Primal Cut (10 page)

In the first week of January 1996, what turned out to be a human pancreas arrived at Dexter’s flat in Leyton. Panicking, she drove immediately to the police station.

‘He knows where I live, Guv!’ she shouted at McInally. ‘How the hell did he find that out?’

‘My guess is that he’s made some heavy-duty London mob connections through this bare knuckle business. I hate to admit it, but big chunks of the East End are still run by some pretty unpleasant faces. If you know who and how to ask, they can find practically anybody.’

Dexter slumped in a chair. ‘What am I going to do then?’

McInally thought for a moment. ‘Well, you can’t go home. Not alone anyway. Take a squad car back with you. Get what you need and move in with
Janice
and me for a while. At least till we catch this arsehole.’

‘I appreciate that, Guv, but what if we don’t catch him? I mean, we’ve got nothing so far. He could be anywhere. Watford, Edmonton, he could be sitting out in the car park waiting for me.’ Dexter was arguing herself into a position from which there was only one escape. ‘Maybe I should move on.’

‘Move on?’

‘Transfer. Piss off out of it.’

‘Where to?’

‘I haven’t got a clue. It’ll have to be out of London.’

‘I agree. I don’t want to lose you Dexy,’ McInally said sadly, ‘you are the best copper on the station.’

‘Second best,’ Dexter replied politely although she suspected McInally was probably right.

McInally sat back in his chair, thoughtful. ‘I might have an idea. Have you ever been to Cambridgeshire?’

‘Not that I remember.’

‘You probably wouldn’t. It’s not very memorable. Flat, cold, wet, students.’

‘You aren’t selling it very well.’

‘I know the DI that runs CID in a place called New Bolden.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘Commuter town. Reminds me of Milton Keynes.
Few
drug problems but it’s fairly quiet.’

‘What’s this bloke’s name?’

‘John Underwood. He’s a good lad. How would you describe him? Intense, I suppose, but his heart’s in the right place.’

‘Why are you telling me his life story?’

‘There was an accident a couple of months ago. His DS got killed in a car on the M11. Spun it into the central reservation chasing some armed robber.’

‘So they are short of a Detective Sergeant?’

‘Enter the upwardly mobile DS Dexter of the Met.’

‘I don’t know, Guv. I’m not really a small town girl. Messing about with farmers and shoplifters isn’t really my cup of tea. It all sounds a bit bleeding anonymous to be honest.’

‘Exactly,’ McInally put his feet up on his desk, ‘anonymous is what you need. You want me to roll the dice with this Underwood geezer? You could handle him with your eyes shut.’

DS Dexter realised that she was out of options.

Bartholomew Garrod drove to Sawtry in west Cambridgeshire. With his right hand he steered his van through the centre of the village, with his left he withdrew a fillet of raw meat from the Tupperware
tray that rested on the passenger seat. He felt no guilt in eating the remains of his dead Tosa: consumption was a mark of respect. His dad had taught him that; told him how the Japanese had eaten vanquished Allied soldiers in the jungles of Burma.

Garrod drove slowly out of the village and followed a winding B-road for a mile or so due west. His body ached. His fight with Lefty Shaw had left him bruised and uncomfortable. Garrod regretted smashing in Shaw’s head: he knew that his opponent had probably died. There were no rules in prize fighting but killing someone could draw unwanted attention: the heat and glare of a police investigation. There were at least a dozen people, Gwynne and Woollard included, who could give accurate descriptions of him if the police tracked them down. He realised that and was not taking any chances. He had a rough growth of beard on his face to disguise his features. Garrod had also bought and used a small bottle of black hair dye the previous day: he liked the result.

Garrod realised that he could no longer make a living through fighting. For a start, it made him conspicuous. Secondly, Garrod knew that a beard and hair dye couldn’t disguise the fact that his power was fading. His strength, whilst still formidable, was ebbing away from him. It would
only be a matter of time until some young thug took him down; that was an outcome Garrod could not allow. It was a harsh realisation. However, the pains in his chest and back, still lingering days after his last fight, were a grim reminder that time was now an enemy that he could not consume.

Garrod had become an avid reader of the
Cambridge Evening News
and the
New Bolden Gazette.
He watched the local news carefully, seeking stories about DI Alison Dexter. The television report that he had seen about Nicholas Braun had been a rare joy. He had seen her interviewed, sensed the little bitch’s discomfort as the camera beamed her face across the region. The newspapers had talked little about Dexter, mentioning her by name only once. They had preferred to discuss Braun’s crimes and the terrible revelations that had emerged in court. Garrod had found the details energising. He had developed an interest in Braun. Once he had found a new place to live, Garrod had resolved to drop him a line at HM Prison Bunden. Or perhaps try something more imaginative.

On the advertising board of a newsagent’s shop near Heydon, Garrod had seen a promising notice. It was an advert for a labouring job at an abattoir near Sawtry. It was a chance for him to sink into industrious anonymity until he had completed his
preparations for Alison Dexter. To enact his plan fully he needed space, some money and maybe even some help. He had already driven to New Bolden Police Station, he even knew that Dexter drove a dark blue Ford Mondeo. Garrod knew where his target was; and he knew how to isolate her.

The abattoir was roughly three miles outside the village of Sawtry; a tiny cluster of retirement houses, a post office and an overpriced mini-supermarket. It was a larger abattoir than Garrod had anticipated; a featureless long low grey stone building. The site office was located in a Portakabin at the front of the car parking area. Garrod knocked politely before entering; the floor of the little office seemed to sag under his weight. Robert Sandway, the abattoir manager, looked up from the glowing screen of his laptop computer. He was in his early thirties with an open, friendly countenance that Garrod felt instantly drawn to.

‘You must be George Francis?’ he asked.

‘That’s right,’ Garrod replied without blinking. ‘I’m here about the labouring job.’

Sandway opened his desk drawer and withdrew a sheet of paper. He scanned through the notes that he had made during his phone call with George Francis the previous evening.

‘Ah yes,’ he said eventually extending a hand, ‘nice to meet you George.’ He shook Garrod’s huge
hand. ‘Look, I’ll be honest with you. You seem a bit over-qualified for this job.’

‘How do you mean?’ Garrod responded.

‘Well, you say you have thirty years’ experience of butchery; that you once ran your own shop in Essex and so forth. This job is really just lifting and loading. It seems a waste of your talent.’

‘I’ve had some bad luck recently,’ Garrod stated. ‘I lost my shop you see: problems with the taxman. I’d be happy to work cash in hand. No national insurance. You’re a businessman and I’m a bankrupt. I don’t want the Inland Revenue taking my hard-earned.’

‘This could get me into trouble of course. Would you sign an injury waiver form? As you know, this can be dangerous work.’

‘No problem. I’d be happy to fill in if any of your cutters are absent. I wouldn’t expect any extra pay.’

‘That would be helpful,’ Sandway nodded. ‘OK George, here’s the deal. It’s a fifty-hour week starting at seven each morning. You get three hundred quid a week cash. You collect it from me after work on Friday. You will also sign an injury waiver clearing the firm of any liability if you hurt yourself on the job, so to speak. As far as the Inland Revenue are concerned, you don’t work here. If we get a visit from anyone looking like a copper, the taxman or the Ministry you make yourself scarce.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Garrod with a smile, ‘I know the score.’

Sandway smiled the smile of a businessman who knows he has engineered a good deal. ‘Welcome on board then. We’ll see you at seven o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. Report in here and I’ll take you down to meet the boys. I’ll need an address and phone number off you tomorrow though. There might be opportunities for work at the weekends or after hours. I need a way to contact you.’

‘No problem,’ Garrod lied.

Half an hour later, he sat parked in his van on Sawtry High Street. Garrod considered his alternatives. He needed a base quickly. It would be impossible to return to the Dog and Feathers in Heydon. The police were now undoubtedly on his trail. He needed to lie low. Also, to satisfy his imaginative plans for Alison Dexter, he would need space, privacy and ideally a garden. He considered murdering some forgotten old-age pensioner and commandeering their bungalow. Sawtry seemed to be over-furnished with old ladies driving electric buggies and the occasional shuffling war hero. However, it was too dangerous: even the most useless anonymous old bastard would be missed eventually.

He wasn’t afraid of roughing it. As long as he was dry and secure he could cope with the most basic living quarters. The caravan that had
concealed him for seven years was too far away to be practicable while he worked in Sawtry. Bed and breakfast was high risk. Sleeping in the van didn’t really appeal either. Perhaps there was an alternative. Garrod began to think about occupying some derelict accommodation. Maybe he could locate some deserted factory or some disused RAF base. Somewhere away from the main roads where fences and condemned building notices deterred unwanted visitors.

Then he remembered a night spent reading newspapers in the Dog and Feathers: the same night that Gwynne had first suggested the prize fight to him. He remembered reading about some local psychiatric hospital that had been closed down in 1993. The
Cambridge Evening News
had bemoaned the waste of a listed, historic building and demanded that the site be renovated or the hospital demolished. The article criticised the County Council for doing nothing with the building for nine years. What was it called? Garrod rubbed his eyes and tried hard to remember.

‘Callington…Caxington…Caxford…’

Craxten. Craxten Fen Psychiatric Hospital.

Garrod opened his Cambridgeshire Street Atlas and located Craxten Fen. It was about ten miles away. He started up his van and headed out of Sawtry.

In 1898, the Health Committee of Cambridge Council visited a number of possible sites in the county for a new lunatic asylum. They eventually decided upon two hundred acres of land on the edge of Craxten Fen, north-east of Cambridge. The quiet rural location and unpolluted air were expected to assist the rehabilitation of those committed to the asylum. The buildings were designed in the neogothic style by a local architect called Richard Steadman. The project cost thirteen thousand pounds to complete. Patients were first admitted to the asylum in 1902. At its peak, the hospital accommodated over two hundred men and women.

From the early 1960s, Craxten Fen Psychiatric Hospital (as it had become) gradually fell into disrepair. Its functions were steadily transferred elsewhere over time. By 1989, when the first psychiatric ward opened at Addenbrookes Hospital in Cambridge, the number of patients at Craxten Fen had fallen below twenty. By 1992, with the addition of a new Psychotherapy Unit and other facilities at the Addenbrookes site, Craxten Fen was empty. Formally closed in March 1993, the sprawling complex of buildings had sat vacant ever since. In 1999, after stories that the site had become a haven for drug users, the County Council erected a temporary steel fence around the hospital and forgot about it.

Bartholomew Garrod initially drove past the entrance to the overgrown track that led down to the hospital, rattling on through the featureless fenland for ten minutes until he realised his mistake. Once he had finally located the crumbling buildings, which were obscured from the main road to Cambridge by unkempt hedgerow and conifer trees, he felt encouraged. He drove up the main drive, weeds and branches slapping at the sides of his van, and parked on a grass verge. For the most part, the hospital seemed in reasonable condition: glass remained in most of the windows and the main entrance was padlocked shut. There was some graffiti on the wall of an outhouse but Garrod sensed that the site had been untouched for some time.

He was able to kick open a gap between two panels of the temporary steel fencing and force his way through. Garrod walked along the side of the east wing of the hospital looking for an access point. He found himself walking through an elephants’ graveyard of mangled machinery: rusting metal bedsteads, old fridges and washing machines. There was a water tower overlooking what had once been staff parking spaces and a huge pile of refuse sacks containing what Garrod discovered to be rotting bed linen.

Now, at the rear of the facility, Garrod realised
the hospital must look like a capital ‘E’ from the air, its east and west wings sandwiching what appeared to be a central utility and office area. He forced his way inside by tearing back a flimsy piece of wooden boarding that had been used to nail shut an open doorway. The wood was rotten and splintered easily. He found himself in a gloomy corridor cluttered with boxes and ancient pieces of medical equipment. It was treacherous going and Garrod had to watch his step. Eventually, after picking his way past a number of storage cupboards and the hospital administrator’s office, he found a sign pointing to the hospital kitchen.

The facility was not ideal. There was no electricity or running water. Garrod could find neither cooking implements nor knives. However, it was dry, relatively free of rubbish and there were large work surfaces on either side of the room. Most encouragingly, there was a huge wooden table that Garrod felt was ideally suited to the carving of Alison Dexter and a grubby fireplace that he thought could be easily adapted for spit roasting. He kicked down a side door and found that it opened onto a rectangle of grass in front of the dark bulk of the east wing. This was promising too.