1911021494

by MICHAEL HAMBLING

  ‘Where did you say you were from?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘Dorset,’ he replied.

  ‘Oh. We’ve seen the news.’ There was a silence and the couple looked at each other. Ruth nodded to her husband.

  ‘We may still have a list, officer. We used to keep stuff in an old filing case when we lived in a local council flat. We dumped it in the storeroom when we came here and haven’t opened it since.’ He paused. ‘This will take some time, so I’ll need to postpone my next appointment. Please give me a minute or two, then we’ll move to the study.’

  He left the room and Ruth took Melsom through to a small room at the end of the hall. It was stacked with boxes, cabinets and cases.

  ‘I know what I’m looking for,’ she said. ‘But it may take some time to find it.’

  Her husband came in and they soon unearthed a small attaché case. They moved to the study and spread the contents out on a desk. Paul and Ruth flicked through the neatly stapled collections of documents, until Ruth suddenly stopped.

  ‘Here it is! June, 1989. This bundle has all the details relating to that year’s camp. I’ll find the page you want. If it’s not in here, then it won’t be anywhere.’

  The vicar and his wife leant over the pack and flicked through the stapled pages.

  ‘Yes, here’s a list of the teenagers we took. I’m not sure, but I think it was these two that caused the trouble.’ He pointed at a couple of names. ‘I’ll take this page out.’

  ‘No, please don’t separate it. I’ll take the lot. I’d prefer it if we did the final searching back at the station, if you don’t mind. It’s possible that more than one item might end up as evidence.’

  ‘I suppose we ought to get rid of all this stuff,’ the minister said, looking at the rest of the packs taken out of the case. ‘It’s probably breaking some kind of information law, keeping it this long.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Melsom replied. ‘But at least you’ve got it under lock and key. And when you do dispose of it, it’s got to be done properly. Shred or burn it. Don’t just dump it for recycling.’

  ‘You sound like an expert,’ Ruth said.

  ‘Well, you can imagine how much documentation we create and have to get rid of,’ Melsom replied. ‘We’d be hung drawn and quartered if we just dumped it somewhere.’

  He took the file, thanked his hosts and left. He phoned through to the incident room straight away. He’d got something right at last.

  ‘Ma’am? I’ve got a file with names in it. I’m bringing it in now!’

  ‘Okay, Jimmy. Stay calm, drive carefully and get across here in one piece. You may just have the single most vital clue so far.’

  He was back within the hour. He put the papers down on Sophie’s desk and traced down the list of thirty names with a finger. Marsh looked over his shoulder.

  ‘Here it is, look. Ricky Frimwell, age fourteen.’

  Sophie turned and threw her arms around Marsh, and then hugged Melsom.

  ‘Oh, Jimmy, you little beauty!’ She stabbed her finger down on Frimwell’s name. ‘You thought you’d got us beaten, didn’t you, you slimy toe-rag? Well, we’re getting closer. And we’re going to get you, wherever you’re hiding.’

  * * *

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Pillay when she returned. ‘Everyone looks cheerful.’

  ‘Jimmy’s thread turned up trumps. There was a name on the camping list. It was Ricky Frimwell, the one I picked out a few days ago from the photofit system. So we’re all feeling happier, particularly the boss. Corroboration.’

  ‘I bet she’s relieved. I’ve got the boat records with me, so I’m going to start crosschecking them now. Let’s hope they show up something and it fits in.’

  She got to work and Marsh returned to his desk to make more phone calls. He’d made a diagram on a large sheet of paper which looked like a tangled web, but it was narrowing at the top. The threads of the complex booking system were all beginning to merge.

  It was nearly seven in the evening when he finished. At last, a single name sat at the top of the page with every strand leading back to it: Midwinter Tide. It was a company name, with a registered office in a side street near Poole quayside. He took the diagram through to Sophie’s office, where she was discussing boats and radios with Matt Silver and Lydia Pillay.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Traced back to a single company. Midwinter Tide.’

  ‘What?’ said Pillay. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s taken me nearly two days, and I’m as sure as I can be. Why?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to doubt you. It’s just that the name of the boat is Midwinter Tide. The one I think has been smuggling in the girls from across the Channel. It’s certainly the most likely candidate.’

  ‘I’ve got an address’, Marsh added. ‘Do you think we might have time to drop in on them this evening?’

  Sophie looked at Silver.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘I’ll get on the blower right now.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, Matt,’ Sophie said. ‘One armed unit should be enough as backup, don’t you think?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Let’s go for nine o’clock. The heavy mob should be ready by then.’

  * * *

  The small warehouse was dark, dank and uninviting. It was also empty. The uniformed squad forced open the door and poured in, with the detectives following close behind. No one was lurking in the shadows or hiding in the store cupboards. They did find several bin bags of rubbish, just inside the staff entrance door, which they emptied out onto plastic sheeting.

  ‘Don’t touch anything directly,’ said Sophie. ‘Just a little poking with your pens, please. I want to confirm that we’ve got the right place, and once we’re sure we’ll call in the forensics squad.’

  She left Marsh and Pillay picking through the rubbish while she, Silver, Melsom and some of the uniformed officers searched the building.

  The main part of the building had once housed a vehicle repair depot. This was obvious from the inspection pits and hoist fittings, the empty tool racks fitted to the walls and the oily stains on the concrete floor. There were three offices and two storerooms, all empty. There was a small boiler room at the end of a short corridor. Sophie put a hand on the boiler’s surface. Was it her imagination or was there still a vestige of warmth in some of the outlet pipes?

  ‘Ma’am! Something here’, called Melsom from further along the corridor.

  She followed his voice into a small toilet. In the corner was a small rubbish bin. Melsom was pointing to the item on top. It was the empty packaging from a box of tampons.

  ‘Now that is interesting. And it looks fresh, don’t you think? We’ll leave it there for forensics.’

  They returned to the entrance area and had a look at the rubbish, now spread out. There were empty sandwich containers, a couple of beer cans, soft-drink packets, biscuit wrappers, used paper tissues and empty milk cartons.

  ‘I think it’s only been here a few days, ma’am,’ Pillay said. ‘The cartons are only just past their use-by date. If they were really old they would smell worse than they do.’

  Matt Silver appeared beside them. ‘There are some traces of white powder on the floor in the corner of the far store room. Looks as if it’s been spilt. Could be the hard stuff,’ he said.

  ‘I think we have enough to confirm we’ve got the right place, Matt. We need to get Dave’s forensic team in now. Let’s secure everything and get back outside. We’ll organise a door-to-door for the area tomorrow morning and see if anyone working nearby can tell us anything. We’ll leave an unmarked car to keep an eye on the place overnight, just in case someone returns.’

  Chapter 17: The Body in the Yard

  Tuesday, Week 2

  The disused warehouse building didn’t look so intimidating in daylight, although it still reeked of old motor oil, mouldy rags and rancid milk. Sophie turned her nose up.

  ‘Odd. I didn’t notice the smell quite as much last night. I suppose all my other senses were mo
re active.’

  She and Marsh found David Nash in one of the offices. He’d arrived an hour earlier and was directing members of his team to different areas of the grubby building. The two detectives went outside and joined a small team of police officers who were gathering, ready for a check on the neighbouring premises. There were only six other buildings in the immediate vicinity, and they divided them between the four detectives, working in teams of two. Little came out of the visits. No one reported anything suspicious. The warehouse had been largely unoccupied in recent years, with only an occasional visit from what appeared to be a maintenance crew.

  ‘I want you to stay around for the rest of the day, Jimmy,’ Sophie said. ‘We’ll leave you one of the cars. Take an occasional wander and keep your eyes peeled. It’s possible that someone might come back for a look, or to get rid of that rubbish we found. Report anything suspicious back to Barry.’ She sniffed. ‘You know, that smell is worse once you get outside. Barry, could you organise that dog team to come down and have a nose around? I want that stink checked out.’

  The forensic chief phoned through with an interim report during the late morning. The spilled powder was crack cocaine, most surfaces had been wiped so there were few fingerprints, and the smell was caused by a partially blocked drain.

  ‘It’s probably been blocked for ages, but recent use of the toilets has resulted in a backup. I don’t think there’s anything suspicious about it,’ he said.

  ‘That’s a nuisance. I’ve organised a dog team to check it out. Maybe I’d better cancel.’

  ‘It’s too late, ma’am,’ said Nash. ‘They’ve just arrived. They may as well go ahead and give the place the onceover now they’re here.’

  Sophie went through to see Marsh.

  ‘Quick work with the dog squad, Barry. They’re at the warehouse already. But it may be a false alarm.’

  She gave him Nash’s explanation for the smell.

  An hour later, Melsom called.

  ‘Ma’am, the dog’s acting funny. There’s an enclosed patch of ground out at the back of the building. The dog’s whining and pawing at the ground. Dave Nash wants to dig. Is that okay?’

  ‘Of course. Tell him we’ll be over directly.’

  The piece of ground was a square of compacted earth and stones. When Sophie and Marsh arrived they found that the digging had just started, with the top few inches taken off a spot in the centre.

  ‘It’s tamped down hard,’ Nash told them. ‘Whatever it is, it’s been there for some time, I’d guess.’

  They watched two members of the team labour at shifting the heavy soil, trying to probe each layer carefully. While they were working, Sophie went over to have a word with the dog handler.

  ‘That’s some dog you have,’ she said. ‘It’s amazing that it could pick up scents from under such a hard-packed surface.’

  ‘Floyd is the only dog in the division that could have done it,’ replied the handler. ‘It’s his speciality, ma’am. The force even loans us out to other counties. There’s no other dog in the South West that can come near him.’

  ‘Well, if we find anything I won’t forget you both, not after finding those other bodies at the farm. We weren’t expecting them either.’

  Just then one of the forensic diggers called out and they walked across. There was a small piece of bone protruding from the exposed surface. The team switched to smaller hand tools. Finally a full skeleton lay exposed.

  ‘What do you think, Dave?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘I’m no expert — you’ll need a pathologist for that. But I’ll stick my neck out and say it’s an adult male. What I can tell you is that it’s been there some time, more than just a few years. There’s no organic matter left.’

  ‘I’ll get Benny Goodall across.’

  ‘There’s no need, ma’am. We can lift it out. We’ll do it once we’ve photographed it in situ. Then we can have a look underneath for any other remnants. I’d guess that the clothes have rotted away completely, but there might be traces of one or two things left from the pockets. That’s if he was wearing any clothes when he was buried. We’ll get the body taken across to Dr Goodall’s lab directly.’

  ‘Okay, Dave. You’re the boss.’

  ‘My guess is that it’s been there for at least a decade, possibly more. That soil hasn’t been moved for a very long time. Sometimes the surface can look solid, but it’s just been tamped down. But this stuff was hard all the way down.’

  ‘Could it be historic and nothing to do with us?’

  ‘No. The dog picked up the scent, and got the exact position. It has to be thirty years or less. Whether it’s linked to your current case or not, I wouldn’t know. But my guess is between ten and thirty years. With Dr Goodall’s help we should be able to narrow that down a bit.’

  Sophie nodded. She walked through the warehouse and out into the street. Was this latest discovery somehow linked to the others? It hardly seemed credible. The answer would depend on how long the premises had been owned by Midwinter Tide, whoever they were. More digging through the records would be required. She sighed. Had there ever been a time when a police officer’s job was straightforward? Probably not, despite what the television programmes of the seventies and eighties would have had us believe. She’d grown up watching them and remembered how simple everything had been. Put a bit of pressure on a few obvious suspects, get a few clues, follow a few suspicious characters and suddenly the case was solved. The reality was this sense of being almost overwhelmed by the sheer number of possibilities, each one just out of reach. Then there was the huge volume of facts, reports, statements, records, documents and assorted bits and pieces, any one of which could hold the single clue that might unlock the case. Consider the snippet that Melsom had found from the church people in Southampton. On another day, and in a different mood, she might well have turned down his request to follow up this lead.

  Story of my life, she thought. A seeming breakthrough one day, then on the next something that makes the fog come down again. She looked towards the quayside, where the harbour water rippled in the chilly breeze. She knew why she was so tense. It was now only two days until her father’s funeral and the thought was making her feel nauseous. She had never told anyone about her true feelings for her father. The events of the past week had turned all her emotions upside down. She was still in shock, reeling from the realisation that all the thoughts she had had about him throughout her life had been utterly wrong. In some ways a complex case like this was the best thing that could have happened. It occupied her mind and prevented her from thinking about her father.

  She heard footsteps approaching. Barry Marsh.

  ‘I don’t think there’s much more we can do here, ma’am. The dog seems to be happy, so it doesn’t look as though there are any more bodies. But I wonder whether there’s any scanning equipment that might confirm it for us? You know, like you see on TV programmes about the past?’

  ‘Bournemouth University has an archaeology department. I wonder if they could advise us. We’ll get Jimmy to contact them when we get back.’

  * * *

  They returned to the incident room and continued probing into the tangled world of Midwinter Tide. The company had been in existence for at least twenty years and its registered address, at the Poole warehouse, had remained unchanged during all that time.

  ‘Are the directors listed in the entry?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘Yes, there’s five. A. Hazard, E.D. Inch, E.L. Luff, R. Frimwell, B. Sourlie. No first names, just initials. The only address is the place we’ve just left. And, interestingly, that bungalow we visited at the weekend is mentioned in one of the records I found. So do we start looking at these other names?’ Marsh said.

  ‘Yes. More time in front of those blessed computers. Get Lydia onto it as soon as she’s tied up all the boat stuff. Does that company registration say anything about what the company does?’

  ‘Nothing useful. It just states “General Trading.” Not giving anything a
way, are they?’

  Pillay joined them. ‘The boat isn’t in the harbour, ma’am. The harbour police and the marine unit have been out searching all morning. They think they’ve covered all the marinas and jetties. Either it’s been hidden in a boathouse somewhere or they’ve moved it completely. Shall I contact the other harbours along the coast just in case they’ve moved it further afield?’

  ‘Yes, do that, Lydia. Have any names turned up yet?’

  ‘Just the company. It’s registered to them, but there is a signature on one of the VHS radio forms. It’s just a scrawl and difficult to make out.’

  ‘Take a look at these names. Could it be any of them?’

  Pillay looked from the names to the form in her hand.

  ‘It could be that last one, B. Sourlie. It’s the closest, but it’s hard to be sure.’

  The other two detectives came in. Sophie sat staring at the list of names. There was something odd about them. They already knew the name Frimwell, and now Sourlie seemed to match the record that Pillay had found. She looked at the other names, and suddenly it struck her. It couldn’t be. Jesus. Surely it couldn’t just be coincidence? She made herself a coffee and walked through the incident room to the office where Matt Silver sat.

  ‘Look at this, Matt.’

  She handed him the list.

  ‘So how does this help?’ said Silver.

  ‘Take out the names Frimwell and Sourlie. They’ve cropped up elsewhere, so we know they exist. Look at what’s left.’

  He stared at the list.

  ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘Anagrams, Matt. The first three names, A. Hazard, E.D. Inch, E.L. Luff, form an anagram of the words Hazel and Charlie Duff.’

  ‘Surely that’s coincidence?’

  ‘No. And do you know what? I’ve spoken to the bastard without realising it. Barry and I went to visit Frimwell’s house on Sunday and chatted to the neighbour. He told us his surname was Black, but I thought he was uneasy when he said it. He’s a widower. He also said his wife’s name was Hazel. The name of their house was Chez Lahar Lei. That’s an anagram of Hazel and Charlie. I noticed it as we drove away. This fits in. Someone, and I’d guess it was the dead wife Hazel, liked anagrams. She was probably a crossword addict.’