The Widow

by Fiona Barton

  When I asked Glen about it at our next visit, he denied it all. ‘They’re just making it up, love. The press make it all up. You know they do,’ he said, holding my hand. ‘I love you,’ he said. I didn’t say anything.

  I didn’t say anything to the press either. I went to different supermarkets so they couldn’t find me and started wearing hats that hid my face a bit so other people wouldn’t recognize me. Like Madonna, Lisa would’ve said if she was still my friend. But she wasn’t. No one wanted to know us now. They just wanted to know about us.

  Chapter 26

  Monday, 11 February 2008

  The Detective

  THE INCIDENT ROOM had been packed up four months before the trial; walls and whiteboards stripped and the mosaic of photos and maps dismantled and packed into cardboard box files for the prosecution.

  When the last box had been taken out, Sparkes stood and looked at the faint rectangles left on some of the walls. ‘Barely a trace that the investigation ever took place,’ he mused. This moment in any case was a bit like post-coital tristesse, he’d once told Eileen. ‘Post what?’ she’d asked. ‘You know, that sad feeling after sex, that it’s all over,’ he’d explained, adding sheepishly, ‘I read about it in a magazine.’

  ‘Must be a man thing,’ she’d said.

  The final interviews with Taylor had been long but, ultimately, frustrating. He’d disputed the sweet-paper evidence, sweeping it aside as coincidence.

  ‘How do you know Jean didn’t get it wrong? She could’ve picked it up in the street or in a café.’

  ‘She says she found it in your van, Glen. Why would she say that if it wasn’t true?’

  Taylor’s mouth had hardened. ‘She’s under a lot of pressure.’

  ‘And the cat hair on the paper? Hair from exactly the same type of cat that Bella was playing with that day?’

  ‘For God’s sake. How many grey cats are there in this country? This is ridiculous.’

  Taylor turned to his lawyer. ‘That hair could’ve been floating around anywhere … Couldn’t it, Tom?’

  Sparkes paused, savouring the rare note of panic in Taylor’s voice. Then he moved on to what he anticipated would be the coup de grâce. The moment when Taylor realized he’d been seen and played by the police.

  ‘So, BigBear then, Mr Taylor,’ Sparkes said.

  Taylor’s mouth had fallen open, then snapped shut. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You’ve been down in the woods, looking for friends. Finding friends, haven’t you? But we’ve met Goldilocks too.’

  Taylor’s feet started tapping and he stared at his lap. His default position.

  At his side, Tom Payne looked mystified by the turn in the questions and interrupted, ‘I’d like a few moments with my client, please.’

  Five minutes later, the pair had their story straight.

  ‘It was a private fantasy between two consenting adults,’ Glen Taylor said. ‘I was under a lot of stress.’

  ‘Who was the baby girl beginning with B, Glen?’

  ‘It was a private fantasy between two consenting adults.’

  ‘Was it Bella?’

  ‘It was a private fantasy …’

  ‘What have you done with Bella?’

  ‘It was a private fantasy …’

  When they charged him, he stopped mumbling about his private fantasy and looked the detective in the eye. ‘You’re making a terrible mistake, Mr Sparkes.’

  It was the last thing he said before he was locked up to await trial.

  A winter on remand did not persuade him to cooperate and on 11 February 2008, Glen Taylor stood in the Old Bailey to deliver his plea of Not Guilty to abduction in a loud and steady voice.

  He sat down, barely acknowledging the prison officers on either side as he fixed his gaze on the detective inspector, making his way to the witness box.

  Sparkes felt the power of Taylor’s stare boring into the back of his head and tried to collect himself before he took the oath. There was the slightest of tremors in his voice as he spoke the words on the card, but he went on to give his evidence in chief competently, keeping his answers short, clear and humble.

  The months of foot-slogging, chasing, heavy lifting, checking, questioning and stacking up the evidence were condensed into a short performance before a small and select audience and a battery of critics.

  Chief among them was Glen Taylor’s barrister, a patrician warhorse in ancient, fraying wig and gown, who stood up to cross-examine him.

  The jury of eight men and four women, winnowed by the defence to ensure male sensibilities and sympathies were in the majority, turned their heads like a patch of sunflowers to focus on him.

  The barrister, Charles Sanderson QC, stood with one hand in his pocket, his notes in the other. He exuded confidence as he began his attempt to undermine some of the nuggets of evidence and plant doubt in the jury’s collective consciousness.

  ‘When did the witness, Mr Spencer, make a note about the blue van? Was it before he fabricated the long-haired man sighting?’

  ‘Mr Spencer was mistaken about the sighting. He has admitted that,’ Sparkes said, keeping his voice level.

  ‘Yes, I see.’

  ‘His evidence will be that he wrote down that he saw what he thought was Peter Tredwell’s blue van when he made his notes on the afternoon of 2 October.’

  ‘And he is sure he didn’t fabricate – sorry, make a mistake about seeing – a blue van?’

  ‘Yes, he is sure. He will tell you himself when he gives evidence.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Now how far away was the witness when he saw the blue panel van?

  ‘And does Mr Spencer wear glasses?’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And how many blue panel vans are there on the road in the UK, inspector?’

  ‘I see.’

  It was the ‘I see’s that did the damage, ‘I see’ meaning ‘Oh dear, another point to us.’

  Chip, chip, chip. Sparkes parried the blows patiently. He’d faced a number of Sandersons over the years – ‘Old Boy’ show-offs – and knew this sort of grandstanding didn’t always play well with a jury.

  They reached the sweet-paper discovery and Sanderson took the expected line about the chances of contamination of evidence.

  ‘Detective Inspector, how long was the sweet paper in Jean Taylor’s coat pocket?’

  Sparkes kept his voice steady, making sure he looked across at the jurors to emphasize the point.

  ‘Seven months, we believe. She said in her statement that she found it in the van on 17 December. It was the only time she was allowed to go on a delivery with her husband so she remembers it well.’

  ‘Seven months? That’s a long time to gather other fluff and hair, isn’t it?’

  ‘Hair from a grey Burmese cross, like the Elliott family’s cat? We will bring expert testimony to say that is statistically extremely unlikely. And the likelihood of a coincidence drops still further when that cat hair evidence is found on a Skittles packet. Both a Burmese-cross cat and a Skittle sweet were present at the scene when Bella Elliott was abducted.’

  Sparkes saw that the jurors were writing notes and Sanderson moved swiftly on. Sparkes took a gulp of water from the glass at his elbow. He knew his adversary was building up to his big moment: the Goldilocks conversations.

  Sparkes had prepared with the lawyers to make sure he was ready. He knew every nuance of the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act 2000, every step of the authorization procedure, the careful preparation of the CHIS and the preservation and chain of evidence.

  The team had spent a significant amount of time prepping him to emphasize Taylor’s use of chat rooms and his porn habit.

  ‘The jury won’t be interested in sub-clause 101 or who gave permission for what – we need to tell them about the risk of Taylor feeding his appetite for baby girls,’ the CPS team leader had urged, and Sparkes knew he was right.

  He felt ready when the barrister march
ed into the minefield of pornography addiction, challenging the police action every step of the way. Sanderson’s goal was to force him to concede that Taylor could have inadvertently downloaded some of the ‘more extreme’ images found on his computer.

  ‘The images of children being sexually abused?’ Sparkes had answered. ‘We believe he deliberately downloaded them – that he couldn’t have done it accidentally – and experts will testify on that matter.’

  ‘We also have experts who will say that it could have been accidental, Inspector.’

  Sparkes knew the defence was helped by the fact that Taylor looked nothing like the perverts who normally stood in the dock. The prosecution team told him that Sanderson had shown a photo of his client to the juniors and solicitors in his chambers and the phrase most often used to describe him in his impromptu focus groups was ‘clean-cut’.

  With the images filed away, Sanderson challenged the detective head on about Bella Elliott’s disappearance.

  ‘Detective Inspector Sparkes, isn’t it right that Bella Elliott has never been found?’

  ‘Yes, that is correct.’

  ‘And that your team has failed to find any leads to her whereabouts?’

  ‘No, that isn’t right. Our investigation led us to the accused.’

  ‘Your case is based on suspicions, supposition and circumstantial evidence, not facts, Inspector, isn’t it?’

  ‘We’ve clear evidence to link the accused to the disappearance of Bella Elliott.’

  ‘Ah, the evidence. Forensic guesswork and unreliable witnesses. All a bit flimsy because, I suggest, you were always after the wrong man. You were so desperate you resorted to leading my client into a fictitious and mendacious relationship.’

  The jurors didn’t look as if they knew what a fictitious and mendacious relationship was, but they looked interested in the spectacle. Four stars and ‘compelling performances’ was how the Telegraph might review it the next day, Sparkes thought as he finally stepped down from the witness box at lunchtime and returned to his seat in the audience.

  But the star turn came that afternoon. Dulled by an institutional lunch, the jurors filed back in and slumped in their seats. They did not stay there long.

  The mother entered the witness box, dressed in simple black with a red Find Bella badge blooming on her breast.

  Sparkes smiled encouragingly at her, but he was unhappy she’d chosen to wear the badge and concerned about the questions it would raise.

  The prosecutor, a reed of a woman alongside the bulk of her opponent, led Dawn Elliott through her evidence, in chief letting the young woman tell her story simply and effectively.

  When Dawn broke down as she described the moment when she realized her child had gone, the jurors were transfixed and some seemed close to tears themselves. The judge asked her if she’d like a glass of water and the usher obliged as the barristers rustled their papers, ready to resume.

  It was Sanderson’s turn. ‘Miss Elliott, did Bella often go outside to play? Out at the front, where you couldn’t see her?’

  ‘Sometimes, but only for a few minutes.’

  ‘Minutes pass very quickly, don’t you find? So many things to do as a mum?’

  The mother smiled at this bit of sympathy. ‘It can get busy, but I know she was only out of my sight for minutes.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I was just cooking some pasta, like I said before. That doesn’t take long.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Well, I did the washing up as I went along. And I folded some of Bella’s clothes from the tumble drier so I wouldn’t have to iron them.’

  ‘Sounds like a busy afternoon for you. And there were a couple of calls to your mobile as well. Easy to forget that Bella was outside.’

  Dawn began sobbing again, but Sanderson did not falter. ‘I know this is hard for you, Miss Elliott, but I just want to establish the timeframe when Bella disappeared. You understand how important this is, don’t you?’

  She nodded and blew her nose.

  ‘And we’re relying on you to pinpoint this because the last time anyone else saw Bella was at the newsagent’s at 11.35. Wasn’t it, Miss Elliott?’

  ‘We bought some sweets.’

  ‘Yes, Smarties, according to the till receipt. But that means the window for Bella’s disappearance is actually from 11.35 to 15.30. That’s almost four hours. Because no one else laid eyes on her during that time.’

  Voice dropping, Dawn gripped the rail of the witness box. ‘No, we didn’t go out again. But my mum heard Bella when she rang in the afternoon. She told me to give her a kiss.’

  ‘Miss Elliott, please could you keep your voice up so the learned judge and jury can hear your evidence.’

  Dawn cleared her throat and mouthed ‘Sorry’ to the judge.

  ‘Your mother heard a child’s voice in the background, but that could’ve been on the television, Miss Elliott, couldn’t it? Your mother told the police she didn’t speak to Bella.’

  ‘Bella wouldn’t come to the phone, she ran off to get something.’

  ‘I see. And then she went outside a couple of hours later.’

  ‘She was only out of my sight for a few minutes.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Miss Elliott.’

  Dawn made to step down from the box, but Sanderson halted her. ‘Not quite finished, Miss Elliott. I see you are wearing a Find Bella badge.’

  Dawn touched the badge instinctively.

  ‘You believe that Bella is still alive, don’t you?’ the barrister asked

  Dawn Elliott nodded, uncertain where the question was going.

  ‘Indeed, you have sold interviews to newspapers and magazines saying exactly that.’

  The accusation that she was making money out of her missing child made the press benches vibrate and pens paused for the response.

  Dawn was defensive and suddenly loud. ‘Yes, I do hope she’s alive. But she’s been taken, and that man took her.’

  She pointed at Taylor, who looked down and began writing on his legal pad.

  ‘And the money is for the Find Bella fund,’ she added quietly.

  ‘I see,’ the barrister said and sat down.

  It was another week of neighbours, police experts, sick jurors and legal argument before DC Dan Fry entered the witness box to give his evidence.

  It was Fry’s big moment and he stood with trembling legs, despite the frequent rehearsals with his bosses.

  The prosecutor painted the picture of a young, dedicated officer, backed by his superiors and the legal process and determined to prevent another child being taken. She lingered over the words used by Glen Taylor, looking at the jurors to underline the import of the evidence, and they began to glance over at the accused. It was going well.

  When Sanderson rose to take his turn, there were no hands in pockets, no lazy vowels; this was his moment. The young officer was taken through the conversations he’d had as Goldilocks, line by ghastly line. He’d been prepared by the prosecution for the pressure he’d be put under, but it was much worse than anyone could have foreseen.

  He was asked to read out his replies to BigBear’s obscene banter and in the cold light of the courtroom the words took on a surreal, sniggerish air.

  ‘What’re you wearing tonight?’ the barrister, his face drink-mottled and his shoulders dusted with dandruff, asked. Straight-faced, six-foot-three Fry read, ‘Baby-doll pyjamas. My blue ones with the lace.’ There was a suppressed bark of laughter from the press box, but Fry kept his nerve and read on, ‘I’m a bit hot. I might have to take them off.’

  ‘Yes, take them off,’ the barrister intoned in a bored voice. ‘Then touch yourself.’

  ‘It’s all a bit adolescent, isn’t it?’ he added. ‘I assume you were not wearing blue baby-doll pyjamas, Detective Constable Fry?’

  The laughter from the public gallery bruised him but he took a deep breath and said, ‘No.’

  Order was quickly restored, but the damage was done. Fry’s
crucial evidence was in danger of being reduced to a dirty joke.

  The barrister basked in the moment before entering the most dangerous area of the cross-examination: the last email conversation with Glen Taylor. He addressed it head-on.

  ‘Detective Constable Fry, did Glen Taylor, aka BigBear, say he’d kidnapped Bella Elliott?’

  ‘He said he’d had a real baby girl before.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked you. And was this after you, as Goldilocks, asked him to tell you that?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘He asked you, “Would you like that, Goldie?” and you told him you’d like that very much. You said it was a turn-on.’

  ‘He could’ve said no at any stage,’ Fry said. ‘But he didn’t. He said he’d found a baby girl once and her name began with B.’

  ‘Did he ever use the name Bella in your conversations?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘This was a fantasy conversation between two consenting adults, DC Fry. This was not a confession.’

  ‘He said he’d found a baby girl. Her name began with B,’ Fry insisted, the emotion beginning to break through. ‘How many baby girls with names beginning with B have been taken recently?’

  The barrister ignored the question and scanned his notes.

  Bob Sparkes looked at Jean Taylor perched on the edge of a bench, below her fantasizing, consenting-adult husband, and saw the numbness. It must be the first time she’s heard the whole story, he thought.

  He wondered who felt worse – him with the case falling apart in front of him or her with the case piling up in front of her.

  Fry was beginning to stutter now and Sparkes silently willed him to pull himself together.

  But Sanderson continued his attack. ‘You coerced Glen Taylor into making these remarks, didn’t you, Constable Fry? You acted as an agent provocateur by pretending to be a woman who wanted to have sex with him. You were determined to get him to make damning statements. You would do anything. Even have internet sex with him. Is this really police work? Where was the caution or the right to a solicitor?’