Found

by Erin Kinsley

  ‘Merry Christmas.’

  ‘You’re being a bit previous. It’s days away yet.’ She glances in the hall mirror at her freshly blow-dried hair, all silky curls and with a level of shininess she could never hope to emulate herself, and decides it looks pretty good. ‘Though the festivities begin tonight, call-outs permitting. Big night out at Alfonso’s. Bet you wish you were joining us, don’t you?’

  Ron laughs.

  ‘Not really. I remember last year some pillock spilled a pint of raspberry cider or some such horror in my lap and I spent the rest of the evening feeling like I was wearing a wet nappy. Alfonso’s wife lent me a hair-dryer but it didn’t help much. And then there was an hour-long wait for a taxi in the pissing rain. But you go ahead, enjoy yourself.’

  Naylor smiles.

  ‘Thanks. I’m sure I will.’

  ‘Who’s your date, Rach?’

  ‘I haven’t really got one.’

  ‘Not a certain senior officer from Traffic, I hope?’

  Naylor feels a deep blush rise up her neck and cheeks.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Don’t you mean who do I mean? You know who I mean. Stop wasting your time there, for pity’s sake. He’s got form. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.’

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘Aha. Uncle Ron’s network of spies runs right through that building. I didn’t climb the slippery pole without knowing who’s shagging who.’

  ‘Bastard. Anyway, that’s long over. I told him where to go over the summer, so your info’s not as current as you’d like to think.’

  ‘How do you know? Betcha I can put the name of the man you’ll be leaving with tonight in a sealed envelope right now and I’d be right.’

  ‘You do that, then. I’m not planning on leaving with anyone.’

  ‘We’ll see. Anyway, to be truthful I wasn’t calling to find out who you’ll be kissing under the mistletoe. I was wondering how the Ferrers case was going, whether the Keslake abduction has given you any kind of leg-up.’

  Naylor sighs.

  ‘We’re getting close. Evan’s talking at last and we think he was taken to Sunderland, so obviously there’s massive activity up there. But it’s hard to know what’s reliable witness statement and what’s distorted by his being under the influence of the drugs they were giving him. He’s mentioned tattoos, buying spiders, The Magic Roundabout. At least we’ve got plenty to go at. The bad news is, he thinks he wasn’t alone, that there may have been a girl there with him. Ron? Are you still there?’

  ‘I’m here,’ says Ron thoughtfully. ‘That’s ringing a bell, somehow.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘A distant, forgotten bell,’ says Ron. ‘But it’ll come back to me.’

  ‘So go and lie down in a dark and silent room until you remember.’

  ‘I’ll do better than that. I’ll spend half an hour having a wade through my notes. You never know what I might find in there. Well, I’d better let you get on. No doubt you’ll be stepping into a fragrant bubble bath with a glass of fizz to get you in the party mood. Shame I can’t join you.’

  ‘Cheeky.’

  ‘Seriously, have a great time. Let your hair down. And I’m putting that name in the envelope now.’

  ‘Waste of a good envelope,’ says Naylor.

  The bar at Alfonso’s is packed with people Naylor barely recognises as those she shares an office with day-to-day. She’s glad she kept the red dress; she feels good in it, and it’s pulling one or two glances as she makes her way to where Rose is talking to Hagen and a crowd of others from the department. All of them look smart, relaxed, normal, just punters on a night out, a regular office party. Hagen puts a glass of wine in her hand, and as she takes the first sip, she hears a blast of laughter from a group near the door. Dallabrida’s first joke of the night.

  Dinner, as it turns out, isn’t bad – essentially beef in red wine but with Italianate touches, breadsticks and pasta, curly endive in the salad and tiramisu at the end. By the time coffee’s served, Naylor’s enjoying herself, and in a moment of lucidity, she realises why. Last year, she’d spent half the evening in the toilets, obsessively checking her phone for a message from him. This year, she’s free of that compulsion. Anyone she might be interested in is in this room.

  People begin to drift back to the bar, and the DJ fires up. The music’s loud and upbeat, and with the laughter and the alcohol they’ve already drunk, she and Rose are thinking they might order more prosecco. Naylor bends down to find her bag and hunt for cash. When she resurfaces, someone’s standing by her chair.

  ‘Looking good, Miss Rachel,’ says Dallabrida. ‘Red is most definitely your colour.’

  Naylor finds herself smiling. Dallabrida’s looking pretty good himself, decked out as he promised in a tuxedo with all the works.

  ‘Nice threads,’ she says, pointing to his jacket.

  ‘I’ve got me dancin’ shoes on an’ all,’ he says. ‘You fancy comin’ with me for a test drive?’

  As Naylor steps with Dallabrida on to the dance floor, Ron Perdue carries a large glass of Merlot into his study, sits down at his laptop and opens up the file of notes he made on the Ferrers enquiry.

  It’s all in here, everything on the red Ford Focus and the places he visited.

  Where did he go first? Sevenoaks, on the trail of Jennifer Lambert, to those grubby flats with the addict on the ground floor.

  He reads through the notes he made. There isn’t much, just a mention of a South African doctor and Ms Lambert’s probable emigration, and his observation that he thought she was unconnected to the enquiry, a turned-over stone with nothing underneath.

  Woking. He remembers the address when he sees it written down, and he’s noted the registration number of an orange Mini Cooper. Attention to detail: it’s a bad habit he’s no intention ever of breaking. There was a school nearby; he remembers hearing the noise.

  Lindsey Stockman. She’d asked what his interest was in the car.

  And there it is, exactly the little detail he’s looking for.

  FORTY-TWO

  21 December

  Naylor’s phone rings as she’s driving to work, sitting in traffic at the Cauldwell roundabout, hearing Slade on the radio for the thousandth time this week.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Perdue,’ she says. ‘How’s tricks?’

  She edges the car forward a couple of feet. The dashboard clock is showing a time which is getting close to her being late.

  ‘How’s tricks yourself? Did you have a good time Saturday night?’

  Naylor smiles.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I did.’

  ‘And Sunday morning?’

  ‘Way outside your area of interest, Ron.’

  Ron laughs.

  ‘Do you want me to open the envelope?’

  ‘Did you really do that?’

  ‘The name inside begins with L.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Right or wrong?’

  ‘As one of our clients might say under caution, no comment.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes, then. He’d be good for you. Maybe he was already.’

  ‘Moving on.’

  ‘As you wish. While you were out heating up the dance floor, I was having a look through my old notes, and I came across something that could be interesting. That address I went to in Woking, a previous owner of the Focus.’ Naylor hears a pause as he refers to his notes. ‘Lindsey Stockman.’

  ‘You said you thought she was clean.’

  ‘At the time, I did. Maybe she still is. But she mentioned a car her ex-partner bought when he got rid of the Ford.’

  A gap in the traffic has opened up in front of Naylor. Concentrating on what Ron’s saying makes her slow to drive into it, prompting a beeping horn behind
.

  ‘What sort of car?’

  ‘An Alfa Romeo.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Maybe an Alfa Romeo Spider? Nippy little sports car, used to be many a middle-aged bloke’s wet dream?’

  ‘Bloody hell. Evan’s spider could be a car.’

  ‘Could be, maybe. Could be nothing of interest, but if I were you, I’d be having an official word with Lindsey Stockman. Rule it in, or rule it out. No stone unturned.’

  Naylor’s thinking.

  ‘How am I going to bring it to the table, though? If Campbell finds out I asked you to go there, he’ll go mad.’

  ‘You’re forgetting our old friend, the anonymous tip-off.’

  ‘Who’d tip us off about that, though?’

  ‘That’s the beauty of anonymous tip-offs, Rachel. You don’t get to know who’s made them, nor do you have to put a name to them.’

  There’s a short silence.

  ‘You know what I’m going to ask you to do, don’t you?’

  Ron sighs.

  ‘Ring it in, I suppose.’

  ‘It would make my life a hell of a lot easier.’

  ‘Do you want me to supply her full address?’

  ‘It would save time if you did. And time is of the essence.’

  ‘The things I do for you.’

  ‘It’s not for me, Ron, except in the way of saving my job. It’s for Liam, and Evan, and for whoever might be next.’

  ‘OK, I’ll do it. But I’ll be driving to a secret location and using an untraceable phone.’

  ‘You’ve got a burn phone?’

  ‘Haven’t you?’

  ‘Ron Perdue,’ says Naylor, finally getting her slot to cross the roundabout, ‘there’s a lot more to you than meets the eye.’

  ‘I sincerely hope so,’ says Ron.

  In the incident room, they’re studying a satellite view of Sunderland. The most prominent feature by far is the river, an undulating muddy snake until it reaches the dockside and the surprising blue of the sea.

  Hagen uses a mouse to focus on the double bridge carrying both traffic and the railway lines. With the bends in the river, the good news is there’s a relatively short stretch of the banks from where you’d see the bridges. And on those banks, there are very few buildings where there are flats with river views.

  ‘Looks like here or here,’ says Naylor. ‘University halls of residence, or this building here, the Echo building. It was supposed to be Sunderland’s best address when it was built, but by all accounts it’s a bit ropey these days.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s likely to be the halls of residence,’ says Hagen. ‘Too much turnover and in the hands surely of the university admissions office.’

  ‘I agree,’ says Naylor. ‘The only problem is, the Echo building’s huge. There must be over a hundred flats in there. We have to find a way to narrow it down.’

  The situation seems ridiculous, but also fun. Naylor assumes a serious expression, and speed-dials a number on her phone. Across the office, she hears Dallabrida’s absurd but funny ringtone – a tannoy announcement, Will the man with the twelve-inch penis please pick up your phone? – and watches him discreetly as he pulls the phone from his pocket and glances at the screen. When he sees who’s calling, he turns his back to her.

  ‘Hey, beautiful,’ he says.

  ‘Hey, handsome,’ says Naylor. ‘How’s tricks?’

  ‘I’m doing OK. Just thinking about grabbing lunch.’

  ‘Lucky you. Me and Hagen have bagged ourselves a ride out to Woking.’

  ‘Is this your way of telling me you’re breaking our date for this evening?’

  ‘Not breaking it so much as letting you know there’s a possibility I might be late.’

  ‘How late?’

  ‘You should know better than to ask anyone who works in this office a question like that.’

  ‘You’re right,’ says Dallabrida. ‘I should, and I do. How would it be if you came to mine when you’re finished and we’ll order a takeaway?’

  ‘Tempting. Indian or Chinese?’

  ‘Your choice.’

  ‘Will there be wine?’

  ‘Red or white, madam?’

  ‘How could I resist? I’ll call you when I’m on my way.’

  Lindsey Stockman appears harassed. Her blond hair is falling out of the clip holding it off her face, and as she opens the door, she glances behind her, as if she’s reluctantly abandoned something requiring her urgent attention. The hall walls are strung with clumsily made paper chains, red and green links marked by small, gluey fingers. In a room behind her, an episode of Justin’s House is playing very loudly.

  Naylor holds up her warrant card, and Lindsey peers at it, then looks directly at Naylor.

  ‘Police?’ she asks. ‘I think you might have got the wrong house.’

  The singalong music on the TV is annoying. Lindsey turns round and shouts down the hall – ‘Izzy! Turn that down!’ – but the volume stays the same.

  Naylor introduces herself and Hagen.

  ‘Are you Lindsey Stockman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May we come in for a moment?’

  Lindsey hesitates before standing back to allow them to pass. Pointing the way to an untidy kitchen, she dives into the next-door room, and moments later, Justin’s House is reduced to barely audible background noise, drowned out by the whining complaints of a young girl and boy.

  Lindsey closes the door on the children and joins Naylor and Hagen in the kitchen. She doesn’t ask them to sit, but in any case the stools at the breakfast bar are laden with discarded coats and a pink backpack embellished with unicorns. On one of the worktops, bags of shopping are waiting to be unpacked, and there’s a mess of chocolatey crumbs and purple foil around an opened pack of Mini Rolls.

  ‘Kids,’ says Lindsey. ‘I don’t know why I bothered. So. What’s this about?’

  ‘We won’t take much of your time,’ says Naylor. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions about a car you used to own.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ says Lindsey. ‘The Ford Focus.’

  Hagen gives Naylor a sideways glance.

  ‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘What made you think that?’

  ‘I had a man asking questions about it a while back, something about the brakes. Is he all right? Has there been an accident? I told him, the brakes were fine while we had it.’

  ‘There hasn’t been an accident, no,’ says Naylor. ‘You sold that car, I assume?’

  ‘My ex sold it, yes. Nothing to do with me, and before you ask, I don’t know who he sold it to.’

  ‘We can find that out through the DVLA. Can you tell me what car he bought after that?’

  Lindsey frowns.

  ‘An Alfa Romeo. What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘What model?’

  ‘A Spider, bright red. A beautiful car that was, a pleasure to drive. It’s the only thing about him I miss.’

  Hagen’s pulling out his notebook.

  ‘Can we just get some details from you, Lindsey? What’s your ex’s name?’

  ‘Gary,’ says Lindsey. ‘Officially Gareth. Last name is Prentice, with a “c”.’

  Hagen hasn’t made any connection, and he’s writing down the name without thinking. But Naylor’s memory has thrown up an image: the reconstruction following Evan’s disappearance, and the caretaker standing by the school doors, telling Evan and Stewie to get a move on, as he rattles a bunch of keys.

  ‘Gary Prentice is your ex?’ she asks.

  Picking up something in her tone, Hagen looks at her.

  ‘Yes,’ says Lindsey. ‘This isn’t about Gary, is it?’

  ‘Should it be?’ asks Naylor.

  Lindsey moves to check the lounge door is still closed.

  ‘Woul
d you like a coffee?’ she asks. ‘I was just going to have one.’

  ‘Thanks,’ says Hagen. ‘Milk and two.’

  ‘Just milk for me,’ says Naylor. ‘Do you know where Gary’s working now?’

  Lindsey’s filling the kettle and finding clean mugs.

  ‘I’ve no idea. Our split wasn’t too friendly and we haven’t kept in touch. This is about him, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ll be as honest as I can with you,’ says Naylor. ‘When we knocked on your door, this wasn’t about Gary, but it might be now. How did you two meet?’

  Lindsey pours boiling water on to instant coffee and takes milk from the fridge.

  ‘He was caretaker at the school where I work, Woodrow Primary in Guildford.’

  A flicker of understanding crosses Hagen’s face. Lindsey adds sugar to Hagen’s coffee and hands both him and Naylor a mug.

  ‘How long were you together?’

  ‘Not long, maybe about six months. Looking back on it, he was a rebound for me. My husband had just left me, and I was feeling pretty low. Gary’s attention was flattering. If I’d been a bit more myself, I don’t think it would ever have got past a one-night stand.’ She takes a sip of her coffee. ‘When we fell out, it was pretty much over anyway. He never wanted to do anything except spend time on his laptop – eBay, Auto Trader. That’s what he told me, anyway.’

  ‘What did you fall out about?’ asks Hagen.

  Lindsey takes a deep breath.

  ‘I caught him taking pictures of Izzy. Not naked, nothing like that. But he’d got her in her bedroom wearing my lipstick and one of my silk scarves, and he was encouraging her to do these poses, what I suppose you’d call coquettish. Something about it made me feel sick, but when I challenged him he got really angry. He said I was deranged, that he loved the kids and they were just having a bit of fun playing supermodels, but I felt I couldn’t trust him any more. You read so many horror stories, don’t you? It was over for me, after that. A couple of days later I told him to pack his bags and off he went.’

  ‘What happened to the pictures he took?’

  Lindsey’s hands go to her face. ‘I don’t know. Oh my God. You don’t think . . . If he’s done anything with those pictures, I’ll kill him.’