‘Making sure it’s watertight… All takes time.’
‘Plus,’ said Clemens, ‘we want him caught in the act.’
‘Preferably with his associates,’ said Fennell.
‘So when’s that going to happen?’ asked Donna. Phil could see she was determined not to be ignored, sidelined. He admired that spirit in her. ‘Today, tomorrow, when? You’re just going to let him go till then?’
‘Tonight,’ said Fennell.
‘There’s a new shipment coming in through Harwich,’ said Clemens. ‘We’re going to catch him there.’
‘Shipment?’ said Don. ‘Of what?’
‘People,’ said Fennell.
‘Girls,’ said Clemens. ‘Children. All from Eastern Europe.’
Phil saw Donna’s head drop. Caught the look of despair in her eyes. She instinctively glanced towards the little boy. He looked exhausted. He had curled up on the side of the bed, was nodding off to sleep.
Donna looked up again. Phil could see the anger in her eyes. ‘So that’s it, is it? You’re going to catch him at Harwich. What about what happened in my house? He murdered Rose Martin. He would’ve killed me an’ Ben as well. Why didn’t you get him then?’
‘We’re sorry about Rose Martin,’ said Fennell.
‘Sorry? Sorry? Sorry doesn’t cut it, mate. You just going to leave her there?’
‘Look,’ said Clemens, his own anger rising, ‘what happened to her was unfortunate. But we have to look at the bigger picture. You should too.’
‘You bastard, you… ’ Donna was off the bed and making her way across the room to Clemens. Fennell grabbed hold of her, restrained her.
‘Donna,’ he said, his voice low and reasonable, ‘calm down.’
On the bed, Ben began to stir. He opened his eyes, saw what was happening, cowered back into the pillows.
‘You’re scaring the boy,’ said Phil, standing up. ‘Let her go.’
Fennell looked round, saw Ben. Let Donna go. She returned to the bed, sat next to the boy, an arm round him. Fennell kept talking.
‘We did argue about what we should do with Rose Martin. We knew there would be enough of Glass’s DNA in the house to implicate him, no matter how he tried to clean up.’
‘And we also had a first-hand witness testimony,’ said Clemens. ‘Assuming you’d do it. So we weren’t too bothered about that. We thought it might pay off to keep watching the house. See who else turned up.’
‘And look who did,’ said Don.
‘But don’t worry,’ said Fennell, addressing Donna directly. ‘A forensic team will be in there very shortly.’
‘Our forensic team,’ said Clemens. ‘Not local. Wouldn’t want the possibility of accidental contamination, would we?’
Phil stared at the man. He could understand why Donna would want to hit him.
Silence fell while everyone regathered. Eventually Don spoke.
‘Glass,’ he said, nodding to himself. ‘Yeah. Always had him pegged as a bad ’un. Well, always suspected it, anyway.’
‘You knew him, then?’ said Fennell.
‘Back in his uniform days,’ said Don, ‘when I was a DI in CID. A thug. He was always a thug. But a clever one. An ambitious one.’
‘He still is,’ said Clemens.
Don frowned. ‘But something happened to him after the Garden case. He wasn’t the same. He wasn’t better, far from it. He was worse. Even cockier. Even more happy to throw his weight around. Like he had protection. Couldn’t be touched.’
‘And then what?’ said Fennell.
‘That’s when his career took off,’ said Don. ‘And I hardly ever saw him again. We stopped moving in the same circles.’
‘This Garden case,’ said Clemens to Don. ‘Tell us about it.’
99
‘Paul Clunn,’ said Don. That was his name. He founded the Garden.’
Phil listened once more. Tried not to think of the previous night.
‘A city worker who had either a vision or a nervous breakdown, depending how you look at it. Bought a country house and filled it with similarly afflicted souls.’
‘Was Glass one of them?’ said Clemens.
‘No,’ said Don. ‘I’ll get to him in a minute. Be patient.’
‘When was this?’ asked Fennell.
‘Late sixties, early seventies,’ said Don. ‘Places like that were popular for a time. This one followed the usual pattern. Surround some vaguely charismatic leader with a load of followers desperate to hear what they think is the truth.’
‘Strange name,’ said Phil. ‘Not the most charismatic.’
‘I’m sure he overcompensated,’ said Don. ‘Anyway, it was ensured that the followers renounced all their worldly goods on the way in. Apparently that led them to find enlightenment.’
‘And did it?’ asked Clemens.
Don shrugged. ‘As much as they could, I suppose. For a while, at any rate. The Garden certainly did. It became very wealthy.’
‘Not surprised,’ said Fennell.
‘We looked into their finances,’ said Don. ‘They invested the money in property mainly.’
‘Like the house at the bottom of East Hill,’ said Phil.
‘At one time,’ said Don. ‘Probably hidden by a paper trail now. But uncover that, and I’ll bet you’ll find it still leads back to the Elders.’
‘The Elders?’ said Phil.
‘Clunn didn’t do all this on his own,’ said Don. ‘He had helpers. Followers who shared his vision.’
‘Or breakdown,’ said Phil.
‘Right. But these were more than followers. They became the Elders. They all had titles. Clunn was the Seer. The visionary. There was the Portreeve. He was in charge, ran things on a dayto-day basis. Guy who did that was called Robert Fenton.’
‘Fenton?’ said Phil. ‘That name rings a bell… ’
‘He seemed all right,’ said Don. ‘Straight. Sharing in Clunn’s vision. And June Boxtree. She was the Lawmaker. Same for her. There was another one. The Missionary. Responsible for recruitment. Used to take the good-looking young ones out on a weekend, stand them on street corners rattling a tin, engaging passers-by in conversation. Getting them to come to meetings. He scarpered when the place was raided.’ Don smiled. It soon faded. ‘But the other two… ’ He shook his head. ‘Bad. Very bad.’
‘You remember all this well,’ said Clemens.
‘Like it was yesterday,’ said Don. ‘Every copper has his case, doesn’t he? The one that haunts him. The one that still has him waking up in the middle of the night. Well this was mine. I remember it all right. Every single detail.’
‘The other two?’ prompted Fennell.
‘Yes, the other two. One was called the Teacher. Gail Banks. A very nasty piece of work. A hard, cold woman. She hid her cruelty behind the Garden’s peace and love. If she’d been born earlier and Irish, she’d have run the Magdalene laundries. And she’d have loved it. As it was, her heyday was the late sixties. So she became the most militant of feminists.’
‘Accent on the militant,’ said Fennell.
‘Yes.’ Don nodded. ‘In the same way Hitler was militant. She was cut-price Germaine Greer. Having joyless sex
