Detective Mike Croft Series Box Set

by Jane Adams

  ‘Oh?’ Mike queried.

  ‘Your work on the Norwich rapist,’ Macey told him. ‘Or should that be in the plural?’

  Mike poked a cautious finger at the stacks of paper perched precariously on the edge of the desk. ‘You’ve done your homework,’ he commented.

  ‘Some good it’s been. I’m there, literally in the picture, and some bastard on the nationals gets all the credit for it. Didn’t even have to do the work for it either.’

  Mike found a free chair and sat down. ‘You’ll have them beating a path to your door and you know it. First impressions. The inside story from the man who saw it all.’

  Macey snorted. ‘Yeah, maybe.’ He was reluctant to confirm what Mike had said, but he was feeling a whole lot better than he had done earlier in the day. Already the phones had been buzzing; big names wanting to get on the inside track. He looked sharply at Mike.

  ‘So, what’s your line this morning? Have you come here to make sure I don’t talk or to accuse me of taking those flaming pictures?’

  Mike smiled. ‘You watch too many bad films, Macey. No, I’m here because we think you may have had contact with the killer at some time, maybe in the last week or ten days.’

  ‘Contact? With the killer?’ Macey’s face turned purple and then pale. ‘Now look here, Detective Inspector Croft, if you’re accusing—’

  ‘No one’s accusing, so cut the outraged voice-of-the-people act.’ Mike paused and rubbed a hand across tired eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been anything but tired. ‘Look, you might have talked to him in passing. Talked in front of him. Complained too loudly about not getting a piece of the action. Anything, as simple as that. Jake Bowen’s got a peculiar sense of humour, that much we do know, and all it might take for him to involve you in his game could be the odd word in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  Macey’s mind was working overtime. Random thoughts that had plagued him through a sleepless night now started falling into place.

  ‘He asked for me by name,’ Macey said. ‘It could have been anyone, but he asked specifically for me.’ Mike sat forward suddenly.

  ‘Now wait a minute. It was a woman who made that call.’

  Macey shook himself. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘But it was a man who spoke to reception. It was only a woman on the line when it was put through to me.’

  ‘A man,’ Mike said heavily, ‘and you didn’t see fit to mention this in your statement?’

  ‘I didn’t know, not until this morning, when I started to ask around. Talk to the girl yourself. You’d better hurry, though. Once she starts putting two and two together and realizes she was chatting to a murderer, she’ll be off like a flash. You mark my words.’

  Mike wondered if Macey always talked in clichés. ‘I’ll be talking to her,’ he said heavily, ‘just as soon as I’ve done with you, Mr Macey. The fact that he didn’t speak to you himself, that could be significant.’

  ‘You mean I might have known the voice? Yes, I’d considered that. Look, I’ll give it some thought.’

  ‘You’ll give it more than some,’ Mike told him. ‘I want to know. Anyone strange or anyone in one or other of your local watering holes who might have shown an unusual interest in you or what you have to say?’

  ‘Aw, come on, Inspector. I work for a bloody newspaper. Look, knowing that — and, believe me, most of them do where I choose to drink — well, most people it takes in one of two ways. Either they shut up tight when I’m around or they won’t bloody give over. It’s all, “Oh, I’ve got a good story for you, mate,” ’ Macey mimicked. ‘Or, “There’s something going on at such and such a place you ought to be looking at.” Then when they find out I’m a bloody photographer they all want cheap rates on their kiddie portraits. It’s like being a frigging doctor — no such thing as off-duty. There’s always someone got something suppurating they want you to take a look at.’ He pushed back his chair and got up, pacing the little space there was left in the room.

  ‘I mean, what does this fellah look like?’ He waved an impatient hand towards his stacks of paper. ‘A good half-dozen descriptions you’ve got there and not one of them the same. He’s got blond hair. He’s got dyed black hair. He’s clean-shaven when he hasn’t got a beard or an occasional moustache. He’s got blue eyes that might be brown and a Geordie accent according to some vicar in Berkshire who might be talking about the Lord God himself for all the reliability of it. You’ve got some forensic shrink that profiles him as a lorry-driving loner and a wannabe Doris Stokes spiritualist medium that claims she’s in contact with him on a higher plane. Fuck it, Inspector. You know the man’s name. You think he might be from up north because you’ve got a couple of Jake Bowens up there you haven’t been able to track through the voters’ register and that’s about it. Oh, I’m sorry, you know he kills people and likes to make artistic films about it. He probably even takes a starring role. And you can take a guess that he’s going about his business under an assumed name.’

  Mike opened his mouth to speak, his own anger and frustration beginning to break through, but Macey hadn’t finished.

  ‘I talk to a lot of people, Inspector Croft. You do in my game and a lot of people ask me a lot of daft questions about what I do.’ He sat down again and reached across for a stack of papers. ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing. This guy’s not going to hang around waiting for you to get a fix on him. He’s mobile and he’s smart and, you mark my words, he’s done what he set out to do. He’s long gone.’

  Mike shook his head slowly. ‘I think you’re wrong,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen the way Jake Bowen works and he’s not finished yet. Those pictures, they were just the beginning. He caught you on film. Just one frozen moment, but that won’t be enough for Jake Bowen. He likes his pictures live and moving or spectacularly dead. I’ll make a bet with you, Macey, he’s already got an archive on you that would make what you’ve got on him look like a kids’ dictionary put beside the Encyclopaedia Britannica. You might hope he’s left, but Jake Bowen makes feature-length editions and so far all you’ve contributed are a few stills.’

  * * *

  Mike had a swift word with both Liz and the receptionist who had taken the call, but his patience was short and he did not want to push it further. He normally saw himself as calm and controlled — too controlled, Maria was always telling him — but Macey had reached under his skin and he had reacted.

  Liz had little to add to her previous statement. She was clearly still shaken and was chain-smoking cigarettes in a non-smoking office as though to make up for the weeks when she’d been trying to give them up.

  ‘I’m OK, though,’ she told him. ‘Damned if this thing is going to get to me.’

  The receptionist had nothing useful to tell. ‘An ordinary voice,’ she said. Not a local accent, but not one that she could place either.

  Mike made a note to get an officer sent out to take a formal statement but held out little hope that it would get them anywhere. Ordinary voice. That was just the trouble with everything they knew about Jake Bowen. Much of it was so damned ordinary.

  It was mid-afternoon before Mike managed to talk to Maria and suggest that she come down to see him that weekend.

  ‘Oh, Lord, I’m sorry, Mike. I thought with all this business going on you’d be tied up and I’ve volunteered to have Essie.’

  ‘Oh.’ He knew it was inadequate, but it was all that he could manage. He tried again. ‘There’s no one else? I take it Jo’s still in hospital?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Look, I’ll ring Momma, see if I can come down on Sunday at least. Or,’ she said tentatively, ‘I could bring her with me?’

  Mike hesitated. He was loath to bring a child to where Jake Bowen might be, even though he knew that was probably stupid, as Bowen could be just about anywhere. Rather hesitantly he explained this to Maria, half expecting her to laugh at him.

  ‘I see what you’re saying, Mike. OK. Look, I’ve not said for certain I’d be able to have Essie at the weekend. I
’ll try and sort something out and make it up to everyone another way. I’ll drive down Friday night if you can book me in somewhere. It’s going to be late, but at least we’ll have the weekend together.’

  ‘It’s a long drive, love, and I can’t promise I’ll be there all the time.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Anyway, I’m missing you.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘Maybe I should bring John with me. Kind of family reunion.’

  ‘Don’t even think of it. Much as I’d love to spend some time with him, I need time alone with you more. I’ll ring you tonight.’

  He listened as she put the phone down before switching the mobile off and starting back towards Honiton, thinking about Maria. Having her say she missed him was precious. He’d known her almost two years now and found it impossible to imagine life without her, though it still amazed him that someone as beautiful could choose to be in love with him.

  Mike carried her picture in his wallet. He had always thought that a rather sentimental thing to do, but now he found it comforting to be able to open it and see her smiling at him, head slightly to one side. Her smile raised dimples in the richness of perfect black skin and her dark eyes sparkled with mischief. She wore her hair close-cropped. Before Maria, Mike had always preferred hair to be long. But that was then. Now he viewed everything about her as perfect.

  It would be good to see her at the weekend, even if only for the briefest of times.

  Though the strain still showed itself around his eyes, Mike was actually smiling as he drove down into Honiton.

  * * *

  When Liz went to find him, Macey was still poring over his Jake Bowen archive. He’d spent the hours since Mike had left on the phone, returning calls, chatting to editors whose names he’d previously only read at the head of their columns. Macey was one of an increasingly rare breed. He might work for the Dorchester Herald as a photographer but he’d done his time as a journalist and that made him a one-man band, ready and eager to produce the goods for whoever wanted to pay.

  He’d agreed to a couple of interviews, but what he really wanted was the by-line and finally he’d forced tentative agreements from a couple of tabloid editors. Find a new angle and we’ll publish. Macey’s rational side told him that such verbal contracts weren’t worth the proverbial paper they were written on, but he didn’t care. This was going to be it and it was Mike Croft who had given him the germ of an idea. The angle. If Jake Bowen hadn’t finished yet with Macey, well maybe he could use it to his advantage. A genuine inside story with Macey as the leading man.

  And the Herald wanted their share of the glory too. The editor was determined that Macey should not sell them short and, going back over his notes, he thought he had just the thing to satisfy.

  ‘Charlie Morrow,’ he announced as Liz came through the door.

  ‘Charlie who?’

  ‘Morrow. He put two and two together about Jake being the killer movie-maker he was after. Specialist stuff. Very select audience. Used the one-shot casting principle.’

  ‘The what? Macey, what the hell are you on about?’

  ‘His actors. You get to feature in a Jake Bowen special, it’s likely to be your one and only chance of stardom. You burn bright, but by God you have a short career.’

  ‘You’re talking about the snuff movies this guy is supposed to have made?’

  ‘No supposed about it, Liz. They’re real enough and they’re still out there, getting more valuable by the frigging day. This guy, Morrow. He was a DCI from what I remember. Led a raid on one of Bowen’s studios and got himself blown up for his trouble.’

  ‘And?’ Liz queried.

  ‘You and I are going to talk to him. See how he’s getting along.’ He grinned at her. ‘Editor says we need a good story for the local rag, something the big boys haven’t covered, and my feeling is that Charlie Morrow could be it.’

  Liz frowned. ‘If it’s such a good story, how come no one else has touched it?’

  ‘Because up until about a month ago he was still in hospital, specialist bums unit, and they weren’t about to let hordes of journos clutter up their waiting room. Anyway, after all the initial fuss was over and he failed to die from his injuries, the story kind of faded out.’

  ‘And you think you can revive it?’

  ‘Sure I can. Few phone calls — well, actually every bloody nursing home in Wiltshire or near enough — and I’ve found him.’

  ‘And they told you he was there, just like that?’

  ‘Well, no, not just like that. I called and asked to speak to him. Number five and I struck lucky. They put the call through to his room.’

  ‘And he talked to you?’ Liz was caught between outrage and astonishment.

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘He told you where to go. Words that start with F and end with off by any chance?’

  Macey laughed. ‘That was his first reaction, but I talked him round. Told him who I was, mentioned Jake Bowen’s name.’

  ‘God, Macey, I’d think that was the last thing he’d want to hear.’

  ‘Ah.’ Macey tapped gently on the side of his several-times-broken nose. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Ex-DCI Charlie Morrow is very interested in Jakey boy’s latest escapade.’

  ‘Jakey boy! Christ, you make me sick sometimes.’ She shook her head. ‘I still can’t believe he’s agreed to see you.’ She looked more shrewdly at Macey. ‘He hasn’t agreed, though, has he? Has he? This is all just so much pie.’

  Macey pushed himself to his feet with an air of injured importance. ‘Not yet, my girl, but he will. You just mark my words.’

  Chapter Five

  June 20

  Friday morning was as hot as ever, even at eight o’clock, when Mike set out from Honiton. He was lodging in a cramped room above a pub. The accommodation was basic but adequate, and Mike was quite content with it. All in all, it was probably more comfortable than his flat in Norwich, a one-bedroomed affair he had rented half furnished and to which he had added very little in the two years he had been there.

  He was on his way to see Max Harriman. Mike reprised what he knew about the man. Harriman had been a close friend of Jake when the two of them were growing up and he’d maintained contact with him in a distant way ever since. He had regarded Jake as something of a hero, mimicking his actions, though he lacked Jake’s innate caution and sense of purpose. He had finally been arrested when his imitation of Jake had gone too far. He had raped and then killed in December of the previous year.

  Harriman was still on remand awaiting final psychiatric assessment before going to trial, the wheels of the judiciary moving as slowly as ever. He was presently being held in a secure psychiatric unit and Mike had been seeing him several times a month since then, sometimes at Harriman’s instigation and sometimes his own.

  Harriman should have been their key to Jake. It was because of him that they knew Jake’s real name and anything about his background, but, Mike reflected as he drove out on this latest visit, that still didn’t amount to a great deal. Harriman had played them like an expert over these last months and many times Mike had felt like threatening to withdraw his visits, which seemed to lead to nothing but frustration and only fed Harriman’s sense of self-importance. His superiors, though, had said he must carry on. Mike had been the arresting officer and, for whatever reason, Harriman had chosen him to be the one he’d talk to. From time to time he’d let slip some little detail; some fragmentary clue to the way Jake thought or the way he might behave. It was enough to make them consider cultivation of Max Harriman worthwhile.

  Beside Mike on the passenger seat lay a large folder. Inside were copies of the cuttings books Max had kept over the years, with material from local papers, from the nationals, even from the occasional glossy magazine. Max must have spent a fortune on his news collection. Not all of the articles concerned Jake and Max; it was an eclectic mix. Max had taken care to record noteworthy incidents in the lives of anyone he had once known and grown up with: the weddings of one-time friends; birt
hs of their children if they appeared in the paper; even the small achievements of those children, such as the time one had won first prize in a dance competition or another been a May Queen’s attendant at the local fete.

  Everyone mentioned in Max’s books had been traced, interviewed, tagged and quietly turned inside-out, on the off-chance Jake Bowen might still be known to them.

  Macey had been wrong in what he’d said the day before. They knew a great deal about Jake Bowen: the young man growing up in what had been a pit village just outside York; the young man who had shown such promise at school — when he could be bothered to attend. They knew about the teacher Ian Wright who’d borrowed the super eight cine camera on Max and Jake’s behalf and helped them make a film that had won a prize in a national competition, and, unknowingly, set Jake on a career that would make him the most hunted and probably the most feared man in Britain.

  Jake Bowen had been just fifteen years old then and his picture, with Max, in the local paper was the last image they could be certain they had of him.

  They knew that Jacob Alastair Bowen had been born on 9 November 1959 to Millie and Alastair Bowen. He was an only child, though Millie had suffered two miscarriages in previous years. Jake Bowen had grown up in the next street to Max Harriman. There were rows and rows of terraced, back-to-back houses with quiet roads between where the kids had played. The Bowens had a proper bathroom added to their home in 1964 and a downstairs extension at the back. The Harrimans had beaten them to it by a year and been the first in their street to have a pink suite.

  Harriman’s reminiscences had been full of details like this.

  Jake had gone to the local school, built originally as a Victorian Board School a few streets away. It still had the words carved above the doors denoting separate entrances for girls and boys. Mike had visited the school about a month before and it was still a Victorian Board School, for all that the staff had dressed it up inside, making the place more bright and cheerful than its founders could ever have intended. The holes in the tarmac of the school yard, Mike thought, were probably the same ones that Jake Bowen had fallen over, splashed in when it rained and played marbles in all those years before.