Somebody's Daughter

by Carol Wyer

  ‘And you haven’t set eyes on him since he came around to see you, Felicity?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Whitey?’

  ‘No.’ An oven timer pinged and Whitey got to his feet. ‘Sorry. I have to attend to the meal. I’m in charge of cooking tonight. Got to make sure Felicity rests.’

  He left the room and Lucy got to her feet. ‘Thank you for your time. I don’t suppose there’s anything more you can tell me about Rob?’

  Felicity cocked her head to one side slightly, opened her mouth, paused and then said, ‘I never fully understood what came over him and why he tried to rape Lorna. He was always gentle and shy. He and I never even made love. He wanted us to wait until we were married or at least engaged.’

  ‘Was he a virgin?’

  ‘Yes. We both were. He wanted the first time to be really special with someone he’d committed to. He even dropped hints before he left for Africa that when he got back, he’d be making that commitment.’

  Whitey returned with a steaming plate of delicious-smelling food on a tray. ‘You don’t mind if we eat, do you? Only, it’s ready and I don’t want it to dry out.’

  ‘I’m about to go. Thank you again. I’ll see myself out.’

  She left Whitey fussing about his wife and made for the door. Something had happened to Rob during his time in Africa to transform him. Lucy had also been given the impression he was gentle and quiet when she’d spoken to him at the beginning of the case, and when he’d flatly denied having sex with Amelia, his face had scrunched in horror at the thought. Rob the virgin, who’d wanted his first sexual experience to be special, with a woman he loved, and Rob the rapist. It didn’t make sense, and there was something else bugging her: Whitey, who was now married to his best friend’s girlfriend. Although his story about the rape might be true, there was no one who could support it. Lucy had been a police officer long enough to know that people told lies, and the only thing she could rely on was hard evidence, yet in the case of the alleged rape, there was none, not even a victim who could speak out.

  Clusters of flat-faced travellers bunched together under transparent shelters, stooped over mobiles, waiting for their transport to appear. The bus station had recently been modernised, and neon-green writing flashed across information boards next to a glass-fronted, well-lit waiting room for those who had longer waits or preferred to sit out of the cold.

  Murray and Celeste circumnavigated scattered individuals walking aimlessly in front of the building, speaking in hushed voices to invisible people at the other end of a phone. The waiting room was empty apart from one corner, where a person, covered in a black-and-white blanket, was huddled on a seat. Adjacent to it was a brown paper takeaway bag. Murray entered first and approached the figure.

  ‘Excuse me. Are you okay?’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘We’re police officers. Could you remove the blanket and talk to us, please?’

  The voice was male, hoarse and angry. ‘I’m not doing anything wrong.’

  ‘No one’s suggesting you are. We’re searching for a homeless person, Rob Yeomans.’

  The blanket remained fixed in place. ‘Don’t know the name. Leave me alone.’

  ‘Why are you hiding under there?’

  ‘To stop the light from keeping me awake.’

  ‘But you’re talking to me at the moment, not trying to sleep. Drop the blanket.’

  ‘I’m feeling ill. I’m freezing cold. Go away.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere until you remove the blanket and speak to me face to face.’

  ‘I told you, I’m sick.’

  ‘If you’re not well, you should visit a doctor, not hang around the waiting room. This is for travellers.’

  ‘I’m not hurting anyone.’

  ‘You’re using a public facility inappropriately. This place is for those using the buses. By concealing your identity, you’ll raise safety concerns and we’ll have no choice but to take you to the station to ensure you are not a danger to the public.’

  ‘I’m not a fucking danger.’

  Celeste stepped forwards and tugged on the blanket, causing the person to swear and hold fast.

  ‘That’ll do!’ said Murray in a tone leaving nothing to be imagined. ‘Remove it, now!’

  The blanket was dropped to reveal first a filthy beanie hat and then the face of a youth in his late teens. His cheeks were sunken, emphasising his sharp bones, and his eyes were bloodshot pinholes in large grey sockets. The sour smell of bad breath hit them both.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Kirk.’

  ‘Kirk what?’

  ‘Just Kirk.’

  ‘Okay, Just Kirk, how old are you?’

  ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘You got any ID?’

  ‘No, but I am nineteen.’ His voice was croaky, the sign of a cold or worse.

  Murray studied the defiant face. The kid wasn’t much older than sixteen. Still, he wasn’t here to round up homeless people, only one in particular. ‘We’re looking for a tall, big man with long, sandy hair and unusually blue eyes. He sometimes sleeps under Samford Bridge but also uses the centres. Have you seen him recently?’

  The youth stared at them, the initial bravado evaporated now his face was visible. ‘Yeah. I’ve seen him.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah. He looked like a wild man of the woods. You’re right about his eyes though. Really blue. At first, I thought they might have been contact lenses but homeless guys don’t usually wear contacts.’

  ‘Where did you see him?’ asked Murray.

  In spite of the warm waiting room, his teeth chattered a little, another sign of illness. ‘You got any money for a cup of tea?’

  Murray rummaged in his pocket, drew out three one-pound coins, held them out. The youth’s hand snaked out from under the blanket, snatched them and slid back under cover before they could be taken from him. Murray repeated the question, ‘Where did you see the man?’

  ‘The empty warehouse close to the main railway station. I was going to kip there but he came out of nowhere and told me to move on.’

  ‘Why?’

  Kirk wiped his reddened nose with the back of his hand. ‘He heard me coughing and said I was too sick to stay there and I should go to a shelter or drop-in centre. Said he slept there and he didn’t want to listen to me coughing all night long.’

  ‘And you left?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Just upped and went without any fuss?’

  ‘You bet. He was pretty scary; besides, he paid my bus fare here so I didn’t have to walk about in the cold, what with being sick and all.’

  ‘He gave you money for the bus?’

  ‘And he walked to the bus stop with me to make sure the driver let me on.’

  ‘Not so scary after all?’

  ‘No, still scary.’

  ‘Have you any idea what time this all happened?’

  ‘Nah, I don’t own a phone or watch. It was already dark when I went into the warehouse. I’d been there about ten minutes, maybe fifteen, searching for a spot to bed down for the night, when he appeared. Within two or three minutes, he was hustling me to the bus stop. I got here about ten or fifteen minutes ago… I’ve not been here long.’

  ‘Where did you catch the bus?’

  ‘The stop outside the railway station.’

  Murray glanced at the bus timetable on the wall, checking the arrival and departure times for each stop, and calculated Kirk had last seen Rob at the station at around six thirty.

  ‘Did he talk to you while you walked to the bus stop?’

  ‘Yeah. Gave me a lecture about how I shouldn’t be on the streets – that they were dangerous for anyone, especially kids like me. Told me I should think about going back home.’

  ‘Did he talk about himself?’

  ‘Nah. He didn’t say a lot else, just how shitty it was living on the streets.’

  ‘Where are you from, Kirk?’

  ‘Doesn’t m
atter where. I’m not going back there.’

  ‘You got anyone you can contact?’

  ‘Fucking hell. What is this? I told you what you wanted to know, now fuck off and leave me alone.’ The anger was back.

  ‘Okay. There are people who can help you, though. He was right about the shelters and there are charities for homeless people like you. Go to Deaver Road and ask at the shelter there. It’s not far away, the next street on the left. They’ll find you a space for tonight.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Murray was fairly certain the boy wouldn’t heed his advice.

  ‘Hey, you haven’t got any more money, have you? I could do with a burger and chips.’

  Murray felt in his pocket again and pulled out a five-pound note. ‘This is all I have on me. Make sure you spend it on a meal.’

  The face brightened as he reached out for it.

  Murray held the note away from him. ‘Food,’ he repeated.

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Kirk snatched at the note.

  ‘Now, get out of this waiting room before somebody reports you for acting suspiciously and the counterterrorism squad arrive.’

  ‘I’m not a terrorist!’

  ‘I’m sure you’re not, but hiding under a blanket in a public space will make people nervous. Go check in at the centre, get something to eat… and see a doctor.’

  The boy shuffled to his feet, gathered his blanket around his shoulders, collected the paper bag and slouched away, watched closely by Murray and Celeste.

  ‘He’s only a kid,’ said Celeste.

  ‘Many of them are. Come on. We have to check out the warehouse. If Kirk’s telling us the truth, then he last saw Rob roughly half an hour ago and he might have returned to his pitch at the warehouse.’

  ‘It’s odd he gave Kirk money to catch a bus.’

  ‘Probably took pity on the lad.’

  ‘Still strange.’ Celeste followed Murray to the car, turning back in time to see the hunched figure wearing his blanket disappear from view.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Tuesday, 5 November – Late Evening

  Frustrated by the lack of news, and anxious for Bev’s safety, Natalie had joined the upstairs team at Holborn House. The pictures on the grey-and-white monitors flashed from one street to another, with staff periodically zooming in on individuals in an attempt to identify them. There was no sign of either Rob or Bev. She’d tried the journalist’s phone again but once more it had rung out, and concern was gnawing at her innards.

  ‘There!’ A female officer in her twenties froze the screen and pointed out the number plate on a black-and-red Mini convertible, turning from the main street into Juniper Drive.

  Natalie peered at the registration. ‘It’s definitely her car. There’s nothing around there – no houses, shops, only the wasteland. She wouldn’t go there, would she? It’s not particularly safe, especially after dark. What time was she captured?’

  ‘Twenty minutes ago, at 6.50 p.m.’

  ‘I suppose she might have continued along Juniper Drive and come out at the far end.’

  ‘The route would take her to the dual carriageway and the underpass. There aren’t any cameras until after the underpass, and I can’t spot her car. No. It’s not here.’

  Natalie stared at the monitor as the young woman searched, willing Bev’s Mini to reappear, before eventually shaking her head. ‘No. If she’d wanted to take the dual carriageway and underpass, she’d have taken a more direct route from her home. If she arranged to meet somebody at seven, then spotting her car turning at ten to seven adds weight to the argument the meeting was to take place somewhere along Juniper Drive. I don’t like this. I’m going to check it out.’

  ‘You want backup?’

  ‘I’ll arrange for the others to meet me. You keep your eye on the screens and let me know if you see her car again, or if you find Rob.’

  Lucy was on the outskirts of Samford when she got the call from Murray.

  ‘We’ve found a lad who spoke to Rob at the old railway warehouse about half an hour ago. We’re headed there now.’

  ‘I’ll rendezvous with you there. Make sure you park out of sight. I don’t know what to make of Rob, but something happened during his spell in the army to make him flip.’ She gave him a potted version of her conversations with Rob’s father, Felicity and Whitey.

  ‘It doesn’t add up, does it? He was serious about Felicity and didn’t want to have sex until they’d committed to the relationship, but he attempted to rape a female soldier only a short while before he was due home,’ said Murray.

  ‘I suppose it might make sense if he was suffering some sort of mental breakdown and lost control. Anyway, be aware he might turn aggressive if cornered, so stop a distance away from the warehouse and wait for me.’

  Her phone buzzed again to let her know there was another caller on the line. ‘Got to go, Natalie is trying to get hold of me… Hi, Natalie.’

  ‘I’m on my way to the wasteland. I suspect Bev might be meeting the killer there.’ She explained her theory and told Lucy about the voicemail message.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s the case. We’ve found out Rob is dossing at the derelict railway warehouse. He was there half an hour ago and he was last seen at the bus stop outside the railway station. We think he’s gone back to the warehouse. The wasteland is quite a walk from the warehouse, or the railway station for that matter, and I don’t think any buses head in that direction.’

  ‘I can’t ignore the fact she rang me anxious that the killer had been in touch with her and now I can’t get hold of her.’

  ‘This is Bev we’re talking about, the Rottweiler of all newshounds. She’s probably out in a seedy bar, getting some dirt on some poor, unsuspecting soul. The appointment must be with somebody else. Even she wouldn’t be crazy or news-hungry enough to meet a murderer alone at the wasteland.’

  ‘I don’t know, Lucy. I have a bad feeling about it.’

  ‘How about you see if her car is parked on the road near the wasteland but don’t go hunting around alone. We must check out the warehouse. We can come over afterwards unless you want immediate assistance.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll take a look for peace of mind and call for assistance if I think I need it. Catch you later.’

  With the conversation at an and, Lucy gunned the accelerator, her attention fixed on reaching the warehouse and finding her quarry. There were no other suspects in the frame and Dan wouldn’t accept failure. Everything hinged on Rob, yet as she tore towards the neglected side of Samford, she couldn’t help but wonder what had driven a mild-mannered man to murder.

  The wasteland was invisible behind the high wire fencing. Natalie’s car crawled alongside it, and she peered into the murk, past ‘no trespassing’ and ‘keep out’ signs lying broken on the ground, along with sections of the fencing. There was no life either side of the road, and the nearest houses, surrounded by high, wire-mesh fences, were some distance away, across more land awaiting development. The only signs of life were the occasional lights from upstairs windows, too far away for anyone inside the houses to spot her. Traffic rumbled in the distance, and she could make out the headlights of cars travelling along the dual carriageway that bypassed the town. This was no use. She could see nothing from the safety of her car and it was possible Bev had driven onto the land. She stopped, switched off the engine, removed her torch and stepped out into the cold blackness.

  She padded slowly along the street, sweeping the torch beam over the ground behind the fencing, picking out the graffitied façades of outhouses. There was no sign of life, no motorcycles or groups of teenagers, no one. The beam bounced over cracked windows and broken doors to land on the bumper of a small car, stationed at the rear of one of the buildings. From where she stood, it was impossible to see the make or model, but it had most likely entered where the wire netting had been torn apart. Her torch picked out fresh tyre marks in the muddy earth that appeared to lead to the vehicle, and she followed them, eyes train
ed in front of her, searching for any movement.

  The temptation to call out Bev’s name was great but she didn’t and instead crept towards the building, pressing herself against it and listening for any sound. There was a small cough, a clearing of a throat, and she froze. Somebody was here. She edged forwards with the intention of skirting around the outside of the building, checking to see if it was Bev’s car she’d spotted, and then, if necessary, calling for assistance. Each movement was stealthy, every footstep placed with caution, and she strained to hear another cough or voice. Apart from the constant hum of traffic, there was no other sound, and as she edged closer, there was a slight rush of cool air behind her, fireworks exploded before her eyes and she crumbled to the ground.

  Lucy stopped behind Murray’s car, 100 metres away from the derelict warehouse. The building was constructed over three floors and was still largely intact, although the Welsh slate roof had suffered weather- and age-related damage. During the nineteenth century, the basement level and first floor had been used for storing goods, while the top floor had served as a grain store, featuring grain chutes and hydraulic cranes. Today, the building, like many others in Samford, was waiting for a new lease of life and for investment. Behind the dark-green ivy that clung to the walls and sills were pop-art murals, nicknamed the Banksys of Samford, showing signs of weathering and age, and every one of the twenty-four-paned windows above were smashed and open to the elements, offering glimpses of exposed iron girders.

  Lucy spoke into the microphone that allowed her to communicate with all the team. ‘I suggest we split up, determine access points, including the two main doors located closest to the railway lines, and on my command, enter and sweep the building.’