He pulls at his jacket lapels, evincing a sense of pride in his professional proficiency.
‘And what did you discover?’ Mapplethorpe asks.
‘I tracked them all down in the end.’ Lancaster casts an eye across the defendants’ bench. ‘Alan Johns was aggressive and refused to answer any questions. Gideon Risborough was friendlier, though no more helpful and Ms Winter looked like she’d seen a ghost.’
The jury’s attention turns to me. I try to maintain a neutral face as I recall the heavy footsteps that followed me through the streets of North London the year after I moved from Guildford.
Lancaster resumes. ‘During my investigation, it became clear I was not the only one who had been trying to track down Ms Winter. Gideon Risborough was following her, and I think probably long before I did. He was watching her as she went to and from work, waiting outside her house.’
The shrinking shadow, the footsteps on empty streets – it wasn’t a ghost or a manifestation of my guilt, it was Gideon who haunted me, drove me to that bridge over the A1. Right now, he’s staring straight ahead. Others would see him as calm and impassive, but I notice his jaw is ever so slightly clenched.
‘If Ms Winter went out, he used to knock on the door of the house she was sharing, pretend to be a friend and gain access. It’s an easy trick to pull in multiple occupancy houses – no one ever quite knows who knows who,’ Lancaster says. ‘At the time, I wasn’t sure. I put it down to infatuation.’
But it wasn’t infatuation. Gideon was terrified I would crack, tell someone. Had he planned an accident for me? I was so close to doing his work for him. He must have been furious when those girls appeared and stopped me. I realise now the identity of the man who ran from the bridge. But not to be defeated, he constructed another plan to keep me silent and ensure no letter was ever sent to Patrick Wells.
‘And Ms Winter – how long did you observe her before talking to her?’ Mapplethorpe asks.
‘A couple of days. She worked long hours in two jobs, didn’t seem to have any friends. I felt a bit sorry for her. When I spoke to her, she looked terrified and scuttled into the house. About ten minutes later Gideon knocked at the door. It was the first time he’d entered the house when she’d been there. I don’t think he realised that just as he was watching me, I was watching him. That behaviour did ring alarm bells. There was something holding those three together.’
The lad in the blue hoody on the front row of the jury nods his head.
‘Apart from their rather odd behaviour, did anything else lead you to be suspicious?’ Mapplethorpe asks.
‘Firstly, there was the money. It just turned up – nearly thirty thousand pounds.’
‘The money correlating to a two-thirds share in the sum taken from Mrs Pike,’ Mapplethorpe says.
‘Exactly. The police explanation for Brandon’s disappearance was that he had stolen the cash withdrawn by Mrs Pike and run. As far as they were concerned, he was probably living the life of Riley on one of the Costas.’ Lancaster clears his throat. ‘But anyone walking around with forty-five thousand pounds’ cash is vulnerable, even a strong young man like Brandon. There’s two rules private investigators fall back on. One, cherchez la femme, and two, follow the money. Love and lust skew the most rational mind. In this case it turned out to be both.’
‘Would you tell the court what you uncovered?’ Mapplethorpe asks.
Lancaster clears his throat again. ‘I managed to get hold of the accounts for Mr Risborough’s company, SupaSupplements – that’s the nutritional supplements company owned by Mr Risborough and for which Alan Johns still works. They’d attended an awful lot of trade fairs.’
‘And that was unusual?’ Mapplethorpe asks.
‘It only started a few months after Brandon’s disappearance. They were doing a roaring trade, all in cash. Over four months, thirty thousand pounds was passed through the company.’
‘Couldn’t that be legitimate?’
‘Other companies attending these events made nowhere near as much money, despite their stands being much busier.’
‘That’s a shortfall of fifteen thousand pounds from the amount we know was taken from Mrs Pike,’ Mapplethorpe says.
‘I figured Ms Winter had the rest. Thirty thousand represented a two-thirds share for both Gideon Risborough and Alan Johns. I did report my findings to the police, but they weren’t interested. By then it was two years since Brandon had disappeared and with no body it was difficult to interest anyone. Besides, private investigators are given short shrift. They’ve changed their tune since then though. It turns out I was right. Follow the money.’
Lancaster is looking pleased with himself when Mapplethorpe sits down. Gideon’s barrister, Helena Dryden, wastes no time in her cross-examination.
‘May I ask you, Mr Lancaster, how much Mr Patrick Wells paid you to investigate the disappearance of his son?’
‘I don’t recall exactly,’ Lancaster says.
‘Then let me remind you. In total it came to £19,482. In 1994 that was more than the average yearly salary.’
‘I am a professional. I don’t work for free.’
‘That’s evident,’ Dryden says. ‘Mr Wells was in New Zealand, entirely reliant on what you told him. All this sneaking around trawling through accounts and stalking young women at night—’
‘Following,’ Lancaster interjects.
‘If that’s what you choose to call it,’ Dryden says. ‘Tell me, what would have happened if you’d gone back to Mr Wells after a day or two and said, sorry, I can’t help you, the police are in the best position to deal with this?’
‘But I could help him.’
‘We only have your word for it. Lots of surmises and guesswork but nothing concrete. No proof the money wasn’t from trade shows.’
‘No, but the facts suggest—’
Dryden cuts him off. ‘Mr Lancaster. This is a court of law. We’re not interested in suggestion. We’re interested in evidence and cold hard facts.’ She pauses and half turns to the jury. ‘Be honest with yourself, and with the court please. If there were any corroborating evidence whatsoever, it would be here.’ Dryden jabs a finger to the floor. ‘In this courtroom, in front of the jury. Instead the supporting evidence is notable only by its absence.’
Lancaster looks to the judge, who shows no indication he’s going to interrupt Dryden.
‘You’ve presented nothing but the suspicions of a man who couldn’t hack it as a real detective in CID.’
Lancaster grips the front of the witness stand and pulls himself so he’s leaning over. ‘That’s simply not true,’ he says.
Dryden looks down at her notes and back to Lancaster. ‘You were asked to leave the CID, were you not?’
‘No – it wasn’t like that.’
‘At the time of your resignation you were under investigation for misconduct,’ Dryden says.
‘A flawed investigation, my DI at the time—’
‘Mishandling of evidence.’ She waves a piece of paper in the air. ‘It’s not surprising your former colleagues gave you short shrift – your words, not mine, Mr Lancaster.’
‘I was well respect—’
‘Thank you, Mr Lancaster. No further questions.’
Lancaster is no longer looking so pleased with himself. He looks like he’s been punched in the stomach, and is visibly distressed when he realises yet more questioning is to come.
Ralph stands up and looks at him kindly. ‘Mr Lancaster, you talk of following the money, but at no stage during the Nineties did you find my client, Julia Winter, had come into any money, other than the wages from the jobs she needed to support herself.’
His tone is mild and moderate; still Lancaster eyes him warily.
‘No, I didn’t,’ Lancaster says.
‘In fact, working two jobs would indicate financial hardship not new-found wealth, wouldn’t it?’
Lancaster lowers his head and doesn’t speak for a moment. Eventually, he mumbles something.
&
nbsp; ‘Sorry, Mr Lancaster, can you repeat that?’
‘I said, yes.’
‘I see,’ Ralph says.
For a moment I think this is going to be his only question. He pauses before casting his eyes down to his notes and looking up again.
‘You’ve been a private investigator for nearly thirty years – is that correct?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ Lancaster says.
He’s on his guard now, not sure from which angle the blow will land.
‘And what sort of investigations do you normally carry out – you’ve already told us you don’t normally take missing persons cases.’
Lancaster purses his lips. ‘All sorts,’ he says. ‘Husbands and wives seeking proof of their other half’s infidelity. Larger companies often ask for extra information about candidates for key positions. Debt recovery.’ He gives a slight shrug.
‘Ah, yes. Debt recovery,’ Ralph says. He raises a sheet of paper. ‘In fact, nearly eighty per cent of your work is for Longs Debt Recovery. Tracking down people who’ve fallen into arrears on hire purchase and other such agreements. Average amount of debt, seven hundred pounds and twenty-three pence. Although my learned colleagues implied your sole motivation is money and certainly you did take a considerable amount from Mr Patrick Wells.’
‘Earned a considerable amount,’ Lancaster says.
‘My apologies. Although you earned a considerable sum, I don’t agree that all your actions were prompted by greed, were they?’
‘I do have my professional pride,’ Lancaster says.
‘And you continued your investigations into the defendants, and my client in particular, long after Mr Wells’ payments ceased.’
Lancaster hesitates.
‘You are under oath, Mr Lancaster,’ Ralph says.
‘I did take an interest in their lives,’ Lancaster concedes.
He’s a different man to the one questioned by Mapplethorpe. His swagger’s gone; he’s almost timid.
‘Over the next twenty years, in fact.’ Ralph looks directly at him. Lancaster is unable to maintain eye contact. ‘It speaks of obsession more than interest.’
‘Not an obsession,’ Lancaster says. ‘If work was slow, I’d look into what they were up to. That’s how I found out about the money and Ms Winter’s suicide attempt.’
No – not this, not now. Hissed words circle the court. I make myself look to Sam. He’s gazing across at me. His expression is blank, with hate, shock, incomprehension – it’s impossible to read. He shouldn’t have had to hear it like this. I want to be with him now, explain, tell him everything’s all right. He looks away. I close my eyes – this has to end. I have to speak to Sam.
Ralph continues to cross-examine Lancaster, but I can’t register what they’re saying. I can only think of Sam. What must he think of me? Are his father’s claims of my instability and mental frailty gaining credence?
‘I’ve been a fool. I should have realised there’s a reason men don’t marry women like you – because of the sort of mothers they’ll make,’ my husband told me. ‘I’ll keep it from Sam as long as I can, but one day I’ll let him know, who or rather what his mother is.’
In Victorian times, a failed suicide meant jail. With my marriage, I imprisoned myself.
‘… Ms Winter’s phone number.’
What are they saying about my phone number? I must concentrate.
‘Last year, you made calls to Ms Winter’s phone on Wednesday 4th October at 11.12 a.m. lasting six seconds and again on Friday 6th October at 10.48 p.m., lasting eleven seconds,’ Ralph says.
Lancaster’s eyes dart around the courtroom. Mapplethorpe is looking to his junior.
‘Mr Lancaster?’ Ralph says.
‘I did call her.’
‘Can you tell us why you made this phone call, twenty-three years after your last direct contact with Ms Winter?’
Lancaster doesn’t reply.
‘It’s dull in debt recovery, isn’t it?’ Ralph says. ‘Following one person, who’s unable to make a ten pounds weekly repayment to another. Making people in desperate circumstances more desperate.’
‘Your honour,’ Mapplethorpe says.
‘My point, Mr Lancaster,’ Ralph says without waiting for the judge to intercede, ‘is that you became a private detective, fancying yourself in a heroic role, solving crimes too complex for PC Plod. Instead it’s unendingly tedious. For your own amusement and because you have some fascination with Ms Winter, you concoct a complicated scenario in which three of Brandon Wells’ housemates are his murderers. Over the years, as your paid work becomes more and more boring, you return to Brandon Wells, the one big case that will vindicate your worth and prove you’re smarter than your former colleagues at Surrey Police. And one day, bingo – you hit the jackpot. By lucky chance you’re right, Brandon was murdered. Emboldened, you begin to follow Ms Winter. I’ll leave it to the jury’s imaginations why you chose Ms Winter and not the two men. You try to frighten her with phone calls and implicate her in the crime by sending texts with links to the case.’
‘That’s just not true. I never sent any texts.’
‘But you admit to the phone calls.’
‘Yes.’
‘Minutes after DI Warren and DS Akande left Ms Winter’s flat, were you waiting outside, watching her?’
Lancaster looks to the judge to help him. Fleetwood shows no signs of intervening.
‘If we were to triangulate the location of your phone over this period, where would we find it?’
Lancaster still doesn’t reply.
‘Please answer the question, Mr Lancaster, and, as a former police officer, I’m sure you don’t need reminding of the serious view courts take of perjury.’
Lancaster tips his head forward and grimaces. ‘I waited outside Ms Winter’s work and sometimes outside her flat,’ Lancaster says.
‘What was the purpose of the calls?’
The woman in the floral dress is watching intently. Her eyes narrow.
‘I’m not sure – I just wanted her to know that someone knew,’ Lancaster replies.
The woman gives a dismissive shake of the head.
‘And how long had you been following Ms Winter?’
‘Since I heard about the body being found on the Downs. I guessed straight away it was Brandon. I wanted to observe her behaviour. And it was odd.’
‘Not as odd as yours,’ Ralph says. Blue hoody nods again. ‘Following a woman around late at night, phone calls, texts—’
‘It wasn’t like that.’ Lancaster looks to the judge and then the jury. ‘I never sent those texts. They weren’t on my phone, were they?’
‘You were careless with the phone calls,’ Ralph says. ‘Did the other messages come from another phone you have since disposed of?’
‘She was the one who got rid of her phone. I saw her. She bought it from a drug dealer. The police were too slow and never found it.’
Ralph raises his palms in a gesture of incredulity. ‘I fear we’re drifting further into the realms of fantasy, Mr Lancaster. My client works as an IT professional. She has no links to the criminal underworld. You, on the other hand, obtained her phone details and bank statements, almost certainly in an illegal manner – I can see you’re not contradicting me – stalked, yes stalked my client late at night, then sent her threatening texts and followed them up by making wild accusations.’
‘I did not send those texts,’ Lancaster repeats.
‘We’re to believe there’s another person out there, harassing my client about the events of twenty-four years ago? A little far-fetched, don’t you think?’
Lancaster grips the bar in front of him, his head bowed. ‘I know what it sounds like, but it’s the truth.’
‘May I suggest that in future you leave it to the professionals to find the truth,’ Ralph says. ‘It was the mishandling of evidence that led to your removal from the police force. How would your behaviour, trying to provoke a reaction, sending messages and threats, have been treated in
CID? There’s a reason your skills are only required for debt recovery. Thank you, Mr Lancaster. I have no further questions.’
Chapter 50
1994 – Guildford
Another summer storm hit Guildford on Thursday evening as Julia walked home from work, the rain coming down in torrents. At least this time she was armed with an umbrella, so only her feet were soaked. As she neared home, she saw a girl at the top of the drive. She stood gazing at the house, in just a thin cotton summer dress, without an umbrella or even a coat. Julia considered ignoring her. Her sole wish was to get indoors and dry off. But the girl looked lost and very young, only a teenager. Julia walked up to her.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
The girl didn’t seem to notice and continued to stare at the house. Julia tried again.
‘Are you all right?’
This time the girl turned to her and gave a slight shake of the head. She had a long oval face with almond-shaped eyes.
‘Why don’t you come inside, out of the rain?’ Julia said.
The girl took a tiny step forward, then stopped.
‘It’s OK,’ Julia said.
She took the girl’s hand and led her down the drive to the side door, through the garage and into the kitchen. Gideon’s light was on. Julia wondered if he’d seen her.
‘I’ll get you a towel,’ Julia said.
Music was coming from Gideon’s room as she ran upstairs to retrieve the towel. The girl hadn’t moved and was still staring vacantly when Julia came back.
‘Here.’
Julia wrapped the towel around her shoulders. The girl looked so young.
‘Are you in some sort of trouble? Can I call someone for you?’
The movement of her head was so slight, Julia couldn’t tell if it was a yes or a no.
‘Do you want to use the phone?’
This time the girl signalled a definite no.
‘I’m here to see Gideon,’ she said.
‘I think he’s in – you should have knocked,’ Julia said.
For the first time, the girl looked at Julia directly.
‘I did knock.’
Her eyes looked empty and cold. Julia recoiled. She shouldn’t have invited a stranger into the house, even if she was a lost teenage girl. She could be anyone.
The Verdict Page 23