The Reverend Jonathan Sands was a modern vicar, tall and lean, in his mid-thirties, with a mop of blond hair. When they interviewed him he was in torn jeans and a Darkness T-shirt.
‘Not the usual garb,’ he grinned apologetically. ‘I just grabbed the nearest things when I got the call.’ He pushed a hand through hair that already stood on end like a shoe brush.
‘I know you’ve already been through all this, but would you mind telling us again what happened?’ Mariner said.
‘No, of course not. The first thing was when the phone rang, and I checked the clock as I always do. It was shortly before 5:30 a.m. The caller said, “Go down to the church and look by the door. Baby Jessica is there.’’’
‘You remember it word for word?’
‘I always try. Occasionally we get calls from people in distress and have to notify your colleagues. The detail can be important.’ What he said made sense.
‘Do you remember anything distinctive about the voice?’ asked Mariner.
Sands frowned. ‘I’ve thought about that. It was quite slow and deliberate, but I assumed that it was because the caller didn’t want me to miss anything. The voice was muffled too, as if an attempt was being made to disguise it. The phrasing was slightly unusual, as if—’
‘What?’
‘Look, I’d hate to mislead you, it’s just a feeling, but it was as if the caller didn’t naturally speak English.’ Or had learned it from someone who didn’t? ‘But please, don’t read too much into that.’
‘Any accent?’ As Christie had said.
‘Not that I noticed.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘I told my wife — she had woken up by then. We were both a bit stunned. Then I pulled on some clothes, grabbed a torch and went down to the church, and there was Jessica, sleeping peacefully.’ He beamed. A happy outcome must make a pleasant change for him, too.
‘Did you notice anything else unusual?’ Mariner asked.
‘No. I kept my eyes and ears open, of course, in case whoever had left her was waiting around to make sure she was found. I even called out, “Is anyone there? If you want to talk you can do so in confidence.” I waited a couple of minutes, but there was nothing. I thought I heard a car start up in the distance, but this is a residential area, so it could have just been someone going off early to work.’
Local officers took Mariner and Knox down to the place where the baby had been found. The Lincolnshire SOCOs had been all over the area for the last couple of hours. There was the inevitable group of bystanders watching everything and more press among them. Mariner cast his eye over the motley group, idly wondering if their kidnapper was one of them. It was not unknown for the perpetrator of a crime to get an added thrill from being so close yet undetected.
Alternatives were brought so that Jessica’s clothes and car seat could be taken back for forensic testing, in the hope that they might turn up some distinctive fibres or hairs.
The note seemed to imply that they’d been correct about animal rights activists, but Mariner wasn’t entirely convinced. ‘There’s no code,’ he said. ‘Don’t they generally use a code?’
‘So what the fuck was it about?’ asked Knox. ‘Why take her and then deliver her back safely?’
‘Maybe they lost their nerve. Or it was simply about giving Peter Klinnemann a fright. Whatever we find out here, I want to interview his son.’
It looked as though he would get his wish sooner than expected. When Mariner checked his mobile he found a message from Ruth Tunstall. He called her back.
‘Paul Klinnemann has surfaced,’ Tunstall told him. ‘As have the missing members of the animal rights cell.’
‘Well, well. Coincidence or what? Where are they?’
‘We’ve got them all here if you’d like to come down and talk to them. So far none of them is admitting to anything, of course, but one of them is a woman, thirty-three-year-old Tessa Caldwell.’
‘Does she fit our description of the abductor?’
Tunstall was guarded. ‘She could do, with a bit of work.’
Mariner went back to break the news to Klinnemann and Emma. ‘Sergeant Knox and I will be travelling to Cambridge. Some members of an animal rights cell have been brought in for questioning and we will be going to talk to them as part of our investigation.’ So far, so uncontroversial. ‘We can offer you a lift back with us if you’d like that.’ To his surprise Klinnemann accepted. ‘I should say that your son Paul is among the people who’ve been brought in,’ Mariner added.
‘What on earth for?’ Klinnemann demanded. ‘I’ve told you before, Paul wouldn’t do anything to hurt Jessica or me.’
No mention of Emma O’Brien, Mariner noticed. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he said. ‘But we need to talk to him, just to eliminate him from the enquiry.’
‘I understand.’ Klinnemann was content with that, but then, gazing at his baby daughter at that moment he was a very contented man indeed.
Before moving off, Peter Klinnemann issued a brief statement to the press thanking Mariner and his team for all that they’d done. ‘We don’t know who took our daughter, but if it’s someone who has lost a child or who has been unable to have a child I urge them to seek help. For the last week we have shared your anguish. Thank you for looking after her so well. But please, if you need help, come forward. Thank you to the public and the press for all that they’ve done. We would now like to be left to get on with our lives.’ For some reason Mariner felt like a fraud.
They drove directly to the station in Cambridge where a car had been arranged to take the Klinnemanns home. It was good to meet Ruth Tunstall in person. She turned out to be a smiley-faced woman in her late forties with cropped greying hair. She took Mariner and Knox down to the interview rooms where members of the animal rights cell were being held. ‘They’re all over the place, literally and figuratively,’ she said. ‘I don’t think it’ll take long to find out what they’ve been up to, but that’s what bothers me. If they’d been involved in the abduction I’d expect them to have at least got their stories straight.’
It bothered Mariner too. ‘How did you track down Paul Klinnemann?’
‘Through the mother of one of the friends we went to talk to. He turned up at their house to see his mate. He was in a bit of a state.’
On the other side of the table Paul Klinnemann looked weary, but was newly washed and wearing clean clothes. He glanced up as they went in and Mariner saw the same blue eyes as his father’s, but he was baby-faced, almost pretty with dark curly hair. As a professional courtesy Mariner allowed Ruth Tunstall to proceed with the interview, while he sat in as an observer. To open the conversation, she produced the front page of a national newspaper, Saturday’s edition.
Klinnemann glanced over it, initially uninterested, but when he saw the content he was suddenly alert. ‘What’s this meant to be?’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘No. God, is she all right?’ He was trying hard to make it sound as if he cared.
‘She was found safe and well this morning, by a vicar.’
‘Well, praise the lord.’ He flashed a sarcastic grin.
‘Shortly before you appeared at your friend’s house, as it happens. Where have you been since last Thursday?’
‘I was at a party.’
‘All weekend?’
‘It was a good party.’ He smiled, lazily, his eyelids low. ‘I crashed at a friend’s house afterwards. I was out of it, you know? Still am, as a matter of fact.’
But Mariner wasn’t convinced. Klinnemann’s eyes looked too clear. Underneath the façade he was too alert. He needed a little prod. He caught Tunstall’s eye and she gave him the go ahead. ‘Did you know that your stepmother was lecturing in Birmingham last Friday?’ he asked.
Klinnemann’s eyes narrowed. ‘She’s not my stepmother, she’s my dad’s tart. And frankly I’m not interested in what the bitch gets up to.’
Charming. ‘Have you passed on information to anyone abo
ut where Emma O’Brien would be?’
‘No.’
‘We’ll need the address of this party and a list of the names of anyone who may have seen you there.’
‘Names? Man, what sort of parties do you go to?’
A knock on the door interrupted them and the duty sergeant invited Tunstall and Mariner outside. One of the detectives interviewing another of the detainees had made a breakthrough. ‘They’ve been up to no good, but it wasn’t exactly what we hoped. Tessa Caldwell has admitted to being in Great Yarmouth for the last five days.’
‘That’s not a crime is it?’ said Mariner.
‘It’s what they were doing there, sir,’ the sergeant continued patiently. ‘They went with the sole purpose of vandalising the greyhound track there. They stayed at a nearby caravan park, booking in on Friday afternoon at around the time Jessica was abducted. The park owner has confirmed it. We think they spent Friday night doing reconnaissance before attacking the track in the early hours of Sunday morning.’
‘Can we prove that Paul Klinnemann was with them?’
Eventually they did, through CCTV footage retrieved from the caravan park. Klinnemann and his friends could be charged with criminal damage, but they were nowhere near Jack and the Beanstalk nursery on Friday afternoon. It didn’t rule out the animal rights angle entirely, but now they were left with no suspects. Before returning to Birmingham, Mariner and Tony Knox went to visit Emma and Klinnemann. It wasn’t strictly necessary, but Mariner felt a compulsion to see them in their home environment. They lived in a village in the flat countryside outside the city, in the kind of chocolate-box stone cottage that must have cost a small fortune. Inside was a cosy domestic scene, Emma O’Brien playing on the carpet with her daughter and Peter Klinnemann hovering over them, the attentive father. Knox immediately squatted down beside the baby and began playing with her, while Mariner stayed at a safe distance.
‘How is she?’ he asked.
‘She seems fine.’ Emma sounded amazed. ‘Absolutely no ill effects that we can see. Thank you so much for everything you did.’
‘We’ll continue to follow all lines of enquiry,’ Mariner assured them. ‘It’s important that we find out who was responsible.’
‘But surely there’s no need,’ Emma O’Brien exchanged a glance with her partner. ‘We have Jessica back and she really seems none the worse for her ordeal. We don’t want to take up any more of your time. I’m sure you have other more important things to do.’
‘It remains that a criminal offence has been committed,’ Mariner reminded her, a little taken aback by the response. ‘It’s still our job to find out who it was and how exactly it happened.’
‘No really. We insist, don’t we, Peter?’ She looked to Klinnemann for support. ‘We don’t want to bring charges or anything. This was probably a cry for help by some desperate woman, and the last thing we would want to do is make life worse for her.’
Mariner didn’t like to point out that all the evidence was to the contrary, but he was tired and it seemed a futile argument to have when everything had worked out as it had. Instead he said: ‘There was the note, remember? It would be a mistake to become complacent.’
‘We’ve made a decision about that,’ Emma O’Brien smiled triumphantly. ‘Peter is going to look for another job.’ Klinnemann didn’t look altogether thrilled about it.
‘Well, if anything turns up, we’ll be in touch,’ Mariner said. It was time to go.
‘Christ, how’s Mary Klinnemann going to feel when she hears about that?’ Mariner said, when they were safely in the car and driving away. ‘She’d been pressuring him for years to leave his job.’
‘It makes it pretty obvious who he thinks is responsible, with or without the help of his son.’
* * *
Mariner and Knox arrived back in the Granville Lane incident room to heroes’ welcomes and celebrations. DCI Sharp had got in cases of beer and she made a short speech of congratulation. But the overwhelming feeling was one of relief. They had been so very lucky. Mariner helped himself to a beer and made the effort to join in, though he was itching to go.
‘Wasn’t there something about annual leave before all this started?’ DS Sharp came over to where he lingered on the periphery.
‘The paperwork won’t do itself, ma’am.’
‘Oh, I’m sure I can get off my pedestal for a few days to help with that. Go on, clear off.’
As always after a case as intense as this one had been, exhaustion overtook Mariner on the short drive home. Part of him hoped that Anna might be out, but her car was there on the drive when he pulled in. Ominously there were a couple of packed bags sitting in the hall too, but Mariner chose to ignore them. She was out in the garden doing some early autumn pruning, tidying up the garden in preparation for the new residents, but she came into the kitchen as soon as she saw him. Pulling off her gardening gloves she came over and gave him a hug.
‘I heard the news,’ she smiled. ‘Well done, you.’
Mariner picked a twig out of her hair. She smelled lightly of damp soil and the outdoors. ‘Didn’t have much to do with me as it turned out. We were blessed with some excellent luck.’
‘Nobody cares about that, so take the credit. You got her back safe, that’s the most important thing. Her parents must be ecstatic.’
‘It was an emotional reunion.’
‘I’ll bet. And now you’re on holiday?’ She was wondering about the paperwork.
Mariner squeezed her tighter. ‘I’m on holiday. The boss practically threw me out.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ she beamed. ‘I told Becks we’d be down first thing in the morning.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Mariner took a step back, holding her at arm’s length.
‘Well, we’ve already missed three days and I’m going nuts here. Look at me — I’m tending the garden of a house I’m about to leave.’
‘Anna, I haven’t had any sleep for three nights. I feel like a zombie. I can’t possibly drive—’
‘You won’t have to. I’ll drive and you can sleep.’
Mariner shook his head. ‘I need my bed, for more than just a few hours. And you know what it’s like after something like this. I need a bit of down time. I can’t face meeting a whole bunch of new people straight away. I’d make a very poor impression. But listen, if you’ve told Becky we’re going, why don’t you go anyway and I’ll join you in a couple of days. Some time on my own is probably the best thing for everyone.’
‘I wanted us to go together,’ she said, mildly.
‘I know, but I’m sure they’ll understand. It’s not as if they won’t know what kind of a weekend I’ve had, is it?’
‘I suppose I could go down tomorrow and call in and see Jamie on the way.’ She was coming round. This was easier than he’d expected.
‘Good idea. And now I need a shower.’
‘Hm, me too.’
‘Well that sounds like a very agreeable start to my holiday.’
But when it came to it he was too tired to do anything but fall into bed and a deep and catatonic sleep. When he woke the following day it was late morning and Anna had gone.
Feeling jet-lagged Mariner got up and for a while simply savoured the quiet, but after a while the euphoria of the previous day began to wear off and niggling doubts began to encroach on his thoughts. There were too many loose ends; something about the case that they’d all missed, and which he was certain would come back to haunt them. Who the hell had been responsible for Jessica’s abduction, and if that really was just a warning, what else were they in for? And while the investigation had provided a useful distraction from it, Mariner was suddenly aware that 17 October, Kenneth McCrae’s trial date now loomed large, with only a few days’ holiday in between then and now. Slowly and by stealth Mariner felt a melancholy creeping over him, the inevitable anti-climax that followed a weekend of high stress. He dealt with it in the only way he knew, by going to the garage and getting out his walking boots. It was a grey and d
rizzly afternoon, but this was the best way he knew of spending it.
* * *
Tony Knox arrived home expecting to be greeted by the usual noisy flurry of paws and fur. Instead all he got was empty silence. Then he saw the note by the phone. Mr Knox, I’ve took Nelson home to my house, from Michael.
Knox crossed the road to a semi that was a mirror image of his own and rang the bell. Michael’s mum came to the door. Jean, if he remembered rightly, though they’d never formally been introduced. The puzzled look of partial recognition when she opened the door made him feel marginally better about his own cloudy memory.
‘Tony Knox,’ he reminded her, turning to indicate his house across the road. ‘I think you’ve got my dog?’
‘Oh, of course, Tony. I’m sorry.’ She was younger than he’d thought from a distance, early forties probably, her hair cut boyishly short and turning prematurely grey.
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s Jean, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s right. I hope you don’t mind Michael bringing Nelson over here. It seemed a shame to shut him back in the house when he could be running free in our garden. Michael’s getting quite attached to him and he can be very persuasive.’
‘No, it’s great. I really appreciate it, thanks.’
‘They’re in the garden. Why don’t you come through?’
Knox followed her along the hall and into the kitchen, and couldn’t help noticing the muddy paw prints on the otherwise pristine tiled floor. ‘It’s good of you to do this,’ he said.
‘Not at all. Michael loves it. He’s wanted a dog for years, but I’ve always used the working mother excuse. This arrangement is perfect. It takes the heat off me.’
Through the window they could see the lad kicking a ball about and Nelson chasing after it barking with excitement. It made Knox feel knackered just watching them.
‘He’s a lovely animal,’ Jean said.
‘Quite an aristocrat, too,’ Knox told her. ‘He used to belong to Sir Geoffrey Ryland.’
‘The MP who—? You knew him?’
‘Friend of a friend,’ said Knox. It was too long a story for now.
A pine table in the centre of the kitchen was piled high with stacks of exercise books, alongside them a bottle and glass of white wine. She saw Knox take in the wine. ‘Something to get me through the marking,’ she smiled. ‘Year nine essays are a challenge to anyone’s staying power. Would you like a glass, or a beer perhaps?’ She misread Knox’s hesitation. ‘Sorry, you’re tired of course. You’ll want to get back. Shaun worked nights. I know what it’s like.’
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