Six

2013

‘Good morning, Superintendent.’

A Tuesday morning in late May and there were four others round the table in the meeting room at Bevham HQ. The only one already known to Serrailler was the Chief Constable, Kieron Bright. The man who had succeeded Paula Devenish was the youngest in the country ever to be appointed Chief, a fast-tracker who had swiftly worked his way up through the ranks and then served in a high-security special unit before being an ACC for under two years. He was impressive, taller than Simon, fit, shrewd, and he had hit the ground running. The force had felt the shock but responded to it well. Simon had expected not to like the man but he did – liked and respected. The only area of disagreement they had was over drugs ops, which the new Chief had pepped up and which Serrailler regarded as a waste of time and resources. They had agreed to differ. ‘I respect your arguments, Simon,’ the Chief had said. ‘I’ve met them before and in quite high places. But they’re wrong. It’s my mission to bring you over to my side.’

The mission was not yet accomplished because there was never time for the luxury of exhaustive debates.

The Chief had called him in, without explanation, but Serrailler was fairly sure this was not going to be about drugs ops.

‘Thank you for coming over. I’m sorry I wasn’t very forthcoming but this was not for any sort of communication other than face-to-face. I’m only in for the first few minutes and then I’ll leave you with the officers here to give you a full brief. I don’t think you’ve met any of them before.’

Simon looked round again quickly. Blank and all unfamiliar faces. ‘No, sir, I’m sure not.’

‘Right. This meeting is to discuss a very sensitive covert operation. It isn’t going to be an easy one. But I wanted to say that the operation has my full support, and that I suggested your involvement because you’re not only one of the most experienced but also one of the most trusted officers I’ve ever worked with.’ He looked straight at Serrailler. ‘That isn’t bullshit,’ he said.

‘Sir.’

‘But in the same way that you’ve never met the people here before, I know you’ve never done anything like this op before.’

So the Chief had been through his career file. Serrailler had done most things in his time, except terrorism ops. Right. The Chief left. Coffee was brought in. The room went still.

‘I’m DCS Lochie Craig. I work in the Child Exploitation and Online Protection Centre.’

‘DCI Linda Warren. Also from CEOP.’

‘DCS Harry Borling.’ He gave no more information.

Not terrorism then. Child protection was something Serrailler had been involved in from time to time, as almost all police officers were, but as he had risen through the ranks he had left much of it to the specialists. He said so now.

‘This is actually a side shoot from CEOP, Chief Superintendent.’

‘Simon.’

‘Thank you. And it’s Lochie.’

The other two nodded. Everyone relaxed slightly.

‘First off, I’d like you to look at some images. Three men. No names for the moment.’

He passed his laptop across the table. The older man in the photos was clearly related to one of the younger ones – they were probably father and son, Simon thought. The older was in his late sixties or early seventies, with thick white hair, a strong jaw and a beaky nose. The younger man – late thirties? – had brown hair, worn slightly long, the same nose, softer jaw. Their eyes were exactly the same shape – the family resemblance was strong. The third man looked rather less like the others but he had the same beaked nose as the first. Probably mid-forties. Simon looked hard at each of them for several minutes before passing the laptop back.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m certain I’ve never seen any of them. My memory for names is OK, but for faces it’s extremely good. I don’t recognise them at all.’

‘Good. Glad we’ve got that out of the way. Right, let me go into detail.’ Lochie Craig was a balding, burly man in his fifties. A measure of strain had become moulded onto his features but he spoke calmly enough.

‘Lafferton, 2007.’ He had his laptop open.

‘Hmm, 2007. That was the year of the serial murders here. I don’t remember much else, though there must have been plenty of other stuff going on.’

‘There was. In April, a girl approximately four years old was found wandering the streets at night, naked and distressed. She was sighted twice before being brought into safety by a resident. She was initially taken to hospital, later into foster care and finally adopted. She had been physically abused, badly enough to need surgery. Her identity has never been discovered. No one came forward despite widespread appeals – no parents, family, neighbours, no one. She suffered almost total blanking of the events and we could never even find out her name. She now lives in another part of the country and is settled with her adoptive family, but, inevitably, she is scarred in most senses and has educational and emotional problems.’

‘I was certainly aware of the case,’ Serrailler said. ‘Even in the middle of very complex murder inquiries, it couldn’t fail to be noted.’

‘Right, case two. A child called Glory Dorfner presented some artwork in her primary-school class. It depicted crudely drawn figures engaged in sexual activity. One was of a small girl apparently being buggered by a man. The other was of a small girl performing an oral sex act on a man – the male’s sexual organ was made to appear much larger than the rest of the figure. The child’s teacher came to Lafferton Police Station. Officers and members of the social services child-protection team visited Glory’s house an hour after the teacher reported with the drawings. The child was asleep, but there was sufficient concern and a certain amount of evidence of her being sexually abused to warrant her being subject to an emergency court order and taken into care immediately. Her stepfather and her stepbrother were subsequently found guilty of sexual abuse, and computers and other material were taken from the home. These contained hundreds of images of child abuse. This case is being looked into again at the present time, because of certain new evidence and in spite of the fact that the two men are still serving sentences.’ He paused to pour himself a glass of water. Drank it.

The faces of the other two were impassive. They had heard all this before, and far worse. They dealt with child abuse every day of their working lives and it was beyond Serrailler to know how they coped with it.

The DCS looked at him. ‘OK?’

Simon nodded.

‘Right. Case three. Mrs Jean Mason of Plimmer Road, Lafferton, died in 2010, and while in hospital during her last illness she left a notebook in the safe keeping of her friend, Mrs Kathleen Latimer. Mrs Latimer looked at it and brought it into Lafferton Police Station. It took a little while to work out what the list of dates and times meant – there were notes, but they were not very full. Do you know Plimmer Road?’

‘I do and I didn’t realise anyone still lived there. It’s been a derelict bit of Lafferton for a long time. Shops closed, didn’t reopen, got boarded up, accommodation above them was usually empty. There was a plan for its redevelopment but once the recession bit every developer pulled out. I haven’t been along there for a while but I doubt if anything has changed.’

‘Mrs Mason had lived above one of the shops for upwards of thirty years. Her friend Mrs Latimer, who died last year, was interviewed several times and said that the Masons had never wanted to leave. When they first went there it was a bustling area of shops, offices and residential, and Mrs Mason had stuck it out while everything shut up round her. But according to the notebook, she started to hear sounds from the disused shop next door – children crying, children screaming – then she recorded seeing cars draw up and men get out with small children, and, twice, men coming out of the shop carrying a child. She knew the property was empty.’

‘Did she call us in?’

‘No. And she didn’t tell Mrs Latimer anything, just asked her to keep the notebook safe.’

‘What action was taken at the time?’

‘I’ve a copy of the report here, if you’d like to read it.’ He handed over a single sheet of paper.

A routine patrol car had checked out 11 Plimmer Road, at 4 p.m. on 20 October. The shop had formerly been a bookmakers with living accommodation above but was boarded and padlocked. The garden behind was overgrown and needles and other drug paraphernalia were found, none recently used. Steps led from the back door down to a cellar which was also boarded, and bolted. The patrol reported all this and then left, but one of the patrol officers wasn’t happy and reported to CID. It was over a week before anyone investigated – low priority at a time when they were overwhelmed with a murder inquiry. Two officers went to the shop equipped with a rammer and broke down the cellar door. An outer room contained some old cardboard boxes and newspapers, but was otherwise empty. A door, slightly concealed by an old wooden chest, was then discovered and that led to an inner cellar. Here, a camera and other recording equipment were found, together with some rugs, a couch, a couple of upright chairs, plus cigarette butts, sandwich wrappers, empty plastic coffee cups and drinks cans. Unfortunately, no one had the presence of mind to make this inner room a crime scene. But all the items were removed, bagged and taken for forensic examination.

Serrailler put the sheet down. ‘Findings?’

DCS Lochie Craig looked at his laptop.

‘There was a small amount of footage left on one of the camcorders – probably test images, perhaps when the equipment appeared to have a fault. They were blurred and disconnected but there was enough to show us that children were being filmed during the course of sessions of sexual abuse. Nothing else except a feast of fingerprints – they were obviously either planning to return or sure they were safe and undetected. Cups, recording equipment, chairs … clear prints were taken from all of these. There was also some DNA – on the rug, on the sofa – taken from semen and saliva and also from blood.’

There was a pause. Their faces were still impassive, even that of the woman DCI.

Serrailler felt anger and nausea bubble up into his throat. He suppressed them.

‘Fingerprints lead anywhere?’

‘Only one set. A man called William – always known as Will – Fernley. Mean anything?’

‘No, nothing at all. He isn’t local, is he?’

‘Not local to Lafferton, no – the family live in Devon. William is the third son of Lord Fernley.’

‘Sorry, no, I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Fine.’ The laptop lid was closed.

‘Linda, would you like to take over at this point?’ Craig poured another glass of water and drank all of it.

She was probably in her early forties and, until now, she had sat listening with that impassive expression. Now, though, she looked directly at him with a warm, open smile.

‘This isn’t an area you’re very familiar with and I know it can be difficult. We deal with it every day, we get used to it, but we don’t get hardened, Simon – the minute that happens, it’s time for a transfer to another line of work. Not everyone can cope with it – it takes its toll. On the other hand, it is so important, it’s vital – and we owe it to the children to stick at it, so we find ways of coping and continuing. I want to say this now because if you do take on what we’re hoping you will, you need to understand that fully.’

Simon nodded.

‘Do you have any questions at this stage, before we get down another layer?’

Did he? How the hell did you light on me for whatever it is? Why? It’s something I’ve steered clear of for the whole of my career, I’m not well informed about CEOP, so why me? But whatever the answer and then whatever you’re going to ask me to do, it’s no. No.

He folded his arms. ‘No, no questions,’ he said. ‘Carry on.’