Comply or Die

by Tony Hutchinson

  Sam slowed for a roundabout ahead, glancing at Amber who had swivelled in the seat to stare her way.

  ‘They’ve come up with a good reason why they were on the tow path the night Glen was killed, but it all sounds a bit convenient to me,’ Sam said. ‘And what do you mean, they’re all talk?’

  ‘They wouldn’t hurt anyone.’

  She clasped her hands together and pushed her head into the headrest.

  ‘Amber, any more lies from you and nobody will be able to help you,’ Sam said, stealing another glance.

  ‘Look, I haven’t done anything,’ Amber’s face had drained, white tension lines around her mouth. ‘They haven’t done anything.’

  ‘How do you know? Were you with them on the tow path?’

  Amber turned and looked at Sam. ‘Of course not, but I know my own brother.’

  ‘Something else you conveniently forgot to mention.’

  Sam’s phone rang, Ed’s name and number lit up on the screen.

  She pulled to the kerb and picked up the mobile.

  ‘I’ll not be long, Amber,’ Sam said, opening the driver’s door. ‘Stay put.’

  She closed the door and leaned against the bonnet, back to her passenger. ‘Go ahead, Ed.’

  ‘I’m back in the Incident Room,’ Ed’s voice sounded far away, the signal not strong but good enough. ‘The DNA’s come through on the hammer handle. The one used to kill Jack. It’s Elliott Prince’s.’

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Sergeant Ian Robinson, a Police Search adviser, was wearing a Banks Security jacket with his police issue trousers. He approached two of Banks’s men who were stood by a large marquee. ‘Alright lads, what’s the craic?’

  The elder of the two, greasy, wavy brown hair, jacket unzipped and vast stomach hanging below his crotch, spat gum at his feet.

  ‘Just look busy and draw your wages. Piece of piss.’

  ‘We’ve been told just to wander around the perimeter,’ Ian said.

  A grunt and a shrug before Ian and his colleague moved away.

  ‘Nailed on for the after-dinner speaking circuit if he ever gets sick of security,’ Ian said, glancing back as the man tried and failed to hitch his pants over his stomach.

  They had reached the middle of the field furthest from the house and adjoining a public road, a 12-feet-high brick wall marking the boundary of Highmounde, open moorland rising in the distance.

  Shooting probably made more money than a literary festival, but from what Ian had read, James Farquarharson enjoyed wandering among authors, agents, and publishers.

  Ian studied the perimeter wall, barely visible behind mature shrubs, trees and undergrowth, no doubt as old as the house.

  He was mindful of the CATCHEM database, initially kept by Derbyshire Police, but now housed at the Police College Bramshill in Hampshire. The database held the details of every child murder in the UK since 1960. In those cases where the bodies had been dumped, the deposition site was rarely more than 50 metres from the road. While a child had not been murdered in this case, the 50-metre rule still applied.

  His other thought revolved around the Winthrop search method, initially developed by the British Army and used in Northern Ireland to locate caches of arms. In its most basic guise, it required the searcher to put themselves in the shoes of the secretors: a dark game of hide and seek.

  Ian knew the roads outside the walls. If a body was hidden near the wall, and on this particular field that was the only place it could be hidden, then those responsible had two choices: come on to the field to dump the body, or throw it over the wall. There was a wooden gate accessing the field and two lay-bys adjacent to the wall a few hundred yards apart. To throw a body over would require a pair of ladders and someone with enough strength to perform a ‘fireman’s lift’.

  Ian opted for the wooden gate first and walked the 200 metres to it. ‘This looks a good bet,’ he said to his colleague. ‘Access to the road and a lot lower than the wall. We’ve got one shot at this and if we blow it, if we miss something, we’ll be doing school crossing patrols until we retire.’

  His younger colleague licked his lips and nodded nervously.

  ‘We’ll stick together and only move when we’re both satisfied we’ve seen nothing,’ Ian told him. ‘We’ve got plenty of daylight so there’s no rush. If we have to come back tomorrow, we have to come back, although I feel a right twat in this uniform.’

  His colleague smiled, still nervous. ‘They might let us keep them as a souvenir.’

  The plan was to search 75 metres in each direction from the gate. Ian had noticed when he checked a map before they arrived that a river ran by the wall.

  ‘Right, let’s crack on,’ he said. ‘And be careful when we’re near the water.’

  Sam was pulling into the station car park, silently thanking the God of rank and privilege that a bay would be waiting.

  They had talked about Elliott, how Amber had felt when she found out she had a brother, how shock had given way to excitement and discovery, and how they never stopped talking.

  Sam had listened but now she had a question.

  ‘I want you to think very carefully,’ Sam said. ‘Did you tell Elliott about your attack?’

  They opened their doors and got out, staring at each other across the Audi’s roof.

  Amber’s words were slow and hesitant when she answered.

  ‘I did... not straight away, but I did,’ she told Sam. ‘But please don’t think that sent Elliott off on some kind of crazy revenge, sent him hunting down the men he thought could do to another woman what was done to me.’

  They walked across the car park.

  ‘Were they?’ Sam asked. ‘Were Jack Goddard and Glen Jones those kinds of men?’

  Amber stopped and turned to face her, Sam letting the question hang between them.

  ‘If you’re asking do I feel any sadness for Jack Goddard and Glen Jones, I’m sorry but I don’t,’ Amber said. ‘They were vile and arrogant and thought it was funny to publish the photos of those girls. To me they got what they deserved. They’re no loss to society.’

  The words were stark and matter-of-fact unemotional, the hatred in them ice cold. Sam felt like she was suddenly watching a glacial bird of prey, pitiless and unforgiving.

  ‘I agree it was vile, but are you telling me their punishment fitted their crime?’ she asked, as they began walking again.

  ‘Any retribution should be considered a possibility.’ Amber stopped again. ‘Who knows what they would have become, how many women they would have hurt? Their deaths may have spared more victims like me and if that’s true, I can’t be sorry they’re dead.’

  They walked on in silence and when they reached the station, Sam opened the door.

  ‘When we get inside I’ll have an officer sit with you for 10 minutes,’ Sam said. ‘I’ve got to see someone first.’

  ‘I’ve driven up there,’ they heard Baljit say. ‘There’s no police. Just marquees and some private security.’

  He was speaking English so the LP team assumed he wasn’t talking to his mother.

  When the answer came, they had been right.

  ‘Even private security can find things, report them to the police,’ Bhandal told his son.

  The officers heard a snort then Baljit again.

  ‘Come on, Dad,’ he said. ‘Private security? They’re not interested in anything apart from doing as little as possible, and to find it they’d have to be really looking or very, very lucky.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have listened to you and Gurmej.’ Bhandal's voice was edgy and angry. ‘Burying is much better than just hiding and hoping for the best.’

  Baljit response came rich with the confidence and certainty of spoilt youth.

  ‘You were going to burn the car!’ It was almost a taunt. ‘Then the police would have looked for the owner, much more suspicious than people running away from home. Yeah, they might have found the car now, but they’re months behind. The trail’s gone cold. They�
�ve got my fingerprints but no witnesses. Even if they find a body, so what? What’s it got to do with us?’

  The LP officers heard a door open and close then Bhandal saying: ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘Look, we had little time,’ Baljit said. ‘We did the best we could. It’ll be alright.’

  Bhandal started speaking Punjabi, explaining that Baljit had been to the ‘big house’, as he called it.

  ‘No police there,’ Bhandal said. ‘But I’m just worried it’s found.’

  Aisha’s mother was the next voice, sharp and spiteful and betraying no fear.

  ‘If it’s found, what has it to do with us?’ Parkash said. ‘If they drag us to the police station, we’ll make complaint of racial harassment. The solicitor, what’s her name?’

  ‘Jill Carver,’ Baljit said.

  ‘She’ll make complaint for us.’

  The sound of a door again, more distant, and then Mia.

  ‘Hi everyone,’ she shouted.

  The LP officers were missing nothing, even when Parkash whispered: ‘Change the subject.’

  The tape was running. Ed cautioned Elliott Prince and held up an open-topped box covered in clear plastic. Inside was a yellow-handled hammer.

  ‘I am showing Elliott Prince a yellow-handled hammer, witness reference JT4. Do you recognise this?’

  ‘No, should I?’

  ‘The blood you can see on the metal ball is Jack’s, the handle is forensically linked to you,’ Ed told him. ‘We can show you have had possession of it’

  Elliott Prince was still staring wide-eyed at the weapon.

  ‘That’s not possible,’ his voice hoarse, strung out. ‘I’ve never owned a hammer in my life. If it’s got my fingerprints or whatever, it’s a mistake or a set-up.’

  ‘So you’ve never owned a hammer?’ Ed said.

  ‘Never,’ the response as fast as a rifle recoil. ‘Why would I want a hammer?’

  ‘Protection.’ Ed leaned back. ‘Or to use it for what it was intended, you know, putting nails in a wall.’

  He had put the box behind him but when Elliott asked to see it again, Ed reached back, picked the box off the floor, and held it up.

  Elliott stared at it again while the seconds became a minute on the red timer of the tape machine.

  When he spoke, it was quietly. ‘I used one like it once, a few months back, to put up a picture.’

  ‘In your house?’ Ed asked him.

  Elliott shook his head, his eyes never leaving the hammer.

  ‘I put a picture up for her in her bedroom,’ he said. ‘I bought it for her, the picture, a pencil sketch of two ballerinas.’

  ‘Who?’

  Elliott finally moved his eyes from the weapon and put them on Ed.

  ‘Amber,’ he said softly, almost sadly. ‘She got the hammer from a toolbox in her downstairs loo. The box was always open.’

  ‘And when you finished putting the picture up?’ Ed asked him.

  ‘Went downstairs and Amber put the kettle on.’

  ‘And the hammer?’

  Elliott looked like a man emerging from a mist.

  ‘I put in on top of the toolbox.’

  Ian Robinson was bent down, hands on knees, looking into the dark undergrowth. The ground dropped away from them down towards the narrow, shallow river, its flow speeding as it rushed between the protruding rocks. Upstream, Ian could see a waterfall about 10 metres in height, the falling water dropping into a deep plunge pool, moss and foliage covering the nearby rocks and stones.

  They were about 30 metres from the gate. Progress was slow, their eyes having to continually re-adjust from the bright sunshine to the dappled shade of the deep green foliage. He didn’t have his police issue Public Order leather gauntlets, a loss that had left his hands and wrists a reddened mix of nettle stings and hawthorn scratches.

  Ian blinked, focussed, rubbed his eyes, and focussed again. He bent further forwards to pull a couple of stubborn, knotted branches apart.

  Standing up straight, he told his colleague to stay where was. He fumbled in his pocket for the mobile and rang Ed Whelan.

  ‘Perfect timing mate, I’ve just walked out of an interview,’ Ed said in answer.

  ‘I’m at Highmounde,’ Ian told him. ‘We’ve found a body.’

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  ‘Ed, where are you?’ Sam asked, speaking into the phone.

  ‘CID office upstairs.’

  ‘Meet me in the DCI’s office. He’s off today.’ She put the phone back in her pocket.

  Ed walked along the corridor, the bare walls harbouring decades of stories and secrets. More whispered meetings than in any office.

  Sam was sitting on the desk. ‘How did you get on with Prince?’

  ‘Before I update you on that, there’s something else. Ian Robinson found a... ’

  ‘Body!?’ she interrupted, jumping down. ‘Aisha?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ Ed said. ‘Looks male, although it’s difficult to tell. SOCO en route. They’ll need to cut back some of the bushes and undergrowth to get at it. Looks like it’s been carried over a gate and rolled down. Might have been thrown over the wall but there’s no lay-by at that point and they’d have needed a ladder. Probably too dodgy. Easier to pull into the lay-by next to the gate, get it over and roll it down.’

  ‘How far from the gate?’

  ‘Within the Catchem limits,’ Ed said.

  ‘Okay.’ Sam was forcing her mind to slow down. ‘Before we shoot up there, what about Prince?’

  ‘Says he used the hammer to put up a picture at Amber’s,’ Ed said. ‘According to him, it’s her hammer and I believe him.’

  Sam leaned against the desk as Ed carried on.

  ‘I believe him about the blood on his trainers, I believe him about the hammer, I believe him doctoring the photographs and I believe he believes Amber’s the killer.’

  Sam shuffled back so she was once more sitting on the desk.

  ‘Pretty convenient, all his excuses for the forensics.’

  ‘That’s why I believe him,’ Ed said. ‘It’s too well thought out.’

  ‘Are you still thinking it’s got something to do with Aisha?’

  ‘Can’t get it out of mind,’ Ed told her.

  Sam stood and walked towards the windows, dismissing the idea of sneaking a forbidden cigarette.

  ‘If it is Amber’s hammer, how did Aisha’s family get it?’

  Ed had been expecting that, the Achilles heel that left his nagging hunch a hobbling wreck.

  ‘That’s where my hypotheses falls down.’

  ‘I’ll get Bev to interview Amber,’ Sam said. ‘She took the statement from her for the rape so she knows her. You’ll need to give Bev a quick update about Prince’s interview. Then we’ll go and see what Ian’s found at Highmounde.’

  ‘Have you seen this hammer before, Amber?’ Bev asked. ‘For the benefit of the tape, I am now showing Amber Dalton a cardboard box with a plastic see-through lid, referred to as Witness Reference JT 4, containing a yellow-handled hammer.’

  Amber looked.

  ‘It’s similar to one I have in my toolbox at home. Not that I use it.’

  ‘We believe this hammer was used to kill Jack Goddard,’ Bev said.

  The ‘Oh my God’ seemed genuine, the apparent shock that flooded Amber’s eyes was harder to judge.

  ‘Mine’s at home,’ she said after a pause, ‘Go and check. The toolbox is in my downstairs toilet.’

  ‘I intend to,’ Bev told her.

  Sam phoned Ian Robinson from the car.

  ‘Ian, make sure someone’s got a camera. Photograph any onlookers.’

  They both knew what the stats had to say about offenders returning to the scene, albeit in this case the scene was more likely a deposition site.

  The line was faint and scratchy. Ed could just make out Ian’s voice on speakerphone, but not what he was saying.

  ‘Okay, me and Ed are on our way.’ She disconnected the call.

 
‘Ever had any success with that, the offender returning?’ Ed asked her.

  ‘Not yet. You?’

  ‘Not personally, but I’ve known it to happen.’

  Ed told Sam he would need to ring Brian Banks, to tell him before he heard it from the media and realised Ed had been playing him.

  ‘He’s useful at times so I’ll keep him sweet,’ Ed said. ‘You see his lordship to tell him what’s happening on his turf and I’ll ring Brian.’

  Ed turned into the driveway of Highmounde. In the distance they could see the marquees, the SOCO van and a high-top Ford Transit.

  Ed pulled up outside the stately home and Sam walked up the sweep of immaculate stone steps. A beanpole butler opened the huge oak doors and Sam stepped inside, her wide-eyed gaze taking in the Gone With The Wind staircase and galleried landing.

  She was shown into a heavily furnished study where beanpole asked her if she would please wait. James Farquarharson joined her within a minute, hand outstretched as he strode into the sunlit room.

  Sam took the hand but not the offer of a seat that came with it.

  ‘I’m here to tell you we have found a body in your field, near to the marquee.’

  ‘Good God,’ Farquarharson spluttered. ‘How long has it been there?’

  Sam could never quite predict the first thing people asked once they heard about a body. Farquarharson’s was another odd one.

  ‘No idea yet,’ Sam told him. ‘But we’ll obviously keep you abreast of all developments.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Thank you.’ Farquarharson was reaching for the right air and expression.

  ‘Will it, err, affect the Literary Festival?’ he asked, at least dusting a little embarrassment over his words. ‘I don’t wish to sound insensitive but the organisers have done a fantastic job and we have authors coming from around the country.’

  Amazing, Sam was thinking. We wouldn’t want something as inconvenient as a body to put the good and great off their bedtime reading, would we?

  ‘I’m sure we will be off-site by the time the festival starts,’ Sam said, giving Farquarharson what she hoped was an understanding smile.