Rooted in Dishonour

by Christina James

  Chapter 65

  It was Saturday morning and Nancy Chappell was on her way in to the office. She had texted Derry Hacker from the train back to London the previous evening to tell him that she’d like to meet today. He’d replied that he’d be in the office as he was planning to work over the weekend. Progress with his investigation into the Khans was going more slowly than he’d hoped, but one of his network of informers had agreed to meet him that afternoon and there were a few things he needed to check out beforehand.

  Nancy was an unlikely champion of Derry’s. She knew that to most female colleagues he came across as laddish and a bit of a male chauvinist pig, but she had a lot of time for Derry. He’d given her a chance when others had been dubious about her capabilities and he’d never shown the slightest prejudice of her otherness. He was the only one of her colleagues who knew her true identity; she had no qualms about that, even though it meant she had literally entrusted him with her life. Another great thing about Derry was that as a subordinate you could argue the toss with him and he’d always listen and often agree; and even if he didn’t agree, he wouldn’t hold it against you.

  Nancy intended to challenge him now. She knew that Derry’s sole present objective was to catch enough of the senior Khans to break up their criminal empire. Although he’d replied favourably to Juliet’s request to search CCTV footage for images of Margie Pocklington, he certainly wouldn’t be making it a priority without a lot of encouragement. Nancy wanted to impress on him how urgent it was and she knew she could achieve it only by spelling out the probable link between Margie’s disappearance and Ayesha Verma’s.

  Derry was looking careworn and in need of sleep, but his greeting was as jaunty as usual.

  “Great to see you. Couldn’t they find enough for you to do in the boggy lands, or did the fact that nothing much happens there just give you the screaming abdabs?”

  “Quite a lot ’appened, as a matter of fact, but I fought I could be more ’elp ’ere. As you know, another girl ’as disappeared from Spalding. Margie Pocklington. Juliet Armstrong told you about ’er. What she didn’t tell you and Superintendent Fornton didn’t tell the media is that clothes belonging to bofe girls were dumped in the River Welland. I fink the clothes was planted deliberately so the police would find them. It’s just a feeling, but I wouldn’t mind betting that bofe those girls are ’ere in London somewhere.”

  “Woman’s intuition?” said Derry mischievously.

  Nany didn’t rise to it.

  “If you like,” she replied. “Fank you for agreeing wiv Juliet to ’ave the King’s Cross CCTV footage checked for images of Margie Pocklington. If I’m right, looking at it would be more than a routine elimination of one line of enquiry. It could be an enormous ’elp in finding ’er. And it may be that we ’aven’t got very long.”

  Derry shifted around on his seat and made a great show of squaring up the papers on his desk.

  “Yes. Happy to help, of course. I’ve got all available hands checking footage for the Khan enquiry this weekend, but I’ll make sure someone gets on to it next week.”

  “It’s urgent,” said Nancy flatly. “It needs doing now.”

  “We spent quite a lot of time checking King’s Cross footage for Ayesha Verma. We didn’t find anything. What makes you so sure that this time it’ll be different?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s just a feeling, as I said, but I don’t want to give up on it. Ayesha Verma may already be dead: you know as well as I do that the odds are stacked against finding ’er alive now that it’s ten days since she disappeared. But we’re still in wiv a chance with Margie Pocklington.”

  “I still don’t see why you think she’s more likely to be in London than anywhere else, including lovely Lincolnshire.”

  “It’s lovely Lincolnshire that’s the problem. It’s not a place I’d associate with ‘honour killings’, for a start. That was a red ’erring, though probably one started by the police themselves.”

  “Ah, yes. Poor old Tim. I expect he’s got a red face now. He’s going to have some explaining to do about his little jolly to India.”

  “But what if they were abducted and someone wanted to encourage the idea of an honour killing?”

  “Doesn’t make sense. Margie Pocklington’s an unlikely honour killing victim and the police have had no contact with the perpetrator, have they?”

  “No. But the fact that clothes belonging to bofe girls were found together shows there was a perpetrator. They didn’t bofe just run away. And if the perpetrator’s a serial killer, why dump the clothes so they could be found?”

  “You tell me. Stranger things have happened.”

  “Agreed. But if we aren’t looking at honour killings or a serial killer, the fird possibility is that someone is taking girls for a purpose. If that’s so, London is the likeliest destination, especially from Spalding. It’s only a ’undred miles away.”

  “So remind me why you think the clothes were dumped in Spalding?”

  “I’ve fought a lot about that. Putting us off the scent is an obvious explanation. But perhaps someone was trying to tell us somefing else as well.”

  “You’re getting a bit deep for me there. I hear what you say and, while you haven’t convinced me, I can see a sort of logic in it. But honestly, Nancy, I really don’t have anyone to put on inspecting that footage this weekend. You know how time-consuming it is.”

  “Let me do it.”

  “You can’t do it on your own.”

  “I’ll get a team of students to ’elp me. You know I keep a list of law and criminology students who are keen on getting involved in police work. I’m always on the look-out for somefing suitable for them.”

  “I’m not a big fan of unpaid work.”

  “Well, pay them then. Minimum wage. They’ll be over the moon.”

  “OK, Nancy, you win. I wasn’t expecting you to come back until next week, so it’s up to you what you do this weekend. You can recruit four students to help you. You’re only checking a few days’ footage, so that should be enough. If you haven’t found anything by close of play on Monday, we’ll assume that’s because there’s nothing to find. Ok?”

  “Ok. Fanks. I knew you’d want to ’elp.”

  “Probably against my better judgment,” said Derry. “But good luck with it.”

  Chapter 66

  Juliet woke in the night. Some process deep within her brain invaded her slumber and told her why the slightly-built man she’d spotted loitering on the river bank was familiar. She hadn’t been able to place him previously because his pronounced limp had disguised what she recalled had once been a very distinctive gait. The visceral power of recognition that jerked her from her sleep left her in no doubt at all: she was certain the man she had seen was Peter Prance. How strange that Tim had also recently claimed to have seen him in London. It would be even stranger if Prance were involved in the disappearances of Ayesha Verma and Margie Pocklington. There was some cause for optimism, if that was the case: she doubted that Prance was capable of murder. Exploitation was his speciality, which meant that he preferred his victims to be living. If she could work out how he might be exploiting those two girls, she’d probably be considerably closer to finding them. She hoped her colleagues would believe in her identification of Prance. She’d talk to Superintendent Thornton in the morning, and to Tim himself as soon as he got back.

  Chapter 67

  I wake suddenly in the night. Outside, the dawn is just beginning to break. I thought at first I’d heard a sound, Sophia stirring perhaps, but I listen carefully and hear only birdsong. I lie very still and try to recreate the thoughts of sleep. I know I’ve been dreaming and I try to summon the dream again. It was about Margie. Margie’s visit, when she put Sophia to bed. What had she said when I was hesitant about her idea of working as our nanny? “Don’t bother. There’s other things I can do.”

  What did sh
e mean by that?

  I realise with a shock that I haven’t told Juliet that I saw Margie that evening. I meant to tell her. How could it have slipped my mind? I was annoyed with Tim when I met Juliet afterwards, but that’s no excuse. Juliet told me that Margie’s mother saw her late that evening, but the woman’s unreliable. Perhaps I was the last person to see her; almost certainly, the last to have a coherent conversation with her.

  God, was it because of me that she ran away? Did she really go home that evening?

  I look at the clock. It’s 5 am. Despite the early hour I know I can’t wait longer. I call Juliet straight away.

  Chapter 68

  By chance, Peter Prance was also watching the news. He didn’t like television, but until Jas paid him he had nothing else to do and he needed something to take his mind off that last girl. There was something about her pinched little features and slight figure that kept on haunting him. He chided himself yet again for being too soft. That girl meant nothing to him, after all. Why couldn’t he forget about her, as he had almost forgotten the Indian girl?

  Despite these stirrings of compunction, when Superintendent Thornton first appeared on the screen, Peter was delighted. His delight increased when Thornton began to describe how the clothes had been found and said they were certainly Margie’s. Now that Jas would have proof that he’d followed instructions and dumped the clothes in the Welland so they would be discovered, perhaps he’d pay him what he was owed, or at least give him a reasonable sum on account. But then Thornton started talking about a scarf, a garment he said he was equally certain belonged to Ayesha Verma.

  Peter was immediately terrified. He jumped to his feet, opened the door of his flat and listened. There were no sounds of echoing footsteps in the stairwell, but he knew it would be only a matter of time. He closed the door again and leaned back against it. He felt sick and giddy. He turned to the tiny sink and retched several times, but could not vomit.

  How could he have made such a stupid mistake? He had put Ayesha Verma’s clothes one by one into an incinerator at a rubbish tip, again exactly as instructed. How could he have missed the scarf? It must have stuck to the bottom of the Harrods bag, or been rolled into such a little ball that he hadn’t noticed it. Subsequently, he had used the bag for Margie’s clothes, removing them from the clear plastic bag that Moura had given him before he’d left the hotel. The scarf was sheer – he remembered she’d had it folded loosely around her neck – and almost weightless. That must have been why he hadn’t spotted that it was still in the bag. But how could he have been so stupid? Jas would be furious. The whole elaborate exercise had been planned to make the police believe the disappearances of the two girls were totally unconnected. Jas would come after him now. This time he knew he’d get the mother of all thrashings. Never mind the money any more, he’d be lucky if he escaped with his life.

  If he stayed in the flat he’d be like a rat in a trap: there was only one way down to the street and Jas’s men knew exactly where to find him. He had to leave, now. There was no time to collect together his few possessions. He snatched up a coat and hat from the peg behind the door and ran out of the flat. He didn’t bother to lock the door: even the few seconds saved by that might be invaluable.

  Chapter 69

  Nancy and her team of helpers had begun to examine the CCTV footage. Each of them had a photo of Margie Pocklington pinned to the side of their computer screens and a typed description of what she had been wearing. The photo was two years old and supplied by her school. Nancy knew it probably wasn’t a very good likeness. Margie looked quite plump, for one thing, whereas everyone who knew her now described her as very slender. But it was the best they could do and Nancy was determined not to give up. She’d told the students to consult her if they were in any doubts at all about the images of young women they spotted.

  Derry brought her a cup of tea.

  “Don’t look so surprised!” he said. “I can be a gentleman sometimes.”

  “Only if you want somefing.”

  “Well, now you mention it, I’ve had an idea. When DI Yates was here, he mentioned that he thought he’d seen an old lag he knew a couple of times – a bloke who’d done a runner before he could be charged. Here’s his picture. It’s a long shot, but I’ve been thinking all along he could be the guy who was done over by the Khans on Tuesday night. The description fits and he’s just the sort of character who’d be working for them. Tim first thought he saw him at King’s Cross. Do you think you could keep a look-out for him?” He handed Nancy the mugshot that Tim had downloaded for him.

  “Sure, but we’ve already started now. If we’ve missed him already we won’t have time to go back over the footage again.”

  Derry shrugged.

  “Thanks. I’ll have to take a chance on it. I’ll get this copied for all of you. He’s quite distinctive, so not too difficult to pick out.”

  Nancy grinned sardonically.

  “Not difficult after an hour perhaps. You should try sitting ’ere all day.”

  Derry knew better than to argue with her.

  Chapter 70

  Peter Prance had boarded the first bus that he saw. He didn’t care where it was heading. He chose the seat nearest the central exit doors and hunched down low in it. He’d decided not to put on the hat because it made him conspicuous on such a warm day. He’d crammed it into the pocket of the jacket, which he was wearing despite the heat because he didn’t think the Khans would recognise it.

  He delved into his pocket and brought out a fistful of change, which he counted: he had £10.59 left. Besides the clothes he stood up in, his only other possessions were the cheap mobile phone and Visitor Oyster cards that Jas had given him for the abduction and a fake passport, also courtesy of Jas. He checked to see that the mobile was turned off. He didn’t understand technology, but he knew enough about Jas to be certain that if it was trackable Jas would be tracking it.

  He had to get out of London, and fast. He needed money, also fast.

  Looking out of the bus window, he saw it had reached Tottenham Court Road. It was a good place to get off: a long way from both his flat and Jas and close to several railway stations.

  He decided to risk the hat, pulling it on surreptitiously and jamming it low over his forehead. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat and tried to disguise his limp by feigning to slouch. He kept his head down, his shoulders knotted back. He would have considered his own behaviour risible if he weren’t consumed by panic. He knew that whether or not he managed to vanish would dictate whether he continued to exist. The irony that the two girls he had captured had no future precisely because they had vanished did not escape him.

  He was still haunted by his memory of the skinny one. There was something about her that had appealed to him, a defiance, a pluckiness that he believed mirrored the character of his younger self, a resilience which, sadly, he acknowledged he’d long since lost.

  He paused to examine his reflection in a shop window. The marks on his face were still livid: he resembled a drunkard who’d been scrapping in a pub brawl. His clothes were dirty as well as shabby and the hat looked ridiculous. He snatched it from his head and put it back in his pocket. He could weep for the beautiful young man he’d once been, or even the urbane middle-aged Peter Prance who, though he might on the odd occasion have been detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure, had always presented a decent façade to the world. He’d kept up appearances, had cut a figure of substance and, although he said it himself, had not been devoid of a certain witty sang froid. How had he come from being a person of bearing to this? He hadn’t deserved to be the victim of such penury; he felt quite indignant about it. And the barbarisms that Jas was subjecting him to, just because he was poor, were outrageous. He squared his shoulders a little. He’d have to stand up for himself more. But he’d always hated violence, and had no answer for it except flight or abject submissiveness.

 
Were they being violent to that girl?

  Try as he might, he couldn’t get her out of his head.

  He stared into the shop window, past his reflection, to the goods inside. It was a television shop. The half-dozen televisions in the window had all been switched on and were all projecting the same image. He peered at one of them. It was that policewoman, the one he’d met when they were after poor Hedley. Yates’s sidekick. What was her name? It was impossible to hear what she was saying through the plate glass, but he understood immediately when she was replaced by a photo of Margie Pocklington. It wasn’t a very good photo, but even if it hadn’t been labelled, he’d have recognised that uncompromising look.

  After a long minute the policewoman was back again, talking animatedly, almost certainly asking for help. Then two numbers flashed up on the screen: a mobile number with her name below it (Juliet Armstrong, that was it!) and a Crimestoppers number. Crimestoppers was offering a reward of £5,000 for information that led to Margie’s safe return to her family. For a wild moment, he wondered what his chances might be of claiming it, but he knew the idea was ludicrous. After some hesitation he took out the mobile and programmed the policewoman’s number into its memory.

  One of the shop assistants came outside for a smoke.

  “You going to stand there all day?” he said, good-naturedly enough, but Peter realised he was drawing attention to himself and quickly moved on.

  The best way to escape would be to board a train. Peter liked trains and in the past had ridden on them buckshee many times. It was such a bore that the arrangement of barriers and programmed tickets they had these days made free-loading almost impossible. King’s Cross was his favourite station – he preferred it to Euston, which had no character – so although he’d have to be careful, because Jas knew it was one of his stamping-grounds, he decided he’d go there. He crossed Tottenham Court Road and cut through one of the many side streets leading off it. Walking briskly, he soon reached Gower Street.