by Carol Wyer
Lucy read out what she’d uncovered. ‘Scott Vidal, aged twenty-two, lives in Newcastle-under-Lyme. He’s a sales rep for a heating company. Felix Conway, aged thirty-three, lives in Burslem, Stoke-on-Trent, and works at CRV Commercials as a yard shunter.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Natalie.
‘I think it’s to do with loading and offloading vehicles,’ said Ian, dragging his attention from the singles website, where he was still searching for any profiles using Fran’s or Hattie’s faces or details.
Lucy continued, ‘Henry Warburton is forty-five, lives in Sutton Coldfield and is an accountant at an engineering company in Birmingham. One thing though, he’s married. It seems he has a wife of ten years and three children. Naughty Henry being on a dating website when he isn’t actually single, although I bet he isn’t the only person to do that.’
After a while, Ian gave a weary sigh. ‘I can’t find photos of Hattie or Fran.’
Natalie glanced across at Lucy, leaning on her elbows, staring at the screen and Ian, head back against his chair. They both looked totally drained. She was reminded that both were not only police officers but parents, and recalled what it had been like for her with young children at home. She’d hated missing a moment with them. She ordered them home for some sleep. Ian wouldn’t get the chance to see his daughter today, but baby Aurora might be up soon for a feed, and no doubt Lucy would like a little time with her daughter. She knew she’d give anything to have a few minutes with hers again.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tuesday, 20 November – Morning
Natalie only managed a short nap, but combined with a long, hot shower, it was sufficient to revive her for the day ahead. Josh was still asleep when she was ready to leave the flat to return to HQ, and rather than disturb him, she left a note propped up against the cereal box, telling him that she’d definitely be home that evening and would text him later in the day. She reflected it was no life for a child – even one who’d turned seventeen. She couldn’t be out all hours and leave him alone, yet what was the alternative? She could no longer rely on David, who’d always been there for both Leigh and Josh, or Eric, who’d babysat them when they were younger.
For the second time in only a few hours, she drove to Castergate, following lorries and vans along the main A-road past retail parks and estates that gradually thinned out and gave way to meadows through which meandered brown rivers, swollen by the recent rain. Small flocks of sheep grazed in undulating fields that were topped by farms and numerous outbuildings. Natalie paid no attention to the cows that watched from their lengthy byre and chewed methodically as she sped by, her mind on David. She turned off the main road and headed though the village of Brighterly, where a small group of children wearing school uniform were gathered under a bus shelter. Her eyes searched them hungrily although she knew her daughter wasn’t among them. It was an itch waiting to be scratched. They attended Leigh’s school and no doubt some of them had known her daughter.
It was only three miles to Castergate but she eased off on the accelerator. Seeing the schoolchildren had knocked her for six. She didn’t want to return to the house where they’d lived as a family, or have to confront David again. She was tired of the hostility. She wanted a chance to heal but these reminders of the past tugged at her and prevented her from moving on. She reasoned that she could have let one of the team speak to David and that she didn’t have to punish herself this way. Yet she knew she would. Just like she had to look at the schoolchildren who were waiting for the bus to go to the school that Leigh and Zoe had attended. She had to see this through. Her stomach lifted and sank, as if on a rollercoaster ride, as she drove over the hump-backed bridge that crossed over a muddy canal. She passed several cream-coloured cottages that fronted the road and had, over the years, turned charcoal from the ground upwards to mid-point, thanks to the passing traffic. She rounded the bend and came across the place-name sign for Castergate, twinned with a village in France she’d never visited, and turned onto the road where she had lived. Once more she parked behind David’s Volvo. She turned off the engine, picked up the file and opened the door. This was going to be very difficult but she’d be fine. She’d lived through worse – far worse – the last few months.
David answered the door only after she pressed the doorbell continuously for several minutes. He didn’t invite her in or speak; his lips pressed together so hard they turned white. Natalie asked if she could speak to him inside but he refused.
‘David, I haven’t come to fight. I’ve come to tell you I believe you aren’t involved in any of this. You asked me to help clear your name and I am. I want this to end.’
He stared at her briefly, then with a quiet, ‘Come in,’ he opened the door and shuffled ahead of her. The house smelt lemon-fresh. The kitchen was spick and span, tops clear of clutter and the floor shining. David, or somebody, had been cleaning. He reached for the kettle. ‘You want a cup of tea?’
‘Please.’
She took a seat at the table covered by a yellow checked tablecloth – a present from Eric and his girlfriend, Pam – and tried hard not to look around the familiar surroundings as he ran the water and hunted for the teapot. He moved deliberately and slowly as if it was all a huge effort. Once he’d set up, he spoke. ‘I lied.’
‘Lied about what?’
‘The woman last night. It was Rowena who was here. She came over to tell me she’d seen you at the cemetery and that you’re the person who’s been laying flowers on Zoe’s and Leigh’s graves. We had a glass of wine. We talked about the girls. We cried. We drank some more. She went home soon after you left. There’s absolutely nothing going on between us. She’s having as much difficulty as me, processing what’s happened. I was angry with you. I was pissed off you didn’t believe me after all these years. I shouldn’t have said what I did on the phone.’
She opened the folder that lay on the table. ‘I had your DNA processed quickly and there’s no trace of it on either victim.’
‘It’s not conclusive proof though, is it? People manage to commit murders and not leave DNA behind.’ He poured the boiled water into the pot and swilled it around then emptied it down the sink.
‘If you give me the keys to your car, we might be able to prove once and for all that you were nowhere near the crime scenes.’
‘How?’
‘We’ll examine the satnav. It’ll show when the car moved and where you travelled.’
He spooned in loose tea and then filled the pot with water. David had always been the tea maker. There was something comforting about watching him perform the practised actions. He brought it across and placed it on the table.
‘Thank you.’ His words carried more than gratitude. They indicated a truce had been made. Whether or not it would stay in place was another matter. He brought mugs and a jug of milk and set them down before sitting to join her. He hesitated, opened his mouth and shut it again.
‘You want to tell me something.’
His squeezed his eyelids to prevent tears spilling and uttered a low, ‘Yes. No.’
‘What is it? What aren’t you telling me?’
‘I… nothing.’ He opened his eyes again. ‘There’s nothing. I’m sorry. You’ll uncover the truth.’
‘What truth?’ She searched for an answer but he was already retreating into himself. He had a secret and he wasn’t going to divulge it no matter what she said.
‘That I’m not responsible for the deaths. I’m not. You’ll see. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?’ He lowered his gaze again. There was more but he wasn’t sharing it. He blinked several times and mumbled, ‘I’m so fucking unhappy.’
‘I know. I am too.’
‘I don’t know where to go from here, Natalie. I can’t find my feet.’
She couldn’t think of a suitable response, and when he inhaled deeply and set about pouring the tea, she was relieved. The moment had passed and she wouldn’t have to offer any advice or words of comfort.
David con
tinued talking. ‘I think it’s best if Josh stays with you for the time being. Once we sell the house and I move, maybe he can reconsider.’
‘That sounds okay to me.’
‘Then that’s how we’ll leave it for the moment.’ He raised his mug and sipped the steaming liquid. It was a beginning. That was all she needed for now.
Murray sat on one of the hard chairs next to the angular desk. Opposite him was Scott Vidal, one of the men who’d met Gemma/Maisie online. He was a tiny, pencil-thin man with a long face, cropped straw-coloured hair and one blue and one brown eye. None of the men Gemma/Maisie had matched with looked alike, but Scott seemed an unlikely choice for the young woman. His stutter was light, brought on by the anxiety of the situation. Murray tried not to intimidate him too much.
‘You’re a sales rep?’
‘That’s c-c-correct. I sell heating components to businesses, not individuals.’
‘I understand you actually attended Samford University in 2016 to study Electronics. Why did you drop out?’
‘Pressure. I wasn’t up to the c-c-course. I failed my first-year exams.’
‘Did you live on campus?’
‘Yes. I was in one of the b-blocks.’
‘Did you ever meet anyone called Fran Ditton?’
‘I-I don’t know the name.’
Murray passed over a photograph. Scott shook his head. Murray passed across another, this one of Hattie. Scott squinted at it.
‘I know her face. I’ve seen her somewhere.’
‘Hattie Caldwell. Does the name ring a bell?’
Scott shook his head.
‘You joined the dating website three months ago. Did you get many matches?’
‘A couple.’
‘I’m interested in this person – Maisie Simpson.’ Murray handed him the photo of Gemma.
Scott’s eyes narrowed. ‘She’s a fake.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s a c-c-catfisher.’
‘Can you elaborate?’
‘She wanted money.’
‘Can you tell me about what happened?’
Scott released a sigh and prepared to unburden himself. ‘I thought Maisie really liked me. I’d recently come out of a long-term relationship and my c-confidence was shot to hell. A friend suggested I sign up to the site and meet somebody to bring me out of my shell. She was my first match. We got on well. She suggested we swap emails.’ He paused to conjure up the right explanation. ‘To send photos of each other, talk more freely.’
‘Did you exchange telephone numbers?’
‘No and I admit I was suspicious about that, but she was really lovely and understood what I was going through – I didn’t want it to stop. I continued to email her. She kept answering. Eventually, I suggested we meet up. She was going to drive to Newcastle, and we agreed if the date went well, we’d swap phone numbers. I sorted out a pub in the centre of town and sent her details of how to get there, and she seemed excited about it all. The day before we were due to get together, she emailed saying she was feeling really low and couldn’t meet up. Her grandmother was being kicked out of her care home, where she’d been living for the last year, because the money had run out and Maisie hadn’t got enough income to keep her there. She’d talked a lot about her grandmother. The old lady had brought her up after her parents were killed. That was when I became suspicious it was all a scam. I wrote back and said how sorry I was. She replied, asking if I could loan her the money to help keep her grandmother in the home. She promised she’d pay me back every month. I saw through it. She was only after money. She was never going to meet me. I told her I couldn’t help.’
It rang alarm bells for Murray. Fran had a grandmother who was in a home, and he wondered if Fran had set up the profile. ‘What happened next?’
‘She stopped emailing me immediately. I didn’t try to contact her again.’
‘Did you report this to the dating website?’
He dropped his head. ‘I figured the website organisers would get other complaints about her and would deal with her – if it was even a woman. It could have been some bloke emailing me from a foreign country. I felt such a prize wanker. Fancy getting taken in like that!’
‘You didn’t message her again?’
‘No.’
‘Did she ever call herself anything other than Maisie?’
‘No.’
‘Does the name Gemma Barnes mean anything to you?’
Murray watched the man’s face closely but saw only confusion. ‘Gemma? No.’
‘I don’t suppose you have her contact details, do you?’
‘I might still have her email address but I deleted the emails.’ He checked though, his brows furrowed. ‘No, sorry, I deleted it too.’
‘Can you recall the email address?’
‘I don’t remember it.’
‘Would you mind granting us access to your email account in case our technicians can retrieve it?’
‘Sure.’
‘Thank you. A few final questions. Can you tell me your whereabouts for Friday evening at about seven?’
‘I was at home with my mother.’
‘You live with your mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘And she can vouch for you?’
‘Definitely.’
‘How about Saturday evening?’
‘I was at a friend’s birthday party at his house.’
‘From what time?’
‘Seven until gone midnight.’
‘And you have people there who can vouch for you?’
‘Yes. I can give you names. I was one of the last to leave.’
‘And Sunday afternoon?’
‘Cycling. I’m a member of ZippyFit cycling club. We were out most of the afternoon.’
Murray made a note and thanked the man. It appeared Gemma, or more likely the person using her photo, was a catfisher as they’d suspected. It was now a question of finding out who it was.
Natalie had swapped cars with David and driven his Volvo to work. The keys were with Ralph, who’d assured her he’d be able to download and examine all the routes David had driven over the last few days. She was fairly confident that the perpetrator was to be found elsewhere, and that should the media decide to press further, they’d be unlikely to hound her ex. If she could speak to the men who’d contacted Gemma/Maisie, she might be able to offer the journalists more information that would appease them and move the focus away from Dan’s announcement that a man in his late forties was helping them with their enquiries. The office was very quiet with only Ian at his desk.
‘Where are Murray and Lucy?’ she asked.
‘Murray’s interviewing Scott Vidal, one of the guys who might have dated Gemma, and Lucy’s popped into town on a personal errand. Henry Warburton, one of the other guys Gemma/Maisie matched with, is waiting in interview room D, and Felix Conway should be here shortly.’
‘Right. I’ll talk to Henry then.’
‘Here are his notes. He isn’t on our system for any misdemeanours or offences. There’s some basic information and transcripts of conversations between him and Gemma/Maisie before they took their activities off-site. Looked like they were getting along famously and were planning to meet up,’ he replied, waving a manila file.
Natalie took it and glanced through the highlighted sections of text. ‘Definitely reads that way. Maybe they did. I’ll see what he has to say for himself.’ She bounded out of the office with renewed energy.
Dan was at the top of the stairs, eyes trained on her as she approached. ‘Morning, Natalie. Any updates for me?’
‘Hopefully later. I’m about to interview somebody in connection with the attack on Gemma.’
‘And what about the person helping you with your enquiries?’ he asked cautiously.
‘I think we can say he is in the clear, sir, although we are waiting on one last piece of evidence to prove he was not involved in any way.’
He gave a reptilian blink and replied with, �
��As we suspected then. Make sure you give me a progress report as soon as possible. I want to keep the media placated.’
He turned lightly on his toes and disappeared up the stairs, the backs of his shining brogues flashing briefly in the morning light streaming through the full-length windows that made the building unbearably warm in summer months. She muttered under her breath. The sodding man was getting on her nerves, and she wondered how far he’d go and who else he’d throw to the press to keep them happy.
Henry Warburton wore an expression of concern and bounced up as if on a coiled spring when Natalie appeared, his hand extended. His fingers barely brushed against her flesh but left behind a moist residue. She resisted the urge to wipe her palm dry and instead sat down to conduct the interview. Henry perched on his seat, vulture-like, regarding her intently down a prominent hooked nose.
‘Mr Warburton, thank you for coming in. You do know why you’re here, don’t you?’
‘Yes, it’s about the woman I met online. She called herself Maisie.’
‘That’s right but we’re certain that wasn’t her real name. I have some transcripts here. They’re messages between the pair of you on Special Ones dot com. You stopped using the site for communicating. Is that correct?’
‘Yes. The site is a neutral ground and a safe place, if you like, but she felt confident enough in our relationship to move on.’
Natalie laid out her notes, the transcripts visible. She ran a finger down them. ‘So I see. In fact, I note she says in one of her last messages to you, “I think we’re ready to take the next step, aren’t we?” and you reply, “I’m up for it. What do you suggest? Swap phone numbers?” Did you exchange numbers?’
‘No. She wasn’t keen on that idea. She suggested email addresses.’
‘Why was that? That’s not much different to messaging on the site.’
