The Body Under the Bridge

by The Body Under the Bridge (epub)

  It was a chilly October evening when fifteen-year-old Jane Morris left the sweetshop where her friend Sarah worked, to walk the half mile back to her home in Balham, South London. The shy, mousy-haired schoolgirl was well known to many of the stallholders in the Hildreth Street market that adjoined Balham High Road. Her uncle Harold was one of them and described how he saw the girl talking to a young dreadlocked man with a Bob Marley T-shirt. It was the last time she was seen. Detectives initially arrested and charged a local man, Dudley Jives, who matched the description, but he was acquitted when it became clear that there was no forensic evidence against him, and his initial confession had been provided under duress. Since then police have had little luck tracing the man, despite extensive door-to-door enquiries in the area. It is now a year since Jane disappeared, and her parents Frank and Eileen fear that she may never be found.

  They leafed through several box files full of paper evidence, including the confession of Dudley Jives, which displayed a dead, passive police-speak. It was hardly in the man’s own words. The deeper into the documents Gillard reached, the more he was convinced that the initial investigation was botched. The assumption of a black perpetrator was never questioned; detectives had never apparently stepped back to doubt the witness statement of the uncle.

  Perry, meanwhile, was leafing through the 2005 cold case review. With more modern forensic techniques and DNA analysis, there had been hopes for a breakthrough. But without a body, it was much harder to make progress. Before the review had been published, Jane’s mother Eileen Morris had died. Her husband Frank, a bookmaker with a shop on Balham High Road, had died of a heart attack in 1997, and the key witness, Harold Garrison, the girl’s uncle, passed away in 2002. Harold’s wife Linda had succumbed to breast cancer in 1998. There were no other brothers or sisters in the family, and the only child was Jane.

  ‘There’s no one left to interview,’ Perry said. ‘I don’t see how we can get back into the case.’

  ‘What about Jane’s childhood friend Sarah, the one who worked in the sweetshop?’

  ‘Checked that. She emigrated to Australia in 2003, died of skin cancer in 2015.’

  Gillard turned to the younger man. ‘Lateral thinking, John. What I’d like you to do is start at the other end. We know that Jane Morris has been kept deep frozen for nearly forty years. If you do that in a normal household freezer, at about minus twenty centigrade, then you get deterioration over the years. But as we know, Jane Morris’ body was in pristine condition. So, the question we have to ask ourselves is: who supplies the kind of freezers that can keep a body that long without deterioration? Who are their customers? When did they first supply such a freezer? What’s the longevity of these type of freezers? Who services them?’

  Perry nodded. ‘That’s a better route into the case.’

  ‘Take a couple of days to research that, and I think you should also take a closer look around Balham market to see if anyone remembers our key witness, Uncle Harry.’

  * * *

  ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ Perry yelled at his wife, as they stood on opposite sides of the kitchen table. ‘Doing it right here under my nose.’ It was six p.m. and he been stewing about this all afternoon. ‘I found your hairs on her pillow.’ Vanessa had long, naturally blonde hair. The teenager didn’t have dark roots. Mel did.

  ‘A fat lot you care,’ she retorted. ‘You’re never here. No wonder your daughter runs wild, taking drugs, smashed out of her head at parties. This is like a single-parent family.’

  ‘Our daughter,’ he shouted. ‘Ours. Don’t you wash your hands of her.’

  ‘Oh, yes, hark at the loving dad,’ Mel said, folding her arms. ‘At least I care for her.’

  ‘I have always cared for her.’ He jabbed a finger at his own chest.

  ‘Really? At least I was there for her birth!’

  ‘That’s kind of obligatory,’ Perry smirked, a point won. The only reason he hadn’t been present was that the car had broken down, but Mel had taken umbrage, as if he had done it deliberately. Mel’s counter-attack had taken him by surprise. She seemed to be even angrier than he was. ‘I cook her meals, I clear up after her, I talk to her about her problems, which is more than you ever do,’ she shouted.

  Unsure how he had so quickly been forced back on the defensive, Perry returned to the main line of attack, stabbing his finger for emphasis. ‘Who is he, then, this lover of yours?’

  ‘I’m not telling you. Actually, he could be anybody, John. I’m so starved of affection, I made a pass at the Ocado lad, but he ran away back to his delivery van.’

  Perry flexed his fists, bewildered at what was happening to him. ‘You used our daughter’s bedroom, so that if you got caught I’d blame her. That is pretty low.’

  ‘I always change the sheets, like a good caring mum. Well, I would have done if you’d given me a few minutes.’

  Was she really blaming him for coming home? ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this,’ he yelled. ‘How long has this been going on?’

  She turned round to him, her lips twisted in anticipation. ‘A long time. Before we moved here.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Yes. I got us to move here so it would be easier and more convenient for me to see him.’ She folded her arms and watched him. So how do you like that, then?

  Perry was speechless. He hadn’t even wanted to leave their previous home, a tidy two-bedroom 1930s terrace, which they could easily afford. They had moved in here eighteen months ago. Now here he was in hock up to the neck for a flimsy new build. And it was all to facilitate her ongoing affair. ‘I want to know exactly how long this has been going on, Mel’ He seized her by the arms, gripping her tightly enough so that it would hurt. ‘I want to know how long!’

  She smiled. ‘A good eight inches, since you ask. And quite thick with it.’

  An involuntary snarl tore across Perry’s face, his arm raised itself, fist clenched. When it comes to inflicting pain, a spiteful woman is a match for any man. Less power maybe, but unerring accuracy.

  Some cooler and detached part of him now recognised what was going on. She was goading him to hit her, something he had never done to any woman. Or man, come to think of it. Her closed-eyed expression was one of a saint, waiting to be validated by crucifixion. That was what she wanted, he could see it now. If he nailed her with a punch, the exit strategy would kick in. Of course. He was being stupid. He’d only just discovered her infidelity, but her plan for a divorce, mentioned first a couple of years ago, was obviously simmering nicely. And thinking about it, it was a pretty solid plan. She’d get the house, but he’d have to continue to pay for most of it. Of course if he hit her and she pressed charges, he’d lose his job too. In fact, he was trussed up like a turkey. The deliberately lost evidence file, at her insistence, meant she had the whip hand over him in every way. An anonymous call to Crime Stoppers would do the trick. If he touched her, he was lost.

  He grabbed his coat and his car keys, and headed for the door.

  ‘And John? Just so you know. He made me come more times this morning than you have managed in our entire marriage,’ she yelled after him. ‘I was screaming the bloody house down!’

  * * *

  Perry jumped into the car, and screeched off to drive around the estate. If she wanted a war, she’d get one. Just not one of her choosing. He had resources that he could use against this man, whoever he was. He was looking for a black Range Rover, but it was just his luck that he couldn’t find one anywhere. A grey one, yes. A black Freelander, yes. But not the exact vehicle. Fifteen minutes later, Perry parked by the developer’s site office. He now realised that in his fury he had, for the second time, forgotten to pick up the datasticks and would have to go crawling back for them.

  Idiot.

  He turned off the engine, and, resting his hands on the top of the wheel, placed his chin upon them. He stared out across the bleak treeless entrance, the banners crackling in the wind, a tundra of new build misery laid out before him. He
thought it through. Mel’s lover, whoever he was, had been hiding up there in Vanessa’s room as he arrived. Mel manoeuvred him into the sun lounge to discuss their daughter, so that the bastard could slip out of the front door. Of course, that’s why she had kissed him so passionately, her hands holding his face. Over his ears! So he didn’t hear the door. What was most unforgivable was that he hadn’t a bloody clue. Here he was, a detective inspector charged with trying to find the culprits on a couple of murders, and he couldn’t even see that his wife was having an affair under his very nose.

  The truth remained that he loved Mel. And he had trusted her.

  More fool him.

  All that stuff about Vanessa and drugs in her room, Mel might just have made it up. John Perry took a very deep breath, and realised quite why it is that they say that love is blind. He began to recognise in himself something he had been taught about in the training courses on domestic violence. Why is it that women rarely press charges against abusive husbands? It’s because their self-esteem is at rock-bottom and they believe they deserve everything that happens to them. He had found it hard to believe at the time.

  Not now.

  John Perry certainly felt worthless: five foot seven, not particularly fit, and obviously, really obviously, not very smart. Big debts. Newly corrupt, too. And to top it all, the banner headline news, that not one of his three previous girlfriends, all those decades ago, had ever seen fit to tell him. That he was rubbish in bed. How on earth could he expect to run part of a complex murder inquiry for Surrey Police, when his own life was such a mess?

  For the first time in his life he considered killing himself.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Claire Mulholland’s warnings about Gillard being targeted had hit home. The detective chief inspector rarely had any worries about his own safety, but his thoughts always turned to Sam. They had been trying to sell their home for many months now, partly to get away from his annoying aunt, but also to move away from the Chipstead area closer to Guildford, where most of his work was now based. It wouldn’t be the first time someone connected with a case had discovered where he and Sam lived. He made a mental note to suggest to Sam that they drop the price again, to generate more interest in their home. He was sure she would agree.

  Missing her, he tried to ring her extension in the police control room, but it went to voicemail. She was almost always on the line, and wouldn’t be finished for another couple of hours. The way his ear and cheek were throbbing he quite felt like going home early, perhaps to make her a surprise meal. It was a rarity for him to be home before her, but something she always loved. He had just about made up his mind to ask DI Perry to cover for him in the ongoing search for the Mitsubishi Warrior that evening, when he was summoned by email to the office of Alison Rigby.

  He groaned inwardly, and made his way out of the CID building into Mount Browne’s historic redbrick building. Rigby was dressed informally, and peering at her screen through reading glasses. ‘Come in, Craig. How are your injuries?’ she asked, peering at the dressing on his ear.

  ‘It’s not too bad. I’ll live.’

  ‘I’m not going public on the details of this assault against you. Although it almost certainly was a targeted attack, I’d prefer not to confirm that one of our officers was a victim. But I strongly suggest you recheck all of your personal security assumptions. You tangled with an Albanian crime gang a year or so ago, and it might be possible that this is associated with them. They would certainly have the resources.’

  ‘Possibly. However, that would not fit with our assumptions about the Beatrice Ulbricht abduction, and the falsified rail journey.’

  The chief constable shrugged. ‘The investigation is well resourced already. But if you feel you need more, do let me know. We can tack it on the end of the Ulbricht budget that the Home Office has allowed me. Speaking of which.’ She looked up at him from her desk, a brief flash of the infamous blue stare. ‘We seem to be making progress in most aspects of this sprawling case, except on the murder of Beatrice. Herr Ulbricht rings me most days. It’s a call I have to take.’

  ‘I think you know we are doing our very best, ma’am,’ Gillard responded.

  ‘Perhaps you could write me a summary report.’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  ‘No hurry, Craig. Any time this evening will be fine.’

  He groaned inwardly. That was the end of Gillard’s plan to give Sam a pleasant surprise.

  * * *

  It was almost ten when he got home that evening. The report hadn’t been hard to write, but it lacked a conclusion, which made it feel unfinished and unsatisfactory. As Gillard reversed the car up the drive, he saw that Sam’s little black Renault was gone from its normal position in front of the garage, next to his RAV4. The usual lights in the house were on, in the hall and kitchen, plus one of the bedrooms upstairs. He let himself in and called her name. No reply. The burglar alarm had not been set. There was no note on the kitchen table, and no evidence of any meal except the unwashed breakfast plates.

  Gillard checked his phone. He had sent Sam a text when he was almost finished with the report, to say when he would be home. That was just before nine, and there had been no reply from her, which was unusual. He rang her mobile, which was turned off. He left a message. This was all very strange. He went upstairs, and checked the lit bedroom. The bed was made, there was no evidence of a hurried change of clothing, which is what he would have expected if she had come in and then gone out again to see a friend.

  A ragged edge of anxiety crowded his consciousness, but he refused to let it dominate. This was a problem of logic. Had Sam returned home at all? The kitchen and hall lights were on a timer, so would go on automatically at seven p.m. However the bedroom light was not, and he was pretty sure it would not have been left on when Sam left in the morning, because it would already have been light. That would tend to indicate she had come home. But why would she not leave a note or email or text him to let him know?

  He checked the landline answer phone, which indicated no new messages, then logged on to the Internet upstairs in his office. He used Sam’s laptop and went straight to Facebook, which took him to her account. There was plenty of recent activity, particularly from Ellen, but no indication on direct messages of any hurriedly arranged girls’ night out. Sam’s parents lived in the Lake District, a major expedition, so she wouldn’t have gone to see them on a whim.

  Baffled, and increasingly alarmed, the detective went back into the kitchen and looked around for evidence from first principles, as if it was somebody else’s home. Instantly he noticed the kitchen table was not quite in its normal position. Discoloured square marks on the linoleum, evidence of its usual alignment, were visible. One of the three chairs was not tucked under the usual edge of the pine table. He crouched down and peered under the table, and spotted something glinting in the shadows. An earring. A small dangly butterfly that he recognised as one of his wife’s favourites.

  Anxiety clicked up to fear. He hurried back up to the office, found his emergency backup briefcase, and extracted a tiny evidence bag, latex gloves and tweezers. He held the earring carefully to the light, but could see no sign of blood. That at least was a minor relief. There was no good reason for this little piece of costume jewellery to have found its way under the table.

  There was one final and possibly large resource that he could use. He was reluctant to go across the road to ask his aunt Trish if she had seen anything. Sam had often complained that the woman spied on her, particularly when she was at home alone. But right now, that could be an asset. The detective looked out of the front window towards Trish’s bungalow.

  Her car was gone too. That was highly unusual, because she always claimed she didn’t enjoy driving the big Ford Ranger that she had acquired from her sheep farmer sister. Trish had groceries delivered, and was more likely to walk to local shops than take the car. Gillard walked across the road and rang Trish’s doorbell. Only one light was on, the hall light that s
eemed to be on twenty-four hours a day. There was no reply. Gillard tried his own next-door neighbours on both sides. Only one was in and hadn’t seen anything.

  Enough was enough. Gillard took out his own mobile and alerted the control room to Sam’s absence. He asked them to get the duty detective inspector to put a request for a trace on Sam’s mobile and flag up her car registration as a matter of urgency. He might look an idiot if she showed up, but he was prepared to take that chance.

  Then he went back inside his cold, empty home, sat at the kitchen table and stared at the earring. How could he have been so complacent? So foolish as not to imagine that whoever it was who could find out where he was cycling on a particular day, probably already knew where he lived.

  He held his head in his hands. For all his steely professional resolve, he was now just plain old Craig Gillard. For the first time in many years he had no idea what to do next.

  * * *

  It was nearly eleven when DI Claire Mulholland pulled up outside Gillard’s home, having driven at breakneck speed from her home in Staines. They had earlier had a long conversation on the phone. Claire had an enduring affection for her boss, who had acted as mentor and an inspiration during her early years on the force. She only once before witnessed him this distressed, and that was a few years previously when he had discovered a blood-soaked crime scene at the home of his long-ago former girlfriend Liz Knight. But if Sam had been abducted, this would be of a different order.

  A police patrol car was parked on the front drive, and when Gillard answered the door to Claire’s ring, she was immediately part of an urgent conversation in the hallway. Two large and grim-faced uniformed officers turned to look at her, and the Surrey Police lanyard dangling around her neck, but she only had eyes for Gillard, who was as white as a sheet.