Oakley knew he had said nothing, while he had known Davis for years, and was certain she wasn’t the culprit. So his suspects were Jones, the superintendent and Butterworth himself. The digital photo Paxton had presented of the tampered page had a date in the corner. Oakley checked the duty roster, and saw that Taylor had been at a conference in Leeds at the time, while Jones had been on annual leave.
He thought long and hard about whether Butterworth might have let something slip, but decided it was unlikely. The DS had been deeply ashamed of what he had done, and would not have wanted anyone else to know. Later, it emerged at the inquest that he had not even told his wife. All three were thus exonerated, and Oakley was left with a list of none.
He and Davis discussed the problem over a beer in the Mucky Duck. There was only one conclusion: someone had eavesdropped when the matter had been discussed. Once that possibility was mooted, Oakley knew he was unlikely to find a culprit, although a nagging voice at the back of his head kept reminding him that the biggest gossip in the station was Barry Wright. But there was no evidence to incriminate the sergeant, and Wright was not the sort of man to break down and confess in a fit of remorse.
Then Professional Standards arrived and took over. In the enquiry that followed, every officer in New Bridewell admitted to knowing about Butterworth’s Blunder. Wright’s name cropped up several times as the source, so Professional Standards grilled Wright relentlessly, but he vehemently denied passing information to outside sources, and as nothing could be proved, their enquiry eventually staggered to a standstill, leaving many questions unanswered and the station uneasy in its wake.
The week that Professional Standards invaded New Bridewell was one of the worst in my life. I was certain they’d know that James and I were at school together, and would conclude that I was the one who’d leaked the information. When they called me in I thought I was going to be sick. My stomach churned and my head pounded, so I could barely hear what they were saying. It took all of my self-control not to look guilty. It occurred to me that this was the time to confess, but I didn’t. The whole business had gone too far, and the thought of my colleagues’ reproach was more than I could bear.
They asked whether I’d heard about Butterworth’s Blunder, and I replied that I had. Then they asked who’d told me, but life was bad enough without having Wright accusing me of disloyalty, so I said nothing. The Professional Standards men exchanged glances and said that one specific sergeant kept cropping up as a source – I wasn’t the first, and probably would not be the last, to name Wright. So I did, and they nodded their thanks and let me go.
And that was it. I’d escaped confessing yet again.
In the following weeks, Oakley often asked for me when he needed a uniformed officer, although I think it was more to put two fingers up to Wright than because he thought I was special. He’d guessed it was Wright who’d spilled the beans about Butterworth, and hated him for it. Wright, meanwhile, embarked on a private mission against Oakley, using every opportunity to point out that he wasn’t ‘one of us’. I suppose he was referring to Oakley’s Indian blood. If I’d been Oakley, I’d have reported him for racism, but then I probably should’ve reported him for sexism, so I understood why Oakley thought it wasn’t worth the trouble.
One day, Oakley asked if I’d known that Butterworth had been so dangerously close to the edge at Noble’s trial.
‘He looked terrible,’ I said. ‘Even more scared of the witness stand than me.’
‘You were scared?’
I hastened to cover up my near-blunder. ‘I’d been in court before, but never for such a major case. I knew how much time you’d invested, and I wanted to make sure I didn’t mess up.’
‘I knew Mark was nervous,’ Oakley said, a little distantly. ‘I just didn’t realize how much. I let him down.’
‘He let you down, sir. You had a good case, and it was his dishonesty that let Noble back on the streets.’
Oakley stared at me, and I saw I should have kept my thoughts to myself. ‘He made a mistake,’ he said shortly. ‘When he was tired, agitated and unwell. It could happen to any of us.’
He walked away, and I wondered whether he would be so generous about my mistake – the one that led to Butterworth’s death.
But gradually, the enormity of what had happened began to fade, and I settled back into my normal life – although wiser, less trusting and more cynical. I went to work, spent my free evenings at home, and enjoyed weekend drinks and meals with Frances, Colin and Gary.
It was about four months after Mark’s death when the next thing happened that was to change my life. It started with a series of burglaries in the Westbury area, and a man called Billy Yorke.
July
A damp, gloomy spring was followed by the green and yellow hues of summer. People sat outside on the long, warm evenings, and families looked forward to the school holidays. There was often a carnival-like atmosphere in Bristol’s centre, as residents and tourists alike enjoyed its parks, harbour and shopping centres. The air was rich with the scent of takeaway vans, traffic and the tepid water in the docks.
Unfortunately, the fine weather did little to cheer the victims of what the press called the ‘Westbury Burglaries’. These were all aggravated, which meant that violence was used during their commission. The stocking-masked culprits were well organized and careful, striking at houses in one of the city’s most affluent areas. So far there had been eight attacks, and the thieves didn’t care if the occupants were at home – they merely herded their victims into a bedroom, where they were bound with duct tape. Usually the victims were so frightened they did as they were told and escaped relatively unscathed. Anyone who resisted could expect to be hit, however.
As far as New Bridewell’s CID could see, the burglaries were random, with no common factor in timing or victims. The villains’ team comprised six men who could break through the most sophisticated security devices. A driver stayed outside to make a quick getaway, three dealt with the victims, and the remaining two searched the houses with a ruthless efficiency that suggested they knew exactly what was where. Safes were raided first, followed by jewellery, gold and original artwork. Computers, televisions and other electronic equipment – unless they were very expensive – were ignored.
It was apparent from the beginning that the Westbury Burglaries were the work of experienced criminals, ones Oakley suspected had access to insurance documents that told them what was in each house. However, none of the victims shared the same insurer.
After a while, Oakley began to suspect a villain named Billy Yorke, mostly because they bore his hallmark: ruthless efficiency and care to leave nothing that might later be used to convict. Unfortunately, he couldn’t prove it, and Taylor refused to let him search Yorke’s various properties until he had something more solid than a hunch.
Yorke was a wealthy man. Once a security guard for a company of architects – most of whom had later gone to prison for fraud – he had financed his climb up the social ladder with serious crime. At the age of fifty-five he owned two mansions and a number of houses that he rented to other criminals, a fleet of cars, and he was a member of the city’s most expensive golf club.
‘But why him?’ asked Graham Evans, the DS who had replaced Butterworth. In many ways, Evans was easier to work with than Butterworth. He was slow and unimaginative, but he followed orders doggedly and with total dedication. He was heavily set, with a princely beer belly, and a shock of fair hair that looked odd with his lined, florid face. Oakley liked him, and the two were on their way to becoming friends as well as colleagues.
‘The burglaries have his stamp,’ explained Oakley. They were in the CID office, reading witness statements from the most recent attack. The victim was an elderly woman named Emma Vinson, who had resisted the invasion, and had been brutally beaten in return. She was currently in intensive care and it was too early to say whether she would recover.
‘They’ve got Noble’s stamp, too,’ said Evans re
asonably. ‘Theft, violence, fast and ruthless, don’t care whether they are seen.’
‘Noble’s men would have taken the computers and DVD players, too,’ argued Oakley. ‘And they would have been more violent. The Westbury burglars don’t want to injure; they just want the property. They’ll only cause harm if they have to.’
‘You think three men had to hit Mrs Vinson?’ demanded Evans. ‘They did it because they wanted to.’
‘She tried to set off the burglar alarm. Their sole aim was to stop her. I agree that they didn’t have to hit her so hard, but I don’t think cruelty was intended in the attack, just ruthlessness.’
‘I don’t see the difference, and I’m not convinced it’s Yorke. I’m not surprised Taylor won’t give you a search warrant.’
‘Yorke will be the one who goes straight to the safe,’ mused Oakley, ignoring his sergeant’s reservations. ‘He won’t have anything to do with the victims. That’ll be left to the likes of Dave Randal.’
‘His right-hand yob. Nice man: previous for every violent crime except murder.’
Oakley strongly suspected it was only a matter of time before that particular offence was added to Randal’s repertoire.
By the end of July, Oakley’s persistence in his investigation of the Westbury burglars had paid off, and one evening he and Evans sat together in the Mucky Duck, celebrating.
‘I still don’t know how you guessed the Sanderson house was going to be their next hit,’ said Evans, leaning comfortably back against the wall. He took a deep draught of bitter.
‘Because of holidays,’ said Oakley, pulling a face at his warm lager. It was stuffy in the pub, and the open doors and windows served only to let the hot air inside. ‘Billy Yorke didn’t wait for his victims to go away; he waited for the neighbours to go.’
‘I understand that now,’ said Evans. ‘But I don’t know how you saw it in the first place.’
‘It was obvious once one victim had remarked how odd it was that he was burgled, but his absent neighbours weren’t. It’s easy to take away mobile phones and lock a bedroom door to keep house-owners quiet, but impossible to stop the neighbours noticing something’s amiss and phoning us.’
‘True. Yorke could control his victims, but obviously controlling nosy neighbours is more difficult. Clever.’
‘Who? Him? Or me for working it out?’
‘Both. And you predicted which house Yorke was going for next, because Sanderson’s neighbours had been talking to him for weeks about visiting Mauritius.’
Oakley had puzzled long and hard over the common factor in the crimes. The burglars knew exactly what valuables were in each house – sometimes ungagging their victims in order to demand a particular item. The link had to be insurance, despite the victims having different companies.
Eventually he had found his connection: each insurance company employed the same photocopy repair service. This comprised an engineer who did the fixing, and a woman who made multiple copies afterwards, partly to ensure the machine was working properly, and partly as a service to help clients with the backlog that had built up while the copier was out of order.
The repairman was quickly exonerated, but the woman broke down and confessed to photocopying documents for an ex-boyfriend. Her description of him matched Yorke. Oakley had spotted the holiday connection at about the same time, so it had been a simple matter to visit a few potential victims to determine who had neighbours about to go away. The Sandersons were top of the resulting list.
He and his colleagues had spent the best part of a week waiting for Yorke to target the Sanderson house, and even then it had not been easy to snag their prey. The driver was vigilant, and sounded the alarm before the police could act. The gang ran, despite the jewellery and silverware that the police had persuaded the Sandersons to scatter around in an attempt to encourage the criminals to linger. Only one had been caught – a heavy called Keith McInnes – and he refused to give up his accomplices.
In the end, it was a partial fingerprint that had snared Yorke: one of his rubber gloves had split. Yorke vigorously denied the charges, but search warrants were issued and the case began to build. Oakley had arrested Yorke a few hours before and the man was currently on his way to prison, where he would be held until a magistrate determined whether he should be released on bail or remanded in custody until the trial. Oakley was confident bail would be refused, given the serious nature of the crimes and the fact that Emma Vinson was still in intensive care.
‘Yorke is a slippery bastard,’ said Evans, wiping greasy fingers on his trousers and screwing up his crisp bag. ‘Did you see his house? He’s got a swimming pool! I wish we could have nicked that smarmy brother of his, too – Michael. He might look and sound like he went to Eton, but he’s a villain.’
‘Perhaps he did go to public school. Billy has more or less raised him – being twenty years his senior – and he could certainly afford to send his brother to the best of schools on the proceeds of his crimes. He learned from a master.’
‘You mean William Pullen, the corrupt architect?’ asked Evans. ‘That was years ago.’
‘Fourteen or fifteen,’ agreed Oakley. ‘It was a big case at the time, because of the scale of the fraud. They almost got away with it, too.’
‘We were lucky to catch McInnes though,’ mused Evans, returning to the current case. ‘Even if we lose Yorke, the world will be a better place without McInnes on the streets. I only wish we’d got Dave Randal, too. I’m sure it was him who smacked the old lady. How is she, by the way?’
‘Not good,’ said Oakley. ‘Why do you reckon Randal hit her? Why not McInnes?’
‘Randal’s that kind,’ said Evans. ‘Pity his glove didn’t split.’
‘I’ll settle for nabbing Yorke. Randal and the others won’t stay out of trouble for long without him to look after them. We’ll get them. Except Michael – we’d be lucky to catch him making a mistake.’
‘I can wait.’ Evans’ expression hardened. ‘What was the super going on about before we left? He seemed worried.’
‘Bail,’ said Oakley. ‘By rights, Yorke shouldn’t get it, but the word is that Paxton is representing him. The super thinks he’s got something up his sleeve.’
‘Christ! Not again!’
‘He reckons Paxton only takes cases he’s sure of winning, and thinks there might be a reason why he agreed to represent Yorke. He’s afraid that Paxton’s going to pull some stunt that’ll see Yorke get bail.’
‘A Butterworth’s Blunder,’ mused Evans. Even though he hadn’t known the DS, the affair had become a by-word for well-meaning but misguided actions.
‘I don’t see how. Everything’s been done by the book this time. No one at New Bridewell will pull a stunt like that again.’
Evans thought for a moment, then waved a dismissive hand. ‘Taylor’s paranoid. Paxton’s got nothing on us this time. He’s got to lose a case sooner or later, and this will be it.’
‘I suppose,’ said Oakley, although a vague sensation of unease had settled in his mind, and it was still with him when he bade Evans goodnight and drove home to his empty house.
Tuesday, 31 July
It was evening, and I was sitting outside in a deckchair, enjoying one of those weak French beers that are so refreshing on a hot day. I’d started work at six that morning, and at quarter to two, just fifteen minutes before I was due to finish, Wright had sent me to deal with a juvenile shoplifter.
For once I didn’t mind that this forced me to work three extra hours, as I was saving for a trip to Peru. Well, why not? If I didn’t see the world soon, I was going to miss it. I was twenty-seven, and it was time I did something interesting.
I’d been in the job for more than five years, and it was obvious that I wasn’t going to amount to much. I’d finally yielded to pressure from Superintendent Taylor and taken my sergeant’s exams, although it didn’t take a genius to see that he wanted my success to look good on his station’s statistics, not because he thought I was any
good. But, to be honest, the prospect of promotion filled me with dread. I’d started to look for other jobs, and had even applied to do postgraduate work at Newcastle. I’d been happy there, and although I wasn’t naïve enough to think it would be the same if I went back, anything had to be better than being pushed around by Sergeant Wright.
When the phone rang I assumed it was my mother. It was half past eight, the sort of time she usually phoned. I went cold all over when I heard James’ voice at the other end.
‘Hi, Helen,’ he said breezily, as though the episode on the train had never happened.
‘What do you want?’ Time had done nothing to blunt my anger towards him.
‘Actually, I wondered whether you’d pop over,’ he said chirpily. ‘It would be nice to see you.’
‘What do you want?’ I repeated icily.
‘Helen, Helen!’ came his mocking voice. ‘What makes you think I want anything?’
I hung up.
When the phone rang again a few seconds later, I snatched it up and was about to tell him where to go when I heard my mother speaking. I flopped back in my deckchair and listened to her burbling about my brother’s latest sporting success and my sister’s newest baby. She talked for a good half hour, without needing much input from me, then rang off. I put down the phone, and answered it without thinking when it rang again seconds later.
‘Come over,’ came James’ voice crisply down the line. ‘I was going to do this nicely, but you’re being a bitch so I won’t. I’ve still got those photos I took of the Noble file. I heard there was quite a to-do over that. Fur and feathers all over the place. So get off your arse and come over.’
The Murder House Page 5