by Angie Smith
Two shots rang through the speaker.
Woods glanced at Barnes. “Get the area sealed off. I want him caught,” he shouted.
Barnes did as requested. She spoke to the officer in command, asking for the area to be locked down.
Woods approached the traffic lights at Horbury Bridge, travelling at 85mph. The lights were at red and Barnes screwed her eyes closed and braced herself as he went straight through with his fist firmly planted on the horn. Suddenly a black Maserati Quattroporte came up from behind with its headlights flashing and sped past them.
“Who the fuck was that?” Woods snarled. “They must be doing 150; did you get the number?”
“Can you slow down please; you’re going to get us both killed.”
“We’re nearly there, I know a short cut,” Woods called out, screeching the tyres as he swung right along a single track road.
“This is madness. Slow down,” she yelled.
Woods flew down the hill towards Smithy Brook and stamped hard on the brakes; the car skidded on the shale covered road surface as he tried desperately to avoid the grey Ford Mondeo Estate car that had just turned up the single track road towards them. Barnes screamed as he swerved up the banking, narrowly missing the Mondeo which veered in the opposite direction. Both cars stopped inches from each other.
“Fuck off out of the way!” Woods roared at the car.
Barnes looked over at the Mondeo’s driver and mouthed sorry.
“Get out of the way, arsehole!” Woods bellowed, revving the engine.
The Mondeo moved off and Woods accelerated away.
“If you don’t slow down I’m getting out. I don’t care if you kill yourself, but if you injure me you’re a dead man.” Barnes was fighting back the tears.
Woods slowed the vehicle. “I’m sorry; I’m the one who’s being an arsehole.”
“Let the Armed Response Team deal with this; that’s what they’re trained to do. We can pick up the pieces.”
Woods’ mood mellowed and he drove at a more sedate speed towards Willow Farm. When he arrived armed officers had already sealed off the area and the police helicopter was circling in the sky above. He identified himself and walked with Barnes towards the tractor and the body slumped half out of it. On the lane at the far side of the field officers were standing around a motorcycle and Woods’ attention was drawn there.
“How’s he got here so quick?” he asked, looking at Dudley, who on seeing Woods and Barnes came over.
“I was in Thornhill speaking to the former owners of the residential home and I rang to update you. I was told you were on your way here, so I came straight over. It’s only half a mile away.”
“Whose is the motorcycle?” Woods asked.
“The killer came on it, but he’s gone to ground. The arrival of armed officers must have prevented him getting back to it. The ‘copter is scouring the fields trying to get him on the thermal imaging camera.”
“Is it Porter?” Woods asked, looking at the tractor.
Dudley nodded. “Four shots to the chest, clinical and cold-blooded.”
“Where was the photographer sitting?”
Dudley took them over to the camouflaged hide.
“Who’s got the camera?” Woods queried.
“It had gone. We assume the killer has it; he must have realised the photographer had taken shots of him.”
“Where’s his body?”
Dudley pointed at the hedgerow over by the road. A group of officers were sealing off an area. “He got to him before he reached the road.”
“Do we know who he is?” Barnes asked.
“David Flintshire, his driving licence confirms, and that’s the name he gave the operator. He lives locally; liaison officers are on their way to break the news to the family.”
“How did he get here?” Barnes asked.
“Presume he walked. There’s no vehicle nearby and there were no car keys in his pockets.”
Immediately Barnes got on her phone to check if David Flintshire was the registered keeper of any vehicles. “He may have driven here and the killer’s taken his keys and gone off in his vehicle,” she said, as she waited for the answer.
Her complexion went pale. “David Flintshire has a grey Ford Mondeo Estate car; according to the registration number it’s the very same one we nearly had the head on smash with…”
“Get everyone looking for it,” Woods said quickly. “It was last seen heading along Low Lane towards the A642.” He glanced down at Barnes and then over at the other side of the valley where he noticed a black Maserati Quattroporte, slowly moving along one of the lanes.
Chapter 9
Monday 28th May – Wednesday 30th May.
Woods looked tired and gaunt standing in front of the Murder Investigation Team. He waited for them to settle. It was his usual Monday morning update meeting. The team had worked through the weekend gathering information together from Saturday’s double murder scene, and consolidating the evidence already compiled from the previous four deaths.
“Right everyone,” he said. “We’re now certain the Creans are the link to the murders, suspicious deaths and people at risk. Crean’s dog, Lipstick, killed by Porter and the lipstick used to write the numerals on his tractor, now leaving us in no doubt. We’re working on the theory that Gerrard, discovering he was terminally ill, compiled a list of those who caused him and his wife the greatest heartache, then organised the murders of these individuals. The numerals suggest there are eight names on the list, and so far five; Bulmer, Broadbent, Hussain, Mateland and Porter are dead, leaving us with three more possible victims. We can forget Mark Gilroy as Hilton discovered he died from lung cancer five years ago; that leaves Victor Zielinski, Rebecca Ramírez and Pauline Crean. Therefore we urgently need to trace Zielinski and Ramírez.” He looked to Dudley.
“Victor Zielinski was the care worker at Lakeside Residential Home,” Dudley said, “and his disappearance coincided with Crean’s discovery of the abuse taking place. The owners of the home at the time say they’d never seen the footage and were clearly shocked by it. They say Crean didn’t contact them; they identified Zielinski from the footage. He’d worked for them for about eighteen months and then one day didn’t turn up for work. He was living in a static caravan not far from Hawes, with a couple of other Polish workers, and when contacted about his failure to show at work they thought he’d gone back to Poland, because all his belongings, including his passport, were gone from the caravan.”
“But there’s no record of him leaving the country,” Woods interjected.
“That’s right, and there’s no record of him returning to Poland. Interpol confirm there are no records of him anywhere else. So he either changed identity or he too was murdered.”
Woods stood thinking. “Then we find his new identity or we find his body.”
“Hang on a sec,” Barnes said, staring at Woods. “Imagine you were Crean watching footage of your elderly frail mother being slapped around when she’s neither capable of defending herself or explaining what’s been happening. And during the footage she’s calling out your name, begging you for help. I’ll ask you again, what would you do, particularly if you didn’t trust the police or the system?”
Woods thought long and hard. “I suppose I’d want to kill the bastard.”
Barnes shook her head very slowly. “No… I wouldn’t; killing’s too good for someone like that. I’d want to make him suffer for the rest of his life. In my opinion Zielinski isn’t dead.”
McLean, Jacobs and West looked at one another; only Woods and Dudley remained focused on Barnes.
“I agree with Maria,” Dudley said.
“Okay, we concentrate on establishing Zielinski’s new identity. Now, have you found Ramírez?” Woods asked Dudley.
“This is another missing person. Ramírez returned to Spain shortly after the trouble with Crean; but there’s no record of her coming back here or travelling elsewhere since that time. Her parents live in Casares on
the Costa del Sol and say she didn’t return there and they haven’t seen her since she left for England in the early 90s. I think it would be beneficial if someone went over to interview them, because when I spoke to her father he was edgy and uncooperative. As I’m going to be busy tracing Zielinski. . .”
Woods knew what was coming and looked at Jacobs.
“Yep, I’m happy to oblige, Boss,” Jacobs said, beaming. “I could do with some sunshine.”
“Right, let’s talk about Pauline Crean,” Woods said. “She has two of Plant’s buddies protecting her. They’re from Blue Satellite Investigations, a private security company and she’s paying the fee. She won’t accept police protection and therefore we’ve got her and the farmhouse under surveillance. Although I’m uneasy about this, Blue Satellite do provide protection to the rich and famous, and by all accounts are very professional and highly trained.” He looked at the detectives. “Any questions?”
“Are we confident we’ve identified all the potential victims?” Dudley asked.
“Good question. We’re confident about there being eight victims, and we know five are already dead. We’re also pretty confident that Zielinski and Ramírez will be two of the final three, due to the distress caused to Crean, but what we’re not sure about is Pauline being at risk.” Woods looked at Barnes.
“Pauline was unfaithful,” Barnes said. “She had a one night stand with Mark Gilroy, who — as we’ve heard — died of cancer five years ago, but she thinks Gerrard knew nothing about it. That being said she can’t come up with anyone else that caused them distress and heartache. I’ve been speaking to his accountants and quite a few big deals went wrong in the months leading up to his death, losing him millions, but there were several people involved in these deals and Gerrard apparently appeared nonplussed by it all; he told the accountants to put it all down to experience. No-one else at the company could name anyone he’d had major disputes with. So I feel Pauline appears to be the only one at the moment who fits the profile.”
Woods nodded, and then looked over at McLean. “Pete, can you give us an update on Porter and Flintshire?”
McLean cleared his throat. “Aye, David Flintshire’s grey Mondeo Estate was found burnt-out at Horbury Lagoon, not far from the river and the Calder and Hebble canal. Obviously there was no sign of the driver and we think he had another vehicle parked there — possibly a red Transit van — in order to assist with an escape if he’d managed to get back on the bike, which is a clone and there’s no trace of it anywhere on the ANPR that day. The VIN number identifies that it was sold by its previous owner four weeks ago in Sheffield, to a guy that collected it in a red Transit. It’s never been re-registered and the fellow buying it promised to send the new keeper’s details to the DVLA, but surprise, surprise, never did. The good news is the bike’s been examined and we have a DNA match,” he again cleared his throat, “to the samples taken from the rope that hanged Hussain.”
“Nothing on the DNA system, I take it?” Woods surmised.
McLean shook his head. “However, several red Transits have been captured on various CCTV cameras around the area on Saturday morning. We’re currently checking through them, but don’t be surprised if the van is also a clone.”
Woods ran his fingers through his short hair and sighed. “Who goes to all this trouble?” he said to himself.
“Someone who doesn’t want to be caught,” Barnes answered.
McLean continued, “Aye, and there’s no trace of the murder weapon, but forensics say the bullets were 9mm hollow-point.”
“That’s interesting,” Woods said. “It might give us a clue; get someone on it.”
“Here’s the e-fit of the killer produced by Greg and Maria.” McLean handed copies around.
“I still think it looks a bit like Plant,” Woods said, glancing at Barnes.
“I’m not sure, but he spooked me when I looked into his eyes; he was cool as a cucumber and he winked, as though he recognised me.”
“Perhaps he’d seen you on Crimewatch,” Dudley offered.
“Finally,” McLean said, looking down at his notebook. “It was Maybelline Colour Sensational Lipstick, in Pleasure Me Red, that was used to write the numerals on the tractor door.”
West laughed. “Aye, you’ll be an expert in lipstick now,” she joked.
“No, it was found at the scene,” McLean retorted, appearing not to appreciate the humour.
Woods though was grinning. “Right, Maria, your turn,” he said.
“I’ve got some interesting news about the boat tracker on Pauline’s yacht. The system’s been interrogated and confirms that the yacht left the marina in Puerto Mogan at 6.35 p.m. on Sunday 29th January. It travelled approximately five miles round the coast and stayed there until around lunchtime on the 30th, before coming back to the marina.”
“So they couldn’t have been anywhere near Bulmer,” Woods said, giving a resigned sigh.
“That’s not the interesting bit,” she replied. “Apparently the tracker stopped transmitting on the 30th at 6.15 a.m. and restarted at 11.58 a.m. The manufacturers confirm that sometimes minor electrical interference can cause a blip in transmissions, but this is an unusual occurrence. They say the battery wasn’t losing power, because a system alert would have told them, and therefore the most likely scenario is that someone intentionally removed the battery and replaced it later.”
“Did they?” Woods said intrigued.
“I’ve spoken to Pauline, who now remembers going on the yacht, spending the night out, but says she’d had a little too much to drink and can’t remember much about the trip back.”
“What if Plant got her drunk, removed the tracker’s battery, sailed across to where Bulmer was fishing, murdered him, then came back to the original spot and reconnected the battery?”
Barnes gave a lopsided smile. “But we can’t check that out, can we? Jonathan Plant is out of bounds.”
“No, we can’t,” Woods grumbled, his tone unconvincing. “What else have we discovered about Gerrard?” he asked.
“As I’ve already intimated, Gerrard lost £411,876,258 in the twelve months leading up to his death.”
Woods whistled. “How much?”
“This was through poor business deals and several property, slash, plant acquisitions that didn’t achieve the expected returns. His accountants say he was always hands-on with big deals; he’d check every detail and all the individuals involved before agreeing to proceed. But there was something different about the deals that went wrong; Gerrard himself brought them to the table and asked the accountants to check the finances. They’d assumed he’d checked out everything else, and on paper they looked fine. It was only when things went pear-shaped that focus turned to the individuals involved and it was discovered they were fraudsters who suddenly vanished with the money.”
“All £411 million?” Woods asked, astonished.
Barnes nodded. “The accountants wanted to call in the police, but as I’ve said, Gerrard told them to put it down to experience and make sure it didn’t happen again. They assumed it was because his judgement had been affected by the illness.”
“Alarm bells are ringing again,” Woods said. “Crean must have set these deals up as a smoke screen to siphon money away from the company.”
“I agree. That’s why I’m now going to follow the money and find out exactly where it went.”
“Good. Right, thanks everyone, we need to press on and find Zielinski and Ramírez - Hilton and Chris that’s down to you. Pete, continue with Porter and Flintshire’s murders - just a thought, look at how he’s cloning so many vehicles. See if there’s a pattern and a lead there; don’t forget the hollow point bullets. Maria and Sharron, stick with the Creans and keep digging.” Woods looked at his watch. “I need to dash; I was supposed to be up with Foster ten minutes ago. We’ve got a press conference this afternoon.”
Woods returned to the Incident Room at 3.45 p.m. having spent the majority of the day preparing for and then jo
intly presenting the press conference with Foster, which had been broadcast live on the BBC News channel, Sky News and CNN.
“I need a coffee,” he said, walking over to the machine. “The press are all over the story; it’s turning into the news event of the year. If we’re not careful things are going to get out of hand.”
“Aye, the press officer says they’ve never been as busy,” McLean chipped in.
Woods stood sipping the coffee.
“Have you got a minute?” Barnes asked.
“Sure,” he replied, heading into his office.
She followed and closed the door behind her. She had that determined look on her face and Woods sensed she was on to something. “I need to get something off my chest,” she said abruptly.
“Go on, what is it?”
“Don’t you think it strange that Hilton Dudley was first to arrive at the murder scene?”
“He was only a mile away; why shouldn’t he have arrived first?”
“He said he’d rung to update you and was told you were on your way to Briestfield.”
“So?”
“Who told him?”
Woods looked blank; he was unsure where this was leading.
“I took the message from the Duty Sergeant, ran straight to you and we didn’t stop to tell anyone where we were going. If you remember you were intent on getting us both killed, that’s why you were in such a hurry.”
Woods paused to think. “Where was McLean?”
“He’d gone out to interview another suspect. There was no-one in the room once we’d left.”
“Maybe Dudley’s call was put through to the Duty Desk and they told him.”
Barnes shook her head. “I’ve checked; it wasn’t.”
Woods pondered.
“And don’t you think this is strange. The killer gets off his motorcycle, removes his helmet, calmly walks up to Porter’s tractor, fires four shots, writes DCCXVI on the cab window with lipstick. Then realising someone’s watching him, gives chase, still carrying the gun and the helmet, stumbles upon the camouflaged hide, spots the camera attached to the scope, removes it, and then miraculously catches Flintshire before he reaches the road. What was Flintshire, a snail?”
