Detective Mike Croft Series Box Set

by Jane Adams

  ‘What happened to that other film, Max? The other one you made with Jake?’

  Max stared at him. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes, I think you do. The one with the girl from the carousel. The pretty little thing that helped her brother take the money.’

  Max stood up and turned towards the door. He’s pushed him too far, Mike thought. Fuck it, I thought we were getting somewhere.

  Then, abruptly, Max sat down again. ‘It was Jake’s first experiment,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t easy getting more film, but Jake had a bit of a job by then and so did I, so we managed. Got this girl to meet us after she’d finished. It wasn’t hard, she liked Jake — everyone liked Jake. She was, you know, flattered like, that Jake was that bit older. She must have been thirteen, fourteen at most, but she had great little tits and we weren’t the first she’d gone with.’

  ‘You made the film in Jake’s bedroom,’ Alastair said.

  ‘Yeah. Lighting was a big problem, but we improvised. Jake used the darkroom at school and he borrowed a photoflood bulb. Over the weekend, no one noticed it was missing. That helped a lot, and we brought up every lamp you’d got in the house and a big flashlight he’d got from somewhere. It worked OK. We got the girl drunk on cheap cider. She wasn’t used to the stuff and it didn’t take that much. She did pretty much anything we wanted after that. I filmed Jake and he filmed me. Jake had all these magazines he used to pinch. I mean, they were nothing special, not like the stuff Jake produced later on, but, you know teenage boys — all hormones and no sense of responsibility. It was a laugh.’

  ‘Not for the girl,’ Alastair said with a cold gentleness that took Mike by surprise. Alastair’s anger at what Max was saying was as palpable as his own. ‘And I don’t think many teenage boys, even after reading mucky books, would tie an underage girl to the bed and rape her repeatedly, just for a good laugh.’

  Max stood up again, his face stony, closed down once more. This time he called for the guard, demanding to be taken away.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about that other film?’ Mike demanded when he had gone. ‘You saw it and you didn’t report Jake then?’

  Alastair shook his head. ‘I never saw it,’ he said. ‘I guessed from the rumours that were flying around and the accusations that Sally Wilson made. But no one believed her, even though the evidence was all there. Sally and her sister, they were known for it all over town and no one gave a damn.’

  ‘That was why Max got equal credit on the other film,’ Mike said quietly.

  Alastair nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I believe it was.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  1 July

  Little of use had happened over the weekend after Alastair’s meeting with Max. They had talked on the return journey, Mike driving Alastair back to where he was staying, but Alastair had added only one thing to Mike’s small fund of knowledge. Mostly, he seemed to want to be alone with his thoughts and resented Mike’s intrusion.

  ‘You realize that we could charge you?’ Mike asked him at one point. The rain had begun again, falling in heavy drops against the windscreen. Alastair stared at it, an expression of concentration on his face.

  ‘You could,’ he conceded. ‘I would not oppose you if you did.’

  ‘You’ve obstructed a police investigation,’ Mike persisted. ‘Kept back evidence that could have saved lives. Protected Jake when you knew he had committed murder.’

  ‘When I suspected he might have done, Inspector. I knew nothing for certain. I still know nothing for certain.’

  ‘You’re playing games, Alastair. This isn’t a question of semantics, it’s about people dying. About a child that might still be alive. It’s about why the hell you kept quiet.’

  He braked sharply, not having seen the car in front signal to pull out. His hand poised above the horn until he realized it had been his own fault.

  ‘I suggest you concentrate on your driving, Inspector,’ Alastair told him with his infuriating calm. ‘And watch your speed. You don’t want to be seen breaking the law.’ Mike seethed but said nothing. He eased back on the accelerator, back from the eighty-five he’d been doing — far too fast for the driving rain.

  ‘Why did you protect him, Alastair? I can understand any parent wanting to think the best of their son, but you despised Jake. You had no illusions about him.’

  ‘Despise him? No, it wasn’t that. I . . . pitied him.’

  ‘I don’t buy that, Alastair. I don’t buy that at all.’ There was silence while Mike thought it through. Nothing Alastair had said so far explained his protection of his son. The key seemed to be Alastair’s decision to wait until his wife had died before coming forward.

  ‘What were you protecting your wife from?’ Mike asked suddenly. ‘What was it Jake knew about you that you were afraid she might find out?’

  It was a long time before Alastair gave any response. ‘There were things,’ he said. ‘Just things I had done.’

  * * *

  Mike had spent the Monday morning reviewing his notes and sitting in on the briefing Peterson had been giving to those still on house-to-house or following up the previous year’s holiday traffic. It seemed an impossible task. Mike was bitterly aware, as was every officer from the most inexperienced probationer up, that the sheer quantity of information they had gathered could be working against them. Their man might already have been questioned, made a statement, even come forward with information. He might be on a dozen lists and, until the information was cross-referenced, the significance not be seen. Computers helped, but the information still had to be put onto the system and that took time. Other serial killers had fallen through the gaps just because of this kind of confusion: the problem of referencing and cross-referencing; of collating and making sense.

  And there would be the Crimewatch programme the following night, with all the extra statements and witnesses and people who were trying to be helpful. They needed the exposure and they needed the support the programme would generate, but Mike and everyone else on the team dreaded the extra paperwork.

  * * *

  At midday Mike left Honiton to see Charlie Morrow. The road was choked with holiday traffic and Jake, parked in a side road and reading the morning paper, had little worry about being seen. He’d changed his location three times that morning, checking that Mike’s car was still parked but risking being away for upwards of fifteen minutes at a time.

  In Jake’s mind this was giving the policeman the illusion of a sporting chance.

  He kept a good distance behind on roads that offered little opportunity for turning off or overtaking, driving with the windows wide open, enjoying the summer sun.

  Jake followed right up to the gates of the nursing home and watched Mike go inside. Then he passed on by.

  * * *

  ‘I’d got used to seeing my face in the mirror,’ Charlie said, ‘but to go public like that, it was another thing entirely.’

  Mike put the newspaper down and sat back in the easy chair. ‘Are you sure you can cope with this television thing?’ he asked. ‘It’s even more public than the newspapers. No one would blame you if you couldn’t.’

  ‘Wouldn’t they? Maybe not, Mike, but I’d blame myself. This is no time for pissing about. That bastard’s out there and I want to play my part in catching him.’ He hesitated, then asked, ‘There’s been nothing more, I suppose?’

  ‘On Essie? No, nothing. I spoke to Maria a few times over the weekend and we’re in close contact with everyone on the case in Norwich, but so far there’s been no word. We’re into the second week now.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘They’ve interviewed everyone who was in the area over and over again. Jake must have been convincing to get Essie even to talk to him. There’s an alleyway running at the back of the school. We guess he must have taken her out that way.’

  ‘And no one noticed anything wrong?’

  ‘Essie was seen standing by the gate talking to a man. She was still on school premises at the ti
me and the woman swears she saw her turn away as though she was about to cross the playground towards the other entrance. She was busy with her own kids and noticed nothing more. We’ve a couple of other similar sightings, but . . . well, I’ve been with Maria once or twice to pick up Essie. Kids and parents everywhere. Cars double-parked. It’s pure chaos. It’s not as hard to imagine as you might think. If Jake looked confident, and we know he would, then he might well go unnoticed.’

  ‘And the man Essie was talking to?’

  ‘Tall, sandy-haired, clean-shaven. Wearing jeans and a light-coloured shirt. Possibly blue, but that’s about all we have. Another witness is convinced she saw the man bending down to tie Essie’s shoe. She was wearing these little canvas lace-up things. She’s still not that good at bows . . .’ He trailed off, distracted, finding it hard to think that clearly about the little girl.

  ‘Is Maria still with her sister?’

  ‘No, she’s gone back to Oaklands, Jo and her mother are staying with relatives. It seemed best to get her away from the media fuss.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘This Crimewatch thing, the whole programme’s devoted to Jake Bowen, or so they tell me.’

  ‘That’s right. God knows, there’s more than enough to fill it.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be well flattered,’ Charlie said.

  It was late afternoon by the time Mike got back to Honiton. He found Peterson and Alastair with others in the briefing room, making final reviews of the footage to be shown on Crimewatch the following day. Much of it could have been library film from any big case, showing officers on house-to-house, others in slow-moving lines, searching the fields around Colwell Barton.

  He got water from the cooler and sat down, watching the screen. Peterson came over.

  ‘That stuff’s come in from up north,’ he said. ‘It’s on your desk.’

  ‘Anything useful?’

  Peterson shrugged. ‘All a bit vague. There’s the counsellor’s statement and a social worker’s assessment based on a home visit. Plus Alastair’s and Jake’s statements to the police and another from his mother. Not a hell of a lot more. Alastair called the local vicar in as a character witness, that sort of thing.’

  ‘You’ve shown Alastair?’

  ‘Not yet. Thought I’d give you the pleasure. At least he talks to you.’

  Mike smiled wryly. ‘And you’re telling me that’s a good thing?’ He sipped some water and tried to relax in the uncomfortable plastic chair. ‘I still think we should charge him.’ he said. ‘Stop treating him with kid gloves and see what facing an obstruction charge would do for his recall.’

  ‘I’m tempted to agree, Mike, but so far I’ve been vetoed. We’re to see what we can get out of him this way, see what he can pull out of Max too. I mean, having Max in custody hasn’t got us a whole lot further and, frankly, I don’t think Alastair gives a damn about it either way. It strikes me that, now his wife’s gone, nothing matters to him very much.’

  Mike shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘It’s funny, you’d think he’d want to talk about his wife, dying so recently. But he seems to have put her right out of his mind. Never mentions her unless I do.’

  ‘I think he sees that as a personal matter,’ Peterson suggested. ‘Not something he would appreciate us trampling over.’

  Mike thought about it, wondering again what Alastair had been keeping from his wife. Did she have her suspicions about Jake too? Or, as Alastair had insisted, did she continue to view Jake as a precious and innocent son?

  ‘Charlie’s all set for tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I thought maybe he’d have second thoughts, but he’s going ahead with it.’

  ‘That’s good. I suggest we break early tonight, Mike. Sleep’s been in short supply lately and we’ll get none tomorrow night.’

  ‘I won’t argue,’ Mike said. ‘Look, I’ll arrange for Alastair to be taken home, then try and get something to eat. I don’t remember having lunch. Are your family holding up OK?’

  Peterson nodded. ‘As well as any of us are,’ he said.

  * * *

  Jake had been waiting, parked in the side road he had used earlier. He’d been prepared to give them fifteen minutes more, then finish for the night. If they came out after that, well, then it was the luck of the game and a score for them.

  He’d changed cars, swapping the red Sierra for a small green hatchback that he kept in a lock-up garage ready for occasional use, one of several he had scattered up and down the country.

  Suddenly Peterson, Mike Croft and Alastair Bowen came out together and stood for a moment talking in the bright evening sunshine. Jake watched, seeing his father up close for the first time in almost eighteen years.

  Mike left, alone, a few minutes later and it was a young officer in uniform who opened his car door for Alastair to get inside.

  Jake watched them pull away, then waited for a slow count of ten before following, the anonymous little hatchback tailing a couple of cars behind on the Dorchester road.

  Chapter Twenty

  The house was at the end of a narrow lane, single-track with banks on either side, topped by an unclipped hedge. Jake had driven about a quarter of a mile past the entrance to the lane and parked the car on the verge at the side of the road, then walked back to find the best way of approaching the house unseen. By skirting back towards the main road, he found a gate and climbed over it into a field, then followed the hedge back the way he had come towards the house. It took over an hour and several detours — finding gaps in hedges, having to cut back into neighbouring fields, before Jake finally had the house in sight.

  It was not the best of positions. He was quite exposed, crouched beside the hedge and at the top of the slight rise, and visibility was restricted. Jake could see only one side of the house and the path immediately in front of the door.

  The house had a small garden in front and a larger one behind. A low fence separated it from the field. It was run down and overgrown, the once cultivated shrubs and brambles promising to provide much better cover when it finally grew dark.

  The evening was warm and Jake lay in the sun barely moving, watching the house. Once a man who was not his father came out into the garden and walked down the path, casually glancing around. Once a face appeared at an upstairs window. But that was all.

  At eight o’clock, Jake turned over on his back and closed his eyes. There was still sufficient heat in the sun and in the baked earth to satisfy him. Stretching out like a basking cat, he slept.

  He woke after dark. Lights had gone on in the house and his watch told him that it was five past twelve. He could still see with little difficulty, his eyes accustomed to the summer dark that was still merely a velvet blue at this time of night and helped by a thin moon. Keeping to the shadows, Jake began to move towards the house. His trousers were a light grey and his shirt was pale. Anyone glancing from the house would probably have seen him despite his caution, but Jake paid no heed to that. It was a chance he’d have to take for now.

  He got close enough to see through the unblinded windows and into the living room. His father and a second man sat watching the television. A single table-lamp was lit close to Alastair’s chair. As Jake watched, the first man, the one he’d seen in the garden, came through the door with tea things on a tray. Jake ducked down as he came to pull the curtains closed, then moved around to the other side of the house.

  The kitchen was in darkness, but the windows had neither curtains nor blinds and Jake could see inside. He moved to the back door, tried it. It was locked, but a cautious push at top and bottom moved it slightly against the frame. Not bolted then, just the single fastening. He completed his circuit of the house and stood for a brief time in the shadows beside the front door, listening to the night-time silence. Any noise he made forcing the back door would sound like a rifle crack in the still air.

  Jake took the more direct route back to his car, following the narrow track to the road. Once there he put on the light summer jacket he’d had lying o
n the back seat. He kept a basic toolkit in his car. He took out a penknife and the wrench from his socket set, together with a flat-blade screwdriver and a roll of ducting tape. The screwdriver was nowhere near as long as he would have liked, but it would have to do. Then he made his way back towards the house, moving cautiously but quickly along the track.

  Two lights burned in the house, one in an upstairs room and one in the living room that Jake had peered into earlier. Jake went around to the rear of the house and tried the back door again. Still locked but not bolted. He pushed against it, seeing how far he could ease it from the frame, and tried the screwdriver, forcing it into the gap. It was an easy fit.

  He circled the house again, looking for open windows. The night was still warm and surely no one would be sleeping with them closed.

  On the ground floor there was nothing, but upstairs the windows in the lighted room were open wide and the small window that probably led onto the landing was a little ajar. There was still the problem of getting up there, though.

  Jake stepped back into deeper shadow and studied the situation. There was nothing to climb and his previous reconnaissance had shown no outbuildings that could hold a ladder.

  Slowly, he retraced his steps. His watch told him that it was one fifteen, and the blue of evening had given way to a deeper night. He slid the screwdriver blade into the crack in the door and levered hard, trying to compensate for the shortness of the blade. He needn’t have been concerned. The door gave easily with a loud crack as the wood splintered from the frame.

  Jake stepped back into the deeper shade at the side of the part-open door, keeping his gaze focused on the ground so as not to be blinded as the light in the kitchen suddenly snapped on and poured through the window. The first man into the room saw the broken door. Jake heard him shout something to his colleague. Heard the footsteps on lino and then the door was wrenched wide. Jake’s arm came down as the man ran outside. The blow landed badly, the wrench catching the man’s shoulder on the downward stroke, enough to make him stumble but then begin to turn. But Jake’s backhand caught his chin as he swung around and the man went down, his half cry not loud, but echoing in the silence. Jake hit him again just to be sure and then again, even though he lay still. He could see the blood darkening the metal of the wrench and feel its slickness on his hand. Jake paused, to wipe his blood-marked palm on the other man’s clothes, then moved on into the house.