Sir Ben had spent the last few hours providing his mother with what the care agency euphemistically termed ‘personal care’, but which was, when you stripped it all back, mopping up piss and shit. That only put him in a worse mood than ever but once the carers had finally arrived, he did as Tony Evans had suggested: donned what he thought might fit the description of ‘dog walking gear’ and headed for Ditchling Beacon in his ropiest car, a grey Peugeot 308. The drive itself was uneventful except for a trundling tractor, which drew a tail of traffic like the Pied Piper with children. Eventually the machine swung off into a nearside field and the traffic thinned out as everyone made up for lost time.
Just before the road fell away towards the Beacon’s eponymous village, Sir Ben turned left into the circular car park and squeezed into the last remaining space, behind the ever-present ice cream van. He switched off the engine, picked up his phone, then thought better of it and left it on the centre console. He stepped out of the car, zapping it locked.
As instructed, he clambered up the bank, turned left and, having held the gate for a couple of speeding mountain cyclists coming the other way, 175walked through and headed for the trig point two dozen yards away.
A sense of relief washed through him as he saw Tony Evans waiting with two Labradors straining at their leads.
Evans, dressed in green combats and a black sweatshirt, nodded. ‘All right, Ben?’
‘Been better, so I hope you’ve got some good news for me.’
‘In good time. Got your phone?’
Sir Ben frowned. ‘No, I thought I’d better leave it in the car. You know, in case I’m being tracked.’
Tony leant against the stone pillar which marked the highest point on that particular hill, and sighed. ‘How did you get to be so successful? You’ve got to think.’
Sir Ben pondered for a second. ‘I thought that’s what I was doing.’
‘Far from it, mate. Listen, if anyone’s tracking you, which I very much doubt by the way, they’ll have you making your way up here then, what?’
The penny dropped. ‘Sitting in my car for an hour?’
‘Exactly, and while you’re there, not using your phone in any way, shape or form. How often does that happen?’
‘Well, never. Unless I’m doing something else, I’m always messaging, calling or emailing.’
‘And do you ever leave your phone behind?’
Sir Ben shook his head.
‘Right, well go and get it and let’s create a nice innocent trail of you driving up to a beauty spot to meet an old mate for a dog walk.’
Sir Ben grunted in acceptance and scurried back to his car, grabbed the phone – checking for messages and firing back replies to the two most urgent ones – then walked back up to Tony.
‘Right, let’s walk and talk,’ said Tony, having checked for eavesdroppers. He thrust one of the dog leads into Sir Ben’s hand and they strode off west along the ridge, giving the air of two middle-aged friends having a long-overdue catch-up in the fresh air of the national park.
‘Well this morning couldn’t have gone better. We got to all the police 176witnesses, one way or another, and persuaded them all they deserved a day off. Then the crash worked like a dream. I’ve heard they’re still trying to identify the driver and Twitter’s gone mental with people ranting about how long it took to clear the traffic.’
‘And the judge did as he was told, I see.’
‘Wouldn’t you if you were in his shoes?’
Sir Ben chuckled. ‘Too right. Anyway, out of curiosity, how did you stage the crash at just the right time and place?’ Tony looked at him, his face making any words redundant. ‘Seriously, I’m fascinated.’
‘What did we say about deniability, Ben?’
‘Humour me,’ said Sir Ben with an edge designed to remind Tony who was in charge here.
‘Well, it was simpler than you’d imagine. The hardest bit was nicking and storing the lorry beforehand. Once we’d crossed that bridge and plated it up so it looked legit, the rest was simple. We were lucky that Elmley Prison just released a lorry driver who’d done three years for importing millions of dodgy fags. So all we needed to do was doctor the front tyres with some remote-controlled charges and give the driver a story about needing to get to Harwich on the hurry-up.’
Sir Ben was impressed. ‘That it then?’
‘No, of course not. We had a few disgruntled ex-cops follow Bob Heaton after he left the police station.’
‘And?’
‘We judged their journey and, as the driver was told he had to go hell for leather for Harwich, just at the point when the coppers couldn’t pull off, we detonated the charges and hey presto, the lorry jack-knifes and overturns. Gridlock.’
‘And a dead driver?’
‘Well, yes that was unfortunate, but no one said this was without risks.’
As they approached the next field, Sir Ben saw there were around twenty or so Hereford cows crowded round the gate. Stopping, he said, ‘These dogs OK with cattle?’ 177
‘’Course they are. They’ll move. Not scared are you?’
‘I was more concerned about the dogs,’ lied Sir Ben.
Tony chuckled. ‘You’re like my daughter. Loves all other animals but can’t be in the same postcode as a cow. God knows why.’ He paced ahead, opened the gate and as predicted the cows ambled away.
Satisfied the immediate danger had passed, Sir Ben continued.
‘You sure the trail won’t come back to us?’
‘It’s fine. They’ll identify the driver soon enough but to all intents and purposes he nicked a lorry and got unlucky driving it. The phone we gave him happened to be from where the rig was nicked from and at the right time. The charges and detonator disintegrate on ignition so it’ll just look like another ex-con heading back into crime, driving too fast and unable to keep control of a blowout.’
‘And …’
Tony stopped, turned and glared at Sir Ben. ‘No. No more “and”s. You’ve got to trust me. I shouldn’t have told you all that. Let me get on with what you pay me for, and you sort out whatever you do as a result.’
He was right, of course he was, but Sir Ben needed one more question answered.
‘What about the court charges? Any chance they’ll be resurrected?’
‘Nope. Not a hope.’
It had been a few years since Bob had carried out an in-person welfare check on an officer’s first day sick. And that had been following a particularly nasty assault.
The first two calls had gone as well as such things ever can. The two officers had come to the door, after he strong-armed their partners a little. Both looked pasty enough and certainly there was no smell of alcohol. It was interesting that, when asked whom they had told that they couldn’t make the trial, they both mentioned the same witness care officer.
The third call meant a trip north to Burgess Hill, a commuter town between Brighton and Gatwick Airport. It took a few reverses out of dead 178ends before he found the right house on the new-build estate.
Squeezing his car into a space, he checked the number and walked up to the tiny terraced house wedged between two larger homes. The trim postage-stamp front garden was enclosed by low picket fencing. The pink scoot-along ‘Little Tikes’ car suggested why.
Bob pressed the doorbell and waited. Nothing. He rang it again. This time a woman’s voice yelled out of an upstairs window.
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, hello. It’s DI Heaton from the police. I’ve come to see DC Josh Mitchell.’
‘He’s in bed.’
Bob sighed. ‘That’s good, but I need to see him.’
‘You’ll have to come back. He’s ill.’
Bob was about to reply when the woman slammed the window. A minute later, the door opened. He thought it would be Josh’s partner, ready to give him both barrels, but he was shocked to see the DC himself.
He was even more surprised to see him in suit trousers and a crisp white open necked shirt. His red eyes contrasted with his otherwise immaculate look.
‘Come in, boss,’ he said, stepping aside.
Bob walked in and found himself in a small lounge/diner with more furniture than clear floor space.
The blonde woman who’d a moment ago told him to leave stood by a door Bob assumed led to the kitchen. The rage written across her face was unnerving. She glared at him, both arms shielding a toddler in front of her.
‘Boss, this is Lyndsey and our little girl, Faye.’
Still the woman said nothing but scowled.
‘Look, I’m sorry to intrude, it’s just I need to check you’re OK. You know, that there’s nothing we can do for you while you’re ill.’
‘On day one?’ said Josh. ‘Bit unusual isn’t it?’
‘Bloody harassment if you ask me,’ said Lyndsey.
Bob thought he could front this out and pretend it was just a run-of-the-mill 179visit, but he knew that would just anger them even more so he came clean.
‘Look, can I sit down?’ He didn’t wait for permission but perched on the edge of a blue velour armchair. Josh did likewise but Lyndsey and Faye remained rooted to the spot. ‘I’m here because you, and every other police witness in the Eradicate trial, have gone sick and, well, it’s a bit odd don’t you think?’
Josh looked as if he wanted to say something, but he’d thought better of it.
‘Is there something you need to tell me? The trial has been pulled because of this, so it’s serious.’ He paused. ‘You don’t look sick, just terrified.’
‘Are you a fucking doctor?’ said Lyndsey. Bob saw Faye look up at her mother in astonishment.
‘Lynds, leave it,’ said Josh. He turned back to Bob. ‘Honestly, I just felt rough. I’m sure I’ll be back tomorrow. I’m sorry about the trial but I couldn’t go and throw up in the witness box.’
Bob wasn’t taken in for a second. ‘Josh, you need to tell me.’
‘Fuck this,’ said Lyndsey, striding forward. ‘If you’re not going to tell him, I will. See her?’ She pushed Faye almost into Bob’s lap. ‘You got kids?’
Bob nodded.
‘Natural?’
‘I’m not sure that’s …’
‘Did you have them the natural way?’
‘Well, yes but …’
‘Lucky you,’ she said. ‘Four miscarriages and three failed IVF attempts it took us before we fell with this little miracle.’
Josh stood and touched Lyndsey’s shoulder, which she shrugged off. ‘I’m not saying you love your kids less than we love Faye but after all that, when someone threatens them across your own garden fence, you do whatever it takes to protect them. And if that means Josh here has to throw a sickie and ask no questions, well that’s what’ll happen.’ Her face 180was scarlet now but there was no stopping her. ‘It’s only ’cos I happened to look out of the window that I saw the bastard. I thought he was going to snatch her.’
‘What happened?’
‘He told me next time I wouldn’t be quick enough. Then he told me what Josh had to do, and he fucked off. You tell me, Detective Inspector, what would you do?’
Bob had no answer for that. ‘I’ll leave you now. But Josh, come and see me first thing tomorrow.’
He saw himself out, walked to the car in a daze and called Jo Howe, who listened in dumbstruck silence.