Judas Horse

by Lynda La Plante

  Bevan started by explaining how she and Gifford had uncovered two new key pieces of evidence: an unmarked, untraceable, unidentifiable horsebox with dirty number plates; and a motorbike from out of town, with false plates. ‘Both vehicles can be seen driving up and down the stretch of road that runs by the Barrowman house. So, I went back to the CCTV footage from the other burglaries, and they both pop up in and around each target house on one, or all, of the three days before each burglary.’

  Jack waited patiently. Bevan was clearly laying the groundwork for her big reveal.

  ‘If we accept that this gang uses rented horseboxes as one of their getaway vehicles . . .’ Bevan paused to look at her notes. ‘Eight months ago, a dead body was found in a submerged horsebox just south of Cirencester. According to the autopsy we have a white male, mid-30s, of South American descent. No ID. No criminal record. Dead for approximately three years. His hyoid bone was snapped, indicating manual strangulation probably from behind. In the pocket of his trousers was a pair of 18-carat white gold oval cufflinks, with inset diamonds, worth around £2,000. These cufflinks were on an insurance claim list from 2018 made by Mr Bright-Cullingwood; he’s a writer of kids’ books, lives in Kingham. He was our first known burglary victim.’

  Bevan couldn’t help but look up to see how people were reacting – all eyes were on her. But now she’d paused for slightly too long . . .

  ‘You after a round of applause, girl?’ Gifford’s words nudged her back on track.

  ‘Er, no, sir. Sorry.’ Bevan found her place in her notes again. ‘The horsebox, I think – I’m checking – was stolen from a livery stable in Cirencester, which could be why we never got wind of it. Wherever it’s from, there’s no forensics. It remains an open murder case with them.’ Bevan put her notes away. ‘Sirs, I chatted to Mr Bright-Cullingwood on the phone about an hour ago and he said that the day after the burglary he locked his office, which is located at the bottom of his garden, as the “contaminated” space was no longer an inspiration for his writing. He’s not been in it since. So, I thought maybe . . . it might be worth sending forensics over?’

  She looked at Jack for approval, but he remained silent and thoughtful. When he did speak, he said something sobering: ‘Looks like Mathew Barrowman got off bloody lightly then, didn’t he?’

  Jack walked to the bank of windows overlooking the idyllic views beyond. He recalled one of the first things he ever said to his team of Chipping Norton officers: ‘This gang will not move on and disappear for good. They will not escalate to murder, which I know is your biggest concern. We will get them.’ But the truth now, it seemed, was that this gang were already killers.

  ‘Right . . .’ Jack turned and addressed the expectant room. They were subdued after Bevan’s diligent research into an eight-month-old murder case, so Jack had to kickstart them. ‘Fundamentally, nothing’s changed in terms of the investigation. More seems to be at stake now, I understand that, but we can’t deviate from the path we’re on. Bevan . . .’ She stared at him expectantly, like a child who’d been ignored by her parents. ‘Well done.’ The tension immediately drained from Bevan’s face. ‘You should go with forensics and supervise. After you’ve finished briefing the team and after you’ve done one job for me – which I’ll tell you about in a minute. Carry on . . . horseboxes and motorbikes.’

  ‘Oh, right, sir. Yes, well . . .’ Bevan took a deep breath and began again. ‘The big problem is that from the weekend after next, we’ll be inundated with horseboxes and motorbikes because of the equestrian event. Tens of thousands of people will descend on the Cotswolds.’

  Jack held up a hand. ‘What’s the relevance of the biker? Why are they suddenly of interest?’

  ‘Well, sir . . .’ Bevan started to falter. Being faced with having to justify a new angle of enquiry to a Met man was daunting. She looked to Gifford for backup, but he didn’t offer any. His silence was the first piece of direct leadership Jack had witnessed: Gifford knew Bevan was doing fine without him, so he wanted her to be the one to answer Jack’s question. She started again, ‘It’s possible that the biker is acting like a scout. To recce the properties, collect information about the owners’ routines and such. He’d easily fit in the horse trailer.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Good shout.’

  Jack then changed the subject to Mathew. This was the other job he needed Bevan for. It was important to know for certain that their burglars were responsible for such a brutal attack. He wanted to exclude every other possibility before concluding, 100 per cent, that this gang had assaulted him.

  ‘I need the bodycams from all officers who attended the Barrowmans’ early yesterday morning. I need to know—’

  ‘Set up and ready to go on the computer at your desk, sir!’ There was no stopping Bevan now. ‘I downloaded the footage from all three cameras into the same file and cut it down, so you’ve just got the Barrowman incident. There’s nothing on it, though, sir. The traffic was held back by police vehicles, so you can’t see anything clearly.’

  ‘I’m not looking for the vehicles, Bevan. I’m looking to see if any of the officers drew their batons and used them in self-defence.’

  This instantly got Gifford’s attention and prompted him to chip in, ‘Now, wait a minute. If there’s been a complaint . . .’

  All Jack had to do to stop Gifford in his tracks was hold up his mobile and show him the images of Mathew’s back that Nathaniel had forwarded to him. Gifford physically flinched at the sight of the bruising on Mathew’s torso. Jack assured them that there had been no complaints and that he didn’t doubt the officers for one second, but they had to be certain for their own peace of mind.

  The collated footage from the bodycams all showed the same thing: Mathew sent Sergeant McDermott tumbling backwards, then raced towards the busy road. When he refused to stop for the other officers, they made the decision to take him to the ground and restrain him for his own safety. No batons were drawn. Jack watched the footage from McDermott’s bodycam: once Mathew was down, she crawled across the lawn and talked soothingly, assuring him that he wasn’t in any kind of trouble. All the while, Sally could be seen stroking Mathew’s hair and repeating the instruction for him to be calm.

  Gifford was relieved. ‘When we got bodycams, I thought they were a waste of time but, my God, they just earned their slice of the budget.’

  Jack asked Bevan to contact Sergeant McDermott. ‘I’ve just seen her in the canteen, sir. I’ll go get her.’ Then Bevan bounced out of the squad room.

  Jack and Gifford looked at the frozen image of Mathew, pinned to the lawn outside his own home, sobbing and petrified. ‘I don’t know this boy well, Jack, but I know his parents. Yes, George can be a pompous arse, but he’s a good dad. For the past twelve years, at every one of Mathew’s annual reviews, the authorities have suggested that his “challenging behaviour” is too much to handle at home. But George and Sally refuse to let Mathew be admitted into an institution. They’d do anything for him. So this must be killing them. It’d kill me. Look at him, Jack . . . look what he does when he’s scared. He doesn’t fight, he runs. The bastards who did this to Mathew don’t think like normal human beings.’

  This was the most Jack had ever heard Gifford say. It reminded him that anyone can surprise you under the right circumstances. Gifford was a family man, Jack realised; that was why he had allowed Bevan to shine in front of Jack. Gifford might well have stopped learning, as Ridley suggested, but he was still capable of teaching.

  ‘Sir . . .’ Jack had to ask Gifford to authorise the accounts search on Barrowman and wasn’t sure how. ‘Do you think Barrowman was guilty of tax fraud back in ’07?’

  ‘What the hell’s that got to do with the price of fish?’ Gifford responded.

  ‘Nothing. I want to know if you think Barrowman is an honest man. He could be generous and loving to his family and still have strayed onto the wrong side of the law.’

  Gifford was becoming familiar wit
h Jack’s methods. ‘What’s the real question?’

  ‘His list of stolen items differs from his wife’s. He included a string of pearls; she didn’t. She also didn’t know how many gold bars were in the safe or how much cash, so, I’m inclined to believe that his recollection is more accurate. But when I double-checked, he backtracked and said there were no pearls.’

  Gifford slowly put his hands into his pockets. ‘You can’t think he’s our inside man. He was targeted!’

  Jack shrugged. ‘This gang is capable of anything. Maybe it was a warning. Or maybe there were no pearls and Barrowman was mistaken. I don’t know, sir. And I hate not knowing.’

  Bevan scurried back into the squad room with Sergeant McDermott in tow. She had half a sandwich in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, so Bevan had clearly dragged her from the canteen. ‘DS Warr from the Met wants to talk to you about Mathew Barrowman.’ Jack couldn’t hide his grin. Since arriving in the Cotswolds, it seemed that his surname had become ‘Warr-from-the-Met’. Bevan then scurried out again, to take a forensic team to the secluded office of Mr Bright-Cullingwood.

  Ten minutes later, McDermott was sitting with Jack and Gifford, whilst Davidson gathered together all the statements from Barrowman’s employees.

  Jack had just asked McDermott to fill them in about Mathew and the time they’d spent together at chess club. ‘It was an after-school club for 10 to 16-year-olds. Although Matty stayed till he was 18, I think. He joined when I was 12, so I guess I knew him for about four years. We weren’t friends, we just played chess together. That’s as good as it got with Matty. He needs a reason to be with you, see; if he has that, he’ll keep coming back. Till he gets bored.’ McDermott smiled fondly. ‘It’s nothing personal.’

  Jack was encouraged to know that he and Mathew had the shared skill of being able to play chess. This would be his way into Mathew’s world. But McDermott quickly brought him down to earth.

  ‘Nah, he’s passed that. Do you know anything about Game of Thrones?’ Jack’s blank expression told McDermott that he didn’t. ‘Oh, I’m a huge fan,’ she continued. ‘Me and Mathew are soul-mates when it comes to hobbies. It takes a bit of work to get him on-side but, once you’ve got him, he’ll not forget you.’

  Jack thanked her very much then let her go so that she could finish her sandwich.

  Jack looked at Gifford and was about to return to the subject of Barrowman, but Gifford spoke first. ‘I’ll do that check. But only to prove you wrong.’

  *

  Annie was in the pigsty, mucking out. She spotted Jack heading towards her and her eyes immediately went to his shoes, but when she saw his new boots, she smiled. Not that Jack could see her face, as it was hidden behind a scarf to keep out the stench that she was stirring up each time her spade disturbed the crust on top of yesterday’s pig shit.

  ‘Still can’t get used to the pong,’ Annie shouted. ‘I don’t normally do the pigs, but we need the money from sending one of them to slaughter and Charlotte won’t choose.’ As Jack got closer, the smell hit him too. ‘Stay there. I’ll come to you.’

  Annie propped her spade against the fence and headed to the stables where she washed her wellies beneath the outside tap. The diluted pig muck ran downhill towards Jack, so he moved with it, keeping out of harm’s way until Annie was done. ‘Charlotte’s delivering plants at the moment. Was it her you came to see? I’ll have to carry on if you don’t mind. I need to get Alec boxed up before she gets back.’ Then, in a whisper, she added, ‘He’s the chosen one.’

  Jack was happy to chat to Annie whilst she worked. ‘Could you tell me where you were last night? I’m asking everyone.’

  Annie’s interest was instantly piqued. ‘Has there been another?’ Jack remained silent and she immediately knew that there had. ‘I often look at these big houses with envy, you know. I’d love a swimming pool; that would be my indulgence if I had money. But every now and then we’re reminded how wealth brings its own problems. Jealousy is very destructive. Taking instead of earning is . . . well, I just don’t understand it.’

  As Annie continued, she casually got a sheet of tablets from her pocket and took one.

  ‘We were at the Soho Farmhouse from seven till just gone midnight. I wait tables and Charlotte’s a commis chef. We don’t normally work that late, but there was a private function for a group of Londoners who’ve just bought themselves a racehorse. It’s the same every year when the annual equestrian event comes around, and it’ll stay this busy for the next couple of weeks. Sertraline.’ Annie was telling Jack the name of the tablet she’d just taken, even though he’d not asked. ‘I get a bit antsy sometimes. I’m an insulin-dependent diabetic. It’s under control now, but when it first started, I wasn’t great at adapting to the new regime. And it is a regime! Charlotte keeps me on track. But I do stress about it. “Antsy” is her word for me!’

  Jack thanked Annie for her honesty and then asked her what they did beyond midnight, once they’d stopped work.

  ‘We spent an hour or so helping to tidy up, then drove home. Well, no actually, it took us another half hour to get out of the car park because one of the diners, who hadn’t booked a room for the night, tried to drive back to Chipping Norton to find a B&B and the manager took their keys off them. There was a bit of a ruck and he had to call the police. Ronnie Davidson took the call. Charlotte and I had a chat with him, so he’ll be able to confirm all of that.’

  Jack rolled his eyes. Davidson could have bloody mentioned that he was part of Charlotte’s alibi, but no, he was too busy hiding. Jack swallowed his frustration. ‘Thank you, Annie. I’ll let you get back to Alec.’ Then curiosity got the better of him. ‘What are the two survivors called?’

  Annie said that Charlotte had named the pigs Alec, Billy, Daniel and Stephen as she was a huge fan of the Baldwin brothers. Stephen had met his maker a year ago, which had been so traumatic they’d vowed never to slaughter another Baldwin. But needs must . . .

  *

  Back at the station, Jack headed straight for DC Ronnie Davidson. ‘Have you read all of the witness statements?’ Davidson’s silence told Jack that not only had he not read every statement, but he also didn’t know why Jack was asking. ‘Read them. Then come and tell me why it’s essential for every officer to be up to speed with every aspect of my investigation.’

  Bevan waited patiently by Jack’s desk. As he turned in her direction, Ronnie made a ‘wanker’ motion behind Jack’s back, which she ignored. She was enjoying the investigation too much to join in with any unprofessional mocking, and besides, by now the entire station knew that Davidson had been caught taking the piss out of the fact that Mrs ‘call me Elli’ Fullworth fancied Jack. The only way Davidson knew how to save face was to pretend he didn’t give a damn.

  ‘Sir,’ Bevan said. ‘Elaine Thorburn, the Barrowmans’ housekeeper, wanted to speak to someone about the case. She said it was important. I knew you were on your way back, so I put her in the canteen and said you’d be with her as soon as possible.’

  Jack asked what had happened at the home of Mr Bright-Cullingwood.

  ‘Forensics are still there. I interviewed him formally, but then I was just twiddling my thumbs.’ She said she’d left a couple of experienced uniformed officers at the house to continue supervising, but that she thought she’d be of more use in the squad room.

  ‘Good,’ Jack agreed. ‘Right then: Elaine Thorburn. Come on, Bevan. You lead.’

  *

  Elaine was a short, stocky woman with broad shoulders and muscular arms. She certainly looked like the kind of housekeeper who led by example. Jack and Bevan sat opposite her, and Bevan was clearly waiting for Jack to start the interview, so Jack asked them what they’d like to drink and left them alone. By the time he returned, having left their order with the lovely Barbara, Elaine was mid-explanation as to why she’d taken it upon herself to come to the police station. Her voice was soft and gentle, belying her sturdy appearance completely.

  ‘Your poli
cemen told me that I wasn’t allowed to do anything or touch anything, as you’d expect, but while I was waiting to be told when I could come back to complete my duties, I got all caught up with watching your CSIs work. Ooh, it was interesting. Anyway, one of them, poor girl, was going through the bin and that’s when I saw the folded-up pizza box. It definitely wasn’t there the night before, ’cos I empty the bins every evening on my way out, so it must have been delivered on the night of the burglary.’

  ‘Mathew got a pizza delivered on the night of the burglary?’ Bevan didn’t yet understand how important this detail was.

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve seen their kitchen,’ Elaine continued. ‘But all the food cupboards and the fridge have got locks on them. Mathew’s on a constant diet, you see, on account of his condition. Takeaway food is a definite no-no. But, well, between you and me, being left on his own is often a temptation too far. He’s capable of being very independent, is Mathew. I hear he’s got autism and they think he’s some sort of simpleton, but he’s a smart boy with a lovely manner. I’ve taken him shopping to Banbury before now and all people see is the flapping hands and funny noises. Then when we sit with a hot chocolate – don’t tell his mum – and we chat about Game of Thrones, people are surprised that he can hold down a conversation. He’s very intelligent; he’s just selective about what he learns . . .’

  Elaine had definitely lost her train of thought, so Bevan nudged her back on track.

  ‘You were telling us about the pizza box in the outside bin.’

  ‘Oh yes! So . . . well, yes, that was it really. He had a pizza delivered. Probably by Idris Jackson . . . he’s a little shit, if you’re interested. But he might have seen something useful. That’s what I came to tell you.’