Nowhere to Run

by Jack Slater

  ‘Sergeant, it’s Jessica Whitlock.’ Her voice was thin and hollow, like she was operating on autopilot.

  ‘Mrs Whitlock, I spoke to your husband last night. We’re doing all we can, believe me. I wish there was more I could tell you.’

  She let go a long sigh. ‘That’s not why I phoned, Detective. There’s someone . . . someone you don’t know about who has a connection with us. With me. A man I’ve been seeing. Damon Albright. He lives in Exmouth. I’m certain he has nothing to do with what’s happened to Rosie, but you wanted to know all the facts, relevant or not, so I’m telling you.’

  Pete blew the air slowly out of his lungs. ‘Thank you, Mrs Whitlock.’

  She put the phone down before he could say any more.

  He slumped back in his chair.

  ‘What’s up, boss?’

  Pete lifted his eyes to return Dick’s quizzical gaze. ‘That was Jessica Whitlock,’ he said. ‘With the wonderful news of another potential suspect.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘It seems she’s been having an affair. And, reading between the lines, I reckon hubby Alistair’s just found out about it.’

  ‘Ouch. That’s not good.’

  ‘Not for her, no. Or for us. It’s another person we’ve got to check out.’

  ‘And another motive for Alistair to be involved,’ said Dave. ‘Retribution, if he found out before and only just admitted it.’

  Pete frowned. ‘How does that work?’

  ‘Well, if Rosie isn’t his . . . I mean, how long has this affair been going on? And is it her first? Maybe it’s a case of kill the daughter first, then do the mother in after she’s suffered a bit.’

  ‘If you’re going down that road, it’s much more likely that the boyfriend did it, to get the wife away from the husband, isn’t it? Or maybe even the affair with the mother was simply a ruse to get access to the daughter.’

  Dave shrugged. ‘So, who is the boyfriend?’

  ‘Damon Albright of Exmouth.’

  ‘Right. I’ll give him a quick google, see what comes up.’

  ‘You do that. I’ll look in the phone book.’

  ‘I love it when you go all old school on me.’ Dave grinned.

  ‘Get on with it.’ Pete reached into the bottom drawer of his desk for the phone book and opened it. He flipped pages until he got close then scanned down with a finger.

  ‘Here he is,’ Dave piped up.

  Pete glanced up. ‘All right, smart-arse. What does it say?’

  ‘Got a Facebook page and an entry from the Daily News, three years ago. He had a hardware store in Exmouth. Sold it to one of the chains for a pretty packet.’ He grunted. ‘Looks like his lawyers at the time were Alistair Whitlock’s firm.’

  ‘There’s your connection then.’ Pete glanced back down at where his finger had stopped on the page. ‘And here’s his current address and phone number.’

  ‘We going to check him out first, or get on with this lot?’ Dave asked, indicating the stack of papers he had printed earlier.

  ‘Do a quick search on him in the National Crime Database for a start, see what comes up.’

  ‘OK.’ He concentrated on his keyboard again as Pete lifted across the printout he had accepted earlier and began to scan through it. It comprised every child-sex case in the UK for the past seven years. Hence the thick wad of paper. But he quickly began to find ones where the offender was still in prison or deceased or otherwise unsuitable. He picked up a pen and began to cross them out. He had just turned to the fourth page when Dave said, ‘Nothing. He’s clean, as far as I can tell.’

  ‘All right, you carry on with this stuff and I’ll go and see him. Best see if he’s home first, I suppose.’ He reached for the phone but hadn’t quite got there when Jane spoke.

  ‘Boss, I’ve been thinking, while I’ve been going through this stuff.’

  ‘There you go again,’ Dave said, shaking his head. ‘Multitasking, for Christ’s sake. No wonder us men have to keep you under the thumb.’

  ‘Are you finished?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t mind me. The floor’s yours.’ He gave her a mock bow.

  Jane turned back to Pete. ‘Whoever this perp is, what if he’s a loner, like Kevin Haynes? Works alone. No Internet. No ring.’

  ‘Then no one would have a clue about him unless he’s been seen around the parks and playgrounds, taking photos or using binoculars. Anything more perverted than that, we’d have heard about.’

  ‘Which means more canvassing,’ Ben said. ‘All the parks, playgrounds, swimming pools, schools – everywhere in the city that you could observe kids without causing a fuss.’

  Dave gave a long, low whistle. ‘That’s a lot of man hours. More than this, by a long shot.’

  ‘But both jobs need doing,’ Pete said. ‘And so does the elimination of Neil Sanderson and Damon Albright. The latter being my next job.’ He picked up the phone at last and dialled.

  *

  ‘Mr Albright. Thank you for seeing me.’

  ‘Not at all. Come in.’ He stepped back from the large front door, allowing Pete to enter.

  The dark-haired man was a good six feet tall, clean-cut but casually dressed. The way he held himself showed a physical confidence and a degree of fitness that suited his late-forties age but certainly not his retired status. A former shopkeeper – he must use a gym, Pete thought.

  The house was grand in an understated way. Antique furniture that suited its surroundings.

  ‘This way.’ Albright showed him into a sitting room that was comfortable and stylish at the same time. Like it had been designed, rather than accumulated over the years.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’ Albright inclined his head slightly. ‘I like it. Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

  They sat opposite one another, across a square coffee table with a large glass panel in its centre. ‘So, how can I help?’

  Pete leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Albright was lounging, relaxed and at ease. ‘Well, I’m here about Rosie Whitlock, Mr Albright. Or, more particularly, about her mother, Jessica. Your relationship with her.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Yes?’ Pete prompted.

  ‘We were hoping to keep that quiet. Save any hassle for Jessica at home, you know?’

  Pete nodded. ‘But, now we’ve established the fact of it, how long has it been going on?’

  ‘A little under three years. It’s tailed off a little, of late. I haven’t seen her more than twice in the past three or four months and one of those occasions was this afternoon.’

  ‘So, things have cooled between you?’

  ‘No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just that – and I fully understand why, of course – Jessica wanted to prioritise her family.’

  ‘At the expense of your relationship.’

  Albright shrugged. ‘I suppose, if you want to think of it that way.’

  ‘And was that the way you thought of it, Mr Albright?’

  ‘No. I fully supported her. I do fully support her in the need to maintain a stable family environment for Rosie to grow up in. She’s just come into her teens. These are vital years for her.’

  ‘That’s very understanding of you. Do you know Rosie then?’

  ‘No, I’ve never met her. I know Alistair. He did some work for me, some time ago. In fact, he introduced me to Jessica – not that we started seeing each other straight away. That wasn’t until some months later.’

  ‘And lately, as you haven’t been seeing as much of her, is there anyone else in your life?’

  ‘No, not right now.’

  ‘But before?’

  ‘I’ve had a few girlfriends. Even a fiancée once. We split up about six months before I sold the shop.’

  ‘So, she was the most recent, before Jessica Whitlock?’

  ‘Yes. I was with her for four years.’

  ‘Would you mind giving me her contact details?’

/>   ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Standard procedure, Mr Albright. We can’t just take people’s word on things. They have to be corroborated.’

  Albright’s lips tightened briefly, then relaxed. ‘OK. I haven’t been in touch with her for nearly four years, so the information might be out of date . . .’

  ‘That’s OK. If you wouldn’t mind.’

  He got up and went out to the hall. Moments later he was back with a flip-up personal phone directory. He ran the plastic slider down and opened it. ‘Here you go.’ He handed it across. ‘Monica Devlin.’

  Pete brought out his notebook and made a note of the address and phone number. ‘Thank you. Now, if I can just ask . . . where were you between eight and nine in the morning, the day before yesterday?’

  ‘Uh . . . Here.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

  ‘OK. Were you perhaps doing anything that would confirm that? Surfing the Internet, perhaps? Phoning or texting someone?’

  ‘No. I usually have breakfast around 7.30, watch a bit of morning TV to get the gist of the news, then spend an hour in the gym.’

  ‘Here in the house, or do you use a public gym?’

  ‘I have my own. It’s small and basic, but it has everything I need to keep reasonably in shape.’

  ‘I see. And what about this morning?’

  ‘Today, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah, well, that I can help you with. I went to see my brother in Paignton. Got there about a quarter to ten. I stopped off at the garage just beyond Topsham about 9.15. And, before that, I was in town, getting a birthday card. I dare say there’s CCTV in the High Street. Probably in the car park, too, I expect.’

  ‘OK. Well, I think that about covers it for now, Mr Albright. Thank you.’ Pete stood up and put away his notebook and pen. ‘I expect I should warn you – I believe Alistair Whitlock now knows about your affair.’

  ‘Ah. What makes you think so?’

  ‘The way Mrs Whitlock spoke when she told me about it earlier.’

  ‘I see. Well, thanks for the heads-up, Sergeant.’ Albright put out a hand. His grip was firm and dry.

  *

  It was fully dark by the time Pete made it back into the city. He’d tried twice during the drive to reach Barry Enstone without success. As the man lived not far from the station, he’d decided to call round rather than try again. When he got there, the street was lined along both sides with parked cars. He saw that the lights were on in Enstone’s sitting room. Reaching the end of the road, he had still found nowhere to park so, with little other choice, he turned around and drove back down to double-park and leave the hazard lights flashing.

  He rang the doorbell and stood waiting in the porch. The place was neat and well maintained. Perhaps the orderliness of prison life had crossed over into Enstone’s civilian existence.

  A shame timeliness hasn’t, he thought and rang the bell again, knocking loudly to back it up. After several seconds, there was still no movement from within. He crossed to the sitting room window. Peering in through the nets, he could see the whole room – including the back of Barry Enstone’s head, slumped back in the armchair that was facing away from the window.

  ‘Wake up, you dozy sod,’ Pete muttered and banged on the window with his knuckles, expecting Enstone to jump up, disturbed from a nap. But there was still no reaction. Pete frowned. That was not natural. Something was wrong. He went back to the front door, tried it, but it was locked, so he went around to the back of the house, down the narrow, gated passage at the side. The passage opened out on to a long, narrow garden, lit only by the nearly full moon and stars. A window was high in the wall at his side. Beyond it was the half-glazed back door. Pete tried it. It opened silently. He stepped into the small kitchen.

  ‘Barry,’ he called.

  No answer.

  He went through into the hall. Into the brightly lit sitting room. Enstone was slumped in his chair, mouth open. A glass tumbler was on the small table beside him with a bottle of cheap whiskey and . . .

  ‘Shit,’ Pete muttered, as he saw the pill bottle behind the whisky. He stepped forward quickly. Touched Enstone’s shoulder. ‘Barry. Come on, wake up.’

  But Enstone simply slumped to the side. Pete felt for a pulse in his neck.

  ‘Oh, bollocks.’

  CHAPTER 22

  ‘Nine-nine-nine. Which emergency service do you require?’

  ‘This is DS Gayle, Exeter CID. I need an ambulance and the pathologist to this address. I have a dead body here. White male, late thirties. Overdose of alcohol and prescription medication, by the look of it.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Can I take the address and your badge number, please?’

  Pete gave the information and ended the call, then called the station. ‘Jane,’ he said when it was picked up. ‘I’m at Barry Enstone’s place. He’s dead. Looks like suicide.’

  ‘Bugger. Does that mean he’s our man and couldn’t stand the guilt, or that he wasn’t, but couldn’t take the pressure, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we need to find out sharpish. Get forensics over here, will you? And I want you and Ben to search the place. Also, get Dave to text me the girlfriend’s details. Once the blue lights get here, I’ll go see what she can tell us. And we need to know if he had access to a vehicle.’

  ‘He hasn’t got one registered to him, we know that. And there won’t be one with his job’

  ‘Again, I’ll check with the girlfriend. He’s got no living relatives, has he?’

  ‘No, we checked on that when he first came up.’

  ‘OK, so we need to talk to his colleagues and his parole officer, find out about his friends, associates, club memberships and so on.’

  ‘Right, boss.’

  Pete ended the call and went out to move his car further up the street, allowing access for the ambulance and other vehicles that would be on the way.

  Damn it, this was all he needed. Now, they had to rule Enstone in or out of the inquiry definitively and fast because if he was guilty and working alone then Rosie had to be found before she starved to death.

  His mind conjured an image of Rosie, bound and gagged in some dark and dank hiding place, waiting in vain for her captor to come and feed her. Getting weaker and thinner, her mouth working behind the gag as thirst grew into a desperate need. The fight going slowly out of her as dehydration shut down her body and her mind until, finally, she lost consciousness and died there, alone and undiscovered.

  Where was she?

  Where would Enstone have stashed her if, indeed, he’d taken her?

  He went back into the house, headed for the kitchen, to lock the back door, but stopped himself just in time. He had compromised the scene more than enough already. Enstone’s death looked for all the world like a suicide, but it was like the guy in that Steven Seagal movie said – assumption was the mother of all fuck-ups. And the last thing he needed right now was to screw anything up.

  He went back to the front door. As he reached it, his phone buzzed with an incoming text. He stepped outside and stood on the porch. The text was from Dave: a simple name and address. Karen Upton, the address just a few streets away from his own. He closed the phone and was returning it to his pocket when it buzzed again in his hand. Another text, this one from Jane, more conversational and complete. ‘Enstone worked at Old Mill. Parole officer Heather Styles.’ A phone number followed, but Pete recognised it as an office number. She would not be there now. No one would. He would have to wait until morning to talk to her.

  But not Enstone’s boss.

  The Old Mill. A cold shiver ran down Pete’s spine as he pictured the big pub and carvery on Cowley Bridge Road. And, more importantly, on the side of the river, on the northern outskirts of the city. Upstream from where the bodies of both Amanda Kernick and Lauren Carter had been found. If that wasn’t opportunity, Pete didn’t know what was. Damn it, he had driven past the place earlier, in his search f
or possible dump sites for the two bodies. Was Jane right? Was he their man after all and his suicide a matter of guilt?

  He looked up at the flash of blue lights from the end of the street. A police car was coming towards him. Then, as he watched, an ambulance turned in behind it, followed by the black Honda Civic of the pathologist, Dr Chambers.

  The three vehicles pulled up, one behind the other, in the street, effectively blocking it. As John Carter unfolded his lanky frame from the police car, the door of one of the houses across the street opened and a head came out, then pulled back in and the door was firmly shut.

  Pete heard another engine from the far end of the street and glanced that way to see a large white van approaching, a small logo on the side, near the back end. Forensics.

  He stepped aside for the coroner’s officer. ‘John.’

  ‘You it, then?’

  ‘So far. I expect there’s some uniforms on the way.’

  ‘This is getting to be a habit, you and me.’

  ‘I know. We’ll have to stop it. You know what the station’s like for gossip.’

  ‘So, what have we got this time?’

  ‘The house owner, Barry Enstone. Conviction eight years ago for possession and distribution of indecent images of minors. Nine years, served five. Looks like suicide. Called me earlier today, in a state, saying he thought we’d set him up – or, more specifically, I had – with the press, because we couldn’t pin anything on him for Rosie Whitlock’s disappearance. Evening, Doc.’ The pathologist stopped beside Carter. He was dressed in a black suit and tie. ‘Been somewhere nice?’

  ‘I was at the golf club. Hence why it didn’t take me long to get here.’

  ‘Ah. Sorry to spoil your dinner.’ Pete turned back to Carter. ‘I called him back, couldn’t get an answer, so I thought I’d pop round on the way back from interviewing another potential suspect. Saw him through the nets, went round and found the back door unlocked so I went in to check on him.’

  ‘Hold on a moment, please,’ Chambers said to the ambulance crew, who had come up the path with a stretcher. Then to Pete, ‘So, you checked for vital signs?’

  ‘Yes. He’s dead. Looks like an overdose. Pills and booze. But that may be what it’s meant to look like. As I said, the back door was unlocked. And it seems out of character, despite the circumstances.’