Authors: Angie Smith
Pauline watched as the car parked next to her Range
Rover and a man and woman stepped out.
Saturday 26
th
May.
When Woods arrived in the
Incident Room Barnes and McLean were already at their desks working. West was
having childcare issues, but would be in later. Jacobs was out interviewing
another named suspect, and Dudley had traced the previous owners of Lakeside
Residential Home; he was in Thornhill near Dewsbury interviewing them, with the
intention of moving on to interview Stephen Porter in nearby Briestfield, after
he’d finished.
Woods snatched a coffee from the machine and headed
to his office, only to be intercepted by Barnes. “I’ve got something you might
be interested in,” she said, eyebrows up.
“Come in, and we’ll have a chat.”
Woods seated himself in his chair and she squatted
on one of the stools nearby.
“When Gerrard Crean was diagnosed with pancreatic
cancer he was terminally ill for almost a year, during which time a number of business
deals went pear-shaped losing him millions, and I mean millions. It was
predicted that he would be a billionaire before he was fifty and the
indications were all promising. Then, when his estate was finalised after his
death, it was worth only £300m. I’ve been going through his company’s status
and the press releases on the internet.”
“That is interesting. Maybe he was siphoning off
money before he died.”
“£700m is some siphon.”
“What else have you discovered?”
“I’ve checked Gerrard’s accident and I can’t find
anything out of place.” She twitched her nose. “It’s as Pauline said. He was
out driving his Ferrari, clipped the kerb and crashed into a stone railway bridge;
his blood sugar was low, and that was attributed to him not being quick enough
to react. The Accident Investigation Report said he was travelling at around
125mph; he didn’t stand a chance. Paramedics pronounced him dead at the scene
and Pauline formally identified him, as did the post-mortem report which stated
that the deceased had been a diabetic and had an inflamed pancreas, symptomatic
of someone in the later stages of pancreatic cancer.”
Woods pondered.
“If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, then if you
had a spare £700m, the answer is yes.”
“You think he faked his own death,” Woods said,
while scratching his head.
“Yes, but I’ve just got to find the evidence. What’s
more, Pauline and Plant were in Puerto Mogan, which is on Gran Canaria, between
Wednesday 25
th
January and Thursday 2
nd
February; if you
remember, Bulmer was murdered on the 30
th
January. Now there’s no
record of them leaving the country or returning, because Pauline has a jet
which flies out of a private airfield in North Yorkshire. Nevertheless Las
Palmas Airport in Gran Canaria confirm their arrival and departure.”
Woods interjected. “Border control is a joke here.”
Barnes deliberately raised her gaze to Woods.
“That’s as maybe,” she said softly, “but Pauline also has a motor yacht and Puerto
Mogan is only 60 miles south-west of Los Cristianos; it’s about a two-and-a-half
hour trip on a yacht like hers.”
“Did they use it while they were there?” Woods asked
quickly.
“It has a GPS Marine Boat Tracker fitted and it’ll
have stored the information about any trips taken during the time they were
there. I’m going to have the system interrogated and see what that tells us.”
“Have you been working all night again?”
Barnes pulled a face. “Yes. Why?”
Woods smiled. “Thank you,” he said.
It was 10.00 a.m. The warm early
morning sunshine beat down on the hedgerow where the wildlife photographer was
sitting comfortably, hidden from view behind his green camouflage portable
blind. He had arrived at the location at 8.00 a.m. and was well accustomed to the
quietness whilst observing the surrounding wildlife. He wore green camouflage
clothing and peered through a vision panel in the blind with an 80mm waterproof
spotting scope, fixed to a tripod. The scope had a conventional digital camera
attached and an ultra-light touch focus control. He had obtained the farmer’s permission
to use the hedgerow and was a fairly regular visitor to this particular
location, which was about a mile outside Briestfield in West Yorkshire. To the
casual observer he was indistinguishable from the green background foliage.
On this particular morning he was contending with
the farmer haymaking in the adjacent field, but this was not a complete
disaster as the machinery was frightening the wildlife out through the field he
was overlooking.
As he panned along the hedgerows he spotted a
motorcyclist stop on the lane at the far end of the field the farmer was
working in. He watched as the motorcyclist dismounted, removed his crash helmet
and then appeared to scan the whole area before casually walking towards the
farmer’s tractor.
He must be lost
, he thought, as he continued to
observe proceedings through the spotting scope. The motorcyclist approached the
tractor which stopped and the farmer leaned out of the cab window; as he did so,
the motorcyclist raised his right arm and four shots from an automatic pistol
rang out. The farmer slumped, hanging half out of the tractor.
“Jesus Christ!” The wildlife photographer scrambled
for his mobile phone.
“Hello. Emergency service operator. Which service do
you require?”
His voice was shaking. “Police and Ambulance.”
“I’ll just connect you, Sir.”
“Hello, where are you calling from and what’s the
emergency?”
The wildlife photographer gave a brief description
of his location and what had taken place; he also confirmed his name and the
number he was calling from. “Oh, I’ve got a camera,” he suddenly remembered. “I
can photograph the man.” Click.
The operator kept him on the line, asking if he was
in a safe position and if so to keep relaying the events as they unfolded.
“He’s writing something on the tractor.” Click. He
focussed the scope. “I think he’s using lipstick.” Click. “It looks like
DCCXVI”. Click.
The call to the Incident Room
came in at 10.36 a.m. The Armed Response Teams were already on their way to
Willow Farm and the conversation with the wildlife photographer was being
relayed live to the responding officers.
Barnes took the message from the Duty Sergeant and
dashed into Woods’ office.
“We need to get out to Briestfield now; Willow Farm,
that’s Porter’s; a man haymaking has just been shot at close range by a guy
who’s used lipstick to write Roman numerals on the tractor he was using.”
Woods grabbed his coat and they both ran down the
stairs and out to the car park. On the way down she explained about the
wildlife photographer and the events being relayed live to attending officers over
the police communication system. They reached the car and Woods jumped into the
driving seat while Barnes threw herself in the passenger side. He sped off,
immediately flicking the switch which operated the flashing blue light unit
which he placed on the dashboard.
“See if you can get the call on your speaker phone,”
Woods yelled, as the car accelerated through the busy streets heading out on
the A642 towards Horbury.
Barnes struggled to operate her phone as she was
thrown from side to side while Woods fought to control the vehicle’s high
speed; finally the call was heard in the car.
“Oh Christ, I think he’s spotted
me… He has.”
“Who’s that?” Woods shouted.
“I assume it’s the wildlife photographer; he’s
taking pictures as it’s happening,” Barnes replied.
“Are you alright, Sir?”
the operator asked.
The sound of heavy breathing echoed around the car.
“He’s
coming after me. He must have seen the lens reflecting in the sunlight. Please
help, he’s got a gun.”
“Officers are on their way; can
you get to a safe position?”
There was rustling and the sounds of the man
panting, desperately trying to run away. Suddenly he cried out.
“Are you there Sir?”
the operator asked.
Police sirens could be heard in the distance as the
man spoke,
“I’ve got the police on the phone, they’ll get you,”
he
yelled.
“NO!”
Two shots rang through the speaker.
Woods glanced at Barnes. “Get the area sealed off. I
want him caught,” he shouted.
Barnes did as requested. She spoke to the officer in
command, asking for the area to be locked down.
Woods approached the traffic lights at Horbury
Bridge, travelling at 85mph. The lights were at red and Barnes screwed her eyes
closed and braced herself as he went straight through with his fist firmly
planted on the horn. Suddenly a black Maserati Quattroporte came up from behind
with its headlights flashing and sped past them.
“Who the fuck was that?” Woods snarled. “They must
be doing 150; did you get the number?”
“Can you slow down please; you’re going to get us
both killed.”
“We’re nearly there, I know a short cut,” Woods
called out, screeching the tyres as he swung right along a single track road.
“This is madness. Slow down,” she yelled.
Woods flew down the hill towards Smithy Brook and
stamped hard on the brakes; the car skidded on the shale covered road surface
as he tried desperately to avoid the grey Ford Mondeo Estate car that had just
turned up the single track road towards them. Barnes screamed as he swerved up
the banking, narrowly missing the Mondeo which veered in the opposite direction.
Both cars stopped inches from each other.
“Fuck off out of the way!” Woods roared at the car.
Barnes looked over at the Mondeo’s driver and
mouthed sorry.
“Get out of the way, arsehole!” Woods bellowed,
revving the engine.
The Mondeo moved off and Woods accelerated away.
“If you don’t slow down I’m getting out. I don’t
care if you kill yourself, but if you injure me you’re a dead man.” Barnes was
fighting back the tears.
Woods slowed the vehicle. “I’m sorry; I’m the one
who’s being an arsehole.”
“Let the Armed Response Team deal with this; that’s
what they’re trained to do. We can pick up the pieces.”
Woods’ mood mellowed and he drove at a more sedate
speed towards Willow Farm. When he arrived armed officers had already sealed
off the area and the police helicopter was circling in the sky above. He
identified himself and walked with Barnes towards the tractor and the body
slumped half out of it. On the lane at the far side of the field officers were
standing around a motorcycle and Woods’ attention was drawn there.
“How’s he got here so quick?” he asked, looking at
Dudley, who on seeing Woods and Barnes came over.
“I was in Thornhill speaking to the former owners of
the residential home and I rang to update you. I was told you were on your way
here, so I came straight over. It’s only half a mile away.”
“Whose is the motorcycle?” Woods asked.
“The killer came on it, but he’s gone to ground. The
arrival of armed officers must have prevented him getting back to it. The ‘copter
is scouring the fields trying to get him on the thermal imaging camera.”
“Is it Porter?” Woods asked, looking at the tractor.
Dudley nodded. “Four shots to the chest, clinical
and cold-blooded.”
“Where was the photographer sitting?”
Dudley took them over to the camouflaged hide.
“Who’s got the camera?” Woods queried.
“It had gone. We assume the killer has it; he must
have realised the photographer had taken shots of him.”
“Where’s his body?”
Dudley pointed at the hedgerow over by the road. A
group of officers were sealing off an area. “He got to him before he reached
the road.”
“Do we know who he is?” Barnes asked.
“David Flintshire, his driving licence confirms, and
that’s the name he gave the operator. He lives locally; liaison officers are on
their way to break the news to the family.”
“How did he get here?” Barnes asked.
“Presume he walked. There’s no vehicle nearby and
there were no car keys in his pockets.”
Immediately Barnes got on her phone to check if
David Flintshire was the registered keeper of any vehicles. “He may have driven
here and the killer’s taken his keys and gone off in his vehicle,” she said, as
she waited for the answer.
Her complexion went pale. “David Flintshire has a
grey Ford Mondeo Estate car; according to the registration number it’s the very
same one we nearly had the head on smash with…”
“Get everyone looking for it,” Woods said quickly. “It
was last seen heading along Low Lane towards the A642.” He glanced down at
Barnes and then over at the other side of the valley where he noticed a black
Maserati Quattroporte, slowly moving along one of the lanes.