Pargeter ignored Sutton’s tetchiness. “You’re right. I think he has learnt his lesson. When inside, he worked hard to complete the schooling he should have done thirty years earlier and became a lay preacher, and volunteer counsellor to other prisoners.”
Sutton was unable to resist a snort of derision. In his opinion, the fabled prison conversion, especially amongst dangerous sex offenders, was just that. Nevertheless, an outside observer sitting in on parole-board hearings could be forgiven for thinking that a spell in prison was the making of a man and that HM Prison Service was single-handedly doing more to arrest the decline in active church-going than any number of evangelical outreach programmes. All nonsense, of course. Prisoners had a lot of time to try and figure out what it was the parole board wanted to hear and would do their best to oblige them.
For the first time since arriving at Middlesbury’s little CID unit, Sam Pargeter showed the briefest flash of irritation. “Look, I’m not a bloody idiot. I’ve been in this game far too long to be fooled by the old ‘I’ve found Jesus’ defence; nevertheless, whether he truly has found God or it’s just enlightened self-interest, I don’t think Richard Cameron would do anything that could get him put back inside. He barely survived the place. He attempted suicide three times — and, I mean, really attempted it. He’s made it quite clear to me and anyone else that will listen that he’ll kill himself before he sets foot inside another prison.”
Sutton looked at Warren. “Better make certain everyone knows that, guv. Last thing we need is a bloody suicide or death-by-cop.”
Pargeter scowled. “I doubt it will come to that.” He settled back into his chair and struck a more reasonable tone. “Look, make the appropriate preparations, but I don’t think it’s him.”
Warren shrugged non-committally. “Well, let’s see if we can rule him out. I’m telling you this in the strictest confidence, you understand.” He locked eyes with Pargeter, who nodded briskly and professionally. “We believe that the victim was carried several hundred yards, possibly dead, almost certainly unconscious. We’ve found no evidence that there was more than one person involved. Do you think that Cameron is capable of carrying the body of a young woman of average build and weight that distance?”
Pargeter’s brow furrowed and he pinched his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, before, finally, taking his glasses off and rubbing them on his sleeve.
“I honestly don’t know. Twelve months ago I’d have said no chance. He was a physical wreck. He was overweight and smoked like a chimney. He could walk that distance, but he’d have struggled if he had to carry a shopping bag, let alone a body.
“But since then he’s been working on the farm, trying to make a business of it with Michael. He’s lost about three stone and cut right back on the fags. Last time I dropped in, he was wrestling hay bales off the back of a truck. He must have shifted a dozen whilst I was there; he was out of breath, but didn’t look in danger of a coronary. If he slung her across his shoulders in a fireman’s lift, then I reckon he might be able to do it.”
Warren made a note, before changing tack. “Tell me a bit more about his current situation. You said he’s back at the farm, but I thought his family had disowned him.”
“They did at first. His ex-wife never got over what he did and died a few years ago. Michael hated him at first, but after his mum died he realised that his father was the only family he had left. He received counselling and eventually started going to church himself. A couple of years ago, he visited his father in prison for the first time and was convinced that the old man wanted to change his life. They bought a bit more land from their neighbour and resurrected the farm. Michael has a good job and so they get by OK.”
“What about the local community? Twelve years isn’t that long.”
“The two of them largely keep themselves to themselves. When word first got around that Cameron was back a few things were sprayed on the front of the house and neither of them are welcome in the village pub, but it’s mostly died down. They tend to travel to Cambridge or Stevenage if they fancy a pint.
“The only place they are cautiously welcomed is at the village church. I’ve met the local vicar a few times and he’s taken it upon himself to help me keep Cameron on the straight and narrow. Nobody has invited them to join the choir, like, but they don’t get any bother.”
Warren looked at Sutton. Much of what Pargeter had said was of little relevance, he decided. Richard Cameron had been a very dangerous sexual predator and, as far as Warren was concerned, men like that had something fundamentally wrong with them. The urges that drove them were unlikely to ever disappear entirely. The question was, did Richard Cameron control those urges or did those urges still control him?
Warren and Sutton drove to Cameron’s farm in a tense silence. Behind them, two police cars, each with a pair of uniformed constables, followed, lights and sirens off. Detective Superintendent Grayson had drafted an arrest warrant, but Warren hoped to bring in the former convict voluntarily. Although the killing had now been reported in the local and national press, the details were scanty and it was possible that they would arrive before he caught the news.
Delaying any arrest would buy the police valuable time for questioning. The rules governing arrest were strict; the moment that a person was formally arrested, the clock started ticking. They would have twenty-four hours to either charge or release their suspect, on bail if necessary. A further twelve hours could be authorised by Detective Superintendent Grayson, but beyond that a magistrate would need to be consulted. If Warren could get a few questions in before Cameron started making noises about legal representation and detention limits, so much the better.
The farm was at the end of a long, winding, single-track lane. Parked in front of the house were a vintage Land Rover and a far smarter Jaguar, presumably belonging to Cameron’s son.
The farmhouse was an old and weather-beaten affair. Two storeys in height, it looked as though it would need serious renovation in the next few years to survive the elements. Next door an even more rickety barn had its doors partially open. Parking the car so that it couldn’t be seen directly from the barn, Warren and Sutton stepped out into the chilly air. It was now late afternoon and Warren doubted they had much more than an hour’s daylight left. They’d have to move quickly.
Speaking quietly to the accompanying officers, Warren instructed them to spread out around the house to stop Cameron if he decided to make a run for it. With the officers in place, the two detectives walked cautiously towards the open barn. From inside they could make out the sound of a radio playing. Radio 4 by the sound of the presenter, Warren decided. There was a good chance he had heard the news, then. Warren stepped into the doorway, his eyes quickly adjusting to the gloom inside.
The barn was pretty much what he expected. Hay bales stacked against one half of the building made an improvised open enclosure amongst which a few hens — or were they chickens? Warren had no idea — strutted and pecked at the straw-covered floor. On the other side of the barn a wooden enclosure housed what looked — and smelt — like a few pigs. In the middle of the barn sat an old, rusty, Massey Ferguson tractor. Two legs clad in dirty grey corduroy trousers tucked into well-worn, muddy leather boots poked out from under the engine. The tractor had probably been assembled in part by one of his schoolmates’ fathers, Warren realised, back when Massey Ferguson was a major employer in his home town of Coventry. He shook off the feeling of sadness that passed through him. He’d been young at the time, but the closing of that plant had turned upside down the lives of many of the children he’d gone to school with. Some families never really recovered. The factory was a housing estate now.
“Richard Cameron?”
The legs jerked in surprise.
“It’s