‘Most people don’t mind it,’ said Bradshaw. ‘In fact, it usually makes them feel safer to know they are less likely to be attacked in the street by some random drunk.’
‘Random drunks don’t tend to worry about CCTV before they attack.’
‘Nevertheless, violent crime is decreasing in our city centres and it’s a trend that’s directly attributable to the presence of these cameras, yet you say that’s a bad thing.’
‘Freedom and liberty are not values to be lightly traded in exchange for the reassuring myth of benign surveillance by a police state.’
‘Like I said, most people don’t mind them, but then most people haven’t got something to hide, have they?’
‘I haven’t got anything to hide. Not in the way you mean. I just don’t like everyone knowing my business.’
‘And you didn’t try to abduct that girl,’ Bradshaw prompted, ‘because you were somewhere else at the time, even though she gave us your reg number?’
‘How many times have I got to say it? I didn’t attack any girl. I was bloody miles away.’
‘Yet you can’t prove that.’
Hamilton sounded immensely weary. ‘No, I can’t,’ he admitted.
‘So, it’s your word against hers,’ said Bradshaw. ‘As it stands.’
‘I don’t know what else I can do.’ He looked defeated. He was out of options and he knew it.
‘Okay,’ said Bradshaw, ‘it’s fine. You’re free to go.’
‘What?’ Hamilton was astonished. The solicitor shot a questioning look at the detective sergeant but Bradshaw’s face betrayed no emotion. It took Hamilton a moment to digest what he was being told. ‘You’re saying I can go?’
‘Yes.’
‘But … why? I thought ‒’
‘CCTV,’ said Bradshaw, ‘on the high street near where your friend lives. You said you went round there and parked up, knocked on his door but, crucially, he didn’t let you in, so he wasn’t able to corroborate your story. Frankly, even if he had been, he’s your mate so we would have remained sceptical.’ Bradshaw gave the man a beatific smile. ‘However, I managed to obtain the tape from the CCTV camera by the off-licence in that street and I’ve been through it. Around the time you said you were there, lo and behold, the camera picked you up, parking across from the local pub, getting out of your car and heading down the side street, just like you said.’ Bradshaw let that sink in. ‘So, thanks to the power of closed-circuit television, you are vindicated and can leave here a free man without a stain on your character. Good old Big Brother, eh?’
First Hamilton looked confused, then he appeared conflicted, but he soon turned resentful. ‘I should never have been arrested in the first place.’
‘Well, you see, we had reason to believe you may have committed a crime, so we brought you in for questioning. That’s how our legal system works. However, because of my diligence, you’re off the hook. But there’s no need to thank me. I was only doing my job.’
‘Enjoying yourself, aren’t you?’ sneered the man.
‘I’m beginning to,’ said Bradshaw.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
He watched her all the time. Not every moment of the day, perhaps, but he came back far more often now than he had done before, when she was locked in the crate. Did he know she had tried to escape? She had been thinking about that a lot.
Now that Eva was down in the bunker, she never knew when he might come to her. She’d be startled by the sudden sound as the key forced the lock back, and he would walk in unannounced, checking up on her, not that there was anything she could do about her imprisonment, trapped underground like this. Even if there had been a way to escape from the room, she couldn’t attempt it when he was likely to appear at any moment.
She was allowed out only to shower. This was her one chance to confront him outside the room. He would march her to the shower room at gunpoint, always a few paces behind her so she couldn’t suddenly turn, grab the barrel of the shotgun and struggle with him. They never paused until they were in the shower room, and straight away he would order her to undress. That was the only time his eyes weren’t directly on her. Eva sensed that her nudity made him uncomfortable somehow. He didn’t entirely disregard her. It was as if he was watching Eva just enough to ensure she didn’t do anything. She would walk to the shower, hang the rough towel on a peg at the entrance to the alcove then step inside.
Those were the only moments where he didn’t supervise Eva outside of the room. When she was standing in the shower and the water was coming down over her she had a modicum of privacy, but there was nothing she could do to take advantage of it. There wasn’t anything of use in the tiny alcove, just the shower screwed to the far wall and the bar of soap he gave her. Being underground, the shower room was windowless and there was nothing here that could be taken and used as a tool or a weapon.
Nothing.
Or so she thought.
Then, one day, when Eva held the shower head tightly in her hand and leaned on it to support herself, as she lifted a leg to soap the soles of her feet, suddenly, she felt it give. Was it loose?
The shower had a slide bar fixed with a bracket. The water supply came from pipes with valves attached that were securely fastened to the wall, and the only part of the shower she could move was the head, but, as it swivelled in her hand, a thought came to her. It was old, it was made of metal and it was heavy.
The shower head was attached to the end of the long metal shower hose and perhaps it was possible to unscrew it and detach it completely.
Eva turned her head and looked behind her, but she couldn’t see him. He was usually off to one side while she showered, sitting on the bench by the wall, the shotgun next to him, waiting for her. Did she have enough time? She’d already been in there a while, but she had to risk it. Eva faced the wall and straightened, gripping the shower hose in one hand and taking the metal shower head in the other, then she tensed and twisted both hands in opposite directions.
Nothing happened.
Not at first.
Eva put all her strength into it and tried once more, twisting the shower head, which slowly gave way and began to turn. It was coming loose. She kept on turning until it had done one full rotation.
‘What are you doing?’
Eva immediately stopped turning the shower head. Her body was shielding it from view. She pulled the attachment up a little, so the water hit her full in the face.
‘Why are you taking so long?’
She half turned to face him and pretended to squint in discomfort. ‘Soap in my eyes,’ she said, letting the water run down her face as if she had just been rinsing them.
He didn’t reply. He just looked at her appraisingly, the balaclava blocking any clue to his thoughts and mood, rendering him expressionless. He wasn’t holding the shotgun.
If he didn’t believe her now, he might want to examine the shower. She needed to distract him. Her body was side on to him still and she deliberately turned until she was facing him directly and he could see her clearly. His body immediately straightened and he mumbled, ‘Be quick,’ before sloping away.
Eva turned her attention back to the shower head and quickly screwed it back into place so no one would notice it had been moved.
Next time, she told herself as she left the alcove, sweeping the towel around her.
While Bradshaw had been getting nowhere with Charlie Hamilton, Tom had been thinking about Jenna’s situation. The desperation and weariness he had seen in Francis Walker’s face was not an easy thing to fake, and he genuinely believed the man had nothing to do with this. He’d already come to a very different conclusion, in fact, but it was one he wanted to share with Ian before he spoke to Jenna. They agreed to meet for a pint in the centre of Durham because Bradshaw had a leaving do to attend that night.
Tom was already seated in the Shakespeare pub when Bradshaw walked in. It was a place they both favoured because it was tiny and traditional and the antithesis of the chain pubs that
seemed to be springing up everywhere these days.
‘Did you get any joy with that ledger?’
‘It’s not there. I looked for it myself,’ Bradshaw assured him. ‘Then I called Newcastle, and they haven’t got it either.’
Bradshaw sipped his beer and listened intently but without comment while Tom recounted the conversation at the Collingwood Memorial. When he had concluded, Tom said, ‘I only really have one question and I think I know the answer already.’
‘Go on.’ The detective was grim-faced.
‘Is there any way that ledger could have been taken from the evidence store and been’ ‒ he paused while he searched for the right word ‒ ‘misplaced?’ He spread his arms to show he was not simply being gullible. ‘I’m searching for an innocent explanation here.’
Bradshaw didn’t waste their time on a lengthy reply. ‘No.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Once it has been sealed as evidence, it wouldn’t just be released or thrown in a bin.’
Tom nodded. ‘So, really, that just leaves two possible explanations. Someone either sold the ledger to another person who is using it to blackmail the girls or ‒’
‘They are doing it themselves and, either way ‒’
‘They must be a serving police officer,’ concluded Tom.
‘Exactly.’
Tom’s theory did not go down well with Jenna when he dropped by her flat later that evening.
‘You think I’m being blackmailed by a policeman?’
‘I’d say, having ruled out the only other man who knew you all because he is terrified of ever going back to prison, that yes, on the balance of probability, you are being blackmailed by a police officer.’
‘But how?’
‘The ledger that was discovered during the raid on Francis Walker’s home was used as evidence in court against your former employer, then sealed and placed back with the case files in an evidence store. It should still be there, but my contact in the force asked to take a look at the files and there is no ledger. It’s gone. Only someone with access to that evidence could have removed it and it’s the only way I can think of that the person who sent those notes could have got details of the women involved. The girls were only picked up by police if they were working that night and most of them were cautioned or given a slap on the wrist. There was no big reveal in the newspapers. The court, the police and even the press were only really interested in the man running the operation, not the girls he had seemingly exploited, so their real names weren’t even read out in court.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ Jenna said. ‘He’s a policeman?’
‘Probably.’
‘But they’re supposed to catch criminals.’
‘And most of them do,’ said Tom. ‘The vast majority of them, in fact, but every now and then you get one who is bent and only in it for themselves.’
‘But that’s terrible.’ She seemed utterly bewildered. ‘So what do I do?’
‘Pay him,’ said Tom, and when she looked shocked he told her, ‘How else are we going to catch him?’
CHAPTER FORTY
Hugh Rennie’s leaving do was a traditional affair, befitting a man in late middle age who was neither especially popular nor unpopular. He was just a regular guy who kept his head down and got on with it for thirty years and was now retiring on a full pension thank you very much. He wasn’t an ambitious man ‒ he’d been a DC for as long as anyone could remember ‒ and his lack of drive seemed to extend to his retirement. Asked what he was going to do with his time, he’d merely reply, ‘Oh, we’ll wait and see,’ as if he hadn’t even thought about it, though the day had been a long time coming and he’d had ample opportunity to plan for it. There was no job in the private sector lined up, or a scheme to buy a retirement home or go on a world cruise. He seemed happy enough to take each day as it came, just as he had done while on the force.
Even his leaving bash was unambitious. Police parties were notorious for epic lock-ins and hard-core strippers ‒ as long as they picked the right pub and a landlord they knew, then made sure nobody on duty from Uniform turned up to break up the gathering ‒ but this didn’t suit Rennie. He’d even ruled against a pub crawl, electing instead to stay put in his favourite city-centre pub. Some of his fellow officers could put in an early appearance then quietly slope away, citing young families at home or an early start the next morning as an excuse. There’d be handshakes and the odd pat on the back, statements about what a lucky man he was, but few would stay till the bitter end, just a couple of fellow old-timers and some of his current squad, who’d feel obliged to ensure he got a good send-off.
When Bradshaw put his head round the door after his pint with Tom, quite a few had already been and gone, though he was surprised to see Kate Tennant propping up the bar, in earnest conversation with DC Malone, a large glass of white wine in her hand. Was this a bit of female solidarity or informal career counselling? More than likely his DI was letting her hair down for probably the first time in a while, and who could blame her?
He crossed the bar to say hello and was immediately intercepted by Rennie, who had already had a few leaving drinks, judging by his flushed complexion and the way he invaded Bradshaw’s personal space to give him a man-hug. ‘Hey, big fellah!’ he called as he clasped Bradshaw to him. ‘Didn’t think you were going to make it.’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ Bradshaw declared. ‘Had to make sure you were really leaving.’ There was laughter at this from the retiree and some of his peer group, who seemed to communicate to one another almost entirely through banter.
To Bradshaw’s general incredulity, he had a bloody good night. He almost always felt like an outsider in this team, and the force in general, but there was an air of frivolity that evening, with petty squabbles and long-standing differences of opinion largely put aside once the drink flowed, as everyone got high on the jovial atmosphere caused by Hugh’s escape. No one wanted to put a damper on things, so office talk was unofficially banned. Instead it was all about what they would do if they were in Hugh’s shoes. Bradshaw couldn’t even imagine being a police officer for another twenty years, or being in his fifties; it seemed like such a distant prospect. There was a bit of talk about football, too, and how Newcastle United were bound to finally win something now they had the world’s most expensive player in Alan Shearer, and as always there was lots and lots of piss-taking.
Bradshaw stayed till closing time, which he hadn’t intended to do, and Kate Tennant was also one of the last ones standing, along with DC Malone. who was way more drunk than her DI, and considerably louder, incapable of expressing herself at all by the end without shouting.
Kate Tennant said she’d called a cab to get her and DC Malone home safely and she told Bradshaw he could cadge a lift with them but to keep it to himself. She meant she didn’t want half a dozen drunken old relics competing for a free ride home. ‘Hopefully, Malone is throwing up in the toilet before we get her into the cab.’
Bradshaw took that moment to congratulate Rennie on his retirement, so he could leave without any delay. He knew that trying to extricate yourself from a lads’ night out, when the lads in question don’t want you to leave, could be a protracted affair, involving the refusal of further pints (‘Just have one for the road!’), challenges to his manhood (‘What are you, a man or a mouse?’) and most probably a few barbs about him leaving with not one but two women this time (‘Well, lads, someone has to keep them out of trouble.’)
Rennie was, predictably, drunk, as you would expect, since he had bought everyone in the bar a drink and they had all insisted on buying him one back. At one stage he had three full pints lined up on the bar while he struggled to finish the one he was drinking. He was still on his feet, though, and able to talk fairly clearly, if a little loud and unsteady on his feet.
‘Listen, there was something I was going to tell you.’ He was leaning heavily on Bradshaw’s shoulder now and the detective sergeant was worried, in
case Rennie was going to say he had always hated the younger man then start an argument, or even a fight. It wouldn’t do to knock a man out in the car park after his own leaving do.
‘When you asked me the other day’ ‒ his hand gripped Bradshaw’s shoulder more tightly, but instinct told Bradshaw this wasn’t aggression, it was more like a confession ‒ ‘who had questioned the girl who claimed she had been kept prisoner for a year, I said I’d forgotten, and I had.’ He nodded significantly. ‘But for some reason, now that I am officially retired, well, let’s just say it’s all starting to come back to me.’
‘Right, mate,’ said Bradshaw, who understood what Rennie was saying completely. ‘So what exactly has come back to you?’
‘The name of the man who questioned her, all those years ago.’
‘Who was it? Hugh?’
‘Edward Tyler,’ said Rennie.
‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ said Bradshaw, immediately recalling the furious senior officer surrounded by journalists in the car park.
‘Not quite,’ slurred the retiree. ‘He just thinks he is.’ And he picked up his pint glass to make a mock-toast. ‘To Deputy Chief Constable Edward Tyler, who was just a young prick back then but is now … a complete and utter bastard.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Bradshaw couldn’t believe it.
‘Good luck, my friend.’ Rennie smiled at him and slapped him heartily on the shoulder. ‘You’re going to need it.’
Police Vendetta Could Cost Lives
BY OUR CRIME CORRESPONDENT
A political activist has lashed out at police for showing a ‘reckless disregard for human life’. Charlie Hamilton, 32, is suing Durham Constabulary for wrongful arrest and is demanding damages and an apology. He claims he was picked up by the force because of his personal views, which had nothing to do with the case they were looking into.
Police arrested Hamilton following a report of an attempted abduction of a young woman in a Newcastle underpass. He was detained for hours and repeatedly questioned about a crime he could not have committed because he was miles from the scene when it happened. His version of events was proven by a simple examination of CCTV footage in the area.
The Chosen Ones Page 16