Nowhere to Run

by Jack Slater

  They were missing something. They had to be. Something obvious. He stood with his hands on the back of his chair, head bowed, thinking. Every vehicle that came out of the end of that road during the few minutes around the time of the abduction had been identified, bar two: the silver Peugeot and the white van that had shielded its number from the camera up the road.

  The woman in the VW Touran that the white van had pulled out in front of had been identified and interviewed. She’d had little to say about the van or its occupants. It was just another white van. Two occupants, both male, one with a hoodie, the other wearing a beanie hat. The one in the passenger seat had struck her as small, but that and the fact that he was white was really all she could say about him. She wasn’t sure about the driver. She hadn’t noticed anything about him at all.

  All they’d found tonight seemed to point away from Barry Enstone, although it did suggest that he may well have known the perpetrator, whether or not he knew he was guilty of this particular crime.

  He looked up at Jane, who was busily pretending not to be watching him. ‘We need a detailed list of Enstone’s associates. One of them knows who’s doing this. Or is the person doing it. And we need something on those two vehicles – the Peugeot estate and the white van. Give me the address you haven’t contacted yet on Downton Road. I’ll go there in the morning, see if I can see anyone.’

  Jane took out her notebook but kept it defensively closed. ‘Are you going home now, or what?’

  ‘Anybody would think you were trying to get rid of me. What have you got to hide?’

  ‘How am I supposed to wrap your Chrissy present when you’re sat there in front of me, eh?’

  ‘Oh, you’ve got me something? You shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t. But neither will Louise and Annie if you don’t remind them occasionally that you still exist.’

  CHAPTER 25

  The house was in near darkness, just the upstairs landing light and a table lamp in the lounge shining dimly into the hall. He could see the bluish glow of the TV as he hung up his jacket. Louise was curled up on the sofa, her eyes glued to the set. He glanced at it and recognised one of those modern light-hearted American cop shows.

  ‘Hello, love. Sorry I’m so late. There was another death today.’

  ‘Another one?’ She looked up from the screen. ‘Jesus, how many’s that now?’

  ‘This was an adult. Male. He was a suspect in the others, but I don’t think it was him. Looks like he might have topped himself.’

  ‘Was he the one on the news earlier?’

  ‘Might have been. There were a bunch of reporters outside his house at one stage. Silverstone went round there in person to move them on.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘What? He came out of the station during working hours?’

  ‘There was a bunch of press there.’

  ‘Ah. Right. Sounded like the bloke deserved whatever he got though. He was a convicted perv.’

  ‘We’re supposed to think of them as being ill these days,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘They’re certainly sick. It’s not necessarily the same thing.’

  He nodded. ‘Where’s Annie?’

  ‘She went up ten minutes ago. Just after she phoned you.’

  ‘Yeah. As I said – I’m sorry she had to. Once this case is over . . .’

  ‘There’ll be another,’ she said dully.

  ‘There already is, but it’ll be a nine-to-five type one.’

  She looked up at him again, frowning.

  ‘Came out of tonight’s death. Looks like he was involved in a huge paedophile ring.’

  ‘And you found it, so it’ll be yours to investigate?’

  ‘If we can keep it. But, like I say, that sort of thing is a nine-to-five job. It’s not like an abduction or a murder where we need to catch the culprit quick. It’s more of a paperchase.’

  The frown had faded, but she still said nothing. Pete could guess what she was thinking. There were still victims. Maybe even ones that needed to be rescued. And, of course, she was right, but until they found out about them, they could only track the perpetrators and build cases against them. ‘I’ll go see Annie,’ he said.

  Upstairs, he found her door ajar, her light switched off. When he pushed the door gently and stepped in, he saw that she was curled up on her side, facing him. Her eyes gleamed in the light from the landing. ‘Hi, Dad. Caught the bad guys yet?’

  ‘Not yet, Button. Between you and Jane Bennett, I had to give up for tonight.’

  His stomach growled and her eyes widened. ‘Did you leave me any of that Chinese you cooked?’ he asked.

  ‘Nope. I ate it all up. Every last morsel.’ She grinned up at him.

  ‘So, now I’ve got to go hungry all night? I’ll starve down to a skeleton.’

  She sat up and he saw that she was wearing her favourite Winnie-the-Pooh nightie. ‘Don’t be silly. It takes longer than one night to starve. And there’s some in the microwave.’

  He hugged her tight. ‘God, I love you. Thanks, Button. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘Starve?’ she suggested.

  ‘Noo. I’d live on fish and chips and get as fat as a barrel.’ He gave her a squeeze then stepped back.

  ‘What about Mum?’

  ‘She’d probably starve.’ He ruffled her hair. ‘No, I’d get her fish and chips, too, and we’d both end up like Rab C. Nesbitt.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Sorry, you’re too young. It was a Scottish comedy from years ago, designed for people a lot older than you.’

  ‘So, it had a lot of swearing in it?’

  ‘Is that a comment on adult comedy or the Scots?’

  She screwed up her face, pretending to think. ‘Probably both.’

  Pete laughed. ‘You’re probably right. Now, go to sleep and I’ll see you in the morning, eh?’

  ‘OK.’ She settled back beneath the covers, pulling them up around her chin.

  ‘Goodnight, Button. Sleep tight.’ He brushed her fringe back and kissed her brow.

  ‘’Night, Dad.’

  Pete paused in the doorway, looking back at her. God, if anything ever happened to her . . .

  He drew a long, ragged breath. He didn’t think he could survive that, too.

  He pulled the door closed and leaned for a moment on the jamb while he got his emotions under control before heading back downstairs, taking the laptop computer from the spare room with him.

  Louise was still glued to the TV. ‘I’m going to have my tea,’ he told her. ‘Do you want anything?’

  She shook her head, not looking up.

  Pete went through to the kitchen. Checking the contents of the microwave, he switched it on, then sat down at the small table and booted up the laptop. The computer was ready first, so he stuck the thumb drive into the slot and let it load up while he took the plate from the microwave and a fork from the drawer.

  When he sat down again he saw that the file from the drive was loaded and ready, so he opened it, removed the drive and tucked it back into his pocket before taking a forkful of food and starting to read.

  The file consisted of a series of emails, but he saw that they were written more like texts. Short, abbreviated phrasing with little in the way of greetings or idle chatter, using the addresses to identify themselves. The first one was dated almost two years ago.

  Last night was great. Same again next week?

  I’ll be there.

  Pete smiled. Ambiguous. Clever girl. He scrolled down. More brief, innocent messages followed, not frequent, but enough to maintain contact and prove a friendship. Then a cartoon head, smoking a cigarette showed on the screen. He stopped and checked. Tommy had sent it to Rosie. Underneath was the message: Sorry. Should have warned you. But it’s really relaxing when you get used to it.

  Tommy was smoking? When was this? He checked the date. It was a month after his twelfth birthday. Bloody hell. Pete hadn’t been aware of that at all. And for
it to be ‘really relaxing’, what had he been smoking? Clearly, he had tried to introduce Rosie to it and it hadn’t worked out.

  She had replied: I’ll take your word.

  In other words, I won’t be trying it again. Good for her, Pete thought and took another forkful of rice and veg before scrolling down further. Six weeks later, Tommy had written, Hope you’ve got time after. Got something nice for your b’day. And a couple of days after that, she had sent back: Wow! That felt good. Thank you.

  Pete frowned and stabbed a king prawn. What had they done for her twelfth birthday that felt so good? Surely, he hadn’t . . . ? They hadn’t . . . ? No. She was a sensible girl. She’d know better than to start that, at that age. And Tommy: Pete didn’t think he’d be that stupid either. But then, there was clearly a lot he didn’t know about his son.

  He chewed absently, wishing the boy was here so he could ask him. Talk to him. There was so much that they’d missed out on over the years . . .

  He scrolled down further.

  Nothing else incriminating came up for several months. Just innocent chit-chat until Tommy sent a simple, What u doing? Pete took a forkful of rice and scrolled down. He nearly spat the food out when a picture came up of a naked backside. Below it was the message: What’s it look like? Then another picture, this one of Rosie’s face, very close to the camera, her lips puckered in an exaggerated kiss. Tommy replied: Peachy. Where r u? Rosie’s response: My bff’s outside town. Tommy sent back: Shame. I’d v come over. To which Rosie responded: Bet u wd. She ended the exchange with another picture, this one full length, taken from behind. Her hair was swirling, as was her short skirt, her legs tight together in a parody of a ballet pose. A parody because, once more, her backside was bare.

  Pete swallowed. Her bff’s. Becky Sanderson’s. And this was a picture he hadn’t seen before, so who had taken it – Becky or her dad?

  He suddenly didn’t feel hungry any more. His stomach swirled, but he had to eat. He scrolled down a little further, just to get rid of the image from the screen, then ignored the computer while he reluctantly finished his meal. He poured himself a glass of water from the filter jug and sat back down to carry on.

  He hadn’t got far when he came across the next naked parody picture. This one was of Tommy, from the rear, doing a muscle-man pose despite his small stature and slim build. Just call me Arnie, said the message underneath. You Arnie, me Jane, had come the reply. So, while Becky was sexting with Chris Mellor and Richie Young, Rosie had been doing the same with Tommy.

  Yet, her parents knew nothing about it. How could that be?

  Pete shook his head. He had known just as little about his own son. The answer was easy. The kids didn’t want their parents to know everything about them and what they got up to. And, on the other side of the coin, was what he was doing right here and now, in his own kitchen.

  Working.

  He sucked in a breath through his teeth. Was this why Tommy was gone? Had he run off because his parents were too busy to spend time with him?

  God, what an awful thought!

  But this was different. This was something he had to do at home, out of sight of the rest of the team, and especially DCI Silverstone. Even Colin Underhill, come to that, because if any of them saw this stuff, he’d be off the case as quick as a mouse-click. And where would that leave Rosie Whitlock? Right back at square one, that’s where, he thought. If only for her sake, he couldn’t let that happen.

  He looked back at the screen, but he’d seen enough for now. The proof was there of a connection between Tommy and Rosie. They knew each other. Well. But whether it meant anything for the case – for either case – was another question entirely. And perhaps a more important one was, why was this the first he knew of it? How had Simon not picked up on this stuff? Or had he, and not mentioned it?

  He closed the computer down, washed his plate and fork and went through to the sitting room.

  Louise had not moved and she didn’t now as he sat beside her and took her hand. ‘You know I love you, don’t you?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, not taking her eyes from the TV screen. Then, after a moment, she blinked and looked at him. ‘I . . . I don’t feel anything. Not love, not anger, not . . . anything. It’s like I’m dead inside.’ A tear squeezed slowly from the corner of her eye. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

  *

  Jane clicked on to the next image and the next. Close-up followed close-up. A crotch shot. A hand on a buttock, fingers squeezing. A young face screwed up in anguish. Then a wider shot. She leaned forward, peering at the screen, head twisted at an awkward angle as she studied the picture, trying to make out detail, to make a decision. The photographer had inadvertently caught himself in a mirror at the edge of the shot, part of his face showing over the top of the camera. She tried zooming in, but lost detail so zoomed back out again. Finally, she sat back. ‘Dave. Here, have a look at this, will you? Tell me what you think.’

  She pushed herself to one side and he scooted over on his chair, grabbing the edge of the desk to stop himself. He stared at the screen for a long moment. Then she saw the corner of his mouth begin to lift. At last, he looked at her and he was smiling.

  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that looks very much like Neil Sanderson. Have you got any more of him?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. I’ve only just found that one.’

  ‘Then, keep looking, my lovely, because I reckon you’ve got him.’ He pushed himself back from her desk, allowing her room.

  ‘I bloody hope so,’ she said, saving the shot into a sub-file of potentially useful ones and clicking onto the next image. And the next.

  Back at his own desk, Dave carried on with what he was doing as she continued to check through the images, searching for something to identify the subjects or their locations. Then she stopped again. She could not see the subject’s face. It was hidden by a fall of long, dark hair. But she recognised the duvet cover and the nightie. She had seen them earlier. She looked across at Dave again. ‘I’m no expert, with only personal experience to go on,’ she said. ‘but how individual do you reckon the veining pattern is in someone’s skin?’

  ‘I’d imagine it’s fairly unique. Why? What have you got now?’

  ‘Someone trying to be artistic and dropping themselves in the crap while they’re at it, if I’m right.’

  Dave scooted over again, far enough to see her screen. He laughed. ‘Good luck putting together a line-up.’

  ‘You going to volunteer, are you?’

  ‘You wish.’

  ‘Actually . . . no.’ She shuddered.

  Dave shook his head, still chuckling as he went back to his desk and Jane looked back at the screen. At the bottom of the shot, a hand gripped the shaft of an erect penis, its veins blue against the pale skin as the owner stared at the semi-naked, apparently sleeping young girl in front of him.

  She saved the picture into her sub-file and moved on. A closer shot of the same girl. Definitely Becky Sanderson. Then another. She had moved, giving a different view of her lower body. In the next one, she had moved again and his left hand was on her, his wedding ring gleaming in the low light that appeared to be coming from the doorway behind him. Jane’s breathing stopped as she moved on once more, dreading what she might be about to see. ‘Oh, Jesus.’ She saved the image to the same sub-file as the others. ‘You sick bastard.’

  The next one was completely different. Taken in daylight, it was a shower scene, the head of the subject cut off by the angle and proximity of the camera. It was followed by several more similar ones, then another change of subject. A girl of about the same age, but with straight, pale blonde hair replaced Becky. Jane let out her pent-up breath. ‘No luck,’ she said. ‘Just that one, though it’s among several of his daughter.’

  ‘What about the frame details? Do they show a link?’

  ‘They follow one another, yes.’

  ‘Good enough for me.’

  Jane sighed. ‘I’m knackered. We can tell th
e boss about this in the morning. Go and arrest the sick bugger then. It’s not like he’s going anywhere.’

  ‘Knocking off time then?’

  ‘I reckon.’ She glanced at her watch. It was after ten. ‘I need my beauty sleep.’

  He stared at her, examining her face in minute detail, then nodded. ‘Yep. I can see a wrinkle coming, just there.’

  Jane looked quickly around for something to throw at him, but there was nothing to hand. ‘You keep on like that, matey, you’ll need to wear your motorbike helmet indoors or I’ll box your bloody ears for you.’

  CHAPTER 26

  Pete took a small bottle of Coke from the fridge and turned to pick up a Mars bar from the shelves behind him, then headed for the counter at the back of the little shop. Newspapers and magazines were racked all along one side of the long, narrow space. As he passed the local newspapers, he could not help glancing at the huge, glaring headline on the Exeter Daily News: POLICE STUMPED.

  He stopped and looked closer. His eyes narrowed when he saw the byline for Ellie Turner. The thoughtless bitch who had come to his house, trying to get an interview from Louise. He picked up the paper and read on.

  Terror stalks the streets of Exeter while a killer roams free.

  Police are tonight no closer to finding abducted schoolgirl Rosie Whitlock, 13, who they suspect was taken by the same man who killed two other young girls, 9-year-old Amanda Kernick of Fishponds, Bristol and Lauren Carter, 10, of Barnstaple, both found in the River Exe in the past few weeks.

  With two men discounted, despite being on the sex offenders register, they are as baffled now as they were when Rosie was first reported missing, on Tuesday evening, and parents in the city are living in fear. Jaqueline Armitage of St Leonard’s, a mother of two school-age girls, said today, ‘I’ve half a mind to keep my girls at home, out of harm’s way, until they catch this pervert.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Pete muttered. The bloody woman had no conscience at all. Bloody journalists. He stopped reading and took the paper with him to the counter. After quickly paying for his purchases, he went back out to the car, dumped the paper and his afternoon snack on the passenger seat and started the engine.