Backlash (49 page)

‘No,’ said Barbara as Anna handed her the little bag. ‘He won’t say it.’ She held up the bag. ‘Maybe this is connected?’ Then she hurried back to the
interview-room corridor to hand over the bracelet.

Anna slipped back into the viewing room a few moments later and Barbara rejoined her. Bradford now looked in bad shape – his hair was sodden and his face was shiny from
sweat. He was hunched in his seat, his hands clasped tightly together.

‘Sorry for the delay, Mr Bradford,’ smiled Langton, ‘but I now need to take you right back to when you first heard from Henry Oates on the night he escaped . . .’

‘I’ve told you, I’ve told you, he just turned up.’

‘But we have these two calls, Timmy, one at 3 a.m. from Hammersmith where he dumped the police car after he escaped, and the other at 5 a.m. from Soho, which is about a two-hour walk from
Hammersmith.’

Joan tapped on the door of the viewing room and told Anna that DCI Alex McBride was on the phone, urgently wanting to talk to her. By the time Anna had taken the call and returned to her seat
Mike and Langton had still made no headway. Mike was now asking the same questions. All they got for an answer was that Bradford was scared not to help Oates, but he had admitted he had slapped his
mother during an argument.

‘Did Langton show him the bracelet?’ Anna asked Barbara.

She shook her head. ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it? They kind of go round and round in circles.’

‘It’s called wearing the suspect down,’ Anna said drily.

‘Well I know that, but one minute he does look worn down through his lies, and then the next he claims that he’s telling the truth. One minute he admits to pushing or slapping his
mother, the next he denies it, and yet we have the time of death that makes it impossible for Oates to have killed her.’

Anna focused on the screen as Langton laid out the plastic evidence bag containing the gold bracelet. He gently flattened the air out of it with his hand.

‘Have you ever seen this before, Mr Bradford?’

‘No.’

‘Let me take it out so you can get a closer look.’

Langton held the bracelet up and then rested it across his wrist.

‘Look at it, Timmy, take a good look at it.’

Bradford’s chest heaved and he straightened his back, shaking his head.

‘Take hold of it, Tim, really, go on, have a good look.’

Anna tensed up, leaning forwards, wondering what Langton’s intentions were. But disappointingly Bradford showed little reaction.

‘No.’

‘Why does it worry you to touch it? Here, take hold of it.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘It’s not your mother’s, is it?’

‘No.’

Langton looked through the stack of photographs and placed the one of Angela Thornton down in front of Bradford.

‘You know this girl, don’t you?’ he asked as he placed the bracelet beside the photograph.

It was astonishing because Bradford started to cry like a kid. Snot dripped from his nose and he wiped it with the cuff of his shirt, then he put his head in his hands and started sobbing
heavily.

An hour later Bradford asked for a bathroom break. Langton had been given a real talking-to by Bradford’s solicitor, Miss Adams, as she had no disclosure regarding Angela
Thornton and felt that Langton was being, at times, overbearing with her client. They had a very heated discussion and by the time Langton came into the incident room he was in a real temper. He
paced in front of Anna’s desk, snatching at a sandwich she’d brought in for him.

‘I can’t bloody break the little sod: every time I think he’s going to come clean he backs off and turns the waterworks on.’

‘I thought you were onto something with the bracelet and the photo of Angela. It did get a big reaction – it was the first time he really broke down.’

‘I’d like to break his sodding little neck.’ He sighed.

‘Do you think there is a connection between him and Angela Thornton?’

‘I don’t honestly know. I was just trying it on because that’s another fucking scenario we need to explore.’

He wiped his fingers on a paper napkin, rolled it up into a tight ball and tossed it into the wastebasket.

‘We believe that Oates has some hold over Bradford, right? And it’s a big one, so is there any possibility that it was the two of them? That they’re both killers, and did all
of the murders between them?’

Anna shook her head.

‘No, I don’t buy that; Oates has admitted to the murders. Why would he protect Timmy if he was an accomplice? It couldn’t have been the two of them with Mrs Douglas if she was
already dead.’

‘Yes, yes, I know that,’ he snapped.

Anna found it difficult to know what to say to Langton as he was in such a foul mood.

‘Listen, let me dig around and see if I can find any connection between Bradford and Angela Thornton, because of the way he reacted the first time he broke down.’

‘The little fucker could get an Oscar nomination for his performances; it’s hard to get anything out of him.’

Anna suggested that in the next session they should pull back on the accusation about his mother. They now knew she had died of a heart attack, so maybe if they went softly and encouraged
Bradford to talk about the possibility of it being an accident, that he had never intended to hurt her, he would divulge more about his relationship with Oates.

Langton checked his watch and agreed that he would give it a go.

Bradford appeared to be calmer. He’d washed his face and hands, and sat pressing back into his chair, his solicitor beside him. Mike reminded him that he was still under
caution, and that anything he said might be used as evidence in court. Before Langton started the interview Bradford cleared his throat and said that he had been answering all their questions
truthfully, and he was still very distressed about what had happened. He then gave a long rambling explanation of how he had been out shopping and when he returned Oates had already been let into
the flat by his mother. He said that Oates had tied her up and she was lying on the sofa in her nightdress and had wet herself. He said she had sticky tape wrapped around her face and hands and her
feet were tied with the cord from her dressing gown.

‘I’d fancied a beer so I just walked round to the off-licence, they’re open until late, and I made up that story about the dog track because I didn’t want to admit that
Oates scared me.’

Anna licked her fingers as she sifted through her pages and pages of notes. In fact she had filled up one notebook and was on to her second. Eventually she found what she was
looking for, her interview with Ira Zacks. She had made only sporadic notes, mostly about the last time he said he had seen Oates and his work in the clubs. She closed her eyes, willing herself to
remember. She recalled he had said that Oates only worked for him briefly as he was not suitable, but no matter how many times she went backwards and forwards through her jottings she
couldn’t find what she was looking for, so she snapped her book closed and crossed to stare once more at the incident board. She concentrated on Angela Thornton’s missing persons
details and then it clicked.

She absolutely had to speak to Ira Zacks. She knew that he hadn’t been granted bail and was awaiting trial for drug dealing, so she called Brixton Prison, stressing it
was of the utmost importance and involved a murder enquiry. There was a long delay as she hung on waiting before eventually being told that it would take at least half an hour for them to bring Ira
Zacks to the governor’s office, always supposing he would agree to talk to her. Frustrated, she even suggested that she could make the journey to the prison in person. She insisted it had
nothing to do with his drug charges but it was imperative she speak to him and for them to explain who she was and that they had met before.

Anna waited impatiently for nearly an hour, but eventually the call came.

‘He’s through, Detective Travis.’

‘Thank you. Mr Zacks, I don’t know if you remember me – I came to your flat to ask you some questions about Henry Oates.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I am really grateful that you have agreed to talk to me.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You mentioned to me that you ran a business supplying doormen to a number of clubs in London.’

‘Not any more.’

‘But you did, and you had a very successful business.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You started off in the East End, is that right?’

‘Yeah, Mile End Road, near the boxing club.’

‘Do you recall the names of any of the men you employed?’

‘It’s not exactly employed – I give ’em the job and they give me a cut; it wasn’t like I employed them back then, if you know what I mean, and I didn’t have
no contracts, it was verbal with me.’

‘Yes, I understand, it’s just very important if you could remember any of the men that worked for you and I realize it is a long time ago, but perhaps they were ex-boxers . .
.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I am talking nearly five years ago, so it might be a test of your memory.’

‘You don’t say. What’s in this for me anyway?’

Anna licked her lips and decided to test Zacks’ empathy.

‘You remember me showing you a picture of a little girl that was missing? Well, if you could remember – you have children of your own and . . .’

‘Yeah, yeah, it’s to do with Henry Oates, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well I only used him the once and he was no use, didn’t have a suit either, but it wasn’t in Mile End, that was over in Kilburn.’

‘So do you remember anyone working for you in Mile End?’

There was a pause and she could hear his heavy breathing.

‘Yeah, okay, Brian Heigh, middleweight, good bloke.’

She waited; he was clicking his tongue against his teeth.

‘Tony Jackson, he used to be there, but I don’t remember nobody else. Wait a minute, there was one of the guys I knew from York Hall, he worked there a few times, shit, can’t
remember his name.’

‘Describe him to me.’

Ira exhaled and said she was asking a lot and then without hesitation he said, ‘Of course, it was Tim Bradford, there you go, shows my grey cells are still working, nice fighter, but bled
like a stuck pig. I remember him now, lived up the road in Bromley-by-Bow, but he didn’t do more than a few months.’

Anna’s hand was shaking as she replaced the phone, and she had to take a few deep breaths before she could write down the information. Then she made her way to the
interview room, tapped on the door and opened it. ‘DCI Travis with a message for DCS Langton,’ she said for the benefit of the tape. Langton came out, closing the door behind him.

‘I tried the softly-softly and he still won’t give it up.’

‘Try this.’

Anna explained to him about the Mile End connection, and her idea that the night Angela Thornton had disappeared, Bradford could have been working the doors on the club. He had lived just up the
road from there and had never been questioned about her disappearance as they had CCTV footage of her leaving the club and heading for the Tube station. Anna had also checked with the DVLA to
confirm that at that time Bradford owned a car. It was a red Ford Fiesta and a witness had claimed to have seen a red car parked close to the Tube station, although the car and driver had never
been traced. Langton folded the notes and gave a brief nod of his head, but he took a few moments before he returned to the interview room.

Anna sat in the viewing room, watching as Langton took his seat, intrigued as to how he would handle the new information. First he set aside the files he had been using before
the interruption. He then stacked them onto the trolley. He next removed the Angela Thornton file and the exhibit bag with her bracelet, setting them in front of him. He took out his fountain pen,
drew his notebook close, wrote something and then replaced the cap.

Bradford looked at his solicitor then back to Langton. Meanwhile, Mike had been given Anna’s latest findings, which he read before returning them to Langton.

‘My client has been in custody since midday and it is now 7.30 p.m.,’ the solicitor pointed out. ‘If you have no further questions to put to him and are not charging him with
any offence then I suggest—’

Langton ignored her and cut in.

‘Tell me about the time you worked on the Mile End Road, Mr Bradford.’

Bradford’s mouth dropped open.

‘What is this in reference to?’ his solicitor asked.

Langton held up the photograph of Angela Thornton.

‘The murder of this girl, Miss Adams.’ He turned to Bradford. ‘What happened, Tim, you see her dancing around, having a night out with her friends, too good for the likes of
you, you try and get a date, did you? She turn you down, did she? Look at her, LOOK AT HER!’ He slapped the photograph down on the table. ‘Just a washed-up amateur boxer, only jobs you
could get were working the doors, and there was this lovely girl, shiny blonde hair, blue eyes, and this lovely bracelet – was it that you were after? Did you want to nick her gold bracelet?
You’d never be able to afford anything as nice as this to give to a girl. You were still dependent on your mother and stepfather; he didn’t like you, did he? Reckoned you were a big
freeloader . . .’

As Langton talked it was like watching a tight spring begin to uncoil. Bradford was squirming in his seat, his fists clenched one minute, the next pressing down on his thighs. His body twisted,
and he kept moving his head from side to side as if his neck was stiffening up.

‘Can I give you a lift, love, can I give you a lift in my red Ford Fiesta?’ Langton adopted a singsong voice, smiling. ‘You can trust me, love, I work the doors, I protect
people, I don’t let in the tough guys, I look out for the customers, you can trust me, get in the car, I can take you home . . .’

Langton stopped smiling as he leaned across the table and raised his voice.

‘But you didn’t take her home, did you? DID YOU? How did you break her little gold bracelet? Grab her by the wrists, did you? Smack her around, did you? Punch out this lovely little
girl, look at her face, look at her face, Timmy.’

‘I want to speak with my solicitor,’ Bradford said softly.