The Body on the Island

by Nick Louth

  * * *

  Throughout the evening, when he had a spare moment, Gillard dipped into the evidence file as the control room collected the reports from the public. Going back to the previous evening, the first logged calls for the Tagg’s Island area had all concerned loud music that had been heard during the small hours of Saturday morning. Several residents had already called the local authority to complain about the racket and now, following the plea for information, renewed their complaints to the police. One late-night dog walker recalled seeing a white car, a BMW, parked on the bridge to Tagg’s Island a little after midnight, corroborating the witness statements from the houseboat residents Elvira Hart and Brent Kletz.

  Hoskins’ work had borne fruit too. He’d found five one-way trips, and just three there-and-back-again journeys. One of those was by a BMW 7-series, the same type of car identified by several witnesses. That seemed the one to concentrate on. The detective constable had forwarded to Gillard the addresses corresponding to each car registration. They were all within five miles of the crime scene. He in turn forwarded them to PC Cottesloe, who was coordinating the door-to-door enquiry.

  Gillard couldn’t get the image of the dead man out of his head. Extraordinary injuries, something squeezing the very life out of him. Hoskins’ contention that it might have been an accident of some type, someone working illegally, had much to recommend it. The fact that no one had reported the man missing, too. That he or someone else had removed his clothing before he got wrapped in the mesh. That spoke of a certain level of preparation. But then chucking a body into the Thames in that area wasn’t the smartest idea. It was probably the most packed part of the river in terms of houseboats and barges. There were hundreds of them. If the man was killed nearby, okay, that might explain why the body had been quickly disposed of at that point in the river. The Tagg’s Island bridge was one of the few car-accessible routes to the river in that area. But if he had died some distance away, it wouldn’t make much sense to transport him here, where there were so many eyes and ears.

  There were plenty of suspicious ingredients. Bizarre injuries on the body. No clothing. No one reporting him missing. Add a splash, give it a quick stir, and you are halfway to a cocktail of murder.

  Chapter Five

  At the same time, less than a hundred miles away in the village of Grendon Underwood in Buckinghamshire, the man now known as Neil Wright sat alone in his new room at Spring Hill open prison, practising a signature to match his new identity. Born left-handed, he had spent every spare moment since arriving at the jail practising writing with his right. He admired his handiwork and had to admit it was now pretty neat and bore no resemblance to the left-handed scrawl he had used for most of his life.

  Neil Wright Neil Wright Neil Wright

  He hoped it would fool the graphologists once he started spreading a little bit of terror, getting even with those who had put him away. What he had to do now was to make it second nature, so that every time he picked up a pen he picked it up in his right hand. That would take a bit longer to perfect. But after all, time was something that a prisoner has plenty of. He recalled, years ago, before he went permanently into Wakefield’s segregation wing, spending eight months working on a blade to defend himself. It had originally been a DVD from the prison library, and once bent in half and snapped it had a vicious edge. But to make the most of that edge it needed honing, and a strong and reliable handle. That was where the work came in, cutting and then filing a slot in a toothbrush to hold it, chewing jelly sweets to make a glue that would harden when dried. He had been particularly proud of the home-made sandpaper. Sand collected from the edges of the exercise yard, glued to a paperback book cover.

  Neil Wright. After penning it twenty times, until he was satisfied the style was consistent, he ripped up the thin page of the notebook on which he was practising. He stuffed it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. It tasted of nothing. He didn’t want to leave even a shred of his writing practice in the wastepaper bin. No one must know what he was doing.

  He looked around him. The room was comfortable, like a budget hotel bedroom, except with more space. A glorified Portakabin in construction, it had a TV, a washbasin and a private toilet, a single bed with sheets and blankets and a small wardrobe. For the first time in decades he was not in a segregation wing. And unlike most of the other prisoners, he had a room to himself.

  Spring Hill was small, with just 335 inmates, most there for a short time. It was a perfect place to be anonymous. It looked less like a prison than a static caravan park, the buildings arranged neatly among gardens and vegetable patches. He loved the fact that there were no bars on the windows and that the door was generally unlocked. To step outside whenever he wanted, for the first time in decades, was a wonderful feeling. On his first evening he had stood outside in a downpour for half an hour. He listened to the pattering of rain on the leaves of the bushes, inhaled the aroma of wet grass, and delighted in the icy rivulets that ran off his scalp and down his neck and trickled down inside his shirt. Being out in the elements thrilled him. Only when he was chilled to the core and shivering did he retreat to his room for warmth and shelter.

  Before, being sheltered had had no meaning for him. He had been moved numerous times over his decades inside but had never been in a category D open prison before. Cat D prisons were designed to prepare felons for returning to society. No one was moved there unless the Parole Board was happy it was safe to do so. Wright was perfectly aware of the outcry about his impending release. He was originally sentenced, in 1989, to life with a tariff of twenty-eight years. After he had completed half his sentence he applied every year for parole, but was consistently refused. In 1991, after reading a psychiatrist’s report presented at a parole hearing, the Home Secretary increased his term to a whole life tariff. Then, having served more than the entire original sentence, he applied to the Parole Board again. With the application he offered to identify the burial places of two victims, if he could be released. He had always admitted killing three but had been convicted of murdering five. There was also suspicion that he was involved in two other unsolved killings in the south of the country, which matched a time when he was away from his native north-east. That made a total of seven.

  The Home Office had made no promises, saying only that it would look leniently on his application if he co-operated prior to the decision. As a result, he had spent several enjoyable weeks, accompanied by police officers, on the North York Moors trying to locate the burial spots. He made a big show of not being sure, so that he had day after day out in the open, being fed pub lunches and cafe meals, and generally getting a bit of fresh air. He had after five weeks led officers to a small burial mound, now overgrown, near a stream, where he had placed the bodies of one of the two. He claimed not to recall where the other was because of the change in tree cover and bushes. In reality, he had a very clear picture in his mind, but pretending to be uncertain meant he retained his trump card. For weeks a senior probation manager had ferried messages backwards and forwards between Rollason and the Parole Board. The prisoner’s message was uncompromising. I’ve given you one burial place. I’ll give you a second only in exchange for a release date.

  He’d been aware that the mother of his second victim was dangerously ill in hospital, because he’d read about it in the Daily Mirror. Mrs Rita Hollingsworth’s dying wish was to be able to bury her son, Gordon. For three weeks last winter, nothing happened. Then the Home Office finally relented, approved the parole application and confirmed Rollason’s release date. Tuesday 2 July. The week after, Rollason had indicated he was willing to keep his side of the bargain. He was taken back to the North York Moors and led police to a patch of bracken by a tree stump, in the shadow of a large rock. That was where he had buried Gordon Hollingsworth. The later recovery of bones made national headlines. He was miffed not to be given a shred of recognition in the media for his part of the bargain. Still, at least he would be released.

  He picked up his notebook
and wrote the precious date down: Tuesday 2 July. Just ten days away! He fantasised about what he was going to do. The first pint of beer, the first meal out, Thai red curry with saffron rice with an ice-cold lager. His first bout of sex, with anyone other than his own left hand. Perhaps most prominent of all was his list of acts of revenge, planned over many years, a campaign to be conducted with the utmost care. Those who had put him inside would suffer retribution, and those who had written him hate mail while he was in prison would get their comeuppance. He had a few addresses, mostly of those who were friends or relatives of the victims’ families. Then there was one police officer, Gillard, now a detective chief inspector in Surrey. That was definitely a case for vengeance. There wasn’t going to be anything too high-profile to start with, just some subtle psychology. Vandalised cars, graffiti, short messages by letter and by phone. The easiest approach was to adopt the tabloid description of him from 1987, when his crimes first came to national prominence. The Bogeyman. That’s what they’d called him. He’d already written his first letter and popped it into the letter box in the village in Grendon Underwood, yesterday. It was in his new handwriting, written with forensic caution in a gloved right hand, on a sheet torn from a new notebook. It was addressed to one of his most persistent and irritating correspondents. It just said: Are you afraid of the Bogeyman?

  Chapter Six

  Following up the list of party guests, Constables Cottesloe and Wickens drew their patrol car up to the imposing wrought-iron gates of the Holdersham Estate. Straight ahead was a half-mile tree-lined avenue leading to Holdersham Hall, where party attendee Gus van Steenis was manager. Cottesloe leaned out of the window to press the intercom button set into a metal column, and the gates slowly parted.

  ‘I remember when this place was a preparatory school,’ Cottesloe said, as they rumbled down the rough driveway towards the gigantic three-storey honey-stone hall. ‘But it’s been owned by some sheikh from the UAE since the mid-1990s. This private zoo of his must cost a fortune.’

  Wickens’ eyes glittered. ‘I’d love that kind of cash. Private plane, my own Caribbean island.’

  Cottesloe stared at his younger colleague. ‘You’re in the wrong business if you want to be rich.’ He chuckled. ‘There’s too many dangerous temptations. You have to be incorruptible.’

  ‘Like you?’ Wickens said sceptically.

  ‘That’s right. Never taken a free pint or a free meal in all my twenty-seven years on the force.’ Cottesloe pointed left out of the window. ‘That’s the zoo.’

  ‘What’s he got?’

  ‘No lions or tigers. Crocodiles, I heard, lots of reptiles and a rhino.’

  ‘So what’s the point if it’s all private?’

  Cottesloe turned. ‘Conservation. The sheikh is a big donor to conservation societies, the fight against ivory poaching, that kind of thing. Very progressive chap. There’s an old white rhino here. I saw an article about it in the paper. Shot and injured by poachers in Kruger National Park. Had its horn chainsawed off, then was left for dead. Still got a damaged leg.’

  Wickens stared out the window, as if expecting to see the benighted animal. ‘Perhaps they should put the poor bugger out of its misery.’

  Cottesloe shook his head. ‘Never underestimate the power of a good story, Andy. It’s fantastic PR for the sheikh.’

  The patrol car came to a halt outside the grand portico, next to a battered olive-green Land Rover. Wickens and Cottesloe headed up the steps to the main door, but a greeting from below drew their attention. A man had emerged from a basement door and climbed a short flight of steps to the gravel. Wickens now recognised him from the local paper.

  Gus van Steenis was a ramrod-straight septuagenarian of grizzled features. He was wearing a faded short-sleeved brick-red shirt and muddy green shorts, and looked like he hadn’t shaved for several days. A battered bush hat sat on his head, giving him the appearance of a long-retired Indiana Jones. ‘I’m Gus. Good day,’ he said, thrusting out a hand. His grip was strong, and he made eye contact. ‘Terrible business about the body.’ He showed them in through the basement door, which led along a low dark corridor to a small 1960s-type kitchen with pale green glass-fronted cupboards. The remains of a meal could be seen on a yellow melamine plate on a Formica-topped table. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, I was just finishing my scrimbled iggs.’ His accent sounded South African to Wickens.

  He arranged wooden chairs at the table, and dumped the plate and cutlery in a big enamelled sink. ‘So what can I do to help?’

  ‘We believe you were at a party on Friday night on Tagg’s Island.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely cricked.’

  ‘What time did you arrive?’ Cottesloe asked.

  ‘At 11:50 p.m. I left at 1:30 a.m.’

  ‘Did you see a white BMW parked on the bridge?’

  ‘Yes. I had to ask the two gentlemen to move it so I could pass.’ The word came out as ‘jintlemin’ and it didn’t sound like he meant it.

  ‘Did they co-operate?’

  ‘Eventually, yes. I also mentioned to them that their music was excessively loud.’

  ‘And how did that go down?’

  He laughed. ‘Badly. There was a bit of a staring contest between me and the big black fella who seemed to be in charge. But I’ve had decades of dealing with that kind of thing back in Rhodesia. Eventually he turned the music down very slightly and reversed the car enough to let me past.’

  ‘Was there anyone else in the car apart from the two men?’ Cottesloe asked.

  ‘I think there was a woman, also coloured.’

  ‘Did you hear a big splash at any time, either when you were approaching the white BMW or afterwards?’ Wickens asked.

  ‘No. As soon as I passed them, I drove off home. Parties like that are okay if you’re young, but I need my sleep.’

  ‘What did you think they were doing, the black guys on the bridge?’ Cottesloe asked.

  For the first time van Steenis seemed to hesitate. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Were they at the party?’

  Van Steenis looked into the air as if this was a difficult question. ‘I didn’t see them.’

  ‘So how do you know Brent Kletz?’ Cottesloe asked. ‘Unreconstructed hippies don’t seem like your kind of people.’

  ‘True, I suppose. But Juliette is my granddaughter, and works with me here. That’s why I was invited. They all seem nice enough people to me.’

  ‘Were there any drugs at the party that you are aware of?’ Wickens asked.

  ‘Ach, no. Look, man, I’m really not sure. I didn’t see any. But then an old stick like me, well I’m not sure I would recognise any.’

  ‘Did you use the bathroom?’ Wickens continued.

  ‘I’m sure I must have.’

  ‘Did you not see the cannabis plant on the cistern?’

  ‘I don’t recall it.’

  ‘So you don’t take drugs, Mr van Steenis,’ Wickens persisted. ‘But you drink alcohol?’

  ‘On occasion, yes. But I didn’t drink that night, because I was driving.’

  The Zimbabwean had successfully headed off their next question. The two policemen thanked him for his time. Wickens, who had been making notes, read them back and asked if he wanted to add anything.

  ‘No, that’s fine. Look, I was just going to give Dinnis his dinner, would you like to come?’

  ‘Dennis?’ Cottesloe asked.

  ‘Our rather sick rhinoceros.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Wickens said, earning himself a cool glance from Cottesloe, who added, ‘I suppose we do have a little time left.’

  The two constables piled into the Land Rover with van Steenis driving. The ancient diesel roared alarmingly as they headed at excessive speed over a meadow towards a collection of buildings. Van Steenis described how the estate had been rescued in the early 1990s during a property collapse, and when the private school on the site was having financial difficulties. ‘I was recruited in 1995. It’s the best thing I ever did,’ he said. They pass
ed numerous paddocks, and a large newly constructed barn-like building, which van Steenis said would be his herpetology centre. ‘Reptiles and amphibians,’ he said into the puzzled silence. ‘They’re currently housed in the old barn. Juliette looks after them for me. She’s got a PhD in herpetology.’

  ‘The study of her pets, that’s what it means,’ Cottesloe said, with a wink to Wickens.

  They pulled up outside what would have been once a stable block, enclosed within a small paddock. There were two fences, one a chain-link external fence and the other a more substantial inner bulwark of motorway-style crash barriers. ‘This is where the old boy is,’ van Steenis said, getting out and unlocking a door into the stable. The building was dark, and smelled intensely of animal. A heftily barred enclosure gave a view into the main part of the building, where on a bed of straw lay an enormous leathery creature. The rhino’s small dark eyes reflected what little light there was and, having scented the visitors, he blinked and shifted his huge weight.

  ‘He’s a splendid old fella, aren’t you, Dennis?’

  As their eyes became accustomed to the light, the two constables could now see the bandaged right foreleg, and the scarred nose where the horn had been.

  ‘We have a video camera outside, so that those who helped Crowdfund the rescue can watch him recuperate. Sadly, I think he’s a bit down. He seems to prefer to spend time in here in the dark. Maybe a bit of food will cheer him up.’ Van Steenis took a bucket from the wall and filled it with some kind of dry food from a sack. ‘Rhinos in captivity don’t need much extra food if they can forage, though Dennis has put on a lot of weight because of his mobility difficulties. But he’s always glad to see me, aren’t you Dennis?’ He jangled his keys. At the sound of the iron gate being unlocked, the huge animal rose ponderously to his massive feet, snorting enthusiastically. Van Steenis slipped into the enclosure, immediately closing the gate behind him. He wafted the bucket under Dennis’s snout and patted the beast vigorously on his huge leathery flank. ‘Who’s a good boy then?’