by Jack Slater
‘Not with me. There’s one on his record sheet though. Where are you?’
‘Outside his house. He’s not here.’
‘So why don’t you call Jane in the squad room? She can forward one to your phone.’
‘Jane’s not in the squad room. I sent her out. But, good idea. I’ll call in and get whoever’s there to do it.’ He hung up and redialled. ‘Hello, Ben. Can you call up the record sheet for Kevin Haynes and send his picture to my phone?’
‘Yes, Sarge. I’ll get on it now.’
‘Thanks.’ He hung up again. ‘Hold tight,’ he said to Sophie. ‘Might as well wait in the dry.’
Moments later, his phone pinged. He checked the incoming message window and found a picture of a plump man with a jowly face and stringy blond hair. ‘Here we go.’ He showed the image to Sophie as a set of headlights swept along the almost dark street.
She grunted softly. ‘Didn’t get where he is on his looks, did he?’
‘He’s not exactly handsome. But, now we know what he looks like, I can go into his workplace and see if he’s there.’
‘Time to get wet again then.’
A white van slowed on the street in front of them. Its indicator began blinking bright orange in the low light.
‘Hold on, Sophie. We may have been premature.’
Sure enough, the van turned into the drive and stopped. The lights were switched off, then the engine. Pete breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t going to do a runner, having seen them. A man emerged from the far side of the vehicle and slammed the door, his hair slicked down by the rain.
‘Evening, Mr Haynes. DS Gayle. This is PC Clewes. We need a word.’
‘What do you want?’ Haynes’ hoarse voice was flat and hostile as he pushed past, key in hand.
‘You weren’t entirely honest with my DC earlier. In fact, I could go so far as to say you lied to him.’
Haynes turned to face him. ‘No, I didn’t. What about?’
‘Your car, Mr Haynes. We’ve got CCTV of it leaving the scene outside Risingbrook School at the time when our victim was taken.’
‘Bollocks. You can’t have.’ He looked from Pete to Sophie and back again.
‘Would you prefer to do this inside, Mr Haynes? Where the neighbours can’t hear?’
Haynes swallowed. He looked ready to tell them to get lost, but abruptly turned, pushed the door open and stepped inside, leaving them to follow. He turned left into a sitting room, flicked on a light to show an old, worn chintz three-piece suite, a small 1930s display cabinet with a collection of antique cameras and a large flat-screen TV with satellite and DVD player underneath. He sat heavily in one of the chairs.
Pete took the near end of the sofa, leaned his elbow on the arm so that he was closer still. ‘So . . . What have you got to tell us, Mr Haynes?’
‘Nothing. I wasn’t there and nor was my car.’
Pete pressed his lips together as Sophie stepped in and took the other armchair. ‘I’ve already said, we’ve got CCTV. A silver Peugeot estate car, exactly the same as yours, is clearly visible turning left out of the end of Downton Road less than two minutes after Rosie was dropped off by her mother. We’ve got you, Kevin. The evidence is there, in living colour, ready to be played to the jury on a screen a damn sight bigger than that one you’ve got in the corner there.’
‘And I’m telling you, you’re seeing things. It’s not me. It’s not my car. Have you got the registration? You haven’t, have you? So, you’ve got nothing. A coincidence, at most, if this isn’t complete bullshit.’ He sat back in his chair, appearing to relax.
‘Let me explain something, Kevin. What we’ve got is a known paedophile whose car we can show was on the scene of a child abduction. Whether or not you can see the registration, do you honestly think a jury’s going to accept that as a coincidence?’ He shook his head. ‘Not in a million years, matey.’
‘All right. How many silver Peugeot estates do you reckon there are in Devon? Or even in Exeter? They ain’t rare. And mine don’t go at the moment, so it can’t have been there. You can take it in and have your mechanics check it out, if you like. They’ll tell you.’ He laughed. ‘They might even get it going again for me in the process. Save me the expense.’
Pete nodded. ‘Set that up, would you, PC Clewes?’
‘Sarge.’ She stood up and stepped into the hallway make the call.
Pete waited, watching Haynes for any reaction, any faltering or nervousness. There was nothing. Sophie returned, the call finished. ‘They’ll be round in ten minutes with a tow truck.’
‘And it’s where, right now?’ Pete asked Haynes.
‘In the garage.’ He jerked a thumb towards the garage at the side of the house.
‘Best move the van, then, eh? Let them get at it.’
He grunted, stood up and headed for the door.
Pete’s gaze went to Sophie as Haynes stepped past her. She shrugged. Either he’d do a runner when he got in the van or they were on the wrong track. They followed him outside and watched as he climbed into the van and backed it out of the driveway, heading slowly up the street until he found a parking space. He pulled in. The lights were switched off, the engine went quiet, the door slammed and Haynes trudged back towards them through the rain.
‘Might not be him, then, Sarge,’ Sophie said quietly.
‘Either that or he’s a damn good poker player.’
‘Which is one thing paedos are known for, it has to be said. Bluffing and bullshitting their way into people’s confidence.’
‘Hm.’
Haynes came up the drive, water running off his hair and soaking his jacket.
‘We’ll wait for the tow truck, see the car loaded,’ Pete said.
‘Meantime, I’ll go get a camera and take pictures of it. Not that I don’t trust the police or anything.’
‘We’re not interested in a stitch-up, Kevin. We just want to find Rosie Whitlock. Preferably alive and well.’
‘I hope you do,’ said Haynes. ‘And not only because she’ll exonerate me.’ He went inside, emerging moments later with a camera. He said nothing as he stepped past them and went into the garage. The flash started firing while Pete and Sophie stood under the porch, waiting.
‘So, what do you reckon, Sarge?’
‘At this moment, I reckon he’s telling the truth. But we’ll wait and see.’ Pete stuffed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the autumn chill.
He stared out into the rain. Where are you, Rosie Whitlock?
His mind conjured an image of another occasion when he’d been staring out at the rain, this time from the warmth of his own living room, his arm around the slim shoulders of his son. Tommy had been no more than four, and had wanted desperately to go out and play football in the garden with his dad. Pete had just concluded a major case, which had been taking up his every waking hour for weeks, so this was his first opportunity to spend time with the boy for at least that long. And to a four-year-old, weeks were almost endless. He’d looked down at Tommy’s glum little face and not been able to stop himself from laughing.
‘It’s not the end of the world, son,’ he’d said. ‘We’ll have loads of chances to play outside when the weather’s better.’
God, how he wished now that he’d made more of those chances. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat.
His phone rang in his pocket and he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he pulled himself together before answering it. ‘DS Gayle?’
‘Sergeant. It’s Alistair Whitlock. It’s been twenty-four hours since we spoke. Is there any news?’
Pete grimaced. He knew exactly what Whitlock was going through and the last thing he wanted was to treat the man in the same way as Simon had treated him, back in May, but at this stage . . . ‘Sir, we’re pursuing a number of lines of inquiry. I’m on one right now, in fact. But there’s nothing definite to tell you as yet. As soon as there is, I’ll be in touch, beli
eve me. But right now I’ve got nothing to tell you, apart from the fact that we’re doing everything that can be done.’
‘You’ve got nothing? How can you have nothing after a whole day, for God’s sake?’
With their alibis – and his instincts – confirmed, he felt nothing but sympathy for the Whitlocks along with his natural determination to find their daughter. If it was up to him, he’d tear the city apart looking for her, but he was a police officer. He couldn’t ignore the rules. ‘I didn’t say we’ve got nothing, sir. What I said was, I’ve got nothing to tell you. There’s a process that we have to go through and we’re doing that as swiftly as possible.’
‘But you’re still no closer to finding Rosie at the end of the day. Am I right?’
‘Actually, no. You’re not right, sir. We’ve taken some significant steps towards finding your daughter. We do know what we’re doing and I will be in touch as soon as there’s anything to tell you.’
A powerful engine sounded from the end of the road and he looked up to see a tow truck coming towards them, a police car with its lights flashing behind.
‘Now, I don’t want to be rude, sir, but there’s a lot to do in as little time as possible so, unless you’ve got anything you want to tell me . . .’
‘No, you’re right, Sergeant. I just wanted to know what’s going on, that’s all.’
‘Trust me, you will as soon as there’s anything I can tell you without compromising the case.’
‘Thank you.’
Pete ended the call as the tow truck pulled up at the end of the drive and Haynes emerged from the garage, the camera now on its strap around his neck. He drew a long, deep breath and let it out through his mouth.
*
‘Mrs Sanderson. Is your husband at home?’
Pete stood on the doorstep of the Sandersons’ house in West Hill. It had stopped raining just after they left Exeter and the temperature was already dropping under a clearing night sky.
She stared at him coldly. ‘He is. What do you want, Detective?’
‘To find Rosie Whitlock, preferably alive and unharmed. The chances of which are decreasing every minute that goes by. But, for the present, I need to talk to your husband.’
‘What about?’
‘A number of things. Among them, certain pictures we found on his computer, which were the reason we took it with us earlier. Also, the disappearance of a young girl, Alison Stretton, in Bath, in 2011, as she was walking home from her evening judo lesson.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘That’s yet to be determined. Your husband teaches judo, isn’t that right?’
‘Yes, but . . . I remember that case. The girl lived on the other side of the city. There was no connection to Neil. There couldn’t have been.’
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘Because the night she disappeared, he wasn’t teaching. He was at home with Becky and me. I remember the announcement on the news. We remarked on the similarity with Becky’s age and the fact that the girl did judo.’
‘I see.’ He turned to Sophie and spoke quietly. ‘Check with Bath, will you? See when the announcement went out, in relation to when the girl went missing?’
She nodded and turned away to make the call.
‘So, that being the case, Mrs Sanderson, it still leaves us with the pictures on his computer to explain.’
‘What pictures?’
‘I really think I’d be better discussing that with your husband.’
She sighed heavily. ‘Very well. You’d better come in.’ She stepped back to allow them entry.
He heard Sophie, behind him, saying, ‘OK. Thanks for that.’ Her phone snapped shut and she moved closer. ‘Avon and Somerset confirmed that the news didn’t go out until the day after Alison Stretton went missing. So Mr Sanderson’s alibi falls kind of flat.’
The horror dawned slowly on Geraldine Sanderson’s face. ‘Oh God,’ she moaned.
They stepped inside and she led them through to the lounge. ‘Do you want to speak to Becky? I’ll call her down.’
‘That won’t be necessary just now, thanks.’ Much as Pete needed to talk to Becky, he didn’t want to do it when either of her parents could intimidate her into silence or lying. Better to wait until morning and catch her on neutral ground. Have a teacher or a school nurse present, a social worker maybe. ‘We just need a quick word with your husband, then we’ll be on our way.’
‘Oh. Yes. Of course.’ She went to the door. ‘Neil,’ she called. ‘The police are here. They want to talk to you.’
‘I’ll be there in a sec.’
She came and sat back down. ‘So, what are these pictures that you want to discuss with my husband?’
‘Nothing illegal, but they might be relevant to the case.’
‘Relevant? How?’
‘As I said, that’s—’
The door opened and Sanderson stalked in. ‘Gayle. What do you want now? What the hell happened to a man’s home being his castle?’
‘Mr Sanderson, your wife wants to know about the discoveries we made on your computer, earlier. I’ve left it to you to explain them to her. In the meantime, I’d like to discuss them with you, if that’s all right?’
‘If you must.’ He sat down heavily in the free armchair. ‘Do you want to go and get a coffee or something, love?’
She got up. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t offer you anything, Detective. Constable. Would you . . . ?’
‘We’re fine, thanks, Mrs Sanderson,’ Pete told her.
‘Right. I’ll . . . be in the kitchen, then. Neil?’
He shook his head. ‘This won’t take long.’
He waited until she had left the room, the door clicking softly shut behind her, then sat back, arms spread wide on the sides of the chair. ‘All right. Ask me.’
‘Or maybe you should just tell us, Mr Sanderson. Why have you got nude pictures of your daughter and her best friend on your computer?’
He coloured. ‘I . . . I got them off Becky’s computer. I was checking up on her one day and found them. I copied them so that I could have it out with her about them, the next day, in my office rather than her room. You know how kids will lie about stuff and it’s easy enough to wipe them so there’s no evidence.’
‘And did you? Have it out with her about them?’
‘Yes. She said they were just messing around. I suppose, at that age, kids are just becoming aware of . . . Anyway, I told her to be careful. Not to send them over the Internet or email, or anything. They could be misused. And to get rid of them, as I thought I had from mine.’
‘She didn’t, though, did she? Get rid of them. And nor did you.’
‘I thought she’d done as I told her. That that was an end of it.’
‘So, what about the ones that weren’t taken with a phone camera? The ones where the girls were asleep? I’m thinking you took those yourself, Mr Sanderson. With a camera that the girls wouldn’t have had access to.’
‘Of course they would. It’s in the hall cupboard. They could have borrowed it at any time. If one was asleep, the other could have borrowed it, to take a picture or two, then downloaded them and wiped them off the camera.’
‘But why take the risk? If they had their phones to use instead?’
‘Well, that’s obvious, Sergeant. The SLR is a lot more sensitive in low light. I expect they didn’t want to wake each other up in the process.’
‘I see. Then maybe you’ve got an explanation for the ones in which they’re both asleep? And the ones we found on your machine that feature other girls?’
‘What? Well . . . I don’t . . .’ He sat forward, elbows on his knees, focusing on Pete as if Sophie wasn’t even there. ‘There’s nothing illegal on there, Sergeant. They’re all perfectly innocent.’
‘The subjects are, yes. Perfectly innocent underage girls. Who happen to be naked or nearly so.’
CHAPTER 13
Pete was almost asleep when the phone rang, loud in the dark
ness. He snatched it up before it woke Louise, whose breathing was already in the steady rhythm of slumber. Rolling away from her, he put the receiver to his ear. ‘Gayle.’
‘Sergeant. PC Steele. You need to get down here ASAP. We’ve found a body.’
‘What kind of body? And where’s here?’
‘A young girl. Around ten or eleven years old. Long, blonde hair, no identification, in the river at the top of St James’ Weir. A late-night dog-walker spotted her. He’s here, waiting on your arrival, sir.’
‘Late night? What bloody time is it?’
‘Eleven-oh-three, sir.’
‘OK. I’m on the way.’ Christ, an hour and a half, he thought. That’s all it was since he’d got home, too late and too tired to eat. He’d sat for an awkward half-hour with Louise, who barely spoke, before coming to bed. He put the phone down and climbed out of bed.
Louise moaned as he sat up. ‘What is it?’
‘A young girl’s been found at St James’ Weir. Dead. Could be our victim.’ He stood up and reached for the clothes he had taken off just a short time ago.
‘Oh God. What time is it?’
‘Just after eleven. Go back to sleep, love. I won’t be any longer than I have to.’
She turned over as he stood up and began to dress by the dim light of the street lights. After quickly finger-combing his hair, he picked up his watch and went down the stairs. He’d never gained any benefit from coffee in these situations, so he went straight out, climbed into the car and kept the revs down as much as possible as he backed out and drove away. First stop, the all-night minimart just up from the fish and chip shop on Heavitree Road, where he picked up a Mars bar and a Red Bull. He had finished both and was fully awake before he reached the turn down towards the riverside park.
Lights sparkled on the water through the trees, the park stretching away in darkness towards the playing fields and the main road and street lights beyond. Paved paths like pale ribbons separated mown grass and council flower beds of a style that had gone out of fashion in the 1960s. As he pulled up by the tall iron gates, he could see a group of people standing around in the far corner, where the main flow of the river was interrupted by a low weir, a side channel cutting off along the edge of the park. Torches made lines and pools of light around them. His breath misted in the crisp air as he headed down towards them.
