Bloody Reckoning Read online

  Police interviews had thus far revealed concurrent affairs with two soldiers – one male and one female – and two local civilian women. The soldiers were both also junior NCOs, Corporal Jane McDonnell from his own unit and Lance Corporal Raymond Smethurst at the Army Medical Service Training Centre in Strensall. The women were Alison Crane, a hairdresser, and Jennifer Rand, a student at the University of York. There was nothing illicit about any of these, although I imagined his philandering would have caught up with him at some stage. Bavister’s parties, however, were a different matter, and any Army personnel who attended would be likely to find themselves on some kind of misconduct charge.

  According to a friend of Haywood’s, Lance Corporal Aidan King, Haywood had attended the O Club on the 11th and 20th of April, which – if I remembered correctly – meant that he had been to both the S&M and swingers nights. There was no information on the O Club itself, except that Bavister was allegedly running it with Lieutenant Derek Lyle from 3 LANCS – Vaughan’s battalion – which was currently at Catterick. Lyle was twenty-seven, from Zimbabwe, and had two years’ service. The O Club had first come to 33 Section’s attention in March this year, and had become part of the larger Bavister inquiry. Vaughan’s name was mentioned in several statements as a regular supporter of the 2 Signals rugby team, but nothing else.

  When Siân started work in the lounge, I put on a sweatshirt – it was cool and cloudy – and went out to the balcony. There didn’t appear to be anything else of much use in Lawson’s file, so I turned my thoughts to my evening rendezvous. Once I’d made up my mind, I went back inside, and took what I considered to be the necessary precautions, courtesy of Maikel. Then I dressed for Bishop Wood and Bell: chinos without a belt, a short-sleeved shirt, a pair of walking boots, and a battered black leather jacket. At half-past one, I put some of the photocopies in a document wallet, and gave Siân a hug goodbye. She pleaded with me to be careful and I promised I would.

  We both knew I was lying: if I was careful, I wouldn’t go anywhere near Bell.

  I drove past the police station and Imphal, continuing along the A19 towards Selby. I crossed over to the A64 to the more rural, southern side, and then turned left after a village called Escrick. I reached another village, Cawood, and continued for Sherburn in Elmet. About a mile after Cawood I saw the turn for Hammersike Road to the left, marking the north-western reach of Bishop Wood. I ignored it and drove straight on, across a railway line surrounded by trees and green fields. Far away in the distance, four huge chimneys belched puffs of white smoke that sailed up to join the cotton-wool clouds overhead. I arrived at a crossroads: left into Scalm Lane for Wistow, right into Oxmeer Lane for Biggin. I went left.

  I crossed the railway line again and passed a small car park on my left: Park Nook according to my map. Scalm Lane bisected Bishop Wood west to east and both sides of the road were thick with tall poplar trees. There was a sign for Dutchman’s Car Park up ahead, also on the left. I turned into it, joining two other parked cars. An elderly couple dressed for hiking were just starting along a footpath to the west. I climbed from the BMW and took out the copies of the maps and photos from Lawson. I was still some distance from the crime scene, but I wanted to try and form an impression of the wood as a whole first. I leant against my car and looked around, identifying some pine trees in amongst the poplars.

  This was where Oliver Simpson, unkindly referred to as Homer by Lawson, had parked on Sunday. I imagined it would have been much busier. He and his two children had taken their dog for a walk along the same route as the hikers, into the centre of the wood. They had then made for the northern edge, with the intention of walking in a rough oval that would’ve brought them back to the car park.

  I spent a few minutes listening to the bird calls and the rustle of the leaves in the wind, thinking about the three people who’d converged on the crime scene: Simpson and his entourage from here, Haywood from Biggin, and the suspect from Hammersike Road. Simpson had been both the murderer’s undoing and saviour. If his dog hadn’t bolted off at the shot, it would more than likely have failed to draw any attention, and the killer would’ve been able to bury Haywood’s body and remove his uniform and effects. Having interrupted the murderer, however, the dog then effectively prevented his detection by following his exact footsteps back to the road.

  I had another look at the maps, started the car, and retraced my route across the railway lines. I turned off into Hammersike Road, a gravel track running south-east through the wood to a couple of farms. There was a spacious passing place before the road turned sharply to the south-west. I drove around the corner, and pulled up onto the grass at the edge of the trees. Assuming Haywood had walked from Biggin, he would’ve entered the wood at roughly this point. The killer had continued south-east along the road, which turned east after a few hundred metres. The crime scene was like a triangle, with Haywood walking down one side and the murderer driving around the other two.

  I selected a few sheets of paper to bring with me, took a bearing with my compass, and entered Bishop Wood.

  The shrubs and ferns were mostly knee height or lower, and the tree branches and leaves very high, aside from the odd sycamore. Two hundred metres into the wood, I saw the yellow police tape, tied from tree to tree in a large semi-circle. I realised I’d arrived at the place where Haywood had stacked his clothes and boots, which meant I had followed his route correctly. By keeping inside the huge cordon, I soon found a dark stain on the ground: Haywood’s blood, the only remaining evidence of the incident. Simpson and his dog had come from the left, the killer from straight ahead, almost directly south. The route upon which so many had tramped was bordered by more tape, forming a narrow plastic corridor of fifty-odd metres.

  I walked along it until I reached Hammersike Road again. I had a look at the area where the tyre print was identified, but couldn’t make anything out. I paced around on the road for a while, trying to imagine what the murderer had done, starting from the facts the police already knew. Although I couldn’t be sure of the killer’s motives, I attempted to put myself in his place, and look at the crime scene from his point of view. I hung about for a few minutes, or perhaps longer, then retraced my steps to the blood stain.

  I stopped and stood, listened and thought.

  Lawson’s R2S was great, but it wasn’t a patch on actually being here. Perhaps that was a reflection on my intelligence rather than the system, considering that the camera could see much more than my naked eye. I’m not sure how to describe it, but standing in the same spot where Haywood had died gave me some kind of insight above and beyond what I’d gleaned from the R2S. Ideas started to occur to me, some obvious, some not so obvious. For example, Haywood hadn’t been under duress. He had stripped of his own free will rather than at gunpoint. Lawson seemed to have taken it for granted, but I hadn’t.

  The meeting was also clearly an assignation, for the purpose of sex. The whole set-up reeked of it. The rendezvous was in a public wood, and as such provided an element of danger for the lovers. It was exciting enough to be able to hear people walking and talking a few dozen metres away, but safe enough to narrow the chances of being discovered. The uniforms suggested the same element of exhibitionism, increasing the risk of being reported if seen. Perhaps there was some sort of S&M thing going on with them as well. I wouldn’t know. I’ve been in uniform for all of my adult life, so I’ve never found them sexy. Even nurses’ uniforms just make me think of death and pain, but maybe that’s the whole point for the S&M crowd.

  The killer had no doubt enticed his victims into the woods with the assurance of sex, perhaps promising something extra to heighten their desire. The sex provided an excuse for the victim to remove their own clothes, which made the murder easier for the killer. When they were ready and waiting, naked and on their knees, all he had to do was pull the trigger. The woods gave cover from sight, muffled the sound of the shot, and afforded a guaranteed place to dispose of the body. The best case scenario was that the bodies would
never be discovered and the victims reported AWOL like so many others – especially youngsters in their first couple of years in the Army.

  A shallow grave in a public area wasn’t likely to remain undiscovered for too long, however, although in Gordon’s case it had been enough to hinder identification. If the police hadn’t tried Colchester Garrison immediately, it might have been a long time before the body was identified. The greater the time the killer could put between him and the crime, the less likely the police were to catch him. I had another look at the map and confirmed that the real chance of discovery was actually remote. The rendezvous wasn’t on any of the numerous paths through the wood, and had it not been for Simpson’s dog, the homicide probably wouldn’t even have been detected yet. A .25 is a very small calibre weapon, and makes much less noise than larger handguns and rifles.

  I also realised what the killer used to bury the bodies: an entrenching tool. This is a kind of lightweight, fold-up spade carried by soldiers in case they need to dig-in for defensive purposes. It fits into a small pouch worn on the belt, and would barely be noticed if the killer was in uniform. He had also used the entrenching tool to try and obscure his footprints, dragging it behind him as he ran. He had no way of knowing that Simpson’s dog would do a far more thorough job than he could. Our man was resourceful, a quick thinker.

  I spent the better part of an hour at the crime scene; pacing, sitting on my haunches, listening, thinking. I took my time because I knew I was unlikely to visit the other two. When I’d had my fill, I returned to my car, headed back to the A64, and drove to the Little Chef in Bilbrough. I arrived at twenty-five to five and made my final preparations in the privacy of the toilet. I was about to order an orange juice when Lawson’s Audi sped into the car park. I made my excuses to the waitress and walked out, throwing my jacket in the back before sitting down carefully in the passenger seat.

  “You really did the business, Hutt. The governor’s over the moon about Keogh – if you know what I mean.” Lawson burnt rubber onto the A64.

  I strapped up for the flight. “Good. Have you got his records?”

  “Yes. There’s another present for you in the boot. No direct link with Bavister, but they were in the same regiment. Good enough for me. Bavister and Vaughan will be interviewed again tomorrow or the day after. I’m also having Battle go through all the CCRIO records in case there’s another murder we haven’t connected to Claymore yet.”

  I nodded. “Good idea.”

  “You been at the crime scene?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “I think the killer is using an entrenching tool to bury the bodies.”

  Lawson slammed the steering wheel with his palm. “Yes, I like it!”

  “I also agree with you about the sex. The victims definitely went to the woods for sex and there’s probably some sort of sexual motivation for the killer as well. I think we’re dealing with a serial killer who’s a sexual predator – not that giving him a label necessarily helps us.”

  “That’s why I went back to Lynch and Bates today. It’s easier with Gordon, because he only had four associates: Vaughan, Bavister, and the two women. Bates is still off the radar and Lynch is in Afghanistan. I asked the governor to let me fly out there to interview her, but she wouldn’t wear it. Lynch is due back at her barracks in Devon later this month.”

  “That’s it!” My turn to shout.

  “What you on about?”

  “Lynch and Gordon. You were right. He was talking about a specific person, and I know who.” I reached into the back for my jacket and removed my phone.

  “Who? For fuck’s sake don’t keep me in suspense.”

  I dialled Mac’s number. “The fittest woman in the Army.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Fit as in fit, not fit as in foxy.”

  “So?”

  Mac answered: “Hello, Mac here.”

  I raised my hand to cut Lawson off. “Mac, it’s me. I need another favour – just a quick one.”

  “You might have to wait a while, mate, but go for it.”

  “Can you find out where Theresa Cowan was in August 2009?”

  “Aye, why? Howay, you’re not –”

  “No, not yet. Look, I’ve got to go. Give me a ring or leave me a message when you find out?”

  “I will.”

  “Who the fuck’s Theresa Cowan?” asked Lawson.

  “Theresa Cowan is a captain in the British Army, an Officer of the British Empire, and an Olympic medal winner. Bronze or silver, I can’t remember.”

  “So what’s she doing screwing a loser like Gordon?”

  “How about setting him up to kill him?”

  “You mean you think she’s a player?”

  “Not really, but she is the fittest woman in the Army. Gordon was probably making it up to impress Lynch, but it’s worth a look.”

  “Why?” asked Lawson.

  “Because she was Haywood’s running coach.”

  He let out a long, low whistle.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lawson drove on in silence, and I didn’t disturb him. He was dressed in a dark suit, but had removed his tie. Where a smart suit often makes a man look more respectable, it had the opposite effect on him. The muscles of his shoulders, arms, and chest bulged under the fabric, and the veneer of civilisation only emphasised the savagery beneath. The more menacing the better. If his presence helped persuade Bell that Siân wasn’t worth the effort, then my involvement with Operation Claymore would all be worthwhile. If not…I didn’t want to think about that. The high-rise council flats of Seacroft came into view, and I checked my watch. Lawson had made good time, and would no doubt continue to, even allowing for congestion.

  As if on cue, he said, “How much do you know about Bell?”

  “Enough to be sure we aren’t going to get on.”

  “Then pay attention. Mick Bell – or ‘Mr Big’ as he likes to be called – has been a property millionaire since he was thirty-eight, a rags to riches success story from Chapeltown. He’s built his empire on the lives of the addicted and afflicted from the council estate he was born on, and currently controls the Leeds drug trade single-handed. He peddles crack and smack instead of coke and heroin because there’s more money in it. In 2010, he undercut competition by selling crack at ten pounds a rock. Never been done before or since. Addicts tend to use one or the other, but this year he started giving away free samples of brown with the crack, and vice-versa.”

  He slowed as we approached the first roundabout, and indicated left for the city centre.

  “Last year, one of Bell’s players was trying to flood York with brown to create a base of addicts. We managed to nip it in the bud – so we think. Three years ago Bell cut loose of the Manchester gangs that were running the Leeds drug scene with a couple of classic Columbian-style hits. You know: two players on a powerful motorbike; pull up next to the mark, do the business without dismounting, and speed off through the traffic. Once Bell had rid himself of the Mancs, there was open war between his local boys and the Yardies. Have you heard of Operation Spur?”

  “No.”

  “The West Yorkshire reaction to Bell and the Yardies. Started in 2011. By the beginning of last year they’d made a hundred and sixty arrests. They got lucky with the Yardies, because they were able to deport fifty of them back to Jamaica. Not so lucky with Bell’s crew, but there’s about twenty of them doing time. You want to know what really impresses me about him?”

  “Go on.”

  “No form. Not a single conviction for anything. He’s only been arrested three times, and all before he was seventeen. His main source of income at the moment is money-laundering, and the word is he’s using Leeds United to do it.”

  “They’re in a bad way financially, aren’t they?” I said.

  “That’s right, heavily in debt. We know that Bell has influence with the Leeds United Service Club, and suspect he pays them for a variety of services. He’
s never been linked to any right wing organisations – got more sense than to give himself bad publicity – but all of his players are white, most of them local except for a few Mancs. You must have scared him if he’s meeting you at Leeds Army Surplus.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Bell has nothing to do with the nasty end of his operation any more. He has a couple of players who make sure everyone is doing as they’re told, but he’s not made an appearance at any of the premises known to us for a while. There’s a huge file on LAS. It’s run by three chavs – Hampton, Shield, and Smith – who oversee about two dozen white and brown dealers. LAS itself is a slaughter, where they divvy up their stashes of drugs and cash. Been raided twice last year – nil found both times. Hampton used to be a football thug, and his registered business interests are the shop and his agency of nightclub bouncers.”

  “Who come in handy when it’s time to collect.”

  “Exactly.” Lawson smiled grimly as he nudged his way into the concrete heart of Leeds.

  “In truth, I’m not a hundred per cent sure Bell is going to be there. That’s why I wanted your help. I told Collier – one of Bell’s mid-level dealers – that I’d hurt him if he didn’t set up a meeting, but he’ll be more scared of Bell than me.”

  “Unless you’re intending to torture him to death. If you are, I don’t want to know. What’s your plan if Bell does turn up?”

  “The woman’s name is Siân Matthews. He set her up as his mistress in a penthouse apartment last year, with the usual promises of leaving his wife. When she got tired of waiting, he had her brother attacked and got her hooked on coke. I don’t want any trouble, but I’m going to make sure he understands it’s over.”