Broadland

by David Blake

  ‘Just over four years.’

  ‘No children?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘And how would you describe your relationship?’

  ‘It’s good. I mean, we’ve had our moments, of course, but hasn’t everyone?’

  Tanner gave his face one last searching look. ‘OK, Mr Richardson, I think we’re about done here. I suggest you give her parents a call and see if she’s there. If not, you’ll need to have a good think about who else she might be staying with.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘In the meantime, let me give you my number.’ Retrieving his police ID, he was about to pull out one of the business cards he kept inside when he remembered he only had his old ones from when he’d been based at Colindale Police Station. ‘DC, er, Evans, can you give Mr Richardson one of your business cards?’

  Caught off guard, Jenny said, ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ and tucked the picture of the missing woman under her arm to delve into her handbag and retrieve her own police ID.

  Turning back to Richardson, Tanner asked, ‘I assume we have your contact details?’

  Jenny answered for him. ‘We do, yes. But we don’t have Mrs Richardson’s mobile number, or her email address.’

  ‘I can give those to you now,’ Richardson said.

  Leaving Jenny to make a note of the missing woman’s details, Tanner headed towards the kitchen doorway and out into the hall.

  At the front door he turned. ‘And if you could let us know the minute you hear any news, we’d be very grateful.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he replied, squeezing past Jenny and Tanner to let them out.

  Stepping down onto the driveway with Jenny alongside, Tanner glanced back over at the two cars before asking, ‘You said you played golf at the weekend?’

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Richardson, standing in the doorway.

  ‘You took your car, I assume – the Audi.’

  ‘I always do, yes, why?’

  Looking over at the car he asked, ‘Can you even get a set of clubs into the back of a TT?’

  Richardson seemed to hesitate for a fraction of a second, before saying, ‘Just about. The back seats fold down.’

  Walking over to the car, Tanner bent over, cupping his hands around his eyes as he did so.

  Peering through the small triangular rear windows he saw that the back seats weren’t down, but he could see that if they had been, then there probably would be enough room to fit a set of golf clubs inside, just about.

  Standing back up, he looked out towards the river.

  ‘If your wife did walk back along the towpath on Saturday night, which way would that be?’

  Taking a step out of his house, Richardson pointed over to the left.

  ‘The path runs all the way along the river bank,’ he began. ‘If you follow it around, it will take you under the railway bridge, into Wroxham.’

  ‘How long would it have taken her?’

  ‘Only around fifteen minutes. It’s not far.’

  ‘OK, well, thanks again, Mr Richardson. Give her parents a call, and if she’s not there, ask them if they have any ideas of where she could be. If you haven’t worked out where she is by, say, lunchtime today, let DC Evans know.’

  Having glanced briefly down at the business card Jenny had given him, Richardson looked up and said, ‘I’ll give her parents a call now.’ He turned to head back inside the house, closing the door behind him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  AS SOON AS the door was shut, Jenny turned to Tanner. ‘What did you think?’

  Tanner glanced over the front of the house, making sure all the doors and windows were closed so that they wouldn’t be overheard. Confident they were, in a dismissive tone he replied, ‘She’s probably staying with friends, and hasn’t bothered to tell him.’

  ‘Didn’t it seem odd to you that he’s hardly made any effort to find her?’

  ‘A little, I suppose,’ said Tanner, ‘but he did at least call the police. I know one or two couples who probably wouldn’t have even bothered to do that.’

  ‘But he hadn’t even called her parents!’ exclaimed Jenny. ‘Nor had he made any effort to contact her friends, and he wouldn’t have needed their phone numbers to do so. He could have simply messaged them on Facebook.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘And maybe the only reason he called the police,’ Jenny continued, ‘was because that’s what he thought he should do.’

  ‘I see where you’re going with this,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think we can even class her as being a missing person yet, at least not until her friends and family have been contacted. To be honest, had it not been for the fact that her car’s still here, I’d have thought the most likely explanation was that she’s run off with someone else.’

  Glancing over towards the river, Jenny said, ‘I suppose she could have fallen into the Bure, especially if she’d been drinking. She certainly wouldn’t be the first.’

  ‘I was thinking something similar myself. Maybe we should walk the route, just in case there’s any sign of her.’ He didn’t think it likely, not if she’d tripped and gone straight in; but with nothing much else to do other than to head back to the office to stare at a computer screen, he thought they may as well, and he set off in the direction that Richardson had described, with Jenny following closely behind.

  Reaching the river’s edge, they followed the towpath leading towards Wroxham town centre, with Jenny keeping her attention dutifully focussed on the ground, looking for anything that might suggest someone had tripped and fallen in.

  Tanner, meanwhile, was simply admiring the view. After all, the Broads were still very new to him. Only occasionally did he think to look down at the ground, particularly when he came to a section of concrete that had been lifted and cracked by expanding tree roots, where someone could easily have tripped and gone over. There he stooped down, and examined the area more closely, peering from the edge of the river over to the other side, where there was a thick line of trees and shrubs; but there was nothing to suggest anything untoward had happened there.

  About ten minutes later, they reached the railway bridge that Richardson had mentioned. There they stopped to consider its Victorian red-brick structure as it loomed up above them, before stepping into the gloomy damp shadow that must permanently hang underneath it.

  From nowhere, the thunderous sound of a train crashed over them, startling them both.

  While the train clattered overhead, something caught Tanner’s eye, near the edge of the moss-covered brick-lined wall.

  Heading towards it, he crouched down to take a closer look. There, on the towpath, he could just about make out a circular patch on the ground that was darker than the surrounding concrete. Pulling out his phone, he turned on its torch app and shone the light over.

  As the last of the carriages rattled away, in the chill silence that followed, Jenny stepped over to see what the new DI was looking at.

  As she crouched beside him, Tanner pointed at what he’d found, and asked, ‘What do you make of that?’

  ‘Blood?’ she replied, but more as a suggestion than an actual answer.

  Reaching out with his finger to dab at its edge, Tanner said, ‘It could be. But if it is, it’s dry, so it must have been there a while.’

  They stared down at it for a moment longer before Tanner stood up. ‘I’d better give DCI Barrington a call to update him. I’ll let him decide what he wants to do about this.’

  He stepped out of the archway’s gloomy tunnel, turned off his phone’s torch and dialled the number for Wroxham Police Station that he’d pre-programmed in the evening before.

  He was swiftly put through to Barrington, and briefly explained the situation; that Jane Richardson had last been seen on Saturday night, but that her husband had yet to ask any of her friends or family if they’d either seen or heard from her. He described the route she could have taken back from the pub, and said that they may have found a patch of blood, just under the rail
way bridge. Did Barrington want forensics to come down to take a look?

  Barrington was of a similar opinion to Tanner, that until her friends and family had been contacted, she hardly rated as being missing; and with budgets as tight as they were, they couldn’t justify the time and expense of getting forensics involved at this stage.

  Ending the call, Tanner returned to the corner of the archway. There he followed the brickwork up to the top of the arch to assess whether the area would be protected from the elements. Deciding that it probably wouldn’t be, he turned to Jenny. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any evidence bags on you?’

  ‘I should have,’ she replied, and delved into the depths of her handbag.

  Retrieving a rolled-up bundle of them, she separated one out and passed it over.

  Tanner pulled out his keys. Selecting one, he crouched down and scraped some of what did look very much like dried blood into the bag. Sealing it up, he tucked it discreetly into his inside pocket. He then laid the same keys down on the ground beside the possible blood-stained area, to use as a size comparison, before taking a couple of pictures.

  Retrieving the keys, he stood up and said, ‘It’s probably nothing, but you never know, and I suspect that where it’s lying it would be washed away the next time it rains.’

  With that done, they spent a few more minutes examining the area under the archway, using their smartphones’ torches.

  Jenny saw something glinting at the other end of the archway and went over to take a look. There she found a small but distinctive item of jewellery. It was in the shape of a butterfly, with bright blue wings and elaborate gold edging.

  As Tanner came over to join her, Jenny said, ‘It looks like an earring.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Tanner. ‘I’d better take a photograph of it,’ he added. ‘See if you can bag it without touching it.’

  As Tanner again took a few photographs, Jenny delved back into her handbag, looking for something that would enable her to pick up such a small item of jewellery. She eventually found a pair of tweezers, which did the job perfectly, and she tucked the bagged item into one of her handbag’s side pockets.

  When they were confident that there was nothing else to find, they stepped out from under the railway bridge and continued their journey along the towpath, all the way up to Wroxham.

  After Jenny had taken a moment to point out where the Bittern pub stood, they made the return journey, occasionally studying the ground as they did.

  Back in the XJS, Jenny guided him towards town, heading for Wroxham Police Station, briefly stopping at a garage on the way to pick up a sandwich and a coffee for lunch.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ALAN HILLMAN WAS tired. He’d been tired for months. He could hardly remember a time when he hadn’t been, not since the birth of his first child, and that was over eleven years before. Since then, Kate, his wife, had had two more children, and although the arrival of the first had given him an immense sense of purpose, joy, excitement and sheer delight, it had also come with a huge sense of responsibility, both financially and emotionally. And it was a burden that seemed to grow exponentially with each baby born.

  Nobody had told him how much he’d end up worrying about them all, and how anxious he’d become about being able to support them. It hadn’t helped that their first child, Harry, had come at the very worst time, from a fiscal perspective at least. He’d been born in September 2007, just one month after what became known as the Credit Crunch. They’d only bought their house the year before, but that had been when they’d both been working. The intention had always been for Kate to return to work, after her maternity leave, but she was in recruitment, and when it came time for her to go back, not only was her job not there, but the company she worked for wasn’t either.

  Alan worked in computer sales, which hadn’t been affected nearly as much as most other industry sectors; but the pressure to meet the monthly mortgage payments on just the one salary, as well as to keep up with the bills, buying the food and paying for all the nappies, bottles, milk powder and god knows what, had at times been overwhelming. The situation had become so bad that at one point they’d faced the very real possibility that they were going to have to lose their house. Fortunately, Harry’s grandparents stepped in at the last minute to settle their rising debt and help cover some of their monthly expenditure. When the interest rates came down, life became more sustainable, but the pressure remained, at least it did for Alan, and money always seemed to be an issue.

  After a few years, and two more children, the subject of holidays had come up. Up until then they hadn’t been able to afford one, at least not a proper one. With three children to look after, Kate had been content to go without for a while, but being stuck at home with them, day after day, year after year, she began to ask if they could find a way to afford a break. Alan’s idea of a holiday was to curl up somewhere and sleep for a week, but his wife had always had more adventurous ideas, which sounded as exhausting as they’d no doubt be expensive. But at least he’d been able to persuade her that they should stick to the UK for the time being.

  And so, with their growing family in tow, once a year they’d taken themselves off to various places, sometimes in Devon, other times in the Lake District. This year, however, was their most adventurous to date: a boating holiday on the Norfolk Broads.

  For a change, this one had been Alan’s idea. He’d always had some vague romantic notion that one day he’d be able to buy a yacht and sail off around the world, leaving his cares, worries and most importantly his job behind. The chance of him ever doing so was slim at best, not with three children, a job with limited promotional prospects, and a mortgage that wasn’t even close to being paid off. Furthermore, he didn’t even know the first thing about boats. The closest he’d ever come to one was when he’d taken his family to the London Boat Show, but none of the boats had been in the water. They’d all been surrounded by plush carpeted platforms instead.

  It was a friend who’d suggested an Easter boating holiday on the Broads, being slightly cheaper than the same thing taken in summer. The websites he’d been directed to had sold the experience as being relaxing and care-free – just the sort of thing he felt he needed. He found it easy to picture himself as a heroic captain, floating effortlessly down a majestic river, with wide sweeping views, and reeds bending gently in a soft, soothing breeze.

  The reality had turned out to be somewhat different.

  They’d arrived for the start of their two week holiday the weekend before the Norfolk coast was battered by a harsh and bitter storm that blew in from Scandinavia. Conditions were so bad that they hadn’t been allowed to take their hire boat out for three days.

  When they were eventually given the keys, Alan had no idea how challenging it was going to be to take a boat out on a river that was swollen to near bursting point. The wind, which was still blowing hard, didn’t help. With frequent bouts of heavy rain to add to the fun, for the first four days they ended up being stranded up against an isolated bank, just past Upton Dyke on the River Bure, with nowhere to buy even the most basic necessities. They weren’t even able to find a tap to fill up with water. Even when the rain had passed, the wind was still blowing so hard from the east that it kept them pinned up against the mooring. Every time Alan attempted to motor off, the wind just blew the boat back again. Either the engine wasn’t powerful enough, or more likely he just didn’t know how to do it. Whenever he’d tried, all that would happen was that they’d be carried still further down river, with the bow of the boat being constantly pushed in towards the bank.

  So for the first few days they were forced to put up with each other inside a boat that seemed to grow smaller with each passing day, Kate constantly blaming him for wanting to take them boating, in Norfolk of all places, and the children forever moaning that they were bored and taking out their frustrations on each other. And all the while, Alan was desperate to do nothing but sleep, which he could have done at home, and wi
thout costing him a penny!

  A bitter tension soon followed, leaving Alan and his wife only speaking to each other when they had no other choice, and his children permanently sulking.

  It wasn’t until he woke up on Wednesday morning that he found that the wind had finally dropped, switching from an easterly to a south westerly. The river’s flow had also eased, becoming more manageable, and the combination of the two made motoring off the bank they’d been stuck up against seem as straightforward as steering his car out of his drive at home.

  Once they set off, almost immediately relationships on board began to warm, at least to the point where he and Kate were talking again. The children were now content enough to spend their days waving at every boat they passed, or when they were moored up, playing at fishing off the bow with a few pieces of old rope they’d found. Even Alan began to enjoy the holiday, demonstrated by the fact that he’d begun cracking the odd joke every now and again, a clear sign that his mood had lightened.

  His boat handling skills also improved. After a while, the only remaining challenges were mooring and setting off again; those, and working out what to do when they had a sailing boat tacking into the wind towards them. In those instances, he just did his best to try to keep clear.

  Sunday saw them spending the day exploring the River Thurne, where they motored up as high as Potter Heigham. There they found an ancient medieval bridge, one that is well known locally for being a challenge to navigate under due to its restricted height. Originally they’d hoped to be able to motor underneath it, but that was until they saw first-hand just how low it was, leaving them content to watch other boat users having a go, some with more success than others.

  That evening they decided to moor up just past Thurne Dyke Mill, an impressive white windmill that used to pump water out of the surrounding marsh land into Thurne River, but which was now redundant, and served only as a tourist attraction.