Crescent Gardens was devoid of pedestrians at this time of the morning but had anyone been walking past they would have failed to identify Angie Rhodes sitting, knees tucked towards her chest and the hood of her jacket pulled covering most of her face. She stared out from the back corner of the glass-roofed shelter across the gardens towards the Kursaal, the Royal Hall, a magnificent building that was attached to the Conference Centre. The beauty of the building and the gardens were wasted on her. All she worried about was the money, one of the two packets, now safely stashed, and the next fag.
She had arrived at the location at the specified time and had been rewarded to find what she had been anticipating. She fondled the folded twenty pound note held in her pocket and smiled before rolling a cigarette. The newspaper, in which she had found the packets and the money, was now under her backside, an insulating layer between her and the cold Yorkshire flagstones. She spat a small piece of tobacco from her lips and then inhaled. A wisp of smoke curled and vanished as quickly as her smile. She drew on the cigarette once more before flicking the stub away.
She stood, placed the padded envelope marked with a cross on the ledge behind her as instructed, thrust her hands into her pockets and left the shelter before turning up towards the Royal Pump Room Museum. She neither noticed the parked car amongst many nor did she notice the driver slumped behind the wheel, as she turned left up the cobbled road. He on the other hand observed her carefully and waited a few moments before leaving the car.
Within thirty minutes another hand reached for the same shelf but collected a different envelope. The transaction had come full circle.
17
April walked to the front door of a modern bungalow situated a short walk from the church. The original vicarage had long since been sold. Its stables, coach house and three-quarters of an acre seemed excessive accommodation in today’s secular society. However, she was sure that the vicar found this property far more manageable. She checked her watch; she was a little early. Considering the traffic she had made good progress. There had been only one short delay when she found herself stuck behind a large farm Leviathan masquerading as a modern-day tractor, the only downside to the journey.
Ringing the bell she waited but there was no response. She tried again, but nothing. She checked her watch for the second time and then her diary: Clipton Vicarage, 08:30. She moved towards one of the windows and looked in. All was dark. Maybe he’s delayed at the church, she thought and walked down the path. The church was also quiet. A lady looked across at her whilst cutting the tufted grass between the gravestones with a scythe.
“May I help you?” She stopped and stood resting on the curved, wooden handle.
April paused, slightly startled, but then raised a hand in greeting whilst having immediate thoughts of the Grim Reaper. It was the gravestones that did it. “I’m looking for Reverend Fella. I had an appointment with him at the vicarage this morning but he didn’t answer so I wondered if he’d been delayed in the church.”
“What’s today?”
“Tuesday.”
“He takes a service in the next village today. Probably running late. One can never make plans.”
April looked at the scythe.
“The first real cut of the year. We’re an ecological church, trying to encourage bio-diversity within the church grounds rather than just the dead.” The woman laughed at her own joke. “Good way of keeping fit too. We haven’t managed to encourage any Ross Poldarks yet but we’re ever optimistic.” They both laughed at that. “If I see him I'll tell him. Whom shall I say called?”
“DC April Richmond.”
“Police? I’ll let him know.” With that she moved to find another short clump of grass to swing at.
“Good luck with Poldark!” April shouted unsure as to why she had said it. She knew that the news of the police making enquiries would travel fast; village gossip was a wonderful system of communicating other people’s business.
April dialled the number of the vicarage and his mobile but both went to answerphone. She would try once more at the vicarage and then go.
Graham Baker pressed the button on the internal garage wall and watched as the door slowly closed. He glanced at the newspaper headline and read briefly about the murder on the moor before tucking the paper under his arm and moving down the corridor, a stick in either hand. He tossed the paper onto his chair in the lounge, rested his two sticks against the arm before turning the handle and opening the first door on the opposite side of the hallway. The curtains were still drawn and the room was washed in relative darkness. There was no movement only the sound of somebody sleeping; the breath was rhythmic and shallow. Opening the door a little wider allowed the light to steal further into the room. He smiled before walking to the bedside cabinet to retrieve the cup, checking to see if the contents had been drained. They had. She would sleep a while longer, he thought as he looked at the illuminated clock before moving out and quietly closing the door.
Cyril had enjoyed his walk to work as usual; he treated it as quality thinking time. He had collected his paper and a couple of bottles of liquid for his electronic cigarette. The sky gave a clue as to the day's weather and he felt a little more optimistic. The days were lengthening, making the morning commute more enjoyable, but today his mind flicked back to the contents of the letter and somehow his world seemed momentarily a little darker. In his heart he knew he should have left the letter unopened.
Owen was already at his desk. He had printed off an email from April Richmond. She had answered his questions with more clarity. He read and smiled. Cyril checked his watch and shook it before glancing at the clock on the wall.
“Morning, Owen. Early?” Cyril slipped off his coat.
“Couldn’t sleep.” Owen folded the sheet and tucked it into his pocket. “This case is really puzzling me. For some reason I keep thinking of Boffey… I know. I know.” He held up both hands as if to stop Cyril from giving his anticipated response. “There’s no logic to my reasoning, the case is virtually closed but something inside keeps nagging. With your permission I just want to keep it on the shelf until all this is over.”
“Don’t ignore the gut, Owen. Forensics on the car?”
“I’ll see you in the Incident Room. There’s something else come through too.”
Smirthwaite, Shakti and Park were already there. Cyril greeted them as he entered. “Morning everyone. What news from the scientists?” He rubbed his hands together as if looking forward to what lay ahead.
Stuart Park was the one controlling the screen’s remote. The blue police badge image quickly changed and photographs appeared of the plaited hair. “It’s human, it’s dyed scarlet, approximately twelve centimetres in length. Bound at the top with strong adhesive, which also glued a length of silk ribbon to the hair; that’s how it was secured to the mirror. The bottom of the plait has been secured by looped cotton; it’s a standard three-strand plait. According to Mada, the family know nothing of the plaited hair attached to the Volvo's mirror. It certainly wasn’t there that afternoon when Mrs Kumar used the vehicle to go shopping. There was only the air freshener, so can we assume this was placed there on the evening of the attack?”
“I don’t think so at this stage. I know it’s on the mirror but some drivers don’t use it. If you’re not looking for it and particularly as there was already something hanging from it, I don’t believe we can,” Cyril stated adamantly.
Stuart accepted it. “Now for the interesting bit. We have more than one DNA match from the plait.” He paused allowing the information to sink in. “We have a familial link to Gideon, a link to Tracy Phillips. We had those before but this time we have a bonus, we have one more. We took Mrs Kumar's DNA as a routine procedure for elimination purposes but there are strands of hair within the plait that match her DNA.”
Cyril placed his elbows on the table, linking his hands before resting his chin on the back of his fingers. He stared at the image. The pause was palpable.
“
That’s not all.” Stuart Park brought another picture to the screen. “This is the rear door. Where the vehicle was positioned in the layby there is only one real feature and that’s this tree. Here you see the proximity, the only place anyone could remain concealed would be here. However, remember it was dark and the occupant of the car was busy. Consequently, the attacker could have come from any direction. As you can see, this layby has a covering of loose tarmac and gravel.” He flicked another image to the screen. It showed small stones on the car's floor. “Although the car was decontaminated, they still found gravel in both rear foot wells that matched the area. It can be safely assumed that at some stage two people occupied the rear seats. We can deduce that both driver and passenger moved from the front seats to the rear. We've also found a number of DNA traces that have yet to be identified. These will be from previous passengers. Because of the cleansing after the acid attack there are fewer than we’d normally expect.”
“Link with Mada and find out where Kumar’s wife has her hair cut. Does she go out or does someone come to the house? Do we have a percentage content?” Cyril asked.
Stuart looked at his notes. “A few strands only of each identifiable source.”
Shakti was the next to speak. She slid some files across the table. “The tech boys have been busy on Kumar’s computers. Those at the house and business were clean. However, we found a computer in the garage. We were informed it was broken and never used. To the inexperienced it certainly gave that impression. It wasn’t. If you look in the file you can see some of the images taken from it.”
Owen slid the four images from the file and spread them in front of himself and Cyril. Each showed a naked female. Each image was explicit and on none was the face visible.
“There are movies, too.”
“Kumar?” Cyril asked.
“We believe so. Sir, we've also been working with our Lancashire colleagues. The businessman cited as being visited on the evening knew nothing of the meeting. He has given a statement that he rarely sees Kumar, most of the business is done either over the phone or on the Internet. On the night in question he was having a meal with his mother in Blackburn and has the receipt. He’s been fully co-operative.”
“I take it we’ve checked his computers and his communications with Kumar?” Cyril asked whilst pushing the images back into the folder. He could detect Shakti’s discomfort. He knew her feelings about the previous grooming cases in Newcastle and Rochdale, and tried to offer her some support. He smiled at her. “Are you okay with this, Shak?”
Even though she understood his concern she looked him in the eye. “It’s my job, sir. Thanks for your consideration.” She returned the smile. “It’s in hand now that there’s a link between the two, albeit a tenuous one. The previous errors made with regards to other similar cases have brought a renewed focus to police investigation. No more fear of upsetting minority groups, I for one am pleased to say. We are also investigating all of Kumar’s contacts.”
Cyril nodded to her. “Well done!”
18
April approached the vicarage. She stood and wrote a note to pop through the letterbox. She pressed the bell and waited. Nothing. She opened the flap on the door to push the folded paper through but the door opened. The unexpected movement startled her.
“Hello!” She called pushing the door a little wider. “Reverend Fella, are you there?” She looked down the path feeling a little uncertain as to what to do before opening the door fully. She called again but received no response. Moving cautiously into the small hallway, she noticed a newspaper lying on the mat. Calling out again, she slipped on a pair of nitrile gloves. She looked in each room but they were all empty. She went into the bathroom and checked the shower tray. It was dry. She had ventured only into the rooms where the doors were left ajar, the others were closed. Knocking on each one she called the Reverend’s name before entering. Still nothing, but she observed that all the beds had been made. Once in the kitchen, she touched the kettle, it was cold. She felt anxious. She placed the note on the kitchen table and left closing the front door.
She decided to call on the closest neighbour so walked up the path. The front door opened before she had reached half way. Showing her warrant card, she introduced herself.
“DC Richmond. I’ve just been to the vicarage but it appears that nobody’s at home even though I had an appointment with Reverend Fella at eight-thirty this morning. The front door’s open too. Is that normal?”
The young man smiled. “Nothing unusual, bit absent-minded is Ian, thinks Clipton is still in the 1930s, not that he’s old enough to even remember the 50s. I keep telling him he’s too trusting. I’ll keep an eye open for him, neighbourhood watch and all that.” The man smiled as if that was the end of the conversation.
“Have you seen him today?” April asked determined to find someone who knew of his whereabouts that morning.
“Come to think of it, no. He’s usually in the next village today for the morning service. Maybe he’s been delayed. Some of his elderly parishioners can talk for Yorkshire. If I see him, I’ll tell him you called…” He waited as if for April to remind him of her name.
“Detective Constable Richmond.”
She left and walked back to the vicarage. The neighbour watched, the flickering curtain the obvious giveaway. She rang his house number again and heard it ring out and then go to answerphone. She then dialled his mobile number. To her surprise, that too rang out, this time in a different location in the house. She hung up. She had a strange feeling about this. She contacted Owen.
Cyril stood looking at the whiteboards around the Incident Room. Evidence from the three cases was now being cross-referenced. He looked at the images of Gideon. “What are you up to, Gideon Fletcher?” he whispered to himself.
Owen’s phone vibrated and shimmied across the table.
“Owen.” He listened. “Give me a minute.” Owen turned to Cyril.
“The vicar didn’t show for the appointment this morning. There’s no one in the house and the door was open. His mobile’s in the house.” Owen handed the phone to Cyril.
“Go to the church where he held the service this morning, see if you can find anyone who saw him leave. Then return to the vicarage. Call me again when you’re back.”
Within ten minutes she had parked in front of the small church. She tried the sturdy, wooden door but it was locked. She walked around the flagged yard; there was nobody about, the village seemed empty. She looked at the bench and read the tarnished, engraved brass plaque:
Donated by the Scouts and Guides in memory of Princess Diana
April stared at it, amazed how the time had flown since her tragic death. Somehow she could recall where she had been when she heard the news. A car passed and brought her back to the present. Looking across the road to the shop, she decided that a visit there would be the best place to start her enquiries. She entered to the cheery ringing of a bell and then was greeted with a smile.
“I’m looking for the vicar who should have been at the church this morning.” She pointed unnecessarily to the church. “Have you seen him today?”
“No, this morning’s Eucharist was cancelled. Ian, the vicar, rang to say he wasn’t too well. Is something wrong, love?”
April bluffed her way out of the shop assuring the shopkeeper that all was well but she was followed to the door.
“Usually comes on his bicycle, lovely man. Keeps the community here going. First time in many years that I’ve known him suffer any illness. Never misses.”
“Who took his call?”
“Mrs Fleet, she looks after the church. Married, husband drives wagons on the continent, never here, see, and therefore she has time on her hands. I’ve offered her my husband when hers is away so that I can have time but she refuses. You wouldn’t want him for a weekend or two would you, love?” She laughed out loud. She moved a little closer. “Mind, some say the vicar pops in rather a lot!” She winked and touched the side of her nose.
“Where can I find her?” April was feeling the lack of sleep and her patience was fast draining away.
“Next to the church. If you’re going, take her paper for me, love.”
April crossed the road and immediately noticed the sign hanging on the front door of Fleet’s house. “I’m in the garden”. She walked to the side of the end-terraced house and turned down between the gable and the wall that separated the house from the churchyard. The breeze suddenly stiffened as it was channelled within the narrow gap. She then noticed Mrs Fleet, she was busy feeding some bantams that flocked and fussed affectionately around her feet. Deep in conversation, she was calling each by name, oblivious that someone was watching.
“Mrs Fleet!” April called whilst waving the newspaper.
She turned briefly and lifted the bucket a little higher as if in a wave. “A minute, just giving my girls their breakfast.” She smiled unperturbed by the intrusion of a total stranger. “Just stand still and Ralph’ll leave you be.”
It was only then did April notice the very large dog that was sprawled next to the kennel, his eyes clearly focussed on her. She decided to do just that, stand still.
Mrs Fleet emptied the remaining contents of the bucket, dropped a few Brussels sprout stems around the run and made her way towards April. Her wellington boots appeared two sizes too large. “Can I help you?”
“I was asked to drop in your paper. I’m looking for Reverend Fella and called in at the shop. I was directed to you.”
“Of all the days you come looking for him.” She shook her head and walked across to stroke the dog’s ears. “Murphy’s Law I think they call it. He’s ill. Rang me this morning. Sounded proper rough too, didn’t know it were him. First time in a lot of years that he’s called in sick. I can give you his address if you like.” She took the newspaper and tucked it into her wellington boot. “Few more little jobs to do before I can read that and then Ralph needs his…” she whispered, “walk.”
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