This Body of Death

Chapter Thirty-Three

LATER BARBARA HAVERS WOULD THINK WITH SOME ASTONISHMENT that everything ultimately had come down to the fact that Lyndhurst had a one-way traffic system in the heart of the village. It formed a nearly perfect triangle, and the direction from which she was traveling forced her to follow the triangle’s northern side. This put her into the high street where, midway down the street and just beyond the half-timbered front of the Crown Hotel, she was meant to turn into the Romsey Road, which would take her to the police station. Because of the traffic light at the Romsey Road junction, a tailback formed during most hours of the day. This was the case when Barbara followed the curve round the expanse of lawn and thatched cottages comprising Swan Green and set her course into and through the village.

She found herself caught behind a lorry belching a hideous amount of exhaust fumes through her open windows. She reckoned she might as well have a smoke as she waited for the light to change. No point in avoiding an opportunity to add to the pollution that was blackening her lungs, she thought.

She was reaching for her bag when she saw Frazer Chaplin. He came out of a building just ahead of her, and there was no mistaking the bloke. She was quite close to the left-hand kerb in preparation for her turn into the Romsey Road, and the building in question-its sign identified it as the Mad Hatter Tea Rooms-was on the left side of the street. She thought briefly, What the bloody hell…And then she clocked the woman with him. They came onto the pavement in the unmistakable manner of lovers in post-trysting mode, but there was something about Frazer’s two-handed hold upon his companion that wasn’t quite right. He had his right arm tightly round her waist. He had his left arm across his own body to grip her left arm above the elbow. They paused for a moment in front of the tea room windows, and he said something to her. Then he kissed her cheek and gave her a look that was soulful, admiring, and love struck. Had it not been for that grip and a decided stiffness about the woman’s body, Barbara might have thought Frazer was up to what she’d quickly concluded he was apt to get up to the only time she’d met him: that wide-legged posture of his when he was sitting, that look-what-I’ve-got-for-you-here-baybee expression in the eyes, and the rest was history. But the woman with him-who the hell was she, Barbara wondered-did not appear to be floating somewhere in the aftermath of sexual rapture. Instead she appeared to be…well, captive seemed a fairly good description.

They headed in the same direction Barbara was taking. A few cars ahead of her, however, they crossed the road. They continued down the pavement and, within a few yards, disappeared into an alley on the right. Barbara muttered, “Damn, damn, damn,” and waited in mounting agitation for the lights at the junction to begin their change from red to amber to green. She saw that the alley on the right was marked with that universal white P on a square blue background, indicating that there was a car park somewhere behind the buildings in the high street. She reckoned it stood to reason that Frazer was taking the woman to it.

She said, “Come on, come on, come on,” to the lights, and they finally cooperated. The traffic began to move. She had thirty yards to go to get to that alley.

It felt like forever till she made the turn and zoomed between the buildings, where she saw that the car park was not only for shoppers come to do their weekly business in the village. It also served the New Forest Museum and the public facilities as well. So it was massed with cars and for a moment Barbara thought she’d lost Frazer and his companion somewhere within the rows of vehicles. But then she saw him some distance away at the side of a Polo and if before she might have given idle thought to this being the end of a romantic tryst between Frazer Chaplin and his companion, the manner in which they got into the vehicle put the matter to rest.

The woman entered the passenger’s side as one would expect, but Frazer kept his grip upon her and climbed right in behind her. From there Barbara couldn’t see the action, but it seemed fairly clear that Frazer’s goal was to force his companion into moving over to the driver’s side, and he had no intention of losing his grip upon her while she did so.

A horn honked suddenly. Barbara looked into her rear view mirror. Naturally, she thought, this would be the moment that someone else would come into the car park. She couldn’t wave them round her, for the passage was far too narrow.

She turned into one of the rows of cars and blasted up it and down another. By the time she had herself back into a position where she could see the vehicle into which Frazer had climbed, it had pulled back from the bay where it had been parked and was heading in the direction of the exit.

Barbara followed, hoping for twofold luck: that no one would come along and keep her from catching Frazer up, that traffic in the high street would allow her to slip in behind him relatively easily and unseen. For it was obvious to her that she had to follow. Her intention to confront Chief Superintendent Whiting at the police station had to be set aside for the moment because if Frazer Chaplin had come to the New Forest, she reckoned that he hadn’t done so to take pictures of the ponies.

The only question was the identity of the young woman with him. She’d been tall, thin, and decked out in something that looked like an African nightdress. It covered her from shoulders to toes. She was either in costume or protecting herself from the summer sun, but in either case, Barbara felt sure she’d not seen her before these moments in Lyndhurst.

From what she’d learned earlier from Rob Hastings, Barbara concluded that it had to be Meredith Powell. If, indeed, Meredith Powell had been conducting some sort of mad investigation on her own-as, according to Hastings, it seemed she had done-then it stood to reason that somehow she’d stumbled upon Frazer Chaplin whose presence here in Hampshire suggested he was into things up to his neck as well. And the body language between them told a tale, didn’t it: Meredith-if that was who it was and who else could it be if it wasn’t Meredith?-didn’t want to be in Frazer’s company, while Frazer had no intention of allowing her to set off somewhere on her own.

At the bottom of the high street, they headed due south into another leg of the Lyndhurst one-way system. Barbara followed. The signs, she saw, indicated Brockenhurst, and at yet another point of this traffic triangle, they turned into the A337. There they dipped almost immediately into a vast area of woodland. Everywhere was green and lush, and the traffic flowed well but with an eye for the animals. As the road was arrow straight for some distance, Barbara dropped back, the Polo well within her sight. There were very few options for turning when one came to Brockenhurst, and Barbara had a fairly good idea which one they intended to take.

She was unsurprised when they took it a few minutes later: the route to Lymington. This, she knew, was going to put them within range of Gordon Jossie’s holding. She reckoned that was where they were heading. She meant to know why.

She received at least a partial answer to this question when her mobile sounded “Peggy Sue.” Since she’d dumped her shoulder bag’s contents onto the passenger seat when looking for a fag, the mobile was easy enough to snatch up. She barked, “Havers,” into it and added, “Be quick. I can’t pull over. Who is this?”

“Frazer-”

“What the hell?” No way could he have her number, Barbara thought. Her mind was wrestling with all the possibilities of how he’d managed to get it as she demanded, “Who’s that with you in the bloody car? What’re you-”

“Barbara?”

She realised it was DI Lynley. She said, “Damn. Sorry. I thought you were…Where are you? Are you here?”

“Where?”

“Hampshire. Where else? Listen, I’m following-”

“We’ve broken his alibi.”

“Whose?”

“Frazer Chaplin’s. He wasn’t at home the day she died, not that Bella McHaggis can actually verify. She assumed he was there because he’d always come home between his jobs, and he encouraged her to think he’d done his usual thing that day. And the woman in the picture from the portrait gallery-” He stopped as someone in the background spoke to him. He said, “Yes. Right,” to that person and then, “She’s called Georgina Francis, Barbara, not Gina Dickens. Bella McHaggis identified her.” Someone spoke to him again in the background. He then said, “As to Whiting…”

“What about Whiting?” Barbara asked. “Who’s Georgina Francis? Who’re you talking to anyway?” She reckoned she knew the answer to this last, but she wanted to hear it from Lynley’s own lips.

“The superintendent,” he said. He went rapidly on to tell her how Georgina Francis fitted into the picture: former lodger at the home of Bella McHaggis, tossed out on her ear for violating the McHaggis dictum against fraternisation among those living beneath her roof. Frazer Chaplin had been the man involved.

“What the hell was she doing at the portrait gallery?” Barbara asked. “That’s some bloody coincidence, isn’t it?”

“Not if she was there to check out the competition. Not if she was there because she was and is still involved with Frazer Chaplin. Why would their relationship have ended just because she had to find other lodgings? We reckon-”

“Who?” She couldn’t help herself although she hated herself the moment she said it.

“What?”

“Who reckons?”

“Barbara, for God’s sake.” He was not a fool.

“All right. Sorry. Go on.”

“We’ve spoken to Mrs. McHaggis at some length.” He banged on then about DragonFly Tonics, transfers, Frazer’s lime green Vespa, Winston Nkata’s viewing of the CCTV films in the area, the two e-fits, and the yellow shirt and Jemima’s handbag found within the Oxfam bin about which, he concluded, “We reckon his intention was to hand them over to Georgina Francis to plant somewhere on Gordon Jossie’s holding. But he didn’t have the time to do it. Once Bella saw the story in the paper about the body, she called the police and you turned up. There was too much risk at that point for him to do anything but sit tight and wait for a better opportunity.”

“He’s here. In Hampshire. Sir, he’s here.”

“Who?”

“Frazer Chaplin. I’m following him just now. He’s got a woman with him and we’re heading-”

“She’s got Frazer Chaplin in sight,” Lynley said to his companion on the other end of the conversation. The superintendent said something quite sharply. Lynley said to Havers, “Phone for backup, Barbara. That’s not from me. That’s from Isabelle.”

Isabelle, Barbara thought. Bloody Isabelle. She said, “I don’t know where we are or where we’re going, so I don’t know where to ask backup to go, sir.” She was playing fast and loose for reasons she didn’t want to explore.

Lynley said, “Get close enough for the number plates if you can. And you can tell the make of car, can’t you? You can see the colour.”

“Just the colour,” she said. “I’ll have to follow-”

“God damn it, Barbara. Then phone for backup, explain the situation, and give your own bloody number plates and a description of your own car. I don’t have to tell you this bloke’s dangerous. If he’s got someone with him-”

“He’s not going to hurt her while she’s driving, sir. I’ll phone for backup when we get where we’re going. What about Whiting?”

“Barbara, if nothing else, you’re putting yourself in danger. This is not the time for you to-”

“What’ve you learned, sir? What did Norman tell you?”

There was more talk from Ardery at his end. Lynley said to the superintendent, “She thinks-”

Barbara cut in airily with, “I’m going to have to ring off, sir. Terrible traffic and I think I’m losing the connection anyway and-”

“Whiting,” he said. She knew he did it to get her attention. Typical of him. She was forced to listen to a catalogue of facts: Whiting charged by the Home Office with the highest level of protection of someone; Lynley and Ardery were concluding the person was Jossie; it was the only explanation for why Whiting hadn’t turned over to New Scotland Yard the evidence of Jossie’s trip to London; Whiting knew the Met would focus on Jossie because of it; that couldn’t be allowed to happen.

“Even if the evidence made it look like Jossie killed someone?” Barbara demanded. “Bloody hell, sir. What kind of high-level protection asks for that? Who is this guy?”

They didn’t know but it didn’t actually matter at the moment because Frazer Chaplin was the one they were after and since Barbara had Frazer Chaplin in view…

Blah, blah, blah, Barbara thought. She said, “Right. Right. Got it. Oh damn, I think I’m losing you, sir…bad connection here…I’m getting out of range.”

“Phone for backup and do it at once!” were the last words she heard. She was not out of range, but ahead of her the car she was following had made a sharp turn into a secondary road on the edge of Brockenhurst village. She couldn’t be bothered arguing with Lynley at that point. She put her foot down to catch up and veered right just ahead of an oncoming removals van, where a sign pointed to Sway.

Her mind was swarming with a horde of details: facts, names, faces, and possibilities. She reckoned she could pause, sort through it all, and phone for the backup Lynley was insisting upon, or she could get to wherever they were going first, suss out the situation, and make her decisions accordingly.

She chose the second option.

TESS RODE IN the back seat of Whiting’s vehicle. Dumb as the poor dog was, she was dead delighted to be going for a ride in the midst of a workday since she usually had to hang about waiting for Gordon to finish up before she was able to do anything other than lie in the shade and hope for the diversion of a squirrel to chase. Now, though, the windows were open, her ears were flopping, and her nose was catching the delightful smells of high summer. Gordon realised that, come what was likely to come, the retriever wasn’t going to be able to help him.

What was going to come soon became apparent. Instead of heading in the direction of Fritham-the first enclave of cottages they should have come to on the route to Gordon’s holding-Whiting drove in the direction of Eyeworth Pond. There was a track in advance of the pond that they could have taken to get over to Roger Penny Way and another road that still would have made quick work of reaching Gordon’s cottage, but Whiting passed this by and went on to the pond where he parked on the upper level of the two terraces that comprised the roughly hewn car park. It overlooked the water.

This delighted Tess no end, as the dog clearly expected a walk in the woods that edged the pond and stretched out to encompass a vast acreage of trees, hills, and inclosures. She barked, wagged her tail, and looked meaningfully out of the open window. Whiting said, “Either shut the dog up or open the door and get it out of here.”

Gordon said, “Aren’t we-”

“Shut the dog up.”

From this Gordon understood that whatever was to happen was going to happen right there in the car. And this made sense, didn’t it, when one considered the time of day, the season, and the fact that they were not alone. For not only were there vehicles in the lower section of the car park at this very moment, there were also two families feeding ducks on the distant pond, a group of cyclists setting off into the woods, an elderly couple in deck chairs having a picnic beneath one of the distant willow trees, and a woman taking a pack of six corgis on a midday stroll.

Gordon turned to his retriever. He said, “Down, Tess. Later,” and he prayed that she would obey. He knew the dog would run into the trees if Whiting forced him to open the door. He also knew how unlikely it was that the cop would allow him to fetch her once she’d done so. Suddenly Tess was more important to him than anything else in his pathetic excuse for a life. Her affection for him, in the way of all dogs, was unconditional. He was going to need that in the days to come.

The dog lowered herself to the seat with great reluctance. Before she did so, she cast a soulful look from the outdoors to him. “Later,” he told her. “Good dog.”

Whiting chuckled. He moved his seat back and adjusted its position. He said, “Very nice. Very, very nice. Didn’t know you had such a way with animals. Amazing to learn something new about you when I reckoned I already knew it all.” He made himself more comfortable then, and he said, “Now. We’ve some unfinished business, you and I.”

Gordon said nothing in reply. He saw the genius in what Whiting had planned and how well the cop had been able to read him from the first. Their last interaction had been interrupted, but it had gone on long enough for Gordon to know where every future interaction would lead. Whiting understood that Gordon would never again see him both alone and unprepared to defend himself. But defending himself against Whiting in a public place would lead to an exposure he could not afford. He was caught again. He was caught on all sides. And it was always going to be that way.

Whiting lowered the zip on his trousers. He said, “Consider it this way, laddie. I reckon you’ve taken it in the arse but I don’t fancy that. The other will do. Come along and be a good boy, eh? Then we’ll call it quits, you and I. Off you’ll go with no one the wiser. About anything, my dear.”

Gordon knew he could end it-now, in this moment, and forever. But the aftermath of doing so would end him as well, and his cowardice was that he could not cope with that. He simply lacked the bottle. That was who he was and who he had always been.

How long would it take and what would it cost him to perform for Whiting? Surely, he thought, he could live through this when he’d lived through everything else.

He turned in his seat. He glanced back at Tess. Her head was on her paws, her eyes gazed at him mournfully, her tail wagged slowly. He said to Whiting, “The dog goes with me.”

“Whatever you like.” Whiting smiled.

MEREDITH’S HANDS WERE slick on the steering wheel. Her heart was pounding. She couldn’t catch her breath. The bloke had something poked into her side-the same something sharp that he’d likely been holding in readiness when she’d stupidly broken into Gina Dickens’s bed-sitting room-and he murmured, “How d’you reckon it feels when it pierces the flesh?” in reference to it.

She hadn’t a clue who he was. But he, evidently, knew exactly who she was because he called her by name. He’d said within moments and into her ear, “And this must be Meredith Powell, who pinched my pretty gold coin. I’ve been hearing about you, Meredith, I have. But sure I didn’t expect we’d ever get the chance to become acquainted.”

She’d said, “Who are you?” and even as she’d said it, she knew there was something familiar about him.

“That,” he said, “is one of those need-to-know questions, Meredith. And you, as it happens, don’t need to know.”

The voice. She’d heard enough at that point to connect him to the phone call she’d intercepted in Gina’s bed-sitting room. She’d thought at the time it was Chief Superintendent Whiting-when she’d thought at all, she concluded bitterly-but this had to be the man who’d placed that phone call. The voice seemed right.

“Your arrival changes the nature of things a wee bit,” he’d said to her.

So they had gone to her car. Her mind began racing when he forced her into the driver’s seat. He said she was to take them to Gordon Jossie’s property, so first she concluded that here was the answer: this bloke and Gordon in cahoots and Jemima dying because she’d discovered it. That, however, brought up the question of Gina Dickens and how she fitted in, which forced Meredith to decide that it was Gina and this bloke who were in cahoots. But that brought up the question of who Gina was, which brought up the question of who Gordon was, which brought up the question of where Chief Superintendent Whiting fitted in since, according to Michele Daugherty, it was Jossie’s name that had brought Whiting to her office making whatever threats he’d made. And that brought up the question of whether Michele Daugherty herself was involved because perhaps she was a liar as well since it seemed they all were liars.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, Meredith thought. She should have gone into work at Gerber & Hudson that day.

She considered driving wildly round Hampshire instead of heading to Gordon’s holding when the man told her to take him there. She reckoned if she drove fast enough and wildly enough, there was a chance that she could attract the attention of someone-a policeman out on patrol definitely wouldn’t have gone amiss-and save herself that way. But there was that thing poked into her side and the suggestion it made of a slow and painful entry somewhere in the vicinity of…what? Was it her liver down there? Where were her kidneys, exactly? And how much did it hurt to be stabbed? Was she enough of a heroine to undergo…and if she did…but would he really stab her if she was driving the car…and what if she drove erratically and he told her to stop and then he marched her into the woods…into one of hundreds upon hundreds of woods…How long would it take someone to find her while she slowly bled to death? Like Jemima had done. Oh God oh God oh God.

“You killed her!” She blurted it out. She hadn’t intended to. She’d intended to remain calm. Sigourney Weaver in that old film about the space creature. Even older, ancient even, telly shows featuring Diana Rigg in her high-heeled boots kicking bad guys in the teeth. What would they do in this situation? she wondered ridiculously. What would Sigourney and Diana do? Easy for them because it was all in the script, and the alien, the bad guy, the monster, whatever…It always dies at the end, doesn’t it? Only Jemima was already dead and, “You killed her! You killed her!” Meredith shouted.

The deadly point of his weapon pressed harder against her. “Drive,” he said. “Killing, I’ve found, is rather easier than I thought it would be.”

She thought of Cammie. Her vision went blurry. She got a grip. She would do what was asked and what was necessary in order to get back to Cammie.

She said, “I’ve a little girl. She’s five years old. Do you have children?”

He said, “Drive.”

“What I mean is you have to let me go. Cammie doesn’t have another parent. Please. You don’t want to do this to my little girl.”

She glanced at him. He was dark like a Spaniard, and his face was pockmarked. His eyes were brown. They were fixed on her. They held nothing. They were, she realised, like gazing at a blackboard.

She looked away and kept her attention on the road, then. She began to pray.

BARBARA RECKONED THAT if the other car was heading to Gordon Jossie’s holding-as it apparently was since she could come up with no other reason that it had turned towards Sway-Gina Dickens had to be there. Or Georgina Francis. Or whoever the bloody hell she was. In the middle of the day, they wouldn’t be taking a trek out to Jossie’s property in order to meet Jossie himself, who would be at work. Instead, they were on their way to meet someone else, and that person had to be Gina/Georgina. All Barbara needed to do was to follow at a safe distance, to make certain they ended up where she suspected they would, and then to ring for backup if it looked as though she wasn’t going to be able to deal with them by herself.

If she moved too soon against Frazer Chaplin, then it stood to reason Georgina Francis would get away. In this part of the country that would not be difficult. Reaching the Isle of Wight took only a ferry ride. Reaching its airport from Yarmouth would not be difficult. Southampton was no great distance, either. Nor was Southampton’s airport. So she had to be cautious. The last thing she wanted was to play her hand too soon.

Her mobile rang again. I love you, Peggy Sue. She glanced at the phone’s screen and saw it was Lynley, no doubt ringing because he assumed they’d been cut off earlier. She let her voice mail take the message as she kept driving.

The Polo ahead of her made a turn into the first of the narrow lanes that led in the end to Gordon Jossie’s cottage. They were less than two minutes from their destination now, and when they reached it and the car ahead turned into Gordon Jossie’s drive, Barbara was unsurprised.

She zipped past-just another car in the lane as far as they were concerned, she hoped-and she found a spot farther along the way where she crammed her Mini into an opening provided by the access into a local farm’s field. There she parked, grabbed up her mobile phone in a bow to cooperating with her superior officers-although she was careful to switch it off-and hurried back in the direction from which she’d come.

She reached Jossie’s cottage first, not his driveway. The hawthorn hedge hid the dwelling from the lane, but it also provided her a shelter from being seen. She crept along it far enough to gain a view of the driveway and at least part of the west paddock beyond it. She saw that Frazer Chaplin and his companion had entered that paddock and were crossing it. They passed out of her field of vision, though, within ten yards.

She went back along the hedge. She didn’t fancy clawing her way through it. It was thickly grown and for all practical purposes impassable, so she needed another way to get onto Jossie’s property. She found this way where the hedge made an angle and headed inwards to run along part of the property’s east boundary. There, she discovered, it gave onto another paddock defined by the same wire fencing that was used elsewhere on Jossie’s land. This was easier to climb through, and she did so. Now what stood between her and the west paddock and Frazer Chaplin within that paddock was the barn in which Jossie kept Jemima’s car and his thatching equipment. If she circled that barn, she knew she would arrive at the north side of the west paddock, where Frazer Chaplin had taken the woman who was with him.

There was no immediate sign of Gina Dickens, but as Barbara slunk in the direction of the barn and towards its rear, she could see Gina’s well-kept Mini Cooper in the drive. Now was the moment to phone for backup, but before she did that, she had to make certain that the shiny red vehicle did indeed indicate the presence of its owner.

She gained the rear of the barn. Behind it, some fifty yards away, the woods began, edged thickly with chestnuts and crowned with oaks. They could have afforded her excellent refuge, a place of hiding from which she could observe what was going on in the paddock. But from that distance, there was no way to hear what was being said and, even if she’d had the means to hear, getting to the woods without being seen from the paddock itself was impossible. Even low crawling wouldn’t do it, for the paddock was fenced in wire, not in stone, and the area between paddock and woods afforded only the protection of occasional gorse. Anyone on the outside was going to be easily seen by anyone on the inside.

That worked both ways, though. For from the edge of the barn, Barbara could see within the paddock easily enough. And what she saw when she eased her head round to have a peek was Frazer Chaplin with his fist clenching a weapon and that weapon held to the neck of Meredith Powell. His other arm gripped Meredith round her waist. If she moved, what Frazer held-and it had to be a thatcher’s crook, Barbara reckoned, considering where they were-was going to pierce Meredith Powell’s carotid artery, just as another crook had pierced Jemima’s artery in Abney Park Cemetery.

Backup was utterly useless, Barbara realised. By the time the cops from Lyndhurst arrived, Meredith Powell would likely be severely injured or entirely dead. If that was to be avoided, Barbara was going to have to come up with the way.

HE CALLED HER George. Meredith thought, stupidly, What sort of name is that for a woman? until she understood it was short for Georgina. For her part, Gina called him Frazer. And she wasn’t exactly pleased to see him.

They’d interrupted her in the midst of what looked like a spate of gardening in the paddock where Gordon kept ponies off the forest when they needed special care. She’d been clearing out a mass of growth on the northwest edge of the paddock and she’d uncovered an old stone trough that had likely been there for two hundred years.

She’d said, “What the hell are you…,” when she’d turned from what she was doing and spied Meredith being frog-marched in her direction. She’d added, “Oh, Christ, Fraze. What in God’s name happened?”

To which he answered, “A surprise, I’m afraid.”

She cast a hurried look at Meredith before she said to him, “And did you have to-”

“Couldn’t leave her there now, could I, George?”

“Well, this is just grand. What in God’s name’re we supposed to do with her?” She gestured towards her gardening project. “It’s got to be here. There’s nowhere else. We don’t have time to mess about with any more problems than we already have.”

“That can’t be helped.” Frazer sounded quite philosophical. “I didn’t meet her in the street, did I. She broke into your bed-sit. She’s got to be dealt with and there’s an end to it. And it makes more sense to deal with her here than anywhere else.”

Got to be dealt with. Meredith felt her bowels loosen. She said, “You mean to blame Gordon, don’t you? That’s what you did from the first.”

“So as you see…?” Frazer said to Gina. He had a meaningful tone to his voice.

It didn’t take genius to work out what he meant: The bloody cow has got to the bottom of things and now she’s got to die. They would kill her the same way they had killed Jemima. Then they would plant her body-that was the word for it, wasn’t it?-on Gordon’s holding. Perhaps she’d lie undiscovered for a day or a week or a month or a year. But when she was discovered, Gordon would take the blame because the two of them would be long gone. But why? Meredith wondered. “Why?”

She hadn’t realised she’d spoken till Frazer’s arm tightened round her waist and the tip of his weapon dipped into her skin. She felt the skin break and she whimpered and he murmured, “Just a taste,” and “Shut the fuck up.” And then he said to Gina, “We need a grave.” He gave a rough laugh as he noted, “Hell, you were going to dig anyway. It’ll just be a two-for-one deal.”

“Right here in the paddock?” Gina asked. “Why the hell would anyone ever believe that he’d bury her here?”

“We don’t have the luxury of answering that question, do we,” he noted. “Start digging, Georgina.”

“We don’t have the time.”

“We don’t have a choice. It doesn’t have to be deep. Just enough to cover her body. Get a better shovel. There has to be one in the barn.”

“I don’t want to see it when you-”

“Fine. Shut your God damn eyes when it comes down to it. But just get the fucking shovel and start digging her sodding grave because I can’t fucking kill her till we’ve got a place where she can bleed out.”

Meredith whimpered again. “Please. I’ve a little girl. You can’t.”

“Oh that’s where you’re very much wrong,” Frazer said.

THEY RODE IN silence. Whiting occasionally broke it with a lilting tune that he whistled in some merriment. Tess occasionally broke it with a long whine that told Gordon the dog understood something was wrong.

The journey took no longer than it would ever have taken to bridge the distance between Fritham and Sway in the middle of the day. It felt as if they were crawling, though. It seemed to him he’d be trapped forever in the passenger seat of Whiting’s car.

When they finally turned into Paul’s Lane, Whiting gave him his instructions: one suitcase and he was meant to pack it in a quarter of an hour. As to Gordon’s question of what would be done with the rest of his belongings…He would have to take that up with whatever authority came to fetch him since the matter was of no interest to Whiting.

The chief superintendent made a gun of his thumb and index finger and used his next statement as the trigger which he cocked while saying, “Consider yourself lucky I didn’t pull the plug on you when I first got told about that little trip of yours up to London. Could have done it then, you know,” he said. “Consider yourself bloody well lucky.”

Gordon saw how it had worked in Whiting’s mind and understood how his trip to London-revealed to Whiting by Gina, there could be no doubt of that-had obliterated whatever caution Whiting might have felt in dealing with him in the past. Before that trip to London, Whiting had merely lurked on the periphery of his life, showing up to make sure he was “keeping the snout clean,” as he’d put it time and again, intimidating him, but not crossing any lines other than those defined by garden bullying. Learning he’d been to London, however, and connecting that knowledge to Jemima’s death had opened the floodgates that had previously held back the waters of the chief superintendent’s loathing. One word from him to the Home Office and Gordon Jossie went back inside, a violator of the conditions of his release, and always a danger to society. The Home Office would remove his liberty first and ask questions later. Gordon had known how it would play out and this knowledge had kept him cooperative.

And now…At this point Whiting could hardly tell the Home Office about Gordon’s journey up to London on the day that Jemima had died. Questions would arise concerning Whiting’s possession of this knowledge. Gina could step forward and disclose exactly when she’d passed the information along. Whiting would be forced to explain Gordon’s continued liberty, then, and the chief superintendent wouldn’t want to do that. Better to have his final bit of fun at Eyeworth Pond and then hand Gordon over to whoever was coming to fetch him.

He said to Whiting, “It doesn’t actually matter to you that she’s dead, does it?”

Whiting glanced at him. Behind his dark glasses, his eyes were shielded. But his lips moved with distaste. He said, “You want to yammer about someone’s dying, do you?”

Gordon said nothing.

“Ah. Yes. I shouldn’t think that’s a conversation the likes of you would ever want to have. But we c’n have it if you like, you and I. I’m not averse, you know.”

Gordon looked out of the window. He understood that it would always come down to this in the end. Not only between himself and Whiting, but also between himself and anyone. That would, eternally, be the measure of his life, and he’d been mad to think otherwise, even for a moment and especially in the moment those years ago when he’d accepted Jemima Hastings’ invitation for drinks at her brother’s house. He wondered what he’d been thinking in deciding he could have a normal life. Half mad and three-quarters lonely, he’d thought. That was him in a tablespoon. The companionship of a dog was not enough.

When they came to his holding, he immediately saw the cars in the driveway. He recognised both. Gina was at home, but Meredith Powell was also there for some reason. He said to Whiting, “How d’you want to manage this, then?” as the chief superintendent pulled past the cottage and parked in front of the hedge. “Can’t exactly call it an arrest, can you? All things considered.”

Whiting looked at his watch. Gordon reckoned the chief superintendent was thinking about the wheres and the whens: where he was supposed to hand Gordon over to the Home Office and at what time. He was likely also considering how much time had already passed since the Home Office had told him to collect Gordon, time accounted for by their interlude together at Eyeworth Pond. The clock was ticking, so they could hardly come back later for his belongings once Gina and Meredith were off the holding.

He reckoned Whiting would tell him he’d have to leave without the previously allowed single suitcase. He worked it out that Whiting would tell him his things-such as they were-would be sent along later. But instead, Whiting said with a smile, “Oh, I do expect you’ll come up with something interesting to tell them, my dear,” and Gordon realised that the chief superintendent saw this as part of the overall fun he intended to have at Gordon’s expense. First Eyeworth Pond and now this: Gordon packing and having to come up with a reason that would explain to Gina why he was about to disappear.

Whiting said, “Quarter hour. I wouldn’t waste a second of it chatting with the ladies, me. But you c’n use it as you like. The dog stays here, by the way. To make certain. You know. Call it insurance.”

“Tess won’t like it,” Gordon said.

“She will if you tell her. You’ve a way with the ladies, don’t you, my love?”

At that, Gordon realised it was actually to his benefit to have the retriever remain in the car. If Tess bounded out, she would no doubt set out to find Gina, thus betraying his own presence. Without her, he might be able to get into the cottage by the front door, make his way quietly upstairs, do what he needed to do, and leave unseen. No explanation required. No conversation at all.

He nodded at Whiting, told the dog to stay, and got out of the car. He reckoned Gina and Meredith were inside the cottage, probably in the kitchen, but in any case not upstairs in the bedroom. If he went in the front door, he could ease up the stairs without being seen. The floors creaked like hell, but that couldn’t be helped. He’d do what he could to be quiet and he’d hope that whatever conversation they were having would be sufficient to cover his noise. As to why Meredith was there on the property…He didn’t see how working out the answer to that was going to get him anywhere. He also couldn’t see that it mattered.

Once in the front door, he listened for their voices. But the cottage was silent. He moved quietly for the stairs. The only sound was from his weight upon them as he climbed.

He went to the bedroom. A single suitcase and a quarter hour. Gordon knew that Whiting would be as good as his word. One minute more and he’d come sauntering onto the property, leaving Gordon to explain why he was being carted off or perhaps doing the honours himself.

Gordon fetched his suitcase from beneath the bed. He went to the chest of drawers and slid the top one open. The chest of drawers was next to the window, and he was careful with his movement here, trying to keep out of sight. For if Gina and Meredith were outside and looked up…He gave a glance to make sure.

He saw them at once. The window overlooked the driveway and part of the west paddock, empty now of the ponies he’d used to keep Gina from going inside the inclosure. She was inside the paddock now, and so was Meredith. But with them was a man he didn’t recognise. He was standing behind Meredith and he was gripping her round the waist in a manner that suggested she wasn’t a willing participant in what was going on. And what was going on was a spate of digging. Gina had one of the shovels from the barn and she was frantically applying it to a rectangle of earth just beyond the old horse trough. She’d cleared away a mass of vegetation, he saw. She must have been working like mad since she’d returned from wherever she’d gone that morning.

At first he thought what an excellent job he’d done. Things looked exactly as he hoped they would look. Then he realised that he owed Jemima a debt of gratitude for this moment. She clearly had revealed some of the truth, but she had, for some reason, not told it all. Perverse loyalty to him? Suspicion of the other? He wouldn’t ever know.

He started to move from the window, knowing that the three of them would dig all the way to China before they found what they were looking for. But Meredith made a sudden move-as if she was trying to escape the hold the strange bloke had on her-and in doing so, she swung round and he swung with her so that they were no longer facing Gina and her digging but rather the cottage.

Gordon saw the bloke held something to Meredith’s neck, and his glance went from the couple to Gina. He clocked what Gina was actually doing, the size and the shape of it, and he whispered a curse. She was digging a grave.

So these were Jemima’s killers, he thought. He’d been sleeping with one of them. She was the woman from London that the Scotland Yard detective had declared was in the pictures of that photo show. She’d come to Hampshire in order to snare him and, eternal fool that he was, he’d walked right into her arms.

He saw how he’d helped them by placing those bloody postcards round. Have you seen this woman? and of course they had. Jemima had confided in the bloke. The bloke had confided in Gina. They’d set the rest up from there: one of them in London and one of them in Hampshire, and when the time was right, the rest was child’s play. A phone call to Hampshire, made by the bloke. This is where she is. This is where you can find her. And then the wait to see what he would do.

And now this moment, outside, in the paddock. This was meant to be as well. There was going to be another body. But this one on his very own property.

He didn’t know how they’d managed to pick up Meredith Powell and get her here. He didn’t know why they’d done so. But as he watched, he saw what they intended as clearly as if the plan had been his own. The conclusion to it all was written out before him.

He headed for the stairs.

ONCE GINA DICKENS began to dig in earnest, Barbara phoned nine, nine, nine. She reckoned Frazer was going to wait to dispatch his captive till he had a place to put her body. The only way to make it look as if Gordon Jossie had killed her was to plant her somewhere and hope to avoid detection till she’d been in the ground long enough to make the exact time of death-and hence Jossie’s alibi-somewhat uncertain. This required a grave.

To her credit Meredith Powell wasn’t cooperatively waiting for the blow that would kill her. She struggled as best she could. When she did so, though, Frazer applied the crook to her neck. She was bleeding profusely down the front of her body, but he’d so far avoided making the blow fatal. Just enough to settle her, Barbara thought. What a piece of work he was.

When her call went through, Barbara identified herself in a whisper. She knew the emergency operator could be anywhere in Hampshire and this, in combination with her own inability to make perfectly specific her exact location, meant that timely intervention was unlikely. But she reckoned Chief Superintendent Whiting knew where Gordon Jossie lived, so that was the information she passed along: ring the Lyndhurst station, tell Chief Superintendent Whiting to send backup at once to Gordon Jossie’s holding outside of Sway, he knows where it is, I’m on the property, a woman’s life hangs in the balance, for God’s sake hurry, send an armed response team and do it now.

Then she turned off her mobile. She had no weapon, but the odds were even. She was fully capable of bluffing with the best of them and, if she had nothing else on her side, she still had surprise. It was time to use it.

She headed towards the far side of the barn.

MEREDITH COULDN’T CRY out. The pointed thing was inside her flesh for the third time. He’d pierced her neck once, twice, and now again, a different spot each time. The blood was seeping down her bony chest and between her breasts, but she didn’t look to see it for fear she would faint. She was faint enough already.

“Why?” was the only word that escaped her. She knew that please was out of the question. And the why referred to Jemima, not to her. There were any number of whys that dealt with Jemima. She couldn’t work out why they had killed her friend. She saw that they had likely done it in a way that would lead the police to Gordon. She concluded from this that they wanted both Jemima and Gordon out of the way, but she could not come up with a reason for this. And then it didn’t matter, did it, because she was going to die as well. Just like Jemima and for what for what and what would become of Cammie. Without a dad. Without a mum. Growing up without knowing how much she…And who would find her? They would bury and then and then and afterwards and God.

She tried to be calm. She tried to think. She tried to plan. It was possible. It was. She could. She needed. And then. There was pain again. Tears seeped though she didn’t want to cry. They came with the blood. She could no more produce a way to save herself from this than she could…what? She didn’t know.

So bloody stupid. Her whole life was a shining example of just how stupid one person could be. No brains, girl. Completely utterly maddeningly incapable of reading a person for what he was. For what she was. For what anyone was. And now here…So what are you waiting for? she asked herself. Are you waiting for what you’ve always been waiting for…rescue from where you’ve placed yourself for being so bloody-minded since the day you were born that-

“This is where it stops.”

Everything halted. The world spun but then it was not the world at all but the man who held her who was spinning round and she went with him and there was Gordon.

He’d come into the paddock. He was coming forward. He held a pistol…of all things a pistol and where in God’s name had Gordon got himself a pistol…and had he always had a pistol and why and-

She felt weak with relief. She wet herself. Hot urine splashed down her leg. It was over, over, over. But the bloke didn’t release her. Nor did he ease his grip.

He said to Gina, “Ah. I see we’ll need to make it deeper, George,” every bit as if he wasn’t the least bit fazed by what Gordon Jossie was holding.

Gordon said, unaccountably, “And it’s not there, Gina,” with a nod to where she’d been clearing the paddock. “That’s why you killed her, though, isn’t it?” And to the stranger, “You heard me. This stops here. Let her go.”

“Or what?” the man said. “You’ll shoot me? Be the hero? Have your picture on the front of all the papers? On the evening news? On the morning chat shows? Tsk, tsk, Ian. You can’t want that. Keep digging, George.”

“She told you, then,” Gordon said in reply.

“Well, of course she did. One asks, you know. After all, she didn’t want you to find her. She was…well, I don’t mean to offend, but she was rather repelled once she knew who you are. Then when she saw those postcards…She came home in a panic and…One asks when one’s lover-sorry, George, but I think we’re even on that score aren’t we, darling-one does ask. She loathed you just enough to tell me. You should have left well alone, you know, once she’d taken herself off to London. Why didn’t you, Ian?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“It’s who you are, isn’t it? George, darling, it is Ian Barker, isn’t it? Not one of the other two. Not Michael or Reggie. But he talks about them when he’s dreaming, right?”

“Nightmares,” Gina said. “Such nightmares. You can’t imagine.”

“Let her go.” Gordon gestured with the pistol.

The man tightened his grip. “Can’t, won’t,” he said. “Not so close to the finish. Sorry, lad.”

“I’m going to shoot you, whoever you are.”

“Frazer Chaplin, at your service,” he said. He sounded quite cheery. He gave a little twist to what he held at Meredith’s neck. She cried out. He said, “So yes indeed, she saw those postcards, Ian, my friend. She panicked. She ran hither and yon talking nonsense about how this bloke in Hampshire mustn’t ever find her. So one asked why. Well one would do. And out it all tumbled. Nasty little boy, weren’t you? There’s lots out there who’d like to find you. People don’t forget. Not that kind of crime. Which is why, of course, you’re not going to shoot me. Aside from the fact that you’d likely miss and hit poor little Meredith right in the head.”

“Not a problem, as I see it,” Gordon said. He swung the gun towards Gina. “She’s the one to be shot. Throw the shovel down, Gina. This business is finished. The hoard’s not there, Meredith’s not dying, and I don’t bloody care who knows my name.”

Meredith whimpered. She had no idea what they were talking about, but she tried to extend a hand of thanks to Gordon. He’d sacrificed something. She didn’t know what. She didn’t know why. But what it meant was-

Pain ripped into her. Fire and ice. It shot upward into her head and through her eyes. She felt something bursting and something else releasing. She toppled, unstrung, to the ground.

BARBARA HAD GAINED the southeast corner of the barn when she heard the gunshot. She’d been moving stealthily but she froze in place. Only for an instant, however. A second shot went off and she charged round to the front. She gained the paddock and threw herself inside. She heard noise behind her, heavy footsteps running in her direction and a man’s harsh yelling of Drop that fucking gun!

She took it all in like a frozen tableau. Meredith Powell on the ground with a rusty crook sticking out of her neck. Frazer Chaplin sprawled not five feet from Gordon Jossie. Gina Dickens backed into the wire fence with her hand clasped over her mouth. Jossie himself with the pistol held stiffly, still in position from the second shot he’d fired straight into the air.

“Barker!” It was a roar, not a voice from Chief Superintendent Whiting. He was storming up the driveway. “Lay that God damn gun on the ground. Do it now. Now! You heard me. Now!”

And then, passing Whiting, the dog, of all things. Bounding forward. Howling. Running in circles.

“Drop it, Barker!”

“You’ve shot him! You’ve killed him!” Gina Dickens at last. Screaming, running to Frazer Chaplin, throwing herself on him.

“Backup’s coming, Mr. Jossie,” Barbara said. “Put the gun-”

“Stop him! He’ll kill me next!”

The dog barked and barked.

“See to Meredith,” Jossie said. “Someone God damn see to Meredith.”

“Drop the bloody gun first.”

“I told you-”

“Want her to die as well? Just like the boy? You get off on death, Ian?”

Jossie turned the gun then. He pointed it at Whiting. “Some deaths,” he said. “Some God damn deaths.”

The dog howled.

“Don’t shoot it!” Barbara cried. “Don’t do it, Mr. Jossie.” She dashed to the crumpled figure of Meredith. The crook was planted to its halfway point, but not into the jugular vein. She was conscious but overcome by shock. Time was crucial. Jossie needed to know it. She said, “She’s alive. Mr. Jossie, she’s alive. Put the gun down. Let us get her out of here. There’s nothing else you need to do at this point.”

“You’re wrong. There is,” Jossie said. He fired again.

Michael Spargo, Reggie Arnold, and Ian Barker went into “secure units” for the first part of their custodial sentences. For obvious reasons, they remained separated, and units in different parts of the country were used to house them. The purpose of the secure unit is education and-frequently but not always and generally “dependent upon the cooperation of the detainee”-therapy. Information as to how well the boys did in these units is unavailable to the public, but what is known is that at the age of fifteen, their time in these secure units ended, whereupon they were moved to a “youth facility,” which has always been a euphemism for prison for young offenders. At eighteen, they were moved from their separate youth facilities and sent on to different maximum-security prisons where they served the remainder of the term determined by the Luxembourg courts. Ten years.

That time has, of course, long since passed. All three of the boys-men now-were returned to the community. As was the case for such notorious child criminals as Mary Bell, Jon Venables, and Robert Thompson, the boys were given new identities. Where each was released remains a closely guarded secret, and whether they are contributing members of society is also unknown. Alan Dresser has vowed to hunt them down and “give them a taste of what they did to John,” but because they are protected by law from even having a photograph of them published, it’s unlikely Mr. Dresser or anyone else will ever be able to find them.

Was justice served? This is a question nearly impossible to answer. To do so requires one to see Michael Spargo, Reggie Arnold, and Ian Barker either as hardened criminals or as utter victims, but the truth lies somewhere in between.

Excerpted from “Psychopathology, Guilt, and Innocence in the Matter of John Dresser”

by Dorcas Galbraith, PhD

(Presented to the EU Convention on Juvenile Justice at the request of the Right Honourable Howard Jenkins-Thomas, MP)