by A. J. Cross
Her directness made Traynor wish he could be as open with her, but Brophy had not yet sanctioned the release of information about any of the skulls found, beyond informing next-of-kin. Coffee arrived. Meredith handed one to Traynor, seeing his eyes move to a group of framed photographs on a nearby wall.
She pointed. ‘See the one in the blue frame? The man sitting down? That’s Justin.’
Traynor went to the photograph and looked at the young, dark-haired man, his mouth open in a wide smile, several people grouped around him, some with their hands at his shoulders, others with arms raised, all smiling. Off the lower edge of the picture was what looked to be a large cake. Meredith came to his side. ‘I took that. It was his twenty-third birthday. Six months later, he was gone.’
‘How long had Justin worked here?’
‘Almost five years. He joined us when he was eighteen.’
‘He was a good employee?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered. ‘One of the best.’ She turned away. Traynor followed. ‘Justin had the instinct, the understanding which makes a good reporter. Initially, I gave him only local interest pieces to write up but it didn’t take long for me to realize how capable he was. During the time he worked here he developed from a youngster who loved the news world into a really great reporter.’
Traynor looked back at the photograph. ‘He was well-liked by his colleagues?’
‘Yes, he was. I’m convinced he would have gone on to do great things.’ She looked up at him. ‘Justin wanted to work in London. He would have done well there if he’d had the chance.’ She looked away, hesitated. ‘Sad person that I am, I sometimes tell myself he’s in London, working and happy. There’s a lot to be said for a little self-deception.’ He knew what she meant. She straightened. ‘How can I help you, Dr Traynor?’
He responded with a question of his own. ‘What do you think happened to Justin?’
She shook her head. ‘I have no idea. I was hoping that as a criminologist you might tell me.’ She regarded him. ‘If you’re concerned about what you say to me, don’t be. This is all off the record. No details will find their way into this paper. You have my word.’
Traynor went with his impression of her as an honest person. Time for some openness. ‘Remains belonging to Justin have been found fairly local to here.’
Silence lengthened between them. ‘Oh, my Lord,’ she whispered. ‘How are you involved, exactly?’
‘By invitation. I give some of my university time to supporting complex police investigations. It adds to my department’s research.’
She gave him a direct look. ‘In the last few days, this newspaper among most others has reported on the murder of a woman at Blackfoot Trail.’ When Traynor didn’t respond she said, ‘I understand. You’d rather not confirm a connection.’
‘Can you tell me about the last time you saw Justin?’
She looked from him to the window full of sun. ‘It was here, on the 31st October, 2011. He’d come in early that morning. He was planning to leave at about four. I told the police this when they came.’ She reached for a pen, offered it to him. ‘Do you want to write down the details?’
‘No, thank you. My recall for detail is …’ He was about to say ‘faultless’, but he substituted. ‘Pretty good.’ He already knew the details she’d just given him from the Rhodes’ file, had read what his family and friends had told the police following his disappearance. Justin Rhodes: good son, good friend, liked by all who knew him. He frowned. Except that somebody hadn’t liked him at all. ‘You said he had plans, later that day?’
‘Yes. He and some friends were going out to celebrate Halloween.’ She smiled. ‘They’d hired outfits. They were meeting at Justin’s flat, then going to another friend’s house in Bentley Heath.’
Traynor had studied countless maps of the Midlands since he’d come to live here, knew that Bentley Heath was fairly close to the location where Roberts had been killed. ‘How did they travel there?’
‘In two cars. Justin drove his because he wanted to leave the party early without impinging on his friends’ evening.’ She gave Traynor a steady look. ‘I gave the names and details to the officers who came here to investigate Justin’s disappearance. They came back to report that their inquiries hadn’t yielded anything and to ask if I could suggest any other contacts he had or places he might have gone following that party. I couldn’t. I told them that Justin was planning to come into the office early the following morning. Actually, he had some leave owing and he wasn’t supposed to be here but he’d told me he was planning to start a new article. I give those I trust free rein to pursue their own interests.’
‘What was the article about?’
‘He said he was interested in two disappearances in the Birmingham area a few years before. He didn’t give me any details but he said he’d made contact with someone who was willing to help him with it.’
‘He didn’t say who that was, leave any notes on what he was planning to write?’
She shook her head. ‘No, and I didn’t find anything on his computer or in his files. From the little he said, I don’t think he’d got as far as making any.’
‘When you first heard that Justin was missing, did you have any ideas, any suspicions as to what might have happened to him?’
She shook her head. ‘None at all. I was totally shocked. We all were. As time went on it didn’t get any easier because none of us could think of a reason.’
‘You never came up with any possibilities?’
‘No.’
‘He liked the work here?’
‘Very much. One of Justin’s strengths was his attention to detail. I used to give him crime stories to cover and I did briefly wonder if his perfectionism had led him to overwork.’ She gave Traynor a direct look. ‘I’m not trying to absolve myself of responsibility when I say that I didn’t think that for long.’
‘You don’t believe that his crime reporting had anything to do with his disappearance?’
‘No, I don’t. This newspaper looks after its staff. It has a policy which protects all who work on it. If there’s a concern, a problem, an incident of any kind which makes staff feel uneasy, there’s a procedure we follow: report it immediately and verbally to me, followed by a written report, and I decide whether any action is required.’ She shook her head. ‘Justin never reported anything of that nature to me.’ She looked away. ‘As I said, he had a great capacity for detail. I think you’d have got along with him.’ She paused. ‘Our crime correspondent. Sounds grand, doesn’t it, for somebody who still spent some of his time covering local fetes and road-building protests. That’s how it works in a small setup like this.’ She reached for a folder. ‘After you phoned, I had Anya pull together some of the articles Justin wrote. We don’t rely on rehashing what’s in the big dailies.’ She held out the folder to Traynor. ‘Here. Take them with you. They will show you the calibre of his work.’
He took the folder from her, opened it. Meredith pointed to the first article. ‘That’s about a dog-fighting ring Justin followed up. Those involved were arrested and taken to court.’
Traynor looked at the date of the article: August, 2005, then up at her. ‘There are some pretty unpleasant people involved in that kind of activity. I’ve met some of them. They’re violent, diverse in terms of their criminality and they have long memories.’
‘I understand what you’re saying, Dr Traynor, but if you’re suggesting that those involved targeted Justin because of what he wrote, I seriously doubt it. They all received lengthy prison sentences, not just for the dog-fighting but numerous other offences. Two are still inside. Another two were deported on release.’
Traynor turned the page to a second article, read the first few lines. Meredith was right. Justin Rhodes had been good at what he did. Clear and incisive. She leant forward, pointed at it. ‘Now, that case is the one which shows Justin’s determination to get to the truth. It won him an award. A hit-and-run which killed an elderly couple. He kept on with
it, pushing, talking to people, maintaining its high profile. When he decided he had enough information, he turned it over to the police. As a result, the driver was identified, convicted and questions were asked of the probation service about its management and supervision of young offenders with a history of dangerous driving.’ She sat back. ‘The families of those two victims were very appreciative.’
Traynor looked at her. ‘My impression is that Justin was someone who did what he thought was right.’
She nodded. ‘Exactly.’
He turned the article over, looked at the one beneath: a large, front-page picture of himself, a decade younger: Dr William Traynor, husband of tragic victim Claire Traynor …
His immediate surroundings receded, Meredith’s voice coming to him from a long way off. ‘Oh! Dr Traynor, I’m terribly sorry. I thought your name was familiar but I didn’t make the connection. I should have checked those articles before you arrived. The responsibility for what I’ve given you is all mine. I’m truly sorry.’
He looked up at her flushed face. ‘No apology needed. These things happen.’ He knew he had to leave, but there was a question clamouring to be asked. ‘Did Justin develop any theories about those three murders? Come to any conclusions?’
Meredith looked at him, her face still troubled. ‘He wrote two features on the York-Oxford-Guildford cases. His view was that all three were … destined to be an abiding mystery. I’m sorry.’
Traynor was pulling air into his chest, chill perspiration on his forehead. ‘Can you say anything about Justin’s personal life?’
‘He had a very close family but he didn’t have much of a social life. There were one or two girls, women, but they didn’t last because he would break arrangements with them due to work. I tried to encourage him to extend his social life, but his focus was on what he did here.’
‘He had no personal problems as far as you know?’
‘None. Justin was a great talker. If he’d had any problems, I believe he would have told his family and me. He was very open. Which is why it’s so hard even now to make any sense of what happened.’
Traynor stood. He had to be outside. They left the room, came into the sunlit reception area.
‘If you need to come back, you’re very welcome. I’ll open our archive for you.’
‘Thank you. One last thing. Did Justin take his phone with him that evening?’
Meredith shook her head. ‘As far as I recall, he’d lost it a couple of days before.’ She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Dr Traynor. I think you’re probably very good at what you do, which makes me feel that Justin is in safe hands … and I’m truly sorry for what happened earlier.’
‘There’s no need. Thank you for your time.’
Traynor drove through country lanes towards the motorway, the folder next to him on the passenger seat, his eyes fixed on the road, scenes of Claire’s murder running on a loop inside his head. Nauseous, he touched his face, felt sweat running. He tried to swallow. Couldn’t. Self-deception. Self-lies. He’d used them for years: Claire wasn’t dead. She was waiting somewhere for him to find her. If she had died, she hadn’t suffered … His foot jerked involuntarily to the brake as a sudden, full-colour image of Claire’s blood pooled on pale kitchen tiles slammed his retinas, their daughter’s hysterical crying reverberating in his head, a thousand-nettle stings at his side. Heart rate spiralling, sweat streaming from his hair, he turned off the road on to a small rest area. Chest in a vice, face slick, he cut the engine, pushed open his door, breath rasping his throat.
Bringing his breathing under control, he took out his phone, texted Watts to tell him that, like Broughton and Barlow, Rhodes had received some kind of offer of help from an unidentified source. He sat, rested his head back, waiting for calm. His breathing slowed. His heart gradually settled, no longer feeling like it was trying to break out of his chest. He sat up. He’d beaten it. This time he’d actually beaten it. Got back control. He got out of the car, took a couple of steps, the ground ahead suddenly morphing into a heaving ocean. He stumbled to the edge of the rest area, stared down at a mess of discarded paper coffee cups and parched grass, waiting for the familiar burning rush. It came, insistent, relentless, forcing his upper body forward, pulsing from his mouth. A brief respite. It came again. And again. Spent, he straightened, wiped his mouth with his hand, the sun splitting his head. Legs unsteady, he walked back to his car. Reaching inside for a plastic bottle, he poured water into his mouth, over his head and then slid to the dusty ground.
His phone was ringing. Brushing water from his face, he reached for it. ‘Hello. Yes … It’s great to hear your voice.’ He listened some more. ‘No, no, I’m fine. No, really … Would you like to meet?’ He gazed ahead, the ache in his heart enough to break it. ‘That would be wonderful,’ he whispered.
His phone rang again. It was Watts, sounding out of breath. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m on my way back to headquarters from the newspaper offices where Justin Rhodes worked. You’ve seen my text?’
‘About the two disappearances Rhodes was interested in and somebody offering him help? Yes. Looks like you might have found a link.’ A silence between them grew. ‘You still there, Traynor?’
‘Yes. I owe you an apology for yesterday. We’re all working under the same conditions.’
‘You don’t owe me anything. Let’s hope the victims told other people about these offers they were getting so we can follow them up.’
Traynor listened to his upbeat tone. It was time he levelled with Watts about his change of thinking on the case. About the other link he had made. But now wasn’t the time.
‘You all right?’ asked Watts.
‘Yes.’
‘You sound … a long way off,’ said Watts.
‘I’m fine.’
‘I’m at Blackfoot Trail, following up a possible new angle. I’ll keep you posted.’
EIGHTEEN
Watts ended the call, his eyes moving from the plump woman sitting in the open doorway of his vehicle, to the small tan and white terrier taking a close interest in one of his suede shoes. He moved his foot. The dog pounced. The woman pointed. ‘Stop that, naughty dog!’ She looked up at Watts. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right, Mrs Merriman.’ He gave her a quick once-over. She’d rallied in the last half hour. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Better, thanks.’ She looked up at him. ‘To be honest, I’m more incensed than anything.’
‘Do you feel up to talking about it?’
Merriman straightened her shoulders. ‘Yes.’
He looked around the car park, saw Judd and raised his hand. She hurried towards them. ‘Mrs Merriman, this is my colleague, PC Chloe Judd. We need you to fill in some detail on what you’ve already told us.’ He flipped notebook pages. ‘So far, you’ve described a male of stocky build, dressed in dark clothes with a small, dark-coloured backpack and his arm in a sling.’ Merriman gave a confirmatory nod. ‘Take your time, then tell us what happened.’
Merriman dabbed at her nose with a tissue. ‘I often come here with Douglas. Nothing like this has ever happened.’
He frowned. ‘Douglas?’
She pointed to the dog. ‘I’d heard what happened here recently, that Blackfoot Trail was closed, so I decided we’d take the path leading off the top of the lane. I thought it would be safe with so many police in the area. We weren’t going anywhere near the trail.’ She sent a nervous glance in its direction.
‘Mrs Merriman, how about I drive you up to that path and you show PC Judd and me the exact location where you say this assault happened?’
‘Actually, I’d rather walk. I need to calm down before I see it again and it isn’t far.’
Mrs Merriman got down from the BMW and they walked with her and her dog out of the car park, up the steep lane, past the line of police vehicles parked nose to tail and on to the top of the hill. After a few minutes, Merriman stopped, pointed at a narrow path. Watts sent Judd a look. She move
d to Merriman’s side.
‘Do you think you could show us the exact route you took, Mrs Merriman?’
She looked at Judd, nodded. Flanked by both officers, she headed on to the path. After a couple of minutes, she stopped, took a shaky breath. ‘We got as far as here. That’s when I heard him.’ She pointed. ‘See those bushes over there? He was behind them. He pushed his way through them.’
Watts looked to where she was pointing. ‘Was there anybody else here? Any other dog walkers?’
She shook her head. ‘I didn’t see anybody except him.’
Watts headed to the bushes, carefully examined the ground around them. Not finding anything, he looked towards the line of trees screening Blackfoot Trail and its car park, the incline just visible, tiny uniformed figures, others white-clad, moving over it. This woman seemed reliable. Whoever had assaulted her had to be a real chancer. He went back to her. ‘Mrs Merriman, can you confirm what you’ve told us about this man’s appearance?’
‘Yes. He was dark-haired and he was wearing a dark long-sleeved shirt, I think black, but I can’t be certain, dark trousers, and he was carrying a backpack. I think that was dark-coloured as well … and he had one arm in a sling which was light in colour, sort of beige, oh, and trainers, but I don’t recall anything about them.’
Watts got on his phone, raising an eyebrow to Judd who turned to her. ‘What we need now, Mrs Merriman, is a description of what happened after you first became aware of this man.’
Merriman pointed to the bushes again. ‘As I said, he came through there. I didn’t look directly at him, of course. You don’t, do you? I just carried on walking, but I could hear him following us.’
Judd pointed at the dog. ‘He didn’t bark?’
‘No. He isn’t that kind of animal. He’s very “hail-fellow-well-met”, aren’t you, Douglas?’ The dog looked up at them, tongue lolling, tail wagging.
Watts ended his call. Judd said, ‘The man started to follow you. Then, what happened?’
