Eleven thirty and still nothing. He called them to the one large desk and they went over it all again from the beginning – he didn’t tell them why but this was what they would have to do if Wood walked out of the door shortly. There are always loose ends – Bell had made a call from his iPhone to a mobile during his time on the rig, and now, checking again, they could see that the call he made at 16.10 on the afternoon of Saturday the 15th, presumably from his flat, was to the same number. How had that been missed? Who owned that mobile and how quickly could they find that person? He put Serena and Waters onto it immediately.
It was 12.17 when Alison Reeve walked into the room holding up her iPad; as she spoke to them, she connected it to the whiteboard.
‘Change of procedure, apparently – as it’s my name on the authorization for the tests, the results have to be sent to me. But I haven’t had a peak, look; the attachment is unopened. Ready?’
They all began to read in silence but Smith, knowing exactly where to look, got there first, followed shortly by Reeve. He caught her eye but said nothing, and they waited for the others to see and understand.
It was James Bell’s blood on the boat, found in three separate locations. The stains on the duckboard contained a number of the fibres that Sally Lonsdale had referred to; she believed them to come from a mat or a carpet but at the end of her email was a note which said If you need to go further with the fibres, give me a ring.
There were nods and smiles around the table.
Alison Reeve said, ‘First things first. Let’s get the notes scanned for prints now – if we can prove that James Bell or Philip Wood handled them, it will be useful – both would be even better. I’ll ring Sally straight away – we’ll go as far as we possibly can with the fibres. I’m sure we’re all thinking the same on that – the body was carried or wrapped in something? I’m saying ‘body’ because it just doesn’t seem likely that he went on a pleasure cruise in Wood’s dinghy on that Sunday. We would like the body but we don’t actually have to have it, not to make the charge, at any rate. Which is what I’m going to ask DC to do now. How do you want to play this, DC?’
He was wondering how many years it had been since he had uttered the dreadful words. There had been two or three after Andretti , obviously, but he could not, at that moment, recall all the details, which was unusual. The notebooks at home would tell him if he really needed to know the answer. They were all watching him, perhaps in awe of the responsibility that had just been handed to him, perhaps wondering why DI Reeve herself was not going to charge Wood with murder.
He said, ‘We’ll go straight in and hit him with it. No further disclosure then, just lock him up again and let him think about it for an hour or so. And then we’ll have a game of dominos.’
Chapter Twenty One
Philip Wood was pale and visibly shaken when the uniformed officers brought him up from the cell for the third time that day, and Smith thought, no, I didn’t underestimate you after all – you’re small-time, a bit of thieving and drunken violence was your limit and now you’ve got yourself in way over your head. Alison Reeve beside him re-started the formal process while Smith leafed through the papers so far; when she had finished, it was some time before he looked up at Wood. After the charge was made, everything had been re-focused onto Stuart Aves; cars were ready to go to his home and place of work, 3S – when they set off now depended on what happened during this interview.
Harry Ward had offered to withdraw and be replaced after the charge was laid but Wood had said no, clinging on to him, which was a good sign. Smith looked at the detective inspector and she nodded that he should begin.
He said, ‘Philip, Mr Ward will have explained to you the seriousness of the charge that you are now facing. At this point, then, I’m going to disclose to you some of the further evidence upon which we have based the charge – do you understand that?’
Wood looked at Harry Ward and then back at Smith, who took them both through the results of the examination of the blood found on the boat. He told them that the fibres involved were already on their way to a specialist laboratory for further analysis, and that eventually they would know exactly from which sort of material they had come.
‘But, Philip, you must already know – you could save us the trouble because you were on your boat when those bloodstains appeared, weren’t you?’
Nothing, not even the old “No comment”.
Smith’s demeanour was matter-of-fact, as if this was what he did three or four mornings a week, as if proving that someone had committed murder was routine, but his eyes were fixed on those of Wood, noting how often the man tried to look at him and how long he was able to do so each time before he had to look away.
‘Philip, do you have anything to add to what you have told us already? Do you have an explanation as to how James Bell’s blood and James Bell’s money ended up on your boat at Scanlon Offshore Services?’
Nothing.
‘You failed to come up with a single convincing explanation that involved anyone borrowing the boat, and that only leaves you, doesn’t it? So far, this is a one-man show, the Philip Wood show. You were in the bar of The Wherryman when we have our last sighting of James Bell. We have a witness. You bought the phone that we found in James Bell’s berth on the Elizabeth platform. You own the boat where we found some of James Bell’s money, and you own the boat where we found some of his blood. In my business, Philip, this is starting to resemble what we call a watertight case. It’s certainly more watertight than your dinghy.’
Nothing still, but it was getting to him, hearing it all said aloud. Wood was not so stupid that he couldn’t imagine all that being put before a jury in a few months’ time.
‘Now, Philip, I know that you are thinking that, bad as it all sounds, without a body -without James Bell’s body - we cannot make this stick. I have to disillusion you of that idea. If you’ll have a quick look at Mr Ward now, he will confirm what I have just told you.’
Wood did so, and Harry Ward gave the obligatory nod of his head.
‘So, Philip, the jury that you will be facing only have to believe beyond reasonable doubt that you murdered James Bell. I can tell you now, having seen a few cases go in front of juries, that what we have already puts it beyond reasonable doubt.’
That was a matter of opinion, and Harry Ward would have been perfectly entitled to point it out to his client; the fact that he did not do so did not make him a bad solicitor so much as, in Smith’s view, a realist. Smith looked at DI Reeve to indicate that they had reached the point at which she would have something to say.
‘Mr Wood, as Sergeant Smith has explained to you, you are in serious trouble, and whatever you tell us isn’t going to change that, I’m afraid. However, the fact that you alone seem to have attacked Mr Bell, to have murdered him, to have stolen his money and then to have disposed of the body means that, when convicted, you are facing just about the longest prison sentence that British law can give. You need to discuss that with your legal representatives but in my view you would serve not less than twenty years.’
In the pause that followed, the sentence that she just suggested seemed to hang in the air above Philip Wood’s head, the swords of Damocles and of justice becoming one for that moment. It was palpable, even to Detective Superintendent Allen watching on the direct video link in the adjacent room, and the thought came to him, despite himself, that the two of them did make quite a team in these situations.
Reeve said, ‘The detectives working on this matter are certain, Mr Wood, that you did not carry out this attack on your own. For reasons that I am not going to disclose to you yet, we are sure that is the case. Neither do we believe that you did this for the money; you did steal it or you were given it by someone who did but that was not why James Bell was killed. The only way in which you can improve your situation now, and I repeat that you are in a very serious situation, is to tell us everything that you know. There is always the chance that if you cooperate, saving police ti
me, the costs of prosecution and avoiding the stress for witnesses who might have to take the stand, the sentence that you receive will be reduced. There are no guarantees – that’s not how justice is done in this country. But you should consider what you have to lose by not doing so.’
He did seem to be considering it. Smith fancied a cup of tea, it being mid-afternoon, and so he asked Wood if he would like something to drink – fortunately he said that he would. The recorder was switched off, and Wood was left alone with Harry Ward. Outside, Smith said that Ward was the perfect duty solicitor, and wondered whether they could hire him full-time; interrogation productivity would be at least tripled but Reeve didn’t think that it was an idea she could take to the next management meeting.
They gave it the agreed ten minutes. When that was almost over, she said to him, ‘He’s as ready as he’s ever going to be. Is he going to topple?’
Smith was wondering why the best cups of tea are often the impromptu ones that you have to drink in a hurry.
He said, ‘A tenner says he will. But it will be interesting to see who he bumps into when he does.’
‘Something that we forgot to mention before the break, Philip, is that we’ve had to charge you with murder because we don’t know exactly what took place. That sounds a bit bonkers, I know, but it often happens – we sort of assume the worst until someone enlightens us. We’re asking you to enlighten us. We’re not stupid and we know that quite often people get seriously hurt or even killed when that wasn’t the plan at all. I’m sure you understand the difference between murder and manslaughter, and there other charges too which, if you tell us the truth now, might mean that you are not looking at twenty years or more for this.’
Smith wondered what Harry Ward had said to his client during the tea interval.
‘Philip, if you’d like a few more minutes with Mr Ward, that’s fine. We’ll leave you alone and he can explain what all these different charges mean. It’s important that you understand it. Speaking for myself, I don’t want you charged with murder if you didn’t actually commit it. I’m being completely honest here – I only want you charged with what you did.’
Wood looked at him then, looked differently into the detective’s face to see if that was true. It was quite an old face for a copper, lined, with a short scar on the right cheek, and weathered a bit as if he too had spent time out on an open boat in the Wash, but the blue eyes were steady and frank as they looked back into his own.
Wood said, ‘No, you’re alright. I get it.’
In those words there was resignation, and Smith knew then that he would soon be told Wood’s part in it – it was now only a question of how best to manage things.
He said, ‘We have disclosed to you almost all of the evidence we have so far – there is more to come, whether or not you cooperate. I can tell you that we know the names of the other people involved, Philip.’
A frown, a moment of confusion there, and Smith rapidly examined what he had just said – it must be something in the final sentence. Was it simply that he had said he knew the names, or was it that he had used the plural?
He said, ‘I could say these names and ask you to tell us what you know about them. But this is where you can start to help yourself, son. If you tell us now what happened, how you got involved – because I know that you didn’t plan it – if you give the names to us, it will play better for you in that court case. Again, you can have more time with Mr Ward if you need to check up what I’m saying. But I’ve been honest with you, Philip, and now I’m asking you to help yourself and be honest with me…’
There was no-one home and the day was just beginning to fade. Looking in through the windows, he recognized the quiet, tidy house of a man who lives alone – just one or two dim red lights of appliances on stand-by, and a table top near the French windows that had nothing on it. More out of habit than in hope, he sent Waters to the house on the left and Murray to the one on the right, but if Aves was on one of his fishing expeditions, it might be days before they found him. They had his mobile number now, of course, but ringing him up might be a really bad idea.
But Waters was in the middle of a purple patch, and Smith made a mental note to ask him whether he did the lottery – if he didn’t, could he suggest a few numbers to help an old detective into retirement? Waters had met Mr Dowling and brought him round to the back door.
‘What’s up? Is it something serious? There’s three of you.’
Smith looked round as if to check.
‘That’s odd, sir, I’m sure there were five when we set off. Still, you never know when redundancy will strike these days, do you?’
Mr Dowling managed an ‘Eh?’
‘Never mind. As you’re here, perhaps you could assist us. My colleague tells me that you know where Stuart Aves might be. We’d like a word with him.’
Mr Dowling didn’t look at all convinced. Smith took out his warrant card and handed it over, watching as the neighbour read both sides before it was handed back.
‘Well, I’ve got his number in case of emergencies when he’s away. I’ll give him a ring.’
And he was taking out his phone to do just that.
‘No, sir. I’d rather you didn’t. We have his phone number too but, between you and me, we’ve got some bad news to give him. That’s best done face to face, in case of shock and all that. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Oh, that’ll be his mother. Dear oh dear. Typical, isn’t it, happening when he’s away on one of his trips.’
‘And you happen to know where he’s gone, my colleague tells me,’ with a raised eyebrow to Waters.
‘He did tell me this time, we had a chat as he was loading up. He’s gone to Bewsey pits. Do you know them, about a mile off the Fakenham road after Sharpley?’
Twelve miles before they left the main road, and the pits were well hidden out in the countryside. It would be dark before they got to him but waiting until the morning was out of the question now that Mr Dowling was involved. Mr Dowling would have a Mrs Dowling, and she, out of nothing more than neighbourly concern, would say to her husband after a little while, just give him a ring and make sure he’s alright… And besides, Smith knew that he would get no sleep until this was done.
The carp is the longest-lived of coarse fishes, although it is said that eels, if unable to leave their homes to make that fateful journey across the Atlantic to the Sargasso Sea, can live to a great age. But for a carp, twenty years is nothing and some are thought to live for twice that span or even longer. In that time, they grow larger, wiser and more cautious than ordinary fish, and anglers have always gone to great lengths to deceive them. The modern specimen hunter spends thousands of pounds on highly sophisticated tackle and often needs a wheelbarrow to get it all to the water’s edge.
The dusk is always a time of increased expectation. As the daylight diminishes, the fish are emboldened to move away from their hiding places in search of the food that the anglers have put there in readiness. Stuart Aves had spent an hour carefully placing his free samples with the aid of a carbon fibre throwing stick, and the highly scented additives would have dispersed into the surrounding water, drawing in the fish. His three lines were out into the centre of the pit, his bivvy was erected and equipped with enough food and water to last the three or four days and nights that he planned to be here, and soon he would turn on the gas stove and cook some bacon. He wasn’t alone in his quest; at least four other anglers were spaced along the west bank but he had timed his arrival well and had what he considered to be the best place this early in the season.
It is not a cheap sport any longer, and membership of this one fishery cost him more than five hundred pounds a year. The job paid pretty well, more than enough to cover such expenses, but the contracts were short, just two or three years, and one could never be certain of the next one. The industry was changing – everything was becoming more automated and fewer men were needed on the ground or on the platforms. You had to do what you could to survive t
hese days.
A rustle in the reeds to his right meant that the rats were becoming active. They didn’t bother him even though some of the other anglers kept an air pistol handy. Rats were survivors too, and he admired that, their tenacity, their ruthlessness, their willingness to launch themselves at the throat of anything that pushed them into a corner. He took one of the baits that he had prepared and tossed it into the reeds – the rat would find it.
Back on the track across the fields he could hear a vehicle approaching. He smiled and shook his head – a late arrival, probably someone who’d had to be at work all day. They would have to tackle up in the dark and cast into waters that they had not seen in the daylight. Bad planning and bad practice; they wouldn’t catch much.
Smith turned around in the front passenger seat and looked back at him. Aves had said very little at all – his main concern had been what would happen to all his fishing tackle once Smith refused to allow him to put it back into the Nissan Patrol. Then they had had to call out a van to collect the tackle, so now a convoy of three vehicles was making its way along the single-track gravel road out of Bewsey Pits. Waters was driving the unmarked Octavia and Murray was behind in the Patrol – when Smith handed him the keys, Murray’s face had almost lit up in a smile.
The lights from behind meant that Aves was little more than a silhouette, but Smith could see that he was looking not back at the policemen who had just arrested him on suspicion of murder but out of the window, and in that his reflection appeared briefly, set against the dark Norfolk fields beyond and the last red glimmers of the sunset in the west. What goes through a man’s mind in such a situation? Smith himself had been arrested twice before he joined the force, but those had been contrived between army intelligence and the RUC as a means of strengthening the cover of an embedded officer – on the second occasion they had not warned him, and he could still remember the moment of fear, the loss of control before the training and the instincts for self-preservation took over. Seated in the back of a meat wagon, when no-one else could have seen, one of the arresting RUC officers had ruffled the back of the young Smith’s head with a friendly hand; only later did Smith discover that even that was a deception – Tom Boulton had been a major in army intelligence, keeping an eye on his charges.
Luck and Judgement Page 27