by Graham Smith
I’m familiar with the model, having driven one in a previous job. They’re workhorses for builders of all trades, delivery firms and a thousand other drivers. Even when I lived in Glasgow, the most common van on the road was a Ford.
What helps is that the few tracks they found were made by off-road tyres. This means the van has been modified to some degree. It’s not much of a clue, but it’s a clue if it helps to narrow the list of suspects.
I keep turning the pages, but find nothing more of any possible use.
All we need to do is find someone who drives the right kind of vehicle, smokes the correct brand of cigar, and has a history of racial violence or hatred and we’re home and hosed.
If only it were that easy.
The chief’s tone has changed. He’s now talking to someone with a bit of authority. The report he’s giving is brief and to the point. Key facts are covered and questions fielded with straight answers.
He thanks the person and ends the call.
‘FBI are sending over a half-dozen agents. I spoke to the SAC at Amelia Earhart.’ He waves a dismissive hand. ‘I didn’t get his name.’
Amelia Earhart Drive is in Salt Lake City. I look at my watch. ‘Supposing they leave in half an hour and don’t worry about the speed limits too much. It’s still going to be three when they get here.’
‘Your point?’
‘We’ve got almost three hours to run down some leads before they take over. The more we can give them, the sooner these killers can be stopped.’
‘Agreed. I’ll get my boys to do a door-to-door where the girl was taken. What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to get Alfonse to chase down people who’ve bought those cigars. I’ll also get him to find out who owns a white Ford E250 in this area. Once I’ve spoken to him, I’m going to find out what I can about the second victim.’
Even as I say it, I feel as if I’m betraying Alfonse. I know it’s not true, but I can’t help the pang of guilt. My aim is to get as much information as possible so the lives of the Fourniers can be cross-referenced against Gazala’s. The points where their lives intersect may just give us the break we need.
‘Me too.’ His voice trips with foreboding. ‘Except I have to get my information from the family. I sent Farrage over to do the death knock.’
I’m not sure how to answer him; the thought of Lieutenant Farrage breaking bad news to a distraught family is an uncomfortable one, so I ask a question. ‘What do you know about her?’
He gives me a few bare facts. Other than her age, address and where she worked there’s not much to go on.
It’s her place of work that strikes a chord.
40
C-Dude is just as I remember it. I buy clothes here on occasion. Not the high-fashion stuff – the end-of-season lines suit me best. They’re cheaper and I’ve never been worried about staying close to the latest trends.
There’s a young woman with a deep tan working behind the sales counter. She looks close to tears as she bags something for a guy in his early twenties. He’s trying to flirt with her, but she’s not interested. While I can tell she’s struggling to hold it together, the guy is oblivious.
It doesn’t take much effort to work out why a colleague of Gazala’s is upset. News travels fast in a place like Casperton. Bad news travels faster.
At the back of the room a woman wears a disapproving look as she hangs suits on racks.
I wander round until the unsuccessful Romeo realises he’s fighting a losing battle, and leaves.
The tanned woman is wiping her eyes when I approach.
‘Sorry. Must have an allergy to something. How can I help you?’
The lie is unconvincing. I don’t challenge it though. Instead, I nod at her and lean on the counter.
I keep my tone as casual as I can. ‘I’m here for some information. About Gazala.’
‘So it’s true, she’s dead?’
She crumples when I give her confirmation.
Brisk clacks forewarn the older woman’s arrival. She comforts her younger colleague in a way that’s not natural to either. There’s too much stiffness from both of them. ‘I’m sorry but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’ Her free arm points at the door.
I don’t move.
She points again. This time she accompanies the gesture with a stamp of her heel. ‘Sir, did you not hear me ask you to leave?’
The stamp itself is enough to make me dig my own heels in. I do, however, recognise this isn’t a fight I should have – let alone try and win. Finesse is called for here.
‘I did indeed hear you, Ma’am, I’m investigating Gazala’s murder and just wondered if your colleague could answer a few questions.’ I almost say daughter instead of colleague as a way to emphasise the woman’s age.
The older woman is pushed away. ‘It’s okay, Marjorie. I’ll be okay. If this man wants to ask me some questions; it’s the least I can do for Gazala.’
I give the girl a mental round of applause for her strength and moral fortitude. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’ I look around the store.
Marjorie points towards a door in a far corner. The girl leads the way, telling me her name is Jenny and she’s worked with Gazala for almost a year.
Jenny’s face isn’t familiar, but I wouldn’t expect it to be. She’s too young to be part of the regular crowd at the Tree and, if her appearance is anything to go by, there’s no way she’s a classic rock fan.
The door opens into a stockroom. There are piles of boxes stacked in neat rows. Rails are laden with unpacked clothes and covered with clear sheets. A coffee machine sits atop a small fridge in one corner.
Jenny leans her butt against the fridge. Her eyes are red and she looks as if tears are never going to be far away. ‘What do you want to know?’
I throw a few questions her way. She bats the answers back. There’s nothing untoward or interesting about her answers.
She and Gazala were colleagues for the eleven months she’s worked here. They get on well and share a dislike of Marjorie. That’s not a big surprise; two young women are always going to make friends with each other rather than a grumpy older woman in a position of authority.
They may be friends at work but they don’t socialise together. Jenny admits she’s out most nights while Gazala chooses to stay in.
I move the conversation onto life in the store, ask about customers falling out with Gazala or giving her a hard time.
She rubbishes the idea. ‘Gazala is loved by the customers. She never has any problems or issues with them. Most times she manages to upsell to them as well.’
‘What about boyfriends, do you know if she was seeing anyone?’
‘Nobody that I know of.’ Jenny picks at her top lip, glances towards the door. ‘She is all about getting her own store. She doesn’t seem interested in meeting a guy.’
‘Surely she had guys chasing her? She was pretty enough.’
A sob catches in her throat making me wonder if my use of the past tense is causing unnecessary distress.
‘She flirted a little to make a sale but never accepted any of the dates they offered her.’ Jenny switches to past tense now that realisation and acceptance have arrived.
‘Have you heard about the family that was murdered?’
‘Yeeesss.’ Confusion spreads on Jenny’s face as she stretches the word.
I show her a picture on my cell. It’s one Alfonse sent me of the Fourniers. ‘This is them. Do any of them look familiar?’
‘The girl does.’ She points at the screen. ‘Most weekends she hung outside with a couple other girls.’
This puzzles me until I remember that the adjacent store sells video games. Where better for a bunch of teen girls to hang out, giggling about boys and hopefully meeting some, than here?
‘Did Gazala ever talk with her?’ I have to fight to keep the excitement from my voice. This may be the connection I’m looking for.
‘Yeah a few times. The girls can
be pests at times, but Gazala would always chat to them when Marjorie wasn’t about.’
‘Do you know what they talked about?’
A shake of the head. ‘I never asked.’
The cynic in me says Jenny would only be interested in a bunch of young girls if they had older brothers or perhaps a single father. Even in her state of grief I’ve caught her giving me the once over.
‘Do you know who the other girls are?’
‘I don’t, sorry.’
The rap of knuckles on wood makes us both look to the door.
Marjorie walks in followed by Lieutenant Farrage. Both fix me with a glare although Marjorie is the one to speak; her voice full of accusation. ‘I thought you were the police.’
Farrage answers her. ‘He’s not the police, he’s not even a private detective.’
I look directly at Marjorie. ‘He’s right, I’m not a trained detective. But I’m more of a detective than he’ll ever be. And what’s more, unlike him and his buddies, I’m not getting paid by the state to let you all down with my incompetence.’
Her lips purse tighter than usual. I think it may be my disregard for Farrage’s authority. She’s the type who feeds off the class system. Competence is not a necessary qualification in her world. The existence of a badge enough to ordain a higher communal standing.
She’ll no doubt be aware of who his father is. This will further elevate him when compared to me.
I’m wearing jeans, heavy boots and a plain shirt. Farrage is wearing a tailored suit with polished shoes and a tie. His accent is local, mine foreign. In a mind as narrow as hers it’s no contest.
For once, Farrage has enough about him to know when to keep his big yap shut. He wants to reply, to put me down with a sharp witticism, but he knows he’s out-classed. His sole response is to point at the door.
‘Thank you detective.’ I toss him a sweet smile and a patronising look. ‘That’s a door. Spelled d-o-o-r.’
Marjorie’s admonishments, on the subject of disrespect as I leave the store, are wonderful in their primness.
41
Noelle starts as the door opens and daylight floods the shack. She’s been lost in a world of self-pity, her mind worrying at possible reasons for their kidnap.
She knows the chances of them being rescued are slim. At Oscar’s suggestion, they’d both taken the day off work to look at potential wedding venues. Nobody except a couple of wedding planners will be missing them, and they’ll be used to broken appointments.
The men who come through the door are again wearing masks. They grab her, drag a hood over her head and lead her outside. Oscar is left lying on the floor, still on the point of unconsciousness.
She feels the men guide her around the shack. When they reach what she assumes is the far side, they push her backwards until her shoulders touch rough wood.
The hood is pulled off and one of the men thrusts a sheet of paper at her. Another is holding a cell phone. She recognises the pink case as hers.
Noelle looks down at the paper. At the top of the page is a terse instruction to read the page aloud. As her eyes flit down the page she recoils in horror. The hand clutching the paper moves away from her body, as if distancing it will make her feel safer.
It doesn’t.
The third of her captors steps out from behind the one with her cell. He’s holding a shotgun. He points it at her with a lack of urgency. The end of the barrel bounces twice; its meaning unmissable.
She starts to read the words on the paper. Every one of them is an affront to her. Even saying them under duress is an effort. She expects to die when she reaches the end. Her voice falters but she does not allow it to fail. As she resigns herself to death, her resolve grows stronger.
The man with her cell phone is holding it up. She guesses he’s recording her.
As Noelle speaks, her eyes flit between the paper and the masks hiding the men from her view. She finishes the message with her head up and her voice strong.
‘So, what now? Are you going to kill me?’
Another piece of paper is produced and handed to her.
She reads the instructions with dread, tears pouring down her cheeks as she realises what they mean for Oscar.
42
I knock on the door and try my best to look respectable and unthreatening. A grown man asking to speak with a teenage girl is sure to raise any parent’s suspicions.
The street where Ashlyn Sampson lives is a good one. The cars on the driveways are new models, the lawns are well kept and there’s a general air of respectability. It doesn’t surprise me; Robyn was a good girl from a decent family, it stands to reason her friends will be similar people.
The woman who answers the door is mid-thirties and mumsy in every way possible. Her blonde hair is in an unkempt ponytail and her clothes are stained with the detritus of child-rearing. A meaty smell fills the air with a promise of sustenance.
I explain why I’m here. Her initial friendliness turns to suspicion until I request that she sits with Ashlyn while I ask my questions.
She invites me in and calls out for her daughter as she leads me to her lounge.
Two toddlers are playing on the carpet, both pulling on a ratty doll. From their comparative sizes, I guess they’re twins.
‘Tyson , let Anna have Dolly.’ The boy lets go of the doll and starts pulling at the nose on a stuffed bear.
A girl with a shock of frizzy hair and too much make-up enters the room.
‘This man is here to ask you a few questions about Robyn. Okay?’
Ashlyn rejects the mother’s patted cushion next to her and stands by the fireplace in a show of independence.
‘Hi, Ashlyn. I’m told you were one of Robyn Fournier’s best friends.’ I want to ask what they did together, but can’t think of a way of asking without it sounding creepy. ‘You used to hang around outside C-Dude, didn’t you?’
‘Not, like, very often.’ The glance at her mother tells me lies have been told regarding her whereabouts.
‘That’s fair enough. I believe Robyn was friends with one of the staff there. A woman called Gazala. What did they talk about?’
‘School and stuff. I think, like, Gazala used to, like, sit Robyn when she was younger.’ The unnecessary ‘likes’ in her speech pattern are irritating but irrelevant. She’s giving me a genuine connection between the victims.
‘Were they friends? Did they see each other anywhere else?’
Her face twists in disgust. ‘They weren’t, like, BFFs or anything. She was, like, way old. She was just, like, kind to us and knew Robyn best. Not like that Marjorie. She was a… cow.’
I hide the smile I can feel coming. Ashlyn was about to swear and just remembered in time that her mother was in the room. The mother is worldly enough to have a tinge of a smile in her eyes.
‘So, you never saw Gazala anywhere else?’
‘Once or twice at the mall, or by the park. Mostly at C-Dude though.’
I repeat the questions in different ways but don’t learn anything beyond the fact Gazala had been polite to a kid she used to sit for.
43
Noelle trembles as she waits in the back of the van. The hood is back over her head but she estimates there’s at least one of her captors in here with her.
For the first time since being snatched she fears rape. When she was loaded into the van after making the video, a gloved hand cupped her left breast through the flimsy material of her chemise. It had lingered and given a firm squeeze before being removed.
Every part of her wants to do whatever she can to learn the identity of her captors but the risk of them hurting her as punishment is too great. If it was just her she had to care for then it would be different. With a baby growing inside her there is no way she can take the chance.
It feels as if she’s abandoning Oscar. That she’s leaving him to his fate without a fight.
The pragmatic side of her recognises there’s little a pregnant woman can do against four men. Especially
when one of them has a shotgun.
She feels the van draw to a stop.
Remembers her instructions.
Wonders if she’s about to die. Thinks about the life forming inside her.
Rough gloves filled with strong fingers grasp her right arm.
She’s lead out of the van.
Footsteps sound.
Another set of gloves take her left arm.
More footsteps.
A punch hits her square in the gut.
The gloved hands on her arms hold her upright; prevent her from doubling over.
Another punch lands. Then a third, fourth and fifth. Each one a little lower than the previous.
The final punch lands at the top of her pubic bone.
The gloved hands lower her to the ground. Through the pain she feels rough tarmac beneath her butt.
Somehow she remembers her instructions.
The racking of a shotgun fills the quiet as her count reaches three.
Tyres screech as metallic doors slam.
Noelle reaches fifty and pulls the hood off.
The first thing she does is lift her chemise and look down. She’d felt her panties filling with moisture and she can now see it’s the blood she’d feared.
Sobs wrack her body as she howls in pain and anger.
It’s a full ten minutes before she collects herself enough to think about finding help, when she does, she starts clinging to the faintest of hopes the baby has somehow survived the assault.
Her eyes blink away the tears and find a focal point in the distance. She looks around and finds she’s on a deserted road.
Her cell is four feet in front of her. She groans in pain as she crawls towards it.
911 is the first number she calls. The need to get help for Oscar is an equal priority with summoning an ambulance for the baby.
The voice at the other end of the line goes through the usual routine in calm, measured tones: identifies the caller, asks which service and wants to know what has happened.
