PAIN HAS A PERMANENT ADDRESS - READ BETWEEN THE LIES

READ BETWEEN THE LIES - EPISODE FOUR

14  George Henderson, Parliamentary Under Secretary of the Ministry of Defence, sat listening in the ACC's office, listening with a brooding expression.  He was the only one seated.  Yazmin and I stayed on our feet, the chair remaining vacant as though awaiting the arrival of a late visitor.  George Henderson was in his mid-forties, not plump exactly, but with a sleek, well-fed look about him.  His fleshy cheeks were covered with a stubble that stopped just short of being a beard. 

 He had exuded self-assurance when he'd walked into Angela White's office, interrupting an already fraught meeting.  His half-smile never wavered as he sat down. 

 "Miss White, I don't think our paths have crossed," he said, his voice as smooth as silk. 

 "No, I don't think they have."  White's smile was blandness itself, but I thought I detected a coolness about it.  "May I introduce you to John 

Handful, and Yazmin Nash." 

 Ignoring me his attention was already moving to Yazmin. 

 "Miss Nash." 

 "It's a pleasure to meet you." 

 Henderson's smile broadened even further.   

 "What are you working on at the moment?"  Henderson asked 

 "Government conspiracies,” Yazmin replied. 

 Henderson's eyebrows rose.  "Really?  Then I'll have to be careful what I say, won't I?"  He didn't actually pat Yazmin on the head, but he might as well have.  An expression of distaste replaced his smile as he selected one of the chairs to sit on. 

 "I believe you're in possession of property that belongs to the British 

Government."  Henderson's said to the ACC. 

 "What is the significance of this property?"  White asked. 

 Henderson chuckled as though White had made a joke.  "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say." 

 "Why?" 

 "I am bound by the Official Secrets Act."  Henderson seemed to be enjoying himself.  "I can impound this property, and have it removed by making just one phone call." 

 "Then why haven't you done so already?"  White asked. 

 Henderson fidgeted in the chair.  I felt my dislike of him edge up a notch. 

 "Forgive me, but do you realize who you're dealing with?"  Henderson smiled, but it was starting to look a little forced. "I am good friends with John Gardner, the Chief Constable for Suffolk.  In fact, I only just played golf with him last month."   

 "I hope you're not threatening me, Mr Henderson,” White suggested.   "No, of course not. I'm just making sure you're aware of the situation you find yourself in."  

 "Oh, I'm very aware, Mr Henderson," she said.  "Now, I'd like to continue with my murder investigation." 

 Henderson stood up.  "Well, as long as we understand each other." He stood as though he'd lost interest.  "I'm done here."  He walked to the door and turned with what I imagine he thought was an engaging grin.  "Hope you don't mind me pulling rank over you.  Perhaps we could discuss it at more length over a drink sometime." 

 White didn't answer, but the way she looked at Henderson made me think he shouldn't build up his hopes.  The Parliamentary Under-Secretary was wasting his time if he was trying to charm her.   

 Sergeant Higgins knocked on the door as he left. 

 "Yes, Sergeant.  What is it?" 

 "A body has been found near the golf course."   

 We travelled in White's car.  There was no debate over whether we should accompany her, only a tacit agreement that she needed my help. 

 The sun was out this time as we approached the gates to the golf course.  Thick pine woods bordering the fairways and greens looked impenetrable, as though it were still night among their close-packed boots. Uniformed police officers stood outside the gates, barring entry to the press who had already assembled outside.  Word had been leaked, coming on top of the 

UFO sighting, it had served as blood in the water to the news-hungry media.  As the Assistant Chief Constable slowed down to show her ID, a photographer crouched to take a shot of us through the car window.  She said nothing but the look of anger on her face was a sight to behold.  WPC Melanie Softly stood outside the club shop, talking to a group of forensic agents, their white

overalls filthy.   

 "It's around the back, ma'am," she said without preamble. 

 A sudden sun-shower came from nowhere filling the air with silvery drops.  It dropped as quickly as it started, leaving tiny rainbow prisms of light glistening on the fairways, the greens, and shrubs.  Softly led us along a path that ran parallel with the eighteenth fairway and then towards the pine trees behind the course'.  Crime scene tape had been strung between the trunks, and beyond that, I glimpsed white-suited figures at work. 

 "One of the members found the body in there," Softly said.  "Hooked their shot into here." 

 "Any ID?"  White asked. 

 "Got a man's wallet with credit cards and a driving licence, but we can't say for sure if they're the victim's.  Body is in such a state." 

 "Who does the wallet belong to?"  I asked. 

 WPC Softly glanced at the ACC, as if to check is she was allowed to tell me anything.  White nodded. 

 "Alan Woodhouse." 

15  Nature abhors waste, and a body lying outdoor soon becomes a food source of the local wildlife.  They will attend the feast, detaching and carrying away whatever they can.  But the torso is too big for all but the largest scavengers to move, and it tends to be eaten in situ.  So, the ribcage usually marks the location where the body lay. 

 The forest floor was covered with a thick mat of pine needles, like matting, pebbled with fallen cones.  The clean scent of pine that seeped through my mask was a welcome relief from the usual smell that greeted me at a serious crime scene. 

 But it was short-lived.  The air was thick and still underneath the pines, untouched by the breeze from the sea.  I felt myself sweat as we made our way towards the crime scene. 

 Branches scratched at us, showering us with needles as we pushed through the trees.  It was heavy going.  Sweat ran down my face, and I had cramp from walking in a permanent crouch.   

 The remains of what had once been Alan Woodhouse were partially

camouflaged by fallen pine needles.  A few ants scurried busily over it, foraging for flesh.  Some bones had been picked clean, and the sternum and some smaller ribs were missing. 

 "Looks like the scattering of the body was caused by animals or dismemberment." 

Beside me, Yazmin gave a sudden gasp and doubled up, clutching at her stomach.  I pulled off her mask and had to hide my alarm when I saw the waxy pallor of her face. 

 "Go back,” I told her. 

 Her mouth was stretched in a grimace.  "What could have done that?"  Her eyes were screwed shut with shock.  I tore open her overalls, berating myself.  You should have never let her come with us!  If she collapsed in here, the entire crime scene would become contaminated. 

 "Come on."  I tried to sound calm. 

 I guided her away from the mutilated corpse and then the colour in her face began to return. 

 "OK?"  I asked.  She nodded, too drained to speak.  "Just take it easy for a minute or two." 

 There was a rustle from nearby when WPC Softly came over.  "Are you OK?"  I felt Yazmin's hand tighten on my arm before I could answer.  "Fine.  Just need to catch my breath." 

 Softly didn't look fooled but left us alone.  As soon as she'd gone Yazmin's shoulders slumped again. 

 "Can you walk?"  I asked. 

 She drew in an unsteady breath.  "I think so." 

 "Come on, let's get you out of here." 

 "I'll manage.  You carry on." 

 "I'm not letting you -" 

 She gripped my arm again.  There was a quiet entreaty in her eyes.  "Please, John." 

I didn't like the idea of letting her make her way from the woods by herself, but it would only agitate her more if I insisted on going on as well.  I looked between the pine trunks to the edge of the trees and to the golf course beyond, gauging how far it was. 

 "I'll take it nice and slow," she said, guessing what I was thinking.  "And I promise to have a cup of tea as soon as I get out." 

 "Plenty of sugar." 

 She gave a weak smile.  "Don't worry.  You go and catch up with the Assistant Police Constable." 

 Anxiously, I watched as she picked her way through the woods, moving unsteadily.  I waited until she reached the tree line, vanishing through the close-pressed branches into the daylight before I went over to where White crouched beside the body.  She glanced up as I approached. 

 "She all right?" 

 "She felt faint after she'd seen the body," I replied. 

 "Not surprised," White admitted.  "Have you seen anything like this before?"  "I worked on a case about eighteen months ago which was fairly brutal, but it was nothing like this.  I mean who or what would chew a rib down to half its original size?" 

 "I've no idea," she shrugged.  "Anyhow, if you're done, I'm going to let the forensics team start getting this boxed and bagged." 

 "Of course," I said.  

I was about to leave her and her forensic team to it when I noticed a crime scene marker a few feet away. 

 "What's over there?" 

"Just some teeth.  Must've come loose when the attacker pulled the bottom half of the jaw off." 

 I'd seen enough crime scenes to know there was nothing unusual about that.  Scavengers generally eat the face first, and the teeth could easily have been dislodged from the missing mandible, but I'd learned from hard experience not to take anything for granted. 

 "Mind if I take a look?" 

 The marker poked out from the exposed roots of a scrubby pine.  It wasn't until I was up close that I could make out the dirty nuggets of ivory.  There were four molars, coated in dirt and hard to see among the pine needles.  It was a testament to the thoroughness of the search that they'd been found at all.  But something wasn't quite right . . . 

 "Told you they were nothing more than teeth," White said as I pushed myself to my feet. 

 "You're going to need to take photographs,” I said. 

 "Why?" 

 "They don't belong with the rest of the remains." 

 "How do you know?"  White demanded. 

 "Because they're from a pig." 

 "But what are they doing there?" 

 "On the night of the UFO sighting there were reports of animals getting distressed," I said.   

 "Jesus," White exclaimed. 

"Which makes me wonder about the report of the women screaming the same night.  Who were they?  Why were they screaming?  And why hasn't one of them come forward to report whatever scared them?" 

 I couldn't read White's expression. 

 "Who wouldn't be missed?"  I persisted.  "If they were already missing." 

 "Homeless, teenage runaways. . ." 

 "And?" 

 An expression of realization spread over her face.  "Illegal immigrants."  "Sergeant Higgins told me that DI Draw was working on a case involving illegal immigrants." 

 "That's right," White said.  "Six female illegal immigrants landed at Oxmarket Ferry in the middle of the night.  CCTV showed them in a car park near

Oxmarket forest running off into the trees." 

 "And they haven't been seen since?" 

 White shook her head.  "Draw is still trying to find out where they've gone."  "Well, I may have worked out what has happened to them." 

16  The small and unremarkable entrance to the car park was carved out of a thick crescent of trees on the other side of a stone bridge.  In front of the entrance, a cabin bore a National Trust logo with a board screwed to it and a half-open gate. A man sat inside the cabin, partly obscured behind milky glass. A bike leaned up against it, below the window. 

 I pulled up at the gate and looked around.  Off to my left, I saw the one and only security camera.  Attached to a metal pole – like a street light – and focused on the entrance.  I thought back to the CCTV footage that White had shown me in her office of the 4x4 entering the car park.  Six women running off in different directions, from the vehicle.  Where had they all gone?  DI Draw had also been at the CCTV viewing along with Yazmin who still looked very pale.  She was hushed as if she hadn't really understood what she was getting herself into and now regretted it. 

 White told me that she'd explained to draw that I was acting as a consultant on the case.  "I hope you don't mind," she'd said.  

"I don't," I said, "but I was surprised Draw had agreed." 

White gave a sour laugh.  "He didn't have much choice." 

 The man from the cabin stood by my car now, a National Trust T-shirt on.  Early sixties, balding and bearded, with a maze of broken capillaries in his cheeks.  He was smiling but made an obvious show of checking his watch and then looking at the car park beyond the trees, which was totally empty.  I remembered from Draw's conversation with White, that someone from the

Trust came to check on the car park three days a week, and that a guy called Derek Walton had reported the 4x4 as having probably being abandoned.  I looked for a name badge, but if he had one, it wasn't on his shirt. 

 "Lovely day," he said. 

 "Yes, it is." 

 "Thirty degrees," the guy told me in a broad Suffolk accent.  "Anyway, make yourself at home.  We close at sunset." 

 I set off towards the concrete steps, buried among oak trees thick with leaves.  They curved thirty feet down the slope of a bank to a peninsula.  The tide was in, the mudflats obscured.  At the bottom of the steps, I looked out at the North Sea flanking me on both sides.  The grey water was streaked with coils of brown silt, like snakes twisting beneath the surface, and the wind hacked at the sea, churning it. I started along the headland in the direction of a Second World War pillbox, a series of gusts ripping in, making it hard to maintain a straight line along the path.  It made me wonder what this place had been like the night the immigrants had arrived.    The pillbox was just a shell: a circular concrete shelter half consumed by the long grass of the headland, with a window that looked over the water.  Its flat roof – slabs of moss-dotted concrete – sat unevenly on top, its walls yellowed by age, pockmarked and coarse.  If I'd had any thoughts about it being part of the immigrants' escape plan – or someone else's escape plan for them – I soon let it go.  Once this had been the last line of defence between Hitler and the shore of Britain; now it was just a decaying ring of stone that kids used for hide-and-seek. 

 I continued my way along the path.  The further I went, the harder it got to hear anything above the wind.  The squawk of seagulls faded out, the soft wash of the sea, too.  Either side of me, the grass slanted away to the gravel and rocks I'd seen on my approach, a grey stone beach that traced the circumference of the entire peninsula. The gusts of wind knocked me off balance and I could feel the hardness of the ground beneath my feet.     I wasn't sure when the unease started.  It was more a growing awareness, a subliminal itch that finally tipped into conscious thought.  The beach seemed unnaturally quiet.  Oppressive.  I tried to ignore the feeling, but it grew stronger.  I fought the temptation to look around. 

 The back of my neck prickled, as though something was watching me.  Don't be stupid, I told myself. Within moments, the end of the beach came into view, the tip of the headland marked by a signpost.  There was nothing else between me and it, just an ocean of undulating grass, jagged pockets of gorse, and knotted ragged brambles.  It was wild and bleak, empty, and featureless.  Yet, the feeling of unease was still there, even though there was no case-breaking piece of evidence on this finger of land.  No smoking guns.  The only thing this trip had reinforced was how untamed and isolated it all was out here; how, once you got on the headland, the only way you got back off again was the way you'd come in.  That made it the perfect place to disappear. 

 I headed back, windburn in my cheeks, sweat at the arc of my hairline, and climbed the steps up to the car park.  Behind me, out in the North Sea, the sun continued its ascent, changing the light on the peninsula again.  I got back to the car and grabbed the file White had loaned earlier and flicked through to the official police investigation.  The immigrants had run off in different directions. Photographs of the CCTV footage confirmed that.  

Looking out again at the lonely spaces around me, I watched trees lurch and roll in the breeze, and the shadows adjust again. 

 Gradually, everything settled.  The anxiety I felt a few minutes before sloughed away, fading with every step.  It now seemed absurd.  

Embarrassing, even. 

 Refocusing my attention to the paperwork, a computer illustration showed the six points of the immigrants' exit.  They all needed checking, so with the file still in my hands, I followed the diagram to a spot where the even ground began sloping away. 

 It was colder under the trees, the light hazy and grey.  I bent down to examine an undulating line of maggots and found a blanket of discarded junk.   I stayed where I was and reread the part of the file dealing with their frantic disappearance into the dark evening countryside. The spot was maybe sixteen or seventeen metres back from the edge of the car park – where the point at which its tarmac gave way to the grass and trees. 

 I crouched down again over the grubs, wrinkling my nose at the ammonia smell.  I wanted to see where they were coming from.  I set off, heading towards the yellowed tufts of marsh grass from which the larvae flowed.  I noticed the smell first and then the flies, a somnolent buzzing that filled the head.  But the body I discovered was not the sheep or deer, or even dog, I expected.  Naked, the female corpse was full of movement.  A rippling infestation that boiled under her skin and erupted from mouth and nose, as well as the other less natural openings in her body.  

The maggots that spilt from her pooled on the ground before crawling away in

the line that now stretched beyond where I stood.                                                                       

17  It seemed like most of Oxmarket turned out to help with the search of Neil Woolner.  At another time, or in different circumstances, it might have been thought that he could have left of his accord.  Oh, he and Isobel seemed happy enough with a new baby on the way.  But you could never tell.  Coming when it did, though, on the heels of the murder of Charles Steele, Alan Woodhouse and now an unknown immigrant, Woolner's disappearance immediately took on a far more sinister aspect.  And while the police concentrated their efforts on the woods and area where he'd taken the dog for a walk, virtually everyone who was fit and able came out of the comforts of their homes, had turned out to search the rest of the area. 

 It was a beautiful evening. The sun lowered in the sky and swallows dipped and swooped, and the atmosphere should have been festive, a rare sense of communal unity and resolve.  But no-one could forget for long the reason for them being there.   

I believed all these deaths had to relate to the UFO sighting.  It could hardly be an accident, and certainly no coincidence, that the first two victims and the missing Neil Woolner had all been witnesses to the incident. In addition, the poor girl I found mutilated in the field had arrived in this country on the very same night.  But I kept my theories to myself. 

 The town felt that whoever was doing this could very well be one of Oxmarket's own, and the thought took root as people set out to look for the missing man. Although it wasn't flowering, yet it was already putting up shoots.  It revealed itself as a slight distance in the way people responded to each other.  Everyone knew of murders where the killer was involved in the search. Where they had openly expressed revulsion and sympathy, even shed artificial tears, when all the while the victim's blood was barely dry on their hands, the final screams and entreaties locked away to fester in their heart.     I joined the search myself as soon as I'd given my statement.  Its epicentre was a police trailer set up in the car park near where I'd discovered the body.  It was on the outskirts of the town, and cars were pulled into the hedgerows for a quarter of a mile either side of it.  Some people had just struck off by themselves, but the majority had come here, drawn by activity.    The police had set up a table to help coordinate the public search.  It was as much a PR exercise as anything; giving the community a sense that it was doing something and making sure the volunteers didn't get in the way of the professional teams.  But the countryside was so wild that it would be impossible to cover all of it anyway.  It could soak up searchers like a sponge without giving up its secrets. 

 I saw Isobel Woolner, standing slightly apart from a group of men.  She looked haggard, a pallor greying her tanned features.  With her was Carlisle, the vicar finally finding a situation that suited the severity of his features.  

I'd considered going over to express . . . What?  Sympathy?  Condolences?  But the hollowness of anything I could say, and memory of how little I'd appreciated the awkward utterances of near strangers myself when Zoë had died, prevented me.  Instead, leaving Isobel to the vicar's ministrations, I went straight to the table to be told where to go. 

 I spent an unproductive few hours trudging across a boggy field as part of a group that included Michael Haggerty, who seemed glad of the excuse to be out without his domineering mother.  His bulk made it hard work for him to keep up with the rest of us, but he persevered, breathing heavily through his mouth as we slowly made our way across the uneven landscape, trying to skirt the wetter patches of ground.  Once he slipped and stumbled to his knees. 

His perspiring body gave off an animal whiff of exertion as I helped him up.   "Bugger," he panted, his face colouring with embarrassment as he stared at the mud coating his hands.  His voice was light, almost girlish.  "Bugger," he kept repeating, blinking furiously. 

 Other than that, few people spoke.  When the growing dusk made it impractical to search any longer, we abandoned the attempt and made our way back.  The general mood was as sombre as the darkening landscape, and I knew many of the searchers would stop off at the Waggoner's Rest, seeking company more than alcohol.  I felt no different and joined them outside the pub before going in. 

 Apart from the church, the Waggoner's Rest was the oldest building in

Oxmarket, and one of the few in the area that had a traditional thatched roof.  Anywhere else on the Suffolk coast it would have been smartened into twee respectability, but with only the locals to please, no attempt had been made to halt its slow decay.  The reeds on its thatch were slowly mouldering, while the walls were a faded pink, flaking away in big patches.  Tonight, it was doing good business, but it was far from a party atmosphere.  The nods I received were solemn, the conversation low and subdued.  The landlord lifted his chin in silent enquiry as I reached the bar.  

He was blind in one eye, the milky cast emphasizing the resemblance to an ageing Labrador. 

"Pint, please, Butch." 

 "You have been out on the search?" he asked as he set the glass in front of me. 

When I nodded, he waved away my money. "On the house." 

 I barely had time to take a drink before a hand fell on my shoulder.  

"Thought you might come in tonight." 

 I looked up at the giant who'd materialized beside me.  "Hi, Paul."  

 Paul Southgate topped six feet four and seemed half as broad again.  A warden at the local nature reserve, he'd lived in the village all his life.  He was easy company, someone I felt as comfortable maintaining a silence with as talking to.  He had a pleasant, almost dreamy smile in a heavy-boned face that looked as though it had been screwed up and only partially smoothed out again.  Set in his tanned leather, his eyes seemed incongruously bright and green. 

 Normally, they held a twinkle of good humour, but there was no humour in them now.  He propped an elbow on the bar.  "Bad business." 

 "Lousy." 

 "I saw Neil a couple of days ago.  Not a care in the world, out walking his dog.  And then Alan Woodhouse, as well.  Good lads.  Despite not being from around here. I hope to Christ, Neil's got cold feet about this baby and that's all.  But it's not looking good, is it?" 

 "Not very, no." 

 "God, poor Isobel.  Don't bear thinking about what she's going through."   He pitched his voice lower so that it wouldn't carry.  "There's a rumour going around that Alan Woodhouse and that girl were cut up pretty bad.  If it's the same person who killed Neil's dog and then had him . . .  Jesus, it makes you want to break the bastard's neck, doesn't it?" 

 "It certainly does," I said, looking down at my glass. 

 Paul slowly shook his massive head.  "Do you think there's any chance for

Neil?" 

 "I don't know." 

 Paul's expression soured he looked towards the doorway.  "And just when you think it can't get any worse. . ." 

 I turned to see the dark figure of Mr Carlisle blocking out the light as he entered.  Conversations died away as he walked stern-faced to the bar. 

 "Mr Handful."   

 Even at this time of year, there seemed to be an odour of mildew about him.  I could see the white dusting of dandruff on the black wool of his jacket, smell the mothball taint on his clothes. 

 "Vicar. Can I buy you a drink?" 

 "No.  Thank you."  His voice was a dry baritone that carried effortlessly.  

"I'm looking for the officer in charge of this investigation." 

 "That is Assistant Chief Constable Angela White," I told him.  "But she's not here.  In fact, I don't know where she is." 

 "I see," he favoured me with a humourless smile.  "I hear you are assisting the police?"  

 "That's correct." 

 "Would you mind passing on a message to the Assistant Chief Constable?" 

 "Is it relevant to the investigation?" I probed. 

"I'm not really sure," he said.  "But the verger and I have just had to expel two bird watchers from the tower of the church." 

 "Birdwatchers?" I repeated, puzzled.  "But the tower of your church looks out over the cove or the airbase." 

 "I know," he nodded tersely.  "And the thing is I couldn't make these birdwatchers understand any English." 

 My suspicions were aroused.  "Where are they from then?" 

 "Well, if I am not very much mistaken," he said, with pride.  "I think they came from Russia."