by Jack Slater
Reversing out of the little parking area in front of the shop, just a couple of streets from his home, he turned right at the end of the road, away from Heavitree Road and the station, and worked his way through the estate towards the school. The roads around it were crowded, cars parked in every available spot, legal and otherwise as mothers dropped their little darlings off for the day. He drove slowly along the packed street and turned into the school, parking beside what he recognised as Jessica Whitlock’s Range Rover. Climbing out of the car, he checked his watch. Twenty to nine. Plenty of time to have a quick word with her before she headed for class. He headed in, ID in hand. A staff member was standing just inside the wide glass doors, keeping an eye on the throng of children who were flowing like a living multicoloured river into the building. Pete stepped across and showed her his badge.
‘DS Gayle, Exeter CID. I’m looking for the staffroom.’
‘Uh . . . Perhaps I should fetch the headmistress?’ The woman was small, plump and fiftyish, wearing a dark, floral dress that matched her dyed hair.
Pete smiled. ‘She’s probably already there, at this time of day, isn’t she?’
The woman nodded. ‘I expect so, yes. Especially this morning.’
Pete raised an eyebrow.
‘With Jessica – Mrs Whitlock – coming back to work today,’ the woman explained. ‘I must say, that was unexpected, but she said she needed to be doing something, so…’
‘Ah. Of course.’
‘I expect you’re . . .’
‘Yes, exactly. Which way is it?’
She pointed down the corridor. ‘All the way to the end, turn left and it’s the second on the left.’
‘Thank you.’ Pete headed down the corridor, through the seething, noisy throng.
Stepping into the staffroom was like entering a haven of peace. Men and women sat and stood around, chatting quietly, most with cups or mugs in hand. Pete couldn’t see Jessica Whitlock, but most of the people in the room were in a loose huddle near the centre. He stepped forward.
Jessica was seated at the centre of the group, two other women at either side of her. The one to her right, who looked like she should have retired long ago, was holding Jessica’s hand in both of hers. Pete caught snatches of questions being asked and support being offered.
‘. . . any news yet?’
‘If there’s anything we can do . . .’
‘We ought to all be out there, searching.’
Jessica looked up at that one, from a male colleague. She spotted Pete through the crowd. Their eyes met and she hesitated. He stepped forward between two men.
‘Mrs Whitlock. Could I have a word?’
He sensed eyes on him from all around as Jessica surged to her feet.
‘Have you found her?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I’m sorry. I just need to ask you a couple of questions that might help us do that.’
‘Shouldn’t you be out searching, instead of here, bothering Jessica?’
Pete looked to his left. The question had come from a blond man of medium height whose mean features were pulled into an aggressive frown. ‘The circumstances of this case don’t suggest that a search of the type you mean would be any help.’
‘I thought in any case like this a search was the first thing to be done.’
‘Then I can only imagine you haven’t been involved in many cases like this, Mr . . . ?’
‘It’s OK, Malcolm,’ Jessica said. ‘Leave it.’
‘I’m here to gather information that could help bring Rosie Whitlock home,’ Pete told him.
‘How? Jessica didn’t take her, did you?’ He turned towards her as he added the question.
Pete had had enough of the man. He too turned to Jessica. ‘Mrs Whitlock, is there somewhere quieter that we could have a brief word?’
‘Don’t worry, Jess,’ Malcolm said. ‘We’re all with you all the way. Aren’t we, guys?’
Her eyes went from him to Pete to the woman sitting at her left and back to Pete.
‘You can use my office, if you like,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Angela Webster, head of the school.’
He nodded. ‘Thank you, Mrs Webster.’ He offered Jessica a hand, which she took, looking semi-dazed as she rose from her seat. Her hand was cold and dry. Pete released it and made a path through the crowd of teachers. He opened the door for her and let her lead the way back towards the front of the school.
At the foyer, she headed left and went along a short corridor with three doors leading off it, opposite an outer wall of full-height glass. The first door was marked ‘Head’. She went in and stood, at a loss, in the small but tidy office.
Pete indicated the chair behind the desk. ‘Do you want to take a seat, Mrs Whitlock?’
She complied, moving automatically. Pete leaned against the floor-to-ceiling bookcase that ran the length of one side of the room and waited for her to look up at him.
‘I want to ask again if Rosie has, or has had, a boyfriend as far as you know?’
She frowned. ‘No. I said before. She spends most of her free time with Becky.’
‘And what about Becky? Is she into boys?’
‘What . . ?’ She shook her head quickly. ‘I don’t know, Sergeant. What’s this got to do with Rosie’s abduction? You think she’s run off with a boy? I can assure you, she’s far too sensible for that.’
‘No, it’s just . . .’ He couldn’t tell her the truth. That the boy he was thinking of was his own son. But, clearly, she didn’t know of the connection between them. ‘Boyfriends sometimes know things that no one else does. Secrets. Habits. Favourite places.’
‘Well, I’m quite sure she doesn’t have one, so . . .’
Pete saw the time on the big wall clock across the room. ‘OK. And, talking of boyfriends . . .’
She blushed. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant. I couldn’t very well tell you in front of Alistair, could I?’
Pete tilted his head. ‘So, do I take it that Alistair found out about him last night?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re sure of that?’
‘What?’
‘That he didn’t know before.’
‘Yes, quite sure. If he’d known before, he’d have . . . Well, he didn’t. I could tell.’
‘And Mr Albright. Has he ever said or done anything that would make you think he’s jealous of your husband’s position in your life?’
‘No. He’s known the situation from day one. In fact, Alistair introduced us, so . . .’
‘Has he ever met Rosie?’
‘No.’
‘Or seen a photo of her?’
‘What? What is this? You suspect Damon now?’
‘We don’t suspect him, Mrs Whitlock, but we do have to eliminate him.’
‘Well, you can certainly do that, Sergeant. He’s never had anything to do with Rosie. He’s never had a reason to. The whole point of being with him was to . . . It sounds awful when you put it into words, but it was to escape for a while. To have time just for me, away from the family and work and everything else.’
All of which confirmed the impression he’d got from Albright himself. They’d still have to confirm his alibi, but at least it made him less of a priority in the meantime. ‘OK. I’d best let you get along to class then. Thank you, Mrs Whitlock.’
*
Jane hesitated as the phone on her desk rang abruptly. She clicked the Next button on her computer. The image on the screen changed and she picked up the phone.
‘Bennett, CID.’
‘Got a visitor for you, DC Bennett. A David Green.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Says he’s from the Antique Barn. Is that the one out by the airport?’
‘Ah. Yes. I’ll be down in a sec.’ She put the phone down, grimaced and pressed the power button on the bottom of the screen to switch it off. There was no need to inflict filth like that on anyone else, first thing in the morning.
At the bottom of the stairs, she hit the button
and went through, turning towards the public area at the front of the station.
A man was standing back from the desk. In his forties, he was dressed in dark cords, brogues and a dark green waxed jacket, his brown hair neatly trimmed.
He heard the door and turned towards her. His features were broad, large like the rest of him, but open and friendly.
‘DC Bennett?’ He extended a hand which swamped Jane’s when she shook it, but was gentle at the same time as firm. ‘David Green of the Antiques Barn. I got into work this morning and there was a note on my desk that you wanted some CCTV footage. I saw the news last night, when I got back, so when I saw the note I put two and two together and thought I’d best bring it in as soon as poss.’ He took a CD case from his coat pocket and handed it to her.
‘Thank you. Thank you very much, Mr Green. That’s very good of you. You’ve been away?’
‘A few days in France. Not that good at the lingo, but I know enough to be able to haggle. Brought some bits back for the shop.’
‘I see. Well, thanks for this.’ She held up the CD case. ‘I’m hoping it’ll either confirm or deny an alibi.’
He nodded. ‘The camera’s on a pole across the road from our entrance, so it’s got a good view of vehicles coming and going, but it also gets everything going up and down the road. The idea is to get number plates of everything coming in and out, in case they need to be traced. I’ve given you everything from the morning you asked about, from six to ten. I hope that’s OK.’
‘Perfect. Thanks again.’
‘I hope it helps.’ They shook hands again and Jane hurried back up to her desk.
Dave had arrived while she was downstairs. She nearly barged into him as he drew himself a cup of water from the dispenser just inside the door. ‘Whoah,’ he said. ‘Blimey, you’re keen.’
Jane waggled the CD case at him and went back to her desk. She switched the screen back on, closed the file of photographs from Enstone’s computer, put the CD into the drive and nudged it closed. Dave had come across to stand behind her, water in hand.
‘What you got?’
The drive whirred as the CD loaded. ‘Footage from the Antiques Barn, out by the airport. Bloke just brought it in.’
‘Good of him.’
‘Yeah.’
The file finished loading and the screen came up with a single brown envelope icon. Jane double-clicked the folder as the door opened and Pete walked in.
‘Morning, boss,’ she called and was surprised when he did not respond. He crossed quickly to his desk, slapped the paper down on the surface and tossed the bottle and the chocolate bar into the bottom drawer. Taking off his jacket, he hung it on the back of his chair and sat down.
‘Jane. Dave. What are you looking so pleased about?’
‘Two things,’ Dave told him as Jane wondered what the hell had got him so riled up, at this time of the morning. ‘One, we think we’ve got Neil Sanderson in the pictures on Barry Enstone’s computer. And two, the footage from the antique place out by the airport’s come in. Jane’s just loading it up.’
‘You’ve got Sanderson?’ Pete was out of his chair again and coming around the desk. ‘Doing what?’
‘The five-knuckle shuffle while he’s looking at his daughter’s crotch,’ Dave said bluntly.
‘Jesus!’
The video was loaded and ready to play, but Jane minimised it to the bottom of the screen and opened up the sub-file of pictures she had saved from Enstone’s files. ‘Here you go.’
Pete stood at her shoulder, one hand resting on the back of her chair as she double-clicked on the first thumbnail. When the image came up full-size, she started a slide-show of the images in the folder and leaned back in her chair.
‘Shit,’ Pete said. ‘We’ve got him with that. And these weren’t on his machine.’
‘No, they weren’t,’ Jane realised.
‘So, did we miss something? Has he got another computer or a separate storage device? An external hard drive or something?’
She nodded. ‘Could be. They’ve got a hell of a lot smaller, even in the last twelve months. You could easily hide one somewhere.’
‘Then, I suggest we go and find it.’ Pete stepped back from her chair. ‘Jill, when DCI Silverstone gets in, get him to organise a warrant. Home and office. Jane, you found this stuff, so you’re with me. Dave, while we’re out, see what shows up on that CCTV footage, will you? The more we’ve got to throw at him, the better.’
‘Right, boss.’
*
There were double yellow lines the full length of the road outside the offices of Molyneux and Richards and the other side of the road was filled with cars, parked nose-to-tail.
‘Damn. What’s the time?’ Pete asked.
Jane checked. ‘Eight fifty-three.’
‘So he might not be in yet. We don’t want to stand out in case he sees us and does a runner.’
‘Too late. There he is, look.’
Sanderson was walking down the far side of the street, about forty yards away. ‘Got him. He doesn’t know you, does he?’
‘No.’
Pete checked the mirror and stopped the car. ‘I’m dropping you off for work, then, OK? I’ll drive up a bit further and come at him from behind.’
‘Right.’ Jane quickly unclipped her seat belt and stepped out of the car. ‘Thanks, hun. See you later.’ She tapped the roof before running across the road as Pete pulled away. She started up the hill towards Sanderson, head down as if in concentration, hands pushed deep into her coat pockets.
Glancing up, she saw the silver car pull over several yards beyond Sanderson. The hazard lights began to blink as Pete climbed out, checked the road and ran across, starting down towards her.
Sanderson was between them now, just five paces from her and completely oblivious.
She saw Pete stepping it out, closing the gap as swiftly as he could without drawing attention.
Six feet.
Pete was still too far away to intervene, but there was no more time. She stepped across into Sanderson’s path. ‘Sorry.’
He sidestepped and she went with him. Smiled an apology. He went the other way. ‘You’re Neil Sanderson, aren’t you?’ she said.
Pete was ten feet away.
‘Yes. Sorry, do I know you?’
‘No.’ She pulled her hands out of her pockets, her badge in one of them. ‘I’m DC Bennett and you’re under arrest for the possession and distribution of indecent images of children.’ She grabbed his wrist and twisted, turning him around to face Pete as she slapped the cuffs on.
*
‘Duck now or forever be famous,’ Pete said, as he neared the police station, the road outside it crowded with lorries, vans and cars.
‘What?’ Sanderson whined.
‘Press conference,’ Jane told him.
‘Oh my God!’ He fell sideways across the back seat, covering his head with his arms just as Pete swung the car into the station entrance and gunned the engine, shooting up the slope so that a couple of stragglers at the back of the crowd had to leap out of his way.
Pete heard several curses but ignored them as he drove quickly up the side of the building and around the back. He swung the car into a space. ‘Everybody out, quick as you like.’ After stepping out, he opened Sanderson’s door, took the man’s arm and the three of them headed quickly towards the rear of the building, where he swiped them in and they headed for the custody suite.
‘While you book him in, can I borrow the phone?’ Pete asked.
‘Sure.’ The sergeant pushed it towards him.
Pete turned it around on the desk, picked up the receiver and dialled the squad room.
‘DC Miles, CID.’
‘Did Jill get that warrant before his lordship went for his media fix?’
‘Yes. Where are you?’
‘Downstairs, booking Sanderson in. I’ll come up and fetch it.’
‘Uh, there’s a problem there, boss.’
Pete went ve
ry still as a sense of dread settled over him. ‘What kind of problem?’
‘Well, it looks like Sanderson’s not our man. Not for Rosie Whitlock.’
‘I’m coming up.’ He slammed the phone down and turned to Jane. ‘You can deal with this, can’t you? I’ll be upstairs.’
‘’Course. What’s up?’
‘Don’t know yet.’ Pete was already jabbing the release code into the door lock. He pushed through and ran up the stairs. At the first floor, he slammed into the now full squad room and marched towards Dave Miles’ desk.
‘What is it?’
Dave pointed at Jane’s computer, on the desk next to his. ‘The CCTV from the antique place.’ He reached over and nudged the computer mouse to reawaken the screen. ‘Sanderson was five miles away when Rosie was taken. It wasn’t him.’
Pete sat down heavily in Jane’s chair. A still image faced him on the screen.
‘I took a screen-shot from the CCTV footage and reduced the windscreen glare in Photoshop. You can see it’s him behind the wheel.’
Along with the registration plate on the front of the vehicle, Pete saw. ‘Shit.’
He checked the date stamp in the bottom corner of the screen. ‘You’ve confirmed that’s right, I suppose?’
‘It matches the timing on the Airparks camera and they have to keep theirs right because of meeting flights and so on.’
‘Bugger it,’ Pete said again. ‘I liked him for this.’
‘Me, too, boss. We’ve definitely got him on the child porn thing, though.’
‘Yeah. What you got there?’ Pete could see he had more CCTV footage up on his own computer.
‘This is the stuff I was waiting for last night from the A38–A380 junction. I’m just about to run it. I’ve checked the stuff from outside the Fire Service training centre. There was a vehicle that might have been Albright’s going past there at the time he claims he would have, but you can’t see the registration plates. This looks like it might be more useful.’
The camera angle was high, the camera clearly set up on an overpass, but the vehicles were coming directly towards them as they watched. Zooming in should give them a number plate.
