Warrander watched his sergeant, Rose Simons, drive away. Then he took a slow walk around the outer edge of the site, trying to remember exactly how it had looked a few days earlier when they’d first been called to the tragic scene. The scars on the young saplings, formed as the small car had wedged itself into the undergrowth, were still evident. The ground had been churned up by the trailer used to transport the abandoned vehicle to the forensic depot for further examination, and much of the undergrowth had been cleared in the search for evidence. He returned to the point where the track ended as it reached the clearing, and sat on a log. This is quite pleasant, he thought. There was no one about to disturb the serene atmosphere. He watched as a group of rabbits appeared and started to nibble at the tufts of grass and a small weasel-like creature dashed across the path. Warrander took a mint from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. He sat for about fifteen minutes before setting off for another stroll, this time across the centre of the clearing, approaching the area where the car had been found. A thick clump of heather, its flower heads not yet open, lay to one side with some bushy shrubs beyond. Warrander picked up a stick and began to idly poke around in the undergrowth. He stopped suddenly. There, half hidden by the leaves and heather, was a reel of sticky tape. Grey sticky tape, the same shade as the tape used to fix the length of tubing to the exhaust pipe on the Armitage car. How had it been missed by the search teams? He used his walkie-talkie to radio back to the station, then sat down to wait.
Dave Nash was on the scene within half an hour, along with one of his most trusted forensic officers. Sophie Allen and Barry Marsh were not far behind. Nash was clearly puzzled. He looked annoyed.
‘It can’t have been missed,’ he insisted. ‘We went over this whole zone inch by inch, and not just once. We even searched it again yesterday, once the car was removed. It’s inconceivable that it’s been there all the time.’ He turned to Warrander. ‘How noticeable was it? You’ve obviously moved it slightly.’
‘About an inch. There was just one small part of it showing through. I thought it was a stone at first, but the colour was wrong, and it glinted. That’s why I poked it a bit.’
‘So a part was definitely visible?’
‘Yes, but just a tiny bit. It would have been easy to miss.’
‘By you, maybe. But not by my team.’ Nash sounded enraged, almost ready to explode. Sophie laid a hand on his arm.
‘George didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Didn’t you have close-up photos taken of the whole area? Maybe they need to be checked before we jump to any conclusions. When you’ve finished with the first set of photos, get George to poke the reel back into the position he found it in. Get some more shots, then we can compare them with the ones taken on Friday.’ She looked again at the roll. ‘This looks brand new, as though it’s never been used. See the yellow tab at the end? Surely that’s the manufacturer’s original. Doesn’t it look like it to you?’
Nash and Marsh were less sure. The area was searched and photographed again, and the two detectives walked back to their car, reaching it just as a squad car arrived. Rose Simons hurried out.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘George spotted a reel of sticky tape. Forensics are back at the scene,’ Marsh explained. ‘Maybe you’d better get him away or stay here with him. It’s nearly caused Dave Nash to have a heart attack.’
Rose laughed. ‘That boy of mine, he’s something else, isn’t he? I’ll put a stop to his smarties ration if you want me to.’
‘Maybe you should double it, Rose,’ Sophie answered. ‘There’s another interpretation here, not just the obvious one of a negligent search team. Let’s wait and see.’
* * *
Sophie and Marsh watched for a while then drove to the forensic centre.
‘It could make quite a difference to us, couldn’t it ma’am?’
She nodded. ‘Oh, yes. Whatever way you look at it, it’s a bit of a game changer. Interpretation one, that the forensic search missed it and it’s been there all the time. It appears to make the case for suicide stronger. Interpretation two, that it’s been planted overnight. It means someone’s just realised their mistake in not leaving the tape and has been back to correct the error.’
‘But if that’s the case, it’s too late, surely? We’ll have the photos to show it was planted later. If anything, it will add to the evidence.’
Sophie shook her head. ‘No. Think in the long term, Barry. It weakens any potential court case. Any half decent defence lawyer would use it to cast doubt on the competency of the forensic unit, arguing that they must be inept because they missed it. And if they’re inept on this issue, what other mistakes have they made? That’s how the argument will proceed. It’s very clever. Look, we all know it was murder because of what Benny discovered in the post mortem. That was backed up by the missing reel. Now it’s turned up, it leaves the medical evidence only. What bothers me is how they knew. Was it just coincidence and they realised their mistake in the last few days, then chose last night to plant it there? Or is it linked to us realising it wasn’t there on Friday? The thing is, hardly anyone knew about it. Dave only confirmed that no reel of tape had been found yesterday afternoon. When did Rae post that information on the incident board?’
‘It was there when I came back from Poole, so maybe mid-afternoon? Why?’
‘Because Dave swears that none of his team would talk, and no one apart from him knew of our hunt for the reel of tape anyway. So who could have seen it on the incident board?’
‘The chief super was in yesterday afternoon with Bob Thompson. Blackman and McCluskie called in to drop off a report. Pete Armitage was in because he’s putting in an estimate for repainting the inside of the station and needed to see all the rooms. I passed him downstairs as I came in. And there could have been others that I don’t know about. Some of the uniformed squad have been in and out. I suppose we’d have to include the cleaners too.’ He paused. ‘Don’t you think this is all a bit ridiculous, ma’am?’
‘Maybe. But I’m a bit paranoid, Barry, as you well know.’
* * *
It was as Sophie had expected. The photo evidence taken on the day of the gruesome discovery showed no evidence of any discarded reel of tape in the place where Warrander had found one. Warrander was adamant that a small part of the reel was showing, but this was not the case in the originals, so they now knew that someone had visited overnight to plant the evidence. The problem was compounded by the fact that no new tyre prints were evident, nor had any vehicle stopped in the vicinity during the hours of darkness when there had been no police presence. A small video camera set up to record traffic movement on the nearby road had shown that no cars had stopped at the side of the road, yet the activity sensors had recorded movement, although this could have been wild animals snuffling about in the undergrowth. The chances were that someone had made a long walk in the dark to the forensic site. It was puzzling, and disturbing in its implications. Was someone playing games with them? Or was the explanation simpler than that? Did the culprit not realise the detailed level of photographic evidence that is now made of a crime scene? But in that case, why had nothing been captured on the videos?
She spoke quietly to both Nash and Marsh. ‘Keep this to yourselves. The fewer that know about it, the better. If someone was there last night, we don’t want them to know that we’ve found the tape. Let’s continue to keep the place under surveillance. Do you think it might be worth doing another quick check of the area? Assuming someone came by car, they may have left traces. Footprints maybe.’
Nash agreed. ‘I’ll do it. As you say, the fewer that know about it the better.’ He returned to his car.
Sophie called Rose Simons, who was still at the nature reserve with Warrander, and explained the situation, emphasising the need for total discretion.
‘I know my job, ma’am,’ came the reply. ‘Others may blab after their second drink, but not yours truly. It takes at least five with me, and they’
d have to be doubles. If you want me to, I can tape up young George’s mouth when he goes off duty tonight. That roll of sticky tape he found needs to be put to some useful purpose, don’t you think?’
Sophie rolled her eyes as she slipped her phone back into her bag. ‘I don’t envy George Warrander. Rose Simons is a brilliant cop, but her humour can get just a bit too much at times.’
* * *
The two detectives returned to Blandford police station and found Rae Gregson entering more details onto the computer system.
‘I went with Sharon Giroux to her parents’ solicitor, ma’am,’ she said. ‘The will is fairly simple, but there was a surprise. She and her brother get fifty percent of the estate each, but that’s after twenty thousand has gone to Pete Armitage, her uncle. Apparently it was in appreciation of his efforts to keep Rod on the straight and narrow, mainly through giving him his apprenticeship ten years or so ago.’
‘Any idea how much will be involved?’ Barry asked.
‘Possibly about three hundred thousand in total. The bungalow should get about a quarter of a million, and they had some bank investments and insurance. Not all the details are in yet, though, so that figure might change.’
‘That’s a lot of money for someone like Rod,’ Rae suggested. ‘A hundred and forty thousand or thereabouts? How did Sharon react?’
‘She wasn’t surprised, if that’s what you mean. I think she already had an idea of the bungalow’s value and the savings were about what most people would expect. I expect it’ll be Rod who’ll be a bit shocked.’
‘Is it enough to kill for, though? And they both knew they’d be getting it at some time.’
Sophie spoke. ‘It might have been whittled down a lot over the coming years, particularly if care bills had come into play. It’s possible that in another decade the amount might have dropped by half. Care homes aren’t cheap. And Sharon would know that. She’d make enough calls on elderly people to know exactly how much it costs.’ She paused. ‘The problem is, if it was Sharon, why would she go to this much bother? It was very elaborately set up. Surely, as a doctor, she’d have access to simpler ways of doing it?’
‘They always get caught, though, don’t they, ma’am?’
‘We don’t know of the ones that don’t, Rae. So we can’t be sure of the extent of it.’
CHAPTER 14: Paranoid
Wednesday, Week 2
Marilyn Mitchell had widened her investigation into the Woodruffs’ business empire. She now had a fairly clear idea of the extent of their reach across south Dorset. They owned pubs, cafes, hotels and massage parlours in most of the major towns in the area, although most were in the Bournemouth-Poole conurbation. She already knew the hierarchy within the organisation, with her husband at number five, below the family members and Tony Sorrento, but she guessed that Gordon’s official status was for official documentation only. In practice he was a mere employee with no direct input into the making of important decisions. Those discussions would be family only, with the addition of Gordon’s boss, Tony Sorrento and the other mainstay, Justin Griffiths. In fact, following the death of Phil Woodruff, it seemed probable to her that Tony would be moving into the top slot, judging by the messages she’d seen coming Gordon’s way.
She sat back and looked at her laptop screen. Mind-mapping software was just wonderful for displaying complex connections like this. There was the whole empire laid out in front of her, businesses and people, assembled slowly over the past couple of days. Her own work as a commercial property specialist had trained her in the methodology of this type of research and she always set password access to her work files. Gordon need never know what she was researching. She sipped her coffee and pondered. She needed to identify a weak point that would allow Gordon some get-out leverage, and at the same time find him another job somewhere. Maybe they’d have to move away from Dorset, but anything was better than staying here and watching her husband slowly lose his self-belief. It was up to her to create an escape route for him before things deteriorated further. She’d seen what he’d spent the previous day working on from his emails. Arranging for Sorrento to visit Ricky Frimwell in prison, apparently to discuss a business deal. Maybe even seeing Charlie Duff as well. Marilyn had no great knowledge of the criminal underworld, but even she had heard those names and was aware that they were in jail for multiple murder, rape and human trafficking. Up to now the Woodruff gang had restricted itself to operating in a shady area just outside the law, and they had steered clear of any serious criminality, as far as she knew. But now? Why would Sorrento want to talk to that evil duo?
* * *
Tony Sorrento sat in the visitors’ room and watched Ricky Frimwell walk towards him. He still had that arrogant swagger, his eyes still darted around the room, observing everyone but giving nothing away. He nodded as he sat down. Tony pushed one of the cartons of coffee across the table. He’d been allowed to bring the two coffees across from the machine after intense checking by the guards, even though he’d already been searched on entry. Remind me never to end up in jail, he thought. Not under any circumstances.
‘This is an unexpected pleasure, Tony,’ Frimwell said, with heavy sarcasm. He swigged from the cardboard carton.
‘It’s business, Ricky, pure and simple. Some of your old premises are sitting empty, gathering dust. They’re not doing anyone any good, ’specially your mum, who’s the main owner now, I guess. We want to do a deal with her ’cause we could use the cafes and clubs. I thought it would be better to see you first to sound you out.’
Frimwell didn’t hurry to answer. He took another sip of coffee and stared coolly across the small table. ‘You did right,’ he finally said. ‘I’d have been fucking angry if I heard you’d seen her without talking to me first. I might be in this fuck of a place, but I’ve still got some influence. I hear what’s going on outside.’
Sorrento nodded. Privately, he thought Frimwell was little more than a violent, sadistic thug with no business acumen whatsoever. That had been plain at his trial a year earlier, where the evidence had shown that the co-leader of the Duff gang was a psychopath with no real grip on reality. And as for his uncle, the even more twisted Charlie Duff, well, maybe there was no need to see him at all if this visit went well. Sorrento knew that the duo had murdered one of his own contacts, Blossom Sourlie. It took all the self-restraint he had to remain calm and appear to be pleased to be in Frimwell’s company when all he really wanted to do was to hit him hard in the face and break his nose.
‘We can both come out on top, Ricky,’ he said. ‘Well, in your case it’ll be your mum, what with you stuck in here for a while yet. But the money could be waiting for you when you get out.’
‘Buy or rent?’ Frimwell asked.
‘We’d only be interested in buying them,’ Sorrento replied. ‘We don’t do renting. And it’s not all your places. I’d need to map them out and see what would work for us. But we wouldn’t cheat you, Ricky. We’d offer a fair sum. Your mum’ll be in clover.’
Frimwell sat brooding, silent. He was powerless and Sorrento knew it. This was all bravado, the pretence that he still had influence over the world outside the prison walls. Even before his arrest, in the last few years of his gang’s existence their self-indulgent ways had put them on a slippery, downward slope. Sorrento knew that his own contact in the Duff gang, Sourlie, had tried to instil some order into their activities, but had failed miserably. It had been impossible to work with such out-and-out psychopaths.
‘I did wonder whether I’d need to speak to Charlie as well as you. What do you think?’
Frimwell shook his head. ‘Don’t even try. As far as I know, he’s hardly spoken a word for a year. He’s in and out of the nutters’ ward like a fucking yoyo. They probably keep him drugged up to the eyeballs.’
‘Okay.’ He hid his relief. He knew psychopathy wasn’t contagious, like measles, but the fewer murdering thugs he had to mix with, the better. Thank God the Woodruffs had never shown the same addiction t
o violence that Frimwell and his deranged uncle had displayed. ‘So, do we have a deal?’
‘Yeah. But don’t cheat me, Tony. You’d fucking regret it.’
‘I’m legit, Ricky. I push hard for good prices, but I don’t cheat people. Your mum’ll have no complaints.’
He left after a few minutes more of small talk.
During the three hour drive back to Bournemouth, he considered the various options. If he could get this deal to work and, despite his promise to Frimwell, at a bargain price, then he’d cement his position as the real brains behind the Woodruff operation. Of course he’d need Gordy’s help, but there should be no problems there. The one person he could always rely on was his assistant, Gordon Mitchell.
* * *
Back at the Rising Moon pub, Wayne Woodruff was sprawled in an armchair, a tumbler of scotch in his hand. They were seated in Justin Griffiths’s office. Griffiths attempted to smooth down his hair with his hand, forgetting once again that he was almost completely bald.
‘So you don’t think much of Tony’s plan?’ Griffiths said.
‘It’s not the plan, Griffy. He always comes up with good plans and this one is probably as good as his others. It’s just that I can’t help thinking he’s up to something. With Phil only buried last month, the right thing to do is to let things calm down for a while. Stop and take stock. But no, not Tony. He has to push on with everything at top speed. There’s no let up. Today Bournemouth, tomorrow the world. I mean, do we really want to nearly double the size of the operation?’
‘More dosh for us all, Wayne, if it works well. And Tony’s ideas usually do.’ He sipped his drink slowly. He couldn’t see the problem. ‘You’re worrying over nothing, Wayne. Tony’s never let us down. He’s the hardest grafter here.’
‘I just wonder if he’s getting too ambitious.’
TWISTED CRIMES a gripping detective mystery full of suspense Page 9