Stop Them Dead, page 24
The private detective agency was one which she and Chris had recommended to several clients over the years. Some who suspected their partners of cheating on them, and some who they suspected had been less than honest in their declarations of assets to their partners or family. The proprietor, a tough Yorkshireman and former police CID officer, with a great sense of humour, had proved reliable and diligent and had achieved results for his clients, many times, beyond their expectations.
Introducing herself, she asked if Ken was around.
‘One moment, Mrs Fairfax.’
And just a few seconds later she heard Grundy’s jokey-sounding voice. ‘Hello there, how are you doing?’ He over-emphasized the ‘you’.
‘I’ve been better,’ Katy said, and told him the situation.
‘I’m hearing about rogue breeders all over the place at the moment,’ Grundy said. ‘I’d be happy to help you – and seeing how much business you’ve put my way, how about I give you the first ten hours free of charge – just cover our out-of-pocket expenses?’
‘Really? That’s incredibly generous of you.’
‘John Peat. So, what can you tell me about him?’
71
Monday 29 March
On Friday last week, disgusted by the Jims’ couldn’t-care-less attitude, which amounted to neglect, Rosalind had told Lyndsey and Darcy that she was thinking of confronting Mr Jim.
Lyndsey had had to leave early that day for a dental appointment and they’d agreed to meet at a pub in Hastings on Sunday lunchtime. Rosalind had never turned up and she’d not answered her phone all weekend or responded to any messages.
In addition, two adult and five puppy French bulldogs had come into the kennels overnight on Thursday morning.
Lyndsey had been fretting about her decision to call the police yesterday, before she finally, very nervously, had done so. Fortunately, Mr and Mrs Jim were out all day today – they were visiting family in Essex. To her surprise they had taken Darcy with them so she couldn’t speak to her about the lack of communication from Rosalind and plan what they were going to do. She would have to see her tomorrow. And when Rosalind had not turned up for work, and she still hadn’t heard from her, she was glad that she had called the police – and was becoming increasingly worried about what might have happened to her friend. Rosalind was a fearless driver and had a rickety old car and it was possible she’d had an accident. But she’d not found any reports of any accident online that fitted. Maybe the Jims had sacked her?
All day, as she mucked out the kennels and tried to comfort the hungry dogs, she contemplated speaking to someone at the farm herself. But they were a rough lot, and they scared her.
For the past hour, she had been looking repeatedly at her watch as she went from cage to smelly cage, with all the dirty straw, topping up the water and partially filling the bowls with the paltry rations she had to distribute, and watching, heartbroken, as the little creatures, many caked in mud and faeces which she tried her hardest to clean, fell on their food and gobbled it down in seconds.
It was 4.45 p.m. and pelting with rain, some of which leaked through the inadequate roof in Kennel 2, soaking the already filthy straw beds of some of the puppies. In fifteen minutes, she could leave without arousing suspicion, but not before, and she was nervous and scared about meeting up with the police lady she’d spoken to yesterday. But hopefully, when she told her what was really going on in this farm, the police would act and bring in an RSPCA inspector.
In the constant din of barking and yapping, she kneeled and stroked some of the French bulldog puppies. ‘Hello, you lovely things. You’re hungry, aren’t you?’ She dug some treats from her anorak pocket and doled them out to each of them. Then she moved onto the next cage and did her best to console them, too.
Finally it was 5 p.m. ‘Goodbye, my sweeties, see you all tomorrow!’ she called out, then left the damp building, and hurried across the farmyard, in the drenching rain, to the little Nissan Leaf her mother had handed down to her, when she’d upgraded to a new model a few months ago. Her nerves were jelly. She was scared as hell of what she was about to do. But she had to do it.
In the shelter of the car, with the rain drumming on the roof, she checked the range, as she always did: 98 miles. Plenty to get her to the rendezvous with the police officer and then home.
She headed the silent car back down the farm track and waited, nervously, for the automatic gates to open. To her relief they did.
Suddenly, her phone pinged. She looked at the display, wondering if it was at last a message from Rosalind. But it wasn’t, it was a match on Tinder. And although she and Rosalind had had a friendly bet on who would be first to meet someone that they actually liked, she wasn’t in the mood for this today.
She pulled over into a passing area, a short distance along the single country lane, opened the app and swiped right to look at the sender. Shit, it was a really nice-looking, fair-haired guy, called Jason, although – big negative for her – he had a man-bun. U free 4 a drink tonight – Hastings area? was the message.
Busy tonight, later in the week? she replied.
Instantly he messaged her back. Tomo? Weds?
Driving @ moment. Reply laters, she tapped back.
A thumbs-up followed by an X appeared on the display.
She opened her purse and pulled out the note on which she’d written the name and number of the police officer she’d spoken to yesterday. Then hesitated. She tapped it in, then hesitated again. Something loomed in her rear-view mirrors. A massive 4 x 4. As the vehicle shot past at an almost reckless speed, millimetres from wiping out her door mirror, she stared at the phone in her left hand. Was she about to waste the police officer’s time? Had Rosalind simply quit and not bothered to tell her? Was there some other explanation for her disappearance that was perfectly innocent and which she hadn’t considered?
No. Something had happened to her, she was certain. She hit the dial button.
Moments later the phone was answered by a male voice with a rural burr. ‘Sussex Police – Operation Brush Incident Room.’
‘May I speak to Polly Sweeney, please?’ she asked nervously.
Almost immediately, she heard a reassuring, pleasant voice. ‘Hello, Major Crime Team, Polly speaking.’
‘I rang you yesterday about my work colleague, Rosalind Esche, who has gone missing.’
‘You did, yes, has she turned up?’
‘No.’
‘OK, are you still up for meeting?’
‘Yes,’ Lyndsey Cheetham said.
‘Can you let me have your name?’
‘No, I’m sorry, no.’
‘OK, no problem,’ the woman said. ‘Where would you like to meet?’
‘On the seafront in Eastbourne. There’s a slope that goes up towards Beachy Head. There are several benches on the lower level of the promenade just to the east of the slope. I could meet you at 5.45 p.m. on the one nearest the hill.’
‘OK, how will I recognize you?’
‘I’m twenty-one, brown hair in a ponytail, and I’ll be wearing a purple puffer and jeans.’
‘Right. I’m in my late forties, fair hair, and I’ll be wearing a short black coat.’
‘I’ll see you in half an hour,’ Lyndsey said.
‘Don’t be nervous,’ Polly Sweeney said. ‘I’ll protect your confidentiality. You are doing the right thing.’
Lyndsey tried to reply, but she was shaking so much that only the faintest croak came out. She tried again and managed a whispered, ‘Thank you.’
72
Monday 29 March
Roy Grace sat in his office at 5.30 p.m., studying on his computer screen the photograph Cleo had sent him of the man who had, seemingly, kidnapped Humphrey. Who had then run off – presumably spooked by the presence of a police car, after she had kicked him. Really, really hard in the nuts, he hoped.
The man clearly wasn’t the sharpest tack in the box, leaving Humphrey tied to a tree a few hundred yards from where they met, and he sure did not look it. But something was bothering him about the whole incident. Was it pure random chance, in this current epidemic of dog-related criminality, that Humphrey had been kidnapped?
Despite his face being only partially visible, what he could see matched the digital tape Norman Potting had been given a few days ago from the video recording of the man driving away from Hove Park after stealing a dog from a woman there. He was convinced it was Gecko.
He first called the Forensic Digital Media Unit of the Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team, which was now based in Guildford, not sure if anyone would still be there at this hour. He wanted to get the photo of Gecko, his suspect, to them; they told him to send by email.
Next, he called his Intelligence Manager, DS Julian Ross, gave him the number of the man, which Cleo had noted down, and gave him the time and location where Cleo had met him for the handover. He asked Ross if he could get a full analysis of the phone’s movements for the past two weeks and further back, if possible, and the history of all calls it had made and received.
Then Grace stared down at the problem-solving triangle he had drawn in his notebook – something he sometimes turned to when he was working on a case where other similar offences had occurred.
Inside the smallest triangle he had written Theft of dogs. In the next, enveloping it, was the name Tim Ruddle. Then a larger triangle in which he had written Guardian – Norris Denning/Sharon Ruddle, meaning there had been the lack of a suitable guardian to prevent Ruddle’s murder and the theft of the dogs from happening. Then a larger triangle still in which he had written 4 motivated offenders present.
Researchers had identified several nocturnal break-ins and thefts of puppies from breeders in East Sussex in the past month and more cases in West Sussex and the surrounding counties of Kent, Hampshire and Surrey, but only two other instances where the owners had put up resistance and just one where there had been violence, resulting in minor injuries. Tim Ruddle, it seemed to him, had been unlucky – or had defended his dogs more spiritedly than the others. Grace asked Jack Alexander to have those owners interviewed to find out if they had any further information.
Norman Potting and Velvet Wilde had now visited four of the identified farms in their target area of East Sussex, two of them known to be controlled by individuals with extensive criminal links, but as of yet hadn’t come up with anything conclusive enough to warrant a raid. PCs Mike Shaw and Eldhos Matthew would also continue with other house-to-house enquiries tomorrow.
He looked back down at the triangle. At the name of the farmhand, Norris Denning, one possible guardian who could have prevented Ruddle’s murder and the theft. From the reports of the interviews with Denning, Grace was confident he could be eliminated as a suspect. As he was also about Ruddle’s wife, Sharon. Which left four men, according to Forensic Gait analysis by Professor Haydn Kelly. And from the professor’s analysis he had their approximate size and build. But no idea where they might be. Still, he had the feeling this information from Kelly could prove valuable.
He was distracted by a knock on his door, and called, pointlessly, ‘Come in!’ Because Norman Potting, as usual, had already entered without waiting for a response.
‘Chief, got some possible good news from the Collision Investigation Unit at Shoreham. Think they must all be wizards at jigsaw puzzles, because they’ve come up with matches from the broken glass recovered at the Ruddles’ farm, and the plastic fragments, also recovered there.’
‘Tell me?’
‘The glass is from the headlight of a 2014 model Ford Ranger pickup truck, and the plastic fragments are from the front bumper of a 2011 model Range Rover.’
‘They’re certain?’
‘Pretty certain.’
‘Did you notice either of these vehicles on the farms you and Velvet have visited so far, Norman?’
‘No, chief. But we’ll be keeping an extra lookout tomorrow, although these vehicles might be concealed in a garage or outbuilding. I’ve also asked Vanessa to check all auto repair centres and parts depots in the area to see if anyone has bought a replacement headlight or bumper.’
‘Good work – so, we need to identify all vehicles matching these two in the East Sussex area, right?’
‘I’m already on it, chief.’
Grace made a note in the Offenders triangle, then smiled fondly at him. ‘Of course you are.’
73
Monday 29 March
Lyndsey Cheetham sat in her car in the passing area of the narrow lane for several minutes after ending her call with the officer, Polly Sweeney. She stared ahead at the sheeting rain, blurry through the windscreen, wondering if she was doing the right thing. If Mr and Mrs Jim heard about this, it would be the end of her job at Appletree Farm. Polly Sweeney had assured her of absolute confidentiality but what if it got back to her employers? She was frightened of how angry they might be.
Maybe if Rosalind had gone to confront Mr Jim he had fired her on the spot and forbidden her to speak to her, perhaps threatened her if she did. Maybe he had tortured her like Darcy had warned? Darcy would have known if that had happened, surely. She would have said. But Darcy had been out all day in Essex and Lyndsey hadn’t spoken to her. Why didn’t Rosalind answer her phone? Maybe she was too scared. Could they trust Darcy?
Should she forget meeting the police?
Or was she jumping to all the wrong conclusions about Rosalind? She had mentioned she’d been in contact with a nice-looking guy from another of the dating apps they’d both registered with, a rich guy. Maybe she was just loved-up with him and whisked away by him to somewhere exotic, and wasn’t taking her calls because she didn’t want the distraction. Rosalind had told her it was her dream, to marry a rich man.
Maybe that was the explanation.
But maybe not.
A farmer had been murdered trying to prevent his dogs from being stolen, from a farm just thirty miles away. Five French bulldog puppies and the parent dogs had been stolen from his farm in the early hours of last Thursday. When she’d arrived for work that morning, there were five new French bulldog puppies and two adult ones.
Beyond coincidence, despite what Darcy thought.
She twisted the ignition key and the wipers arced across the screen, clearing the rain briefly. Then she glided the car forward, carrying on down the lane that, with the bushes on either side, was barely wide enough for her little car to go through without touching the sides. After a mile or so she took the back road and headed down towards Eastbourne.
She would be there in half an hour, she had told the police officer, and was regretting that now. In this shit weather, she was going to have to step on it. A nervous driver at the best of times, she was particularly wary of wet roads, and even more so when the visibility was lousy as it was now and there were several deep puddles across the road. Despite that, anxious not to be late – concerned the officer, Polly Sweeney, might not wait – she drove faster than she was comfortable with.
A red double-bend warning triangle appeared ahead, and she slowed, feeling the car skittish beneath her over the slippery surface. Then to her relief the road straightened and she cautiously increased her speed. Then another warning triangle loomed up.
But, to her relief, it just depicted a deer.
All the same, she slowed from 50 mph to 40 mph.
Ahead, she could now see another red triangle. As she closed on it she could see it warned of a sharp right-hand bend. And it looked like a very sharp bend, with trees to the left and dense shrubbery to the right.
Approaching it, and braking gently, she glanced in her mirror.
The rear window was filled with a dark shape, looming rapidly closer.
A truck, she realized. A massive 4 x 4. The same one as before?
She glanced at the speedometer: she’d crept up to 45 mph. She dabbed the brakes and the speed dropped to 40 mph. Then 35 mph.
And suddenly she was jolted forward as the 4 x 4 bumped into the rear of her car.
‘Hey!’ she shouted out angrily. ‘What the—’
It bumped her again, slamming her whole upper body forward against her seat belt.
Then again.
In panic, she pressed the accelerator, but it nudged her again, harder still. Until it was actually pushing her.
‘No, no, stop!’ she cried out in terror. ‘Stop, stop!’ In desperation she pressed the brake pedal hard. But the car carried on forward. The steering wheel became light in her hands. They were at the start of the bend now, a massive tree ahead, right on its apex. In her terror she saw a wreath of mostly dead flowers that was attached to it.
As it zoomed closer.
Closer.
She screamed. Stamped as hard as she could on the brake pedal. Spun the useless steering wheel.
For an instant, she had the illusion she had stopped and the gnarled elm tree was hurtling towards her like an express train.
Moments later, there was a massive explosion of shards of metal and glass. The airbag ballooned in front of her face, the seat belt stretched but held, searing into her flesh. Unrestrained, all her internal organs continued their forward momentum at 50 mph.
74
Tuesday 30 March
Ordinarily, PC Ralph Cornish-Sheasby might not have bothered to stop the lorry for having just a single tail light out. On his night shifts, single-crewed more often than not, the young Roads Policing Unit officer would be run ragged. As one of only three patrol cars covering East Sussex, he would have been rushing on blue lights from incident to incident – everything from major RTCs to stray animals on the roads, to assisting in pursuits of joyriders or more serious criminals, to the myriad of other shouts, from removing an object from a lane of the motorway to helping a motorist in a dangerous place.
But tonight was Q – quiet. Two people stopped on suspicion of drink-driving, both of whom had blown negative. One ticket issued for lapsed insurance. He’d just driven west, from Polegate to Brighton, the boundary where the West Sussex RPU took primacy, and was now heading east on the A27, when he saw the rigid-sided articulated lorry ahead of him negotiate the Beddingham roundabout and turn east towards Polegate.
