It Never Goes Away

by Tom Trott

‘Great. You want a quote for the paper?’

  ‘Yes, please. That is why I’m calling.’

  ‘Officially, I think your mum put Clarence’s body in the boot. I know she likes a stiff one in the rear.’

  I hung up. Then I went to pick up the paper from outside my door.

  “private detective’s body found in boot of rival’s car” was the headline. It wasn’t exactly accusing me of murder, but it wasn’t not accusing me of murder either. Who cares? I threw it in the bin and picked up the phone to make my own call.

  I hoped he would answer. Normally I would call Andy, but after our last conversation I didn’t feel like it.

  The line rang a few times until it was answered by a groggy voice.

  ‘Hello?’ it groaned.

  ‘Sergeant Crowhurst?’

  ‘Yes, who’s this?’

  ‘It’s Joe Grabarz.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Grabarz,’ his voice brightened. ‘Hold on a second, I’ll just pop outside.’ I heard some clattering and scampering, and then a minute later his voice returned. ‘Sorry about that. Go ahead.’

  ‘I was just calling to say that we were discussing in the office because one of our associates is leaving the agency and we will be looking for a replacement. We’ve decided to put your name on the shortlist and my assistant will be in touch to arrange an interview.’

  ‘Wow, that was quick. Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome, you deserve it. I also wanted to ask you a favour,’ I tried to keep my tone breezy, ‘I’m trying to get my hands on an old police file, part of a background check that a property developer has asked us to do. It would be a real help if you could get it to me.’

  ‘Erm... I don’t know.’

  I heard him thinking on the other end of the line. Either he would or he wouldn’t, so I just waited.

  ‘Ok...’ he finally decided, ‘is a USB stick ok?’

  ‘That’s great.’ I gave him the date of the crime, and the nature of it, without saying the words Little Fawn Farm.

  ‘I’ll drop it off at your office this morning on my way home,’ he said.

  ‘No, don’t trouble yourself, I’ve got to head downtown anyway so I’ll meet you in The Jurys Out. What time do you clock off?’

  ‘Ten-ish.’

  ‘Brilliant, I’ll be waiting.’

  At 10:21 a.m. he shuffled into the pub and over to my table, taking a cautious look at the one barmaid and three other patrons. He had a mac buttoned up tight to hide his uniform, and somehow looked more like a policeman.

  He passed the USB stick over the table and I put down my newspaper with the eye holes cut in it.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said and got up to leave.

  ‘About that interview...’ he said as I brushed past him.

  ‘We’ll be in touch.’

  ✽✽✽

  I stepped out of the taxi into the carpark of The Keep. The cream box building, built only a few years ago with its vast and perpetually empty carpark, situated on a strip of land beyond the outskirts of the city between the Lewes road and the Lewes train line, betrays nothing of the wonders inside. It could be a warehouse, or a server farm, or some strange outbuilding of the universities or Southern Water. Instead, combining the archives of the East Sussex Record Office, the East Sussex Historic Environment Record, the Royal Pavilion & Museums Local History Collections, the Sussex Family History Group, and the University of Sussex Special Collections, The Keep is a vault of knowledge, and it was knowledge I needed.

  I sauntered in through the glass double doors and flashed my reader card at the woman on the desk. Then I stepped past the braille map and the glass display cabinets before taking a right through another automatic glass door.

  The reference room contains the microfilm archives of the Brighton Argus, Brighton Herald, Brighton Guardian, Brighton Gazette, West Sussex Gazette, Sussex Express, and others that I forget. There are wills, probate records, parish registers, tithe maps, voter lists, street directories, and old guide books. These are all down the two long sides of the room, and in the middle are tables for reading and working, and some of them have computers.

  I chose a computer at the back of the room, where no one would accidently catch a glimpse of my screen. I plugged in the USB. On the stick was a folder named for the case number, inside the folder were digital photographs, transcripts of interviews, and scans of handwritten notes. There were letters to and from superior officers, the Crown Prosecution Service, and even the Chief Superintendent. It appeared to my untrained eye to be a thorough record. I read through the reports on the discovery of the scene.

  The night of 21st March 2009 began with an anonymous call to 999 at 02:04:33. It was recorded, as all 999 calls are, and the audio of the call was provided along with a transcript. The recording was as fuzzy as they always are, but I gave it a listen anyway.

  ‘999 Emergency Response.’

  ‘Hello,’ a very fast-talking voice replied, ‘I’m up by Little Fawn Farm and I just heard gunshots coming from the house.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, can you repeat that? Did you say gunshots?’

  ‘Yes. Little Fawn Farm. Near the Chattri. Gunshots.’

  ‘And what’s your name, sir?’

  That was it, evidently the caller had hung up. Without details or tangible evidence it was not considered cost-effective to dispatch armed units and therefore two unfortunate uniformed officers, Police Constables Devon Murphy and Chyna Qasim-Nilsson were dispatched in their Vauxhall Astra diesel to investigate.

  No lights were on when they pulled up to the house; nothing unusual at that time of night, but closer inspection revealed the front door was ajar. They turned off the Vauxhall engine, but left the headlamps on as they exited the vehicle. The officers called out and knocked on the open door, but received no response. They entered the house, and using torches found the light switch in the hall. From what they saw it was clear the house was lived in, but the light revealed no signs of disturbance, so they continued to search.

  They illuminated each room as they went. The living room contained no secrets, just the detritus of family life. Photos DCIM081072 and DCIM081073 showed empty mugs and half-finished homework. They moved on to the kitchen. Still nothing of interest; DCIM081084 showed gravy-streaked plates in the sink. They kept searching.

  In the only downstairs bedroom they found the body of seven-year-old Crystal Almore. There wasn’t much left above the shoulders. I didn’t enlarge the photo, the thumbnail preview was enough. A note had been left for the SOCO team advising them that the vomit in the hallway belonged to PC Murphy. PC Qasim-Nilsson continued the search on her own and it was she who entered the upstairs bedroom of Derace Almore, 38, and Mildred Almore, 41, to find their bodies, both having suffered wounds to the chest. They were on the bed, as was Kingsley Almore, 10, who PC Qasim-Nilsson initially mistook for dead due to the blood on his clothes and his near-cataleptic state. This misconception lasted until DCI Raymond Burke, DS Robert Merton, and DC George Meek arrived on the scene, along with SOCO and Dr Albert Lavery. Kingsley Almore did not speak at all. An ambulance was called immediately.

  I took a moment to muse on the scene and make my own false assumptions. Then I moved onto the forensics report.

  The pathologist concluded that Crystal Almore had been killed by a single shotgun blast to the head, and that Derace and Mildred Almore had both been killed by a single shotgun wound to the chest. All had eaten sausages, mashed potato, and peas for dinner, with gravy. Derace Almore had also drunk cider. Derace Almore’s liver showed signs of prolonged alcohol abuse. Mildred Almore had years-old track marks on her arms, none recent. Crystal Almore had previously suffered a broken leg. Derace and Mildred Almore had suffered repeated small injuries consistent with their lives as farmers.

  Shot taken from the wounds and from the walls of the bedrooms was identical to the shot Derace Almore made himself. Recovered at the scene was a 20-bore single-barrelled shotgun, the make and model of which could not be ascertained as all distinguishi
ng marks had been worn away due to its age. It was not registered, but friends of the family later identified it as Derace Almore’s. It was recovered from the bedroom floor. Both Derace Almore’s and Kingsley Almore’s fingerprints were found on the shotgun. Ballistics revealed that it had been fired within twenty-four hours. According to friends, the shotgun was kept in the barn, where more homemade cartridges were recovered, along with stores of the component steel pellets, felt wadding, and gunpowder. No DNA was found at the scene beyond that belonging to Derace Almore, Mildred Almore, Crystal Almore, Kingsley Almore, PC Murphy, PC Qasim-Nilsson, DC Meek, DS Merton, and DCI Burke. There were no signs of forced entry.

  Kingsley Almore was arrested, and under interview stated that he did not remember anything between going to sleep on the evening of 20th March and waking in hospital on the morning of 21st March. Once the ballistic and fingerprint evidence had been collected and the analysis confirmed, the Crown Prosecution Service approved a charge of murder against Kingsley Almore.

  The identity of the 999 caller was never ascertained, but there had been a series of infrequent farm burglaries over the prior months and it was assumed that the caller may have been casing the joint when the shots were heard.

  That was as far as the files took me. I thought about what I had learned, and what about the case might have convinced Clarence there was something awry. The presence of George Meek was one thing. I had known him for some time, most of it without knowing he was corrupt, then he was fired in dramatic circumstances and I hadn’t seen him since. But this case was ten years ago, and he was just a fresh DC back then.

  I pulled out the USB and moved to the other end of the room, where the microfilm scanners are. I turned one on to get it warmed up and went to the filing cabinets. In long shallow draws the boxes of microfilm are kept in date order. The records from the seventies manage to fit two months of newspapers onto a reel, but by 2009 the rags had become so much larger that they could only fit half a month on each. I took out the reel labelled “FROM: 16th MARCH 2009, to: 31st MARCH 2009, SILVER POSITIVE NITRATE”, took it to the scanner and threaded it through the mechanism, under the glass, and slid the tray under the lens. It came up on the computer screen and I used the touchscreen to wind through to the 22nd–23rd weekend edition, then Monday 24th.

  The paper reported what little details of the crime were made public, but were surprisingly hesitant to declare Kingsley Almore guilty until proven innocent, for once the sensitivity of a ten-year-old boy having lost his family won out.

  The film crackled as I slowly wound through to the end of the month. The paper increasingly lent on the burglary element and used it to whip up fear of a roving gang of shotgun murderers. That is until the ballistics report was leaked and the paper soon swivelled onto the boy.

  The reel ran out and I rewound it, unmounted it from the scanner, and returned it to the cabinet. Getting a sideways look from the staff, I piled up the eighteen boxes that would take me to the end of the year and lined them up on the desk next to my scanner. I loaded the first April reel and began my journey, but with the change of month had come a change of focus to Albion’s FA cup hopes, and the death of three people was forgotten. I was rewinding the second half of May when I spotted the only new development, buried away on page twenty-three, just before the classifieds, penned by chief crime reporter Bill “Hacker” Harker:

  LONDON LAWYERS TO DEFEND FARMHOUSE MURDERER FREE OF CHARGE

  A firm of London lawyers today announced they would be offering their services “pro bono” to Little Fawn Farm massacre suspect Kingsley Almore. Almore was charged in March of this year with the murder of his seven-year-old sister, along with the murders of his father and mother. All were found dead at their house in the early hours of the morning, Saturday 21st March, having suffered shotgun wounds.

  London lawyers Dean Seamark and Jerry Berlin admitted they had never been to Brighton & Hove, and had not been aware of the case when it was first reported. Seamark, a New Zealander, told this reporter that he was “keen to provide the best defence possible to a defendant barely over the age of criminal responsibility.” His partner in the firm, Jerry Berlin (who previously worked as a lawyer for the Federation of Jewish Charities) released a statement saying that “how the legal and judicial systems treat a minor is the biggest test of a democracy.” Almore’s court-appointed solicitor, Rufus Grimace, told this reporter he was “happy to cede the case to such experienced peers.”

  No date has yet been set for the trial, which is expected to begin this Autumn.

  Kingsley Almore stayed in minimum security care for one-hundred and fifty-six days until the first day of his trial in August 2009. He had only been of the age of criminal responsibility for twenty-seven days when his family were murdered. If he had been born just twenty-eight days later the law of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland would have deemed him too young to be criminally responsible and he would have been headed for a childhood of care and therapy, instead he was headed for a childhood in juvenile detention.

  After what seemed like miles of microfilm, I finally made it to August, and the start of the trial. The front-page headline of the evening edition was “FARMBOY MURDERER PLEADS INNOCENT”. He had already pleaded innocent when he was charged, and this was simply a reaffirmation, but the paper reported it as news. Several weeks before the trial Berlin & Seamark had argued that Almore should be treated as below the age of criminal responsibility given his age and his low school grades, but the judge had judged that the seriousness of the crime demanded he be treated as responsible.

  The trial lasted for two weeks. Although investigators and family friends were called to the stand, there were no witnesses to accuse or defend Almore. Therefore the prosecution leant heavily on the ballistics report and the DNA evidence, as well as the lack of forced entry. They found a family friend who had seen the boy firing the shotgun, under the supervision of his father, on numerous occasions. The boy even admitted it. The prosecution was therefore able to demonstrate that Almore knew not only where the murder weapon and ammunition were kept, but also how to load and fire the shotgun. Jerry Berlin argued that there was no concrete evidence to prove that the shotgun recovered at the scene was the murder weapon, simply that the family were murdered using Derace Almore’s homemade shot; it could have been taken from the barn and loaded into any 20-bore shotgun. And although Derace Almore’s shotgun was in the bedroom, he could have put it there himself if he was worried about the recent burglaries. He also argued that since the family friend had confirmed they had seen the boy firing the weapon on previous occasions, the fact that his fingerprints were found on the shotgun did not demonstrate that he had used it that night.

  The prosecution next stated plainly that amongst all the ballistics and DNA analysis there was not a single piece of evidence to demonstrate that anyone else had been in the house that night, as was supported by the lack of forced entry. Dean Seamark reminded the jury that “absence of evidence is not evidence of absence”, more simply put: just because they found no evidence of another person does not prove that there wasn’t one. He also provided enlarged crime scene photographs which showed that the windows in the house were left unlocked, as well as the back door, and that it was clear that the Almores did not secure their house when they went to bed as they may have felt their rural isolation rendered such security measures immaterial.

  Berlin was the one to give the defence’s closing remarks, in which he argued passionately that the prosecution had not demonstrated that Kingsley Almore was the only person who could have committed the murder, that there was more than reasonable doubt, and that it would be a mistake the destroy the childhood of a ten-year-old boy who had lost his entire family based solely on circumstantial evidence.

  The jury returned a guilty verdict after less than two hours of deliberation. Due to his young age and the “large potential for change as he enters his formative years”, the judge handed down a sentence of fifteen years, wit
h the potential for parole after half his sentence had been completed. The paper, and especially Bill Harker, went ballistic (no pun intended). “LOONY JUDGE GIVES SEVEN YEARS TO MASSMURDERER” screamed the front page. Hacker went after the judge relentlessly for the next three weeks. This included digging up a history of early onset dementia in his family, and his liking for vintage sherry. He soon announced that he would be retiring from the bench the following summer.

  There the story disappeared. I briefly searched the website for items from two-and-a-half years ago about Almore being granted parole, but I couldn’t find any. Eyes stinging and stomach rumbling, I put the microfilm back in the drawer. It was dark when I stepped outside.

  ✽✽✽

  I called Andy when I got back to my flat.

  ‘Hello?’ He sounded cautious.

  ‘Hello,’ I replied just as cautiously.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘I take it you’ve heard.’

  ‘Of course. You should have told me when you came to see me.’

  ‘Then you would have to report it,’ I told him.

  Knowing him as well as I did, I knew his concern was sincere, but that didn’t make it any more welcome. I left it all unsaid and jumped forward in the conversation:

  ‘I’m going to find out who killed him, but first I need to find out why he was at Little Fawn Farm. I need you to do me a favour, for old times’ sake.’

  ‘If you want me to get you the casefile I think that’s a bad idea. They know I’m your friend and if I pull the file they’ll be on to me in a heartbeat.’

  ‘I’ve already got the file. I want the notebooks.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I heard him frown on the other end. ‘The notebooks?’

  ‘They would’ve been kept, right?’

  ‘If they were handed in by the officers, a lot of them don’t bother, they chuck them or hang onto them themselves.’

  ‘I need to see them. George Meek worked on the case.’