by Jack Slater
‘I wonder if it’s the only one.’
‘I should hope so, if it’s a whole terabyte.’
*
A small stack of files waited on Pete’s desk when he got back to the office. He dropped his coat over the back of his chair and sat down. Two beige ones from Forensics – damn, they had pulled out all the stops – and one blue one from the pathologist.
He flipped open the blue one.
He was greeted with a close-up photograph of a young girl’s face, eyes closed, her skin pale and slightly greenish in death. He began to read: ‘Autopsy of Caucasian female identified as Lauren Carter, age ten years and two months. Orphan. Last known residence, Sunnyside Children’s Home, Barnstaple, Devon.’
Pete sighed. The summary of a young life, wasted, he thought and read on. There was no more preamble. The report plunged straight into the pathologist’s findings. As they’d thought at the scene, she had been strangled then dumped in the water. She had been dehydrated before death and she had not eaten for at least two days, probably longer. There were marks on her wrists and ankles consistent with having been bound with a narrow, hard restraint of some kind – measurements were given – and further marks across her face that suggested she had been gagged as well as the post-mortem abrasions probably caused by going over one or more of the weirs upstream from where she was found.
So, bound, gagged, raped and starved, Pete summed up in his mind. Then killed and dumped like so much discarded rubbish. Jesus, he wanted the bastard who had done this!
He closed the folder, put it aside and opened the first of the Forensics files.‘Forensic Examination of the home of Barry Enstone, esq., deceased.’ The address was given underneath. Pete glanced up at the board and saw that someone had already crossed his name off the suspect list there. Which left it completely empty now. He sighed heavily.
The file confirmed that Enstone’s girlfriend had stayed at his house on more than one occasion recently and that no one else had been in there, other than the police presence they already knew about. So Enstone was a looker, not a toucher, these days, as far as his paedophilic proclivities were concerned.
Pete opened the last file. The crime scene at the park where Lauren Carter had been found. He skimmed through it and read the summary at the end. Basically, nothing. Footprints, but they all appeared to be from the guy who had found her or the attending police and pathologist. No clothing or fibres. No cigarette butts. No damaged vegetation to indicate where she went into the water. She’d fetched up there after being dumped into the river somewhere else. And there was still nothing from the possible dump sites he had given them to check. A bigger job, of course, and one that they probably wanted to treat as a single job and produce a single report on, he guessed. Not that that helped him in the meantime.
He picked up the phone and dialled.
‘G4S Forensics. How can I help?’
‘This is DS Gayle, Exeter CID. Can I talk to the duty lab manager, please?’
‘One moment. I’ll put you through.’
There was a click, a couple of notes of music, then another ringing tone. ‘Forensics. How can I help?’
‘Is that the duty lab manager?’
‘Colin Mason, yes.’
‘DS Gayle, Heavitree Road CID. I wanted to thank you for getting these reports over to me so quickly – Barry Enstone and the Lauren Carter case. And I was wondering if you could give me any idea on the progress of the other job I gave you. The possible body-dump sites, north of the city.’
‘Ah, DS Gayle. Yes, you’ve certainly been keeping us busy, the last few days. The sites you’re talking about . . . I think we’ve almost finished processing everything from them. Just a couple of bits left to finish off, so . . . later today sometime, I’d imagine. I can’t promise, of course.’
‘No, of course. But anything you can give me would help.’
‘All right. Hold on, I’ll check.’
The phone clunked onto a desk and Pete heard footsteps. After a pause, they returned, there was the scrape of the handset being picked up. ‘DS Gayle?’
‘I’m here.’
‘As I thought, we’ve got a few bits and pieces to finish off. Tyre treads to identify from one site, a few odds and sods from the other. Shouldn’t take too long.’
‘Tyre treads, you say? What kind of tyre treads?’
‘Something large enough to fit a panel van, but we’ve yet to determine make and model.’
‘Excellent. Which site was this?’
‘Uh . . . I’m not familiar with the area, but it’s listed as “Bridge, Upton Pyne Hill off A377, Devon”.’
‘Perfect. Thanks for that.’ Pete ended the call and put down the phone.
‘Crediton Road,’ he announced to no one in particular.
‘What about it?’ asked Jane.
‘Forensics aren’t quite finished yet, but it looks like that’s where Lauren Carter went in the river.’
‘So, he’s holding them somewhere in that direction. We hope.’
‘Or, if not, he knows the area round Newton St Cyres.’ He stood up. ‘Right, I’ll go down and have a word with Sanderson.’
Downstairs, at the custody desk, he leaned on the high counter and asked, ‘Have you got an interview room free for me, Brian?’
The custody sergeant nodded. ‘Interview One again?’
‘Suits me. Can I have Neil Sanderson in there?’
‘OK.’ Brian grabbed a set of keys and came out from behind the counter.
Pete settled himself in the interview room, relaxing back in the chair. He didn’t move when the door opened to admit Sanderson.
‘Neil. Take a seat.’ He waved at the chair on the other side of the table. ‘We’ll continue from where we left off, so you’re still under caution, OK?’
‘Should I have my lawyer here?’
Pete shrugged. ‘You tell me. It’s your decision. While you make it though . . .’ He took his hand from his pocket and put Sanderson’s hard drive on the table between them, lifting his hand away to reveal what it was. ‘Maybe you’d like to tell me the password for this. In the spirit of co-operation.’
Sanderson’s eyes widened in a mixture of shock and fear as he stared at the little black casing. He looked up at Pete.
‘You can tell us or the tech guys at HQ can work on it for a couple of hours. Up to you. But if they have to crack it, then you get no brownie points when the time comes.’ Pete grimaced. ‘Excuse the pun.’
Sanderson stayed silent, looking at him for several long seconds. Finally, he seemed to slump in his chair. ‘All right. It’s rebeccaJane, all one word, lower case except for the J.’
‘Thank you.’ Pete drew the little hard drive towards him. ‘And you’re sure we’re not going to find anything on there that links to any of these missing girls that we’re looking into?’
‘Any of? I thought there was just Rosie?’
Pete shook his head. ‘We’ve got two bodies that we’ve pulled out of the Exe in the past few weeks – one of them only about thirty-six hours ago. After Rosie was taken.’
Sanderson paled. ‘I don’t know anything about that. I swear.’
‘So, neither of them are going to feature on this hard drive then.’ He nodded at the little drive on the desk in front of him.
‘No. No way.’
‘Or the girl from Bath. Alison Stretton.’
Sanderson eyes closed for a moment. He swallowed. ‘Look, I had nothing to do with her disappearance, all right? Or her death. I’ve got an alibi.’ He looked up from the desktop. ‘You’ve checked it.’
‘We have.’
‘So, you know I’m not guilty of anything there.’
Pete smiled briefly. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Pete shrugged. ‘OK. But you may be aware of someone else who was taking an interest in her.’
Fear showed in Sanderson’s eyes again. ‘I can’t . . . I don’t know anything.’
�
�But you suspect, don’t you?’ Pete leaned forward, covering the hard drive with his arms. ‘You can give us a name, someone who might well be worth looking at for it.’
‘If I do, he’ll know it came from me. And he’s an evil bastard. Even if you lock him up, he’ll send his friends after me. I can’t risk people like that coming around my wife, my daughter.’
Pete held his gaze, forcing himself not to shake his head in disbelief. ‘They won’t,’ he said. ‘We can make sure of that.’
‘How?’ Sanderson sat back in his chair. ‘Witness protection? This isn’t America. And anyway, what about all Becky’s friends? At her age, she won’t be able to start afresh like that.’
‘She’s going to have to, Neil. After this, she won’t be able to stay where she is. And as for your wife – she can pick up anywhere with a job like hers.’
Sanderson seemed to crumple in on himself. He dropped his head into his hands and his shoulders slumped. ‘Oh, God. What have I done? What have I done?’
Pete waited as the enormity of his situation sank into Sanderson’s mind. He sobbed once, then coughed, took a deep breath and lifted his head. ‘I believe you’re looking for a guy called Steve Southam. He’s a black belt in judo, on the competition circuit. Big, broad, hulk of a bloke, a bully and a braggart with friends in all sorts of unsavoury places. Criminal types.’
Pete smiled. ‘Steven Southam is already in prison, Neil. Up in Northumberland. But what makes you think he’s involved in Alison Stretton’s murder?’
‘He was there, in Bath, at the time. He’d been into the club that night, while she was there. I saw him looking at her. And I knew his tastes . . . He left a little while before she did, but he knew when she’d be leaving and that she’d be walking home.’
‘But you never said any of this to the police at the time?’
‘How could I? He always said that anyone who crossed him would be paying for it for the rest of their lives, and so would their family.’
‘Nice bloke, then. We will be following up on this; you know that, don’t you? But we’ll do everything we can to keep your wife and daughter safe. And you, if needs be. Now, are you certain you can’t tell me anything useful about Rosie Whitlock? Who she might have been in contact with? Who might have seen her? Talked to her? Exchanged messages with her? Anything like that?’
Sanderson shook his head. ‘There’s no one I know of that you don’t already. Boys at school or through her swimming and tennis. Teachers. Family friends. I don’t know. I don’t know anyone, other than Southam, who’s into . . . girls of that age. And I only met him through judo.’
Pete pressed his lips together as he studied the man before him. Every indication seemed to suggest he was telling the truth. ‘Alright.’
Boys at school or through her swimming or tennis. Pete couldn’t help but think of Tommy. He imagined them together, talking and laughing. Smoking. Hell, he may even have seen Rosie himself when he went to pick Tommy up from the pool.
He switched off the recording equipment, picked up the hard drive and stuck his head out of the door. ‘Brian. We’re done in here, thanks.’
CHAPTER 29
‘Any good, boss?’ Jane asked as Pete got back to his desk.
‘He gave me the password for that little hard drive you found in his study – rebeccaJane with a small r and a capital J. And he reckons Southam might have killed the girl in Bath, though he’s got no proof. But, as far as Rosie Whitlock . . . Did we look at any swimming or tennis coaches she might have had dealings with? Or anyone else at those venues?’
‘No, we’ve been concentrating on family links and her school.’ She pushed aside some papers on her desk. ‘I’ll get on to it.’
‘It’s all right, I’ll do it. You carry on with what you’re doing.’
‘OK.’
‘I’ll start with the mother. See if she can give me any names. But first . . .’ He picked up the phone and dialled zero.
It was picked up on the second ring. ‘Front desk.’
‘Hello. Can you put me through to the main station in Bath?’
‘Hold on.’
There was a brief pause, then a ringing tone.
‘Avon and Somerset police. How can I help?’
‘Hello. This is DS Gayle from Devon and Cornwall, Exeter. Can you put me through to your major crimes office?’
Another pause.
‘DI Trueman, CID.’
‘Hello. DS Gayle, Exeter CID. I need to speak to someone regarding a case of yours from 2011. Young girl that went missing. Alison Stretton.’
‘That’d be me, DS Gayle. What can I do for you?’
‘It’s more what I can do for you, sir. I’ve just had a tip on who was responsible. From her judo teacher, Neil Sanderson. He puts a Steven Arnold Southam of Swindon, currently residing in Morpeth prison, firmly in the frame. Apparently, Southam saw her that evening at the club and preceded her out, knowing that she’d be walking home.’
‘Does your man have any evidence against this Southam?’
‘Nothing substantive. Just knowledge of his sexual proclivities. But it’s a lead you didn’t have before. It could take you somewhere, if you can follow it up.’
The man in Bath grunted. ‘What are the circumstances with your man down there?’
‘We’ve got him in custody on unrelated child-sex charges.’
‘Uh-huh. All right if I come down and have a word with him, then?’
‘Be my guest. But, we’ve only got him for another twenty hours.’
‘Right. I’ll see you soon then.’
‘Bye.’ Pete ended the call and stood up, hooked his jacket off the back of his chair and headed out, pausing at the custody desk to let Brian know that DI Trueman was on his way from Bath.
The traffic was light at this time of day, the press long gone from the front of the station and it took him just minutes to drive to the Whitlocks’ home. A small group of reporters stood outside. They surged forward as he got out of the car to open the gates.
‘Sergeant Gayle, Sergeant Gayle. Any news? What can you tell us of the latest developments in the case? Have you got any new suspects? What have you come here for, today, Sergeant?’ He ignored them, opened the gates and drove in. Parking in front of the garage, he rang the bell.
Jessica looked confused when she opened the door and peered around it. Unsure. ‘Sergeant.’
‘Mrs Whitlock. I’ve got a few questions, if that’s all right.’
She looked past him, saw the reporters clustered by the gates and gulped. Stepping back, she opened the door wider. ‘Of course. Come in. Please.’
She headed for the sitting room. She was dressed in a dark red satin gown over what looked like a cream silk nightie. Her hair was dishevelled from the pillow. Pete glanced at his watch as he pushed the door closed. It was almost eleven. Surely, she hadn’t just got up?
She went into the lounge, sat down and waved him to the sofa opposite. With her large eyes wide and vulnerable, she looked almost childlike. ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid I couldn’t face work this morning, even without the press out there.’
Pete nodded, unfastened his coat and sat forward on the sofa. ‘First, I have to tell you that we’ve arrested Neil Sanderson this morning.’
‘Yes, Claire rang. The family liaison. But surely he didn’t have anything to do with this?’
‘No. That was a different matter. I just thought you should know, that’s all. Now, I need to ask you about Rosie’s life outside school and your friends. Her tennis. Her swimming. Anything else she might get up to. I need to know about any boys or men she may have had dealings with: coaches, friends, people she commented on, or who you noticed when you dropped her off or picked her up. Anyone who stood out for any reason, positive or negative.’
‘I don’t . . .’ She shook her head. ‘There are her coaches, of course. For tennis, she has Derek Tomlinson and for swimming, Mr Dalziel, from the school. There was a boy she talked to after swimming sometimes, but I don’t
know his name. I just saw her with him a few times.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Small. Shorter than Rosie by three or four inches. Slim, with brown hair. I don’t know any more than that about him.’
Her description could have been of Tommy, but it could equally have been any of hundreds of boys. ‘Anyone else? Anyone you saw hanging around? Or that Rosie did?’
She shook her head slowly. ‘No. I’m sorry, there’s no one, Sergeant.’
‘That’s OK, Mrs Whitlock. It’s just something we have to check.’
‘So . . .’ She paused, looking down at her hands then returned her gaze to his. ‘Are you any closer to finding Rosie?’
‘We’re pursuing a number of lines of inquiry. But, we have to leave no stone unturned in cases like this.’
‘Which is another way of saying you have no idea who took her. Isn’t it?’ Her eyes were focused now, almost fierce, with a strange light in them as she stared at him.
Pete tucked his notebook away. ‘Mrs Whitlock, the reason I’ve come here this morning is because a random abduction is very, very unusual. In almost all of these cases, the victim is known to the perpetrator in some way. A relation, a student, someone they see regularly at work or in the street. There’s nearly always some kind of link. It’s just a question of finding it. Which is why we had to start by investigating your husband, your friends and family. We’ve also been to Risingbrook School, checked out the teachers and Rosie’s school mates. We have made some significant discoveries, but we don’t have the full picture yet and part of that might come from one of the men you’ve told me about this morning.’
She frowned. ‘How? They’d have been checked out thoroughly before they were allowed to work in places like that, surely?’
‘Of course. But they may have seen something that you didn’t. Or Rosie may have said something to them that she didn’t to you.’
She suddenly moved to the edge of the sofa and reached across the coffee table to clasp his hands in hers. ‘You will find her, won’t you, Sergeant? You must find her. Please. You have to.’
