To Die For: A chilling British detective crime thriller (The Hidden Norfolk Murder Mystery Series Book 9)

by J M Dalgliesh

  "The word is out. Hopefully they won't get far."

  "That's just it though, isn't it? Maybe they won't go far and they'll be off the road before any of our units get to see them—"

  "Yes, I'm well aware of that, but at the moment it's all we've got."

  Tamara had a gnawing moment of self-doubt. Maybe Cassie was right the day before and they should have put Sasha in an interview room after all. At least they would still have her.

  "Well, safe to say she was lying to us," Cassie said, watching the patrol car speed past them with blue lights flashing.

  "How do you mean?"

  "Someone was looking out for her or watching us to see what we were doing. Either that, or we've just witnessed the most brazen random abduction this country has ever seen. That girl isn't a cleaner."

  "Why, though? They must be worried about something."

  "Or she has something they want?" Cassie theorised.

  "Damn it," Tamara repeated, but without as much venom this time.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  "Give me something on the van." Tamara threw her coat across the nearest desk as she entered the ops room. Eric had a telephone clamped to his ear and Kerry Palmer was furiously poring over listings on a computer screen. Tom Janssen came over to meet her.

  "Eric is on the phone to the DVLA and Kerry is running through the Police National Computer trying to find a match."

  "There can't be too many beaten-up old orange Transit vans knocking around Norfolk, surely?"

  "Are you sure about the registration?" Tom asked. "An L plate puts it around ninety-four—"

  Cassie interrupted. "It was rusty as hell and driven by a lunatic, so I think it fits."

  "Got it!" Kerry shouted excitedly and all eyes turned to her. "This has to be the one. It was registered to a local address until three years ago."

  Tamara came to stand behind her, looking over her shoulder. "Where is it registered now?"

  Kerry looked up, frowning. "It was recorded as going for scrap."

  "Well, it didn't make it," Tamara said.

  "Could someone have taken the plates and used them on another vehicle?"

  Tamara shook her head. "I can't see that. Use the same plates on another orange Transit. No. There will be another reason. Who was the last keeper of the vehicle?"

  Kerry looked back at her screen. "Hang on a second." She said the name quietly, "Charles Barnes."

  "Cassie," Tamara said, "find out everything we know about—"

  "It's Charlie Barnes," Kerry said.

  Tom joined them. "That can't be a coincidence, can it?" Kerry shook her head.

  Tamara felt her frustration growing. "Who the hell is Charlie Barnes?"

  "Simon Moy was arrested and cautioned a while back following an altercation with another man, Charlie Barnes."

  "Billy's brother, Simon?" Tamara said, confused. "What was the ruckus about? How did they relate to one another?"

  "We don't know. Neither man was willing to speak about it after the arrest. Seeing as they were the only ones involved, they were cautioned and warned as to their future behaviour and released. It came up when we were looking into Simon Moy."

  "This Barnes guy," Cassie said. "Where was he living at that time?"

  "No fixed abode," Tom said. "He stated he was living at a local homeless shelter run by the church, but the arresting officer doubted it. I don't know why, it was just mentioned in the notes."

  "Then I want Simon Moy back in here immediately, and he needs to tell us what he knows about Charlie Barnes."

  "I don't know the man!" Simon Moy said, holding his hands up apologetically. "It was six of one and half a dozen of the other—"

  "Mr Moy," Tom said, leaning in to the table and bringing his palms together to form a point. "I don't think you fully appreciate the situation."

  They had collected Simon Moy from his home, under protest, an hour earlier and he was now sitting in an interview room repeatedly claiming ignorance.

  "I'm sorry to hear that you are having this trouble, but, as I've told you repeatedly, I don't know the man. If I could help you then I would."

  Moy smiled. It was a smile Tom had seen many times on multiple faces over the years. It was artificial, forced, and didn't cut any ice with him.

  "Mr Moy, I know from the arrest report that you were just as much of an aggressor as Charlie Barnes. I'll level with you, I'm not interested in what you were getting up to back then. All I'm interested in is finding Charlie Barnes."

  Moy fixed his eye on Tom. It felt like he was taking his measure, assessing what he needed to say in order to get out of the interview room. There was a brief flicker of acknowledgment in the man's expression before he folded his arms across his chest, sighed and sank back in his chair.

  "Mr Moy?" Tom said. "We really don't have all day. May I remind you that we are dealing with an abduction here. The longer it takes for us to get the information we need, the more chance that it could escalate further."

  "Escalate?"

  "Yes. We don't know why they took this woman but we believe there is a strong possibility that her wellbeing is at risk." He stared hard at him, forcing him to make eye contact. "I believe that you are a very flawed individual, Mr Moy."

  Moy snorted. "Well, thank you very much for saying so."

  "Should anything happen to her, would you like to have that on your conscience for the rest of your life?"

  Simon Moy sniffed hard. He was uncomfortable. Tom pressed.

  "If we find her soon, there's every chance she'll be okay. If not, I fear we'll be finding another dead body. And believe me, if that's the case, then sitting in this interview room will be the least of your problems." He glanced sideways at Kerry Palmer. "Is that journalist we always talk to still at reception?"

  "I believe so, sir, yes. She's itching to speak to us for an update."

  "Perhaps we can let her know of a local man who is unwilling to help us, leading to the death of an innocent young—"

  "All right!" Moy said, exhaling and sitting forward. He waved a hand to indicate the two of them. "There's no need for the threats and the intimation of what people will think of me. I get it. Okay? I get it. I don't see how any of this is related, but I get it."

  "Let us figure that out. Charlie Barnes?"

  Moy took a deep breath, scratching the top of his head. "Right, Charlie. You remember I told you I was banned from all the bookies in Norfolk? Well, I might be exaggerating but certainly all of the local chains closed their doors to me and I ran out of new names and borrowed IDs for the online accounts. But," he said, splaying his hands wide, "addicts can be resourceful people, you know?"

  "Back street bookies?" Tom asked.

  Moy nodded. "And back street events."

  "Such as?"

  "Unlicensed boxing… cock fighting, hare coursing… you name it. There are a lot of people who can't use regular channels. Plus, it's a damn sight more exciting if you're in on the action."

  "Where does Charlie Barnes fit in to all this?"

  "Charlie… is a go-to guy when people like me are evasive."

  "He's a debt collector?"

  Moy inclined his head, screwing up his nose. "I'd go with low-life… enforcer. Not a very good one. I mean," he chuckled, "I slapped him and got away with it."

  "How much did you owe?"

  "I don't recall… two to three grand. It's hard to keep track with the interest they stick on it."

  "Where can we find him?"

  "Charlie?" He shook his head emphatically, reading Tom's expression. "I don't know. I really don't know. If I did, I'd tell you. That's the truth. I told you," he said, imploring Tom with his eyes, "I don't know how I can help."

  "Who does Charlie work for?"

  The question struck a chord. Moy sat back but suddenly looked concerned.

  "I–I don't know who that might—"

  "Enough of the evasive crap, Simon. Tell me who Charlie works for."

  Moy ran his hands down across his face
, sniffing hard.

  "I'm waiting."

  He closed his eyes, one hand across his mouth and holding his chin. "McInally. Rory McInally."

  "Thank you," Tom said, standing up and making for the door.

  Kerry Palmer got Moy's attention. "How did you manage to stop them coming after you for the money you owed?"

  Moy smiled. "Fortunately for me, my mother-in-law croaked… and my wife got a few grand."

  "How lucky."

  "Yes, it was for me, not so much for the mum-in-law, but then they say God works in mysterious ways, don't they?"

  "And your argument with your brother," Kerry said, "you still needed money." The smile faded from his expression. "Is that all people are worth to you, the value of how much money you can get out of them?"

  He wagged a pointed finger at her. "Don't think to judge me, young lady. Only one person ultimately passes judgement on me, and I don't plan on meeting my maker any time soon."

  "Come on, PC Palmer," Tom said, standing in the open doorway, making room for a uniformed officer to step in and chaperone Simon Moy. "We have somewhere better to be." He looked at Moy. "You're free to go." Moy made to stand up. "Just as soon as I say so."

  Moy frowned and Tom left the room.

  "How long are you going to leave him there?" Kerry asked, falling into step alongside him.

  "As long as possible."

  "Good," she said, smiling.

  "Not only to inconvenience him, but I wouldn't put it past him to curry favour with Rory McInally by tipping him off to our approach."

  "He wouldn't do that, would he?"

  "I trust him just as much as you do. If it meant he could open up a new line of credit, then I expect he would, yes."

  Tamara Greave stepped out of the adjoining room where she'd been watching their exchange via the camera feed from the interview room.

  "Do you know where we can find McInally?" she asked.

  "Yes. A few years back he made an effort to go legit with his interests," Tom said, hesitating for a moment. "At least, that's the impression he tried to give off. He's one who has always been on the periphery of police investigations, somehow always managing to slip out of reach any time we got close to him. As a prominent member of the traveller community, a patriarch of sorts, some say, he's moved around between regions on and off for years."

  "Has he any involvement in trafficking or the sex trade?"

  Tom shook his head. "If he has, then that's a new one on me. I reckon Simon Moy was on the level when he told us what he knew; the illegal gambling, payday loans outside the scope of the FCA – or any other official body – and bare-knuckle fist fighting are the areas Rory has traditionally dipped in and out of. He was implicated in a race-fixing scandal in and around the Jockey Club a few years back and he's rumoured to have dipped a toe into recreational drugs. I think the race-fixing probe put the frighteners on him for a while, pushing him towards legitimising his interests."

  "Into what?"

  "Property," Tom said, the two of them heading back to ops. "I refreshed my memory after speaking to Eric. Rory McInally bought a patch of agricultural land spanning a large area that bordered two settlement boundaries with a view to developing it."

  "Is that the campsite you talked with Eric about the other day?"

  "Yeah, that's the one, although it's much more than a campsite these days. Rory obtained planning permission to open a holiday camp there, restricted occupancy rules, limited scope for building and so on. The councillor sitting on the planning committee who helped push it through was eventually pulled up for some misdemeanour and forced to resign. The details of what went on haven't ever been properly made public but, as I understand it, the suggestion was that some agreement was made to greenlight the project."

  Tamara sighed. "I do love a bit of political corruption, don't you?"

  Tom laughed. "Yeah, looks that way. In any event, Rory's been dividing up parcels of land and selling them off to the highest bidders. Some of them changing hands for ten to fifteen thousand pounds, other plots for four or five times that. Seemingly, the place is a real mish-mash of developments. There are caravans being occupied all year round, log cabins and anything in between. It's become a bit of a planner’s nightmare. Some people are living out there all year round whereas others are restricted to seven months. There are backdated planning applications underway, environmental health orders, evictions notices… you name it, then it's going on."

  The two of them entered ops. Tamara caught Eric's attention. "Briefing in less than half an hour, Eric. I'm going to speak with the chief superintendent and round up as many bodies as we can."

  Eric nodded. He looked at Tom. "The custody sergeant is looking for you. Simon Moy's solicitor is here and wants an update on what we are planning to do with his client."

  "He can wait." Tom looked at Tamara and she agreed.

  "Kidnapping, trafficking women… sounds like quite a step up for him."

  "Yes, I'm surprised but, then again, he's never been shy when it comes to making money."

  "This campsite… holiday park, what can we expect from the residents?"

  Tom thought about it. "Many, if not the majority, will have little or nothing to do with McInally. It has become something of a hillbilly site masquerading as an upmarket holiday camp. Think about it, if you're priced out of owning property in one of the nearby towns or villages, you can buy one of these plots, with a questionable planning decision, and stick a caravan on it. You've got your own home in the countryside for the cost of a new mid-range car. At those prices, it's worth a punt. Some of the cases underway have been running for several years already and no one has been forcefully evicted just yet. The council have got themselves in a right mess over it."

  "Minimal resistance then?" Tamara asked. Tom was confident there shouldn't be too much push back. "In which case, would McInally risk taking her back there, if that's his legitimate enterprise?"

  "Right now, it's all we have. How do you want to play it?"

  "I'll run it by the chief super, but I think we need to go in there hard and fast."

  "Search warrant?" Tom asked, already confident of the answer.

  "No. Even if we don't find her, then I'm damn sure we'll find something to give us leverage. We will have to."

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The police operation was underway late afternoon. Ideally, Tamara would rather carry out such a raid at the crack of dawn, thereby catching their targets off guard and often still tucked up in their beds. Today, they didn't have the luxury. The convoy of police units, as many uniformed officers as they could gather on such short notice, assisted by colleagues from the King's Lynn station, moved onto the site at speed spreading out to close off the entrance and prevent any vehicles from leaving.

  As expected, they didn't face any resistance. Their presence, far from covert, brought people out of their properties to watch the deployment with a mixture of curiosity, surprise and bewilderment. Tamara was out of the car quickly, issuing orders, the officers fanning out in search of the orange Transit van. They brought with them their own canine units; the handlers deemed sufficient to quell any potential protest but there wasn't any to speak of.

  The group advanced through the site, knocking on doors and searching every residence, outbuilding or caravan present. Tom spotted a familiar figure step out onto the veranda of a two-storey log cabin occupying a large plot overlooking a small lake on the eastern edge of the site. He was tall, once powerfully built but now showing signs of an ageing frame and sagging skin. Curiously, he was only wearing boxer shorts, slippers and a thick dressing gown, topped off with a Russian fur hat with ear coverings hanging down at the sides. He caught sight of Tom whilst taking a steep draw on a cigarette and exhaling the smoke towards him, accompanied by a disdainful look.

  Tom called Tamara over and gestured towards the odd-looking man and they crossed the short distance to his property. Rory McInally leant on the railing lining his veranda, watching their app
roach and casually glancing around at the police sweeping across the site.

  "Does he look in the least bit concerned to you?" Tom said under his breath.

  "Not at all."

  They came to stand before Rory McInally, looking up at him on his raised veranda. He smiled but the expression was far from genuine.

  "Long time, no see, Inspector Janssen. What brings you here…" he looked at two officers beginning a search of the land around his own cabin, "in such a subtle manner?"

  "I see you're dressed for the weather, Rory."

  McInally glanced down at his front, the smile broadening. "I was enjoying an afternoon in the hot tub around the back, until I heard you lot disturbing the peace."

  The man didn't pull his dressing gown around him, seemingly oblivious to the cold snap in the air of early spring.

  "We're looking for a van belonging to Charlie Barnes," Tamara said.

  McInally exhaled another cloud of cigarette smoke, then picked something from his left ear with his forefinger, casually inspecting it before wiping his hand on his dressing gown.

  "Never heard of him."

  "Really?" Tamara glanced at Tom. "So we won't find him or his orange Transit van parked around here then?"

  "Ah… an orange van rings a bell but I can't say I've seen it around here for some time." He looked at the officers scouring the neighbouring properties. He gestured towards several with a flick of the hand. "I don't think you're likely to find an orange van in the log store over there, do you? I know the entrance requirements for the police force are dropping every year, but even the dumbest policeman should know that."

  "Okay, enough of this," Tom said, mounting the steps and coming before McInally, who tossed his butt aside, sniffing hard and wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

  "Yeah, cut the crap, Janssen. Let's not be wasting any more of our time. Things to do and all that."

  "Water's getting cold, I should imagine. We're looking for a young woman—"

  "There are apps for that these days—"