Chapter 10: Chase the Lady

1812 hrs Friday 4^th April 2019. Ipswich railway station.

DAY 5

The train to Ipswich was on time. As I exited the station into the forecourt a man in his mid-sixties wearing a Hi-Viz jacket with IBC stamped on the back stopped me.

“DS Dolihaye?” he asked, and at my affirmation, he smiled. “I can always tell a copper from the Met. They all have an air of superiority about them.” He held out his hand “I’m Arthur Clegg, call me Cleggy. What do I call you, and don’t say ‘sir’ else I’ll kick your arse!” He grinned knowing full well I could take him out with one hand tied behind my back, for although he was built like a bulldog Cleggy was well into his sixties.

“It’s AJ, my initials and my first name Ajay. A, J, A, Y, an Indian name.”

“You’re quite dark but I wouldn’t have taken you for an ‘arf an ‘arf. No offence intended,” Cleggy said without a hint of embarrassment. Obviously, he was not a man that paid much, if any, attention to political correctness.

“None taken, and it was about four or five generations back that Indian blood was introduced into my family.”

“Have you eaten Ajay? We can have a pie and a pint before getting to the control room, or do you want to crack on?”

I had eaten a tasty lasagne at ‘The Station’ pub just around the corner from Bury St Edmunds railway station before catching the 5. 24 p.m from Bury to Ipswich, and declined the offer. “I’d like to get stuck into the viewing as soon as possible, Cleggy. I have to get back to Bury tonight and I’m not too sure how frequent the trains are of an evening.”

“They run every hour on the hour until midnight. The next one after midnight then is five a.m. the following morning. It shouldn’t take us more than a couple of hours to view the footage I’ve assembled for you so you should be OK for the eight pm.” We exited the station and walked through the car park.

“I apologise for dragging you into Ipswich so late in the day but as it is an unofficial visit the best time to be in the control room is in the middle of the evening shift,” Cleggy said. “The shift is from two pm until ten pm and comprises of two men, a boy and his dog, so there’s not many people around to ask why a central division detective is nosing around in southern division territory. Besides, I’m the shift manager and my word is law, and if I say that no one on the shift sees nothing and nobody then they see nothing and nobody. It will get hectic later when the night shift comes in. Friday night is kick-off time for ‘let’s get pissed for the weekend’.”

We walked to a 2019 registered bright yellow Ford Focus.

“A nice, inconspicuous car, Cleggy.”

He laughed. “The wife likes the colour, and if she’s happy then I’m happy. You married, Ajay?”

I shook my head. “No one wants me.” I wasn’t joking.

“Well, when you do tie the knot make sure you keep the missus happy, and I don’t mean just in bed, although that does help.”

We got in the car and then drove out of the station forecourt and across a river bridge.

“That’s the River Orwell,” Cleggy informed me, “from where George Orwell took his surname.” We turned left after the bridge and drove for another five hundred yards or so before turning right into a practically empty car park at the side of an eight-story, steel and glass, building.

“This is Ipswich Borough Council Offices,” Cleggy said. “The CCTV control room is on the top floor. Fortunately, the lifts are working this evening, which is not always the case.”

We exited the lift on the top floor and walked along a shabbily carpeted corridor to a door marked ‘CCTV Control Room Manager’.

Cleggy used his ID card to swipe us in. “Welcome to my domain.”

His office had a clear view of the control room, and I saw there were more than two men a boy and his dog on duty. There were about a score of desks; five were occupied, each occupant studying a bank of monitors in front of them.

Cleggy came and stood by my side. “It’s all quiet on the Orwell front at the moment but by the time the night shift comes in will be building up to bedlam.”

“Do all traffic cameras, and their footage, belong to the County Highway Authority?” I said, wondering just how much information Cleggy had access to.

“All the traffic cameras within the Ipswich Ring Road belong to the IBC, Ipswich Borough Council, because we are responsible for regulating traffic flow within the city centre. The County Highway Authority is responsible for the Ring Road and everything beyond. IBC also has surveillance cameras in many areas of the town to keep an eye on antisocial behaviour. Ipswich Old Town has many narrow streets and pedestrianised lanes with pubs and restaurants and places of entertainment. Weekends it can get pretty rowdy. Back in the day there would have been Bobbies on the beat to keep order but now we monitor the situation from this control room and if it looks like trouble we whistle up a squad car or two. It’s supposed to be more efficient in manpower and money but I have my doubts. Eventually, Ipswich will have Congestion Charge checking cameras and dedicated bus lane checking cameras, with fixed fines of £100 if a driver is caught who hasn’t paid the charge or is using a bus lane. Nice little earners for the council.”

He took off his Hi-Viz jacket and hung it on a hook behind the door, then sat at his desk and took a bottle of whisky from out of one of the drawers. “Fancy a belt before work?” He said, waving the bottle in front of me.

“No thanks, Cleggy. I’m a beer man.”

He switched on his desktop computer and opened another drawer in his desk and pulled out some USB flash drives. “These drives contain camera footage from the date and time your missing person was last seen. This one,” he held up a USB, “is from the camera at her apartment block in Franciscan Way.”

“I’ve seen that footage, Cleggy. It is the only sighting of her, according to southern division,” I said, in what might have been a dismissive tone of voice.

Cleggy grinned. “Seems there is no love lost between central in Bury and southern in Ipswich. It was much the same in my day.”

He pulled a large scale map of Ipswich town centre from a drawer and laid it on the desk. “Camera positions are marked on this map and the USBs have the same ID. There are traffic camera and some car park camera footage and also from surveillance cameras in the centre of town looking out for unsocial behaviour. We will have plenty of that later this evening but as your missing person disappeared during the morning there won’t be much to see other than commuters rushing for trains and buses.” He paused and glanced at the map. “Although your girl lives in the flats fronting Fransician Way the entrance to the flats is on Wolsey Street.” He indicated the location on the map. “She could have taken two routes to the station; one along Franciscan Way to Princess Street and then the bridge over the River Orwell or down Wolsey Street to Commercial Road and then over the bridge. The police only checked camera footage along those two routes from apartment to the railway stat...”

“If she was going to the station,” I interrupted.

He gave me a quizzical look “Any reason to believe she wasn’t going to the station?”

“Only that she wasn’t seen on any of the cameras en route to Ipswich station.”

“So you will have to cast your net a little wider than the local Bobbies did?”

“I might as well re-check the footage along routes to the station, it has been known for a viewer to blink at the wrong time and miss the quarry.”

Cleggy nodded. “That’s true, but can I make a suggestion?”

“Of course, you may. You are the expert when it comes to CCTV surveillance.”

He smiled and then handed me a USB. “This is the footage from the traffic camera slap bang in front of Ipswich rail station at the junction of Princess Street and Burrell Road. Just check the footage on this drive rather than trawl through the footage en route from her apartment to the station. If the girl got to the station she will be on this camera.”

“Thanks, Cleggy,” I said and slotted the USB into the PC.

“I’ll leave you to it, Ajay, and go and rally my troops. I’ll be back in about half an hour with a coffee.”

I sat and watched camera footage for the next thirty minutes which gave me an insight into the vagrancies of Ipswich’s traffic flow but did not reveal where Kate Hodge went after leaving her apartment.

I sighed; there was no sign of Kate Hodge so it was going to be a case of searching all the camera footage from Ipswich town centre. I looked at my watch; Deb’s dinner party would just be starting and I had an overpowering desire to hear Maddy’s voice. I could ring her and wish her a safe journey for the morning, which would be a good enough excuse to talk to her if only for half a minute. I pulled my mobile out of my pocket and started keying in Maddy’s number. “Sod it,” I said aloud, “the battery’s buggered again!” Just then Cleggy re-entered the room and saw me looking at my mobile and cursing.

“What’s wrong, Ajay, did she hang up on you?”

I explained what the problem was with my phone and he took a closer look at my mobile.

“Blimey, where did you get this antique? It looks like the model Noah had on the ark! It should be in the Victoria and Albert Museum rather than the pocket of a CID sergeant. I can get you a brand new Super Galaxy Series Eight, ready for 5 G and with more apps than you can shake a stick at for less than half the normal retail price.”

I shook my head, “I’m a copper Cleggy. I can’t be seen with knocked off gear.”

He laughed fit to bust. “Bugger me, Ajay, you don’t half have a great sense of humour. Most of the coppers in the EAC have one of my Super Galaxy mobiles. They are all kosher and haven’t fallen out of a shipping container. All electrical gear imported into the UK has to be of a particular standard, safety wise. The customs at Felixstowe sometimes ban a shipment of electrical goods for failing the x-ray emission test and then the shipment has to be returned to the place of origin. The importer doesn’t want to pay for the return so sells the shipment dead cheap to my supplier.”

“I don’t want any sub-standard mobile...”

“Don’t be daft, Ajay. There’s nothing wrong with the goods. It’s a scam, and a nice have nice little earner for the custom officers, for my supplier, and for me and my customers. The only losers are the manufacturers and as they are making billions they don’t miss a couple of grand every so often. So, if you want a new mobile, or a fifty inch plasma screen TV, a microwave oven, vacuum cleaner, or a dildo, at any time...”

“Dildo?”

“Yeah, one of my most popular lines. The Mighty Quinn is made from a rubber substitute and has got not only a revolving and oscillating head but it can be filled with a gel that when heated expands the girth of the dildo. The ladies love it, especially when at a certain temperature the gel liquidifys and spurts like spunk into the user’s twat or arse, depending on the user’s sex and proclivities.” Cleggy gave a Mad magazine cover sort of grin. “Actually the last batch I sold did have some defective items among them that gave their users electric shocks. I was then inundated with requests for faulty dildos. One highly delighted customer told me the electric shock gave her an orgasm that was off the Richter Scale!” He beamed at me with the confident and sincere air of a career politician.

“I don’t believe you, Cleggy. You’re winding me up.”

“It’s all jannock, Ajay. Scout’s honour.”

“You were never a Boy Scout?”

“I was for a while, until I got dismissed with ignominy.”

“What happened?” I asked, expecting more blether and blarney, and not being disappointed.

“You know the saying, ‘boys scout, girls guide’? Well, I was scouting, and my todger was being guided by Mavis Bottomley’s soft and gentle hand into her hairless Girl Guide minge when the Scout Leader caught us behind the Scout hut. He went ape shit, I think he was pissed off that someone other than him was holding my woggle, and I got black balled; actually I had blue balls and...”

“Now I know you are pulling my pisser, Cleggy.”

He laughed, “Well, maybe elaborating just a bit, but I can get you a new mobile for less than half price.”

“I’ll think about it, Cleggy. Scout’s honour, and I kept my woggle intact when I was a scout!”

He laughed then sat down and opened his desk drawer for his whisky. Cleggy had been as good as his word and had brought me in a coffee. I sat back from the PC screen and supped an indifferent Americano, foregoing a drop of the hard stuff from Cleggy’s proffered bottle.

“How come you know Bruno Beddoes and are prepared to do all this extra work for him?” I asked.

Cleggy drained his Scotch flavoured coffee before replying. “I was Bruno’s sergeant back in the day, and he bailed me out of the shit when I was up before the Chief Superintendent on a disciplinary. Bruno was economical with the truth, which got me a reprimand rather than dismissal without a pension.” He saw my quizzical look. “What offence committed by a serving copper can get him dismissed with no pension?”

“Assaulting someone in custody. Falsifying evidence. Being drunk on duty. Shagging on duty...”

“That’s the one. I was something of a minge-hound in my younger days and would jump on a frog if it stopped hopping long enough and was female. Bruno went out on a limb for me and put himself at risk when questioned by the Chief Super concerning my absence from the station. My Chief Inspector was furious when I got off with a reprimand - it was his wife I had been shagging - and I knew he would do his best, or worst, to get me dismissed. Fortunately, a few months after my reprimand I got injured on duty and could retire with a disability pension. I got a job in the control room at police HQ and when this position became vacant with Ipswich Borough Council I got the job. If it hadn’t been for Bruno I would have been dismissed without a pension or a chance of a proper job and now be some underpaid security guard on permanent midnight shift at a slaughterhouse.”

I brought us back to the job in hand. “There was no sign of Kate Hodge on the traffic camera footage from outside the railway station,” I said. “We will have to check in the other directions she might have gone.”

“The bus station!” Cleggy exclaimed. “She might have caught a bus to Bury. God knows why when there are trains every half hour during the morning rush.” He picked up a USB, checked the ID and slotted it into the PC. “There are no traffic lights on the roads around the Old Cattle Market, which is now the bus station, so there are no traffic cameras but there are several surveillance cameras in the area to pick up on any anti-social behaviour in the evenings. This one is at the junction of Silent Street and Old Cattle Market Lane. She could easily have walked from Wolsey Street to Cutler Street and then along Silent Street to the bus station. What time did she leave her apartment block?”

Fortunately, I had jotted down the information in my notebook. “She’s timed as leaving the flats at 0825.55,” I said.

“It’s about five hundred metres from her flats to the junction. Assuming she walked at two miles an hour she should be on camera at about 0835.” He fast-forwarded the footage from 0825 to 0835. Kate must have been walking faster than two miles an hour as she appeared in the shot at 0832.46.

“She’s pretty fit,” I commented, awestruck that Cleggy had been correct as to where Kate was headed.

“Not ‘arf,” Cleggy said with a leer. “Well tasty and fit!”

He replaced the USB with another one. “This is from the surveillance camera at the bus station.” He explained. “With her quick pace, she should show up in seconds.”

But she didn’t. Five minutes passed and there was no sign of the fast striding Kate at the bus station.

“Sod it,” Cleggy swore, “she must have stopped for a coffee or something.”

“Or maybe she wasn’t going to the bus station,” I suggested.

He nodded and perused the map. “There’s a set of traffic lights at the junction of Lower Brook Street and Tacket Street.” He pointed on the map. “I’ll dig out the USB for that one and see if we pick her up.” He entered the control room and I saw him talking to one of the operators at a desk. When he returned a few minutes later he had a smile on his face and a USB in his hand. “The traffic lights are about a hundred and fifty metres from the surveillance camera in Silent Street so she should show up a couple of minutes later.” He put the USB in the slot and fast-forwarded the footage. At 0833.22 Kate appeared heading east along Tacket Street, and the camera caught her turning left into Tacket Street car park.

“Gotcha!” I said. “Do we have camera footage from the car park?”

“National Car Parks have control of the cameras, although we can ask to view them. Usually takes a few days.” Cleggy noted my glum face and grinned. “However there’s an IBC surveillance camera covering the car park looking out for vandals, carjackers, and any other manifestations of anti-social behaviour. You’d be surprised how many couples think they’re out of sight when shagging in the back seat of a car. Some of the things I’ve seen since being on this job have been quite an education!”

He removed the USB from the PC and slotted in another. He fast-forwarded it and I saw Kate entering the car park and walk towards a light grey coloured van.

“Is that a Vivaro?” I exclaimed in surprise.

“All them panel vans look alike to me, Ajay, but the registration number is BM03ZSA.”

“She’s getting in!” My voice rose in surprise and amazement as I watched Kate Hodge climb into the passenger side of a van that I believed was used in abducting females. The van started off and exited right into Tacker Street, time 0838.52. “It’s going back towards Lower Brook Street.”

Cleggy reinserted the USB with the footage from the traffic light camera at the junction of Lower Brook Street and Tacket Street, and we saw the van turn right into Lower Brook Street.

“Where’s the next camera?” I asked Cleggy.

He sighed. “Nothing along Lower Brook Street, and anything beyond will be on the Ring Road -- the A1214/A1189.”

“And with the Highway Authority. –Bugger – bugger – bugger! I had hoped to track the van to its base. I’m pretty certain it is the same van seen near to where three other girls disappeared. No bother, I will get my DCI to put in a formal application to the Highway Authority for all relevant camera footage.” I got up from the desk. “Can I have a copy of all the footage showing Kate, from her leaving her apartment block until getting into the van, and of the van leaving the car park and entering Lower Brook Street?”

“No sooner said than done,” said Cleggy, and a few keystrokes later I had all the relevant footage of Kate Hodge in Ipswich on a USB.

“You’ve got the number plate details; you can find the owner from that,” Cleggy said.

“They’re false plates I’m afraid,” I said. “But thanks for all your help, Cleggy. At least I can tie in Kate’s disappearance with the three other girls.”

Cleggy walked me to the door. “I’ll give you a lift back to the station and put in an order of fish and chips for --” He stopped in mid-sentence.” I nearly forgot I’ve got some stuff belonging to Kate Hodge to give you. It was in her car at the MOT garage.”

After two weeks languishing at the Tip Top Garage waiting to be collected Kate’s vehicle was taken to the IBC car-pound. The garage owner was an old friend of Arthur Clegg and had handed him the contents of the glove compartment for Cleggy to hand in to the police. Cleggy had either forgotten or couldn’t be bothered and it was only when Bruno Beddoes had contacted him concerning the camera footage he recalled the package was still in his desk.

He handed me an A4 sized padded envelope. “I don’t know what it contains but there might be something useful.”