by Iain Cameron
‘Can we sit at the meeting table? It might be easier to show you what I’ve got on my laptop.’
Henderson stood, headed to the meeting table and took a seat.
‘I don’t know if I mentioned it before, but on one of the files on the portable hard disk drive at Cindy’s studio was found to be encrypted.’
‘I think I remember you saying something about it.’
‘Well, I sent it off to the High-Tech Unit and they managed to open it.’
‘Good. What did it contain?’
‘Take a look.’
She pushed the laptop round so they could both look and Henderson’s mouth dropped open. There had to be over a hundred pictures, this time not posed head shots and smiling families, but photographs of what looked like low stone buildings out in the woods, perhaps some Second World War barracks or unusual-looking storage depots.
‘This is what we’ve been looking for!’ Henderson said. ‘I knew we’d recognise it as soon as we saw it.’
Among them, the pictures he’d seen before of the girl they now knew to be Elena, standing outside a house somewhere. She looked relaxed and carefree, her mind unaware of the subsequent fate that would soon befall her.
Scrolling down, he saw her again, walking in the countryside and throwing sticks into a river. The pictures of her and the other girls didn’t look as posed as Cindy’s photographs often did, but natural, the girls’ smiles easy and unforced.
‘Is there some meaning in the images included in this file?’ he said. ‘They appear to be chronicling something, but I’m not sure what.’
‘Me neither, but if we assume, and I know it’s a big assumption, this is all about human traffickers, these pictures could be the victim’s journey from the time they arrived in the UK. They start off in those stone buildings, say until the kidnappers decide where to take them. The photographs of streets and buildings, could be the places where the abducted women are required to work. The pictures at the bottom maybe are photographs of those who escaped.’
‘It fits, and with such scant information available on this case, I’m tempted to believe it, but I must introduce a note of caution. If we make an erroneous assumption and head down the wrong path it could bugger up this investigation for good. With the pressure for a result from upstairs and the media, we would find ourselves on the street before the end of the day. We need to proceed with care until we can collect more evidence.’
‘I understand, and I think I know how we can get it. Click on this picture of Elena,’ she said pointing at one of the images.
Elena was standing outside a house, a large semi-detached post-war house, well maintained evidenced by the blemish-free driveway and new-looking garden wall.
‘If you look to the right I think you can see a street sign.’
‘Good God, so there is! If we can find out where this was taken, we might be able establish the link between Elena and Cindy. Can you enlarge the picture?’
She rolled the wheel on the mouse and the photograph grew in size. She slid the image across the screen until the focus of their attention, what looked like a street sign, moved into the centre.
‘Right, we can see it better now, for sure it’s a street sign.’
‘It’s hard to distinguish any detail.’
‘Maybe the High-Tech Unit can clean it up.’
Henderson leaned back and took control of the mouse, enlarging the image and shrinking it. He did this several times. ‘I think I can make something out. The first letter of the first word is definitely a ‘B and the last an ‘N’. What do you think the middle one is, ‘B’ or ‘D’?’
‘I think it’s ‘D’.’
‘So, we’ve got ‘B’ something ‘D’ something ‘N’. It could be Bodan or Bedon.’ He thought for a moment then it came to him. ‘It’s Baden, Baden Powell. Which would make the squiggly last word ‘Drive.’ Baden Powell Drive.’
‘It fits with the shape of the letters, but what does it mean? What or who is Baden Powell?’
‘Robert Baden Powell, the founder of the Scout movement. The road is named after him.’
‘You should be on Mastermind knowing something like that.’
‘It wasn’t so difficult, I used to be in the Scouts. One of the first things you learn is the name of the person who founded it.’
‘Just a sec.’ She moved the mouse and Google appeared on the screen. She tapped in ‘Baden Powell Drive’. A few moments later she said, ‘There’s a street in Colchester with the same name.’
TWENTY-NINE
Leaving the A12 and heading towards Colchester, DI Henderson and DC Graham soon hit traffic. A few minutes later he realised why when he spotted a Sainsbury’s supermarket on the far side of the roundabout. He’d never studied town planning but even he knew it wasn’t a sensible idea building such a large retail outlet there. People entering and departing supermarkets often had their brains on their shopping list or on the great bargains they’d bagged. For sure, they didn’t have it on the car in front or the ones they were holding up behind with their slow driving.
They turned down the aptly-named Straight Road. Colchester, a former Roman regional capital, contained many remains of those industrious people and he suspected this road was one of them. Not since the Romans left Britain in the fifth century had A and B-roads been constructed along straight lines. Instead, most were built upon existing droving trails that circumvented hills, skirted rivers and avoided any other obstacles that sheep couldn’t be bothered facing.
They turned off Straight Road into Baden Powell Drive, named after the founder of the Scout Movement, a man with more African connections, he suspected, than with this Essex town. Spotting a good place to park, he pulled into the side of the road and switched off the engine. He turned to his passenger. ‘It would be better if we walk. If vulnerable women are living here, they might be spooked at seeing a strange car cruising back and forth outside their window.’
‘Can’t argue with you there.’
Armed with the picture of Elena standing in front of a house, they got out of the car and started walking. The photograph had been taken in summer, although they weren’t sure in which year. However, by looking at the picture they had of the victim and comparing it to those of her contained in the encrypted file, she hadn’t aged making them think it was the previous summer.
The walked along the road looking at houses, trying to find one similar to the house in the photograph. Even allowing for gardens to alter due to seasonal change, some owners may have made significant modifications. Instead, they were relying on those things not easily modified, for example, the position of the garage, chimney and television aerial.
A few minutes later they stopped outside a semi-detached house: small garden out front, brick construction with white windows and a white door,
‘This looks like it,’ Graham said, ‘but the garden wall looks recent and the door is different.’
‘The alarm box is in the same position, so is the satellite dish, and look, there’s the bracket for the hanging basket we see in the picture. Without a door number we can’t be certain, but I think this is the place.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘We knock on the door and see if anyone is at home.’
Walking down the path he spotted the neighbour in the house next door looking over. The DI was holding a photograph of the house in his hand and the woman would most likely conclude they were viewing the house with a view to buying it. The age difference between the detectives might give her pause to ponder, but if she concluded they were father and daughter he wouldn’t be best pleased.
Henderson rang the bell, sounding loud in the quiet of a lazy Monday afternoon in this suburban part of Colchester.
‘The house is well secured,’ Graham said. ‘There’s locks on the windows, an alarm, and the door looks solid and protected by three locks.’
‘Are you utilising knowledge gained in uniform, or are you itching for a move back there?’
�
��The former. I don’t hear any movement inside.’
‘Me neither.’ He rang again.
A minute or so later, he stepped back and examined each window in turn, but couldn’t see the flicker of the television or lights and no faint shudder from the blinds or curtains. ‘I don’t think anyone’s at home. Let’s try the house next door.’
They approached the house, the other half of the semi-detached and the one containing the inquisitive neighbour. Her curiosity was about to be sated.
‘The woman in here can’t pretend it’s an empty house,’ Henderson said, as he pressed the doorbell.
‘Good afternoon, madam,’ Henderson said when the door opened. ‘Police.’ He held up his ID for her to see. ‘We’d like to ask you some questions about your neighbour if we may.’
‘Yes, of course. Do come in. I’m Celia Bannerman by the way.’
‘I am Detective Inspector Angus Henderson and this is Detective Constable Sally Graham,’ he said, omitting to add, ‘of Surrey and Sussex Police’. No sense in muddying the waters.
Celia Bannerman from a distance looked older than Henderson, early fifties would have been his first guess. However, on closer inspection he could see he was wide of the mark. She was no more than thirty-five with thick brown hair, a trim figure and a round, pretty face. The pink sweater and tweed skirt fooled him and was perhaps her way of looking older. If she combined her cherub-features with the right clothes she could, without too much trouble, transform back into being a teenager.
‘Can I offer you something to drink? Tea, coffee?’
‘It’s very kind of you. Coffee for me,’ Henderson said.
‘Me too,’ Graham said.
‘Please, sit down wherever you like.’
The fawn leather settee looked inviting and the soft back a welcome change from the upright seat in the car.
‘It’s a lovely house,’ Graham said after they were both seated.
‘It is. I like the wooden flooring, the fancy rug and look at those huge windows.’
‘Yes, but you’re a fan of older houses, are you not?’
‘I am. No matter what you do to a new house like this one, you can’t get away from straight walls and square or rectangular rooms.’
‘A lot of people like it.’
‘I’m sure they do, coupled with the reliability of utilities like the heating, plumbing and electricity all of which in an older house can cause problems.’
‘I prefer older houses too. I like how previous alterations can leave little alcoves and odd-shaped rooms.’
‘Here we are,’ Celia Bannerman said as she re-entered the room bearing a large tray.
Henderson stood, took the tray from her and placed it on the coffee table.
A short time later, Henderson was drinking a mighty fine Americano, as good as anything he could buy in Starbucks or Costa. By the sounds coming out of the kitchen ten minutes before, she had to be using one of the expensive Italian machines used by many restaurants.
‘You wanted to ask me about my neighbours.’
‘Yes, we did… is it Ms or Mrs Bannerman?’
‘Mrs, but please call me Celia. You’re lucky to get me here today, I work with my husband in our little manufacturing business and I only slipped away as I’m expecting a delivery. Most times we ask a neighbour to take in deliveries for us, but this one is a heavy item and old George would put his back out trying to lift the thing.’
‘Does George live in the house we were standing outside?’
‘Oh no, three young women live there.’
‘What do you know about them?’
‘Are they involved in doing something illegal?’
‘Oh no, nothing to worry about. Their address came up in a minor investigation we’re undertaking. We just wanted to have a word with them about it.’
‘Well, what can I tell you? I think they’re all employed in office jobs as I sometimes see all three of them heading out first thing in the morning and they’re always well dressed. I wish the people who worked in our business were as diligent at turning up for work on time and wore something other than an old sweatshirt and jeans.’
‘How long have they lived here?’
‘About nine months.’
‘And before them?’
‘Four other young women.’
‘Is the house rented?’
‘I don’t know for certain, but I think it must be. I mean, what are the chances of a group of young women selling a house to another group of young women? I don’t know the stats, but when I walk through the town I see plenty of teenage girls. Colchester is quite a young place, but even still.’
‘It sounds to me like it’s owned by something like a housing association or a charity who only rent it out to young women who otherwise couldn’t afford to buy. Perhaps trying to give them a leg-up in the housing ladder.’
Henderson was couching his thoughts in everyday language, not wishing to alarm householders like Celia Bannerman, concerned about falling house prices and standards in their neighbourhood. The spectre of a house containing a small group of battered women or, as the detectives believed, trafficked women, would certainly concern them. Not only about the plight of the women themselves, whose stories couldn’t fail to elicit sympathy from the most cold-blooded of people, but also about the husbands and traffickers who might come looking for them.
‘This is what my husband Barry says, although I don’t think he cares where they’re from or why they’re here. He just likes to ogle them when they’re out doing the garden or washing the windows.’
Henderson smiled but Celia didn’t break from her previous serious frown. To him, this suggested that a house containing three pretty young women was a sore topic in the Bannerman household, although perhaps not with Mr Bannerman.
‘Do you or your husband ever speak to the women?’
‘We do when we’re bringing in the shopping or going out for walk, but not so much at the moment with all the frosts in the morning and dark nights. No one likes to linger in the winter, do they? He speaks to them more than me. They’re not British, that much is clear. He says they’re from Eastern Europe, but I wouldn’t trust his judgement, he often gets the names and nationality of his own staff wrong.’
‘You’ve been very helpful, Celia, I think we’ve asked all the questions we came to ask. How about you Sally, anything you’d like to add?’
‘Just one thing,’ she said. ‘What time do the women return at night?’
‘Oh, at various times, I think, between about six and seven in the evening. The woman who used to live there must have been a teaching assistant or something as she came home at different hours of the day, sometimes early afternoon. I only work part-time in our business, you see, so I know most of the goings-on in this part of the road.’
‘The woman you’re talking about,’ Henderson said. ‘Is she one of the previous group of four before the current occupants?’
‘No. Didn’t I say? At one time, there were four women living in the house, not three as there is now. The fourth girl went out to work one day and didn’t return. I don’t know if my husband knows where she went, I can ask him if you like.’
Henderson reached into his pocket and extracted a photograph of Elena. Not the pale mortuary image, displayed at the press conference a few days after her body had been discovered and published in various newspapers, but one from Cindy’s collection.
‘Is this her?’ he said passing the photograph over.
She took one look before raising her head. ‘Yes, it’s her. This picture was taken over there,’ she said pointing, ‘outside their house last summer. I remember the delightful hanging basket.’
THIRTY
The day following their trip to Colchester, Henderson and Sally Graham were heading north once again, this time on a train to East Croydon. Research done by the murder team discovered that the house in Baden Powell Drive where Elena used to live in Colchester was owned by a charity, Action for Trafficked Women. Accordin
g to their website, ATW provided a comprehensive help package for victims of trafficking: medical assistance, moving them to safe accommodation, assisting them to settle in the UK or, if preferred, paying for their passage home.
It was a short walk from East Croydon station to Sydenham Road and they soon found the squat two-storey building matching the address on the slip of paper in his hand. The building was constructed of brick with large white painted windows, giving the impression it was solid and reliable, as if owned by a reputable firm of family lawyers.
‘Impressive,’ Graham said as they approached. ‘Any charities I’ve dealt with are more often than not crammed into a couple of small rooms above an Indian restaurant.’
‘There’s a lot like that while others, particularly the animal ones are awash with money. Not only are people happy to drop spare cash into their collection tins in shopping centres but now and again a cat or dog lover dies and leaves millions to their favourite pet charity.’
He turned the handle on the door and walked in to a bright and warm interior, a pleasant change from the dull and dreary day outside.
A few minutes later they were seated in the office of ATW director, Linda Herschel. It was obvious she was either an extremely busy or inefficient person as stuffed folders were stacked on her desk, on cabinets and several large piles stood on the floor. The word ‘fire hazard’ didn’t seem adequate.
‘Smart offices you have here,’ Henderson said.
‘Yes,’ Herschel said, ‘it belonged to a firm of surveyors but the lure of the high-rise offices you can see all round Croydon got to them in the end.’
The striking thing about Linda Herschel, after her dazzling white teeth, was her hair. It wasn’t the style that caught his eye, but the colour; a strange shade of red, something he suspected was not found in nature.
Coffee was served in mugs which he liked, but floral-patterned china cups and silver teaspoons would have been more appropriate alongside the wood-panelled walls and sash windows.
‘Can you tell me something about the charity and what you do, Ms Herschel?’ Henderson asked.