Stop them dead, p.4
Stop Them Dead, page 4
They’d met on a dating site for lovers of arachnoids and had been seeing each other for three months now, and he was madly in love with her. In love for the first time in his life. She had two dozen spiders in glass cages in her adorable little house where he often stayed over. Up until Elvira, the only sex he’d had was with sullen, mostly Eastern European, prostitutes in some of Brighton’s cheap brothels. But with Elvira it was – wow! A total awakening! Every time he dated her, he took her presents, flowers mostly, flowers with strong scents she could enjoy – because she could barely see them. She had been losing her eyesight since the age of seven through macular degeneration, and her vision these days was extremely limited.
Now, shortly after 9.30 a.m., as he cruised the van slowly along Goldstone Crescent, looking at Hove Park to his left, one hand on the wheel, the other rolling a cigarette, he watched the morning dog walkers, heads bowed against the rain, some keeping their mutts on leads, others letting them run free. One lady with a baby in a pram with a plastic rain cover and a small terrier of some sort tied to it, running along taking many steps to its owner’s few, and a tall, elderly man with a tiny dachshund.
He pulled into a parking space, finished rolling his cigarette by licking the sticky strip on the paper, put it in his mouth and lit it with a match he again struck one-handed. Then he concentrated on the job he was paid to do.
His white van was emblazoned with the name JASON PLUNKETT PUMPS AND DRAINS, in orange and black, applied with magnetic stickers. Jason Plunkett Pumps and Drains did not exist. Nor did any of the other company names he stuck to the side of the van, regularly, before taking it out of his boss’s depot. Trade vans were good cover, just like hi-vis jackets and clipboards. No one took any notice of a van parked up, the driver having a fag break.
But Gecko was taking notice of everyone in the park. He watched a woman in a green anorak being dragged across the damp grass by an Irish wolfhound. The dog was running the show. If Gecko were in a position to dictate who could own a dog and who couldn’t, he would tell green anorak she was too stupid to own a dog. But he wasn’t in that position.
An elderly man rode past on a sit-up-and-beg bicycle, with a forlorn-looking mongrel attached to a lead, trotting beside him. Cruel lazy bastard, Gecko thought. Moments later he saw what looked like a professional dog walker, a tall, lean, bald man with military posture, holding a clutch of six different breeds on leads.
Then he saw a potential. Definitely. A woman in one of those stupid cagoules, bright red, a plastic rain hat and white wellington boots, who was bending down to let her dog off the lead. A black and white poodle. Young. No more than a year old. He quickly checked the photographs on his phone. A match. Definitely a match!
The dog raced off excitedly, heading straight in his direction. He saw Red Cagoule shout at the dog, but it wasn’t hearing her, it had reached Baldie’s six dogs, and was barking excitedly at them. Baldie tried to shoo the poodle away, as all the dogs kicked off. The woman yelled again, then again. He could hear the name. Zulu. Was that seriously the dog’s name?
‘Zulu!’ she shouted. ‘Zulu! Come here! Come back! ZULU!’
The leads of all Baldie’s dogs were now in a right old tangle, and Gecko smiled at the absurdity, as the man kneeled, trying to disentangle six barking dogs with one hand and shoo off the unwelcome poodle with the other.
Grabbing the opportunity of the distraction, he raised his binoculars and focused on the dog. It was a male. Perfect! Even more perfect if he wasn’t neutered. He lowered the binoculars. A definite possibility. His boss would be mightily pleased with him, if he could deliver exactly what he’d requested so quickly. He patted his anorak pocket, which was full of treats, pondering his move.
Then it all fell into his lap.
Before the woman reached the dog walker, the poodle darted playfully away and dashed across the grass.
Straight in his direction!
Oh yes!
Come to Daddy!
9
Thursday 25 March
Immediately after ending his call Roy Grace went back into the briefing room. ‘That was the Chief,’ he announced. ‘I gave her an update on our investigation She’s also very worried about the rising wave of criminality in the canine world, both in our county and in others. We both feel there may be a connection. You may also know there are over forty Chief Constables in the UK and for their term of office each selects responsibility for reducing a particular area of crime. Ours, Lesley Manning, has elected the growing challenge of animal criminality and as a dog lover is deeply passionate about it. And that means with Operation Brush that we are properly in the spotlight.’
He paused to let that sink in as he took his seat, then said, ‘Blowflies can smell a dead body five miles away. But news reporters can smell one much further away than that, and far faster. Comms have already fielded calls from the local and regional press, and supplied them with my holding press release, and it’s only 9.30 a.m., for God’s sake! This is clearly going to be a major news story and the Chief will have the other Chief Officers watching with acute interest. You are all in this room with me because I’ve personally chosen you, because you’re the best.’ He looked around his team and saw several smiles and nods.
‘Right, so during the course of today, Polly, you’ll continue with your action in identifying dog theft crimes in Sussex and in all our neighbouring counties of Kent, Hampshire, Surrey.’
She nodded.
‘I’d like you also to get me a list of all online sites where dogs are advertised for sale. There’s also a very respected dog breeder, who runs kennels near Lewes, called Janet Oliver – we’ve lodged our dog with her a couple of times when we’ve been away. It would be worth speaking to her, to see if she’s heard anything she’s suspicious of.’
‘I will do, boss.’
Grace continued. ‘All the information we have so far about the offenders is that there were possibly four or more males, in two vehicles, one of which may have been a Ford Ranger pickup and the other an old model Range Rover, with possibly a J and a 2 in its registration plate.’ He turned to DC Emma-Jane Boutwood. ‘EJ, I’m giving you the action of liaising with the Intelligence Team, checking the ANPR for any possible matches with these two specific vehicles. I did request earlier a list of all vehicles pinging ANPR cameras in the vicinity around the time of the murder, which Jack is working on. As it was in the small hours there shouldn’t be too many, which will make our task a bit easier. I suggest starting with a thirty-mile radius covering an hour each side of the time of Mrs Ruddle’s 999 call.’ ANPR cameras covered all major arteries in the county. But of course, as Grace well knew, smart villains could avoid most of them by taking back roads. Although sooner or later they would have to join a main road.
He turned to DS Alexander. ‘Jack, we need a witness trawl. As we have it so far, there are just two, Sharon Ruddle and Norris Denning. We need to eliminate both of them as suspects. I’m pretty confident Mrs Ruddle is not involved, but we can’t be completely sure. The farmhand is an unknown quantity. Could he have had a grievance? Or be in collusion with the offenders? We need to eliminate both of them – or not.’
‘Absolutely, sir.’
‘And, Jack, I need you to arrange a House-to-House Team to cover all the Ruddles’ neighbours, see if any of them have seen or heard anything, or had any attempted break-ins themselves. Let me know if they come up with anything and we can get one of your team to follow up and revisit the property to obtain full details.’
He turned to the Financial Investigator. ‘Emily, I need you to look into the finances.’
‘I’ll look for proof of deposits in any bank account that would indicate unusual payments, and the farmer’s general finances, sir,’ she replied. ‘To ensure this wasn’t a put-up job that went wrong.’
‘Smart thinking, Emily,’ he said.
Next, he turned to DS Potting, then DC Wilde. ‘Brief Alec Butler, our Witness Coordinator, who is organizing the video recorded cognitive interviews this morning. I’d like you both to interview Sharon Ruddle, as soon as she is up to it, to fill in the association chart of all the people she and her husband have had dealings with in the last three months, as well as all their relatives and friends. Ask her for a list of all the individuals who had put down a deposit on one of the puppies, and check out their backgrounds. Then the same with Norris Denning. I need you also to contact the RSPCA in Sussex and see what other incidents of dog theft might have been reported to them, but not to the police.’
He allocated a number of other tasks to the rest of the team. Next, he turned to the Crime Scene Manager. ‘Chris, see if we can get any identifiable tyre tread marks. Also see if the Forensic Gait Analyst, Haydn Kelly, is available. There are a lot of footprints around the crime scene and hopefully the rain hasn’t washed everything away. It would be very useful to have him take a good look there. Jack, we should put up a drone and do a survey of all the surrounding area. Did the offenders approach the property via the main driveway, or did they use another entrance?’
‘I’m already on the drone, sir,’ Jack said. ‘I’ve had a drone operator out there since first light. We’re waiting on the footage that was captured this morning.’
‘I’ll call Professor Kelly right away,’ Chris Gee said. ‘I will also look for any loose vehicle parts, glass, or paint transfer for later comparison. Does the pathologist want to view the body in situ?’
Grace shook his head. ‘I’ve spoken to Nadiuska De Sancha who’s been assigned this – thank God for small mercies.’
Several of the team smiled, knowing that the alternative to Nadiuska was Dr Frazer Theobald. Nadiuska was every bit as efficient and three times as fast. ‘She says she doesn’t need to see the body at the crime scene, so I’ve arranged for it to be recovered to the mortuary. The postmortem will commence early this afternoon – DI Branson and I will attend.’
There was a time, before he had met and fallen in love with Cleo who ran the mortuary, when Roy Grace considered attending postmortems to be the worst part of his job. But now, while he did not exactly relish them, he enjoyed being able to work with his wife. Although he sometimes wondered how many couples would find it normal to be discussing intricate details of an eviscerated cadaver over the kitchen table.
‘Finally, I have asked a digital media investigator to go to the farmhouse to download the router and try to get a hardware address and any other details about phones trying to connect to the broadband. It is a slim shot but worth trying. Does anyone have anything to add? Any bases we’ve not covered?’ he asked.
Several members of the team shook their heads. No one had anything else.
‘OK, good. I’m going to liaise with the Assistant Chief Constable and Comms to set up a press conference tomorrow morning. I want to get the message out to as wide a reach as possible, that anyone looking to buy a blue French bulldog needs to check the dog’s owner with the Kennel Club to ensure they’re not buying one of the dogs stolen last night, or an illegal import. That they should see a vet’s report, especially on the dog’s hip and elbow scores, and they need to see the vaccination certificates. We’ll meet here again at 6 p.m.’
10
Thursday 25 March
‘ZULU!’ Sara Gurner shrieked the name, running on the wet grass as fast as she could in her gum boots. The large mutt, shooed away from the dog walker’s group, was now running excitedly towards a vizsla that was having a dump, its owner pulling a plastic bag from her pocket.
Enjoying the great game of Bark at Every Dog, Zulu ran on, in search of the next one, his owner lagging, tiring, some hundred yards behind him.
Zulu was the substitute for everything Sara Gurner did not have in her life – her job, working part-time as a receptionist in a Brighton medical practice, was hanging by a thread due to yet another reorganization, she had yet again failed her driving test, and her current social life was non-existent. She utterly doted on this wilful, gorgeous creature.
Zulu had replaced her adored Dalmatian, Belle, who had been her constant companion for nine years, before sadly passing away from a tumour. Sara Gurner had gone for a boy second time around for a change.
‘ZULU!’ she commanded, imperiously and uselessly.
A grey terrier, off its lead, was racing towards Zulu and barking – ferociously or playfully, it was hard to tell. Zulu took one look, then hared away, to Sara’s horror, making straight for the road, as if in some kind of blind panic.
‘ZULU!’ she yelled and ran as fast as her boots and the soggy grass would let her. But the dog was now a good two to three hundred yards ahead, racing through the trees and towards the pavement.
‘NO!’ she screamed in horror.
Oh God.
A steady stream of cars drove along the road in both directions. Large, detached houses were on the far side. A bus trundled past.
There was a van parked at the kerb, and suddenly a small man, in an anorak and woollen hat, jumped out and grabbed the dog by the collar.
Relief surged through her. ‘THANK YOU!’ she yelled. ‘Thank you so much!’
But then, as she got nearer, the man lifted Zulu up, hurled him in through the driver’s door and jumped in, slamming the door shut behind him.
‘Hey! It’s my dog, it’s my dog!’
Zulu was barking.
Closing the gap, reaching the pavement, Sara Gurner heard the engine start. In desperation she ran to the front of the van, waving her arms frantically. ‘It’s OK, it’s my dog. Stop, stop!’
She saw the man’s face through the windscreen. His big, round bulging eyes.
‘It’s my dog!’ she screamed at him. ‘It’s my dog! I’m the owner!’
She could have sworn he was grinning at her as he reversed then drove off past her at reckless speed, almost clipping her arm with a wing mirror.
She was too shaken to think of writing down the number plate. She just stood in the middle of the road, shouting at the disappearing van, and crying.
A bell tinged, and a Lycra-clad cyclist swerved past her shouting, ‘Get off the road, you stupid woman!’
11
Thursday 25 March
Even at the height of summer, the chilled air and pervading grey light made it feel like winter here in the mortuary – or the Hotel du Mort as Norman Potting called it.
And at 2 p.m. on a cold, drizzly March day, it was about as grim as it got. And yet, the team of three who worked here, Cleo, Darren and their new assistant, Kevin Jones, seemed impervious to it, and were mostly unremittingly cheerful.
To them it was just another day in the office. And the actual office Roy Grace was sitting in, which used to be a sickly pink colour, had recently been refurbished, along with the rest of the building. Now, with its grey walls hung with framed certificates and modern art, its speckled black worktop, charcoal carpet, comfortable chairs and up-to-date computer technology, it could have been the office of almost any profession.
Apart from the smell.
That persistently noxious odour that came through the open door into the hallway. The reek of disinfectant and decaying human bodies which had been part of the fabric of this building for as far back as he could remember.
The West Sussex coroner had asked that the postmortem be carried out at Brighton and Hove Mortuary for logistical reasons. Darren, Cleo’s deputy, a youthful-looking man in his late twenties, lightly bearded and with a warm, friendly face, dressed in a collarless blue shirt, jeans and work boots, chatty and gregarious, could have been front of house in a cool restaurant. Kevin, tall and more fully bearded, also in jeans and work boots, was quieter but no less friendly. At this moment, Cleo was in one of the mortuary’s two main postmortem rooms with the Home Office pathologist Dr Nadiuska De Sancha, Glenn Branson, CSI James Gartrell, who was photographing and videoing every step of the process, and the Coroner’s Officer, Michelle Websdale.
Before joining Glenn and Cleo, Grace was having a catch-up chat over a mug of tea with Darren and Kevin, who had attended the crime scene earlier that morning to recover Tim Ruddle’s body. In his early days as a homicide detective, the Home Office pathologist would always attend the body in situ at the scene. But in more recent times, now paid per job and not per hour, unless there were compelling reasons to visit the crime scene, most, like Nadiuska today, opted to go straight to the mortuary.
The key role of the mortuary team was to safely recover the body, including any potential forensic evidence which could then be assessed at the mortuary. Their skills were another chance to glean any nuggets of information that those, including himself, who had attended the crime scene earlier, might have missed.
But neither of them had noticed anything that did not fit the report from the two witnesses of what had happened. Other than bruising around the victim’s misshapen abdomen, there were no other signs of injury to his body, and very little blood on the body or at the scene. Darren reported overhearing one of the attending police officers saying the First Responder took half an hour to arrive, and if he had come quicker, maybe they could have done something. The victim’s wife, apparently, said her husband was still breathing until minutes before the paramedic arrived.
Finishing their tea, they gowned up in the changing room, and Grace, waddling in a pair of white wellingtons a size too big, followed them through into the fridge-lined corridor, where the recent arrivals briefly resided – and some, those as yet unidentified, stayed much longer. Building up their loyalty points, he thought grimly. For an upgrade on their next visit. Except this was one hotel where residents never got rewards.
Most of the fridges, all numbered, were racked for four bodies. But in the recent refurbishment, accommodation had been provided for the growing numbers of morbidly overweight members of the community, and those extra-wide fridges were just two deep. As he passed them, Grace couldn’t help shaking his head in sad bewilderment at the story Darren had just told him, of the body of a man who’d been brought in, weighing forty-two stone, whose coffin was so heavy it had to be carried to his grave by a JCB bulldozer.
