Nowhere to Run

by Jack Slater

  *

  ‘Shit.’

  Pete stared down at the body caught at the top of the weir. The PC was right – she was young. Nine, ten, maybe. About the same age as Annie. He thought back to that morning, when he had left her at the bus stop, the thoughts and feelings he’d had then, and his breathing stopped. He coughed and shook his head, fighting to stay focused on the here and now.

  The girl’s long blonde hair swirled in the fast-flowing water. One foot was caught in the bushes at the side of the river, her slender arms swinging in the stream. So she had been newly dead when she went in. Rigor mortis had not yet stiffened her limbs. She was nude, her skin pale almost translucent.

  He looked up at the uniformed sergeant. ‘Who the hell is she? Because she’s not Rosie Whitlock.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know, sir.’

  Anger and fear flared in Pete’s mind. ‘What in God’s name’s going on here? Did we even know there was another girl missing?’

  The sergeant shook his head, clearly at a loss.

  ‘Pete.’ The call came from behind him. He turned. Coming towards him at an easy, long-legged stroll, was a tall man in a mackintosh and trilby hat. Bundled up against the chill, he looked almost normal weight, but his face was still cadaverously thin. Pete recognised John Carter, the coroner’s officer.

  ‘John. You look like you’re putting on weight.’

  ‘Need to. Bloody cold, these winter nights.’ He pushed gloved hands into his coat pockets.

  ‘Winter? It’s not even November yet, only just autumn. Global warming, I suppose.’

  ‘Warming? How the hell can you even speak that word while your breath looks like steam in front of your face and your knackers have shrunk to raisins and gone into hiding?’ He shivered.

  ‘So, what have they told you, to drag you out at this time of night?’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be the bloke in charge here?’

  Pete looked around. ‘In theory, yes, but this isn’t the victim I was expecting.’

  ‘I know nothing, mate. Just a dead girl in the river. The forensics guys are behind me, though.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘They were just unpacking when I started down here.’

  Pete glanced towards the road and saw three pale figures in white disposable overalls, carrying several aluminium cases each, still only halfway across the park.

  ‘I hope to God we don’t have to rely on DNA to figure out who she is.’

  ‘Suppose I ought to have a look, now I’m here.’ Carter stepped forward. Stopping at the water’s edge, he stared at the body for a long moment then looked up at Pete. ‘I’d hope she’s on the missing persons database. Girl her age.’

  ‘Yeah. Along with how many thousands of others?’

  Carter shook his head. ‘Outside my purview, mate.’

  ‘Makes you wonder what the bloody hell’s going on round here. The girl over the river, the other week. Rosie Whitlock missing. Now this one.’ Despite himself, Silverstone’s words came back to him. Was Tommy another victim? He didn’t fit the known profile, but . . . He shuddered. ‘How many more are there?’

  ‘The one in Powderham is the first that we know of.’

  ‘Maybe, but if this girl’s not been dead long, is Rosie still alive?’

  ‘Perhaps one was a replacement for the other.’

  ‘But this girl looks like she was killed after Rosie was taken.’

  ‘Could be he’s like a chain-smoker. Lights another before he puts the first one out.’

  The forensics team arrived, led by a stocky man with a soft belly bulging under his thin white overalls. He nodded to Carter and turned to shake hands with Pete. ‘Harold Pointer. Are you the officer in charge?’

  ‘Seems so. DS Pete Gayle.’

  ‘What have we got?’

  ‘Down there, behind me. A girl, maybe nine or ten years old, nude, caught in the bushes at the edge of the river, probably because of the slower flow at the top of the weir. Looks fresh to me. Don’t know if she was dumped here or further upstream, but the position suggests the latter.’

  ‘And I don’t suppose we’ve a chance of proving the former, with all the boots that have been plodding about down here since she was found.’

  ‘Unlikely, I’d agree.’

  ‘Right then. We’d better get to it. The pathologist is on the way. He’ll be here in about five minutes.’ He turned to his team, began to give crisp, practised orders.

  ‘Suppose I’d best have a word with the witness,’ Pete said to Carter. ‘Then I’ll see who I can shake up at the station and get the misper search underway.’

  ‘Best of British, mate.’ Carter took off a glove and offered a large, bony hand. Pete shook it firmly and turned towards the man standing at the edge of the park with a golden retriever and a young constable.

  He was in his mid-sixties, Pete guessed, dressed in pale corduroy trousers and walking boots, a sweatshirt under a waxed jacket and a woollen hat. His jaw was grizzled with a day’s growth of grey stubble. His gaze, when he looked up at Pete from petting the dog, was dull.

  ‘Mr Scotsdale?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m DS Gayle. I understand you found the body down there?’

  ‘Yes. Well, Nell did. She wouldn’t leave it alone, so I went to see what she was so interested in.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Don’t know exactly. Don’t wear a watch. No need, since I retired. But we usually come out around ten, for about forty minutes, so probably around twenty past.’

  ‘And you called it in right away?’

  ‘Yes. Wife makes me carry a mobile when I’m out on my own. In case of emergencies.’ He rubbed the dog’s ears. ‘Like this, I suppose.’

  ‘Thank her for us, would you? Did you notice anything else out of the ordinary tonight? Unusual activity on the road at the top of the park maybe? Footprints near the body? Anyone running, that wasn’t a regular jogger?’

  He was shaking his head, his right hand worrying at the dog’s ears and the top of its head. ‘No, nothing like that. It was just a regular evening until . . . until Nell found her.’

  ‘And how long were you in the park before you found her?’

  ‘Oh, about fifteen minutes or so, I suppose.’

  ‘OK. Thank you. If you leave your contact details with the constable, we’ll let you get on home.’ He shook the man’s hand and went back down to the river. The body had been lifted from the water and was lying on a plastic sheet. A small, wiry man in his fifties, his greying hair trimmed to little more than stubble, was bending over it, a large leather case open beside him. Pete recognised Dr Tony Chambers.

  ‘Evening, Doc.’

  He glanced up. ‘DS Gayle. Nice to see you back in the saddle.’

  ‘I’d say it’s nice to be here, but . . . hardly, in the circumstances.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So, what can you tell me?’

  ‘Probably nothing you haven’t already gleaned for yourself. Time of death is complicated by the water temperature. I’ll have to check back at the mortuary. But only a matter of hours. And she’s probably been in the water for most of that time so, given the location, I’d suggest she went in somewhere else. And she was put in, she didn’t jump. Neither did she drown. They’re hardly visible yet – we’ll be able to see more detail in a day or two – but there are bruises on the neck consistent with strangulation.’

  ‘All right. Thanks, Doc. I’ll have to get a search organised upstream for the dump site then.’ He glanced at his watch. It was a little after eleven-thirty. ‘Meantime, we need to find out who she was. Don’t suppose you can help with that, can you?’

  ‘Sadly not, I’m afraid. Not unless she’s in the system already, at her tender age.’

  ‘Worth a check, I suppose, but she’s not very old.’

  ‘Nine, ten, at a guess.’

  ‘So we should know that she’s missing, for Christ’s sake.’ He brought out his phone and held it up. ‘You mind?’


  ‘Go ahead.’

  Pete snapped a couple of close-ups of the girl’s face.

  ‘I’ll have the autopsy done by midday, if you want to pop round. First on the table, as it’s a child.’

  ‘OK. See you later.’ He headed off up the hill. This bloody case was getting more complicated, not less. And he didn’t have time for complications, if he was going to find Rosie alive and well.

  With his phone in hand, he checked the contact details the old man had given him and dialled with his thumb. It was picked up on the second ring.

  ‘Hello?’ A nervous-sounding female voice made it sound like a question.

  ‘Mrs Scotsdale?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m DS Gayle, from Heavitree Road CID. I was wondering if I could talk to your husband.’

  ‘Oh, he’s out with the dog. I’ve been expecting him home for half an hour or so. I don’t know where he’s got to.’

  ‘What time did he leave?’

  ‘The usual time. About ten.’

  ‘OK, well, not to worry. I’ll call him in the morning.’ He hung up. He’d have liked to tell her the old man was fine and would be home in a few minutes, but it would only complicate things if he now went back on his previous subterfuge. And she would only have to worry a few minutes more. At least he had confirmed that the old man had nothing to do with the body, other than finding it.

  *

  Angry and dismayed that he did not know anything about the dead girl, Pete went straight to the station. The desk sergeant looked up from the magazine he was reading. ‘What the hell are you doing here, at this time of night? Haven’t you got a home to go to?’

  ‘Yes, and a nice warm bed. But it looks like I’ve got a new bloody case to go with the missing girl I caught yesterday.’ Pete checked his watch. ‘Yes, it still was yesterday. Just.’

  ‘What, this dead one? She’s not yours, is she?’

  ‘She is now. But she’s not Rosie Whitlock.’

  ‘Shit. Do we know who she is then?’

  ‘That’s why I’m here at this time of night. To start trying to find out.’

  The big man shook his head. ‘It’s a wicked bloody world, isn’t it?’

  ‘Too damn right.’ Pete tapped the combination into the door lock and headed upstairs.

  The squad room was in darkness. He flicked just one of the four light switches on and crossed to his desk. Left his coat on as he sat down and switched on the computer. Opening the Missing Persons Bureau website, he typed in the dead girl’s details, as best he could guess them. No results. That, sadly, could not be right. He removed the date last seen and hit the search button again. Thirty-two cases came back.

  Pete sighed and settled in to scroll through them. Most could be eliminated immediately – they were way too long ago. Of the five remaining, three were in Yorkshire and one in London. The fifth looked possible though. He took out his phone, navigated to one of the pictures he had taken of the dead girl and held it up beside the computer monitor. She looked very similar. He cursed his stupidity for not checking the dead girl’s eye colour. Afer closing the picture on his phone, he found the pathologist’s number and hit Dial.

  ‘Hi, Doc. Pete Gayle. Sorry, I forgot to check. Do you have the dead girl’s eye colour?’

  ‘Slipping, Peter?’

  ‘Second day back and all that, I suppose. Plus, I’m knackered.’

  ‘And a lot on your mind, I expect.’ The doctor sighed. ‘I was really sorry to hear about young Thomas. But back to the matter in hand. Yes, the girl has blue eyes.’

  ‘OK. Thanks. I think I might have an ID.’

  ‘You haven’t entirely lost your touch then.’

  Pete gave a short laugh. ‘We’ll see. ’Night, Doc.’

  He looked at the computer screen, at the bright and sassy-looking little girl with blonde pigtails that stared back at him. Lauren Carter. Age – he checked the data beside the photo – would be ten now. Last seen six weeks ago, at the children’s home where she resided in Barnstaple, north Devon. This was the third time she had absconded from there, which appeared to follow a trend from her previous foster carers – hence her presence in the home. She’d been in the system since the age of six, when her single mother died of an overdose of class A drugs.

  ‘Poor kid. Never had a chance, did you?’ he said softly. ‘Well, if that is you we found tonight, it’s too late to help you now, but we will get the bastard who killed you. I promise you that.’

  *

  Pete downloaded the photos of the dead girl from his phone and printed them out, along with the missing persons file on Lauren Carter. He stuck them to the board and wrote underneath, ‘Our victim? Confirm’.

  He was just reaching for the power button on his computer when the phone on his desk rang. He hesitated for an instant. Should he answer it at this time of night?

  He sighed and picked up the receiver. ‘DS Gayle.’

  ‘Sergeant. You’re the man leading the Rosie Whitlock inquiry that I read about in the evening paper?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘This is the A & E sister at the Royal Devon and Exeter. I’m afraid there’s been another attack.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Pete checked his watch. It was after midnight, but there was no choice in the matter. He picked up the phone and dialled.

  ‘Yes?’ Her voice was groggy, full of sleep.

  ‘Sorry, but I need you at the hospital, ASAP.’

  That woke her up. ‘Huh? Why? Has she been found?’

  ‘No. There’s been another attack. I just got the call from the A & E sister. This time the girl survived. The perp brought her to the RDE and just let her go, or so it seems. She walked in under her own steam. Barely dressed, but OK apart from the rape and the trauma of what she went through.’

  ‘So, she can give us a description?’

  ‘Don’t know. Like I said, I just got the call myself. And I thought any questioning would be better coming from you, in the circumstances.’

  ‘Right. I’ll meet you there. Where are you?’

  ‘Squad room.’

  ‘At – getting on for one a.m.? What the hell for?’

  ‘That’s another story. And one we will discuss, but not now.’

  ‘I see.’ Her tone said she didn’t, but he let it go.

  ‘See you there. I’ll have a word with the nurse or doctor while I wait for you.’

  ‘OK. Shan’t be long.’

  Pete left the incident room and headed down the stairs. The sergeant at the front desk was waiting for him to pass.

  ‘Something promising, I hope?’

  ‘Potentially. We’ve got a survivor,’ Pete told him. ‘On my way to get the details now.’

  ‘Good. Hope she can give you a description. Preferably with a name and address to go with it, eh?’

  Pete laughed. ‘That ain’t my kind of luck – not lately, at least.’

  ‘That can change.’

  Pete pulled his coat tighter around him as he stepped out into the freezing night. I bloody hope so, he thought. For Rosie Whitlock’s sake.

  He had parked the Mondeo out front, with no reason not to at this time of night. He hopped in and swung the car out of the space and down towards the road. After driving quickly to the hospital on clear roads, he parked in one of the few spaces outside A & E. A man was standing to one side of the entrance doors, smoking. In his late twenties, at a guess, in dark jeans and a leather jacket.

  Inside, the reception desk was staffed by a young woman with blonde hair in a short ponytail. He showed her his badge. ‘DS Pete Gayle.’

  ‘Ah. You’ll be here for the girl who came in earlier. Molly Danvers.’

  ‘I wasn’t told her name, but if you’re talking about the rape victim, yes.’

  She hesitated briefly. ‘I don’t . . .’

  He held his hands up. ‘I don’t want to talk to her. Not at the moment, anyway. I’ve got a female colleague on the way for that. I’d like to speak to th
e person who treated her if possible. Or the sister who called it in.’

  ‘Ah.’ Her relief was obvious. ‘In that case, let me give them a call, yes?’ She picked up the phone and dialled an extension. ‘Sister? The policeman you called about Molly Danvers? DS . . .’ Pete held up his badge again. ‘Gayle. He’s at the front desk. He’d like to see you.’ A brief pause. ‘OK, thanks.’ She put the phone down. ‘She’s on the way.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Pete looked around. It was remarkably quiet. No rush of trauma victims, no moaning or wailing. It was almost restful. He guessed it was the time of night. Chairs lined the far wall, which was covered in medical posters. To the left of the reception desk was a large rack of leaflets about various illnesses and issues, from heart disease to getting the Pill without your parents’ permission. Pete was wondering about the ethics of that when he heard the clip of heels on the polished floor and turned to see the sister coming around the corner towards him.

  She was small and stocky, with a brisk step and confident, enquiring eyes in a face that could never achieve stern, he thought. ‘Detective Sergeant Gayle?’

  He shook her hand and was surprised by the quick, firm grip. ‘Pete.’

  ‘I’m Veronica Martyn. This is a terrible business.’ She shook her head. ‘The poor girl was in an awful state. Simply awful. Would you like to come and talk in my office?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks.’ He turned to the receptionist. ‘My colleague, DC Bennett will be here shortly. Direct her to us, would you, please?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He followed the sister around the corner and along a corridor. She turned off to the right, into a wide waiting room with several doors off it and a handful of people sitting, waiting. At the far side, another corridor led off. She turned in at the second door on the left.

  Her office was small but neat and tidy. Two chairs stood on the near side of the desk, a larger, more comfortable one on the far side, the window behind looking out onto a small garden space hemmed in by buildings.