Judas Horse

Chapter 9

On the way to the hospital, Oaks got a phone call, which Jack answered as Oaks was driving. Jack put the phone on speaker and, before he could say anything, DC Ronnie Davidson’s voice piped up, ‘’Ere Will, I got a message for your new girlfriend. Elli called and said...’ At this point Davidson started to mimic Eloise Fullworth’s voice. ‘Oh, Jack, Jack from the Met, it’s Elli. Maisie’s home if you’d like to come and speak with her. And when you’re done with my daughter, maybe you and I can...’

Jack interrupted before Davidson said something that crossed the line between taking the piss and rank insubordination. ‘Thank you, DC Davidson. I’ll interview Maisie on the way back to the station. Oaks is going to the hospital with Mathew. And you, Davidson, when the rest of the team get the order to go to Barrowman’s house and search for a murder weapon, you’re going to stay there and finish the social events calendar.’

Davidson spluttered for a reply, as Jack continued. ‘I don’t have many rules, but not taking the piss out of the victim is definitely one of them. If you’d like to argue your case when I get back to the station, I’m happy for you to try.’ Jack ended the call and put Oaks’s mobile back into the money tray in between the front seats. He looked over to see Oaks’s face in a fixed grimace of embarrassment.

‘Tell you what, Oaks, come and interview Maisie with me. You won’t be allowed in the clinical areas whilst Mathew’s being examined anyway, and you were the officer who originally interviewed her, right? You’ll know if her story has changed in any way.’

Maisie was a beautiful, slender girl with an extraordinary amount of curly, jet black hair. She looked like she was making no effort at all with her appearance, right down to wearing a tracksuit that was far too big for her. Jack knew this look: Maisie was scruffy-by-design — setting the bar low so when someone told her how terrible she looked, she could just say, ‘Yeah, I know.’ In his time as a police officer, Jack had come across many women with self-image issues and, seeing as he already knew Maisie had struggled with anorexia in the past, her appearance was no surprise to him.

Mrs Fullworth, however, clearly found Maisie’s appearance embarrassing. ‘Maisie’s a little under the weather,’ she explained. ‘So, she’s having a tea-and-sympathy day in the house, aren’t you, darling? Not going out, so no need to make an effort.’ Maisie looked away and said nothing.

Jack ignored her mother’s words. ‘Maisie, could you show me your bedroom?’

Mrs Fullworth quickly cut in. ‘Maisie can’t go in that room anymore. So, I’ll come with you in case she gets upset.’

Jack kept his attention focused on Maisie. ‘Do you want an appropriate adult, Maisie? You don’t need one, but of course your mum can come if you’d like. It’s completely your choice.’

Maisie’s eyes twinkled and she headed upstairs. Jack turned to Mrs Fullworth. ‘DC Oaks will keep you company down here.’

When Jack got upstairs, Maisie was sitting on her old bed quietly waiting. This room was childish, as though stuck in a time-warp. The only mature things were several pieces of artwork torn out of a sketch pad and stuck up with sellotape but, to Jack’s untrained eye, highly accomplished. ‘Mum says this tracksuit makes me look like I belong in a young offenders unit,’ Maisie said.

Jack snorted, which immediately put Maisie at ease. ‘I can’t remember much about the night it happened.’

Jack nodded. ‘I’m going to try and help you but, if you can’t remember, it’s no problem.’ He didn’t want Maisie to think any less of herself than she already did. ‘Can you sit where you were sitting when you saw the intruder, please?’ Maisie scooted up the bed, until she was seated on top of the pillows. Jack then moved to her wardrobe and opened the door, so that the mirror reflected the stairway just outside Maisie’s bedroom. It was a shorter mirror than he’d expected, not quite full-length; to fit the whole person in, they’d have to be standing a good distance back from it.

Jack asked Maisie where the burglar was when she noticed them, and she directed him to the second stair down. This wasn’t helping: he needed to be seeing what Maisie was seeing. Jack shouted down to Oaks to join them, then told him to stand two stairs down while Jack moved to the bedside. He said, ‘May I?’ and Maisie got off the bed so he could sit where she’d been sitting.

‘You told my officer — this officer in fact, DC Oaks — that you thought the burglar was over six feet tall. You said that because DC Oaks told you that he was 5’11”, you thought the burglar seemed to be a couple of inches taller than him. Is all of that correct?’ Maisie nodded. Jack looked at Oaks in the mirror. His head was bowed in shame as his rookie interview mistake quickly sank in. ‘How about now, Maisie?’ Jack stood up and Maisie sat back down on the bed. ‘Look at DC Oaks in the mirror — lift your head up, Will — and tell me how much he differs in height from the burglar.’

Maisie grappled with the memory of that night and, as she took herself back in time, her breathing became more rapid.

‘There’s no difference. I can’t see his hair. The top of DC Oaks’s head is cut off by the top of the mirror, just like the burglar’s was. If anything, DC Oaks is a little taller than the man I saw.’ Jack then asked about size and shape and Maisie confirmed that Oaks and her unidentified burglar were of a similar build.

Back in the kitchen, Oaks remained silent as he prepared himself for a well-deserved bollocking on the drive to the hospital. Jack thanked Maisie for being so helpful and then, quite out of the blue, he asked her what she wanted to be. Maisie glanced at her mum before saying that she’d probably go into the law, like both of her parents. Jack was not deterred by her passionless answer. ‘Your mum mentioned that your Aunt Lisa is an art therapist. Is the artwork in your old bedroom yours?’ She nodded with a tentative smile. Jack knew full well that it was, and he also knew that Mrs Fullworth would hate what he was about to say. ‘You’re very talented. What does your Aunt Lisa think?’ Maisie confirmed Jack’s suspicions that no one outside of the house had ever seen her work. ‘You should show her. I don’t take after my parents. I take after my Uncle Simon. Took me a long time to find my path, Maisie, but, when I did... it’s liberating. Take very good care of yourself.’ Jack threw Maisie a wink, which made her smile properly. ‘Smile more, Maisie Fullworth. It suits you.’

On the drive to the hospital, Jack had no time for Oaks’s apologies about his error in interviewing Maisie.

‘We now know that the person who broke into Maisie’s house was about my build but was probably shorter. I’m so sorry, sir. We’ve been on the wrong track with this for months.’

‘Get over yourself,’ Jack said briskly. ‘You’ll make worse mistakes than that. Anyway, you didn’t waste my time, you wasted DI Gifford’s.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Maisie could even have seen a woman, don’t you think?’

Oaks pulled up just outside the A & E department of Cheltenham General. ‘Tread carefully with Nathaniel,’ Jack warned as they got out. ‘He’s protective of Mathew, so he’ll let you know he’s in charge. And that’s fine. Your presence is to let Nathaniel know that the second Mathew’s ready to speak, we’re ready to listen. Ignore George Barrowman altogether — he’ll no doubt ignore you. He’s not the one we need to keep on-side anyway; that’s Sally.’ Then Jack got back into the driver’s seat and Oaks headed for A & E. As Jack pulled away, he shouted one more instruction. ‘Text me every hour. Whether there’s anything to say or not.’

At the station, a calendar of social events for the next twelve months was plotted out in great detail on one of the whiteboards, an overlapping, chaotic mess that would be a nightmare to police. The most obvious problem was the upcoming annual equestrian event that lasted for an entire week and was, at some point, attended by everyone in the local area.

Gifford stood in front of the whiteboards with DC Bevan, admiring their hard work. Davidson avoided Jack’s eye by burying his head in a computer screen. The rest of the desks were empty as everyone else was at the Barrowmans’ searching the property for the weapon used on Mathew. Gifford seemed to be on a high from his productive afternoon so, for now, Jack kept quiet about Maisie’s revelation regarding the height of her burglar and allowed Gifford to go first.

Bevan started by explaining how she and Gifford had uncovered two new key pieces of evidence: an unmarked, untraceable, unidentifiable horsebox with dirty number plates; and a motorbike from out of town, with false plates. ‘Both vehicles can be seen driving up and down the stretch of road that runs by the Barrowman house. So, I went back to the CCTV footage from the other burglaries, and they both pop up in and around each target house on one, or all, of the three days before each burglary.’

Jack waited patiently. Bevan was clearly laying the groundwork for her big reveal.

‘If we accept that this gang uses rented horseboxes as one of their getaway vehicles...’ Bevan paused to look at her notes. ‘Eight months ago, a dead body was found in a submerged horsebox just south of Cirencester. According to the autopsy we have a white male, mid-30s, of South American descent. No ID. No criminal record. Dead for approximately three years. His hyoid bone was snapped, indicating manual strangulation probably from behind. In the pocket of his trousers was a pair of 18-carat white gold oval cufflinks, with inset diamonds, worth around £2,000. These cufflinks were on an insurance claim list from 2018 made by Mr Bright-Cullingwood; he’s a writer of kids’ books, lives in Kingham. He was our first known burglary victim.’

Bevan couldn’t help but look up to see how people were reacting — all eyes were on her. But now she’d paused for slightly too long...

‘You after a round of applause, girl?’ Gifford’s words nudged her back on track.

‘Er, no, sir. Sorry.’ Bevan found her place in her notes again. ‘The horsebox, I think — I’m checking — was stolen from a livery stable in Cirencester, which could be why we never got wind of it. Wherever it’s from, there’s no forensics. It remains an open murder case with them.’ Bevan put her notes away. ‘Sirs, I chatted to Mr Bright-Cullingwood on the phone about an hour ago and he said that the day after the burglary he locked his office, which is located at the bottom of his garden, as the “contaminated” space was no longer an inspiration for his writing. He’s not been in it since. So, I thought maybe... it might be worth sending forensics over?’

She looked at Jack for approval, but he remained silent and thoughtful. When he did speak, he said something sobering: ‘Looks like Mathew Barrowman got off bloody lightly then, didn’t he?’

Jack walked to the bank of windows overlooking the idyllic views beyond. He recalled one of the first things he ever said to his team of Chipping Norton officers: ‘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.’ But the truth now, it seemed, was that this gang were already killers.

‘Right...’ Jack turned and addressed the expectant room. They were subdued after Bevan’s diligent research into an eight-month-old murder case, so Jack had to kickstart them. ‘Fundamentally, nothing’s changed in terms of the investigation. More seems to be at stake now, I understand that, but we can’t deviate from the path we’re on. Bevan...’ She stared at him expectantly, like a child who’d been ignored by her parents. ‘Well done.’ The tension immediately drained from Bevan’s face. ‘You should go with forensics and supervise. After you’ve finished briefing the team and after you’ve done one job for me — which I’ll tell you about in a minute. Carry on... horseboxes and motorbikes.’

‘Oh, right, sir. Yes, well...’ Bevan took a deep breath and began again. ‘The big problem is that from the weekend after next, we’ll be inundated with horseboxes and motorbikes because of the equestrian event. Tens of thousands of people will descend on the Cotswolds.’

Jack held up a hand. ‘What’s the relevance of the biker? Why are they suddenly of interest?’

‘Well, sir...’ Bevan started to falter. Being faced with having to justify a new angle of enquiry to a Met man was daunting. She looked to Gifford for backup, but he didn’t offer any. His silence was the first piece of direct leadership Jack had witnessed: Gifford knew Bevan was doing fine without him, so he wanted her to be the one to answer Jack’s question. She started again, ‘It’s possible that the biker is acting like a scout. To recce the properties, collect information about the owners’ routines and such. He’d easily fit in the horse trailer.’

Jack nodded. ‘Good shout.’

Jack then changed the subject to Mathew. This was the other job he needed Bevan for. It was important to know for certain that their burglars were responsible for such a brutal attack. He wanted to exclude every other possibility before concluding, 100 per cent, that this gang had assaulted him.

‘I need the bodycams from all officers who attended the Barrowmans’ early yesterday morning. I need to know—’

‘Set up and ready to go on the computer at your desk, sir!’ There was no stopping Bevan now. ‘I downloaded the footage from all three cameras into the same file and cut it down, so you’ve just got the Barrowman incident. There’s nothing on it, though, sir. The traffic was held back by police vehicles, so you can’t see anything clearly.’

‘I’m not looking for the vehicles, Bevan. I’m looking to see if any of the officers drew their batons and used them in self-defence.’

This instantly got Gifford’s attention and prompted him to chip in, ‘Now, wait a minute. If there’s been a complaint...’

All Jack had to do to stop Gifford in his tracks was hold up his mobile and show him the images of Mathew’s back that Nathaniel had forwarded to him. Gifford physically flinched at the sight of the bruising on Mathew’s torso. Jack assured them that there had been no complaints and that he didn’t doubt the officers for one second, but they had to be certain for their own peace of mind.

The collated footage from the bodycams all showed the same thing: Mathew sent Sergeant McDermott tumbling backwards, then raced towards the busy road. When he refused to stop for the other officers, they made the decision to take him to the ground and restrain him for his own safety. No batons were drawn. Jack watched the footage from McDermott’s bodycam: once Mathew was down, she crawled across the lawn and talked soothingly, assuring him that he wasn’t in any kind of trouble. All the while, Sally could be seen stroking Mathew’s hair and repeating the instruction for him to be calm.

Gifford was relieved. ‘When we got bodycams, I thought they were a waste of time but, my God, they just earned their slice of the budget.’

Jack asked Bevan to contact Sergeant McDermott. ‘I’ve just seen her in the canteen, sir. I’ll go get her.’ Then Bevan bounced out of the squad room.

Jack and Gifford looked at the frozen image of Mathew, pinned to the lawn outside his own home, sobbing and petrified. ‘I don’t know this boy well, Jack, but I know his parents. Yes, George can be a pompous arse, but he’s a good dad. For the past twelve years, at every one of Mathew’s annual reviews, the authorities have suggested that his “challenging behaviour” is too much to handle at home. But George and Sally refuse to let Mathew be admitted into an institution. They’d do anything for him. So this must be killing them. It’d kill me. Look at him, Jack... look what he does when he’s scared. He doesn’t fight, he runs. The bastards who did this to Mathew don’t think like normal human beings.’

This was the most Jack had ever heard Gifford say. It reminded him that anyone can surprise you under the right circumstances. Gifford was a family man, Jack realised; that was why he had allowed Bevan to shine in front of Jack. Gifford might well have stopped learning, as Ridley suggested, but he was still capable of teaching.

‘Sir...’ Jack had to ask Gifford to authorise the accounts search on Barrowman and wasn’t sure how. ‘Do you think Barrowman was guilty of tax fraud back in ’07?’

‘What the hell’s that got to do with the price of fish?’ Gifford responded.

‘Nothing. I want to know if you think Barrowman is an honest man. He could be generous and loving to his family and still have strayed onto the wrong side of the law.’

Gifford was becoming familiar with Jack’s methods. ‘What’s the real question?’

‘His list of stolen items differs from his wife’s. He included a string of pearls; she didn’t. She also didn’t know how many gold bars were in the safe or how much cash, so, I’m inclined to believe that his recollection is more accurate. But when I double-checked, he backtracked and said there were no pearls.’

Gifford slowly put his hands into his pockets. ‘You can’t think he’s our inside man. He was targeted!’

Jack shrugged. ‘This gang is capable of anything. Maybe it was a warning. Or maybe there were no pearls and Barrowman was mistaken. I don’t know, sir. And I hate not knowing.’

Bevan scurried back into the squad room with Sergeant McDermott in tow. She had half a sandwich in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, so Bevan had clearly dragged her from the canteen. ‘DS Warr from the Met wants to talk to you about Mathew Barrowman.’ Jack couldn’t hide his grin. Since arriving in the Cotswolds, it seemed that his surname had become ‘Warr-from-the-Met’. Bevan then scurried out again, to take a forensic team to the secluded office of Mr Bright-Cullingwood.

Ten minutes later, McDermott was sitting with Jack and Gifford, whilst Davidson gathered together all the statements from Barrowman’s employees.

Jack had just asked McDermott to fill them in about Mathew and the time they’d spent together at chess club. ‘It was an after-school club for 10 to 16-year-olds. Although Matty stayed till he was 18, I think. He joined when I was 12, so I guess I knew him for about four years. We weren’t friends, we just played chess together. That’s as good as it got with Matty. He needs a reason to be with you, see; if he has that, he’ll keep coming back. Till he gets bored.’ McDermott smiled fondly. ‘It’s nothing personal.’

Jack was encouraged to know that he and Mathew had the shared skill of being able to play chess. This would be his way into Mathew’s world. But McDermott quickly brought him down to earth.

‘Nah, he’s passed that. Do you know anything about Game of Thrones?’ Jack’s blank expression told McDermott that he didn’t. ‘Oh, I’m a huge fan,’ she continued. ‘Me and Mathew are soul-mates when it comes to hobbies. It takes a bit of work to get him on-side but, once you’ve got him, he’ll not forget you.’

Jack thanked her very much then let her go so that she could finish her sandwich.

Jack looked at Gifford and was about to return to the subject of Barrowman, but Gifford spoke first. ‘I’ll do that check. But only to prove you wrong.’

Annie was in the pigsty, mucking out. She spotted Jack heading towards her and her eyes immediately went to his shoes, but when she saw his new boots, she smiled. Not that Jack could see her face, as it was hidden behind a scarf to keep out the stench that she was stirring up each time her spade disturbed the crust on top of yesterday’s pig shit.

‘Still can’t get used to the pong,’ Annie shouted. ‘I don’t normally do the pigs, but we need the money from sending one of them to slaughter and Charlotte won’t choose.’ As Jack got closer, the smell hit him too. ‘Stay there. I’ll come to you.’

Annie propped her spade against the fence and headed to the stables where she washed her wellies beneath the outside tap. The diluted pig muck ran downhill towards Jack, so he moved with it, keeping out of harm’s way until Annie was done. ‘Charlotte’s delivering plants at the moment. Was it her you came to see? I’ll have to carry on if you don’t mind. I need to get Alec boxed up before she gets back.’ Then, in a whisper, she added, ‘He’s the chosen one.’

Jack was happy to chat to Annie whilst she worked. ‘Could you tell me where you were last night? I’m asking everyone.’

Annie’s interest was instantly piqued. ‘Has there been another?’ Jack remained silent and she immediately knew that there had. ‘I often look at these big houses with envy, you know. I’d love a swimming pool; that would be my indulgence if I had money. But every now and then we’re reminded how wealth brings its own problems. Jealousy is very destructive. Taking instead of earning is... well, I just don’t understand it.’

As Annie continued, she casually got a sheet of tablets from her pocket and took one.

‘We were at the Soho Farmhouse from seven till just gone midnight. I wait tables and Charlotte’s a commis chef. We don’t normally work that late, but there was a private function for a group of Londoners who’ve just bought themselves a racehorse. It’s the same every year when the annual equestrian event comes around, and it’ll stay this busy for the next couple of weeks. Sertraline.’ Annie was telling Jack the name of the tablet she’d just taken, even though he’d not asked. ‘I get a bit antsy sometimes. I’m an insulin-dependent diabetic. It’s under control now, but when it first started, I wasn’t great at adapting to the new regime. And it is a regime! Charlotte keeps me on track. But I do stress about it. “Antsy” is her word for me!’

Jack thanked Annie for her honesty and then asked her what they did beyond midnight, once they’d stopped work.

‘We spent an hour or so helping to tidy up, then drove home. Well, no actually, it took us another half hour to get out of the car park because one of the diners, who hadn’t booked a room for the night, tried to drive back to Chipping Norton to find a B&B and the manager took their keys off them. There was a bit of a ruck and he had to call the police. Ronnie Davidson took the call. Charlotte and I had a chat with him, so he’ll be able to confirm all of that.’

Jack rolled his eyes. Davidson could have bloody mentioned that he was part of Charlotte’s alibi, but no, he was too busy hiding. Jack swallowed his frustration. ‘Thank you, Annie. I’ll let you get back to Alec.’ Then curiosity got the better of him. ‘What are the two survivors called?’

Annie said that Charlotte had named the pigs Alec, Billy, Daniel and Stephen as she was a huge fan of the Baldwin brothers. Stephen had met his maker a year ago, which had been so traumatic they’d vowed never to slaughter another Baldwin. But needs must...

Back at the station, Jack headed straight for DC Ronnie Davidson. ‘Have you read all of the witness statements?’ Davidson’s silence told Jack that not only had he not read every statement, but he also didn’t know why Jack was asking. ‘Read them. Then come and tell me why it’s essential for every officer to be up to speed with every aspect of my investigation.’

Bevan waited patiently by Jack’s desk. As he turned in her direction, Ronnie made a ‘wanker’ motion behind Jack’s back, which she ignored. She was enjoying the investigation too much to join in with any unprofessional mocking, and besides, by now the entire station knew that Davidson had been caught taking the piss out of the fact that Mrs ‘call me Elli’ Fullworth fancied Jack. The only way Davidson knew how to save face was to pretend he didn’t give a damn.

‘Sir,’ Bevan said. ‘Elaine Thorburn, the Barrowmans’ housekeeper, wanted to speak to someone about the case. She said it was important. I knew you were on your way back, so I put her in the canteen and said you’d be with her as soon as possible.’

Jack asked what had happened at the home of Mr Bright-Cullingwood.

‘Forensics are still there. I interviewed him formally, but then I was just twiddling my thumbs.’ She said she’d left a couple of experienced uniformed officers at the house to continue supervising, but that she thought she’d be of more use in the squad room.

‘Good,’ Jack agreed. ‘Right then: Elaine Thorburn. Come on, Bevan. You lead.’

Elaine was a short, stocky woman with broad shoulders and muscular arms. She certainly looked like the kind of housekeeper who led by example. Jack and Bevan sat opposite her, and Bevan was clearly waiting for Jack to start the interview, so Jack asked them what they’d like to drink and left them alone. By the time he returned, having left their order with the lovely Barbara, Elaine was mid-explanation as to why she’d taken it upon herself to come to the police station. Her voice was soft and gentle, belying her sturdy appearance completely.

‘Your policemen told me that I wasn’t allowed to do anything or touch anything, as you’d expect, but while I was waiting to be told when I could come back to complete my duties, I got all caught up with watching your CSIs work. Ooh, it was interesting. Anyway, one of them, poor girl, was going through the bin and that’s when I saw the folded-up pizza box. It definitely wasn’t there the night before, ’cos I empty the bins every evening on my way out, so it must have been delivered on the night of the burglary.’

‘Mathew got a pizza delivered on the night of the burglary?’ Bevan didn’t yet understand how important this detail was.

‘I don’t know if you’ve seen their kitchen,’ Elaine continued. ‘But all the food cupboards and the fridge have got locks on them. Mathew’s on a constant diet, you see, on account of his condition. Takeaway food is a definite no-no. But, well, between you and me, being left on his own is often a temptation too far. He’s capable of being very independent, is Mathew. I hear he’s got autism and they think he’s some sort of simpleton, but he’s a smart boy with a lovely manner. I’ve taken him shopping to Banbury before now and all people see is the flapping hands and funny noises. Then when we sit with a hot chocolate — don’t tell his mum — and we chat about Game of Thrones, people are surprised that he can hold down a conversation. He’s very intelligent; he’s just selective about what he learns...’

Elaine had definitely lost her train of thought, so Bevan nudged her back on track.

‘You were telling us about the pizza box in the outside bin.’

‘Oh yes! So... well, yes, that was it really. He had a pizza delivered. Probably by Idris Jackson... he’s a little shit, if you’re interested. But he might have seen something useful. That’s what I came to tell you.’

When Jack arrived back in the squad room with Bevan, Davidson was waiting for him. He was holding all of the witness statements and looking sheepish. Jack repeated the question he’d asked about half an hour ago: ‘Why is it essential for every officer to be up to speed with every aspect of my investigation?’

Davidson now knew that if he’d read Charlotte’s statement about being at the Soho Farmhouse at the time of the Barrowmans’ burglary, he’d have been able to verify her alibi and save Jack a trip to their smallholding.

‘Exactly,’ Jack replied. ‘Talk to each other. All the time. Right, DC Davidson, go and pick up Idris Jackson, please. He delivered a pizza to Mathew on the night of the burglary. I want you to interview him here.’ Davidson was stunned that a day that started with a double bollocking was about to end with him leading his first interview.

‘Got to start somewhere, Ronnie.’ Jack’s tone was glib. ‘Bevan’s just led her first, now it’s your turn. When you get him here, make him a drink. Let him do most of the talking. Don’t be afraid of silences; they’re useful, because he’ll instinctively fill them. We need every second accounted for — from the moment he headed down that unlit stretch of road towards the Barrowmans’, to the moment he left. Don’t let him leave out a single detail. He’s not suspected of anything, so you’ll be fine. You’re only interviewing him here because I’m here. If you need me, just shout.’ Then Jack turned his back on Davidson and sat down before the poor lad could doubt himself any further.

In A & E, Mathew was in a high dependency side room, despite the fact that he wasn’t actually high dependency; not medically anyway. The room was away from the hustle and bustle of the waiting room and cubicles area, so it was perfect for keeping Mathew relaxed. When they’d first arrived, and had walked through the bleeding, swearing, vomiting, drunken crowd of people, Mathew had kept himself calm by repeating, ‘Don’t worry, Nate, these people are poorly at the moment, but they’ll be fine. They’ll be fine and I’ll be fine.’ George Barrowman had led the way, followed by Nathaniel and Mathew, followed by Oaks. Oaks had always recognised Barrowman’s social ‘pull’ but did wonder how he’d managed to bypass the extensive queue and secure a private side room. This was the NHS after all, not a private hospital. But then, seconds later, just outside the high dependency room, Oaks found his answer: a sign that read ‘The Barrowman Room — dedicated to Mr George Barrowman in recognition of his generous support of our autistic community’.

‘It’s a social room,’ Nathaniel explained when he caught Oaks reading the sign. ‘Toys, board games, pool table, library, sensory stuff, computer games. There’s even a mini cinema in there. Mathew’s been in and out of hospital since he was a nipper and he needed a safe space to play.’

Oaks was shocked — he had no clue Barrowman had a generous side.

Barrowman now stood in the corner of the high dependency side room, keeping himself out of the way and leaving Mathew in the very capable hands of Nathaniel. Oaks was outside the room, watching through a clear horizontal gap in the otherwise opaque window. Nathaniel helped Mathew to remove his T-shirt so that the medics could examine his wounds. One of the strikes to his back had broken the skin and, just beneath his hairline, there was a small, open gash. There were two or three minutes of chatter and conferring, before Barrowman popped his head around the door. ‘He’ll have an X-ray as a precaution, but they think he’ll be fine. Maybe some hot drinks while we wait? Mine’s a coffee, black, no sugar. Nathaniel’s a tea, no sugar; and Mathew’s a hot chocolate. Oh, and not the vending machine. Use the canteen.’

Oaks texted Jack to get him up to speed and headed for the canteen. Oaks couldn’t help but grin as he mumbled to himself, ‘I know your secret, Barrowman. You’re a closet nice guy.’

Jack sat listening to Davidson relay his interview with Idris. He had taken the instruction to not let him leave out a single detail very seriously indeed.

‘The pizza arrived at a quarter to nine. It was a large chicken and bacon, with double cheese and extra mushrooms. Idris rang the bell at the gate and Mathew buzzed him in. The gates opened, he drove his scooter to the kitchen door, where Mathew paid him and then he left.’

Jack fired some important additional questions at Ronnie: why did Idris use the kitchen door? Where’s the gate buzzer located in the house? Did Idris see the gates closing behind him when he left? But Ronnie had all the answers. ‘Idris had delivered to Mathew before, so he knew to use the kitchen door. That’s where the gate thingy is... by the kitchen door. And Idris didn’t see the gates close after he left, but he heard them.’

Jack stood and headed for Bevan’s desk, where she was going through the hundreds of horseboxes that were registered to attend the annual equestrian event — they all needed their own parking space allocation, so that the vet could find them quickly if necessary, and she was creating a file containing a photo, owner details and registration for every single one. Bevan was good at doing the dull, routine work with enthusiasm, but right now he needed her to shift to a different train of thought.

‘Bevan, start the Barrowmans’ CCTV from the night of the burglary at eight, please.’ Jack glanced back, expecting to see Davidson at his shoulder, but he’d returned to his desk thinking that he was no longer needed. ‘Ronnie!’ Jack snapped. ‘Don’t wait to be invited, this is your investigation too. Get over here.’ Davidson was on his feet and at Jack’s side before he’d finished speaking. ‘I want it quarter-screen, with the two external gate cameras and the two internal gate cameras playing simultaneously.’ It took Bevan a few seconds to get the screen as Jack had requested. As the action played out, initially showing nothing but the odd fox, Jack started the brainstorming. ‘Ronnie, if this gang uses scouts and if Mathew ordered himself a pizza...’ Jack left his sentence unfinished and stared at Davidson, forcing him to think for himself.

‘Oh, er...’ The waiting was painful, but Jack knew that this was the best way for any copper to learn. ‘Oh! If a scout saw Idris arriving, they’d have known Mathew was at home. But then they still went in? They’ve never done that before, have they, sir? Gone into a house they knew was occupied.’ Jack headed back to his desk, leaving Davidson and Bevan to watch all four screens between them and note down every detail of every second between 8 p.m. and the moment Mathew ran from the house screaming.

Maggie took so long to walk to the front door that she thought whoever it was would have gone by the time she got there. She held the baby bottle under her chin, so it stayed in Hannah’s mouth; she had a dummy hanging from her finger, a muslin cloth over her shoulder ready for burping, and the bottom half of Hannah’s baby-grow was unfastened ready for a quick nappy-change before nap time. Hannah’s chubby bare legs flapped about and occasionally kicked Maggie in the chin.

She somehow managed to open the door and Ridley smiled over the top of the biggest bunch of flowers Maggie had ever seen. Then he held out a bottle of red wine, label facing Maggie for her approval. Châteauneuf du Pape! Maggie didn’t know a lot about wine, but she’d heard this one mentioned on TV by Nigella Lawson, so she knew it must be good.

Maggie sat on the sofa with Hannah’s head resting in the palm of her hand, as she rubbed and patted her back. Hannah stared at Ridley through a deep frown, framed by her ever-darkening brow — she was looking him up and down, as though working out who the hell he was and what he was doing here.

Shit, Ridley thought to himself. She looks at me like Jack does! Then she burped and smiled, making Ridley grin.

Hannah’s eyes closed and she arched herself backwards in a long stretch. Maggie deftly caught her, then laid her down on the sofa so she could join Ridley in a well-earned glass of wine. Now that Hannah was asleep, Ridley didn’t actually know what to say. Small talk wasn’t really his thing. Eventually he said, ‘I wanted to say thank you. For the compliment of asking me to be Hannah’s guardian.’

Maggie smiled. ‘Honestly, Simon, we couldn’t think of anyone better. Don’t worry, though; it doesn’t mean Hannah has to move in with you if we both pop off. Just that we trust you to make the right choices for her. To be on her side.’

Ridley nodded. ‘I can do that.’

Maggie looked at him and gently shook her head in disbelief. ‘My God, Simon, why aren’t you married?’ Ridley laughed, to cover his embarrassment. ‘I’ve never heard you say much, if I’m honest, but what you do say is always so lovely. You’re very kind.’

Ridley had no idea how to respond, so he sipped his wine instead. Maggie could see she’d caught him off-guard. His humility was heartwarming. As Maggie looked at him, she realised that she actually had no idea whether Ridley was married or not. He could even be gay for all she knew, although he had more of a celibate vibe about him. But whatever the truth, it was clearly not something he was prepared to elaborate on.

They talked for another twenty minutes, mainly about whether or not parenthood was how she thought it would be. Then Ridley excused himself and got up to leave, saying Maggie should take advantage of Hannah napping. She looked so tired, Ridley reckoned she too would be napping within seconds.

‘Guv!’ Davidson shouted loudly across the squad room, bringing Gifford out of his office. Jack joined them at Davidson’s side and for a few seconds, they both watched Bevan getting all four screens to the right time-code. Then Davidson narrated as the action played out in front of them.

‘Idris arrives bang on 8.45, just like he said. He presses the buzzer, and the gate starts to open pretty much straight away, so Mathew must have been waiting in the kitchen. The gate takes twenty seconds to open fully, then stays open for about a minute before Idris heads back out again. But look, sir...’ Davidson pointed to the bushes just outside of the Barrowmans’ property. During the minute the gates were open and unattended, a figure dressed in black biker leathers, wearing a black balaclava and carrying what looked like a torch, crept out of the bushes, entered the grounds and hid in the bushes on the inside of the gate. Then Idris rode his scooter out, and the gates took another twenty seconds to close behind him.

Bevan fast-forwarded all of the recordings thirty-seven seconds and pressed play. The biker stepped out from his hiding place and got on his mobile phone. Whilst he talked, the biker paced in front of the camera, not remotely bothered by the fact that he was being recorded. He then put his mobile away and walked towards the house. Bevan fast-forwarded a further one minute and twenty-six seconds. The gates opened. Two masked men nimbly climbed the stone walls and spray-painted the camera lenses, exactly as Jack had suspected. These two masked men then disabled the inside gate cameras in the same way. Then just before the final camera lens was covered in spray-paint, a fourth masked man walked past in the background. In his hand, he brazenly carried a crowbar. Following him in was a car pulling a double horsebox. Bevan paused all four screens.

Jack’s mind raced as he finally made sense of something he’d heard Mathew say. ‘Masked men,’ he said to himself. Then he closed his eyes and bowed his head, almost in shame. Bevan and Davidson couldn’t bring themselves to interrupt Jack’s moment of self-reproach. He then quickly stood upright and strode away across the room. He stood, hands on hips, looking at Gifford who was now leaning against his door frame.

‘When I was at the house, sir, Mathew rushed into the kitchen, frightened, shouting about “masked men”. Seeing as his home was swarming with CSIs at the time, everyone thought he was talking about them, but he was talking about the burglars. The masked burglars.’ Jack paced, trying to put the chain of events together. ‘The scout opened the gates for them. They brought weapons with them, meaning they’ve always been prepared for confrontation. What else? What else? There’s something I need to remember... come on, Jack... Yes! The oily stain. Bevan, get on to forensics and fast-track the results on the stain that was collected from the back of the chair in Barrowman’s study. Ronnie, we need that pizza box...’

‘I’ll call forensics. They’ll be quicker for me.’ Gifford was on his mobile before Jack had time to thank him. ‘What are we thinking the oily stain is going to turn out to be?’

‘If these cocky bastards were in the house just seconds after Idris left... if they took Mathew by surprise and took him out of the equation quickly, what would they do next?’

Davidson replied instinctively. ‘I’d eat his pizza.’

Jack clicked his fingers at Davidson. ‘So would I. They had all the time in the world. The house was empty for hours, Mathew was under control. This gang comes tooled up, ready for anything, but this is the first time they’ve actually had to fight — and that’s exciting. The adrenaline would be pumping. They’d have felt invincible. That’s what violence does to people like this. The good news is that adrenaline can also make us do stupid things... like nick Mathew’s pizza and, hopefully, leave a dirty great DNA profile on a leather office chair.’

Right on cue, Gifford received a call-back from forensics confirming that the oily stain on the back of the chair in Barrowman’s study was indeed from the cheese topping on a pizza. It seemed this astute, experienced gang of burglars, who hadn’t put a foot wrong in three years, had taken off their gloves to steal and eat the sneaky bootleg dinner of an autistic man.

Mathew paid Idris for the pizza with three £5 notes, and then handed over another £5 in coins. This was their routine. Their arrangement; £15 for the pizza, and £5 for Idris to keep his mouth shut. And for Mathew it was worth every penny. There was plenty about life that Mathew didn’t understand, but he understood bribery: if he’s a good boy, he gets ice cream; if Idris keeps their secret, he gets £5. Idris said goodbye, jumped onto his scooter and skidded away down the gravel driveway. Mathew pushed the gate button, knowing that the twenty seconds it took to close was plenty of time for Idris to get out onto the road.

Mathew headed for the stairs, pizza in hand, making a low, involuntary humming sound; this was how he contained his excitement and controlled his urge to eat the pizza on the way back to his bedroom. God, it smelt so good! The humming wasn’t loud, but it was loud enough to mask the sound of biker boots approaching across the tiled kitchen floor.

The first blow from the heavy torch came down hard across Mathew’s shoulder blades, forcing him down onto his knees and then forwards onto his hands. The pizza box shot across the highly polished floor, out of reach. The second blow came from the man with the crowbar. The crowbar hit Mathew’s ribs and forced him to drop onto his side, curled up in the foetal position.

Mathew made no noise at all as the blows fell; shock had rendered him silent. From his position on his side, Mathew looked up to see what was to come next. Four masked men surrounded him. The closest was holding the crowbar, a second twisted a foot-long metal torch in his hands and the last two were unarmed, but their gloved fists were clenched so tight that Mathew could see their knuckles. Mathew desperately tried to make sense of what was happening, why they seemed so angry with him, but it didn’t make any sense. He’d done nothing wrong, except order a pizza behind his parents’ backs, but he was certain that had nothing to do with these men being in his home.

As Mathew hugged his aching ribs, a third blow from a boot struck him in the backside. The men laughed, which, again, Mathew couldn’t understand. He even said as much: ‘Not funny!’ The giggling stopped and the beating began. Boots and weapons rained down on his body, all the time Mathew shouting, ‘I’m sorry! You can laugh! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! You can laugh if you want to!’ The man holding the crowbar then stood back and watched the others continue the beating. When this man finally stepped towards Mathew, all of the others immediately stopped hurting him, and Mathew was grateful. This man was in charge; he could tell. ‘Thank you,’ Mathew whimpered, and blood spilt from his mouth. The man’s head cocked to one side, his part-hidden mouth smirked, and he raised the crowbar. Mathew cried out in fear, screwed his eyes tight shut and wrapped his arms around his head waiting for the blow to land. Nothing. Mathew opened his eyes to see what the man in charge was doing. He was standing, arm frozen in the air, crowbar poised. ‘I promise to only hit you once more,’ the man whispered. ‘But where? Where shall I hit you?’ He shifted the position of the crowbar, as though he was going to strike Mathew on the legs. As Mathew flung his arms low, the man seemed to change his mind and instead aimed for Mathew’s head, then his chest, then his legs again. And so it went on, with the man pretending to strike Mathew, and Mathew desperately trying to follow his movements and defend himself against the one final blow that never came. As Mathew writhed about like a dying fish, the gang laughed at him and called him the most terrible names. Finally, when the man was bored with his game, he sharply brought the crowbar down in a fake blow towards Mathew’s legs, then quickly diverted upwards and cracked him round the back of his skull. Mathew stopped moving, his eyes open, but expressionless. Shock had taken over. Mathew’s brain refused to acknowledge the pain and made his body play dead, whilst it worked out what to do next.

Through blurry eyes, Mathew focussed on the pizza box lying about five feet in front of him. It made him feel happy. He didn’t take his eyes off it. Not for one second. Not until the man who had hurt him so badly bent down and picked it up. Mathew stared at the empty spot on the floor and imagined his pizza.

Within the hour, all of Gifford’s team was back in the squad room, having been stood down from pointlessly searching for the weapon or weapons used to assault Mathew. The atmosphere was electric. Gifford stood in his doorway, leaving the floor to Jack, as had become the norm. Gifford couldn’t help feeling jealous: he’d never before seen his team so together and so pumped. Jack saw it. It was the same look he’d seen on Ridley’s face in the past, so Jack went and stood firmly by Gifford’s side before addressing the room.

‘There are at least five people in this gang, and there’s also an inside man. This gang went to the Barrowmans’ thinking the place was empty, so there’s also an electronics expert, because they expected to have to bypass the high-tech security system. They use a scout on a motorbike to clear the way, and they use a horsebox to get the bigger stuff out. They wouldn’t have known till they arrived that Barrowman’s artworks and furniture weren’t worth nicking, so let’s assume they came prepped with a horsebox.’

Gifford piped up. ‘We’ve got our biker and our horsebox on CCTV, but it gives us nothing useful as yet.’

‘It does,’ Jack explained. ‘It gives us patterns. The roads round here are straight and long. No back alleys and a limited number of short-cuts. They have to be staying somewhere. They have to have a base. There will be a geographical pattern that our biker and our horsebox are drawing across your landscape. We just need to find it.’

Both men looked at Bevan. ‘I’ll find it, sirs,’ she said with a grin. Then she spun her chair round back to her computer and began furiously tapping away.

In the next thirty minutes, Jack and Gifford worked together to allocate the right job to the right officer. One was tasked with enhancing CCTV images of the men who entered the Barrowmans’ property to establish height and build. A second was tasked with trying to track the horsebox. And two were sent back to the house to supervise the CSIs in cordoning off the bushes either side of the driveway gate so they could be examined for footprints at first light. The only fly in the ointment was the arrival of the forensics report on Mr Bright-Cullingwood’s office space, which revealed one set of unidentified fingerprints, which showed no match to anyone on the CRIMINT database.

A text message from Oaks pinged through:

‘Bevan,’ Jack said. ‘Find Sergeant McDermott for me please.’ It was seven o’clock and Jack wanted to be at the Barrowmans’ house by eight the next morning to interview Mathew. ‘She’s got twelve hours to teach me everything she knows about Game of Thrones.’