72
Chief Constable Alan Hunt heads up the eight a.m. press conference. News of Jake Timberland’s death and the imminent arrival of the girl’s parents have ratcheted up the pressure. He can’t let this go wrong. Not when he’s in the running for the Met Commissioner’s job. He knows that how he handles this inquiry is going to determine whether or not he gets the job.
Reporters settle around a well-planted forest of TV cameras and radio microphones. Flanked by Dockery and Rowlands, he taps the desk microphone and hears thunder crackle across the hall. He learned long ago of the benefits of knowing the sound levels before you speak. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending at such short notice. At two o’clock this morning, my officers discovered the body of a thirty-one-year-old male in a burned-out vehicle. A vehicle we had been seeking to locate in relation to the disappearance of Caitlyn Lock, who most of you know is the daughter of Kylie Lock and Vice President Thom Lock.’ The Chief pauses to give the print journalists a chance to get their notes up to speed. ‘Given this development, I have asked that our force receive the assistance of expert officers from the Metropolitan Police.’ He raises a cautionary hand. ‘I need to stress to you that these are preventative and cautionary measures. At this moment we have no indication of Miss Lock’s whereabouts and have received no communication from her or anyone else to suggest that her life is in danger. Operational command of the inquiry is currently in the hands of Chief Superintendent Rowlands, reporting directly to Deputy Chief Constable Dockery. They are ready — within reason — to answer your questions, but first they have a request for your assistance.’
DCS Rowlands clears his throat, picks up a press pack and holds it high so everyone can see the photograph of Caitlyn on its front. ‘You are all going to receive one of these handouts. Inside is a DVD containing video footage and still photographs of Miss Lock, the man she travelled down from London with, Jacob Timberland, and the VW Campervan they were driving. We are interested in any sightings of this van or these people over the last twenty-four hours. No matter how trivial people think it is, we urge them to come forward and tell us exactly what they saw.’
A reporter jumps in. ‘Can you confirm that the dead man is Jake Timberland, the son of Lord and Lady Timberland?’
Rowlands bats him off. ‘The family of the deceased has not yet formally identified the body, so that is not something I am prepared to do.’
‘Can you confirm that the dead man was murdered?’
Again he reacts cautiously. ‘I am yet to receive the full report from the Home Office pathologist who carried out the post-mortem examination. I won’t prejudge her findings.’
‘Where was the dead man found?’
Rowlands hesitates. ‘The exact location is something we are not currently prepared to disclose. I hope you understand there are aspects of this case that we need to hold back for operational reasons.’
An old hack with skin the colour of bacon sniffs an opening. ‘Is that because you fear Caitlyn Lock has been abducted and only the kidnappers know the location of where they murdered her boyfriend?’
It’s an astute question and too close to the truth for comfort. Greg Dockery steps in to field it. ‘I have to emphasise what DCS Rowlands has said. The investigation is in its early stages and there is information that we need to hold back for operational reasons. We need you to respect that and help us find Caitlyn. You won’t help her, us, or even yourselves with speculative journalism.’
Hunt senses that the reporters are going to keep on poking and prodding unless they get something juicier. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I can’t overstate the importance of your role in this inquiry. Responsible reporting is essential. There may be an innocent reason behind Miss Lock’s disappearance, there may not. If she is being detained against her will, those people will be reading everything you write and listening to everything you say. That is why we have to be circumspect. At this point that is all we have to say. Thank you for your attendance.’ He allows a fractional pause for unrest to grow, then gives them what he knows will be their headline lead: ‘Later this morning, I will be meeting in person with Vice President Lock and Kylie Lock, who are flying in from New York as we speak. I hope to have good news for them. I hope we will have knowledge of their daughter’s whereabouts and if not, I hope to reassure them that the force and the people of Wiltshire, and the government and people of the United Kingdom, are doing everything within their powers to find her and bring her safely home. Thank you again for your attendance.’ He stands, grabs his papers from the desk and walks slowly and confidently off the conference stage.
73
News that the Met has been drafted in doesn’t go down well at the post-press conference team briefing.
Jude Tompkins pulls Megan aside at the end. ‘The Chief Super has just talked to Barney Gibson from the Specialist Crime Directorate. He’ll be here in an hour with a couple of others and they’ll take over operational control. John will report to them and I will report to him. I need you to go to see the pathologist, get a briefing on Timberland’s death. Once you’ve reported back, you’re off the case.’
Megan is stunned. ‘What?’
‘Did you mean, pardon, ma’am?’
‘I thought Rowlands said I was doing a good job.’
‘You were. Right up until the point you wanted to dance in the spotlight. Now I need you to go and carry out my orders, not question them. Warren and Jenkins have already been reassigned.’
Megan manages a polite nod before turning away and mouthing a silent stream of obscenities that doesn’t stop until she’s back in CID.
Jimmy Dockery calls to her from his desk ‘Boss—’
She doesn’t let him finish. ‘Get your coat, Jimmy, you’ve pulled.’ She grabs her jacket off the back of a chair and her car keys off the desk.
74
Serpens is in meltdown.
The guilt is unbearable. Images flash relentlessly in his tortured mind. The young man dismembered and minced at the abattoir. The vodka-soaked body set ablaze in the Campervan in the barn. There is no escape from it all.
Despite this being the busiest time of the year for the security company where he works, he calls in sick. Head pounding, he guns up the old Mitsubishi and drives. He has to get away from it all. Find some peace.
An hour later he’s in Bath. A well-scrubbed tourist city where he holidayed as a child. A place with happy memories. Maybe enough for him to come to peace with himself.
He parks at the Southgate Centre and buys a six pack of lager and half a litre of Scotch. Wise old locals glare soberly at him as he drinks while he wanders. By the time he’s circled Grand Parade and Boat Stall Lane, the beer is finished. He takes a leak in bushes off Orange Grove and meanders east towards the banks of the river.
Resting in the cool shade, his back against a tree by the water, closes his tired eyes. A monstrous mosaic of sounds and sights forms in his head — the empty noise of the rolling bottle that Musca threw into the Camper, the rough scratch of a match, the dull boom that rocked his heart and the fireball that roared through the Camper, splitting the old barn’s parched rafters.
Serpens unscrews the top of the Scotch and takes a swig as hot as the flames that haunt him. The more it burns the better. He swallows it down in painful gulps. He killed the guy. Cracked him with a rock and brought his life to an end. One minute the poor sap is on top of the world, making out with his girl, then thwack, he’s dead and his corpse is about to be burned to cinders.