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 Det Supt 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 Cameron’s 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 couldn’t 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 hour’s daylight left. They’d 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. He’d been young at the time, but the closing of that plant had turned upside down the lives of many of the children he’d gone to school with. Some families never really recovered. The factory was a housing estate now.
“Richard Cameron?”
The legs jerked in surprise.
“It’s the police. We’d like to speak to you.”
There was a long pause, before finally the legs moved again. With a grunt, the body of a late middle-aged man slid out from under the vehicle. In his hand, he held a large steel spanner.
“Could you put that down, please?” asked Warren carefully.
Sutton had found the radio and switched it off at the wall socket; the clatter of the metal tool against the concrete floor echoed loudly through the shed.
“What do you want? I’m not due a visit until next week.”
“We’re not with the Probation Service. We’re here to ask you some questions in connection with an ongoing enquiry.”
“Am I under arrest? I ain’t going back to prison.” The man’s eyes darted wildly around the barn as his voice started to rise. His hands started to shake and his foot tapped. The man was clearly terrified at the prospect of prison. Were his fears justified?
Warren appraised the man standing before him. According to his file, Richard Cameron was days shy of his sixtieth birthday. The photograph in his file, taken just before his release, could have been of a man ten years older. Greying and stooped, the face in the picture was creased and lined. The man in front of him could pass for fifty. The green wax jacket that he wore was loose around the waist, suggesting recent weight loss, and his back was straightened. His face, though still craggy and battered, had more definition. His complexion had lost the greyish pallor of the long-term smoker and inmate and was instead pink, with a ruddiness to the cheeks that spoke of time outdoors. His beard, although grey and tinged with yellow around the mouth, was neatly trimmed. The man’s hands, he noted, were dirty and scabbed, but underneath the oil were the faint remnants of a summer tan. Life on the outside clearly agreed with Richard Cameron far more than life on the inside.
Warren spoke carefully. “At the moment, we just want you to answer some questions. However, I remind you that you are required to co-operate with the police under the terms of your parole. I have a warrant here for your arrest if necessary.”
“What’s going on here?”
The voice came from behind the officers and belonged to a young man in his late twenties or early thirties, Warren judged.
“And who might you be, sir?”
The question was unnecessary; the man was clearly his father’s son. Although taller and slimmer, he had the same broad shoulders and strong jawbone, visible despite a thick goatee beard. His hair was a dark brown, cut short, in an unfussy but neat style. Unlike his father, he wore grey suit trousers and smart leather shoes, his jacket an expensive-looking Gore-Tex affair. A collar and red tie peeked out above the partially unzipped front.
“Michael Stockley. I own this farm.” The man’s accent was clearly the same as his father’s, but his diction spoke of a better education and years spent in university and managerial workplaces, rather than low-paid, menial jobs and prison.
So he still goes by his mother’s maiden name, noted Warren.
“We are inviting your father to attend a voluntary interview at Middlesbury police station.”
Stockley curled his lip. “And you say that he hasn’t been arrested?”
“Not unless he refuses to co-operate — in which case I’ll serve the arrest warrant and contact his parole officer.”
Acknowledging his father for the first time since arriving, Michael Stockley nodded in his direction. “You aren’t under arrest, Dad. You don’t have to answer any questions. In fact say nothing until I’ve arranged a solicitor.”
The older man nodded mutely, looking scared and bewildered. Stockley turned back to Warren.
“I didn’t catch your name, Officer — nor have I seen any identification.”
Warren locked eyes with the man for several long seconds, before fishing out his warrant card, which he held up in front of the man’s face. Stockley nodded once.
“What’s this about?”
“Just some questions relating to an ongoing enquiry.” Warren had no intention of giving away any more information than he had to. He wanted to keep the man on the back foot for as long as possible.
“I believe that my father is entitled to have somebody with him during this questioning and that a solicitor may be present,” he all but smirked.
Warren didn’t like the way that this was going; he had to do something to shift the balance of power away from this smartly dressed amateur lawyer.
“Of course, assuming that Mr Cameron has something to hide, we can wait for a solicitor to arrive.” Warren nodded back to the older man, who paled slightly.
“The exercising of his legal rights should not be inferred as any admission of wrongdoing on my father’s part. And I believe that any attempt to deter him from seeking representation — or indeed questioning him before his solicitor arrives — would be contrary to the rules laid down in the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.” This time he did smirk.
On the other side of the barn he could see Tony Sutton rolling his eyes in disgust. Warren agreed. Spare us from barrack-room lawyers, he thought.
Sensing a victory of sorts, Stockley pressed on. “I suggest you return to your cars, Officers, whilst my father and I go into the house and call for his lawyer. I’ll let you know when he arrives.”
Warren