by Jane Isaac
The road was slick. Traffic lights in front flashed up green. She slammed the brakes anyway, in an effort to give her tailgater a shock. If it hadn’t been such a wet evening, she’d have pulled them over, given them a piece of her mind. But she was wet and tired and all she wanted right now was to get home.
Her car slid as she braked, though it was a planned manoeuvre; she’d left herself plenty of room. The brakes of the car behind screeched as it skidded to a stop, narrowly missing her. Probably some idiot racer. Perhaps that would teach them a lesson. All she could see in her rear-view was the silhouette of the driver. The sun visor was pulled down, obscuring their face.
She accelerated onto the A43, surprised to find the car still there. There was nothing else on the road. They were deliberately tailgating her.
A sudden acceleration. She checked her rear-view mirror, desperately trying to catch the number plate. They were annoying her now. If this was bloody Pip Edwards or one of the other reporters, they’d be in trouble.
She raced forward, far enough to take a better look at the car. It was a black BMW. She read the number plate quickly, before it caught her up and sat on her tail. Definitely not Edwards in his Saab then.
They raced down the A43 and Beth turned off towards Mawsley Village, watching in her wing mirror as it continued to follow. She steered into her village at the far entrance, checked her rear-view again. The road behind her was empty. A breath of relief, another repeat of the number plate. She’d be sure to report the incident, check the plates on the PNC tomorrow and make sure an officer went round and gave the driver certain words of advice.
Myrtle was sitting in the kitchen beside her empty food bowl, mewling when Beth crossed her threshold. She dropped her bags, shrugged off her wet jacket and rushed through to the kitchen, grabbing a pen and pad from the kitchen side to scribble down the number plate.
It wasn’t until she finished that something felt wrong. She walked back into the hallway. The air was displaced in the small area, as if someone had been inside recently. Nick was with her in Kettering, there wouldn’t have been time for him to call in home on his way over from headquarters. The doors to the front room and dining room were pulled to. They usually left them open to give Myrtle the free run of the house when they weren’t home.
Myrtle’s mewling grew louder, but Beth ignored her. She clutched her phone in her hand, pushed open the front room door and flicked the light switch. It was empty. She did the same with the dining room, then took to the stairs, checking each of the first-floor rooms, one by one.
Finally, satisfied the house was empty, she dropped onto the edge of her bed, cursing her frayed nerves. Nobody was there. The doors and windows showed no sign of a break-in. Only Nick and she had keys. She recalled the open gate yesterday. It must be the break-in during their last investigation playing on her mind. She needed to get a grip.
The sound of an engine filled the room. Headlights flashed outside. Nick. He couldn’t see her like this. At best, he’d follow her around like a shadow again. At worst, he’d persuade her to take time off work, seek counselling. She didn’t fancy either option, especially when she’d been given a shot at acting sergeant.
Another cry filtered up the stairs. Myrtle needed feeding.
Beth stole a breath and wandered back down the stairs. Her nerves had been rattled by the tailgater. Tomorrow morning she’d check that number plate and make them pay for their dangerous games.
*
Marie Russell sat under the dull hue of the Christmas tree lights in her front room, twirling the crimson wine around her glass. It was less than two weeks until Christmas; Zac broke up from school for the holidays in a few days. She usually relished this time of year: watching him run downstairs and open his advent calendar in his pyjamas in the mornings; the trips to see Santa; soaking up his excitement in the run up to the big day. Yet the news on Tuesday had pressed the pause button. She could see the festivities going on around her, was aware of them on television, on the radio, in the handmade decorations Zac brought home from school, but they no longer seemed real. Not in her world.
A tear dropped off her chin, landing on the side of her glass with a plink. She thought of Zac’s little face earlier. It was bad enough that her discussions with the police raked up uncomfortable memories for her. Now the incident had infiltrated all their lives.
It had been difficult filling Vic in on Zac’s actions at school. His face had fallen, distraught. To his credit, he hadn’t grown angry and blamed Marie. Not once had he said, I told you so when, really, he had every right to do so.
After their earlier discussion Zac had settled remarkably well. Better than his father who she’d found sitting on the sofa when she’d come downstairs from putting their son to bed, staring at the blank television screen, an untouched mug of coffee in his hand. It was his darts evening, the one night of the week he usually went out. Ordinarily, he’d had have left straight after dinner and come rolling in about ten-thirty, stinking of lager. Yet after the incident with Zac, he’d brushed it aside. He didn’t want to leave her alone, but she’d insisted. The break would do him good and, anyway, she needed some time to herself. Time to process.
She took a sip of wine and listened to the soft sounds of Zac’s breaths as he slept. Vic kept pressuring her to get rid of the monitor. ‘You’re babying him,’ he said. ‘Give him some space.’ She knew Zac hadn’t been a baby for years, though at times like this, when uncertainty rained down, threatening to swamp her, Marie found the ebb and flow of her son’s breaths calming. And he had no idea she was listening, the monitor was hidden behind a book, high up on the bookshelf in his room, so there was no harm done really.
Marie gulped the wine, finishing the glass, relishing the bitter tang it left on her tongue, the warm fuzziness it brought to her head. Talking through Alicia’s disappearance beckoned all the old anxieties and fears to the fore. The ones she’d buried deep in the dark depths of her mind. The dark sickening notions of what her daughter had gone through after she was taken. The police were pretty sure she’d died of a trauma to her head. There was no sexual interference – a blessing. But what had gone through that tiny child’s mind? She was old enough to know her mother, to recognise her family and those close to her. Was she frightened? Did she suffer?
She poured herself another glass, blinking out the fresh tears brimming in her eyes, sending them cascading down her face. She’d become obsessed with missing children after Alicia was kidnapped. Child abduction was rare and when it did occur, it was usually between families or separated partners, or part of a kidnapping with a ransom call. Stranger abduction, especially of children, was rarer still. She’d read an article about a woman in Canada whose sleeping toddler disappeared from her car while she paid for her petrol. The child was later found dead in a shallow ditch nearby. Another family in New Zealand whose five-year-old daughter disappeared from a playground when the mother’s attention was turned elsewhere. Years later, she was found in a cellar where she’d been kept captive. Marie’s mind had raced, her thoughts colliding with the possibilities of what might have happened to her girl. And when Madeleine McCann’s disappearance hit the headlines in 2007, she’d resolved to stay away from the news. It was too painful.
Who would take a child, a baby, hit them on the head and murder them?
She recalled the police questions at the time: Have you had any disagreements or arguments with anyone? Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt your daughter or your family? She’d racked her brains. But there was no one. No one she knew would commit such a heinous crime, would they?
The DNA test results would be back soon. Trepidation rushed through her. Trepidation at the confirmation it was her daughter, but also at what the results could uncover. The can of worms it could open. Another tear fell. She was watching it disperse into the wine when the door creaked open.
Marie jerked forwards. The freshly poured wine sloshed over the lip of the glass. ‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ she
said to her husband, pressing her free hand to her chest.
‘I came in the back way. Didn’t want to disturb Zac. Is he alright?’
‘He’s sleeping.’
‘Good.’ He glanced around the room. ‘You okay?’ he asked, ‘sitting here in the dark?’
Marie tried to brush the wine droplets from her shirt. ‘I think so.’
34
The atmosphere in the incident room the following morning was tense with frustration. Officers sat huddled over computer screens with handsets glued to their ears, following up on the dregs of enquiries. There was no doubt about it, leads were dwindling and even though they’d recovered a body, Beth had to face facts: they’d made no more headway in solving the abduction and murder of Alicia Owen than Tanner’s team, fifteen years earlier.
Rain pounded the windows. Freeman had been called to a meeting with the chief superintendent, delaying their morning briefing, although there wasn’t much to report. They’d worked through the results of the public appeal and, apart from the usual crank callers, no one had reported any sightings of activity in the field at the end of Boughton Green Road.
Beth had scrutinised Marie, Vic, Daniel and Cara’s bank accounts after the abduction, and searched their phone records, but couldn’t find anything untoward. Three days had passed since the child had been found. Three days in which the family were left on tenterhooks. ‘Any news on the DNA tests?’ Beth shouted across to Nick who was standing at a desk in the corner, speaking with one of the analysts.
‘I’ll ring the labs,’ he said making his way over and pausing beside her.
He turned to go when Pete strode across to her desk. ‘I ran a trace on the plates you reported last night.’
Nick stopped in his tracks. ‘What’s that?’
‘Oh, some idiot racer I encountered on my way home last night.’ Beth waved her hand in the air dismissively. ‘Needs a few words of advice on their driving habits.’
She waited until Nick had moved off to a desk in the corner before she looked back at Pete. ‘What have you got?’
‘That’s the thing, I don’t have anything.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘The plates are cloned. Borrowed off a BMW previously registered in Rugby.’
‘Previously registered?’
‘It was involved in a collision on the M6, recorded as a write-off last year.’
Beth frowned. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
She hadn’t scribbled down the number until she’d got home. Could she have mistaken a digit? It was doubtful, she’d repeated it to herself numerous times. Though she couldn’t be positive. What a shame, she was looking forward to wiping the smile off the driver’s face. All they could do now was log it as intelligence and get the ANPR police cameras to watch out for it in the county. But she couldn’t help wondering what the driver had been up to last night. Their intention appeared to be to intimidate. Surely somebody wasn’t trying to distract her, or warn her off the investigation? Once again, she cursed her paranoia. There was still the chance the car had been sold on, and this was a joyrider. Though the incident left her uneasy.
‘Okay, Pete. Thanks for trying.’
Her mobile buzzed with an unknown number. Beth drew it to her ear.
‘Beth, it’s Martin Callaghan here, the community beat officer for Kettering town centre. I’ve just received your messages. I think I can help.’
Beth felt a frisson of excitement. ‘You know where Scott Owen is?’
‘I’ve a good idea if it’s the same guy. I only know him as Scott. Are you able to come over? I’ll take you straight to him.’
35
PC Martin Callaghan was a short man with thinning blond hair, a pale complexion and an overhanging girth to rival Freeman’s. He greeted Beth with a wide smile, exposing a row of uneven, nicotine-stained teeth and a firm handshake. He was carrying a takeaway coffee in his other hand.
They met in the car park beside the swimming baths in Kettering, as neutral a location as any she guessed for the town centre, and in the time it had taken them to wander down to Northampton Road the rain stopped and she learned that Martin had served three years in the police, a late joiner, and had been covering this area as the community officer for past six months.
‘It’s mostly shoplifters and residents complaining about dog muck on the pavement,’ he said, ‘but once you get to know everyone, it’s not so bad.’
‘What do you know about Scott Owen?’ she asked.
He passed her a sideways glance, the untouched coffee carton in his hand held out at an angle. ‘Not much. We’ve moved him on for begging a few times. Don’t normally bother if they’re discreet and outside the town centre, but he’s usually off his head on heroin.’
‘What about his background?’
‘Only as much as you, I guess. I looked him up this morning. He’s very different to the photo, he’s got a beard and a moustache and is pretty unkempt compared to the manicured mugshot on our files. I can tell you he’s been around here for most of the six months I’ve been policing the area and I’m not aware of any feuds, or people trying to trace him.’
They reached the billboards at the bottom of the road. Beth followed Martin as he slipped behind the boards, the untouched coffee still in his hand.
The area was markedly different with the dappled daylight seeping through the overhanging canopy of branches. Beth imagined it would be completely covered in summer, when the trees were in bloom. A sleeping bag was clumped in the corner of the makeshift shelter Beth had seen the night before, although, in daylight, it looked precarious, like it would fall at the slightest gust of wind. The edge of the roll of cardboard poked out from beneath several torn bin liners in the corner.
The stench of urine was stronger today, mingling with the damp air, and she had to resist the temptation to cover her nose.
A man sat beside a makeshift shelter, a lit roll-up hanging out of his mouth. He had short dark hair, in dire need of a wash, and was wrapped in a tatty grey blanket.
‘Alright, Harry?’ Martin said. ‘How’s it going?’
Beth immediately realised the reason for the coffee as he passed it across. ‘Where is everyone?’
Harry thanked him for the drink, resting a suspicious gaze on Beth.
‘You the cop that came here last night?’ he asked.
Beth nodded.
‘Bet you got soaked.’
‘We’re looking for Scott,’ Martin said casually, changing the subject. ‘Hoping he can help us with something.’ He eyed the other pile of bedding as he spoke. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve seen him recently?’
‘What do you want to speak to him about?’
‘It’s a family matter.’
‘Yeah. That’s what the journalist said.’
Beth caught Martin’s eye. Did he mean Pip Edwards?
‘What journalist?’ Martin said.
‘The once with the bird’s nest hair. Nosey bugger. He’s been back again since. Don’t know what he said to Scott, but it really spooked him. Haven’t seen him for a while.’
Martin took down dates and times when they’d last seen him. ‘Do you have any idea where he might have gone?’
‘Nah. You got any cigs?’ He’d finished the roll up now, chucked it down and stamped it out with the toe of his boot.
Martin pulled a packet out of his pocket, flipped the lid and offered it across. Harry’s eyes shone as he took one. He lit up and took a long drag, closing his eyes, savouring the moment.
‘What about Pete?’ Martin asked, jutting his chin towards the empty bundles.
‘He’s popped out to the High Street. He hasn’t seen him either though. He’d have said.’
They waited a while longer, making light conversation while Martin probed Harry further. Scott had camped with them on and off for years. He often took himself off on his own. When he’d exhausted his questions, Martin bade his farewells and indicated for Beth to follow.
&nbs
p; ‘That would have been my first choice,’ Martin said as they started up Northampton Road back to the car.
‘Yes, it was Pip Edwards who told me Scott Owen was there,’ Beth said. ‘I tried those people camping in the churchyard too.’ She passed on her conversation with Lisa Roberts.
A wry smile curled the officer’s lip. ‘Ah. I doubt you’ll find Scott there.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The church doesn’t want the homeless there, but they don’t like to move them on, it’s not very Christian-like. It’s an exposed area, very central. Lisa’s militant. Gives her a chance to make her point. I doubt your guy will be there if he’s lying low. She’s deliberately drawing attention to their plight.’
‘Why?’
‘Kettering doesn’t have a shelter. Well, not until the extreme weather kicks in. Extreme heat or cold. The council are obliged by law to set up a temporary shelter then. Otherwise, there’s nothing.’ He turned his eyes skyward. ‘In a town of 56,000 people, that’s saying something.’
Beth raised a brow.
‘According to the local council, we don’t have homeless people. They rely on the police to move them along, hide the problem. Which is why those are camping in the churchyard. It’s private property and they are visible, making their point that there are plenty of vagrants in Kettering. They need help.’
‘Is there anywhere else we can try?’
‘There are lots of potentials. Isolated spots. We could try the waste ground beside the rugby pitch on London Road. Occasionally, someone pitches a tent there, especially when they want to be alone.’
Edwards said Scott had disappeared. Did he think the reporter was onto him and decide to hide away? ‘Great, we’ll go in my car.’
By the time they’d navigated through the traffic, it was almost 1 p.m. Martin motioned for Beth to pull into a layby on London Road, close to a cut through to the housing estate beyond.
