The Oxford livery stables were in darkness by the time Mason’s car pulled up across the uneven driveway. Lee had returned to their Thames Valley Police Station on Abingdon Road, to get his DCI and local councillors up to speed, which told Jack all he needed to know about where Lee’s priorities lay; placating the elite was clearly more important than making sure Mulhern was safe and then laying a trap at his livery stables to be triggered by the gang when they returned the horse trailer in the dead of night.
The fifty-minute drive to just past Abingdon in Oxfordshire had been deathly silent. Jack and Lee had clearly not got off to the best of starts, which irked Mason who hated any kind of confrontation within his team. He’d decided that the best way to handle the tension was to say nothing.
Mason had just received a phone call from Lee to say that a patrol car had attended Mulhern’s livery stables less than an hour ago and had been unable to get an answer. But all was quiet, and the house was secure, so he was probably out. Lee’s insinuation that they were on a wasted trip didn’t allay Jack’s fears that something could be very wrong.
Mason knocked loudly on the front door to Mulhern’s home for the third time. ‘Looks like uniform was right,’ Mason shrugged. ‘He’s just out. It’s all good.’
Jack peered in through the lounge window for signs of life as Mason headed towards the stables just across the yard. Jack shielded his eyes from the glare of the security light. ‘There are coats and boots inside the front door.’ Jack shifted position, so he could see the other end of the lounge. ‘There’s a half-eaten sandwich on a plate perched on the arm of the sofa. And a mug of tea on the floor. Not touched by the looks of things.’ On the kitchen table was a carrier bag, rolled down to reveal a potted plant inside. Although partly obscured, Jack could just make out the business logo on the side of this bag: the word ‘Miles’ intertwined with leafy graphics. Charlotte Miles again.
Jack turned to share his discovery, but Mason was standing frozen in place, staring in through the open top half of a stable door. Jack moved swiftly to his side.
Mulhern’s body was on the floor. He was gagged and his arms were bound behind his back with rope. He was lying in the middle of a large blood-soaked pile of hay and a huge grey stallion stood within inches of Mulhern’s head, eating its fill of the crime scene. Jack moved quickly past the seemingly catatonic Mason, opened the lower half of the stable door and led the grey away from the body. Once the horse was secure, Jack turned to Mason with every intention of tearing a strip off him for freezing, DI or not, but from the expression on Mason’s face as he stared down at the body of the man he’d failed to protect, Jack knew that shouting wasn’t necessary. Mason already knew this was his responsibility.
‘Call it in,’ Jack instructed, ‘DI Mason! Call it in!’ Mason snapped out of his horrified trance and got out his mobile phone.
Mulhern lay on his right side, with his left arm pulled so far round his back that his shoulder was no longer in its socket. His right shin bone was so badly crushed that it lay almost flat against the concrete floor, and the bloodied hoof prints on his shredded trouser leg suggested that the grey had been encouraged to trample this part of Mulhern’s body, over and over.
Torture. Brutal, excruciating torture. Jack crouched down, careful not to touch anything, and examined the body more closely. Someone had carved gouges out of Mulhern’s forearms as well as cutting out little squares of skin. Finally, they’d brought his pain to an end by shattering his skull, most likely with the same crowbar they used on Mathew. Mulhern’s crushed and misshapen head now lay in a pool of dark red gore. Only his thick blond hair and the coagulated mess of hay, blood and brain matter, held his skull together.
Jack heard repeated heavy exhalations as Mason breathed himself calm over Jack’s left shoulder. ‘Ambulance . . . is coming,’ he managed to say between breaths. ‘And DI Lee . . . Fuck . . . Mulhern didn’t know anything. They’d have known that in seconds, so . . . why this? Fuck.’
Jack spun round and looked into Mason’s panicked eyes. Then Mason uttered completely the wrong words: ‘Right . . . well . . . we need to get our story straight with this one, DS Warr.’
If Mason had shown any sign of guilt, instead of the desire for self-preservation, things might have gone differently.
Jack jabbed Mason in the stomach with his clenched fist, sending him to his knees, then grabbed him tightly around the neck from behind, forcing his head up so he had no option but to look directly at the mangled body in front of him. Mason desperately tried to force his fingers into the gap between Jack’s forearm and his own windpipe, so he could breathe. Jack squeezed his words out through gritted teeth: ‘You sent all of your resources to protect the most important homes in the area! Those who shout the loudest, right, Colin? Fuckwits like Barrowman, the man who pays your wages. Well, Jacob Mulhern paid your wages too! And look at him . . . Look at him!’
Mason’s eyes bulged and reddened as oxygen left his panicked brain, but Jack continued, calm and terrifying. ‘You’re thinking, how do I get out of this fuck-up? Well, I’ll tell you. Me! I’m your only way out of this now.’
Jack threw Mason forwards onto his hands, where he retched and gasped for breath while distant sirens filled the air. Jack spoke calmly. ‘This gang has gone beyond the point of no return, because after murdering an innocent man, they know they have to get out quickly and with enough money to go to ground. So, they’ll hit the annual equestrian event back in Chipping Norton, and they’ll hit it hard. I know this gang, and I know how to track burglars. I will fight the likes of Barrowman to get my job done, but I won’t fight you. From this second forwards, you’re on my side, sir, or I’ll ruin you without a second thought.’
Jack turned on his heel, closing the lower half of the stable door behind him, and walked towards Lee’s unmarked police car, which was followed in by two marked patrol cars and the forensics van.
Mason, still on his hands and knees, wasn’t visible to anyone outside of the stable. He crawled to the wall, pushed himself to his feet and brushed his trousers clean of hay; he took in several deep breaths, loosened his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. He heard Lee and Jack talking as they approached. He finally managed to compose himself, and then appeared round the doorway as though nothing at all had happened.
Lee was immediately thrown by the sight that faced him, but he was a calmer, colder man than Mason so recovered his senses quickly and started barking out instructions to the uniformed officers and forensics team. But Mason didn’t hear any of it. He was too busy staring at Jack, his dark eyes now hooded by his thick brows and divided by a deep furrow. Looking at him, Mason knew that every threat made by Jack a moment ago had been genuine. But more than that, Mason also knew that every accusation Jack had thrown at him was justified.
*
From the outside, St Aldates Police Station in Oxford could just as easily have been a library or public baths. It was a beautiful old building with centuries of city life etched into its sandstone walls. Only the numerous CCTV cameras and modern windows made it look as if it belonged in the twenty-first century. Inside, however, it was a typical police station; far more high-tech than Chipping Norton and more heavily manned, but a typical cop shop nonetheless.
Gifford, Oaks and Davidson had driven across from Chipping Norton and were now waiting to be brought up to speed. They were each nursing a machine-dispensed hot drink in a paper cup but none of them were drinking the contents. Canteen Barbara had spoilt them rotten and now there was no going back.
As DI Lee spoke, Mason sat at his laptop and got all of the crime scene photos up on the interactive whiteboard that covered one complete wall. Once the images were uploaded, Lee could then move them around, enlarging and reducing, as he referenced each one. For Davidson, this was his first murder. The gruesome nature of the images didn’t bother him, as he’d seen numerous farming accidents in his time. But the deliberate brutality of one person taking another’s life in such a cruel way was shocking to everyone.
Lee’s succinct and emotionless summary of Mulhern’s murder was impressive. ‘So,’ he concluded. ‘The burglaries and the murder are intrinsically linked. Because the crime scene is so vast, covering both our jurisdictions, we need to work very closely together now and constantly share intel. I propose that DI Mason and I lead the murder angle from Oxford, and DI Gifford continues to lead the burglary angle from Chipping Norton.’
Jack knew that Lee wanted the far sexier murder investigation for himself, which was fine by him. All Jack wanted was to make sure that no one else died. ‘Sir, of course DI Gifford and yourself should lead this now dual investigation, but perhaps we should shuffle the teams to make best use of accumulated knowledge.’ Out of the corner of his eye, Jack could see Davidson twitching and fidgeting like a child desperate to be chosen first for a game of five-a-side. ‘DC Ronnie Davidson would be an asset to you, sir.’ Jack glanced casually at Mason. ‘And DI Mason would be invaluable to us. If you’re amenable, DI Mason?’
Mason knew he had no choice but to back Jack’s decision and claim to be more than happy with the idea of joining the Chipping Norton team.
*
Mason and Jack drove back to Chipping Norton together. ‘When I said you’d be invaluable to this end of the investigation, I wasn’t blowing smoke. I don’t really know what kind of a copper you are. But I do know what kind of a man you are. Finding Mulhern was . . . well, just hang on to those feelings of guilt and horror, because you’ll need them to catch this gang. You’ve got to feel in this job, Mason. Lee doesn’t, but you do. Guilt. Horror. Anything. Without feeling, there’s nothing pushing you on. Nothing that’s worth anything, anyway.’
By eight o’clock, Jack and Mason were in the bar of The Fox Hunters sipping their first pints of the evening. ‘So, who’s this inside man you were on about?’
‘Inside woman,’ Jack said with a smile, opening a packet of crisps.
‘Charlotte Miles has a smallholding and runs two businesses, a gardening and landscaping sort of set-up, and a fruit and veg delivery service. Her name crops up in every burglary, though to be fair, there’s a lot of names connected to every burglary; it’s a small, tangled community in that sense. But . . . on Mulhern’s kitchen table there was one of her delivery bags with a potted plant inside. She’s involved. I know she is.’
Mason, overwhelmed by his personal need for redemption, wanted to get over to Charlotte’s right now and bring her in. But Jack assured him that she wasn’t going anywhere.
Oaks joined them carrying a very cloudy-looking pint of cider and dragging a bar stool, as it was the only unoccupied seat left in the place. Oaks relayed all of the information that had just been sent through to him. ‘Jacob Mulhern: widower, two daughters, three grandkids. Nothing from his CCTV. It had been disconnected, but not in a “burglar” kind of way. It looked like Mulhern did it himself. His phone records show he was getting quotes to have all of his security replaced . . .’
Jack wrinkled his brows. Why was Mulhern updating his security?
Oaks was too focused on reading from his mobile to notice. ‘Post-mortem’s booked for first thing tomorrow morning, but initial observations are crushed skull leading to exsanguination.’ Oaks took a gulp of his cider, then picked a speck of apple from his tongue. ‘It’s a bit on the gritty side. Worth the effort though. Did you see Ronnie’s face when you said he could stay there? He’ll never see the outside of that station! He’ll be glued to a computer screen watching CCTV and doing PNC checks. He’ll bloody hate it!’
Oaks then excused himself and headed towards the toilets, but not before posing a couple of key questions to think about. ‘I wonder why they tortured him? What did they think he knew?’
‘What do you think, Mason?’ Jack’s question was accusatory, and Mason knew it. ‘This is exactly why need-to-know was so important.’ Jack didn’t wait for Mason to deny yet another mistake. ‘Someone at your end told him way too much. He knew “Mr Smart” had more than a passing connection to a couple of old Oxford burglaries. He was scared. That’s why he was taking extra precautions.’ Jack shook his head in disbelief. ‘One look at Mulhern’s face and they’d have known he’d had the cops round asking questions. That’s why they tortured him. To find out how much you knew. And Mulhern would have told them everything before they made the second cut . . . Everything else was sadistic.’
Mason touched the rim of his pint glass. He just wanted to be able to do something to make his guilt vanish.
But Jack pushed him further. ‘Carving him up like that. Getting his own horse to trample his bones.’
Mason squeezed his eyes tight shut. ‘Enough! You’re right, is that what you want me to say?! This is on us. On me, OK? My God, he must have been terrified.’
Now that Jack had Mason stoked up, he presented the solution. ‘OK. Tomorrow, we target the weakest link. Charlotte Miles. And we make her tell us everything.’