THE BUSINESS END OF A ROPE AT ARMLEY GAOL.’
THE INCIDENT ROOM AT WEST GARSIDE POLICE STATION, established to investigate the murder of Emily Black, was crowded as grim-faced detectives and other police involved in the case sat on chairs brought in from other offices or simply perched on the edge of desks, waiting for the briefing to begin. The air was thick with cigarette smoke; virtually every officer there had a smoking cigarette in mouth or hand. One or two of the older officers puffed at pipes, further polluting the air with thick blue smoke.
Photographs of the murder scene, including sad photos of Emily’s body as it lay in the copse, a blown-up full-face enlargement of the photograph that Jenny Black had clutched to her despairing chest, a photograph of the shoe print found by the scene, maps, and carefully drawn scene of crime layout drawings, meticulously drawn to approximate scale, showing the murder site, the position of the body, the murder tree, the surrounding locus including the pathways into Bolehill Copse, and the footpath down to Kiltarn Road.
Other sketches of the children’s ward and surrounds were also attached, together with one of the hospital plans taken down from the walls of the hospital had been taped to walls with black tape. The sketches had been prepared by Harry Rawlings, who, unbeknownst to his colleagues, was an accomplished watercolour artist. Often on his days off, he would take his easel and box of watercolour paints out in the Peak District to paint the magnificent scenery around Castleton and Mam Tor, all the wooded dales and heather-cloaked valleys and mountains. He had held shows at a gallery in Skipton, his paintings signed only with his initials HFR, since he was afraid that he would become the butt of jokes around the station if it ever became known he spent his off days in such a pastime.
Supt. Trevor Bullock and DI Christopher Yarrow entered the room. There was a scraping of chair legs as officers, by no means all, got to their feet before Bullock indicated they should be seated again.
Without preamble, Bullock started. ‘This bastard is a nasty bastard, and I want him. I want him quick.’ There was a murmur of assent from the assembled police; it was a vile, evil crime that none of them, even the most experienced, had ever come across or even heard of before.
‘I want him quick and I want him tight. No loopholes for some clever dick bastard of a defence lawyer to find cause to get him off on a technicality or some legal wriggling. I want him quick and I want him dead. Any bastard who does this to a little girl deserves nothing else but the business end of a rope at Armley Gaol.’
Again, the muttering and murmurings of assent, of anger, and disgust at what this monster had done rippled around the room.
‘DI Yarrow is the Senior Investigating Officer and he’ll carry on with the briefing, just you mark my words. Get the bastard. Chris.’
‘Thank you, sir, I think we all agree that this is as vile a crime as can be. A four-year-old girl tucked up in bed in what everyone would think would be the safety of the children’s ward at West Garside Hospital.
Two nights ago, as we all know, about 2 o’clock so far as can be determined, someone made his way into the ward and abducted Emily Black. No one apparently saw this man come in or go out of the hospital. We believe that he picked up Emily or led her by the hand out through the fire exit and out of the hospital grounds through the emergency ambulance gate here,’ he said grimly, pointing out the presumed route on the plans.
‘From there he somehow got her to go into Bolehill Copse with him. How? How did he manage to convey a frightened little girl to the copse? She must by now have been terrified, taken from her bed in the middle of the night and carried out into dark woods. She would have been cold, even though the weather has been mild and warm during the day, at that time of night it would have been chilly. And she was wearing only a thin nightgown.
Cold and frightened, terrified, in the dark, scary woods with a man she did not know, a man who had by now gagged her. May have already abused her. Once in the Copse, he raped her brutally, causing her to bleed before he bashed in her head with a blunt instrument, which meant a stone found nearby by Derek Brighouse. It has been sent to Wetherby for forensic analysis and hopefully, they will find his fingerprints in the blood,’ pointing to a photograph of the stone and a sound wave of anger swirled about the room, resounding with anger as Yarrow deliberately stoked up the rage of the officers, to instil in them a violent urge to get out there and catch this monster.
‘We know he killed her there, did not kill her elsewhere and carry the body to the Copse. The poor little girl, imagine it, she must have been terrified, out in the dark woods with a stranger. Did she cry out in her terror? Did anyone on Kiltarn Road see or hear anything unusual? We’ll carry out house-to-house all along Kiltarn and in the farms above.
How did he find his way through the copse in the dark? He must have had a torch with him which shows premeditation; this was not a spur of the moment act. He carried with him a torch to find his way to that secluded, terrifying place in the middle of the night. He did not find that isolated little glade by chance.
He knew it was there. He knew his way around Bolehill Copse. He must have reconnoitred the copse beforehand. Did anyone see him? Any courting couples, any couples who should not have been couples who were in the copse at the same time as this man searched to find an isolated spot. We will offer anonymity to any couple who should not have been there, married folk having an affair, if they saw a man looking for isolated corners in the woods. Did anyone see torchlight shining in the woods, unlikely at that time of night but ask the question during the house-to-house along Kiltarn or the farms, we might be lucky, a farmer out looking to his sheep or a calving cow might have seen something.
Ask that when you interview at the farms, did they see a light in the woods? Once in the woods, he carried her. We know this because there was little or no dirt on her feet, as there would have been if she had walked. Remember, she had no shoes on her feet. So, he probably carried her with his hand over her mouth, or he gagged her.
Although the pathologist could find no positive signs of bruising or other marks that might indicate a gag tied about her mouth, it is possible that he stuffed a cloth or rag into her mouth to keep her quiet. There are suggestive scratches inside her mouth to indicate this possibility.
The killer carried poor gagged Emily down to the secluded spot where he first raped her and then beat out her brains, dumping her body and leaving her there, alone in the dark. Dead! Or dying!
Murmurs of anger swirled around the rooms with much muted swearing and condemnation.
“As the super says…” he tailed off as the DCC, Wilfred ‘Greasy’ Pole, swept into the room, his shoe heels clicking loudly on the linoleum. Chairs scraped back as every officer stood, but the DCC did not ask them to sit down again but rather allowed the assembled coppers to bask in his presence for a minute or so as he surveyed the evidence photographs and charts before finally signalling them to sit.
Pole was well-named; he was tall and thin with a prominent Adam’s apple which bobbled as he spoke. He had a long, thin nose, and his thinning, heavily brilliantined hair was swept straight back over his head, the comb tracks creating furrows like a freshly ploughed field, giving him a reptilian appearance. He had a mean, thin moustache over a mean, thin mouth. His uniform was immaculately pressed, his white shirt crackled with starch, his shoes were polished to a mirrored gleam, and he was a man who always stood erect, using his height to dominate and intimidate lesser mortals. He knew he did not inspire loyalty or friendship but to his mind, such sentimental irrelevances merely got in the way of advancement. He waited until the hum of conversation had fully died before speaking.
“The Chief Constable, Mr. Goulden-Locke, does not like this case,” Pole intoned slowly. “He does not like it at all and does not want to go into his retirement with such a notorious case unsolved. It would not be a fitting end to a highly successful career.”
The sub-text, which every officer in the room understood, was clear. A notorious murder case lying unsolved could damage Greasy Pole’s chances of taking over from Goldilocks, and surreptitious glances and knowing nods rippled around the room in an unspoken wave of suppressed irritation.
Every policeman and policewoman in the room was determined and dedicated to catching the beast who murdered poor Emily, and it did not need the DCC’s promotion-seeking pep talk to motivate them. “Let him go fuck himself,” Rawlings whispered to Harding, the two of them seemingly having reached a rapport.
“Whatever is to be done to catch this man must be done,” Pole continued grandiosely, carefully enunciating every word in a false, clipped accent. “I am personally taking on the task of ensuring that this force does everything humanly possible. That no stones are left unturned, that no avenue goes unexplored, that every lead is tracked to conclusion, that every clue, however small or seemingly insignificant, is hunted down, no door goes unanswered in house-to-house enquiries, that no forensic or medical evidence is missed, that every hint or whisper is properly followed and recorded. There will be no mistakes whilst this is on my watch, I assure you. You shall not fail in this mission; I shall see that you do not. I will not allow you to fail.”
“We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight in the fields and streets, we shall fight in the hills, we shall never surrender,” Harding whispered back to Rawlings in a very passable imitation of Churchill’s inspiring wartime speech.
“For a thousand years, men will say, this was his finest hour,” Rawlings responded as quickly as a flash and was about to add more when he caught sight of Pole looking around the room to try to catch the whisperers, and he straightened up in a pose of rapt attention.
‘I think I make myself abundantly clear. This case must be wrapped up as quickly and professionally as possible. Who have you designated as the SIO? I must make sure there are no slip-ups here and, in that regard, I am considering bringing in a more senior officer from Leeds, or if necessary, calling in Scotland Yard.’
‘DI Yarrow is the SIO,’ said Bullock, barely hiding his anger at the implication that the Garside force could not satisfactorily undertake the investigation. For sure, they were short of resources, but anyone coming in from outside would need the same. ‘He is more than capable of running this case. As you know, sir, it was DI Yarrow who nailed Frankie Starling and found the killer of Selena Kirkham, the girl on the golf course, the last high-profile case that we had. There’s no doubt he can handle this one, and all. No doubt.’
Pole looked at Yarrow as though he had never seen him before, clearly not liking what he saw. A man of medium height with a ravaged burnt mask of a face, untidy moustache, slightly rumpled suit, shoes in need of a polish, the first and second fingers of his right hand deeply stained with yellow nicotine, the blackened claw of his left hand, and dark bags of tiredness sunk deep into his scarified face, Christopher Yarrow did not inspire DCC Pole that he was the man to catch the killer, the killer he so badly wanted caught, not for the sake of justice or to give some comfort to grieving parents but to advance his chances of promotion to Chief Constable.
‘Yarrow, yes. As I recall, it took an unconscionably long time to apprehend Starling, and it was mere good chance the killer of that girl was found. Well, Inspector,’ Pole said, ‘you will find me very much determined to see things are done correctly this time; done by the book, and I shall want a daily report as to the progress, or lack of it, as the case may be, on my desk every morning by 8 o’clock.’
‘Sir,’ responded Yarrow, there was little else he could say, but the thought of preparing daily reports struck him as a colossal waste of police resources, stretched enough as it was.
Pole looked once more about the room, scanning every face for signs of doubt or uncertainty, but every face was set in determination to find the killer. Yet, he still did not realise that he had made a wasted journey; so convinced was he that it was his own oratory that had so inspired and motivated these men – and women – to apprehend the murderer of Emily Black.
He abruptly turned on his heels and marched out again, a job well done, or so he thought – another step towards the Chief Constable’s desk and all that went with it. Sir Wilfred and Lady Pole had a nice ring to it, he thought as he climbed into the back seat of the black Humber and nodded to PC Clumber, his driver, to take him back to Divisional HQ in Wakefield, leaving behind him an angry buzz of comment which echoed around the walls of the incident room, Rawlings repeating his earlier commentary on the DCC.
‘As I said, he can go fuck himself. Who does he think he is, eh? Self-serving bastard.’
‘He thinks he’s the next Chief Constable, that’s who.’
‘Well, God fucking help us; that’s all I can say.’
Another officer could be seen making closed-fist masturbatory gestures with his hand. ‘Wanker,’ he said, none too quietly.
Of other comments to be heard: ‘Sanctimonious prick!’ ‘Arsehole’ and ‘Patronising bastard’ were probably the most complimentary.
‘I’ll leave you to it, Chris,’ Bullock said quietly to Yarrow, ‘Tha’ll not need me around, not now the DCC’s aboard. I’ll coordinate with uniform for any bodies you need. Come see me after, right?’ and the Super walked out, still rigid with anger at the crass intervention of Wilfred Pole as the clamour of indignation seethed around the incident room.
Yarrow let the steam of indignation subside before motioning for silence. ‘You heard the Deputy Chief Constable,’ he said sardonically, ‘if you didn’t know it before, you know it now. We have to catch this man; we have to catch him quickly. We will catch this man. You all know that the first hours and days of an investigation are the most critical, before the trail goes cold.
Having done it once, this despicable animal might do it again. He might have got a taste for it. A taste for raping four-year-old girls. So, is he known to us? How many child rapists do we have on our patch? How many rapists full stop? How many vile creatures have we got who’ve been convicted of interfering with children? I need to know.
Anyone, anyone who has a previous conviction for sex offences, not just restricted to rape, indecent assault, or offences against children, sex offenders in general, flashers, peeping toms, pantie stealers, sheep shaggers, buggers, bring them all in and find out where they were two nights ago. Every known sex offender on our patch. Every single one. Tear their alibis apart, talk to the neighbours, see if any of our perverted scum were seen out late that night and if the neighbours find out for the first time what a nasty little turd they’ve got living next door. I do not for one minute care because you don’t suddenly go from being an upright solid citizen to a child rapist and murderer without there being a pattern. Find that pattern.’
Yarrow allowed his own anger to build up, his nostrils flaring as he spoke. ‘Has he been seen hanging around the schools, especially primary schools? Have parents noticed any strange men talking to their kids, especially to little girls. Offering them sweeties? Talk to school crossing attendants; they will have noticed.
Talk to doctors, at the hospital and at the health clinics and surgeries for any little girls they’ve noticed with signs of sexual interference or that they may have suspicions about. Is our man the father of a little girl that he has been abusing and his wife has got suspicious, so he’s started to look elsewhere for his vile gratifications? Get round to the Garside laundries, see if anyone has brought in blood-stained clothes for cleaning, in the house-to-house enquiries ask if anyone has been seen burning clothes in the back yard.’
The briefing continued as Yarrow, chain-smoking his Players, outlined the course of the investigation. The fingerprint unit from Wakefield had finished their painstaking examination and printing of the Albert Doakes Children’s Hospital and the exit corridor and door, as well as the gate at the head of the grounds leading to Kiltarn Road and Bolehill Copse. Considering how clean a hospital ward is supposed to be, a surprisingly large number of prints had been taken from all surfaces. So now began the painstaking task of eliminating those who had legitimate reasons to be in the ward: all staff nurses, doctors, orderlies, patients, parents and visitors who had been to the ward to visit their sick children, cleaners, health visitors, and almoners, all had to be eliminated.
In conjunction with the hospital administration staff, a list of all employees past and present, all patient details with home addresses, and the names and contact information of anyone who had ever had a reason to have been there was being assembled, a task that would take several more days to complete. Thoroughness was everything; a missed name on the list could be the man they were looking for.
The list ran into the hundreds, and DCI Hugh McDermott, a dour Scot from Edinburgh (known as Shuggie to his colleagues, as most Scots called Hugh are), who had somehow found himself in charge of the West Riding Constabulary Fingerprint Squad, had requested additional resources from Division, and more fingerprint technicians would be seconded from Sheffield and Wakefield.
Pairs of detectives were detailed for house-to-house enquiries. Rawlings and Harding were detailed to question all known sex offenders in the town and immediate surrounds. The consensus of all was that the murderer must be a local man, a man who knew his way around Bolehill Copse. A casual visitor to the town would never have come across it by chance, or it seemed unlikely.
“He’s local, no doubt in my mind,” Rawlings said to Harding, who nodded in agreement.
A fingertip search of the grounds had already taken place, as had the murder scene, and all paths leading to the copse, which was still classified as a murder scene, had been sealed off and access closed. Arnie Muckraker had on four occasions been forcibly ejected from the locality as he tried to find a way to the scene to take photos. Having been officially warned, he now haunted the Black home to the extent that the distraught parents had to go and stay with Jenny’s parents.
“Anybody who kicks that devious little bastard into next week gets a commendation from me,” Yarrow said, not altogether jokingly.
The briefing lasted for more than 3 hours, by the end of which Yarrow’s voice was hoarse from talking and cigarettes; far too many cigarettes. He felt drained and nauseous.