by Ed O'Connor
Farrell stepped forward. ‘OK magic man, what have you got?’
‘Two patches. Here and here,’ Regis pointed.
Farrell saw them immediately. Othotolidine showed up old bloodstains in an ugly, luminous green: and there they were.
‘The left one looks like the remains of a spurt,’ he observed.
‘I agree,’ Regis said. ‘There are four spots – each about a half inch apart. If you look closely each spot is slightly above the preceding one.’
‘Conclusion?’ Farrell asked.
‘It’s from a wound on a living subject. Spurting means the heart was beating.’
‘It’s a small sample,’ Farrell mused, ‘only four spots.’
‘True but I’m thinking, if this floor was carpeted, maybe the carpet soaked up most of it. Chances are that if Woollard was fighting dogs on it, we’re not talking about his best Wilton here. I’m guessing there were holes in the carpet. There must have been tears in it. Blood spatter through a gap in the material is my best guess.’
‘What about the other one?’ Farrell pointed at the second glowing green area. It was roughly circular and about nine inches in diameter.
‘That’s pooling,’ Regis replied. ‘No sign of splashing though so the blood didn’t fall very far. Injured person – or dog I suppose – lying on the ground. Blood drips through hole in the carpet.’
‘How have they tried to clean it off?’ Farrell asked.
‘Cold water. Some disinfectant too maybe,’ Regis said. ‘I can probably be more specific given time. I’m not sure we’ll be able to tell whether the blood stains were caused by human or animal victims though.’
‘True. Let Leach see the photographs. He might have some ideas. We also have the fragment of dried blood that you found and Rashid tested. We’ll be able to identify that.’
‘True enough,’ Regis nodded.
‘Nice job magic man,’ Farrell grinned.
‘Learned from the master, didn’t I?’
After a fruitless search of the upper floor of Woollard’s house, Bevan followed his room plan down to the main hall.
‘Where’s the entrance to your cellar?’
Woollard’s cigarette tip glowed orange. ‘Don’t know,’ he replied, ‘it’s sealed off I think. We don’t use it.’
‘We? I thought you were alone now, Bob?’ Bevan replied, hoping to provoke a response. He was unsuccessful.
‘Force of habit,’ Woollard said without expression.
Bevan looked closely at the room plan that he had photocopied at Cambridge Town Hall the previous afternoon. ‘According to this, the stairs to the cellar should come up into the hall. But there’s no sign of them.’
Woollard blew smoke up into the air. ‘That plan is old. It could be wrong.’
‘It’s been right so far.’ Woollard traced his finger along the two lines on the plan that represented the stairs to the cellar. As he did so, he tried to match sketched points of reference to features in the house. Eventually his eyes came to rest on a large wooden cupboard near to the kitchen door.
‘What do you keep in there, Mr Woollard?’ he asked.
‘Nothing much, I was planning to get rid of it.’
Bevan opened the double doors of the cupboard. It had a wooden panel at the back. He pushed it hard and felt it clonk against a wooden surface behind it. Downstairs, directly underneath them in the cellar, Buster Boots heard the noise. In anticipation of his morning workout, he began to bark excitedly.
Hearing the noise, Bevan turned to Woollard, unable to resist smiling in triumph. ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘why don’t you show me how to open this, Bob?’
35.
Underwood stood before the assembled members of Leyton CID and the eight seconded uniformed officers that their Superintendent had assigned for the Bartholomew Garrod manhunt. Alison Dexter hovered at the back of the room. He wanted to impress. He was determined not to let her down. Her words had stung him. Underwood was resolved to use the pain constructively.
‘OK everyone. Settle down.’ He moved in front of the computerised white board that had been installed a month previously. It had cost the department four thousand pounds. Underwood was uncertain how to use it – his computer skills were not very sophisticated – but he was eager to show Dexter that he could change; grow even. He clicked on the remote handset and, to his immense relief, a photofit picture of Bartholomew Garrod appeared on the screen.
‘This is our suspect, Bartholomew Garrod. The older ones amongst you might remember him. Garrod and his brother Ray perpetrated a series of murders in East London in 1995. There was a lot of publicity about the case. One of the national newspapers, the Mirror, I think, christened the case the “Primal Cut” murders.’
‘It was the Daily Star,’ said Dexter from the back of the room. ‘It gave the murders a glamorous cachet that they didn’t deserve.’
Underwood acknowledged his error with a small nod. Continuing unabashed, he pointed his remote control at the white screen. This time a diagram of a cow appeared. ‘The primal cuts are the best cuts of meat on an animal: sirloin, tenderloin and so on. Bartholomew Garrod was a master butcher. He removed the primal cuts of meat from his human victims and, we suspect, ate them.’
That caused a nervous flash of chatter in the room.
DC Sauerwine, recently promoted from the uniform division, raised a hand. ‘Sir, how do we know that Garrod is the man we are looking for? And why is he in Cambridgeshire?’
Underwood sipped water from a white plastic beaker. ‘DNA samples taken from Leonard Shaw have been matched with the profile of Raymond Garrod: the sample had to come from a close relative. Also we have an eye witness – Keith Gwynne – who has positively identified Bartholomew Garrod from a photofit impression. As to why he is up here,’ Underwood paused, he looked at Dexter who shook her head admonishingly, ‘we are not sure of that yet. He may have left the area already but we have to assume that he’s here.’
Detective Sergeant Harrison who had studiously been making notes throughout Underwood’s speech now raised a hand. ‘Guv, I have a question. How public is this investigation going to be? Given the notoriety of Garrod, if we start putting his picture about the press will be all over it like a shot. I don’t just mean the local idiots either: we’ll have national newspaper journalists about too. That can inflame and complicate a situation.’
Dexter answered that one. ‘That is an excellent point. Unfortunately we don’t have much choice. We don’t know where this guy lives. We know he drives a van but we don’t have a licence plate. He may have changed his appearance. Given those problems, we as a group need help. The public can be our eyes and ears. If we get his picture on the front pages of a few newspapers then so much the better. It might provoke him into making a mistake.’
‘We’ll be under the spotlight like never before,’ Harrison observed thoughtfully.
‘True but we can handle it. We are going to try and control the press strategy. Normally we ignore them, this time our approach to journalists is going to be more coordinated.’ Dexter looked Harrison directly in the eye. ‘Joe, how would you feel about being the press liaison?’
Harrison smiled a slow smile. ‘I knew I was in trouble when you called me Joe.’ Sitting next to him, Sauerwine laughed: Dexter called him Alex when she wanted a coffee.
‘You’ve done press liaison before,’ Dexter explained. ‘When you were with the Met in Tottenham. I remember seeing on your file that you’d been the point man on a couple of high-profile cases.’
Harrison nodded. ‘Fine by me. It’s better than knocking on doors in the pouring rain.’
‘Thank you,’ Dexter acknowledged. Her opinion of Harrison had rocketed in the last few months. Previously, she had clashed with him over his romantic involvement with a junior female officer. Harrison had matured in recent months. Maybe she had too. Dexter regretted her former harshness towards him. Harrison was potentially a kindred spirit but she had probably alienated him already. She focused
out of her self-indulgence and tried to concentrate on what Underwood was saying.
‘There are one or two lines of inquiry open to us,’ he said pressing a button on his remote control. This time the screen went black. Underwood frowned in confusion. Dexter groaned to herself and bit the nail of her right index finger.
‘Hang on,’ he flustered, frantically pressing buttons.
‘Sir, you’ve turned the screen off,’ Sauerwine said helpfully. ‘Press the green standby button. Top right of the remote.’
Underwood did so and the screen glowed white again. This time a photograph of a white transit van appeared. He could feel Dexter’s eyes burning like lasers into the back of his head. He wondered what she would see in there: confusion, paranoia and an oil painting of herself perhaps.
‘Here we are,’ he said eventually, ‘we know that Garrod is driving a white Bedford transit like this one. Keith Gwynne confirmed that to us. It is highly likely that it is not taxed or has a stolen tax disc. We have told traffic to stop any vehicle they see which matches this one. You should do the same.
‘Secondly, it is possible that Garrod is using false names. He called himself George Norlington when he fought Leonard Shaw. Norlington is a street in Leyton. It is conceivable that Garrod might use another name based on a street that was close to where he lived. On page three of your handout you will see a table of possible names based on streets in that area. Use it when you do house-to-house enquiries. If you have any questions on that, please address them to Inspector Dexter.
‘Thirdly, we want ideas on how this guy is living. He was staying in a bedsit at the Dog and Feathers in Heydon. We should check other pubs and boarding houses in the area. Remember, it’s unlikely that he has much money so focus on the bottom end of the market. Anything else, Inspector Dexter?’
‘Yes.’ Dexter came to the front of the room. ‘Bartholomew Garrod is extremely dangerous. He is a powerful man and fought professional prize fights in London for twenty years. He killed Leonard Shaw who was a fighter himself. Leach also believes that Garrod is HIV positive. If you find this man, if you even think you are getting close, you must not, repeat not attempt to arrest him. He is a formidable individual and will not hesitate to kill you if he’s cornered.’
‘Do you know him then, boss?’ Harrison asked, hearing an edge in Dexter’s voice that was unfamiliar to him.
‘I identified the Garrods when I worked in Leyton,’ she confirmed. ‘Listen to me people: a word of warning. The things I saw in the Garrods’ freezer are still giving me nightmares. If you make contact, call in immediately. We will send significant backup. Huntingdon, have a shooter team on standby. This man is not to be trifled with. I don’t want any of you getting hurt.’
There was an uneasy exchange of charged conversation as the meeting began to break up. Dexter crouched down next to Harrison.
‘Joe, I want you to do a press conference at four this afternoon. Give them the bare minimum: the name, the photograph. Keep my name out of it. If they ask, Underwood is the officer in charge. I don’t want them to make the connection with me for as long as possible.’
‘I understand.’ Harrison scribbled his instructions in his notebook as Dexter walked away.
Underwood watched her walk past with a heavy heart. Was it possible that she had seen him hiding in the darkness of her friend’s garden? He could not see how: he was away before she was within twenty yards of him. It had been pitch black. He had worn a woollen hat. It could not be possible. Perhaps Dexter’s mind was elsewhere.
Underwood had watched her kissing another woman with a mixture of horror, profound sexual excitement and despair. He wondered if her emotions had been similar. It was likely that Dexter’s mind was in turmoil, he reasoned. A monster from her past had reappeared at the same time that she seemed to be starting a new and volatile period in her emotional life. He wanted to help her. However, he decided that it might be expedient to suspend his hobby for a week or so.
As the meeting broke up, Underwood felt empty. For him emptiness was the precursor to desperation: his darkest lapses had usually been preceded by what he called ‘hollow mind’. He needed to occupy his brain. With his analysis of Dexter suspended, he had to find some other conundrum to blot out his demons.
In her glass office, Alison Dexter stared at the photofit of Bartholomew Garrod. As was her habit, she tried to imagine him with different coloured hair, glasses or a beard. In every articulation of her imagination, the man was still monstrous. Dexter felt very alone. There was a message on her desk that Mike Bevan was bringing in Bob Woollard for questioning in half an hour or so. Dexter felt a powerful urge to write an email to Kelsi Hensy. However, remembering their discussion of the previous evening, she resisted the temptation, turning instead to the ‘Primal Cut’ case file that she had compiled with Paddy McInally seven years before. She was not entirely convinced that unleashing the whirlwind of publicity on Garrod was sensible but, tactically, there was no other realistic option. Dexter was concerned: she did not know the man well enough to predict how he would react. Would she reap the whirlwind?
Alison Dexter was a positive, logical thinking personality, not one prone to fatalism. However, sitting in the glass box of her office, staring into the dark eyes of Bartholomew Garrod, she had a profound sense that she was making a terrible mistake.
36.
Bob Woollard sat in interview room 2 at New Bolden police station.
‘So exactly what laws am I supposed to have broken?’ he asked DI Mike Bevan.
‘It might be easier to list the ones that you haven’t broken,’ Bevan replied. ‘How about the Dangerous Dogs Act and the Protection of Animals Act for starters? That’s to say nothing of the fact that you have been implicated for illegally disposing of a dead body. We could probably add perverting the course of justice to that list.’
‘I never take those dogs out in public. They are always muzzled on the farm. I don’t see how that breaks any laws.’
‘Fighting them breaks the law, Bob, as you well know. We haven’t checked them yet but I expect your little video collection makes for interesting viewing.’
‘Has my lawyer arrived?’ Woollard asked, ignoring Bevan’s observation.
‘He’s on his way,’ Bevan replied. ‘Face facts, Bob, you are going down. In flames.’
‘We’ll see about that won’t we?’ Woollard smiled.
‘There are ways to make this better for yourself.’ Bevan leaned forward. ‘Let’s just talk man to man for a second. Once your lawyer gets here things get official and nasty. I won’t be able to make you any sort of offer.’
‘I’m listening,’ Woollard said suspiciously.
‘Tell me about the man who killed Leonard Shaw: this George Norlington.’
‘I don’t know him,’ Woollard said in exasperation. ‘He was Gwynne’s mate not mine.’
‘If you help us on this, I might be able to drop one or two of the charges. You are in a lot of trouble, Bob. Forensic found blood splashes on the floor of your barn. Splashes that you tried to conceal. That’s conspiracy. Naughty, naughty. If you help us we would take that into consideration. Maybe you’d just be left with the dog-related violations.’ Bevan knew that such an eventuality was highly unlikely.
‘That’s very generous Inspector Bevan but as I don’t know the bloke, there’s not much I can tell you.’
Bevan slid a photofit of Bartholomew Garrod across the table that separated them. ‘Is this a good likeness of him?’
Woollard looked down at the picture. ‘His face was fuller. He looked older in the flesh.’
‘Grey hair?’
‘I suppose so. I only saw the guy for twenty minutes or so. He was big – like a fighter gone to seed. He must be fifty plus. I expect he was formidable when he was younger.’
‘What about his dog?’ Bevan asked. ‘Gwynne said that he had a Tosa. That’s unusual.’
‘Very,’ Woollard sniffed.
‘Did you ask him about it, Bob? I can’t
believe that you would fight one of your dogs without knowing a bit about its opponent’s previous.’
Woollard scratched the back of his head in thought. He had responsibilities. He could not risk a prison term: not a long one in any case. Cooperation was his only option. He would give them a little taster for now.
‘He said that he’d owned the dog for a couple of years.’
‘Where did he get it?’
‘Essex. Clacton I think.’
‘From a breeder?’
‘No. I don’t think so. He said that he’d won the dog in a fight. He said something about putting the owner in hospital. That’s all I know about the bloke. Like I said, he was Gwynne’s monkey, not mine.’
Bevan wrote the information in his notebook. It was something.
37.
At ten o’clock that evening, Bartholomew Garrod stood in the smoky kitchen of Craxten Fen Psychiatric Hospital chopping onions. He carefully trimmed them into tiny chunks, as small as he could make them. He knew that exposing the maximum surface area of the onion was the way to enhance its taste most effectively.
The facilities were proving barely adequate for his purposes and his initial enthusiasm for the location was waning. The lack of light was problematic: Garrod kept bashing his legs against the unfamiliar cabinets and corners. The single saucepan he had uncovered was old and battered and his camping stove laughably minuscule. Still, it would have to do until he could collect his own, more appropriate cooking tools.
Garrod liked to eat late. Appetite had not yet overtaken him. He had some work to do first and a phone call to make.
There were busy times ahead. He had arranged an appointment at Delaney’s Animal Feed Suppliers outside Meldreth. He was committed to a full week’s work at the abattoir and he still had some further preparatory work on the pit he had dug out for Alison Dexter.
It was good to be busy.
