No Middle Ground Page 6

  Colin thrust his chin towards Tommy. ‘How is he?’

  Pete sighed. ‘I don’t know. Haven’t spoken to him. He seems OK, though.’

  ‘So, what was that all about last night?’

  ‘Again, it’s second-hand but he reckoned he just went for a walk to clear his head. Didn’t ask permission because he knew they wouldn’t like it. Said he intended being back before he was missed.’

  Colin raised a thick grey eyebrow. ‘Really?’

  ‘That’s more or less what I said.’

  Colin gave a short laugh. ‘I bet. What about Lou? How did she cope?’

  Pete pulled in a deep breath. ‘Better than I thought – or maybe feared – she might. She was pretty cut up about it all, of course, but by the time I got home, she’d calmed down a bit. Annie was more upset, if anything.’

  Both of Colin’s eyebrows shot up at that. ‘She’s OK now though?’

  ‘Yes. Tears before bed time. More of anger than anything, I think. But I took her to school this morning and she was OK.’

  Pete had enjoyed the rare opportunity to drop his daughter at school before coming here. She had been a little quieter than usual on the journey, but that was to be expected after last night, he imagined, and she’d seemed happy enough when she kissed him goodbye and ran off through the school gates, disappearing amongst the dozens of other kids.

  He’d waited until she’d gone from sight before starting the car and moving off, safe in the knowledge that she was protected and safe for the day until Louise picked her up this afternoon.

  ‘That’s one hell of a kid you’ve got there, mate.’

  ‘I know.’ He glanced across at Tommy. ‘And you know what? Despite the evidence to the contrary, I suspect she’s not the only one.’

  ‘Yeah, well… You’re a dad. What else can you think?’

  Pete shook his head with a grimace. ‘It’s not just because I’m his dad. Family or not, you can still tell what a person’s like as long as you can admit the truth to yourself. And if you can’t do that, you’re no use to anybody.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Look at the number of times we’ve seen mothers in denial about what their kids get up to. Drugs, booze, stealing – all sorts.’

  ‘True, but…’ Pete shook his head. ‘I just don’t see it in Tommy. And nor does Rosie over there, from what she’s said. And if anybody knows, it’s her.’

  Colin blew the air out of his lungs. ‘Yeah, I’ll give you that. Me, I never thought the boy was guilty anyway, as you well know. But I had to be sure you were still there.’

  Pete’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He took it out, checked the screen and answered. ‘Ben? What’s up?’

  ‘Thought you’d want to know, boss. There’ve been three cars reported stolen in the county last night. One was in Seaton, one was in Exeter but after eleven pm. The third was in North Tawton. Could have been anytime from four o’clock onwards. We’ve got the details and put it out as a priority with the traffic division.’

  North Tawton was several miles north of the road between Okehampton and Exeter but there was a direct route to it from not far east of where the Range Rover had been found. If it was the Southam brothers, they’d gone up there deliberately to try to throw the police off their scent. But they hadn’t gone far enough. Not nearly. And the timing was right. ‘Well done, Ben. Keep me informed but you know I’ll have to switch off at some point.’

  ‘Yeah, we know, boss.’

  He put a hand over the phone and looked sideways at Colin. ‘They’ve got a line on the car the Southams are probably in now.’

  ‘Well, that’s good news, at least.’

  Pete tilted his head and went back to the call. ‘So, what about Hanson? Have we got a lead on him yet?’

  ‘Well, that’s the weird thing, boss. There’s been absolutely nothing. Not a peep. It’s like he drove away from that house and straight into another dimension.’

  Beyond Colin, the grand double doors of the primary court room in Devon opened and a sonorous voice said, ‘Detective Inspector Underhill, please.’

  *

  The defence barrister went straight for the jugular. No lead-up, no niceties: just straight in like a striking adder.

  Pete had tried to relax, waiting outside the court room while first Colin Underhill then Dave Miles were called to testify, but tipping his head back against the wall and closing his eyes just let his brain work overtime. He heard every tiny sound in the cavernous space. The shuffle of feet, the cough of a dry throat, the murmur of low voices, the creak of a seat under a shifting body – even the shuffle of papers. In the end, he gave up, lifted his head, opened his eyes and took out his notebook to read through it again even though he knew exactly what had happened at every stage of the case.

  Colin had been in the court room for almost an hour and a half when the doors opened again and that same sonorous voice – which Pete realised this time belonged to the usher standing outside the door rather than anyone from in the court room – called, ‘Detective Constable David Miles, please.’

  Perhaps predictably, Colin didn’t emerge but when Dave did, he gave Pete a grimace on his way past towards the open stairwell. ‘He’s sharp,’ he muttered.

  Now, with his testimony for the prosecution over, Pete was faced by the defence. He hadn’t seen the man before. He must have come from outside the city. Bristol or London, maybe. Large and bulky, his gown hung over his paunch like a black waterfall, his face florid beneath the powdered white wig. His jowls wobbled above the confinement of his collar as he approached the witness stand, raising a hand to cough politely.

  ‘My learned friend has kindly established that you were the senior investigating officer on this case, Detective Sergeant Gayle. At what stage in the investigation did you realise that your son was involved in the abduction of the latest victim?’

  Pete held himself together despite the flare of anger he felt, used to being pressured on the stand. ‘Not until after we’d rescued Rosie – the victim you mentioned.’

  The barrister tilted his head in acknowledgment. ‘Very well. When did you realise there was a connection between Rosie Whitlock and your son?’

  Had this tight-arsed son of a bitch got something incriminating? Pete didn’t know and he wasn’t about to admit to anything until he was absolutely forced to. ‘I realised there was a connection between them about three days in when her parents mentioned her swimming practice at Topsham pool on Friday evenings. There was no evidence they actually knew each other, though.’

  ‘But there was, wasn’t there, Detective Sergeant?’

  Pete frowned. ‘No. As I said, there was just the fact that they both attended the pool on the same evenings. I knew nothing more than that and had no evidence to support looking into it further.’

  ‘Because looking into it further would have forced you to recuse yourself from the case – your first since returning to work after compassionate leave due to your son’s disappearance. Isn’t that correct, Detective Sergeant?’

  Pete sighed heavily. ‘It was my first case since returning to work, yes. It arose on the day I returned to work. But that had nothing to do with why I didn’t look further into the connection between the victim and my son. There was no suspicion that he was, or even could be, involved. She was abducted in a van. My son was thirteen years old. He couldn’t be driving, especially as physically small as he was.’ He glanced at the jury. ‘He couldn’t reach the pedals.’

  The barrister allowed himself a tight smile. ‘Indeed. But there was, in fact, evidence that they knew each other, wasn’t there? Knew each other quite intimately, even.’

  Pete frowned. He’d got the transcripts, then. The texts that Tommy and Rosie had exchanged, that had been found by the specialists at Middlemoor, the force HQ on the outskirts of the city. Texts that Pete had indeed kept to himself when he was informed of them. ‘As it turned out later, yes. We didn’t know it at that time, though, and it made no difference to the case - to the fact that he couldn’t
have driven the van she was picked up in.’

  The barrister turned to the bench. ‘The defence would like to introduce evidence of texts exchanged between the victim Rosie Whitlock and Thomas James – Tommy – Gayle, My Lord. Texts that show despite their tender ages, they not only knew each other but were more than what most reasonable people would term friends.’

  ‘Objection,’ called out the prosecutor. ‘Relevance, My Lord.’

  ‘The relevance,’ the defence barrister intoned, ‘is that, knowing the contents of these messages, Detective Sergeant Gayle continued to pursue the case, thereby jeopardising any hope of conducting a fair and reasonable enquiry.’

  ‘The transcripts will be allowed into evidence,’ the judge decided.

  The defence barrister inclined his head in thanks and handed over the documents. ‘So, as I was saying, Detective Sergeant, despite knowing that your son and the victim were intimate, you continued to pursue the case, am I not correct?’

  ‘Those texts do not show physical intimacy,’ Pete argued. ‘They show no more than that the two of them were flirting. And again, what possible relevance could that have had to her abduction?’

  ‘The relevance was not for you to decide, Detective Sergeant. It was for your superiors, who you withheld it from. And said relevance was, while we’re on the subject, motive. The motive of your son to attain the physical intimacy suggested by the texts they had exchanged.’

  ‘Objection,’ cried the prosecutor. ‘Badgering the witness, plus where’s the question in there? The defence is grandstanding: making statements of his own that he has no direct knowledge of the truth of.’

  ‘Sustained,’ said the judge. ‘The jury will disregard the defence’s statement. And Mr Montague, you will defer your statements for closing arguments. In the meantime, please confine yourself to asking the witnesses for the relevant facts.’

  That told him, Pete thought. But as for the jury disregarding what he’d said – there was little chance of that. He’d said it. They’d heard it. It would, at the very least, be in the backs of their minds as they continued through the case. Which was exactly why he’d said it.

  The defence barrister bowed. ‘Very well, My Lord. Perhaps if I put it another way…’ He turned back to face Pete. ‘Did you or did you not run your investigation of this case in a manner designed to exonerate your son at any cost and thereby to heap blame on my client that did not belong to him, Detective Sergeant?’

  Pete fought down the righteous indignation that boiled up inside him. He drew a long, slow breath. ‘I conducted my investigation in the same way as I’ve conducted every investigation in my entire career,’ he said slowly and clearly. ‘In a manner designed to discover the truth, regardless of what that truth may be and regardless of the personal cost to myself or my family. And what I discovered during that investigation led to …’

  ‘Thank you, Detective,’ the barrister cut in quickly. ‘You’ve answered the question.’

  ‘Oh, no I haven’t,’ Pete replied. ‘Not nearly. And you asked it, so you’ll listen to the answer unless the judge says otherwise. Yes, I discovered that my son knew the victim. That’s not the same as discovering he was involved in a crime against her and it’s not the same as discovering that he’s suddenly grown the foot or so that he’d need to be able to drive the van she was abducted in. So, no, there was no need to recuse myself from the case and no need to be distracted by what turned out in the end to be irrelevant and unrelated facts. That’s the answer to your question, Mr Montague.’

  The barrister, meanwhile, had become steadily redder in the face until his mouth started to open and close like a fish out of water. Now he snapped his jaw closed with an audible clack of teeth and drew himself up to his full height. ‘I see. So, you set yourself up to be the all-knowing arbiter of justice.’

  ‘Objection,’ said the prosecutor. ‘We’re not here to insult witnesses, My Lord, but to question them regarding the facts of the case.’

  ‘Withdrawn,’ Montague said quickly. ‘My point was…’

  ‘Objection. Statements rather than questions when the leaned gentleman’s already been warned.’

  ‘Sustained,’ the judge said heavily. ‘Mr Montague, be very careful to ask questions, not make statements in this court.’

  ‘My Lord.’ He bowed once more. ‘I was merely trying to ascertain whether or not my client was investigated, and therefore charged, fairly and squarely.’

  ‘He was,’ Pete said. ‘There’s no doubt of his guilt here.’ If it’s good enough for one side, it’s good enough for the other, he thought as Montague’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Objection. The witness is making unrequested pronouncements of an opinion that he has no right to. This is exactly the attitude I was attempting to demonstrate.’

  ‘Sustained. Detective Sergeant, you will restrict yourself to answering the questions asked while on the witness stand.’

  ‘My Lord,’ Pete nodded. ‘Sorry, I thought he was asking a question as you’d instructed him to.’

  ‘Do not be disingenuous, Detective Sergeant Gayle.’

  Pete winced inwardly. Had he gone too far? If so it wouldn’t be the first time, though it would in these circumstances. ‘Sir.’

  Montague saw his opening and took it like a fencer with a needle-sharp rapier in hand. ‘I put it to you, Detective Sergeant, that you fixated on my client’s alleged guilt to the exclusion of all other possibilities and fitted the supposed evidence to your theory.’

  ‘The evidence is real, not supposed, and that’s not the way I work. Never has been and never will be, regardless of the circumstances.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Would you like me to provide character witnesses? I can, from both sides of the law.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Detective Sergeant. We’re not questioning your integrity here, today.’

  ‘Well, it sounds like that’s exactly what you’re doing,’ Pete retorted.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Gayle, you will confine yourself to answering questions put by learned council while in the witness stand,’ the judge repeated. ‘Otherwise you will be charged with being in contempt of this court.’

  ‘Sorry, My Lord. That’s the last thing I am.’

  ‘My suggestion is that you’re simply guilty of being a good father, Detective Sergeant,’ the defence barrister said mildly. ‘However, I also put it to you that my client is guilty of nothing more than playing host to a cuckoo in the form of your son.’

  ‘Objection,’ protested the prosecutor. ‘Again, making declarations instead of asking questions. How long are we to put up with this flagrant abuse of the witness and this court by the defence council?’

  ‘Sustained. And the answer is no longer. Once more, Mr Montague, and you will also be held in contempt.’

  ‘My sincere apologies, My Lord.’ He turned back to Pete. ‘Do you have any forensic evidence whatsoever against my client, Detective Sergeant?’

  ‘We have reams of evidence against your client.’

  ‘I asked if you have any forensic evidence against him, Detective Sergeant. Any at all.’

  ‘Technically, no. But what we do have…’

  ‘Thank you,’ Montague pounced, cutting him off. ‘Yet there is forensic evidence against your son, am I not correct?’

  Pete froze.

  ‘You did discover considerable forensic evidence against your son, did you not, Detective Sergeant? On the persons of both the surviving victim, Rosie Whitlock, and at least one other victim.’

  Given the few seconds it took the defence barrister to reiterate his question, Pete managed to collect and compose himself, pushing his horror and anger down deep within himself. ‘The evidence against my son was refuted by the surviving victim you mentioned,’ he said. ‘And that on the body of the other victim…’

  ‘Answer the question please, Detective Sergeant. Did you or did you not discover forensic evidence against your son but none against my client?’

  Pete d
rew a breath, the muscles in the sides of his face bunching in frustration. The barrister had managed to back him into a corner with no escape route. There was only one answer he could give. ‘Yes.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘The prosecution calls Thomas James Gayle, My Lord.’

  Pete shifted in his seat, a few rows down from the back of the court room. Tension and anticipation battled within him as the large screen on the wall behind the witness stand was switched on. He had only left the witness stand seconds ago. Just a couple more questions had followed his confession to the existence of forensic evidence against Tommy before the defence had announced that they had no more questions for him. They had made their point.

  ‘Due to his age and vulnerability, My Lord, with your indulgence, the witness will testify via video link from a secure position.’

  The screen was lit up with an image of a cream-coloured wall, the top couple of inches of a witness stand across the bottom of the screen.

  ‘For continuity, the witness stand on the screen is the same as the one in the court room here,’ the prosecutor announced.

  Then Tommy moved into shot. He climbed up onto the witness stand and was sworn in before taking his seat, looking tiny behind the wooden frontage of the enclosure.

  The prosecutor stood up, adjusting his robes as he gazed at Tommy with a benign, almost fatherly expression. ‘Can you see and hear us clearly, Thomas?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How old are you, Thomas?’

  ‘Fourteen, sir.’

  Even Tommy’s voice was small and deferential.

  ‘As of when?’

  ‘Second of May, sir.’

  ‘So, only just fourteen, then. Which means you were thirteen when the offences we’re here to consider were committed, correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And you are how tall?’

  ‘Four foot nine, sir.’

  ‘Is that not small for your age?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘In fact, the average height of a thirteen-year-old male in the UK is five feet six inches, am I not correct?’