Devils way, p.22
Devil's Way, page 22
Kate was struggling to get the image of the small blanket caked with mud out of her head. The pub door opened suddenly, and Jean came bursting out, a look of panic on her face.
‘Where’s Sadie?’ she asked. She saw Sadie down the road talking on her mobile phone, and she waved at her to come back. Joel emerged from the door behind her, talking on his phone. ‘I just had a call from the police, a Detective Chief Inspector Harris…’ added Jean. She was trembling. ‘He wants me and Joel to come to the police station in Exeter and give them a DNA sample. He said the body, it’s a little boy, who they think was three years old when he died. They want to test our DNA to rule out if it’s Charlie.’
Joel came off the phone.
‘I can’t get through to Kelly,’ he said. He looked equally pale and shaken up. Sadie had now come back from her phone call and joined them.
‘Sadie. We need to get over to Exeter,’ said Jean. ‘They want to take our DNA. How do they even do that?’
‘They take a little blood,’ said Sadie, her eyes huge and wide behind her glasses.
‘Oh God. I’m going to be sick,’ said Jean, gripping her friend’s arm. ‘What if it’s him? How quickly will they know?’
They all looked to Kate. She thought about the wizened little bundle. If the body did belong to Charlie, it would have been in the ground for eleven years, and extracting DNA might take a little longer than drawing blood. Kate looked at their pale, scared faces.
‘It might take a few days,’ she said.
‘Oh, it’s him. I know it is… Do you think they’ll ask us to look at the body? And see if we can identify it? I can’t do that!’ said Jean. Joel looked horrified at the thought of this.
‘No. The police won’t ask you to do that,’ said Kate.
‘Now just calm down, Jean,’ said Sadie, taking her hand. ‘We’ll take it one step at a time. Steve is going to meet us at the police station.’
‘Okay. I’ll phone you and let you know what happens,’ said Jean to Kate and Tristan. They all hurried to Sadie’s ancient blue Montego. Joel helped Jean into the passenger seat, and he was hardly in the back seat and still closing the door when Sadie drove off with a squeal of rubber on the tarmac.
There was a sense of anti-climax as the car vanished around the corner. The police were now in charge.
‘What should we do?’ asked Tristan. Kate looked out at the sunny moorland view. What should they do?
‘Let’s try and contact Maureen Cook again, and I’d like us to talk to the guys at Abble Graphics. They are the ones who typeset and printed the anthology. It’s the story and the link to Anna Treadwell we need to concentrate on.’
46
‘Maureen Cook. There’s an unpopular name,’ said Alfie Abble, of Abble Graphics.
He was a balding man with mischievous brown eyes. He looked to be in his early sixties and wore an elegant green suede three-piece suit, with a watch chain and a hanky poking from his top pocket. Abble Graphics was in a small shop at the top of Cranborough village high street. They sold antique cameras, cine cameras and photo equipment, and they also processed photos, one of the few places that still did. There was a display case next to the door which showed examples of printed photos on mugs, T-shirts, calendars, and cushions, but clearly this was an afterthought.
‘Why is Maureen Cook an unpopular name?’ asked Kate. A younger, muscular man in a tight black T-shirt came out from the back room with a large camera tripod. He looked to be in his thirties, had strong, dark features and his head was shaved. He saw Kate and Tristan and smiled.
‘Afternoon, I’m Ben,’ he said. He put down the tripod and leaned over the counter to shake hands with them both.
‘Ben,’ said Alfie, turning to him with a smile. ‘This lady and young man are private detectives.’
‘I don’t know if I’ve ever met a private detective before, let alone two.’
‘They’re here to ask about Maureen Cook,’ he said, enunciating the name. Ben raised an eyebrow.
‘Let me guess. Someone hired a hitman to kill her, and you’re having trouble narrowing down the list?’ he said. Then he saw Kate and Tristan’s serious faces. ‘Oh. That was a joke. Is she okay?’
‘As far as we know, she’s gone off on a cruise. Would it be possible to talk to you somewhere more private?’ asked Kate.
‘Yes, do come through into the workshop,’ said Alfie. They followed him into a wood-panelled room. A large dining table was next to a bookshelf, with a white tablecloth and a vase of freesias. Ben indicated a large sofa, and Kate and Tristan sat.
‘Where is Maureen cruising this time?’ asked Ben.
‘The Caribbean,’ said Kate. Alfie nodded and smiled.
‘I wonder if they know Hurricane Maureen is about to hit them?’ he said.
‘This might sound odd, but can we ask you about the Cranborough Writers group?’
‘I’ve tried to blank it from my mind,’ said Alfie, sitting in an armchair beside the sofa. Ben perched on one of the arms.
‘Me too,’ said Ben.
‘We understand you were members?’
‘Yes, for the eighteen months it was in existence. We actually started it and planned to use the village hall for meetings. After a clash with the cub scouts who needed the hall, Maureen Cook stepped up and co-opted it in her living room,’ said Alfie.
‘We’ve been to her house. It seems like quite a nice place for a meeting,’ said Kate, goading them a little. Ben pulled a face.
‘Maureen can sniff out a group or society at fifty paces,’ said Alfie. ‘She’s never interested in the subject matter. She just gets a kick out of being in charge. I’m sure if someone formed a Satan Worshipping society, Maureen would be there, offering herself up as the treasurer and planning the refreshments.’
‘What other groups has she been involved with?’ asked Tristan.
‘She attempted a book club the year before, and then she fell out with the other members when they accused her of not reading the books,’ said Ben. Alfie smiled at the memory.
‘Maureen’s problem is that she’s both stupid and so sure of herself. They were quite a young group, and their first book was Jordan: Pushed to the Limit. Maureen hadn’t read it, but tried to busk it and started talking about Christians fleeing persecution from the Islamic State, not knowing that the book was one of Katie Price’s autobiographies.’
Kate couldn’t help but smile.
‘Back to the writing group. How many members did you have?’ she asked.
‘What kind of case are you working on, if you don’t mind me asking?’ said Ben.
‘We’ll get to that. I promise.’
‘There were seven of us in the group. Me and Alfie, Maureen, Anna, another two local women called Helen and Doris, and a widower called Mick.’
‘And how did it work? Did you all write stuff and read it out?’ asked Tristan.
‘Yes, we’d read what we’d written at home and then critique it positively,’ said Alfie. ‘Maureen liked to contribute poems of the cat sat on the mat variety. And schmaltzy, very melodramatic short stories.’
‘In what way?’ asked Tristan.
‘Very often about a woman going on a cruise and falling in love with the ship’s captain. Maureen loves her cruise ship holidays. I don’t know if she’s ever scored at sea in real life.’
‘Why did the writing group fall apart?’ asked Kate.
‘The idea came up to publish a charity anthology. Ben and I thought we could raise more for charity if we printed a “real” book, not just some clip art crap on a photocopier.’
‘Or “photostat copier”, as Maureen likes to call it,’ said Ben. ‘She’s very proud of her photocopier. A lot of people in the village used to go to her to get things photocopied, and she used to charge them, of course. Now we also offer photocopying with print processing.’
‘Okay, so you guys offered to print the anthology?’ said Kate.
‘Yes, and a clash of opinion occurred, so we decided to vote on it,’ said Alfie. ‘Maureen loved to have a vote. She’d often call one if things weren’t going her way. Anna, a woman who used to come to meetings, was often Maureen’s deciding vote, but she wasn’t there this particular week. Maureen lost the vote, and that led to the group splitting.’
‘So. Maureen lost the vote, and the writing group collapsed. What happened next?’ asked Tristan.
A look passed between Alfie and Ben.
‘Maureen was furious with Anna for not turning up and helping her win the vote. And at the time, we thought she couldn’t be bothered to turn up when in actual fact…’ Ben hesitated.
‘Anna was murdered in her own bed,’ said Alfie. He shook his head. ‘She lay there for almost two weeks. The second meeting she missed was where it all kicked off with the vote, so whilst we were bickering about who would print the anthology, poor Anna was lying dead. We only heard about it a week later when it was on the news.’
‘What happened to the group?’ asked Kate.
‘Well. This goes to show what a nasty cow Maureen can be. We wanted to all come together and release the anthology for a charity for women. We chose a women’s shelter because Anna was a victim of violence. But Maureen was still making problems and insisting that she print it.’
‘How did you resolve it?’ asked Tristan.
‘A few months later was Anna’s funeral, and we all attended. I say all – there was only us from the writers group and a few of her friends from work who showed up,’ said Alfie.
‘And it was at this point that Maureen completely changed her tune,’ said Ben. ‘She came to us and said that she had a story she wanted to include in the anthology. Inspiration had come to her during a cruise on the Danube, and she said that she was perfectly happy for us to include it in the anthology, as long as it was a “proper” book that could be sold in shops. And that became our anthology, The Seven.’
‘And was it sold in shops?’ asked Tristan.
‘We published it back in spring 2008, which involved printing a load of books, and we managed to sell them to local independent bookshops... But it wasn’t the success we’d hoped.’
‘But the book is on Amazon as an ebook and paperback?’ said Kate.
‘A couple of years ago, it became easier to self-publish, and we uploaded the book. Have you read the stories?’
‘Yes,’ said Kate.
‘Ben contributed the seventh story, about the man from space,’ said Alfie. ‘And mine was about the farmer whose land is falling into the sea.’
‘Yes. And they were very good,’ said Tristan.
‘I agree,’ said Kate, struggling to remember their stories amongst the others she’d flicked through. ‘So, what about Maureen’s story…’
Alfie sat back and looked at them.
‘What does this have to do with the case you’re investigating? Is it something to do with Anna’s death?’
‘Yes,’ said Kate. ‘Was Maureen’s anthology story different to the kind of stuff she usually contributed to the group?’
‘Yes, we were all shocked when she produced this dark story about a woman who accidentally kills her baby and then buries the body in the woods.’
‘Did you think she wrote it?’ asked Tristan. The guys exchanged a glance.
‘I don’t want to belittle anyone’s lived experience, as they say these days,’ said Alfie, ‘and even if this happened to Maureen, I doubt she has the writing chops to articulate it in the way she did. So, no.’
‘Did anyone confront Maureen about it?’ asked Tristan.
‘No. Everyone is quite scared of her,’ said Ben. ‘And it was a charity anthology.’
‘Oh, come on!’ said Alfie.
‘Maureen intimidates people.’
‘She might intimidate you, but not me. Always stand up to bullies. That’s my motto.’
‘If Maureen didn’t write that story, then who do you think did?’ asked Kate.
‘I used to joke that Anna wrote it, and Maureen bumped her off to claim it as her own,’ said Alfie. He caught the look that passed between Kate and Tristan, and added, nervously. ‘But of course, I’m joking.’
47
Kate and Tristan were just getting into his car when her phone rang.
‘It’s Bernard Crenshaw,’ said Kate. She put it on speakerphone.
‘Hi, Kate. I’m sorry about the delay getting back to you,’ he said.
‘No problem,’ said Kate. Tristan raised an eyebrow.
‘Listen, I have to make this quick. My contact at Exeter police station came through. You can access the Anna Treadwell murder scene evidence. It’s housed in our cold case storage, a building on the other side of Exeter. Can you be there at 3pm?’
Kate checked her watch. It was 2pm, and they were now feeling pretty ragged after a night of no sleep. She looked over to Tristan and he nodded. They had an hour, which wasn’t a lot of time.
‘Yes, we can be there,’ she said.
‘Good. If they offer you the opportunity to copy any data, I’d take a brand-new unboxed data drive or USB key with you.’ Bernard gave her the address and contact details, and then Kate hung up the phone.
‘Do you think he knows about the body we found?’ said Tristan.
‘Why would he? The police haven’t found a link between Anna Treadwell and the body buried on Danvers Farm. If it’s positively identified as Charlie, that could change things.’
‘What did you think about the guys back there, what they said about Maureen?’
‘I don’t know. What we still need to solve is how Maureen came by, or wrote, the short story that told us where to dig,’ said Kate. Tristan started the engine, and they set off for Exeter.
They arrived at the address on time. The Cold Case Evidence Unit was a plain-looking building on a back street. Kate and Tristan waited in the small reception for twenty minutes before a plain clothes police officer came to get them. The name on her ID was Detective Inspector Paula Simpson. She looked older than Kate and had a don’t-mess-with-me demeanour. Kate and Tristan had to show their ID and sign several forms, and after being issued passes, Paula led them through a long corridor lined with offices.
It felt odd for Kate to be back inside a police building. There were all the familiar smells: coffee, floor polish and sweat, and she missed the hustle and bustle and the stress. As they passed a busy office and saw all of the officers working at their computers, she realised she missed the access to records she’d had as a police officer.
Kate pushed the thought away, and they followed the officer through a fire exit and into a concrete staircase which went down into the basement. They came up to a grille door at the end of another long corridor. Paula scanned an ID card, and they were buzzed through into a vast warehouse lined with shelves. There was a desk at the front where they had to show their ID again to a thin greying man in a police uniform and sign in. Paula didn’t introduce them.
She took a folder from the man and opened it, running her finger down a list. She put it under her arm and picked up a large plastic tray, like the type you see in airport security.
‘Right. If you can follow me.’ They moved along the rows and rows of metal shelving, all filled with plastic evidence bags containing knives and other sharp objects. On another shelf they passed were scores of laptop computers and bundles of clothes, all wrapped in thick plastic. A blown glass paperweight caked in dry blood caught Tristan’s attention as he passed, and he looked back at Kate with wide eyes.
Paula reached a row of shelving at the end. She checked the serial numbers on the side of three bags and loaded them into the plastic tray.
They followed her to a large metal table at the back of the store room and she placed the tray down.
‘Gloves are here,’ she said, pointing to a box. ‘Wear them when handling evidence. You have thirty minutes.’
‘Are you staying with us?’ asked Tristan.
‘I am,’ she said. She stood back and folded her arms.
‘Let’s get on with it then,’ said Kate. They pulled on a pair of gloves each and turned their attention to the contents of the tray. Inside were three thick plastic bags. One contained a bloodied claw hammer, and the bag was tagged with the date and location. Kate picked it up and saw some silvery fingerprint dust on the wooden handle of the hammer.
‘Can you tell us if you managed to pull a fingerprint off this?’ asked Kate, turning the hammer over in the bag.
Paula peered at it, and then took the cardboard file out from under her arm.
‘I can check,’ she said. She went to a nearby computer on the wall. This was the HOLMES computer system, the UK police’s central database, holding all criminal records and case files. There was something about the setup with the shelves and the computer for scanning barcodes which reminded Kate of those terminals where you can check the price of bananas per kilo.
Paula keyed in the number, waited a moment and then the case details appeared on the screen.
‘Yes. Forensics was able to get a full thumbprint off that hammer handle. It’s never been identified, though. Nothing is matching in the system for that print.’
‘Thank you,’ said Kate. She thought back to the crime scene photos showing the trail of blood spatter and bloodied footprints leading from Anna’s body to the window and back out of her bedroom. And how the images where the sets of footprints had been marked up and numbered to show their route were marked as coming in and leaving.
She held the hammer and imagined how Anna’s killer or killers had felt. They took the hammer with them but then dropped it in the garden for the police to find. And whoever did it didn’t wear gloves. Why? Was it planned or a crime of passion?
The second bag Tristan picked up held the diary that Kate recognised from the crime scene photos from Anna’s bedroom. It was thick with lots of additional paperwork stuffed inside and bound by a faded elastic band that bit into the edges of the black plastic cover. The year 2007 was embossed in gold on the front.
