Shadow of the Beast

by Michael Fowler

  Swinging her legs out of bed and pulling on her dressing gown she had just belted it around her when her mobile rang. She jumped. Heart-racing, she snatched it up from the bedside table and checked it wasn’t a number she didn’t recognise before answering. It wasn’t. It was the Force Communications room. She wondered if they had caught Jack.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Leggate.’

  ‘Good morning Ma’am, communications here. Sorry to disturb you but we have you down as the on-call superintendent?’

  The female call-handler’s response wasn’t what she expected. With all the drama going on in her life she had forgotten it was her turn on the call-out roster. She answered, ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ve got a report of an abduction: a young woman dragged into a car near the woods off Doncaster Road.’

  ‘Abduction?’ she answered screwing up her face. ‘That’s a CID job. Have you contacted the District DI?’

  ‘Yes ma’am, the DI is out there with CID Officers. He’s the person who asked me to contact you. He says that he thinks it’s linked to your investigation.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Dawn Leggate perched herself on the edge of Grace’s desk and opened up morning briefing, ‘Developments everyone! While some of you were tucked up in your warm and comfortable beds in the wee small hours, muggings here, was out on the streets dealing with an abduction.’ She heard a couple of her team repeat the word ‘abduction’ and saw them exchange questioning glances. ‘Abduction, yes. And what relevance does that have to our enquiry I can see you all asking yourselves?’ She scoured the room, ‘Well, eyes front, and I’ll show and explain.’ Adjusting her position, she aimed the remote she was holding at the large flat screen TV at the front of the room. Instantly a black and white, grainy, CCTV image appeared. The shot was frozen. Centre screen was a young, dark haired girl in tight black jeans and outdoor short jacket. She appeared to be in a large car park – a few cars were parked in clearly defined bays.

  Dawn set the image to play.

  The squads’ eyes were glued to the TV. They watched footage of the girl, head down, slowly walking right towards the edge of the screen. Within seconds she had disappeared.

  Dawn stopped play, back-tracked the CCTV to bring the girl back into view and then froze her image. Looking around her team, she pointed the remote at the TV and said, ‘Our victim. Twenty-two-year-old, Becki Turner. What you have just seen is last night’s footage of her leaving the Crown Hotel, where she works as a bar supervisor. At nine minutes past twelve she finished her shift and left the hotel to go to her home on Marshall Place where she lives with her husband, Mathew, and four-year-old daughter Amy. After she left the car park – you have just seen – she walked a short distance along the main road, crossed over towards the rugby ground and onto the old towpath. We know that because the bar manager saw her from the back door where he was having a smoke. Once she got onto the towpath her journey would be approximately quarter of a mile, upon which, she would emerge up onto the main Doncaster, Barnsley road, literally a few hundred yards from her home. It is here she was abducted. And we know that because it was witnessed.’ Pausing again she studied the faces of some of her team. Then, she continued, ‘At roughly twelve-thirty, a taxi driver was travelling along Doncaster Road, back to his office, when he spotted two people struggling with a young woman…’ She jabbed the remote towards the TV… ‘Becki. He said it looked like they were attempting to get her into the back of a dark coloured Ford Mondeo and so he pulled up to see what was going on. He saw that the two people struggling with Becki were a man and woman. The woman had her arm around Becki’s neck, and one arm up her back, trying to force her into the car, while the man was holding open the back door, trying to grab her legs. The taxi driver shouted, and asked them, what was going on, to which the man turned around, and said, they were having trouble with their daughter. He asked if he should call the police and the man told him to fuck off. He said that he wasn’t happy at all with what was happening and so he called us. The time of that call was logged as twelve-forty-two.’

  ‘Why didn’t he get out and help?’ Tony Bullars question sounded like a snipe.

  ‘Now, now Tony, we can’t all be super heroes. He didn’t just ignore it did he? He contacted us.’ Waiting a moment, for her rejoinder to hit home, she continued, ‘The response car attended, and got to the scene at twelve-fifty-one – nine minutes later – but there was no sign of the car or our abductors. They spoke to the taxi driver and got a description of the couple. Unfortunately, he hadn’t taken the registration number of the Mondeo. A local search was carried out to track the car down, but to no avail. At that stage we had no idea who the girl was or if we had a genuine job. One hour later Becki Turner’s husband rang in to say she hadn’t arrived home. He had apparently tried ringing her mobile several times, and texted her without getting a response and so he’d rung the hotel. When the night porter told him what time she had left he rang us. It was at that stage CID got involved, and once they had got a full description of Becki’s abductors’ that’s when they called me out.’ Pausing again she eyed up her team. Their faces were full of concentration. She said, ‘The description of the woman is not that good. The taxi driver didn’t get a look at her face, and so he describes her as a heavily built woman, with blonde, collar length hair. She was wearing jeans. That’s all he can remember. The man’s description though is a lot better. He says he looked quite old, late sixties, maybe early seventies, clean shaven, and he was wearing a dark fleece jacket. He said that when he called out to them the man stepped towards him and he got the impression he had some kind of limp.’ As she finished her sentence she caught her team trading excited looks. She said, ‘I thought that would get a reaction. Now who does that remind you of?’

  ‘Terrence Arthur Braithwaite.’ Hunter responded.

  ‘That was my response when I heard that description.’ She aimed the remote at the TV and turned it off. ‘I don’t need to tell you how imperative it is that we track down Braithwaite. We really need to step up our game now. A young girl’s life depends on it. We all know who we are up against. Braithwaite is a very dangerous man. A killer. But he hasn’t disappeared. Last night’s abduction proves that. I want everybody on this. Go back through your actions. I’m convinced there’s something in them that will tell us where he and his female accomplice are hiding.’ Taking a deep breath, she finished with, ‘If it was Braithwaite involved in Becki Turner’s abduction then it’s probably a good thing the taxi driver didn’t get out of the car. We could be dealing with another murder this morning.’ She targeted her look at Tony Bullars to make a point.

  He glanced away.

  * * *

  There was only Hunter and Grace in the office. Grace was checking back through Braithwaite’s phone records and Hunter was catching up on the paperwork that had accumulated in his tray while he had been off. With a sigh he pushed back his chair. He needed a break.

  ‘Fancy a brew?’ he asked rising and stretching out his back.

  Grace glanced up, nodded and returned to her list, highlighting another phone number that required checking.

  Switching on the kettle, Hunter sauntered to the incident board while waiting for the water to boil. Hands on hips he scanned the board, reacquainting himself with the enquiry – following the spidery lines that connected photographs to timelines and information – digesting the updates. As he rested his gaze on the black and white photograph of 16 Chapel Street something caught his attention. In the front top right hand window of the terraced house it looked like there was someone looking out from behind the net curtains. He leaned in to get a closer look. There was someone there but the image was so small he couldn’t pick out any of the person’s features. He couldn’t even make out if it was a male or female, though it looked like a young person. Turning around he said, ‘This photograph of Braithwaite’s house. When was it taken?’

  Grace looked up, ‘I think the boss said it was from around the time when he w
as on trial for the Glynis Young murder. Or it might have been just after he was convicted. Not quite sure. It was taken in nineteen-seventy-three that’s for sure.’

  ‘And who took it? Was it one of our shots?’

  ‘No, I think the boss said she got it courtesy of the Chronicle. Why?’

  ‘Just come and take a look at it will you.’

  Grace left her desk and joined Hunter.

  ‘Where am I looking?’ she asked looking at the photo.

  Hunter pointed at the front top right hand bedroom window, ‘Is it me or is that someone behind the net curtains.’

  Narrowing her eyes Grace stared at the spot where Hunter was pointing. After a couple of seconds, she said, ‘There’s definitely someone there, but I can’t make them out properly.’

  ‘Me neither,’ he replied stepping back from the board. Returning to his desk he snatched up the phone. He had a reporter friend at The Barnwell Chronicle who could help. He quickly dialled her number.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  DAY EIGHTEEN

  There was an A4 brown envelope waiting on his desk when he got in. In bold red letters across the top were the words PHOTOGRAPH PLEASE DO NOT BEND. He guessed what this was. The first thing he pulled out was the complimentary slip from his friend Zita Davies, the reporter at the Chronicle. The handwritten note read ‘You make sure you ring me first.’ He smiled, set it to one side and slid out the photograph. Zita hadn’t let him down. It was a duplicate of the one on the incident board, but larger. Three times larger. And he could make out the image of the person who was standing behind the curtains in the bedroom. A cold shiver travelled down his spine. He was sure he recognised that face!

  It was quarter of an hour before Grace walked in through the door. By that time Hunter was pacing around the room like someone tramping across hot coals.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ he said as soon as she entered.

  She threw him a puzzled look, glanced at the clock on the wall and then returned her gaze, ‘What do you mean? This is my normal time. We can’t all be in the office at the crack of dawn – some of us have to take our parental responsibilities seriously.’

  He let out a laugh as she set down her handbag on her desk and began unbuttoning her coat. ‘Listen, I’ve got something really interesting to show you.’ He picked up the A4 black and white photo and thrust it towards her.

  Heaving off her coat and dropping it onto her desk, Grace took the photo from his hand. ‘What’s so important you won’t even give me time to take off my coat properly?’

  Hunter targeted a finger at the photo. ‘That was waiting for me this morning. It’s a blown up copy of the one on the board. Remember the face behind the net curtains?’

  Grace nodded.

  ‘Well take another look it now the picture’s bigger.’

  Studying her face as she scrutinised the picture, Hunter waited with baited breath.

  Raising her eyes from the photograph and fixing them on Hunter she said, ‘I can see what looks like a young boy. I don’t recognise him though. Should I know him?’

  Hunter jabbed a finger, ‘Take a look at the ears.’

  She studied the photo for a couple of seconds before snapping up her head, ‘It can’t be?’

  ‘You’re seeing what I’m seeing aren’t you?’

  She nodded sharply, ‘It surely can’t be?’

  ‘We’ll soon know if it is!’

  Plonking himself down on his chair he sought out the piece of paper with retired PC, Gordon Jennings’ home telephone number written on it and, reading it off inside his head, dialled the number. It was a good ten seconds before the Scotsman answered.

  ‘Gordon its Hunter Kerr, sorry have I woken you?’

  There was a loud ‘Grumph’ Then he said, ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Half seven.’

  Another ‘Grumph,’ followed by, ‘There’s only one half past seven in my life now and it’s not in the morning.’

  ‘Sorry Gordon, I wouldn’t have rung you so early but it really is important.’

  ‘I gather that. I’m awake now, fire away.’

  ‘Gordon, did Terrence Braithwaite have a son?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘I’m looking at a photograph on my desk right now of 16 Chapel Street. It was photographed by The Chronicle during Braithwaite’s trial in nineteen-seventy-three and behind the curtains of one of the bedrooms I can see a young boy looking down.’

  There was a moment’s silence before Gordon responded, ‘Terrence Braithwaite didn’t have a son, but Sheila, his wife, had a son with her first husband. Braithwaite brought him up. He doted on him by all accounts.’

  Hunter took in a deep breath. ‘Can you recall his name?’

  There was another few seconds of quiet before the retired PC answered, ‘It was an unusual name...’

  ‘It wasn’t Saville by any chance was it?’ Hunter interjected.

  ‘That’s it! Saville. Saville Chambers. He kept his father’s surname.’

  ‘How old was he when Terry was arrested?’

  ‘He was a teenager. Fourteen, fifteen – something like that. He looked younger than his age from what I remember. A quiet lad as well. A little bit withdrawn if you ask me.’

  ‘Can you remember what happened to him?’

  ‘I certainly can. After Braithwaite was arrested, and we found all that mumbo-jumbo in the cellar we contacted social services with a view to him being taken into care. Although we were locking Braithwaite up we weren’t sure that leaving him with his mum was a good idea. We weren’t exactly sure if she was involved in any way – you know – if she’d been protecting Terry.’

  ‘So he went into care?’

  ‘Not exactly. Sheila had a brother who had a smallholding somewhere up near Penistone. He and his wife took him in. As far as I know they brought him up.’

  ‘Can you remember where that place was?’

  There was a long pause and then he said, ‘No sorry. I just know it was up near Penistone. I never went there.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter Gordon you’ve been a great help with what you’ve just told me.’

  ‘I wish I’d have got the same words of gratitude back in the seventies.’

  ‘Well I hope this detective’s made up for the others. Keep your eyes on the news over the next few days – you might have just helped us clear the case up. Thank you.’

  Setting down the phone a satisfied smile broke over Hunter’s lips. He met Grace’s inquiring look.

  She said, ‘I caught the name there. That’s not who I think it is, is it?’

  ‘I’m certain it is. The guy who introduced himself as Braithwaite’s brief at Bridlington the other day is none other than his stepson.’

  ‘Jesus! Would you believe it? You thinking what I’m thinking?’

  ‘That he’s involved. That he’s an accomplice?’

  Grace nodded.

  ‘Well that would give us part of the jigsaw if we bear in mind what the witness Susan Braddock said about hearing two men’s voices in the old chapel on the night Ann Marie was buried. I mean if Saville Chambers was fourteen, fifteen, in seventy-three, then he will have been twenty-five, twenty-six, in eighty-four. Though it doesn’t answer who the woman might be.’

  ‘Saville’s girlfriend or wife maybe?’

  Hunter shrugged his shoulders. ‘The other thing that’s just dawned on me – didn’t you say that Braithwaite had a couple of calls from Dunford Bridge to his house phone?’

  Grace drifted her gaze to her pending tray where she’d deposited Terrence Braithwaite’s home phone call list. She pulled the few pages out and fanned them across her desk. The print-outs provided details of the date, time, duration, and telephone number of each call made to Braithwaite’s house phone. Running her finger down the columns of highlighted calls she stopped in several places before raising her eyes. ‘There are three from the phone box at Dunford Bridge – two last year – one in March, and one in September, and one this year – the s
eventh of last month. None of the calls were for very long. Also, there are the calls which we originally thought were from his solicitors. Well they are from the solicitor’s office but, knowing what we know now, what’s betting they were from Saville Chambers. Three of those calls have been made since we found the bodies.’

  ‘Okay that’s great stuff,’ he said vigorously rubbing his hands together. ‘You and I, partner, have got some work to do. We need to find out where Saville Chambers lives and ideally where this smallholding is up at Dunford Bridge. It surely can’t be that hard to find – there’s only a dozen or so houses up there. It’s my guess that’s where we’ll find Braithwaite.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  DAY NINETEEN

  Seven thirty a.m. Daylight was just breaking as the convoy of two CID cars, Crime Scene van and forensics van pulled into the street where Saville Chambers lived. Hunter and Grace – the arrest team – led the way. There were no bells and whistles, no high speed approach, just a gentle cruise into the tree-lined suburb.

  Twenty yards from Chambers’ 1950s, three-bedroom semi, Hunter eased off and edged towards the kerb, braking gently and turning off the engine. For a brief moment he looked out along the quiet road. Lots of houses had lights on in their bedroom windows, a sign the households were rising, but none of that activity had yet presented itself onto the streets. That wouldn’t be long he told himself. Soon the curtains would be twitching and residents would be noseying from their driveways. He took in a slow but deep breath. He could feel his heart racing. Inside he was already buzzing from the adrenaline rush; this might be the day they caught their killer. Steadying his breathing, he glanced across at Grace. ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  She met his gaze and dipped her head.

  Gently pushing open their doors they got out and Hunter signalled to his back-up team of Tony Bullars and Mike Sampson, parked behind, to join them. As they got out of their car he gave them the thumbs-up sign, not saying a word. Then, each of them quietly closed their doors and began their soft-footed approach to the target house. The Forensics team stayed where they were; Hunter had already briefed them to wait on his call before they got out. Entering Saville Chambers’ narrow driveway, Hunter spotted a dark blue Ford Mondeo parked down the side of the house. His heart leapt. He pointed it out and watched Grace, Tony and Mike’s faces light up. Hunter gave them the thumbs up and they moved into action – Hunter and Grace taking the front while Tony and Mike slipped around to the back to block any escape.