by Jack Slater
‘OK. Thanks for that. I’ll check with them. What I was actually here about, though, was Mr Burton’s van. A Toyota ProAce.’
She was shaking her head again. ‘I don’t know anything about that. Sorry.’
‘Would I be able to speak to your husband?’
‘Be my guest. He’ll be in the yard, I expect. He’s cleaning the sheds out this morning, ready to bring the cattle in.’
As if on cue, the sound of a tractor came from beyond the high wall to Pete’s right. He had noticed a door where the wall turned along the road-front. ‘Well, thanks for your help, Mrs Knox.’
He went back down the path and along to the wooden door in the wall. Barns and sheds surrounded the yard with, in one corner, a couple of old-fashioned pigsties. He could see a tractor just disappearing into one of the sheds at the far side, across a wide expanse of concrete strewn here and there with straw and strands of silage.
When he got closer, he saw that the tractor had a wide bucket on the front, which the driver was using to scrape up a thick layer of old muck and straw. He stood and waited beside the doorway until the man reversed out.
When he saw Pete standing there, he stopped the tractor and shut the engine down to a throaty idle. Pete stepped forward, raising his warrant card and the man pushed the cab door open and climbed down.
Probably in his fifties, he was greying at the temples under a flat cap, which he wore with green overalls and wellington boots. He was a couple of inches taller than Pete, with hands that swallowed Pete’s whole when they shook.
‘DS Gayle, Exeter CID,’ Pete told him.
‘Bill Knox. What can I do for you?’
‘What kind of vehicle do you drive, Mr Knox?’
‘A Mitsubishi pickup. Why?’
‘Have you seen a white Toyota panel van around here? Belonged to the previous owner of this place, I understand.’
Knox shook his head. ‘Don’t know about that. Never met the old boy. He died, end of last year. That’s why we’ve got the place.’
‘And you don’t know who owns it now?’
‘We just deal with the agents, over in Exeter. Berry’s, on Fore Street.’
‘I know them.’ Pete nodded. ‘OK. Well, I’ll let you get on, then. Thanks for your help.’
‘No trouble.’
Pete walked back across the yard, disappointment flooding his mind. Another dead end. The place had been done up and rented out, so the contents had probably been sold off, including the Toyota van. Why it hadn’t been re-registered, he couldn’t imagine. Maybe it had gone to a dealer. He would have to track down Edward Burton’s beneficiaries and check. He climbed into his car and stared at the sandwich on the passenger seat.
With a shrug, he picked it up, took a large bite and began to chew.
*
‘Berry and Co., Danielle speaking. How can I help?’
Pete sat forward in his chair, one elbow resting on his desk. ‘My name’s Detective Sergeant Gayle, Heavitree Road CID. I’m looking for some information on one of the properties you rent out. High Acres Farm, out near Dunsford. I gather the previous owner died about a year ago, so I’m wondering who owns it now.’
‘High Acres Farm? It’s not one I’m familiar with. Hold on a sec.’ Pete heard her talking to someone in the background, but couldn’t hear what was said over Dick Feeney’s voice at his side, also on the phone. There was a pause, then she was back. ‘Hello? High Acres Farm, Holcomb Burnell?’
‘That’s the one. You’re renting it to the Knoxes.’
‘Yes, I’ve got the file here. The owner is . . . a Mr Burton.’
Pete felt the slump of disappointment.
‘Malcolm Burton.’
‘Ah.’ He smiled, relieved. ‘Have you got his address there and maybe a daytime phone number?’
‘One second. Here it is. Address is 49 Lathbury Road, Exeter. And the phone number . . .’ She paused a moment then read it out.
‘Thank you.’ Pete’s mind was churning as he ended the call. He recognised that number, but where from? Where the hell had he seen it before? He looked over his computer screen. ‘Jane. Telephone number 270789. Where do I know it from?’
‘It’s the school. The one where Jessica Whitlock works.’
A wave of cold swept through Pete’s whole body as he nodded slowly. ‘I think we might have something.’
CHAPTER 31
‘What?’ Jane demanded.
‘The second of those two possible vans. It was registered to an Edward Burton, aged eighty-three, of High Acres Farm, Holcomb Burnell. But Mr Burton died last year. The farm is now owned by a Malcolm Burton, who gives his daytime phone number as that of St Margaret’s Primary School.’
‘Yes.’ She punched the air. ‘The force is with you again, boss.’
‘Let’s not jump the gun. It could be a coincidence.’
‘And I could have a dick that I haven’t told anyone about,’ she said sarcastically. ‘You don’t believe that any more than I do.’
‘But it’s possible,’ Dave argued from beside her. ‘I think we need proof.’
‘In your dreams, matey. You going to go see him, boss?’
‘First, I’ll make sure he’s there.’ He picked the phone up and dialled.
‘St Margaret’s Primary. Can I help?’
‘Hello, yes. This is DS Gayle, Exeter CID. I’m trying to trace a Malcolm Burton. Is he in today?’
‘Mr Burton? Yes. He’s in class at the moment though.’
‘That’s OK. Thanks for your help.’
He put the phone down and grinned. ‘He’s in.’ Malcolm. He recalled the obnoxious man in the staffroom when he’d gone to see Jessica. Was it the same man?
He hoped so.
‘You want a hand?’ Jane asked. ‘I could do with a break from this screen.’
‘Come on, then.’ He stood up and grabbed his jacket.
*
The corridors echoed hollowly as the school secretary led Pete and Jane towards the staffroom, their shoes clacking steadily on the lino floor. The walls were lined with posters, kids’ pictures and wooden lockers. They had arrived at break-time, the school playground a noisy mass of running, laughing and shouting kids.
The secretary led them in and indicated a group of teachers near the sink in the left corner.
‘Mr Burton.’
Pete recognised the man instantly. Small and slim, he had centrally parted blond hair and a receding chin with a narrow-lipped overbite.
‘Zoe?’
‘These are detectives Gayle and Bennett. They’d like a word with you before you go back to class.’
‘Yes, I remember DS Gayle.’ He stepped forward, his head dipping slightly. He was about the same height and weight as Jane, Pete guessed. ‘What can I help you with? Shall we sit? I haven’t got long.’ He raised a hand towards the far side of the room where a square of blue chairs sat unoccupied around a battered-looking coffee table. They headed over and sat down.
Ease in gently, Pete thought. ‘I gather your father died last year, Mr Burton. I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you.’ He nodded, his blue-grey eyes meeting Pete’s.
‘I understand he had a Toyota van. A white ProAce. Can you tell me what happened to it? It hasn’t been re-registered.’
Burton’s eyes widened. ‘It hasn’t . . . Oh God. I must have forgotten, with everything else to sort out. I’m so sorry. But, really—’ he smiled ‘—is that all this is about? Two detectives need to come out and question me about a missing van? It’s OK, I’ve got it. Not that I use it much. Hardly at all, in fact. It’s stuck away in my garage at home. I haven’t got round to selling it yet, that’s all.’
‘I see.’ Pete was nodding sagely. He took out his phone and started the audio recording function, just in case Burton said something he wanted to remember word for word. ‘That’s all right then. Only, we have a possible sighting of it on Tuesday morning, just before eight-thirty. You wouldn’t have been driving it then?’
‘Which is?’
‘A Citroën C4. Dark blue. It’s in the car park.’ He nodded towards the front of the building.
‘And when did you last check that the van was still in your garage?’ Jane asked.
He frowned. ‘Not for a while. Last week maybe. Why? What’s this about?’
‘A missing girl, Mr Burton,’ Pete told him bluntly.
‘A m—Hang on. Tuesday? That’s when Jessica’s daughter was taken, wasn’t it? You don’t think . . . ?’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no, no. Sorry, detectives, but you’re barking up the wrong tree entirely there. Now, I must get back to my class. If you’ll excuse me . . .’ He stood up.
‘So, just to confirm, the van’s in your garage at home, Mr Burton?’ Jane said.
‘Yes.’
‘And home is . . . ?’
‘Whipton. Lathbury Road.’
‘OK. Thank you.’
They stood up. Pete put his phone away and held out a hand. Burton hesitated but took it. His palm was slightly damp, Pete noticed and applied a little more pressure. ‘Good day, sir.’
Burton turned away quickly, heading for the door.
‘Good day?’ Jane asked quietly. ‘I’ve never heard you say that before.’
‘Well, it wasn’t goodbye, was it? I’m sure we’re going to see more of Mr Malcolm Burton.’ He gave her a wink and started for the door, leaving her to follow.
In the car, with his seat belt fastened, Pete paused to glance at Jane.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘His palms are damp. He swallows too much.’
‘He’s nervous.’
‘But why?’
Jane tilted her head. ‘That’s the big question, isn’t it? Do you think he’s guilty?’
‘Of something, yes.’
‘Best we go check on that van then.’
Pete started the engine and slipped the car into gear. ‘Meantime, give that head teacher a call, see if she can confirm that he was on that course he mentioned on Tuesday. And when.’
Jane took out her phone and dialled. ‘Hello. DC Bennett here, Exeter CID,’ she said. ‘Can I speak to the head, please?’ There was a brief pause. ‘Hello. Yes, sorry to trouble you again, but there’s just one tiny point we’d like to clear up. Mr Burton told us he was on a course on Tuesday. Is that correct?
‘It is . . . OK. Thanks. And can you get confirmation of his actual attendance?’
Another pause.
‘No, no. Just routine. To make sure we can discount him . . . Yes, that would be perfect. Thanks again for your help. Goodbye.
‘She’s getting back to me later on.’
*
Burton’s home was no more than half a mile from the school. It was in a street of big, old detached properties. His had a high conifer hedge surrounding it. The lawn was ragged, patchy and unkempt. The gravel drive was weed-choked, mossy and dirty-looking, leading to a tatty-looking wooden garage beside the bay-windowed two-storey house.
Pete parked in front of the garage and climbed out. There were windows across the top sections of the doors. They were filthy with dirt and cobwebs on the inside. Pete stepped up to the doors and shaded his eyes to peer in.
Sure enough, there stood a white Toyota van. He could not see the model or the registration plate – it was too close to the doors and the glass was too filthy. He stepped back and looked at the padlock on the doors. ‘Shame that. Let’s have a look around, shall we? While we’re here.’
‘Negligent not to, boss.’
He started up the narrow pathway between the garage and the house. There was a small door near the far end. After pulling on a glove, he tried the handle.
It was unlocked.
‘Careless. Invites thieves and burglars, that does.’
The door scraped against the old concrete pathway as it opened.
Along the back wall of the garage was a line of windows, just as dirty as those at the front. A long workbench was scattered with tools, most of them brown with rust and age. Pete stepped in far enough to read the registration plate on the van.
‘This is it,’ he said. ‘Best get that warrant.’
*
‘It was my idea, I should do it.’
They had just sat down at their desks when Jane spoke.
‘It’s my responsibility, either way.’
‘Yes, but I’ve got a sweeter smile than you.’
Jane flashed him an example as he glanced up at her.
‘Just don’t flutter your eyelashes. You do that and he’s bound to suspect something.’
She opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a thick file. ‘Here. While I’m gone, have a shufti at this. Simon’s bunch aren’t using it at the moment.’
Instantly, her comment put him on his guard. ‘What is it?’ he asked as he took it from her.
‘Just thought you had a right to be in the picture. That should catch you up. Not that I’ll be gone long.’
Pete glanced from the folder to her and back again. ‘Don’t push it. Pride comes before a fall.’
‘Yeah, but we’re talking Fast-track. He doesn’t stand a chance.’ She flashed him a pleading look and headed for the DCI’s office.
Pete looked down at the file in front of him, his stomach fluttering. He almost didn’t want to open it. It wasn’t his to open. He could get in all kinds of shit for just reading this stuff – and so could Jane, if it ever came out that she’d got hold of it for him. But, in the end, he had no choice. He took a breath and flipped it open. A picture of his son looked back at him. Staring at the photo, taken at school the previous year, he didn’t realise that he was holding his breath until his chest began to ache. He let the stale air slip from his lungs and flipped over the first page, then the second. Basic data that he knew already. Then the interviews began, starting with his own and Louise’s. He flipped past them. When he came to Annie’s he started to read. Standard questions and answers.
The first surprise was when she admitted knowing that he smoked in the playground with his mates before he moved up to senior school. A little further down the page, she said that she had heard him called a bully, but she didn’t believe it. Pete shook his head, agreeing with her. He hadn’t brought the boy up to be like that.
He read on.
School reports, all of which he’d seen before, were followed by interviews with his teachers. As Tommy had only moved up to senior school a few months before he disappeared, Simon’s team had interviewed the teachers from his junior school, too. Pete read through what they had to say about his son with a mounting sense of disbelief. He flipped back and forth through the interviews, comparing what each person had to say, his mind reluctantly building a picture of a boy who he did not recognise as his own son.
Their consensus was that, since the age of eight, Tommy had been increasingly sly, manipulative and cruel. Not a bully – he was too subtle for that – but quietly and deliberately abusive. He had undermined teachers. He had got into fights. He had played tricks on the other children. He had increasingly alienated his friends, but not before making sure they were thoroughly frightened of him. Even the older kids avoided him, it seemed, but there was never anything provable so there was never anything to take to the parents and say, ‘This needs to be addressed.’ He was too clever for that.
‘Jesus,’ Pete muttered. Did he really know so little about his own son? What kind of father was he? He couldn’t associate the child he was reading about with the small-for-his-age boy that he knew and loved. Tommy couldn’t be like this . . .
He flipped the page and began to read another report that described how a boy a year older than Tommy, who had fought with him in the playground, had taken a fall down a flight of stairs two days later, breaking his arm. There were no witnesses and the boy
claimed it was an accident, but no one had been able to account for Tommy’s whereabouts at the time.
But, if Tommy pushed the kid, how the hell did he persuade him not to tell?
He turned the page again and his eye was caught by the phrase, ‘Just two weeks ago . . .’
He read on.
Tommy had got into another fight. Pete remembered the bruises on his face and the blood on his shirt when he came home one night, a couple of weeks before he disappeared. He had asked what happened and Tommy had told him he’d been beaten up by one of the big kids. When he had said he would go to the school and put a stop to it, Tommy was adamant that he shouldn’t.
The report went on to say that, a week later, an older boy, who they had suspected of being the other party in the fight with Tommy, had opened his locker and been blown backwards by an explosion.
‘Jesus,’ Pete muttered. An explosion?
It turned out that three matches had been stapled to the inside of the locker door, sandpaper stuck to the floor of the locker for them to strike against and a plastic container of water had been placed in the back of the locker with a nine-volt battery whose terminals had been connected to wires going into the water.
The victim was unhurt but very shaken.
‘I bet he bloody was,’ Pete muttered. ‘Christ!’ Horror at what his son had done was tempered with pride at his ingenuity and resourcefulness. Something like that would certainly put a stop to any bullying.
‘Boss?’
Pete blinked and slapped the file shut. Jane was standing at the end of his desk. ‘Sorry, Jane. Miles away.’
‘I could see. Are you all right?’
Pete put the file in a drawer of his desk. ‘What have you got?’
She grinned and waved a piece of paper at him. ‘A warrant to search the Toyota and its immediate location – i.e. the garage.’
Pete pushed his chair back. ‘Right. What are we waiting for?’ He locked his desk, stood up and grabbed his coat. ‘Let’s do it.’
CHAPTER 32
‘We won’t have long before he gets home,’ Pete said, checking his watch as he pulled the car off the road outside Burton’s property.
