by Dylan Young
He closed the door and addressed the team. ‘Thanks for coming in early. I know you’re wondering what this is all about. Best we get on with it.’ Anna caught Holder glancing in the direction of Shipwright’s empty office. It spurred her on.
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but shouldn’t we wait for DCI Shipwright? I’m sure he won’t be—’
Rainsford let his eyes drop momentarily before pinning Anna in his gaze. ‘I’m afraid DCI Shipwright will not be in today, nor for the foreseeable future. He woke up with chest pains in the middle of the night and got rushed to the infirmary. He’s awaiting tests. I spoke to him this morning. Angina. He’ll need stents, if not a bypass.’
Anna’s tongue turned to wood.
‘Oh, dear.’ Trisha put her hand over her mouth.
The tension in the room hummed like an over-tight guitar string. Seconds of silence ticked by while people found their voices.
‘Is he OK, sir?’ Holder asked.
‘Stable, so his wife says. Which in my book is a great deal better than deteriorating.’ Rainsford offered up just the right amount of comfort in a reassuring smile.
It got Anna wondering if he’d used words like this before to relatives of injured troops in some far-flung corner of the Middle East. It sounded like it. But it was one of a thousand thoughts bouncing around inside her skull as her brain writhed like an eel with its head cut off. A fractured image of her dream – Shipwright puffing on an unstable bicycle – flickered behind her eyes. A bit of her realised what was happening; her brain was distracting her to stop her properly processing the enormity of the news and all its implications. The alternative was to give in to emotion. Let the tightness in her throat close completely. But she wouldn’t let tears come. Not now. She zeroed in on Rainsford’s words.
‘I have to ask you not to go to the hospital. He’s on strict bed rest while they carry out further tests. Is that clear?’
Holder and Trisha muttered acknowledgements. Anna said nothing.
‘Sergeant Gwynne?’
Hearing her name brought her back. She swallowed hard. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘You three are all that’s left of Ted’s squad and I know he’d want you to get on with the job in hand.’
Anna sat up, willing her mind to compartmentalise the shock. There was a job to do. ‘DCI Shipwright did manage to speak to the CPS about Shaw yesterday, sir,’ she said, bringing herself back to business. ‘Shaw’s admitting nothing. We’ll let him stew.’
‘Good, then that’s in hand. Let’s see if it triggers a response. But I want you to drop everything else and concentrate on the Risman case.’
Anna frowned. ‘Sir, this wasn’t really on our radar. We thought West Mercia—’
‘It is now,’ Rainsford cut in. ‘You’ve had a chance to look at it, I take it?’
Anna and Holder nodded.
‘Good.’ Rainsford paused, choosing his words. ‘Unless you’ve been on Mars for the last week, you’ll all be aware that the Serious Crimes team in Gloucestershire have a major search operation under way for a missing schoolgirl by the name of Nia Hopkins. You’ll have seen the bulletins. Most of you, no doubt, will have seen the press conferences.’
Everyone had.
‘The facts are that Nia was abducted from a stable up near St Briavels on the edge of the Forest of Dean, roughly the same area where Emily Risman’s body was found. Today is Day Four. They are considering another TV appeal. What makes this so’ – Rainsford paused, searching for the right word – ‘sensitive, is that Neville Cooper works for Nia’s father, and I’ve heard he’s already being considered a suspect. So far, they’ve managed to keep all of this out of the press, but it is only a matter of time until someone sniffs it out.’
Anna frowned. She’d got a taste of the press circus that ensued during the Risman case from Trisha’s notes. If they heard that Cooper was implicated, the Woodsman would fill the paper’s pages once again, and their window of opportunity for investigating other suspects in Emily Risman’s murder would shrink severely. ‘Sir, I read the file, but I wasn’t clear on how this was left. DCI Shipwright told us Cooper is still being charged?’
Rainsford’s smile contained no trace of humour. ‘The Court of Appeal overturned Cooper’s conviction last year, but the CPS has not been happy. A month ago, they threw their toys out of the pram good and proper. They are convinced that they still have enough evidence and so made an application for a retrial, which the Lord Justice of Appeal granted.’
Anna tried to read Rainsford, but he was a blank page.
‘So how is this a cold case, sir?’ Holder asked.
The superintendent ran a finger between his shirt and his neck, where his tie was knotted. The gesture made Anna give a little mental cheer. The bloke is human after all, she thought.
‘At the request of the police and crime commissioner, the chief constable has agreed that we should re-examine the case de novo. Cooper’s mistreatment has raised a lot of questions with… critics of the police. Let’s say that the commissioner feels that every “i” needs to be dotted and every “t” crossed before another complete balls-up takes place.’
Anna exchanged a glance with Holder, but said nothing.
Rainsford continued, ‘I want you both to liaise with Sergeant Slack at Gloucester immediately. He will brief you. Get up there and just get a taste of what’s happening with Nia Hopkins’ disappearance. See how well Cooper fits the frame and how keen they are to implicate him. But I want you to concentrate on the original crime. The powers that be don’t think it would a good idea for West Mercia to involve themselves in any way. They, like Gloucestershire, have too many links to the old Central Counties Regional Crime squad. When it was disbanded, some key personnel ended up in those two regions.’
‘Why were they disbanded, sir?’ Holder asked.
‘The CCRC had members from Gloucestershire, West Mercia and West Mids forces. Let’s just say they didn’t cover themselves in glory. At least thirty convictions quashed. After a series of scandals, the squad was disbanded in 2002 and the fallout is still haunting them.’ Rainsford sighed. ‘Cold crimes like Emily Risman’s murder are a minefield of half-forgotten details with fragments spread over several jurisdictions. Not all of them will be throwing a party at the thought of you asking questions. I’m sure there’ll be some conflict but, well, you can wear a stab vest if you need to. Your brief is to look at everything without preconception. If it involves Cooper, it’s fair game for obvious reasons, but don’t get stuck between the rails. Shipwright says you have a nose for this kind of work so stay focused. Everyone clear?’ Rainsford’s laser eyes drilled the message home into the watching faces in turn. ‘I also realise that the loss of a DCI leaves you severely depleted. I am in the process of trying to source some help. In the meantime, Sergeant Gwynne will be acting up as a temporary inspector.’ He pinned her with a glance. ‘Use Shipwright’s office. Report directly to me. Any questions?’
Anna had a thousand, but none seemed relevant in the light of Rainsford’s grenade statement.
Satisfied, Rainsford pushed up from the desk he’d perched on. ‘I suggest you two head for the Forest of Dean sharpish. Slack is the designated liaison. I’ll get someone to forward directions.’
Anna exchanged a glance with Holder. They both wanted Rainsford to leave so they could discuss all of this with Trisha. Instead, the superintendent waited while they put their coats on, effectively ushering them out of the squad room.
‘You drive,’ said Anna, in the corridor.
‘Yes, Sarge.’ Holder did a double take. ‘Sorry. Yes, ma’am.’
Anna thought about telling him not to be bloody facetious, but there was no sign of mockery in his expression. She let it go and followed him to the car.
The Ford smelled of silicone polish and vanilla. A pine-tree-shaped air freshener hung from the rear-view mirror, and a large kitbag sat on the back seat. They were quiet for a while, just sitting there, both stunned by the news of Shipwright’s hos
pitalisation, and Anna, at least, equally stunned by her temporary promotion. The average age of a detective sergeant was around twenty-nine or thirty. Inspectors at least five years older. OK, it wasn’t a substantive post but…
‘I need a coffee,’ she said. ‘With lots of sugar.’
* * *
They found a Costa Express bar in a BP petrol station, and, back in the car, Anna clutched her coffee in both hands as she watched the traffic roar by on the M5.
‘I’m gutted about the boss,’ Holder said. ‘I know he smoked and that, but…’
‘I suppose it was on the cards if you add in the amount he ate as well. But what do you do? Everyone knows the risks.’
‘But do you, though? I mean do you really? I reckon they should ban fags, full stop.’
‘They never will. Too much tax revenue in turning people into smelly tobacco addicts.’
‘I hope he’ll be OK.’
Anna tried to unravel the knot of anxiety that tightened in her gut at hearing the concern in Holder’s voice. ‘He will. He’s tough.’
Conversation lapsed as they both wrestled with their thoughts. Music droned from the radio, too low for it to be meaningful in any sense, failing miserably in its attempt to lift the mood. At eight thirty, Holder’s phone rang.
‘DC Holder.’
‘Morning. This is DS Slack, Serious Crimes, Gloucester. I’ve been asked by our super to give you a call.’ Slack’s accent was local to his patch. Holder put the phone on speaker.
Anna answered. ‘Sergeant Slack, you have DS— sorry, acting DI Gwynne and DC Holder on the line from Avon and Somerset. We’ve picked up the Risman cold case and we’ve been asked to look at any likelihood that the Nia Hopkins abduction ties in. What can you tell us?’
Slack stayed concise. ‘Nia Hopkins’ father is a well-respected businessman. Animal feeds. Owns horses and stables. The girl is horse mad. Rides whenever she can. It was her birthday on Thursday night. As a treat, they allowed her to sleep outside in the stable block with a friend. An adventure. On Friday morning, her father found her bed empty, a trail of blood, and her friend drugged with a big dose of ketamine. There’s been no sign of Nia since.’
‘And we heard that there’s a link to Neville Cooper?’
‘Hopkins’ and Cooper’s mothers are childhood friends. So, when Cooper was exonerated of the Emily Risman murder, Hopkins offered the bloke a job. Magnanimous gesture. Cooper is “challenged”. In old money, a bit simple. If the retrial acquits him too, he’s in line for a useful settlement for wrongful imprisonment, when the lawyers sort it out, but that hasn’t happened yet. So, for the last six months, Cooper has been a stores man at Hopkins’ Ledbury feed depot.’
‘Do the press know about the Cooper connection yet?’ Anna asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘They’ll eat Cooper for breakfast.’
‘Like sharks,’ agreed Slack.
‘Does Cooper have an alibi?’
‘Says he was at home with his mother all night. Paper-thin as alibis go, especially as his mother lied through her teeth for him at the trial,’ Slack said.
‘With good reason, it now seems.’
‘But lies nonetheless, ma’am.’
‘But Cooper was exonerated,’ Holder said.
‘The boss isn’t a great believer in coincidences.’
‘And who’s the senior investigating officer?’ Anna asked.
‘DCI Harris. Long in the tooth, but a good copper. He knew quite a few of the boys in the Central Counties squad who were involved in the original Woodsman investigation, so he knows everything there is to know about Cooper.’
Great. He’s laying this on with a trowel good and thick.
Anna let Slack’s words sink in, knowing that a great deal more lay hidden in what he’d left unsaid. Referring to Cooper as the Woodsman showed that Slack still attached Cooper to Emily Risman’s murder, still demonised him in the same way the media had. And if DCI Harris knew people at the discredited CCRC, this wasn’t necessarily the positive spin that Slack was trying to make it out to be. Coppers weren’t very good at thinking clearly when it came to other coppers. ‘Us and them’ ruled the day. They said love was blind, but camaraderie and loyalty among officers was sometimes as bad. It often meant that it seemed like they were wearing rose-tinted glasses when it came to finding fault. She mentally filed the subtext away in capitals under ‘NB.THIN ICE’.
‘We ought to introduce ourselves to DCI Harris,’ she said. ‘Hopefully our paths won’t cross too much, but if there is anything that links to Cooper we’d like to know.’
Slack gave them a postcode and Anna punched it in to the satnav.
When she’d rung off, Holder seemed worried. ‘Sounds like we’re in for a nice warm welcome, ma’am.’
‘Open arms, Justin. Open arms.’
* * *
Anna and Holder headed for the parish of St Briavels on the English side of Offa’s Dyke. Though it was a village, it contained the remnants of a medieval castle. Once part of the frontier with Wales, and a judicial centre in the twelfth century, these days it hosted walkers as a youth hostel.
They drove through the village, west towards the border. The sign announcing ‘Cotty Hill’ was painted on a slate board on a large post to one side of an open five-bar gate. The entrance broached a tall bank topped with hawthorn. In the shadow of the bank, frost still clung to the grass in ghostly clumps. A white ITV news van sat parked awkwardly on the verge in front of a couple of cars. Its satellite dish and assorted telecom paraphernalia stretched up from its roof at odd angles, like the broken legs of some damaged insect. Anna hoped that its occupants had the good sense to be somewhere warm having breakfast. She didn’t fancy being part of a bulletin clip. The really good news was that the gate, as the property boundary, stopped them getting any further in. It meant they weren’t able to stick intrusive microphones under the Hopkinses’ noses, or waylay anyone entering the front door, as was so often the case.
The house itself stood bathed in sunlight as they crested the small rise above the drive leading down to it. Smoke spiralled up from the chimney over the property to stall in the freezing stillness. A few sheep and horses raised their heads as they drove by, watching them intrude. Anna stared at the horses. Inquisitive faces above powerful bodies. What violent secrets were trapped behind those dark eyes?
They parked in a stone courtyard to the side of the main yard and were met by two officers. The taller of the two had a long face matching a lanky body clad in a flapping raincoat. Restless eyes devoid of humour acknowledged her presence. He exuded hostility like heat from a stove. She couldn’t work out if the anger she sensed was directed at her personally or was just his reaction to having someone else on his patch. Plus, it was never easy to retain a sunny disposition towards the world when you spent your nine to five dealing with murders, rapes and assaults, she knew that well enough. The man next to him was shorter, squatter, and, as they pulled up, Anna put money on him being Slack. Late forties, paunchy with silvery wisps of hair above heavy-framed glasses and a standard black anorak over grey Trutex trousers and comfortable shoes. The shoes were the giveaway. Cheap, thick-soled. Comfort over style. Anna and Holder got out and the shorter man stepped forward, hand extended.
‘DS Slack, ma’am. You made good time.’ They shook. She introduced Holder before Slack turned to the taller man behind him. ‘And this is DCI Harris.’
Anna exchanged a cursory handshake with Harris. She put him in his late fifties, within sight of early retirement, which she knew he would be unlikely to take. Coppers like him never did. They either hardened to a point and became a sharpened tool, like Shipwright, or wallowed in the mire, scared of becoming as fallible as the great unwashed they served to protect. Above the eyes and a swarthy skin sat a busby of unfashionably parted hair, which looked unnaturally dark. She knew it was unwise to judge Harris based on a first impression, but her instincts were generally quite good, and already she didn’t like him.
‘I’m not sure it’s—’
‘I insist,’ Harris said. ‘Professional courtesy, let’s say.’
Anna read challenge in his eyes, but she didn’t feel like sparring this early in their relationship. They followed Harris around the property to the stable, where a huge horse turned its head and gazed at them suspiciously. Harris pointed out the small stall where Nia Hopkins and her friend had slept. It stood empty now, everything removed for analysis or logged as evidence. Slack told them that the blood on the sleeping bag had been identified as Nia’s.
‘What about the friend… Rebecca? Has she remembered anything?’ Holder asked.
‘She’s still in hospital under observation,’ Slack explained. ‘Whoever did this gave her a hefty dose of ketamine. She’s lucky to have survived. As it was, she aspirated some vomit and has been treated for suspected pneumonia. All she remembers is a pillow over her face in the dark and a pain in her leg where she was injected.’
‘So, there’s no chance this was a drug experiment gone wrong?’
‘Always a chance, Constable,’ Harris said, speaking for the first time since they’d entered the stable. ‘If it was and Nia has run off in a drug-crazed high, she managed to do it after clearing up all traces of ketamine or drug paraphernalia. Of course, we could ask the horse.’
Holder reddened. Anna tagged it mentally. So Harris didn’t suffer fools gladly, but there were ways of letting the inexperienced down that did not involve the verbal equivalent of GBH. She knew then that she was never going to like him.
