Dead Lock

by Damien Boyd

  ‘Been busy, I gather,’ said Potter, striding over to meet him as he walked into the yard. ‘You’ve shaved and changed too. I rather liked the mountain man look.’

  ‘Was he in the car?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Yes.’

  He nodded.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘He was never going to get far with all that booze and methadone inside him. And he’d probably have gone the back way to avoid us. It’s not rocket science.’

  ‘Don’t tell Sally Guthrie that.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘It does mean her team can concentrate on Buckler now, which is good.’ Potter smiled. ‘You may also be interested to know that Dave Harding has fessed up, so we have you to thank for this too.’

  Dixon shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Where’s Jane?’ he asked.

  ‘Still over at Lympsham. They’re waiting for a crane to get the car out. I’ve told her to meet us at Express Park.’

  ‘What about Sailes?’

  ‘They haven’t got him out yet.’ Potter grimaced. ‘A diver’s been in. It looks like his neck’s broken so he was probably killed instantly.’

  ‘And here?’

  ‘We’ve not found anything yet, but the sniffer dogs have only just arrived. Scenes of Crime are in the house at the moment.’

  ‘Is it connected to mains drainage?’

  ‘No. We’ve checked the septic tank.’

  ‘Ma’am!’

  The shout came from the far corner of the yard, just inside the corrugated iron fence. Louise was standing behind a dog handler waving her arms.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Potter, as she ran across with Dixon close behind her.

  ‘A beaded bracelet,’ replied the dog handler.

  ‘It’s an anklet,’ said Louise. ‘It’s a bit longer than a bracelet.’

  Potter waited until the dog handler pulled his spaniel clear and then squatted down. ‘It looks broken.’

  ‘It’s just like Alesha’s, isn’t it, Ma’am?’

  ‘It is, Louise, yes.’

  Dixon looked around. ‘We’d better get these pallets moved,’ he said, ‘and those two old cars. These oil drums will need opening too.’

  Potter turned to Louise. ‘What’s the senior SOCO’s name?’

  ‘Donald Watson, Ma’am.’

  ‘Get him out here, will you?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘And be careful where you’re treading.’

  ‘Where’s the van?’ asked Dixon, his eyes darting around the yard.

  ‘In that barn,’ replied Potter, pointing over her shoulder. ‘SOCO haven’t got to it yet.’

  ‘I thought you were in the Lakes,’ said Watson, appearing around the stacks of pallets. He was wearing a one-piece white protective suit with blue latex gloves and overshoes.

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Bet you wish you’d stayed there.’

  ‘Not this time.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He turned to Potter. ‘What can I do for you?’

  She pointed to the anklet lying on the gravel. ‘Bag it up and get it tested.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘Then tear this fucking place apart.’

  Dixon started walking towards the barn.

  ‘Wear gloves if you’re going in there,’ shouted Watson. ‘And don’t touch anything.’

  Once inside the barn Dixon walked around the van, taking photographs of it from various angles on his iPhone. He was careful to step over the tyre tracks in the soft earth floor and, while he opened the doors and photographed the passenger compartment, he touched nothing even though he had stopped to put on a pair of latex gloves. He squatted down and took close-ups of the number plates too, front and rear.

  ‘There’s a lorry on the way to pick it up,’ said Potter, standing in the doorway. ‘We won’t know anything until SOCO have been over it, though.’

  Dixon opened the rear doors and took a photograph of the back of the van.

  ‘Is it empty?’ asked Potter.

  ‘Looks it.’

  Dixon walked past Potter and out into the sunlight.

  ‘Where are you going now?’

  ‘The house. I want to see what sort of man he is.’

  ‘And you can tell that from his house?’

  ‘Haven’t you ever watched Through the Keyhole?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Dixon, smiling.

  He started in the kitchen, Potter following him every step of the way. The cupboards: ordered, jars and tins facing front. The fridge: nothing out of place. Jane would have appreciated the cutlery drawer. Maybe Buckler had a touch of obsessive compulsive disorder too?

  A faint smell of bleach, perhaps?

  ‘It’s been cleaned,’ said Watson, watching them from the serving hatch.

  ‘There’s nothing you’d feed a child, is there?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Beans on toast, perhaps?’ replied Watson. ‘There are some beans in the cupboard.’

  ‘If you were going to kidnap a ten year old child, you’d stock up with stuff to keep her happy, surely? Crisps, sweets, fizzy drinks, crap like that.’

  ‘Maybe she’s dead.’

  ‘Which one?’ snapped Potter.

  ‘Both of them.’

  Dixon shook his head. ‘You really can be a git sometimes, Donald.’

  ‘Just doing my job.’

  He pushed past Watson and into the dining room.

  ‘He hasn’t used this room for months,’ said Watson, following him. ‘It’s covered in dust. Even the bottles on the sideboard. The tonic’s flat too; best before September 2016.’

  ‘How old is he?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Sixty-one,’ replied Potter.

  The curtains were closed in the living room, the scene lit up by arc lamps.

  ‘We got a few fibres off the sofa that have gone off to the lab,’ said Watson. ‘There must be a cat somewhere too.’

  ‘An old fashioned TV,’ said Dixon. ‘Not internet enabled.’

  ‘He’s subject to a banning order,’ said Potter.

  Dixon picked up four DVDs lying on the coffee table, all rented from Burnham library and all of them Westerns. ‘These aren’t bad if you like that sort of thing,’ he said, holding up The Outlaw Josey Wales and Unforgiven.

  He picked up two photographs on the mantelpiece, one in each hand, both of Ted Buckler in happier days, reading the weather forecast beside a map of the south west. On the left, a younger man, presumably at the start of his career; and on the right, an older man being presented with various gifts, on his retirement, no doubt.

  ‘I’ll wait outside,’ muttered Potter, when Dixon switched on the TV.

  BBC News. He switched it off again. ‘Have you finished upstairs?’

  Watson nodded.

  By the time Dixon had finished going round the house, SOCO were dismantling the piles of rubbish in the yard, bit by bit. The cars had been moved, as had the forklift.

  ‘No, before you ask, there were no trapdoors underneath,’ said Watson, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘What did you learn in the house then?’ asked Potter.

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Dixon, peeling off his gloves.

  ‘Can I call you Ted?’

  ‘I use Edward now.’

  ‘You’ve declined a solicitor, Edward,’ continued Potter. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘I’ve done nothing and I have nothing to hide.’

  Dixon watched Buckler in the reflection on the tape machine. Closely cropped white hair, clippers probably, and a white goatee; he bore little resemblance to the TV weatherman he had seen in Google Images. There were no flowery shirts now.

  ‘You’ve been arrested on suspicion of the abduction of Alesha Daniels and Harriet Renner.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘You’re a convicted rapist, Edward. What have you got to say about that?’

  ‘Read the file.’

  ‘Put it into context for us,’ said Potter
.

  ‘I was found guilty by a jury. It’s happened to innocent people before and it will again. That’s all I have to say about it.’

  ‘So, you’re saying you didn’t do it?’

  Silence.

  ‘But the jury didn’t believe you, did they?’

  Buckler took his reading glasses out of his breast pocket and began cleaning the lenses on his shirt tail.

  ‘How d’you explain that, Edward?’

  ‘Read the file. It’s all set out in the grounds of appeal.’

  ‘The appeal failed,’ said Potter.

  ‘I was refused leave to appeal. There’s a difference.’

  ‘The jury got it wrong then?’

  ‘Look, I’m saying nothing more about it. It’s finished with. So, I suggest you move on.’

  ‘All right, Edward, let’s move on,’ said Potter. ‘Where were you on Saturday?’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Talk me through the whole day.’

  ‘I had a delivery of tulips from Amsterdam.’

  ‘Is that a wind up?’

  ‘Why would it be?’ snapped Buckler. ‘I’m a flower wholesaler. I import all sorts.’

  Dixon sighed, as silently as he could manage.

  ‘What time was that?’ asked Potter.

  ‘The lorry got to me about ten, I suppose. We unloaded the tulips into the cool shed and he was gone again within the hour.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Back to Harwich for the ferry.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘It took me a while to sort them out, I suppose. I put the freshest ones to the back. Then I had a couple of deliveries to make. Ellen collected some flowers before that too, when the lorry was there. You can check with her if you need to.’

  ‘Ellen?’

  ‘Ellen’s Flowers in Burnham. She had a wedding that afternoon.’

  ‘And the deliveries?’

  ‘Weston and Wells. I deliver a couple of times a week.’

  ‘On a Saturday?’

  ‘It depends what they’ve got going on. Wells was flowers for the cathedral. Weston they had a marquee to decorate. I don’t know what for; it wasn’t a wedding anyway.’

  ‘And you do the deliveries yourself?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You used to have a delivery driver, didn’t you?’

  ‘Kevin, yes. I had to let him go.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t want to get him in any trouble.’

  ‘He’s dead, Edward,’ said Potter, matter of fact.

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me, to be honest.’ Buckler put his reading glasses on and then slid them on to the top of his head. ‘Overdose, was it?’

  ‘Road traffic accident.’

  ‘Did he take anyone else with him?’

  Potter ignored the question. ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘The day I sacked him.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘A year ago maybe? It’ll be in my records.’

  ‘You had a lot in common,’ said Potter, tipping her head to one side.

  Buckler was sucking his teeth, watching Dixon watching him in the reflection on the tape recorder.

  ‘He told me what had happened to him, yes.’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘I had no reason not to.’

  ‘When did you last speak to him?’

  ‘I told you, the day I sacked him. Check my phone if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Look, what’s Kevin go to do with this?’

  ‘He was in a relationship with Alesha’s mother.’

  No reaction, but Dixon would check the CCTV footage again later to be on the safe side. The new interview room layout was a pain in the arse for a whole host of reasons, not least because he couldn’t look Buckler in the eye.

  ‘I still don’t see what that’s got to do with me.’

  ‘OK, let me spell it out for you then, Edward,’ said Potter, turning on her seat to face him. ‘You’re a convicted paedophile, and a known associate of another convicted paedophile, who just happens to be in a relationship with the mother of a missing ten year old girl.’

  Buckler took a deep breath. Dixon glanced across at him over Potter’s shoulder, noticing beads of sweat on his forehead that hadn’t been visible in the reflection.

  ‘I’ve not seen Kevin for a year. More, probably.’

  ‘Let’s go back to Saturday then,’ said Potter. ‘What about the rest of the day?’

  ‘I was open to the public in the afternoon. I sell a bit direct to a few regular customers. Not enough to piss off my shop customers.’

  ‘Cash in hand?’

  ‘No.’ Indignant.

  ‘D’you have a card machine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What time was the last transaction on Saturday?’

  ‘Must have been nearly five. The receipt will be in the till.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I closed the gates and spent the rest of the day in front of the telly. Fed the cats.’ He shook his head. ‘How much detail d’you want?’

  ‘What did you watch?’

  ‘Two Clint Eastwood films.’

  ‘All right,’ said Potter. ‘Talk me through the route you took for the deliveries.’

  Buckler frowned. ‘I went to Weston first, up the A370. Then across to Wells and back via Wedmore.’

  ‘Did you go on the M5?’

  ‘No. Over it twice, but not on it.’

  Potter handed a black and white photograph to Buckler, who slid his glasses down on to the end of his nose. ‘This was taken on Saturday at two twenty-four p.m. It’s a still from the traffic camera on the southbound off slip at junction twenty-two.’ Potter waited for a reaction.

  None came.

  ‘Would you agree this is your van?’

  ‘It can’t be. I didn’t go on the M5.’

  ‘It’s your number plate.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ Buckler handed the photograph back to Potter, shaking his head as he did so. ‘Mine ends in ALG and this one’s AEG.’

  ‘So, let me be quite clear. You’re saying it’s not your van, despite the almost identical registration – which, I might add, is clearly visible.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long d’you think it would take to change an “L” to an “E” with a bit of black insulating tape and a pair of scissors?’

  ‘You’re not seriously suggesting . . .’ Buckler’s voice tailed off.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m suggesting, Ted. Do you own any black insulating tape?’

  ‘It’s Edward.’ Buckler hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s the right answer, because we found it.’ Potter nodded. ‘And you can take it that we’ll be checking your number plate for traces of glue residue.’

  Silence.

  ‘A van fitting this description was seen by a witness in Marine Drive shortly before Alesha disappeared,’ continued Potter. ‘What have you got to say about that?’

  Buckler folded up his glasses and dropped them into his breast pocket. ‘It must have been the van in the photo then, because it wasn’t mine.’

  Potter glanced at Dixon and sighed.

  ‘You seriously expect us to believe that, Edward?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is your chance to tell us what happened and where the girls are.’

  Silence.

  ‘Where are they?’

  Buckler looked up at the camera in the corner of the interview room, just under the ceiling, and then back to Potter.

  ‘I’ve told you.’

  ‘Are they still alive.’

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘You’ll need your glasses again,’ said Potter, sliding another photograph out of the file on her knee. ‘This is a white beaded anklet identical to the one Alesha was wearing when she disappeared.’

  Buckler took the photograph from Potter’s outstretched hand and peered at it. The
n he took out his glasses, put them on and looked at the picture again.

  ‘Have you seen it before, Edward?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was found this morning in your yard.’

  Buckler sat up sharply, arching his back. ‘Where?’

  ‘In the corner by the empty pallets.’

  Buckler tried to hand the photograph back to Potter, but he was trembling now. She ignored his outstretched hand, instead watching the photograph fluttering as if in a strong breeze.

  ‘It’s being tested for her DNA, Edward,’ she said. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me now?’

  Buckler hesitated, then slumped back in his chair and sighed. ‘I’d like to see my solicitor.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘What d’you think?’ asked Potter, stepping into the lift.

  ‘I think we’re no nearer finding the girls,’ replied Dixon, shaking his head. ‘Dead or alive.’

  ‘He’ll crack. Especially if we get a DNA match off the anklet. We’ve got enough to charge him then, probably.’

  Dixon was watching Poland steaming along the landing towards the lift, with Jane running to catch up. It was one disadvantage of glass walls.

  ‘Sailes is dead?’ asked Roger, as the lift doors opened.

  ‘Who told you that?’ snapped Potter.

  Poland looked at her and then turned back to Dixon. ‘And you’ve arrested Ted Buckler. Has he said anything?’

  ‘Dr Poland—’

  ‘Leave this to me, Ma’am,’ interrupted Dixon. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’

  Potter sighed. ‘I’ll call you when we get the DNA results.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Dixon glared at Jane, his eyes wide.

  ‘Don’t look at me. I didn’t tell him.’

  ‘We’ll talk in the car.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Poland.

  ‘Catcott.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ replied Dixon, stepping back into the lift.

  ‘Look at that lot,’ sneered Poland, as the lift doors closed. ‘Patting themselves on the back.’

  Dixon watched a small group of officers on the far side of the Incident Room. They were smiling and shaking hands. At least there were no high fives this time.

  ‘It’s a breakthrough, Roger,’ said Jane. ‘They’re just letting off steam.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘Everyone’s trying to find Hatty.’