by Nigel Cooper
The custody sergeant booked him in – explaining that he’d been arrested on suspicion of kidnaping and ransom – taking down the usual details and asking the usual questions. Clifford was getting sick of hearing why he’d been arrested, he’d heard it four times by as many officers during the past fourteen hours. Clifford had already been banged up in Newcastle nick for ten hours by the time the two constables from Cambridge arrived at noon to pick him up, plus of course the four-hour journey in a secure cell van back down south, which brought it up to a total of fourteen hours in custody so far. However, unfortunately for Snowy, the 24-hour in custody rule of, either charge or release, didn’t apply as he was being transferred to a different county and a different constabulary altogether. So, his 24-hours would start over from the moment he was booked in at Parkside. This was good for the interviewing detectives in Cambridge as poor Mr Clifford would be feeling extra rough and groggy from taking a bit of a kicking outside the nightclub in the early hours, followed by no sleep on the hard slab of a bed in the nick in Newcastle, then a seriously uncomfortable journey rattling around in the back of a cell van for four hours (though he was thankful that the two officers didn’t insist on handcuffs during said journey, which they could have done) and now he was about to be put in a cell at Parkside and, on top of all that, he was starting to feel the unpleasant experiences of ‘cold turkey’ having not had a fix since the evening before. By the time DS Rhodes and DS Sakurai got around to interviewing him, he’d be totally desperate, which is what the police were hoping for.
‘The time is six thirty five p.m. I’m detective sergeant Rhodes. I’m in interview room three with my colleague detective constable Sakurai to interview Mr Brandon Clifford. Also in the room is Mr Clifford’s appointed solicitor, Mrs Deborah Reynolds. Mr Clifford, you’ve been arrested on suspicion of kidnapping, ransom and also as an accessory to the murder of Jamie and Edward Kramer. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’
‘I understand that I’m fucking starving and you bastards wouldn’t give me an extra blanket, it’s fucking freezing in that cell.’
‘Mr Clifford, you’ve been given food and plenty to drink since you arrived here,’ said Rhodes.
‘Food, call that fuckin’ food. You should have seen the state of it,’ he said. He turned to his appointed solicitor, said, ‘Really, it was some shit microwave thing, fucking ’orible it were, looked like fuckin’ cat’s diarrhoea, man, and smelt like it too.’
‘Mr Clifford, I need you to understand the seriousness of these crimes.’
‘Alleged crimes,’ said Mrs Reynolds, chipping in. ‘You don’t have any proof that my client had anything to do with any kidnapping, and linking him to the Kramer twins murder is purely speculative, detective.’
‘Well, there is the little matter of £176,450 in cash that we found under Mr Clifford’s bed, with his fingerprints all over it.’ Said Rhodes, looking at his notes. ‘We also have a team of detectives looking into several other lines of enquiry as we speak. The evidence is going to come, thick and fast, of that you can be sure.’
‘Well, until that evidence comes, let’s just stick to the facts shall we,’ said the solicitor.
‘Let’s start with the large amount of cash then, shall we. Would you like to explain how you came about it?’
‘No, not until you gimmi summink to eat, and I don’t mean none of those cheap microwave meals that you’ve got stacked up high in some mangy cupboard either. I want a takeaway pizza, Dominos, vegetarian with garlic bread supreme and a large Coke.’
‘Mr Clifford, I’m afraid that’s just not going to be possible, you had a hot meal just over an hour ago. If you want something to drink I can arrange that for you, but in the meantime we need to talk about the large amount of cash that was found under your bed and the reasons you ran away from Cambridge a year ago.’
‘Well, that might fuckin’ well be, but I ain’t saying nothin’ ’til’ I get my pizza,’ he said, sitting back, arms folding, adamant.
Rhodes and Sakurai tried and tried, hammering away for nearly an hour, but they weren’t getting anywhere. Clifford refused to answer their questions, he was just being abusive, and kept demanding his damn pizza, loudly and incessantly.
‘Ok, I think we should take a break,’ said Rhodes.
‘’Bout fuckin’ time. Any chance of that pizza now?’
Rhodes figured if they got the gobby little shit his bloody Dominos pizza and a Coke he might start talking, and using words of more than one syllable that didn’t all begin with F, S, B and C. In the meantime, DI Carver had told DC Jack Ruddock to get over to Parkside in case they needed to try a different kind of approach as Rhodes and Sakki were getting nowhere fast by being nice. Sure, Big Jack wouldn’t be allowed to steam in and beat a confession out of Clifford, but he just had an intimidating way about him that encouraged suspects to open up a little.
‘Damon, Sakki,’ said Ruddock, as he entered the canteen.
‘Alright, Jack,’ said Rhodes, while Sakki acknowledged him with a nod of the head.
‘How’s it going with this Clifford guy?’ said Jack.
‘He’s a mouthy little sod, that’s for sure. Won’t say a thing until he gets his pizza.’
‘His what?’
‘Seriously, we were in that pokey little interview room with the stinky sod for nearly an hour, he just kept banging on about how crap his microwave meal was and that he wanted a takeaway pizza, has to be Dominos too.’
‘Cheeky little fucker, what did he say when you told him to fuck off?’
‘We didn’t,’ said Sakki.
‘What, don’t tell me you gave in to him? … For fuck’s sake,’ he sighed.
‘We were getting nowhere fast, he’s a stubborn little sod,’ said Rhodes.
‘Besides, he stinks,’ said Sakki. ‘Smells like he hasn’t showered or brushed his teeth in a week. I was practically gagging in that stuffy little room.’
‘Well, put me in the cell with him for five minutes, I’ll soon un-stubborn the little prick for you,’ said Jack. He probably would too. Big Jack wasn’t big as in obese, he was just big strong burly Yorkshire man (with the accent to match) with old-fashioned police values. It would be fair to say that Jack didn’t believe in the modern politically correct way of policing, all this wrapping suspects up in pink fluffy cotton wool didn’t sit well with Jack, neither did the light sentences that magistrates and judges dished out. It’s Jack’s BFI attitude that’s prevented him from moving any further up the career ladder than his current detective constable rank.
‘Anyway, I’m hoping he’ll start talking ones he’s had his pizza.’
‘Ok, well, I’m gonna pop down to custody, sneak a peak at this Clifford character.
‘We’ll come with you, we’re finished here anyway,’ said Rhodes, getting up. Sakki followed suit and they all made their way back downstairs to the custody suite.
When they got there the smell of the recently delivered pizza was wafting around the custody suite as the front desk enquiry officer handed it over to the custody sergeant.
‘What cell number’s Clifford in?’ said Jack.
‘B2,’ said the custody sergeant.
Jack ambled down to cell B2 and lifted the metal viewing window. Clifford was sitting on the edge of the concrete slab of a bed with thin blue rubber mattress. ‘Ah, a Newcastle man, eh?’ said Jack, clocking his replica football shirt.
‘Yeah, what’s it to you?’ said Clifford.
‘Not been a good season for your lot has it, bottom three for most of the season and then to add insult to injury, your rivals, Sunderland, ended up being the ones responsible for making sure your lot went down by beating Everton three nil last night.’
‘Have you come here to talk about football or bring my fuckin’ pizza?’
‘You know, that money we found under
your bed, coupled with the evidence we’re starting to build against you, well, it’s not looking too good for you right now.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ll take my chances with a jury thank you very much.’
‘A jury? Really? I wouldn’t be going down that route if I were you?’
‘Oh, why’s that, you don’t have anything on me, if you did you’d have charged me by now.’
‘We have the money, and we’ll have all the evidence we’ll need soon enough, it’s just a matter of time. Besides, it won’t be a jury of your peers, the courts tend not to use low-life druggy thieves like you, they’re a more respectable bunch with nice families, children. So when they see the pictures of those little Kramer boys and the horrific ordeal they had to go through before being murdered like that, well, I don’t think they’ll have any problem finding you guilty of kidnapping and ransom and being an accessory to a double murder.’
‘Whatever, man.’
‘You’re going down, Brandon, just like your football team. But unlike Newcastle, you’ll be staying down for at least fifteen to twenty years. But … if you help us now, we’ll help you.’
‘How so?’
‘Tell us everything, Brandon, from the beginning. If you do that we might be able to work something out for you, cut a deal, see that you get a much lesser sentence. Who knows, maybe you’ll get out before your team gets back into the premier league. What do you say?’
‘I say you’re full of shite, man.’
‘Well, it’s up to you, Brandon, but from where I’m standing you’re on a pretty sticky wicket right now and I don’t think you have any other choice. You either help us, and help yourself, or it’s bye bye Brandon, just like your team, eh.’
‘Hey, fuck you with all this Newcastle shite, pig, and where’s my fuckin’ pizza?’
‘It’s on its way, just think about what I said, Brandon.’
Jack slammed the metal view hatch closed and headed back to the custody suite desk. As he was walking along the corridor one of the custody sergeants was walking towards him, with a Dominos pizza box in one hand and a bottle of coke in the other.
‘Let me carry that for you,’ said Jack, relieving him of the pizza box, knowing the sergeant would struggle to unlock the cell door with the key with an armful of pizza box and a 1.5 litre bottle of Coke.
‘Thanks, Jack,’ he said.
As they walked back towards cell B2 Jack opened the pizza box, cleared his throat and gobbed onto it. As he was closing the cardboard lid the sergeant turned and said, ‘Christ, Jack.’
‘What? The little scrote called me a pig.’
‘Fair point,’ said the sergeant, knowing Jack’s reputation.
The sergeant opened the viewing flap, ‘I’ve got your pizza,’ he said, unlocking the cell door.
‘’Bout fuckin time too, I could eat the arse off a dead rhino,’ said Clifford.
‘You did that already, your microwave meal earlier,’ said Jack.
‘Very fuckin’ funny,’ said Clifford.
Jack entered the cell and placed the pizza box down on the rubber mattress while the sergeant stood by the door. He handed the bottle of Coke to Jack who turned and passed it to Clifford. ‘Enjoy,’ he said, turning around and leaving the cell. As the sergeant locked it Clifford shouted, ‘Wait!’
‘What?’ said the sergeant, through the viewing window.
‘There’s no garlic bread?’
‘Don’t push it,’ he said, slamming the metal viewing window closed.
Clifford didn’t say another word; he just got stuck into his vegetarian and gob pizza.
Jack’s little word with Clifford seemed to have done the trick, or maybe it was the pizza and Coke, or maybe it was because he had the shakes now and was having major withdrawal symptoms from not having a fix for a while. Either way, Brandon Clifford decided to play ball and spilled everything: that it was Dean Fairhead’s idea to kidnap his own older sister’s twins for the ransom money that he knew her husband had just inherited, that he needed the money to pay off his drug dealer, Stitch, that they’d abducted the twins from Priory park in St Neots and taken them to a small vacant cottage in Cambridge and then he tried to explain how they’d lost the twins and they had no idea who’d taken them. He went on to explain that he’d then taken the money and run away back up north to Newcastle. When the police asked him what he’d done with the money that was missing he said he’d spent it on drugs and partying over the course of the past year. £176,450 was the exact amount of cash that had been retrieved from under Brandon’s bed in Newcastle, but the ransom amount dumped in the bin in Cambridge was £200,000, so Clifford and his druggy friends had managed to snort, inhale and inject £23,550 of it away.
Clifford’s confession for his involvement in the kidnapping and ransom put a whole new slant on things. No wonder Father Derek Stanton was cagey when asked about the Kramer twins abduction from Priory Park, he was cagey with the details because he didn’t know the details, because he didn’t take them from the park to start with, Dean Fairhead and Brandon Clifford did. Now it was starting to look like Derek Stanton had stumbled upon the Kramer boys while they were being held in the vacant bungalow, which, coincidently, was on the perimeter of Stanton’s church grounds on Histon Road.
The Assistant Chief Constable, Ian Hunter, at Hinchingbrooke FHQ had some serious thinking to do. How much difference, in hindsight, would it make that Father Derek Stanton was not the one who’d originally abducted the boys from Priory Park in St Neots and that he abducted them from a vacant bungalow on the edge of his church grounds two days later? Stanton’s case had already been and gone, the judge had thrown it out due to the numerous fuck ups with the evidence and the lack of cautions etcetera. However, it was unlikely that this new information would make the slightest bit of difference regarding Stanton’s case – abducting the twins from a park or a bungalow seventeen miles away, what difference would that really make?
As for Dean Fairhead, no wonder he’d legged it, he had every reason to.
Now that Fairhead was wanted, without a shadow of doubt, for kidnapping and ransom, as well as an accessory to murder, the PNC would have to be updated to a more urgent state. Hinchingbrooke FHQ Major Crime Unit wanted Dean Fairhead in custody, and fast. He was out there somewhere, but where?
Chapter 33
Helen
I took the mango I’d bought that morning and wedged it between the V of two branches (about six feet from the ground) of one of the trees that was a few meters behind the bench on Jesus Green, the bench where Derek Stanton came to eat his lunch at noon each day. Then I took the blue and white striped Tesco carrier bag and tied it, using the two handles, to the same tree. I’d used a Tesco’s bag as they are pretty thin and lightweight, which means they blow in the wind easily. This was to act as my wind speed indicator.
I then headed across the park towards the Job Centre with the rifle. Of course, I wasn’t carrying it in the rifle bag anymore, as its shape was too obvious. Instead I’d broken the rifle down as much as I could by removing the tactical suppressor and barrel, the latter of which took about two minutes to remove after loosening the retaining Allen bolt. Also, the AX308 has a neat folding stock design, which reduces its size further still without the need for removal. I’d put the three parts of the rifle into a slightly elongated Osprey backpack that I’d bought from the Cotswold Outdoor store in Cambridge. I figured I’d rather have the rifle broken down in a backpack to keep my hands free, as it would be easier for me to run downstairs or make a hasty escape with a backpack on as opposed to a rifle back slung over my shoulder flapping and bashing around awkwardly.
As I crossed Chesterton Road towards the Job Centre building I tried to stay as calm as possible. I was wearing my black jeans and black hoodie, but I didn’t have the hood up, instead I was wearing my black beret and sunglasses. If I kept my head tilted down it should be enough to hide my real identity should I get picked up by the CCTV camera at the edge of the park near the ice cream par
lour or the camera just inside the entrance to the Job Centre, or the one in the stairwell; besides, I’d dyed my hair black absolutely and was wearing glasses so, with my head tilted down slightly there was no way I’d be recognised as Helen Kramer, if it came down to it.
As I walked up to the door I noticed the security guard over to the right. I pushed the glass door open and headed straight for the door a few meters to the left as I’d done before. The security man spotted me, but when he saw me head through the door he didn’t bat an eyelid. As the benefits section was on the ground floor and the actual jobs department was on the first floor he probably just assumed that I either had an appointment up there or was going to check out the jobs. As before, I kept my head down slightly as I made my way up the stairs, to hide my face from the CCTV in the stairwell as much as possible. I also ignored the sign saying NO ACCESS BEYOND THIS POINT – STAFF ONLY and kept going up to the next level. I peeked through the glass door to check the corridor was all clear before punching in the security number I’d memorised, 1689. I couldn’t see anybody so I entered the number and pushed the door open and headed a few meters along the corridor to the door on the right with a TO ROOF sign on it. As before, I could hear distant activity further down the corridor in one of the offices that was out of sight. I punched in the same security number into the numerical keypad and pushed the door open and quietly closed it behind me before heading up the narrow stairs to the flat roof. When I got there, instead of flicking the catch on the Yale lock I took the flathead screwdriver that I’d brought along in preparation for this and removed the two screws that were holding the Yale lock in place. It took me about thirty seconds to completely remove the mechanical section. I took the lock with me, as I didn’t want to get locked out on the roof. If somebody was to come venturing up here – highly unlikely as the landlord of the building who’d shown me up here before told me that people rarely came up to the roof – and saw the door to the roof unlatched, they could lock it and go back downstairs, leaving me locked out on the roof, stranded and exposed. There was an old hunk of steel outside on the roof just to the side of the door so I dragged it across to block the door so if somebody did come venturing up onto the roof I’d get an audible warning as the door banged into the steel. It was heavy enough to delay anybody getting out onto the roof long enough for me to grab up the rifle and hide behind the small shed-like building that formed the exit to the flat roof.