Police are closing in on the man last seen driving the Nissan Spectre in which the body was stashed. An accurate photofit will be issued later today while vital forensic evidence has also been recovered from the car.
Detectives have now also linked the murder to the bizarre discovery of a body on the roof of Ely Cathedral on Friday. Detectives think that body had lain undetected for more than thirty years.
It was found by a stonemason in the guttering of the cathedral’s south-west transept and has been identified as that of Mr Thomas Shepherd – who went missing in 1966 suspected of being involved in an armed robbery at the Crossways filling station.
The Ely coroner, Dr John Mitchell, recorded a verdict of death by misadventure at an inquest on Saturday. Police believe Shepherd fell to his death from the cathedral’s West Tower soon after the robbery.
The murder squad is now convinced that the man whose body was dragged from the River Lark was also at the Crossways. They were expected to make a positive identification late last night. (MONDAY).
While the police would not comment officially on suggestions that the Crossways robbery provided the motive for the killings, detectives are working on the theory the killer could be another member of the gang.
The robbery – timed by the gang to coincide with the World Cup Final of 1966 – is one of the most notorious unsolved crimes on the records of the Cambridgeshire force.
A woman was shot and received horrific head injuries during the raid.
Forensic experts are trying to formally identify the body recovered from the Lark with the help of dental and other medical records.
For The Crow, out on Friday, he would need to get interviews with the Camm family, and pictures once the identification had been made.
The editor poked his head round the newsroom door. Henry’s thin frame, like a vision in a fairground mirror, enabled him to project his head around corners without revealing any other part of his body.
‘Philip. A second.’ The rest of the newsroom went dead quiet. Dryden tried to suppress the irrational guilt always attendant on the use of his full first name. He followed Henry behind the frosted glass partition into his office.
The editor’s room smelt strongly of carbolic and fag ash. The last aroma was provided by Gladstone Roberts, proprietor of Cathedral Motors, who was sitting stiffly in one of the two comfy chairs. He didn’t get up. Dryden took the wooden window seat and let his feet hang a few inches above the carpet. It was a regular perch and he knew it annoyed Henry intensely. The editor sat and adopted his hanging-judge face.
Dryden decided, as always, that attack was the best form of defence. ‘Mr Roberts.’ He beamed. ‘While we’re here. Are you a member of the cathedral fund-raising committee set up by the Chamber of Trade?’
Roberts looked too surprised to object. ‘Why?’
‘So you would have heard about the emergency work on the south-west transept which is going to cost council-tax payers thirty thousand pounds?’
‘I…?’ Roberts looked to Henry for help.
‘Philip. If I might. Mr Roberts has a complaint, which I think we should deal with first.’
Dryden contrived to look overjoyed at this turn of events.
‘Mr Roberts says you gained access to his office under false pretences and accused him of several, er, serious offences. He wishes to know whether any such accusations are to appear in print and tells me that his lawyers are prepared to seek an injunction if that is the case. Now we will obviously discuss this in private but in view of the lack of time perhaps you could, er, put our minds at ease?’
‘I asked questions. I’m not sure what false pretences are in this case. I’ve met Mr Roberts before – he knows I’m a reporter for The Crow – what did he think I wanted to see him about, a new Datsun Cherry?
‘And as I didn’t get any answers I’m not planning to write anything about it. But for the record, so that we all understand each other, I’ve passed the questions on to the police involved in the inquiry into the death of Tommy Shepherd. And that of Reg Camm…’
Roberts jerked visibly in his chair.
‘… Along with a complaint concerning a threat Mr Roberts made against me, and my wife. I think he can expect a visit concerning that matter from the police.’
For effect Dryden fingered the head bandage. Henry was a sucker for the correct channels – one of the reasons he was such a lousy journalist.
The editor nodded judicially, a movement which changed to a shake of the head as Roberts rose to his feet. He looked genuinely shocked. The question was, did the news about Camm shock him, or the fact that Dryden knew it? He grabbed a heavy overcoat from the hatstand and placed his hands, palms down, on Henry’s desk: ‘You know the score, Henry. If the story goes in and I’m in it then I pull the advertising for the year. And you hear from the lawyers with a charge of racial discrimination thrown in.’
Henry had half-risen as his guest departed. His small stick-insect body seemed to dwindle. His head glistened slightly with sweat.
He turned wearily to Dryden. ‘You have notified the police?’
‘Sort of.’
‘And the relevance of the questions about the cathedral?’
‘Anyone who knew the emergency restoration work was being extended would have known that the gutters of the south-west transept would be cleared. If that person was also the killer of Tommy Shepherd then they had something like twenty-four hours to cover their tracks. Common sense says that Camm was killed and dumped in the Lark because Tommy’s body was about to be found. What we do not know is why.’
As the editor was down Dryden decided to give him a good last kick. ‘Henry. How do you know Gladstone Roberts exactly?’
Henry attempted to draw himself up to his full height; always a mistake for someone sitting down. ‘The cathedral fund-raising committee. The Crow makes a substantial donation. I’m an ex-officio member.’
‘Ah. I see. Now, if you’ll, er…’
‘Yes, yes. Of course. Clearly I am not intimidated by Mr Roberts’s threats. However, if you are going to name him you will let me know…’ He waited for an answer in silence. ‘We understand each other, Philip?’
‘We are a model of communication, Henry.’
Back in the newsroom Bill Bracken was panic-struck. He held out a fax in Dryden’s direction with a quivering hand.
The annual Queen’s Awards for Industry.
Embargoed for midnight Monday.
Special award to None & Sons for an export order
to the US and excellence in training schemes.
Dryden read it quickly. ‘Good story. Have we got a pic of the Nene yard on file?’
‘Yup.’ It was Kathy’s voice and it came out of the darkroom where she was checking the picture files.
‘Right. I’ll get down there. Get some quotes and a bit of colour and I’ll phone you two hundred words by three, OK? Kathy can do the body of the story here – just tack my bit on the end. Got it?’
By the time Humph had driven him down to the stoneyard, dusk was in the wings. The snow was still falling but a south wind was now blowing it into drifts. The yard was on the edge of the Jubilee Estate and kept the vandals out with an eight-foot-high wall topped with razor wire. The entrance was flanked by two large whitewashed pillars with NENEin foot-high letters on one and & SONSon the other.
The business had been built around an open courtyard. To one side was the Nenes’ house, a thirties villa with double bay windows. An off-white flagstaff held a threadbare Union Jack. The sound of power tools and Radio One came from a set of corrugated-iron workshops. A group of three workmen in blue overalls stood smoking beside a flaming brazier.