The man must also know the ACC will skewer him if she can, she has already taken overall supervision of C.I.D. from him, an area he regarded and ran as his own personal fiefdom. That she had always thought him a pen pusher and an unthinking useless copper is well known. Witness the poor state of C.I.D. under his tenure when it had long been Ancaster’s pride and joy with her at its head. She had been a lone voice against appointing him Head of C.I.D. and he has never forgotten or forgiven that. If it would not publicly damage the force, she should let him carry on with his present foolishness on this to bury himself so we could legitimately get rid.
The Fudge is more contrite, he merely checked security was in place, he says, drank tea with the staff in the kitchen. He never saw the diners or knew what it was all about, left around one in the morning and I know the camera backs up his leaving time as well before the fatal events.
The ACC almost smiles. Even though she must know that Creel will undoubtedly question her decision. He reportedly does on anything and everything – going directly to the Chief Constable and the new Police Commissioner, both friends from Church circles and in the same Freemason’s Lodge according to rumour. Not that even those fine gentlemen would be fool enough to side with Creel on this surely?
The ACC breaks into my thoughts, “No need to smile DCI Cade, I remain intrigued by much here and find it funny that Mr Aystrup is represented by such an able, and expensive lawyer, who is already talking about compensation for false arrest.”
Her blue eyes are locked on me now. She has seen the name of Sam’s lawyer in the file. She knows I respect and will be paying for that solicitor. She has an idea that there is layer after layer buried here that I know about and she can only sense. The trick will be what I tell her and when.
“Things seem to always happen around you, DCI Cade,” the ACC says pensively as she heaves the heavy door open. “I sincerely hope it is for the better from now on.”
31
Hot coffee and donuts arrive, bringing a meagre warmth in the gusting Siberian landscape with its snow and frost covered skeletons of stark trees and hedges. Bert delivers personally with a smile. The gesture has cost me but is worth it as this will be a long, cold hour.
Memories of better days with my old squad flood over me and I involuntarily hold my head, almost stumble as the wind whistles down the D'Eynscourte valley. DC Whittle nervous touches my arm, Parsons looks on disgusted, as my new team gather outside the Albion House gates, stamping their feet on the snow trodden road.
Coffee and pastries is one of the ACC’s team management techniques. When a young DC with her as my team leader, I had been designated to supply coffee and pastries every Thursday morning or in especially pressing situations, and had later adopted the idea myself.
The coffee aroma lifts the atmosphere as does the sweet taste of pastries quickly devoured by almost all, not least DC Tom Fenwick who apologises but still accounts for three of them with a trail of white sugar added to the touch of bacon grease already on his tie. Parsons eats and drinks nothing, standing disdainful and aloof. I do not want her here but am not so cruel as to just dismiss her, yet.
A van from Scientific Services pulls up. Jet black hair framing her face, bundled up against the cold in heavy dark blue clothing, our Director of Scientific Services, Jai Li known as Arden since school days, is rapidly enrobed in her crime scene suit and wellingtons.
Her eyes sparkle in the cold as she greets me, too slow to hide her shock at my exhaustion, “Here as requested by your good self, DCI Cade, myself and Impact Specialist Ken.”
We are all, even Gadd, heavily wrapped up against the cold as I walk them to the bleak spot where the dead woman was found.
I begin, my words taken up, spun around and up in the swirls of hostile air, “We are here as the suspicious death is our case from now.”
A murmur of approval; much better than mere burglaries. Only Parsons looks unhappy. Her very breath crystallises, viscous in the cold air, reeking dislike for everyone, anything, especially me.
“It is cold but I just want to quickly walk you through what happened. And look at new evidence that may throw new light on it. You do not need to make notes unless you want to, I will email you all this shortly - and the images will be in the case notes on line too.”
I stress, “For our squad only.”
I point downwards, “This spot in the ditch, lying on those stakes, is where the dead woman was found. Been there for around four hours, only discovered by sheer accident. It could be a road accident, deliberate hit and run, manslaughter or murder.”
‘Murder’ gets their close attention even as a sharp stab of wind makes them all struggle not to be knocked backwards.
“You cannot beat seeing actual locations and scene of crime stills in situ even on this small screen. DC Whittle was here on Day One, please add anything as we go.”
She nods as I continue,” By chance, I was first on scene, took initial stills and gathered evidence.”
They all stir, clearly wanting to ask why I was there first and why the case has been handed over to us, but not daring. The six of them, the three DCs and Parsons, the two forensics officers, naturally form a protective huddle against the bitter conditions as I show the images. My iPad screen is small but they can all see. Notebooks appear and are scribbled in with dexterity, save for Fenwick whose frying pan hands and thick sausage fingers in giant gloves dwarf his pen and clearly make writing in a small notebook impossible. Parsons still barely deigns to listen or look.
I begin with my wide and mid shots of the location early on Monday morning, before moving to close ups of the dead woman, her clothes and boots. Nobody cringes when I show the wounds, the face mangled, leg injured, probably broken. I explain we have not identified the woman as yet.
Whittle summarises on request, “No phone, bag, purse, wallet, watch, jewellery, no car nearby, no fingerprint recognition, no missing person locally or regionally matches her from the past twelve months, dental records offer no clue without knowing where she is from.”
I continue, “We shall be dependent on a public appeal, but the local newspaper does not come out till Friday, their website is poorly used though we are getting the picture up on it, shall need local door to door, pubs, vicars, hotels and taxi firms, local people perhaps seen her. First priority: who is she? Victimology. Much will flow from that.”
I detail my own conclusions that this is not a local woman, possibly from London, a person of means.
Parsons grunts in loud dismissal then, as I tick off the points, showing close ups of the clearly expensive clothes and their labels on screen, the lingerie, boots, manicure, hair style. Jai Li moves quietly to stand beside the Sergeant, touching her arm, slowly shaking her head as Parsons does not react.
Whittle murmurs, “Far from a homeless woman then, Sir.”
Parsons mutters disdainfully, “London, clothes, lingerie, pah. You’ll be saying her perfume is significant next.”
It is hard not to laugh, “Very perceptive Sergeant. Her perfume was very distinctive and very expensive but I am the only witness to it at present, and could not take a sample.”
All bar Parsons smile and Jai Li says brightly, “In all seriousness DCI Cade, you will need to come into the lab and smell various perfumes though from those photographs this could be very expensive or even specially created perfume for this woman.”
Whittle wants to ask Jai Li a question then but I continue, outlining the findings of the post mortem sent through to me only an hour previously, ‘Blunt force trauma’ to the neck being the cause of death.
“The woman’s injuries - to the head and legs- consistent with being hit by a vehicle between twelve-thirty and two early on Monday morning or being hit by a heavy object. Location, likely near where she was found.”
I pause, “But the Post Mortem leaves open that murder is a possibility, being killed and then placed in the ditch is ‘not out of the question”.
Staring into the murky depths belo
w, “Just lucky for us, she did not disappear for months or forever.”
***
They are cold, clapping gloved hands together, giving up the battle to write as the wind attacks mercilessly. I walk us quickly back to the Albion House gates, which give some protection even if they make us prey to prying eyes. The sun is an unknown being in this landscape now and I wish I had brought in a scene of crime conference van for comfort.
“Forensics - I was first on scene, found silver paint and thick glass, likely from a high-end car on her clothes, in her hair, on her face. Being checked as we speak as to what sort of car though we do have another vital clue on that and it being a collision right here. Outside these gates.”
I confuse then, “Still does not rule out murder though.
“You will see,” I finish at the looks of incomprehension to these contradictory thoughts.
Whittle raises her hand, wanting to interrupt and correct me on the car paint details and presumably say that the collision point is a long way away.
I shush her gently, “You will see DC Whittle - not white paint, impact point is here and not one hundred yards away. Major Crime Team 1 were utterly wrong in their conclusions about the impact point, the car that hit her, the driver.”
They all, including Parsons, are listening sharply now. “Wrong’ is the strongest verdict that can be given, one seldom uttered in police circles where weasel words like ‘understandably mistaken’ are the norm. I have just damned another team’s work but leave it at that, relying on DC Whittle to fill everyone in later when they ask her as they undoubtedly will.
A now stony faced Jai Li has already apologised to me with a phone call, “Case was open and shut against a Mr Aystrup, we tested white paint and glass as supplied on the body and from his van, told for budget reasons to not go any further.”
I move on, “Key things - who is she, what was she doing here?”
“Lot of dogging round here lately,” DC Fenwick says, blushing as he realises his thought has been actually spoken.
DC Gadd comes to his colleague’s rescue even through chattering teeth, “Car broken down, out for a walk and got lost, lover’s tiff and told to get out of the car?”
They expect tasks to be allotted now so they can get in their cars, put the heaters on to full strength and get back to the cold squad room, which will still be warmer than Ancaster County outdoors in December.
Particles of my breath freeze into shapes and dissolve as I say sharply, “Another fifteen minutes, likely none of those reasons DC Gadd, for we have a clear idea of what she was doing here and what happened to her because the dead woman herself tells us. In graphic detail.”
***
We walk again, the squad disgruntled yet about to enjoy what is a once in a career experience as a copper. Though with mobile phones, car cams, and possibly cameras on every pair of sunglasses and specs shortly if Google have their way, perhaps every human interaction will shortly be recorded if not live streamed.
I position us where the dead woman was hit, on the bridge of two railway sleepers covered in grass that lead to the gate in the hedge and the symmetrically ploughed soil beyond. The field stretches like a frozen sea of snow covered peaks and troughs into the night time mist that is creeping in, obscuring vision, latching into lungs.
My trusty iPod is centre stage again as I explain that the dead woman was alive, taking photographs of the comings and goings at Albion House on Sunday night and early Monday morning.
The questions are in their faces, the cold forgotten temporarily at least. How do we know? Where are the images? Do they show who killed her?
Murmurs of amazement as I take the dead woman’s camera out of my leather satchel and show it wrapped in the evidence bag from this morning. Silence save for the wind battering the light snow now touching us all as I go on.
“I found it in this field here earlier today, marked the spot. Very expensive camera, best part of ten grand, sort a journalist would use, set to take four stills automatically for every exposure triggered, finely adjusted to the semi darkness here that night.”
My voice becomes tight at the injustice of it all then, “And this woman takes stills, and a little video clip, right up to the moment when she is thrown in the air - here by this gate – and lands sixty yards away directly in the field. Not in the ditch.”
Gadd is examining the camera through the cellophane, Whittle and Fenwick look at the spot on the grass verge where I indicate impact occurred and Parsons stares at me with looks that could kill.
“You found the camera, how?” she blurts out.
I talk to the others, “Car impact and direction seemed to me could not have thrown her where she was found in the ditch, I came back today, there the camera was and the body imprint where I think she landed. Subject to Ken and Jai Li confirming all this, of course.”
I point to the Albion House gates thirty yards distant, “She stood right here, hidden by the hedge, taking photographs of cars, people going in and out of those gates over there. To a smart dinner party. We have those photographs.”
I am kind to Odling and his team, “Body in the field was moved and dumped in the ditch by persons unknown, camera was in a deep trough, covered in mud, easy to miss.”
I do not voice the thought: not that Odling bothered to look.
I take them quickly through the camera’s images, already transferred onto my iPad. We see ten cars coming in between six and seven p.m. on the Sunday night, the registration numbers clear on all as the lights in the drive were triggered and illuminated them. The figures in the cars are clear silhouettes even if not actually identifiable. A green convertible sports car, not one of the original ten, leaves at seven-fifty. Creel departs at eleven thirty, others later. Two vehicles, Odling’s and Valentine’s, are not captured leaving at all.
There is a murmur of surprised recognition as I identify the vehicles of our two senior officers.
Even Parsons comes close to look at their images as I name them.
“The ACC will interview Chief Superintendent Creel and DCI Odling, purely for elimination.”
They all nod but I can see that Whittle for one does not believe my caveat.
Parsons says abruptly, “Explains why Odling’s team cannot investigate - and we report to the ACC direct presumably?”
On screen the cars leave the dinner party on a five-minute schedule after one a.m., almost like aircraft taxi-ing out on command. Most drivers are not recognizable beyond their size and shape but all the registration plates are clear once more.
As we approach the end of the sequence, marked as one forty precisely, all of us are stamping our feet.
I call attention to the screen then and they are all transfixed by the final drama. Horror, fascination and professionalism vie within all of us. We watch as someone takes quite ordinary photographs even as she is about to die.
Images and video play out. The road is barely lit from Albion’s drive lights, the green sports car appears coming in without any head or side lights on, swerving yet still hitting the fox. The big silver Bentley on the wrong side of the road, with three slight figures clearly visible within, veers, roars and rears up on video with the tinny sound of impact and then windy silence.
The final paltry images slip sadly through as the camera flies through the air, spins and lands facing up to photograph muddy wet soil and dark sky before automatically shutting down.
Blank silence on screen, the same with us on that frosty road.
“And this is her camera, the dead woman’s?” Gadd asks, as he hands it back to Jai Li. Without doubt it is, I say, though we have to double check that through her DNA and trace ownership when we know who she is. The camera may help too in identifying her.
I show my own final images. The tyre tracks still on the grass verge where the Bentley mounted and then came to a halt ten yards on. I point on the screen to the clear foot prints at impact and for twenty yards each way around.
Whittle whispers all our thou
ghts, “They could be checking where the body was, looking for her, not finding her and then walking away without helping. But we know the car that did it at least.”
“But who moved the body to the ditch and why?” DC Fenwick asks sharply, his voice echoing across the valley oppressed with white snow, mist and mystery.
32
The squad depart to warmth. I venture into the hard-frozen snow covered field with Jai Li and Ken.
“Ken’s impact simulation and time line will come from tyre marks, the photographs, video, samples, autopsy results,” Jai Li says as her companion nods. “Feed any witness statements through too and we can work them in. We will DNA test the camera to confirm it is the dead woman’s. A detective could trace where it was bought by the serial number and hopefully who bought it. Body moved, presumably after death. A real Conan Doyle puzzle?”
I have already tracked down the owners of the silver Bentley, a high-end chauffeur driven service operating out of Mayfair and Heathrow, and Jai Li takes the details and will arrange for the Met to pick up the car and examine it for signs of impact. It was hired out to the D’Eynscourte Bank for the past week, but was returned five days early on Monday morning.
Despite the toxic politics of Ancaster County Police, this is a woman who is always a consummate professional. Protocols, written by Creel, decide which crime gets priority and resources, and a likely hit and run does not rank highly but Jai Li will ensure it gets done, not least because it might be murder. While the camera is intriguing, as is the mystery of a ‘well to do’ London woman on a country road in deepest night. Jai Li and Amy are the nearest people I have to friends on the force, indeed the only ones, their offices being next to mine at headquarters for the past seven years.
Bitter Pastoral_A DCI Caleb Cade Crime Thriller of rural Ancaster County. Page 19