With the Passage of Time E-Book

Peter Murphy

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 509

Beschreibung

1985, Cambridgeshire. An MPs wife is involved in a fatal car crash, and may be over the alcohol limit. Ben Schroeder QC returns to defend her but nothing is straightforward as he gets tangled in a web of political ambition and intrigue. A compulsive mix of crime fiction and legal thriller, exploring highly topical themes.

Leseprobe

Praise for Peter Murphy

‘Racy legal thrillers lift the lid on sex and racial prejudice at the bar’ Guardian

‘Murphy paints a trenchant picture of establishment cover-up, and cannily subverts the clichés of the legal genre in his all-too-topical narrative’ Financial Times

‘Peter Murphy’s novel is an excellent read from start to finish and highly recommended’ Historical Novel Review

‘An intelligent amalgam of spy story and legal drama’ Times

‘A gripping, enjoyable and informative read’ Promoting Crime Fiction

‘The ability of an author to create living characters is always dependent on his knowledge of what they would do and say in any given circumstances – a talent that Peter Murphy possesses in abundance’ Crime Review UK

‘Murphy’s clever legal thriller revels in the chicanery of the English law courts of the period’ Independent

‘The forensic process is examined in a light-touch, good-humoured style, which will evoke a constant stream of smiles, and chuckles from non-lawyers and lawyers alike’ Lord Judge, former Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales

‘A gripping page-turner. A compelling and disturbing tale of English law courts, lawyers, and their clients, told with the authenticity that only an insider like Murphy can deliver. The best read I’ve come across in a long time’ David Ambrose

‘If anyone’s looking for the next big courtroom drama… look no further. Murphy is your man’ ICLR

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose

by any other name would smell as sweet.

Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 2

1

Thursday 24 October 1985

St Ives, Cambridgeshire

If she’d had the time, and the right angle, to see them coming, Amanda would have snatched the glass of white wine from the tray offered by the waiter rather more quickly than she did. She would have turned away while she still could without suggesting a lack of politeness, in the hope of finding more congenial company. As a veteran of more donor cocktail receptions than she could count, she had become adept at sidestepping to wriggle out of the clutches of the great bores of the local charity scene, of whom Sir Michael and Lady Timberlake were a prime example. But they had sneaked up on her from behind, and the time to make a graceful escape had expired; and whatever their many faults, the Timberlakes were generous in their support of her various charities. There was nothing for it but to brace herself. She forced a smile.

‘Michael, Dorothy, how nice to see you. I hope you’re enjoying the evening.’

‘How is my favourite charity queen?’ Sir Michael asked.

‘More to the point,’ his wife said, ‘how is that gorgeous husband of yours? Isn’t he going to grace us with his presence this evening?’

‘Ah yes, of course,’ Sir Michael added. ‘How is the honourable member for Huntingdon East?’

‘The honourable member for Huntingdon East is well,’ Amanda replied. ‘As we speak, he’s meeting with some of his constituents, to listen to their grievances.’

‘How terribly democratic of him,’ Dorothy Timberlake said, with a giggle.

‘He’s feeling a bit insecure,’ Amanda added. ‘His majority is less than 1,000, so he doesn’t want to be seen as taking them for granted.’

‘Oh, that’s just because he won the seat in a by-election,’ Sir Michael commented. ‘That’s the way it goes in by-elections. People see them as a chance to give the government a good kick up the arse, so there are always a few wandering off the reservation. And Labour fielded a decent enough candidate. She was bound to pick up a few votes. But he’s got nothing to worry about. It will be different next time. Come the general election, people will remember which side their bread is buttered on. He’ll double his majority, at least double it, no problem.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, Michael,’ Amanda replied. ‘But that’s some time off yet, and meanwhile, he’s going to be looking over his shoulder.’

‘Well, give Simon our best, won’t you?’

‘Of course, I will. And how are you two doing? Has Emily married that nice merchant banker she was seeing?’

‘Early next year,’ Lady Dorothy replied. ‘You and Simon are invited, of course.’

‘I just wish Jeremy would follow her example,’ Sir Michael complained.

‘He’s not showing any signs of settling down again, then?’

‘None whatsoever. At least he finally got rid of that awful woman. We told him not to marry her, but they never listen, do they? He hasn’t shown any interest in anyone else yet. He’s still off gallivanting – in Peru, of all places.’

‘He’s not gallivanting, Michael,’ his wife insisted. ‘He’s doing a geological survey. It’s for work.’

‘Yes, well, that’s what he tells us,’ Michael replied.

‘Oh, Michael…’

Roger Ellis, the executive director of a Cambridge hospice, one of the charities benefiting from the reception, had been hovering nearby. He approached quietly.

‘Sir Michael, Lady Timberlake, I hope you’re having a pleasant evening.’

‘Very nice, Roger,’ Lady Dorothy replied. ‘As always.’

‘That’s good to hear, Lady Timberlake. I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I need to borrow Amanda for a moment. Administrative stuff. Do you mind?’

‘If work calls, she has to go,’ Lady Timberlake replied graciously.

Amanda excused herself, and patiently endured the extended goodbye and obligatory kiss on each cheek from both of her donors.

‘So, what’s the administrative stuff?’ she asked, as she accompanied Roger across the elegant reception room.

Roger smiled. ‘There isn’t any, really. You just looked like you might need rescuing.’

Amanda smiled – a genuine smile. ‘You are an angel, Roger. Whatever would I do without you?’

‘But it would be a good idea for you to talk to Rosemary Smyth. She has to leave to go to dinner in a few minutes, and she’s getting very close to persuading her husband that we are worth some support. She’s over there by the side door.’ He grinned. ‘If I were you, I’d use it to slip out quietly, once you’ve charmed Rosemary. You’ve more than done your duty for the evening.’

‘I may very well do that, Roger,’ Amanda replied. ‘I’m feeling a bit weary. It’s been a long day. I’ll call you tomorrow.’ They exchanged hugs.

Fifteen minutes later, with the promise of a cheque from Rosemary Smyth’s husband, Amanda followed Roger’s advice, and slipped unnoticed out of the room via the side door. Moments later, she had left the Golden Lion hotel by the main entrance, and was walking the short distance along Market Hill to retrieve her black 1984 Mercedes-Benz 190E from the parking space in which she had left it some two hours earlier. The evening had turned cold. She hadn’t thought to bring a coat, and she shivered slightly as she unlocked the car’s door. Before climbing in, she gave herself the usual assessment. She felt slightly tipsy, but not drunk. On another evening, it would have been a fifty-fifty call, whether to risk the drive or call a taxi and pick the car up the following morning. Receptions at which she was expected to drink wine were a way of life, and she had gone both ways over the years. But on this evening, she wasn’t inclined to hang around in the cold, waiting for a taxi that might take the best part of an hour to come; and if she returned to the Golden Lion to wait, there was every chance that she would run into the Timberlakes or some other talkative guests, and that would be another half hour of her life she would never get back. ‘It’s only a couple of miles, for God’s sake,’ she told herself. She took her seat in the car, started the ignition and backed carefully out on to Market Hill.

Amanda and Simon lived in a large detached house, an old Grade II listed building, on the High Street in the village of Needingworth, which as Amanda had reminded herself, was only a short drive from the centre of St Ives. At this time of night, it shouldn’t take her more than a few minutes. Amanda threaded her way cautiously along the narrow streets of the town centre and made the turn from Carlisle Terrace into Needingworth Road. She relaxed slightly: the street was broad and well-lit, and there was almost no traffic. She allowed the Mercedes to ease itself effortlessly from twenty miles per hour up to almost forty. The speed limit on Needingworth Road was thirty, but there was no one around to argue over the odd ten miles per hour.

Then she saw what looked like a white football bouncing into the street just ahead of her, from her left, just as the road was taking a slight turn to the right. As she was asking herself whether she needed to take evasive action, she heard and felt the most almighty bang to the front left of the car, followed by a terrible scream. Abruptly, Amanda hit the brake pedal and stopped. The street seemed deathly quiet. She sat in silence for some time. Then, all around her, lights were coming on in the front rooms of houses and she heard the sound of voices. A few people tentatively opened their front doors to peer out into the darkness, and one or two ventured a step or so outside. Amanda heard a male voice shouting, ‘Call an ambulance – and the police’. Then she saw a woman to her left, who had run out of her house, stop in her tracks on seeing the car. The woman covered her ears with her hands, and started screaming. Then she ran, still screaming, towards the car.

2

The next thing Amanda was aware of was standing, leaning against the garden fence of a house several yards behind the left side of her car, with a uniformed police officer, a woman, standing next to her. The officer’s marked police car, its lights flashing, was directly ahead of her. In front of the police car was an ambulance, which had pulled up behind her own car. She could see the outline of the ambulance crew, but she couldn’t see what they were doing. The screaming woman had now stopped screaming, but was still moaning piteously and was being comforted by another woman. Across the street, the scene had attracted something of an audience, with people standing at their front doors or peeking around pulled-back curtains, to satisfy their curiosity about the unexpected piece of drama being played out in their street. A white football lay at rest against the kerb, just opposite where she stood. Amanda had her arms crossed tightly across her chest. She no longer felt cold but she was shivering, nonetheless. She saw a male uniformed police officer approach from the direction of the ambulance. As he approached, he was removing a small notebook and a pen from the top pocket of his uniform jacket.

‘I’m PC Derek Foster, madam,’ the officer began, ‘and this is my colleague PC Anne Warren. What’s your name, please?’

‘Amanda Vaughan.’

‘May I see your driving licence and insurance, please?’

She thought for a moment. ‘They’re in my handbag, in the car.’

PC Warren quickly walked to the car, retrieved Amanda’s handbag, and returned with it. She held her torch while PC Foster found the documents he wanted and examined them. He nodded and replaced them in the handbag, which he placed at Amanda’s feet.

‘Those appear to be in order, Mrs Vaughan. You live in Needingworth, do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘On your way home, were you?’

‘Yes. Am I free to go?’

Foster paused and exchanged glances with PC Warren.

‘Mrs Vaughan, do you know what’s happened? Do you know why we’re here, and why there’s an ambulance here?’

Amanda did her best to focus, but her mind felt numb.

‘No, not really. I heard a bang, and I stopped, and that’s all I remember.’

‘You don’t remember the ambulance, and our car, arriving, with all these lights flashing?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t recall a woman screaming at you?’

An image returned to her. ‘Yes… perhaps…’

‘Well, I have to inform you, Mrs Vaughan, that the reason for the loud bang you heard, and the woman screaming at you, is that your car hit a young boy. Are you saying you weren’t aware of that?’

She took a sharp intake of breath and raised her hands to her face.

‘What?’

‘His name was Kieran McNamara,’ PC Warren added. ‘He was ten. That’s his mother over there, being comforted by her neighbour. She’s the woman who was screaming at you.’

Amanda could hardly get the word out. ‘Was…?’

‘I’m sorry I have to tell you this, Mrs Vaughan, but Kieran is dead. The ambulance crew say death would have been almost instantaneous. His head came into contact with the side of your car, he fell, and it seems you veered to the right, causing the left side of the car to strike his head again. None of that’s official, obviously, until a doctor certifies the death. But I’m afraid it is correct.’

Amanda turned towards the garden fence and did her best to throw up. She desperately wanted to, but it wouldn’t come.

‘Are you really saying you didn’t know what happened?’ PC Foster asked again.

‘I had no idea,’ Amanda replied after some time. ‘I saw a ball bounce into the road – that’s it there in the gutter, across the street – and then there was a bang. After that… I’m sorry. It’s all a blank.’

‘So, you got out of your car, and walked up the street this far, where we found you, but you didn’t notice this young boy lying in the street by your car?’

Amanda shook her head.

‘Mrs Vaughan,’ PC Foster said, ‘I’m picking up the smell of alcohol on your breath. Have you been drinking?’

‘No. It’s not drinking. I was at a reception at the Golden Lion. I had two or three glasses of white wine.’

‘Two or three glasses? That’s all?’

‘I think so, yes.’

‘You think so?’

She hesitated. ‘I’m confused. I’m sorry. This can’t be happening.’

‘How long ago did you have these two or three glasses of wine at the Golden Lion?’ PC Warren asked.

‘Within the last couple of hours. I’d just left the hotel to go home, when…’

‘Did you have anything to eat during that time?’

‘Just a couple of things on sticks, cocktail sausages and such like, the usual stuff. It was a reception, and I was working for God’s sake – the reception was for a charity I raise money for. I wasn’t there to eat and drink.’

‘But yet, you say you were drinking?’

‘I had some white wine, yes. You have to have a glass in your hand when you talk to donors.’

‘But you don’t have to drive home afterwards, do you?’ PC Warren asked.

Amanda did not reply.

‘Mrs Vaughan,’ PC Foster said, ‘I have reason to believe that you may be unfit to drive through drink. PC Warren, would you please bring the equipment from the car? Mrs Vaughan, I require you to provide two specimens of breath for analysis by means of an approved device. The law says I must now give you the following information. The specimen with the lower proportion of alcohol in your breath may be used as evidence and the other will be disregarded. I must warn you that failure to provide either of these specimens will render you liable to prosecution. Do you agree to provide two specimens of breath for analysis?’

Amanda stared at him. ‘It sounds as if I have no choice.’

‘If you refuse to supply two specimens of breath without a reasonable excuse, you are committing an offence, and I have power to arrest you.’

Numbly, Amanda followed PC Foster’s instructions, and after being told off once for not blowing hard enough, succeeded in providing two specimens of breath, as requested. The officer examined the device carefully. He seemed momentarily vexed.

‘Well, I have readings of 38 and 39. I’ll be honest with you, Mrs Vaughan, it’s borderline. It indicates that you are probably very close to the limit, but you may not be over the limit. We will take a blood or urine sample at the police station to confirm it one way or the other.’

‘The police station…?’ she asked, desperately.

‘Yes. In other circumstances, I might release you with a warning, but given what’s happened here, obviously, I can’t do that. I’m arresting you on suspicion of causing death by reckless or dangerous driving. Do you wish to say anything? I must caution you that you are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say may be put into writing and given in evidence.’

Amanda felt faint. Her knees began to buckle. The officers supported her, and helped her into the police car. Two other police cars with flashing lights were arriving on the scene in response to a call for backup, providing officers to take the necessary witness statements and begin an investigation at the scene, and freeing up PC Foster and PC Warren to take Amanda to St Ives police station in Broad Leas without delay.

PC Warren, who was well-informed about local affairs and had a keen memory for such matters, had made the connection immediately on hearing Amanda’s name. She had called into the station to alert the duty sergeant to the identity of the woman they had arrested, and to suggest that it might be prudent to have a senior officer available by the time her husband, a local MP, arrived at the station asking what was going on. As a result, Superintendent Rodney Hill, to his wife’s annoyance, had hurriedly abandoned the supper she had prepared for him, changed back into his uniform, and made his way to the station, arriving a safe twenty minutes before Simon Vaughan, whom PC Warren had also called, at his constituency office, as soon as she arrived at the police station.

* * *

‘Please come into my office, Mr Vaughan,’ Superintendent Hill said. He had met Simon Vaughan on a number of occasions, both before and after the by-election, and hoped against hope that their acquaintance might make what was to come slightly easier.

‘Thank you, superintendent, but I’d like to see my wife. Where is she? In a cell somewhere?’

‘No, sir, I’ve put your wife in one of the interview rooms, not in a cell.’

‘Well, I’d like to see her without delay.’

‘You will be able to see her shortly, Mr Vaughan, but first I do need to explain the situation to you. Have a seat, please.’

With a show of reluctance, Simon pulled up a chair and sat in front of the Superintendent’s desk.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘No… thank you. I want to know what’s going on.’

Hill took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, sir, but your wife was involved in a fatal accident a short time ago, sir, apparently while driving home from a reception at the Golden Lion hotel.’

‘A what…? Is she all right?’

‘She is unharmed physically, though of course, she’s very shaken up. She hasn’t asked for any medical attention, and the duty sergeant has no concerns of that kind about her.’

‘For God’s sake, what happened?’

‘Well, our inquiries are at an early stage, of course. But it appears that her car struck a young boy who ran out into the street in front of her in Needingworth Road. Unfortunately, he sustained serious head injuries. It was apparent at the scene that he was dead, and he was pronounced dead at the hospital a short time ago.’

Simon sat back in his chair, and stared at the superintendent blankly.

‘I can’t believe this. But you said the boy ran out into the street in front of her. That must mean that she had no chance of avoiding him.’

‘Possibly,’ Hill replied. ‘It’s too early to say at this stage. I have officers at the scene now, investigating, interviewing witnesses, taking measurements. We will know more once they’ve completed their report. It may be that she couldn’t have done anything to prevent what happened, but we shall have to see. There is one troubling aspect to it, though…’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, sir, your wife had been drinking.’

‘She was at a reception for one of her charities. She would have had a glass or two of wine. But she wouldn’t drive if she thought she wasn’t up to it, superintendent. I know her too well for that. She’s taken taxis home from this kind of event in the past, and she would have done the same tonight if she thought she needed to.’

‘Again, sir, that will have to await the results of the investigation. The officers who were first on the scene breathalysed her. The results of that test indicated that she was close to the limit, but not necessarily over it. When she arrived at the station, she agreed to give us a specimen of blood. That specimen will be analysed, and we will know more then. Obviously, if it indicates that she was over the limit, that’s an offence in itself.’

‘But…’

‘But quite apart from that, sir, we will have to consider whether the drink or other factors may have contributed to what happened. Depending on what emerges from the report, she may be charged with causing death by reckless or dangerous driving. That will be up to the prosecuting solicitor.’

There was a long silence.

‘Has she been interviewed?’

‘Not yet – well, not formally. The arresting officers asked her a few questions at the scene, of course, but there hasn’t been time for a formal interview.’

‘I don’t want her being interviewed in her present condition, superintendent. You said she was shaken up. It’s not fair to interrogate her before she’s had time to recover. And in any case, I want to get her a solicitor before she answers any questions.’

Hill nodded. ‘In the circumstances, sir, I suppose there’s no rush for a formal interview. I am aware of your situation, obviously. In this particular case, this is what I’m prepared to do. I will release Mrs Vaughan to return home with you overnight, on condition that she returns to the police station tomorrow afternoon, let’s say, at two o’ clock. We should have the preliminary incident report by then. It will give me time to speak to the prosecuting solicitor, and give your wife time to speak to her solicitor.’

‘Thank you. I’m very grateful.’

Hill looked directly into his eyes.

‘Well, sir, as I say, this isn’t something I would do in every case. But I do appreciate the possible ramifications of what’s happened in your particular case, sir, you being a member of Parliament. All I’m saying is, I don’t want what I’m doing to attract any undue attention.’

‘It won’t,’ Simon assured him. ‘And I appreciate it.’

‘Well, let’s go and see Mrs Vaughan, then, shall we?’

3

Parkside Police Station, Cambridge

Monday 18 November 1985

On her first day out of uniform, DC Valerie Landale was feeling self-conscious about coming to work in civilian dress. As she made her way into the police station, and wound her way along the narrow corridor that led to the CID office, she was sure that everyone must be staring at her; and although she was very appropriately attired in a dark suit, white shirt and low-heeled shoes, all of which had been approved by several friends, she was still feeling anxious. As it turned out, she needn’t have worried. The office was already a hive of activity, no one seemed to find her arrival in the least interesting; and if her new immediate governor, DS Ian McPhail, noticed anything at all about her dress, he was showing no sign of it.

‘Morning, Val,’ he said cheerfully, barely looking up from the file he was reading. ‘Welcome aboard.’

‘Thank you, sarge.’

He pointed across the room. ‘You can use that desk in the corner for now, until we sort out a permanent place for you. I haven’t got word yet which team you’ll be working with, but it doesn’t matter for today.’ He grinned. ‘Apparently, they have plans for you today. You’ve been summoned from on high.’

‘Sarge?’

‘DI Casey wants to see you in his office. He didn’t say why, but there’s something he wants you to do. Just let me know where you are, won’t you? I need to know, but I don’t suppose DI Casey will tell me unless I ask. I’d take a minute and catch your breath, if I were you – grab a quick coffee. It didn’t sound earth-shatteringly urgent.’

‘Thanks, sarge,’ she replied, ‘but I think I’d better check in with DI Casey first.’

DS McPhail grinned. ‘Showing them how keen you are on your first day? I understand. Quite right.’ He called after her. ‘Just don’t forget to let me know where you are.’

But she was already halfway through the door. DI Casey’s office was two doors along the corridor from the CID office, and she was there in a flash. She knocked on the door, and entered as soon as she heard DI Casey’s voice.

‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

‘I did. Come in, Val. Welcome aboard.’

‘Thank you, sir,’

Casey indicated another plainclothes officer sitting at the side of his desk. ‘Do you know DI Firth?’

‘I don’t believe so, sir.’

DI Firth stood, walked over to Val and shook her hand.

‘No reason why you would. It’s your first day in CID, DI Casey tells me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I have something of a roving commission,’ Firth said. ‘I put in an appearance at Parkside once in a while, but I move around, as the work takes me.’

‘DI Firth is in charge of older unsolved cases,’ Casey explained.

‘What the Americans call cold cases?’ Val asked.

‘Exactly so,’ Firth replied, ‘although in my experience, they’re usually not so much cold as bloody freezing. We do have the odd breakthrough now and then, but it’s a hard slog.’

‘I’m sure it is, sir,’ Val replied.

‘There’s a particular piece of ice DI Firth wants to chip away at,’ Casey said, with a grin, ‘and he asked me whether he could borrow someone for a day or two. As you haven’t been assigned to a team yet, you were the obvious candidate. Do you have some cold-weather gear you can find?’

Val laughed. ‘I’m sure I do, sir.’

Firth nodded. ‘Good. Then I’ll tell you all about it. Why don’t we have a seat, make ourselves comfortable?’

Val sat down on a chair in front of DI Casey’s desk.

‘In 1962…’ Firth began. He saw Val raise her eyebrows. ‘Yes, that’s right: 1962. I did say they were old cases.’

Val smiled. ‘You did, sir.’

‘In 1962, there was a company calling itself East Anglia Biological Research, which had a laboratory and offices in a building in an industrial estate in Huntingdon. According to the company, they were conducting legitimate scientific experiments designed to produce medicines that might one day be helpful in treating serious medical conditions, such as cancer and heart disease. But according to some of their critics, they were conducting these experiments on animals and treating the animals very cruelly. There were allegations of various kinds of abuse, including vivisection.’

Val shivered. ‘Horrible,’ she said.

‘Yes, if that was what was going on, it would have been horrible. And that’s what their critics believed, especially a group founded by a man called Noah Brigden. He felt very strongly about it, and he put together a group of like-minded followers, whom he called the Noah’s Arkers.’

‘Good name,’ Val said.

‘Yes, very droll. Anyway, at first, the Noah’s Arkers confined themselves to peaceful protests outside the building, but when that didn’t provoke any reaction from East Anglia, they resorted to more intrusive methods – following the company’s employees home after work, publishing the home addresses of senior managers, suggesting that members of the public should visit the managers’ homes to make their views known, that kind of thing.’

‘I assume that got East Anglia’s attention,’ Val said.

‘It did. Eventually, they went to court and got restraining orders against the known members of the Noah’s Arkers. That helped to a certain extent, but the genie was out of the bottle by the time the court got involved, and it all continued to simmer. Eventually, the Noah’s Arkers decided to take it to the next level.’

‘Sir?’

‘They broke into the East Anglia building and stole – well, they would say “liberated” – quite a collection of animals, from beagles down to rabbits, rats, mice, and what have you. This was a Sunday night, early Monday morning, 7 to 8 October 1962. I say they broke in, but actually, they didn’t have to break anything. There was a rear entrance adjoining the car park, used by the East Anglia staff, which was opened using a numerical code, and someone had kindly provided Noah with the code.’

Val looked up. ‘It was an inside job?’

‘Apparently. The problem is that we can’t prove any of this. We can’t even prove that it was the Noah’s Arkers who went into the building, although we’re pretty sure it was – there were no other obvious suspects at the time. What they did with the animals, God only knows. Hopefully, they went to good homes, well, the dogs anyway. They probably just set the rats and mice free to wander abroad.’

‘I suppose almost anywhere would be better than the laboratory,’ Val observed.

‘I suppose so. Anyway, the real point of what I’m telling you is this. Obviously, I have no interest in trying to solve a twenty-odd-year-old burglary.’

‘Housebreaking,’ DI Casey interrupted, with a grin, ‘in 1962. Back then, burglary only applied to dwellings, so it would have been a housebreaking.’

‘I stand corrected,’ DI Firth said. ‘But it still wouldn’t interest me. On the other hand, I have a considerable interest in solving a twenty-odd-year-old GBH with intent.’

‘Sir?’

‘What I haven’t told you yet is that, when the staff showed up for work the following morning, not only did they find the animals gone, but they also found the company’s security guard, a man by the name of Harry Strack, lying unconscious just inside the rear door.’

‘The intruders had assaulted him?’

‘So it seems. He had a blunt force trauma to the back of the head. There was a remote possibility that it was due to a fall, but the doctors said there was nothing in the area likely to cause that kind of damage just because of a fall. The doctor said the overwhelming likelihood was that someone hit him hard over the head with a solid blunt instrument. But no weapon was found at the scene, so once again, we can’t prove it.’

‘Couldn’t Mr Strack remember what happened?’ Val asked. ‘Was he on his own? He must have been, if no one found him until the next morning.’

‘He was on his own. But the reason why he couldn’t help with the inquiry had nothing to do with his memory. Harry couldn’t help because he was in a coma, and he remained in a coma in Addenbrooke’s until about two months ago, when he suddenly decided one day that it was time to wake up.’

Val stared at him for some time. ‘He woke up again, after more than twenty years? Just like that?’

Firth smiled. ‘Just like that. His family are religious people. They kept him alive all that time: they wouldn’t hear of turning off the life support. They insisted that a miracle was always possible, and it seems they were right. Even the doctors said it was a miracle. Addenbrooke’s let us know, because they still had a note on their file to the effect that there was an open police investigation.’

‘That’s incredible, sir,’ Val said. ‘Has he provided any information?’

‘Not yet. When they called, the doctors made it clear that Harry wouldn’t be answering any questions any time soon. He’d woken up, and he seemed to be in good shape – remarkably, there’s no sign of brain damage – but they made it clear to me that he was looking at a long period of therapy before they would let us anywhere near him.’

‘Of course,’ Val said. ‘He would have to learn to walk again, learn to look after himself, all kinds of things.’

‘They were more concerned about the effect on his mind, if they turned us loose on him,’ Firth replied. ‘He was about thirty in 1962 at the time of the break-in, and in 1985 he wakes up as a fifty-year-old in a new world, a world he knows nothing about – not to mention that he’s lost one or two members of his family and friends, and he has no idea what in God’s name he’s expected to do next. How do you cope with losing twenty years of your life? Is there any therapy for that? As far as I’m concerned, he’s fully entitled to be screwed up for as long as it takes his fancy.’

‘Of course,’ Val agreed. ‘It’s bound to take some time.’

Firth exhaled heavily. ‘Anyway, to my surprise, they called again last week and said that Harry is now able to answer questions, they’re getting ready to release him from hospital, and he’s willing to talk to us. That’s where you come in. I need someone to go to Addenbrooke’s and take a witness statement from him. The overwhelming odds are that it will be a wild goose chase. The chances of him remembering anything useful are somewhere between thin and non-existent. But take a statement anyway. At least, if he doesn’t remember anything, I can close the case and cross another one off my list. Be nice to him, though, won’t you? The poor bugger’s been through a lot, any way you look at it.’

‘I will, sir.’

‘Oh, and there’s one other thing, DC Landale.’

‘Sir?’

‘I’ve got a lot on my plate just now. So, I’ve asked DI Casey to supervise, which he has kindly agreed to do. But DI Casey is also busy.’

‘Very busy,’ Casey confirmed.

‘Very busy. So, in effect, this is now your case. Don’t lose any sleep over it. It’s almost certainly going nowhere. Just make sure you keep DI Casey informed, and he will keep me informed. I’m sorry to land this on you on your first day, but…’

‘He’s not sorry at all,’ Casey said.

‘DI Casey is correct,’ Firth replied. ‘I’m not sorry at all. But good luck.’

He offered his hand, which she took.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Val said.

4

Val parked her car in one of the few available spaces, towards the rear of the car park, and made her way hastily through the rain, holding her briefcase over her head to cover her hair, to the main entrance to Addenbrooke’s hospital. At first, the receptionists were not sure who Harry Strack was, or where he might be, and it was only after a number of internal phone calls that they established his whereabouts. It turned out that, as the hospital’s longest-serving resident, he had his own room in a distant corner of the hospital, close to the suite where blood and other samples were tested. One of the receptionists gave Val instructions about how to get there, which sounded complicated. After several wrong turns, she found a sign pointing towards the testing suite, and eventually came to an unmarked door which seemed to correspond with the receptionist’s directions.

She knocked and cautiously entered the room. To her surprise, it was cheerfully decorated. A number of greeting cards were pinned up on the walls, together with a huge white banner reading, ‘Welcome back, Harry!’ The room was well-lit and ventilated by a large window. There were twelve fresh roses, six red, six white, in a pretty glass vase on the table next to the bed. A variety of soft drinks was also in evidence. A man wearing a red dressing gown over pyjamas was sitting on the side of the bed. A white-coated doctor was sitting beside him, checking his heart rate with the aid of her watch.

‘Mr Strack?’

The doctor stood. ‘I’m Dr Marshall. May I help you?’

‘DC Landale, Cambridge police, doctor. My DI got a message from the hospital that Mr Strack was well enough to talk to us; but if it’s not a good time, I can come back.’

‘It would be more convenient if you’d called ahead,’ Dr Marshall grumbled.

‘I did, actually,’ Val replied. ‘I’m not sure who I spoke to, but they gave me the impression that just after lunch would be good, because I wouldn’t be interfering with Mr Strack’s treatment. But as I say, I’m happy to come back at a more convenient time.’

Dr Marshall turned to her patient. ‘It’s entirely up to you, Harry. As the officer said, she can always come back.’

Harry nodded. ‘No. I’m fine,’ he replied. ‘I’m happy to talk to her now.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right,’ Dr Marshall said, ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. Press the buzzer for me if you need me, Harry. I won’t be far away.’ She turned towards Val just before closing the door behind her. ‘He gets tired very easily. Don’t keep him too long.’

‘I won’t,’ Val promised. She pulled up a chair to sit opposite Harry, and took her notebook and pen out of her briefcase.

‘May I call you Harry?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Thank you. I’m Val. I couldn’t help noticing that your voice sounded a bit raw, a bit raspy. Is it painful for you to talk?’

‘It’s getting better. It’s still a bit rough, but I’m much better now than when I woke up. I could hardly get a word out for the first few days.’

‘Well, let me know if you’re having problems, and we can stop for a while.’

‘To be honest,’ Harry said, ‘my voice isn’t the worst problem. It’s that… well, after so long, I can’t always bring back the words I need. Sometimes I can’t find the right word.’

‘Your vocabulary has shrunk?’ Val asked.

‘Yes. I still remember how to read, thank God. I’m reading newspapers and magazines, and I listen to the radio almost nonstop, so it’s gradually coming back.’

‘Well, if there’s a word you can’t think of as we go along,’ Val replied, ‘or if I say something you don’t understand, please don’t be embarrassed to ask. I may be able to help you with it.’

‘I thought police officers weren’t supposed to put words into people’s mouths,’ Harry said.

They laughed together, which made Harry cough.

‘I’m sure it can’t do any harm under the circumstances,’ Val replied. ‘Look, Harry, my DI just wanted me to see if you have any recollection of how you ended up unconscious on the floor of the East Anglia building all those years ago. He and I both understand that you probably have no memory of that evening, and if that’s how things stand, I’ll ask you to sign a short statement to that effect, so that we can close the case, and I’ll get out of your hair.’

Harry stared at her. ‘Why would you think I have no memory of it?’ he asked.

She stared back. ‘I don’t know… I suppose we assumed that, as you’d been in a coma for so long…’

He shook his head. ‘There’s no brain damage. My mind is working, and so is my memory. In fact, that evening is the last thing I remember – apart from what’s happened since I woke up, of course. I remember it all very clearly. It’s as though it happened yesterday – which, in my time frame, is when it did happen.’

‘Yesterday plus twenty-two years,’ Val said.

‘Yes, but the twenty-two years mean nothing to me. I wasn’t here.’ He paused. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘To be perfectly honest, Harry, I don’t know,’ Val replied. ‘But I really want to hear what you remember. Take your time, and tell me everything, even any small details that occur to you. I’m going to take notes, so that I don’t have to make you repeat it when we write your witness statement. I’ll try not to interrupt too much; I may ask a question if something isn’t clear.’

‘I was working the night shift,’ Harry began, ‘ten till six. The security office was towards the front of the building, but there was a silent alarm system in case any door or window anywhere in the building was opened. The night duty officer would check that the alarm was set at the start of the shift. It was the first thing we did, always, and I remember I checked it that night, and it was on.’

‘Were you the only security guard on duty?’ Val asked.

‘Yes. There was another officer on call. But they didn’t think they needed more than one in the building, since we had the alarm. Anyway, everything was quiet for a while. But then, sometime around midnight, the system alerted me to a problem with the staff entrance at the rear of the building. So, I went to see what was going on. When I got there, I saw that the door was open.’

‘Sorry to interrupt, Harry,’ Val said, ‘but as I understand it, that door opened with a numerical code, is that right?’

‘Yes. The code was changed every month.’

‘Who had access to the code?’

‘Well, the staff had access, because they used the back door all the time during the day. Once in a while, a member of staff might need to come in at night, but if so, there was a phone by the door they could use to contact the night security guard, and the guard would let him in. But no one should have had access to the code except for the staff and security.’

‘Did anyone call from the phone at the back door?’

‘No.’

‘All right. What else did you see, apart from the door being open?’

Harry hesitated. ‘Can you give me a minute?’

‘Of course. Take your time.’

Harry coughed and took several deep breaths.

‘I saw three people, two men and a woman. They were all dressed in dark clothing. I can’t describe it more than that. One of the men was directly in front of me, by the door. The other was to my right-hand side, with the woman. It took me a second or two to see them, because it was pretty dark. There was a lamp on the wall outside the door, but it didn’t really light up the inside, and the inside lights were dimmed at night.’

‘What happened?’ Val asked.

Harry hesitated again. ‘The man standing in front of me attacked me, grabbed me by both shoulders. I tried to fight back. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the woman again. She was holding something. I thought at the time that it was a crowbar – and this is funny, because it’s really the last conscious thought I had – but I remember wondering why they needed a crowbar if they had the door code. The woman walked behind me. I felt a blow to the head, and everything went dark for twenty-two years.’

‘It was the woman who hit you?’

‘Must have been.’

He had turned pale.

‘Are you all right, Harry?’ Val asked.

‘Would you mind getting my water? It’s on the table.’

‘Of course.’ She gave him the water, and waited for several minutes while he sipped and composed himself. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked again. ‘Do you want me to find Dr Marshall?’

‘No. I’ll be fine.’

‘I don’t have much else to ask you,’ Val said, as soothingly as she could. ‘Did you by any chance recognise any of these three people? Had you seen any of them before?’

Harry nodded. ‘The man in front of me, the one who attacked me,’ he replied. ‘He was the ringleader, Noah something. He was always getting his picture in the news, you know, in the papers, and he was popping up on the television, complaining about what he thought was going on in the building. He made a right bloody nuisance of himself, too, having members of staff followed to their homes, and what have you. Everyone in the company knew Noah. I think we even had his picture in the security office. But the other two, I have no idea – members of his group, I suppose – but I don’t know who they were.’

Val made a note.

‘But I’d recognise them if I saw them again,’ Harry added.

Val stared at him, her eyes wide open.

‘Harry,’ she said, ‘you saw them once for a second or two in that dark space, and today, they’re both twenty-two years older.’

Harry shook his head. ‘To me, it was only yesterday I saw them,’ he said. ‘I’d know them again.’

5

‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ DI Casey said. He threw the witness statement down on to the desktop, and raised both arms in a mute appeal to the heavens.

Val shook her head. ‘No, sir. What’s in the statement is exactly what he told me,’ she replied.

‘Well, that’s great,’ Casey said. ‘Really great. This man wakes up from a coma and claims that he can positively identity three people he saw in the dark for a second or two, twenty-plus years ago, while one of them was attacking him.’

‘In Harry’s mind, he’s remembering something that happened yesterday,’ Val replied.

‘It may be yesterday in Harry Strack’s mind,’ Casey pointed out, ‘but for the rest of us out in the real world, including the court, it’s twenty-two years ago. You know what the courts are like in identification cases. Well, perhaps you don’t, but you will soon. Val, unless the evidence is rock solid, they won’t touch it. I can’t go to the prosecuting solicitor with, “I remember twenty-two years ago like it was yesterday”. He’ll ask me what kind of mushrooms I’ve been smoking.’

‘The evidence is solid in Noah’s case,’ Val suggested. ‘Everybody at East Anglia knew him, because he was such a nuisance. They even had his picture in the security office.’

‘Well, that’s nice, Val, but unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do about Noah.’

‘Sir?’

‘Noah is deceased – a detail DI Firth apparently forgot to mention to us. I asked around. Accident of some kind at work, apparently, two or three years ago.’

There was a silence.

‘Well, even if we can’t go after Noah himself,’ Val suggested, ‘at least now we know that the Noah’s Arkers were the ones who broke into the building, which we didn’t know before.’

‘Only if you trust Harry’s twenty-two-year-old memory. Couldn’t you have pressed him a bit more before taking a statement? I’m between a rock and a hard place, Val. I can’t recommend closing the file – not with that witness statement in it – but I don’t have a case I can present with a straight face.’

‘I couldn’t have pressed him much more, sir,’ Val replied, ‘not in the state he’s in. He’s still very fragile, and his doctor was hovering. It took a lot out of him just to talk to me. But for what it’s worth, sir – all right, we can question his memory – but he wasn’t having me on. I’d put a lot of money on that. He absolutely believes what he told me.’

Casey shook his head. ‘So, where do you suggest we go from here?’

Val took a deep breath. ‘Well, actually, sir, there is one further line of inquiry we could pursue. We may just run into a brick wall, and if so, I agree, it’s over. But I think it’s worth a try.’

‘Go on.’

‘I saw a reference in the file to some surveillance photographs of the Noah’s Arkers, taken in 1960, 1961, when they were causing so much trouble by following staff home from the East Anglia building, and so on. If we still have those pictures, I’d like to ask Harry to look at them. It would be easier if we still had Noah, obviously, but if Harry recognised the second man, or the woman, from pictures taken at the time, it would give us something to go on.’

‘We’d still be relying on Harry Strack’s memory,’ Casey pointed out. ‘How does that change anything?’

‘If the man and the woman are still out there somewhere,’ Val replied, ‘we could question them, see what they have to say.’

Casey was silent for some time. ‘You’d have to interview them under caution,’ he suggested eventually.

‘Yes, sir, and they may hire a solicitor and protest their innocence, or refuse to answer our questions,’ Val agreed. ‘But on the other hand, they may decide there’s some help they can give us.’

‘Such as rolling on their fellow-Arkers?’

‘Or providing some detail we don’t have that would mean something to Harry. Look, I know it’s thin, sir, but I really want to give this one more chance.’

Casey smiled. ‘This case is getting to you, isn’t it? It happens sometimes – occupational hazard when you’re in CID.’

Val hesitated. ‘It’s just that… well, I really like Harry. He’s a nice, decent man, and what happened to him in 1962 has ruined his life. If there’s any way to bring someone to justice for this, I’d really like to do it. Let’s put it this way, sir, I don’t want to give up until I’m sure there’s nothing more we can do.’

There was another lengthy silence.

‘And you’re willing to run with this on your own, are you?’ Casey asked. ‘I don’t have the manpower to assign anyone else.’

Val smiled. ‘Absolutely, sir.’

‘All right,’ Casey said. ‘Run with it. See what comes up. But I want daily reports, and I want to know immediately if you hit the brick wall. Understood?’

Val nodded happily. ‘Understood, sir. The photographs weren’t in the file. Do you know where would they be, sir?’

‘If we still have them, they won’t be here. Any old material like that will be in the archives.’

‘If we have them, sir?’

‘We should have them, I know. This is still an open file. But I wouldn’t put money on it. There’s always some bright spark who chucks things away if they’ve been around for a few years, thinking he’s doing everyone a favour. But assuming they escaped that person’s attention, and we still have them, they will be in the archives, with the older files. Will this be your first time to explore the archives?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, you need to know that the archives are guarded by a dragon called Sergeant Wilson. He likes to breathe fire when he meets you for the first time, but he’s all right once you get to know him, and he’s probably the only living person who knows just about everything we’ve got stashed away there. If it exists, Sergeant Wilson will lead you to it – as long as he’s sure you never forget how important he is.’

She grinned. ‘I’ll remember that, sir.’

‘Oh, and, Val…’ DI Casey called out as she was leaving.

She stopped and turned back to face him. ‘Sir?’

‘Make sure you keep DS McPhail up to date with where you are and what you’re doing, won’t you? He tends to worry if he loses track of people.’

He was smiling. She returned the smile. ‘Will do, sir.’

6

The archives were housed in a building in Hinchingbrooke Park, in Huntingdon, which was going to be a forty-five-minute drive from Parkside police station, even if the traffic wasn’t too heavy. As she left the CID office, after briefing DS McPhail about her movements, Val had suddenly realised that, not only was she desperate for a cup of coffee, but she was also starving – she had eaten nothing since hurriedly gulping down a bowl of cereal early in the morning before leaving home for work. She stopped at a café along the way to remedy both afflictions, and soon felt much better.

A uniformed sergeant, whom she assumed to be the dragon, Sergeant Wilson, was stationed at the front desk.

‘And who might you be?’ he asked.

Val deployed her best diplomatic manner. ‘I’m DC Landale from Parkside CID, sarge. I’m working on an old case with DI Casey, which he’s inherited from DI Firth. He’s asked me to find some records, and everyone says that if there’s anyone who can run them down, you can. I hope you can help me.’

‘DI Firth? Which century is the case from this time, eighteenth or nineteenth?’

Val laughed. ‘It’s one of his more recent ones, sarge, 1962. I take it you’ve worked with DI Firth before?’

‘I certainly have. I’ve worked with Jim Casey too. How is the old bugger?’

‘He’s well, sarge. He sends his best regards.’

‘I seriously doubt that. I’m sure he told you how difficult I am to work with.’

‘He… well yes, he did, sarge.’

‘What did he say, exactly?’

‘He described you as… as a dragon, sarge.’

Wilson laughed out loud. ‘Did he, now? Cheeky bugger.’

‘Yes, but he also told me how good you are. He said, if we ever lost you, we might as well give the archives up. You’re the only one who knows where everything is.’

‘Yes, well, he’s right about that,’ Wilson said. ‘I’ve been doing this job for more than twenty years, so I should know my way around by now. But who’s going to take over when I go? That’s what I want to know. They won’t give me an assistant. I keep asking, but I might as well be talking to myself. I have no one in place to train, to replace me when I retire, so when that day comes, I don’t know what they’re going to do.’

‘That’s really sad,’ Val replied, ‘and short-sighted, to let all that knowledge go to waste.’

‘Nothing I can do about it,’ Wilson said, ‘and once I retire, it won’t be my problem. So, DC Landale from Parkside CID, what can I do for you?’

‘We’re looking for one or more files containing photographs from between 1960 and 1962, sarge,’ Val replied. ‘The name on the file might be Harry Strack, the Noah’s Arkers, or East Anglia Biological.’

Wilson appeared to think for some time. ‘Strack doesn’t ring a bell, but East Anglia Biological… what kind of photographs?’

‘Surveillance photographs, members of an animal rights group called the Noah’s Arkers.’

Wilson suddenly laughed. ‘Oh, that lot? Yes, I remember the Arkers. Don’t I just? They arrived on the scene one day without warning, and they were all over the place for a while, gave us all kinds of grief. Then they disappeared as quickly as they’d come. They literally vanished overnight, never to be seen again. I remember now. It was after the break-in at the East Anglia building.’ He raised his eyes to meet hers. ‘Is that what this is about, the security guard who was in the coma for all those years? Is that Harry Strack?’

‘Yes, sarge.’

‘Right. Well, I’ll have to see what I can find. But don’t get your hopes up. This is like the place where the elephants go to die. By the time a file comes to us, it’s run its course, so who cares if it’s missing a few items? It makes you wonder why we bother.’

Behind Wilson was what looked like a large storage room housing numerous metallic bookcases, with further storage areas arrayed behind it.

‘The first question is where we’ve put them. They should be on this floor, but it’s possible they’re downstairs, according to how they were classified when they were deposited with us. I won’t know until I look. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

Wilson turned and walked briskly into the room, disappearing from Val’s view. He returned more than ten minutes later carrying two brown files, both the worse for wear, torn and stained, but clearly labelled ‘East Anglia Biological’. He handed the files to her.

‘This is all we have. Why don’t you take a seat over there, and look through them, and see if you can find what you’re looking for? Don’t remove anything from the files. If there’s anything you need to borrow, you tell me first.’

‘Thank you, sarge.’

Val sat down at a small table and opened the first file. It contained numerous complaints, incident reports and investigation reports dealing with the activities of the Noah’s Arkers. There were a number of reports about the break-in at the East Anglia building, and several medical reports about Harry Strack, describing his ‘irreversible’ and ‘inevitably fatal’ condition. But no photographs. Momentarily, her heart sank, and her mind started to conjure up images of the place where the elephants go to die.

But to her relief, the second file contained little else. There were surveillance photographs of a total of twelve people, nine men and three women, all described as Arker activists of particular concern to the police. Each photograph was accompanied by a date and place of birth and a few biographical details. In several cases, there were lists of previous convictions. The biographical details were commendably thorough. Someone had really done their homework on this group, and it occurred to Val to wonder whether the police had managed to infiltrate the Arkers for some length of time. She closed the files and returned to the desk, where Sergeant Wilson was reading an article in the Daily Express.

‘These are just what we were looking for, sarge,’ she said. ‘With your permission, I’ll need to borrow them for a day or two.’

‘What, both of them, the whole file?’

‘Yes, please, sarge.’

He looked at her suspiciously, as if considering whether or not to trust her with the files.

‘You’ll have to sign for them,’ he said grudgingly. He reached behind him and picked up a thick red ledger. He opened it to the current page. ‘Full name, rank, station, date, and purpose of borrowing,’ he said, ‘and sign where indicated.’ He suddenly grinned. ‘I tell you what, DC Landale, why don’t you sign them out in DI Casey’s name, so that I can blame him if anything goes missing? How would that be?’

* * *

Val decided to avoid the bustle of the CID office, and took the files home with her to read in peace. With a cup of tea in front of her, she began by skimming quickly through both files, intending to return to anything that looked interesting. The collection of reports on the Noah’s Arkers told her little she didn’t know already. One of the medical reports provided a list of possible weapons that might have been responsible for the head trauma to Harry Strack, and one of those suggested was a crowbar. But otherwise, there was little to help her. The second file, which contained the photographs and biographical details, was far more encouraging. There was enough to suggest that she would have every chance of tracking down any members of the Arkers who were still alive, even after more than twenty years. But there was no point in doing that unless Harry could identify the possible suspects – one woman, and one man who wasn’t Noah Brigden.