Innocent Blood (21 page)

‘So, what have you got for me?’

‘There’s a bloke in there now we’re pretty certain we’ve seen at the stall. We couldn’t see his face properly when he went in but it could be Watkins. Ball was here earlier.’

After a non-eventful week Clive was delighted that things looked to be moving on his watch.

‘Did he carry anything with him?’

‘A carrier bag and a laptop bag.’

They drank their coffees in silence. After ten minutes the man came out.

‘It is Watkins,’ Fenwick said. ‘Can I have those?’ He took the binoculars from Clive. ‘One of you follow him, see where he goes. Keep in radio contact via Harlden Operations as we’re on their turf.’

Clive was out of the room before Fenwick finished and was in time to see Watkins turn a corner and step into his car, which he’d parked away from the depot. He radioed the registration number to Operations and gave them the direction in which it was driven away. He made his way back to the warehouse, deflated.

Ten minutes later Watkins’ car was spotted by a motorcycle patrolman entering the multi-storey car park in the centre of Harlden. Fenwick made his way to Harlden Police Station while Watkins was followed from a discreet distance, and went straight to Operations so that he could direct what happened next.

Fenwick decided that he needed more foot power, preferably the sort he could trust. As Bob Cooper already knew something was going on thanks to Nightingale’s briefing, he called him, dragging his extension number from memory. The sergeant had just finished yet another report and had been contemplating sneaking off early as he’d been working all hours.

‘Bob, can you do me a favour?’

‘Course.’ Fenwick was the one person Cooper would never say no to.

‘Take a stroll into the town centre; it’s only five minutes away. There’s a man there in the newsagent’s next to the main car park. He’s aged fifty-five but looks younger; thinning red hair, wearing a red sweatshirt over his shoulders and a green checked shirt. He’ll be carrying a Hackett carrier and a PC bag. Follow him. Operations should be able to give you directions to find him as there’s a patrolman hanging around. He has no idea he’s being followed so keep it casual and your radio low once you’ve got him in your sights.’

‘I’m on my way.’

That was one of the things Fenwick liked about Bob; he never stopped to ask dumb questions. He passed a difficult ten minutes waiting for something to happen and it was almost five o’clock when MCS Ops called to say that Bob had found Watkins and was now following him into the post office. Half an hour later Cooper was back at Harlden Division standing in Fenwick’s old office, having refused the offer to sit because the chairs always started his sciatica.

‘He had packages in the carrier bag,’ he told Fenwick and Clive, who’d also joined them. ‘Four of them were already sealed in envelopes with sticky tape all round them. He sent them special delivery and from the price I would say they were going to addresses in the UK.’

‘Could you read any details?’

‘Afraid not. He was three people ahead of me in the queue and it would’ve looked odd for me to get any closer.’

‘So, had he picked those up from the depot or did he have them already when he went in?’ Clive voiced the question Fenwick was thinking. Cooper did his best to look disinterested as MCS discussed their case in front of him.

‘There’s one way to find out,’ Fenwick said, nodding to himself as if he’d just made a decision. ‘We can get a warrant for the CCTV tapes at the storage depot; they’re bound to have cameras inside for security reasons. I think I should have enough based on Alison’s work with the photos and the information from the US.’

‘Isn’t there a risk that Ball or Watkins will find out?’

‘A remote one but now’s the time to chance it. I’m going to try and persuade the magistrate that I can ask for all tapes and rental records so that suspicion doesn’t fall on anyone in particular. If I can convince them that this isn’t a fishing expedition I might get away with it.’

He did. At eight the following morning Clive and Alison were going over tapes covering the location of the depot units rented by Ball. They had discovered that Watkins had a unit there as well, though as he wasn’t named in the warrant anything they found from the tapes would not be allowed as evidence if it related to him alone. Ball rented three units, Watkins one. The CCTV tapes were reused every week so they had seven days’ worth to check. They’d started with the previous twenty-four hours.

At two-twenty Ball had come in and deposited a bundle of packages in one of his storage units before locking the door behind him. Two hours later Watkins entered and withdrew the packages and placed them in his carrier bag. He was seen taking something out of his bag before refilling it with the material from inside.

‘Delivery and payment,’ Alison commented, noting the times of the frames so that they could get stills run off for future use. ‘And as he’s accessed Ball’s unit we can use everything we’ve just seen.’

Watkins had then walked to his own unit and gone inside. He was in there for an hour. They made notes of the frames and called Fenwick, who joined them in the projection room.

He watched the selected footage in silence, replaying key scenes.

‘Tell me what you conclude,’ he said eventually. Typically, Clive leapt in.

‘Ball gives Watkins a key and security code hidden inside whatever they buy at the market. They take it to the storage depot where what they’re actually buying is inside one of Ball’s units. They pick up the goods and leave money in exchange plus, probably, the key.’

‘What’s to stop them raiding Ball’s store and not paying?’ Alison asked. Clive answered.

‘Two things. Firstly it takes a key and a combination code to open the lock. Ball can limit what’s inside and reset the combinations whenever he wants. Secondly, if they did that they’d lose their supplier. Don’t you agree, sir?’

‘Yes; it’s a clever arrangement. Had it not been for Ball’s laziness in reusing the same LP covers we’d never have spotted it. How do they pay for the storage?’

Clive shrugged but Alison was ready with the answer.

‘Cash. That way we’d never be able to trace them from their bank accounts in a routine check.’

‘Does Ball strike you as someone with the brains to organise this supply line, because he doesn’t me?’ Fenwick started to pace. ‘I think someone else set this up but we have no way of proving it unless Ball makes a mistake.’

‘It is clever.’ Clive was rewinding and fast-forwarding a section of tape again and again as if searching for something. ‘They never once reveal what they’ve got in their bags to the cameras.’

‘It’s even more devious than that. What do you think Watkins was doing in his unit for an hour?’

‘No idea.’

‘Think, Clive.’ Fenwick took the remote out of his hand as if removing a toy from an irritating child. ‘He goes in with a laptop bag and the contents he’s just bought from Ball and stays inside for an hour. What’s he doing?’

Clive’s forehead creased with thought then he said, with an appalled look on his face, ‘You mean he’s in there…enjoying the stuff? That’s disgusting!’

‘I agree, but it also means that if we raided Watkins’ house we would find only a laptop recharging with nothing on its hard disk to reveal his perversion. Nor would we find any materials in his home because he’s smart enough to keep them in his lock up. All he has to do is have two PCs, charge one at home, then swap them over and keep everything else stored in the unit on USB sticks or CDs.’

‘Is he the brains behind Ball’s operation, do you think?’

‘I don’t think so. It wasn’t very smart to take child pornography into the town centre in a carrier bag before mailing it through the normal service. Why would he be mailing it anyway? I wonder whether Ball knows that what Watkins is buying may not be for personal consumption alone.’

‘You mean he’s trading it on.’

‘Could be and that might make him the weak link. But arresting him won’t automatically bring us closer to the people behind this.’

‘If Ball is linked to wider activity,’ Alison said as she re-entered the room with fresh coffees, ‘he must obtain his supplies from somewhere.’

‘We’ve got more than enough for a warrant to search their storage,’ Clive said confidently.

‘Maybe,’ Fenwick didn’t sound so sure, ‘but supposing we do, where does that take us? I want the man at the top of the chain, the one with enough brains and money to create a set-up this intricate. So far we only have two men – Ball and Watkins – we don’t even know the names of the other regulars at Ball’s stall. There must be dozens more to make this worth his while. Would Ball give all the names to us, and the supplier behind it? I’m not sure.’ He stood up and rubbed his knee. ‘This is one to think about. Keep up the surveillance on Ball and Watkins as well as the storage depot for the weekend. We’ll meet back here early Monday morning and I’ll make a decision then on what to do next.’

‘If anything happens in the meantime, where shall we find you?’ Clive asked but his tone said clearly:
so what are you going to be doing?

‘My mobile – use that,’ Fenwick replied and left them to it.

‘That’s if he remembers to keep it charged up.’ Clive shook his head.

Fenwick, usually so punctilious and correct, could be hard to reach when he wanted. He had the ability to drop out of sight for hours and no amount of calling his mobile would raise him if he didn’t want to be found.

Clive and Alison would have been mystified if they had been able to follow Fenwick for the rest of the afternoon. Instead of going back to his office and completing more of the endless paperwork that clogged up the smooth running of the twenty-first century British police force, Fenwick paid visits to a handful of families across West Sussex, spending no more than half an hour with each of them. But for every one, his donation of time brought with it some relief that a missing boy wasn’t just a sad social statistic after all.

A male pheasant barked from across the long lawn and Cooper looked up instinctively to catch sight of the strutting bird.

‘Cocky bastard. Another month and I’ll roast him.’

‘Do you shoot here?’ Cooper hadn’t much time for the sport but respected the interests of others – as long as they were law-abiding.

‘Rough, that’s all. Better at Napp Farm. Simpson’s got a bloody good gamekeeper, poached him – no pun intended – from the Langley Estate. D’you shoot? I could get you in.’

‘Occasionally, but I’m more danger to the dogs than I am the birds.’

He leant forward, determined to resume his careful questioning of the lieutenant-colonel but he was pre-empted.

‘Another, Sergeant?’ Edwards gestured towards the ridiculously fine bone china cup in Cooper’s paw. He’d declined something stronger, to his regret.

‘No, thank you.’ Earl Grey wasn’t to his taste and anyway, it irritated him that these military types insisted on using his rank, as if it put them at an advantage. ‘I don’t wish to take up too much of your time. As I explained, I’m only doing routine background checks on Major Maidment.’

‘I don’t know what you think I’m going to tell you.’ Edwards bristled. ‘The man was an excellent officer, loyal and absolutely trustworthy.’

‘Good under fire?’

‘I should imagine so. We never saw action together.’

‘He was awarded the DSO during his time in Borneo. Do you know why?’

Edwards’ face took on the appearance of a baboon’s bottom. His cheeks flushed fuchsia pink and his lips contracted into a wrinkled sphincter surrounded by the yellow-grey bristle of his moustache. Cooper doubted that any uncontrolled utterance would escape such perfect muscle control. The question was, if and when the lieutenant-colonel chose to speak, would it be a load of shit?

‘The usual reason: bravery in the field.’

It was a less fulsome comment than Cooper had expected. He sipped the dregs of his cold tea and waited for more. Instead, Edwards drained his drink and rose to mix another.

‘When did you first make the major’s acquaintance?’

‘1965 or 6, I think. Can’t be sure. You should ask him, he has a perfect memory for facts and figures.’

‘And you served together for how long?’

‘Ten years or so.’

‘I thought it was longer.’

‘We were in the same regiment but I was moved about a fair bit. I was an expert, you see – in a field I’m not at liberty to disclose – and that meant I was called upon regularly as an adviser. Maidment was more of a sedentary type by the time he returned to the UK.’

‘In the time that you knew Major Maidment, were there any suspicious deaths in the regiment?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘And the major’s behaviour was normal?’

‘Define normal, Sergeant.’

‘He showed no interest in young boys?’

‘I thought the police were supposed to have shed their homophobia.’

‘By boys I mean children not men. That’s not normal in anyone’s definition.’

Edwards glanced at him and added more ice to his glass.

‘No, Maidment was – and is so far as I am aware – strictly heterosexual.’

‘Did he ever do anything that he might have felt guilty about later?’

Nightingale had insisted on adding the question so Cooper had dutifully repeated it in every interview. Edwards had his back to him and appeared to be fussing with the ice bucket.

‘I said—’

‘I heard you, Sergeant. Not that I am aware of.’

Edwards turned to face him and Cooper thought that he caught a hint of prevarication in his face. He wrote
‘avoided the question
’ in his notebook.

‘Were there any complaints against him, either when he was in the army or later at the golf club?’

‘Again, none that I’m aware of. As I said to you at the beginning, Maidment and I are more acquaintances than friends, so my knowledge is somewhat limited.’

This wasn’t what Cooper had been told by others. He made another note and considered his last question. He wasn’t a subtle man and was aware that he would be unable to dress it up.

‘You’re aware of the charges against the major, sir. Could I ask for your reaction to them?’

‘Preposterous, of course.’ Edwards sat down and took a drink.

‘And why is that?’

‘How can you possibly ask such an asinine question, Sergeant?’

‘Because I haven’t known Major Maidment for more than forty years, or had the opportunity to serve with him. You have and, as a man of your rank, I respect your assessment of his nature.’

Edwards raised his eyebrows at the crude flattery but nonetheless paused to consider his answer.

‘Until the allegations made against Maidment, I would have said that he was the most decent and upright of men.’

‘I see, well, thank—’

‘Wait, I said
until
. Since he was arrested, in front of us all and on such terrible charges, well…let’s just say that I have had some deeply uncomfortable hours.’

‘Really?’ Cooper sat forward, unable to believe that he might be about to hear a criticism from within Maidment’s clique.

‘Yes. You see, Sergeant,’ Edwards too leant his body at an angle towards Cooper so that there was less than three foot separating them. Someone walking in would have seen co-conspirators hatching a plot, ‘Maidment was – is, I should say – a tricky man. Not straightforward, not straightforward at all. It held back his career. You’ve already alluded to his active service and his promotion at a young age. He should have been destined for great things – yet he retired a major.’

‘A decent rank, surely.’

‘Of course, a highly creditable one, but below expectations for Maidment. You need to ask around about why he didn’t progress further and I’m afraid I can’t enlighten you.’

Cooper dutifully made a note in his book.

‘Is that all, sir?’

‘All that I feel I can say,’ he glanced at Cooper, ‘so don’t press me, I’ve gone far enough.’

Cooper went on to his final appointment in a confused frame of mind. This wasn’t unusual. He lacked Nightingale’s decisive insight or Fenwick’s leaps of inspiration. He was a diligent, thorough copper but he wasn’t a fool and he drove away from Edwards’ estate feeling that he had been played for one. Nothing the lieutenant-colonel had said necessarily rung false but even so something felt amiss. Maybe it was the disappointment he’d felt watching one regimental colleague shaft another, because that was precisely what Edwards had done. ‘Damning with faint praise’, his mother would have said.

He pulled up in front of the Hare and Hounds in a grey mood. Jacob Isaacs, the publican, was a retired quartermaster and had served with Maidment for nine years. If he too stood back from supporting his one-time colleague then Cooper would have to accept that his own assessment of Maidment’s character was unduly influenced by his current standing in the community.

Jacob was at the bar nursing a pint of beer. A second pint, untouched and with a creamy head, stood before the empty stool to his left. His handshake was firm and businesslike.

‘Shall we find some seats elsewhere?’

‘Nope.’ Isaacs shook his head. ‘Here’ll do. Anything I have to say can be said openly. Cheers.’

Cooper took a quick sip, paused as the perfect brew exploded on his taste buds and then took a second with a deep sigh. Isaacs watched every movement.

‘Local and perfectly kept. You won’t find better bitter in Sussex.’ He drank fully from his own glass. ‘You want to talk about Jeremy Maidment. I’m sure you have plenty of questions in that little black book but you can forget them and listen to me.

‘I’ll tell you what sort of man you’ve put under lock and key in Her Majesty’s name and with my bloody tax money! I’ve half a mind to write to my MP. You lot have got it so wrong. Let me tell you…’

And he did. Cooper’s only frustration was that he was prevented from drinking a most excellent pint of beer because he was taking copious notes.

Isaacs had served with Maidment in Borneo and in the UK. He told Cooper
exactly
why the major was awarded the DSO, delighted at the fact that he accumulated a wider audience as he did so. Then he explained why internal politics (in his opinion) robbed the major of deserved promotion and how the man’s curious lack of ambition had kept him in his place to retirement. When Cooper attempted to challenge the rosy view Isaacs painted, his questions were flicked to one side as irrelevant. As he sipped his pint, Jacob drained and refilled his own glass and said in a clear voice for the benefit of those in the penny seats.

‘I’ve learnt a lot about life in my time, Mr Cooper, and I’ve learnt even more about men. There are those that sail true and those who move with the wind and tide of the times. Jeremy Maidment was, is, a man with his own internal compass. It points true and gives direction to his thoughts and deeds. He’s remained solid while others devoted their lives to spin and expediency. It cost him dear at times but that compass – call it a sense of duty if you will – is still with him and it would
never
let him fall into the actions that he’s accused of. I’d stake my honour on that.’

‘So you’ll be volunteering as a character witness, will you?’ Cooper said with half a smile.

‘Try and stop me.’

Cooper enjoyed the rest of his pint and paused to sample the Hare’s famous ploughman’s lunch, smiling gratefully when extra cheddar cheese and pickled onions appeared on his plate with a second individually baked cottage loaf. He thought he deserved the small rewards that arrived unexpectedly and too rarely during the hard slog of routine police work.

Although he wasn’t a man to become despondent easily he did feel that he’d drawn the short straw on the Hill investigation and he wasn’t about to rush on to the next of his interviews and spoil this treat. He had two interviews left and, so far, with the exception of Edwards’ slightly off comments, he’d found no hint of anything interesting about the major. Nothing connected him to either Malcolm Eagleton or the Paul Hill boy. Still, he would stick at it and report fully because that was his way and he was a man who didn’t cut corners.

The last names on his list were Zach Smart and Ben Thompson. Smart lived nearby in Slaugham so he decided to call on him first. He eased himself into his car and wound the windows down to let it cool off.

A shout from a toddler playing on a slide in the pub grounds woke him and he glanced at his watch guiltily. Three o’clock. Ah well, the Spanish swore by their siestas so he doubted his forty winks would have done any harm.

Slaugham is one of the prettiest villages in West Sussex, boasting a charming church and a very decent pub of its own. People waited for years for the opportunity to buy a cottage there and even then they would have to pass the undisclosed scrutiny of the villagers beforehand. Cooper drove through twice before he realised that Smart lived outside the village itself down a gravel drive that led through pastures of sheep. The house was set on the far side of what would once have been a working farmyard but had been converted with taste into additional accommodation and garages. A vintage Bentley was parked outside one and as he clambered out of his car he heard swearing emanating from under the open bonnet.

‘Mr Zach Smart?’ he called out.

‘Who wants him?’ The mechanic’s voice was muffled by the depth of the engine.

‘Detective Sergeant Cooper, Harlden CID.’

That brought his head up quick enough.

‘I’m Smart, what do you want?’

Cooper took in the oil-stained overalls and scruffy shirt and tried to reconcile the speaker with the owner of the property around him.

‘Do you live here?’

‘You found me, didn’t you? Now get to your business, I’m busy.’

‘This is your car?’

‘One of them. I use it for weddings and I’ve got one tomorrow. The bugger refuses to start and all the others are booked out. What do you want?’

‘I’m here because you knew Jeremy Maidment.’

‘No I didn’t.’

‘You were in the same regiment.’

‘Doesn’t mean I knew the man, though maybe I saw him about. He was a lot older than me. I quit when my cousin died and left me this place on condition that I continued to farm it.’

‘I thought officers got to know each other in the mess.’

‘I was an oik, a mechanic as it happens; didn’t exactly mix with the Maidments of this world. Is that it?’

He bent down to pick up a spanner and peered down at the car engine impatiently.

‘No, it’s not. Did you know a man called Bryan Taylor?’

‘That crook!’ Smart lowered the spanner reluctantly and dragged his attention back to Cooper. ‘He was as bent as they come and I mean that in every sense of the word. I wouldn’t have anything to do with him, couldn’t stand the bastard. What’s this all about anyway?’

‘The murder of Malcolm Eagleton in 1981 and disappearance of Paul Hill in 1982.’

Smart put down the spanner and wiped his hands on a rag.

‘The name Eagleton means nothing but I remember the Hill boy going off. I knew Gordon Hill. He bought a neighbouring farm in the late Seventies; decent bloke, didn’t deserve what happened to Paul. It wrecked his marriage, you know.’

‘I know; we’ve met Mrs Hill.’

Smart shuddered.

‘What a witch. She came round here soon after Paul disappeared and virtually accused me of hiding him from her.’

‘Why?’

‘When Paul was younger he’d be over playing with my youngest, Wendy, all the time. They were quite close for a while before she went off to live with her mother.’

‘You knew Paul?’

‘A little. They played by themselves mostly.’

‘When did you last see him, sir?’

‘Blimey, now you’re asking. Probably at a school sports day or something like that. That’s when I usually bumped into poor old Gordon after he’d moved the family back into Harlden.’ He picked up the spanner again. ‘Look, I’ve got to get on with this. If I can’t fix it I’ll have to call in the garage and they’re devils to get out past four o’clock.’

‘I really do need a statement from you.’

‘And it’s urgent after all this time? Give over. It won’t spoil for a day or so will it?’