Primal Cut

by Ed O'Connor

38.

  Underwood could not face returning to his cramped little flat on the outskirts of New Bolden. Instead he stayed in the office. Dexter left at 10.45 p.m. He wrote the time in his notebook but felt no pleasure. Her attitude towards him was increasingly acidic. Underwood wanted to express his affection: make her aware of his concern. Dexter had refused to move into secure accommodation, preferring to remain in her flat. To Underwood, that seemed like the height of folly.

  He decided that he could help her best by working the hunt for Bartholomew Garrod as vigorously as possible. Harrison’s four o’clock press conference had been well attended. By the following morning, the photofit impression of Garrod would be on the front pages of most local newspapers and perhaps one or two nationals: just as it had seven years previously. That thought disturbed Underwood. This was clearly an individual with intellectual ability. Britain was a small country: it was hard for a man like Garrod to disappear. Where could he have gone for seven years? It was impossible for him to have owned a property and the records compiled by Leyton CID showed no other evidence of family properties. Had Garrod rented a room or a flat? Again, it seemed unusual. Landlords required proof of identity now: bank account details and personal references. Garrod’s bank accounts had been frozen by the Metropolitan Police in 1996. Renting was expensive; it made you conspicuous, too. Living rough was the obvious option: camping out or squatting in some broken down outbuilding.

  And yet, Garrod had rented a room at the Dog and Feathers for over a month.

  He opened the ‘Primal Cut’ case file that he had retrieved from Dexter’s office after she had left. He began to look for any details that might suggest an explanation for Garrod’s disappearance after his brother’s death. Was there something that McInally and Dexter had missed?

  Instinctively, Underwood turned directly to the appendices that contained background on the Garrod family. He started by reading the profile of Bartholomew Garrod’s mother:

  May Garrod (nee Shildon). Born Dalston, London 2nd July 1920. Married Cornelius Garrod at Leyton Registry Office on 13th December 1940. Brother Sgt Eric Shildon (RER) killed in action France 1940. May Garrod pronounced dead at St Bartholomew’s Hospital London in March 1975 (stroke).

  Underwood mused at the tragedy of a life reduced to four lines of text. He noted with only passing interest that the hospital shared the same name as the target of his manhunt: he knew that many male babies were named Bartholomew in the East End after the hospital in which they were born. He wondered what ‘RER’ denoted. It referred to Sgt Shildon. If it was a military term the final ‘R’ could mean ‘regiment’. Was it the Royal East London Regiment? Underwood wondered if such a thing existed. He turned to his computer and found the Commonwealth War Graves Commission website. Underwood’s great grandfather had been killed in the Great War so he was familiar with the Commission’s activities. He entered Shildon’s details into the search engine and pressed ‘enter’. The following appeared on his screen:

  Surname Rank Service Date of Death Age Regiment Nationality

  Shildon E Sgt 781692 28 May 1940 28 Royal Essex Regiment United Kingdom

  So ‘RER’ was the Royal Essex Regiment. Underwood left the War Graves Commission website and ran a general search for the history of the Royal Essex Regiment. Eventually he found the official regimental website and opened a paragraph of text that recorded the regimental history. He read that the Regiment had been raised and based in Colchester; that it had fought with distinction in both World Wars.

  Underwood stopped himself going any further. His mind, as always, was flying off at useless tangents. Fascinating though the history of the Royal Essex Regiment undoubtedly was, he needed to stay focused. He switched off his Internet connection and returned to the brief biographical profile of Cornelius Garrod in the ‘Primal Cut’ case file. He drank some cold coffee to focus his mind.

  Cornelius Garrod was born in Leyton, London on 11th February 1919. He married May Shildon at Leyton Registry Office on 13th December 1940. Garrod served as a private in the Royal Fusiliers 1939–46 (North Africa & Burma). He was arrested for drunk and disorderly behaviour on 3rd January 1950, in Wanstead, London but was released without charge. He bought 398 Norlington Road, Leyton in November 1950. An application for planning permission on that property was registered with Leyton Council in December 1950. Garrod was arrested again for drunkenness on 4th August 1960, in Great Oakley. Cornelius Garrod was pronounced dead at St Bartholomew’s Hospital London in March 1975 (heart attack).

  Underwood scratched his head in mild confusion. There was little in the family histories of the Garrods and the Shildons that excited his interest. True, there were some similarities: both were East London families; both Eric Shildon and Cornelius Garrod had fought in World War Two. Were the two men friends? Underwood wondered if that was how Cornelius Garrod had met May Shildon: had Eric Shildon introduced his friend to his sister?

  There wasn’t much else. Cornelius Garrod had been arrested drunk on two separate occasions but there was nothing unusual in that. Or was there? Underwood looked again at Cornelius Garrod’s history:

  Arrested drunk 3rd January 1950, Wanstead, London… Arrested drunk 4th August 1960, Great Oakley.

  Underwood frowned. Great Oakley was not in London. Great Oakley was in Essex. He opened his top drawer and pulled out his street atlases: he had three for Cambridgeshire, two for Suffolk and two for Essex. The east Essex street atlas gave him what he was after: Great Oakley was on the Essex coast about five miles south-west of Harwich and about ten miles east of Colchester. Earlier that evening, Mike Bevan had told Underwood that Garrod had won his Tosa dog in a fight in Clacton-on-Sea. Clacton was about ten miles due south of Great Oakley.

  Underwood’s mind was beginning to accelerate. There was a family connection with a particular part of Essex. He consulted his map. Three separate pieces of information spread over fifty years had created the three points of a triangle: from Colchester in the west to Harwich in the north down to Clacton in the south. In the middle was Great Oakley. Why? Why the link to Essex? Underwood mused. Eric Shildon had been based in Colchester. He would have known the area. Did he buy a house there? It seemed unlikely on a service salary. Underwood looked at the arrest record of Cornelius Garrod, this time concentrating on the date: August 1960.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Underwood whispered to himself as realisation dawned. Cornelius Garrod had been on holiday in the area: on holiday with his family most likely. What if Shildon had bought a plot of land, a chalet or a caravan on the coast? After his death in 1940, perhaps ownership passed to his sister. May Shildon was married to Cornelius Garrod.

  Underwood knew that there were several large caravan sites in the area. There were dozens spread between Clacton, Frinton and up as far as Harwich. Out of season, on the deserted sites, Bartholomew Garrod would have been virtually anonymous. In season, when the camps filled with pensioners and screaming kids, perhaps he moved out of the area. Perhaps he stayed in bed and breakfast accommodation elsewhere.

  ‘And now that we’ve made him leave his rented bedsit,’ Underwood extrapolated, ‘maybe he has been forced back into his caravan.’

  He wrote down the key strands of his logic on a piece of paper. He wanted Dexter to be in no doubt as to the strength of this revelation:

  HYPOTHESIS: Garrod family has connections to East Essex. (Eric Shildon based in Colchester, Cornelius Garrod arrested in Great Oakley 1960, Bartholomew Garrod obtained his fighting dog in Clacton two years ago.) My suggestion is that the family owned a land plot, a static caravan or a chalet on one of the sites along the Essex coast. Given that they have been visiting the area since at least 1960, it must be located on one of the older sites.

  ACTION: We need to contact the management offices of all the campsites on the Essex coast. We should concentrate our efforts on those sites that have been in existence since before 1960. It is possible that the caravan is still registered in the name Shildon. I believe that the caravan was originally
bought by Eric Shildon. When he was killed in 1940, it is reasonable to assume that the caravan passed into the ownership of his sister, May Shildon, Bartholomew Garrod’s mother.

  There was a plausible logic underpinning Underwood’s thought process. Having organised it into words, he felt that his theory was worth exploring. He hoped that Dexter would agree. Her mind appeared to have been scrambled slightly. Underwood had watched her kiss Kelsi Hensy. The notion that Dexter was a lesbian had upset him. And yet, he knew that Dexter had had relationships with men in the past. He hoped that she was merely exploring alternative options: seeking physical excitement in the same way that her mind sought intellectual arousal.

  Underwood believed that their two minds were similar: perhaps more similar than Alison Dexter would appreciate. True, her ability to prioritise and assimilate information was far superior to his but they both had minds that craved stimulus. Underwood had realised, in his more honest moments, that his approach to life was also one of seeking stimuli. Police work had given him variety. He knew that when such a mind became bored with itself, strange outcomes could ensue. It could tear itself apart, sink into addiction or submerge its identity in someone else. He hoped that Dexter’s relationship with Kelsi Hensy could be explained in these terms.

  Underwood wondered if Garrod had been following Dexter. Perhaps the way to catch Garrod would be to put an unmarked car on her tail when she wasn’t in the office. However, if he had been tailing her why hadn’t he made his move already? Underwood thought of his own past: of the time when he had confronted his ex-wife’s lover and almost beaten him to death. His mind that night had been a terrible mess. Underwood’s abiding memory was not of wanting to kill the man but to hurt him, to torment him.

  He looked at the picture of Bartholomew Garrod that he had distributed to uniformed officers across the county. If Garrod had been following Dexter already, Underwood thought, what could he have learned?

  ‘Everything that I know about her,’ he concluded, ‘where she works, where she shops, where she exercises, the people that she is close to.’

  Underwood’s thoughts ground to a shuddering halt.

  ‘If I wanted to hurt Alison Dexter,’ Underwood thought, ‘I would go for the people that she cared for. Let her live with the agony of loss. The agony that I’ve suffered.’

  Bartholomew Garrod had lost his brother. Who could the man take from Alison Dexter in return? Suddenly realising the awful possibility that his ideas had created, Underwood grabbed his coat and hurried downstairs and out into the cold night air.

  It took him ten minutes through deserted streets to arrive at Farleigh Mews, the home of Kelsi Hensy. Underwood waited in his car, uncertain how to proceed. If Dexter was there and she saw him, his career at New Bolden CID would effectively be over. Wind blew against the car. The weather forecast had warned of gales. Underwood looked along the row of houses: all the lights were off. It was 2.00 a.m. There was no sign of anybody else: just the wind rushing at the trees.

  Movement. Underwood looked out across the small stone courtyard. Kelsi Hensy’s front door had blown open. There was nobody in sight.

  With a terrible sense of foreboding, Underwood unbuckled his seat belt.

  39.

  Thursday, 17th October 2002

  Alison Dexter lay in bed on the irritating cusp of consciousness. She was confident her flat was secure: the front door was double-bolted, her burglar alarm had been activated in all zones other than her bedroom. She had also placed a carving knife under her pillow. However, her nerves had beaten her. Bartholomew Garrod had haunted her for years. Now he was near, she could almost sense his presence. Underwood had betrayed her too. Perhaps she had been mistaken to allow him back into New Bolden CID after his breakdown. Pity had overwhelmed her better judgement. Besides, if she was being honest, she had always felt a peculiar affection for the man. His powers as a detective had waned. There was no doubt about that in Dexter’s mind. Underwood’s intuitive leaps had once surprised and inspired her. Until, of course, they had started to go wrong.

  Now, it seemed the man’s grip on sanity had finally faltered. He was fumbling at her life as surely as if he was pulling at her bra strap. Alison Dexter was confounded by the men in her life: her father had deserted her as a child, her ex-lover Mark Willis had betrayed and brutalised her. Now even John Underwood, the emotional Titanic she had hauled up from the depths of despair, was fingering at the edges of her sanity. Dexter knew she was the common denominator in all these disastrous equations. However, explanations eluded her.

  Her night with Kelsi Hensy had liberated her from this mindset. Abandoning fear and prejudice had been a gloriously savage pleasure. And yet, somehow, she had managed to alienate Kelsi too. Dexter wondered if that situation was retrievable or if – like Underwood – it had already sunk beneath the waves. Perhaps there was some kind of infection in her DNA: some pre-programmed propensity for emotional disaster. Or was she an emotional hollow: a vacuum that people momentarily filled before draining away? It could be that she was just unlucky. Dexter wanted the chance to be born again. To have the slate of pain wiped clean – to emerge screaming into the light again with a host of possible futures before her. Alternatively, she wished she had never existed.

  It was after three o’clock in the morning when her phone rang.

  She contemplated ignoring it. Self-indulgence battled briefly with professionalism. As always, professionalism won.

  ‘Hello,’ she said quietly into the mouthpiece.

  There was no immediate reply. Dexter could hear muffled traffic noise, someone fumbling at the other end of the line. The line went dead. Dexter sat up in bed. Alert suddenly. The phone rang again.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, more loudly this time.

  ‘You know who this is?’ Bartholomew Garrod asked.

  Dexter felt fear squeeze at her heart.

  ‘What do you want?’ she replied, her mind racing. Her mobile phone was on her bedside table. She reached across and grabbed it.

  ‘I want you. You know that. You know I’ve been coming for you.’

  Dexter hesitated. She put her mobile back down on the table. The professional inside her saw an opportunity.

  ‘How did you get my number?’ she asked.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ Garrod replied. ‘I know everything about you dearie. Sorry to call so late but I’ve been getting my dinner ready.’

  Dexter tried to contain her fear. Concentrate.

  ‘I know a lot about you too, Mr Garrod. You shouldn’t have come back. We’re closer to you than you realise.’ Dexter hoped the lie would unsettle him.

  ‘There’s something I want you to hear,’ Garrod said without rising to the bait, ‘something I recorded.’

  ‘I’m not interested, Garrod.’ Dexter was straining her ears, hunting for some giveaway noise in the background; something that would locate Garrod. A police or ambulance siren would have been useful.

  ‘I think you will be.’ Five miles away, in a telephone box in the centre of New Bolden, Bartholomew Garrod held the Dictaphone that he had stolen to the mouthpiece of the payphone and pressed play.

  Dexter could hear a crackling white noise like the fuzz between radio stations. Then she heard voices, a deep guttural male voice that she presumed was Garrod’s.

  ‘…Wake up you fucking bitch…’ grunted Garrod’s voice on the Dictaphone.

  A woman moaning in pain.

  ‘I said wake up you bitch…’ Garrod continued.

  ‘Who are you…get out of my house…I won’t…get off me…’

  Screaming.

  Dexter’s mind raced. Had Garrod set her up? Was he using this tape to distract her as he broke into her flat? If he knew her phone number, maybe he knew her address. How could he have discovered her number?

  ‘…tell me your name…you bitch or I will cut you again…’

  Sobbing.

  ‘…Kelsi…Hensy,’ said the terrified voice.

  Dexter’s world inver
ted as the awful realisation struck at her.

  ‘What do you say?…Say what I told you…’

  There were sounds of scuffling punctuated by a terrible scream.

  ‘Help me…’ Kelsi Hensy shouted in pain and desperation.

  ‘What have you done?’ Dexter shouted into the phone. ‘What have you done you fucking bastard?’

  Garrod turned off the Dictaphone. ‘I followed her home. Knocked her unconscious. Made myself comfortable. Found this little Dictaphone gizmo sitting on her coffee table and decided to make you a present. Amazing sound quality, isn’t it? I bet you feel like you were there. Well, don’t worry, you’ll enjoy Old Bart’s magic soon enough for yourself. Do you understand how it works now? My brother’s dead because of you and now your little lezzie friend is dead too. Rest assured she didn’t die a lezzie though. Old Bart made sure of that. You most probably heard me sticking it in her on the tape.’

  Dexter slammed the phone down. She dressed, grabbed her keys and left her flat.

  By 3.40 a.m., the moment that Alison Dexter’s Mondeo screamed to a halt outside Farleigh Mews, a Scene of Crime team had already arrived and blocked the entrance to the cul-de-sac. Dexter ran across the road, tears of fury and despair blurring her vision. Underwood stepped from the chaotic scene to grab her.

  ‘You can’t go in there, Alison!’ he shouted at her.

  ‘Get your hands off me,’ she screamed, flailing at him.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do,’ he replied, tightening his grip as she started to slip away from him. ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘No!’ Dexter struggled furiously as Underwood dragged her from the bemused SOCO team.

  ‘She’s dead, Alison. You can’t see her as she is. There’s a team in there helping her now. Don’t be an idiot.’

  Dexter could feel her strength draining from her. The horror of the moment overwhelmed her. As Underwood felt her body weakening, his grip changed from restraint to support. She hung uselessly in his arms.