by Cara Hunter
‘Only then Erica mentioned it to me,’ says Everett. She holds out her mobile. It’s a picture of a van, and even though the logo on the side isn’t a shell, I can see why you might remember it that way, especially if you only got a glimpse. It’s a ram’s head with a huge curling horn. In profile. And below it a five-bar gate surrounded by daffodils that looks like something out of Enid Blyton.
Ramsgate Renovations. The same company Ashley Brotherton works for.
‘I emailed it to the witness,’ says Somer, ‘and she’s fairly sure this is what she saw. Not a hundred per cent, but pretty certain.’
‘And the only Ramsgate van that could have been on the Marston Ferry Road that morning is the one Ashley Brotherton drives,’ Everett reminds me. ‘All the rest are accounted for.’
‘But even if it was his vehicle,’ says Somer, ‘it can’t have been him. Fifty different people put him at the Headington crematorium that morning.’
‘So either he’s worked out how to be in two places at the same time or he let someone else borrow that van.’
‘It’s the most obvious explanation,’ says Ev. ‘Though he told me point-blank that no one else could have been driving it that day.’
‘Then it’s someone he cares about – someone he’s prepared to lie for. A relative? A mate? A mate who could be that mystery boyfriend of Sasha’s we still haven’t ID’d? Maybe that’s the connection between those two girls.’
‘It wouldn’t even need to be a boyfriend,’ says Somer. ‘It could just be someone she met once or twice – someone she thought it was safe to get into a vehicle with.’
‘Or he could have just attacked her from behind and dragged her off the street,’ says Ev grimly. ‘Like he did to Faith. He didn’t have to actually know either of them. They could simply have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
But I’m not so sure.
‘Sasha, yes, absolutely. That had to be random – there’s no way anyone could have known she’d be in that precise spot that night. But Faith was different: I think that was premeditated. I think the person who assaulted her planned it very carefully, and that may well have included making damn sure he wasn’t in his own vehicle when he did it.’
Everett nods. ‘If he wanted to cover his tracks – why not.’
‘Which leaves us with two possibilities,’ says Somer. ‘Either Brotherton knows exactly who borrowed his van that day but is protecting him or he doesn’t know anything about it and never did. He was at the funeral for most of the day so it’s not impossible.’
The kettle has boiled but I’m not interested in tea. ‘OK, let’s get him in. The witness sighting is more than enough to justify that.’
‘Though we need to remember Brotherton has no criminal record,’ adds Ev, flushing slightly. ‘Not even speeding. As far as I can tell he just looks after his grandad and does his job –’
‘So much the better. He has more to lose.’
* * *
The search for Sasha Blake resumed at first light. It’s been a gruelling and thankless few hours since then, with nothing to show for it. Sergeant Barnetson is now directing the group working along the river; there are two more teams covering the fields to the north. At least they don’t have the press breathing down their necks any more. Someone from the Oxford Mail tried to ambush him for a comment about the Roadside Rapist when he arrived, but Barnetson’s not stupid. He’s not going to get mugged into saying something that ends up on the evening news.
His mobile throbs against his thigh and crackles into life. He tugs his glove off and fishes the phone out from under his waterproofs.
‘Barnetson? It’s Gislingham – just wanted to check in. See if you’ve got anything.’
‘All I’ve “got” is wet feet and a cold arse. But thanks for asking.’
‘How about the press?’
‘Couple of hacks in the car park, one or two camera guys, but we’re keeping them behind the tape. And right now, I can’t see many of ’em volunteering to get up to their balls in mud. The weather’s on our side on that, if nothing else. Though you know as well as I do how quickly that could change.’
He doesn’t need to spell it out: a search site thronged with hacks will mean only one thing.
* * *
Adam Fawley
5 April 2018
11.48
We offer him tea, but he refuses.
‘Grandad says you’d get forensics off it – prints and that. He says you have to be careful.’
‘We have to be careful too,’ I say, taking my seat opposite him. ‘And one of the things we’re particularly careful about is checking our facts.’
He looks confused. ‘I’m not with you.’
I open my file. He glances at it, and then back at me. Something flickers across his eyes.
‘You told my colleague DC Everett that you were at your grandmother’s funeral on the morning of April 1st.’
‘Yeah – like I said –’
‘You also said no one else could have had access to your van when you were in Headington, at the service.’
He frowns. ‘Yeah, so?’
I glance up at him. ‘Which leaves me with a puzzle. You see, a witness has now come forward to say she saw your van on the Marston Ferry Road that morning. Perhaps you can help me with that?’
Brotherton opens his mouth then closes it again. ‘Do I need a lawyer or what?’
‘You can have one, if you wish,’ I reply. ‘If you think you need one.’
I stare at him; he stares at me. He blinks first.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I reckon that’d be a good idea.’
* * *
Interview with Ashley Brotherton, conducted at St Aldate’s Police Station, Oxford
5 April 2018, 12.42 p.m.
In attendance, DI A. Fawley, DC E. Somer, J. Hoskins (solicitor)
AF: So, Mr Brotherton, as I was saying before your lawyer arrived, you told DC Everett that no one else could possibly have been driving your van on the morning of April 1st, and yet it was spotted by a member of the public on the Marston Ferry Road. Perhaps you could explain that for us?
AB: They must’ve got it wrong.
AF: You’re saying the witness was mistaken?
AB: Must be.
AF: It had to be your van.
AB: Ramsgate have loads of vans. Could have been any of ’em.
ES: According to Ramsgate they’re all accounted for. They were all signed in at the Bicester site by eight that morning.
AB: Well, I’ve been thinking and I reckon Martyn was on holiday. It could have been him.
ES: Martyn?
AB: Martyn Ramsgate.
ES: Your boss’s son?
AB: Yeah.
ES: We’ll double-check, but as far as Pauline Ramsgate is concerned all the vans were on-site.
AB: Yeah, well she’s going to lie for her own kid, ain’t she.
AF: Who would you lie for, Mr Brotherton?
AB: What the fuck does that mean?
ES: You’ve never lent your van to anyone?
AB: Nope.
AF: No one else has access to the keys?
AB: No. Like I said the first time – to that other bint.
AF: All right, Mr Brotherton. We’ll leave it there for the moment. The officer will show you to a waiting room where you can be a bit more comfortable.
* * *
Adam Fawley
5 April 2018
12.58
The uniformed PC ushers Brotherton and his solicitor out, and when the door closes behind them, Somer turns to me. ‘What do you think?’
‘What do I think? I think he’s lying through his teeth.’
Somer nods. ‘I know – I agree. I just can’t work out why. He has a rock-solid alibi for both attacks, and he knows it. We can’t touch him for either of them, so why take such a huge risk to protect someone else?’
We sit there for a moment in silence. There are muffled sounds of voices from the interview room next do
or. Whoever’s in there, things are obviously getting heated.
‘Perhaps the witness was wrong about the van,’ says Somer at last. ‘She did say she couldn’t be completely sure about that logo.’
And eye-witness accounts are notoriously unreliable. We all know that.
‘OK, let’s go through the motions of confirming where Martyn Ramsgate was that morning. I’d bet my mortgage he has nothing to do with it, but we still need to check.’
She nods and makes a note.
‘And start asking around – see if any of Brotherton’s friends has any sort of record. And get Ramsgate’s permission for a full forensic search of that van.’
* * *
When Ev pops out for a sandwich the old man is sitting in reception, hunched on a hard plastic chair, in the cold draught from the front door.
‘Mr Brotherton?’ she says. ‘It’s Verity Everett, do you remember me?’
He looks up at her tetchily. ‘Of course I remember you. I’m not bloody senile.’
He has a newspaper open on his lap, and Everett can see that his hands are trembling slightly.
‘You must have been here for hours. Is there anything we can get you? Tea?’
He frowns. ‘I’ve had three cups already. How much longer is Ash going to be?’
‘I’m not sure. I wasn’t in on the interview.’
He looks at his watch. It’s an old-fashioned one with a snakeskin strap and a white face yellowed with age. ‘I’ve got an appointment at the JR in half an hour and we’re already cutting it fine. Ash said he’d run me.’
‘Oh,’ says Everett. ‘I didn’t realize. Let me check.’
She goes over to the phone on the front desk and calls Somer, but when she comes back her face is rueful. ‘I’m afraid your grandson is still being interviewed. And his van is being taken in for forensic testing.’
The old man frowns. ‘So how am I going to get to the hospital? It’ll take me half an hour just to get to the bloody bus stop.’
But this, at least, is something she can fix.
‘Give me a minute and I’ll see if we can sort you out a lift.’
* * *
Interview with Ashley Brotherton, conducted at St Aldate’s Police Station, Oxford
5 April 2018, 1.50 p.m.
In attendance, DI A. Fawley, DC E. Somer, J. Hoskins (solicitor)
AF: Mr Brotherton, we’ve now spoken to Ramsgate again and they’ve confirmed all their vans were definitely at Bicester on the morning of April 1st. Martyn Ramsgate was on holiday, but that was the week before, and both he and his van were logged in at the hotel site by 8.00 a.m. that day. So I’m going to ask you again – who else could have had access to your van?
AB: No comment.
[to his lawyer]
I can say that, right?
AF: There’s a big difference between being able to say it, and it being a good idea.
JH: Inspector –
AF: I don’t understand your reluctance, I really don’t. We know you were at your grandmother’s funeral that morning, and we have CCTV footage of you at the John Radcliffe at the time Sasha Blake went missing. Help me out here, can’t you, because I really don’t get it.
AB: Yeah, well that’s my business, ain’t it.
AF: Well, if that’s how you want to play it, it’s your call. But you should be aware that we’ve asked Ramsgate Renovations for permission to search the van.
AB: You can’t do that – it’s my bloody van!
ES: I’m afraid we can, Mr Brotherton. They’re the registered owner of the vehicle, not you.
AB: But I’ve got private stuff in there –
ES: That makes no difference. Sorry.
AF: I would also like to repeat our previous request for fingerprints and a DNA sample. As we said before, this is entirely voluntary, to allow us to eliminate you from our enquiries. Feel free to discuss it with Mr Hoskins.
AB: [confers with lawyer]
OK, yeah.
[pause]
But only if you back off on the other thing, OK? I’ll give you the prints and stuff but only if you drop the van.
ES: I’m afraid that’s not how it works, Mr Brotherton.
AB: Well, fuck you –
JH: [restraining his client]
We agree to the DNA and fingerprinting. I trust my client will be free to go home after that?
AF: In due course. The van, however, will be subject to a forensic search. I’m afraid your client will be taking the bus.
* * *
Adam Fawley
5 April 2018
14.09
‘Do you still think he’s lying?’ asks Somer as we walk back up the stairs.
I shake my head. ‘No. We got the truth this time. Though more by omission than any wish to be actually helpful on his part.’
Somer nods; she knows what I’m getting at. ‘There’s something in that van, isn’t there. Something incriminating. That’s why he’s so keen to keep us out of it.’
‘Well, let’s bloody well hope so. And cross our fingers that any DNA we do find is in the bloody database. Because otherwise we’ll be going nowhere fast. Again.’
* * *
‘PC Atkins will give you a lift to the hospital and back, Mr Brotherton. He’s going to bring a car round to the front.’
Everett offers the old man a hand getting up but he waves her away. ‘Thank you, young lady, but if I start taking help it won’t be long before I can’t do anything without it.’
She smiles; he reminds her of her grandad. He was a bolshie bugger too.
Outside, the rain has stopped, but it’s cold, and the old man’s coat doesn’t look thick enough to be warm.
‘I’m sure the car won’t be long,’ she says, feeling the need to break the silence.
He turns to face her. ‘Thank you. You didn’t need to go to all that trouble, but you did. And it’s appreciated. And tell Ash,’ continues the old man, ‘that I’ll come to the station again when I get back from the JR. Someone needs to look out for him.’
‘He has a lawyer, Mr Brotherton.’
The old man’s eyes narrow. ‘His kind of support costs two hundred quid an hour. I’m talking about someone who actually gives a toss. And the only one in that corner is me.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
5 April 2018
16.16
‘And you’re sure?’
I’m on the phone to Challow and the rest of the team are gathered round my desk. They can tell by the tone of my voice that it’s not good news.
I finish the call and look up at them. ‘All they’ve got from Ashley Brotherton’s van so far is one used condom and a quantity of what looks like semen on a tartan blanket. Our Mr Brotherton clearly knows how to show a girl a good time.’
Quinn’s face falls. ‘And that’s it?’
‘There was also a plastic bag containing a princely fifteen grams of marijuana. Which won’t even get the CPS out of bloody bed in the morning.’
‘But it could explain why he was so shit scared about the search,’ says Somer resignedly. ‘Perhaps none of this has anything to do with Faith. Or Sasha. He was just worried about us finding the drugs.’
‘And losing his job as a result,’ mutters Ev.
Ev is obviously a fully paid-up member of the Ashley Brotherton fan club, though for the life of me I can’t fathom why. On the other hand, I’m starting to think Somer has a point – in fact, I’m not far off coming to the same conclusion myself.
‘They’re running the swabs for DNA but we won’t get the results for at least a day or so.’
‘What about prints?’ asks Gislingham. Ever the optimist.
‘Nothing doing. There are a few partials but nothing usable apart from Brotherton’s own. They’ll check his DNA against the profiles on the Tesco bag we found at the allotments but I’m not holding my breath. So if anyone else has any ideas, I’m all ears.’
Quinn looks peevish. ‘So we’re just going to send that bolsh
ie little git home?’
I shrug. ‘We don’t have any choice.’
‘What about the plaster dust?’ asks Somer. ‘There must have been loads of it in that van.’
‘Good question. And yes, there was. But it’ll take them a while to establish the exact chemical formulation. And Challow’s already warned me building firms tend to source their plaster from a small number of big wholesalers, so the stuff Ramsgate uses won’t be anything like unique. So even if what’s in the van does match what we found on Faith, it won’t be enough for an arrest. Not on its own.’
‘And Brotherton’s just going to carry on insisting no one else could have borrowed it,’ says Gis with a sigh.
Baxter is frowning. ‘Well, he’s right, isn’t he? I mean, the van keys would either have been on him or in the house. How could someone else have got hold of them without him knowing?’
Ev shrugs. ‘Perhaps they keep a spare door key under a flowerpot? That’s what my gran used to do.’
‘In Blackbird Leys?’ says Quinn, openly incredulous. ‘You’re having a bloody laugh. The place would be cleaned out in under a week.’
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ says Everett. ‘That community – they look after their own. And Mr Brotherton is one of them.’
I get to my feet. ‘Well, that’s one question we should at least be able to answer. Let’s find out, shall we?’
* * *
It’s pouring now, and at the search site Barnetson is up to his knees in dirty river and in danger of losing his footing at every step. He moves gingerly forward, feeling the mud slip under his waders as he steadies himself with his pole. The Cherwell is over its banks in places now, bleeding brown sludge across the fields on either side, where cows steam dejectedly in the teeming rain. With the water so high, all the rubbish and dead leaves and pleasure-boat litter is swirling downriver and catching in the overhanging trees. A few yards away Barnetson can see a bicycle frame, a shopping trolley and several old carrier bags caught in low branches and rimmed with white bubbles, one ripped against the bark, another bloated with –
No, he thinks.
