by Ford, P. F.
‘She’s our latest murder victim,’ said Norman. ‘We believe she was killed because she was the only surviving witness to what happened back then. We also have reason to believe the so-called break-in Sir Robert reported was faked.’
‘Why would he fake it?’
‘That’s what we wanted to know.’
‘Why didn’t you come and tell me all this before you went up there?’
‘Can I speak?’ asked Slater.
Murray nodded.
‘But think first,’ he said, a note of warning in his voice.
‘The reason we chose not to tell you was because we thought you’d order us not to go,’ explained Slater. ‘But the way we saw it we had a legitimate excuse for going up there and we figured it made sense, while we were up there, to shake his tree and see if anything fell out.’
‘And did anything fall out?’
‘He certainly knows a lot more about what went on at that orphanage than he’s admitting,’ said Slater.
‘And his wife tells me there’s nothing wrong with his memory,’ added Norman. ‘Yet he managed to forget to set the alarm, and then forget to put away her jewels, on the same night.’
‘So you think he might have been involved in child abuse, but all you have is the written testimony of a dead man, and your only potential witness is now also dead,’ said Murray. ‘Is that right?’
‘So far,’ said Norman.
‘So really, you’ve got no proof.’ Murray sighed. ‘How do you know this Mr Winter is for real? Maybe he just wanted to smear Sir Robert’s name.’
‘We haven’t found anything to suggest that,’ argued Norman.
‘That doesn’t mean I’m wrong, does it? And then there’s the break-in? What are you suggesting, insurance fraud? You’ve seen his house. Does he really look as though he’s short of money?’
Slater sighed heavily.
‘Why are you all so convinced this guy’s a saint?’ he asked.
‘Because so far, you’ve given me no compelling evidence to believe he isn’t. Why are you so sure he isn’t?’
‘I just know it,’ said Slater.
‘Gut instinct isn’t a reliable form of evidence. It’s certainly not a good enough reason to go charging around accusing someone,’ said Murray. ‘If you want to change my mind you’ll need to bring me something a bit more convincing than your personal hunch. In the meantime, you do not go near Sir Robert, his wife, or his house, without first speaking to me, unless, of course, you’d like to be directing traffic. Is that clear?’
‘Yessir,’ they chorused.
‘Now clear off and do something useful, like solving those two murders,’ said Murray. ‘And I want to be kept informed of all developments. As you don’t seem to be able to keep yourselves out of trouble I suppose I’ll have to monitor what you’re doing. As if I don’t already have enough to do.’
‘Can I ask one more question?’ asked Norman.
‘Go on,’ growled Murray.
‘Who’s Maunder’s solicitor?’
Murray studied the notepad he’d scrawled the chief constable’s dire warnings on.
‘Someone called John Hunter,’ he said.
Slater exchanged a look with Norman.
‘Does it matter?’ Murray asked.
‘No, probably not. Just curious,’ said Norman.
‘Well, that just about rounds off a fabulous twelve hours in the wonderfully fulfilling life of DS Dave Slater,’ grumbled Slater to Norman, as they walked across to the canteen.
‘Problems?’
‘I think Cindy’s had enough.’ Slater sighed, miserably. ‘We had a big bust-up last night.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Norman. ‘It’s the old “me or the job” argument, right?’
‘You said it.’
‘It always happens. I bet there’s not a cop alive who hasn’t had the same problem.’
They were in the canteen now. Slater was collecting three coffees.
‘And doughnuts,’ Norman reminded him. ‘This is definitely a doughnut morning after that bollocking from the Old Man.’
They gathered up their drinks and cakes and headed back to their office.
‘The thing is,’ continued Slater, going back to the original conversation, ‘I actually thought, if it came to it, I would give up the job for her, you know? But now I’m not sure I would.’
‘Torn between two lovers,’ said Norman. ‘That’s bad news. So what are you going to do?’
‘I told her we should spend some time apart. See if we can work out what we both really want. I told her to call me when she’s ready to talk.’
‘Wow. So this is really serious. D’you think you’ll work it out?’
‘Seriously? No, I don’t think we will,’ said Slater.
‘Oh, shit,’ said Norman, and he looked genuinely concerned. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Are you okay?’
‘That’s the weird thing,’ said Slater. ‘Now I’ve slept on it, I’m actually feeling quite relieved.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Norman hovered for a moment, as if he didn’t know what to say. He gave an uncertain smile then pushed their office door open, stepping aside to allow Slater to carry their goodies through.
‘I suppose that says quite a lot of negative stuff about me and the depth of my feelings,’ suggested Slater as he stepped into the room.
‘I think it says a whole lot more about the depth of your relationship with Cindy,’ observed Norman, as he followed him in.
Jolly had commandeered the spare desk. She was going through piles of dusty old files and papers she had recovered from the County Council archive.
‘Where on earth have you two been?’ she asked, looking up from her work. ‘I’ve been worried sick. You never called or left a message.’
‘When the Old Man calls, personally, to summon you to his office first thing in the morning, Jane,’ replied Slater, placing the refreshments on his desk, ‘you’re so busy wondering what’s going to happen you tend not to think about telling anyone. I’m sorry. We should have let you know.’
‘But we have brought coffee and doughnuts as compensation,’ Norman piped up.
‘He called himself?’ said Jolly, looking surprised. ‘That must have been important. Am I allowed to ask what he wanted?’
‘Two detective sergeants for breakfast,’ answered Norman, with a wry smile.
‘Why? What have you done?’
‘We dared to suggest that the well-known saint, Sir Robert Maunder, might not be quite as holy as the chief constable thinks he is,’ explained Slater.
‘Apparently if we want to speak to him again, or even mention his name, we have to get special permission,’ added Norman.
‘That’s going to make things rather awkward,’ said Jolly. ‘If he’s out of bounds it’s going to be a bit like having your hands tied behind your back.’
‘It makes it difficult,’ said Slater. ‘But not impossible. Even with our hands tied, we can still ask questions. There are plenty of other avenues to explore without going anywhere near Maunder.’
‘Speaking of which…’ Jolly turned back to her dusty papers. ‘I’ve been looking through this Hatton House stuff I found yesterday. I’ve got a long way to go yet, but there’s a record of kids added to the register as new arrivals. I’ve compared it with the list of kids sent there through Child Welfare and it seems there were more kids sent than were actually registered as arriving.’
‘What?’ asked Norman.
‘Yes, it’s a bit strange, isn’t it? I thought I’d made a mistake at first, but I’ve double checked. There are at least five kids who were sent there but never appeared on the Hatton House register. One of them is Julia Winter or, as we know her, Florence. Her brother is registered, but there’s no sign of her name appearing anywhere. According to the records she never arrived there.’
‘Because she was a Special One,’ said Slater. ‘That’s exactly what Mr Winter said. The Special Ones were kept apart from the others.’
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bsp; ‘And if they weren’t on any register they didn’t officially exist,’ added Norman. ‘So anyone visiting the home could check the number of kids against the register but wouldn’t realise there were some others hidden away.’
‘But what happened to them?’ asked Jolly. ‘Where did they go? Surely when they grow up they have to move them on somewhere else.’
‘Or dispose of them,’ said Slater, ominously.
‘Oh, don’t say that,’ Norman said, sighing heavily. ‘I hate dealing with dead kids, even if they died fifty years ago.’
‘We can’t ignore the possibility, can we?’ said Slater. ‘We’re going to have to search the grounds.’
‘D’you want me to go and see Becksy?’ said Norman. ‘We’re going to need some fancy equipment, and a lot of search trained people, if we’re gonna search those gardens. They’re huge.’
‘Let me go,’ said Slater. ‘I think it’s time I went down there and made peace, don’t you?’
‘And what about John Hunter?’ asked Norman. ‘His name seems to be cropping up a bit too often for my liking. First he’s Winter’s solicitor. Now he’s Maunder’s solicitor.’
Jolly had looked up at the sound of Hunter’s name.
‘So, he’s a solicitor,’ she said, quickly. ‘And Tinton’s a small town. I think you’ll find there aren’t exactly huge numbers of solicitors to choose from.’
‘How would you describe him, Jane?’ asked Slater.
‘What sort of question is that?’
‘Just humour me a minute.’
‘Well,’ she began, her face slightly pink. ‘He’s in his sixties, six feet plus, nice looking, with silver-grey hair, and blue eyes. He’s got a very reassuring manner that creates a sense of trust. Oh, and he smells nice.’
‘You fancy him,’ teased Norman. ‘Do you go around sniffing all the men you meet?’
‘No, I do not fancy him,’ she protested, but her cheeks blushed a deeper shade of pink. ‘I simply mean he wears nice aftershave. He’s a very nice man and, I’ll have you know, it makes a change to meet a real gentleman once in a while.’
‘So what’s wrong with us?’ asked Norman, looking offended.
‘You’re different,’ said Jolly.
‘Thank you, Jane,’ said Slater, jumping in before Norman got carried away with his “hurt and offended” act. ‘That’s almost exactly the description of the man who went to see Gordon Ferguson the night before last.’
‘Well, well, well,’ said Norman. ‘Another coincidence. We’d better put him on our visit list. At least we don’t have to ask permission to speak to him, unless, of course, Jane here has a problem with that.’
‘Oh, hush,’ said Jolly. ‘If you want to waste your time, that’s your affair. I’m sure he’ll have a perfectly good explanation for being there.’
‘Wow,’ said Norman. ‘You really do think he’s special, don’t you?’
‘Of course not,’ she said, turning back to her work. But the colour that had risen to her face told a different story.
Chapter 29
After his earlier dressing down, Slater thought it might be prudent to inform Murray what they had unearthed, and of his intention to initiate a search of the gardens. To his amazement, Murray gave him the go-ahead without imposing any conditions. Before the Old Man could have a change of heart, he’d headed straight down to the basement to speak to Ian Becks.
He had been expecting a hard time from Becks after their disagreement, but to his surprise the forensics chief appeared to have forgiven and forgotten. Or at least he said he had. Slater found this hard to believe from a man who had a reputation for sulking and bearing grudges, and he fully expected the situation to come back and bite him on the arse at some point in the future, but right now he was far more concerned with getting a team out to search the grounds at Hatton House.
Half an hour later Becks was on the phone.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a team ready to start work this afternoon, and I’ve even managed to rustle up a couple of cadaver dogs to help us out.’
‘Will we need them?’ asked Slater. ‘If there are any bodies out there, they’ll have been underground for fifty years. It won’t be cadavers we’ll find, just skeletons.’
‘You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, mate. I think we were offered them because the dogs need the practise, but one of them is a bit of a legend and is supposed to have detected a skeleton before, so it can’t do any harm, can it? I’ve also managed to scrounge one of those GPR – ground-penetrating radar – systems. I did the training ages ago. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever get the chance to put it into practice.’
‘Does it find skeletons?’
‘Only if we’re very lucky. But it can detect the sort of disturbance that would be made in the ground by digging a grave. It works hand in hand with the dogs.’
‘So we’re all set then,’ said Slater. ‘What time do you want to get started?’
‘Make it two o’clock. The dogs will be here by then, and everyone will have had time to eat before we start.
‘I’ll go on up there and make sure we can access the site without any hassle,’ said Slater.
He hadn’t yet mentioned to Becks that they didn’t have the faintest idea where to start looking.
As promised, by two o’clock Ian Becks and his team were on site and ready to go. They had all gathered around Slater, looking expectant, but there was a bit of a problem. The sky above them was a dirty grey colour. It wasn’t raining yet, but it was on the way.
‘What do you mean you have no idea where to search?’ Becks asked Slater. ‘Surely you must have some idea? You haven’t brought us out here on a wild goose chase, have you?’
As the implications of Becks’ question sunk in, Slater found himself surrounded by hostile faces and accusing looks. He shifted uncomfortably.
‘Alright everyone, I can see how this looks, but let me explain,’ he began, awkwardly. ‘We know, for sure, that at least five of the kids who were sent here back in the sixties were never registered as arriving, and seem to have disappeared without trace. The reason we’re so sure this is fact is because Mr Winter and his sister were sent here at the same time. He appears on the register but she doesn’t.
‘According to the evidence we have found so far, there was a group of kids called “The Special Ones”. We believe these were the pretty kids. Boys and girls, they were kept to one side and don’t appear on any register anywhere. So, officially they didn’t exist anymore. The Special Ones were being regularly abused.’
He stopped for a moment to let this news sink in.
‘Surely someone would have noticed?’ asked one of the dog handlers.
‘You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you? But what if the person who would be in a position to notice was part of the paedophile ring doing the abusing?’
‘Oh, no, you’re kidding,’ said the dog handler, looking horrified.
‘Not certain yet, but that’s how it looks,’ said Slater, grimly.
There were a few angry murmurs, and Slater knew he had them on his side.
‘The question is,’ he continued, ‘what did they do with these kids when they finished with them? Presumably they reach a “sell-by-date” and have to be disposed of.’
‘And you think they were murdered and buried here somewhere,’ finished Becks.
‘We figure it’s the most likely scenario, so we can’t ignore it,’ said Slater. ‘But the problem is, I can’t tell you where to start looking.’
‘Then we’ll just have to look everywhere,’ said the dog handler, with grim determination. ‘It’s not right they should just be dumped like so much useless rubbish. They deserve better.’
The earlier murmurs had turned into full voices now, and they were all agreed.
‘Right,’ said Ian Becks, turning to his search team. ‘We will cover the whole place, but we’ll do it in sections, and we’ll cover each section thoroughly before we move to the next. As it’s surround
ed by a wall, why don’t we start with the vegetable garden? Get those two dogs going and I’ll join you with the GPR gear.’
The team headed off towards the vegetable garden, while Becks and Slater headed for the vehicles, parked around the front of the old house; Becks to collect his GPR equipment, and Slater to find his wellies from the boot of his car.
‘But some of that ground must have been dug over, again and again,’ said Slater. ‘Surely that will affect the results.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Becks. ‘But if you had buried a body in there, and you knew exactly where it was, would you keep digging that particular bit of ground over?’
‘Ah, right. I see what you’re saying.’ Slater felt a little foolish.
‘I’m afraid we’re likely to make a mess of these gardens. Especially if it starts raining.’
‘I don’t think anyone will complain,’ said Slater, sadly. ‘The only person who cared is dead now.’
‘This has affected you a lot, hasn’t it?’ asked Becks.
‘It’s the old man and his sister, Becksy,’ said Slater. ‘Especially the sister. I mean, can you imagine? She had been in hiding since they were little kids. I’m like Norm, I hate dealing with stuff like this.’
‘Where is he anyway?’.
‘He’ll be here soon. He just had to make a call on the way.’
They had reached the forensic team’s Transit van. Becks swung the back doors open.
‘Thanks for this, Ian,’ said Slater. ‘I’m sorry I can’t point you in the right direction.’
‘No problem,’ said Becks. ‘If those dogs are as good as they’re supposed to be, and there are kids buried here somewhere, we’ll find them.’
He looked up at the sky, then reached inside, grabbed the portable GPR machine, and began to sling the straps over his shoulders.
‘With two dogs and this magic machine, we can’t fail,’ he said, smiling confidently. ‘It just might take a bit longer, that’s all. Just keep your fingers crossed that it doesn’t start raining too soon. It’ll get a lot more difficult if that happens.’
Slater watched him march off towards the vegetable garden and then ambled across to his own car. He flipped up the boot and began to rummage through the heap of assorted coats, shoes, and general paraphernalia he carried around until he eventually found two wellies and a waterproof coat.
