by Nick Louth
The person she was now waiting for, Dr Marcus Goetz, was a researcher here at Imperial. The first person who claimed to have a clear answer.
Plastic.
She had been waiting fifteen minutes when she spotted Dr Goetz, talking to a receptionist. She’d looked up his picture on LinkedIn anyway, but the threadbare blue suit and woollen tie were as much a giveaway as the tatty leather briefcase, smeary glasses and the few tendrils of greying hair that had been combed across his balding pate.
Rainy went straight up to him and introduced herself.
‘Delighted to meet you,’ Dr Goetz said. ‘I think I’ve got something that will fit the bill perfectly.’ He shook her hand in both of his, then led her quickly along the front of the building, down another street and to a basement entrance. Rainy’s self-protection mechanism alerted her as the academic unlocked a steel door and showed her into a workshop the size of a triple garage. There were a few machines and consoles, but none of the presses or extrusion machines she had seen in her research.
‘Plastics are wonderful,’ he said. ‘Light, strong, stable and enduring. They are also now incredibly cheap.’ He went to a cupboard and brought out a few samples and laid them on a table in front of her. He produced an iPad and went to the sanitised victim photographs that she had sent him. ‘This is really a fascinating conundrum,’ he said. ‘The distortion is relatively modest and I presume unrelated to the force that you mentioned was exerted on the body.’
He picked up a small sample of black plastic mesh and pulled at it. ‘This is fish netting. I think it is too easily distorted to be the one you are looking for. At the other end of the scale is this.’ He showed her a grey translucent mesh, with four large circular holes. ‘You know what this is?’
‘I’m from Glasgow, of course I do.’ She laughed. ‘It’s the webbing from a pack of beer cans.’
‘That’s right. Now, the webbing is polypropylene and the other is polyethylene. This one, I think, is too rigid to be the mesh that you are looking for. I do wish you had a sample of it that I could test, then we could get to the root of the problem immediately. Think I’m going to need a lot more time.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Rainy said. ‘It’s like starting with the suntan on a corpse and trying to work back to find the bikini she was wearing.’
The academic’s eyebrows almost shot off the top of his head.
‘I was actually thinking of hysteresis,’ he said. ‘The extent to which a stretched or deformed material will return to its previous shape.’
* * *
Saturday morning arrived gently, for once without the insistent ringing of the alarm clock. The first thing Gillard was aware of was the warm proximity of Sam, her dark hair resting on his chest, the red varnished nails of her fingers hooked on one shoulder. In theory Gillard had the day off, a rare treat during such a busy case. Claire Mulholland had volunteered for the weekend shift, to allow the detective chief inspector to spend a little time with his recuperating wife and visit his Aunt Trish, who was still in a coma in hospital. She had promised to ring if anything dramatic occurred, but Gillard knew she would take care of all but the biggest developments.
He kissed Sam gently on the cheek, slipped out from her arm and checked his phone. Good. Nothing important was notified. He slipped on a bathrobe and made his way downstairs to put the kettle on. Last night Sam had announced that if the weather was good they were going to go for a picnic at Box Hill, a famous beauty spot on the North Downs, a half-hour’s drive away. Peering through the window, he saw a cloudless sky. He opened the fridge and found Sam had already cooked tandoori chicken drumsticks, along with home-made spicy samosas. There was chicken and ham pie from the local deli, and a home-made red cabbage coleslaw.
* * *
They had managed to find the perfect spot away from the weekend crowds. Sam had lain the tablecloth down in a field of buttercups not far from the spreading boughs of a horse chestnut tree, a mature beauty like a perfect scaled-up floret of broccoli. The view south was gloriously bucolic, a patchwork of fields and hedgerows little changed in hundreds of years. If he ignored the distant hum of traffic, it was possible to imagine he was in an England of the 1920s, with its traditional farm buildings and tumbledown cottages, rustic fences and horses grazing contentedly.
‘It seems like years since we’ve had a picnic,’ Sam said.
‘I think we have Claire to thank for this. And the weather,’ Gillard said. He stroked her dark hair, which was now shoulder-length, her fringe close to her shapely eyebrows. Sam had been quite quiet that morning, and he watched her as she laid out the food she had carefully prepared.
As they began to eat, he complimented her on the food, and rested his hand in hers. She smiled up at him. ‘Just for today, Craig, I don’t want to talk about the bad stuff. I want to forget it happened. I want to imagine we are in a time before it, okay?’
He nodded. ‘That’s absolutely fine by me. I would be happy if we never mentioned him again.’ Sam had told her husband the bare minimum about her ordeal during the kidnap, but the group PTSD talking therapy courses and the one-to-one cognitive behavioural sessions seemed to be working. Her medication had already been lowered, which was a good sign. His own key metric with Sam was how receptive she was to affection. She adored being embraced, and was now kissing him back when he nuzzled her neck or cheek, which he did at every opportunity. However, their sex life had been non-existent for a while now, and she froze if he attempted to initiate. While he understood, it didn’t make dealing with it any easier. He still desired her enormously but his main task, he felt, was to mask his frustration entirely so that she didn’t feel guilty.
‘Why don’t you tell me about your new detective, the Scottish doctor?’
‘Rainy. Ah, she’s not so new now but she’s doing very well. She’s got a tremendous brain and is pretty good at keeping Carl Hoskins in order.’
Sam laughed. ‘Someone has to, now that Colin’s gone.’ She knew DC Carl Hoskins pretty well from her time in the control room at Surrey police headquarters. The archetypal old-fashioned male chauvinist, softened considerably by his sense of humour. They both knew how much he missed his old mate Colin Hodges, who had died a few months ago.
‘Rainy is a great self-starter, and I’ve given her the task of trying to narrow down the source of these strange marks on the body that we found in the Thames. We’ve considered wire mesh, chain-link fencing and industrial walkways, even a self-made playsuit.’
‘But that wouldn’t have asphyxiated him, would it?’
‘No. Delahaye thinks there are two separate things – the force, which is probably mechanical, and the restraint that he was wrapped in.’
‘Could it be a sex thing?’
‘That’s what Rainy mentioned. Sex games gone wrong.’ He shook his head.
‘I know people do bizarre things.’ Sam giggled. ‘But I can’t get my head round this.’
* * *
A silver Peugeot with a missing hubcap crawled down Wexford Road until it reached number sixty-three. A parking space was miraculously available right outside. Two beefy men wearing hi-vis jackets and gloves and carrying paint-stained toolboxes emerged from the car. Nigel Chivers and Terry Dalton scanned the road, then walked up to the front door and rang the bell. As expected, there was no reply. Chivers crouched down and inspected the lock. ‘Five lever mortice,’ he said, and shook his head. ‘We’ll not get in here easily, at least not without leaving a mess.’
‘We don’t want to leave a mess, obviously, Nige,’ Dalton said, keeping his eye on the street behind them. ‘Don’t want anyone to know, do we?’
‘I’ll go around the back,’ Chivers said. Leaving his colleague to keep watch, the former bouncer found an alleyway a few doors up on the left. The narrow entrance led between the high fences of the rear gardens on either side, and then turned right to traverse the rear of the back gardens of a dozen homes. Chivers counted off the houses until he was certain he was at the back of nu
mber sixty-three. At first sight it wasn’t good news. There was a six-foot-high holly hedge, broken only by a timbered gate. He pushed against it, and felt it flex as if bolted low down on the inside. He didn’t like climbing, and even if he did, the rotten panels were liable to break. A hefty kick at the bottom of the fence did the trick, tearing out the hasp of the bolt retainer. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed the noise. There were no obvious signs that they had, so he stepped into the garden and closed the gate behind him. The short, tidy backyard led up to a UPVC window with locks top and bottom, and a matching UPVC back door. The door looked manageable. Chivers had never been a burglar, but a nine-month stint inside had given him the opportunity to learn from a man who did nothing else. Specifically, he knew how to snap the cylinders of the Euro profile locks used on most modern double-glazed doors. The most skilled practitioners reckoned to get inside in 15 to 20 seconds. Chivers was less well prepared. He had only tried to do this twice before, both times after a few pints when trying to get back into his ex-girlfriend’s house after she’d thrown him out.
Using a large screwdriver, he levered off the exterior brass plate to expose the shank of the lock barrel. He then gripped the shank with a large adjustable spanner and twisted it to the left with all his considerable weight. It took several attempts, as the spanner kept slipping, but it finally cracked. It had taken just under two minutes.
Chivers pushed open the door, and on his hands and knees searched the carpet on the inside for any metal fragments. None. There was no key on the inside part of the lock, but that didn’t matter. The broken cylinder would still slide back into the gap in the lock, and even the brass plate would fit back on. Once he’d straightened the plate and glued it back with epoxy, it wasn’t obvious that anything had happened. Any key used on the inside and turned could still apparently lock the door. It just wouldn’t be secure.
He didn’t need to go inside now. He had simply cleared the way to come back on Monday night and then lie in wait for Rollason as he arrived the following morning.
Monday
Gillard was expecting a call from Dr Delahaye, but when he picked up the phone the switchboard operator said it was someone from the Hyacinth Trust, who had asked for him by name.
The detective sighed and agreed to take the call. He knew the organisation, originally the Society of Murder Victims and one of the largest and most active of the many victims’ organisations. He didn’t catch the woman’s name, but it was clear she had a prepared script. ‘As you know, we have campaigned long and hard to make sure that those who commit the worst crimes are never released early from prison.’
‘Well, perhaps if I could stop you there. I’m not involved with the decision. Perhaps you should direct your call towards the probation service—’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Gillard,’ she said. ‘I’m ringing you because I understand it was you who originally caught Neville Rollason.’
‘Where did you hear that?’ Gillard wasn’t aware that this was generally known.
‘It was in the Croydon Advertiser back in October 1988. I’ve got a cutting. The article doesn’t mention you by name, merely that a twenty-one-year-old new recruit made the arrest, but I was able to find out through some contacts that it was actually you.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ Gillard said.
‘I’m the mother of Robert Fenwick,’ she said.
‘Ah, Mrs Fenwick, what can I do to help?’ The detective realised he had spoken to her before, years ago. Thirteen-year-old Robert Fenwick disappeared from his home in 1986 and was never seen again. It was one of the coldest of cold cases in Surrey police history. His old boss Paddy Kincaid had reworked it several times but never got anywhere. Gillard recalled the slim and fashionably dressed redhead appearing at a press conference arranged by Kincaid during the early days of the search for her son. She would be in her late fifties now.
Mrs Poppy Fenwick had rung to speak to Paddy on numerous occasions, to see if progress had been made. But very often Paddy would ask Gillard, then simply a detective constable, to take the call and listen to her pour her heart out. He had, on his own initiative, sent a remembrance card on behalf of Surrey Police to Mrs Fenwick on the fifth anniversary of the boy’s disappearance, assuring her that the hunt for the killer had not been forgotten. The trouble was it had been forgotten, and subsequently tucked away into a bureaucratic cul-de-sac. He was aware that the Hyacinth Trust had been pushing the theory that Neville Rollason killed Robert and another boy, John Dawson, in the Croydon area. It had never been given much credence, despite Croydon being where Gillard had arrested Rollason, and where the murderer had been renting a flat from June 1986 to the moment of his arrest in 1988.
‘Mr Gillard. I am a very patient woman, but I am not well these days, and I want to plead with you to reinvestigate the killing of my Robert.’
‘I’m terribly sorry. I would love to be able…’
Mrs Fenwick’s voice broke as she heard what must sound to her like bureaucratic buck-passing, certainly not for the first time. He knew it would be pathetic to have to tell her why his hands were tied. Following a reorganisation in 2010, the Met Police had been put in charge of the area where her son disappeared, and any reinvestigation would be down to them.
‘Mr Gillard, please. I beg you. You have no idea of a mother’s pain. It just never ends. It really never ends.’ There was a long sniff at the end of the line, and then sobs. The caller who had begun so confidently, reading her prepared remarks, was now lost for words. Gillard waited out the tears, feeling utterly wretched that he couldn’t help. He wondered what he could say to calm her, but realised it would take senior intervention to let him look again at what was now classified as a Met Police cold case.
But that didn’t mean he shouldn’t try.
‘Mrs Fenwick. I’m rather tied up investigating who it was that was found dead in the Thames recently. You may have heard about that. However, I can promise you, that as soon as I have some spare time, I will personally ask the chief constable to let me look again at Robert’s disappearance.’
After half a minute during which she struggled to maintain composure, she managed to rasp out one final croaky comment. ‘Thank you for that, thank you. I’ve had more than three decades of grief, but not a single second of justice. I hope you can put that right.’
‘I will do my best.’ Don’t get your hopes up, he wanted to say. Please don’t get your hopes up.
‘One more thing,’ she said. ‘Although I’m Robert’s mother, I changed my name after he disappeared, and moved house to get away from the fuss. So I’m using my maiden name. Which is Tilling. Mrs Poppy Tilling.’
‘Ah, I think I know your son, Gary.’
‘Yes, he does very well in his laptop repair business. As you know, he’s always helped the police with, you know, indecent images that he finds on hard drives.’
‘Yes, we’re very grateful.’
‘He’s a good boy, and though I’ve been bedridden for years, he looks after me.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, Mrs Tilling.’
After he put the phone down, Gillard sat and thought about the woman, and the terrible suffering she had been through. Even now, nobody knew if Rollason had killed her son or if someone else had. The body had never been found. The official records showed that Rollason had been re-interviewed numerous times about it but had always denied involvement. Ahead of the murderer’s release tomorrow, there was no chance to have another go.
He felt for Robert Fenwick’s mother, but there seemed nothing he could do.
He would have to think about it.
Chapter Twenty
Monday, 1 July dawned as another warm and sunny day, and a dress rehearsal for freedom. Neil Wright was today being allowed an unaccompanied trip to Aylesbury, the nearest town. Three hours of liberty before his final release the next day. The sound of birdsong came in through the open window, along with a breeze. He eased himself out of bed and stretched. HMP Spring Hi
ll really wasn’t such a bad place, but he would be glad to get out of it all the same. There were things he had to do. A little to-do list with items to be ticked off.
He showered and trimmed his beard carefully. Applied some of his own special bleaching agent, three parts shampoo and two parts lemon juice, to his scalp and beard. It stung a little, but he knew it would deal with the iron-grey roots that were just beginning to show in a few places. He fixed in the last piece of dental bridgework, something organised and paid for by the Home Office. It complemented the implants made to replace the teeth knocked out by a cellmate. It made his jaw look California perfect, right down to being a little too white. Even as a youngster, he’d had bad teeth; jumbled and discoloured. Those were the ones immortalised in his mugshot. He polished the thick-framed plastic spectacles. He liked the Ferrari frames, which gave his face a more studious look.
Finally satisfied, he spent the last few minutes again practising writing with his right hand. His signature of the name Neil Wright was now utterly consistent and, he thought, rather elegant. At eight a.m. he headed off to the refectory for breakfast. He kept himself apart from the other prisoners, which was easy enough because there were always people leaving having finished their incarceration, and always new faces arriving. At this stage in their prison sentence they could feel and taste the freedom just beyond the gates. Very few wanted to jeopardise that by last-minute misbehaviour.
At nine, he was dressed and ready to be signed out. He had barely any money. The prison grant was being withheld until tomorrow, but he had plenty of things that he could do that wouldn’t cost a thing.
He caught the bus, took a seat right at the back and kept his face close to the window for the forty-minute journey. He was thirsty to soak up all the details of the outside world, all those ordinary people going about their daily business. But underneath in his gut was a tight band of anxiety. Even though he knew it was very unlikely, he was terrified of being identified. He got off the bus at Market Square, with almost everybody else, and went straight into the shopping centre beyond. Waterstones, Clarks, Next, House of Fraser. There were plenty of big-brand chain stores that he knew, many he did not. Things had changed a lot in three decades.