by Iain Cameron
‘No time for that see, I also work a couple of days a week as a bouncer. Ha, if the lads in Crawley could see me all decked up in my dinner suit and dickey bow, I’d never hear the end of it.’
‘Where do you do that?’
‘At The Havana Bay nightclub in Brighton.’
EIGHT
‘So in summary, what we’ve got is bugger-all.’
It was the end of the first week of the investigation into the death of Sarah Robson, and DI Henderson was chairing his fifth early morning meeting. It was the first of two formal meetings he would attend that day; this one, the early one to establish the tasks for the day ahead and another at six-thirty in the evening, to hear and respond to, whatever had or had not been achieved.
One-by-one they reported their exhaustive enquiries and to his disappointment, all they could come up with were a handful of sightings of a girl who almost fitted Sarah’s description, making him feel even more melancholy. Of course, he knew it was unrealistic to expect someone to suddenly announce at this meeting a key piece of information when it was their turn to speak, as in reality it would be zapped across the bush-wire just as soon as it was discovered, but that didn’t stop him wanting more.
‘He’s been a clever bastard and no mistake,’ DS Harry Wallop said. ‘He’s abducted a fit and healthy young woman, albeit whose judgements were probably impaired by too much booze, somewhere along the busiest roads coming in and out of Brighton. He’s then takes her on a forty-minute journey to Mannings Heath and rapes and murders her without leaving any trace of hair, sperm or DNA.’
‘That’s the bit I don’t bloody get,’ Henderson said. ‘He must have left something. I mean all the principles of criminal investigations such as Locard, suggest he must have left something.’
‘What’s ‘Locard’ sir?’ Seb Young asked.
‘Locard’s Exchange Principle states that when any crime takes place, the perpetrator takes something away from the scene with him and leaves some trace of himself behind, no matter how trivial or miniscule that trace might be. So where the hell is it?’
‘I can only agree with you,’ Pat Davidson, the Crime Scene Manager and boss of the SOCO team searching the area around the golf course said, ‘but the problem is not in trying to identify a suitable place to park a vehicle with easy access to the dump site, it’s trying to find the actual one where the killer stopped. There must be at least a dozen little parking places dotted all around the golf course and we found debris of some sort in every one.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Harry Wallop said. ‘I drove round the other day when me and Carol, Sergeant Walters went to see Mike Ferris at his cottage in Mannings Heath and the site is massive, two hundred acres according to their web site and there are loads of places where people park their cars and head off into the woods for a hike, walk their dogs or get up to something more physical.’
‘Happy memories there, Harry?’ DC Graham Roberts asked. ‘Enjoying a little bit of reminiscing, were we?’
‘At least my memory, and everything else still works.’
Henderson sighed. ‘Get serious lads, this is a murder investigation. What you’re saying Pat is there’s no way of knowing if a fag butt or a beer can that you pick up in any of these sites belongs to our killer or not.’
‘Not unless we get a good sighting from a witness and then we can narrow the site down.’
‘Gerry, give me a sighting for God’s sake.’
Hobbs shook his head. ‘Sorry boss but the residents in Mannings Heath are either heavy sleepers or deaf as bloody posts because nobody living close to the golf course saw or heard anything usual.’
‘I take it you’re including all those people you went back to see because you missed them the first time round, and those you thought might remember something if you left them a few days?’
‘That’s right but it’s the same story, I’m afraid.’
‘Damn. Seb, any advance on nothing?’
‘There are no CCTV cameras close to the golf course, the nearest is at the clubhouse and overlooking the car park and there’s one at a petrol station about half a mile away, but that’s it and without an ID on the vehicle, there’s not much point looking at cameras further afield.’
‘Ok Seb, thanks,’ Henderson said, although it sounded more like another sigh. ‘Yesterday, DC Graham and I met Sarah’s parents. They’re still trying to come to terms with the news, as you would expect, but they can’t think of anyone in their circle of friends or relatives that would have harmed her. Quite the opposite in fact as it seems she was a very popular girl.’
‘Popularity can breed resentment and jealousy,’ DC Graham said, ‘especially among young girls.’
‘True and we should all bear that in mind as we work out way through this investigation, particularly as we’re referring to the killer as ‘he,’ that it could also be a ‘she,’ a friend or a fellow student.’ He looked down at a depressingly short list. ‘How are the interviews with the clubbers at Havana Bay coming along?’
‘We’ve traced the group of Business Studies students that Sarah met in Havana Bay on Thursday night,’ DC Joanna Clark said, ‘and their stories corroborate. The boy she fancied and subsequently fell out with, Josh Haveland did indeed get drunk and crashed out on a sofa. He’s so cut up about his role in all this that he’s been given leave by the university and is now at home with his parents in London.’
‘Is Haveland a suspect?’ Henderson asked. ‘He is after all, one of the last people to talk to Sarah and see her alive.’
‘No, I don’t think so sir. His alibi checked out with other members of the Business Studies party and one of the bouncers remembered him too. He effectively slept through the whole thing and was chucked out at closing time, three in the morning.’
‘What about her laptop? Any joy there?’
‘There’s nothing unusual to report,’ DC Phil Bentley said. ‘It contains mostly coursework, essays, correspondence with tutors and emails between her and her friends. They also looked on social media as she used Facebook, Twitter and Instagram but found nothing suspicious.’
‘No emails or posts from strange men or women?’
‘No sir, that’s why I think it would be so much better if we could locate her phone, kids of that age usually text rather than email.’
‘Don’t try and make me feel older than I do Phil, but I agree. Is that analysis complete?’
‘Yes, it is sir. The IT unit has already returned it to us.’
‘Don’t you think boss,’ DS Hobbs said, ‘this bloke seems to understand our forensic methods and DNA techniques too bloody much? I mean, he’s stripped her and left nothing at the dumpsite and even picked a place to stop that was just one of many. I think maybe we got ourselves an extremely savvy bastard.’
‘Yeah, I was thinking that,’ DC Bentley said. ‘Could he be one of us?’
‘What do you mean Phil, one of the team?’ Henderson said.
‘Well, not exactly sir,’ Bentley said, his face reddening now he realised the implications of his comment. ‘I was thinking it might be a copper or maybe even a detective.’
‘I understand your logic but I think it’s too early to say that and limit the focus of our investigation. After all, much of this sort of forensic information is readily available on television programmes like CSI, the web and libraries so almost anyone could become fairly competent in these techniques if they really wanted to.’
‘Fair point boss,’ Hobbs said, ‘and let’s not forget a case from my neck of the woods, the Yorkshire Ripper. For the younger members of the squad, that investigation was seriously undermined when South Yorkshire Police received a tape from a guy with a Sunderland accent who claimed to be the killer. They believed it was genuine and changed the focus of the investigation from Yorkshire to Wearside and setting back the capture of the real villain by several months.’
‘Thanks, Gerry.’ Henderson turned to face Carol Walters, sitting beside him. ‘So, Sergeant Walters, you�
��ve been fairly quiet this morning. Bring us up to date with the details of your meeting with the irrepressible Mike Ferris.’
NINE
With a deft flick of the wrist, she slipped the stubby little gear lever into third and dipped the accelerator. Instantly, the two-litre Mazda MX5 engine emitted a gentle whine and the car surged forward. Gone was the roar and grunt she’d experienced in other ragtops that were her usual mode of transport and something she just needed to get used to, as whatever it lacked in auditory gratification, it was more than compensated by the pleasurable back-of-the-seat kick she received when it was driven fast.
Rachel Jones bought the car only three weeks before but already it was starting to feel like the best she’d driven. A petrol-head from an early age, she often spent her weekends hanging around garage forecourts looking at sports cars, trying to convince the macho salesman that a mere woman might be a serious customer if only he would let her take one out for a spin.
It was unfortunate that her salary as a journalist with the Brighton Argus did not allow her to follow her passion with any degree of gusto, but by working additional overtime and the judicious juggling of her clothes and eating-out budget, it occasionally provided sufficient funds to splash out, as was the case with this two-year old roadster.
When she first met Angus Henderson, the owner of a much-neglected four year-old Audi estate with several odd bits of boat engine in the back, she was afraid their relationship would flounder before it started, as he showed no interest in cars beyond using them for daily transport, so how could he really understand her obsession?
To her complete surprise, he never once complained about the hours she spent reading motoring magazines or wandering around motor shows and garage forecourts, other than to remark that if ever spotted by his boss, it would be the excuse he was looking for to move him to Traffic.
For the last couple of weeks, she had been tied to her desk writing articles and features, including one about Shoreham Power Station that would be in the paper later in the week, an update to the Country Diary, including a weekly column of the jobs needing doing in the garden and what delights could be found in hedgerows and fields at this time of year, and a speculative one about the grants available to landowners for planting trees, which her boss promised to put in the paper the next time he had a space to fill.
She was just leaving the South of England Showground where once a year the fields on either side of the access road, the large barns dotted to left and right, and the huge exhibition halls and pavilions were transformed into the South of England Agricultural Show.
In early June, two and a half months from now, hundreds of exhibitors from all over the south would arrive here to set up stalls, offering everything from apple juice to tractors, from home-made jam to locally brewed ales, in a three-day extravaganza of dog trials, horse jumping, chainsaw skills and other country pursuits, that attracted tens of thousands of visitors to this rural part of West Sussex.
In her role as countryside and environmental reporter, it was her job to put together a feature on the show which was always published a few weeks before it started, but she decided to meet some members of the committee ahead of time, to give her readers something to look forward to in the dismal winter months.
It had been a good meeting and she managed to fill two pages of A4 with notes and if she couldn’t make a good half-page article out of that lot, she might as well hand back her NUJ card now. When it was published, she hoped her readers would find it interesting but it would also go to prove to her boss that her little jaunt into the countryside did have a valid business purpose and wasn’t just an excuse to try out her new roadster.
She called Angus. The previous evening, they met at nine but as he was tired and didn’t feel like driving into Brighton, they decided to walk to the nearest pub. The apartment block where she lived in Hove called Ashdown, was built on land owned by Sussex County Cricket Club, and as her flat enjoyed extensive views over the cricket ground, she could watch any match from the comfort of her own living room. Alas it was not for free as she and all the other similarly sited apartment owners, were obliged to buy an annual membership for the cricket club as a condition of signing the lease.
Whenever he was involved in a major investigation, he tried to hide the pressure he was under by over-compensating in his efforts to be jolly and attentive, when all he wanted to do was get back to Sussex House and be with his team. But no matter how difficult it was for him to get away, she still wanted to see him and often an evening away from the problems of the case was a good chance to clear his head.
Several times in the evening, he seemed distracted, even when they made love back at her flat on the fifth floor. If she was being picky, it was not one of his better performances but it was worth it, as he looked refreshed and alert when he left for work early that morning.
She tried calling him once again but it defaulted to the call answering service and so she tried his office and after a few rings, it diverted to Eileen Hayes, his Management Assistant.
‘Hello Eileen, it’s Rachel Jones. How are you doing?’
‘Rushed off my feet as usual. How are you? I saw your piece in the Argus the other day about that new offshore wind farm at Shoreham. I’m glad you think it’s a waste of money, I think so too. I take it you’re after our Mr H?’
‘I am. Is he there? I tried his mobile a few times but he’s not answering. He hasn’t left it at home again, has he?’
‘I don’t think so. He’s still in this morning’s status meeting and it’s been going on for ages. That lot are like a bunch of old women when they get going.’
‘I know what you mean. It’s the same at our place. Tell him I phoned and I’ll call back later. Thanks Eileen, bye.’
She knew about the meeting but thought it would be finished by now. It didn’t usually go on all morning unless they were discussing some new development or he was giving them a bollocking for the lack of progress or for some error of judgement. Either way, she hoped she would find him in a good mood tonight as she was taking him to meet her friends, Becky and Sam and their new baby.
She was desperate to open up the engine and see what the little car was made of, but couldn’t do so as she was approaching Ardingly village and several elderly people were ambling about with milk and newspapers in their hands or standing chatting, oblivious to the point where the pavement stopped and the road began. If avoiding knocking down a pensioner wasn’t incentive enough to encourage her to slow down, holding onto her driving license was, as she had already accumulated six points for speeding and she didn’t want any more.
She turned right into College Road and to her relief, the village soon ended and the countryside began. She zipped past Ardingly College and when the speed limit changed to fifty, she overtook the van in front. From a vantage point on a section of high ground, a long straight beckoned but first she needed to get past a slow-moving tractor that was up ahead, hauling animal feed. She edged closer and braked gently as she watched the stacked trailer swaying from side to side, trying to gauge how much room there was for her.
The tractor driver acknowledged her presence and edged into the side of the road, allowing her to pass. The road was narrow with high hedgerows on both sides and the large rear tyres of the tractor looked enormous from the low seat in her car. She drew level and the young driving waved an apology for holding up traffic, but grinned inanely when he noticed her skirt had ridden up several inches above the knee.
She glanced up to give him one of her trademark scowls, reserved for lechers and perverts, when suddenly she spotted a grey shape nosing out of the hedge about twenty or so yards ahead. She stamped on the brakes and blasted her horn but in less than a second, her car slammed straight into it.
TEN
Frustrated at not finding a parking place, DI Henderson left his car on double-yellow lines and placed a homemade ‘police business’ sticker on the windscreen. Before closing the door, he removed a bunch of lilies from
the passenger seat, bought from a garage when he stopped for petrol and a quick sandwich, and self-consciously made his way through the car park.
Rushing through the entrance of The Royal Sussex County Hospital, he almost tripped over an old bloke in a wheelchair, hovering near the door, hoping someone would push him outside for a smoke. It would come as no surprise to find he was being treated for lung cancer or emphysema, as he knew only too well from many of his own ‘clients,’ that many people possessed a limitless capacity for self-harm.
Without breaking stride, he headed straight for Intensive Care. He knew the way as he had been through these doors many times before, the last time to see an old con who fell through a roof while trying to break into a cash and carry through the skylight.
He called out to the nurse manning the reception at IC, ‘here to see to Rachel Jones,’ and she buzzed him through, although he gave her little choice unless she wanted another casualty on her hands when he smashed head first into the door. Walking down the corridor, he was trying hard not to look inside the rooms at the battered bodies and damaged heads but slowed before he reached Rachel’s room as he could hear voices inside. It wasn’t the Argus’s editor, Terry Davis or her direct boss, Gary Henson as he expected but sitting close to her bed were her parents, Phil and Karen.
He had been going out with Rachel for five months and during that time had met her parents once or twice and even though he didn’t know them that well, he liked them. He kissed Karen and shook Phil’s hand before leaning over the bed and embracing the patient, taking care to avoid becoming entangled in the myriad of tubes and wires that were connected to the back of her hand and then snaked down below the covers to her chest.
Her eyes were open, but the spark was dull, like a log fire at the end of a long night. ‘Welcome back girl, I understand you’ve been out of circulation for a few hours.’
