Judas Horse

by Lynda La Plante

  *

  When Jack arrived back in the squad room with Bevan, Davidson was waiting for him. He was holding all of the witness statements and looking sheepish. Jack repeated the question he’d asked about half an hour ago: ‘Why is it essential for every officer to be up to speed with every aspect of my investigation?’

  Davidson now knew that if he’d read Charlotte’s statement about being at the Soho Farmhouse at the time of the Barrowmans’ burglary, he’d have been able to verify her alibi and save Jack a trip to their smallholding.

  ‘Exactly,’ Jack replied. ‘Talk to each other. All the time. Right, DC Davidson, go and pick up Idris Jackson, please. He delivered a pizza to Mathew on the night of the burglary. I want you to interview him here.’ Davidson was stunned that a day that started with a double bollocking was about to end with him leading his first interview.

  ‘Got to start somewhere, Ronnie.’ Jack’s tone was glib. ‘Bevan’s just led her first, now it’s your turn. When you get him here, make him a drink. Let him do most of the talking. Don’t be afraid of silences; they’re useful, because he’ll instinctively fill them. We need every second accounted for – from the moment he headed down that unlit stretch of road towards the Barrowmans’, to the moment he left. Don’t let him leave out a single detail. He’s not suspected of anything, so you’ll be fine. You’re only interviewing him here because I’m here. If you need me, just shout.’ Then Jack turned his back on Davidson and sat down before the poor lad could doubt himself any further.

  *

  In A & E, Mathew was in a high dependency side room, despite the fact that he wasn’t actually high dependency; not medically anyway. The room was away from the hustle and bustle of the waiting room and cubicles area, so it was perfect for keeping Mathew relaxed. When they’d first arrived, and had walked through the bleeding, swearing, vomiting, drunken crowd of people, Mathew had kept himself calm by repeating, ‘Don’t worry, Nate, these people are poorly at the moment, but they’ll be fine. They’ll be fine and I’ll be fine.’ George Barrowman had led the way, followed by Nathaniel and Mathew, followed by Oaks. Oaks had always recognised Barrowman’s social ‘pull’ but did wonder how he’d managed to bypass the extensive queue and secure a private side room. This was the NHS after all, not a private hospital. But then, seconds later, just outside the high dependency room, Oaks found his answer: a sign that read ‘The Barrowman Room – dedicated to Mr George Barrowman in recognition of his generous support of our autistic community’.

  ‘It’s a social room,’ Nathaniel explained when he caught Oaks reading the sign. ‘Toys, board games, pool table, library, sensory stuff, computer games. There’s even a mini cinema in there. Mathew’s been in and out of hospital since he was a nipper and he needed a safe space to play.’

  Oaks was shocked – he had no clue Barrowman had a generous side.

  Barrowman now stood in the corner of the high dependency side room, keeping himself out of the way and leaving Mathew in the very capable hands of Nathaniel. Oaks was outside the room, watching through a clear horizontal gap in the otherwise opaque window. Nathaniel helped Mathew to remove his T-shirt so that the medics could examine his wounds. One of the strikes to his back had broken the skin and, just beneath his hairline, there was a small, open gash. There were two or three minutes of chatter and conferring, before Barrowman popped his head around the door. ‘He’ll have an X-ray as a precaution, but they think he’ll be fine. Maybe some hot drinks while we wait? Mine’s a coffee, black, no sugar. Nathaniel’s a tea, no sugar; and Mathew’s a hot chocolate. Oh, and not the vending machine. Use the canteen.’

  Oaks texted Jack to get him up to speed and headed for the canteen. Oaks couldn’t help but grin as he mumbled to himself, ‘I know your secret, Barrowman. You’re a closet nice guy.’

  *

  Jack sat listening to Davidson relay his interview with Idris. He had taken the instruction to not let him leave out a single detail very seriously indeed.

  ‘The pizza arrived at a quarter to nine. It was a large chicken and bacon, with double cheese and extra mushrooms. Idris rang the bell at the gate and Mathew buzzed him in. The gates opened, he drove his scooter to the kitchen door, where Mathew paid him and then he left.’

  Jack fired some important additional questions at Ronnie: why did Idris use the kitchen door? Where’s the gate buzzer located in the house? Did Idris see the gates closing behind him when he left? But Ronnie had all the answers. ‘Idris had delivered to Mathew before, so he knew to use the kitchen door. That’s where the gate thingy is . . . by the kitchen door. And Idris didn’t see the gates close after he left, but he heard them.’

  Jack stood and headed for Bevan’s desk, where she was going through the hundreds of horseboxes that were registered to attend the annual equestrian event – they all needed their own parking space allocation, so that the vet could find them quickly if necessary, and she was creating a file containing a photo, owner details and registration for every single one. Bevan was good at doing the dull, routine work with enthusiasm, but right now he needed her to shift to a different train of thought.

  ‘Bevan, start the Barrowmans’ CCTV from the night of the burglary at eight, please.’ Jack glanced back, expecting to see Davidson at his shoulder, but he’d returned to his desk thinking that he was no longer needed. ‘Ronnie!’ Jack snapped. ‘Don’t wait to be invited, this is your investigation too. Get over here.’ Davidson was on his feet and at Jack’s side before he’d finished speaking. ‘I want it quarter-screen, with the two external gate cameras and the two internal gate cameras playing simultaneously.’ It took Bevan a few seconds to get the screen as Jack had requested. As the action played out, initially showing nothing but the odd fox, Jack started the brainstorming. ‘Ronnie, if this gang uses scouts and if Mathew ordered himself a pizza . . .’ Jack left his sentence unfinished and stared at Davidson, forcing him to think for himself.

  ‘Oh, er . . .’ The waiting was painful, but Jack knew that this was the best way for any copper to learn. ‘Oh! If a scout saw Idris arriving, they’d have known Mathew was at home. But then they still went in? They’ve never done that before, have they, sir? Gone into a house they knew was occupied.’ Jack headed back to his desk, leaving Davidson and Bevan to watch all four screens between them and note down every detail of every second between 8 p.m. and the moment Mathew ran from the house screaming.

  *

  Maggie took so long to walk to the front door that she thought whoever it was would have gone by the time she got there. She held the baby bottle under her chin, so it stayed in Hannah’s mouth; she had a dummy hanging from her finger, a muslin cloth over her shoulder ready for burping, and the bottom half of Hannah’s baby-grow was unfastened ready for a quick nappy-change before nap time. Hannah’s chubby bare legs flapped about and occasionally kicked Maggie in the chin.

  She somehow managed to open the door and Ridley smiled over the top of the biggest bunch of flowers Maggie had ever seen. Then he held out a bottle of red wine, label facing Maggie for her approval. Châteauneuf du Pape! Maggie didn’t know a lot about wine, but she’d heard this one mentioned on TV by Nigella Lawson, so she knew it must be good.

  Maggie sat on the sofa with Hannah’s head resting in the palm of her hand, as she rubbed and patted her back. Hannah stared at Ridley through a deep frown, framed by her ever-darkening brow – she was looking him up and down, as though working out who the hell he was and what he was doing here.

  Shit, Ridley thought to himself. She looks at me like Jack does! Then she burped and smiled, making Ridley grin.

  Hannah’s eyes closed and she arched herself backwards in a long stretch. Maggie deftly caught her, then laid her down on the sofa so she could join Ridley in a well-earned glass of wine. Now that Hannah was asleep, Ridley didn’t actually know what to say. Small talk wasn’t really his thing. Eventually he said, ‘I wanted to say thank you. For the compliment of asking me to be Hannah’s guardian.’

  Maggie
smiled. ‘Honestly, Simon, we couldn’t think of anyone better. Don’t worry, though; it doesn’t mean Hannah has to move in with you if we both pop off. Just that we trust you to make the right choices for her. To be on her side.’

  Ridley nodded. ‘I can do that.’

  Maggie looked at him and gently shook her head in disbelief. ‘My God, Simon, why aren’t you married?’ Ridley laughed, to cover his embarrassment. ‘I’ve never heard you say much, if I’m honest, but what you do say is always so lovely. You’re very kind.’

  Ridley had no idea how to respond, so he sipped his wine instead. Maggie could see she’d caught him off-guard. His humility was heartwarming. As Maggie looked at him, she realised that she actually had no idea whether Ridley was married or not. He could even be gay for all she knew, although he had more of a celibate vibe about him. But whatever the truth, it was clearly not something he was prepared to elaborate on.

  They talked for another twenty minutes, mainly about whether or not parenthood was how she thought it would be. Then Ridley excused himself and got up to leave, saying Maggie should take advantage of Hannah napping. She looked so tired, Ridley reckoned she too would be napping within seconds.

  *

  ‘Guv!’ Davidson shouted loudly across the squad room, bringing Gifford out of his office. Jack joined them at Davidson’s side and for a few seconds, they both watched Bevan getting all four screens to the right time-code. Then Davidson narrated as the action played out in front of them.

  ‘Idris arrives bang on 8.45, just like he said. He presses the buzzer, and the gate starts to open pretty much straight away, so Mathew must have been waiting in the kitchen. The gate takes twenty seconds to open fully, then stays open for about a minute before Idris heads back out again. But look, sir . . .’ Davidson pointed to the bushes just outside of the Barrowmans’ property. During the minute the gates were open and unattended, a figure dressed in black biker leathers, wearing a black balaclava and carrying what looked like a torch, crept out of the bushes, entered the grounds and hid in the bushes on the inside of the gate. Then Idris rode his scooter out, and the gates took another twenty seconds to close behind him.

  Bevan fast-forwarded all of the recordings thirty-seven seconds and pressed play. The biker stepped out from his hiding place and got on his mobile phone. Whilst he talked, the biker paced in front of the camera, not remotely bothered by the fact that he was being recorded. He then put his mobile away and walked towards the house. Bevan fast-forwarded a further one minute and twenty-six seconds. The gates opened. Two masked men nimbly climbed the stone walls and spray-painted the camera lenses, exactly as Jack had suspected. These two masked men then disabled the inside gate cameras in the same way. Then just before the final camera lens was covered in spray-paint, a fourth masked man walked past in the background. In his hand, he brazenly carried a crowbar. Following him in was a car pulling a double horsebox. Bevan paused all four screens.

  Jack’s mind raced as he finally made sense of something he’d heard Mathew say. ‘Masked men,’ he said to himself. Then he closed his eyes and bowed his head, almost in shame. Bevan and Davidson couldn’t bring themselves to interrupt Jack’s moment of self-reproach. He then quickly stood upright and strode away across the room. He stood, hands on hips, looking at Gifford who was now leaning against his door frame.

  ‘When I was at the house, sir, Mathew rushed into the kitchen, frightened, shouting about “masked men”. Seeing as his home was swarming with CSIs at the time, everyone thought he was talking about them, but he was talking about the burglars. The masked burglars.’ Jack paced, trying to put the chain of events together. ‘The scout opened the gates for them. They brought weapons with them, meaning they’ve always been prepared for confrontation. What else? What else? There’s something I need to remember . . . come on, Jack . . . Yes! The oily stain. Bevan, get on to forensics and fast-track the results on the stain that was collected from the back of the chair in Barrowman’s study. Ronnie, we need that pizza box . . .’

  ‘I’ll call forensics. They’ll be quicker for me.’ Gifford was on his mobile before Jack had time to thank him. ‘What are we thinking the oily stain is going to turn out to be?’

  ‘If these cocky bastards were in the house just seconds after Idris left . . . if they took Mathew by surprise and took him out of the equation quickly, what would they do next?’

  Davidson replied instinctively. ‘I’d eat his pizza.’

  Jack clicked his fingers at Davidson. ‘So would I. They had all the time in the world. The house was empty for hours, Mathew was under control. This gang comes tooled up, ready for anything, but this is the first time they’ve actually had to fight – and that’s exciting. The adrenaline would be pumping. They’d have felt invincible. That’s what violence does to people like this. The good news is that adrenaline can also make us do stupid things . . . like nick Mathew’s pizza and, hopefully, leave a dirty great DNA profile on a leather office chair.’

  Right on cue, Gifford received a call-back from forensics confirming that the oily stain on the back of the chair in Barrowman’s study was indeed from the cheese topping on a pizza. It seemed this astute, experienced gang of burglars, who hadn’t put a foot wrong in three years, had taken off their gloves to steal and eat the sneaky bootleg dinner of an autistic man.

  *

  Mathew paid Idris for the pizza with three £5 notes, and then handed over another £5 in coins. This was their routine. Their arrangement; £15 for the pizza, and £5 for Idris to keep his mouth shut. And for Mathew it was worth every penny. There was plenty about life that Mathew didn’t understand, but he understood bribery: if he’s a good boy, he gets ice cream; if Idris keeps their secret, he gets £5. Idris said goodbye, jumped onto his scooter and skidded away down the gravel driveway. Mathew pushed the gate button, knowing that the twenty seconds it took to close was plenty of time for Idris to get out onto the road.

  Mathew headed for the stairs, pizza in hand, making a low, involuntary humming sound; this was how he contained his excitement and controlled his urge to eat the pizza on the way back to his bedroom. God, it smelt so good! The humming wasn’t loud, but it was loud enough to mask the sound of biker boots approaching across the tiled kitchen floor.

  The first blow from the heavy torch came down hard across Mathew’s shoulder blades, forcing him down onto his knees and then forwards onto his hands. The pizza box shot across the highly polished floor, out of reach. The second blow came from the man with the crowbar. The crowbar hit Mathew’s ribs and forced him to drop onto his side, curled up in the foetal position.

  Mathew made no noise at all as the blows fell; shock had rendered him silent. From his position on his side, Mathew looked up to see what was to come next. Four masked men surrounded him. The closest was holding the crowbar, a second twisted a foot-long metal torch in his hands and the last two were unarmed, but their gloved fists were clenched so tight that Mathew could see their knuckles. Mathew desperately tried to make sense of what was happening, why they seemed so angry with him, but it didn’t make any sense. He’d done nothing wrong, except order a pizza behind his parents’ backs, but he was certain that had nothing to do with these men being in his home.

  As Mathew hugged his aching ribs, a third blow from a boot struck him in the backside. The men laughed, which, again, Mathew couldn’t understand. He even said as much: ‘Not funny!’ The giggling stopped and the beating began. Boots and weapons rained down on his body, all the time Mathew shouting, ‘I’m sorry! You can laugh! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! You can laugh if you want to!’ The man holding the crowbar then stood back and watched the others continue the beating. When this man finally stepped towards Mathew, all of the others immediately stopped hurting him, and Mathew was grateful. This man was in charge; he could tell. ‘Thank you,’ Mathew whimpered, and blood spilt from his mouth. The man’s head cocked to one side, his part-hidden mouth smirked, and he raised the crowbar. Mathew cried out in fear, screwed his
eyes tight shut and wrapped his arms around his head waiting for the blow to land. Nothing. Mathew opened his eyes to see what the man in charge was doing. He was standing, arm frozen in the air, crowbar poised. ‘I promise to only hit you once more,’ the man whispered. ‘But where? Where shall I hit you?’ He shifted the position of the crowbar, as though he was going to strike Mathew on the legs. As Mathew flung his arms low, the man seemed to change his mind and instead aimed for Mathew’s head, then his chest, then his legs again. And so it went on, with the man pretending to strike Mathew, and Mathew desperately trying to follow his movements and defend himself against the one final blow that never came. As Mathew writhed about like a dying fish, the gang laughed at him and called him the most terrible names. Finally, when the man was bored with his game, he sharply brought the crowbar down in a fake blow towards Mathew’s legs, then quickly diverted upwards and cracked him round the back of his skull. Mathew stopped moving, his eyes open, but expressionless. Shock had taken over. Mathew’s brain refused to acknowledge the pain and made his body play dead, whilst it worked out what to do next.

  Through blurry eyes, Mathew focussed on the pizza box lying about five feet in front of him. It made him feel happy. He didn’t take his eyes off it. Not for one second. Not until the man who had hurt him so badly bent down and picked it up. Mathew stared at the empty spot on the floor and imagined his pizza.

  *

  Within the hour, all of Gifford’s team was back in the squad room, having been stood down from pointlessly searching for the weapon or weapons used to assault Mathew. The atmosphere was electric. Gifford stood in his doorway, leaving the floor to Jack, as had become the norm. Gifford couldn’t help feeling jealous: he’d never before seen his team so together and so pumped. Jack saw it. It was the same look he’d seen on Ridley’s face in the past, so Jack went and stood firmly by Gifford’s side before addressing the room.