A Kind Of Wild Justice (2 page)

Fielding placed it on his desk on top of the DNA reports and put the second photograph alongside it. This was the man he had always believed to be the Beast. A mugshot from when he had been arrested. Glowering at the camera. Arrogant. He had always been an arrogant bastard, but then, when you came from his family, that went with the territory. There he was, staring straight ahead with his mocking watery blue eyes, bleached-white blond hair shaved almost to a stubble, mouth set in a hard line, his chin, also stubbled but darker, tucked into a thick, fleshy neck, overly prominent forehead leaning towards the camera.

How Fielding would like to get his hands on him in a locked room. Best that he never got the opportunity, though, because he doubted he would know how or when to stop.

Fielding had been the first police officer on the
scene when they found the girl’s body. It remained the worst moment of his twenty-eight-year career, and goodness knew, there had been some down times. He had been a high-flying young detective sergeant then, full of optimism and confidence. Tough, too. It hadn’t occurred to him that he could ever be confronted by something that would really disturb him. And it certainly hadn’t occurred to him that just one case would destroy so many of his aspirations and remain still, he fervently believed, the reason why he had not risen beyond detective inspector. The fact that a lot of it was probably his own fault did not help. Not when he thought about what he had seen up there on the moor. Not when he thought about what might have been for him had none of it ever happened.

He had learned to live with it all. That’s what you did, wasn’t it? That’s what everybody did who wanted to survive. But now it had all returned to haunt him.

Abruptly pushing both photographs away, and turning them face down so he no longer had to look at them, Fielding consulted a note he had made on a message pad, picked up the telephone and dialled the first three digits of a London telephone number.

Then he stopped.

Then he began to dial again, this time a local Exeter number. His wife answered on the third ring.

‘I’m going to be late,’ he told her bluntly. She registered no surprise. After nearly thirty years of marriage to a police detective who liked women almost as much as he liked whisky, there wasn’t much he could do that would surprise her. Fielding replaced the receiver and studied the DNA reports once more. He picked up a red marker pen and
encircled the damning data on both sets.

It had all happened by chance in the end. Not that there was anything strange about that. They only caught the Yorkshire Ripper because of a routine check by traffic cops. Mind you, the Ripper case had been one of the most incompetent criminal investigations of the twentieth century.

Fielding put the top of the marker pen in his mouth and began to chew it. It was a habit he had indulged in since he gave up smoking. That had been almost ten years ago and he had lapsed only briefly just a couple of times. For once in his life, he had shown some won’t-power, he reflected wryly. Never short of will-power, it was just the won’t-power he struggled with – his father had coined that one about him. His father, Jack Fielding – also in the job, retired as a uniformed superintendent – who had at first been so proud of the bright, intelligent son following in his footsteps, but then, Fielding suspected, by the time of his death three years previously, bitterly disappointed.

Anyway, Mike had always used the won’t-power line as a kind of running joke, but there was, of course, a lot of truth in it. The top drawer of his desk was full of pens and pencils with chewed broken tops. Occasionally he ended up with ink all over his mouth. And he didn’t work in the kind of environment where some kind soul was likely to obligingly point this out before he made a complete fool of himself. Remembering this, and that the marker pen was a particularly vivid red, he took it out of his mouth and replaced it with a pencil.

He didn’t really like thinking about incompetent investigations. The whole Beast of Dartmoor
operation had been deeply flawed. He knew that. A lot of it had been down to his governor – Parsons had been far too sure of himself, as indeed, Mike was aware, he himself had been back then. He was also certain that at least one of the mistakes which had been made could be laid at his own door. Perhaps the biggest mistake of all.

He reached behind the pile of files in the bottom drawer of his desk and retrieved a two-thirds empty bottle of supermarket Scotch. Then he rummaged around for the glass he was sure he had replaced there the previous day. He couldn’t find it. In the end he just took a deep swig from the bottle.

The rough, cheap spirit hit the back of his throat and burned a little as he swallowed. First of the day. It felt good. It always did. Fielding rarely drank at lunchtimes. He didn’t dare. He kidded himself that as long as he didn’t drink till the evenings he didn’t have a problem. Certainly he knew that the longer he could put off the first taste, the better chance he had of ending the day in a reasonable state.

He took a second welcome swig. Then he put the bottle back in the desk drawer and closed it. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, still enjoying the warmth of the whisky, and, for just a few seconds, tried not to think. Not about anything.

It didn’t work. He pulled open the desk drawer again, removed the bottle and took another deep drink. This time he didn’t bother putting it away. Instead, he stood it on the floor next to his chair, where he could reach it easily but nobody coming into the room could see it.

The Beast of Dartmoor had been involved in a minor traffic accident in London. Proof yet again that
even traffic cops had their uses. Mike allowed himself a wry smile at that. It hadn’t even been the Beast’s fault, and he certainly hadn’t been drunk. Far too controlled for that. After all – although Mike didn’t believe his habits would have changed much, and certainly not his sexual perversions – he’d kept out of trouble, somehow, for twenty years, albeit through nothing other than nifty footwork. But the Beast had been given a routine breath test, just standard procedure, and failed. It was also routine to do a DNA test, a buccal swab, a kind of toothbrush scrape of the inner mouth. It had all been routine, in fact. The DNA was run through the computer, standard practice again, and bingo, as Fielding’s old adversary Todd Mallett – with whom he had attended police college, which was absolutely all the two of them had in common – would have said.

It came up the same as DNA taken from the dead girl’s body, from the body fluids that could only have been deposited by her murderer.

DNA. Deoxyribonucleic acid. Minute threadlike molecules, each made up of two intertwined strands, which carry the unique genetic make-up of every human being. A sort of personal blueprint. Strange how quickly such an extraordinary development in science had become taken for granted. DNA had transformed police work, no doubt about that. Except in this case it made no difference. Suddenly there was irrefutable evidence of the guilt of a vicious perverted murderer, but there was bugger all anybody could do with it. That was the law for you. And sometimes it seemed to have very little to do with justice.

After a few moments Fielding stood up and walked
over to the window. It was Monday, 26 June 2000. A remarkable landmark day. Fielding had earlier watched the TV news and seen the announcement that scientists had cracked the DNA code. Soon they would be able to map out your body’s future for you, predict what diseases you were likely to develop and maybe prevent them. Perhaps even predict that a particular human being was liable to turn into a perverted monster like the Beast of Dartmoor. Fielding didn’t understand the half of it, but one thing he was damned sure of was that the law would get involved sooner or later, and would no doubt make an ass of itself as it had, in his opinion, with every other DNA development so far.

He checked his watch. It was just gone seven, his favourite time of day in the police station at Heavitree Road, Exeter’s premier nick, which had been his base throughout the bulk of his service. Unless something really big was afoot, the evenings were usually quiet; he could clear his head, allow himself time to think. When he was alone like this at the end of the working day in the environment he was so familiar with, Fielding was inclined to feel as much at peace as he ever could. But not today. Today there could be no peace.

It was hot, too. In Devon it had been one of the best days of a so far disappointing summer. Too hot to work, though, and the temperature had yet to drop much. Fielding’s first-floor office was small and airless. It looked over the car park and a broad patch of grass to the Heavitree Road beyond, one of the main arterials leading to and from the city centre. Exeter’s workforce was still wending its way painfully home and the slow-moving vehicles seemed to be
creating their own heat haze. Fielding half imagined he could see their passengers sweating. Too hot for driving as well. His office window was open although it brought scant relief. Fielding tugged at his already loosened tie. A trick of the evening sunlight caused him to be able to see his own reflection in the angled glass.

He was a big man, almost six feet three inches tall, but rangy rather than burly. He had thickened a little with the years, particularly round the waist, but had never had a weight problem and remained surprisingly trim and fit-looking for his age – which was knocking fifty now. It was a miracle, considering his lifestyle – and his drinking habits. He rubbed his chin reflectively, his fingers scratching over the stubble. By around sixish in the evening he could invariably do with another shave, really. He had always had a heavy beard, unusually so for a man with light sandy hair. Thinning hair, now, and greying. His beard would be grey too if he ever let it grow. Still, it could be worse. His father had been almost totally bald at his age. Thinking back twenty years made you wonder about ageing. Fielding knew he’d fared pretty well, certainly better than he deserved. He had retained the easy lopsided grin which, somewhat to his surprise nowadays, women still seemed to go for. He had never been a particularly handsome man but for some reason had always been attractive to women – and once he’d realised that, he had rarely been able to resist any opportunity that had come his way.

She’d been that, to begin with, just another opportunity, a quick lay. Sex had been like getting a fix for him back then. Mind you, it was much the same now except he didn’t need it nearly so often.
He’d rarely had much use for women other than sex.

He had married his wife when she was twenty and he was nineteen. She had been pregnant, of course, and it had been 1970, for God’s sake. That was what you did in 1970. Ruth was all right. A pretty girl back then, with auburn hair so bright it made his look dull, the palest of skin and a ready smile. He had been at university when they’d had to get wed and she’d worked behind the bar in the pub they all went to. She’d carried on working, too, right up to and after their first child was born, getting her mum to mind the baby, all so that Fielding could finish his degree and fulfil his ambition of fast-track entry into the police force. That had been the plan, anyway. And whatever had gone wrong over the years had certainly never been Ruth’s fault. She’d brought up his children, turned them into almost reasonable human beings, in fact. And she’d put up with him. Pretended not to notice the bulk of his indiscretions. He knew that and he loved her. He supposed that he’d always loved Ruth in his own way. But the other one. Well, they say everybody has a single great passion in his or her life. The other one, she had been his, no doubt about it. And it was inextricably connected in his mind with the Beast of Dartmoor case. Delve into any one area of that and all of it came back to him.

He could only think of one thing left to do about the Beast. And in a way this was a wonderful excuse to make the call he had half wanted to make for something like eighteen years. Half not. Certainly never had. Well, it wasn’t an easy call to make.

Resolutely he squared his shoulders and walked back to his desk. ‘Right,’ he said out loud.

He sat down in his chair and, once again, picked up the phone and dialled the same three digits of the London number he had begun to call earlier. This time he continued with the call. It was to the switchboard of a national daily newspaper.

He could hear the tone clearly as an extension rang somewhere in a dockland building he had merely seen pictures of – not Fleet Street any more. He had had a sort of romantic affection for the Street of Shame, strange for a copper, but because of her, most likely. Impatiently he drummed the fingers of his free hand on his desk. He supposed he would end up with voice mail; that seemed to be the norm nowadays. He found himself rehearsing a message to leave and was mildly taken aback when a live human voice came on the line.

‘Joanna Bartlett.’

Tones clear and precise. No nonsense. No ‘hello’ or ‘can I help you’. No embellishments at all. Fielding could not suppress a half-smile. It didn’t sound as if she had changed a bit. But then, he wouldn’t have expected her to.

‘Hi, Jo,’ he said quietly.

It began in the summer of 1980 on one of those rare warm and balmy English days when even on Dartmoor the midday heat had been stifling and only the cool of nightfall brought welcome relief. Nobody was grumbling, though. It had until then been another miserable summer and, in fact, the coldest July for fifteen years.

Angela Phillips lived with her parents, her brother Rob and his new wife Mary, at Five Tors Farm – so named, predictably enough, because, on a clear day, you could just see the rocky summits of five tors – on the edge of the moors not far from the lovely old granite-built village of Blackstone. Their home was a beautiful rambling Devon longhouse, one end of it converted to provide a more or less separate unit for Rob and Mary.

A smart new stable block had recently been built on to the rear wall of the main milking shed, and from it could be enjoyed as fine a view over the moors as from anywhere on the Phillipses’ land. But during the late afternoon of that particular day, seventeen-year-old Angela noticed little of her surroundings as she fed her three horses, two hunters and a showjumper, and prepared to turn them out for the night in the adjoining paddock.