‘OK, so let’s look at the facts.’ Moran addressed the upturned, attentive faces. The team was small, five in total this week until George’s return. Resources were thin on the ground and getting thinner every month, so John Herbinson had done well even to get authorisation for this meagre number of experienced officers.The Crime Investigations Manager was loitering next to the exit, as if expecting a more urgent appointment to whisk him away at any moment. His body language telegraphed his personality; impatient, determined, thorough. Moran approved of all three attributes, and so far their relationship had progressed smoothly, but it was early days and he wondered how things would go if any disagreement reared its head along the line.
He’d had the measure of his ex-boss, DCS Higginson – they went back a long way and had developed an understanding over the years. But the reporting hierarchy had been reshuffled and the winds of change had blown Herbinson his way, so it was a case of back to square one. It took time to build trust, to get the measure of a man, to understand what made him tick. But then Herbinson probably felt the same; this was new territory for both of them.
Nevertheless, however things panned out, Moran was ready to fight his corner – even though the experience of a manager breathing down his neck was a new and not altogether comfortable prospect.
‘Forty years have passed,’ Moran began. ‘Anyone here remember 1981, apart from myself?’ He gave a wry grin. ‘No? Thought not.’
Herbinson was smiling too. Moran estimated the CIM’s age to be at least fifteen to twenty years younger than himself. It was a fact of life he’d long accepted that at this late stage of his career most of, if not all, of his colleagues’ dates of birth fell into the category of, for him at least, recent history.
Deal with it, Brendan…
He turned to the board, where he’d pinned a black-and-white photograph of Laura Witney. She was standing outside her barracks at the defunct RAF base, smiling a little uncertainly at the photographer. Her hair was piled up and she was clutching a small handbag.
‘I’ll be frank, we don’t have much,’ he confessed. ‘The original investigation fizzled out. No suspects emerged after four months hard at it.’
‘The base is closed now, guv, is that right?’
Moran nodded. ‘Yes, DC Swinhoe. Which means that we’re left with existing evidence only, along with a number of names to reinterview, should we feel that to be necessary. There’s one in particular I’d like to speak to, a close friend of Laura’s, name of Charles Summers. He was keen on her, but as far as I can make out from the file, they remained friends only. And he was the last person to see her alive.’
‘Apart from the killer,’ DC Bola Odunsi added.
‘Indeed, DC Odunsi, apart from the killer.’
Moran was glad to have Bola on board, but he was keeping a watchful eye. Bola was impulsive, prone to indiscretions, but experience was experience, and for a case as cold as this one Moran would rather have a flawed experienced officer on the team than a rookie.
‘The night in question there was a party on, a function to mark a squadron anniversary. Laura was seen in the mess early that evening, around six pm. The record of the interview with Charles Summers confirms this. They had a drink together, he walked her to her barracks where a car was due to collect her and take her to Wing Commander Akkerman’s house a mile or so away, to babysit for the family.’
Moran pointed to the board, at a photograph of a young, chisel-jawed man in his early forties wearing the uniform of an RAF Wing Commander. ‘Wing Commander Dennis Akkerman. Married – or was at the time – to Jane Akkerman. Two kids. One, again at the time, a daughter, aged nineteen. The other, a son, Christopher. Eighteen months.
‘An afterthought,’ someone muttered.
‘An accident, more like.’ Another officer’s rejoinder provoked a burst of laughter.
‘All right, all right.’ Moran held up his hand to quell the noise. ‘Let’s concentrate on the important stuff.’ He turned back to the board. ‘The Wing Commander is still alive. The Witney file contains a comprehensive transcription of interviews held at Castle Hill by–’ Moran consulted his notes, ‘–one DI Purcell and DC Raymond. I’m content that at least some pertinent questions were asked, and that the answers to those were satisfactory, if inconclusive. I’d like to begin by having a chat with Akkerman – or Air Commodore Akkerman, as I should correctly call him, retired as he is. The officers still like to be addressed according to their rank, even in their dotage.’
He paused. ‘The Air Commodore’s wife is deceased, but the daughter and son are probably still alive. I’d like to speak to both.’
Bernice Swinhoe frowned. ‘The son would have been too young to take much in, guv. Is it worth spending any time on him?’
‘He might shed light on family interactions over the years. You never know what might turn up. Point taken, DC Swinhoe, but we’ll keep him on the list for now. The other POIs, in my opinion, are Charles Summers, and the daughter – we don’t have an address for her yet, but no doubt Akkerman can supply us with one. However, I’m also interested in Laura’s colleagues, people who worked directly with her.’
‘Laura was in Catering, guv, right?’ Bola asked.
‘Yes. I have a list of associates we need to work through in addition to Charles Summers. Some we may track down, others – well, let’s see how it goes.’
‘What about the pickup car, guv?’ Bernice Swinhoe wanted to know. ‘No one got a look at it?’
Moran drew a deep breath. ‘Charles Summers didn’t wait for Laura to be collected, so no, no one knows what car picked her up, or indeed if any car picked her up, although the distance of the murder site from the air base suggests that a vehicle must have been used at some stage. DC Collingworth?’
Chris Collingworth had his hand raised. ‘Public transport, guv? Is it possible she hopped on a bus?’
‘Unlikely,’ Moran replied. He tapped the board where a rough map of the area had been pinned. ‘There is a bus stop outside the base, but we’d have to wonder why Laura would have made the decision to use a bus when we know she was due to be collected.’
‘Maybe she thought they’d forgotten her?’ Bola suggested. ‘Or that they’d been held up by some domestic issue? So, she took the initiative?’
‘All right, well let’s not discount it.’ Moran turned back to the board. ‘Here’s a shortlist of interviewees – colleagues of Laura’s: Julie Parker, Nick McBrain – the chef heading up the catering operation – Lynn Stamford, Margaret Gibson, Rita Dempster. They worked closely with Laura. I’ve read their statements; I suggest you all do the same. It’ll help to build a mental picture of the environment she was working in.
‘I’d like speak to each in turn. You may need to put in some effort to track them down; we have names and addresses of next of kin and so on if you need to refer. In the meantime, let’s hope that the appeal produces some results. There’s one other thing I should mention – Laura kept a diary, quite a comprehensive, day-to-day summary, personal thoughts, comments about colleagues, and so on. As reluctant as I am to invade her privacy, I do feel that it’s necessary to examine it to see if it might shed any light. It’s the closest we’ll get to speaking to Laura personally. When I’ve finished with it, I’ll pass it on; one of you might spot something I missed. Any further questions?’ Moran surveyed the room. ‘No? Off you go, then. We’ll have a daily washup at say, five-thirty?’
When the team had dispersed Herbinson left his observation post by the door and came towards Moran with measured, purposeful strides.
‘Don’t rely on the appeal, Brendan. It’s thorough, old-fashioned police graft that’s needed here.’ Herbinson’s eyes bored into his with their usual intensity.
‘And here’s me thinking I was the old-fashioned one,’ Moran replied.
‘I’m not teaching granny, Brendan. I just want to make sure that we’re all pulling in the same direction, that’s all.’ Herbinson examined Moran for any sign of reticence. ‘The original case investigation was a sloppy affair, and Laura Witney’s parents died without answers. That’s unacceptable. You know enough about me by now to have figured out that I’m not a loose-ends man. I don’t do sloppy. I’m a results man, always have been, and I intend to achieve results – positive results. Another thing; I don’t carry people on my team. Anyone not cutting the mustard will be out, pronto. Sound reasonable?’
‘I’ll make sure the team are aware, John. Thanks for the heads up.’
Moran watched Herbinson walk away. They were OK at present, respectful of each other’s positions. But how long would that last?