by Jane Isaac
“I’m sorry,” Russell said.
Sharon looked from one detective to another. “It was a long time ago.”
Jackman waited a few moments before he spoke again. “Did your parents keep in contact with Evan before they died?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so. After their accident I tried to trace him, to give him the news myself that we were the only ones left. That’s when I discovered he was living in Thailand. He’d flown out with a friend who’d long since returned and had left him in a hostel in Chang Mai in the northern region. I spent ages going through addresses, hostels nearby, trying to find him. We even went out there. I found hostels where he’d stayed, but nobody knew where he’d moved on to or what happened to him. You don’t give a forwarding address when you’re travelling.” She took a deep breath. “It became a bit of an obsession. I had a job, a life back here. Had to give up the search and come home in the end. But I always wondered whether he would walk through the door one day. And whether he ever knew.”
Jackman watched the knuckles of her husband’s hand whiten as he squeezed her hand.
“Anyway, he didn’t bother with them when they were alive, so why would he bother with them after they were dead?” They sat in silence a moment until she spoke again. “What bothers me is, if that man was claiming to be Evan, using his national insurance number, his date of birth, what does that mean about my real brother?”
“Did you ever report him missing to the police?” Russell asked.
“No. As I said, we weren’t close. He could have been anywhere. And I had no reason to think he’d come to harm. Until now.”
Jackman made his excuses and left the room. Walking back down the corridor, one question pounded inside his brain: If the man in the morgue wasn’t Evan Baker, who was he?
Chapter Eleven
Jackman waited for the lights to change and continued on his journey, leaving the town of Stratford behind him. The frustrations of the morning ate away at him. Just when he thought they were making progress with an identification, it had fallen through. Now they had new, additional enquiries as to where the real Evan Baker was. And why the victim was using his identity. There was also the added complication of finding out who the deceased was. He’d requested an urgent DNA test, but with current backlogs goodness knows how long that would take.
He hiked up the volume to the Bach CD and drove across the rolling Warwickshire countryside to Upton Grange. The combination of the scenic route and rich classical music would have ordinarily calmed him, but today his mind was so occupied by the morning’s events that he barely heard anything.
His mobile rang. He pressed to answer. Instantly the music stopped, interrupted by Davies’ Geordie accent. “Hello. How did the ID go?”
“Not good,” Jackman said. “She’s adamant the victim isn’t her brother – or certainly not the Evan Baker whose national insurance number he was using. We’re getting dental records checked from a surgery her brother used some years back, close to where they lived in Southampton, just to be sure.”
“Where does that leave us?”
“With somebody using an assumed identity, for whatever reason. All we know so far is that the guy in those photos, the victim in the barn with the mole beside his eye, is not the Evan Baker whose passport and national insurance number he was using.” Jackman paused as he reached a junction and pulled across the main road. “How’s it going there?”
“The CSI team have been a nightmare. Wouldn’t let anyone from the search team near the scene until they’d photographed everything and brought in cranes to remove the cars for examination. The POLSA search team have only just gone in.” Her tone was infused with excitement. “It’s like a gold mine down there—” Davies cut off.
Jackman could hear raised voices in the background, the edge of what sounded like an argument. “What’s going on?” he asked.
It was a while before Davies came back on the line and when she did, she was out of breath. “Sorry, can’t talk. A bloody journo has got through the cordon. Must have come across the fields. I think you need to get down here.”
***
Jackman drove up the track and parked up behind the profusion of cars, vans and trucks next to the police cordon. Just as he exited his car, he spotted Davies, coming down to meet him. “Drama over. DC Keane has escorted her off the premises,” she said.
“Who was it?”
“Elise Stenson from the Stratford Mail. Claimed she didn’t see the tape. Some of it was ripped, pulled back at the bottom of the field behind the barn. Bloody liar. Not sure what she picked up though.”
“Pull the cordon out wider and make sure it’s guarded. We don’t want any more unwanted visitors.”
Davies nodded, pulled out her phone and made the call as they strode up the track.
The same musky smell wafted out of the barn, although it had dissipated somewhat from first thing that morning, the open doors at each end providing welcome ventilation. Jackman crouched down beside the gap in the floor. He could see further into the room now that it had been opened up further, his vision assisted by a temporary police lamp illuminating the area with a strobe of light. Reflective silver hung off the walls. Rows of plants lined the floor, in various stages of growth. Lights and cables were scattered around. A fan stood in the corner.
Dave Mason, the search team sergeant, joined them as Jackman stood. “It’s an old shipping container,” he said. “Looks like two welded together actually.” He raised a hand, scratched at his beard. “Insulation, a generator to provide heat and light. The perfect place for a cannabis farm.”
“Must have taken a lot of work to get that down there,” Davies said.
“Not really. The doors are big enough to get proper diggers in. Just a couple of days work to make the hole, slot it in and skim over with concrete.”
“But if they welded it—”
Mason shook his head. “I’m pretty sure they’ll have bought it like that. Fairly easy to get hold of, there will be loads on the Internet. People use shipping containers for all sorts of reasons. I’ve seen them used for storage, converted to workshops, even went to one with a toilet in it last year. Never seen one sunken in the ground before, although it’s an ingenious plan.” He looked around him. “Stuck out here, even the installation wouldn’t attract any interest.”
“Especially with the ruse of the cars stored on top. You wouldn’t think to look any further,” Jackman said.
“Quite right, although I’m not sure this barn would attract much interest.” Mason turned around. “The entrance to the container was covered by some old wooden boards. They got burnt and singed in the fire, but were largely saved by the cars. The heat buckled the handle of the door, that’s how you noticed it, but the room beneath was relatively undisturbed.”
“Seems like a lot of trouble to go to for a crop of cannabis,” Davies said.
Jackman looked down at the plants. He recalled a raid he’d attended early in his career in East London. The three-storey terraced house had been completely given over to the crop on all floors – even the cellar was used to dry out the harvested crop. The market in cannabis was huge and ever-expanding, drugs gangs were always searching for new and unusual locations to cultivate the plant.
“It’s usually the electricity board that sound the alarm due to overuse of electrics, or the strange smell that gives these places away,” Mason continued. “But stuck out here with a generator there’d be none of that. I doubt even the heat sensors on our helicopter would pick it up beneath the floor.”
Jackman recalled Sheila Buckton’s comment about them working late. Lots of farmers operated the machinery by night. It wouldn’t have raised alarm. But it was the perfect mask to set up this kind of operation. Someone had given this considerable thought and invested a substantial amount of money. “Do we know how long it’s been here?” he asked.
“Not sure at the moment,” Mason said. “The generator out the back doesn’t look particularly old tho
ugh.”
Jackman turned to Davies. “Have we heard from the farm owners?”
“Not yet.”
“This kind of operation must have taken some organising,” Jackman said. “Get on to the local building firms, see if anybody has been approached to install a container here. Find out how easily it is to source one of these containers and how it’s transported, and see if you can source the generator too.”
Davies had just raised her phone to her ear when Jackman had another thought. “Try skip companies in the area as well. There must have been a huge amount of soil and wastage to dispose of afterwards.”
Jackman thanked Mason, moved away and took another look around the barn. The cars had been parked at the far end, on boards obscuring the entrance to the room below. The body was found in the opposite corner, beside the entrance and some makeshift shelving which he now realised was used to dry out the cannabis before it went to market. This whole operation was probably why Eamonn Benwell wasn’t given a key. So that Evan could keep an eye on him.
Davies was winding up her call when he joined her outside. “Do you want me to get someone out to see Nancy? Deliver the news about the identification?”
Jackman’s mind turned over the CSI photos of the victim. He couldn’t deny that the resemblance between the victim and the stills they had taken off Nancy’s phone was uncanny. “I’ll call in there on my way back. I want to see what she’s got to say.”
“Want me to come with you?”
“No, I’ll take Russell. She’s been doing the liaison with Nancy. Be useful to have her input. Get Keane to pick up Eamonn Benwell, would you? I’d like to have another word with him.”
Chapter Twelve
A knock at the door pulled Nancy from her slumber. She blinked, laid there a moment, desperately trying to gather her thoughts and work out where she was. The white wardrobe and chest of drawers backed onto a pale pink wall. A picture of Evan and her sat on the bedside table – they were seated in the Land Rover, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. He was wearing the old Tilley hat he wore when he was doing the rounds on the farm. Muffled voices filtered through from the hallway. She couldn’t make out what they were saying. Footsteps. The sound of a door handle. The voices faded. More footsteps, closely followed by the sound of knocking on the bedroom door.
“Nancy. You awake?”
Her head was heavy. She mustered enough energy to lift it from the pillow. “Who is it?” Her voice was full of sleep.
“The police are here to see you…” Becca’s voice tailed off as she moved away.
Nancy laid her head back on the pillow. Becca hadn’t left her side since they’d arrived home from the hospital that morning. For a while Karen had stayed too, both of them fussing over her until Karen had finally relented and gone downstairs to take over their florist shop beneath the flat that Nancy and Becca shared. She knew that even after she’d retreated to her bedroom to rest, Becca had been back and forth checking on her.
Nancy slowly eased herself around, dropping her legs off the edge of the bed, catching her reflection in the corner mirror as she did so. Her usually manicured hair hung lank onto her shoulders. She combed her fingers through it, tucked her T-shirt into her jeans. But when she turned to the door something stopped her.
Police officers. That meant news. Part of her didn’t want to open the door. She didn’t want to hear what they had to say in case it was bad. A sense of foreboding wrapped around her. If the news was bad, there was no going back.
Nancy took a deep breath and forced herself forward, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. In the hallway she could hear low voices. They quietened as she pushed open the door to the sitting room.
“Hey.” Becca plastered her kindest smile on her face. “This is…”
Nancy looked past her. “I know who they are,” she said, eyeing Russell.
Russell angled her head. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been tossed around in a tumble dryer.” Her words were pithy, she knew that, but she couldn’t bear to soften them. Curtness was a part of the armour she needed to shield herself from the news that was about to break her world in two.
The male detective sat forward. “Why don’t you sit down?” Her eyes were drawn to him. His voice was soft, gentle, releasing the plug and letting every ounce of fight trickle from her.
“Nancy, how long have you known Evan?” he said.
Nancy frowned. “About three months. I told you.”
He hesitated a moment. “Have you ever known him go by any other name?”
“No.” Bubbles of irritation gathered in her chest. “What is this?”
“The body in the barn wasn’t Evan Baker.”
Nancy inhaled, a sharp intake of breath. But the tenseness in the room told her something wasn’t right. She switched from one detective to another. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
Russell leant forward. “Evan’s sister was able to confirm it wasn’t him, not least because Evan doesn’t have a mole beside his left eye.”
The bell of the shop door trilled beneath them. Once again life was going on around her, pretending that nothing had happened. The irony was not lost on Nancy. “I don’t understand.”
“Her brother has different features. He also has a deep scar across his forehead from a childhood accident,” Jackman said.
“Maybe it was a different Evan Baker.”
“We think he was using the passport and the national insurance number of her brother.”
“What are you saying?”
“We are going to need you to come along with us to ascertain whether the body in the barn is that of the man you knew as Evan Baker.”
***
The door clicked closed behind Jackman. He sat down opposite Eamonn Benwell, placing the file tucked underneath his arm on the table between them.
Eamonn looked at the file and back up at Jackman. “What’s going on?”
Jackman waited for Keane to switch on the tapes and make the relevant introductions before he spoke. “Eamonn Benwell, can you please explain what you were doing between the hours of 10pm and 3am on the night of Sunday the 9th of August.”
Eamonn glared back at him. Keane said he’d been surprised when they’d arrived at his factory and asked him to come back to the station. But he’d come along amiably, waived his right to legal representation. “I’ve already told you…”
“For the purposes of the tape, please.”
“Is it Evan?” Eamonn said, ignoring the question.
“Pardon?”
“The body in the barn. Is it Evan? I can’t get it out of my mind.”
Jackman surveyed him. They hadn’t released any details about the identity of the body to the press and he wasn’t about to share anything with Eamonn Benwell now. “We’re still waiting for the body to be identified.”
Eamonn took a deep breath, slowly releasing the air through pursed lips.
“Could you answer the question please?”
Jackman ignored the anger creeping into Eamonn’s voice as he gave an account of his movements on Sunday and Monday. He went on to ask him how he’d met Evan and formed the arrangement with the cars. The tapes continued to turn as Eamonn repeated his answers.
“Did you ever see anyone else at the barn?” Jackman asked.
“No, I told you. I only went there to use the cars.”
“Does anyone else use your vehicles?”
“No.”
“I believe one of the cars is a Buick. Can you tell me when you last drove this vehicle?”
“I don’t know. A few weeks ago, maybe.”
Jackman removed a photograph from the file and placed it on the table between them. It was the front of a car, blurred slightly. The driver wasn’t visible, but the number plate was clear. “I am showing Mr Benwell Exhibit DAL3. Mr Benwell, can you confirm this is your Buick?”
Eamonn stared at the photo for some time. “Yes.”
“This image was recorded by r
outine police cameras on the A46 approaching Stratford centre at 4.56pm on Sunday.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Are you telling me you didn’t drive your car last Sunday?”
“Somebody else must have used it.”
“Does anyone else have keys to your vehicles?”
“Not that I’m aware of, but…”
“And you have no witnesses to confirm where you were on Sunday?”
Eamonn looked away. “No.”
Jackman opened the file again and removed a single piece of paper. “I am now showing Mr Benwell Exhibit DAL4. This spreadsheet details your bank accounts and business records over the past twelve months. Can you explain to me how a man whose business appears to be failing, whose bank account is in the red and who has accumulated huge debts is able to pay for the upkeep of those vintage cars?”
Eamonn’s face clouded. “You went through my stuff.”
“This is a murder investigation. We’re obliged to make all necessary checks into any persons connected with the victim.”
“I’m going through a divorce.”
“So you said.” Jackman angled his head, waiting for Eamonn to continue.
He drew a deep breath, spoke through his exhalation. “We’ve been working on a big job, building a new conveyor for one of the supermarket chains. It’s the biggest contract we’ve had, but they pushed us to the wire on pricing and wouldn’t agree to a deposit. The material costs have drained us, but if we pull it off in time, we’ll beat the penalty clause and move back into the black. It’s a temporary blip.”
“I guess the insurance from those cars might have given you a nice little injection of cash.”
“I love those cars. Took me years to collect them.”
“Do you have any other sources of income?”
Eamonn’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“We are pulling the barn to pieces. If there is anything else stored there we will find it.”
“Look,” Eamonn said through gritted teeth. “I don’t know what Evan Baker does with the barn, who else he rents space to, how he manages the farm. All I know is my cars were there. And now they’re ruined.”