Suspect (The Mark Pemberton Cases Book 2) Page 11

  It was hoped that a sympathetic public would respond to police requests for information. And so, as the day’s publicity and co-operative methods were determined, Brennon and Pemberton felt they had engineered a positive start to their joint operation.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Pemberton.

  ‘Sure, lead the way,’ grinned Brennon as they left for their news conference. When the Langbarugh contingent left, Pemberton spent the remainder of that morning checking the Actions Register to ensure that every task had either been fulfilled or was still ongoing. Every question raised at the CID conferences had to be answered, every detail confirmed, every statement scrutinised for lies and factual errors, every alibi checked and double-checked. In reading the Actions Register, he was able to refresh his own memory of events since the Green Tent murder was discovered: firearms dealers were being quizzed about shotguns and sales of cartridges, motor cycle dealers were being quizzed about bikes and tyres, house-to-house enquiries were continuing in an effort to trace the movements of Scott and his killer, the Baxtons had been questioned almost without mercy until they could be absolved from any links with the death of the man near their stream. The parents of the little girls who were known to have associated with the old man were quizzed too, every dad being interviewed about his whereabouts, every dad being asked whether he had access to, or possessed, a dark-coloured motor cycle… The tentacles were spreading, information was flowing into the files and into the computer.

  But no new positive leads had emerged.

  Pemberton returned to his office; he’d packed himself a salad sandwich, a tub of fruit-flavoured yoghurt and an apple for lunch, and Barbara would produce a cup of coffee when he was ready. It was 12.30pm now and he felt he could give himself half an hour’s break for refreshments. He asked Barbara if she would make his drink and she agreed. He said he was going to do some intensive reading at his desk and did not want to be disturbed. She said she would put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on his door when she brought his coffee and he decided he would, in fact, do some intensive reading while having his lunch. He would study the statements from all the fathers of the little girls who had been visiting Scott during the past three years — all were kept in one large file. Revenge of this savagery might well appeal to some angry dad. Young people conned by Pearle, sexually assaulted by Scott or made into druggies by Hardisty were likely to have very angry fathers who might want to mete out their own brand of justice.

  When Barbara brought his coffee, Pemberton said, ‘Can you fetch the father’s file, please? I’m going to do some suspect hunting!’

  As she turned away to fetch it, Vic Hadley appeared at Pemberton’s office door.

  ‘I’m away now, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve a wee headache, all that concentration.’

  ‘Fine thanks for your help this morning, Vic,’ Pemberton smiled. ‘How’s it going, dealing with this murder? A bit more hectic than Muriel Brown, I guess?’

  There was a half-smile on the heavy bearded face. ‘He’s certainly causing a bit of a wee flap, is our motor cycling murderer. You know, sir, I’m really pleased to be involved in the hunt for him.’

  ‘We’ll find him,’ said Pemberton with as much confidence as he could muster. ‘So we’ll see you tomorrow, Vic?’

  ‘Aye, I’ll be in at 8.30am, for the morning at least.’

  ‘So what are you doing this afternoon? Anything exciting?’

  ‘A wee spot of fishing, sir. An hour or two on the river bank does me the world of good.’

  ‘Right. Well, see you tomorrow.’

  And Vic Hadley walked from his office. Pemberton watched him leave with a heavy, even ponderous, walk. A man who had suffered, a man now recuperating well and recovering fast. Then Barbara entered with the file of fathers’ statements and placed it on his desk beside his mug of coffee. She smiled and left, closing the door as she went. Standing over his desk, Mark Pemberton, lonely without Lorraine but for the moment content with his own company, opened his sandwich box and removed one of its offerings. He walked across to his window and looked out; he was on the first floor of the police station and commanded a fine view of the car-park and various exits and entrances. And as he stood there, he heard a motor cycle engine burst into life. Hadley, he thought. He’d heard the inspector had a motor bike. He waited and saw the black-leathered figure of Inspector Hadley ride from the police station upon a black and very modern machine.

  Silver markings along the fairing flashed in the sunlight.

  ‘Oh my God…’ muttered Pemberton to himself as he sat down at his desk, shocked and disbelieving. He sat there for a long time, his coffee growing cold and his mind reeling from the terrible suspicion that had been thrust upon him. As the sound of Hadley’s motor cycle faded, Pemberton found himself thinking about the Millgate supermarket shooting. His own brief and rather superficial study of the case file had practically convinced him of Hadley’s innocence; he had managed to persuade himself that Hadley could have shot Newton in order to save the life of a policeman. But had he? Could Hadley in truth have shot Newton in cold blood, knowing of his criminal activities?

  All the doubts which had nagged at Pemberton now resurfaced and he began to compare the Millgate shooting with the latest three murders. Certainly, there were similarities: sawn-off shotguns had been used during the Millgate raid and there was an unresolved query concerning them. There had been no motor cycle there, however, but Hadley now owned a motor cycle. So had he also access to a sawn-off shotgun? Did he own one, illegal though it was? Most police firearms officers used firearms as a hobby too, either with target shooting, clay pigeon events or grouse and wildfowl shooting. As he sat in his office, Mark realised he knew so little about the man who had recently joined his team. He said he went fishing in his leisure moments, but was that true? Where was he when the last three murders had been committed? Fishing? Or riding that black motor bike with a sawn-off shotgun hidden in his leathers? A shiver rippled down his spine, the thought made him cold.

  Pemberton, seasoned detective that he was, had a horror of having to investigate one of his colleagues, and yet this now seemed inevitable. Quite suddenly Vic Hadley was in the frame — in that instant, Inspector Hadley had become a suspect for three murders. Mark drew a deep breath and decided he must first inform the Chief Constable. The decision about any subsequent action in such circumstances was not for Pemberton alone, it was for higher authority. If Hadley was even remotely suspected, then his superiors, and Pemberton’s superiors, must be informed. Mark knew that even police telephone lines are notoriously insecure and so it meant a personal trip to police headquarters, a time-consuming but vital journey. The Chief must be told face to face, and it must be done immediately.

  He rang his own secretary.

  ‘Barbara,’ he said, his voice sounding croaked with the emotion of his discovery, ‘ring the Chief’s secretary, will you? See if he’s likely to be in his office this afternoon. I want an urgent meeting with him. Emphasise that it is very important and highly confidential.’

  She made the call immediately and came back to say, ‘Mr Moore is in his car, sir, in fact he’s in town en route for lunch with the Town Clerk. He says he will call in. He’ll be twenty minutes or so, his secretary says. He will come and see you, he has a few minutes in hand.’

  And so it was that Mark Pemberton took the Chief Constable for a brief walk in Rainesbury Central Park and made known his deep suspicions about Vic Hadley.

  Charles Moore listened carefully as Mark explained his suspicions and the reason for them as they strode along the wooded footpath. Pemberton, smart and alert, took care to guide his Chief away from people who might eavesdrop on their conversation.

  When he had finished his explanation, Moore said, ‘This is supposition, Mark, is it not? You have no evidence to support your belief?’

  ‘No, not yet. The suspicion has just dawned on me, I’ve not investigated it yet. I felt you had to know though, before I started to make deeper enquiries and before word ge
ts around.’

  ‘I appreciate that, and I respect you for reacting so speedily to your own suspicions. However, you will appreciate that I cannot suspend Hadley from duty, not without some substantial evidence.’ Moore was emphatic. ‘I cannot take that kind of action merely based on your suspicions, Mark, much as I respect your professionalism. But I do agree there is cause for deep concern. You need to carry out a very discreet and careful investigation, a secret enquiry, Mark. And if Hadley is the murderer, we must make sure he commits no more, mustn’t we?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘All right, pick your team, large or small as you think necessary. Use subterfuge if you have to. I don’t envy you this one, Mark. But thanks for alerting me. You know, I liked Hadley, I really thought he was on the road to recovery.’

  ‘Perhaps he is, sir, perhaps I am wrong,’ said Pemberton.

  ‘I hope so,’ said the Chief Constable.

  Chapter Ten

  Before deciding whom to appoint as his team in the forthcoming examination of Hadley’s life-style, past, present and future, Mark Pemberton wanted to check the duty sheets. These would enable him to determine Hadley’s whereabouts at the material times; they might even show he could not have committed the murders. He rather hoped that was the case. He should have done so before alarming the Chief Constable, but, in his excitement, he’d overlooked that simple routine.

  Back in his office, he asked Barbara to fetch them. Examination of the duty sheets was not out of the ordinary: the hours worked by the detectives were all logged so that any overtime payments could be arranged, and regular checks were made by senior officers.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ she asked as she placed the file on his desk.

  ‘All right? Yes, I’m fine.’ He grinned at her. ‘Why? Do I look ill or something?’

  ‘No, it’s just that you rushed out and didn’t finish your lunch or drink your coffee — and you never said where you’d gone!’

  ‘Sorry, something important cropped up. All will be revealed in due course,’ he added in an attempt to prevent any further speculation on her part. ‘Anyway, thanks for these papers. And how about a replacement coffee?’

  ‘Settle down to drink it this time!’ she exhorted with good humour.

  And so he did.

  Alone again, he noted that Hadley had meticulously logged his hours of work, both on the Muriel Brown case and on the current enquiries, and his entries had been countersigned by Detective Inspector Larkin. Thus they could be accepted as accurate. It was the work of a moment to trace the dates of the three murders — one on a Saturday, one on a Sunday and one on a Monday, all with a week in between. And on each occasion, with a sinking heart, Pemberton discovered that Hadley had not been working in the CID office. At the time of Pearle’s death, he’d been off duty, probably fishing. He was off duty when Hardisty had been killed in mid-evening, probably fishing again, while Scott’s death, in the early hours of the morning, was not so positive a bet. Certainly, Hadley had not been at work at that time of the morning, but Pemberton did know that fanatical anglers spent some strange hours in pursuit of their quarry. Some did fish all night and all day, and so, somehow, Pemberton had to find out exactly what the fellow had been doing during those vital hours.

  At this delicate stage, direct personal questioning was not an option, he felt. Even if Pemberton began to ask oblique questions, Hadley, being such a seasoned and experienced policeman, would quickly realise that there was a reason for the interest in his movements. It was possible he would refuse to respond. If he felt he was being quizzed or under suspicion, he could simply refuse to answer any questions. Not only would the enquiry grind to a halt, but Hadley’s progress towards full health might also be jeopardised, a harsh penalty if he was innocent. Indeed, the stress it generated might even cause a regression.

  Finding a way to deal with this problem would not be easy. One alternative was to appoint an officer to shadow Hadley during his off-duty moments, but he or she would soon be noticed. A trained observer such as any police officer, and especially the officer in charge of the firearms unit, was always alert. Pemberton also considered the use of a detective from another force, someone unknown to Hadley; that was a serious option. It was comparatively simple to conceal a watching detective in a busy street — it was not very easy to repeatedly use one on the loneliness of a river bank. As the Chief had suggested, subterfuge seemed to be one option. Pemberton knew there were some very skilled surveillance teams in the neighbouring police forces and felt he could draw upon their expertise if necessary.

  Sipping his fresh, hot cup of coffee, Pemberton gazed out of the window while trying to determine the most efficient and effective manner of surreptitiously investigating Hadley. It was easy for the Chief to recommend subterfuge, but how could that be achieved? Hadley was a loner, that had already been made apparent, and he would not respond to pseudo offers of friendship. To find a detective capable of offering genuine friendship to Hadley would be virtually impossible. But worth a try? Maybe the fellow craved a friend? A man friend? A woman friend? Would a sexual relationship reveal the true man, he wondered? Hadley was married, Pemberton knew, but his wife rarely took any part in social events which were linked to the police service. She wasn’t a member of the Police Wives’ Club, she didn’t come to police dances, social events, parties and so forth, and neither did Hadley.

  Mrs Hadley’s entire life revolved around her husband, so a temptress was not a good idea.

  Somehow, Pemberton realised, he would have to deploy stealth in his quest. He saw his task as being in two clear sections: first, to establish whether there were any positive grounds for suspecting Hadley of being a serial killer and second, if there were such grounds, to gather the evidence necessary for presentation to the Crown Prosecution Service to determine whether or not he should be charged. The first task would be the more difficult but once that had been completed, Hadley would be suspended from duty as a formal investigation, by the teams of murder case detectives, got under way. The second stage had many more positive elements.

  Stealth, then, seemed to be the immediate requirement.

  It was while he pondered the alternatives that Lorraine tapped on his door. ‘Come in,’ he called, not realising who had knocked. She came in smiling and he rejoiced in the mood of happiness she engendered.

  ‘Hi.’ He wanted to kiss her, but refrained, remembering that he was a police superintendent on duty and she was a detective constable. ‘Just back from Langbarugh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She remembered to give him his formal title. ‘I’m reporting in.’

  ‘Anything to tell us?’ he asked, indicating a chair before his desk. She explained that the Langbarugh end of the murder enquiries was following its natural course, with their officers trying to establish other links between the victims. While it was likely that they had been murdered because of their criminal activities, some deeper reason might emerge. To date, those enquiries had drawn a blank. No personal links between the victims had been discovered, but three teams were now expressly examining that possibility, one team per victim. Another initiative by the joint investigative unit was to arrange a dawn raid, provisionally and secretly timed to occur tomorrow at 7.00am, on all criminals in the region who were known to possess or make use of sawn-off shotguns. Every gun found would be subjected to ballistics examination to determine whether or not it had fired the fatal shots. In addition, every holder of a shotgun certificate would also be visited and his or her weapons examined. If any could not account for all the weapons they owned, further enquiries would be made.

  Lorraine also reported that the response from the early radio news bulletins and regional morning TV programmes had been beneficial. In both the Langbarugh killings, several new witnesses had come forward, but none had adduced any fresh evidence: their versions of events merely confirmed what was already known and reinforced the sightings of the beautiful black motor cycle and its black-clad rider at the scenes of two murders, each
witnessed by several onlookers. In spite of more witnesses to the Langbarugh killings, the moorland Green Tent murder had no such witnesses, other than the Baxtons, but in all cases, the files were growing, and information was flowing steadily into the two incident rooms.

  After delivering her impressions, Lorraine made as if to leave the office, then said, ‘Sir, you look tired.’

  ‘It’s been a bit hectic,’ he admitted. ‘But that’s the way with murder enquiries. You work while the work’s there.’

  ‘I was thinking of going for a walk this evening,’ she said quietly. ‘Before dinner, before it grows dark. Just along the riverside at Lainby.’

  He pondered for a moment. In the past, detectives rarely took time off when involved in such demanding work, but in the 1990s the mood was more relaxed. Too much intensive work could be counterproductive and besides, he had senior officers to whom he could, and should, delegate some of the responsibility.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll knock off early. I promise. See you at six?’

  ‘Six will be fine.’ She swept from his office with a cheerful smile. She was good for him, he knew, she made him relax, take time off, be more human…and a walk beside the river on a mild evening would be a wonderful tonic — even if he did have to carry a mobile telephone.

  An early finish during a murder enquiry, a shower after work and the change into something casual were a rare treat for Mark Pemberton. He found himself humming in the bathroom as he prepared for an evening out. Lorraine was right, this was a good idea. How nice it would be to be retired from the force and to be able to undertake such outings whenever the mood and opportunity arose. He hummed and sang a tuneless version of music from West Side Story and finally emerged ready for their walk.