He flipped open the file on Frederick Grant and was surprised by the date of birth recorded. Cyril thought he looked older than forty-eight. There was something about him that he had taken a growing dislike to and the one thing that he now relied on was to always trust his gut feelings. He read the file further until an incoming email announced itself, breaking his concentration. Cyril read it.
Semen sample found: No fit to DNA or John Cooper or samples stored. Checking National DNA database for a possible match using familial search.
The familial search would trawl the NDNAD to check against DNA samples from a relative with a similar match, which in turn might give a lead. Cyril marked it as noted and continued reading Grant’s file. He checked the agency’s web site, aptly named, Stray Agency. It brought a smile to his face. It was typical advertising speak but the details of Grant’s history corresponded with the notes on file.
17 years’ experience managing the careers of top newsreaders and hard-hitting investigative journalists across a wide…
Cyril checked the names of about ten on the list. Valerie Atkins was midfield. He brought up her page. Her image appeared and a brief, professional biography. He did the same for all the clients but there was nothing that drew his attention. He returned to the home page before reverting to the police file. What he needed was to see all the connections the Stray Agency had with the media at large and although he had strong feelings about Grant, he felt the business was legitimate.
Chapter Nine
The large, Yorkshire stone, Victorian building that was now an auction house was five minutes’ walk from the centre of Ilkley. Sylvia Bentham parked her car and collected a ticket from the machine to leave on the dashboard. A rather rotund, female parking warden watched from a few cars away and nodded when she had placed it securely. There was no smile. She had given herself one hour. She checked her watch before removing a small, boxed package from the boot.
Although the day was fine, she felt the chill wind moving from high on the moors before channelling itself through lanes and ginnels; even with her collar pulled up it seemed to have little effect. She smiled at being without a hat in this part of Yorkshire. The sky hung grey and cloudless, offering little in the way of hospitality. The traffic, however, was light as she crossed Brook Street from West Street and from there she made good progress. Her appointment was for 11:45 and she glanced again at her watch. The last thing she wanted was to be too early.
Colin Crompton was waiting behind Reception and he immediately came to the counter as she entered. “Mrs Bentham?” He smiled, more in anticipation than in greeting. It had been a long morning and he had felt his stomach rumble on more than one occasion. He was hoping that he could value the items quickly and then enjoy a leisurely lunch.
“Mr Crompton?” She saw him nod and his smile broadened even more. “I hope I’m not too early? I have them here.” She lifted the box.
Colin led her upstairs to the main gallery and found a table surrounded by a number of ill-matching chairs. The hall was full of items collected over the preceding days in readiness for the next specialist November Fine Art auction; to the untrained eye there seemed to be no logic to the way they were stored. They sat.
“It’s proving to be a popular sale, we’ve some wonderful silver which will help your items should you decide to enter them for auction.”
She opened the package and put two Charles Horner silver hatpins on the table followed by a small oil painting.
“I thought you only had the silver pins?” His smile said he was now neither in a hurry nor thinking about food. “Those are in lovely condition, Art Deco in style. My auction estimate would be in the region of £80 to £120. Bit of an auctioneer’s cliché I’m afraid!”
She looked at him and smiled. “The painting is probably not worth much but I thought I’d bring it whilst I was coming.”
The auctioneer picked up the painting. “On the contrary, it’s worth considerably…”
He popped a jeweller’s loop to his eye and scanned the image. Somewhere in the room a large clock chimed noon but went decidedly tuneless after striking five and died after striking nine.
“Needs a little TLC like us all,” he chuckled, removing the loop. “Someone will buy it and bring its chimes back to life. I believe this to be an oil sketch by the late Italian artist, Migliaro. His signature is clear. It looks to be painted on panel too, which is right for this type of painting, probably a preparatory work for a large oil painting. I’ll have to check on that. I believe it may well be worth more than you think. I should like our Fine Art expert to cast her eye on it if that’s all right? Have you had it long?”
She had hoped that the painting would be the focus of attention and that she would be remembered more for that than the pins. “No, it’s like everything else, a car boot find. I’m an early bird, Mr Crompton. Surprising what people think of as junk. Things soon go out of fashion and they throw them away.”
“Yes, I think it could do very well. I shouldn’t but may I ask what you paid at the car boot for the painting?”
“Two pounds. He wanted five but I haggled. Even if you sell it for a hundred it would be very welcome. I’ll leave it with you and telephone you next week. Shall I ask for you or…?”
“Ask for Joanna Murphy, she’ll talk you through her impressions and discuss an estimate and then if you’re happy it can find its level at auction.”
Ten minutes later, she was heading back to the car. She had a receipt for the two pins and a separate receipt for the painting. How many people would touch those items before November? She wondered. She too now, suddenly, felt as though she could eat something, her anxiety had suddenly dissipated and her appetite had returned.
***
The Ford Transit van waited at the top of Sand’s Road. The North Sea was directly below and in front of them, invisible but faintly audible. The time was 02:49. The rain drove gently but consistently at the windscreen and occasionally the wipers were activated to clear the view. The engine remained silent. The Rib, the small, rigid boat should have dropped the four pieces of human contraband on the sand on the last high tide at 01:45; unheard and unseen. They had been instructed where to wait.
The driver checked his watch again and it was then that he saw movement as people appeared out of the darkness. Quickly, he jumped out and opened the side door and four bedraggled female figures were pushed in without ceremony.
“Fucking freezin’ down there!” the escorting figure exclaimed, rubbing his hands. “Piss wet through! Jesus and when I was a kid I imagined smugglers to be these jolly fellas havin’ fun at the expense of the fat customs’ men. Brandy for Parson, baccy for the Clerk and all that shite! Nothing written about freezin’ your bollocks off whilst four females huddle together who you can’t fucking touch.”
The two waiting in the van laughed before the only female of the three announced, “I’ll sit with the girls.”
Within half an hour the van had pulled off onto a narrow lane running almost parallel with the main road, clearly signed ‘Unsuitable for Motor Vehicles’. Half way along, they were expecting the rendezvous. On this occasion the appointed meeting place was Flixton, one of the many villages that was used as a transfer point along the route from the coast.
As planned, the blue Range Rover was waiting, silently invisible in the gateway. Within seconds the cargo was switched. By 04:00 both vehicles would be safely stored, nobody would be the wiser but some would be financially richer and some, a lot warmer.
***
Cyril’s walk to the station was just what he needed and for once there was neither rain nor the prospect of rain for the morning, at least according to the radio forecast. It would give him time to collect his thoughts. He turned left as he exited the snicket at the end of Robert Street before heading towards the Otley Road roundabout; a dog barked as it chased a ball along the edge of The Stray. He stopped briefly and watched the animal’s skill as it swiftly caught the ball. His mind focused on the de
relict portal of the Brunswick Tunnel as he recalled a previous case. He closed his eyes to rid himself of the sinister image.
As he approached the roundabout there was a light mist that swallowed the upper part of Trinity Methodist Church spire. The morning was quite dark. Lights along the far side of The Stray were still lit. He checked his watch, shook it and looked again. It was 07:35. The walk would normally take thirty minutes. He slipped his electronic cigarette into his mouth and pressed the button on the side; a white cloud of vapour blended effortlessly with the morning mist as he set off at quite a pace.
On his arrival, the Incident Room was busy, the hum of conversation hanging thickly like an alphabet soup of tangled words. When Cyril entered it fell to silence.
“Morning everyone.”
“Sir.” The reply was almost choral.
“Five minutes. Get what you need.”
Cyril worked his way down the boards and looked at the details of the timeline. He turned to Shakti, smiled and raised a thumb. She returned the smile with a degree of embarrassment. He mingled with the group speaking to a number of officers before taking a seat next to Owen at the end of a long table. Cyril tapped the desk and everyone settled.
“Let’s work through in order.”
The process was slow but deliberate. Each offered information and cross-referenced it with other evidence. It then came back to Cyril.
“Pathologist is adamant that the killer is left handed. Open mind everyone. Valerie Atkins, a drug addict but may have been manipulated on the night she died. Ketamine found in her system but no evidence of rape, evidence of recent sexual activity; DNA tells us that it wasn’t with Cooper, her partner. We know that she was an enthusiastic participant from the videos and there are no physical indications to suggest that it wasn’t consensual. Open mind again, please. Valerie’s computers, anything?”
“Nothing yet, Sir.”
Cyril nodded at Stuart Park. “What about Coulson’s?”
The technicians at the High-tech Crime Unit have been great again. After receiving the full reports, I called them and they broke the info down into simple terms for me.”
“I’ll send thanks to Newby Wiske.” Cyril made a note.
“Thanks, best to keep on their side, Sir. Right, here goes and I’ll ask questions at the end, Liz, so stay awake!”
He had never forgotten the first briefing she had given when she had put friendly pressure on him and when possible, he always took the opportunity to return the compliment.
Liz smiled and raised herself a little from a slouch to a half loll. “All ears!”
“Coulson was Internet savvy. Used Tor Proxy Browser provider allowing him to send traffic through at least three different servers before it reached its final destination. This gave a separate level of encryption for each of the three relays. It protected his location and gave him full anonymity, securing him from traffic analysis. The police use a similar system, as do the Armed Forces. What’s good for the goose is very useful for the gander. He also used a password manager. Like everything in life there is an Achilles’ heel and that’s usually human frailty. Three days before he was murdered, he sent out some open messages without activating his security. They were brief and he soon realised his error. There’s evidence that he tried to delete them in the hope that they wouldn’t be tracked but the likelihood is that whoever saw them was able to locate him. If you’re fighting with the big boys you’ve got to be aware that their systems and skills will be better. We can’t find who they might have been. It’s likely that this one simple error exposed him to harm.”
“Do we know what the open messages were?”
“Yes, they were berating the production and distribution of cannabis in the UK. Some touched on the illegal use of migrants but in the main they were focussed on the trade in home-grown drugs.” Stuart tapped the large screen and the first message appeared. “He’s added the first two letters of three names but that’s all. They’re the same on each of the messages. Techies also found three photographs; it took a while to crack the password system.”
Stuart skimmed through the three images. Each showed the hydroponic cultivation of large quantities of cannabis.
“Do we know when and where these were taken?” Owen asked, knowing the answer before he had even asked the question.
“No.”
“May we assume the same can be said for Valerie Atkins’s computer if we locate it? Is it likely to be similarly secure?”
There was silence.
“Until we find it, Sir, who knows?”
Owen pulled a face. “Whatever this new project was, there’s a link.” He flicked through the file in front of him. “Cooper mentioned that the working title of the documentary or whatever it was she was working on was… 'Modern Day Farming’. Certainly in this modern day every urban area has some shed, loft, flat turned into a greenhouse, producing the stuff. Let’s assume we’re heading in the right direction but with something on an industrial, farm-size scale let’s say.”
Cyril nodded and made a note before adding his comments.
“Frederick Grant is adamant that he knew nothing of his client’s new documentary. It wasn’t, he assured me, commissioned through his agency. Liz will be going through a contact list and documents collected from the Agency to see if Valerie was working independently or with another agent. I feel Grant is saying little more than he needs to. What about Valerie’s father?”
“Heartbroken. Cried a lot. Couldn’t understand why his daughter should have been murdered. He used the words, ‘Taken from him.’ Certainly didn’t appear to be the cold and clinical character his wife made him out to be. You can never predict what’s going to happen to your emotions in situations like this. He was of little help. It seems Valerie only allowed them into certain parts of her life.”
“Did she witness her sister’s death? Was she there when the accident happened?” Cyril stood and stretched.
Owen checked through the file. “Yes, she was, She was eleven and Jennifer was seven.”
Cyril moved to a white board that was to the left of the screen.
“I was thinking over a beer last night. A dangerous thing to do I know, the process of both murders and pieces of key evidence that we hold brought a very special person to mind. Here’s your starter for ten. Please say what comes to mind.”
He picked up a marker and began writing:
“There are moments when I feel that the Shylocks, the Judases, and even the Devil are broken spokes in the great wheel of good which shall in due time be made whole.”
There was silence.
“What did the murderer take from Coulson?” He looked around the room at a number of blank faces. He saw Shakti smile. “Shakti?”
“His bicycle wheel.” She then paused watching the encouragement written across Cyril’s face. “It was taken from the bike and dumped near the body, maybe a sign; there were spokes missing but the integrity of the wheel remained. They also took away his sense of touch, they removed his fingers.”
“They? Interesting that you believe there’s more than one killer.”
“What was taken from Valerie?”
“Her sight.” Liz squeaked, as she sat and focussed on the whiteboard.
Cyril nodded. “And what else?”
Owen waved his chewed pencil. “I believe that the murderer took two more things, one of which was tangible.”
Cyril nearly choked on fresh air when he heard Owen utter the word tangible, not because he’d used the word but because it was in the correct context. “Go on.”
“He took their dignity, the murderer left them naked and exposed but took, as Shakti has said, five tangible objects, the bicycle spokes; and so he took away…” Owen pointed to the white board. “The Shylocks, the Judases and the Devil .The question now is will he return them? Who might the Shylocks, the Judases and the Devil be?” He shoved the pencil back into his mouth and sat back. “Or do we have Shylock and Judas dead and, if so, are we waiting to fi
nd another body, that of the Devil?”
Cyril clapped his hands and a few others followed suit before Owen brought everything back down to earth with one sentence.
“That’s providing…” He pointed to the whiteboard. “that, those words have any relevance to the murders or any aspect of this case. I think we’re clutching at straws or spokes in this case if you prefer. As you’ve rightly pointed out, Sir, dangerous thing, thinking over a beer!”
There was a pause and all eyes turned to Cyril. Some heads nodded in agreement.
“You’re maybe right, Owen, but Helen Keller suffered from being blind, deaf and dumb. Many senses were taken from her but she still managed to become a most extraordinary human being. She overcame all her disabilities and disadvantages at a time when that was nigh on impossible. Has our murderer done that? The murderer discovered someone in a sense hiding before taking away the sense that allowed him to communicate. The murderer removed the sight of another who threatened to use the visual arts to attack… is he trying to suggest that he has suffered but is now…”
Cyril looked around and could denote a waning of enthusiasm for his theory and he stopped. “It was a thought. Please keep an open mind, that’s all I ask.”
Chapter Ten
Liz had finished her review of the documents retained within a large, cardboard box collected from the Stray Agency. As a result, she contacted the television companies affiliated with Grant but with little success. She had found only one nugget from sifting through the paperwork and put it to one side. It was a screenshot of an email sent to Grant from a person that, considering the initials, she presumed to be, John Cooper. It simply stated:
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