Thin Men, Paper Suits

by Tin Larrick

  Boswell felt a twinge of hypocrisy, and would have felt more comfortable if he had just been allowed to be candid with the terrified parents. Even at this stage, cycles of closure were important in dealing with grief. They would only have had to use Google to establish that a FLO wouldn’t have been deployed this early on if there weren’t serious concerns about the condition and whereabouts of the missing child.

  As if to punctuate his thoughts, the air in the forest was suddenly broken by a piercing scream.

  *

  “What is it? What IS IT?” screamed Helen Canavan.

  The large man in the Hawaiian shirt came lumbering out of the forest, closely followed by his wife, the author of the scream. Clutched in the large man’s hands was a pink dress that had once been pretty and new, but which was now bloodstained and torn.

  Helen Canavan snatched it from the man and buried her face in the flimsy material. She sank to her knees and began to howl.

  Boswell rounded on the man and tried to control his anger.

  “You had explicit instructions. If you found anything, you were to leave it where it was and tell a police officer. You’ve contaminated a critical piece of evidence.”

  “This isn’t a piece of evidence, sergeant,” Colin Canavan said. “This is my daughter’s dress.”

  “Oh God, it smells like her,” Helen cried.

  The large man remained impassive.

  “This might be all that’s left of their daughter,” he said. “It’s important they have it.” He caught the Canavans staring at him. “I’m… I’m sorry. You weren’t meant to hear that.”

  “Okay,” Boswell said, pulling a polythene evidence bag from his jacket pocket. “I want all civilians pulled off this search.”

  “What?” said the large man.

  “You can’t do that,” said his wife.

  Boswell – with mercifully little resistance from Helen Canavan – used a pen to carefully lift and then seal the dress in the evidence bag. He filled in the side of the bag with the essential details, made a note of the time in his notebook and then signalled to a uniformed constable, who hurried over.

  “Book this in,” he said, handing over the evidence bag. “And get the helicopter to broadcast. All civilians are to stand down and return to the car park for a debrief. I want the FLO to take the Canavans to the major incident suite, and I want you,” – here he glared at the large man – “to take me into the forest and show me where you found that damn dress.”

  The large man shrugged. The Canavans were led away, Helen’s crying getting softer, although it seemed to Boswell that they were only increasing. The sound of such abject anguish was not something he would ever get used to.

  However, as a result of the discovery and the ensuing scream, the large man and his wife had been followed out of the forest by a number of other searchers. There was a rising swell of disquiet as it filtered back to the group that the police no longer required their services, thank you very much.

  Boswell eyed them as they murmured amongst themselves and fired daggers his way. There was a trembling of unease in his stomach, but he did not show it. Unpopular decisions were not necessarily the wrong ones, but he didn’t want a mutiny on his hands.

  He grabbed the uniformed constable again.

  “Get some colleagues up here. We may need a show of strength.”

  Boswell stepped forward, hooking his warrant card over his belt as he did so. The police crest flashed in the sunlight.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I am DS Jack Boswell. We have received some new information. As a result, and to safeguard the integrity of the investigation, we can unfortunately no longer make use of your services. I would like to thank you for giving up your time to assist the family, and ask that you go directly to the main car park to tell the officers about your involvement.”

  The grumbling didn’t immediately dissipate, although some seemed pacified by Boswell’s attempt at courtesy. One or two, however, having had the line of communication opened by Boswell – and who otherwise might have kept their opinions silent – grew vocal.

  “That’s bollocks,” a man shouted. “This is a public space. You can’t tell us where we can and can’t go.”

  “We’re not here for you,” another called. “We’re here for the girl and her family.”

  “And what makes you think you’re so special that you don’t need help?” said a third.

  “I appreciate your efforts, I really do,” Boswell said. “And I am quite sure that, if something has befallen this girl as a result of someone else’s hand – foul play, in other words – you would want to make quite sure that you did not risk jeopardising any chance of convicting that person in court. That is why I am taking this decision.”

  The crowd went quiet as this filtered through.

  “Oh, fuck off, you jumped-up tosser,” the first man said, eventually.

  “I should also warn you,” Boswell continued as a line of six uniformed constables walked up behind him, “that anyone not heeding these instructions will be arrested for obstruction.”

  Boswell braced himself. This was the moment that he might just have to put his money where his mouth was, and, correct decision or not, TV images of cops arresting civilians who just wanted to help was going to require an explanation later on to an officer that earned far more than he. Especially if they didn’t go quietly.

  Fortunately, however, the majority of them backed down, while the three vocal ones abandoned their protests and resorted to grumbling and shuffling their feet.

  As a social experiment, Boswell found it fascinating. He felt sure that none of the argumentative ones were bona fide criminals by any stretch, but whether it was too much sun, wine or genuine concern for the missing girl, he had pricked their principles. No doubt they were the kind of people who felt that cops on patrol lowered the tone of the neighbourhood, and who threatened to have your job when you gave them a ticket for doing sixty in a thirty-zone.

  Boswell pulled one of the constables aside, and pointed at the three dissenters.

  “Get their details and check them out,” he said, and then he turned to point at the large man in the Hawaiian shirt.

  “And do the same for him.”

  *

  “I’m glad we’re alone,” the large man said to Boswell.

  The two of them were stepping carefully through the forest, while the large man tried to lead Boswell to the site of the discovery. They had turned off Butchers’ Trudge and were by now well off any demarcated paths or bridleways, and the fronds of vegetation were almost impenetrable. The humidity was thick in here, although the canopy overheard offered some respite from the sun’s raging heat.

  “Oh yes? Why’s that?” Boswell asked, shaking his sleeve free from where it had snagged on a branch.

  “I’ve got my concerns.”

  “Yes, so have I.”

  “I think something terrible has happened to this girl.”

  “Is that right?”

  The man stopped.

  “Don’t you, then?” he said, turning to face the detective.

  “We’re keeping an open mind,” Boswell said, and the big man in the Hawaiian shirt grimaced, as if this conspiratorial walk entitled him to more than the party line. Boswell might have felt inclined to indulge him to some degree, because he added: “And I go where the evidence takes me.”

  “You don’t send this many cops unless you’re really worried.”

  Boswell said nothing.

  “Are you married, DS Boswell?” the big man asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “No.”

  “Then you can’t have any idea of what that couple is going through,” the big man said as he resumed the expedition.

  “Does that make me less competent at my job?” Boswell said to the man’s back as they continued to wade through the undergrowth.

  “It might make you less inclined to sympathise,” the big man said over his shoulder.
>
  “Emotions get in the way. Especially in cases like this.”

  The man stopped and turned again.

  “Cases like this? What do you mean by that?” The man fished in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes. He slipped one between his rubbery lips and lit it with a match.

  “Put that out,” Boswell said, his tone dropping by half an octave.

  The man’s eyes widened.

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” Boswell said, fishing out another evidence bag. “Put it out, and drop the butt in here. The match too.”

  “You can’t tell me I can’t smoke,” the man said, but he stubbed the cigarette out on a tree and did as he was asked.

  Boswell sealed the bag, scribbled on the side, noted the time in his notebook and sketched their approximate location, and then stuffed it into his pocket.

  “What is your name, sir?”

  “I just gave it to that uniformed officer.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Nigel. Nigel Bass. Like sea-bass.”

  “Do you know how we catch most arsonists, Mr Bass? They light the match, and then, when their target is well alight, they come back to the scene and admire their handiwork. Sometimes from behind cover, but often, if there’s a crowd, they’ll just mingle. We rely on the uniformed cops guarding the crime scene to keep a close eye on those crowds. Watching for odd behaviour, you know?”

  “I don’t see what that has…”

  “Let’s say you raped and brutally murdered Maggie Canavan.”

  Nigel Bass went quite pale.

  “Now hang on…” he began.

  Boswell held up a hand.

  “No no, let’s just surmise. If you had, you’ve just eked out a clever little defence for yourself, haven’t you?”

  “I didn’t… how could you…” the large man stammered.

  “We find your DNA on her dress – or for that matter, her DNA on you – then you have a off-the-peg explanation all ready, don’t you? You were part of the searchers. We find forensic evidence anywhere that links you to the crime, and you’ve already created sufficient doubt in the minds of the jury that you had anything to do with it.”

  “So you admit there’s been a crime?” Bass said, in a shaky attempt to get one up on Boswell.

  “Of course there’s been a fucking crime,” Boswell snapped. “And it’s rather odd that, out of all these searchers, you happen to be the one to find a vital piece of evidence.”

  “You’ve got no proof of…”

  “At this stage, I don’t need proof, I only need suspicion, and right now I’ve got plenty of that.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “We’re here,” Bass said in a small voice.

  They were in a tiny clearing, no wider than the floor of a phone box, in the middle of a thicket of conifers and broadleaves. Boswell stared at the spot where the dress had been found.

  “Show me,” he said.

  “Right here. It was snagged on this bush.”

  “How high off the ground?”

  “Here. Waist-height.”

  “Was it spread flat across the branches? Or was it hanging from one of them? Or…”

  “Spread flat. Like it had floated down from a tree and had settled there.”

  “Stand back. I want to look.”

  Something wasn’t right. There was no evidence of disturbance. No footprints. No trampling. No other marks. No obvious bloodstaining on the leaves.

  “Are you sure this is the right place?” Boswell asked, squatting down to peer closely at the bush.

  “One hundred percent,” Bass answered.

  “How?”

  “I remember that tree trunk,” Bass said, pointing behind Boswell. “It looks like a face. I made a mental note.”

  “There are no paths here,” Boswell said. “No clear routes. What made you come down here?”

  Bass shrugged.

  “There were eight of us searching to start with. We all fanned out. This was the only direction that wasn’t covered, so I just came this way.”

  Boswell exhaled fiercely through his nose. Bloody citizens, ambling around like drunks in the dark. No direction or purpose or method. They thought they were helping, thought cops bossed people around just for the sake of it. They didn’t have a clue.

  “Who else came down here?” he asked.

  “Just my Jackie. She didn’t want to get separated.”

  Boswell stood up again and stretched his back. Something clicked in his spine.

  “Okay. You go back now,” Boswell said. “I’m staying here. Make sure you go back the way we came.”

  Bass looked confused, like a dog unexpectedly abandoned by its owners, but – after a moment – he did as he was told.

  When Boswell could no longer hear his footsteps crashing through the undergrowth, he pulled out his mobile phone to call the control room. There was only a weak signal out here, but it should do.

  “This is DS Jack Boswell. I need an OS grid reference and co-ordinates for my current position. When you’ve got that, I need a SOCO sent my way. Also we’re going to need Hector – if he’s not on duty, get him called out.”

  Boswell ended the call. Hector was the police bloodhound – the sole police bloodhound. Boswell needed him here, but he had a horrible feeling he wasn’t going to be able to help.

  He made another call on his mobile, this time to the uniformed sergeant supervising the makeshift RVP in the Friston Forest car park.

  “This is DS Boswell. There’s a guy coming out of the woods. Name of Nigel Bass. Huge, about fifty. Horrible Hawaiian shirt. When he appears, arrest him. Suspicion of murder.”

  *

  Hector, mercifully, was not only on duty, but on patrol in the centre of Brighton. Traffic was heavy and lethargic, but with the lights and sirens going, Hector’s handler made the run to Friston in just under half an hour, and arrived on scene at more or less the same time as the additional SOCO Boswell had requested.

  With the assistance of a couple of constables, the SOCO marked out the route from the car park to the site of the dress discovery. By the time Boswell returned to the car park to brief both the SOCO and Hector’s handler on the site, Nigel Bass had since been carted off.

  Under uniformed guard, Boswell had set up a temporary exhibits store using the shelving in the rear of a police van. He fished out the exhibit bag with the dress in it, and carefully slit the bag with the blade of a Leatherman to allow Hector to get acquainted with the scent.

  The SOCO twitched at this; Boswell, although sympathetic, unfortunately had no choice. The chance – however slim – of finding Maggie Canavan alive had to take precedence over the risk of contaminating forensic evidence, even if it did end up proving crucial in a homicide inquiry.

  When Hector was satisfied, he, his handler and the SOCO marched off into the forest. Boswell remained in the car park. They didn’t need him immediately. No sense in further trampling over the forest floor and shedding more of his own DNA all over the place.

  Instead, he boarded the side door into the back of the empty carrier and sat in one of the seats. The interior was cool and dark, and the steady murmur of activity outside was reduced slightly, even with the door open. Boswell shut his eyes to allow his brain to unknot itself momentarily.

  A map had been spread out across the table in the van, with small models representing police units located at various pinch-points, like the strategic positioning of World War Two battleships in a command centre. The duty inspector had not been slow in containing Friston Forest, which was no mean feat, given the size of the place – and the possible escape routes. Roads Policing units had obliged en masse, and checkpoints had been set up at the main egress routes. Despite this, a car with Maggie Canavan bundled into the boot could still have got out before the net came down.

  Friston Forest was spread over a massive area, with public vehicular access through a number of car parks on the south, east and west sides. Access to works and forestry veh
icles was available through a number of other single track entrances – although many of them were secure – while pedestrians could technically squirrel their way in anywhere. A car leaving one of the car parks could either take the coast road east to Eastbourne or west towards Seaford, head north through Jevington, or a parallel route northwest at Exceat along winding lanes through Litlington and Wilmington. The coastal routes had limited opportunities to radically change direction, but the two northbound routes splintered off into smaller lanes like thread veins, all of which eventually ended up on the A27; from there, it was a quick run towards a number of major routes in all directions – including London.

  Boswell felt a warm thrill in his chest as he surveyed the table in front of him. Cops did not routinely like helping other cops, even cops they had worked with for years in the same station, so fiercely parochial were they about their own workloads; if there was no personal gain for the one doing the assisting, the bare minimum might be all you could expect. Time, after all, was precious – and the supply of victims inexhaustible.

  Cases like this one, however, brought cops out in droves. Sure, the scale of the operation meant that someone very high up might not leave them any choice in the matter, but the likelihood is they wouldn’t have to be asked. The thought of the sheer number of resources at Boswell’s disposal, all eager to unite and assist in pursuit of their common purpose, was, momentarily, overwhelming.

  The risk was, of course, that – sunmarshalled – such a large number of people would either mill about doing nothing, or go off and do their own thing without telling anyone. Sometimes this reaped dividends, but it was more likely to louse something up later on. Supervision and control were everything.

  Boswell had intelligence staff working on the whereabouts, movements and MOs of known sex offenders. CID were interviewing walkers and picnickers. Roads Policing were stopping and searching everything going through the checkpoints. Scenes-of-Crime were examining and documenting virtually every twig in the place, while police searchers were combing the forest in massive lines.