by Trevor Negus
‘Go on.’
‘Late yesterday, I had a call back from Prison Officer Armstrong, who was the gate officer when Jamieson was released. He told me that although Jamieson didn’t really say anything on the day of his release, he did recall a conversation with him a few days prior to his release date. During that chat, Jamieson had told him that he intended to try to gain his master’s degree in psychology when he was released.’
‘How does that help us?’
‘After talking to Prison Officer Armstrong, I’ve spent this morning ringing universities and colleges in this area. Nottingham Trent University currently have students working towards their master’s in psychology. One of those students is Sam Jamieson.’
‘Does the university have a current address for Jamieson?’
‘The address they have is a one-bedroomed flat at 34 Foxhall Road, Forest Fields, Nottingham. He’s renting Flat 3.’
‘I want you to do all the enquiries you can on the address and do any digging necessary at Nottingham Trent University. I want you to be in position to get a warrant to search that address by the end of the day. That’s brilliant work, Andy.’
Andy walked out of the office, leaving Danny feeling much more positive. At least he now had something fresh to talk about during the meeting at headquarters.
59
3.30pm, 15 October 1986
Nottinghamshire Police Headquarters
Danny had been kept waiting for fifteen minutes outside the chief constable’s office. Finally, he was asked to go in and join the chief and Adrian Potter.
By the time Danny walked in, Potter had already given his version of the disastrous events at the ransom drop. Jack Renshaw had a face like thunder. He said gruffly, ‘Sit down, Chief Inspector.’
Danny sat down and waited for the explosion.
It didn’t come.
Jack Renshaw looked Danny in the eye and said quietly, ‘I want to hear what happened last night, Chief Inspector.’
Danny took a deep breath and explained exactly what had happened. He admitted that there had been a hole in the planning of the operation. He had not foreseen the possibility that a motorcycle could be used within the cemetery. He admitted that it had been very fortunate the suspect had not made good his escape.
Potter interjected, with heavy sarcasm, ‘You mean his escape with a quarter of a million pounds.’
Renshaw did not acknowledge Potter’s remark. He held eye contact with Danny.
Danny continued: ‘The chief superintendent’s right, sir. We were very fortunate that the motorcycle collided with another vehicle, or we may well have lost the ransom money, as well.’
Renshaw said, ‘Did you have a contingency in place for vehicle surveillance?’
‘Yes, sir. The Regional Crime Squad were in attendance. They would have attempted to follow the motorcyclist away from the plot.’
Again, Potter butted in. ‘Until they lost it!’
Renshaw turned to Potter and said sharply, ‘That’s enough!’
Once again, the chief looked at Danny. ‘I take it you’ve done a full debrief this morning, along with the Special Operations Unit and the Regional Crime Squad.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Lessons learned?’
‘Yes, sir. All the departments involved have taken things away from last night’s operation.’
‘That’s good. Let’s just all be thankful that no real harm was done. How were the Whitchurches when you broke the news afterwards?’
‘Very upset, and understandably still worried. After all, their only daughter’s still missing, sir.’
Renshaw nodded and said, ‘Now that the kidnap plot has been shown to be a load of rubbish, what other enquiries have you got on the go?’
‘While most of my staff were investigating the possible kidnap and preparing for the ransom drop, I kept some back to carry out other enquiries at the same time. I didn’t want to put all my eggs in one basket, so to speak.’
‘Just as well, Chief Inspector. What other enquiries?’
Danny suddenly felt very grateful to Andy Wills, who had managed to trace Sam Jamieson that morning.
He said, ‘I’ve had staff researching every trial that Dominic and Rebecca Whitchurch have been involved in, to try to find someone holding a serious grudge.’
‘Any joy?’
‘There’s one man who fits that criteria. He holds a serious grudge against Rebecca Whitchurch. He blames her for the death of his own daughter while he was serving seven years in prison. He was released from HMP Leeds a short time before Emily Whitchurch went missing.’
‘Name?’
‘His name’s Sam Jamieson. He had been off the radar since his release, but my staff have finally located a current address for him. I’m expecting to execute a search warrant in the very near future.’
Adrian Potter said dismissively, ‘Anything else?’
Danny said, ‘Now there’s no longer a media blackout, I want to hold a press conference as soon as possible. When I leave here, I’m going to see the press liaison officer and make the arrangements for tomorrow morning. I’ll speak to the family this evening. I want to involve Rebecca and Dominic Whitchurch if they’re willing.’
The chief nodded. ‘That’s good. We need actions that will keep this enquiry active. What’s happened with the bloody idiot would-be kidnapper?’
‘Florin Chirilov’s a Romanian national. After making full admissions, he was charged earlier today with several offences. He remains in police custody at the Queen’s Medical Centre while he recovers from a compound fracture of his left leg sustained in the accident. Either tomorrow or the day after, he will appear before Nottingham Magistrates. Obviously, we’ll be pushing for him to be remanded in custody.’
‘Are you satisfied he was working alone and that there’s no link from him to the missing girl?’
‘I’m positive, sir. Chirilov’s nothing more than a petty criminal. A handler of stolen goods who saw an opportunity to make a lot of money quickly. Nobody else was involved.’
Potter said, ‘What about his girlfriend, the au pair?’
‘She’s been interviewed at length, sir; she knew nothing about Chirilov’s plans.’
The chief said, ‘What happened last night was unfortunate and could have ended a lot worse for us than it did. Police work has never been an exact science. Sometimes events happen that no one could have foreseen. The main thing is that lessons are learned for the future. Chief Inspector Flint, keep your team motivated, and I’m sure you’ll trace this girl. Get the television appeal out as soon as possible. I want you to keep me personally informed of the outcome when you execute this warrant for Jamieson. That will be all, gents.’
Danny and Adrian Potter stood up and left the office together.
Just before Potter walked into his office, he said to Danny, ‘You got lucky this time, Chief Inspector.’
Danny didn’t rise to the bait. He just smiled and carried on walking.
He felt a little better as he walked down the corridors to see the press liaison officer. He felt like the chief constable still had his back. He had witnessed the way Potter had criticised his operational planning and subsequent actions.
The chief was having none of it.
Maybe there was a glimmer of hope for the MCIU after all.
60
8.00am, 16 October 1986
Cavendish Vale, Sherwood, Nottingham
Felicity Spencer was almost ready for work. Another day of mind-numbingly boring office work at Mulberry Chambers. No doubt when she arrived, there would be a mountain of filing waiting to be done. The filing would be followed by dozens of statements that needed typing, and finally any letters that needed to be typed up and posted.
Every day was identical.
Every day was boring.
Working at Mulberry wasn’t all bad, though. The pay was excellent, the offices she worked in were modern and comfortable, and the other secretaries were all friendly. The car park at
the rear of the offices was spacious enough for even lowly secretaries to park their cars in.
Then there were the perks that hadn’t appeared on the job description.
Very well-paid, handsome young barristers, most of whom had an eye for a pretty girl, even the married ones.
Felicity knew she was attractive to the opposite sex. She always wore just the right amount of make-up so that she looked stunning, without being tarty. It was a difficult trick to pull off every day. She spent most of her wages on smart clothes and was always immaculately dressed.
As far as she was concerned, it was an investment.
Felicity Spencer had a plan.
Within the next three years, she would have moved out of her parents’ home in Sherwood and be married to a successful barrister. She planned to be living in a beautiful house in Woodborough, eating out every night and having the most wonderful foreign holidays.
The latest of those eligible barristers to fall for her charms had been Freddie Fletcher.
She had noticed the slim, handsome barrister checking out her curves whenever he was in the admin office. This attention had culminated in him asking her out on a date ten days ago.
It had been a wonderful night at Champagne Charlie’s Bar, in the fashionable Hockley area of the city. Freddie had been extremely generous, buying bottle after bottle of the most expensive champagne, as he was celebrating landing a high-profile brief. The night had been a champagne-fuelled, fun-filled night with lots of laughter. They had both ended up at Freddie’s stylish flat at Cavendish Road East, in the centre of The Park.
When Felicity had woken up the next morning, she was dressed only in her underwear. She was lying on the top of a huge double bed.
Her mouth felt dry, and her head was pounding. She had quickly got dressed, slipping on the tight leather trousers and mohair jumper from the night before. Once dressed, she had explored the spacious luxury flat. She had found Freddie lying fully dressed and comatose on the sofa in the lounge. He was on his back, his mouth was open, and he was snoring loudly.
Felicity had chuckled and said under her breath, ‘Very attractive.’
She was already reasonably happy that nothing had happened between them the night before. Seeing Freddie in his current state had confirmed that.
Her memories of that recent alcohol-fuelled night made her smile as she ate her toast and sipped her coffee before leaving for work. The television was on in the kitchen of her parents’ house, and she suddenly stopped chewing as she recognised Rebecca Whitchurch on the screen.
Felicity had never seen Rebecca Whitchurch looking like this. Her hair wasn’t styled or brushed. She had no make-up on, and her eyes were bloodshot and teary. She wore a plain grey trouser suit that looked crumpled and creased, as though she had been wearing it for days.
She took another sip of coffee and turned up the volume on the television.
Rebecca was sitting next to a man and a woman, who were obviously from the police. Rebecca began speaking, and Felicity concentrated fully on the television.
The normally assured barrister said, in a shaky voice that was almost breaking with emotion, ‘All I want is for my beautiful daughter to come home. If anyone has seen her, or heard from her, please contact the police. My husband and I are going out of our minds with worry. Emily, if you’re watching, please come home.’
It was obvious that the woman was close to breaking down, and the camera zoomed in for a close-up shot. One of the police officers started speaking, and then a photograph of Emily, with her big blue eyes and blonde hair, filled the TV screen.
Felicity switched the television off.
She was shocked by what she had just seen. The image of Emily looking so young and the pain of Rebecca had brought another memory of that night out with Freddie Fletcher crashing into her brain.
She now vividly recalled he had said something very strange about Emily Whitchurch that night. It had been so bizarre that it had stuck in her mind.
He had proposed a toast to Emily for being missing, which was strange in itself. But it was his second comment that had been so menacing.
He had said, ‘May she remain hidden in the shadows for ever.’
It had troubled her at the time. After watching the press appeal this morning, it now troubled her even more. She knew she would have to talk to somebody about it, but she didn’t really want to contact the police.
As she locked the door of her parents’ house and walked to her tiny Fiat car, she decided to share her concerns with Mr Dawson at work.
He was always very friendly and polite to all the girls in the office. He would know what best to do.
There was another, more selfish reason why Felicity felt compelled to tell someone about Freddie’s comment. She was more than a little annoyed with the handsome young barrister. Since their night out at Champagne Charlie’s, Freddie hadn’t once found the time to pick up a telephone and call her.
Felicity didn’t feel she owed Freddie Fletcher anything. It was obvious to her that he wouldn’t be the one who would fulfil her dreams and buy her the beautiful house in Woodborough.
61
10.30am, 16 October 1986
Mulberry Chambers, The Ropewalk, Nottingham
Felicity Spencer knocked politely on the office door of Sebastien Dawson. She felt comfortable around one of the most senior figures in Mulberry Chambers. She had worked at Mulberry for two years and had often done work for Sebastien Dawson in his office, under his personal supervision.
For his part, Sebastien Dawson enjoyed the company of the very attractive, vivacious young secretary. He was an extremely polite man, always behaving impeccably around the young female staff.
Felicity Spencer was treated no differently.
He was delighted when the office door opened and Felicity said, ‘Have you got a minute, sir? I need your advice on a matter that may concern chambers.’
Sebastien smiled and said, ‘I’ve always got a minute for you, Miss Spencer. Come in and close the door behind you.’
He waited until she had sat down on one of the two chairs in front of his desk, and then said, ‘Well? What is it I can help you with?’
In a confident voice, Felicity said, ‘Have you seen the press appeal with Mrs Whitchurch on the television this morning, sir?’
Sebastien had indeed seen the dreadful press conference. He had been shocked by Rebecca’s appearance. He had never seen her in such a sorry state.
He was now feeling more than a little worried as to why one of the firm’s young secretaries would want to speak to him about that.
He kept his voice level. ‘Yes. I saw it this morning before I came to work. Why do you ask?’
Now it was Felicity’s turn to look slightly worried. ‘Sir, I need to tell you something in confidence about one of the barristers.’
‘Okay. Whatever the problem is, I want you to speak freely, Miss Spencer. Which of the barristers are you referring to?’
‘Mr Fletcher.’
‘What has Mr Fletcher got to do with this morning’s press appeal and Rebecca Whitchurch?’
‘Well, sir, when you gave Freddie – sorry, Mr Fletcher – the Manchester brief, he invited me out to celebrate with him that evening.’
She paused because she knew that old man Dawson frowned upon social interaction between the staff.
He leaned back in his chair and placed his hands on his large stomach. It was a habit he had developed when he was thinking. He would drum his fingers on his rotund belly as he thought.
Eventually, he stopped and said, ‘Is it something that happened when you were out that evening? Is that what’s got you worried, Miss Spencer?’
‘Nothing happened. Not like that. It was just something Mr Fletcher said, that’s all. It was a bit strange.’
‘Strange enough for you to remember it, obviously.’
‘We had drunk rather a lot of champagne that night, and we were both a little tipsy.’
‘What did he say?’
/>
‘We had talked about the reasons he had been given the brief in Manchester.’
‘And?’
‘He told me that he wasn’t just celebrating because he’d been given the brief, but mostly because Mrs Whitchurch was no longer doing it. Then he wanted to drink a toast to Emily Whitchurch for being missing. At the end of the toast, he said, “May she stay hidden in the shadows forever.” I just thought it was all a bit too weird, that’s all. I thought you should know what he’d said, sir.’
Sebastien Dawson was now deep in thought.
His thoughts had turned to his own rather disturbing conversation with Fletcher when he had allocated him the Manchester brief. He racked his brains for the particular comment that had troubled him at the time.
The words rushed into his head: “I do hope the young Whitchurch girl decides to extend her vacation away from home”.
On its own, it was a crass, insensitive comment. Tied together with the comment Fletcher had made to the young secretary when in drink, it took on a far more sinister tone.
He said, ‘How did Mr Fletcher seem to you when he made that comment about the shadows? Was he joking?’
‘No, sir, he wasn’t. That’s what made it so strange. It was like he really meant it.’
‘Okay, Miss Spencer, thank you for bringing this to my attention. I’ll give the matter some thought, but I’m leaning towards contacting the police.’
Felicity Spencer was now extremely worried.
How would the police getting involved affect her standing at chambers? Could she lose her job over this?
As if reading the young secretary’s mind, Sebastien said, ‘Don’t worry, Miss Spencer. Whatever action I decide to take, it will not affect you or your role with this firm in the slightest. Is that understood?’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Was that everything?’
