As Peterson drove, Erika had John on speakerphone back at West End Central.
‘We’ve pulled Morris Cartwright’s criminal record. He was twice arrested and charged with assault and battery: first time in 2011 it was against his wife, but she decided not to press charges; the second time in 2013, the case never got to court. He was arrested a couple of weeks back after stealing and trying to flog some fertiliser from a local farm where he was working.’
‘What about the car?’
‘He bought the blue Ford S-Max back in 2007—’ There was interference on the line.
They hit a rough patch of road leading up to another patch of flooding, and the van slowed in front as it went through.
‘John, you still there?’ said Erika.
There was more interference, and then John’s voice came back. ‘Yes, boss.’
Erika’s phone beeped to say she had a call waiting. It was Moss. ‘Hang on two seconds, John, I’ve just got to take this,’ she answered.
‘Boss, I’m in town still. I’ve had no joy on Genesis. They let me take a look at Bryony’s work email; there was nothing suspicious, seems she was very diligent, didn’t mix her work and private life. A team is now pulling her house apart; I’ll keep you posted.’
‘Thanks,’ said Erika, and she went back to John.
‘Boss,’ he said, ‘I’ve got more on Morris Cartwright. He rents a lock-up in the village, on Faraday Way in Dunton Green.’
‘Good work, John. Can you call in local plod, just get them to check out the last employer where Morris worked.’
‘Yes, boss.’
The van in front reached a junction, and they slowed behind it. The police van pulled out and turned right.
‘Hang on, stop,’ she said to Peterson as he went to follow. They watched the police van drive away.
‘Erika. What are you doing? You’re the arresting officer. We have to follow them and present Morris Cartwright to the custody sergeant.’
‘I’ll brief them over the radio, they can do it on my behalf. Time is ticking with Beth Rose, and I want to go to Morris Cartwright’s lock-up.’
She looked over at Peterson, and he nodded. She keyed the address of the lock-up into the GPS. With a squeal of rubber, he did a U-turn, and they sped off, hoping they were not too late.
Chapter Eighty-Three
Darryl was in terrible pain, but relieved that he wasn’t dying. His mother left him, and he managed to dry himself off and get dressed. The rain was pounding against his bedroom window, and when he looked out the sky was almost black. He switched on the light, sat at his computer gingerly and logged on to the news. His hands were shaking as he scrolled down. There was nothing on BBC London about the body of Bryony being found, but he still couldn’t shake off the feeling of dread. Things were getting out of control. Why hadn’t his mother suggested calling the doctor? He needed painkillers or antibiotics and then he’d go down to the Oast House.
He staggered downstairs, and found his mother in the living room. The television was on and showing interference.
‘Mum…’ he started.
‘How do you get teletext?’ she said, peering at the remote control in her hand, unconcerned by his ashen face.
‘I’m in pain, Mum,’ he groaned.
‘I want to see the weather, and I can’t seem to find teletext on here.’
‘You’ve got a weather app, on your phone…’
‘I don’t know how to work that, Darryl,’ she said. ‘I like how they lay it out on teletext,’ she added, indicating the white noise on the screen. It suddenly went black and the CCTV activated, showing the front gates.
Darryl gripped the wall and began to panic. There was a police car; he could see two uniformed police officers through the windscreen. His blood went cold, and he stood transfixed. His mother was looking at him. She got up and gave him the remote.
‘Well, go on, press the button, and open the gates,’ she said.
‘You know what button it is,’ he said.
‘Press it. Then I’ll call the doctor.’
‘Please don’t,’ he said.
She pulled the remote control back to her and pressed the button which activated the front gates.
‘Mum. You don’t know what they want!’
‘They probably have something to tell us about that intruder, or those gypsies we saw the other week, the ones who were hanging round the gate the other night… or do you know what they might want?’
She looked at him long and hard. He shook his head. She tucked the remote control into her housecoat and bustled off out of the room.
On the screen the police car moved forwards through the gate, its wheels crunching on the gravel.
Chapter Eighty-Four
Darryl was hiding in the small toilet off the boot room and strained to hear what the police were saying to his mother in the farm office. They had knocked on the little-used front door, next to the living room, and when Mary had answered, Grendel had gone a little crazy, but she’d locked her into the living room and taken the police officers through to the office.
Darryl came out into the boot room and moved closer to the door. Their muffled voices carried on, and he held his breath. If they had come to arrest him, wouldn’t they have done it by now?
The door opened a crack, and he shrank back. He could see through the gap his mother in the office with two young male police officers, and she was going all fluttery-eyed as she moved between two large filing cabinets where they kept all of the farm records.
‘This is everything we have on Morris Cartwright,’ she was saying. ‘He was a good milker, but we had no choice but to let him go… He didn’t have access to any of the farm buildings; we keep the keys in here on that board, and the office is always locked.’
Darryl tried to breathe.
What if the police wanted more? What if they wanted to go down the farm and look at some of the outbuildings? He suddenly made a decision. He had to kill Beth. Quick and easy. Kill her, dump her body and wash it down, and then he’d stop. He’d stop the craziness; he’d go back to work. He knew the farm better than the police, and didn’t they need a warrant before they could go looking around? He had time. And there was a maze of buildings to search until they would get down to the Oast House.
Darryl forgot the pain as he pulled on his boots and coat, and then he went to the high shelf in the boot room where his father kept his shotgun. He took it down and opened it, pushing two cartridges in from the box of ammunition next to it.
‘What are you doing?’ said a voice.
He turned. Mary was standing in the doorway, staring at him. He closed the shotgun magazine and leant against the wall.
‘What did the police want?’ he said.
‘They asked questions about Morris. They saw his car in London… But you were driving it, weren’t you?’
‘Did you say the car was here, parked out back?’
‘No.’
Darryl swallowed, and picked up the shotgun.
‘Mum, you need to let me go, please…’ His voice sounded strange and distant.