by Penny Grubb
‘So it’s been in that gravel pit for close on 30 years.’
‘It was last seen almost 30 years ago,’ corrected Webber. ‘Forensics will tell us how long it was in there, but yes, chances are it was dumped straight away. Tell me about the crime,’ he said to the woman who was flicking through the old notes.
‘Uh … Two brothers were arrested just a few days after the robbery. They were convicted and gaoled. Eight years.’
‘Complete incompetents,’ Webber said. ‘A post office raid in 1986 wasn’t the cleverest of crimes to go for. Why?’ He fixed his gaze on the man at the board, knowing he was only playing tutor with them because the Chief Super had unsettled him.
‘Big push on safety in post offices in the early 80s,’ the man told him, unfazed. ‘Most of them had security screens and so on by then.’
Webber nodded and relaxed. He liked it that they were on the ball. He turned to the woman. ‘Witnesses to the crime? Why are we still interested?’
‘Yes, all the witnesses talked about three masked men,’ she said. ‘There were three brothers, so it was assumed they’d worked together.’
Webber raised his hand to stop her further exploration of the file. ‘You won’t find the elder brother in there. No one ever had a sniff at him, nor at most of the money. It was assumed he’d skipped the country with the cash.’
He thought about the car, its boot sealed tight, decades under the mud. How much of a body would survive in those circumstances or a stash of bank notes?
‘How much did they take?’ she asked.
‘About ten grand, equivalent to probably double that today, and some recorded delivery mail. There was a theory they were after something specific in the mail but it came to nothing.’
‘Not enough to start a new life on, even back then. Do we know where they are now? Can we re-interview them?’
Webber gave her a wintry smile. ‘Not without a Ouija board. There might be some family still around, but it looks like the brothers acted on their own and some godforsaken idea of family solidarity kept them quiet about the eldest. We can’t really do anything until we see what comes out of the car. As it stands, there’s nothing here.’
‘Is it right that the Chief Super was involved in the original case?’
Webber nodded. He looked at the file remembering what he’d read. Police Constable John Farrar, as he was then, had had quite a spat with the car’s owner who’d resented being put under the spotlight. Maybe this was at the root of Farrar’s interest, though it seemed a pitifully inadequate reason to have pulled him away from his live cases.
‘The Ford Tempo was owned by a Mr Brad Tippet,’ he told them. ‘And it seems there was reason to think he knew the car had been stolen the night before he reported it.’
‘He might have been involved, you mean?’
‘They couldn’t link him to it at the time, but I want his statement under the microscope and let’s find out if he’s still with us. If he is, I want someone out to talk to him pronto. See how he takes the news that his car’s resurfaced largely intact. Do we have any recent intel on him?’
As the man moved to access a terminal, Webber saw him lean towards his colleague and heard the murmured question, ‘Is this case why the Chief Super’s in such a mood today?’ It was a quiet aside, not meant for Webber’s ears. He carried on riffling through the papers as though he hadn’t heard, curious to know if she would answer. Women sometimes had a direct line to these sorts of things, and he too had been hearing rumours that Farrar was seriously on the warpath. The woman didn’t speak, just gave a brief shake of her head.
Webber looked up at the whiteboard where the major players now hung from their magnets next to a photograph of the skeletal front end of the Tempo and a peaceful shot of the fishing lakes.
‘Tippet was watched for a while,’ he said. ‘For untoward spending and so on, but nothing. Depending on what forensics turn up in that car, we might take another look, but ten grand could sink without trace over three decades.’
‘What if big brother post office turns up in the boot?’
Webber looked again at the board. Decades-old pictures for the most part, sitting alongside recent ones of the decades-old car. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘What would it mean?’
‘Murdered him for the money …?’
‘Why? And where did the money go …?’
‘What if the money’s in the boot …?’
‘Why would you rob a post office and dump the money …?’
‘… but if the money and the body …’
Webber let them bounce ideas back and forth as he looked at the photographs. If there was a case to run here, where would he start? He’d have Tippet interviewed if he was still around and compos mentis. Had it been a live case, he’d have him in and see the whites of his eyes when he heard about the car. But if forensics found nothing, it was hard to see what was left to investigate. Evidence of a murder would release resources for a bit of a second look at the family and the witnesses, but to what purpose this long after the event with all the players dead? Maybe it would be the money that turned up, not the brother. Had they accidentally dumped their getaway car with the loot still inside? It would confirm their incompetence.
His best guess was that Farrar’s involvement in the original case had pushed it up the priority list but that unless the car held any surprises, it would soon sink again. The forensic cost would be considerable and, other than Tippet, he had no intention of authorising any action. But it wasn’t the detail of the case that made him uneasy, it was the case itself. Why had Farrar dumped it on him when there were live cases backing up?
His mind turned to the traffic chaos they’d experienced the other side of the city. The theory of kids playing about, chancing their arms, looked thin now. Last night’s incident had taken rather too organised a turn and almost killed someone. He wanted to know what they’d found, to be hearing reports of modern-day cars, live suspects and theories that might do more than unravel a decades-old crime.
The computer screen in front of him beeped a request for a video link to the lab. He opened the call and signalled the DCs round to watch.
It was the same woman, now in a white coat. The background had changed to a more conventional laboratory and her expression told Webber she’d found something.
‘The boot was stuffed full with a single large sheet of plastic,’ she opened without preamble. ‘And it was … well, not exactly dry, but not inundated. The mud had sealed it from the worst of the water. The car must have sunk quickly. Nothing obvious in the sheet but it’s been used to wrap something. We’re getting samples from the boot space but it’s the inside of the plastic that’s giving up its secrets. We haven’t analysed anything yet, of course, but take a look down the microscope.’ She reached to fiddle with something outside Webber’s line of sight. ‘40 times magnification,’ she said.
The screen blurred and then refocused on a circular landscape of pitted brownish-yellow, black spiders pressed into it at intervals, some whole, most in bits. A bath sponge that had spent 30 years at the bottom of a gravel pit was his best guess.
‘What am I looking at?’ he asked.
There was a hint of triumph in her voice as she replied. ‘Brain tissue. There’s a lot of it. Someone was bashed over the head and wrapped up in that plastic.’
And there, finally, was the reason for the brothers’ noncooperation. Not family solidarity. Quite the opposite. ‘Could the body have been in there when the car was dumped? Rotted away or whatever?’
‘Not a chance.’
Webber sat back. ‘Body tipped in first and the car on top of it?’
‘Forensics on the car can’t tell us that. We’d have to dredge the rest of the pit.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of.’ He sighed. ‘Can we do anything cheaper with geo-phys?’
She shrugged. ‘I can look into it. And obviously we’ll do the DNA on the brain matter. Do you want it fast-tracked?’
‘Are we defi
nitely talking about a body?’ he asked. ‘Could it have been a survivable head injury? Could the guy have walked away?’
‘Not a chance.’
Webber looked up at the two DCs to see what they made of this development. ‘Not a chance,’ he repeated the woman’s words. ‘Phrase of the day. Well, do we fast-track the DNA tests?’
He saw from the man’s expression that he was heading towards a knee-jerk, yes of course, but he hesitated as he looked at Webber. ‘Uh … I guess … maybe not.’
‘No,’ Webber confirmed across the video link. ‘Let me know what else you come up with.’ And he closed the call.
‘What would we gain?’ He turned to his two colleagues. ‘Confirmation that a couple of dead guys killed their brother. Our prime suspects aren’t going anywhere.’ Nor is this case, he added to himself, wondering what Farrar would do about the gravel pit. They could hardly hand it back for development if there was a body down there.
The door banged open at the far end of the space. Webber felt the tension before he looked up. Chief Superintendent John Farrar stood there, expression like flint. Another man stood behind him. After a pause that might have been for dramatic effect, Farrar strode in, his companion scurrying behind him.
‘This is DI Davis,’ snapped Farrar. Such was the fury behind his words that no one made a move to acknowledge the man and Farrar didn’t leave time for pleasantries before pointing at the pictures on the board. ‘That the Tippet case?’
‘Yes,’ said Webber, surprised at the label. Had they thought of it as the Tippet case all those years ago? ‘We were just discussing …’
‘You!’ Farrar barked, ignoring Webber and pointing at the DC next to him. ‘Bring DI Davis up to speed. He’ll be running this case. And you …’ His finger swung round to Webber as scorn overlay the anger in his tone. ‘Come with me.’
He turned on his heel and marched out. Webber felt the weight of his bottom jaw, and saw the two DCs exchange a bewildered glance. Davis kept his head down. Webber had no idea what he’d done, but there was no sin greater than keeping Farrar waiting. He leapt up to follow.
CHAPTER 2
Farrar marched down the centre of the corridor, the tension in his shoulders radiating rage. He slammed through the door to his office. Webber had to put out his hand to stop it rebounding into his face. Farrar threw himself into the chair, grabbed a notepad and scrawled on it, before looking up.
‘Well …’ his tone hard but neutral.
Webber couldn’t read whether it was a question or a statement. Knowing it was nothing to do with the cold case, he said anyway, ‘It’s definitely Tippet’s car. The lab …’ His voice faded. He had to make a determined effort not to back away from Farrar’s anger.
‘What you do in your private life, Detective Superintendent, is entirely your own affair.’ Farrar’s voice remained quiet, measured, but as Webber struggled for context, Farrar’s fist banged down on the desk making a wire tray jump and Webber’s heels snap to attention. ‘Until it impacts on the job,’ Farrar bawled. ‘What were you thinking? Are you after throwing your career down the pan as well your marriage?’
With a terrible sense of injustice Webber felt the pieces fall into place. That’s not fair, he wanted to say. I got away with that. I ended the affair, no harm done. Of course he shouldn’t have gone anywhere near the woman. He’d been infatuated, mesmerised. Not only was she a private investigator, she’d been a whisker from becoming a material witness in a big case. He remembered her couldn’t-care-less attitude to his abrupt ending of their liaison. Must have misread that. What had the vindictive cow done?
‘It was nothing, John. It was stupid of me. I put a stop to it before …’ Again his voice died away under the glare from across the desk.
Farrar barked out an incredulous laugh. ‘Before any damage was done? Is that what you’re going to tell me? It’s too bloody late for that. If I could, I’d strip you of your rank right now and have you directing traffic in some seaside town for the rest of your career. As it is …’
A sudden vision blanked out Farrar’s wrath. Webber saw his wife as he’d left her this morning, smiling, Sam on her hip, waving his chubby fists. ‘What do you mean?’ he interrupted. ‘Throwing my marriage down the pan. Mel doesn’t know anything about this.’
‘You can hardly keep it from her.’ Again that scornful incredulity. ‘And if I’m not much mistaken, she’ll be hearing all about it right now from the woman herself.’
‘What!’ A kaleidoscope of images played in Webber’s head. He barely heard Farrar’s bellowed, ‘Where do you think you’re going!’ as he dived out into the corridor and raced for the exit.
Uppermost in his mind was the picture of Mel, the first time he’d seen her. No, not the first time … he’d originally known her as a press officer in East Yorkshire … but the first time he’d really seen her. A God-awful mess of a drugs raid … bad intel. The big targets had been there all right, too many of them, and with their own hired muscle. It could have been a rout, a debacle. In the melee the image was imprinted on his brain. PC Melinda Bryant ducking under a flying fist, taking out the would-be assailant with an efficient right hook and back elbowing another in a smooth continuation of the same move. It was a memory he’d often replayed fondly, but not now.
He sprinted across the road, randomly pleased he hadn’t found a space in the car park. No chance of Farrar stopping him. In his head he saw the willowy form of the private investigator on her way to confront his wife. She would sashay into their house with an infuriating air of indolence, taunting Mel until Mel snapped. She knew all about winding people up. She’d revelled in provoking him to a white heat of anger, and without the surcease of sex he’d probably have killed her himself.
As he reached the car, he grabbed his phone from his pocket and turned it off, relieved he’d remembered it before Farrar had thought to call. If he didn’t get home in time, Mel was going to kill the woman; hit her so hard she’d never get up again. The blare of a car horn followed him as he carved his way into too small a gap in the traffic. Mel on a murder charge, Mel convicted … in prison. He couldn’t bear that, couldn’t let that happen. But what if he was too late? He’d find a way to take the rap for her. Or they’d get rid of the body … who’d miss a woman like that? They’d find a way through this.
The back end of the car fishtailed as he took the corner too fast. And there was his house ahead of him. His heart plummeted, hollowing out everything inside him. Too late. It had already happened. There was a patrol car at the gate.
The bricks in the low wall glittered from the remains of a night frost. The light was harsh, the sun still low. He pulled up and climbed out, senses tingling with the need to read and react instantly to whatever had happened.
An officer was coming out through the front door. He was aware of movement from the living room, but didn’t look directly at the window. Where was Mel? Who was in there?
‘You’re a pervert, Martyn.’
He stared at this upstart of a sergeant who’d stepped into his path. Who the hell did she think she was that he might have the least interest in her ramblings at a time like this?
‘Fuck off, Suzie.’ He bundled her aside and pushed through the door, down the hallway and into the living room to face Melinda.
‘Mel! Are you OK? Where’s Sam?’
Within arm’s reach, her expression stopped him. He looked into her eyes, not daring to let his gaze drop. There might be a bloodied body breathing its last on the carpet beside him, but Mel had been about to do something and his sudden appearance had stopped her. Nothing else mattered.
‘Sam’s at play group.’ She answered one of his questions, her tone hard.
‘Are you all right?’
She stared at him, then her glance flicked briefly towards the window. He couldn’t read her expression. He could feel her hostility but nothing showed in her face. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Martyn, even if you can’t be honest with me. My first thought was to pack my ba
gs.’
‘Mel …’
‘But I got past that in about half a second,’ she spoke over him. ‘My second thought was to pack your bags.’ She stared into his eyes as though daring him to interrupt. He held still, almost held his breath. ‘I’ve decided not to,’ she said. ‘Yet. But the only reason me and Sam are staying here, the only reason, is that this way I look like less of a fool while I get my head together. But don’t think I’ve closed off any options.’
‘Mel, I …’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t start spouting garbage at me. You didn’t want to … She made all the running … yeah, yeah … Don’t insult me any further by making me listen to it.’
That wasn’t what he’d been going to say. He didn’t want to talk about anyone or anything except him and Mel. He wanted to tell her he wouldn’t lie to her ever again, but if he said it now, it would be an admission that he had wanted it, that he’d been the one making the running. He prayed she wouldn’t make him say it. He daren’t lie to her from this knife edge.
‘There’s one thing I want to know, Martyn, and I want the truth.’
He nodded. She could have the truth about whatever she wanted. He couldn’t deny her that. The phone rang from the table by the window. As Melinda moved towards it, she turned back to him with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘How many times did you have sex with that woman?’
‘How …?’ He stopped as she picked up the handset. How could he answer? The truth was he hadn’t kept a tally, but he couldn’t say that.
‘Yes, of course he’s here, John.’
Webber heard the laugh in her voice. She was talking to the Chief Super. Her relaxed tone astounded him. ‘Don’t be daft, John. It’s mainly your fault, you know.’
Disorientated. It was the wrong conversation. Was it John Farrar at the other end of the line? What was she talking about?
‘… going on about him like you do. You put the idea in her head, set him up … Me? Oh well, when he told me she’d come on to him, I laughed … No, you won’t, John,’ Webber heard steel in her voice. Was she threatening Farrar?
