Detective Mike Croft Series Box Set

by Jane Adams

  ‘With or without prompting?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Bit of both. My whole point is, you can sit on the side, monitor a few. Folk out there still have the illusion that they can say just about anything online, like they forget it’s a public place. See what you can stir up.’

  He delved into his briefcase and pulled out a computer magazine with a CD still attached to the front.

  ‘America Online,’ he said triumphantly. ‘One month’s free connection, complete with helpline. All you’ve got to do is pay for the calls. Here, keep the mag. Present from me to you.’

  Charlie gave him that crooked half-smile that looked more like anger. ‘You’re all heart, Macey,’ he said.

  * * *

  Max Harriman was not pleased. He had recognized Alastair Bowen almost immediately, despite the years, and his reaction thereafter had ranged from the sulky to the outraged.

  ‘Why bring him here?’ he wanted to know. ‘He doesn’t know a thing about Jake. He abandoned him years ago. Some father he was.’

  ‘He’s told me more about Jake than you have,’ Mike lied. ‘Maybe you’d like to set the record straight, Max. Maybe I should tell you what Alastair here’s been saying and you can put us right?’

  Max sank into an angry silence and refused to be drawn. Mike stood up.

  ‘Well, if you won’t talk to me then I think I’ll go now. After all, it doesn’t look as if we’ll be needing you so much now, does it?’

  Max was on his feet and yelling loud enough to bring the guards. ‘He knows nothing!’ he shouted. ‘I’m the one that Jake came to. I’m the one that studied him, that followed after him — that understands him. They never did. Never. You need me, Inspector Mike Croft, and don’t you forget it.’

  Mike wondered briefly whether to push his advantage or to let Max simmer. The ringing of his mobile decided for him and he allowed the guards to take an irate Max and escort him back to his cell.

  The call was from Peterson, who’d heard from Julia Norman’s parents. A video film of her had arrived in the morning post.

  The journey back with Alastair Bowen was a very quiet one, both men busy with their own thoughts. It was only when Mike dropped him at the safe house they had put him into after the TV broadcast that Alastair referred to their earlier talk.

  ‘I always thought he’d done it,’ he said. ‘Killed Emily Harriman. Jake was always round there and the woman liked him.’ He paused. ‘Women did like him,’ he said, ‘all women.’

  ‘Why did you suspect him?’

  The man hesitated. ‘Because of the blood,’ he said. ‘Jake came home with blood on his hands and the cuffs of his sleeves. The papers said she’d had her throat cut and everyone knows that would send blood everywhere, so I thought I must have been mistaken.’

  ‘And his jacket?’ Mike asked. ‘Was he wearing a jacket? Mrs Harriman was attacked from behind, her throat cut, and then she was dropped to the floor, her assailant still behind her. Yes, there would have been a lot of blood, but not necessarily all over Jake. Mostly his hands, his cuffs, the sleeves of his jacket.’

  ‘He said he lost his jacket,’ Alastair Bowen remarked, staring out of the car window as if absorbed by the scene.

  ‘And you said nothing?’ Mike asked him.

  ‘And I said nothing,’ Alastair Bowen agreed.

  * * *

  Peterson was waiting for him in the barn-cum-incident room at Colwell Barton.

  ‘Have fun with Max and Alastair?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, great company. Two of a kind.’

  ‘Maybe they should form a double act when Max gets out. But seriously, did you learn anything?’

  ‘Beyond Alastair Bowen being a religious nut?’ He sat down heavily, watching as Peterson set the video player. ‘Yes, I learned that Max is jealous and that gives us leverage. And that Jake probably started his career early.’

  ‘With Mrs Harriman, as we thought?’

  Mike nodded thoughtfully, but there was clearly something else on his mind.

  ‘I don’t like what you’re thinking, Mike.’

  He smiled at the familiar phraseology. ‘It’s the way Alastair talked about it. He said that Jake came home with his hands and cuffs covered with blood and his jacket missing. I mean, agreed Jake lived only a couple of streets away from the Harrimans and agreed it was late and dark and probably there was no one to see him on the way home, but why not take time to wash his hands? He must have known it was possible his parents were at home. It was as if he wanted his father to see. A challenge, if you like.’

  ‘If that’s so, and I think you may be on to something, why lose the jacket?’

  Mike shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Why do any of the things Jake does? It’s as if he was constantly trying to keep everyone off balance even then.’

  ‘It could be you’re looking too deep,’ Peterson suggested. ‘Maybe he just panicked and ran, threw the jacket away and didn’t realize how much blood there was until he got home.’

  ‘Maybe. But no, I don’t think so. The jacket was never found and the area was searched thoroughly. And you’ve got to remember, this isn’t an affluent area. People might have a work jacket, an everyday one and one for Sundays if they were lucky. I remember my dad had the same Sunday clothes for years.’

  Peterson laughed. ‘Sounds like me,’ he said. ‘But I hear what you’re saying. Clothes weren’t just thrown away and the locals would recognize something that was. It would have led them straight to Jake.’

  He sat down beside Mike, playing with the video remote.

  ‘You think he killed before that,’ Peterson said thoughtfully, ‘and that his father knew about it. That leaving the blood on his hands for his father to see was like saying, “Look at me, there’s nothing you can do”, something like that?’

  Mike nodded. ‘Yes. And I think it’s important we find out who and when. It might give us the opening we’re looking for.’

  ‘It might, and it might just waste a lot more time. Oh, I think you’re right, Mike, but we’ve got enough on our plates dealing with the current Jake Bowen, never mind raking through his distant past.’

  He set the video to play.

  * * *

  Jake Bowen still had to work, no matter what else he was involved in. His filmmaking and other activities he saw as a profitable sideline — very profitable and invested wisely. Jake had learned early, though, that you should always have a good cover story, that people quickly become suspicious of someone with no regular lifestyle or habits or obvious source of income, and Jake had always had a ‘proper job’ and made certain that, superficially at any rate, he lived within his means.

  Jake was content to wait. He was saving hard for his retirement, and planned on making it a long and easy one.

  His proper job just now was as a sales rep for an artists’ supply house. He enjoyed it. It involved meeting people and selling, two things Jake was very good at. And it gave him opportunity for a little talent-spotting on the side.

  Jake knew his stuff. He was way ahead of the game with the latest colours, always knowing which pigment or primer or paper would give the best results; always helpful and willing to go that extra mile to get a satisfied customer. And he was knowledgeable enough to suggest alternatives for hard-to-get supplies or willing to push his buyers into obtaining things for him.

  As Mike and Peterson were viewing the video of Julia Norman, Jake was leaving the Fine Arts Department at Exeter University. The young woman who’d been tutor to Julia Norman waved to him from her window as he left, the new samples and colour charts he’d just brought in piled on her desk.

  Such a very nice man, she thought idly, turning the ring on her engagement finger and wondering if he was single.

  Chapter Fourteen

  There was something like forty-five minutes of film, much of it gently erotic and strangely compelling. The first ten minutes or so were images that could have been on anyone’s home movie.

  They were shot on a near-
deserted beach: a windy day and Julia, her long hair flying loose as she ran towards the camera. She wore jeans and a shapeless blue sweater, the wind strong enough to mould it to her body as she performed, pretending she didn’t want to be filmed, but dancing barefoot on the sands, teasing the filmmaker.

  Much of their shouted dialogue was lost, whipped away on the strong wind, but Julia chatted to Jake, laughed with him, completely at ease and, Mike thought as he looked into her eyes, clearly in love with him.

  They couldn’t hear the joke that Julia told, but they heard Jake laugh, the microphone built into the camera easily picking up the sound. Mike was shocked at the naturalness of it, the ease and happiness he heard, as though Jake had not a care in the world, and no plans for anything but enjoyment with this girl.

  Other scenes followed, some in which Julia participated with full knowledge, some in which she was clearly unaware that she was being filmed. It was as though Jake wanted to catch her every unconscious movement, her naturalness when she thought herself unobserved. Julia in the park, throwing bread to the ducks. Julia sitting on the steps outside her shared house, chatting to one of her room-mates. Julia brushing her hair and putting on lipstick. Julia painting the canvas she had given her parents that last Christmas.

  Peterson paused the film at that point and tried to take it through frame by frame, cursing the scanning lines that ran across the image and his inability to hold the picture steady on the cheap VCR they’d brought with them to the barn. It was good enough, though, to see the photographs and sketches taped to the edge of the painting and pinned on the wall behind: pictures of Julia herself, lying naked on a bed.

  As the camera angle pulled back and more of the room came into view, it was clear that this was a studio of some kind: the white walls; the large skylight, angled to give maximum illumination to the room but shaded with muslin against the glare; a glimpse of pictures covering the other wall and a room beyond, dark but for the red glow of a safe-light that had been left on.

  ‘Jake’s studio?’ Mike questioned.

  ‘It’s not the university, and it’s certainly not her house or the parents’ place.’

  ‘It’s worth getting it enhanced,’ Mike commented, ‘and maybe showing to Max. It’s possible he could have been there.’

  Peterson nodded but didn’t look hopeful. ‘He’s playing with us again,’ he said. ‘Showing us so much and none of it’s going to be of any use. You just know it.’

  ‘He’ll get careless. He has to.’

  ‘I’ll be sure and tell him that when we meet.’

  Peterson pressed play once more and let the film run. It had changed in character. The same studio, but with Julia dressed only in a green silk robe, standing self-consciously facing Jake. This time they could hear his voice too as he coaxed her into taking off her robe and posing for him: a pleasant, educated voice with the slight twang of a residual accent that Mike could not quite place.

  ‘Come on, Julie darling, I’ve seen it all before. There’s nothing to be shy about.’

  ‘I know, but it’s the camera.’ She giggled nervously. ‘I mean, you might show the film to someone.’

  ‘Why would I do that, darling? Personal consumption this is for. All those long dark nights when you’re not around.’

  She giggled again. ‘And what nights are those?’ she asked him. ‘I’m here all the time just lately.’

  She began to unfasten the belt, biting her lip and looking sideways at him, deliberately provocative as she slid the robe from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he said. ‘Now move for me, darling, pose a bit, think of it like a life class with a bit of movement.’

  She laughed again, posing awkwardly, trying too hard to look sexy and confident, then gradually, as they watched, beginning to relax and play Jake’s game.

  Her movements became more fluid, more provocative, her eyes on Jake as she touched herself, stroking her own breasts, cupping them in her hands as though presenting them to those watching; her hands moving down onto her belly, and then to the tops of her legs and between her thighs.

  Mike swallowed hard, wanting to look away but compelled to go on watching. He felt Peterson shifting uncomfortably in his seat and then get up and cross the room to fill the kettle.

  Mike sat still, wishing he’d thought of that first, as Julia Norman played out her role on the screen, totally self-absorbed.

  ‘She’s the same age as my youngest,’ Peterson commented, his voice gruff with pain and embarrassment.

  Mike found himself hoping that Julia’s parents had switched off before the tape came to an end.

  Chapter Fifteen

  27 June

  Against his usual habits, Jake called in sick on the Thursday morning. Alastair’s appearance on the television the night before brought a new twist to the game and he had unfinished business to attend to.

  The news that his mother had died so recently had surprised him. He had assumed that she had passed away long ago, or at any rate he had given little thought to her still living.

  That morning, Jake had spared his mother an hour of his time, the first he had given her in years.

  As the clock in the kitchen ticked away, Jake moved his thoughts to his mother’s dying. He wondered what exactly had been wrong with her, how long it had taken her to die and if there had been much pain. He made a mental note that he should ask Alastair when they met.

  As the clock began to chime the hour Jake sat very still, waiting for the last of the sounds to fade, then he got up from his seat at the kitchen table, ready to carry on with his day, his thoughts of his mother already as dead and gone as the woman herself.

  His father, though, was very much on Jake’s mind.

  Jake walked out of the kitchen and through the garden. It had rained briefly and the grass was damp, the air still early-morning fresh before the heat of the day. He walked barefoot from the house, relishing the coldness of the rain-soaked grass, filling his lungs with the sharp air. He had searched long and hard to find this little house with its disproportionately large cellar and its view of the ocean. It had been in a terrible state, cheap enough to buy for cash, and he’d spent time and money restoring and rebuilding, doing the work himself at the weekends. He’d converted the attic into a studio and darkroom, having to resort to contractors only to install the three large, north-facing skylight windows that flooded the room with daylight.

  At the end of his garden was a rose-hedge and a wooden gate that gave access to the clifftop. The cliff path had once run along here, but coastal erosion had made it dangerous and the path had been diverted for a few hundred yards back onto the narrow road that ran in front of Jake’s house and then on through the village. The house, the garden, the location, they all suited Jake: remote enough for privacy, but not so remote that people would be unduly curious. In the village they knew him well, or thought they did: Mr Phillips, the sales rep, not there much because of his job but a really pleasant sort. Always ready to take part in parish events, but a bit quiet like. Not married — they’d heard he was widowed and had never really got over it . . . Gossip always ready to fill a vacuum.

  Jake stood on the clifftop looking down onto the ocean as it crashed and raged angrily against the rocks. Even at the height of summer the waves were never still. An undercurrent sent the water churning and writhing against the cliff, no matter how calm the water might be further out or how beautiful the day. It was that which had drawn Jake Bowen here, that above all other things, the sound and sight of the restless water grinding away at the land that supported his garden and his house. The slow relentless pounding that had already claimed the old cliff path would one day swallow all that he now owned.

  Jake sat down, oblivious to the cold dampness of the grass, and gazed far out to sea.

  * * *

  Alastair had woken early, his dream still fresh in his mind. He lay in bed, thinking about it, remembering the events that had triggered the image.

&nbs
p; He had been walking with his son along the cliff path between Whitby and Robin Hood’s Bay. It was a place he had often taken Jake, always being a great one for long, strenuous walks. This time he had something important on his mind.

  ‘I know what you’ve done,’ Alastair Bowen had told his son. ‘I know you killed her, Jake.’

  Jake made no comment. His father waited, expecting some response, but received none.

  ‘What I don’t understand, Jake, what I need to know, is why. Why kill the woman? What had she done to you?’

  Jake shrugged. ‘Nothing to me,’ he said.

  ‘Then why?’ Alastair stood still and looked at his son, as though hoping to read something in his face. He shook his head ‘You were always evil,’ he said. ‘That’s the only explanation for it. You’ll come to a bad end, Jake.’

  Jake shrugged again, unconcerned by his father’s words. He’d been hearing all his life that he was born the devil’s child.

  ‘You think I’m so evil, why don’t you turn me in?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re still my son.’

  ‘Really? I thought my dad had horns and a forked tail, to hear you talk. Nah, you’re afraid of what the vicar would say. The pillar of the community with a murderer for a son. You wouldn’t like that, would you, daddy dear.’

  Alastair’s hands clenched spasmodically at his sides. ‘It would destroy your mother if she knew,’ he said.

  ‘To say nothing of your reputation.’

  Jake smiled brightly at his father, his unconcern so blatant. Then, whistling to himself, he walked ahead of Alastair, along the narrow path, head high, daring his father to act.

  Jake Bowen was then just fifteen years old.

  * * *

  Thursday had been a quiet and frustrating day. Mike had spent most of it with the collators, assessing results of the door-to-door inquiries. The mammoth effort had begun to verify the identities of everyone who’d stayed in the holiday cottages the year before. So far, nothing of significance had emerged.