by Jane Isaac
Unfazed, Edwards stared out of the windscreen. The driver in front unlocked his car and climbed in. Within seconds he revved his engine and drove off. They now had an unhindered view of the graveyard entrance, less than thirty yards ahead.
‘Are the child’s remains Alicia Owen?’ he asked, gaze fixed ahead.
‘We don’t know yet. As we’ve already said, it’s a possibility.’
‘Then I have some information on the Owen family that might be useful.’
‘Okay.’ Beth shifted in her seat. The sooner this conversation was over, the better.
Instead of imparting his news, Edwards stayed silent. He seemed focused on something in the distance.
Beth followed his eyeline and spotted a figure in a red duffle coat leaving the cemetery in the distance. A very familiar figure. Marie Russell wore dark glasses and had tucked her hair into a beret, but Beth could see enough to be sure it was her.
‘She comes here every Thursday at five minutes to two,’ he said, guessing Beth’s thoughts, ‘with carnations for baby Liam’s grave. It’s her day off work. Yellow and white, always the same. Sometimes she brings her little boy with her.’
Instinct tempted Beth to duck down. Edwards had been reporting on Alicia’s case since her disappearance. There was little doubt Marie would know who he was, and it wouldn’t look good for Marie to see her family liaison officer with him, especially after the article he wrote yesterday. She rounded on the reporter. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I thought you guys would know. You’re the detectives.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ She had a hundred and one jobs she could be doing rather than sitting in a car with an annoying journalist talking in riddles, not to mention the precarious situation it would put her in with the family if they noticed her with a pain-in-the-arse local reporter.
‘Just making you aware of her habits. In case you didn’t know. And it seems you didn’t.’
The evenness of his tone was galling. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ Beth said.
Marie Russell climbed into her car at the front of the cemetery. She was fiddling with her phone, distracted. If she had noticed them, it didn’t show.
He gave a hollow sigh. ‘You’re re-opening Alicia’s case, right?’
‘It was never closed.’
He sniffed, ignoring her remark. ‘The family are not what they seem.’
‘The Russells?’
‘The Russells. The Owens. You need to take a closer look at all of them. Especially the brother, Scott.’
Beth narrowed her eyes. The secrecy surrounding the location of Scott Owen was picking away at her, along with Marie’s description of their family dynamic and the twins’ hostility towards him. ‘Why?’
‘Because he was different to the others. The outcast. The most dangerous one.’ He enunciated every syllable of the final sentence.
Beth wracked her brains. Scott was at work when Alicia was taken. There were witnesses on file. And Superintendent Tanner hadn’t expressed any particular interest in him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Scott was a great disappointment to his mother, a difficult child to raise. I’m sure you’ve seen his history. In his late teens, he got hooked onto the hard stuff.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Gambling. Playing the slot machines.’
Beth looked out of the side window. She couldn’t see what relevance Scott Owen being a small-time gambler had to the case of a murdered child.
‘I’m not talking pub machines here. Fixed odds betting machines. Virtual games terminals where you can play roulette, blackjack, poker, you name it, all in one place – a casino at your fingertips – £50 to £100 a stake. Can’t do it now of course, the government have limited them. But the machines are still in betting shops. Scott got himself in deep back in the early noughties. Rumour had it he moved on to poker, the big money card games…’
‘What are you saying?’
‘He was an addict. Drained his bank account, maxed out his credit cards, and when there was nothing left, he borrowed from, shall we say, disreputable sources.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Just doing my job.’
‘And your sources are…?’
Edwards looked away. ‘I’m not prepared to disclose them.’
Beth huffed. Either he didn’t have any or he was saving them for his bloody book. ‘So, you’re speculating?’
‘Not at all. Scott even stole from his mother. Cleaned out her bank account. Why do you think she threw him out?’
Beth fixed him a sideways glare. ‘What’s all this got to do with Alicia’s disappearance?’
‘Despite their differences, the Owen family were tight. People knew that. The kind of people Scott was in debt to will have known that too.’
‘Are you saying, you think whoever he borrowed from took Alicia? There was no ransom request, I don’t see what they’d gain.’
His face hardened. ‘I’m suggesting you dig a bit deeper, that’s all. Speak to Scott. I know he spent a lot of time at Barton’s Snooker Hall around the millennium. When it was run by the McNamara brothers.’
Beth didn’t react. She’d heard stories about the McNamara brothers, a couple of local gangsters who ran Barton’s and controlled the doors of pubs and clubs in the town in the early noughties. Stories that marked them as a nasty pair, suggesting they were involved in drug trafficking, prostitution and loansharking, although they’d never been arrested or charged. Too clever to be caught within a whiff of anything sinister. CID had been tracking them for years and building up a file of intelligence when they were killed suddenly in a car accident, the year after she joined. She remembered their deaths vividly because she’d worked overtime to staff the funeral.
‘No one involved with Barton’s at the time will speak to me,’ Edwards continued. ‘As much as I hate to admit it, you’ve got more resources than I have. The family think Scott’s living rough in London.’ The hairs sticking out of his nose fluttered as he snorted. ‘He’s actually only in Kettering.’
Kettering was a small town on the north of the county. It was also the nearest town to Beth’s home in Mawsley Village. ‘How do you know?’
‘I stumbled across him a year or so back, when I was researching another job. Caught someone call him by his full name. He denied the connection, of course. I’m sure it was him though. It makes sense really. Far enough away that he wouldn’t run into his family, but still close by. Can be found sleeping behind the billboard on Northampton Road most nights.’
Beth turned to face him. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
Seconds passed. ‘I’ve been working on this story for years.’
‘I heard it was a book.’
He cast his eyes skyward. ‘I have a draft with a publisher. They want input from the families, an endorsement, before they’ll progress. The family should know I’ve spoken with you.’
So that’s it. ‘You want me to get you an audience with the family?’ Beth was incredulous. ‘You must be kidding!’
‘I’m not asking you to broker a meeting. You could put in a word, let them know I’m helping.’
Beth wasn’t unaccustomed to the tactics the media used to gain information. She’d guarded enough crime scenes and worked enough cases to be mindful of the differing agendas between the press and the police. Reporters looking for a sensational headline, something to sell their newspapers and articles. The police holding back information, only releasing what was essential to drive an investigation forward. But this was the first time she’d had an audience with a reporter who arranged to meet to ostensibly pass on information in exchange for personal gain and the sheer audacity of the man clawed at her.
She fought to keep her words even. ‘I’m not here to put in words.’ She almost added, ‘I’m here to solve a murder’, and stopped herself at the last minute. A statement like that gave an indication the body was Alicia. She wasn’t about to play his games and she certainly wasn’t going to let anything slip.
‘I’m surprised you haven’t been to see Scott yourself,’ she said.
‘I have. I went over on Wednesday evening, after the news broke. He was gone from his usual spot. I spoke to the others sleeping there and nobody has seen him since last weekend. It seems he’s disappeared.’
*
Beth gritted her teeth as she walked back to the car. The cheek of the man irked her, although she couldn’t deny the information on Scott Owen was interesting. To connect it with the child’s murder seemed a leap though. He’d implied both the Russells and the Owens had secrets, yet wouldn’t go into detail and refused to disclose his sources. Was that because he was speculating or because he didn’t have hard evidence? She needed to unpick the family history. And she needed to trace Scott Owen. She was almost at the car when her mobile buzzed, breaking her thought process. It was Nick.
‘Where are you?’
‘In Kingsthorpe. Just finished with Edwards.’ She relayed their conversation.
‘That’s interesting,’ Nick said. ‘Scott Owen hasn’t been flagged up as living rough locally.’
‘If he’s been living on the streets for the past fourteen or so years, under the radar, our usual checks wouldn’t pick him up,’ Beth said. ‘Edwards suggested he might have been using loan sharks. I’d be interested in any connection he might have had with organised crime.’
‘I’ll double check with intelligence, see what they had on him and the McNamara brothers when Alicia disappeared,’ Nick said. He lowered his voice. ‘Freeman wants to see you when you get back.’
‘Why?’
‘Somebody’s contacted the chief constable about the case. It sounds like a member of the family has expressed concern. I don’t know the specifics, I overheard a conversation in the corridor outside Freeman’s office.’
It wasn’t unusual for victim’s families to be frustrated with how an investigation was progressing. It was a desperate time in their lives and police work was time consuming. Often answers didn’t come quick enough. But this was an old case revived and she’d spoken to everyone involved, kept them updated. Why hadn’t they come to her? ‘Overheard from who?’ she said.
‘Freeman and Andrea Leary. It sounds like the chief’s tasked her with sorting it. She’s still in with Freeman now.’
Beth ground her teeth. She’d rather hoped she’d be shot of Andrea after she’d left the team to support the chief, and here she was, returning like a bad smell that refused to go away. ‘What did they say exactly?’
‘I only heard bits before they closed the door, enough to know it’s to do with Alicia Owen. A member of the family isn’t happy.’
‘Okay. I’m on my way in now.’
Who’d complained? Surely not Daniel, he’d seemed okay when she left him yesterday evening and was now away on a long-haul delivery. Marie? She’d appeared open and frank this morning. Maybe she’d given away more than she planned? Or perhaps she’d spotted Beth at the cemetery. Or Vic. He was agitated, aggrieved at the press leak yesterday.
Beth was back at her car now. She climbed in, turned over the engine and sighed. It didn’t matter who’d complained, there was bound to be drama if Andrea Leary was dealing with it.
27
Marie Russell pulled down the sun visor, checked her beret in the mirror and tucked away a few strands of stray hair before she flipped the visor back up and checked the clock on the dash. Almost 3.15 p.m. The mothers were gathering at the school gates in little groups. Shoulders hunched, faces pinched against the vicious December wind.
Usually she’d be standing there on the periphery, listening to their chatter, having dashed back from work to collect Zac. But not today. Today, she clung to the safety of her car like a baby’s comforter. Parking close enough to view the gates and be ready to jump out and collect Zac when he came out, and far enough away that her presence wouldn’t be noticed.
The mothers would have seen the news coverage and read the speculation over whether it was Alicia. She couldn’t face the head tilts, the sorry eyes, the inquisitive questions. And she didn’t want those questions near her son.
It had taken years to get past the subject of her missing daughter in company. In the early days, whenever she met someone new, their eyes would flick to the blonde streak in her hair, hear the mention of her name and their faces would tense. Some asked her about her daughter, others looked on awkwardly, unsure what to say. It eased when she married Vic and took his surname, though, occasionally, when she met someone new, they would still squint and glance at her hair uncomfortably.
A few of the mums had eyed her with that same look when Zac started school. Others talked in low voices, behind the backs of their hands, passing pitiful expressions in her direction. Marie was raised in Kingsthorpe. Even if people didn’t know of her, the press coverage around the time of Alicia’s disappearance branded her image on their brains. Marie didn’t react. She’d learned to ignore the gossip, sit it out, wait for it to pass as it inevitably did. She didn’t want their sympathy. She wanted to live a normal life, support her family and raise her son, just like them.
She checked the clock on the dash. Whereas her boss had told her to take a week’s leave, to sort things out with the police and her family, Vic was self-employed and didn’t enjoy the luxury of paid holiday. He’d worked from home as much as possible during the last forty-eight hours. Today he had a meeting with a potential new supplier that had been arranged for weeks. He’d wanted to postpone; she’d persuaded him not to. ‘I’ll get Freddie’s mum to bring Zac home,’ he’d said when they’d discussed it that morning. Looking out for her, as always.
‘No, I can collect him. I’ll be fine,’ she’d said. Life had to continue. Only now she was here at the school she could feel her pulse start to accelerate.
This was her first trip out since the news of the discovery of the child’s remains broke and she’d planned the mission as if it was a military operation. Dug out her old beret and sunglasses. Donning them and driving straight out of the garage, despite the gloomy day. ‘You can drive my old convertible,’ Vic had said. ‘People are less likely to recognise you at the school in that.’ And he was right. But it was one thing staring at a sea of faces from the safety of her front room. Quite another passing through them to get out of her road and it didn’t stop the reporters rushing to her side, pressing their faces to her window, the camera flashes as she drove through the crowd outside their house.
Another glance at the clock. 3.20 p.m. Zac would be out soon.
She looked past the waiting mothers to the playground: the climbing frame, the hopscotch area, the worn red and blue steps of the slide. Since she’d had Zac, these were happy places. An outdoors child, Zac loved to run and play and was like a spider on a climbing frame. In the early years, after Alicia and Liam, it was a different story. She’d found herself lost in the presence of children yet drawn to them like a magnet. Spending endless hours sitting on park benches, watching them play, a longing clanging like a bell inside her chest.
And over the last couple of days, she’d felt that clanging return. She couldn’t sleep and could barely eat, waiting to see what each day would bring.
A movement in her peripheral vision. A flash of green book-bags. The reception year children were trailing out of school in a line, headed by their teacher. Zac’s class would be next. She pulled on her sunglasses, took one last look to ensure her hair was tucked into the cap and was about to climb out of the car when someone tapped the passenger window.
Marie jumped. It was Mrs Tilbury, the headmistress.
Marie slid out of the car, pulled off her sunglasses and viewed her across the roof. The wind was lifting her grey bob and flapping it about. The woman pulled her cardigan across her chest.
‘Is everything okay?’ Marie asked, glancing about. She was expecting Zac to appear, his mousy hair spiking his crown.
‘Zac’s inside,’ the teacher said, guessing her thoughts. ‘Could you come and join us in my office for a minute?’
&nbs
p; ‘Has something happened?’
‘We just need to have a chat. We’ll talk about it inside.’
*
Marie had only ever been in the head’s office once before, when they’d looked around the school. It was located at the back of the building, overlooking the sports field, and she was relieved when Mrs Tilbury unlocked the side gate and led her down the side passage to the rear. At least she didn’t have to pass through the mothers gathered at the gate who were now craning their necks to watch.
‘Zac is with Miss Marsh,’ Mrs Tilbury said as they entered the building. Miss Marsh was his classroom teacher, a pretty blonde woman, barely out of training. She had a gentle manner with little children and Zac had taken to her almost immediately. Marie was just speculating whether something had happened in class when the headmistress led Marie into an empty classroom with desks and chairs at one end and a play area with a children’s kitchen and tent at the other. Splodgy paintings were pegged to a string hung like a washing line that spanned the width of the room. ‘I thought we’d have a quick chat before we join the others,’ she said.
This sounded serious.
Mrs Tilbury’s face was impassive and staunchly professional – she wasn’t giving anything away. Marie wondered how many other parents had been led into the school like a pupil for one of her chats.
‘Thank you for asking your husband to speak with us yesterday about the recent findings. I wanted to say how sorry I am. We all are. It must be such a difficult time for you.’
It didn’t sound like a sympathy call. The tone of her speech suggested a ‘but’. ‘Thank you,’ Marie said, cautiously.
‘Have the police confirmed whether or not it is your daughter?’
‘We’re awaiting DNA test results. They should be available soon.’
The woman pinched her lips together. ‘That’s good.’
‘How has Zac been?’ Marie asked, her gaze flicking to the door and the corridor beyond. She’d never been in the school when it was empty and it struck her how quiet it was in the classroom now the children had left.
