by Nick Oldham
They thanked her. She accompanied them out of the office and back down to street level, passing the other businesses with offices in the complex.
At the door they bade her goodbye and walked to Henry’s car, both deep in thought until finally, as Blackstone dropped heavily into the passenger seat of the Audi, she said, ‘Not moved us any further forward, but nice to catch up with her.’
‘Yep, she’s keeping well, but you’re right: we don’t seem to have learned anything more about our demons.’
‘My demons,’ she corrected him. ‘You’ve compartmentalized yours.’
Henry twisted squarely to look at her. ‘Actually, I’d hate to be one of your demons right now, Debbie … I’ve a feeling one or more of ’em are going to get their arses toasted. Anyhow, what say we go and see how Clanfield is going on in Preston cells? See if we can get an interview slot with him?’
‘Good plan,’ she said. She had her phone in her hand. ‘I’m going to play Candy Crush, if that’s all right? Chills me out, keeps me quiet.’
‘What’s Candy Crush?’ Henry had heard of it, but it really meant nothing to him.
‘A game of skill and passion. Just drive, OK?’
Henry set off, cutting on to Church Street and driving away from the town centre to the junction with Devonshire Square where he intended to turn right on to Whitegate Drive and make towards Preston.
As he made the turn across the busy junction, something jarred his mind, but he couldn’t say for sure exactly what.
‘I’m on level two thousand, six hundred and thirty-one,’ Blackstone announced.
‘I don’t know what you mean, but I’m in awe of you,’ Henry replied.
A few minutes later, they reached Marton Circle, the large roundabout where the M55 ended. Henry drove straight across, keeping on the direct road to Preston.
Henry hadn’t spoken up to that point, letting Blackstone concentrate on her game, but then he said, ‘Call me a suspicious old bastard if you will.’
Blackstone looked up from her phone. ‘You’re a suspicious old bastard.’
‘And not one to give a dog a bad name.’
‘But …’
‘I don’t have many hobbies,’ he admitted. He was driving, not looking at her, but knew she was scrutinizing him.
‘Sad old bastard,’ she said.
‘But I quite like reading about old court cases, and when I say old, I mean old. You know, Victorian ones and the like. Some can be quite juicy and lurid.’
‘Lovely. Is this going anywhere?’
‘Just me mulling.’
Blackstone tutted. ‘Look, you’ve distracted me now and I’ve lost a life, so you’d better say something or I’ll punch you.’
‘OK. One I read recently: police – in Cardiff, I think – visited a house and found prostitutes in bed with men in every room, including a drunken prostitute on the sofa downstairs. They arrested the house owner who was sentenced to six months’ hard labour for keeping a brothel.’
‘Still goes on, except the hard labour bit. Now it’s widescreen TVs, Jacuzzis and comfy beds. Your point being?’
‘I love a good coincidence … because coincidences are clues, which in itself has nothing to do with the coincidence I’m referring to, because it’s all a bit vague.’
‘As are you.’
‘Probably … anyway … the guy who ended up doing hard labour for keeping a brothel was actually a salvationist dedicated to saving fallen women. Touch of irony, there.’
Blackstone just shook her head.
‘Just thinking out loud,’ he said, then let it go because he knew he’d planted a seed. He changed the subject. ‘How about phoning ahead to Preston CID – let them know we’re coming?’
The two DCs who had interviewed Clanfield the day before had been working on him all day, and by the time Henry and Blackstone landed, they were busily compiling the remand court file. The fast-tracked DNA results had come through and matched the sample from the offence, and Melanie Wooton herself had identified the necklace found in Clanfield’s flat as hers. Clanfield was genuinely stitched up and would probably not set foot outside a cell for fourteen years.
The detectives were in the CID office, ties off, shirt sleeves rolled up, deep into paperwork. It was obvious they worked together regularly as a team.
Henry liked the aura they emanated. Cool professionalism, good humour. In synch with each other. A bond. Henry bet they got results.
When Blackstone walked into the CID office just ahead of Henry, both DCs stood up and gave her a genuine round of applause.
Henry watched her reaction: taken aback, embarrassed, pleased.
She took a bow.
‘Really, really well done, Sarge,’ one of the DCs said. His name was Eddows. ‘You can drop jobs like this on our laps anytime you want.’
‘Thank you, guys, appreciated. Where are you up to with him?’
‘Charged with rape, bail refused, court in the a.m. with a request for a three-day lie down,’ the other DC said. His name was Cattle. The ‘three-day lie down’ referred to a seventy-two-hour extension of Clanfield’s custody to police cells for further questioning, authorized by magistrates.
‘Have you mentioned to him the photographs we found in his possession yet?’ Blackstone asked.
‘Not had the chance,’ Cattle said. ‘Mainly because he admitted two more rapes that we had to look into.’
‘Local?’ Henry asked.
‘Manchester.’
‘Wow!’ Blackstone exclaimed.
‘We get the feeling there may be more,’ Eddows said.
‘A serial rapist,’ Blackstone said.
‘So just at the moment the photos are running second place, plus his hard drives are still being examined by the techies, so when that’s all done, we’ll lay it all in front of him.’
‘Can we speak to him?’ Henry asked.
‘Not under caution – off the record, just a bit of intelligence gathering,’ Blackstone added for clarity.
The two detectives shared a concerned look.
Eddows said, ‘About what?’
‘One of the photographs is of particular interest to us.’
‘Which one?’
Henry showed him the photograph on his phone and was open about why he wanted to ask Clanfield about it.
And Eddows was open with him. ‘As you can imagine, we don’t want anything to happen which allows this guy to squirm off the hook, so it has to be totally above board, yeah? Proper custody record entry, names, signatures, reason for interview – everything.’
‘Understood,’ Blackstone said.
‘And one of us in the room,’ Eddows added.
‘No problem with that.’
Clanfield was retrieved from his cell by a gaoler and placed in an interview room where he waited for the officers.
Henry had to hide a smirk when he saw the state of the prisoner’s face a day after he’d been punched out by Blackstone. It was a bent, twisted, dirtily bruised mess, deep purple-black patches under both eyes, now turning mustard yellow. Even the disposable mask he was wearing could not hide the injuries.
Eddows hovered by the door.
Henry and Blackstone, face masks on, settled themselves opposite Clanfield, who glared at them. His face was obviously causing him severe pain.
‘So how are you, Mr COVID man?’ Blackstone asked.
‘What is this about?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘We’d like to ask you some questions – off the record for the moment.’
‘Fuck’s that supposed to mean?’
‘That whatever you say to us is off the record for the moment. If we need to change that, we’ll caution you, turn the tape on, start from the beginning and with your solicitor present.’
‘What, then?’
Henry took out a hard copy of the photograph but kept his palm over it to obscure it.
He let Blackstone do the talking. ‘You’ve been found in possession of thousands of photographs o
f an obscene nature, all involving young children and teenagers. Your computer is being checked as we speak and no doubt many more obscene images will be found, even if you think you might have deleted them. You will be questioned under caution about those when the time comes.’
Clanfield folded his arms, tried to look impassive.
Underneath the veneer, Henry guessed the man would be very afraid. At least, that is what he hoped.
‘So you have to know that, generally speaking, you’re goosed, my COVID friend who spits at women. Bearing this in mind,’ Blackstone said, ‘I want you to look at one particular photograph and help us by telling us about it.’
‘Why would I do that? Not as if I’m going to get anything from cooperating with you.’
‘Well, let’s see, shall we?’ Henry said.
He pushed the photograph across the expanse of the table. Henry watched Clanfield’s facial and body language reaction as his hand came away to reveal the image, and spotted the sudden change in Clanfield’s face.
A tic.
A flicker.
A blink.
Henry would even swear Clanfield’s nostrils flared under the face mask.
The gulp: Clanfield’s Adam’s apple rising and falling.
Then back to normal, all over in a second.
He knew something about it. Something more than it just being a photograph in his collection.
Clanfield shrugged. ‘Don’t even remember this one,’ he said blandly, ‘because, as you know’ – he leaned forward on his elbow conspiratorially – ‘I’ve got thousands of them, most with my jizz on them.’
Blackstone said, ‘You really are a disgusting monster, aren’t you?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Anyway – this photograph,’ she said, trying to maintain her calm. ‘Tell me about it, because you do know something, don’t you?’
‘Just part of a beloved collection.’
‘Where did it come from?’
He shrugged. Bored now.
‘Who is this lad in the photo?’ Henry asked.
‘How should I know?’
‘Is that you behind him?’
‘Yeah, right, I wish. Don’t think so.’
‘Your face showed me that you know exactly who he is,’ Henry said.
‘I’m wearing a mask, so you can’t see my face, dick.’
‘I can see enough of it. The photo,’ Henry said, tapping it.
Clanfield glanced at it. ‘It’s old, older than me – so how should I know? It’s just kiddie porn. Put that phrase into any internet search and see what you get: tons of stuff like this.’
Henry leaned slightly forward and placed the tip of his forefinger on the arm of the young lad on the photo and tapped the ‘house’ tattoo. ‘That tattoo – what does it mean?’
‘How should I know?’ Clanfield’s eyes were wary now.
‘Roll up your right sleeve,’ Henry said.
‘Why?’
‘Just do it, Ellis, or I’ll pin you down and do it myself.’
Blackstone looked sharply at Henry, who sensed that DC Eddows had stood upright.
‘No,’ Clanfield said.
Henry’s eyes became fierce. ‘If I have to ask again, Ellis, I’ll get really angry … remember, no video on here, no tape running, no solicitor, just us in a soundproof room.’
Henry and the prisoner locked eyes across the tops of their face masks. Then Clanfield’s closed in defeat, before reopening.
Slowly, he pulled his shirt sleeve up to reveal his right forearm on which was the exact same tattoo as on the photograph: a square, a triangle, a slash diagonally across the square.
Henry heard Blackstone breathe in sharply.
‘Where did you get it?’ Henry asked. ‘And who did it for you?’
‘I don’t remember. Long time ago, when I was a kid – just fooling around.’
‘Who did it for you?’ Henry asked again.
‘I have no fucking idea.’ He had become resolute.
‘You can see it exactly matches the one on the boy’s arm, can’t you?’ Blackstone said.
‘And millions of people have “ACAB” on their knuckles, don’t they? I wonder why?’ he said with a sneer. ‘It’s just a coincidence.’
Henry and Blackstone exchanged a fleeting eye-to-eye look on that last word, coincidence.
‘So a square with a triangle on it with a line going through it diagonally, rising from left to right, is a coincidence?’ Blackstone demanded.
‘Clearly … and, like I said, that photo looks well old, well before my time.’
Henry sighed inwardly. Clanfield had a point. If this photograph was of Tommy Benemy, it could be thirty-five years old; the man opposite was only twenty-four – almost a generation apart.
Nevertheless, Henry said, ‘You’re lying. Who put this tatt on you?’
‘Can’t remember,’ Clanfield said with a hint of ‘come and get me’ in his voice.
‘He’s right, in terms of timeline – he and the photo are well out of synch. Could be a real coincidence … for once.’ Blackstone sighed.
She and Henry were back in the CID office sitting either side of DC Eddows’s desk. The two local detectives had nipped out to catch a bite to eat, leaving the CCU ones in the office, sifting through paperwork and speculating.
Henry was looking at the form on which Clanfield’s antecedents had been recorded, plus the descriptive form which listed the prisoner’s tattoos.
Henry said, ‘Nah.’
‘You just got blindsided by coincidences,’ Blackstone said.
‘Didn’t you find it very, very odd?’
‘Yeah, I did … an odd coincidence, but that’s all.’ She was also looking through the paperwork associated with Clanfield. A lot of it was tedious, form-filling, tick-box stuff, and from what she could see, the two local jacks had done a brilliant job of amassing everything about Clanfield they could lay their hands on. ‘Just a coincidence,’ she was muttering absentmindedly under her breath. ‘Just a one in a million …’ Then she stopped talking suddenly and said, ‘Oh my fucking God!’ which, even for her, Henry thought, was a tad strong.
‘Well,’ Henry said conceitedly, ‘we go on about the word that should not be said’ – and he whispered it – ‘coincidences – but they really do exist, and in my world they exist to trap criminals.’
‘Don’t rub it in,’ Blackstone responded crossly. Then she frowned and looked at him. ‘You’re a canny one, in’t ya? Did you have a feeling about it, or something?’
‘Not really.’
‘I mean, I sort of wondered about it at the time.’
‘Wondered what?’
‘Why you said we’d only found one photograph in Clanfield’s possession when you showed her the one with Tommy in, when we knew there was easily over a thousand.’ She was referring to their short chat with Julie Clarke, former cop, now charity worker. ‘Why didn’t you tell her we’d found so many?’
Henry scratched his head Stan Laurel style. ‘Um, not sure.’
‘Bollocks! Instinct?’
He shrugged modestly. ‘I suppose it’s because she’s an ex-cop – and when someone’s an ex-cop, it means they’re not a cop anymore, and as such they don’t automatically have a right to know anything more than I’m willing to share with them. I’m just suspicious of everyone and don’t trust anyone.’
‘But you’re an ex-cop,’ Blackstone ribbed him.
‘Christie, Henry Christie, Civilian Investigator,’ he corrected her.
They were still in the CID office in Preston but had moved across to an unoccupied desk in the corner of the room when Eddows and Cattle returned from their short refreshment break.
And they were looking at the paperwork Blackstone had unearthed in relation to Clanfield that had made her exclaim rudely: a missing-from-home file from eleven years ago.
Ellis Clanfield, as a thirteen-year-old lad, had been reported missing by his parents from his home in Preston. He had been missing for over
six weeks during the summer until he’d been found by a police patrol in Blackpool, having been chased from a shop in the town with a plastic bag full of expensive aftershave. He was quickly returned to his home in Preston, but according to the log that accompanied the report, he refused to say where he had been, what he had been doing and who he had been with.
The log itself – which had been kept in Preston comms then – listed all the updates, information and intelligence as to the missing person’s whereabouts and began with the suspicion that Ellis had gone to Blackpool, and the main point of contact there was Inspector Julie Clarke. Following Clanfield’s arrest for the shoplifting, he was cautioned for it, as it was a first offence, and the caution was administered as per force protocol by an officer of the rank of inspector or above.
That officer was Inspector Clarke.
‘None of this really means anything,’ Henry admitted.
‘No, you’re right, it’s all tosh,’ Blackstone agreed.
As is usual with MFH reports, a recent photograph is requested from the family. The photo is returned at the completion of the enquiry but will usually have been photocopied and the copy retained on the file. This was the case with Clanfield’s MFH file. The photograph was a family one which showed the young Clanfield standing there sullenly, being forced to have it taken, dressed in a T-shirt and jogging bottoms with his hands thrust deep into his pockets; obviously, the photograph was taken prior to him having gone missing.
‘Looks a shifty little shit, even then,’ Henry said, inspecting the photograph. ‘Funny how you can read people by just looking at them.’
‘He was – and looking at the dates of when he was missing, he then went on to commit the rape we just arrested him for.’
Henry, who was ready to admit his eyes were not as good as they once were, lifted the photograph up close to his nose to focus on it better. As Clanfield’s hands were in his pockets and he was wearing a T-shirt, Henry could see that his right arm did not have any marks or tattoos on it. He pointed this out to Blackstone.
‘I wonder if he got the tatt when he was in Blackpool?’ she speculated, then rocked forward on her chair. ‘One way of finding out – see if I can find the actual caution file from the archives. There should be descriptives in it and, being a caution, the paperwork would probably have stayed local in Blackpool.’