Fever of the Bone (46 page)

‘Are you going to put more walkers on the ground?’

‘No. We’ve got the two on the bus, they’ll be getting off at Barrowden. She’s going to the pub, he’s going to stop and chat to the bus-misser. Any more than that and it starts to look suspicious. We’ve also put a camera in the ivy on the Wesleyan chapel.’ She pointed behind him. He turned to see a monochrome monitor. It showed a plexiglass bus shelter from behind and the gable end of the pub. Apart from the man standing in the bus shelter there was no sign of life.

‘Are you expecting Davy on a quad bike, like he said on Rig?’

‘I think he’ll be in a car. He’ll want him enclosed.’

They didn’t speak as the van negotiated the narrow lanes. They were out of sight of the bus but the three technicians in the van were in constant voice contact with the followers. At last, Johnny, the lead techie, turned to Carol and said, ‘The bus is coming into Barrowden.’ Carol and Tony peered at the monitor and saw the bus approach the stop.

They were on the outskirts of the village now and the driver pulled off the road into a private driveway. ‘I arranged this yesterday,’ Carol said. ‘We’re going to sit here and watch and listen.’

The bus came to a halt. Ewan politely let the woman descend, then he followed. The man in the baseball cap bent down to tie his shoelace; the man in the bus shelter boarded the bus. Ewan looked around, curious rather than anxious. He checked his watch and moved away from the bus stop, coming to a halt halfway between the shelter and the pub, where he couldn’t be missed. The woman bustled into the pub and the bus pulled away. As it picked up speed, a man came running down from one of the two side streets. Seeing the bus disappear, he stopped, hands on knees, breathing heavily. The man in the baseball cap went over to him, clearly a friend. They stood chatting, then drifted back to the bus stop where they had an animated discussion focused on the bus timetable.

Less than a minute passed, then a dark-coloured Volvo estate car nosed into the village from the Manchester direction. It was driving slowly, crawling past the village green and the bus stop. It performed a U-turn outside the pub and pulled up alongside Ewan.

‘It’s him,’ Carol said, her voice grim.

Johnny pulled one earpiece away from his head. ‘It’s a woman driving,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘A woman.’ He clamped the earpiece back in place.

Carol looked at Tony. ‘A woman? You never said anything about a woman.’

He spread his hands, as mystified as she was. On the screen, Ewan had moved forward and was leaning into the open passenger window of the car.

Johnny spoke again. ‘She’s saying something about BB’s quad bike being broken . . . She’s BB’s mum, come to pick him up . . .’

‘He’s getting in,’ Carol said. ‘Phase two, Johnny, tell them.’

‘Dark-coloured Volvo estate heading in Manchester direction from village. First letters of the reg are MM07. Can’t get the rest yet. Walkers, to the van.’

And they were back on the road. Being stuck so far back was frustrating, but Johnny gave them regular updates. ‘Heading steady towards Manc . . . Tango lima two behind . . . Motorbike coming up in rear, overtaking tango lima two, making it look dodgy . . . Motorbike in front now. Definitely a woman driving . . . the lad’s drinking something out of a can . . . Junction coming up . . . Bike’s gone straight on, Volvo’s turned left without signalling. Tango lima two going right, tango lima three picking up . . . We’re skirting the city, heading south . . . Bike’s back in behind tango lima three.’

‘It looks like we’re going to Davy’s farm,’ Carol said. ‘Where he’s not supposed to have been since a week past Friday.’

‘Maybe the girlfriend’s a better liar than Ambrose realised,’ Tony said. ‘Presuming that’s who’s driving.’

‘Tell tango lima two to overtake. He can lead us past Davy’s farm and wait on the far side. Tango lima four to be in pole follow,’ Carol ordered.

In twenty minutes, they were sure of the destination. The single-track road they were travelling on led to DPS’s head-quarters and not much else. ‘I need tango lima three and the bike to hang back. Remember, Ambrose said the entire perimeter was camera covered. We want to stay out of range for now. Tango lima four to carry on past, join up with two a mile past the farm.’

They pulled up behind the motorbike as Johnny said, ‘The Volvo’s turned in to the gate . . . Tango lima three’s out of range of their cameras he thinks. He’s out of his vehicle, on the roof . . . He’s got his binocs out. He can see the Volvo pulling up right by the farmhouse . . . The woman’s out . . . Passenger door open, he thinks . . . Farmhouse door open. He can’t see anyone, she must be dragging the kid inside . . . The woman’s back outside, closing the passenger door, back in the car, moving it across the yard, blocking a barn door . . . She’s walking back to the house . . . Inside. Door shut.’ Johnny looked at Carol. ‘Abductions R Us, I’d say.’

Carol opened the back door of the van and dropped to the ground, followed by Tony. ‘All we’ve got is abduction,’ she said. ‘We don’t know whether Warren’s in there or if he’s on his way.’

‘He could have been there when Ambrose visited,’ Tony said. ‘He didn’t search the place, did he?’

‘No. And there was no point in putting the place under surveillance. With their security, we couldn’t get close enough without being spotted. And there’s miles of moor behind them. Someone who knew the terrain could easily come in under cover of darkness.’ The more she spoke, the more unprepared Carol felt. ‘But we do know he was in Bradfield yesterday morning because he sent Ambrose that email from the library.’

‘You’ve got to go in, Carol. We know this killer doesn’t hang about. The boy’s already unconscious. If Warren is in there, he’ll be wrapping his head in polythene right now. You can’t afford to let this boy die. You won’t forgive yourself. And Paula will probably kill you,’ he added, not an atom of levity in his tone.

She nodded. ‘You’re right.’ She leaned back in the van and shouted, ‘Wagons roll, Johnny. Everybody to the gate now.’ She jumped back into the nondescript white van, giving Tony a hand up. They pulled out ahead of the car and bike and made it to the gate first. Carol climbed out and went to the intercom. ‘Police. Open up,’ she shouted. ‘I’m going to count to three . . . One . . . two . . .’ The heavy gates slowly began to swing open. Carol jogged up the margin of the drive. The van, followed by the rest of the vehicles, drove slowly alongside her.

They abandoned their vehicles in the yard and swarmed towards the farmhouse. Carol led the way, throwing the door back. She stopped on the threshold, taking it all in. Ewan McAlpine lay on a plastic sheet in the middle of the tiled floor, unconscious but still breathing. On the table was a heavy-duty transparent polythene sack, a roll of packing tape and a scalpel. Head in her hands, a woman was sitting at the table, sobbing convulsively. ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ she wailed. ‘So, so sorry.’

Tony and Carol were both totally focused on the scene being played out on the other side of the two-way mirror. It had taken a while to get back from the DPS farm to Bradfield Police HQ. First they’d had to wait for the ambulance and the paramedics to confirm that Ewan McAlpine was well enough to be moved to Bradfield Cross under police guard. Then they’d had to wait for Diane Patrick’s hysterics to subside. Once they’d booked her into custody, she recovered herself enough to ask for a solicitor. All of this had given Carol and Tony time to plan the interview.

‘I think you should let Paula lead off,’ Tony had said without waiting to be asked.

‘It should be me, I’m the SIO. It gives status to the interview. Which unsettles people whether they’re innocent or guilty as hell.’ Carol opened her office door and shouted, ‘Someone, anyone . . . We need coffee in here.’

Tony started pacing. ‘It’s precisely because you’re the SIO that you should back off. Diane Patrick has clearly played a role in these crimes. She may have been coerced. But she may have been an active participant. If she was, then she’s going to be pissed off at not being taken seriously enough to be interviewed by the boss. And pissed off is good. You know that. We like them pissed off. It makes them more likely to lose at least some of the plot.’

‘Believe me, I can find other ways to piss her off,’ Carol said.

‘And if she’s been coerced, she’ll be much more likely to respond to someone she doesn’t see as a threat. In other words, a junior officer. It’s a win-win, letting Paula take first crack at her. I’m not saying you won’t get your turn. But let Paula go first.’

‘Will you sit down? You’re making me crazy, storming up and down in this tiny space,’ Carol fumed.

He dropped into the nearest chair. ‘It helps me think.’

A knock on the door. ‘Coffee,’ Kevin said.

Carol opened the door, took the two mugs from him and used her hip to close it behind her. ‘I’ll put the earpiece in. You can keep me on track.’

‘You know there’s nobody better at this than Paula.’ He knew he was playing with fire, but it had to be said.

‘Are you saying she’s a better interviewer than me?’ She thrust the coffee at him. He thought she was inches away from having thrown it. He’d seldom seen her this wound up over an arrest. He assumed it was because Warren Davy was still out there in the wind.

‘This isn’t a pissing contest, and you know it,’ he said. ‘You’ve got no grounds for doubting your professional capability. Your leadership of this team made this result possible. It works because you let them do what they’re good at, even when it’s part of your skill set.’

‘I don’t understand,’ she said, brows drawn down in a mulish stare.

‘Take Sam,’ he said. ‘You know he’s a maverick. You know he doesn’t like to share because he thinks he can do whatever it is better than anyone else. He’ll stab people in the back if he thinks it will further his career, but only when it doesn’t jeopardise the investigation. A lot of SIOs would have canned Sam because he’s not a team player. But you keep him close. You let him play to his strengths.’ He paused, an ‘am I right?’ expression on his face.

‘Of course I do. He’s got tremendous ability.’

‘That’s only part of the reason. The other part is that you see something of yourself in him. Something of the early Carol Jordan, the scrapper who hadn’t risen to her natural level yet. You do it with all of them.’ He pulled a face. ‘Well, maybe not Stacey. But you know Paula’s a great interviewer. You know it because the great interviewer in you recognises it in her. So let her do it, Carol.’

He saw the doubt on her face. ‘Sometimes I feel I do all the graft round here and get none of the fun,’ she complained.

He smiled. ‘I love a good bit of self-pity. That’s very generous of you. Besides, if it hadn’t been for the new girlfriend being in the right place at the right time with the right knowledge, this might have taken us a lot longer to put together. Paula’s earned her moment in the sun.’

Carol glared at him. ‘I hate it when you make me behave well.’

‘You’ll respect yourself in the morning, though.’ He drank some coffee and made a face. ‘Come on, let’s go and watch Paula do her thing.’

Paula kept Diane Patrick and her solicitor waiting for almost twenty minutes. She made the decision when she discovered the woman’s lawyer was Bronwen Scott, the doyenne of Bradfield’s criminal solicitors. Scott had earned her reputation by winning reprieves for the guilty as well as clearing the innocent so she was never going to be loved by the police. But she liked to rub their noses in her successes. Carol made no secret of her loathing for Scott, and her team cheerfully backed her to the hilt.

The disparity between the two women opposite Paula could hardly have been greater. Scott was immaculate in a suit whose cut and fabric screamed the opposite of state-funded legal aid. She’d always had a haughty expression, but these days her face hardly seemed to move at all. Paula suspected Botox or a face lift that had ended up a fraction too tight. Diane Patrick, by contrast, was dishevelled and ravaged by her earlier tears. Her hair was chaotic, her dark eyes puffy and bloodshot. She looked at Paula with piteous eyes, lower lip quivering. Paula remained unmoved by the pair of them.

She made sure Diane was cautioned on tape and then opened her folder. ‘You abducted and drugged a fourteen-year-old boy this evening, Diane. When we walked into the house where you live with your partner Warren Davy, we found you alone with Ewan McAlpine. He was unconscious. On the table in front of you were a transparent polythene sack, a roll of packing tape and a scalpel—’

‘Are we going to get to a question any time soon? We know all this. You have given us disclosure,’ Scott interrupted.

Paula refused to let herself be needled. ‘I’m just reminding your client of the seriousness of her position. As I was saying. The things on the table - they were identical to the paraphernalia of four murders committed against fourteen-year-olds in the past two weeks. It’s hard not to draw the inference that you were about to murder Ewan McAlpine.’

Diane Patrick’s eyes opened as wide as her swollen lids would allow. She looked horrified. ‘I wasn’t. No.’ Her voice rose in panic. ‘I never killed anybody. You’ve got to believe me. It was Warren. I was waiting for Warren. He made me do it.’ She let out a terrible racking sob. ‘I hate myself, I wish I was dead.’ She buried her face in her hands.

Paula waited. Eventually Diane raised her head, tears streaking her cheeks. ‘Is it your contention that Warren Davy murdered Jennifer Maidment, Daniel Morrison, Seth Viner and Niall Quantick? And that he planned to murder Ewan McAlpine.’

Diane gulped and hiccupped. Then she nodded. ‘Yes. He killed them all. He made me help. He said he’d kill me if I didn’t do what he told me.’

‘And you believed him?’ Paula deliberately sounded incredulous.

Diane looked at her as if she was mad. ‘Of course I believed him. He already killed my baby. Why would I not believe him?’

‘He killed your baby? When did this happen?’

Diane shuddered. ‘Last year. She was just hours old.’ A long sigh seemed to liberate her into words. ‘He’d virtually kept me prisoner for the last few weeks of the pregnancy. I gave birth at home. He said there was no need for hospital, women had been doing it at home for generations. And he was right. It was OK. Jodie, I called her. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. It was all I’d ever wanted. And then he took her away and put his hand over her mouth and nose till she stopped breathing.’ Her words began to jerk like a DJ scratching a record. She wrapped her arms round herself. ‘He killed her. He killed her right in front of me.’ She began rocking back and forth, her fingers clawing at her upper arms.