Owen looked at the news cutting in a plastic, forensic bag. It showed a black and white photograph that was now faded and yellowed through age, taken of four men, each holding a gun, a deer at their feet. Each face had been removed leaving four rough holes where their heads had been. Owen held it to the light and then put it back on his desk. There was nothing else on the cutting and the rough torn edges of the newsprint showed its hasty removal. “This was in the same box you say? We know what it’s of but do we have any idea as to when it was taken, where it is and whom they might be?”
“No, but we know it was the top item in the box. What’s interesting is there’s no forensic evidence on that linking it to Peterson but the fact that it’s there suggests there should be.”
“Unless of course …” Owen did not need to finish.
“Whoever placed it there could easily have added Peterson’s prints or DNA before, during or after but they chose not to … come into my parlour said the spider to the fly!” April whispered and she beckoned him with her finger.
“So was the box open or closed when he was found?”
April passed across further photographs of the crime scene. “As you can clearly see from these, the box was closed.”
“There’s a tiny opening where the folds don’t meet and you say there’s no blood or brain spatter showing?”
“There isn’t on the magazine that was stored directly beneath but on the one below that there was.”
Owen realised that April was leading the conversation. She knew that this cutting had been positioned. “And the magazines?”
April pushed photographs of the box’s contents across the table. “Lonely farm labourer?”
“Didn’t think they produced top shelf mags these days. Thought the internet was bursting with the stuff.” He turned the photographs. “I suppose he’s broken no laws and even if he had it’s too late. So, April, someone is playing with us, maybe even leading us by the nose.”
She waited a moment and then passed over some more photographs.
Owen flicked through them. They showed Peterson standing next to a variety of animals. Each had been strung up on a branch. They varied from stags to foxes. Some showed him holding just the heads. “Makes me want to become a vegetarian. So, I wonder who took the photographs?”
“Another point of interest. I said that Peterson’s DNA wasn’t found on the top photograph but DNA from a person, as yet unknown, was. Remember we’re looking for threads connecting the dead with the dead? Maybe that DNA is a link to a future victim.” She paused, uncertain as to whether her logic stood. “They’re checking the database and I’ve also requested an international link. Urgency is the key.”
Owen nodded. “Thanks. If the carpet thread and the captive gun are anything to go by, whoever did this was in their houses well before the crimes were committed. They had easy access and they had time. They may have been known to each other, be mutual acquaintances, an old friend or enemy, but I have a feeling they’ve planned this thoroughly and this is only the start.”
April leaned across the table and tapped the photograph. “We have four there just for starters and who’s to say that two people photographed there could be our dead men? Both are linked with guns and both with animals in their professional life.”
“One cared for animals and the other slaughtered them. That’s not a balanced connection, April.”
“With respect, sir, according to Bostock, the farmer who employed Peterson said they both slaughtered animals. Have you read my interview?” She selected the file and pointed to the whiteboard. “It’s referenced on there.”
“So, we have no DNA links from the DNA findings on the specific item from the box.”
“I checked with Forensics regarding touch DNA and as you know it’s not an exact science as we’re often led to believe. Firstly, about forty-four percent of people may not leave any touch DNA. It depends on various circumstances. So, if we went into the same room and touched a certain object, you might not leave your cells but I might. It's to do with your shedder status. It can depend on whether you wash your hands frequently, your personal habits – whether you touch your eyes, hair, nose or ears where you’d collect DNA. That’s known as loading.” She noted Owen’s face flush. “Maybe I’m teaching my grandma to suck eggs?”
Owen felt uncomfortable as he knew his personal hygiene was not like that of his boss.
“Sweat too can increase the chance of leaving positive samples as does the surface type you might touch; rough surfaces will have a better chance of holding data. It’s also to do with the lab process of retrieval but that part went over my head.”
“How long can it last?”
“That’s difficult for them to say, but interestingly, if you have a number of DNA samples, it’s almost impossible to determine the order in which an item was touched. So, the captive gun has a number of known and unknown links but they can’t be definite about the last touch sample.”
“As yet.”
“We now know that Peterson and Lyons were in both houses at some stage in the past.”
Chapter Eleven
The pick-up was parked in front of the kennel when April drove into the farm yard but the dogs began to bark as soon as she pulled to a halt. She told Shakti to wait and see if they appeared but they were, as she had hoped, locked away. A chicken appeared from beneath Bostock’s vehicle, looked and then returned out of sight. The door to the side of the barn opened and Bostock appeared. He checked his watch.
“You’re late. Eleven they said and it’s fifteen minutes past the hour. Now what’s this about a picture?” He wiped his hands on an old cloth as he spoke.
“We’d like to take you to Peterson’s as there are a couple of elements of this investigation we need to get straight so that we can move on and eliminate some queries to save time and money.” She emphasised the word money knowing it would be important to the Yorkshireman. “Seeing you know the house better than anyone, we need your advice.”
Bostock lifted his flat cap and scratched his head; the idea of saving money struck a chord. “I’ll follow you up, need to nip into town afterwards. I found these hanging in the barn.” He held up a key ring and keys. “Peterson’s. He left them in the barn in case I had to move that car of his. Forgot all about them until today.”
Shakti took an evidence bag and let Bostock drop the keys into it before sealing the top.
At Peterson’s, April opened the door. A safe pathway was still in place inside the cottage and they followed procedure.
“If you look carefully, Mr Bostock, you can see a mark where a picture once hung. Do you remember what it was and the last time you saw it?”
Bostock leaned forward, a look of recognition on his face which immediately turned into a frown. “Bloody hell! Do you know, I’m not sure!” He took his mobile from his pocket and dialled. “It’s me, lass. I’m up at the cottage. Do you remember what was in the picture on the far wall of the lounge? It’s now missing. I remember one being there but for the life of me I can’t remember what it was.”
Shakti and April watched Bostock.
“You’re right, bloody hell, how did I forget?” He turned and looked at the two officers, a smile across his face. “Ben, the wife knew. It was a picture of him at Ripon races. He’d won that day for a change, quite a bit of money too.”
“How long ago was it taken and was it just him in the picture?”
“Over thirty years but I can’t be sure. When you get to my age, love, time flies. He was with a few of his mates. A Bill was in it if I recall, Billy, if I remember rightly and the name Sniggy and of course, Peterson whose nickname’s always been Nutter. As I said, he’d do anything for a dare. The other one I couldn’t say, wasn’t really registering it all. I think it was taken by the local press, went in the paper and he bought it from them like you could. No expensive smart phones then.” He held up an old Nokia phone. “And some of us won’t spend hard-earned brass on them now. Just need to make calls,
none of this internet crap.”
April immediately thought of the men’s mags that had been in the box as the words, internet crap, rang in her ears.
“And the last time you saw it?”
Bostock shook his head. “If you want an honest answer I can’t say. A couple of …” He paused as a look of surprise appeared across his face. “Funny, a couple of months ago when I called for the rent, he wanted to show me a problem with a window frame. Bloody hell, rarely did he want work doing so it came as a shock. Rotting window frame. That’s right. He took the picture down and we chatted about it. I turned it over and he’d scrawled something on the back. He did say but I was too interested in the window frame and getting the brass from him. He was a bugger for not paying on time. Took it from his wages on occasion and he’d get really up tight, fucking angry … Sorry forgot myself ladies.”
April smiled. “We hear worse, Mr Bostock. Did he have a temper?”
“I think I told you he was like a terrier, frightened of nothing or nobody.”
“Did he have any particular friends or enemies that you know of?”
“He worked for me and rented one of the cottages. He wasn’t really a friend, more a neighbour if that makes sense. Is there anything else?”
“When you found him through there under the stairs you said that at first you thought he’d bumped his head, that’s why you rang the ambulance. We have the recording. You then say that you saw the weapon by his side. Did you touch it?”
Bostock frowned and his tone became defensive. “What are you saying?”
“I’m asking a simple question. On that day did you touch the captive bolt gun? Now before you answer this, I could caution you. That doesn’t mean arrest you, it means that what you say next could be used in a court of law. However, you’ve been honest and helpful so far and therefore I simply want to know if you touched it.”
Bostock nodded. “I moved it to one side with my finger and thumb and then dropped it. Sorry!”
“Had you seen it before that day? Had you handled it before that day?” She emphasised the words before that day.
“As I told you before when you were with the lad, no.”
Shakti touched his elbow. “Thank you, Mr Bostock. One last question. What can you tell us about the men in the picture, Bill and the one you called Sniggy?”
Bostock shook his head. “Sorry, he mentioned the names but for the life of me I can’t recall if he said anything else.”
“We have a similar picture, a news cutting, but there are no faces to the four men. Have you seen this before?” She handed him a photocopy of the cutting.
Bostock moved his head from side to side. “Never seen it before. Just a hunt. Four blokes though. Why no faces?”
April said nothing and took back the picture before handing him her card. “If you think of anything, no matter how trivial you think it is, give me a call. Talk it through with your wife, it might just jog your memory.”
***
Gill Cunningham had checked her flock of Swaledale sheep the night before, one of twelve hundred flocks within the north east. She had been brought up on the farm and had taken over the running at an early age. With a family of four and an Airbnb cottage to run she was one of the youngest shepherdesses in the country.
Looking down the valley she admired the early morning haze and the colour of the sky seemed to bring a warmth to the scene. No matter how often she looked at her surroundings she never ceased to believe that she was fortunate to live in the most beautiful part of Britain. The quad started first time disturbing the solitude and shattering the magic. Her eldest daughter, Maisy, sat behind alongside Ned the border collie. Of her four daughters, Maisy was determined to follow her mother’s career path and took every opportunity, when holidays from school allowed, to work with her.
Cloister Hill Farm was situated a mile from Middlesmoor below Scar House and Angram reservoirs. Although close to the villages and large towns and with that schools and amenities, it was, to some at least, considered isolated. They would take the road to Ramsgill before turning off through Lofthouse. She had a hundred sheep on fields just off Topping Hill, a narrow road that meandered to the moors and the high road. This was her furthest flock from the farm.
Once negotiating the steep bend, she turned left along the track and it was here that her suspicions were aroused. The steel bar gate was open. The chain that would normally secure it to the post hung loosely. Stopping the quad, she leaned to take hold of the chain. It had been cut. Gill scanned the field. A fox moved across her line of vision and Ned immediately leapt from his secure space to give silent chase, causing a murder of crows, a collection of gulls – from the nearby reservoirs – and a solitary buzzard to rise from one area of the field, their call shrill and haunting. Gill allowed her eyes to focus on the black and white cloud of birds as they reluctantly took flight, like a moving chess board before settling a distance away. Her gaze then followed the gradient until she stopped at the copse of trees to the left. Around the base of the tree she could see fleeces. She cautiously approached but Ned had other ideas; returning from chasing the fox he was now ahead, stopping just before the tree. He crouched before moving stealthily forward as if stalking.
Maisy was the first to see the evidence, a sheep’s head to the left of their path, and another, and then a bloodied fleece. She leaned across and touched her mother’s arm whilst pointing with the other. Neither spoke nor climbed from the quad. The detritus of the rustlers’ trade was now evident. From the stout tree branch Gill could see two thick steel wires hanging. It was here, whilst the captured sheep were supported, that the butchers had performed their nocturnal trade. As Gill looked over the aftermath, she knew that the killing had been done systematically and professionally. Gill concluded the process; it had been highlighted in the farming press; her flock was not the first to be attacked and neither would it be the last. There had been a twenty-five percent increase in rural crime and in particular the rustling of sheep. They had been collected and killed in the night, the whole process well-organised and planned. Once the meat was removed the rest was discarded.
Gill wrapped a reassuring arm around Maisy and was pleased to see Ned rounding the surviving sheep from the far corner of the field.
“We need to count them my brave lass. Okay?”
Maisy smiled and nodded as Gill moved the quad away from the temporary slaughter area.
“We must keep that free for the police to collect evidence.”
The birds were disturbed again but soon settled back to their original spot. They would not stay long, however, if Ned had his way.
“We’ve lost thirteen. Thirteen in one night and nobody sees nor hears anything.” Gill knew there were any number of routes they could take to leave the site. Removing her mobile from her pocket she checked the signal strength and dialled Tony Calderbank, a friend and the local community police officer. Dialling 101 could take a while and 999 was, for this, inappropriate even though to her it was an emergency. Maybe as these incidents became more common it might bring some urgency. What she did need was an immediate response.
“Tony it’s Gill from Cloister Hill.”
***
The gloved hands turned the framed photograph over. Scrawled in block capitals were the words:
Ripon Races – 1986
Billy, Sniggy, Charlie and of course, Nutter.
Great St Wilfred’s Stakes
Catherines Well
I told you so!
Turning the picture back over he ran his gloved index finger along each face and said the names out loud before finally coming to Samuel Peterson. It took a minute to bend the clips that held the back and the picture against the glass. Removing the photograph, he carefully pushed a screwdriver through three of the faces and moved it to obliterate the facial details before returning it to the frame.
Putting it down, he picked up the .22 rifle. The weapon’s condition was poor and clearly Peterson had neglected its appearance but
on inspection it was clear that the mechanism had been cared for. Slipping the bolt, he checked the chamber and was satisfied; the action was smooth. Everything was nearly ready. Taking the framed picture, he placed it against the sugar bowl that was on the kitchen table ensuring it faced the door before moving into the porch. The late afternoon sun was sitting along the top of the garden wall and the sky had turned a soft and mellow orangey blue. The garden was neat and organised. Taking a minute, he admired the setting. He was surprised that the rented property was immaculate both inside and out, a stark contrast to Peterson’s cottage. They were chalk and cheese – you had a farm labourer, a man who cared little about his home and his appearance. He would always make do. He could see no point in spending for spending’s sake unless, of course, it was on a racing certainty. The problem had been that certainties did not seem to be that certain these days. Bill Hurst, always known as Billy, had been a friend of Peterson’s for some time. They both enjoyed the horses and the odd shoot, rabbit, fox and pigeon mainly but there had been bigger game. Unlike Peterson, Hurst had not always been Hurst but Humphrey. At that time of his life he had been a successful butcher, learning his trade from his father before leaving to work in the greengrocery trade. He had never taken out a mortgage nor a loan. Cash had always been king and property was one means of sheltering illicit earnings.
His father had insisted on early mornings and late evenings. The business had thrived, but the growing regulations for meat storage from Europe and the ever-increasing onset of the supermarkets had brought the need for an alternative career. It took a while and after the greengrocery trade he found one. Concrete patterned driveways had suddenly become the fashion and for little outlay and even less training, he’d started Driveways Direct. Initially it had enjoyed a smooth three years of highly profitable work but then things quickly changed and the disappearance of his business partner with some of the profits and the equipment left Billy feeling sorry for himself. He was also being hounded by a number of dissatisfied customers who had paid a high price for shoddy work and now realised the written twenty-five-year warranty was worthless. A contact suggested a move to North Yorkshire with a change of name to Hurst, and his new lease of life was started. At forty he was lucky to have money in property that was quickly sold.
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