“These three players, what’s our biggest problem?” Lawson asked.
I could think of several, but the most important was simple: “Lack of trace evidence.”
“God, why did I ever phone you in the first place? Talk about stating the obvious.” He swore under his breath. “The bloody problem is that none of the three has been in the right place at the right time to commit all four murders. Are you following, or do you need me to draw a picture?” I saw the Wetherspoons ahead, its mini-tower built in imitation of the medieval Clifford’s Tower, a couple of hundred metres to the north-west. Lawson turned left without indicating.
“I’d rather you kept your hands on the wheel.”
“Whatever. Vaughan was in England when Keogh was killed in Germany, so he couldn’t have done it. Except that Vaughan wasn’t in the fucking Lake District. He took his family to a place called Celle, in Lower Saxony.”
“Celle? I’m sure that’s close to where Keogh’s body was found.”
“It is.” Lawson braked sharply, and pulled into a vacant parking space, also without indicating.
“How did you find out?” I asked as I closed the car door.
Lawson opened the boot, removed the last pair of Army boots, and locked the car. “We were having trouble checking his itinerary. I started looking at airlines and ferries instead, and spotted that he’d taken the ferry from Hull to Rotterdam on Thursday the 12th April. Stayed in Celle over the weekend. Returned to Hull on Wednesday the eighteenth. Let’s see what he has to say for himself.”
“Does Marie know?” I asked as we walked into the Postern Gate.
“Don’t be stupid.” He led me past the crowded bar to the dining area at the rear of the premises.
Vaughan was sitting as far away from everyone else as possible, at a corner table for four. He was in his Combat Uniform, his dark blue beret on the table as he toyed with a glass of Coke. He was short, stocky and balding, with a bushy moustache bordering on regulation length. We’d not crossed paths previously, so he probably thought I was a colleague of Lawson’s. He affected an attitude of contempt, thrust his chest out, and stood up ramrod straight.
Lawson put the boots on the table and his crooked nose in Vaughan’s chubby face. “Sit down, gay-boy.”
“How dare you –”
“Just do as he says, Vaughan.” Some people respond badly to threats and intimidation, others fold under the pressure. From his service record and statements thus far, I had an idea Vaughan would be one of the latter.
He looked from me to Lawson, then back again. He opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind, and resumed his seat. Lawson slid in next to him and I sat opposite.
Lawson invaded Vaughan’s personal space again. “I’ve arranged this intimate little rendezvous so I can give you the good news in person. We’re onto you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t have to –”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about and if you don’t want to spend the night in the nick you’ll do exactly what I tell you.”
Despite the overtly masculine facial hair and faux military bearing, Vaughan was effeminate and shifty. First impressions are often misleading, but I thought I was right this time. I took him for a bully who enjoyed badgering the weak, but lacked the moral and physical courage to stand up to bigger bullies like Lawson. I was also convinced he had something to hide. I left Lawson to it.
“You were at ATR Winchester in 2007, yes?” Vaughan nodded. “Two years later you were slinging one up Gordon in Colchester garrison, yes?”
“I’m married.”
“I know all about that, too. You married the poor woman just after Gordon was killed – why, when the Army had already decided it was okay to be a poof?”
Vaughan literally squirmed. “There’s still a lot of narrow-mindedness, even now. Especially if you’re a man. I needed to marry if I wanted to get on. I should have done it earlier. I had to stop the talk.”
“That was very thoughtful of you as regards Mrs Vaughan. Are you denying you were screwing Gordon?”
“No.”
“After Colchester you were posted to your current detachment in York, where you socialised with the late Lance Corporal Haywood, yes?”
“Yes, but I wasn’t –”
“Where were you on Friday the 13th April last year?”
Vaughan’s eyes darted from Lawson to me to the tabletop. “Er, I’m sure we’ve gone over this. I was in Kendal, in the Lake District, on holiday with my family.”
“You sure?”
“Shouldn’t I have a legal representative?”
“Only if you’re a lying murderer.”
Vaughan paled. He placed his hands on his lap, then back on the table. “Er, I might have been in Germany.”
Lawson grinned and gave Vaughan some space. “Really?”
Vaughan wet his lips, cleared his throat, and swallowed. “I might have got the dates mixed up. You see we spent a week in the Lakes and a week in Lower Saxony. One was in April, and the other in September. I can’t remember which was which.”
“You didn’t think to check with Mrs V, once you realised you were a suspect in a murder inquiry, or is she thick too?”
“Yes, perhaps I should have –”
“More importantly, didn’t you think we would check?”
“I know it was wrong, but I lied. I was afraid, you see, of…everything coming out.”
“Of what?” Lawson was in his face again.
“Of my relationship with Neville being brought up. You see –”
“Christ, Vaughan, you’re pathetic. Your fagfest with Gordon is already out the closet. You didn’t tell us about Germany because you didn’t want us to find out that you were actually in the right place at the right time to have killed all four of the victims – shut the fuck up, I’m talking. I’ll let you in on a little secret. You’re the only player who was in the right place at the right time every time.” Lawson let that sink in. Vaughan reached for his Coke, his hand shaking. “So tell me again about your relationships with Marillier and Haywood.”
I glanced over my shoulder to see if anyone had noticed Lawson raising his voice, but none of the diners were paying us any attention.
Vaughan almost knocked the glass over, and decided against drinking. “There – there weren’t any. I didn’t even know Marillier was dead. I’d already left the ATR when they found his body. I thought he was just AWOL.”
“Did you touch him up, scare him away?”
“No! I’d never do that to a trainee soldier. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Yes, you’re such a pillar of the community, how could I even think such a thing. What about Haywood? And everyone knew he swung both ways, so don’t be shy.”
“I met him three or four times after rugby matches. I bought him a drink at the bar twice, but I was never alone with him.”
Lawson turned away from Vaughan. “Don’t believe a word of it. Keogh: did you know him?”
“No. The first I heard was when Inspector Flight asked me about him last week. I couldn’t tell him anything. Honestly.”
“Tell me about your secret holiday to Germany.”
“We took the ferry from Hull to Rotterdam and did some sightseeing round Lower Saxony. We went to…Bremen, Celle, and Paderborn…I think that’s it. We only went for a week and my wife was with me the whole time.”
Lawson grimaced. “Your wife’s word means fuck all to me. What were you doing in Celle?”
“We went to visit Belsen.”
“Must’ve been a real treat for Mrs V and your youngster.”
Vaughan clenched his fists to stop his hands shaking. “My boy is too young to –”
“You’re a sick fuck, aren’t you?” Lawson waved his hand in Vaughan’s face, then looked at me and raised his eyebrows.
“Was Gordon gay or bisexual?” I asked Vaughan.
“He said he didn’t like women…not in that way.”
“Do you
know if he had sex with any women while the two of you were in Colchester?”
“He told me he got drunk one night and tried to sleep with another medic. I think her name was Nicola. He couldn’t get it up and told her it was because of the booze, but it wasn’t, it was because he didn’t find women attractive. He said it was that experience that convinced him he really was gay.”
“I’m getting all mushy inside,” said Lawson.
“He didn’t mention any other women that he’d been involved with?” I asked.
“No.”
I looked at Lawson and nodded.
He stood quickly – Vaughan cringed. “Either later today or tomorrow you’ll be interviewed again by one of the governors. Make sure you bring a full itinerary for your jolly hols, and a complete list of witnesses who can verify it. Clear?”
“Yes.”
I rose and turned to go, but Lawson wasn’t finished. “One more thing. If you mention this conversation to anyone – anyone – I’ll break every bone in your body. Is that clear?”
Vaughan nodded furiously.
Lawson and I left the pub and walked back to his car. “What do you think?” he asked.
“I didn’t take to him anyway, but the concentration camp stuff really worries me.”
“You don’t think he was there to pay his respects to the victims?”
He smiled. “No, I don’t. I think he’s a ghoul, and probably would’ve made an excellent camp guard. Maybe he fantasises about it.”
“A sick fuck, like I said.”
“I think you’re right.”
We stopped at his car. “Well, you’ve met all three now. You’re a bright boy, tell me who did it?”
I leant against the roof of the Audi. “On Sunday you said the obvious answer is usually the right one. Right now, that has to be Vaughan. He’s the only one who had the opportunity on all four occasions. Bavister has the wrong boot size and Gordon wouldn’t have been prancing around the woods naked for Cowan, if he’d already decided he was gay. Then there’s this Belsen business.”
“Really bugging you, isn’t it?”
“I’m probably reading too much into it, but it bothers me a lot more than Bavister and Keenan. I’m thinking of having a chat with the Investigator who handled the inquiry, by the way. I’ve got to go to London later this week, so I might stop off en route.”
“I thought you said there wasn’t anything I needed to know.”
“There isn’t. I’ve got an idea, but it’s not worth mentioning until I find some evidence to back it up – which I haven’t yet. For me, Vaughan’s just promoted himself to prime suspect, but Marie will be all over him when you tell her about the holiday. In the meantime, I’m going to carry on nosing around Bavister – and Cowan – and see if anything else comes up. You realise that it could still be none of them?”
“Yes, but I doubt it.”
“Did you hear about Bavister’s court martial?” I asked.
“No, what happened?”
“Not guilty for the eight most serious charges, so it looks like he’ll be walking away with little more than a scratch, if that. The sentencing is tomorrow.”
“Fucking filthy nonce.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Need a lift anywhere?” he asked as he opened the driver’s door.
“Just home, please, I have some surfing to do on the net.”
“You’re not going to find any clues on Claymore online.”
“I’m not looking for Claymore clues. I’m going to find out about the murder of Colonel Adamson-Woods.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lawson was right: cops see coincidences every day. Most of them are meaningless, but some are significant. Some even result in what, for better or worse, we call synchronicity. I didn’t want to think about the implications of synchronicity, but I did want to find out if Adamson-Woods’ murder was related to Operation Claymore. Lawson was dismissive; I thought it was too much of a coincidence to ignore. In a matter of about thirty-six hours, Cowan’s grandfather had been murdered and she’d been identified as a suspect in a series of murders. Coincidence aside, I was intrigued by Cowan – even more so now we’d met – and curious as to why a retired colonel had been assassinated.
I also had a more practical consideration. Even if Marie never found out that Lawson and I had disobeyed her instructions with regard to the return of the boots, I was extremely unlikely to have any more direct involvement in the inquiry. Marie had promised me a look at each of the suspects and there was no longer any reason for me to accompany Lawson on any more detective work. She might want to pick my brain about the suspects, but basically my job was done. I’d been appointed as a consultant, and been consulted. The only way I could continue to contribute was to explore the aspects of the inquiry that the MIT weren’t pursuing. Keenan was one, Adamson-Woods another.
I found what I wanted on the websites of The Times, the Daily Mail, and a newspaper called the Eastern Daily Press (West and Fens), and printed off the relevant articles. Next, I picked up the papers Lawson had provided, and scanned through them to see if there was anything else worth searching for before I started reading. There was nothing obvious, but I spent another half hour trying different combinations of search terms with nil result. When I was sure I’d exhausted the online information, I went out to the balcony with my printed pages, pen and paper, and a Tampa Perfecto. I made notes as I read.
Colonel Adamson-Woods, ‘grandfather of celebrated Army athlete Theresa Cowan’ had been murdered on Tuesday the 7th May, a week ago. The colonel, aged eighty-seven, was retired and lived alone in the Norfolk village of East Rudham. He’d been shot on his doorstep, with a shotgun, at point blank range. A neighbour had heard what was probably the fatal shot being fired at half-seven in the morning, but hadn’t reacted due to the discharge of shotguns by farmers being commonplace. Another neighbour reported seeing a blue Saab leaving the vicinity at high speed, heading east, towards Tatterford. Adamson-Woods’ body was discovered by the postman just over an hour later. He was lying on his back in the doorway with his face and the front of his skull splattered all over the ceiling, walls, and carpet.
The police suspected the murderer had put the shotgun under his chin when he opened the door, and fired both barrels. SSG cartridges had been used, but they weren’t sure if the weapon had been sawn-off. A delivery card from a company called King’s Couriers was found next to the door. The card was dated Monday the sixth and stated that the colonel hadn’t been in when the courier had called, and that they’d be back to deliver again on Tuesday morning. It had already been established that no such company existed. The killer hadn’t closed the door or entered the house after firing, and there was no trace evidence.
David Adamson-Woods was from Bury St Edmunds. He’d been commissioned in the Suffolk Regiment in 1947, aged twenty-one, and married shortly thereafter. In 1949 he was promoted to lieutenant and sent to Malaya. Two years later he transferred to the Royal Army Ordinance Corps. His wife gave birth to their only child, a daughter, the following year. He was in Port Said during the 1956 Suez Crisis, and subsequent detachments alternated between Germany and the UK. In 1969, at the beginning of the Troubles, he did a six-month tour in Northern Ireland as a major. He was promoted to lieutenant colonel in 1971, aged forty-six, and spent his last six years in the Army in the Logistic Executive (Army) HQ Direct Ordnance Supply.
Despite the senior rank he’d reached, Adamson-Woods’ career had been pedestrian: he’d only actually been promoted four times in thirty years. His military conduct was categorised as ‘good’, the third of six possible ratings, and he hadn’t received any awards other than the General Service Medal. I was surprised to see that the latter had been for his service in Northern Ireland, which meant he’d received absolutely no recognition for two years’ active service as a platoon commander in the Malayan Emergency. I made a note and continued. Four years after his retirement, Adamson-Woods had taken up a position in the Army Ca
det Corps at Colchester, and served for a further five years. In 2002, after the death of his wife, he’d moved to East Rudham. He was survived by his daughter and granddaughter.
I referred to my records on Cowan and saw her parents lived in Salisbury. Her father had retired from the Army as a captain in 2003. He’d been commissioned near the end of his twenty-four years of service, all of which had been spent with the Royal Engineers. It seemed strange that Cowan had failed her officer selection when she’d first tried to join the Army. Although the process was designed to take into account a wide range of skills and cater for candidates of all backgrounds, Cowan would have begun with every advantage. Even if her grandfather and father hadn’t been able to influence the selection panel, she’d had two generations of officers in the family to coach her. Furthermore, the initial failure didn’t match the incredible success she’d made of her career.
Two articles dated last Friday confirmed the police had no suspects as yet, but were following a line of inquiry connected to Adamson-Woods’ service in Northern Ireland. There was no allusion to this, or any other leads, in the police report. The Eastern Daily Press stated his funeral was being held this coming Friday, at the Fakenham Parish Church of St Peter and St Paul. I imagined that after thirty-five years of service in the Army and Cadet Corps, not to mention his famous granddaughter, the ceremony would be very well attended. There was less information on Adamson-Woods than there had been on Keenan, but I was still interested.
Two points struck me immediately. First, Adamson-Woods’ murder was premeditated. The killer had left a bogus calling card on the Monday so that when he knocked on the door early the next morning, Adamson-Woods would be expecting a delivery. The ruse was clever on a number of levels, and certainly increased the assassin’s chance of success. It suggested that the suspect knew something of Adamson-Woods’ life and routine, which in turn either meant someone close to him or someone who’d stalked him before the kill. If the killer had stalked Adamson-Woods, the implication was even more planning and preparation, much like our serial killer.
Bloody Reckoning Page 17