CXVI The Beginning of the End (Book 1): A Gripping Murder Mystery and Suspense Thriller (CXVI BOOK 1)

by Angie Smith

  Woods now understood, and was nodding in agreement.

  “He wouldn’t have time to get the camera; his priority was getting Flintshire, before he reached the Mondeo, and because of the police sirens approaching he took the car keys and escaped in that, leaving the camera and his motorcycle behind.”

  “So where’s the camera?”

  “Who was first on scene?”

  “Maria, I hear what you are saying, but. . .”

  “Work the timeline out from when we heard Flintshire say, ‘Oh Christ, I think he spotted me,’ to when the shots rang out.”

  Woods counted silently. “Twenty seconds?”

  “I’d say twenty-two, so he was caught in twenty to twenty-two seconds. That’s from being spotted and getting as far as the hedgerow. How far is it across that field?”

  “You’re right, Maria, he couldn’t have stopped to grab the camera, he must have run full pelt after Flintshire.”

  “Now work the timeline out from the end of the shots to you nearly hitting the killer head on.”

  “I don’t need to, you’re absolutely right, he couldn’t have gone back for the camera either; he did as you say, he grabbed the car keys and drove off in the Mondeo.”

  “But we can’t prove Dudley took it, not yet anyway,” Barnes said.

  “You could be jumping to conclusions though; one of the attending officers might have taken it.”

  She scrunched up her nose. “I’ll keep digging,” she said, leaving him alone with that thought.

  He was tired, not as quick minded as he was years ago when he had been her age, or as smart as she appeared now. He was impressed by her enthusiasm, her drive, her determination, and yet puzzled by her emotional state; he recalled her leaving the room to freshen up when they’d interviewed Pauline, and the closeness the two women appeared to have formed. He was getting old, perhaps too old for this. He looked at his watch; I need an early night, he thought.

  Tuesday 29th May.

  Jacobs arrived at Malaga Airport at 2.35 p.m. local time. He was met by Police Inspector Antonio Martinez who was waiting in the arrivals hall, holding up a sign with Jacobs’ name on. Martinez was typical Mediterranean, olive skinned, slick, greased-back, black hair, bull necked, broad shoulders and burly arms. They introduced themselves and Martinez told Jacobs it would be a sixty minute drive to Casares where Ramírez’s parents lived in a small villa on the outskirts of town.

  When they arrived the sun was at its hottest. The villa was a former schoolhouse which was renovated in authentic rustic style with modern comforts and charm. It was surrounded by mature gardens and located in the valley of La Acedia at the foot of the Bermeja mountain range.

  Inspector Martinez made the introductions in Spanish and then explained to Ramírez’s parents that the English detective was trying to locate their daughter, who he feared may be in danger. At this point the elderly couple — who were in their late sixties — became agitated and began gesticulating and speaking loudly at Martinez. Jacobs was unsure what was being said, but the tone indicated anger and venom.

  After a few minutes Martinez, who had obviously heard enough, silenced the couple by taking out his pistol and demanding they be quiet. He then turned to Jacobs. “I’m sorry Señor, they don’t want to speak to you; they want you to leave.”

  “Why? What’s the problem? I’m here to help!”

  “They say their daughter went to England years ago and disowned them, never returning; if you want to find her go back there.”

  “Could you explain to them that records show Señorita Ramírez returned to Spain in the late 90s; she didn’t go back to England. And can you ask them if they could suggest anywhere she might be living?”

  Martinez spoke to the parents and again they became agitated and pointed at the door, waving their hands in a dismissive manner; he turned back to Jacobs and shook his head. “Sorry Señor.”

  Jacobs was perplexed at the couple’s defiance, but reluctantly agreed to leave. Through Martinez he thanked them for their time and apologised for the upset his visit had caused. As they drove from the villa Martinez asked if there was anything he could do to help.

  “Could you organise to have their telephone usage checked out over the past few months, and a trace placed on their numbers, just in case they’ve been in contact with her, and are attempting to protect her? I don’t understand why they are so agitated by my questions. They doth protest too much, methinks.”

  “Okay, Señor, I’ll fix it,” he said smiling, then asked, “would you take dinner with me? I know a very good tapas bar near here.”

  As he was anxious to get back to the UK Jacobs declined. He said if they hurried to the airport he should be in time to catch the evening flight. Martinez acknowledged this and immediately switched on the sirens, heading back to Malaga.

  Wednesday 30th May.

  It was 7.00 a.m. when Woods stepped into the Incident Room; he’d not slept well, and had been up most of the night. He wasn’t feeling his best and needed his early morning caffeine fix, so headed to the vending machine. Instantly he spotted both Barnes and McLean sitting at their desks. He shook his head in disbelief. “One of these days, I’ll beat you two into work,” he said.

  He noticed McLean smiling at Barnes. “Good morning,” they replied in harmony.

  He smiled back. “Good morning.”

  He went into his office and closed the door. He took off his jacket, placed it on the back of his chair and settled down at his desk. He switched on his computer and started reading through his e-mails. Suddenly, Barnes appeared holding a piece of paper on which was written:

  DON’T SAY A WORD,

  WAIT FIVE MINUTES AND THEN

  FOLLOW ME OUT INTO THE CAR PARK.

  I REPEAT DO NOT SAY A WORD.

  Woods looked at her and she was holding her forefinger to her lips. She left without speaking.

  As instructed he waited and then went out into the car park; he spotted her sitting on the boundary wall at the far side. He went across.

  “What is it, Maria?”

  “You already know that ever since he arrived I’ve felt really uneasy about him.”

  “Who, Dudley?”

  She nodded. “Well my suspicions have been increasing by the day. When I get in on a morning I’ve noticed things have been moved on my desk.”

  “That’s the cleaners.”

  “The cleaners don’t go through every piece of paper and then put them back in the wrong order. And it’s not only my desk, it’s everyone’s, including yours.”

  “How do you know if things have been moved on other desks?”

  “I just do. You could go to your office now, place a paper clip somewhere, and within ten seconds of coming in I’d know where, it’s a game I used to play with my father. Anyway, I decided to find out what was going on, and you see those flats over there?” she pointed across the road. “Flat 24 has a perfect view into our offices and a lovely old lady and gentleman live there who kindly allowed me to place a camera in their window. Watch this.” She opened her tablet and played the footage shot from the flat.

  “What is he doing?”

  “He goes through everyone’s desk looking for information. I told you he was up to no good.”

  “When was this taken?”

  “Monday night.”

  “Well I suppose he could be trying to keep up to speed with the investigation.”

  “Under the cover of darkness,” Barnes said, sounding exasperated. “If you don’t think that’s suspicious, watch what happened last night.” She played more footage.

  “Who’s that with him?”

  “It’s his electronics expert. Watch this.”

  “What the fuck!”

  “He’s placed a listening device under your desk; it’s behind the right front leg. I came in early and found it. I’ve left it alone so you can decide what to do.”

  Woods was furious. “I’m not having this.”

  “Calm down, you need to think
carefully before you act.”

  Woods was not listening. “Right, I’m dragging that bastard up to Foster’s office now; we can have it out once and for all. I’ll find out who he’s taking his orders from. And if he’s got the camera from the spotting scope. Let me borrow that,” he said, snatching hold of the tablet and placing it in his jacket pocket.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Barnes said quickly.

  It was too late; Woods was already striding back towards the building.

  “Please keep me out of all this,” she shouted. “I don’t want to be incriminated.”

  Woods ran up the stairs and into the Incident Room. He glanced around and spotted Dudley speaking to McLean. He ignored them and went into his office. He bent down near the desk’s front leg, carefully removing the listening device, and then placed it in his inside jacket pocket. Then he took a pair of handcuffs out of the cabinet and slid them in his trouser pocket. He was ready. He stepped back out into the Incident Room just as Barnes was returning to her desk, but he walked straight past her and towards McLean and Dudley.

  “Have you got a second, Hilton?” he said calmly. “Foster would like to see us both in his office; I think something’s come up.”

  “Okay, just a sec,” Dudley replied, fetching his jacket and following him out.

  When they reached Foster’s door Woods opened it without knocking and stood back to let Dudley enter first. As he passed him, Woods grabbed his hands and pulled them tight behind his back, securely handcuffing him. He forced him in and threw him to the floor in front of Foster.

  “Greg, what the hell? Have you taken leave of your senses?” Foster said.

  Dudley tried to stand as Woods pulled him to his feet, but his face was smashed down on Foster’s desk. “Who is this arsehole working for?” Woods snarled.

  Foster jumped up and backed away from his desk. “What are you talking about? You know who he’s working for.”

  Woods held Dudley down one-handed and ran his other hand up Dudley’s trouser leg, tearing it at the seam as he did so; he pulled out a holstered gun and banged it down on Foster’s desk. “When did detective inspectors start carrying guns?” he snapped.

  Foster looked aghast. “What is this?”

  “I need to make a phone call,” Dudley spluttered.

  “No you don’t, you can speak into this.” Woods slammed the listening device down next to Dudley’s face.

  “What’s that?” Foster asked.

  “It’s a bug his friend placed in my office last night. Look at this.” Woods barked, tossing the tablet to Foster. “Play the footage,” he demanded.

  “I can explain. I just need to make a call.”

  “No, you don’t,” Woods yelled, smashing Dudley’s face back down into the desk. “The cavalry will be here soon enough.”

  “Right, Dudley, this better be good, otherwise you’re being arrested,” Foster threatened.

  “If you let go of me, I can explain. . .”

  The phone rang. “Yes,” Foster said, snatching up the receiver.

  “You see, Dudley, the knights in shining armour are arriving to rescue you,” Woods said, holding him down firmly.

  Foster finished the call. “Let him go, Greg. We need to go to the Chief Constable’s office right now.”

  “Including this arsehole?”

  Foster nodded. “Yes, including that arsehole.”

  Woods released his grip slowly and took off the handcuffs.

  “We’re all on the same side,” Dudley said, when he was free.

  “That’s as may be, but some of us don’t carry guns and go around stealing evidence. It was you who took the camera from the scope!”

  Dudley made no response.

  Chapter 10

  Wednesday 30th May.

  Woods and Foster were sitting outside the Chief Constable’s office waiting to be called in. Sitting opposite was Hilton Dudley whose bloodied face had been cleaned up and who’d managed to acquire a spare pair of trousers from the Custody Sergeant, which now replaced his torn ones, his appearance less dapper than the Savile Row dandy he normally depicted. The atmosphere was palpable as they all waited silently, Woods’ stare firmly planted on Dudley. The Chief Constable’s secretary was quietly working at her desk, occasionally looking up and smiling at whoever’s gaze she attracted.

  “I didn’t know anything about this,” Foster whispered.

  “The question is, who did?” Woods replied quietly.

  “Not him?” Foster said, gesturing towards the Chief Constable’s door.

  “Well, he sure as hell does now.”

  The telephone on the secretary’s desk buzzed and she picked it up. “You can go in now gentlemen. They’re ready for you.”

  “They! Who are we seeing?” Woods whispered, getting up.

  “No idea.” Foster replied, as they entered the room with Dudley following.

  Chief Constable Matt Holden stood and introduced Rupert Bartholomew Faulkner-Brown who was sitting at the far end of the large oval table. Dudley immediately went to sit next to him, while Woods and Foster seated themselves away from Faulkner-Brown, facing Holden.

  Faulkner-Brown spoke first. “I apologise for the way you’ve found out about this, Superintendent; we totally underestimated you. It was a grave mistake and I’m truly sorry.”

  Woods did not respond; there was so much he already didn’t like about Faulkner-Brown – a plump, balding middle-aged man with a cocky, patronising manner, wearing a green and orange checked suit. His appearance belied his true profession, which Woods rightly guessed as a Senior Intelligence Officer.

  Foster looked at Holden. “Were you aware of this, Sir?”

  Faulkner-Brown answered, “Mr Holden was unaware of the full reasoning for our interest in the investigation, but had agreed to one of my people assisting you.”

  Woods shook his head slowly, but remained silent.

  Faulkner-Brown turned to him. “I fully understand why you’re pissed off, but I can assure you we’re both on the same side and detaining the killer is our main priority.”

  “Where does tampering with the evidence fit in with your main priority?” Woods asked.

  “He thinks I took the camera from the scope,” Dudley said.

  “You were first on the scene.” Woods snarled.

  “Yes, and the camera wasn’t there, I assumed the killer had it.”

  Woods tried desperately not to lose his cool. “The killer didn’t have time to stop and remove it. Listen to the recording: compare the distance of the chase on foot against the time it took, and then the time from the second murder to where I nearly smashed into the Mondeo, against the distance travelled.”

  Dudley shook his head. “I swear I didn’t touch it.”

  Woods looked straight at Faulkner-Brown. “If it wasn’t him, then it was your other guys in the Maserati!”

  Faulkner-Brown frowned. “You’re very good, I’ll give you that,” he said. Then, turning to Holden, “Gentlemen, we need your agreement that whatever we say next remains between the five of us and these four walls. Do we have that?”

  “Of course,” Holden said. “That goes without saying.”

  Foster nodded.

  Faulkner-Brown looked at Woods. “What about you, Superintendent?”

  Woods tapped his fingers annoyingly on the table. “That depends,” he said.

  “On what?”

  “Getting the camera.”

  “I’ll make sure it’s returned.”

  Holden scowled. He formed a ball with his fist and banged it down hard on the table. “This was never part of the agreement.” He was staring at Faulkner-Brown. “I won’t stand by and let the investigation be compromised by you acting irresponsibly.”

  Faulkner-Brown again apologised, but gave no reasoning behind taking the camera.

  “Do you know who the killer is?” Woods asked, focusing in on Faulkner-Brown.

  “We have a very good idea.”

  “Then tell us
, and we can stop wasting time,” Foster said.

  “It’s not that simple. If it’s who we think it is, he’ll be totally incognito. We’ve been trying to find him for a while; he’s completely disappeared off the radar.”

  “Give us his name,” Woods snarled.

  “Fredrick, or Freddy, Williams, but there’s no record of him on the systems, so don’t waste any time looking for him there.”

  “What makes you think he’s the killer?” Foster asked.

  “His modus operandi, and the fact he’s leaving Roman numerals to link the crimes.”

  “What have the numerals to do with this?” Woods asked.

  “We suspect it’s his way of letting us know he’s resurfaced.”

  “And the Creans?”

  “We’re assuming Gerrard Crean paid Williams to murder a few people who’d hacked him off during his life; he was dying and could afford it. What we’re trying to uncover is how Williams was paid, or is being paid, and what’s happening to the money; but Williams is a master of subterfuge… as no doubt you’ve discovered.”

  “Do you have a photograph that we can circulate?”

  Faulkner-Brown shook his head. “It wouldn’t do much good if we had, because he’s a master of disguise.”

  “Are we correct in our assumption about the possible victims?”

  “Your deductions appear sound.”

  “Where exactly does Jonathan Plant fit in to this? Because, as far as I’m concerned, he’s one of the suspects.”

  “He’s not involved; you have my word on that, but we think Williams is trying to implicate him. For the record Plant took the battery out of the boat’s tracker to use in his satellite phone; he was catching up on some work while Pauline was sleeping off the booze.”

  “Therefore, Plant must be known to the killer and I suppose the killer’s known to him.”

  “I’d rather not comment.”

  Woods became agitated. “Is that why he’s got people protecting Pauline? Is she in danger because of him?”