by Linda Coles
“Did she talk about much while you were driving? Perhaps say where she was going?” Chrissy needed more.
“She slept a lot of it, but she was trying to get to France because we debated driving across to Gatwick. She settled on the ferry and Dover. And she got locked out of her iPhone so I showed her a trick to get back in for some basic tasks, until she could get it unlocked properly.” His eyes smiled as he recited how he’d helped the missing woman. “But when we arrived at the terminal, she paid and left so there’s nothing else to tell. I wish I could help you more. I know what it’s like when someone you love goes missing.” Joe’s chin dropped and a silence encased the three of them. Neither woman wanted to intrude on his thoughts so Chrissy thanked him for his time and wished him a good day. The two women slowly pulled away, heading back towards the shopping area. When they were out of earshot, Chrissy broke the silence, “So she’s definitely alive! That is good news. At least it’s confirmed. But we now also know she headed to France somehow. And she has a credit card and phone.”
“But he picked her up from the hospital, a hospital that has no record of Susan Smith needing medical attention.”
“For that I have no explanation,” Chrissy said. “Other than she left before they got to her? A & E would have been in uproar.”
“Maybe.”
“Are you thinking this was a planned run then? Because how else would she have a credit card that Marcus doesn’t know about? You saw for yourself there had been no activity on the account. Same goes for the phone. A burner phone, perhaps?”
“Burner phones don’t normally come in the shape of an iPhone, too expensive. And how did she manage to get locked out of it? It’s not hard to remember your passcode is it? An extra credit card on a different account I can understand, though I wonder now if it’s under another name, her maiden name, perhaps. Same for a passport?”
“Hmm. I hear you. What next, boss?” asked Julie.
“Let’s go to the bank, though I doubt they’ll give us anything. We might get a reaction if we flash that picture, even though we already know she went in there. I wonder why she didn’t use the ATM instead?”
Julie shrugged. They knew so little and it was frustrating.
“Not helpful, sis,” Chrissy said in warning tone. “We need to find her other phone number somehow. GPS will tell us where she is if she still has it with her. But how can we do that?”
“Can’t we tell the police what we know already? Maybe they have powers?”
“They might have powers, but they can’t conjure up her location without knowing the phone number at least.” They were now walking down the high street, approaching the bank. “Did that detective that found her bag definitely have her passport?”
“He said so, and purse and phone. So she must have duplicates, but what are the chances of that accident happening on a day when she had her alternative ID at hand? You don’t think she caused the accident somehow, do you?”
Chrissy pulled up short. Always the drama queen, Julie had let her thoughts go off the rails with that one. “And how in hell’s name could she do that?”
“Just putting it out there,” Julie added petulantly.
“A long way off base, sis. Even James Bond would have struggled to achieve such an accident single-handedly.” Chrissy held the bank’s door open and they both slipped inside and joined the short queue. Chrissy still had the photo in her hand. “We get one shot each so watch for any reaction, any at all when you show it, okay?”
Chrissy went first, introduced herself as Chrissy Livingstone, PI, but it was obvious the young male teller didn’t recognise the woman in the photo. He also confirmed he wouldn’t be able to help anyway, privacy and all. A dead end.
And the same went for Julie, the teller she spoke to merely shook her head. Even if they could, there was little point trying to get CCTV footage because it would only show what they already knew – Susan Smith had been in the bank. And then left.
It had been a long shot, but it needed trying. If someone had seen Susan that day, Julie or Chrissy could have asked what she’d been in for, what she’d wanted and that might have given them another lead to follow. As it turned out, privacy won over and they were no further forward.
When they were both back out on the pavement, Chrissy said, “Let’s grab a drink and figure out our next move. And I’ll ring that Detective Davies myself and fill him in. He might have an idea now we know a bit more.”
Feeling a little flat, Julie had to agree. Maybe if they pooled what little knowledge they had, they’d have a location to head to, because right now the two sisters couldn’t cover the whole of Europe on foot – not on their own.
Susan Smith was officially alive and on the run. But where to?
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The police tech team were constantly overwhelmed by their workload. Cybercrime was a rapidly growing business for scumbags of all types and their crimes spanned a vast array of topics: from child-pornography rings to malware on little old ladies’ computers and everything else in between. Their work was important, sometimes desperately so, and a never-ending stream of high-priority cases kept them busy. So faced with a simple task like a cracking open a missing person’s phone,, it was easiest all round if the detective on the case did it themselves – provided they had the skills – and then figured out afterwards how any evidence could be used in a court case if need be.
Detective Alan Davies didn’t possess those skills, but he knew a woman that did. Bridget was the team’s go-to girl when they needed something tech-related doing on the side. A petit blonde that fancied herself as a bit of a Lara Croft, geeking out was her passion. When she wasn’t a detective by day, Alan knew she felt quite comfortable roaming the streets after dark and her role didn’t dictate her waking hours. Bridget Knox had a personality that it was risky trying to get to know in any depth; the aura she emitted sent a message that was impossible to misread: keep out.
Like an old mineshaft.
And he knew he wasn’t on his own with those thoughts. So it was with some trepidation that he approached the cluttered desk of his colleague. He tried not to pay attention to the disarray in which the woman worked, but she was surrounded by day-old coffee mugs and empty nut packets. She sensed him before he had chance to open his mouth in greeting.
“What do you need?” Her face stayed firmly glued to her screen as she spoke. “Speak to me. What is it you need this time?” There was no malice, simply concentration. Still, Alan almost flinched at her direct manner.
“I could do with this phone unlocking, please. It’s charged now, but locked. Can you get inside it for me?”
“Of course I can,” she said, taking the iPhone from him. “What are you looking for when I get in?”
“Anything that might tell me why its owner, Susan Smith, is now a misper. She was on that train that crashed and appears to have done a runner.”
“Oh, how exciting.”
There was no hiding her thoughts, but Alan gave her a questioning glance. “I’m sure her husband and family don’t think so.”
“I mean, running off after the accident. Taking the chance to flee. You don’t naturally run off for no reason when the opportunity presents itself. Not normally. Any clue as to why?”
“That’s what I’m hoping to find out from her phone, why and where she’s gone.”
“Right. I’ll take a look, see what I can find. Though if she’s done a runner and left this behind, I doubt we’ll find much. She’ll have another phone by now, probably had a second all along.”
“Let’s see before you cast your aspersions. Maybe she left a breadcrumb or two.”
Bridget raised her blonde eyebrows at his terminology as he turned and left her desk. Alan’s version of breadcrumbs came from his cheese-and-onion sandwich and not from a digital trail, she mused. Still, he made her smile. Not many men did. Bridget watched him head towards the back of the room and, not for the first time, wondered what he’d be like in bed. Two
distinctly different-sized bodies could be a challenge, but her imagination would figure it out. She’d always liked Alan, he fascinated her. Still, there was time. Turning back to the phone in her hand, she plugged it into a cable already set up on her personal laptop and did the necessary. It took a few seconds to gain full access and change the passcode to something easier to remember. She settled back to read emails and texts, and snoop around the various apps and settings that were Susan Smith’s life. Apart from work emails, a few texts and voice messages from concerned friends, there was nothing of obvious interest. Susan Smith’s life as a consultant appeared relatively stress free.
Until she noticed the tracking app. It had been installed to be hidden from the user and Bridget worked quickly to trace it back to its installer: one Marcus Smith. Making a note to tell Alan, she took her talented snooping skills up another level. If a man was tracking his wife in secret, he had a reason. Either Susan was having an affair and her husband suspected so, or he spied on her for pleasure. It wasn’t hard to find him and dig a little more.
“Now, what are you up to in your own private time, Mr Smith?” she chided as she tapped her keyboard rapidly. What floated up on the screen she was glued to would be gibberish to any onlooker. If any of her colleagues looked over her shoulder, there would be no way in hell that they could decipher what scrolled past. Unless they had Bridget’s skills. Which they didn’t. When she was satisfied with where she was at, she rested back in her chair to read. Alan Davies wasn’t the only person to have breadcrumb issues. There, laid out in front of her, were Marcus Smith’s activities in all their digitally traced glory.
“Told you, you were the one with issues, Mr Smith. You like to spy because you like to manipulate. You’re a bully. A good-looking one but a bully all the same.” Bridget’s fingers danced across her keyboard and her fine mouth creased into a curve at the edges as she set about copying the information she needed. Bullies only spoke one language and that was control. If he’d been eavesdropping and tracking his wife, who clearly had been going about her own business, a good proportion of it sat at home from the geo data she could see, Bridget wanted to know what the man himself was up to. Maybe he’d had a hand in the woman’s disappearance? Was that why he was back in Hong Kong while the police searched for Mrs Smith? Whatever he was or had been up to, Bridget Knox wanted to find out more.
“Let’s see how you like being spied on,” she said with satisfaction. With one last keystroke, the life and times of Marcus Smith was filtering live on to a separate screen. Satisfied, she made her way to Alan and gave him the news of the tracking-app find.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Alan Davies was still reeling from Bridget’s news: Susan’s husband was monitoring her movements and eavesdropping on her communications. Why? He was pondering the question over coffee and a Crunchie bar when his mobile rang. He didn’t recognise the number, another mobile, but accepted the call anyway. Dealing with so many various individuals each day, he couldn’t store them all in his phone and have prior knowledge of who they all were.
“DS Alan Davies,” he said, licking chocolate off his forefinger then wiping it on his trouser leg. It was still sticky.
“Hello.” A female voice soothed his ears. It was almost like a cat’s purr. “This is Julie Stokes. We spoke earlier today about Susan Smith. I’m her friend?”
“Yes, how could I forget,” he said, smiling. Her voice was like gentle harp music to his stressed shoulders and he closed his eyes while he listened. He was also conscious he was enjoying the sound. “What can I help you with?”
“I’ve been doing my own investigation,” she cooed. “And I thought we could pool our knowledge, see if three heads would be better than one. We’re all after the same result, are we not?”
“Three heads?”
“Oh sorry, yes. My sister, Chrissy Livingstone, is a PI. I’m her PA.”
Alan rolled his eyes at the mention of a private investigator. They often got in the way of police business. And they did things a little more out of the box than the rule sticklers. He’d not come across Chrissy Livingstone professionally. He skipped forward. “So, what information do you have?”
“I was hoping to get a question answered from you before that, if I may.”
“And what’s your question?”
“Well, it’s about her passport. It’s still in her bag along with her purse and phone, I believe. Is there a way for you to see how she might have used a passport to gain entry to France? Maybe in her maiden name?”
“So you think she’s gone to France.”
Julie groaned at her mistake. She’d given the game away. She took a deep breath and sighed heavily. Alan carried on, “I’m not a detective for nothing. Why don’t you tell me what you know, then I can see how best to help?”
And so Julie did. About Joe the taxi driver, the hospital pickup, Susan’s phone, the ferry, and of course her trip to the bank. He added the information to his own newly acquired intel, courtesy of Bridget. Perhaps Susan Smith was a person at risk and warranted further resources after all. If her husband was, or had been, controlling her in some way, that was most likely the reason she’d fled. Or she simply wanted to run away – more adults than children did.
“What ferry do you believe she crossed on?”
“It would have been mid-afternoon when the taxi dropped her, around 4 pm, so I’d check a couple in case she missed the first one.”
Alan smiled at Julie’s idea and was tempted to add “No shit,” but restrained himself, allowing the thought to drift off. “I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”
“Chrissy and I are heading to the ferry now and will make some enquiries at Dover. Will you let us know what you find out, please?”
Even though DS Alan Davies was under no pressure to inform someone outside the official enquiry of anything, he found himself nodding to the phone. “Let’s see what comes up, eh?” Non-committal for now. But the woman’s voice was mesmerising in his head. “But before you go,” he wanted to add a caution. “It’s great she really is alive and well enough to travel, but have you thought that she might not want to be found? From a police point of view, now we know she is alive and on the move, strictly speaking that’s the end of our enquiry.” The other end of the line went quiet. Julie had gone silent.
“Oh, I see. But that doesn’t seem fair or right, Susan is on the run from something or someone.” It was time to tell him about Marcus and the tracking app. “Her husband was tracking her every move. Did you know that? He’s an odd person, rather controlling, and I fear for her safety. Isn’t that enough?”
So the PI team had been doing their own investigation. How could they possibly have found out about the app? Alan chose his words carefully. “I can’t promise anything, but let me see what my DI wants to do. If there is a problem with her husband and she is in danger, he may let me carry on. That’s all I can say.”
“But can you at least find out about the passport? It would help us greatly, even if you can’t do anything more.”
Alan sighed. She had a point but handing over that kind of intel could land him in the shit. “No promises.”
“I’ll await your call. You have my number.” And then the soft purr of Julie Stokes vanished, much like Susan Smith. Alan sat looking at his phone.
“What the hell happened there? Are you nuts?” he said louder than he meant to.
Bridget glanced across questioningly, her eyes bulging, chin dipped. “What have you done?”
“Hopefully nothing.” Changing the subject, he said, “I need to find out what passport was used on an afternoon ferry on the day of the train crash. Dover to Calais, around 4 pm. Can you get a list of passengers for me, please?”
Bridget swivelled her chair back round to face her screen. “I’m on it.”
The rest of the afternoon flew by, mainly with paperwork. There were reams of it, everything in triplicate, everyone’s arses covered, ‘I’s dotted, and ‘T’s crossed. A defence te
am would have a field day in court if it wasn’t so, though the tiresome task was another drag on resources. Then, at five o’clock, Alan ventured over to Bridget’s desk for an update. An almost-empty bag of roasted almonds was sat by her mouse and he leaned in to grab a couple. Quick as a fox, she slammed her hand down on his to prevent him swiping any and he called out in surprise.
“Damn it, ask first,” she said calmly as she removed her hand from his. “Ask, and you will receive. Take, and you’re in trouble.” There was something in her clear-blue eyes that told him he’d been warned. It took him a moment to rebalance himself and state what he’d ambled over for in the first place.
“How did the passport list go, have you got anything?”
“Just got it actually. I’ll print it off,” and he watched as she collected the pages from the nearby printer. There looked to be three or four of them. She handed them over and he glanced down the first page. Nothing immediately stuck out. He scanned the other three pages and was almost at the end of the total list when he gasped out loud.
“Something interesting you?”
“I’d say so.” He stared at the name, Tabitha Child. How could a dead woman be travelling to France on a ferry?
Chapter Forty
Tabby had half-heartedly explored Paris for a couple of days before finally deciding it wasn’t the place she wanted to be. It was expensive, far too busy and, at the same time, desperately lonely. She felt isolated, disorientated, and her chest was constricted with an anxiety level she’d not experienced before. The trip to Paris she’d originally planned would have been the polar opposite to the one she was experiencing right now. It was to have been harmless fun, to fulfil a role she’d contemplated many times but never played. Then, when the opportunity to truly become someone else presented itself, she’d snatched it. And then things had spiralled out of control and she was left wondering what to do next.
