I just hate the thought that what was important enough for him to keep, might be discarded as though his life had never counted for anything.
If I’ve overstepped the mark in sending them to you, I apologize. But I know you were the love of his life and he would be happy for you to have them.
Take care of yourself, Bex.
Neil
Letting the letter fall from her fingers, she took a gulp of coffee, scalding her lips. She relished the pain as a distraction from the vortex of emotions roiling just below the surface of her calm exterior. Guilt. Depression. Grief. Remorse.
Outside the rain-streaked windows a flash of lightning lit up Georgie’s garden. She thought she heard the cackle of agitated chickens.
Kristian Wynter. Had she done enough to try to contact Zane’s son so he could attend his father’s funeral? None of Zane’s investigative attempts had unearthed a clue to the whereabouts of Kristian or his mother, Karen, since Karen took Kristian and fled fifteen years ago.
Zane had seldom spoken about Kristian, but she believed his absence left an unhealed wound in Zane’s heart. He never mentioned Karen at all. All Bex really knew of her was through an old photograph she had found and a revealing conversation with Neil.
Bex had brought a six pack of Neil’s favorite beer to share with him one hot afternoon. It was just before her wedding to Zane and she’d suddenly felt nervous and in need of reassurance. So she asked Neil about Karen. Two beers down, Neil began to open up.
“Oh, sure, she was an ex-junkie when Zane fell in love with her. But once you’re an addict, temptation is all around you. Everyone but Zane knew Karen was a junkie through and through. They had some good years together, I admit, in the beginning. Zane was convinced that love would cure her once and for all. Then Karen fell pregnant. It wasn’t planned. Karen didn’t want kids. She got hysterical and wanted an abortion. Zane coaxed her through nine months of emotional upheaval until she gave birth.”
Bex showed him the photo she had found. It was of a young woman in her early twenties with a lean face, full lips and fluffy light brown hair. “She looks awfully young to be a mother.”
“Twenty-four or five, I can’t exactly remember how much younger than Zane she was. Maybe that’s why he was always so protective of her. He actually believed that love could reform her and keep her on track for a normal life, keep her addictions at bay. Like I said, for a while it worked. She got cleaned up. Held a job. Mixed with Zane’s friends. Then Kristian came along. Surprisingly Karen turned into a very possessive mother, fussing over the baby and leaving work to look after him. Although Zane did most of the hands-on care like diaper-changing, bottle-feeding and burping. Karen was a nervy mom, anxious about Kristian’s every little sneeze and hiccup. She’d have a meltdown whenever the baby cried. And let me tell you, babies cry a lot. Eventually it drove her back to the drugs and drink.
“I think Zane turned a blind eye at first because he just didn’t want to believe it. Sometimes I’d check up and find Karen passed out in the living room while Kristian crawled around their apartment. But even Zane couldn’t ignore the time he came home and found Karen buying from a dealer. Right in their apartment, with Kristian nearby.” Neil shook his head, his eyes moist. “Maybe it’s my fault we lost Kristian. I was worried sick about his safety. I pushed Zane to take full custody of the boy. He told Karen what he was going to do. The next day he came home to an empty apartment. We hired private investigators. Zane used his police contacts. They’d track them down and once or twice he almost reached them before they disappeared.”
When Zane died Bex had helped Neil send letters to every address they had on file from Minnesota and Iowa to California and Wyoming. But all that returned were his letters, unopened and undelivered.
Bex eyed the flat, rectangular box warily. Since she’d left the Dunreath case and buried herself so whole-heartedly in her police training, she’d managed to put the past firmly to the back of her mind. Now Neil’s letter ripped the scab off, exposed her ugly guilt. Selfishly she’d put her career ahead of motherhood. She was the one who had deprived Zane of the chance to really be a father, or Neil to hold his grandchild. Recklessly she’d believed they had plenty of time.
She opened her mouth to gulp in a deep breath, forcing her lungs to work. The deep breaths eased the suffocating feeling. Outside the rain continued pelting down. Her coffee had grown cold. She rose from the bed to replace her cup on the tallboy and then paced five steps to the French windows to peer out. Above the drum of the rain she heard muted voices in the hallway as residents from other rooms passed by, no doubt going out to dinner. Her own appetite had disappeared.
After several minutes she turned to face the bed where the flat box lay. She regarded it much as she would a deadly cobra. What had Neil sent her over the Atlantic?
Using her fingernails, she pried open the lid and two dozen black and white photos fell out. She sifted through. Against a streetscape of Times Square there were homeless people, drug addicts and women in sleazy poses in front of X-rated adult sex stores, a construction worker smoking a cigarette in the middle of a busy street and, at a subway entry, a wheelchair-bound veteran drinking from a brown paper bag.
The photos were stark, deliberately gritty. She found some words on the back of one of them. Workers of America series, August 1986. Zane had been twenty-three. Just graduated from college where he’d majored in photography with an ambition to follow in the footsteps of photographers like Harold Feinstein. She realized what she was looking at was probably his first serious attempt at making art.
She stopped in shock as she came across two photos of a young man working under the hood in what looked like a mechanic’s garage. In both photos, the mechanic’s face was only partially visible. Some small detail caught her eye, and, peering closely, she recognized them as self-portraits. This was a Zane she had never met, in a time before he had subdued his dreams and turned his talent into a job as a forensic photographer.
She pored over them, drinking in his broad shoulders, the smooth planes of his cheek in profile, the long fingers clasped around a wrench. It was Zane, but not the Zane she had known and loved. She tried to imagine the photos in color to bring him to life more fully. Being a photographer, Zane rarely graced the front of a camera and had regularly avoided any selfies Bex took with her phone.
Her heart constricted. Longing closed her throat with tightness. The devastating wave of loss built. She bit down on her lip hard, but it wasn’t enough. The darkness descended, fogging her thoughts. The gut-wrenching sobs escaped even though she stuffed a fist against her mouth. Clutching his photos in her other hand, she collapsed onto the bed, burying her face in the pillow. Zane had filled all the missing pieces in her life. He had been friend and lover, father and brother. No one could understand how much she had lost. No one would ever love her like that again.
Chapter 13
New Scotland Yard
Saturday, 22 July
Brooding, Quinn crossed the courtyard towards the neo classic building, his focus and his fingers busy on his computer tablet where he was scrolling through the coverage on yesterday’s courtroom fiasco when the EFE extremists had disrupted Li Jian’s case.
A stab of pain hit him every time he watched Isla touch Li Jian, her fingers clasped around his elbow as they moved out of the courtroom. He refused to call it jealousy. The separation had been a joint decision, after all. He knew as well as she did that they simply weren’t suited for each other.
He tried not to adversely judge the image of Li on his screen. The neatly quaffed straight black hair, the broad forehead and angled eyes, the surprisingly full lips that looked set in a permanent smirk made a handsome composition. Added to that Li was in London on an Investor Visa which meant he had sunk several million pounds into government bonds or British business and could apply for residency within two years, provided Isla won the case against his extradition to China. A wealthy businessman was certainly more to Isla’s father’s
tastes than Quinn Standing had ever been, Quinn mused bitterly.
Big Ben chimed six o’clock in the morning. The sidewalk was dotted with puddles left over from last night’s rain forcing Quinn to lift his head from his screen to dodge them. A breeze straight off the river ruffled his hair. It looked like being a fine day, apart from the fact that the school bus had been found yesterday devoid of life. Blood stains, school uniforms, back packs and a slew of smart phones were all that had been discovered inside. Forensics officers were hard at work and he hoped to have some news this morning.
As he moved towards stairs leading to the glassed-in entrance of New Scotland Yard, a van screeched to a stop. The area wasn’t a loading zone and Quinn frowned as he took in the van’s logo. The side door slid open and two figures shot outside, their arms filled with camera equipment. Quinn lengthened his stride, taking the steps two at a time, but he wasn’t quick enough. A camera was thrust into his face and a microphone shoved at him.
“Melinda Doogue from the BBC, Detective. Can you tell us something about the missing girls? Have you got any leads?”
He had hoped Eli’s presence at home would alleviate parents’ anxiety sufficiently to prevent anyone approaching the press.
“No comment.” He maintained a calm expression, but his tone was terse. Dresden would hang his balls out to dry if he presented the case in a less than flattering light for the team.
More people thronged around him. He tried to break free and push past the interviewers without appearing surly. Media cameras always seemed to catch the worst angles, making it look like the police were bullies when in fact he felt that was too often the media’s role.
“Do you know if the girls are safe?”
“Has there been a ransom note?”
“Is this a kidnapping or terrorism?”
“Listen, we’re doing all we can!” He shouted over the hubbub, on the verge of losing his temper. Keep control, keep control, he muttered inside his head. “Really, I have no comment at this time. When we have any news we will let you know.”
Head down, he forced a passage through the forest of outreaching arms and used his swipe card to enter the building, still feeling hounded as the news crew hung outside the glassed partitions, no doubt filming his procession through the foyer.
* * *
Taking in the scene in front of New Scotland Yard, Aislinn Scully swore under her breath. “Shit! Looks like the Beeb and ITV beat us to the story!”
Her cameraman, Troy, swiveled away from his bank of screens and digital equipment to look at her.
“You going in for a comment?” he demanded. “We’ve brought the van out here, after all.”
“We’re Trending News, not following news!” Aislinn snarled as though his words had been a deadly insult.
“Well at the moment we’re No News,” he pointed out in a reasonable tone. Rubbing his hands, he pulled a Cornish pasty out of its brown paper bag. He spoke around a mouthful of food, “So do you want me to set up the microwave mast or not?”
Trending News was a mainly web-based, news reportage agency. Sometimes their reports were picked up by small television channels. Aislinn worked often with Troy, who acted as cameraman, sound operator and all-round general tech guru. Filled with big ambitions, she was in perpetual forward motion as she chased her dream of becoming anchor to one of the major TV stations.
Her fingers drummed an impatient tattoo on top of her laptop. “Who did we get this tip off from?”
Troy consulted a folder. He read his notes aloud. “Someone named Bert Alan called. Said they’re neighbors to the Patels. Punita Patel was upset so Bert’s wife went to console her. When his wife returned home, she told him that Singham Patel, a bus driver for Nimble Bus Lines, had been shot. Punita was called in to identify the body. She was freaked out because both the bus company and the police have questioned her about her husband’s actions yesterday, looking for a connection to the school bus he drove home and which is now missing.”
“A busload of girls missing! How many does a bus hold? Fifty? This has human interest written all over it! And now the bleeding Beeb and ITV are covering the story.” She flipped open her laptop, scanning through the morning news stories. A satisfied smile stole over her face. “Well, that bitch Melinda Doogue got nothing. Just wasted air time mouthing a lot of platitudes. But I tell you what, that detective has hunk written all over him. I look forward to interviewing him later.” She closed her laptop. “Anyway, looks like Trending News is still in with a chance to crack this scoop. Did anyone get in touch with the school?”
Troy shoved the last piece of pastry into his mouth. “You can show your gratitude later, but I called round the school yesterday to take some footage in case we needed it. Managed to catch the admin assistant as she was leaving. She let slip that twenty-two girls were missing. I managed to distract her and took a pic of the list.”
“We don’t need to be exact on the numbers. Busload sounds much better. Text me the names. Any police contacts for who’s handling the case?”
Troy consulted his notes. “Let’s see. Bert said Punita talked with some cop over the phone. Said his name was Reuben Richards. Apparently he’s with the Youth Crimes Team.”
“Youth Crimes Team? Now that rings a bell. Why is that?”
“The Freakin’ Saint case. All over the media about ten days’ ago. Made a serious splash. Tamara and I covered it for TN.”
Aislinn dismissed the news with a shrug then bent to consult the names on the list Troy sent through. “I’ll get onto social media. Most of these teens will have some sort of electronic presence. Let’s see if we can pinpoint anyone willing to talk to us.”
“Oh, here’s something interesting. Bert Alan said the cop mentioned one of his mates’ kids were missing too when he sympathized with the wife.”
Aislinn looked up from her screen. Her eyes gleamed. “One of his mates? Do you think he meant a cop? A cop’s kids could be on that bus, now gone missing? That’s the angle we need, Troy. But we’ve got to move fast before the others find the same hook. Let’s see if we can find out who Reuben Richard’s mates are, starting with his current team and then see if we can match a name with one on our schoolgirl list.”
Chapter 14
Third floor, New Scotland Yard
“You still look like shit, Quinn,” Idris greeted him with a rebuke as Quinn approached the small section of the third floor that had been allocated to their team. Idris’s voice was overloud amongst the deserted tables, desks and offices that had been abandoned by the office-bound brass who didn’t come in on weekends.
No doubt he did look like shit, Quinn thought. He had sent Reuben home at eleven and headed out of the building himself around midnight and the clock had only just ticked past 6:00 a.m. It was time for Idris to pack it in and get to bed.
“Got anything?” Quinn ignored the comment aimed at his creased shirt and stubbled chin. In between living out of his car and couch surfing at mates’ places, the everyday things taken for granted like a wife and home and daily routines fell by the wayside.
“I’ve traced the bus journey downloaded from TRACKER and paired it up with camera locations from ANPR footage along the route. No bus shows up anywhere along the motorway.”
“Okay, that helps.” Quinn cut Idris off with his sarcasm. His nerves were still frayed from the confrontation downstairs. No doubt he would have Dresden on his back soon enough demanding results. All he had to offer was an empty bus filled with smart phones and school uniforms.
“Geez, were you born with a chip on your shoulder, Quinn? Let me finish. I managed to identify a pattern. The same lorry appears in each of the ANPR frames at the exact time the tracking said the bus was on the motorway.”
“Show me.” Quinn approached Idris’s computer and Idris zoomed in on a shot of an articulated truck with a container load. He flicked through images from other locations, and each time the same truck was present.
“I’ve spent all night scanning throu
gh hundreds of cars on the motorway at each of the time signals we have clocked from the TRACKER. This is the only vehicle that is at the right location at the exact time.”
“A shipping container? You’re thinking the bus could be hidden inside the container? That’s a real a possibility. Let’s check into the dimensions for the bus and compare them with the container sizes. Great work, Idris.”
“Already done. I checked the information Reuben detailed on the bus when he talked to the dispatcher. The bus used to pick up the girls was a Fuso Rosa midi-bus, twenty-five seat capacity. I did an online search for the dimensions. Length is 7.7 meters, width 2.1 meters and body height is 2.76 meters.”
Quinn’s eyes followed Idris finger tapping on the screen.
“Check out the top of the container.”
Quinn squinted more closely. “It looks like a tarp.”
“Correct. Shipping containers come in various sizes, usually twenty or forty foot. Compare the truck with other vehicles around it and I’m guessing that’s a forty foot high cube with an open top. So the length is more than adequate. The width of the doors is an issue. But apparently companies that use these containers usually load with a crane. Merchandise gets lifted off the ground and goes in through the top and then they strap on the canvas. So the width of the doors is no longer an issue. The canvas fits neatly over the top, but you can see in this photo the tarp isn’t flat. Which could be because the load is higher than normal.”
Perched over the top of the load, like a scorpion’s tail, was the arm of the crane attached to the back of the truck.
“So let me picture this. The bus and a live driver leave Fairbridge House College just after 1:00 p.m. The bus goes off course at Welwright Lane. It’s also the last footage we have of the bus. After that we have footage of a container truck heading down the motorway to Manchester, possibly with the bus inside. How does the bus get onto the container without anyone seeing it?”
Bex Wynter Box Set Page 21
