Sam Pargeter was a no-nonsense ex-submariner. A gruff, bullish Yorkshire man with a salt and pepper haircut, he was candid about why hed joined the service as he helped himself to a cup of jet-black coffee from the CID urn.
I got meself a reputation in the Navy as a bit of a hard bastard. Hard but fair. They stuck me in charge of whipping the less responsive boys into shape. Some of them see it all as a bit of a laugh when theyre training. Course, as soon as they come aboard a boat, and it finally dawns on them that they wont even see daylight for the next six months, some of them start to play up. Thats where I came in.
After loading his cup with several heaped spoons of sugar he followed the two detectives back to Warrens office, where he continued his story.
They called it Pargeters detail and the kids were named Pargies. I dont take bullshit from nobody, but I also dont give it out. They stuck them with me for a week. For most of that week, they hated me some of the names they called me when they thought I wasnt listening would make your hair curl. Of course, by the end of the week, they thought the sun shone out of my arse. They realised that I was right and they was wrong simple as. Some of them still write to me, letting me know about their latest promotions. Wouldnt want to name names, of course, but theres more than one flag officer who still sends me a Christmas card and a bottle of rum each year and calls himself a Pargie.
Anyhow, eventually it was time to leave the service. A mate of mine asked if I fancied helping out in one of those places out in the sticks where they hide out-of-control teenagers. I did about twelve months there, but found it too depressing. Everybodys just marking time until the kids turn sixteen, get turfed out then stab their way into an adult prison. Then I saw a programme one night about the National Offender Management Service. It talked about how their job was to stop reoffending by any means necessary and try and get some of these folks back into doing something useful in society.
So I contacted them, went for an interview and here I am. They found out that Im good with young lads and so I tend to specialise. A lot of these boys never really had a father figure, or if they did he was a drunk or an abuser. I keep an eye on them. If they dont do what theyre told Ill come around unannounced and smack em round the ear. If theyve got a job interview and Im free, Ill turn up and hammer on the door until they get out of bed. Ill even throw them in the shower and turn the water on them fully clothed if I have to.
Pargeter shrugged and took a large swig of his coffee. Some of them dont like it and neither do some of the more liberal-minded folk in the office, but my re-offending rates are thirty to forty per cent lower than the average and I have a wall full of pictures from my former boys showing me what theyre up to now. Cant argue with results like that.
Warren eyed the man closely. Coming from most people, Sam Pargeters little speech would have sounded self-serving. Yet there was something about the way that he said it calmly and matter-of-factly in a no-nonsense northern burr that seemed to invite trust in the man. Warren thought he could see why so many wayward youths responded to his methods.
Sutton also seemed impressed, or at least as impressed as he ever did. So why did you end up with Richard Cameron? He hardly seems to fit your usual profile.
Well, ultimately, we have to deal with what comes our way. Cameron was released last year and I had space on my list, so I got him. Hes unusual and thats why Ive come to speak to you. Your call surprised the hell out of me.
Warren glanced at Sutton.
Why so surprised? Repeat offending in these cases is pretty high weve all seen the stats.
Pargeter nodded. Normally Id agree with you, Chief Inspector, but I thought Cameron was different.
Warrens face must have betrayed his scepticism.
Look, Richard Cameron was sentenced to eighteen years for three rapes back in 1998. He did twelve years and was released on licence this time last year. When he entered the system he was a dangerous man, no question, with priors for drink-driving, domestic violence and petty theft. When the rapes occurred he lived with his wife, Angie, and teenage son, Michael, in a small farmstead about three miles north of Middlesbury, just outside the village of Stennfield. It isnt much, a couple of acres of potatoes, a handful of pigs and a few chickens. He wasnt a farmer by any stretch; he just inherited it from his old man, who inherited it from his old man et cetera.
He basically left school at fifteen and drifted in and out of odd jobs before meeting Angie in about 1980. They had Michael in 1982. The farm was paid off by his father and he owns the land, so even when he didnt have a job they always had a roof over their heads. Anyway, he wasnt really on the radar as far as the police were concerned; he had a file, like I said, and Michaels school raised warning flags with social services but nothing ever happened.
And then the rapes occurred. Youre familiar with the details; suffice to say, it was luck as much as detective work that nailed him in the end. Michael was barely sixteen when Cameron was sentenced. The girls were all local and everyone knew who his dad was. In the end he finished his GCSEs, changed his name by deed poll to his mothers maiden name and switched schools for sixth form. By all accounts the move was successful and he went on to get a decent set of A levels and go to university.
Angie divorced Cameron and reclaimed her maiden name but stayed at the farm with Michael. Cameron apparently signed over the lease without much fuss. He told me when I first met him it was his first step in trying to repair the damage done to his family.
Sutton looked pointedly at the clock on the wall; where was all this going?
Warren tried to be a little more discreet. Pargeter got the hint. The thing is, Cameron didnt kill those three girls. He raped them, and beat them, but he isnt a murderer. That was his downfall. One of the girls gave a description of the mask that he was wearing, which ultimately led to his arrest.
You said it yourself, that was his downfall; he left a witness behind. Maybe hes learnt his lesson dead bodies cant testify in court. Suttons tone was getting decidedly impatient; he knew that Detective Superintendent Grayson would probably be appearing any moment with an arrest warrant, to be served should Cameron decline to attend the police station voluntarily.
Pargeter ignored Suttons tetchiness. Youre right. I think he has learnt his lesson. When inside, he worked hard to complete the schooling he should have done thirty years earlier and became a lay preacher, and volunteer counsellor to other prisoners.
Sutton was unable to resist a snort of derision. In his opinion, the fabled prison conversion, especially amongst dangerous sex offenders, was just that. Nevertheless, an outside observer sitting in on parole-board hearings could be forgiven for thinking that a spell in prison was the making of a man and that HM Prison Service was single-handedly doing more to arrest the decline in active church-going than any number of evangelical outreach programmes. All nonsense, of course. Prisoners had a lot of time to try and figure out what it was the parole board wanted to hear and would do their best to oblige them.
For the first time since arriving at Middlesburys little CID unit, Sam Pargeter showed the briefest flash of irritation. Look, Im not a bloody idiot. Ive been in this game far too long to be fooled by the old Ive found Jesus defence; nevertheless, whether he truly has found God or its just enlightened self-interest, I dont think Richard Cameron would do anything that could get him put back inside. He barely survived the place. He attempted suicide three times and, I mean, really attempted it. Hes made it quite clear to me and anyone else that will listen that hell kill himself before he sets foot inside another prison.
Sutton was unable to resist a snort of derision. In his opinion, the fabled prison conversion, especially amongst dangerous sex offenders, was just that. Nevertheless, an outside observer sitting in on parole-board hearings could be forgiven for thinking that a spell in prison was the making of a man and that HM Prison Service was single-handedly doing more to arrest the decline in active church-going than any number of evangelical outreach programmes. All nonsense, of course. Prisoners had a lot of time to try and figure out what it was the parole board wanted to hear and would do their best to oblige them.
For the first time since arriving at Middlesburys little CID unit, Sam Pargeter showed the briefest flash of irritation. Look, Im not a bloody idiot. Ive been in this game far too long to be fooled by the old Ive found Jesus defence; nevertheless, whether he truly has found God or its just enlightened self-interest, I dont think Richard Cameron would do anything that could get him put back inside. He barely survived the place. He attempted suicide three times and, I mean, really attempted it. Hes made it quite clear to me and anyone else that will listen that hell kill himself before he sets foot inside another prison.
Sutton looked at Warren. Better make certain everyone knows that, guv. Last thing we need is a bloody suicide or death-by-cop.
Pargeter scowled. I doubt it will come to that. He settled back into his chair and struck a more reasonable tone. Look, make the appropriate preparations, but I dont think its him.
Warren shrugged non-committally. Well, lets see if we can rule him out. Im telling you this in the strictest confidence, you understand. He locked eyes with Pargeter, who nodded briskly and professionally. We believe that the victim was carried several hundred yards, possibly dead, almost certainly unconscious. Weve found no evidence that there was more than one person involved. Do you think that Cameron is capable of carrying the body of a young woman of average build and weight that distance?
Pargeters brow furrowed and he pinched his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, before, finally, taking his glasses off and rubbing them on his sleeve.
I honestly dont know. Twelve months ago Id have said no chance. He was a physical wreck. He was overweight and smoked like a chimney. He could walk that distance, but hed have struggled if he had to carry a shopping bag, let alone a body.
But since then hes been working on the farm, trying to make a business of it with Michael. Hes lost about three stone and cut right back on the fags. Last time I dropped in, he was wrestling hay bales off the back of a truck. He must have shifted a dozen whilst I was there; he was out of breath, but didnt look in danger of a coronary. If he slung her across his shoulders in a firemans lift, then I reckon he might be able to do it.
Warren made a note, before changing tack. Tell me a bit more about his current situation. You said hes back at the farm, but I thought his family had disowned him.
They did at first. His ex-wife never got over what he did and died a few years ago. Michael hated him at first, but after his mum died he realised that his father was the only family he had left. He received counselling and eventually started going to church himself. A couple of years ago, he visited his father in prison for the first time and was convinced that the old man wanted to change his life. They bought a bit more land from their neighbour and resurrected the farm. Michael has a good job and so they get by OK.
What about the local community? Twelve years isnt that long.
The two of them largely keep themselves to themselves. When word first got around that Cameron was back a few things were sprayed on the front of the house and neither of them are welcome in the village pub, but its mostly died down. They tend to travel to Cambridge or Stevenage if they fancy a pint.
The only place they are cautiously welcomed is at the village church. Ive met the local vicar a few times and hes taken it upon himself to help me keep Cameron on the straight and narrow. Nobody has invited them to join the choir, like, but they dont get any bother.
Warren looked at Sutton. Much of what Pargeter had said was of little relevance, he decided. Richard Cameron had been a very dangerous sexual predator and, as far as Warren was concerned, men like that had something fundamentally wrong with them. The urges that drove them were unlikely to ever disappear entirely. The question was, did Richard Cameron control those urges or did those urges still control him?
Chapter 17
Warren and Sutton drove to Camerons farm in a tense silence. Behind them, two police cars, each with a pair of uniformed constables, followed, lights and sirens off. Detective Superintendent Grayson had drafted an arrest warrant, but Warren hoped to bring in the former convict voluntarily. Although the killing had now been reported in the local and national press, the details were scanty and it was possible that they would arrive before he caught the news.
Delaying any arrest would buy the police valuable time for questioning. The rules governing arrest were strict; the moment that a person was formally arrested, the clock started ticking. They would have twenty-four hours to either charge or release their suspect, on bail if necessary. A further twelve hours could be authorised by Detective Superintendent Grayson, but beyond that a magistrate would need to be consulted. If Warren could get a few questions in before Cameron started making noises about legal representation and detention limits, so much the better.
The farm was at the end of a long, winding, single-track lane. Parked in front of the house were a vintage Land Rover and a far smarter Jaguar, presumably belonging to Camerons son.
The farmhouse was an old and weather-beaten affair. Two storeys in height, it looked as though it would need serious renovation in the next few years to survive the elements. Next door an even more rickety barn had its doors partially open. Parking the car so that it couldnt be seen directly from the barn, Warren and Sutton stepped out into the chilly air. It was now late afternoon and Warren doubted they had much more than an hours daylight left. Theyd have to move quickly.
Speaking quietly to the accompanying officers, Warren instructed them to spread out around the house to stop Cameron if he decided to make a run for it. With the officers in place, the two detectives walked cautiously towards the open barn. From inside they could make out the sound of a radio playing. Radio 4 by the sound of the presenter, Warren decided. There was a good chance he had heard the news, then. Warren stepped into the doorway, his eyes quickly adjusting to the gloom inside.
The barn was pretty much what he expected. Hay bales stacked against one half of the building made an improvised open enclosure amongst which a few hens or were they chickens? Warren had no idea strutted and pecked at the straw-covered floor. On the other side of the barn a wooden enclosure housed what looked and smelt like a few pigs. In the middle of the barn sat an old, rusty, Massey Ferguson tractor. Two legs clad in dirty grey corduroy trousers tucked into well-worn, muddy leather boots poked out from under the engine. The tractor had probably been assembled in part by one of his schoolmates fathers, Warren realised, back when Massey Ferguson was a major employer in his home town of Coventry. He shook off the feeling of sadness that passed through him. Hed been young at the time, but the closing of that plant had turned upside down the lives of many of the children hed gone to school with. Some families never really recovered. The factory was a housing estate now.