Authors: Ryan Casey
“That’s fine,” Brian said, stepping away from Jack’s doorway. “We can come with you, if you’d rather. If that’d be easier on you.”
More narrow-eyed staring from Jack. Typical shifty farmer. It was always hard to pin down a farmer. Brian had dealt with a handful of them in his time on the job, and they were all as shifty as each other, no matter whether they were guilty or innocent. It was like they felt they didn’t have to follow the normal rules or codes of the rest of society. Probably a result of working for themselves, running their own little lifestyles—they were subservient to nobody.
Explained pretty well why they didn’t take too nicely to police requests.
“Suit yerselves,” Jack said, as he slipped his black wellies on, which were caked with sheep shit. “Might wanna wear some better shoes though.”
After changing into some of Jack’s spare wellies, which were way too bloody tight for Brian’s feet, Brad and Brian followed Jack over to the outhouses where the cows were kept. In there—this dark, damp place—the smell of shit intensified. God knows how anyone could find a lifestyle like this rewarding.
Granted, Brad didn’t seem too fussed, but when did he ever?
“Thing about cows is, they’re a lot cleverer than people give ‘um credit for,” Jack said, as he opened up one of the gates and waved them out of their little pen.
Brian clutched his nostrils. “Oh yeah? Where’d you read that?”
“Protective. Of their young. Step between a cow ‘n its babbies and it’ll trample you to mush.”
“I’m not sure that qualifies as ‘clever,’” Brad added, scraping his shit-covered wellies on the damp ground as a group of cows scurried past, shit still tumbling from their asses.
“They look after their young a whole lot better than we do.”
Brian saw Jack smile at him. He supposed he kind of had a point.
“Did you know Sam Betts?” Brian asked.
Jack clapped at a few of the cows, lured them out of their pens and out into the field at the back of the farm. It looked out right over towards the motorway. “Saw the lad a few times. Friendly young’un. Bit shy, though. Not like that yappy little mutt of ‘is.”
“How about Wednesday night?” Brad asked.
Jack seemed distant. Called some more orders and commands at his cows. “Not sure about Wednesday night. Might’ve done. Got so used to seein’ ‘im I lose track.”
“Did he ever speak to you?”
“The odd ‘ello ‘ere and there, y’know. Like I say, friendly lad. But a shy ‘un. Doesn’t surprise me he…”
He stopped. Opened another gate to let some more cows out.
“Doesn’t surprise you he what?” Brian asked.
Jack looked at the ground. Red face flushed some more. “Well, y’know ‘ow it is. Weak ‘uns always get the shitty end of the stick in life. Shame though. Wish I’d seen summat.”
“Yeah,” Brad said, looking around the darkened outhouse. “Us too.”
“Which way did he usually walk?” Brian asked.
“Always down’t track and round’t path. Always. Twice a day, always that way. Never t’other way.”
That matched up with the facts. The skid marks on the dirt track.
Brad walked around the mucky ground of the outhouse. Almost lost his footing. “Any kind of security around here?”
Jack frowned. “Security?”
“CCTV. That sort of thing.”
“No need for no security round ‘ere. Just a few alarms, stuff like that. It’s a safe place round ‘ere though. Stuff like this, it never ‘appens. That’s why it’s such a shock, y’know? The missus has bin beside ‘erself since ‘earing about it.”
They stepped outside the outhouse and Brian finally released his grip on his nostrils. “Any children of your own, Jack?”
Jack closed the gate as the last of the cows staggered into the field. “Aye. Wee lass aged thirteen and an older lad of twenny-two.”
“And they both live with you?”
Jack shook his head. “Patrick’s moved out now. Lives with his girlfriend in Yorkshire. Wanted ‘im to stay back ‘ome workin’ on the business but y’know ‘ow it is with lads these days. Wife, two kids already. Shacked down ‘n workin’ full time over there.”
Brian nodded as he followed Jack away from the outhouse and back towards the farmhouse.
“Nice spot you’ve got here,” Brian lied. He knew this kind of country lifestyle appealed to some. Just not to him.
“Pays the bills,” Jack said, wiping his hands, which were even blacker with dirt and shit than they were when Brian had shook them. “Tough life, but it pays the bills.”
They returned to the front door of Jack’s house. Returned his wellies, which were ankle deep in cow muck.
Jack shook his head. “Keep ‘um. If yer solvin’ a case around ‘ere, first things you’ll need are a pair of wellies.”
Brian smiled and tried his best to look grateful, but all he could think about was how damn stinky his car was going to be if he took these crap-magnets in with him. Knowing Brad, he’d probably rub them all over the mats too.
“Wish I could be of more ‘elp.”
Brian nodded. Handed Jack his card. “Anything else comes to you and you let us know, okay?”
Jack took the card. “Course. ‘Appy to ‘elp.”
The pair of them waved goodbye to Jack and walked down the driveway, back towards the farm track and the dirt track, where the dogs continued to search in the muddy slush.
“What d’you make of him?” Brad asked.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that question, eagle-eye?”
Brad shrugged.
“Well, he seems honest enough. Shifty, but aren’t all farmers?”
“Mmhm,” Brad said. He wasn’t giving much away.
“Spidey senses tingling?”
Brad shook his head and stared at the ground. “Just frustrating. No CCTV, nothing like that. It’s gonna be a slog.”
Brian wobbled to one side as he slipped on some shitty mud. “That it is.”
Brian picked his phone out of his pocket and called the station when they got back to his black Ford.
“Make sure you put your wellies in the boot,” Brian said, as Brad opened the passenger door.
“Oh,” Brad said, as he sat himself down and put his feet on the mat. “Too late.”
“Fucker,” Brian muttered.
“Beg your pardon, Brian?”
DC Arif’s voice echoed down the line.
“Arif. Sorry, I didn’t mean you. We just—”
“Got summat for you. Summat on Andrew Wilkinson.”
Brian plonked his wellies into the boot and frowned. “Any relevance to the Sam Betts case at all?”
“Just about,” DC Arif said. “I did a check on that number for Han Solo. DC Finch had a word with the website owners too. Both of ‘em pointed towards this chap named Andrew Wilkinson.”
Brian’s stomach twinged. Andrew Wilkinson. The guy who’d done a runner from Jean Betts’ house after paying her for sex. “Why does Andrew Wilkinson ring a bell with me?”
DC Arif chuckled a little. “We fast-tracked the DNA on the wine glass too. Got a clear match: Andrew Wilkinson. Certain that’s the guy that was at Jean Betts’ place the night her son was abducted.”
“Put me out of my misery,” Brian said. “I’ve heard of this guy.”
Another slight chuckle from DC Arif. “Even better—apparently you arrested him.”
Brian sat down in his car. Hands tingled with anticipation. “I did? When? What for?”
“Allegations of relations with a student of his at Bridgemore High. Got off with it, but don’t all the posh boys?”
And then it came to Brian. Andrew Wilkinson—Mr Fucking Wilkinson. Slimey bastard if ever Brian had met one. And yes—he remembered now. Often rode a bike to school. He remembered clearly.
“Cheers, Arif.”
He put his phone down. Looked over at Brad and smiled as wide as he could.
“Got something?” Brad asked.
Brian started up the car. “I think we do.”
As the black Ford pulled away from the farm track, Jack Selter let out a deep breath.
“All clear.”
Brian and Brad made their way back to the station, got stuck in even more bloody traffic and rain, but got back in time to speak to DC Arif about dodgy Andy Wilkinson before Arif buggered off back home early, which he had an unfortunate knack of doing.
Arif clicked about at his computer. His desk was filled with emptied bags of Wotsits, a collection he’d gathered over the years. Even the keys on his keyboard had an orange tint, and there was a distinct smell of cheesiness about the air.
“Left Bridgemoor High four years ago after allegations of misconduct emerged.”
Brad tapped his fingers on Arif’s desk. “Be more specific.”
DC Arif sighed and clicked around. “Accused of an indecent relationship with a sixteen-year-old boy. The boy came out and spoke about it once he’d left school and hopped town with his mum. Pressing charges for weeks on Andy right until a few days before the court hearing started, and the boy—Damien Halshaw—dropped them all.”
Brian felt his eyelid twitch. “Rich man gets his way. Never heard that one before. Any details on Andy’s activities since?”
DC Arif clicked around. Shook his head. “Apart from courting Sam Betts’ mummy, we’ve nothing on him. Rides a blue road bike. Living on some inheritance money he was left behind. No job for years, not that we’ve got recorded.”
“Any addresses?”
More clicking around from DC Arif. “The big country manor on Moss Lane.”
“Nice. And not all that far from the crime scene,” Brian said. “Still lives there?”
“Alone, as far as I can tell. But like I say, he’s gone very quiet. We don’t even have any—”
“Detectives?”
DC Finch was standing at the edge of Brian’s desk. Twitchy guy, he was, with a bit of a squint and a boss-eye.
“Sup, Ginge?” Arif asked.
Finch laid down some photographs on DC Arif’s desk. “CCTV of Andy Wilkinson cycling away from Jean Betts’ earlier today.”
He leafed through the photographs. Showed Brian the shots of him cycling fast down Westhaven Road just after the police arrival at Jean Betts’ house, then turning onto the A6.
“Where’s he end up?”
“The Marriot,” DC Finch said.
Brian looked at Brad. Nodded. “Looks like we’ll have to go pay him a surprise visit. Has Jean Betts been in?”
“She confirmed the body as Sam Betts’. I caught up with her and showed her the photos and she says Andrew Wilkinson’s the man.”
Brian felt anticipation building up inside him. Felt his heart thumping. He’d always noticed his heartbeat since his heart attack last year. A near-death experience like that had a funny way of affecting you. A strange way of making you aware of your body, of all its little quirks and perks. He’d been on red alert since collapsing in that alleyway with a severe searing pain in his chest, and he probably always would be.
Didn’t stop him eating bacon butties, mind.
Brad walked around like he was adding everything up in his head. “So he’s a nonce. He’s seeing Jean Betts and he goes missing a short while after Sam Betts disappears. And then when we go round to see Jean, he does a runner.”
“It’s not looking good for him, eh?” DC Arif said.
An officer cleared their throat. Brian looked up, saw DC Patterson standing there with her frizzy black hair and smooth dark skin. “Got those CCTV reports from Westhaven Road for you, detectives.”
“Anything?” Brian asked.
DC Patterson puffed out her lips and shook her head. “Place is a CCTV nightmare. We don’t have anything on the entrances to the dirt track. But we do have shots of Andy Wilkinson on his bicycle around eight p.m. Wednesday night.”
“Right when he said he was out getting wine.”
DC Patterson frowned. Shook her head. “He doesn’t come back with any wine.”
Brad peered at Brian and then back at Patterson. “But Jean Betts. She said he… she said he went out for wine. Why would she say he went out for wine?”
Jigsaw pieces that Brian still didn’t understand clicked into place as the office chatter and the pattering of rain against the window made his head spin.
“Come on, Richards,” he said. “It’s about time we paid a trip to the Marriot and found our friend Andy. Arif, how long ago did Jean leave?”
Arif licked his orange-tinted fingers and checked his watch. “Half an hour ago or so.”
“Call her back. I think it’s time we had a proper chat with her.”
Arif and Finch shot confused stares at one another. “But Brian, she—”
“She lied to us. I want her and Wilkinson to be in our company at the exact same time to see their stories add up. So get off your arses and get onto it.”
They both jumped a little at Brian’s shouts. Arif almost knocked over a half-drunk bottle of Coke in the process.
Brian and Brad rushed down the grey corridors and towards the stairs.
“Your car or mine?” Brad asked.
Brian laughed. “It’s an emergency. I wouldn’t let you drive in an emergency if it was my own bloody emergency.”
Brian and Brad got to the Marriot Hotel about fifteen minutes later and already Brian was sick of all this day one to-ing and fro-ing.
They stepped out of the car. Slight specks of rain kissed their faces in the breeze. In the distance, beyond the evergreen trees, the posh exterior of the Marriot looked down at them.
“Dressed for the occasion, I see,” Brad said. He looked down at Brian’s shoes, which were scruffy and scuffed.
“Yeah, well,” Brian said, reaching into his pocket. “There’s only one piece of itinerary I need for this place.” He pulled out his police badge and shoved it in Brad’s face before walking across the orange leaves on the car park and towards the hotel entrance.
They stepped through the rotating automatic doors, which were lined with gold edges, and walked into the red-carpeted reception area. It was pretty nifty in here. Classic music playing to lull customers into a false sense of security before charging them a shitload for using the in-room fridge, a smell of expensive aftershave and perfume making love in the air and making Brian want to choke.
Over by the desk, a dark-haired woman with glasses and gold jewellery all over.
“She’s gonna be hard work,” Brian muttered.
“How do you know that?”
Brian stepped along the red carpet and tried not to picture the muddy marks he was making on the expensive carpet. “Trust me. I just know.”
He stopped at the counter and leaned against it. Tapped his fingers on the desk.