by J. E. Mayhew
Harry Thorpe took a while to come downstairs, Blake looked round at the wooden panelling, cut flowers and gentle opulence of the hallway. It was all a facade, like Paul Percival’s impression of a successful businessman. Why did people wrap themselves in an illusion of respectability if not to trap and ensnare the gullible or greedy?
The staircase creaked with heavy footsteps and Thorpe appeared in a dressing gown and slippers. “This better be bloody urgent, Blake. I was just dozing off.”
“Where’s Laura Vexley?”
“Who?”
“Come on, Harry, don’t play games. Where is she? I know somebody went to her flat to pick her up. Maybe this joker here. I want her back.”
“Even if I did send someone to get her, d’you think I’d admit that to you? Go home, Blake, you’re over-tired. Aren’t you meant to be looking for a little girl or something? Thought I saw that on the news… Show Mr Blake the door…”
The bruised man stepped forward but Blake fixed him with a gaze. “I wouldn’t unless you want me to reset that nose of yours.” The man hesitated. “Look Thorpe. Just let me have her. I’ll walk away and not trouble you.”
Thorpe looked keenly at Blake. “Off the record? Okay, I did go to get her. I sent this chump and his pal, but she had back up. She got away. I don’t know where she is. And I don’t know who they are, but your girlfriend has got some powerful allies and I don’t mean Merseyside Police.”
“And why were you after her?”
“I think you know that. Tell your little brother he’s a blabber mouth and I won’t be so lenient if our paths cross again. I’m too soft, that’s my trouble.” Thorpe turned and started shuffling upstairs. “Now if you’ll forgive me, Blake, I need my beauty sleep. So do you. You look like shit. Goodnight. Sleep tight.”
Blake turned to the bruised man. “Did she do that?”
He nodded, ruefully. “Bloody head butted me backwards, then proper punched me in the face. Caught me off guard. But the guy with her, he was a tank. Put my mate in the car out cold. He didn’t know what hit him.”
“Maybe you need to find another line of work,” Blake said.
“Yours doesn’t seem to be agreeing with you, very much, either,” the man said, gesturing to the front door.
Blake nodded. “You might have a point.”
Chapter 32
Ignoring your phone was meant to be good for your mental health but Blake knew that it was a bit like sticking your head in the sand. The deeper your head is buried, the easier it is to get your arse kicked. There were several text messages from his colleagues and two from Superintendent Martin. The last one had block capitals. An arse-kicking was definitely on the horizon.
Blake had hardly slept. He’d dozed on and off between wondering what had become of Laura. At one point he woke to find Charlie nuzzled against him and Serafina sleeping on his legs. Thoughts, worries and anxiety chased each other around his head like rats in a maze, losing each other, then finding each other and magnifying in his mind. Florence Percival still hadn’t been found and now he fretted about Laura, too.
Why hadn’t Laura been straight with him? He could have accepted that she had a past that wasn’t quite on the straight and narrow. Nobody is perfect and we’re moulded by our life history and those around us. But if she knew that there was a stash of money under that patio, why didn’t she just say? Or abandon it? Why wait and watch it?
Lies and deceit surrounded Blake in his work and, now, it seemed, in his personal life, too. Had she targeted him deliberately, thinking he might keep her safe while she waited for the right moment to dig up the money and run? But Quinlan had vanished six years ago. Why wait all this time? It didn’t make sense. And where was she now? Would she just vanish like his mother had? Disappear without trace like Kyle Quinlan, never to be found?
And what about Florence? That little girl could be trapped in a dark room somewhere, wondering where her parents were and what was happening. Or she could be lying cold and dead, abandoned and lost. It didn’t bear thinking about.
He sat up in bed, sending Serafina rolling to one side with a rumbling growl. Charlie whimpered and snuggled further into Blake’s warm pillow. Dragging his laptop from the bedside table, he tried to concentrate on the Percival case. Laura could look after herself. The little girl couldn’t. He needed to talk to Tanya Ellman about Paul Percival’s alibi the night his sister died. Blake couldn’t help thinking that somehow, the death of Undine Percival, all those years ago and Florence’s disappearance were somehow linked, he felt sure of it, even if everyone else thought the case was straightforward. And Leonard Hill’s ‘girlfriend,’ Geri Sharpe, interested Blake too. The fact that she’d taken up with a character like Hill surprised him. Reading Kath’s report, it was clear that Geri Sharpe was effectively selling sex and Hill’s money would have been as good as anyone’s but their liaison still puzzled him. Her insistence on meeting at the park, that day, when they lived so close to each other meant something, he knew it.
And the look on Hill’s face when Blake had shown him the texts asking where he was, which implied that he had spent longer getting from the park to his house. The man did seem genuinely shocked when Blake showed them to him. Blake typed in Geri Sharpe’s name and was rewarded with a Facebook profile. Geri Sharpe either hadn’t heard of protecting her privacy online or she didn’t care.
Her Facebook Page was a mishmash of inspirational memes and selfies of her in various states of inebriation and undress. Geri on the beach, small and painfully thin, Blake thought. Geri making a ‘V’ sign with some mates and an inordinate number of balloons at a party. Geri with her kids blowing out birthday candles, at Chester Zoo, and Alton Towers. The birthdate on her Facebook profile put her in her late thirties. He scrolled through a number of ‘warning’ posts showing various men. They were either mugshot type photographs or hastily snapped images of them in playgrounds or shops. Each one said something along the lines of: This man is a dangerous predator and is in your area. Share this and protect your children now.’ One post had Geri tagged in it. It showed a lank-haired man trying to cover his face while a gang jostled him along the street. The post read: ‘Another nonce bites the dust. Nice one Geri Sharpe.’ It came from a page called ‘TorPaedo – Hunter Killers, ‘sinking’ pervs so kids can be safe.’ He looked at the administrators of the page and one name leapt out at him: Ian Vale. The man who had been hanging around Leonard Hill’s house. Maybe if Blake got a chance, he’d go and visit Geri Sharpe tomorrow, too. First, he had to face the wrath of the Superintendent.
“No, first, I’ve got to find someone to look after you,” Blake muttered looking at the sleeping Charlie.
*****
It didn’t surprise Blake that Ian Youde, his neighbour, was up and about already. It was quite possible he hadn’t been to bed. The man lived a solitary life, tending to his garden and his collection of World War Two memorabilia. As Blake walked up the road to Youde’s house, Charlie squirming in his arms, his eyes were drawn to the blackened skeleton of the house opposite. It was Youde who had pulled Blake from that burning building, wearing an old gas mask. Since then, Blake had found they got on well.
He knocked on Ian’s shining black front door. The man kept every aspect of his house immaculate; windows clean, frames wiped and paths swept. Even the garden was regimented in neat lines and square borders. The lawn was cut to a cropped half inch, green and striped. At first Blake had interpreted this as a flaw in the man but he’d come to admire Ian Youde’s self-discipline.
Youde opened the door. He had a forbidding appearance to those who didn’t know him; small suspicious eyes and a tight letter box mouth. His skin was nut brown from years of working outdoors and it made his thin, cropped white hair seem even whiter. Even though it was seven in the morning, he wore paint spattered blue overalls. “Morning, Will,” he said, his eyebrows fluttering briefly in surprise at Charlie. “Who’s this?”
“Hi Ian,” Blake said, trying to sound casual and hide the
fact that a request for a favour was coming soon. “This is Charlie. He’s not mine. Laura’s looking after him for a friend. Only Laura’s gone missing and I’ve got to find her. I know you don’t like animals but…”
A frown creased Ian Youde’s tanned forehead. “I said I hated cats, fuckin’ messy buggers if you ask me. I used to have a Jack Russell. I was gutted when he passed away. Couldn’t bear to get another. You want me to look after him, don’t you?”
Blake nodded wincing with pained gratitude. “I wouldn’t normally but…”
“Is Laura okay?”
“I don’t know, Ian. I need to find out. But I’ve got to find this little girl, first.”
“I read about that in the papers. Can’t imagine what it’s like losing a kid like that,” Youde said, holding out his arms. “Give the little fella here. I’ll look after him. If he digs up my borders or shits on my lawn, I’ll have him for breakfast, though…”
Blake grinned and handed over the whimpering Charlie. Blake marvelled at the gentleness with which Youde handled the puppy and it wagged its tail and started licking Youde’s chin almost immediately. “Now stop that fussing, Charlie boy,” he said. Youde looked up at Blake. “It’s a motto of mine: never let a terrier lick your face. It’s stood me in good stead over the years. Go on, Will, you get off. Find that girl.”
“Thanks, Ian, Will do,” Blake said. Which one, though? Laura or Florence?
*****
Superintendent Martin wasn’t a shouter or a bawler. Blake would have preferred that, but Martin was a lecturer, which was worse because it could go on for what seemed like days. It made Blake feel like a naughty schoolboy being told off by a teacher, too. Martin listed all the reasons why Blake should have been in touch the day before. Listed the people he’d let down. Explained in detail how much anxiety he’d piled on his team and also how well Cryer had coped being thrown in at the deep end with the press conference.
“It’s unprofessional, Will,” Martin said. “The press may love a celebrity copper who makes up his own rules, but it doesn’t wash here. I’m that close to considering disciplinary procedures against you.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but Laura has gone missing and…”
“And DCI Cavanagh is looking into that, okay?” Martin let out a deep sigh. “I know you’re worried, Will but we’ll find her. You have to prepare yourself for the possibility that she might be more involved with this Quinlan affair than you thought. Whatever it is!”
“I know, sir…”
“Now, Cryer has made good headway on this Percival case, give her a bit of a run at it, let her show what she can do. She’s ambitious and if we can find the girl quickly, then that would be a Godsend.”
“Yes, sir,” Blake muttered. But he had his concerns about Kath Cryer and he had a few loose ends he wanted to tie up himself.
Chapter 33
Matty Cavanagh sat with his feet up on the desk, gently pushing his swivel chair from side to side. He had a pair of black Chelsea boots on, but he wasn’t sure about them. If he was honest, he liked a lace-up boot better than a slip-on. The Chelsea boots made him feel like an extra from Star Trek. Bobby Dirkin sat opposite him on the other side of the desk. And Blake leaned against the wall, looking out of the window.
Cavanagh never really understood Blake. The man had so much going for him, good looks, intelligence but he always looked like he’d just blown all his savings on the Grand National and lost. Of course, he understood that Blake was worried about Laura, right now, but that didn’t explain all the other times.
“So, what we got, Bobby?” Matty said, tapping his pen against the desk.
“Thorpe won’t cooperate,” Dirkin said. “Says he doesn’t know anything about any missing money. Says he knew Quinlan, but that he disappeared years back. He remembers Laura but only in passing.”
“Lying bastard,” Blake muttered. “That isn’t quite what he told me, off the record. Still, wouldn’t expect him to say anything different under the circumstances.”
“Yeah,” Cavanagh muttered. “So it seems it wasn’t him who lifted the case from under the patio at Laura’s old house.”
“Could’ve been, boss,” Dirkin said. Sometimes, he reminded Cavanagh of an old prize fighter, his face squashed and wrinkled by years of punishment. Or maybe one of those dogs what were they called? Shar Pei. Yeah that was it. He looked like a Shar Pei. Only one that could take you apart in a matter of seconds. Cavanagh knew that Dirkin was tough. Dirkin continued. “We don’t know that Thorpe hadn’t got his money back and then went after Laura realising that it was her living there when the money went missing.”
“It’ll be a while before we get any feedback from forensics on the blood but that was certainly Laura’s suitcase on the floor. Where was she going? Why didn’t she call me?”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Will,” Matty said, feeling himself going red. He didn’t like all this emotional stuff, he much preferred a bit of banter and a chat about the footy. “She probably didn’t want to get you involved…”
“But I am involved, whatever she thought,” Blake said.
“A house-to-house revealed that Laura was seen running from the side of the property and hiding in a side street. So it looks like she got away,” Dirkin said. Matty gave a brief smile. He was a clever sod, throwing in a bit of practical consolation there, rather than any touchy-feely crap.
“Did anyone see where she went after that?”
“Not really but, given that she’d left her phone in the flat, I guessed that she’d probably head for a pub,” Dirkin said.
Matty looked puzzled. “Why the hell would she go to a pub? Did she fancy a bevvy to steady her nerves?”
“Nice one, Bobby,” Blake said, nodding in appreciation. “Plenty of people around, so nobody could grab her and she could ask to borrow a phone or get the bar staff to call a taxi for her without arousing too much suspicion.”
“Ah, right,” Matty said, feeling a little crestfallen that he hadn’t figured that out. “Still, she might just as easily jumped on a passing bus or something.”
“I checked the timetables, Matty,” Dirkin said. “None went past there at that time. Plus, a guy in the Trafalgar pub said he saw a woman who looked like Laura come in looking upset. She had skinned knuckles.”
“Could be her after the scuffle.”
Dirkin nodded. “I thought that too. She left with a big man. A really big man, the guy behind the bar said. He called him a gorilla, but I doubt he’d say that to his face.” Bobby allowed himself a short, crumpled smile. “They drove off in a black BMW. The lad had the sense to take the registration number.”
“So we can trace that,” Matty said, sitting up.
“Already have, boss. It’s a rental car. But we should be able to establish who rented it and follow that trail.”
“I wonder where they were taking her,” Blake said.
“That was the thing, sir,” Dirkin said. “The lad was certain it was Laura driving. She wasn’t being taken anywhere.”
*****
Blake’s mind was in turmoil as he left Matty Cavanagh’s office. It was hard to deny that, from all the evidence, Laura was mixed up in something criminal and didn’t appear to be an innocent victim of circumstance. But it also occurred to Blake that there were two groups involved here. Thorpe’s people trying to capture her and another team who Laura knew and maybe trusted. He shook his head and tried to set that idea aside. Even if he thought Cavanagh was a bit of a lightweight, you wouldn’t find a more logical and thorough copper than Bobby Dirkin. That man was worth his weight in gold. There was nothing Blake could do and his priority was a little girl who was still missing.
Kath Cryer sat smiling to herself at her desk. Blake couldn’t help feeling a spark of irritation as he approached her. It wasn’t her fault that she had to take his place at the press conference and, if he was honest, he’d gladly never do another press conference again. But her self-satisfaction grated with his own feeling that he’d f
ailed in his duty in some way. Why he couldn’t just be glad that she’d done a good job, he didn’t quite understand, but there was a barrier between Blake and Kath at the moment and it was something to do with this case.
“Any news?” Kath said, laying a hand on Will’s arm.
Blake shook his head. “Nothing. Has Leonard Hill said anything more about Florence’s location yet?”
“Nope,” Kath sighed. “The twisting bastard just keeps saying we need to talk to Tanya Ellman.”
“The girl who provided Paul Percival with an alibi when they investigated his sister’s murder?”
“Yeah. I think he’s trying to tangle Percival up in the murder of his own daughter, too. Which would be perfect wouldn’t it?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, think about it. Hill kills Undine Percival and tries to blame Paul Percival. The case goes to court but Hill ends up getting the blame, if not getting convicted for the actual murder when he wanted Paul to go to prison. Years later, he finds out Percival is a successful businessman with a little girl of his own and decides to punish him by doing the same thing again…”
“Except, if he wanted to frame Paul, why pick a day when Percival was away? And why keep a jiffy bag full of incriminating evidence under his mattress? Plus Paul Percival is far from successful. He’s broke. No there’s something else going on here…”
“Oh, come on, Will. Paul Percival may be hard up, but you wouldn’t think it to look at him, would you? Big house in the park there, fancy car, trips away. Leonard Hill sexually assaulted Florence and took the evidence as trophies,” Kath said, her voice rising a little. “He hid them under the mattress just while Geri Sharpe was in the house. He was going to find a better hiding place, but we arrived. It’s obvious.”
“We need to check Tanya Ellman,” Blake said, feeling the colour rise in his cheeks. “And while we’re at it, I’d like to talk to Geri Sharpe again about her involvement with the Tor-Paedo vigilante group. I found it mentioned on her Facebook timeline.”
