Judas Horse Read online

  *

  DI Joseph Gifford was outside the police station, waiting for Jack’s taxi to arrive. Parked behind him was a blue Vauxhall Corsa that had seen better days: this would be Jack’s transport for the duration of his stay in the Cotswolds. This station was tiny compared to even the smallest of London nicks, and Jack’s parking space had been stolen from a uniformed sergeant.

  Gifford was a short, dumpy man, at least two inches shorter than Jack. His deep voice and rotund appearance gave him the look of an opera singer. He greeted Jack with a handshake that could crush bones, suggesting a streetwise toughness belied by Gifford’s rather sheltered upbringing and uneventful rise up the ranks. ‘Welcome, Jack. Good to have you on board.’

  *

  The station was a three-storey, characterless new-build forming an ugly blot on the beautiful Cotswold landscape. The inside was as dull as the outside, and the squad room looked like any other office. If it hadn’t been for the evidence board displaying crime scene photos, it could easily have been mistaken for an estate agent’s. Gifford led Jack to an empty desk near the window, so he could admire the view whilst ploughing through the huge pile of files and statements waiting for him. ‘My office is over there,’ Gifford said with a frown, pointing to a partitioned corner of the main room, which wasn’t really an office at all.

  ‘Oaks!’ A young male officer promptly appeared at Gifford’s side. ‘DC William Oaks, DS Jack Warr from the Met. Oaks will show you round and answer any questions. He’s been involved from the off, so he knows his stuff.’ Then Gifford pulled his mobile from his pocket and headed to his office to read his messages.

  ‘Drink?’ Oaks asked, and, with that one word, Jack knew that Oaks did not want him there. Jack declined the drink and instead asked Oaks to sit and talk him through the case notes. Within minutes, Jack had made Oaks feel so important that the young DC was putty in his hands. Oaks’s strong Gloucestershire roots gave him one of those accents that unfortunately made him sound like a yokel; but it was soon clear to Jack that he was as sharp as a tack and had a natural aptitude for the job. And Oaks also clearly cared about the work he did here. That’s why he was initially hostile towards Jack, because he was embarrassed that they’d reached a dead end in the case. Jack knew that he’d do well to keep Oaks close, as he’d be far more acceptable to the local homeowners than a stranger from out of town. After an hour of learning, Jack knocked on Gifford’s office door. ‘If it’s all right with you, sir, I’ll settle into my digs, then have a look around.’

  Oaks had driven less than half a mile down the road, when he pulled into a layby. His head was turned away from Jack. ‘Sir . . .’ he muttered in a shamefaced tone. Oaks plucked up the courage to look at Jack before continuing, ‘I’ve booked you into a right shithole. Me and the lads thought it’d be funny, see. Well, not funny, just . . . I don’t know. When the Guvnor said a DS from the Met was coming to help out, we . . . well, we thought you’d come in all bluff ’n’ balls, bossing us about and treating us like we didn’t know how to do the job. So, I booked you into a shithole.’

  Jack wanted to laugh out loud at Oaks’s naïve honesty, but instead kept a straight face. ‘Why are you telling me?’ he asked in the sternest tone he could muster.

  ‘’Cos, I changed my mind. This B&B we’re heading for now is no way to welcome you.’

  When Jack finally smiled, his entire face softened and his eyes glowed. Oaks knew immediately that he was forgiven. ‘My cousin, Blair, runs The Fox Hunters in the centre of town. Lovely place. I’ll take you there.’

  Jack nodded happily. ‘Let’s go the scenic route, please, DC Oaks. I want to get a feel for the area.’

  The Cotswolds were sprinkled with chocolate-box houses, hedged fields and a variety of roaming animals. ‘Them hedges look easy to nick sheep over, right?’ Oaks’s upbeat tone when posing the question made it obvious that them hedges held a secret. ‘From roadside, they’re waist height, but on the field-side most have got a wide trench filled with brambles. No way you can get sheep out over that. I had to cut a tourist’s dog out of a bramble trench once. He’d spotted the sheep, leapt the hedge and landed in, well, it’s like barbed wire once you’re in the middle of it. Poor thing had to be put down . . . should have been the owner who was put down, in my opinion.’

  Everywhere Jack looked there were roads and pubs that gave a proud nod to their long-gone yesteryears – The Railway Tavern was no longer anywhere near a working railway, The Horse and Groom pub had converted its stables into a car park now filled with Land Rovers, and Jack was 100 per cent certain that Oaks’s cousin who owned The Fox Hunters was not, in fact, a fox hunter.

  All in all, old and new seemed to co-exist relatively neatly. Even old decommissioned red phone boxes had been reassigned and most now contained defibrillators – presumably to save the lives of overweight, city-dwelling ramblers when they succumbed to heart attacks after thinking that one week of healthy living in the fresh air could make up for fifty-one weeks of a sedentary lifestyle.

  Jack noted that a lot of the villages and small towns tended to be served by one main road, meaning there was only one way in and out, so, unlike London burglars, the perpetrators here would not be able to escape like rats in a maze. Which prompted the question, why had Gifford and his team not caught them yet?

  As Oaks turned the next corner, he was pulled up by temporary traffic lights. From the opposite direction, three lorries carrying farming equipment and supplies rumbled past, followed by a couple of horseboxes and a half dozen cars. ‘Where’s all of this traffic coming from and going to? How do you keep track of these bigger vehicles?’ Jack asked. ‘Do you recognise all of them?’

  ‘Most,’ Oaks answered. ‘The riding schools have their logo on the side of their horseboxes, so they’re easy to spot. The unbranded horseboxes belong to renters; I wouldn’t know who’s got them week to week. Horse shows bring thousands of outsiders in, of course; some rent boxes, some bring their own. And the lorries . . . some are transporting big equipment to and from local farms; some are European, passing through. We’ve seen dozens of local petitions asking us to force the lorries to go around, but we can’t.’

  Jack was intrigued by just how confusing this community actually was. There were so many people who didn’t permanently belong. He speculated that a stranger would certainly be noticed, but also ignored, as they’d be assumed to be one of the numerous transients who pass through every week. Jack’s view of the investigation had radically changed in a moment. Now he was thinking, How on earth could Gifford and his team be expected to keep track of everyone?

  ‘Now I can see your big problem, Oaks,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘You live in a moveable community. Private renters with their own staff coming and going every week, famous faces taking a break from life, weekend wanderers, second homes, tourists, horse shows. Fuck me.’ Oaks snorted out a laugh at Jack’s profanity. ‘These burglaries are quick and slick, right?’ Jack continued as the lights finally turned green and Oaks pulled away.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’d say they were targeted but, truth is, you could break into any of these out-of-the-way houses and you’d probably hit the jackpot. The gang definitely has electronics knowledge ’cos security systems and safes don’t cause them any bother. We had one old fella last month, took him days to notice he’d even been robbed. They went straight for his collection of watches in the dressing table, see, and he never knew till he was getting ready for some golfing awards ceremony. He called his insurance company before he called us. The problem with that burglary, sir, and one of the reasons my guvnor called yours, was that the old fella reckons he must have been asleep in bed on the night they robbed him, ’cos he’d been ill with flu. They wouldn’t have known that, and thankfully he was dosed up on Night Nurse, so didn’t wake up. But it’s only a matter of time before they bump into a homeowner, and I reckon they’d not think twice about killing someone. I mean, if you can stick a letter opener into the ear of old Jonty, you can kill
a man . . .’ Oaks shook his head sadly. ‘How does all that compare to your burglaries in Wimbledon, sir?’

  ‘These are worse,’ Jack said grimly. ‘Because you’re right, if this gang comes up against a homeowner, things could get out of hand very quickly.’ Jack glanced at Oaks and noted the new worry on his face. ‘But burglars always exhibit patterns of behaviour. What we need to do is find the pattern your guys are leaving behind. Then we can get ahead of them.’

  The Fox Hunters was an old sandstone building with wonky walls and small, cross-hatched leaded windows that no longer fitted into their frames. In the reception area, the exposed stonework and wooden beams were tastefully maintained and minimally decorated . . . but in the bar, the homage to the past had gone into overdrive. The walls here were almost completely covered with sepia photos, horse brasses and tack, and old leather ‘things’ that Jack couldn’t even begin to identify. But the deliberately antiquated feel of the place was in stark contrast to its current incumbent, the 20-year-old, much-tattooed Blair, who looked exactly like a pretty, feminine version of DC William Oaks.

  Jack sat on a narrow, creaky bench to call Maggie whilst his new best mate booked him in. Maggie quickly answered, told him to FaceTime, then hung up.

  Hannah’s face filled the entire screen! ‘Can you see her?’ Maggie’s voice was unnecessarily loud. ‘Say hello to Daddy.’ Jack looked around the bar. It was scattered with older men nursing pints and reading the newspaper whilst on a long lunch and they could hear Maggie as clearly as Jack could. ‘Hello, Daddy. Talk to her, Jack. She knows your voice.’

  ‘Mags,’ Jack whispered, unsuccessfully trying to turn the volume down on his mobile, ‘Mags, I’m not talking to the baby. I’m not . . . Mags, please.’ Jack glanced up to see Oaks dipping under the doorframe and openly sniggering at him. ‘I’m hanging up, Mags.’

  *

  Back at the station, Jack told Gifford that he’d like to start at the beginning by re-interviewing one of the very first victims, Maisie Fullworth, as she was their one and only eye-witness to any of the burglaries. Gifford shook his head. ‘Can’t. Maisie’s a delicate girl and has a very overprotective mum. Currently, she’s with her aunt in Swindon.’ Jack’s face showed little sympathy. He accepted that Maisie was only 15 at the time of the burglary, and it would have undoubtedly been traumatic to wake and find a man standing in her bedroom. But that was back in 2018. ‘This is a perfect example of what we’re up against, Jack,’ Gifford explained. ‘Mrs Fullworth is a high court judge in Oxford. If she says we can’t interview Maisie, then we can’t interview Maisie. Her statement’s here, but that’s all you’ll be getting. Oaks!’

  Oaks interpreted the booming of his name as an instruction to relay Maisie’s statement.

  ‘Maisie was woken at 2 a.m. by a noise that she said sounded like someone standing on the creaky floorboard just outside her bedroom. She sat up in bed and, in the mirror of her open wardrobe door, she saw the outline of a man. From the description, which wasn’t bad actually for a scared young girl, he was of medium build and over six feet tall. She guessed his height based on looking at me. He got away with a diamond engagement ring and £500 in cash.’

  Gifford looked over Jack’s shoulder at his small team of six men and women. Jack followed his gaze. ‘Why don’t you introduce me before curiosity kills them?’

  In the squad room they sat low in their seats, arms folded, ready to be told how to do their jobs by ‘the man from the Met’. But Jack’s opening words instantly threw them off-balance. ‘Thank you for welcoming me to your patch. Don’t get me wrong, I’m the one in charge now and I’ll lead from the front until this gang is behind bars. But I recognise that I’m coming to this case with all of the excellent groundwork already done. So, thank you.’ Then Jack went in for the kill. ‘This gang will not move on and disappear for good. They will not escalate to murder, which I know is your biggest concern. We will get them. And you will have your moment.’

  A hand reached out for Jack’s. ‘Thank you, sir. It’s good to have you here.’ Oaks spoke with all the maturity of a seasoned detective constable. Jack took his hand and, with that single act, he was accepted into the Chipping Norton team.

  CHAPTER 6

  The next morning, half of Jack’s new team were at their desks wading through all of the evidence, specifically looking for people or vehicles present in the vicinity of all of the burglaries, while the other half were out taking fresh statements and asking all known burglary victims if they knew of anyone else who’d been targeted and not actually reported it.

  The pinging of Gifford’s mobile could be heard two seconds before he himself appeared in the squad room carrying a mixture of hot and cold breakfasts for everyone. He was clearly surprised to see only three of his officers at their desks. ‘The others are re-interviewing, sir,’ Jack explained quickly. He knew Gifford would be unhappy that this order had been given without being run past him first. ‘We know that some burglaries have not actually been reported and that’s no use to us. We need the whole picture, so we can see the pattern – if there is one. We’ll get nowhere by being reactive; we must be proactive. And any pissing off of bigwigs we do now will be forgotten once we catch this gang.’

  Without replying, Gifford handed the hot breakfasts to those of his officers who were present and put the cold breakfasts on the desks of those who were out and about. He was giving himself time to consider Jack’s rather insubordinate first order of the day.

  ‘They have gone plainclothes, sir,’ Oaks added once the silence got too much for him. ‘So, they shouldn’t get too many curtains twitching.’

  Gifford had no choice but to go along with the decision for now. ‘Well . . . we’d better have something to show for it by the time the complaints hit the DCI’s desk.’

  ‘We will.’ Jack took a deep breath before delivering his next sentence. Gifford’s response would tell him whether this case was winnable or not. ‘Oaks and I are on our way to re-interview Maisie Fullworth.’

  Gifford slammed the tray of drinks down on the nearest desk.

  Jack was prepared for this reaction and he already knew what he was going to say. ‘I won’t work with one hand tied behind my back, sir. Mrs Fullworth does not know what’s best for this community – we do. The fact that she can’t see it is not my problem.’

  Gifford pursed his lips, stuck out his chin and nodded. Then he took his perpetually pinging mobile out of his pocket, went into his office and shut the door. As the disgruntled DI sat down at his desk to read his messages, Jack saw right through the fat man’s suddenly very transparent façade. Gifford was not a leader, but a follower in disguise. Jack would be gentler with him from now on – not out of pity or guilt, but because he knew that there was no need to be pushy with a man who wasn’t going to push back.

  *

  Mrs Fullworth wasn’t happy to see the police on her doorstep again and made it very clear from the outset by not stopping what she was doing. She moved around the kitchen, sweeping zig-zag-shaped chunks of mud into the corner nearest the back door. ‘I tell Mr Fullworth to kick the step before he comes in, so that his boots drop their mud outside, but he always forgets.’ Then, almost without taking a breath, she began recapping how incredibly cooperative she’d been so far. ‘You have the contact details for all staff – the pool maintenance chap has died since then, so you can strike him from your list. You have the insurance details for the £2,000 ring – that payment took several months to arrive with me, now there’s a crime for you. Not that the ring can be replaced. That’s the crux of it all with a robbery, isn’t it? It’s so bloody personal. What else, oh yes, the cash; well, I’ll not see that again. Never mind. It was only £500 for housekeeping and the like—’

  ‘Mrs Fullworth,’ Jack interrupted. ‘When is Maisie back with you?’ Jack knew it was important for him to gain control of the conversation. So far, Mrs Fullworth had not stopped talking, in an endeavour to assert her authority, and although Jack could see
it working with Oaks, it definitely wasn’t going to wash with him.

  ‘My daughter . . .’ Mrs Fullworth emphasised her words to indicate her ownership over Maisie. ‘My daughter has suffered with anorexia for much of her teenage life, but since the burglary, it’s got worse. She is currently with her aunt, my sister, Lisa, in Swindon. Lisa is an art therapist. Maisie’s going through a rough patch and it helps her to be away from here. Away from all of the traumatic memories.’ Jack asked again when Maisie was due to return, but was told that it would be open-ended. ‘Healing has its own timeframe.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Mrs Fullworth,’ Jack replied firmly, ‘we also have a timeframe. These burglars are working their way through your community, your friends. They’re making fools of us.’ Mrs Fullworth’s eyes narrowed and her knuckles turned white as she squeezed the handle of the broom. ‘They know you value your privacy as highly as your possessions, and so they force you to choose.’ Jack took a step towards her, getting closer than she was comfortable with, so he could see that she wasn’t arrogant at all. She was scared. Now he knew what to say. He promised to give her the one thing he knew she’d genuinely lost. ‘My intention is to take control away from them and give it back to you. Your daughter can return to her home, unafraid. Do you have a first name I could use, Mrs Fullworth?’

  Within seconds of Mrs Fullworth blushing like a schoolgirl and announcing that her first name was Eloise – ‘you can call me Elli’ – she’d revealed the guilt she felt for having been at her weekly bridge game at the time of the burglary. She and several female friends met every Tuesday and on this particular night, Maisie had been home due to her school’s mid-term break. Elli had still gone out, because it was her one night off and she worked so hard the rest of the week. So Maisie had been left home alone, to be confronted by a man in her bedroom. Elli had almost cried at the thought of what could have happened to her little girl on that horrible, terrifying night. As a family, she was thankful they had got off very lightly.