by Erin Kinsley
‘Here she is,’ says Campbell, as she joins him and Hagen. ‘We’re just saying, we should be making arrests by now. We need Evan to look at some pictures. The photofits are ready – PR are organising national coverage on them – and the Chief’s asked me to do a press conference this afternoon.’
‘Don’t forget to get that button stitched on,’ Naylor says.
Campbell looks bewildered.
‘There’s one missing on your shirt,’ Naylor explains. ‘The Chief won’t be happy if you go on the BBC with a button missing.’
Discomfited, Campbell glances down at his front, and readjusts his tie to cover the gap. Hagen’s eyebrows lift almost imperceptibly, and he gives Naylor the tiniest hint of a smile.
Campbell is about to say something, but Naylor heads him off.
‘Rose has a sewing kit,’ she says. ‘She was in the Girl Guides. She’s good with things like that.’
‘Do you think Evan’s ready?’ asks Hagen. ‘Where are we on the psychological evaluations?’
‘The child specialists have had a couple of meetings with him, and no surprises, he’s not good,’ says Naylor. ‘The feedback from them is that, except for when he was first found and a short phone call with his mum, he hasn’t said a single word, not even to his parents. They’re calling it elective mutism. Not that uncommon following major trauma like he’s been through.’
‘Even so,’ says Campbell. ‘If you could persuade him to go through a few known offenders, that would help. What about the car? Surely there must be something from that?’
‘Not as much as we hoped,’ says Hagen. ‘Reported stolen in the intervening. Lots of prints but no matches to anyone we know. They’re checking what CCTV we’ve got and ANPR, but don’t hold your breath.’
‘So what do you think, Rachel?’ asks Campbell. ‘Do you think you can get the boy to have a look?’
‘If he isn’t talking, what’s the point in putting him through that? Going through the rogues’ galleries at this stage will only cause the poor kid more pain.’
‘He’s been gone a while, though,’ says Hagen in his Geordie lilt. ‘No saying who he might have bumped into on his travels, and we need that information. We’ve got to be proactive. It’s a one hundred percent certainty they’ll be on the lookout for another victim to take Evan’s place.’
There’s a short silence amongst them as they consider the implications of Hagen’s words.
‘OK,’ says Naylor. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Great stuff,’ says Campbell. As he stands up, he looks over her shoulder. ‘Where’s Rose? Rose, there you are. Can I have a word?’
Campbell does a good job at the press conference. Presenting himself well is what he excels at, and he speaks with his usual authority, addressing the crowd of journalists with a suitably grave face, avoiding the stilted police-speak so many officers fall into when faced with microphones and cameras. Today two new photofit pictures are on screens behind him, images of a pair of unattractive, unremarkable men, put together from witness statements from the Ferrybridge filling station. Campbell’s shirt, Naylor notices, has all its buttons in place. At the table beside him, Hagen looks hot and uncomfortable, eyes down on the notes in front of him as the cameras flash and whirr. In the front row, Naylor recognises a well-known woman presenter from ITV news, who looks older in the flesh and disturbingly thin.
The questions, when Campbell asks for them, are largely predictable.
‘Chief Inspector, in the light of this development, were you too hasty before in shutting down your investigation into Evan’s abduction?’
Campbell appears to consider.
‘Based on the evidence we had at that time, I don’t believe so, no. And it’s wrong to say our investigation was shut down. Evan’s case, like many others, was always subject to review if new information came to light. Which, I’m very pleased to say, is what’s happening now.’
‘Can you tell us how Evan’s doing, Chief Inspector?’
‘He’s recovering at home with his family after a very difficult ordeal, and I’m sure you ladies and gentlemen will respect their need for privacy. I don’t think it’s appropriate or necessary for me to say more than that at present.’
As Campbell is asking the room for any final questions, Naylor feels a hand on her shoulder. A man is standing behind her, old enough to be her father but attractive in a silver fox way, wearing a hoody and jeans with old trainers.
She turns sharply to see who’s touched her, meets the man’s eyes and gives a broad smile.
‘Bloody hell, Ron,’ she says. ‘Don’t you know better than to sneak up behind a woman with self-defence skills? What brings you here?’
‘I heard the circus was in town,’ says Ron Perdue, nodding towards the front of the room where Campbell is thanking everyone for coming. ‘It’s a good turn-out. He’ll be pleased.’
‘We’re all pleased,’ says Naylor. ‘It’s a nasty case, and we need all the help we can get.’
‘I’ve read about it,’ says Perdue. ‘I was wondering if you’d care to join me at the Lamb and Lion for a pie and a pint, for old times’ sake.’ He pats his stomach. ‘As you can see, retirement is keeping me from the requisite daily calorie intake to maintain my beer gut.’
Naylor looks him up and down.
‘I can see you’ve lost a few pounds,’ she says. ‘But you might have put on a suit.’
‘Retirees’ prerogative, to dress like a slob,’ says Perdue. ‘Anyway, I don’t own a suit any more, except the black one I keep for funerals. I made a big bonfire and burned them all. Very therapeutic. So, are you coming, or what?’
‘Bit early for lunch.’
‘Call it research. You can pick my brains, and I’m buying.’
‘In that case, I’m right behind you.’
On the short walk to the Lamb and Lion, Perdue and Naylor don’t say much. The pub is down a narrow alley still paved with cobblestones, and the low doorways and leaded windows of the neighbouring buildings always make Naylor feel she’s stepped into a Dickens novel. The illusion is short-lived. Though the outside’s totally traditional, inside the pub’s been given the inevitable brewery makeover to cater to their assumption of modern tastes: dove-grey walls, menus painted on blackboards, the old red-plush banquettes dumped in favour of satin-varnished pine. It’s not yet twelve and the bar is quiet. Behind the pumps, a student in a low-cut T-shirt gives them a practised smile.
‘What’ll you have?’ asks Ron.
‘Orange juice and soda,’ says Naylor.
‘One of those,’ says Perdue to the barmaid. ‘And a pint of lager shandy for me.’
As the barmaid fixes the drinks, Perdue looks around.
‘I preferred this place in the old days,’ he says. ‘Toilets out back and cigarette burns in the upholstery. It was the end of proper pubs, the smoking ban. All the interesting people you used to meet go and stand outside.’
‘Why would you object to a smoking ban? You don’t smoke. I remember the air in here being so thick sometimes you’d struggle to find enough oxygen to fill one lung, never mind two.’
‘And are you still smoking?’
‘No,’ says Naylor. ‘Gave up months ago. I got fed up putting all that tax into the public coffers when none of it gets spent where it should be.’
The barmaid places a tall glass in front of her, and Naylor takes a long drink.
‘Very wise. Are you eating?’ Perdue looks up at the blackboard at the end of the bar, where the menu is written up in white chalk as if it changes every day. Perdue knows it doesn’t; the only things that change are the prices, which always go up, he notices, never down. ‘Steak and kidney for me, please, love,’ he says to the barmaid. ‘No chips, just peas.’
‘No chips?’ asks Naylor. ‘That’s a first. I’ll have the same, chips and peas on mine.’
‘Y
ou can afford a few chips,’ says Perdue, as they make their way to a table by the window. ‘You’ve lost a couple of pounds too.’
‘You know how it is,’ says Naylor, sitting down on a chair which looks more comfortable than it is. ‘No time to shop, less time to cook. I end up living on sandwiches and takeaways.’
‘That’s a slippery slope.’ Perdue takes a seat on the opposite side of the table, moving a dessert menu to make room for his glass. ‘A diet like that’ll give you ulcers, sooner or later. Though I have to say you look good on it. I like your hair like that, by the way. Suits you.’
Naylor smiles, and makes a show of patting her French pleat.
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘New hairstyle, new life. I’m moving on.’
‘You ever hear anything from Tim?’
Naylor’s smile slips, and the shadow of a heartache crosses her face.
‘Not these days. We’re not exactly top of each other’s Christmas card lists, after what happened. Last I heard he was living in Cornwall. He’d love it down there, wall-to-wall surfing. Right up his alley.’
‘I always wondered if you might get back together.’
Naylor shakes her head.
‘No chance. Turns out he’s not the forgiving kind. But I’ve got the flat, and I’m comfortable there. I’ve even got a cat for company.’
‘You don’t like cats.’
‘This one was down on its luck, and I was feeling sentimental. We went to a sudden death, a youngish guy whose heart gave out. Turned out to be heart failure induced by so-called energy drinks. Anyway, he had this cat, a scarred old bruiser who looked like he was on his last legs, and I thought the poor thing wouldn’t last long in an animal shelter. He’s no trouble and it’s good to have a warm body to go home to, even if it’s covered in ginger fur.’
The food arrives, and while they eat, the talk’s all station gossip: who’s sleeping with who, who’s heading for promotion, the outcomes of the cases Perdue left unresolved.
‘That youth who stamped on the homeless bloke outside the Ernest Road chip shop, what happened to him?’ he asks, finishing the last of his pie.
‘Eighteen months,’ says Naylor. ‘He thought he was going to get it suspended, but with his back catalogue of offending, the judge took a different view.’
‘Should have got longer. He’s a vicious little bastard, that one.’
‘Well, he’s off our radar for now.’ Naylor eats her last chip. ‘And what about you, Ron? Are you finding plenty to occupy yourself, now you’ve hung up your spurs?’
Ron shrugs.
‘I suppose. We’ve been away a couple of times, the Lake District, Dorset. June always wanted to go to Dorset, and I always said it was too far away if something happened.’
‘So what brought you here today? Was it just coincidence that we were having the biggest bun-fight of a press conference we’ve had in years?’
Perdue drains his glass.
‘You know me better than that,’ he says. ‘Fancy coffee?’
The pub is filling up. As Perdue waits at the bar to put in their order, Naylor spots a couple of the journalists from the press conference amongst the shoppers and pensioners who’ve wandered in for lunch. Campbell’s new PA is here with a good-looking young man Naylor doesn’t know. She’s a pretty girl, well-dressed, not unlike Campbell’s last PA, the one who got him into so much trouble. He’d have been wiser, thinks Naylor, to have hired someone older, less of a temptation. Then she looks across at Perdue and catches herself thinking how good he still looks. When it comes to chemistry between two people, what does age matter?
Perdue waits for the coffees and carries them back to the table.
‘I know you have to get back to work,’ he says, retaking his seat. ‘A case like this with the world’s eyes on you, you don’t want to be caught taking long lunches.’ He tears the top off a packet of sugar and pours it into his cup, reaches for a second packet but leaves it on the table. ‘Old habits.’
‘You should go cold turkey,’ says Naylor, putting sugar in her own cup. ‘They say it’s the easiest way.’
‘What about that old coffee-maker of mine? Is that still going?’
‘Still fuelling the entire department. Working overtime most of the time. Makes a big difference, having drinkable coffee at three in the morning. That stuff from the machine gives me a headache.’ She takes a sip of her Americano. ‘So come on, Ron. What’s your interest with Evan Ferrers?’
Perdue sighs and sits back in his chair.
‘Something’s been niggling at me. Probably you’ve thought of it already, but for me the big question is, where were they heading?’
‘The filling station they called in at was on the way into Pontefract. Number plate recognition last picked them up on the M62 around Wakefield, travelling east, and we’ve first got them on the A61, southbound from Harrogate. Hard to say what their exact direction of travel was in Pontefract. Apparently at that filling station you can drive on to the pumps from either east or west.’
‘So what’s your take on it?’
‘We’ve asked West Yorkshire to make local enquiries, check car park CCTV and see if anyone remembers the vehicle parked anywhere in the area. Problem is, of course, where did their journey originate? That part of the world is a bit sparse on cameras, so it’s going to be a long, hard slog. Even if we’ve got an idea of the area where they started out, there are still hundreds of square miles to go at.’
‘Ah, well. Now you’ve hit the nub of what’s been niggling me.’
‘What do you mean, Ron? Come on, spit it out.’
‘You know me. I’m not good with technology, and you know my thoughts on putting your faith in ANPR. Did you see that story in the Telegraph?’
‘I don’t believe I’ve ever read a story in the Telegraph.’
‘Maybe you should. What they were reporting was that one in twelve drivers is now taking steps to outwit the cameras. One in twelve is up to something dodgy, Rachel. Cloned number plates, altering digits and letters, all ducking and diving under the ANPR lenses. All you need’s a permanent marker and you’re away.
‘So when I heard where the boy was found, I got out my trusty road atlas, and had a look at that neck of the woods. And you’re quite right, there’re thousands of places where they might have kept him. But I think you should consider a different viewpoint.’
‘As in?’
‘What does a tight bastard like me hate more than anything? Being ripped off at the pumps. It really bugs me, being made to pay over the odds at motorway service stations. So what do I do? Firstly, if I’m travelling on the motorways, I make sure I’ve got a reasonable amount of fuel before I set off. Secondly, if I do need fuel, I won’t pay service-station prices. I leave the motorway and drive a couple of miles to find somewhere cheaper. Especially if I’m going to be travelling a long way. Now, if you look at the map, what do you see in the Pontefract area? Arterial routes. The M62 running east to west, and the A1 running north–south. It’s a national intersection.’
Naylor drinks more of her coffee. For a few moments, neither of them speak.
‘You’re saying we shouldn’t focus on West Yorkshire.’
‘I’m suggesting you consider the possibility the driver was hard up or tight like me, and didn’t want to pay top whack for a tank of fuel. So he made a detour to a cheaper filling station. I’m suggesting that it might have been anywhere, and that Pontefract is an irrelevance. That it just happened to be the place where the fuel gauge hit red. And bearing in mind what I said about not getting caught short, that by the time they reached the Pontefract area, they’d already burned a significant amount of fuel.’
Naylor looks at him.
‘That’s not very helpful,’ she says. ‘That would mean we should extend our search area massively towards every point of the compass.’
‘Not quite
. There’s something else you want to think about. Two men with a live cargo like that, they’re not going to be careless. Bet your bottom dollar they’ve got major concerns about falling foul of ANPR, flawed as it may be. Since you haven’t found spare number plates – and bear in mind you can whip them on and off with strips of Velcro, so never rule it out – I think you should consider something else. Maybe they used more than one car.’
‘That suggests some careful planning.’
‘They’ve got a real, live boy in the boot. Wouldn’t you be planning carefully?’
‘So you’re saying they could have been going from anywhere, to anywhere?’
‘It’s not as bad as that,’ says Perdue. ‘Have a good look at the map. You’ve clocked them twice, so you’ve got a general direction of travel. My gut says don’t trust the Wakefield spot, because that could be a detour. Ducking and diving, remember? They were coming from the north, no doubt about that, but don’t get stuck thinking they began their journey near Harrogate. Two cars, Rachel, I guarantee it. Maybe more than two. Start there.’
‘Campbell’s not going to like it. He thinks we’re already closing in.’
‘Well, I don’t think you are. Widen your search area, or I think you’re going to be making a serious mistake. Remember the Yorkshire Ripper.’
‘The Wearside Jack tapes.’
‘Wearside Jack indeed. You think you’ve got a solid lead, and it takes you right up the longest blind alley of your career. Too much police time focused on that hoax cost three women their lives. Hasn’t the boy given you any idea of where you should be looking?’
‘He’s not saying anything at all.’
