The parents of Mel Green who died in Aldershot in 2013, said in a statement: “There has not been a robust inquiry into the Aldershot deaths. Not one single person or organisation has accepted any level of responsibility. What we do know about the regime at Aldershot in 1993 was that it showed an appalling lack of duty of care, as they were focused solely on the preparations for the war in Iraq.”
They added: “Our family will never walk away from this. We owe that to our daughter. Justice for two young people whose only action was to marry a young lad who had signed up to defend their country, must be publicly transparent. Assurances from Mr Worcester, who will not even meet the families, are simply no substitute for this.”
It was a powerful and emotive article, which for once had prompted action, hence their journey to West Sussex.
The car slid to a halt as Crane suddenly braked. Then jerking right on the steering wheel, he drove through an open five bar gate. As the car followed the gravel drive Anderson was greeted by the sight of Sir Peter Dunne’s renovated hunting lodge.
Anderson whistled and then said, “Seems like being in the Army pays more than being in the police. Just look at this pile.”
“Impressive, isn’t it? The trouble is, it was built on the back of lies and coercion. Come on.”
Anderson followed Crane to the door who said, “Don’t worry, the locals will be here by the time we’ve finished with him,” he said and banged on the front door, which was opened by Lady Dunne.
“We’re here to see Sir Peter,” Crane spat.
“He’s in his study,” Lady Dunne looked questioningly from Crane to Anderson.
“Detective Inspector Anderson,” Derek introduced himself and produced his warrant card. “We need to speak to your husband, Lady Dunne.”
“But, but he’s on the phone.”
“No problem,” Crane pushed past the poor woman. “Follow me, Derek, I know the way.”
With a small smile of apology to Lady Dunne, Anderson entered the house and followed Crane. Sir Peter was sat behind a rather large leather topped desk when Anderson walked into the study. Glancing up, Dunne saw them, dropped the telephone receiver on his desk in surprise and stood up.
“What’s all this?” he demanded.
Crane introduced Anderson, told Sir Peter to sit down, leaned over the desk and replaced the receiver, cutting off the man’s phone call.
“You can’t do that!”
“Don’t be stupid, Sir Peter. Sit down and listen.” Crane fished a small recorder out of his pocket, turned it on and placed it on the desk. He went through the usual procedure of stating the time, date and names of those in attendance. “I’m now going to play you a tape and record your comments. Do you understand?”
“Is this normal practice, Crane? Why do you want to record me? Come to think of it, what bloody tape?”
“Just listen please.”
Crane placed the Dictaphone machine he had been carrying onto the desk and pressed the play button. The sounds of the conversation Sir Peter had had with Lampton over 10 years ago filled the room. The tape was hissy and had recorded a number of bangs when the microphone had been dropped, but the content and the voices were clear enough.
Throughout the playing of the tape, Anderson watched Sir Peter. When it began, the man’s backbone was military straight, but as it went on, first his head dropped, and then his shoulders slumped until finally his nose was only a few inches from the leather of his desk. At the end of the tape, with what Anderson was sure was a huge effort, Sir Peter raised his head.
Recovering as much of his military bearing as he could, the man said, “It could be anyone on that tape.”
“Sorry. That excuse won’t work. It is Dave Lampton on that tape. We’ve had a voice analysis done to confirm that.”
“Voice analysis? Can you do that?”
“Indeed we can, Sir Peter. Modern technology is a wonderful thing. And you’ve just given us a sample of your voice to compare with the tape. I can also compare it with the recording I made when I last interviewed you.”
“Do you have anything to say, Sir?” Anderson asked.
“What? No, no, I don’t believe I do. Not until I’m able to speak to my solicitor, so if you gentlemen would leave now, I need to call him.”
“Oh, we’re going to leave alright, but not on our own.” Crane nodded to Anderson, who took his cue.
“Sir Peter Dunne, I am arresting you for perverting the course of justice at a time early in 2003. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”
Sir Peter looked at Anderson as though he was a species he had never seen before.
“Arrested? I’m being arrested?”
“Yes, Sir. Do you understand?”
“Yes, of course I do, I’m not stupid.”
“No, indeed you’re not. You need to come with us now, Sir Peter. There are police officers outside the property waiting to take you into custody.” Anderson crossed his fingers behind his back, hoping the lads had actually arrived by now.
They must have done for at that moment Sir Peter’s wife ran into the room and shouted, “Peter, there’s a police car outside! What’s going on?”
Dunne reached for the telephone. “I’m not going anywhere until I can call my solicitor.”
“You will be able to do that from the local police station. I can’t allow you to make any phone calls now.”
Anderson nodded to Crane and they moved to stand either side of Sir Peter. Taking an arm each, they led the man past his bewildered wife and out to the waiting car.
As they walked, Anderson had to admit to himself that there was never a dull moment when working with the military. There may be jurisdiction issues at times, but his working relationship with Crane meant there was a good division of labour and he had no trouble gaining access to soldiers on the garrison when he needed to. As he glanced over at Crane, he wondered about the Army policy of moving people every two years and how much longer Crane would be posted at Aldershot. He hoped that particular policy didn’t apply to the Military Police. After all, Crane helped such a lot with Anderson’s arrest and prosecution targets.
Chapter 46
Crane, Edwards and Anderson were standing beside the white boards in the SIB office in Provost Barracks. Looking at all the pictures, notes, lines and arrows. Looking at the four separate cases that were linked. The murder of Carol Newton, the murder of Mel Green, the attempted murder of Crane and the abduction of Kim. None of the boards gave them any sort of clue as to where Barry Foster might be hiding.
Kim hadn’t been able to help them with their investigation into her abduction, as she was still in Frimley Park Hospital. Her hypothermia had turned into pneumonia. She was currently wearing a CPAP mask in the Intensive Therapy Unit and wouldn’t be wearing an Army uniform again for quite some time. The doctors believed she’d pull through, but she was extremely weak, so her recovery was taking longer than normal. The Padre hadn’t been persuaded to leave her bedside.
The three men moved to the conference table and were joined by Billy, as Anderson shrugged his way out of his coat. Without waiting for anyone to be settled Crane started, “So, Derek, what have you brought us. Is all the information you have on Barry Foster in your head? Is that why you don’t have a file in your hands?”
As Anderson sat he said, “Sorry, none of the above I’m afraid. I just don’t have anything.”
“Nothing at all, Detective Inspector?” asked Edwards.
“No. It seems he just vanished after he left the Army. I can’t find any work records from his National Insurance number, or any record that he has paid any taxes to the Inland Revenue. I can’t even find him on any electoral roll.”
“Shit!” exclaimed Crane. “Is there anything else you haven’t got?”
“Now you mention it, yes. I haven’t got a death certificate, so
it seems he’s still alive.”
“I already know that, Derek,” Crane laughed and winced as his broken ribs were still sore.
“Do you think he’s changed his name, Inspector?” Billy asked.
“Looks like it I’m afraid. But that doesn’t help either because we don’t know what name he’s using.”
“Don’t people who create a new identity for themselves try and use the same initials, or at least a similar sounding first name. That way they shouldn’t be caught out when someone calls their new name and they don’t recognise it,” said Edwards.
“Good point, Sir,” Crane conceded. “What about the white van?” Crane turned to Anderson. “How are you getting on with that?”
“I’ve still got a couple of detective constables working on the list. Nothing interesting so far though. None of those we can find have been involved in any accidents. And none are registered in the name of Barry Foster.”
“No, but you might find one registered to someone with the same initials.”
“Good idea. I’ll get them onto it when I get back to the station.”
*
Anderson arrived back at the police station and wearily got out of his car. He hated this part of an investigation. Sometimes you just reached a plateau, where nothing you tried seemed to pan out. You were just in the doldrums. He’d done everything he could to find a current address for Foster and completely failed. It was as though the man had just ceased to be after he left the Army. As Foster wasn’t old enough to receive his Army pension yet, even that avenue of investigation had been closed.
The wind was whipping though the car park and buffeted him as he walked the few yards to the main door. As he got to it, a man yanked the door open from the other side. He was bundled up in what used to be called a Donkey Jacket, popular with workmen many years ago, made of dark blue serge with leather panels across the shoulders. His hands were pushed into the two large pockets in the front of the jacket and the collar was turned up, shielding his face. He had a dark blue woollen hat pulled over his head. Anderson nodded as the man passed through station doors and walked past him, but got no response. Nor did the man hold open the door for him, letting it bang closed in Anderson’s face. Bloody hell, Anderson thought, there are no manners anymore. Everyone’s just out for themselves these days. He was still grumbling to himself when he arrived at the main desk.
“Who was that miserable sod?” he asked the policeman on the front desk, putting his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the door.
“Oh, Brian Fletcher,” the Desk Sergeant shuffled through his notes. “Here we are, he was brought in for driving his vehicle with a broken headlight.”
“Brought in? That’s a bit unusual isn’t it? Since when have the traffic lads taken to hauling everyone in on a minor violation? We’ll be over run soon,” he laughed.
“This one turned a bit nasty, I think. Fletcher was a bit handy with his fists.”
“Did he clobber one of them then?”
“Not likely, they were too quick for him and ducked out of the way. But they charged him with assaulting a police officer and dragged him in. Left him to cool his temper in a cell for a few hours then let him go with a caution. It’ll cost him a pretty penny to get his van back, though.”
“Van?” A tingle of excitement pricked Anderson’s scalp. “Brian Fletcher, you said his name was?”
“Yes, Sir.” The Desk Sergeant was beginning to look uncomfortable, as though he knew he was missing the point, but wasn’t exactly sure what the point was.
“Bring up the details on your screen will you and buzz me through?”
By the time Anderson arrived on the other side of the desk, the man had the details of the booking on his computer screen.
“Brian Fletcher,” Anderson read out loud. “Cautioned for assaulting a police officer. Given a ticket for a broken headlight. Damage to the van indicated an accident with another vehicle, but the owner assured the officers that he had run into a concrete bollard. Vehicle, white Ford Transit van registration number V4 PPY. Current location of the van, Aldershot Police pound. Sweet Jesus.”
“What is it, Sir?”
“I think I just passed Barry Foster coming into the station. I think he’s been here for the last few hours and not one of you dozy lot realised who the hell you had!”
“Barry Foster, Sir? But this bloke looked nothing like the wanted poster.” The Desk Sergeant ripped it off the wall above his hatch and looked at it. “See, Foster’s clean shaven with a no hair. Our bloke had a beard and ginger hair and ... oh ... my ... God ... we’ve fucked up haven’t we?”
“I don’t know about the ‘we’ bit, I’ve been out all morning. Now get on the bloody phone and call the compound. Do not let Foster retrieve that van. I repeat, do not let him retrieve the van and get them to try their best to arrest him when he comes to collect it!”
“Yes, Sir,” the Sergeant said and reached for the phone as Anderson banged back through the doors, pulled out his mobile and called Crane.
Chapter 47
Crane and Anderson walked around the white transit van, which was still securely stored in the police pound. But there had been no sign of Foster. He hadn’t come back to collect the van, which didn’t surprise Crane one bit.
“I knew he wouldn’t come back,” he told Anderson. “He may be a killer, but he’s not a stupid killer.”
“No, I suppose you’re right. Just wishful thinking, I guess. I can’t believe the bloody idiots at the station, though.”
For once Crane was feeling conciliatory. “Don’t give them too much of a hard time, Derek. It’s not as though they were expecting him to be arrested and walk through the door was it? And it’s no surprise that he’d changed his appearance after having his face splashed all over the papers and the telly. How much longer do you think they’ll be?” Crane indicated the crime scene lads crawling over the inside and outside of the van.
“Who knows? I’ve told them to strip the bloody thing down if that’s what it takes to find some evidence. Foster must have kept the knife somewhere. Best guess is it’s in the van, but hidden, obviously. We know both Carol and Mel travelled in the van with him at some time, before he killed them, so I’ve told them to make sure they bag every hair, fibre and epithelial they can find. I want to tie him to the victims through the van if I can, but the prize would be the dagger.”
“What about the address the van is registered to?”
“No luck there. Sent a car round. The road exists alright, but not that particular flat number. He was a bit clever there. Picked a real address, but it’s an old house split into flats. So he simply put a letter after one of the flat numbers. Flat 2a. As it was the right house number to go with the post code, the computer didn’t know any different, so no error was flagged up.
“And any correspondence is just left in the communal hallway by bored, uncaring tenants, I suppose. If the post isn’t for them, people don’t normally care very much.”
“Yes, that’s about it.”
Crane’s mobile interrupted their moaning and he wandered off to take the call. A few minutes later he was back, decidedly more animated than before.
“Derek, Billy’s on the phone. We’ve got another lead. Get in the car and he’ll tell you all about it as I drive.”
“Drive where to?” Anderson asked as he ran to the car.
“Guildford,” Crane replied and thrust his mobile at Anderson, so he could take down the details from Billy.
Anderson put Billy on speakerphone as Crane pulled out of the police pound and headed towards Guildford.
“Okay, Billy, we can both hear you now, what have you found?”
“Hello, DI Anderson, right, the boss asked me to do a genealogical tree for Barry Foster, to see if I could find any living relatives that he may be in contact with, or even living with. We found out from Sir Peter that he had a sister, so I’ve been trying to find her.”
As Crane threw the car around a bend, Anderson said, “So
that’s why Crane here is trying to kill me by driving too fast, I take it you’ve found her.”
“Yes, Sir, he definitely has a sister. Her married name is Fletcher. Yvonne Fletcher. She lives in Guildford. She’s divorced now and according to the Electoral Role she lives alone.”
“Bingo! That’s the name he’s using now, Fletcher, Brian Fletcher. Well done, Billy, a good piece of work there. It’s likely he could be in contact with her, or even living with her, especially as she’s divorced. There’s no husband in the frame to make things awkward for Foster.”
“Exactly, there doesn’t seem to be any children from the marriage either. An ideal place to hide out wouldn’t you say?”
By now Crane had managed to join the A3 and was screaming down the dual carriageway. “I better go, Billy and call the local police, so they know what we’re doing, save Crane here being stopped for speeding.”
“Very well, Sir. I’ll give you his sister’s address.”
Anderson wrote it down, and then called the station asking them to patch him through to Guildford. He advised the traffic police there of his location and asked for directions. He was advised there was no need to give him directions and as he glanced in the wing mirror, he realised why. A police traffic car was pulling up behind them, lights flashing.
“Thanks a lot,” he told the operator and ended the call.
“Pull over, Crane,” he said as Crane hurtled towards Guildford.
“What the hell for?” Crane was completely focused on the road ahead and hadn’t a clue what was behind him.
“Because we’ve got company. Look behind you, man!”
“Shit!”
“It’s alright, they’re here to help, not to do you for speeding, so pull over and let them take the lead. They’ll get us through the traffic much quicker than we could on our own. Apparently the address is on the other side of Guildford, so we’ve got to go round on the ring road.”
Crane neatly pulled into a space on the inside lane and the traffic cops gave them a quick bleat of the sirens as they passed. Crane slotted back into the fast lane behind them and was immediately sandwiched in by another police car. The three of them scythed their way through the traffic, with occasional use of the sirens and after twenty minutes pulled up on the other side of Guildford.
Cordon of Lies: A Sgt Major Crane Novel Page 20
