by Nick Louth
The conference call was wrapped up. The next phase of the meeting focused on that morning’s arrest.
‘As many of you will have heard, we detained Michael Jakes near the site of the discovery of the second body. He’s a thirty-four-year-old plasterer, no criminal record but has had some mental health issues. He was a witness to the splash associated with the first body and claims to have discovered the second. His statement is in the folder on your desks.’
‘And a bigger pile of codswallop you will never read,’ Hoskins muttered.
‘He also had on his phone a recent photograph of Neville Rollason, sitting at a table in what appears to be HMP Spring Hill refectory,’ Gillard said.
‘All that just can’t be coincidence,’ Morgan said.
‘Agreed. He seems to be cropping up in rather too many places for comfort. He’s under arrest, and I’m hoping to get to interview him under caution as soon as this meeting is over. However, while the temptation might be to think we have solved this case, I need to point out a few awkward facts about Jakes. One, he appears to have arrived by bicycle at the crime scene, which obviously precludes him having just dumped the body himself. Two, Jakes cannot drive. Three, according to the second witness, the dog walker, it was Jakes who first suggested calling the police. It’s only a tentative conclusion, but it’s hard to believe that this man had more than a peripheral involvement in either of these crimes.’
‘That photo on Jakes’s phone must have been Rollason’s own doing,’ said Morgan. ‘We told him not to do anything stupid to compromise his new identity.’
‘I thought he wasn’t supposed to have a phone under his licence conditions,’ Claire said.
‘It is an open prison. He is allowed out.’ Morgan shrugged, his expression returning to the defensive pout he had worn throughout the meeting.
The next phase of the meeting covered some of the forensic details, comparing injuries and marks on the two bodies.
‘We would really like to pin down the method and location of the killings,’ Gillard said. ‘Rainy, do you want to expound on your work on that?’
‘Aye, sir.’ Rainy Macintosh came to the laptop next to the projector and hit a few keys. ‘The biggest mystery we have in both these cases is how exactly so much pressure was applied, gradually, to asphyxiate these two victims.’ She displayed photographs of the two bodies, to gasps from those present who had not seen them before.
‘The marks on Rollason were made through clothing, but do not include the diamond pattern we saw on the first, which we now see as irrelevant to the cause of death.’
‘How much pressure?’ Hoskins asked. ‘Do we have an exact figure for that yet?’
‘Och no, Carl. There is no such thing as a standard human body, with mechanical tolerances. Doctor Delahaye’s guesstimate was half a tonne or more. With Rollason it may be higher still. That led us to look for industrial locations. To be honest, we’re not making much progress on these. While we’ve eliminated any premises within a mile of the site of the first body, there are hundreds of possibilities further out, including enormous industrial estates around Heathrow and Slough. It could take months.’
‘What about the mesh suit on the first victim?’ asked DI Morgan.
‘Plastic, seems to be the received wisdom. I spent an afternoon with Imperial College’s own resident expert, learning everything there is to know about tensile strength, durability and hysteresis on industrial meshes.’ She winked. A ripple of laughter washed around the room. ‘Aye, it was fascinating, but as I mentioned, probably not involved directly in killing him. But we don’t know who made it or why.’
‘What about the zoo angle? That seemed promising,’ Hoskins asked.
Gillard inclined his head sceptically. ‘DI Mulholland had a good look round. There wasn’t anything conclusive. When she was there, she did some random DNA swabs in bathrooms, on locks and gates, but we found nothing to match either of our victims.’
Rainy was looking down at her phone. ‘Hold on a minute,’ she said. ‘We just got a result, sir, from the stable isotope analysis. They know where our first victim lived.’ She scrolled down through the document on her phone.
‘Come on, don’t leave us all waiting,’ Gillard said.
She looked up. ‘Taiwan, sir. That’s where he grew up, but the minerals in his teeth and bones showed he spent some time in New York in later years, before returning to Taiwan.’
‘Right, now we’ve really got something to get our teeth into,’ Gillard said.
Chapter Twenty-five
The incident room meeting broke up and the detectives gathered round the email now showing on Rainy’s laptop.
‘That’s good news. It seems quite conclusive,’ Gillard said, reading through the list of minerals present in the bones of the man found on the island. ‘Carl, would you email the Border Force to see if any Taiwanese nationals arrived in Britain in the last three months. Then contact the national police headquarters in Taipei, and ask them about missing persons, copy in the British Embassy there. In fact it would be a good idea to get a complete list of anyone who bought an air ticket from Taipei to Britain in the last few months. The embassy might be able to help clarify who we need to speak to.’
‘Yes, I’ll get right on to that,’ Hoskins said.
Gillard turned to Rainy. ‘I still want you to put more work into the MO. If we solve that I think we crack open the entire case. It seems baffling to me that someone who may just have been a visitor to Britain happens to be slowly crushed to death.’
‘Aye, sir. It’s not just the method in common but the perpetrator. I can quite understand why someone would want to kill Neville Rollason, and presumably there might be someone who hates our Taiwanese fella enough to want to kill him. But who could possibly be involved in killing them both? It just doesn’t make sense.’
Hoskins leaned forward. ‘And if he did want to kill ’em both and had ’em tied up, why use some elaborate crushing technique? Why not try a simple whack on the head: easy to arrange, simple tools, job done.’ He shook his head ruefully, as if critiquing some botched DIY home repair.
‘It has certainly baffled me right from the start,’ Gillard said. ‘My gut feeling since the discovery of Rollason’s body was that we would have far more leads about who might have killed him than the Taiwanese guy. But who knows, we might make more progress once we get to know a little bit more about the first victim.’
* * *
Alison Rigby’s office seemed quite crowded. DI Graham Morgan, DCI Gillard and Christine McCafferty sat around the coffee table with the chief constable.
‘Okay, Christine, let’s have your take on this,’ Rigby said.
‘Well, as I mentioned, we have clearly shown a proactive approach. We should steer press enquiries towards the details of the coordinated national raid, it’s the sort of thing they love. What we don’t want and should refuse to comment on is any involvement in the creation of the false identity.’
Morgan nodded. ‘I second that, Christine.’
‘We can in any case direct any queries to the Home Office,’ Rigby said. ‘We have good operational reasons for saying nothing about how we protect those who leave prison, as this debacle clearly demonstrates. To do so would jeopardise future efforts, not only with people like Rollason but supergrasses and gang informers.’
‘I take it none of the shocking images of Rollason’s body will be released to the press?’ Christine asked.
‘No, absolutely not,’ Gillard said. ‘We mustn’t allude to the nature of the injuries either. As with the first victim, we just mention asphyxiation as the cause of death.’
‘They won’t take no for an answer,’ Christine said. ‘If you thought there was a lot of media interest in the first victim, you’ve seen nothing compared to what there will be for Rollason. We haven’t yet officially confirmed that it is him, but I’m already getting deluged with questions. By tomorrow the crime reporters will be digging out their old contacts in the Met and elsewher
e who are happy to share off-the-record titbits in exchange for a big boozy lunch.’
‘We’ll just have to hold the line as best we can,’ Rigby said.
‘Can we use the picture of Rollason the witness already had on his phone?’ Christine asked.
‘We could release that, I suppose,’ Rigby said. ‘Though in theory we need Jakes’s permission.’
‘Tabloids won’t like it,’ Morgan said. ‘They want the picture of a monster, not some sweet old grandfather with Hollywood teeth.’
Christine conceded the point. ‘It’s true. They have a story to peddle and want an up-to-date illustration that fits the evil-murderer narrative.’
‘Tough luck, is the answer,’ Rigby said. ‘They’ll get what we give ’em.’
As Rigby and McCafferty nailed down the final details of how the press would be handled, Gillard watched Graham Morgan’s fists unclench along with the rest of his body. His shoulders must have dropped a good couple of inches during the conversation. He would have been the first to admit that his arse was on the line. But if your boss is willing to cover it, everything is fine.
Once Christine had departed, Rigby held back the two detectives for one further subject.
‘I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that I have ordered the suspension of PC Andrew Wickens. I’m turning him over to the not-so-tender mercies of Detective Chief Inspector Sarah Bracewell of the ACU.’
The two detectives exchanged a glance. Sarah Bracewell practically was the anti-corruption unit that covered Surrey and Sussex police forces. Gillard had never met her, but she had previously been a commercial lawyer and was recruited at a senior level rather than rising through the police ranks. Such recruits were rarely popular with the rank and file, who saw them as incompetent queue-jumpers to the best senior jobs, but Ms Bracewell was different. She had a reputation that preceded her for intelligence, toughness and diligence. Naturally enough, officers she had investigated had far worse things to say about her. In ACU you needed a hide like a rhinoceros. The word was that she could charge like one too, and make those charges stick.
‘That’s good, ma’am. If anyone can find out who he was working with, she can,’ Gillard said.
‘I want him to be made an example of,’ Rigby replied. ‘I’m aware that many serving officers are uncomfortable protecting ex-offenders. This will remind them where their duty lies.’
* * *
DC Hoskins drove Gillard from Mount Browne to Staines police station. The detective chief inspector had been almost hallucinating with tiredness by the end of his meeting with Rigby, but still had an urgent interview to conduct with Jakes. Gillard reclined the front passenger seat and dozed for half an hour during the journey. He awoke to Hoskins’ dulcet tones announcing that they had arrived.
After gulping down two coffees in quick succession, and introducing himself to the duty solicitor, Gillard reread Jakes’s witness statements while Hoskins set off to read him his rights and set up the tape recorder.
The detective chief inspector felt much more alert by the time he stepped into the interview room. Jakes was still wearing his cycling helmet and generally looked truculent.
‘Why won’t you let me go?’ he asked.
‘Quite simply, Michael, because of all the unlikely coincidences you are involved in. You witness the splash on Tagg’s Island. A few days later you are hanging round there again, in the middle of the night, frightening the woman who discovered the body. Next thing we know you are found right next to another body, that of the recently released prisoner Neville Rollason…’
‘Did you kill him?’ Hoskins asked.
‘You think I did it? But it was me that asked the dog walker to call the police.’
Hoskins chuckled. ‘Many murderers call the cops. It’s the guilt.’
‘I didn’t kill him!’
‘But you would like to have seen him dead?’
Jakes said nothing for a moment. ‘Well, it’s complicated actually.’
‘The final coincidence,’ Gillard said, ‘is that you just happen to be about the only person in the country to have a recent photograph of him, on your phone. How did you get it?’
Jakes folded his arms and looked into his lap. He said nothing.
‘Come on, Michael. Only half a dozen people in the country knew what Rollason looked like today. How come you are one of them?’
No reply.
‘Did he abuse you?’ Hoskins asked. Gillard was surprised that the detective constable had come out with this one. He obviously hadn’t read up on the statements properly. Rollason was caught in 1988. Jakes would only have been a toddler. It wasn’t impossible, but it didn’t fit Rollason’s known MO.
Jakes stared back at Hoskins. ‘No, he didn’t abuse me. He’s my father.’
The two detectives stared open-mouthed, then looked at each other and declared a short recess.
* * *
Michael Jakes sat and stared at the duty solicitor. The middle-aged man, grey suited, grey-haired and wholly undistinguished, started talking at him. Something about his rights and what he should and shouldn’t say.
He didn’t take in a word.
When he was an adolescent he had listened to his older sister, an assertive sixteen, badgering their mother to find out about their dad, Noel, who had died when they were both infants. Susan wanted to know where he was buried or if he had been cremated when they lived up in Newcastle. Why were there no photographs of him? Why was she being robbed of her childhood?
Michael, just fifteen, had long been told he was the man of the house. He had come to his mother’s rescue, holding her in his arms while she cried and cried under Susan’s relentless verbal assault. Eventually his mum blurted out that their father was a bad man who would knock her about and had threatened both of them. ‘He ruined everything in our lives,’ she had said. He had accepted this but his sister kept on, harrying their mother about inconsistencies in her story. Eventually, just a few weeks before his eighteenth birthday, with Susan back from university for the summer holidays, their mother called both children together and laid out a stash of family photographs on the dining room table. They’d not seen any of them before.
‘I’ve lied to you, but only because I love you and wanted to save your childhood,’ she said. ‘Now I’m going to tell you the truth, because I want to save the rest of your lives. Lies are corrosive, and I’m being eaten up by them.’
Then she began a tearful tale of their loveless marriage, in which domestic violence seemed to take a central place. ‘He loved children, that’s what I’d always thought, even though I could see pretty soon that he didn’t love me.’
To him it all seemed a tragic tale, and he didn’t share his sister’s fury. ‘So when did he die?’ he had asked.
His mother faltered before speaking. ‘He’s not dead, pet. He’s in prison.’
It took a whole minute for this to sink in. ‘Because he hit you?’ he had eventually asked.
‘No, not for that reason,’ Susan interjected. She had been looking through the photographs and documents. She brandished one in her mother’s face. ‘He’s not even called Noel Rogers, is he? He’s called Neville Rollason. It’s written on the back of his photograph. You’ve lied to us in every way!’
Only then did he hear the horrible truth. While their mother, having locked herself in the bathroom, cried pitifully, Susan turned to him. In her pain, she revealed a spiteful side: ‘Our dad is that man who killed all those boys for fun. Boys about your age. What do you think of that?’
That was the beginning of a downward spiral. The void within him filled with a darkness that only Nietzsche could explain. The very next day his mother was found dead, having taken an overdose. He felt his life was over, and abandoned hopes of going to college. The next dozen years passed in a haze of misery, antidepressants, therapy and loneliness. Plastering, which he learned while doing casual jobs on construction sites, gradually became his saviour. Attending to surfaces allowed him to bury the d
epths. Eventually, he felt well enough to try for a qualification in philosophy at the Open University.
Now, coming to terms with the death of his father, having seen the body, Michael Jakes felt that he was finally purging himself of all the twisted lies and deceits on which his life had been constructed. There was nothing to fear any longer. As the detectives came back in, he felt ready to tell them his story.
Gillard and Hoskins sat opposite him.
‘You said the victim is your father.’
‘Yes.’
‘I suppose we should offer you our condolences,’ Gillard said. ‘Did you ever meet him?’
‘No, I never visited him because I didn’t know he was my father until I was fifteen, and then I discovered exactly who he was.’ Jakes relayed the story.
‘Did he make any arrangements to visit you after he was released?’ Gillard asked.
‘He sent me a letter recently, via my sister. That included the photograph. My mother had changed our family name to Rogers soon after he was sentenced, and moved us away from the north-east down here. That kept the press away, but somehow he’d tracked her down. After she died, Susan got married and I changed my name again, to Jakes, my maternal grandmother’s name. But in the last year or so my father managed to find out where Susan was. He wrote to her, a couple of times,’ he said, staring around the room. ‘He wanted to meet us both. I wasn’t ready, the whole thing just made me really anxious. Neither of us were keen.’
The two detectives sat back and looked at him.
‘In some ways this raises more questions than it answers,’ Gillard said, turning briefly to Hoskins. ‘According to your story, you saw a man who may have been dumping a body. Don’t you think it’s a bit of a coincidence that the very person who stumbled across a body in the middle of the night happened to be the victim’s son? Especially if, as you maintain, no arrangement to meet up had been made.’
