Authors: Michael Hambling
The money trail for the bookings took him back over exactly the same ground, with each agency paying the next for rent, deposits and any other bills. Finally he began to get somewhere, because the convoluted trails for each of the two farmhouse rentals led back to a single organisation, a small insurance company with an office in Wolverhampton. He phoned the number he’d been given only to hear the familiar ‘number no longer in use’ message. He swore and slapped his hand down hard on the desktop.
He looked up to find Sophie standing in front of him, peering over the top of her reading glasses.
‘Sorry, ma’am. I’m just getting frustrated. They’ve tangled up the trails for these bookings really well. I don’t feel as if I’m getting anywhere.’
‘But you are, Barry. What does all this confirm?’
‘That whoever did these bookings had something to hide.’
‘Exactly. If these lettings were totally innocent they wouldn’t have hidden the details so well, and you’d have got some names hours ago. The fact that it’s so complex shows that it’s all been carefully planned. So keep digging. Any luck with the boat, by the way?’
‘Not yet. I had a brief chat with Lydia about it earlier, and she’s taken it on. We’ve got it narrowed down to about five possible registrations. She’s out with one of the local guys right now checking up on owners, insurers and harbour records. We should know more by the end of the day.’
‘Get yourself a cup of tea, stretch your legs for five minutes, then give it another go. It will unravel at some point, I’m sure, and then you’ll be cheering rather than cursing.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘In fact, I’ll join you. I need to keep you updated on the latest information from Benny Goodall. It really isn’t nice.’
* * *
Across at the harbour offices in Poole, Lydia Pillay was trying to make sense of the boat records. She’d also managed to get hold of VHF radio registrations and was working her way through both, with the help of two local officers. In the end, her task was made easier by the fact that owners of boats carrying out legitimate business had no reason to hide their traces. Owner details for small to medium-sized cruisers were clearly listed and matched the records for the radio transmitters. No more than three or four had anything suspicious about them. She checked the details for these against sightings of boats on the quieter, south side of the harbour. And there it was — a medium-sized blue cruise boat with ownership details registered with an agency and its radio registration logged at a different address. She called through to Barry Marsh with the details.
‘I’m coming back in,’ she said. ‘I’ll follow them up myself unless there’s something else you want me to do.’
‘No, that’s fine. I’ve been going back through the lettings for the farmhouses and it’s turned out to be a really tangled web. There’s no daylight yet, but the boss thinks I need to keep at it. I hope something might connect your strand with mine at some stage.’
‘How’s Jimmy getting on?’
‘He’s across in Southampton, trying to identify something that’s cropped up from the dead kitten lead that came in this morning. It looked such a no-hoper that I was set to file it in the ‘waste of time’ section. But the boss was right again. Something in the report must have tickled her interest and it seems to be paying off.’
Monday Evening, Week 2
The trouble with redbrick church buildings, thought Jimmy Melsom, is that they just don’t look the part. A few scraps of litter were blowing about in the wind and graffiti was scrawled across the end of a terrace wall opposite the church. Suddenly the sun came out, and the grass in front of the church sparkled. The brickwork seemed to glow as the sunlight caught it. Melsom stepped out of the car, keen to get this over before the rain started again.
The vicarage was the first building after the Oakfield Parish Church. Melsom rang the bell, which was rather ornate for the plain house. A middle-aged man wearing a dog collar came to the door. He was in the middle of a conversation with someone inside the house, but managed a smile. Melsom held open his warrant card.
‘Come in, Officer. Sorry to be so rude. I’ve just come back from the shops and seem to have forgotten the single most important item that my wife asked me to get. Old age, I suppose. By next week I expect I’ll be wandering round in my pyjamas, dribbling.’ He laughed.
Melsom was shown into a neat sitting room and asked if he wanted a cup of tea. He declined. He had drunk enough tea during his visits that day to fill his bladder several times over. He explained the purpose of his visit.
‘That was me,’ the minister said. ‘I’m Paul Benfield. I was the curate then, and was offered the position of vicar when my predecessor retired ten years ago. Ruth and I were newly married, and we ran the local youth group for quite a few years. We took them away somewhere every year, and I think we were in Studland about five times. We switched to a scout campsite in the New Forest after that. It had better facilities. Ruth will remember. I’ll get her.’
He left the room and came back with a petite, neatly dressed woman who was drying her hands on a towel.
‘There was one year in particular that the locals remember for a variety of reasons,’ said Melsom. ‘One of them told us that you had a more troublesome group than usual. Is that right?’
The couple glanced at each other. ‘Yes,’ replied Benfield. ‘That was the last year we were there. The farmer was not happy with the behaviour of a couple of the lads, and I couldn’t blame him. It’s not as though they were really bad, because then I would have brought them back early. But they were uncooperative and sullen. And we were aware that they were sneaking off without permission. They were seen in parts of the farm that we’d clearly explained were off limits.’
‘The trouble was that they just didn’t see the need to follow rules,’ Ruth added. ‘We’d forbid something, they’d accept, then we’d find out later that they’d gone and done it anyway.’
‘Is there any chance you can remember their names?’
‘I’m not sure I’d want to, Officer, even if I could. People change, you know. Everyone deserves a chance to redeem themselves for their childhood misdemeanours. And it was a very long time ago. Twenty years or so.’
‘June, 1989, sir.’ Melsom fidgeted. He felt awkward. ‘And I have to insist, sir. This is a murder inquiry, so the normal niceties don’t apply.’
‘Where did you say you were from?’ Ruth asked.
‘Dorset,’ he replied.
‘Oh. We’ve seen the news.’ There was a silence and the couple looked at each other. Ruth nodded to her husband.
‘We may still have a list, officer. We used to keep stuff in an old filing case when we lived in a local council flat. We dumped it in the storeroom when we came here and haven’t opened it since.’ He paused. ‘This will take some time, so I’ll need to postpone my next appointment. Please give me a minute or two, then we’ll move to the study.’
He left the room and Ruth took Melsom through to a small room at the end of the hall. It was stacked with boxes, cabinets and cases.
‘I know what I’m looking for,’ she said. ‘But it may take some time to find it.’
Her husband came in and they soon unearthed a small attaché case. They moved to the study and spread the contents out on a desk. Paul and Ruth flicked through the neatly stapled collections of documents, until Ruth suddenly stopped.
‘Here it is! June, 1989. This bundle has all the details relating to that year’s camp. I’ll find the page you want. If it’s not in here, then it won’t be anywhere.’
The vicar and his wife leant over the pack and flicked through the stapled pages.
‘Yes, here’s a list of the teenagers we took. I’m not sure, but I think it was these two that caused the trouble.’ He pointed at a couple of names. ‘I’ll take this page out.’
‘No, please don’t separate it. I’ll take the lot. I’d prefer it if we did the final searching back at the station, if you don’t mind. It’s possible that more than one item might end up as evidence.’
‘I suppose we ought to get rid of all this stuff,’ the minister said, looking at the rest of the packs taken out of the case. ‘It’s probably breaking some kind of information law, keeping it this long.’
‘Maybe,’ Melsom replied. ‘But at least you’ve got it under lock and key. And when you do dispose of it, it’s got to be done properly. Shred or burn it. Don’t just dump it for recycling.’
‘You sound like an expert,’ Ruth said.
‘Well, you can imagine how much documentation we create and have to get rid of,’ Melsom replied. ‘We’d be hung drawn and quartered if we just dumped it somewhere.’
He took the file, thanked his hosts and left. He phoned through to the incident room straight away. He’d got something right at last.
‘Ma’am? I’ve got a file with names in it. I’m bringing it in now!’
‘Okay, Jimmy. Stay calm, drive carefully and get across here in one piece. You may just have the single most vital clue so far.’
He was back within the hour. He put the papers down on Sophie’s desk and traced down the list of thirty names with a finger. Marsh looked over his shoulder.
‘Here it is, look. Ricky Frimwell, age fourteen.’
Sophie turned and threw her arms around Marsh, and then hugged Melsom.
‘Oh, Jimmy, you little beauty!’ She stabbed her finger down on Frimwell’s name. ‘You thought you’d got us beaten, didn’t you, you slimy toe-rag? Well, we’re getting closer. And we’re going to get you, wherever you’re hiding.’
* * *
‘What’s going on?’ asked Pillay when she returned. ‘Everyone looks cheerful.’
‘Jimmy’s thread turned up trumps. There was a name on the camping list. It was Ricky Frimwell, the one I picked out a few days ago from the photofit system. So we’re all feeling happier, particularly the boss. Corroboration.’
‘I bet she’s relieved. I’ve got the boat records with me, so I’m going to start crosschecking them now. Let’s hope they show up something and it fits in.’
She got to work and Marsh returned to his desk to make more phone calls. He’d made a diagram on a large sheet of paper which looked like a tangled web, but it was narrowing at the top. The threads of the complex booking system were all beginning to merge.
It was nearly seven in the evening when he finished. At last, a single name sat at the top of the page with every strand leading back to it: Midwinter Tide. It was a company name, with a registered office in a side street near Poole quayside. He took the diagram through to Sophie’s office, where she was discussing boats and radios with Matt Silver and Lydia Pillay.
‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Traced back to a single company. Midwinter Tide.’
‘What?’ said Pillay. ‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s taken me nearly two days, and I’m as sure as I can be. Why?’
‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to doubt you. It’s just that the name of the boat is Midwinter Tide. The one I think has been smuggling in the girls from across the Channel. It’s certainly the most likely candidate.’
‘I’ve got an address’, Marsh added. ‘Do you think we might have time to drop in on them this evening?’
Sophie looked at Silver.
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘I’ll get on the blower right now.’
‘That’s the spirit, Matt,’ Sophie said. ‘One armed unit should be enough as backup, don’t you think?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Let’s go for nine o’clock. The heavy mob should be ready by then.’
* * *
The small warehouse was dark, dank and uninviting. It was also empty. The uniformed squad forced open the door and poured in, with the detectives following close behind. No one was lurking in the shadows or hiding in the store cupboards. They did find several bin bags of rubbish, just inside the staff entrance door, which they emptied out onto plastic sheeting.
‘Don’t touch anything directly,’ said Sophie. ‘Just a little poking with your pens, please. I want to confirm that we’ve got the right place, and once we’re sure we’ll call in the forensics squad.’
She left Marsh and Pillay picking through the rubbish while she, Silver, Melsom and some of the uniformed officers searched the building.
The main part of the building had once housed a vehicle repair depot. This was obvious from the inspection pits and hoist fittings, the empty tool racks fitted to the walls and the oily stains on the concrete floor. There were three offices and two storerooms, all empty. There was a small boiler room at the end of a short corridor. Sophie put a hand on the boiler’s surface. Was it her imagination or was there still a vestige of warmth in some of the outlet pipes?
‘Ma’am! Something here’, called Melsom from further along the corridor.
She followed his voice into a small toilet. In the corner was a small rubbish bin. Melsom was pointing to the item on top. It was the empty packaging from a box of tampons.
‘Now that is interesting. And it looks fresh, don’t you think? We’ll leave it there for forensics.’
They returned to the entrance area and had a look at the rubbish, now spread out. There were empty sandwich containers, a couple of beer cans, soft-drink packets, biscuit wrappers, used paper tissues and empty milk cartons.
‘I think it’s only been here a few days, ma’am,’ Pillay said. ‘The cartons are only just past their use-by date. If they were really old they would smell worse than they do.’
Matt Silver appeared beside them. ‘There are some traces of white powder on the floor in the corner of the far store room. Looks as if it’s been spilt. Could be the hard stuff,’ he said.
‘I think we have enough to confirm we’ve got the right place, Matt. We need to get Dave’s forensic team in now. Let’s secure everything and get back outside. We’ll organise a door-to-door for the area tomorrow morning and see if anyone working nearby can tell us anything. We’ll leave an unmarked car to keep an eye on the place overnight, just in case someone returns.’