All Things Bright

by Ted Tayler

  “If she received prompt treatment, then it sounds as if she could have survived, but we can’t know what happened from the evidence we have in the file. There was bruising, but no blunt force trauma recorded, so they didn’t knock her out, but they could have forced her into the canal and then stabbed her.”

  “How awful,” said Blessing, “I wonder why she couldn’t get back out?”

  Neil looked at the crime scene photos and wondered the same thing.

  The ACC called Gus at half-past four to tell him where and when to meet Mitch. Gus was off to the county town in the morning. He looked at the clock: it had been a long day.

  “Find a convenient point to stop and call it a day,” he said. “I’ll see you after eleven in the morning.”

  Gus switched off his computer and walked to the lift. He heard the rustle of papers and the scraping of chairs. The team wouldn’t be far behind him.

  As he drove home to Urchfont, he considered their new case. How could they identify that young lad seen arguing with Stacey? He was vital to everything that followed on from that argument. Either he went with Stacey, or their row caused her to go off with someone else. No matter how Gus tried to make the pieces of the jigsaw fit, he failed. Until they discovered what caused Stacey Read to go to Rushey Platt rather than her aunt’s home, it was hopeless.

  Gus swung the Focus into the gateway and parked next to Suzie.

  “I’m home,” he called as he stepped into the hallway.

  “I’ve prepared a salad this evening. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Suzie appeared from the bedroom. Her hair was loose on her shoulders.

  “Just changed from your uniform?” asked Gus.

  “I got in twenty minutes ago, went straight to the kitchen, then changed. What sort of day have you had?”

  Gus told her the news on the Kendall case and that the team was investigating the 2015 murder of Stacey Read.

  “I’m meeting someone in Trowbridge in the morning,” he said, “background on the dogfighting circuit. Then, I’ll drive to Cardiff. Dai Williams is still interviewing the Corbett twins.”

  “I assume you’ll be sitting in the corner trying not to jump in with questions,” said Suzie.

  “Kenneth Truelove gave his permission, as long as I don’t take part in proceedings,” said Gus. “After we’d had our chat, Kassie told me you’d got a new companion.”

  “Geraldine Packenham?” said Suzie with a grimace. “She arrived this morning and has already put half a dozen people’s nose out of joint. I know it’s usual to be seen to be doing something when you start a new job, but it pays to check the lay of the land first before blundering in like a bull in a china shop.”

  “She’s certainly sparked an avalanche of cliches,” said Gus. “Was the PCC responsible for her appointment? Did she replace Gareth Francis?”

  “I can never work out what those at the top are thinking, Gus. Ever since Geoff Mercer handed me my latest project, he’s left me to my own devices. That suits me. I grasp what it is they want from it, but I’d prefer to check in with my immediate superior now and then. Geoff disappeared on a course, and he’s hardly spoken since he got back.”

  “Are there any rumours flying around?” asked Gus.

  “Have you heard anything?” Suzie asked.

  “The ACC reckons West Mercia wants Geoff. He was the star of the show at that course you mentioned.”

  “A promotion? It doesn’t explain why he’s so distant from everyone at London Road. Geoff’s one of us, part of the furniture. I would expect him to say he’s not interested. Do you think Geoff’s giving it serious consideration? Is that why he’s keeping us at arm’s length? He’s preparing to leave the family.”

  “I hope not,” said Gus. “The ACC wants me to check with Geoff, see what he’s got in mind, and then persuade him to stay. I plan to get him to meet me for a pint one evening this week.”

  “Perhaps, I should come too,” said Suzie. “I’ll hold him, while you knock sense into him.”

  “I thought I’d try the subtle approach,” said Gus.

  “Off you go and get changed. I’ll put the finishing touches to this meal.”

  “Pour us a glass of something cool,” said Gus, “we’ll eat outside in the back garden. Take advantage of the warm, evening sun.”

  “We’ve got a Sauvignon Blanc in the fridge,” said Suzie.

  “That will be cool,” said Gus. He went to the bedroom to change.

  Tuesday, 17th July 2018

  “I think last night was the first time that I’ve used that garden furniture since Tess died,” said Gus as he and Suzie ate breakfast.

  “I remember falling into it when I was drunk that afternoon,” said Suzie.

  “The day you swore undying love to me,” said Gus. “I should have kept the security film of that event to play to you. It cost an arm and a leg to get those cameras installed. They seemed a good idea at the time, but thank goodness, things have quietened down since then.”

  “The furniture looked care-worn last night,” said Suzie. “I might buy a tin of wood stain at the weekend and freshen it up.”

  “Or we could take it to the recycling centre and buy a new set?” said Gus. “It would be ours then.”

  “What do you want to do tonight?” asked Suzie. “If you have to drive to Cardiff, I imagine you could be back late?”

  “We’ll stick to our usual routine,” said Gus. “If I’m late, we’ll go directly to the Lamb for a meal. If I’m home from the office at half-past five, we’ll visit the pub after spending an hour on the allotment.”

  “I’ll expect you when I see you then,” said Suzie as she headed for the shower.

  After Suzie left for work at London Road, Gus showered and dressed. His appointment was at ten. Gus drove into Trowbridge and parked the car in a multi-storey car park.

  The place didn’t look that great, but who would hot-wire a clapped-out Ford Focus? It was worth the risk. Gus made his way into the nearby courtyard and entered the café.

  There were several elderly couples, and single mums sat sour-faced at tables. It was par for the course. A woman in the far corner lifted her head, suggesting he came to join her. Could that be Mitch? Or was she just lonely?

  A member of staff behind the counter looked up from the book she was reading.

  “Can I get you something?” she asked with what passed for a smile.

  The effort must have tired her because she didn’t look ready to spring into action just yet.

  “A black coffee, without, please,” said Gus.

  “You had better tell her that meant without sugar, not without a cup,” said the woman at the corner table as Gus reached her.

  “Mitch?” asked Gus.

  “That’s me. I never liked Michelle. Sit yourself down. You’re drawing attention. Not good in my line of work.”

  “I heard you could tell me about blood sports in the region,” whispered Gus.

  “Black, without. Don’t you want a Danish pastry? They’re on special offer.”

  It was Smiler.

  “I have to watch my waistline,” said Gus.

  The girl tutted.

  “Please yourself.”

  “Drink it while it’s still tepid,” said Mitch. “My editor said you wanted background. Take notes, but don’t record this conversation.”

  “Not taking any chances, are you?” said Gus, taking a notepad from his jacket pocket.

  “I’ve worked undercover in six counties across the south of England. You don’t see many women at events on the fighting circuit. My editor warned me how bad it could get, but nothing prepares you for the reality. I wanted to tell readers what was happening right under their noses, even if it meant rubbing shoulders with the dregs of society.”

  “I have no idea how tough it was to watch, knowing that if they saw you cared for the animals, it could end badly for you.”

  Mitch took a file from the large handbag on the seat beside her.

  “This
is part of the article I wrote after my first month undercover,” she said. “Men gather around as their chosen fighter tears flesh from its opponent. You would think that this was a tale from yesteryear, but it’s this year, and dog fights are taking place in empty buildings, parks, and back yards across the country. If you have the depraved mind that enjoys the spectacle, you can find a fight, somewhere, every day of the year.”

  “How long ago was the blood sport outlawed?” asked Gus.

  “Two hundred years ago,” said Mitch. “Despite the ban, the RSPCA receive over five thousand reports every year of organised fights. Only five percent of those reports result in a conviction.”

  “And they say the police clear-up rate is poor,” said Gus. “What could I expect to pay for a fighting dog?”

  “At least a grand these days. Although, you don’t look like someone that would spend that amount of money if you knew the misery these animals endure from the day they’re born until the moment they get killed. I could take you to a field less than five miles from here where I found three mutilated dogs just chucked under the hedgerow.”

  “Where did you find most of these fights were taking place?” asked Gus. He finished his coffee. Mitch was right.

  “Wherever you’ve got a housing estate populated with young men with gang connections. They’re home all day, and time drags. One way to fill the idle hours is an impromptu scrap between dogs from strong breeds such as the pit bull or Staffordshire terrier. Why do they have the dogs tethered on a chain outside their property in the first place? Sometimes it’s for protection. It’s often a status symbol the same as the tattoos, the jewellery, and the clothing. The owners release the dogs in the back yard or alleyway at street level, the nearby park, and have a few minutes sport. Education’s a wonderful thing. A pity so many young men of that ilk spent much of their school life excluded.”

  “I take it you observed this behaviour from a discreet distance?”

  “There’s not enough make-up in Hollywood to get me into that scene,” said Mitch. “I worked in a burger van that cruised the estates. The driver shut up shop after the lunchtime trade and left me in the back. I had spy holes on both sides of the van to check what was going on.”

  “Can you tell me which town you were in?” asked Gus.

  “Swindon,” said Mitch, “there’s no point telling you which estate. It happens everywhere.”

  “What about organised events? How did you get access to those?”

  “There’s a circuit that operates in every region across the country. That’s when the organisers use an abandoned building or warehouse. Gang members go with friends and acquaintances. That was my way in, by hanging around the pubs they use, getting into conversations over a pool table or on a fruit machine. The organisers set up a pit with tyres or wooden pallets to keep the fight enclosed. The crowd gathers around the pit, the betting starts, and then the dogs are let loose.”

  “How long do these fights last?” asked Gus.

  “It varies in these unregulated fights. It can be over in minutes, but there’s another level that I’ve not been able to access so far. As long ago as 2006, the League Against Cruel Sports found evidence of a highly organised and covert operation staging professional fights. They have referees, rules, and timekeepers. Fights between matched dogs can last several hours, so I’ve heard.”

  “Prosecuting far more owners involved in the five thousand reported fights would help,” said Gus. Mitch shook her head.

  “Not much. The maximum sentence available for cases heard in Magistrates Courts is only twelve months. The maximum fine has risen from five to twenty thousand pounds. In Crown Courts, where more serious cases get heard, the maximum sentence for animal cruelty has increased from two to five years. So few cases ever get that far.”

  “One in four people in the UK own a dog,” said Gus. “Most treat them as part of the family. The thought of a dog getting brutalised, beaten, and forced into a fight to the death is the stuff of nightmares.”

  “We should leave,” said Mitch, “your friend behind the counter keeps giving us dirty looks.”

  “I’ll settle the bill,” said Gus. “Thanks for the insight. I don’t envy you having to follow this murky business.”

  “It’s a living,” grunted Mitch as she stood up from her chair.

  Gus crossed to the counter and paid for his coffee and Mitch’s breakfast order. Smiler committed the ultimate sin and hoped he ‘had a nice day’ as she dropped his change into his hand. Gus promised himself he wouldn’t be back.

  When he turned around, he found that Mitch had already disappeared.

  As he crossed the road to return to the car park, he wondered whether there wasn’t another way to put his mind at rest. When he got back to the office, he called Dai Williams.

  Dai Williams was unavailable. They were still in the interview room. The officer who took the call promised to relay the message to Gus when DI Williams was free.

  “Anything to report, Alex,” said Gus.

  “We’ve completed posting the maps and wallboards, guv. Luke’s got a list of people he thought we should interview first. If you take a look and add any others, you think we’ve missed. Neil’s done some digging on the Kennet & Avon.”

  “I told you it would be tough to find those Irish navvies, Neil,” said Gus.

  “Very droll, guv,” said Neil. “A Trust started work on restoring the canal from Reading to Bristol in the early Sixties. They thought it could be a valuable public amenity. You were right that the Queen paid a visit to Devizes. That was back in 1990 when she opened the refurbished Caen Hill locks where twenty-nine locks raise the boats' level by two-hundred and thirty-seven feet in two miles. But it’s the Wilts & Berks Canal that ran into the centre of Swindon. The volunteers involved have worked at places like Moredon to refurbish the aqueduct. If you look at their website, you will see that things have moved on since the murder. They have a canal boat named ‘Dragonfly’ with two crew and room for a dozen passengers. Trips usually run from a landing stage at Wichelstowe to Kingshill and back, lasting approximately fifty minutes. Public trips now run, weather permitting, every weekend & Bank Holiday through the year, plus Wednesdays during the school holidays.”

  “That’s all very well, Neil, but was that stretch navigable at the time of the murder?”

  “It was, guv,” said Neil. “Bear with me. There’s more on the nature reserve and the canal here in this article I researched. When the canal opened for trade transport, Swindon was a small market town still based on the hill now referred to as Old Town, and to keep the ten-mile long canal topped up with fresh water; they created Coate Water, which is now a country park on the eastern edge of town. As we know, narrowboat trade was rendered obsolete with the advent of steam, and the canal got abandoned at the start of WWI. Much of its route got filled in and built over. Still, the stretch between Kingshill Road and the Wichelstowe development park survives. It’s now a popular destination for bird watchers, dog walkers, and families with kids searching for tadpoles; not to mention families of swans and mallard ducks. Halfway along the canal is the Rushey Platt nature reserve, which is managed by Wiltshire Wildlife Trust. The wild space is a remnant of the lush wetland marsh that covered much of south Swindon before land drainage made this type of habitat uncommon in Wiltshire. Now, sandwiched between the River Ray, Wilts and Berks Canal and the former Old Town railway line, wildlife is vital. That last stretch of the canal is at the heart of the Canalside development, which will see new homes spring up alongside the canal footpaths. Even in February 2015, a boat could leave the landing stage at Wichelstowe to navigate the waterway as far as Kingshill Road.”

  “How far is Kingshill Road from Redpost Drive, where the eyewitness saw Stacy arguing with the lad?” asked Gus.

  “Half a mile, guv,” said Neil.

  “So, a boat could have been on that stretch of the canal that night,” said Gus. “Even if the ‘Dragonfly’ wasn’t operating then. When did it start, by t
he way?”

  “Camilla, the Duchess of Cornwall, opened the regenerated landing stage in 2017, guv,” said Neil, “I remember seeing it on the TV. It was chucking it with rain. They wheeled in Camilla to name the ‘Dragonfly’ too, but that must have been six or seven years earlier.”

  “That naming ceremony was in 2010, guv,” said Luke. “They got the boat to celebrate the two hundredth anniversary of the original canal opening. Trips have taken place since 2010.”

  “There you are, Blessing,” said Gus. “I’m not sure how you get a boat, a coracle, or a kayak onto a stretch of water with no one noticing. But even if that landing stage needed remedial work in 2015, we’ve got another possibility to pursue.”

  “I’m not sure it helps,” said Blessing. “If it was the young lad on Redpost Drive, we have half a chance of identifying him. Following up on Stacey’s school friends and local teenagers who frequented the nature reserve would also take time, but it would be achievable. Where would we even start if we’re looking for a mystery man?”

  CHAPTER 5

  Gus drove home at the end of a frustrating day and pondered Blessing Umeh’s comment.

  He knew the odds were stacked against there being a craft of any type on that canal at the time of Stacey’s murder. He couldn’t let it go.

  Was it one of his inklings again? He needed to visit Redpost Drive and walk the route Stacey must have taken. The crime scene photographs gave them the basic information, but they couldn’t substitute for soaking up the essence of the murder site by walking it. Boots on the ground always offered a clearer vision of what took place.

  Suzie stood by her car as Gus drove through the gateway. He’d received a call from Dai Williams just after four, inviting him to attend an interview in the morning; he needed to make an early start. Once Gus knew he could get home at a reasonable time, he called Suzie at London Road.

  “Give me five minutes to change into my gardening clothes,” said Gus, kissing Suzie on the cheek.

  “We’ve got a good evening for it,” she said. “If you’re off to Cardiff first thing, you need an early night.”