by Tana Collins
‘This her?’ he asked of her assailant. The man grunted something and Siobhan felt a cloth clamped over her mouth. The sweet cloying smell was overpowering and made her feel sick. She was picked up and like a slab of butcher’s meat she was hauled none too gently into the van. Her rucksack was thrown in after her. The man with the gun, who was slighter and shorter than his colleague, jumped in after her, threw the door shut, straddled her, and grabbing rope, started binding her wrists.
Siobhan moaned and tried to block out the nausea. Hearing the sound of the engine and the screech of tyres she knew they were on the move. The noise seemed to be a great distance off, though, as if coming through a funnel.
She felt her hair being stroked. She stiffened. Hot rank breath on her face. She felt her right breast being squeezed. It hurt. She managed a whimper. A large calloused hand over her mouth. A voice whispered in her ear telling her to be quiet. She nearly gagged on the smell of stale sweat coming from him. A crushing weight moved over her as the man straddled her. She felt him tearing at her clothes. She struggled. Tried to scream but he covered her mouth once again with the cloth silencing her until the world turned black.
FIFTEEN
MONDAY MORNING, 4th June
‘Something’s been bothering me. I now know what it is,’ said Fletcher, putting her head round Carruthers’ office door.
Carruthers looked up from under yet another report. His backlog of paperwork was building. Quite a lot had been bothering him recently, so he knew the feeling.
Fletcher was hanging on to the door frame. ‘When we visited Dave Roberts’ room, I knew there was something missing. I couldn’t think what it was. Now I can’t believe how I missed it. So obvious.’
‘What was it?’
‘Where was his stash of BNP magazines? There was a stash of far-right propaganda found in his room, according to the RAF. Siobhan Mathews also said she’d seen a load of magazines. The RAF people were told not to remove anything,’ she continued. ‘When we searched the room, the magazines weren’t there. So who took them?’
Carruthers frowned. Put his glasses on the top of his head. ‘Who else searched his room?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t think anybody had apart from the RAF Police.’ She turned to go. But hesitated. ‘Jim? I’ve just had a thought. It’s not about his magazines. They were clearly taken after his death. But just say he didn’t keep all his things in his room at the base.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If you were seeing someone there comes a time in a relationship when you start keeping some stuff at theirs. Don’t you? Toothbrush? Spare shirt? I think we should get a search warrant out for Charlene Todd’s place: she claims she’s Dave Roberts’ girlfriend. Maybe Dave left stuff there. Whoever killed Rhys would have been covered with blood. What would they have done with their blood-stained clothes? Mackie told us we were looking for a blunt instrument covered with a sock. That’s never turned up.’
The phone rang in Carruthers’ office. As he picked it up he turned to Fletcher and said, ‘I’ll talk to Bingham about organising a search warrant. DCI Carruthers,’ he answered. Fletcher turned and disappeared back out of his office.
‘Hi Jim, John Mackie here. We’ve got information on the Pinetum Park Forest body. Just preliminary findings at this stage.’
‘Fire away,’ said Carruthers.
Mackie chuckled. ‘Bad choice of words, considering our corpse could have been burnt to a cinder. Our man was definitely already dead when he was brought into the woods.’
‘So he was killed elsewhere?’
‘As you noticed there wasn’t much blood or brain tissue at the scene from his head wound which is an indicator he was shot elsewhere. The body was then dumped in the forest.’
Carruthers had known at the site that there wasn’t sufficient blood for Roberts to have died there, yet the entry wound was swollen and bloodied. So he was still alive when he was shot.
‘The findings at this stage indicate he died most likely from a single shot to the head,’ said Mackie.
‘What else have you got for me?’ said Carruthers.
‘He’d been tortured. But you knew that. He had several cigarette burns to the chest. From the inflammatory response, I can confirm he was alive when these were inflicted.’
‘Not much point after he was dead, although I guess you’ve got to stub your cigarettes out somewhere. Any idea how long he’d been dead?’
‘Always a tricky one that, but rigor mortis had already set in. Approximately twenty-four to forty-eight hours is my reckoning. There’s evidence of some insect activity. Of course, it’s been pretty hot recently. One other thing. His hands had been tied tightly. Useful for us. We’ve found fibres. The material used to bind his wrists was some type of braided rope.’
‘Right, thanks,’ said Carruthers, ‘Nothing new on the Rhys Evans case?’
‘’Fraid not.’
‘OK. I’m going to brief the Super. Get in touch when you have some more info for us.’
‘Will do. We’ll have the rest of the findings within twenty-four hours.’
A few moments later, Carruthers was tapping on Superintendent Bingham’s door with some trepidation. Bingham finished the call he was on and replaced the receiver. After Carruthers had given him the update from the lab, Bingham had his own piece of news.
‘The RAF police have been in touch. We now know the body’s definitely that of Dave Roberts. One of his commanders has positively IDed it. There was never much doubt, to be honest. His parents are heading up from Cardiff.’ Bingham sighed. ‘Two dead men on our hands and we’re no closer to catching the bombers. If Roberts did plant the bomb under Holdaway’s car, getting rid of Roberts is one way of keeping him quiet. Silenced men can’t talk.’
‘I would like to interview the parents myself, if that’s OK?’ said Carruthers.
‘That’s fine. Make sure you keep McGhee abreast of any developments. You may have your differences, but I still want you to work together as part of a team. I also want you to apologise to Alistair, Carruthers. I don’t want bad blood.’
Carruthers remained silent.
‘Did you hear me?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll do it.’
‘Do we know yet if Roberts was a member of the BNP?’ said Bingham.
‘Yes, he was. But Fletcher made the point that there’s been no discovery of any racist material in his room. Looks like it’s all been taken. Question is by whom? And if someone has been in and taken that, what else have they taken? Perhaps the Bryn Glas poster that was most likely hanging on his wall.’
‘Begs the question what was the motive for taking them?’
‘Sir, I want to get a search warrant for Charlene Todd’s home in Crosshaven. She had a relationship with Roberts and Fletcher thinks that Roberts may have left some of his stuff at Charlene’s. We’ve drawn a blank with Evans’ death. Roberts is the most likely candidate for the murder. If Evans found out what Roberts was up to, Roberts would certainly have had motive to kill him. It’s worth a shot.’
Bingham nodded. ‘I wonder if we could get this done under the Terrorism Act. I’ll talk to McGhee and make a call. Give me the requisition form. I’ll get it fast-tracked.’
***
Oh no, not again. For the last couple of hours Fletcher had been feeling sick again. The nausea was coming over her in waves. However, the last ten minutes she’d also started to get stomach pains, which seemed to be increasing in intensity. She kept her head down as McGhee walked in but not before she noticed him striding towards Carruthers, who had been walking towards her desk with a steaming coffee.
‘Has there been a development for me to be summoned back so abruptly?’ asked McGhee. ‘I was in the middle of something over at Edenside.’
‘You could say that,’ said Carruthers. ‘Do you know anything about magazines going missing from Roberts’ room?’
‘What you talking about? What magazines?’
‘The BNP literature that was suppose
d to have been there.’
Fletcher tried to stand up. An agonizing pain gripped her stomach. Now she was really scared. She wanted to go to the bathroom but she was frightened of what would happen if she did. She could taste beads of perspiration on her top lip. Christ, why did she suddenly feel so hot? Her fear increased. Now she was struggling to breathe. She felt she was suffocating. There was a tingling in her head. She definitely had to go to the bathroom. She stood up, managed a few steps but her legs wanted to buckle.
‘Jim?’ she said, just as Bingham walked in.
‘What is it, Andie?’ asked Carruthers.
‘I’m not feeling well. I think something’s wrong,’ said Fletcher suddenly collapsing against the nearest wall clutching her stomach. ‘Can you drive me to hospital?’
‘Is it the baby?’ asked Carruthers, alarmed.
‘I don’t know what it is, but I’m in pain.’
‘Shit, let’s go.’ Carruthers slammed his coffee down, heedless of the spilling liquid. He moved to Fletcher, the pain kept her from standing straight and she leaned heavily into him for support. McGhee stood impotent as Bingham sped ahead of the slow-moving pair, opened the doors for them.
‘I’ll give you a call from the hospital,’ shouted Carruthers to Bingham.
‘Just get her to hospital, Carruthers,’ said Bingham. ‘My people come first.’
SIXTEEN
MONDAY EVENING, 4TH JUNE
Carruthers snapped his phone shut. He’d just finished speaking to Andie Fletcher’s boyfriend, Mark. The man was on his way to see Fletcher in hospital but there had been something odd in his reaction to the news. Carruthers couldn’t put his finger on it. It was almost as if he was reluctant to visit her. He wondered what any man could consider so important it trumped a girlfriend’s and baby’s health.
Now he stood on the doorstep of Charlene Todd’s flat in Crosshaven. He directed Dougie Harris to knock on Todd’s door again.
‘Not more police?’ said Charlene Todd rolling her eyes when she saw Carruthers’ police ID. ‘What do you want this time?’ Her eyes then fell on Dougie Harris. ‘I ken you. You were the one perving at my tits.’
‘We need to search your property,’ said Carruthers.
‘Why?’
‘We have a search warrant. Would you mind standing aside.’
Carruthers motioned for Harris to head into the living room. As he disappeared behind the door a little white poodle shot out.
‘I need to know if Dave Roberts kept anything here at your house,’ said Carruthers.
‘What sort of thing?’ asked Charlene. ‘There is some stuff of his here, yeah. I have his PlayStation and some DVDs.’
Carruthers wondered if Charlene Todd had been told about Roberts’ death by the RAF. The police certainly hadn’t told her. She wasn’t behaving as if she was grief-stricken.
‘Is there anything else of his?’ asked Carruthers.
Harris came out of the living room. ‘It’s clean,’ he said.
Charlene Todd looked from Harris to Carruthers. ‘He came in with a bag of clothes recently. He said he was going to do up an old car and they were overalls he was going to change in to.’
‘Where are they?’ said Carruthers.
‘Under the sink in the kitchen.’
‘Show us.’
They walked into the kitchen. Harris strode over to the sink, and yanked the door of the cupboard under the sink open. He got down on his haunches and started to move bottles of cleaning fluid and disinfectant out of the way. There was a rustling noise and he brought out a black bin liner. It was tied at the top. Carruthers nodded. Harris ripped into the bag and pulled out a shirt and trousers. They were soaked in blood.
‘Have the RAF Police been to see you, Charlene?’ asked Carruthers.
‘No, why should they?’ Carruthers noticed she’d gone pale as she looked at the blood-stained clothes. ‘What sort of bother is Davey in?’
Carruthers made his voice as gentle as he could. ‘I’m afraid Dave Roberts is dead, Charlene. We found his body in Pinetum Park Forest yesterday afternoon.’
A loud wail pierced the air. Carruthers guided Charlene out of the kitchen to her living room and pushed her into a seat. The little white poodle jumped on her lap and she buried her face in his corkscrew fur.
‘Is there anyone who can sit with you?’ he asked. Only half his mind was on Charlene Todd and Dave Roberts. The other half was on his need to free up some time to ring the hospital and find out whether there was any news on Fletcher.
‘My next door neighbour.’
‘I’ll go and chap the door.’ said Harris. Carruthers nodded.
***
Back at the station processing paperwork, Carruthers breathed out a sigh of relief and sat back in his chair. He’d just phoned the hospital again. This time there had been some positive news. Fletcher was going to be OK. So was the baby. They were still running tests, but it looked as if she’d a bout of acute food poisoning. She was being kept in overnight for observation and would need a few days off work to recover.
As relieved as he was that she was going to be OK, why did she have to go and get food poisoning now? He needed her quick mind and attention to detail, and frankly, would miss having her to bounce ideas around with. Dougie Harris had already made several mistakes in an investigation that was proving to be as complex as it was time-consuming. There were so many twists and turns that even Bingham had admitted he was labouring. Carruthers began to think about the details of the case.
First, who had killed Evans, and why? Most likely suspect was Dave Roberts now the blood-stained shirt had been found at Charlene Todd’s flat. But Carruthers knew he still needed the results back from forensics on the blood. Would it be a match for Rhys Evans? If Roberts had killed Evans, was it in a fit of straightforward jealousy over Siobhan Mathews? It seemed unlikely. What made more sense was the possibility that Evans had been killed because he’d found out something about the imminent operations of Bryn Glas and Roberts’ involvement in it.
Carruthers certainly didn’t buy into it being a random robbery. To his mind, it had been premeditated, and Evans had been followed.
His thoughts turned to the car bomb. Witnesses had seen Roberts in the vicinity at the time of the explosion. Had Roberts tried to recruit Evans? Had Evans refused but threatened to turn whistle blower? If so perhaps his murder had nothing to do with Siobhan Mathews.
So, what had got Dave Roberts killed? Had he known too much, or had he tried to blackmail the terrorists? Was it because he’d interfered with Holdaway’s planned death? What had been the purpose of torturing him? Forensics were still trying to trace the bullet from the gun used to kill him. It would have been helpful to have the gun but it still hadn’t been found.
Carruthers’ eyes felt hot and gritty and he yawned. He needed a good home-cooked meal and some decent sleep. Pushing all thoughts of food and rest out of his head, he sat down at his computer and connected to the internet. He was searching for information on Bloody Sunday. Like everyone of his generation he had learned of the infamous day in school, but he’d never read the detail. Having read the book Holdaway had ordered about the Saville Enquiry he was keen to see if other reports matched the details.
As he read the reports about the mayhem that occurred on the march he wondered how his parents would have coped had he been involved. If it had been him shot in the back as he was trying to run away from the soldiers. Unarmed. Defenceless. Not much older than a boy. Or even worse, shot as he had come to the aid of a wounded friend. He swallowed a lump in his throat. He then read the pitiful attempt at first aid given to a dead man by a friend. The friend had taken the man’s shoes off and had gently laid them out by the body. Asked why he had done that his response had been to prevent the man’s feet from swelling. Perhaps it hadn’t been so much about first aid but more about one final act of kindness and comfort even in death. This last detail was just too much to read. Hastily Carruthers took his glasses off, wiped his eyes wi
th a hand and replaced them on the bridge of his nose.
Carruthers wondered how the families of those involved had felt when they had read the Widgery report published six weeks later, which laid the blame with the protestors. The soldiers had stated that the protestors had been armed and had fired first. The Saville Report had stated that the soldiers had been lying. Lord Widgery, who had conducted the initial report, had taken the side of the soldiers without interviewing witnesses.
Carruthers sat back and thought about it from another angle. How had the soldiers felt? Had the soldiers been under pressure to lie? And if so, how high up the chain of command had it gone? How would he have felt had he been one of the soldiers? Would he have been able to separate a rioter from a peaceful marcher in the heat of the moment? He knew that when the stress response was activated the more intelligent part of the brain was switched off. Would he more likely have been shit-scared and lost control, as accounts in the subsequent report indicated? After all, as a soldier, he might not have been much older than some of the protestors. But how would he have felt when asked to lie about events afterwards in the cold light of day?
He couldn’t answer these questions. He hadn’t been there. He thought about people like Holdaway. What he’d witnessed as a young soldier. What he had done. How had those soldiers who had killed innocent civilians felt in the weeks, months, years afterwards? Had they suffered nightmares? Been prone to depression or PTSD like Holdaway? One thing was certain; every member of the Paras that took part in that march must now be living in fear.
He could understand why more people had ended up hating the British Army after Bloody Sunday and why they might subsequently have joined the IRA. The anger, the frustration, having to live with the injustice of the hated Widgery report telling you your son was fair game because he’d had a gun and had started shooting first. All lies. Carruthers imagined the stigma and the shame. He read the last line in the report. ‘A tragedy for the bereaved and the wounded and a catastrophe for the people of Northern Ireland.’ He couldn’t argue with that.
