Judas Horse

Chapter 8

Jack and Gifford stood in silence, watching George Barrowman pacing furiously up and down with a look of thunder on his face. ‘Three years, Joe,’ he boomed, ‘three fucking years these burglaries have been going on, and what have you got? Piles! From sitting on your arse! That’s what you’ve got.’

‘Sir...’ Jack started.

‘And I only want to hear from you,’ Barrowman interrupted, jabbing a finger in Jack’s direction, ‘if it’s to say, “We’ve arrested the bastards and have found your property, Mr Barrowman.” Anything less than that and I’m not interested. I work in gold in the City, so I know people in the Met, but I don’t know who the hell you are. Just write this down: three gold bars, one emerald necklace, one string of pearls, a diamond tiara and nine grand in fifties.’ George then turned his attention to Gifford. ‘You have one week, Joe. Then I’ll be bringing in my own investigators to do your job and I’ll be sending you their bill.’

Without a word, Jack walked away. He wasn’t going to get anything remotely useful from George Barrowman in his current frame of mind, so he went in search of Sally instead. In the kitchen, Sally was preparing a large but very healthy breakfast. She was a sophisticated-looking blonde, wearing designer clothes, probably in her mid-40s, but the likelihood of cosmetic surgery made it hard to be sure. She was slim, toned and barefooted, with toenails painted bright red and Jack was surprised to see that she wore a toe ring and ankle bracelet. Clearly Sally Barrowman had been a freer spirit in her time.

She saw Jack looking at her. ‘Mathew has Prader-Willi Syndrome on top of his autism,’ she explained. ‘He has no trigger that says “I’m full. I should stop eating now.” He just carries on. It’s more complicated than that, of course, but that’s the gist of it. It gives him the habit of biting the inside of his mouth until it bleeds and chewing the skin around his fingers.’

Jack nodded sympathetically and looked around the extensive kitchen. Everything was exactly where it should be, and every surface shone like new. Certain cupboards had locks on them, as did the fridge. Nothing in this room was homely; it was clinical, like a lab. And as Sally weighed some porridge oats, Jack thanked God for his small ‘happy mess’ of a kitchen. He was just about to ask Sally a question when he heard George Barrowman’s angry voice.

‘Did you just walk away from me?’

Jack glanced over his shoulder, purposely not bothering to fully turn and face George. ‘Yes, sir, I did. I decided that yours would not be a productive interview right now, so came to see if I could chat to your wife.’

George came and stood right in front of Jack. ‘How dare you presume to do anything in my home without my express permission!’

‘Mr Barrowman,’ Jack replied calmly. ‘If I’m to ask your permission before I can make a move, I’ll head back to London now.’ Sally froze, mouth open, with a spoonful of oats hovering in the air. Jack continued whilst he had George’s full attention. ‘I’ll be respectful of your position, your property and your family, sir, but I won’t be slowed down by unnecessary formalities.’

Stumped by Jack’s firm response, George then resorted to the oldest cliche in the book. ‘I want the name of your superior officer!’

‘DCI Simon Ridley of the Metropolitan Police is not technically my superior, but if you want to speak with him, you can use my mobile. His direct line is in there.’

George adjusted his stance, shoulders back, chest out, chin up, making himself look as threatening as possible. Jack returned his eyes to Sally for a second and smiled, as if to say, ‘Pardon me one moment whilst I put your dickhead of a husband back in his box.’ Jack had seen this kind of hollow bravado a thousand times before. Barrowman was a bully, and because his bullying worked with Gifford, he assumed it’d work with Jack.

‘You don’t know who I am,’ he said, right in Jack’s face, ‘but, my God, you’re about to find out.’

Jack waited for a moment then said, ‘George Barrowman, 56, ex-Corporal in the Coldstream Guards, wealth management advisor for high net-worth individuals, your speciality being the global gold market. Net worth, including assets, close to the fifteen-million-pound mark. You were investigated back in ’07 for tax fraud, but the case was dropped due to lack of evidence.’

Whilst Jack was speaking, George’s shoulders dropped, his chest deflated, and his chin dipped without him being aware of it. ‘Sir, I can waste time explaining to you why your wealth gives you no special privileges in this investigation, or I can interview your wife before the details of last night fade from her memory. Which would you like me to do?’

Seconds passed as George tried to figure out how to respond. Then he turned on his heel and marched out of the kitchen.

Jack and Sally sat at the heavy walnut kitchen table, making their way through a pot of tea and a plate of assorted shortbread biscuits. Up close, he could see she had delicate features which made him think of Felicity Kendal in The Good Life, which he used to watch with his mum and dad. As she explained about the standoff between Mathew and the police in the middle of the road, Jack began to understand why she was with George. She clearly loved looking after people — a husband, a son — and George, although a hard-working businessman, probably wouldn’t know how to turn on a toaster. They seemed to be perfectly suited.

Sally went on to explain what jewellery was missing from the safe. ‘A diamond tiara bought for my niece’s wedding; some gold bars, three, I think; cash, you’ll have to check with George how much, and an emerald necklace once owned by the infamous Barbara Hutton, the poor little rich girl, who had everything except happiness. She was married seven times, you know. When she died of a broken heart, her jewels were auctioned at Sotheby’s and... I got the necklace for my fortieth. It gets talked about a lot at parties, but I’ve never actually worn it outside of the house. Far too valuable.’

There was a sadness in Sally’s words. Jack thought she didn’t really want all these trappings of wealth; she was a much simpler soul than her husband. ‘Oh!’ Sally suddenly burst back into life as she took a sheet of paper from her pocket and handed it to Jack. ‘George said you’d need a list of staff.’

Jack speed-read the list: a housekeeper, a pool cleaner, three domestics, a tutor for Mathew, one full-time gardener and the seemingly ubiquitous Charlotte Miles who came three afternoons a week to deliver fresh fruit and veg as per Mathew’s strict dietary regime.

Jack thanked her and asked if Mathew normally stayed in the house by himself.

‘Rarely,’ Sally explained. ‘He was meant to attend the charity auction with us last night, but then he watched the episode where Ned Stark gets beheaded. He always watches the “death” episodes twice, which put him an hour behind and, well, we couldn’t wait for him as we were hosting. I started to keep track of where the “death” episodes were, so we could plan around them but there are so many! Have you watched Game of Thrones?’

‘People talk about it so much I sometimes feel like I have!’ Jack joked. ‘But no, I haven’t watched it.’

‘Mathew is...’ Sally faltered. At first Jack assumed she was going to open up about how hard he made life, but she did the exact opposite. ‘He’s wonderful. People think he’s to be pitied because he has an illness, but Mathew just is who he is and will be for the rest of his and my life. I love him without question, DS Warr, as you love your children, if you have any. Yes, there are rules, routines, dos and don’ts, behaviour charts and coping techniques that most parents don’t need to consider, but... it’s just horses for courses.’

Jack allowed Sally to continue telling him about Mathew, not because the details were important, but because her cooperation was. He needed her to like him, just as he’d needed Eloise Fullworth to like him, so that from this point forwards they were allies in his investigation. Sally spoke of how Mathew was not allowed a bank card, as his urge for instant gratification was too strong for him to control. And although he often experienced erratic mood swings, he’d rarely in his life been physically violent. Medication tended to keep him on an even keel.

‘He can’t ride a bike, or swim, and he hates almost all sport. Of course, that could all change depending on what takes his fancy next. He adores walking, though, and can be out for hours with Nathaniel just looking at the world around him. Nature fascinates him. Nathaniel’s his tutor; I’ll introduce you to him shortly. Game of Thrones and nature are his current obsessions. And I mean obsessions!’ Sally lowered her eyes to her china cup, turning it gently on its saucer. ‘I couldn’t make him come with us last night, DS Warr. So, I left him... all on his own.’

Sally got up and rinsed her cup under the tap, so that she didn’t have to see the disapproval on Jack’s face. But he was actually full of admiration for her parenting skills. ‘Mathew wasn’t diagnosed until he was seven,’ she went on, ‘but I always knew. George just thought his son was the quiet, unaffectionate type but deep down he knew too. I go to bed an hour after Mathew every night and, whilst he’s in his drug-aided sleep, I sneak into his room. I hug him and I kiss him. He’s not keen on me doing that when he’s awake. Do you have children, DS Warr?’

‘A daughter. Just a few weeks old,’ Jack smiled.

‘Oh, how lovely!’ Sally said warmly. ‘Smother her with love... whether she likes it or not!’

Jack caught himself hoping to God that his little girl remained fit and well, and did not end up having a life as complicated and as confusing as Mathew’s.

‘What do you think about me... interviewing Mathew?’ Jack asked hesitantly.

Sally didn’t seem fazed by the request. ‘He’s far more amenable after food,’ she explained. ‘It’s not that you can’t talk to him now, it’s just that I doubt you’ll get much from him. I mean, you can try if time is against us, or...’

‘Mrs Barrowman, I’ll fit in with Mathew. It’s not a problem,’ Jack assured her, and he could see the relief on her face that he understood.

Later that morning George sat alone in the conservatory. It was half past ten and he was on the single malt. When Jack entered, he acted as though they’d never had a single cross word. ‘Mr Barrowman, would you mind escorting me around the outside of your property, please?’

The CCTV cameras around the outside of the building were all situated just below the first-floor windows, and yet were still disabled by being sprayed with paint — an achievement in itself. Jack wasn’t sure how the burglars managed to reach them, unless one of them was into rock climbing.

In the secure porchway by the front door, a top-of-the-range alarm system was still switched off. Attached to the right-hand side of the property was a triple garage housing a red Ferrari and a black Range Rover. The garage doors were open, but both vehicles were untouched. The car George had driven to the charity auction, a dark green BMW, was on the gravel driveway. Jack noticed all three vehicles had tinted windows. ‘Tinted windows mean it’s likely the burglars couldn’t see that Mathew wasn’t in the car with you. They’d have presumed your house was empty,’ Jack reasoned.

‘Mathew watches television with the lights off, door closed and headphones on. He must...’ George sipped his whisky, which he’d brought with him, before continuing. ‘He must have been scared shitless when he saw them, otherwise why was he flapping about in the middle of the road with no shoes on?’ George’s voice deepened into a low growl. ‘How dare they? How fucking dare they?’

He drained his glass and, without thinking, headed for the front door. A young PC dutifully stepped in his way. Beyond the police tape on the front door, George could see dozens of paper-suited and masked CSIs, painting everything he owned with fingerprint powder. He looked and felt helpless, no longer master of his own domain.

‘Sir.’ Jack’s tone respectful. ‘Let’s go back in the way we came out.’ As they walked back towards the conservatory, Jack asked George to repeat the list of stolen items. ‘The written list your wife gave me, sir, doesn’t include the string of pearls.’

‘Oh, my mistake,’ Barrowman said. ‘Her list is correct.’

He didn’t flinch, didn’t smile. Jack instantly knew he was hiding something.

DC Cariad Bevan stared at her computer monitor watching CCTV footage, whilst simultaneously typing a report on everything she was seeing. After leaving the incandescent Barrowman in Jack’s hands, Gifford had returned to the station and immediately tasked her with trawling through CCTV, because of her known talent for being able to do the most mundane of tasks with the enthusiasm of a newly adopted Labrador puppy. She was one of those officers who was thrilled just to be there.

There was no CCTV on the quarter-mile driveway up to the Barrowmans’ house, nor on the first ten-mile stretch of road. The cameras only kicked in two miles outside Chipping Norton and there were a couple of turn-offs before that, so the burglars could have bypassed Chipping Norton altogether.

However, on CCTV from some of the surrounding villages, Bevan had managed to get footage of an unmarked, three-horse trailer driving past the same camera a number of times. What really caught her eye was the muddied number plate. In itself this wasn’t unusual as most horseboxes were constantly sprayed with dirt and muck from the stables. But she knew that if this horsebox had been to a stable, it should have been muddy everywhere; and this horsebox had no mud on the wheel arches, sides and tail ramp. Just on the number plate.

Bevan played the CCTV footage for Gifford and he agreed that this could be an ideal way to transport a team of burglars and an array of stolen property. Then Gifford started to get ahead of himself. ‘Ay! Remember that biker we clocked on a number of the burglary nights? We thought he was a tourist. Paid him no heed ’cos of looking for a big vehicle.’ Gifford tapped the screen of Bevan’s monitor, leaving a buttery fingerprint from one of Canteen Barbara’s pastries. ‘Bet he’d fit in that horsebox. Could be a scout. Doing recces.’ Gifford grinned. He didn’t get them often, but he knew a good idea when he had one.

Bevan’s smile slowly faded and was replaced with a frown, as a thought was being dredged up from the depths of her mind. Gifford was walking away by the time Bevan’s thought was fully recalled. ‘Sir... Oaks’s cousin, Blair... Did I ever tell you about that thing she said about her mum’s neighbour’s kids finding a horsebox in a lake?’ Gifford turned with a blank expression. ‘Sorry, sir, I’m just trying to remember it properly. About eight months ago, two kids found a horsebox submerged in a lake out Cirencester way. They rowed out to it and found a dead body inside. Well, it was more of a skeleton. Blair’s mum reckoned the horsebox was just dumped; it happens sometimes out there. It could have been fully submerged until the water level dropped for some reason and its roof broke the surface. Once the carrion crows got wind of a free dinner, they came down in a flock. It was like that Hitchcock film, she said! Anyway, Blair says that her mum said it was a tramp who crawled into the horsebox for warmth and then died. Then, I dunno, maybe kids pushed it into the water not knowing he was there? But what if he wasn’t a tramp?’

Gifford paused for a moment, then nodded. ‘You better get on to the Wiltshire lot and see what you can find out.’

By early afternoon, George was allowed back into his study to collect his computer and any paperwork he needed. He then brought it all into the kitchen to catch up with his work. Sally pottered around making enough sandwiches to feed an army.

Jack stood right in the middle of the wide hallway and turned on the spot taking in every detail. All of the furniture in this house was immaculate, but none of it looked used. It certainly didn’t feel like a home. Even the family portraits looked as if they were just for show. Jack also noticed how much artwork had been left hanging on the walls and wondered why the burglars had not stripped the place bare as they had done in other properties. Perhaps the unexpected presence of Mathew had forced them to cut their losses; or perhaps George Barrowman’s artwork was as fake as him.

Sally went to the kitchen door and shouted, ‘Who’s hungry?’ Masked heads popped up from beneath desks and windowsills, and around doorframes. Sally then headed upstairs, past Jack, saying, ‘Mathew should have showered by now. I’ll see what’s keeping them.’

Back in the kitchen, George was distracted from his work by a seemingly endless stream of CSIs and police officers who had swooped in to snaffle sandwiches and then scurry back out. Seeing as the heavy police presence was already disturbing George, Jack decided to try and build some bridges by asking him about the gold market.

For the next ten minutes, Jack listened to George explain its ups and downs in various countries across the world. Jack could see that George was very good at what he did. And he had to be. He worked in a high-stakes world, where one false move could destroy a fortune. Jack figured that’s why he’d had a go at Gifford — because Gifford wasn’t as good at his job as George was at his. So, Jack knew that all he had to do to keep George cooperating was to measure up to his standards.

Suddenly Mathew raced into the kitchen, looking very agitated, arms in the air, shouting, ‘Masked men! Masked men!’ He flapped his hands just above his shoulders, grimaced as if he was in pain and, in between words let out a high-pitched ‘eeeeee’ sound. As soon as he saw Jack, he headed straight for him. As Mathew was over six feet tall, Jack’s instinct was to bring his hands up to defend himself against a possible attack — but by the time Mathew had moved across the kitchen, George was standing in between them. ‘Calm.’ George spoke in a slow, quiet voice. ‘Calm. What’s the matter?’

‘Masked men! Masked men!’ Mathew repeated. Although an adult, right now Mathew seemed like a little boy needing his dad for comfort. George took Mathew by the wrists and explained that the ‘masked men’ were policemen and were nothing to be afraid of. Mathew put his hands heavily on George’s shoulders and squeezed in a pulsating, grasping motion. Jack could see this physical contact was comforting and regardless of the discomfort, George put up with it.

Within seconds of Mathew entering the kitchen, he was followed by Sally and a handsome young black man. He was tall and muscular with wide, body-builder’s shoulders. ‘This is Nathaniel Jones,’ George said. ‘He’s Mathew’s tutor-cum-carer-cum-minder-cum-anything else he might need. This is DS Jack Warr from the Met.’

Nathaniel gave Jack a backwards nod, then focussed on calming Mathew down. He put his hands firmly on Mathew’s shoulders and squeezed hard, just as Mathew had done to George. ‘Come on, Matty. Shower.’ Nathaniel glanced at Jack. ‘I’ll give you a shout when we’re done. Sorry it’s taking longer than usual.’

In the study, Oaks was in his paper suit with his mask tucked under his chin. He stood in the centre of the room, on a twelve-inch-square metal plate so as not to make footprints in the thick carpet. Four CSIs meticulously worked their way from the study door to the open safe. As the sun shone in through the tall sash windows, it glistened off a small patch of something shiny at the top of George’s tan-coloured leather office chair. The shiny stain was around the area where a person’s head might touch when leaning back, or where you might grasp the chair if walking behind it.

‘What’s that?’ Oaks said to the room in general. The CSI nearest to him followed his pointing finger to the chair. They then dipped their head and moved from side to side until the sun caught the shiny patch, and they were able to see what Oaks was seeing. They agreed that the substance looked oily, which seemed out of place in such an immaculate study. ‘Take a sample, please,’ Oaks requested.

The CSI collecting the sample from the office chair tugged an imaginary forelock, saying, ‘Yes, Willy. Right away, Willy.’

Oaks blushed, smiled and turned towards the door where Jack was now looking in at him from the hallway. Oaks moved across the metal plates towards Jack and dipped under the police tape. ‘That’s my Auntie Helen. Well, she’s my cousin really, but ’cos she’s got twenty years on me, I’ve always called her Auntie.’

Jack laughed. ‘Everyone knows everyone. I get it. You’re doing fine, Oaks. Listen, when you get back to the station, I need you to do something for me. Get a warrant to check George Barrowman’s accounts. You’re looking for a jewellery purchase — a string of pearls.’

Oaks shuffled uncomfortably, saying that he’d need to ask DI Gifford to authorise the request, and he was fairly sure that he wouldn’t do it.

‘No worries,’ Jack said. ‘I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I’ll sort it myself.’

Oaks’s eyes lifted and looked over Jack’s shoulder. Jack turned to see Nathaniel standing behind him with a look of simmering anger on his face. He held out his mobile phone and Jack saw a photo of Mathew, shirtless, towel round his waist, hand in the stream of shower water, as though checking the temperature. On his back, he had four dark, deep-red bruises, each one was eight to ten inches long.

‘They weren’t there yesterday,’ Nathaniel said. ‘He showers every night, so I know they weren’t. And, before you ask, Mr and Mrs Barrowman have never laid a finger on him. Nor have I.’

Jack and Oaks looked intensely worried. Was this why Mathew raced into the road screaming? Was he brutally attacked by the burglars? ‘I need to speak to him,’ Jack said.

Nathaniel held Jack’s stare.

‘No. Matty will be able to recall the events of last night, for forever and a day, so you don’t need to worry about that. But right now I’m going to break this news to his parents and then get him to hospital. Come back tomorrow.’

Jack was about to protest when Nathaniel went on. ‘I’ve been Matty’s carer for seven years. We’re mates after all that time and he trusts me to look after him. I get that you’ve got a job to do, but so have I. Believe me, you get one chance with him, DS Warr. If he decides not to like you, you’re screwed. I want him to talk to you and give you everything you need to catch the bastards who hurt him. That’s why I’m saying you have to wait.’

Nathaniel didn’t give Jack the opportunity to reply. He took his mobile back and headed upstairs.

Jack turned to Oaks. ‘Get everyone down here. Tell them we’re looking for a weapon that matches the length and width of those bruises on Mathew’s back. A baseball bat, maybe? Garden rake or spade? Go with him to the hospital in case he says anything. I trust Nathaniel, but if Mathew opens up, you need to hear it.’

As Jack thought about the violence Mathew must have experienced at the hands of strangers, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes darkened. Oaks recoiled, ever so slightly, as he saw something in Jack that had not shown itself before. Oaks thought that if the burglars walked into the room at that moment, they would not leave alive.