Fires of hate, p.1
Fires of Hate, page 1
Fires of Hate
Dedication
To Gary
who has put love and laughter back into my life
List of Characters
Police
The big boss: Chief Superintendent Margaret Tayler
Main investigative team:
DCI Greg Geldard
DI Jim Henning
DS Chris Mathews
Constables Bill Street, Jill Hayes, Steve Hall and Phil Knight
Ned, senior crime scene investigator
Also, DI Sarah Laurence
George and Mollie/Mildred, forensic anthropologists
Legal team
Ms Farrar and Peter Leavenham, defence solicitors
Mr David Gadd, defence barrister
Frank Parker, Crown Prosecution Service
Sir Frederick Seymour QC, prosecuting barrister
NASA (National Agricultural Science Agency) staff
Prof Craig Bennington, deputy CEO and Professor of Ethology
Prof Lily Lai (analytical chemistry)
Jan Littleboys, chemist team leader
Jack Haigh, chemist
Pat Nichols, chemist
Ken Ashby, Bennington’s PA
Hazel Partner, IT services
Friends from other books making a reappearance
Ben Asheton, first responder
Paula Asheton, his wife
Mrs Pritchard, exceptionally precise secretary
Bobby, Greg’s cat
Lukas Jankauskas, ex-poultry farm worker
Esther Jankauskas, interpreter, his wife
Crooks from Glass Arrows
James Metcalfe and Dragan Bakalov
Emergency Response
Bob Crawford, CEO, Norfolk and Norwich Hospital
Commander Fisher, Silver Command, fire brigade
Plus miscellaneous animal rights activists, research staff etc
Glossary
A&E:
Accident and Emergency
ANPR:
Automatic Number Plate Recognition
EDP:
Eastern Daily Press
HR:
Human Resources
IED:
Improvised Explosive Device
NASA:
National Agricultural Science Agency
N&N:
Norfolk and Norwich Hospital
PTSD:
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
SIO:
Senior Investigating Officer
Sitrep:
Situation Report
1
North Yorkshire, March 2001
The face at the upstairs window was frozen into stillness. No more tears, not now. Jack had used all the tears the day before, when his father had found him and his pet heifer hidden in the dell beside the beck. Even the sheltering branches and makeshift lodge of netting and leaves had not hidden them from the man who had spent his own childhood building dens on this same farm. Jack had begged and pleaded with his father all the way back to the main steading.
‘Blossom has no symptoms,’ he kept wailing. None of their cattle had any symptoms. Killing them all just wasn’t fair. And Blossom was special. He’d reared her by hand. He won the young handlers’ competition with her. She lived separately from the main herd. Why couldn’t they wait and see if she had the virus? Surely just one didn’t matter? He could keep her away from everyone. No one need know. And, after, at least she would have some of his father’s decades of breeding, decades of hard work. Not all their bloodlines would be lost.
Jack had deployed every argument at his disposal, and every word had fallen on deaf ears. His father had dragged him, and Blossom, all the way back to the killing pen and handed her over to the Ministry vet, still without looking at Jack. The vet had looked at him though, and gently suggested he go indoors. Jack hadn’t wanted to leave. He could see Blossom was frightened. He didn’t want to leave her to face the captive-bolt pistol and the fear alone. But his father made him go.
At the door of the house, he turned to take one last look and was shocked to see his father had tears coursing down his face. At that, he went in silently and stared through the window for the rest of the day.
In the middle distance was the long bank of burning bodies and the glow that lit up the sky. Somewhere amongst that tangle of legs and heads was his Blossom. Dead like all the rest. Not because she was sick and needed to be put down for her own sake, but because of some daft rule dreamed up by bureaucrats who’d never got up at dawn to bucket feed a calf before school. Never spent their weekends feeding, washing and grooming until she shone. Never taken pride in training an animal bigger than they were to walk obediently on a halter. Never won their trust to the point that she would face strange noises, strange sights and strange experiences just because he was with her. But now the trust, the learning, the polish were all gone, along with every cow and calf on his father’s farm. The cattle sheds stood empty. The milking parlour was unused and Flash, the collie, hung around the yard bewildered by the lack of a job to do.
That was when the hate was born. The hate of officialdom. The hate of rules that imposed cruelty under the guise of practicality. And the hate of everyone who treated animals as though they were inanimate, insentient.
*
By March 2002, things were different, of course. The compensation cheque in his bank account, Jack’s father managed to source some new stock that had bloodlines derived from his own lost herd. It was some comfort that he could handle cows again that had traits he recognised from old Gillyflower, Blossom’s mother, and even some from the older line, named after Queens by his father. There was a great-granddaughter of Lizzie, and another of Old Anne. He added some Jerseys to improve the butterfat content of his milk, and Jack’s mother tried her hand at ice cream. Even Flash, slightly overweight from too much time off and forgetful of the details of her role, got back into the swing of things. The only one who could not forget was Jack. He refused his father’s offer of a calf to rear and train. He couldn’t forget Blossom, nor the way he had betrayed her trust. He wouldn’t, couldn’t take that risk again.
By August 2007, Jack was faced with the choice of staying on at school in the autumn or following his father into farming. He knew what his father wanted, but the memories of 2001 were hard to shake off. A chat with a sympathetic master at the school suggested a middle way. He was fairly good at science. He could stay on, take science A levels and perhaps study some aspect of farming later on. It pushed into the distance the moment when he would have to tell his father there was no way he would ever be a dairy farmer.
Then the news broke. Foot and mouth in Surrey, and this time it was all the government’s fault. By the time the source of the outbreak was confirmed in September, Jack’s decision was made, set in stone, and a fire lit in his mind that would never go out. Official incompetence had killed twice in less than six years; once through a poor decision and the second time by actual, direct government-created contamination. He would never again put his heart into anything the government could kill. And when he got the chance, he would act to protect the government’s innocent victims.
2
Near the River Bure at Acle, June 2018
Reflections from the river rippled on the roof of the conservatory as DCI Greg Geldard gulped down his morning mug of hot black coffee. Perched on his left shoulder was Bobby, his one-year-old tortoiseshell cat. She was rubbing her head up and down his newly shaved cheek in what he took to be approval, but knew was really an appeal for a drink of milk and some cat treats before he left for the day’s work. Glancing at his watch and noting that time was pressing, he rushed round the small cottage, placing quantities of cat food in five different locations so that Bobby had to do some hunting in order to get fed. It helped keep her busy while he was gone, and he knew that this was likely to be a long day. Then, with one last rub of her head, he placed her on her favourite windowsill and dashed out to his car.
It was now just over three months since he had charged one James Metcalfe, and his Romanian sidekick Dragan Bakalov, with a complex mess of crimes from murder to smuggling. At last, the case was being heard in Norwich Crown Court. He and some colleagues were due to give evidence. He’d spent the day before, and indeed most of the evening, going over the files and his private notes. This had been his first big case in Norfolk and successful convictions really mattered to him and the whole team. He and Jim Henning, his DI on the case, had spent hours asking each other questions, trying to pre-empt the likely lines of inquiry from the defence barristers. The Crown Prosecution barrister had done the same with them both but, as Jim said, it wasn’t his questions they needed to fear. If anyone tripped them up, it would be Ms Farrar from the defence team.
The traffic was slowing as it approached the roundabout onto the A47 and Greg looked at his watch again as he pulled up. If the driver of the car alongside the red BMW 3 series coupe had looked sideways, he would have seen a bull-necked, fresh-faced man in his thirties with mid-brown hair and a determined expression, tapping his steering wheel either in frustration or to music. The bulging briefcase tossed carelessly on the back seat would have revealed him to be a professional of some kind. He would probably not have guessed, first off, policeman.
By the time Greg drew into the car park near the Norwich law c ourts, his safety net of extra time had been seriously eroded by traffic delays. He swung out of the car and grabbed his briefcase in one move, slammed the door and headed for the exit, only then recognising the man in the liveried vehicle alongside.
‘Hi, Ben. So you’re on today too?’
Ben, slim, hair greying and sporting ‘first responder’ uniform looked up from his car keys. Attacked in the line of duty by the Romanian enforcer Dragan Bakalov, he’d been lucky to get away with no worse than a flesh wound.
‘That’s right, provided they get to me,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been told that, as one of the victims, I’m likely to be called early, but you know what it’s like.’
‘Don’t I just. I probably won’t see much of you inside until we’ve both given our evidence. They tend to keep us police separate, as you probably remember. The Witness Service will be looking after you. Are you going in the public gallery after they’ve finished with you?’
‘If I have time. But I’m on duty this afternoon, hence the first responder signs all over my car. I’ll probably leave when they adjourn for lunch.’
‘If I’ve given my evidence by then, do you have time to meet up?’
‘Again, depends on timing, but probably not. How about we meet for a drink later? The King’s Arms is sort of halfway between you and me.’
‘You’re on. See you later.’
*
Chris Mathews, Greg’s forceful detective sergeant, was already waiting in the room set aside for police. Today she had let loose her vivid colour sense by topping a sober black trouser suit with an orange and pink scarf. The trainers peeping out from the hem of the trousers were orange too. As so often, Greg mentally reached for the sunglasses.
‘Morning, Chris. Jim here?’
‘Yes. He’s just gone for some coffees from the snack bar. He’s bringing you one too.’
‘Good man. All ready for the questions?’
‘I think so. I just wish this had got to court while it was all fresh in my mind, but I suppose a few months isn’t so bad.’
‘Could’ve been worse. And at least they didn’t get bail, so they’ve been safely tucked away. Have CPS been in yet? Do we know what today’s timetable is?’
‘Not yet,’ answered Chris. ‘Still waiting to see. I hope you’ve brought something to do while we hang around.’
Greg pulled his laptop out of his briefcase. ‘Always paperwork to catch up on,’ he said, and made himself comfortable at the table in the corner. By the time Jim returned with the coffees, the CPS barrister had arrived, brisk, flustered and hot. All as normal.
‘The good news is,’ he said, ‘we’re still scheduled to start at ten or shortly after. Both the accused have arrived and are in the cells. Their defence is making a bit of a fuss, but it’s something and nothing. I think we’ll go ahead more or less on time. The line of questioning from me is as we discussed earlier. Nothing new there. The usher will fetch you when we’re ready. Oh, and lose the scarf,’ he said to Chris. ‘Don’t want to antagonise the judge.’ And he bustled out again.
There was a pregnant silence. Greg and Jim looked at the floor. Chris sighed and pulled off the offending, fluorescent item.
‘Worth a try,’ she said. ‘At least he didn’t notice the shoes.’ She regarded her neat, gaudy foot with some complacency.
By the end of the afternoon, Chris, Jim and Greg had given their evidence. Ben had also been questioned and cross questioned. On that basis, it was hard to see how Bakalov could avoid being sent down. When the victim of a stabbing survives to tell the tale, and is backed up by brawny members of the lifeboat crew who intervened to make that survival possible, the perpetrator is surely caught red handed. The fate of James Metcalfe, however, still hung in the balance. Charged with a range of offences from acting as an unlicenced gangmaster, through wildlife smuggling to three murders, the evidence was a complex mix of forensic science, data extracted from a car computer database and witness statements. After a thorough grilling on the circumstantial nature of the evidence amassed against him, Greg found himself unable to call it.
*
Greg arrived back at his cottage just as his mobile rang. Opening the back door with his briefcase in one hand, the phone tucked between shoulder and ear, he attempted to fend off Bobby’s urgent greeting while also making coherent sense to his boss.
‘How’d it go,’ asked Margaret Tayler, Chief Superintendent. ‘CPS is playing his cards close to his not inconsiderable chest, but did seem cautiously optimistic. What was your take?’
Suppressing a smile at the reference to the barrister’s generous proportions, Greg replied, ‘I think we’re home and dry on Bakalov, definitely on the attempted murder of Ben Asheton and probably on the charges relating to the murder of the worker dumped in the river and the arson of the gamekeeper’s cottage. As for Metcalfe, the jury haven’t heard all the evidence yet. Jim, Chris and I have had our turn, but they’ve yet to hear from forensics. I’m pretty certain the smuggling charges will stick, and if they do then we have a good chance on the rest.’
‘Good. When do you think you’ll finish up there?’
‘Tomorrow, hopefully. Defence haven’t finished taking evidence yet, and I’d expect the case to go on for another two days at least, but they should be done with us by Thursday.’
‘Again, good. The work’s stacking up, Greg. The county lines case needs some attention. I feel it’s losing impetus. And I’ve had an odd phone call from the government lab on the Science Park. They’ve asked for advice on security.’
‘Isn’t that a job for uniform?’
‘Normally, yes, but it seems they’ve had a specific threat. They’re being a bit cagey, but they’ve requested CID involvement and in view of the almighty cock up that was the last attack on the GM trials, I think you or Jim had better take a look. I’ll send an email with what I know.’
‘OK, thanks. I’ll deal with it as soon as we’re free of the court.’
Greg turned his attention to Bobby, currently making a game attempt to slaughter his post.
‘Come on, Bobs,’ he said. ‘Let me at least see whether I want to read it before you shred it.’
Leaving the cat with the adverts for pizza takeaways and the local free press, he picked up the stiff, official-looking envelope with the printed label and opened it with a knife from the magnetic holder on the kitchen wall. Then froze. It was not entirely unexpected, but a bit of a shock all the same. A formal communication from his estranged wife Isabelle’s solicitor, inviting him to divorce her on grounds of adultery.
He sat down at the battered oak kitchen table and placed the letter carefully on the surface, bottom edge neatly aligned with the table edge. He placed his hands on either side and sighed. Bobby arrived on the table top, marched over the letter and rubbed her head on his neck.
‘Quite right, Bobby,’ he said. ‘Deal with it later. We’ve got more important stuff to do first.’ And he took the cat into the sitting room for a quick game of chase the feather. When he left to go to the King’s Arms, the letter still lay where he had left it.
Jim and Ben had already made themselves comfortable in the bar when he got there. Having bagged one of the tables in the bay windows, they’d spotted the arrival of what Jim termed the ‘flash red car’ and a pint was waiting on the table.
‘Thanks,’ said Greg. ‘Anyone eating? I could do with something to help soak this up.’
‘Pity not to,’ said Jim and snagged a copy of the bar menu from a passing waitress.
‘Is Chris joining us?’ asked Greg.
‘She said not,’ replied Jim. ‘Said she was off tomorrow and had some stuff to catch up on first.’
‘I nearly died on the spot when he told her to take off the scarf,’ said Greg.
‘Me too, but she told me after it’s a sort of running joke between them. Every time she’s in court she tries it on with one luminous item of clothing to see if she can get it past him.’
‘Well I wish you’d warned me. And while we’re on the subject, you should have warned me about the cat’s name.’
‘Cat’s name?’ asked Ben, trying and failing to look innocent.
‘Come off it. You all knew about the row between Sarah and Chris about naming the kitten and none of you tipped me the wink. If I’d known, I’d have picked something neutral.’
