“Just after the bridge on the right there should be a wooden footbridge,” Owen instructed and on cue it appeared and so did the scarecrow. Ironically a crow was sitting on its left shoulder and two others were on the floor, occasionally flying up to peck at the face.
Owen was about to leave the car when Cyril put his hand on his arm. “It could be Liz so prepare yourself for that.”
Owen dropped his head and nodded.
“Let the dog do its job first, another ten minutes can’t harm her now.” Cyril lowered the window and called for the dog handler to check the area.
A stream fed into the Nidd that ran just over and below the wall, the reason for the footbridge. A cushion of mist still clung to the water’s surface. The dog’s lead extended as it initially sniffed around the crucifixion-like figure before turning and walking down to the stream. Once at the small confluence, it continued across; it checked sniffing, its nose high once over the other side as it began to climb the banking. The handler could see the grass had been recently crushed. The dog moved to the left behind the small, stone bus shelter before making its way to the front where the entrance was situated. It sat momentarily before working the parking area. It returned and sat again in the same spot.
Cyril and Owen crossed the stone bridge and stood on the road looking at the dog and its handler.
“The body was probably moved from here and then down the bank there, across and up the stream before dumping it. I’d suggest more that one trip but only one person. There should be prints in the soft soil on the water’s edge.”
Owen called for Scene of Crimes and began taping off the area as Cyril called for the Police Pathologist.
“When you’ve done that, Owen, go up to The Farmer’s Arms. I want a list of everyone who was in the pub last night and those there now. Nobody leaves. Close the road there with the car and put the van up by the hotel.” Cyril then slipped on a pair of nitrile gloves and overshoes before crossing the footbridge.
The corpse was taped to a makeshift cross that had been forced into the soft ground; the cross-member ran behind her back and then across her forearms. Tape ran under her armpits circling the timber which held her securely. Cyril did not need to check for signs of life, the signs of death were abundantly clear; her neck was broken. A thin layer of white ice adorned her hair and the edge of her clothing; birds had already taken the eyes and had started on the tongue. She had been there a few hours.
“So who on earth are you, young lady, and what did you do to deserve this?”
He moved back across the wooden footbridge, inhaling deeply on his e-cigarette. Strangely, all he felt was relief, no sadness for the young woman, just relief that it was not Liz hung out for the birds. “Scarecrow indeed!” he mumbled as he waited for Forensics. It would be another forty minutes before the Pathologist arrived.
***
Peg had organised distribution of James Atkins’s details to the local news agencies and images were now circulating on social media. A number of people had called to inform the police that he was a teacher but what did they expect, all information was welcomed.
To Peg, it all seemed too clinical, too cut and dried. Was he really denying Val her posthumous moment of glory? It was possible or had it all been an elaborate set up? Had somebody got to him first, his body disposed of, clinical and clean, leaving a wake that was purely credible? She would await the rest of the evidence from the house. Had he been taken, there would be clear evidence, clear signs of a struggle. Strangely, there was no report of a personal computer in the house. She rang her contact, a DS Rebecca Pugh, at Wigan Police.
“Peg, we’ve checked, locker at school, store room, anywhere that James Atkins had access to, we’ve checked, and before you ask we’ve chatted with the school’s IT staff. Believe me they weren’t too happy being woken at five thirty! Listen, we know how much this means but it also means a great deal to us too and we’re pulling out all the stops. If we find anything you’ll be the second to know…I’ll be first!”
***
By the time Cyril arrived at the country hotel and pub, Owen had almost completed the lists and corresponding addresses. Cyril showed his warrant card to the manager.
“Thanks for your co-operation. People should be able to leave using the top road as soon as the body has been removed. I take it from DS Owen that nobody heard or saw anything out of the ordinary?”
The manager shook his head. “Quiet as the grave normally. Sorry! Dead quie…,” he paused, realising the inappropriate nature of his comments. “Nothing goes on usually. I think I need a coffee, you Detective Chief Inspector?”
Cyril smiled. “Black, no sugar, thanks. Nippy out there this morning!” He then popped to the toilet; too much coffee, too much water and too early a start.
Within three hours the area was clear and by four in the afternoon the door to door checks were complete. Being such a small community, there was very little intelligence gleaned. The coaches pulled out of the car park one after the other. They would return the next day for a broader search of the outlying area using smaller vehicles and motorcycles.
Cyril walked past the catering vehicle as the side screens were in the process of being closed. The generator was still thumping gently, its job nearly complete. It sounded as weary as he. The Command unit was brightly lit and was now connected to mains’ electricity. He entered and the warmth embraced him.
A number of officers was staring at the computer screens adding the minutest pieces of information. Owen looked up as Cyril entered.
DI Podmore rang. “There’s a match with a print taken from the painting that was at the Ilkley Auction House. It’s been linked to a John Michael Collins, courtesy of our colleagues in Europol. Prints and DNA profile taken regarding a GBH case eight years ago. He was bailed but disappeared, no known whereabouts. Believed to be living in Menton, South of France. No trace of his leaving France, or arriving here for that matter. He obviously moves using false names and documentation We have an old photograph. Owen passed the image to Cyril. We think now he’s blonde!”
“Little by little, Owen we’re nibbling away. Come on and get your coat. Two pints of Black Sheep are awaiting the slaughter.”
Owen didn’t need asking twice.
***
Cyril was sitting in Julie’s office at the God forsaken hour of 04:30. He had little enthusiasm for the jarred specimens, he was having a fierce battle with his eyelids and they were beginning to sense victory. Julie burst through the door, a dynamo of energy.
“At least you’ve been to bed, Bennett; get a grip, man!”
Cyril forced his eyes wide open and then smiled.
“Carla Bonhomme, thirty-two years old, no sign of recent drug or alcohol intake. Died from a cervical fracture, severe twist to the right suggesting a left-handed person with either great strength or training, more than likely both. No other external visible damage other than bruising to her chin and right wrist. Liver mortis shows that she was initially left in a seated position, probably a car seat as there is pooling around the ankles and buttocks. If it’s any consolation she didn’t suffer!”
Cyril tried to hold back a yawn but failed miserably. “Sorry!”
“This should wake you!” She tossed three scan disks across the table.
Cyril leaned over to pick them up.
“Found in her vagina. All three top quality and high memory.”
His hand hovered over the objects and then was retracted quickly.
She chuckled before turning the laptop screen round. “We’ve checked them. They were secure in a condom; they’ll not give you an STI! She had placed them there herself of that I’ve no doubt.”
Cyril watched as the room he had seen many times before, the masks and the coloured girls appeared on screen. Julie wound it on until a blonde man dragged in a white female.
“Pause please. That’s Karen Johnson.”
“When I start this section watch the technique.”
Cyril twitched as
Charles turned Karen round, bringing her to stand in front of him. His hands moved quickly and he positioned one on her chin whilst the other wrapped around the back of her head. There was a swift push and then a whip-like pull. The girl simply fell at his feet. Charles merely lifted his arms and stepped backwards in readiness for the bladder and bowel release. He looked down in disgust then left the room.
Julie changed the disk and ran the next. “These are not the same quality they were taken more candidly.”
Cyril watched as the images showed the outside of the buildings and a view into the distance. He was now on high alert as excitement flushed through his body, at last they had a clue as to where Liz might be held. For the first time in a number of days, he had hope, a hope that they would find her alive.
“Thank you so very much.” He leaned over and covered Julie’s hand. “It shouldn’t be difficult to find this location.”
“We’ve uplifted these disks to your system.”
Cyril called Newby Wiske to confirm that the films had been received. They had and the location had been identified. Two teams of Special Firearms’ Officers would be in position within the half hour. DI Podmore had organised the teams in readiness for a pre dawn search. Cyril then called Owen before he rushed to Pateley Bridge. He left the siren off but had the blue strobes on. Within twenty-five minutes he was turning into the car park. He ran to the control unit.
Owen was already there, sipping coffee. He looked at Cyril and for the first time ever, he noticed that he had not shaved.
“Where’s the location?” Cyril controlled his breathing.
Owen stood and looked at the Ordinance Survey Map on the board. “We’re here and the farm is Telfor’s Brook… there. There’s a long track, tree lined, but there’s little cover except for the darkness as you approach the farm buildings from any other direction. There’s a group there now reconnoitring. We have a clear satellite image of the farm and the buildings. Each building has been numbered and each will be cleared in turn. They’ve reported that there are lights on in the main building and a light in one of the barns. There are two vehicles in the courtyard. Sensory lights surrounding the periphery but no dogs or geese have been seen or heard. The live images are here.” Owen pointed to a screen showing the green-hazy night camera images.
“We plan to close the track as the two firearms’ teams move in from either side, all with night vision. Two radios as standard. We’ll monitor from the bottom of the track with command here. Paramedics and a doctor are standing by and will be ready as well as the SOCO team. The road linking the farm track will be closed at Pateley and at Ramsgill. Wath Road will also be closed. The time now is 05:22. We’ll all move at 05:50 on the command.”
The message was sent and they left for the vehicles. Some had already started out. Cyril sat with Owen and Peg watching the clock on the dashboard. They could hear the radio; each had an earpiece. Communications between the Firearms’ Unit was on a separate system but the information was patched through. The simple word ‘Go’ put everyone immediately on a high state of alert.
Within five minutes, contact was established.
“Main farmhouse clear.”
There was a pause. “Building one, clear. Building two, clear.”
After four minutes the final building, five, was announced clear. There had been four arrests, two females and two males. Cyril looked at Owen, and lifted his hands; he had his fingers crossed.
“Let’s hope one of them is our Liz.”
Cyril drove up the farm track followed by the paramedics and the SOCO team. Once in the courtyard, the firearms’ teams bagged their weapons for checking and the different buildings were taped. Cyril went immediately to the four people who had been in the buildings; none was Liz. His disappointment was palpable. He leaned against one of the walls as the numerous people carried out their various tasks. One of the officers approached.
“We’ve a cadaver dog on standby; they’ll check through the buildings first and then the immediate surroundings. We’re expecting at least one body, that of Karen Johnson.”
Within forty minutes, the dog had pinpointed a stable block and bed as the resting place of a corpse; it also located the farm trailer and had started tracking to a specific area of the farm. Another ten minutes and the dog had located the shallow grave housing Karen Johnson and Dan Rowney. There was nothing else.
Cyril stood at the entrance to the farm and stared at the lights of Pateley Bridge in the distance. He then scanned the valley, tracking along the lower road until his eyes fell on the dark patch that was Gouthwaite Reservoir. He looked again to the east. The deep black of the sky was slowly lightening and horizontal cracks appeared in the lower levels, adding red and orange to the scene. “Red sky in the morning!” he whispered to himself as a grey mist hung in the valley bottom like a shroud.
The vapour from his cigarette blended with his breath. There was nothing further to be done here. Hopefully Liz’s DNA would be found and the search would continue.
Chapter Twenty
The farm track was sealed, but the road leading from Pateley Bridge to Lofthouse and Masham beyond had been opened. Cyril was soon back in the car park. He needed a minute to clear his head. He walked through the gates, crossed the road and entered the park. The river could be heard hidden in the mist. He neither felt the cold nor cared. He simply stared at the War Memorial standing alone on the slight mound of earth. He wasn’t a religious man, some might say that he had little faith but they were wrong; he just found his god in different forms. To Cyril there was nothing more sacred than a young child, a setting sun, a beautiful painting; each had the touch of a higher being.
He stood at the crossing as three early cyclists rode towards the village, their bright Lycra clothing contrasting with the morning grey. They moved at speed and as one, travelling over the bridge and then up the High Street. Since the Tour de France and the Tour de Yorkshire, it seemed that everyone had bought a cycle and bright clothing. He sometimes wished he too had a more physical hobby. His morning reveille came in the form of his ring tone; he let it ring for a moment and then answered.
“Bennett.”
He listened intensely. “I’m on my way.”
He paused as two police vehicles, with their lights flashing blue and sirens cracking the morning air, headed back towards Wath. Checking the road, he ran into the car park. Owen was ready and the car drew towards the entrance.
The narrow, valley road made the speeding vehicle sway, Cyril held the grab handle above the door with his left hand, his right gripped the side of the seat. Soon they passed the small bridge that led to The Farmer’s Arms then swept left and travelled the edge of the reservoir, now bright, a morning sky mirror, flat and motionless.
Owen slowed as he approached an area where the road climbed, leaving the water below. Pine trees clung to the left side bringing back darkness and a possible wet, slippery surface.
Once clear, Owen accelerated. The two cars were soon just ahead and Cyril’s stomach had moved closer to his neck. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead as the early signs of motion sickness took hold. To his relief, Ramsgill church appeared to be directly ahead before the road swung left again. On seeing the brake lights, Cyril breathed deeply, the worst of the drive was over.
The cars were directed onto the narrow gravel lanes just past the church. Tape ran across the road between the telephone box and the red GPO letterbox. Cyril and Owen approached the entrance to St Mary’s Church, Ramsgill. The wrought iron gate was ajar. Cyril noticed the blue and white tape hanging between trees and gravestones protecting the scene. It was then that he saw her feet. He stopped, the gravel’s crunch stopping too. It was either the car journey or the thought of what he was about to witness that made Cyril turn and vomit onto the path. He dug in his pocket for his handkerchief.
“You don’t have to see this, Sir, I can do it.”
Cyril looked at Owen appreciating the depth of their partnership. He forced a smile to his face
as if in defiance of his emotions. He walked forward and looked at the door to the church. He took a deep breath before turning round to look at the body.
The grey, lichen-mottled gravestone on which the corpse rested leaned back slightly, giving the impression that Liz was only sleeping. She was child-like and vulnerable. The grey white coverall showed the same staining as he had seen on the videos. He focused on her hands, small and delicate, each resting on the grass at either side. He crouched lower desperate to see her face. It was then that he noticed it, positioned just to the left of the zip. It was another red-brown mark, another patch of dried blood. Something caught the light, set in a crease of the material at the centre of the stain. The elaborate tip of a Charles Horner pin was sunk deep into her chest.
He closed his eyes and whispered the word sorry over and over again.
Time seemed to stand still as he closed his eyes to rid himself of the dreadful image. He heard Owen cough and he looked again at Liz. His tear-filled eyes then focused on the gravestone’s inscription that was to the right of her shoulder:
‘Remember me as you pass by
As you are now so once was I
As I am now so you must be
Prepare yourself to follow me. ’
Cyril turned away unable to control his emotions and he sobbed, collapsing to the ground.
Owen moved closer and wrapped an arm around Cyril’s shoulders and squeezed. The only other officer looked away, he too overcome by the outpouring of grief.
“Look what I’ve done! He wanted me! He wanted me! Why not kill me?”
“Come on, Sir, don’t talk like that, not here, not in front of Liz. She wouldn’t want you here to see her like this. She’d want you to remember her as she was, as we knew her. She’d want you to be strong. It’s not your fault.”
Owen helped Cyril to his feet and they walked back the way they had come. Owen stopped at the gate, allowing Cyril to move onto the road alone. He kept a respectful distance behind, but a close eye on his grieving colleague. He could see the rise and fall of Cyril’s shoulders, the pain was drawn from deep within. Cyril stopped at the car and wiped his face. He looked up, saw Peg approaching and turned to look away; he was a mess. Through watery eyes, he saw that two cyclists had stopped just past the police car that was positioned as a roadblock at the far side of the tape. They had seen Cyril leave the church and had watched his distress, His stomach churned again.
Game Point Page 20