“We need to see if this gun matches the one taken from Peterson’s. Priority DNA testing after ballistics, please,” Owen instructed. “We also need to do comparative DNA with the other two houses and with the Bostocks”
April had left the room on feeling her phone vibrate. It was Quinn. Humphrey’s car had been located a five minutes’ drive away and as they were close by, he requested they take a look.
Owen drove. The car for which they searched, a silver grey Mitsubishi Shogun, was parked partly on the grass verge. A police car was positioned across the road preventing access.
Owen showed his ID as the officer approached.
“It’s one way, sir. Leads to a fish farm of all things. The keys are in and there’s no sign of forced entry. There’s a framed photograph on the dashboard. You can see it clearly.”
Both slipped on overshoes and gloves for the second time before approaching. They took it in turns to look through the windscreen in an endeavour to keep the site forensically secure. It was April who spoke first. “That, if I’m not mistaken is the size of the picture missing from Peterson’s, but that’s not of the horse race, it’s the one we found in the box beneath Peterson’s body, the one with the faces removed.” She grabbed her mobile phone and took three photographs. Checking her screen she enlarged the image to get a clear view of the faces. “If I’m right, those are the same four men taken years later and in different positions but …”
Owen looked and nodded. “Indeed. Whoever is responsible is playing a bloody game.”
As they were leaving the CSI arrived. Owen approached the van. “There’s a framed photograph on the dash …” He did not finish his sentence.
The investigator smiled and quietly replied, “As soon as?”
“Indeed. Thank you.” He tapped the van roof. “Appreciate that!”
As they passed the cottage they saw the black van marked Private Ambulance parked next to the CSI’s vehicle.
“Let’s hope Caner can find some answers too.”
***
Karl had not been in long and he needed a shower. He checked his postbox on entering and collected the mail. Flicking through the letters, he placed each one on the small hall table; they all appeared to be bills. The last one did not have a stamp; the pink envelope was quite a contrast and was addressed with one word – Karl. He reached for the letter knife and slid the top of the envelope before retrieving the single sheet.
Dear Karl,
I do hope you don’t mind my communicating in this way but it’s difficult when Leonard is with us. After a good deal of thought I feel I must let you know a little about Leonard’s history, respectfully to put into perspective my response to the kind offer you proposed for Leonard’s birthday.
Many years ago, when Leonard was having difficulty developing and maintaining relationships, I decided to let him keep a puppy, a King Charles Spaniel. We had talked about his responsibility and although he would be protected from many of the general tasks associated with the care of a young dog, he knew that his kindness, gentleness and appropriate behaviour were essential if he were to keep the animal.
The first few weeks he was a changed person. He was happy to walk her, would play on The Stray, even interact with people who came up to his dog to make a fuss. I would often just sit and watch him and I believed with the help of the young dog that he had turned another page in his personal and emotional development. However, I started to notice a more sinister change. When he thought I wasn’t looking he would drag the dog by its lead or whip it if it didn’t immediately do as instructed. The final straw came when I heard the dog crying. I dashed into the lounge to find he had the dog in the corner and his hands were round its neck. He told me that she had tried to bite him but there was something in his eyes, an anger I had never seen before. I’d seen fear and distress on many occasions but there was a venom, a cold and disturbing expression. As you can imagine, the dog was returned and from that day he became his normal self. He never mentioned the dog ... but I think I’ve told you this before, I’m sorry.
I believe buying him an animal that he could handle would be unfair on the creature. I couldn’t trust him when I wasn’t there. You’ve seen him follow your rules when handling spiders and snakes but you’ve always been there as you were when you first met when walking your friend’s dog. The only suggestion I can offer is a fish, he wouldn’t handle that. I would be happy to buy a small fish tank if you wanted to buy him a fish. I would leave that to your expertise.
You might like to send me a text message, you have my number. I must say, Karl, that since we met all those months ago, you’ve given me a good deal of hope, but more importantly I appreciate the time we’ve had to talk and meeting the people there when he is with you, I feel human again for the first time for many, many years. I feel now that I have a true shoulder to cry on, someone to share my fears and I sincerely thank you for giving me the time and space to be me … Bless you!
Karl reread the letter and the last paragraph three times. He put the sheet down. He had recognised she was a strong woman from the time they had chatted together but suddenly he now realised that even though she had an iron façade, there was a growing vulnerability and a developing weakness. Although she was not old by any means and she was an attractive woman, she was trapped. She was in many ways a caged animal, her freedom since giving birth to Leonard had been curtailed. She loved the boy, she always had and always would but her life was leaching away. He had allowed her some respite, to see the light. He also thought about Leonard. Karl had known some cruel people in his time, not only those who traded on a person’s emotional weakness but those who relished physical harm to both animal and humans alike. He collected his phone and prepared the text.
***
“It’s like ten green bottles. Now there’s only one, Bostock.” Owen checked the notes. “British army five years. Served in Belize, Cyprus and Northern Ireland. Can we get a picture of him from that time on social media? There must be people out there who knew him and might have kept in contact. If they have they might know his whereabouts.”
Grimshaw came into the room waving a flyer. Owen turned. “What did you find in Manchester?”
“According to the guy, Peterson may well have been a partner of Hurst who was then Humphrey. He saw the picture we have of Peterson taken in 1986 and he immediately identified him. There was no doubt. I just need to get that confirmed. Peterson only started to work for Bostock over the last twenty-five years, so that’s a possibility. Two are linked, so what’s the connection? We have the hunting picture but the faces are missing. Can we assume it’s the same four? Could it be to do with animal rights? We know Belinda Bostock identified the person who called at the farm after the car was taken. He was looking for Peterson and was involved in the anti-hunt protests and we know there can be some right nutters amongst them, mind you, the same goes for those on the hunt. They bring some right bastards as protection.”
Owen moved across to look at the image that was once the faceless four but now, after locating the photograph in the car, they could see that there was a match. He also checked the image of the man identified from the hunt. The partial facial covering made him doubt the accuracy.
Shakti opened the door. “Two things. Forensics say there are two photographs in the frame, the one we have there,” she pointed to the photograph Owen had been looking at, “and beneath that was the one from Ripon races. We know that was once on Peterson’s wall. Now whether they have just been changed around and they were both there originally is only a guess but they both hold his DNA. More importantly, so do items found in the boot of the car of, shall we say, ‘H’ to keep ourselves from repeating Hurst and Humphrey now we know they’re one and the same; overalls, wellingtons and a head torch. There’s a match too to the prints lifted from the field after the rustling incident at Ramsgill. All the evidence suggests he was involved.”
“Was there a knife or a chain butcher’s glove?” Owen asked.
“No, only rubber gloves. Here’s the list and the images taken as they were found and removed.”
Owen took the list and read it.
Chapter Seventeen
The aircraft shuddered as it momentarily penetrated the white cumulous cloud. Cyril rubbed his eyes. The eight hour flight had been comfortable but he could not settle to watch a film nor read. His mind kept going over the case details with which Owen had furnished him. Glancing out of the window he looked down on Stockport and he mentally arranged the roads and railways into his mind’s map. Within minutes he felt the undercarriage drop and lock bringing a shudder through the airframe. Julie instinctively reached out and took his hand. She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
“That was so special, Cyril. I’d heard a great deal about Barbados but never did I think I’d fall in love with the place like I did. Thank you.”
Cyril felt guilty. He had enjoyed it but he also thought ten days would have been sufficient. As one of his old colleagues used to say after a shift of nights – You can have too much of a good thing!
If he found the flight tedious, the wait around the carousel seemed eternal. Everyone’s luggage arrived quickly but there was no sign of theirs. He checked his watch, shook his wrist and looked again. A nicotine patch had helped him get through the flight but he was desperate for a vape. He thought of having a crafty couple of intakes behind a column but then thought better of it.
“Trying to speed up time, Cyril?” Julie chuckled. “They’ll come. I’ve contacted the taxi and he’s ready to meet us so you’ll soon be back righting wrongs.”
Ninety minutes later they stood in front of their home in Robert Street, luggage at their feet. Cyril found the key and opened the door. “I should really carry you over the threshold Mrs Bennett but …” He quickly bent at the knees, grabbed Julie and swept her off her feet before whisking her into the hallway. They kissed and Cyril felt a warm glow. “It’s been special, you’ve been special and I’m just …” He did not finish as Julie kissed him again.
They heard a cough outside as if someone was trying to attract their attention, then a dog barked and Cyril felt the animal pass through his ankles. He knew just what it was and who was at the door.
“Congratulations to you both. We thought we’d just pop over and bring these just in case you hadn’t made provision.” The Germanic tone immediately informed Cyril it was Mrs Pfeiffer from across the road. The eyes and ears of the street. “We’ve been keeping our eyes open Mr Bennett, and now of course Mrs Bennett, and I note your big friend has been checking too. Kept seeing the occasional police car pop down." She moved inside the door and put down a small cardboard box. “Some milk, bread and six eggs. Just a thought.” She smiled. “We’ll not keep you, I’m sure you have much to do. Come on Hercule, leave Mr Bennett be.”
“Thank you very much for the groceries, that’s so kind,” Julie remarked and they both bent and rubbed the Dachshund’s ears, their actions bringing frantic movement to its tail and the whole of its back end.
“He’ll stand that all day. Come on. This lovely couple have things to do.” The dog reluctantly left.
“You bring the cases and I’ll take these gifts in and get the kettle on. Tea never seems to taste the same when I’m away and I’ve longed for a good brew since boarding that aircraft.”
When Julie came into the lounge Cyril was holding the wrapped painting. She put his cup and saucer on the coffee table. “To my wonderful husband. You can open it.”
Cyril untied the ribbon before slowly removing the heart patterned paper. As the final piece fell, he held it out at arm’s length. Julie had moved to the side to see his face as he viewed it for the first time; she was not disappointed.
“It’s a Whone. Herbert Bannister Whone.” He turned to Julie. “How did you get this? It’s perfect. You know he was a viol …” He did not finish his sentence. Julie put her finger to his lips. “You like it I take it?”
“It’s just perfect. Everything about my life is in that picture. You knew that didn’t you?”
Julie smiled.
“I love you, Julie Pritchett.” He kissed her.
“Bennett. Julie Bennett. Your big friend got it for me at auction. I was worried at one point you might have been bidding against each other. You on the phone and Owen there. Luckily for me, you weren’t.”
***
It had to be said that Cyril felt decidedly jet lagged as he walked up Otley Road the following morning. He stopped to admire the needle-sharp spire of Trinity Methodist Church rising above the trees’ foliage. Somehow it seemed as if he had never been away other than for his lethargy and feeling a little chilly. He called into the usual shop to replenish his menthol vaping fluid, some atomisers and a newspaper. Even though the sun was high bringing early morning warmth, after Barbados temperatures he felt as though he needed his waxed jacket.
After a momentous change in his circumstances that he had not undergone without a good deal of thought, he realised that life went on. He stopped and looked at Harrogate Police Station – modern, efficient and in some ways a little soulless when you considered the architecture of the previous police building. Nothing was different. The squashed beer can was still lodged in the hedge where it had been when he had left a fortnight ago. Whether it was his jet lagged state or just his present mental euphoria, he pondered on the thought of death. If he had died a fortnight ago there would have been a funeral and not the wedding but life would go on. Just as it did when Liz Graydon was killed, life and the work of the police here in Harrogate continued. He suddenly felt human, almost insignificant, possibly mortal.
Quickly mounting the steps, he entered. The desk sergeant immediately sprang to his feet as did the others working behind the glass. Their welcome was as warm as the Bajan sun he had left behind twenty-four hours ago.
His office was no different. The Welcome Back banner across the door brought a smile. On entering he placed his jacket on the hanger and took a brief look around, his eyes travelling the full one hundred and eighty degrees. It’s good to be back, he whispered. It was then that he noticed the wrapped parcel on his desk. He looked outside. The desks were unusually empty for that time of day. Had he missed something? Was there an early briefing? His attention was again drawn to the parcel. He read the attached label.
To Julie and Cyril on your wedding – well to be accurate – after your
wedding.
Proud to have played a small part.
Owen and Hannah
xx
(Hannah added those!)
Cyril laughed out loud. In church he offered to marry me if Julie didn’t turn up and now, he’s frightened of a kiss, he thought as he unwrapped the gift. The door opened as he held the statue at arm’s length and loud cheering broke the moment of magic in its own special way.
“Welcome back, sir!” the chorus of voices announced, with Owen’s voice booming over the many.
“Hope you like it. Strangely, it’s called Liberty but I suppose that will depend on how you perceive marriage.” Owen moved across and shook his hand before the rest of the team filed in. Within five minutes they were gone leaving April and Owen. It was business as usual and Cyril needed that.
“It’s all there,” Owen presented. “This is a strange one with threads running to and fro with various items linking one death with another. No particular pattern other than the four people now seen in two separate photographs. The more we investigate the more it seems to be linked to animal rights, certainly there’s a strong link to animals from the very start. Awaiting Forensics from the latest murder case.”
April spoke. “This guy has been using two names, Hurst and Humphrey, but you’ll be reading that in the files. There’s been a confirmed link between him and the second victim – they worked together and committed crimes together in the past. Also there’s forensic evidence linking him to the slaughter and butchering of thirteen sheep near Ramsgill and as you know rustling’s been on the increase across many counties.”
“Bit of a jack the lad. Any links with the first case to that?”
“Their ages are quite disparate.” Cyril turned to look at Owen, surprised at his vocabulary. “Lyons, George Lyons was the oldest of the three.”
“So, what ages do we have?” Cyril started to open the files. He knew Owen preferred screen to paper but continued. “Lyons, eighty-three, Peterson, seventy-seven and ‘H’, as he’s been labelled to save confusion was seventy-three.”
“Disparate?” Cyril said. “Only ten years, Owen. Not much in a lifetime.”
“Tell that to a twenty-year-old who has to teach a ten-year-old sibling … sir.”
“Point taken, Owen.”
“The fourth, and we haven’t located his whereabouts as yet, is the youngster of the gang of four, a Trevor Bostock. He’s only sixty-six. Peterson worked for Bostock’s brother for twenty-five plus years as well as being involved before that with ‘H’. Peterson was also possibly linked to Lyons and so too maybe ‘H’. It’s a web of intrigue. However, there’s another face been added to the equation and possibly the face of the killer. We know that it’s not Trevor Bostock as he’s in the two photographs we hold.”
“Facial recognition?” Cyril asked, knowing he was treading on thin ice.
***
The bell on the shop door rang just as Joanne Taylor had sat down to lunch. Karl had suggested she close for thirty minutes stating that even prisoners and her pets got a lunch break. It brought a smile but now it made her realise that he was right. Taking a bowl from the cupboard she slipped it over the plate in the hope that it would at least stay warm.
There was a man in the shop, his back towards her as he inspected the gerbils in the gerbilarium. She knew him. He turned and smiled.
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