by Trevor Negus
‘Good idea. There’s parking on the street outside.’
‘I’ll make sure the staff car park doesn’t have a separate entrance; we want to be able to drop on him when he comes out.’
Brian smiled. He was enjoying working with Rachel.
He said, ‘How do you take your coffee?’
‘White, no sugar, thanks. See you in a minute or two.’
45
4.00pm, 11 October 1986
MCIU Offices, Mansfield, Nottinghamshire
Andy Wills had spent the last hour and a half trying to find out everything he could about Sam Jamieson. He walked across the MCIU office, carrying his briefing pad, and knocked on Danny Flint’s office door.
Danny shouted, ‘Come in.’
Andy stepped inside and said, ‘Have you got a minute?’
‘Of course, grab a seat … How are you getting on at Mulberry Chambers? Have you finished down there?’
‘Not quite. Simon’s going back first thing in the morning to go through the remaining files for Dominic Chambers. We’ve found a promising lead today though. That’s what I want to talk to you about.’
‘Fire away.’
Andy glanced down at his briefing pad as he spoke. ‘In the late seventies, Rebecca Whitchurch was doing a lot of prosecution work. One of the cases she prosecuted at Nottingham Crown Court around that time was an armed robbery at a sub-post office in Mansfield Woodhouse. There were three defendants, who all got seven years apiece. The getaway driver on that robbery was a man called Sam Jamieson. He was released this July from Armley Prison in Leeds.’
‘The timing’s right, but what’s so special about Jamieson?’
‘Throughout the police interviews and the trial, he maintained his innocence. I know what you’re going to say: They all do. I thought exactly the same. I’ve spent the afternoon doing a bit of digging into the original investigation of that Mansfield Woodhouse post office robbery. Turns out, the only evidence against Jamieson was a single fingerprint found on the rear-view mirror of the getaway car. That car belonged to one of his co-accused, a cousin, who refused to say anything when interviewed by the police. This cousin also utilised his right to silence during the subsequent trial. Jamieson maintained throughout his interviews and the trial that he had borrowed the car the night before. This was to get an emergency prescription from a late-night chemist, as his daughter was sick. The time of this trip to the chemist’s by Jamieson was confirmed by staff who worked there.’
‘Go on.’
‘When Jamieson had served three years of the seven-year sentence, his thirteen-year-old daughter died of a drugs overdose. Jamieson stated at the time that if he hadn’t been locked up, he could have prevented her death. He stated that he could have stopped her getting involved with the people who got her into drugs.’
‘It sounds a very tragic story. I still don’t see why this makes Jamieson of interest to this enquiry.’
‘There’s more. For twelve months after the death of his daughter, Jamieson raged against the system. I’ve checked his prison record, and for that period, he was totally out of control. Constantly involved in fights with other prisoners and assaults against prison staff. Jamieson’s a big, strong man who had suddenly found a propensity for violence. He became an extremely dangerous individual. Then suddenly, he changed. His prison record bears this out. He went from being like a caged animal, to being totally compliant. His behaviour from that moment on was impeccable. He even enrolled in further education and achieved a degree in psychology while at Armley. All the penalties that had been added to his sentence for his violent behaviour were wiped out by his good behaviour. There’s one last thing about his prison record that you need to know. Jamieson was offered early release eighteen months ago but turned it down because it would have meant him admitting his part in the robbery.’
‘So the question you’re asking is, what caused the change in him?’
‘And I think the answer to that question is that he found a different target for all his anger and hate.’
‘What target?’
‘Not what, sir, who. I believe he channelled all that pent-up anger and frustration against the one person he blamed for getting him sent down, Rebecca Whitchurch.’
‘It wasn’t one person, though. What about the cousin who refused to speak up? If I were Jamieson, I’d be raging more against him than Whitchurch.’
‘The cousin’s dead. Suicide, apparently.’
‘I see what you’re driving at, Andy. I still think it’s a stretch of the imagination to say that’s what he’s done.’
‘Just before this change of Jamieson’s personality manifested itself at Armley, a letter was received at Mulberry Chambers addressed to Rebecca Whitchurch. The letter was written by Jamieson and somehow got past the prison censors. It was intercepted at chambers by Sebastien Dawson. For reasons best known to him, he decided not to show it to the barrister. I think he believed it was just a convicted prisoner letting off steam and wasn’t to be taken seriously. The content of that letter was explicitly threatening. In it, Jamieson stated that he had come to realise that the only person responsible for his daughter’s death was Rebecca Whitchurch. He made threats that he would gain his revenge no matter how long it took him.’
Danny was deep in thought. ‘Have you got the letter?’
Andy shook his head. ‘No. Sebastien Dawson destroyed it when there was no other follow-up. He didn’t think it was important.’
‘Bloody hell! What does he think now?’
‘He knows he’s fucked up. He did tell us about the letter in the first place, which he didn’t have to do.’
‘That’s true, I suppose. So, where’s Sam Jamieson now?’
‘Here’s where we have a problem. I checked with the Armley jail for his release address. This was his previous address in Mansfield Woodhouse. I’ve done a quick basic check, and it appears that he’s no longer at that address. He moved out shortly after returning home from Leeds. He left no forwarding address.’
‘So he’s in the wind?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Had he left the Mansfield Woodhouse address before Emily Whitchurch went missing?’
‘It looks that way.’
‘Can you think of a better way to get revenge for the death of your own teenage daughter than to abduct – and do God knows what to – the daughter of the woman you hold responsible? We need to locate Sam Jamieson as quickly as we can. I want you to stay on this enquiry, Andy. Let Simon check the rest of the files at Mulberry tomorrow morning on his own. Providing there are no other urgent enquiries overnight, I want all your energy placed into tracking this man down. He might have absolutely nothing to do with the Whitchurch girl’s disappearance, but we won’t know until we’ve traced him. Before you go off duty tonight, I want you to get over to Mansfield Woodhouse. Make some discreet enquiries with the people who live near his release address. Someone in the village might know where he’s moved to. This is great work, Andy.’
‘It was Simon who found the link, boss.’
‘Pass on my compliments to him. I’ll have a chat with him myself next time I see him. Let me know how you get on at Mansfield Woodhouse this evening. I want Sam Jamieson located. We need to eliminate him from this enquiry as soon as we can.’
46
5.00pm, 11 October 1986
Endsleigh Gardens, Edwalton, Nottingham
Darren Treadgold had left work, clutching a brown paper bag full of Big Mac burgers, at exactly four thirty. Brian had watched him walk through the staff room door, then out through the front door of the restaurant. He had then waddled around to the side of the building where the staff car park was located.
Treadgold had walked straight to a dark green Morris Oxford car. Brian had waited until he saw him getting into the vehicle before sprinting back to the front of the McDonald’s restaurant on Angel Row.
Jumping into the CID car, he had shouted to Rachel, ‘Green Morris Oxford, get ready.’
&n
bsp; The detective had started the car and waited for the Morris Oxford to emerge from the car park. As Treadgold’s car was driven left out of the car park and onto Angel Row, she had driven the unmarked police vehicle directly behind it.
Twenty minutes later, they had travelled out of the city centre, over Trent Bridge, and out through West Bridgford to the leafy suburb of Edwalton. It was obvious to the two experienced detectives that Treadgold had no idea he was being followed. Rachel kept a discreet distance. It was an easy task to keep the old Morris in sight, driving through the last of the slow-moving rush hour traffic.
The detectives had followed Treadgold along Melton Road, hanging back as they saw the right-hand indicator of the vehicle come on.
Brian had said, ‘Careful, Rachel. Stop the car just short of the junction. I’ll jump out and see where he’s going. The road he’s turning into is a dead end.’
The CID car had barely come to a stop before Brian opened the door. He jumped out and sprinted round the corner, into Endsleigh Gardens.
He returned two minutes later and said, ‘He’s parked up on the driveway of a house about fifty yards down the road. The house is bloody huge and set way back from the road. It’s all in darkness and looks like the Norman Bates motel in Psycho.’
Rachel slipped the car into first gear and drove slowly onto Endsleigh Gardens. Brian said, ‘Stop here. That’s the house.’
Rachel switched the engine off and looked down the driveway, towards the house. As Brian had said, it did appear to be in total darkness. She said, ‘What do we do now?’
‘I think we go and ask Fat Daz about smoking dope with young girls in a city centre squat. What do you think?’
Rachel said, ‘My thoughts exactly, boss.’
The two detectives got out of the car and walked through the rusting, wrought-iron gates. They had been left open, hanging on rotten hinges. They walked along the long, dark driveway that led through the overgrown garden to the dilapidated house.
Rachel whispered, ‘At one time, this house must have been amazing.’
Brian snorted. ‘It hasn’t been that for a long time, lass.’
There was a small flight of stone steps that led up to an open porch covering the double front doors.
Peering through the frosted glass of the two front doors, Brian could see there was a dim light emanating from the back of the house. He knocked loudly on the front door.
After knocking, he continued peering through the glass and saw the kitchen door open slowly. He saw a huge, hulking figure lumbering towards the front door, still taking large bites from the burger he was holding as he approached.
As the huge figure reached the door, Brian stepped back. He could hear bolts being drawn back and a key turning. Eventually, the door was opened.
Brian asked, ‘Mr Treadgold?’
Quickly swallowing the last mouthful of burger, Darren Treadgold nodded nervously.
Brian held out his warrant card, smiled and said, ‘Mr Treadgold, my name’s Detective Inspector Hopkirk, and this is Detective Constable Moore. There’s nothing for you to worry about; we just want to ask you a few questions. Can we come in? It’s bloody freezing out here.’
The last thing Darren wanted to do was to invite the police into his house. However, there was something ingrained in his psyche that prohibited him from ever appearing to be rude. He blithely said, ‘Yes, of course. Please come in out of the cold. Will this take long? I was just having my evening meal.’
As they followed him down the hallway, past the wide flight of stairs leading to the first floor, Rachel said, ‘No, not at all. Five minutes, tops. Do you live here alone, Mr Treadgold? It’s a big place for one person to look after.’
‘Yeah, there’s just me. It’s a nightmare to keep straight.’
Darren walked into the spacious lounge and switched the light on. The room was crammed from floor to ceiling with years of collected, and subsequently abandoned, junk. There was a threadbare three-seater settee and a single armchair. That was the only furniture that could be seen. Every inch of available space was being used to store everything from old newspapers to ancient gas lamps. It looked as though Darren Treadgold never threw anything away.
He allowed himself to collapse into the big armchair, which subsequently strained under his enormous weight. He then gestured for the two detectives to sit on the settee.
He said, ‘You said you wanted to ask me some questions?’
Brian said, ‘It’s all rather strange, really. I’ve received a complaint from a concerned member of the public that you’ve been engaged in smoking illegal substances. Is that true?’
He feigned a shocked look and parroted, ‘Illegal substances?’
‘Yes, Mr Treadgold, illegal substances. Cannabis to be exact. I’m told that you like to smoke dope.’
With an indignant air, Treadgold replied, ‘That’s outrageous. I’ve got a very responsible job in Nottingham. There’s no way I’d ever smoke dope.’
Brian said, ‘How about I tell you that we’ve been talking to a couple of friends of yours. They live in a squat on the Arboretum. Would that help your memory at all?’
A sly look passed over Treadgold’s face. ‘You mean Breezy and Heart the tart, don’t you?’
Brian said nothing, letting the silence do the work.
Inevitably, Treadgold continued talking. ‘Out of the goodness of my heart, I take that pair of ingrates food from the restaurant. It’s just a little something I do to help them out, that’s all.’
‘Isn’t it fairer to say that you take them leftover food you haven’t been able to sell at McDonald’s? Hoping that they’ll turn a blind eye to you smoking the odd joint in the squat?’
‘That’s a ridiculous thing to say.’
Brian continued, ‘They also told us that you like to take young schoolgirls there, to smoke dope with you. Is that ridiculous, too?’
The colour drained from Treadgold’s fat, bloated face. He began to sweat heavily.
Brian raised his voice slightly. ‘How many times have you taken young girls to the squat, Darren?’
Hearing the detective use his first name startled Treadgold. He blustered, ‘I think you both need to leave. You can’t come into my house and make these vile allegations. It’s disgusting.’
Brian took the photograph of Emily Whitchurch from his jacket pocket and shouted, ‘When was the last time you saw this girl?’
Treadgold merely glanced at the photograph of the pretty, young, blonde-haired girl before he stood up and shouted back, ‘That’s it! I’ve had enough. This is outrageous! I’ve done nothing wrong, and I want you to get out of my house, right now.’
As the two detectives stood, there was a loud bang from upstairs. It sounded like it had come from the room directly above them.
Darren’s eyes flashed toward the ceiling, and Rachel said, ‘Mr Treadgold, I thought you said you lived here on your own. Who’s up there?’
‘It’s just my dad. He lives with me, but he’s very old, stone deaf and bedridden.’
Rachel pressed, ‘Why did you lie? Who’s really up there?’
‘Honestly, it’s my dad. Truth is, I’m embarrassed that I still live with my dad at my age. I’m a grown man, for Christ’s sake.’
Rachel scowled at him and said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Treadgold. I don’t believe a word you’re telling me. I think I’d better go and see for myself who’s up there.’
Starting to get annoyed, Darren said, ‘Please yourself, Detective. I’m telling you the truth. The only person up there is my bedridden, incontinent old dad. You’d better not frighten him.’
‘If it’s your dad up there, I won’t frighten him.’
‘I’ve been out all day and haven’t had time to go and clean him up yet. I hope you’ve got a strong stomach, Detective.’
Brian said, ‘Go and check, Rachel.’ He then turned to Treadgold and said, ‘Darren, why don’t you sit back down?’
‘I’m not sitting down anywhere. As soon as
you’ve checked on my dad, I want you both out of this bloody house. I’ll be contacting my solicitor in the morning to make an official complaint. This is outrageous!’
Brian could see through Treadgold’s bluster. Something was terrifying the overweight fast-food restaurant manager. He was sweating even more, and his breathing was getting wheezier and shorter by the second.
Brian hoped Treadgold didn’t suffer a heart attack while Rachel checked upstairs.
47
5.10pm, 11 October 1986
Endsleigh Gardens, Edwalton, Nottingham
Rachel climbed the creaking stairs and found the door that led into the room immediately above the downstairs lounge.
As she opened the door, the smell coming from inside almost rocked her back on her heels. It was a rancid mixture of stale urine, faeces and sweat. The heavy curtains were still closed, and the room was dimly lit. There was just a dull bedside lamp on a stand next to the double bed.
As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Rachel could see an old man sitting up in the bed. He looked startled to see a woman standing there, and he shouted, ‘Who are you?’
Rachel started to explain who she was, but the old man interrupted her, saying again, ‘Who are you?’
Without waiting for her to reply, he shouted, ‘I can’t hear you. Where’s my son?’
Rachel remembered what Treadgold had said about his father being profoundly deaf. It was pointless trying to say anything, so she left the room and closed the door behind her.
As she started to walk back down the stairs, the old man started to shout repeatedly, ‘Darren!’
In between the shouts, Rachel thought she heard another sound. This sound was coming from above her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw there was another, much narrower flight of stairs that led up to an attic room.