sharron, I need you to find Stephen Porter, Rebecca Ramírez, Mark Gilroy and the care worker who maltreated Gerrard’s mother. Oh, and I nearly forgot,” Woods said, reaching in his pocket and fishing out the DVD that Pauline had given him. “We need to view this.”
West immediately loaded the disc in her computer and the others gathered round. After ten gruelling minutes Woods spoke, “I think I’ve seen enough; you can turn it off, Sharron.”
“What would you do if someone did that to your mother?” Barnes asked looking straight at Woods.
“The same as Gerrard, report it to the police.” He turned to West, “Sharron, dig out the police file, and let’s see what’s in it.”
“What are you doing?” Barnes asked matter-of-factly.
Woods raised his eyebrows. “You’re pushing your luck again; if you must know, after I’ve seen Foster and sorted out the warrant, I’m going to check out Plant.”
“I was asking purely out of my own interest,” Barnes replied indignantly. “pushing luck had nothing to do with it.”
Woods ran up two floors and into the lobby outside Foster’s office. He looked through the door’s vision panel. Damn, he thought, noticing there was someone with Foster. He turned away, but Foster spotted him and shouted, “Come in, Greg.”
“That’s good timing,” Foster said as Woods entered. “I was just going to telephone you and ask you to come up. Can I introduce you to Detective Inspector Hilton Dudley?”
“Nice to meet you,” Woods said, appraising the Inspector while shaking his hand. He noted Dudley was smartly dressed in a clean cut, dark grey suit, crisp white shirt and crimson necktie in a Half Windsor knot. His shoes, which were worn over scarlet red socks, were highly polished black brogues. Woods thought he might have just come straight from being fitted out in Savile Row.
“I’m assigning Hilton to your team. I thought the extra pair of hands would come in useful.”
Woods breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks, we’re struggling with the volume of work and the investigation’s expanding all the time. Additional help is exactly what we need.” He rounded on Dudley. “Where have you been working?”
“I am originally from Greenwich,” Dudley replied in a public school accent. “I’ve been on special operations with the Met, but they have been scaled down and I was offered up to West Yorkshire. Now I’m here at your disposal, and happy to help in any way I can.”
“Great, it’s good to have you on board.” Woods looked at Foster. “I need to have a quick word with you.” he said, his tone indicating he wanted the discussion to be private.
“Okay. Hilton, go grab a drink from the canteen and Greg will take you to meet the team when he’s finished here with me.”
Dudley left the room.
“He seems like a good guy,” Woods said. “Bit posh for up here though; go to Eton did we?”
“Foster rolled his eyes. “Give him a chance.”
Woods grinned and raised an eyebrow. “Would I do anything other?” He then updated Foster on the investigation and made sure he had his approval for the formal request of a warrant, which would be required to tap Pauline Crean’s phones. He also raised his concerns about Plant. “I’m going to start checking him out,” he said. “I don’t believe for one second he works for the Diplomatic Service and I want to know who he is and what he’s holding back. He’s cocky, confident, and even more self-assured than me.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Foster said.
Woods sniggered, “Very funny.”
“A word of warning; if he works for the Secret Intelligence Service you’ll not be able to uncover much about him; it’ll be classified and out of bounds.”
Woods nodded, “I know. He’s given me a number I can ring, so I’ll start there.”
As if prompted by the discussion, Foster’s phone rang. Woods sat back and watched as he answered it; he knew by his tone and language it was someone important.
Foster replaced the receiver. “As of now, you’ve to stop all investigations into Jonathan Plant. Any information you currently hold has to be destroyed and or deleted off the system.”
“On whose orders?” Woods asked, infuriated.
“That was the Chief Constable; your guess is as good as mine as to where he took his orders from.”
“I was right; he must work for the security services. And he definitely knows something; if it turns out they withheld information it won’t be us that has some explaining to do.”
“Maybe we need to heed his advice and start protecting those who might be in danger,” Foster suggested.
“We’re tracing them as we speak and Plant’s organising protection for Pauline. If you can justify funding 24/7 protection of four potential victims, I’m happy to comply.”
“Let me speak to the Chief Constable; I’ll come back to you. In the meantime interview them and see what light they can throw on any of this.”
The Incident Room fell silent when Woods returned with Hilton Dudley standing at his side. It was late afternoon, and everyone appeared friendly and welcoming as Woods went round the office introducing the new detective.
Woods informed them about the order to stop all investigations into Plant, which was met with puzzlement and dismay, particularly from Barnes, and as soon as Woods returned to his office she was knocking on his door. He motioned for her to enter.
“Do you know anything else about Inspector Dudley?” she asked.
“Nothing, other than what I’ve told you. Why?”
“When you were introducing him his eyes were all over the room, checking every minute detail, flicking from desk to desk.”
“He was only checking out where he was going to be working.”
“Believe me, he was more than innocently checking out where he’d be working.”
“Maria,” Woods said scowling. “Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid? And before you say anything, I already know the definition of paranoia.”
She was deadpan. “There’s something strange going on here; on the very day we’re told to drop all investigations on Plant some posh southern guy arrives in a flash suit to help with the investigation. Come on, there’s got to be more to this.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
They were interrupted by West knocking on the door. Woods waved her in.
“There’s never been a police investigation into a care worker at Lakeside Residential Home,” she said. “I’ve also checked with the current owners, who have talked to the longest serving staff and they say they can’t ever remember anyone being sacked, or any trouble concerning the care of residents.”
“What about the owners who were there at the time? Perhaps it was kept quiet and the police weren’t involved,” Woods proposed.
“I’m trying to contact them, but they appear to move house fairly regularly and I haven’t managed to track them down yet.”
“When you do, ask Hilton to go out and see them.”
“I’m also having trouble finding Rebecca Ramírez; she appears to have fallen off the face of the earth. Could H
ilton help there?”
“Yes. Have you found Stephen Porter?”
“Yep, he’s still living on the same farm, but Mark Gilroy is another one who’s proving difficult to trace.”
“Right, get Hilton to take over the search for Gilroy, Ramírez and the care worker, and ask him to interview Porter; that should give him plenty to be getting on with. And you assist Maria with looking into the Creans; in the meantime I’ve got some work to do below the radar.”
Pauline stood beside him and watched anxiously as Plant loaded up his Mercedes and prepared to leave. She smiled as he effortlessly threw the heavy suitcase in the back of the vehicle; but in reality she was quite sad; the protective influence he provided was once again to disappear.
“Stop worrying, they’ll be here shortly and I’ll brief them on what to do. You’ll be perfectly safe and well looked after; you’ll hardly notice they’re around.”
“How long are you going to be away?” she asked anxiously.
“Two to three weeks and I’m only in Europe, so it’s not as though I’m on the other side of the world.”
“Do you think Gerrard is behind this?”
“There are too many coincidences for there not to be some connection.”
“I’m interested to hear what Woods finds out about his death. I’ve always thought there was something strange about it.”
“I’m not sure it will uncover anything new. Although…” he paused.
“Although what?”
“Could Gerrard have faked his own death?”
She feigned a laugh and shook her head. “Don’t be silly, I identified his body; it was definitely him. But I don’t think his death was an accident.”
Plant was distracted by a car pulling up at the gates. “They’re here,” he said, pressing the button to let them in. “Good, I know them. They’re perfect for the job.”
Pauline watched as the car parked next to her Range Rover and a man and woman stepped out.
Saturday 26th May.
When Woods arrived in the Incident Room Barnes and McLean were already at their desks working. West was having childcare issues, but would be in later. Jacobs was out interviewing another named suspect, and Dudley had traced the previous owners of Lakeside Residential Home; he was in Thornhill near Dewsbury interviewing them, with the intention of moving on to interview Stephen Porter in nearby Briestfield, after he’d finished.
Woods snatched a coffee from the machine and headed to his office, only to be intercepted by Barnes. “I’ve got something you might be interested in,” she said, eyebrows up.
“Come in, and we’ll have a chat.”
Woods seated himself in his chair and she squatted on one of the stools nearby.
“When Gerrard Crean was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer he was terminally ill for almost a year, during which time a number of business deals went pear-shaped losing him millions, and I mean millions. It was predicted that he would be a billionaire before he was fifty and the indications were all promising. Then, when his estate was finalised after his death, it was worth only £300m. I’ve been going through his company’s status and the press releases on the internet.”
“That is interesting. Maybe he was siphoning off money before he died.”
“£700m is some siphon.”
“What else have you discovered?”
“I’ve checked Gerrard’s accident and I can’t find anything out of place.” She twitched her nose. “It’s as Pauline said. He was out driving his Ferrari, clipped the kerb and crashed into a stone railway bridge; his blood sugar was low, and that was attributed to him not being quick enough to react. The Accident Investigation Report said he was travelling at around 125mph; he didn’t stand a chance. Paramedics pronounced him dead at the scene and Pauline formally identified him, as did the post-mortem report which stated that the deceased had been a diabetic and had an inflamed pancreas, symptomatic of someone in the later stages of pancreatic cancer.”
Woods pondered.
“If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, then if you had a spare £700m, the answer is yes.”
“You think he faked his own death,” Woods said, while scratching his head.
“Yes, but I’ve just got to find the evidence. What’s more, Pauline and Plant were in Puerto Mogan, which is on Gran Canaria, between Wednesday 25th January and Thursday 2nd February; if you remember, Bulmer was murdered on the 30th January. Now there’s no record of them leaving the country or returning, because Pauline has a jet which flies out of a private airfield in North Yorkshire. Nevertheless Las Palmas Airport in Gran Canaria confirm their arrival and departure.”
Woods interjected. “Border control is a joke here.”
Barnes deliberately raised her gaze to Woods. “That’s as maybe,” she said softly, “but Pauline also has a motor yacht and Puerto Mogan is only 60 miles south-west of Los Cristianos; it’s about a two-and-a-half hour trip on a yacht like hers.”
“Did they use it while they were there?” Woods asked quickly.
“It has a GPS Marine Boat Tracker fitted and it’ll have stored the information about any trips taken during the time they were there. I’m going to have the system interrogated and see what that tells us.”
“Have you been working all night again?”
Barnes pulled a face. “Yes. Why?”
Woods smiled. “Thank you,” he said.
It was 10.00 a.m. The warm early morning sunshine beat down on the hedgerow where the wildlife photographer was sitting comfortably, hidden from view behind his green camouflage portable blind. He had arrived at the location at 8.00 a.m. and was well accustomed to the quietness whilst observing the surrounding wildlife. He wore green camouflage clothing and peered through a vision panel in the blind with an 80mm waterproof spotting scope, fixed to a tripod. The scope had a conventional digital camera attached and an ultra-light touch focus control. He had obtained the farmer’s permission to use the hedgerow and was a fairly regular visitor to this particular location, which was about a mile outside Briestfield in West Yorkshire. To the casual observer he was indistinguishable from the green background foliage.
On this particular morning he was contending with the farmer haymaking in the adjacent field, but this was not a complete disaster as the machinery was frightening the wildlife out through the field he was overlooking.
As he panned along the hedgerows he spotted a motorcyclist stop on the lane at the far end of the field the farmer was working in. He watched as the motorcyclist dismounted, removed his crash helmet and then appeared to scan the whole area before casually walking towards the farmer’s tractor.
He must be lost, he thought, as he continued to observe proceedings through the spotting scope. The motorcyclist approached the tractor which stopped and the farmer leaned out of the cab window; as he did so, the motorcyclist raised his right arm and four shots from an automatic pistol rang out. The farmer slumped, hanging half out of the tractor.
“Jesus Christ!” The wildlife photographer scrambled for his mobile phone.
“Hello. Emergency service operator. Which service do you require?”
His voice was shaking. “Police and Ambulance.”
“I’ll just connect you, Sir.”
“Hello, where are you calling from and what’s the emergency?”
The wildlife photographer gave a brief description of his location and what had taken place; he also confirmed his name and the number he was calling from. “Oh, I’ve got a camera,” he suddenly remembered. “I can photograph the man.” Click.
The operator kept him on the line, asking if he was in a safe position and if so to keep relaying the events as they unfolded.
“He’s writing something on the tractor.” Click. He focussed the scope. “I think he’s using lipstick.” Click. “It looks like DCCXVI”. Click.
The call to the Incident Room came in at 10.36 a.m. The Armed Response Teams were already on their way to Willow Farm and the conversation with the wildlife photograp
her was being relayed live to the responding officers.
Barnes took the message from the Duty Sergeant and dashed into Woods’ office.
“We need to get out to Briestfield now; Willow Farm, that’s Porter’s; a man haymaking has just been shot at close range by a guy who’s used lipstick to write Roman numerals on the tractor he was using.”
Woods grabbed his coat and they both ran down the stairs and out to the car park. On the way down she explained about the wildlife photographer and the events being relayed live to attending officers over the police communication system. They reached the car and Woods jumped into the driving seat while Barnes threw herself in the passenger side. He sped off, immediately flicking the switch which operated the flashing blue light unit which he placed on the dashboard.
“See if you can get the call on your speaker phone,” Woods yelled, as the car accelerated through the busy streets heading out on the A642 towards Horbury.
Barnes struggled to operate her phone as she was thrown from side to side while Woods fought to control the vehicle’s high speed; finally the call was heard in the car.
“Oh Christ, I think he’s spotted me… He has.”
“Who’s that?” Woods shouted.
“I assume it’s the wildlife photographer; he’s taking pictures as it’s happening,” Barnes replied.
“Are you alright, Sir?” the operator asked.
The sound of heavy breathing echoed around the car. “He’s coming after me. He must have seen the lens reflecting in the sunlight. Please help, he’s got a gun.”
“Officers are on their way; can you get to a safe position?”
There was rustling and the sounds of the man panting, desperately trying to run away. Suddenly he cried out.
“Are you there Sir?” the operator asked.
Police sirens could be heard in the distance as the man spoke, “I’ve got the police on the phone, they’ll get you,” he yelled. “NO!”
