by David Hodges
The DCI treated her to a wary frown, but then, after a slight hesitation, gave another smile and held out his hands in an inviting gesture. ‘If I can, yes.’
There was a gleam of anticipation in the sharp, blue eyes studying him from behind the dark rimmed glasses.
‘Do you suspect that the murder of Jennifer Malone and PC Taylor, plus the arson at the flats in Bridgwater are the work of the same man?’
He shook his head. ‘I cannot comment on what lines of inquiry we are following at present.’
‘Do you think there is a link between these crimes and the Operation Firetrap murders two years ago?’
‘I cannot answer that either.’
She made a face. ‘I’ll take that as a “yes” then,’ she said. ‘But it is a fact, is it not, that you are looking for Larry Wadman, the former owner of Wadman’s Undertakers, in connection with these crimes?’
‘We are currently following up various lines of inquiry.’
But Naomi had no intention of giving up. ‘A ruthless killer who has managed to evade the police for at least two years?’
‘I can confirm we have no knowledge of Mr Wadman’s present whereabouts, yes.’
‘But he is still wanted?’
‘It is possible he could help us with our inquiries, yes.’
‘And if he had been caught originally, these murders could have been prevented, could they not?’
‘No comment.’
‘And is it not the case that your Detective Sergeant Kate Hamblin is this killer’s main target and that the other murders were actually committed as part of a sick revenge game he is playing?’
Ansell’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t answer the question, and, pushing his chair back, snapped to his feet, indicating that the interview was at an end. ‘I suggest we stop there,’ he said.
Naomi drew on her cigarette, savouring the moment before hitting him with the question she had saved until last. ‘OK, but just one more thing,’ she said, meeting his hard stare with one of her own. ‘Can you explain how a wanted killer you haven’t been able to find for two years was able to walk unchecked into Highbridge police station and actually bug your own incident-room?’
The effect of the question on Ansell was almost electrical and she had the satisfaction of seeing his thin frame tense and his Adam’s apple jerk in a sudden telltale spasm as he swallowed his shock.
‘Where did you get that information?’ he rasped, recovering almost immediately.
Naomi snorted. ‘Do me a favour. You know I will never tell you that.’
The DCI’s face was so pale now that his dark eyes seemed to stand out in contrast like black marbles. ‘Maybe not,’ he said, resting the knuckles of both hands on the table and leaning across towards her, ‘but print any of it and you could find yourself facing charges of impeding a criminal investigation as well as breaching the Contempt of Court Act.’
She laughed out loud. ‘Oh p-lease,’ she mocked, ‘that’s balls and you know it. I’m impeding nothing by printing the facts and the Contempt Act doesn’t apply because you haven’t arrested anyone yet.’
‘Is that so?’ he breathed. ‘Well, Miss, let me tell you something. Identifying a possible suspect in advance of his arrest and charge could certainly impede our investigations and also prejudice a subsequent trial, so think on it – I’m sure your editor will.’
‘All that I’ve said is right then, is it?’ Naomi sneered. ‘I’m sure my readers will be very interested to learn how a wanted man has not only been able to evade arrest for two years, but also to return to the scene of his crime for a repeat performance.’
She had the satisfaction of seeing just a hint of alarm in Ansell’s dark eyes. ‘Believe me, Miss Betjeman,’ he warned, ‘I shall find out who gave you all this information and, if I discover money changed hands, you will be on the sheet for bribing a police officer, so think about that as well.’
‘That sounds like a threat.’
Ansell turned for the door, closely followed by Norton. ‘No, Miss Betjeman,’ he corrected, ‘it’s a promise. Now, I have a briefing to attend to – I’ll get someone to show you out.’
Naomi glared at him. ‘You do that, Chief Inspector, but,’ and she dropped a couple of business cards on to the table, ‘in case you decide to come clean before we go to press, I’ll leave you my home address and telephone number. Feel free to contact me any time.’
Ansell ignored the offer, turning his back on her and stalking from the room, without a backward glance, and it was left to Norton to pick up the cards with a mocking smile as he followed him out.
‘Arsehole!’ Naomi snarled after them, savagely stubbing out her cigarette on the table top again. ‘You don’t know what’s about to hit you.’
That was true, but then neither did Naomi.
chapter 20
NAOMI BETJEMAN STALKED out of Highbridge police station tight-faced and angry. She didn’t take kindly to being threatened – it made her all the more determined to hit the police where it hurt – and that lizard, Ansell, had got right under her skin. Who the hell did he think he was, treating her like some common villain?
Nevertheless, his threats had made her very uneasy. She knew his type only too well. Cold, calculating and utterly ruthless, he would have no hesitation in making good his threat to stick a bribery charge on her if he could prove she had paid for her inside information.
OK, so as yet he had nothing to go on, save his own suspicions, which were valueless without some hard facts to back them up. But she knew he would leave no stone unturned to uncover the leak on his team and, if he succeeded and managed to get a cough from Sharp, it could not only mean the end of her journalistic career, but, in the present political climate where media phone hacking had given rise to a vicious witch-hunt, a possible prison sentence too. It was vital that Sharp kept his mouth shut or they were both in the cart, but could the insipid little DS be relied upon to hold his nerve if Ansell got his hooks into him? She had her doubts about that. He needed to be warned – and PDQ.
Pulling over into a lay-by, she snatched her mobile from the front passenger seat. But, even as she started to dial the number of his flat, she was interrupted by an incoming call.
‘You frigging bitch,’ Sharp snarled. ‘Where’s my other four hundred?’
‘Just woken up, have you?’ Naomi commented tartly. ‘I was just about to ring you.’
‘We had a deal,’ he retorted. ‘I want the rest of the money you nicked.’
She emitted a hard laugh. ‘You’ve got a lot more to worry about than that, Sharp,’ she cut in. ‘Ansell’s on the warpath and he’s out for blood over his leaking ship.’
There was silence for a moment and when the DS spoke again, it was in a much more mollified tone. ‘You didn’t have a go at him over what I told you?’ he breathed.
Naomi was tempted to tell him about the attack on her in the derelict to explain how she had ended up talking to Ansell, but couldn’t be bothered to go through it all again. Instead, she said, ‘What’s the point in paying for information if you don’t use it?’
His voice erupted down the phone in a choking wail. ‘You stupid cow, he’ll crucify me.’
‘Only if he finds out you are the leak. So stay calm and keep shtum.’
‘Easy for you to say that; you don’t know what a nasty bastard he can be.’
She made a grimace. ‘Oh, I think I have some idea.’
The malice was back in his tone now. ‘If I go down, you go down with me, remember that.’
She bit back the angry retort that flew to her tongue. She couldn’t afford to wind him up any more than he was wound up already and, after her run in with Ansell, she was in no mood for the hassle anyway.
‘No need for that,’ she said with exaggerated patience. ‘But we should meet to discuss things, so we’re singing from the same hymn sheet.’
‘OK, when?’
‘Not for a couple of hours anyway. I’m going home for a bath and a bite to eat
first, then I’ve got some work to do at the Clarion’s offices in Bridgwater. I’ll be in the basement archives below the main offices at eight-ish.’
‘The Clarion Building?’ he exclaimed. ‘Are you mad? Ansell is already on your case and you’re proposing I simply walk into your newspaper’s offices for a chat, in full view of everyone? Why don’t I just publish my confession on the Clarion’s front page and have done with it?’
‘Don’t be so stupid – you’re overreacting,’ she snapped. ‘No one will see you. All the editorial staff will have gone home by six and, as we outsource the printing of the paper, no one will be working overnight on the premises – that is, except me, and I have my own key to archives.’
‘I don’t care. There’s no way I’m risking it.’
She tried another tack, appealing directly to his avaricious nature, ‘Suit yourself, but then you can say goodbye to the rest of your money.’
Her tactic worked. There was a moment’s hesitation before he capitulated with another snarl. ‘You’d better bring the full four hundred,’ he warned.
She gave a smile that, if he had been present, would have told him she had no intention of bringing anything. ‘See you at around eight then,’ she replied. ‘I’ll leave the back door ajar for you.’
Willoughby stared at the pale dismembered corpse lying on the jetty under the spot-lit SOCO tent and swallowed hard. ‘Dreadful,’ he whispered, ‘just dreadful.’
Ansell threw him a contemptuous glance. ‘I’d put it a lot stronger than that,’ he grated and fixed his gaze on the pathologist who was still bending over the dead man. ‘Been in the water long, Doctor?’ he queried.
Doctor Lydia Summers stood up and pursed her lips in thought. ‘Difficult to say accurately. After death, in the first stages of decomposition, a body will start to lose its heat until it reaches the ambient temperature of its environment. The rate at which that happens can be influenced by a variety of factors. In this case, the temperature of the water, lack of clothing, and the body mass and condition of the deceased will have had a significant impact on that rate and therefore on any estimate re time of death—’
‘With respect, I’m not looking for a lecture on pathology, Doctor,’ Ansell interjected sharply. ‘I just want an estimate of time of death, if that’s at all possible.’
His censure was greeted with an indulgent smile. ‘I would say about seventy-two hours, maybe less,’ she said, ‘but that’s very approximate. Looks like the local carnivores have had a feast too. Face is virtually gone and most of his abdomen.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘Oh yes, and his neck has been broken – just like Jennifer Malone and your young policeman.’
‘Same killer then?’ Willoughby put in.
Summers shrugged. ‘Looks like it. And this time you’re going to find identification pretty difficult.’
Ansell nodded. ‘It’s going to be down to fingerprints and dental records by the look of it.’
‘You could try facial reconstruction techniques, if necessary.’
‘Whatever we do, it’s going to take time to get anywhere, Doctor,’ Willoughby pointed out, ‘and, with this madman roaming about, time is not on our side.’
She shrugged. ‘Not my problem, Mr Willoughby.’
Ansell nodded. ‘Thanks, Doctor. See you at the PM.’
Turning on his heel, he pushed the tent flap aside and stepped out into the early evening moonlight, Willoughby following at his heels like an overweight sheepdog.
He spied Kate Hamblin and DI Roscoe standing by the ramp to the hide as he was pulling off the blue plastic booties he had been wearing to protect the crime scene. ‘Seems you were right, Kate,’ he said, leaving Willoughby struggling to remove his own booties and walking over to her. ‘Pity no one believed you.’ And he directed a keen critical glance at Roscoe.
Kate flushed with embarrassment in the gloom. ‘I must admit it did sound a bit far-fetched at the time, Guv,’ she said, tactfully empathizing with the DI. ‘Question is, why was he killed?’
Ansell shrugged. ‘As you said before, probably for his car.’
Kate shook her head quickly. ‘I’m still quite sure the killer took the car after torching the Volvo, but I can’t see that he came all the way out here just for that purpose. It doesn’t make sense. I think there’s more to it than just the car.’
‘Such as?’
‘Maybe he knew the dead man and had to get rid of him – an accomplice who knew too much perhaps – or he was sleeping rough somewhere on the reserve and accidentally came face to face with him.’
Ansell was plainly sceptical. ‘I don’t buy either of those two theories,’ he commented.
Willoughby materialized beside Ansell. ‘What was it Sherlock Holmes used to say?’ he put in. ‘Something about “when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth”.’
For a second none of them spoke, all plainly stunned by his off the wall comment. Sensing their reaction, Willoughby grunted and promptly wandered over to where Doctor Norton was standing on his own by some trees, apparently trying to come to terms with the horror of what he had just seen, the butt of his cigarette glowing fiercely in the shadows as he sucked the poisonous smoke into his lungs.
‘Well, Sherlock Holmes aside,’ Ansell resumed drily, ‘a more thorough search of the reserve would certainly not be a bad idea. We should also check missing person reports – see if someone hasn’t come home when they should’ve done. But the real key to our man’s ID has to be his car. Once we have the make and number, we may be able to short-circuit the ID process through an RO check.’
‘The flask Hamblin found could be another way of achieving the same end if the prints match?’ Roscoe put in. ‘Maybe the man was a twitcher, as Hamblin first thought. The flask is not only distinctive, but carries some initials. Someone in the bird-watching community might recognize it or know whose initials they could be.’
‘Pity we didn’t follow up on the flask originally,’ Ansell said, his tone dripping acid. ‘But I’ll leave you to do that now, shall I, Ted? You can also get someone on to missing persons while we’re waiting for fingerprint matching and dental records to be checked. Oh, and get hold of some plods to give this place a more thorough going-over too, will you?’ He gave a humourless smile. ‘Think you can manage all that?’
Roscoe didn’t answer, which was probably just as well under the circumstances, for, had it not been dark, his unspoken thoughts would have been clearly reflected in the baleful look he directed towards his boss. At least the gloom concealed the full sourness of his expression, however, and that was not all it concealed either.
In the shadows of the wood bordering the boardwalk, Twister watched the proceedings through narrowed eyes. Time for another rethink, he mused. Things were beginning to unravel around him. He hadn’t expected the corpse to be discovered so early and once police forensics got their hands on it, identification was inevitable in the end. That wouldn’t be immediate, but time was certainly running out for him.
Yeah, then there was that reporter cow. He wasn’t bothered about Old Bill knowing he was behind the killings – that was an inevitable consequence of his little game, but he couldn’t risk her coming up with something that would give the inquiry team even the slightest edge in tracking him down – at least not before he had concluded his business with Kate Hamblin anyway. A little more tidying up was required and his fingers were already itching.
chapter 21
THE AIR WAS cold, but fresh when Naomi left her flat in Bridgwater and drove the short distance to the offices of the Bridgwater Clarion, unaware that she had been followed home and that the same vehicle was on her tail again. A hot bath and an Indian take-away, delivered to her door, had set her up for the night’s work and she felt a tingle of excitement as she headed through the lamp-lit streets.
After finally agreeing on the release of her story over the phone with her editor, she could hardly wait for the morning edition of the new
spaper to hit the shops and news-stands, although she knew it would not make her any friends in the police. Filing her additional copy with Tom Caxton, the paper’s editor, detailing the assault on her and her subsequent interview with Ansell, she hadn’t been surprised to learn that the DCI had already been on to him with carefully veiled threats. It hadn’t done her any harm, however; just the opposite – Tom was now even more anxious for her to provide a follow-up for the next edition.
To research the background for this, she could have accessed the digital records in the newspaper’s archives through her own laptop at home, but had decided to do her research at work where there were no distractions and there was also access to other non-digital information that could prove useful. Besides which, it was an ideal place for her to meet Sharp, away from prying eyes.
The place was in darkness, just as she had expected. Flicking a switch inside the door, she put the lock on the snib and waited until the strip-lights sprang into life. She was standing on a platform separating two halves of an iron staircase, the longest section ascending to a fire door on a landing directly above her head and also giving access to the editorial offices where she worked. The other half plunged into a vaulted basement which held the newspaper’s archives.
Half a dozen individual workstations stood in a line at the foot of the staircase, each with its own computer and printer, like some corporate library, and a row of at least twenty steel tambour filing units, containing horizontally accommodated paper records behind lockable steel shutters and separated by deep shadowy aisles, marched along the far wall from one end of the room to the other.
Two of the three rows of high-level strip-lights were still flickering annoyingly when she got to the bottom of the staircase and she tutted her irritation as she dumped her handbag on the floor beside the nearest workstation and sat down. Outside, a two-stroke motor cycle roared past with a sound like an enraged hornet, but otherwise the night was ominously still and for no real reason she shivered and glanced around her, half-expecting to find someone standing there.
