Bayliss & Calladine Box Set

by Helen H. Durrant

  There was a lot at stake here. And hadn’t he already arranged to meet up with the doc in the Wheatsheaf? If he saw Amy then he’d have to cry off, but if he wriggled out of seeing her then what could he use as an excuse? She’d see right through him.

  When he got back, Ruth and Rocco were still out. Joyce had her head glued to her computer screen and a tall man with blondish hair was leaning over Imogen as they both studied the contents of a file. Calladine looked at him quizzically for a moment or two. Who was this?

  “Guv, er, DI Calladine!” Imogen called out when she saw him. “Come and join us!”

  “I’ll just dump my stuff!” he called back, indicating his office. He had to lose the coat but most of all he had to lock the box safely away in his desk drawer. Then he went back into the main office to meet Imogen’s guest.

  “This is DI Greco,” she told Calladine with a big smile.

  So this was the new detective who was causing such a stir at Oldston. The one who seemed to be making quite an impression on Imogen too.

  “DI Stephen Greco,” offered the man, holding out his hand.

  Calladine shook it warmly. “Tom Calladine. Nice to meet you, Steve. I’ve heard a little about you already — putting them to shame over there I’m told.”

  “It’s Stephen,” he corrected, expressionless. “A fresh pair of eyes, you know how it is. I’ve looked over one or two outstanding cases and spotted things that hadn’t been seen before. Upset a couple of the old timers but I can’t help that. I’m not here to make friends.”

  His attitude made that obvious enough. Calladine felt as if he’d had his wrist slapped over the name thing. Ruth had said that Greco was a bit of a loner and meticulous in his approach. Seems she was right. His colleagues must be worn down with his constant rechecking of the evidence. But if he got results, well, that’s what mattered.

  The effort and the attitude had evidently paid off. Calladine guessed he was in his mid-thirties, and he was already a DI. But if he really was ambitious, then he’d need to work on his social skills.

  “That’s not a local accent,” Calladine remarked.

  “I transferred from East Anglia — Norfolk,” he bestowed a rare smile upon Calladine. “But villainy is villainy wherever you go.”

  “Norfolk. Flat with cornfields. I went there once on a boating holiday.”

  “I would never have left but the job demands it.” He chose to ignore Calladine’s attempt at more personal conversation. “If you want to get on, that is.”

  “Got your family with you?”

  Greco merely nodded. A story there, Calladine decided.

  “Your DC here has really got something,” he said bringing the conversation back to the case. “She’s spotted the obvious clue that my lot missed entirely. Look — both mothers of the missing girls had Facebook accounts and both were befriended by the same person at more or less the same time. This person who calls herself Gail.”

  Calladine didn’t do Facebook so he’d no idea how this friendship thing worked.

  “People simply ask to be your friend. If you accept then they can see what you put out there — text, photos, everything,” Imogen explained, knowing he’d be baffled. “Stalking has never been easier.” This was said with far too much flippancy for comfort.

  “Why would people do that?” Calladine didn’t understand. “Why would you let a complete stranger into your life like that and give them access to family photos? Do we know who this Gail is?”

  “No,” Greco replied. “And don’t be misled. Gail is most likely a man masquerading as a woman. The profile they’ve set up is scanty at best and there’s no proper photo, just a cartoon avatar.”

  He might as well be speaking in a foreign language.

  “So you think ‘Gail’ is a man, but you’ve no proof?” That didn’t sound like the Greco he’d heard about.

  “Experience, Inspector,” Greco assured him. “This person is looking for small children, particularly blonde-haired girls between four and six years old. Both Isla Prideau and Leah Cassidy fit the profile.”

  “So how do we catch the bastard?”

  Calladine groaned inwardly as Stephen Greco shot him a look that plainly said he disapproved of such language. He’d have to work with this sod from time to time. Just what he needed.

  “We find out who the account belongs to — really belongs to. We trace the service provider and then the IP address. I’ll get on with it and keep you posted.”

  He turned to Imogen. She got a smile, Calladine noticed. “I’m grateful for your help. Don’t worry, we’ll get this one. The odds are stacking up against him now.”

  “Hold on, Inspector. Isla Prideau is our case. She disappeared from our patch and for all we know this Gail person operates from Leesworth too.”

  There was no way Calladine was simply going to let this new guy run off with his case. Clever though he might be Greco needed to learn some manners.

  “This is no time to get parochial, DI Calladine. The girls need finding and you don’t have the time or the resources, so be sensible. I’ll continue the investigation and keep you informed.” And with that, he left the station.

  Calladine disliked the man extremely. He was pushy and he seemed to think no one else was as capable as he was. Well, he’d just have to learn.

  “Imogen, set up our own incident board for the missing girls — stick on everything we’ve got.”

  “Won’t that be stepping on toes, sir?”

  “Too bloody right it will, but I’m not bothered. Are you?”

  Chapter 11

  “If there’s anything you or Jane don’t want just sell it on,” Harriet suggested. “Make a bob or two. I’m sure you’ve no objection to that, have you, Gordon?”

  They were standing in Lessing’s kitchen. Harriet was sipping on the mug of hot coffee he’d just handed her. He hadn’t joined her but instead was looking through a pile of letters. He was in his shirtsleeves and lightweight trousers. Dressed like that, he’d soon get very cold in that cellar of his.

  “It’s good of you to bring them over,” he conceded, looking up. “Jane will be very grateful that you thought of her. She’s a sentimental girl.” He smiled.

  She’d have got that from her mother, Harriet thought. She doubted Lessing had ever had a sentimental or compassionate thought in his entire life. Harriet wondered if she could have found it in her heart to forgive him if she hadn’t been going to die. She shuddered. What he’d done to Sybil was bad enough, but the children — that was something else, and he’d been at it for ages. The gang he worked for were clever; they arranged for children to be taken from many different localities, the UK, the continent, and so far no one had joined up the dots. Harriet read the local papers. She knew two kids had gone missing from around here, and she had no doubt that Lessing was responsible. No, she could never forgive the cruel bastard, not if she lived to be a hundred.

  “I’ve left the stuff in a box in the boot of my car,” she lied. “I’ll get it for you later. Could I have a look at what props you’ve got first?”

  “Sure — everything’s downstairs in the cellar. I keep meaning to sort it out, exhibit some of the pieces properly in the spare room upstairs, but I never seem to get round to it.”

  “You’ve certainly got plenty of room,” she said, looking around. “The house must seem very empty without . . . well, without Sybil, and with Jane being away at college such a lot.”

  “I get by.” He smiled. “Nothing else I can do, is there?”

  Who was he kidding? The way things were now would suit him perfectly. There was no one to bother him or interrupt his pursuits. But it would work in her favour because no one would miss him — not for a while anyway.

  Gordon Lessing lived in a huge house on the outskirts of Leesdon. It stood on its own in a large garden bounded by a six foot stone wall. It was a perfect place in which to get forgotten — and that was exactly what was going to happen. Once she got him down those cellar steps he wouldn’t
come up again. Gordon Lessing would breathe his last in the cold and dark, just like her sister. In abject agony.

  “How are you doing anyway? You don’t look so good; the treatment is it?”

  “Yes, chemo is wretched, but the prognosis is good,” she lied.

  He gave a nod and put his mail back on the dresser and the empty mug in the sink.

  “Come on, then, we’ll take a look,” he said, leading the way. “It’s all been down there for ages. Everything’s a bit old and dusty, and you’ll have to take it away yourself in your car,” he told her. “So don’t go choosing anything too big.”

  Harriet clutched her shopping bag tight as she carefully made her way down the steep, stone steps. She didn’t want to fall. He’d put a light on but the enclosed space still looked dark and there was a musty smell. Obviously not much fresh air got in here.

  “Where do we start?” Harriet asked looking at the array of different sized boxes piled up all over the floor. “Do any of these contain costumes?”

  “There’s some over there.” He pointed to a long wooden trunk. “I can’t vouch for the condition but with a wash they should be fine. The boxes in that far corner have some magician’s tricks in them — worth a look, take what you want from them.”

  “Do you have a torch, Gordon? Even with the light on it’s still difficult to see.”

  He was lurking near the steps — she wanted him to come in and help. She needed him in the centre of the room, where there was a large free area on the floor. That’s where he’d lie when she’d finished with him, unable to move or to summon help. She placed her bag down beside the trunk, making sure the zipper along the top was fastened tight. The bag contained everything she’d need to keep him in here, so she didn’t want him peeking.

  “This trunk is heavy. Could you give me a hand?”

  Finally he was beside her. He handed her a large torch in a heavy metal case as he prepared to help — just what she needed.

  “I’m expecting an important call,” he explained, placing his mobile phone on a shelf. “My business phone. I need to keep it handy. I could have somewhere to go at short notice — a new customer.”

  The two girls? she wondered. The icy cold was making her feel sick; nonetheless she’d have to keep up the act.

  “There’s some great stuff in here — the theatre company will be thrilled. It’s very good of you to let us borrow them, Gordon,” she trilled. “D’you think you could pull it out from the wall so I can get a better look?”

  He bent over, grabbing the edge of the trunk. Now she had him. He was overweight, out of condition. The act of bending down rendered him off balance. He was hunkered down on his toes fishing around in the trunk. One blow and he’d be on the ground.

  Harriet gripped the torch tight and raised it high. She’d get one shot at this. Lessing might be fat but he was a big man and stronger than her. If she failed then he’d have her. If that happened it would be her lying cold and forgotten down here.

  With all the strength she could muster Harriet brought the torch crashing down against his head. He wobbled for a moment and then fell heavily to the floor on his side. He wasn’t quite out of it, more stunned, so she didn’t have long.

  Harriet hit him again, this time a lot harder. Rage made her strong. The thing fell apart in her hand. He groaned and rolled onto his back — perfect.

  She kicked out and hit him in the shins. She hated this man with a passion. Although it had been quite a blow, Harriet wasn’t that strong, so he’d most likely come round again soon. She took a cable tie, a strong thick one, from her bag and fastened both his wrists together. He mumbled something, his body jolting as he tried to move. Harriet stood back, staring at the injured man. The only way to ensure he couldn’t escape was to do his legs. She had to make him immobile.

  She took the rope from her bag and bound his ankles together. It was done. She had him. It was just a shame that he didn’t realise what was about to happen to him.

  Harriet hummed to herself as she picked through the boxes looking for something to use on his legs. She needed something to hit him with. Poor Sybil had suffered with a broken leg for days before she was found. The same fate must befall him. It was the least she could do now — so she needed to find something heavy to hit his knees with.

  Do it, the voice urged. Do it now before he tries to escape. You’ll never get another chance like this — take it!

  The voice was such a comfort — always on her side. Harriet looked around and noticed a crowbar lying amongst a pile of rusting tools. She picked it up, and it sat cold and heavy in the palm of her hand. She could do this. She had to do this; the voice demanded it.

  Harriet raised the thing high with both hands. She aimed for his right kneecap and then closed her eyes.

  Despite her weakened state the blow was strong with the hate behind it, and it landed with a dull sort of thud on his leg. She heard the thud and then a crack, and the room was alive with his shrieks as Gordon Lessing screamed in agony.

  “Stop! What the fuck . . . ?” His garbled words were intermingled with gasps of pain. “Let me go! Come on, woman, have you gone mad?” He screamed again, and Harriet smiled. The pain must be unbearable.

  She could see blood seeping through his trousers and there was a small pool forming on the floor where he lay. He was still yelping and swearing.

  “Shush, Gordon, you need to listen to me. You’re injured quite badly and I don’t think you’re going to make it. In fact I know you’re not going to make it.” She smiled down at him.

  His terrified shriek nearly deafened her.

  “Whatever this is about, we can sort it.” He shot the words at her between gasps for breath.

  “This is for Sybil.” Her face wore a look of satisfaction as she took the crow-bar to his other knee.

  Then Gordon Lessing lost consciousness. Harriet took a long silk scarf from the costumes box and wrapped it tight around his mouth. She was exhausted. All her strength had gone into the effort and the hate. She needed to rest now. She’d come back later to make sure he was still suffering.

  But she’d done it, and it was no more than he deserved, the heartless bastard. She felt nothing — no pity, no remorse. Why was that? She wasn’t a killer.

  It was the illness. The cancer had not only eaten away at her body but it had also corroded all inhibition and all conscience. She could kill without guilt. What a power that was, she realised with a sudden rush of joy.

  The phone, Harriet, take his phone, the voice urged. Good idea. She doubted he’d be able to reach it, but she shouldn’t take any chances. Snatching it from the shelf, she put it in her bag.

  Chapter 12

  “I’ve got something, sir,” Imogen told Calladine excitedly. “Jayden North — you know, Albert North’s nephew — he found the body on the common? Well, he’s awaiting trial for breaking into Tariq Ahmed’s car. Apparently he was looking for drugs.”

  Now that was something, but what did it mean? If the boy had a beef with Doctor Ahmed what did that have to do with his uncle ending up dead on the common?

  “Bring him in,” Calladine decided. “Take Rocco with you when he comes back.”

  “They’ve just pulled into the car park. I’ll get my coat.”

  It might be nothing but it was odd nonetheless. What it meant, Calladine could only guess at. But it was a link, and the only one they had, between the North family and Ahmed.

  “You should have come — she’s nice,” Ruth said, sticking her nose around his door.

  “You know why I couldn’t and it’s nothing to do with you know what. Did she say anything, in front of Rocco, I mean?”

  Ruth gave him one of her looks and shook her head.

  “It’s difficult to say whether she knows or not. She didn’t seem surprised to see us and she was perfectly happy to talk. She did admit that they were having an affair, she and the good doctor. It was a secret — apparently Ahmed was coy about announcing it to their colleagues. Samantha Hur
st is a cool cookie though. She showed little emotion and certainly didn’t strike me as being devastated by her lover’s death.”

  “Imogen and Rocco have gone to bring Jayden North in. He broke into Ahmed’s car looking for drugs,” he told her. “I’m sat here trying to piece it together but I can’t make the leap between that and the two deaths.”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t try — perhaps there is no link and it’s simple coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidence, as you well know.”

  Just at that moment Calladine’s mobile rang. It was his daughter, Zoe.

  “What’s going on with you and Lydia?” she began, without even a ‘hello.’ “Only she’s been stuck on our sofa crying her heart out since this morning and I haven’t a clue what to do with her.”

  “I don’t know what you think I can do about it. She walked out on me. It’s not my fault if I don’t come up to expectations. It was her decision to leave — I didn’t tell her to go or anything. She’s in a bad mood, that’s all. She’ll come round.”

  “You really are a piece of work where women are concerned,” said Zoe. He wondered if she’d been talking to Ruth. “Bad mood my . . . well, you know what I mean. You’ve done something, said something, and whatever it is, you’ve really upset her.”

  “She’ll sort herself out, you’ll see. Lydia’s tough. She doesn’t need me, not really.”

  ”Come on, what’s happened? Because it’s plain that something has.”

  “It’s work, that’s all. It gets in the way. She wants to do things and I can’t. I’m up to my eyes in a big case at the moment — late hours, not much fun, you know how it is.”

  “So what do I do with her? She’s mooching about our house like a lost soul. Can’t you come and get her? Buy her something, take her out tonight?”

  “Can’t tonight — like I said, things are heavy at work.”

  At that, he felt Ruth, who was still in his office, rap his arm. Damn the woman — she was worse than a conscience.