by Ed O'Connor
Then, bored with her life and most of the people in it, she decided to write an email.
31.
Kelsi Hensy had endured a difficult morning. ComBold was about to undergo a corporate restructuring and her department had been charged with the responsibility of explaining the changes to the workforce. Kelsi had written most of the draft internal communications herself the previous week and so she was especially annoyed when her proofs came back to her covered in mark-ups and deletions. Perhaps she had taken her eye off the ball. Her two nights with Alison Dexter had been intense; disruptive almost. The first had been an energy-sapping explosion of sexuality; the second had been an anxiety-brewing disaster.
Intense. That was a good word to describe Alison Dexter. Kelsi had sensed the fierce intelligence behind Dexter’s jade green eyes when they had first met. Jade seemed appropriate. Hard, green and precious. Kelsi owned a jade statuette that she had bought on holiday in Thailand. She loved jade. The stone contained sodium and aluminium; salt and metal. That seemed appropriate for Dexter too.
Intense. The word kept rebounding inside her mind. Was intensity what she wanted? Kelsi’s outlook and attitude was relentlessly positive. Even now, as she agonisingly retyped the restructuring notice that she had sweated blood over a few days previously, Kelsi tried to focus on the positives: clearer language meant better explanations, better explanations promoted understanding. Her job was to create understanding. Alison Dexter played football in an intense fury of semi-competence. Kelsi had not been embarrassed by Dexter’s mistakes, but by her self-deprecating reaction to them. She found Dexter interesting company and sexually exciting but, in a funny way, Dexter was hard work. Kelsi’s job was well paid but extremely demanding. She needed relief and stimulation in her social life: Alison Dexter was stimulating, but in no way a relief.
Kelsi’s computer beeped, signifying an incoming message. Wearily, she turned and checked the inbox. It was from Alison Dexter. Kelsi clicked the message open.
‘To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Just a quick one to apologise for last night. Did you report the guy in the garden? There’s nothing in our call log. I am making some enquiries here. Nothing yet. Would like to meet up. Are you free tonight? I’ll buy you dinner. Marco’s in town is good. Let me know. X’
Intense. Kelsi considered her options for a moment before writing a terse reply.
‘To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Dinner difficult but let’s have a drink in the bar at Marco’s as want to talk to you. Say eight o’clock. Kelsi.’
She sent the message and returned immediately to her rewrites.
32.
Barthlomew Garrod finished work at 7 p.m. and drove directly from Sawtry into New Bolden. There was a pub on Huntingdon Road that looked out onto the car park of New Bolden police station. Garrod knew he was taking a risk. However, he was confident that, other than his size, he looked very different to the last time Alison Dexter saw him in his butcher’s shop in Leyton. He nursed a pint and watched.
Alison Dexter left the main building shortly before eight o’clock. Garrod tensed as he saw her. He quickly finished his pint and hurried out the back of the pub to his van. His plan was to follow her home. As yet, he did not have her home address: that would open up all sorts of possibilities. The actual killing would take place elsewhere, most likely in his new kitchen at Craxten Fen Psychiatric Hospital, but Garrod had other ideas too.
He followed Dexter for about five minutes, keeping well back from her dark blue Mondeo. To his surprise and disappointment, she did not head home but instead parked in a town centre ‘Pay and Display’ car park. Garrod pulled up on a double yellow line briefly and watched the distant Dexter jog across Market Street and into the reception of a restaurant. She was a butterfly in his net. Not wanting to attract attention, Garrod waited until she was safely inside, then drove his van around a corner into a road called Maltings where he found a parking space. He locked his van and headed back towards the car park in search of cover.
33.
Kelsi Hensy was already waiting at the bar of Marco’s when Dexter came through the front door.
‘Hello,’ Dexter said, slightly out of breath, ‘sorry I’m a bit late. We’ve been buried all day today. Manhunt. Murder investigation. Complete nightmare.’
‘Drink?’
‘I’ll have a gin and tonic, I think,’ Dexter announced. ‘Let’s go crazy, eh?’
Kelsi ordered a Martini for herself. ‘I’m sorry to blow you out for dinner. It’s just that I’m exhausted. Last night was the final straw really; I couldn’t sleep after you’d gone.’
‘I’m sorry about that. I think I know what’s going on.’
‘What?’
Dexter paused, unsure how much she should reveal. ‘One of the guys in CID had a nervous breakdown a couple of years ago. He’s never been the same. He’s harmless enough but he has, well, lapses.’
‘You think that last night was a “lapse”?’ Kelsi asked unhappily. ‘What if he’d tried to break in? Or was taking photos of me getting changed?’
Dexter was anxious to reassure Kelsi that the matter was in hand. ‘Look, trust me. I will sort this out. I’m a much better copper than I am a footballer.’
The drinks arrived and Kelsi took a comforting draught. ‘Ali, I wanted to talk to you about things.’
Dexter felt a flash of panic. ‘Oh,’ she said sadly, ‘“things”. “Things” generally mean trouble.’
‘We’ve gone a long way very quickly, Ali,’ Kelsi explained, ‘maybe too quickly. That was my fault. I forced the issue. I couldn’t help myself.’
‘And now you’ve had enough?’ Dexter thought that she had got the message; her gin tasted especially sour.
‘Don’t say that. That’s not what I said. You are twisting my words. Listen, I like you. I like you a lot. From the first moment I saw you, I fancied you rotten.
‘And you’re a good laugh, Ali, when you want to be,’ Kelsi continued.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s just too intense for me: at the moment anyway.’
‘Intense,’ Dexter said, mainly to herself. ‘That’s original at least.’
‘Can’t we just cool things down for a week or two? I’ll call you in a fortnight.’
Dexter stood up and walked out of the bar without replying. Kelsi ran out into the street after her.
‘Ali, wait!’
Dexter kept walking.
Across the square, on the other side of the car park, Garrod watched from a safe distance.
‘Ali, listen,’ Kelsi said as she caught up with her, ‘I just want a little break that’s all. This is a busy time for me. I still want you.’
Dexter stopped walking and turned. She was crying.
‘Honestly?’ she asked.
‘Honestly,’ Kelsi replied, kissing Dexter softly on the lips.
Bartholomew Garrod watched dumbfounded. He had never seen two women kiss each other. It was a thrilling experience.
‘And you will call me?’ Dexter asked.
‘Two weeks today. I promise. I’ll have more free time by then.’
‘OK.’
Kelsi kissed Dexter again, less passionately this time. ‘I need to go home and get some sleep now.’
Dexter laughed despite her tears. ‘I understand.’
‘There,’ said Kelsi, ‘you’ve got a great laugh. You look better when you laugh. Do it more often.’
Dexter nodded. ‘I’ll speak to you soon,’ was the last thing she said before Kelsi Hensy climbed into her car.
Garrod had seen enough. Excitement was making his mouth water. He hurried back into the Maltings and fired up his transit van. As he pulled back onto the market square, two cars drove across in front of him. The first was Alison Dexter’s Mondeo, the second was Kelsi Hensy’s new Peugeot 206. He rolled out behind them. At the first junction, the Mondeo turned left and
the Peugeot turned right.
Garrod hesitated for a moment. He held a butterfly in his hands. First he would pull its wings off.
He turned right.
34.
Thursday, 17th October 2002
Bob Woollard rose at 6 a.m. the following morning. As was his habit, he ate two fried eggs and a hunk of ham for his breakfast. Since his wife’s departure four years previously, he always ate alone. At 7 a.m. he toured the farm to make sure that all his employees were going about their tasks in the correct fashion. Then at 8 a.m. he unlocked the door to his cellar and fed his dogs. He kept their food out of sight inside the cellar itself. The animals barked furiously as he approached, sensing the arrival of their morning feed. He currently owned four fighting dogs: ‘Karl’, the huge Tosa that had destroyed George Norlington’s dog, and three American pit bulls: ‘Buster Boots’, ‘Pitt the Elder’ and ‘Pitt the Younger’. Woollard still smiled whenever he thought of the last two.
Buster Boots was his favourite: a powerful, experienced animal that had won him a small fortune over the years. Buster was so named as he had white patches around each of his feet. There were also small patches of white hair around the dog’s face and shoulders that contrasted starkly with his otherwise tan-coloured coat. The patches weren’t caused by old age. They were the sites of old wounds over which hair had eventually regrown. It was a tell-tale sign of an experienced fighting dog.
Woollard fed them on a consistent diet of dry food. This he kept in sacks in his cellar. He varied their diet very little. Despite their tough exterior, his pit bulls had sensitive stomachs. Besides, it paid to keep them lean and hungry. Fat dogs rarely won fights. He slid their food trays through the feeding flap in the side of their steel cages. Although the animals were generally affectionate towards him, it was best to be wary with fighting dogs. After breakfast he would watch his stable lad Kev working the dogs on the ‘turntable’: a type of treadmill with a flat surface that moved under the dogs as they ran. It was an old-fashioned training device but Woollard preferred traditional methods.
He left the dogs to their breakfast and returned upstairs, locking the padlock on the cellar door behind him. The door itself was contained within a false cupboard. This rendered it invisible from inside the house. As he stepped out, Woollard replaced the false panel at the back of the cupboard. It was a cumbersome precaution but he was acutely aware of the laws against training and fighting dangerous dogs in the UK. He resolved to send Kev down immediately: the dogs got restless until they had been thoroughly exercised. As he left the main house again in search of his dog trainer, a police squad car and van drove into the courtyard of his farm. Woollard had been half-expecting this moment since the death of Lefty Shaw. He wondered if Gwynne had squealed on him: if so, the pit bulls might have a new toy to play with very soon.
DI Mike Bevan got out of the squad car and headed directly for Woollard. Outwardly unperturbed, Woollard lit his first cigarette of the morning.
‘Mr Woollard?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m DI Mike Bevan. We have a warrant for your arrest and one to search your premises.’
‘Why may I ask?’
‘We are investigating the murder of Lefty Shaw. He was an associate of yours.’
‘I knew him,’ Woollard nodded. ‘I had no reason to kill him though. He was a friend.’
‘I should warn you that anything you say will be recorded,’ Bevan said through a helpful smile.
‘You’re charging me then?’
‘No. We have information that Shaw was killed on these premises and moved elsewhere.’ Bevan handed over his paperwork. ‘That’s the search warrant.’
Woollard read it carefully. It seemed in order. He was not particularly nervous. The barn where Lefty Shaw had fought George Norlington had been thoroughly cleaned and rearranged. ‘OK. You boys go and look around.’
‘We’ll need to check the house as well,’ Bevan added, watching Woollard’s face carefully.
‘Go right ahead. There’s nothing of interest there though.’
Bevan waved to the Scene of Crime team and a few minutes later an intensive search of the farm’s outbuildings began. Marty Farrell called Bevan over to join him at the entrance to the main barn.
‘Mike, you reckon this is where the fight took place?’ Farrell asked.
‘Certain of it. I photographed a bunch of people coming in here,’ Bevan replied.
‘In which case,’ Farrell led Bevan inside the barn, ‘someone’s done a serious job on this place over the last couple of days.’
Bevan instantly saw what Farrell meant. The barn was packed full of animal feed sacks and agricultural equipment. There was hardly any exposed floor visible. There was no sign of a fighting ring.
‘Fuck.’ Bevan clenched his fist in fury. ‘That bastard knew we were coming. We’re too slow.’
Farrell tried to be positive. ‘Don’t despair. We might find something. Even if he’s cleaned the floor, we have chemicals that can reveal bloodstains.’
‘Problem is that the ring would almost certainly have been carpeted. It helps the dogs grip better.’
‘Look, we’ll clear this place and do a full SOC check on it. If he had a ring here he must have disposed of the wood and the carpet somewhere. Have a look around for waste sacks, a skip, the remains of a bonfire. Anything that looks like he was trying to make some rapid disposals.’
Bevan nodded. Out in the courtyard, he could see Woollard puffing thoughtfully on a cigarette.
It took Farrell’s SOCO team almost an hour to shift the heavy feed sacks from the barn into the courtyard. Next they lifted the selection of heavy metal chains, harnesses and broken milking equipment, that Woollard’s men had helpfully deposited in the barn, onto white plastic sheets spread and secured in the yard. Powerful halogen lamps were fixed in the barn, powered by a portable petrol generator. Then, Farrell and two fellow SOCO officers, Regis and Rashid, began the painstaking task of checking the floor of the barn, inch by inch. It was uncomfortable work. Farrell felt sweat streaming down his back inside his protective plastic clothing. On the first run, they found nothing.
‘It’s too fucking dingy in here,’ Rashid said in irritation.
‘You’re right. Let’s get the other halo lamp in.’ Farrell called out to one of his team checking the grain sacks to bring in the third lamp. Once it had been fitted up, the third lamp made a huge difference eliminating some of the shadows that had hampered their progress.
‘Now we go back again,’ Farrell instructed his team, ‘anything remotely odd, you shout.’
Rashid and Regis sank to their knees again and started to repeat the process. After ten minutes, Regis called out.
‘What have you got?’ Farrell asked, joining him.
Regis shone his pocket torch onto a tiny lump in the concrete. ‘There. Can you see? There’s a dark spot of something on the side of this bump.’
Farrell looked at the tiny black mark. ‘OK, we’ll do a Kastle-Meyer test on it.’
Rashid withdrew a piece of filter paper from his kit bag and, returning to the centre of the barn, rubbed it gently against the minuscule stain that Regis had located. Satisfied that a small amount had been smeared onto his paper, Rashid returned to his bag. Using a pipette, he added a drop of alcohol followed by phenolphthalein, then finally hydrogen peroxide.
The stain turned pink.
‘Bingo,’ said Farrell quietly.
‘Looks promising,’ Rashid confirmed.
‘It’s good enough for me. Right, we spray this fucking place: the whole barn. Use orthotolidine. Keep it quiet. No one comes into the barn now except us. I want photographs of everything. Let’s go.’
Outside, Bevan skirted the perimeter of the farm buildings in search of the remains of Woollard’s fighting ring. To his immense frustration, he found nothing. Maybe one of Farrell’s hawk-eyed SOCOs would have more success. Woollard had most probably transferred the carpet and any other material from the premises comp
letely. Perhaps there were other ways to nail the guy. Bevan returned to the squad car in the courtyard; his leather documents pouch was on the front seat.
Woollard joined him, still smoking. ‘I told you there’s nothing here.’
‘We haven’t finished yet. We haven’t started on the house yet,’ Bevan added. ‘Actually, I wanted to ask you about the farmhouse. It’s seventeenth century isn’t it?’
‘You a historian now then?’ Woollard sniffed.
Bevan smiled and opened up a piece of A3 paper from his document case. ‘There you go,’ he said, ‘1640. These old buildings have all sorts of nooks and crannies. Turbulent times weren’t they? The civil war and all that. This area was Cromwell country, wasn’t it? Old houses like this had secret rooms. Priestholes, that kind of thing.’
Suspicious, Woollard looked more closely at the document in Bevan’s hand. ‘What’s that?’
‘This? When I found out that you lived in a historic building I did some checking. It’s listed.’
‘I could have told you that.’
‘At the town hall in Cambridge they keep records of all the listed buildings in the area. Some even have plans. This document is a Victorian room plan of your farm. Apparently in 1863 the owner did some renovation work on the south wall. He had an architect do a plan of the whole house. This is a copy.’
Woollard said nothing.
‘Why don’t we go for a look around?’ Bevan asked. ‘Let’s start at the top and work down shall we?’
Marty Farrell waited impatiently for his team to finish spraying the floor and walls of the barn with re-agent. Eventually the call he had been waiting for came.
‘Marty,’ Regis shouted from the centre of the barn, ‘we’re done.’
