by J. E. Mayhew
“That sound familiar, Kath?”
“Tanya Ellman said that Roland Percival got her to learn her statement off by heart. But why would the Percivals want to frame Hill? What do they hope to gain from it?”
“I can think of a whole host of reasons. Maybe just getting him out of your area is reward enough. It’s more complex than that, though.” Blake stared across the road at the bungalow opposite. “Maybe we should have a word with Mr Ormand and see if he’ll lend us his CCTV footage.”
Kath’s phone rang and she listened to the call, frowning. “That was Kinnear,” she said. “They’ve found Florence Percival.”
*****
Laura stared out of the window across the Dee Estuary at the Wirral. The grey sky hung low and a veil of misty drizzle drifted across the slate sea, slowly obscuring the peninsula. Will was there somewhere, knocking on doors, demanding answers and probably wondering where she was. She hoped he was okay and not too worried but knew he would be beside himself. This had all happened at a terrible time; just when Will was getting back on his feet and deciding to live life again, after discovering that his mother was, in fact, dead. This was a kick in the teeth.
It had worried her the night before, when Nick had directed her onto the motorway and then towards North Wales. They hadn’t travelled too far but far enough to feel distanced from the events of the day. They’d arrived at a large house up in the hills on the opposite side of the River Dee. Laura had a hazy memory of it being a hotel once but now it seemed privately owned. Very private. Laura noticed the high stone walls topped with razor wire as they passed through the electric gates.
“We’ll spend the night here,” Nick had said. “Don’t worry, you’ll have your own room. It’s all very luxurious.”
He’d led her into the house which smelt of polish and potpourri but underneath, there was an undertone of damp as though the place hadn’t been lived in for a while. She followed him up a wide, carpeted staircase with heavy wooden banisters. The whole place teetered between country hotel and haunted house, as if it couldn’t decide whether to be creepy or welcoming.
The room Nick had showed her was amazing, with a four-poster bed, an en-suite bathroom with an enormous bath and its own dressing room. Laura was exhausted, though, and sank onto the side of the bed almost immediately. “The boss’ll see you in the morning. You just rest for now. You’ve had a busy day,” Nick said and left. He paused at the door and popped his head back round. “Good work on that numbskull back at your flat, by the way. There aren’t many women could inflict that much damage on a guy like that.” He’d left and Laura hadn’t even bothered to undress. She just curled up on the bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
She had awoken to the sound of water being run and silver clinking on china. She looked up to see a small, Filipino woman in a black dress, settling a tea tray on the bedside table.
“Bath is nearly ready for you,” she said with a smile. “Eat and drink first.”
But Laura had pulled herself up out of bed and gone over to the window to look out and get a good idea of where she was. The tide was low and much of the estuary was brown and green. To her left, the sea and wind farms took over and to her right, the marshes were more apparent. She could see the white rows of houses and shops that made up Parkgate and the green of the fields but they were slowly swallowed up by the grey rain.
She picked up the teapot and poured herself a cup, heaping three sugars in for energy. Not that she felt that tired; she had slept soundly but felt she should keep alert. The sound of the bath running stopped and the woman came out of the bathroom.
“Where am I?” Laura said.
The woman shrugged. “I don’t know. I was brought here too. Tomorrow, I’ll be somewhere else. I think we’re in Wales. It’s a good view.”
“Thanks,” Laura said. Not a lot of help, then. She buttered the toast that sat next to the tea and bit into it. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was and wolfed the toast down. Soon, she had demolished the entire rack.
When she came out of the bath, she found a new set of clothes on the bed. They were practical rather than flattering, jeans, a T-shirt, socks and underwear but they were clean and fitted her perfectly. She was about to try and have a snoop around when there was a knock at the door. It was time to meet the boss.
Chapter 36
By the time Kath and Blake arrived at the row of innocuous garages in Higher Tranmere, the place was flooded with media. Officers had managed to cordon the area off, but it was clear that they were the last on the scene. The garages sat at the end of a terrace of Edwardian houses, a concrete yard faced by a row of square prefabricated garages. A scrum of journalists had cornered someone at the far end of the yard but whoever it was didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave. As Blake drew nearer, he realised it was Ian Vale at the centre of the commotion.
“Like I say, I was searching the area as a likely spot for Hill to have hidden the little girl and sure enough, I heard her calling out from inside there.” He pointed over to one of the garages. The pull-down door had been lowered and officers stood on guard. “So I smashed the lock with a brick and got her out. She was in a right state. Must have been there for days, poor little kid…”
Blake saw an ambulance pulling away, presumably carrying the child off to hospital. “This is a right cat’s arse,” Blake muttered to Cryer. “We need to get these people out of the way now and pick Vale up for questioning.”
One of the journalists caught sight of Blake and hurried over. Kath slipped away, to organise some of the uniformed officers into clearing the yard. Blake groaned inwardly as the young woman dashed over to him.
“Detective Blake, have you got any comment on this development?”
Blake held up his hands. “We haven’t even identified the little girl in the garage as Florence Percival, yet. As soon as we’ve established her identity, made sure she’s okay, and spoken to Mr Vale, then we can comment. Now, if you’d like to clear the area, this is a possible crime scene, after all…”
“So you know Mr Vale, then?” the journalist said, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Are you aware he’s the leader of the vigilante group Tor-Paedo? What do you think of their methods? Do they help or hinder your investigations?”
“I am aware of Mr Vale and of the group. I’m not going to make any comment until I know exactly what is going on here. Now, if you could move out of the garage yard, that would be helpful…”
“You finally got here, Blakey?” Vale jeered across the yard. “It’s a good job there are decent citizens like me ready to do your job for you, isn’t it?”
“Mr Vale,” Blake said, smiling and striding over to him. “Always grateful to conscientious citizens and I’m so glad you’re able to come and help us further with our enquiries.”
Vale’s face fell. “What?”
“I just need you to come with me and make a statement,” Blake said, keeping his smile fixed. “You even get to ride in a police car. We’ll do the lights for you if you want. Shall we go?”
“Am I being arrested?” Vale said, glancing around at the journalists. “There’s gratitude for you. I thought you liked help from members of the public. That’s what you used to say on Searchlight, anyway…”
“We aren’t arresting you, but we do need to take a statement,” Blake said. “And the best place to do that would be over at the station. I need to get the facts from you as soon as possible, while it’s fresh in your memory.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
Blake shook his head. “If you have some other place you have to be then we can arrange a time to meet…”
“I’ve got a dental appointment,” Vale said. “In half an hour.”
“Really? So you were just squeezing a bit of amateur sleuthing in before you went for your check up?”
“Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“Which dentist?” Kath said, wearily.
“What?”
“Which dentist?
” she said again.
“O’Reilly in Prenton…”
Kath rolled her eyes. “You got a car?”
“No… no… I…”
“Then you’ve missed your appointment, sunshine. Come on. Tell you what, you can have a chat with us and then we’ll drive you down to the dentists and explain what a hero you are. They’ll probably give you a free scale and polish on the strength of that.”
Blake watched in mute awe as Vale followed Kath meekly to the car. The journalists turned to him. “So, Detective Blake. Is this case closed?”
“Is it true that members of the family are under suspicion?”
“Can you comment on this latest discovery?”
Blake just raised his hands and shooed the journalists back off the yard without comment. Then, leaving a couple of uniformed officers, he went back to the garage and got a constable to raise the door.
He recognised the Constable as Mark Robertson, an experienced officer who had a keen eye and a level head. “What do you reckon, Mark?” Blake said, staring into the bare garage.
Constable Robertson peered into the space. “Looks empty, sir. Apart from the shelving at the back. Without being gross, if a little girl had been trapped in there for a few days, there would be an unholy mess. There’s no food or water.”
“My thoughts exactly. Were you here first?”
Robertson nodded. “I was,” he said.
“The little girl. What condition was she in?”
“A little dazed and tearful. But otherwise fine. Come to think of it, sir, she didn’t look like she’d spent three or four days locked in there. Her clothes were clean.”
“CSI on their way?”
Mark nodded. “Any minute, I reckon.”
“I bet you a tenner they don’t find any trace of Florence Percival in that garage. I’m going to have a chat with Mr Vale.”
*****
Tasha Cook watched in amazement as Florence Percival stood obediently in the side ward while a doctor and a nurse took swabs and changed her clothes, folding and bagging them carefully. She’d hardly said a word since Ian Vale had found her. Tasha had teased a name out of the solemn little girl and made her smile a couple of times but that was it. Florence had remained sphinx-like throughout. Tasha watched as the items were passed carefully like holy relics to a Crime Scene Investigator and then her brow creased when she saw the bag containing a pair of knickers. She pulled out her phone and called Blake. The phone went to voicemail, so she left a quick message, her attention drawn by a commotion down the corridor. Sam Percival raced towards her. “Where is she? Where’s Flossy?”
Tasha held up her hand. “She’s fine, Mrs Percival. The doctors are just taking some samples and swabs. She won’t be a minute…”
Sam’s red-rimmed eyes widened. “Swabs? Oh my God. My poor little girl…”
“She’s fine, Sam,” Tasha said, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “There’s no apparent evidence of any kind of physical harm. We’ll know more after the doctors have finished but she seems okay. She’s just very quiet. Did you bring spare clothes?”
Sam sniffled up a sob and nodded. “Yes, I had to buy some. I couldn’t go near Paul and that house. I hope they fit…” Her face crumpled again. “How could anyone do this to my little girl?”
“She’s safe now. It’s okay for you to take her home but we will need to interview her with a specialist officer tomorrow. You can be there, of course. Will you be going back to Birkenhead with her?”
Sam shook her head. “That place isn’t home. I’ll go to my mum and dad’s. I never want to set foot in that house in Birkenhead Park again. We’re going to start over, me and Flossy. Somewhere else.”
“And what about Paul?” Tasha asked.
“Believe me, I want to be as far away as possible when Paul realises we’ve gone. I’m not sure what he’d do.”
“Sam! Sam! Thank God!” Paul Percival’s voice rang down the corridor as he hurried towards them. He put his arms out to hug Sam, but she pushed him away.
“Get away from me,” she hissed.
“But Sam, I got here as soon as I could. Isn’t it great news? Flossy’s safe. We can bring her home.”
“No,” Sam said. “We’re not going home. I’m taking her to my mum and dad’s…”
Tasha watched as the muscles on Paul Percival’s face struggled to keep his expression neutral. “I don’t think that would be wise, do you? It’s not very private there. All the neighbours gawking at you.”
“We can live with that. At least we’ll be safe,” Sam said. “Now I want you to leave.”
Paul folded his arms. “I have just as much right to be here as you. I demand to see my daughter.”
“With the greatest respect,” Tasha said, raising a hand, “I think Florence has been through enough for one day and doesn’t need to see her parents having a stand-up row. Now, Sam, you need to go in there and help your daughter get changed. Mr Percival, you can go in but we need to keep things calm for Florence. She’s been through a lot.”
Paul Percival glared through the window at his wife as she helped Florence get her T-shirt on. “So have I,” he muttered. “That woman is insane, do you know that?”
“We have no official evidence of that, Mr Percival. Just your say so…”
“The clinic’s view doesn’t count for anything, then?” Percival said, coldly. “Have you spoken to Dr Gillespie?”
“One of our officers and a social worker spoke to a therapist who has worked closely with Sam for some time. To be frank, Mr Percival, she was puzzled as to why Sam hadn’t left six months ago.”
Percival glared at Tasha. “That child is mine. Not hers.” He turned and stalked away. Tasha watched with a sickly, uneasy feeling as he disappeared down the corridor.
*****
There were times when Kinnear puzzled over his role in the force. If ever CCTV needed looking through, it felt like he was the go-to man. He wondered what it was that made senior officers look at him and think, ‘watching television!’ He sneaked another biscuit off the plate that Marge, the receptionist from downstairs had rescued from a meeting room. Often, she would appear at Kinnear’s desk with offerings from various top level meetings. A big plate with a few sad, left behind, ham sandwiches and a bit of wilted salad on the side would appear. Or she’d bring some wedges of cake or, on a good day, a few Danish pastries from an early morning meeting. Usually it was biscuits. Quite why Marge brought them to Kinnear was another of life’s mysteries. The last thing anyone would think if they looked at him was, ‘needs more biscuits.’
He crunched, absent-mindedly as he looked through the speeded-up CCTV footage that Blake had brought back. It was a series of cars pulling up at a house across the road from the owner of the camera. Kinnear thought it a bit odd that the man had it set so high. It caught the image of his driveway and his car but it mainly seemed focused on Geri Sharpe’s house. Kinnear thought that maybe it was like a Freudian slip, a comment that revealed the unconscious desires or feelings of the commentator. Maybe Mr Ormand angled his camera so high because secretly, he was obsessed with Geri Sharpe and envious of those men who were brave enough to knock on her door.
Car after car zoomed to the kerb, doors opened and men in baseball caps or without hats, bald men and hairy men, tall and short, fat and thin, all went to the front door. Kinnear saw a pattern of men, too, regulars who called every Tuesday. Not all would be clients, of course. Some would be family members or friends. There were quite a few older men shuffling to the door, looking around warily as though they might be caught visiting. Watching this speeded up procession became somewhat tedious and Kinnear found himself humming the Benny Hill theme under his breath. More cars pulled up. Kinnear began to imagine the high-speed shenanigans going on off screen and smirked to himself. Then he stopped. He rewound the film. A car pulled up and someone got out. Someone he didn’t expect at all.
*****
Matty Cavanagh sat at his desk as he normally did, feet up,
swivelling back and forth on his chair. It drove Blake demented at the best of times. But right now, Blake wanted to tell him to sit up and pay attention. He was meant to be searching for Laura. How did he get away with it? If someone told him that Cavanagh played video games all day on his work computer, Blake would have half believed them. Only half believed because Cavanagh did get results and senior management seemed to like him. Blake couldn’t shake the feeling that DS Bobby Dirkin did all the heavy lifting, though.
“So, my mate down at the car hire office reckons that the top end cars like the BMWs have GPS tags on them,” Dirkin said, handing Blake a piece of paper. “He checked for us and it looks like your girlfriend’s car is parked in a country house in North Wales somewhere between Mostyn and Pen-y-ffordd.”
“Pennyforth, Bobby,” Cavanagh said, emphasising the ‘TH’ sound at the end of the word. “That double ‘d’ in Welsh is a ‘th.’”
Blake looked at the slip of paper with an address and postcode on it. “So, what are we waiting for?”
“You know as well as I that we can’t just go charging over there, banging on the door, Will,” Cavanagh said, pulling a pained face.
“Last time she was seen, Laura was alive and well, driving a car with a passenger. We’ve no reason to believe she’s been abducted,” Dirkin said.
“The blood outside her front door belonged to Terry Ford, an ex-bouncer, he’s been done for a few drug offences, affray, we know he works for Thorpe,” Cavanagh said. “I don’t think we can take it any further, can we Bobby?”
“No, boss,” Dirkin said. “And we can’t tell you the address, either, Will. I mean, what if you were to get that address and go over there?” Dirkin shook his head.
Blake pursed his lips and looked at the address again. “Thanks, lads,” he said and turned, almost running into Kinnear.
“Sorry, but I’ve got something you really need to see…”
Blake clutched the paper that Dirkin had given him, in his fist. “Can it wait?”
