Lynda La Plante
Judas Horse
For my sister Gilly, my best critic and casting director, who is always encouraging and positive, and never negative.
Chapter 1
The Cleveland Nature Reserve was a cluster of lakes situated between Cirencester to the north and Swindon to the south. The reserve was just a small section of the Cotswold Water Park which consisted of hundreds of lakes with fishing sites and water sports, intercut with cycle paths, farms and walking routes. Home to thousands of species of flora and fauna, it was only marred by the presence of the occasional, unexpected area of quicksand — proving that even the most beautiful things can hide a more dangerous side.
Jamie and Mark often cycled along Spine Road which, as the name might suggest, ran through the centre of this cluster of lakes. They’d go fishing, watch the people on jet skis and beg free cans of pop from the Waterside Café. But today, they were distracted by a strange sight in one of the lakes: dozens of crows on the surface of the water! The brothers, aged 12 and 13, didn’t know much about biology, but they did know that crows could not land on water. Each time the wind blew tiny waves across whatever they were standing on, the birds panicked for a second and created a cloud of black wings all flapping at the same time. But they didn’t fly away; something was keeping them there, in the middle of the lake, on their strange, out-of-place platform.
Twenty minutes later, Jamie and Mark had cycled round to a small rowing boat that they’d hidden many months ago, tied to the low, overhanging branches of an old tree. They slid it into the water and set off. Mark, being older and stronger, always did the rowing.
As they got closer to the mass of birds, it became clear that the crows were standing on the roof of a horsebox, most of which sat just above the surface of the water, by no more than an inch. They began to shriek and flap in a unified show of force, endeavouring to keep their prize — whatever it was. The boys could now see that the birds were focussing their attention on a tear in the metal roof, about six inches in diameter.
‘Climb up then,’ Mark instructed. Then he swung one of the oars through the air and the crows flew away in all directions, creating such a foul-smelling down-draught as they went, that the boys screwed up their faces and held their noses. Jamie thought he was going to puke and said he didn’t want to climb on top.
‘I’m scared it’s gonna sink!’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Mark said. ‘It must already be sitting on the bottom, so it can’t possibly sink any further.’
Reluctantly Jamie removed his T-shirt and tied it round his face like a mask then tentatively climbed onto the roof. He shuffled towards the six-inch hole, trying to keep his balance as the roof began to wobble, and peered down into the pitch-dark water.
‘Nah, there’s nothing,’ Jamie quickly decided, desperate to get back to dry land or at least into the rowboat. But Mark wasn’t prepared to give up that easily.
‘Push it with your foot and make the hole bigger,’ he said. Above them, the crows circled and cawed angrily.
Jamie pushed his toe into the hole, trying vainly not to get his trainers wet. Egged on by his brother, he began stamping down as hard as he dared on the ripped edge of the horsebox. Finally, it gave way by another inch or two, sending a bubble of old, trapped air up into Jamie’s face. The stench was so rancid, that Jamie immediately bent over and puked into the lake, while his foot slipped through the hole filling his trainer with filthy water.
Mark started laughing, But Jamie did not see the funny side. ‘I only just got these trainers for my birthday! I’m coming back... this is stupid!’
‘You’re wet now,’ Mark giggled. ‘Stamp on it, go on. Make the hole big enough to see inside. Go on, Jamie! Don’t be a baby!’ Mark knew exactly what to say to rile his younger brother.
Jamie angrily started jumping up and down on the roof of the horsebox, splashing Mark in the process. They were both soaked now, but it didn’t matter — despite the horrible smell, they were having fun.
With each jump, Jamie brought his knees up to his chest, getting as much height as he could. And each time he landed, the hole opened up a little more. Until, with one jump too many, the roof finally split completely and gave way beneath his weight.
To Mark’s horror, Jamie disappeared beneath the surface and into the submerged horsebox.
The next five seconds seemed to last forever. Not knowing what else to do, Mark held his breath, as though he too was underwater. Finally, Jamie bobbed back up, gasping and slapping the surface of the water with his palms. He snatched at the air, trying to find the oar being waved above his head until Mark managed to guide it into his hands, pulling his little brother to the wall of the horsebox. Jamie draped his armpits over the top of the wall, wiped his face and gradually let the wonderful realisation that he wasn’t going to die sink in.
Mark was as white as a sheet, as the thought of what could have been spun round in his head. But Jamie, knowing that he’d now earned enough cool points to last a lifetime, began to laugh and this finally gave Mark permission to relax. The boys grinned at each other then started laughing hysterically — until Mark’s expression suddenly changed when something broke the surface of the water behind his brother.
Mark couldn’t see what it was at first, but gradually the thing bobbing about, just inches away from the back of Jamie’s head, turned and twisted in the water until it was suddenly, sickeningly, recognisable. The human skull didn’t have much flesh attached, but it was enough to drive the carrion crows crazy as they wheeled about in the sky above, so near and yet so far away from such a tempting feast.
‘Jamie...’ The serious tone in Mark’s voice made Jamie stop laughing and pay attention. ‘Grab the oar. I’ll pull you over the side, then you swim to the boat.’ The old, rotted corpse bobbed back and forth as Jamie kicked his legs, and then he jerked as he felt something cold and slimy brushing against him. Feeling suddenly sick again, he turned his head to see what it was.
Jamie’s scream was loud enough to finally scatter the crows from the sky.
After solving the Rose Cottage murder, whilst also bringing to a close the investigation into the biggest train robbery ever seen in the UK, Detective Sergeant Jack Warr’s reputation for doggedly following his instincts, regardless of how dubious that course of action seemed to everyone else, was known and respected throughout the Met. He was the detective who assessed people quickly and read them accurately; he could be hands-off one minute, and in-your-face the next; but he always seemed to know how to find out if you had anything to hide. Above all, he was uncannily adept at predicting what criminals were going to do. It was almost as though he could think like them.
His boss, DCI Simon Ridley, known to be one of the most anal men on the force, continued to be the perfect counterbalance for Jack’s gut instinct and, together, they now made a formidable team. Jack was exactly the type of intuitive officer that the Wimbledon Prowler case needed. Above all, the Wimbledon Prowler case seemed to simply need a fresh pair of eyes. And Jack’s eyes were particularly attuned to finding the right detail, at the right time, in the most unlikely of places. So DS Jack Warr was sent on loan to Wimbledon.
Through the summer months, the Wimbledon Prowler brazenly walked the streets with a tennis racquet in his hand, blending in with a thousand other part-time sports fans. And in the winter months, he hired a mobility scooter and moved freely around the Common being ignored by everyone because no one wants to get caught staring at a disabled person. Two disguises allowing him to hide in plain sight, so that any CCTV that did happen to capture him would not provide the police with an accurate description of ‘their man’. He was smart, bold and arrogant. He knew how people behaved. And he knew how to manipulate them. So, for five years, the Wimbledon Prowler evaded the police and all of their endeavours to catch him. The case had gone stale.