by Paul Gitsham
‘Where did the last offence take place?’
‘Up on the university campus.’
* * *
‘We’ve got DNA from Tyler Wallace, we just need to get it processed, and run against the system.’
‘Have you arrested him?’ asked Grayson.
‘Yes, then bailed him immediately, on the proviso that he attends an interview on Monday. I agreed with his solicitor that his care worker would take responsibility for him and that he is to have no contact with his brother, who I’ve also released. He’s admitted to assisting Aaron burgle the Bedfords’ house but I’ll wait to see what the results of the DNA test are before we bring up the rape.
‘He’s going to need a responsible adult and legal representation so I don’t want to start the custody clock ticking until I have to. I suspect we’ll need as much time as possible to interview him. In the meantime, we have our connection between Aaron Wallace and Nigel Fleetwood. I’m still not happy about him and want to see what he has to say for himself.’
‘Good work. Let’s hope we can give that poor woman closure soon.’
* * *
‘Let’s start where we left off. Do you know an Aaron Wallace?’
Fleetwood sat opposite Warren in the interview suite. This time he was under caution, the PACE recorder preserving his every utterance for posterity. Beside him, his solicitor, an Asian woman in a blue trouser suit, took notes.
‘Yes, he’s the brother of one of our residents, Tyler.’
‘I see. May I ask why you refused to confirm that when I asked you the first time?’ asked Warren.
The solicitor interjected, ‘May I remind you that Mr Fleetwood was under the impression that he was helping with inquiries at that stage. He was not under caution, had not been arrested and did not have legal representation at that time. He was not under any obligation to answer any of your questions.’
‘Of course.’ Warren paused. ‘I’d still like to know why you were reluctant to admit knowing Mr Wallace, though.’
Fleetwood flushed slightly.
‘Everyone knows about the Wallace brothers. It’s an open secret that Aaron takes Tyler out as lookout sometimes, often returning him the worse for wear.’ He winced. ‘There isn’t a lot we can do about it, but the CQC inspectors won’t see it that way. I don’t want to have anything to do with it.’
‘OK, that sounds reasonable. In terms of your relationship to Mr Wallace though, do you ever speak to him on the phone?’
‘Sometimes. He calls the centre about once a week to chat to his brother. We occasionally speak whilst another colleague fetches Tyler.’
‘What do you talk about?’
‘I can’t really go into detail, DCI Jones.’
Was he being evasive? Warren still couldn’t read the man’s expression; was Botox really that good at masking the man’s guilt, or was his explanation truly innocent?
‘Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to break any confidences. Just give me a general idea.’
Fleetwood puffed out his lips, ‘We chat about how Tyler has been. If he’s had any meltdowns, or if there are any concerns about his health and wellbeing.’
‘Basically what any concerned relative would expect?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘What about other topics? Did you and Aaron discuss anything else? Matters not to do with his brother?’
‘Sometimes. It can take a few minutes for colleagues to fetch a patient if they are in their room.’
‘And what would you discuss?’
‘I dunno. Football, the weather? Just small talk.’
‘What about discussions outside work? Did you speak on a private phone or meet up?’
The bottom of Fleetwood’s face frowned. ‘Look, this is ridiculous. I don’t understand why you’re questioning me. You can’t honestly think that I’ve been burgling houses with Tyler Wallace and his brother?’
‘The evidence that you’ve disclosed so far, DCI Jones, is tenuous and circumstantial at best.’ Fleetwood’s solicitor had full use of her facial muscles and she was looking increasingly displeased.
Warren passed over a piece of paper with the number of the burner phone they’d triangulated to near Abbey View Terrace and Fleetwood’s place of work.
‘Do you recognize this mobile phone number?’
‘Maybe. Who the hell knows their own mobile phone number these days?’
‘So it might be yours, then?’
Fleetwood glared at Warren.
‘According to phone company records, this handset was in the vicinity of Abbey View Terrace on the night we are interested in. Interestingly, it is rarely switched on, and when it is, its location usually correlates with your place of work.’
Fleetwood licked his lips.
‘In addition, it only sends and receives calls and texts from a single number.’ Warren slid another piece of paper across the table. ‘Do you recognize this number?’
The blood drained from Fleetwood’s face.
* * *
Warren chased another two paracetamols down with a mouthful of fresh coffee. It had probably been long enough since his last dose for him to take more, but he wasn’t really sure, and didn’t really care. He looked over the rim of his mug. Sutton still looked like death warmed over, but the light had returned to his eyes. Either he had found himself something more effective to dose himself with, or the adrenaline of the interview was keeping him going.
‘He was getting pretty twitchy. Do you think he’ll cop to the burglary?’
‘It’d be nice, but at least we’ve got a DNA sample.’
‘How long have we got him for?’
Warren looked at the clock.
‘We can probably have another go with him then we’ll have to decide if we can get an extension.’
‘Did you fast-track the DNA?’
Warren shook his head. ‘It’s a cold case, there’s no budget. We won’t get the results back before we have to bail him. I’m not that worried, as long as he thinks he’s just on the hook for burglary I don’t think he’ll do a runner. We’ll have plenty of time to track down his whereabouts in the early Nineties before further arresting him,’ said Warren.
‘Fingers crossed. Something bothers me though.’
‘Tyler.’
‘Yeah. I can get why an idiot like Aaron might take his brother along as a lookout. But Fleetwood is an experienced care worker, he must have known that it was a bad idea.’
‘Wallace’s neighbour said Tyler turned up at Aaron’s place upset about something around the time of the burglary. Maybe he didn’t want to leave him on his own?’
‘I’m still surprised Fleetwood went along with it.’
‘Well we’ll get a chance to ask him about it in a moment, it looks as though his meeting with his solicitor is over.’
* * *
As expected, Fleetwood’s solicitor was dismissive of the grounds for his arrest.
‘This is absolute nonsense. My client has an unblemished record and is a respected member of the community; he is a lay preacher at his local church and regularly volunteers his time to help raise money for countless charities. The idea that he would be involved with a petty criminal like Aaron Wallace and implicated in a crime such as burglary is preposterous.’
‘In that case, Mr Fleetwood, perhaps you could explain why you were in the area at the time of the burglary and tell us the identity of the person who you have been contacting with such regularity on the unregistered phone that my officers have just recovered from the glovebox of your car. The same phone that we have placed to within a short distance of the burgled property.’
‘No comment.’
Warren pushed a sheet of paper across the wooden table.
‘This is a list of all the locations that this phone has been pinpointed to over the last few months that it has been active. We are also tracing the movements of this other, unknown phone. We’ll be looking for correlations between the phone locations and crimes such as burgla
ry. As part of that investigation, we will be speaking to your friends and family and work colleagues to see if they can provide an explanation for your movements.’
Sweat had broken out on Fleetwood’s forehead.
‘No. Please leave them out of it.’
‘Why don’t you do yourself a favour, Nigel?’ suggested Sutton. ‘Tell us what you were doing that night. You haven’t got a record and I’m sure you had your reasons for taking part in the break-in. Cooperate and the chances are the judge will be lenient.’
‘I’m not a criminal. I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘We only have your word for that.’ Warren looked at Sutton, before reaching towards the PACE recorder.
‘This interview is terminated. I shall be releasing you on police bail, pending further inquiries.’ Warren paused meaningfully. ‘No doubt your acquaintances will help us find out what we need to know.’
* * *
‘He’s having an affair with his minister’s wife?’
DSI Grayson clearly didn’t believe it.
‘So he claims. He says that she lives a few streets over from Abbey View Terrace. They’ve been seeing each other for a few months and they both bought unregistered phones so that they could arrange times to meet up easily. Fleetwood claims his wife is at home full-time with their newborn twins, so they only communicated when he was at work. Apparently, his paramour’s husband is in much demand as a preacher and away from home a lot, so they meet at hers. It wasn’t difficult for Fleetwood to invent the odd extra night shift to give him an excuse to stay over.’
‘That would explain why his phone keeps on being triangulated to the same spot. Does the story hold up?’
‘Tony and I will go and make some discreet inquiries tomorrow. He’s given us the address and he tells us she’ll be alone.’
‘And no doubt expecting Mr Fleetwood – try not to disappoint.’
‘We’ll do our best. In the meantime, we’ll be looking to see if Fleetwood was in the area at the time of the rape. We’ve secured a DNA profile; we’ll know in a few days if it’s a match to the blood spot.’
‘What about Tyler Wallace?’
‘Again, we’re waiting on the DNA.’
‘What if neither comes back as a match?’
Warren stood up. ‘Then I’ll be glad that we didn’t raise that poor woman’s hopes.’
* * *
‘Chief, we’ve found something interesting that we think you should see.’ Karen Hardwick and Gary Hastings were leaning over Hardwick’s computer.
Warren recognized the webpage as one from LinkedIn, the professional social networking site.
‘I got sick and tired of waiting for HMRC to get back to me about Fleetwood’s work history, so I went online and had a hunt around to see what I could find,’ said Hastings.
‘And I noticed something unusual in the comments on the crime scene report from the burglary,’ said Hardwick. ‘Apparently the blood spot in the bedroom, whose DNA profile matched the samples taken from the rape victim, was a bit difficult to sample; it took ages to dissolve enough for the CSI to swab it. So I rang her and we had a really interesting chat. I mentioned it to Gary, and that got us both thinking, so we went back on the web and found this.’
Hardwick scrolled down.
Warren took a moment to see the connection.
‘Well, well, look whose LinkedIn page says he was studying at the University of Middle England in 1992.’
Six Months Later
The courtroom was silent as Debbie Claremont took the stand.
Taking a deep breath, she fixed her gaze firmly on the man who the jury had just found guilty of raping her over twenty years previously. Her knuckles white, she started to speak. The victim impact statement that she had insisted on reading out herself sat in front of her, yet she never dropped her gaze from her attacker.
In the viewing gallery, Warren and his team sat transfixed as the woman told everyone present about the night her life changed. How somebody had found a young woman incapable through drink, and instead of looking after her, instead of seeing that she had got home safely, had forced himself upon her.
She described how she had felt it was her fault; that she’d been careless and somehow brought it upon herself. She spoke about how she had been too ashamed to tell her parents what had happened; to explain why she had suddenly decided to quit university and give up on her dreams of teaching. In simple language she communicated to everyone in the room the way in which one man’s brief sexual gratification had left her unable to view sex as anything more than a mechanical act; a commodity to be traded for favours, and later money.
She detailed the drink, and later the drugs, that she used to blot out those shadowy memories which just wouldn’t leave her alone. She described how for years the sight of Christmas decorations, supposed to herald the onset of celebrations and partying, had left her breathless and anxious.
And then she revealed how she had ultimately found peace. How she’d eventually told her parents what had happened and how they had taken away her shame; how she’d finally found someone with whom she wanted to share the rest of her life, who had taught her that sex could mean lovemaking; and how the birth of their first child had helped her move on.
When the judge returned his sentence, Debbie Claremont’s attacker received twelve years in prison. A postgraduate student doing his Legal Practice Course at the University of Middle England, he knew full well that what he did was wrong. He’d kept his shameful secret from his wife and colleagues and loved ones for over two decades, until a fall during a seizure had left a spot of blood in his bedroom that, months later, a Crime Scene Investigator had swabbed when investigating a burglary. The dried-out blood spot had proved difficult to remove, a fact duly noted in her scene report, leading her to speculate, when later asked by Karen Hardwick, that the spot might be historic and not deposited on the night of the burglary at all.
Whilst Warren and his team had solved the case in record time, he knew it had been down to chance. Ian Bedford had almost got away with it entirely. And his punishment of twelve years would be barely half of the sentence served by Debbie Claremont as she awaited justice.
Tonight, they would raise a pint or two in acknowledgement of a job well done. But as they watched the brave, dignified woman leave the witness stand, Warren knew it could never truly be a celebration.
The End
If you enjoyed following DCI Warren Jones in A Case Gone Cold, keep reading and discover a sneak peak of The Common Enemy, available to pre-order now.
Prologue
Waste containers with sliding lids made the narrow alleyway even harder to navigate. Tommy Meegan bent over, hands on knees, breathing heavily. Behind him he could hear the sounds of fighting continuing. He smiled, baring his teeth, his blood singing from the adrenaline surging around his body.
It had gone better than he could have hoped for. He’d seen crews from the BBC, Sky News and ITN, all perfectly poised to capture the action when it finally kicked off.
Untucking his T-shirt, he bunched it up and used the front to wipe the sweat from his shaved head, leaving a red smear on the white of the St George’s flag. He reached up, wincing as his fingers found the cut above his temple. He hoped the TV cameras had caught that. He had no idea what it was that had actually struck him, just that it had come from the crowd of anti-fascists loosely corralled behind the cordon of under-prepared riot police.
Already he was planning the evening’s tweets and a press release for the website. A two-pronged strategy he decided: They’d pin the attack on the Muslims, and claim that the police hadn’t done enough to protect their right to free speech.
He touched his head again, another idea forming. The cut was still bleeding, but it was little more than a nick. He’d need to do something about that. If he was going to garner any sympathy on the evening news he’d need some real war wounds.
He squinted at his watch; he was actually a few minutes early. It had been
touch and go with the timing after the police had kept them on the bus. He’d been worried that he’d get to the alleyway too late. Fortunately, the protestors had finally broken through the police line and the party members had scattered every which way.
He’d found himself running alongside Bellies Brandon and been concerned that he wouldn’t be able to find his way to his rendezvous unseen; his contact had made it very clear that he was to come alone. Fortunately, the fat bastard was so unfit Tommy had soon left him behind.
A whoop of sirens in the distance finally signalled the arrival of more riot police. Tommy smiled again. Assuming that all had gone to plan and everyone had done as they were told, all the party members should have left the scene long ago. The only fighting should be between the Muslim-lovers and the police. Even the left-wing, mainstream media couldn’t bury that.
The alleyway remained silent. He pulled the battered Nokia from his back pocket; no new messages. He’d made certain to empty the inbox; he didn’t want to make things too easy for the pigs if he got arrested.
The lack of any communications irritated him and worried him in equal measure. The promised reinforcements hadn’t transpired, meaning he’d had to scrap some of his speech. And what if his contact had changed their meeting point or the time of their rendezvous? He wished he had his smartphone with him so he could access his email or Facebook, but everyone knew that the little devices would betray you in a million different ways if they fell into the wrong hands. He’d have to trust that any changes to their plans would be sent the old fashioned way, by text or phone call.