“New DI?” Smith mused.
He seemed to disappear inside his own head for a second.
“I forgot about that,” he said, “what’s he like?”
“She, sir,” Bridge said, “The new DI is a woman. Bryony Brownhill. She’s a real battleaxe.”
“Bryony Brownhill,” Smith repeated, “she sounds absolutely lovely. Would you mind if I asked you both to leave now? I’d like to enjoy the final buzz of this awful shit in peace. I’ve been meaning to paint the walls but I couldn’t quite decide what colour to paint them.”
He closed his eyes and started to sing.
“I see a red wall and I want to paint it black.”
One of his eyes opened. It was very bloodshot.
“I love that song,” he said, “could you please get out now.”
He gazed at Bridge.
“That was a brand new front door,” he said, “why didn’t you just open it like any normal person?”
Bridge looked at Whitton. Whitton shook her head, stood up and walked out of the room. Bridge followed after her.
SIX
Ogre
“Did you see the state of him?” Bridge said as they drove away from Smith’s house.
“He’s had a hard time,” Whitton said.
“Why do you always stick up for him?” Bridge said, “Is there something going on between you two?”
Whitton’s silence neither confirmed nor denied what Bridge’s question implied.
“He’d better be careful anyway,” Bridge said, “drinking is one thing. Show me a copper who doesn’t get tanked once in a while but pot? That’s a completely different ball game.”
“Have you ever tried it?” Whitton said.
“Of course I’ve tried it,” Bridge said, “I went to University too but you grow out of that kind of thing eventually don’t you?”
“Not a word of this to anybody,” Whitton said, “we haven’t seen or heard from Smith since that day on Holy Island ok?”
“He needs help,” Bridge insisted.
“He’s not going to get it from anybody at the station,” Whitton said, “He’ll figure it all out in his own way. He always does. At least he’s stopped drinking.”
Bridge was about to say something but changed his mind. He parked the car outside the station. The car park was almost deserted. He looked at his watch.
“Have you got somewhere you have to be?” Whitton asked.
“I have actually,” Bridge said, “I met this woman a couple of weeks ago. I was going to take her to the nags this afternoon.”
“The what?”
“The nags,” Bridge said, “horses, I got a tip off about a dead cert in the three fifteen at Harrogate and I reckon I’ll be on to a winner later if you know what I mean.”
“You’re disgusting,” Whitton said, “and gambling is a mugs game.”
“You’re such a prude sometimes Erica Whitton,” Bridge said.
Whitton flinched. It had been a long time since Bridge had used her first name.
“Let’s get this missing child investigation started shall we,” she said, “Maybe you’ll make it to the races after all.”
“What took you so long?” Bryony Brownhill was talking to PC Baldwin in reception when Bridge and Whitton walked in.
Baldwin had an angry look on her face.
“We spoke to the missing boy’s mother,” Whitton said, “she’s going out of her mind with worry.”
“Of course she is,” Brownhill said, “so what was your gut feeling?”
“Gut feeling?” Whitton said.
“DC Whitton,” Brownhill said, “you should know that an initial feeling carries you along to the nitty gritty of an investigation. Gut instinct is important. What feeling did you get when you spoke to the boy’s mother?”
Whitton remembered the sudden sense of dread that had engulfed her when she had finished speaking to Jessica Green.
“Something’s not right,” Whitton said, “a five year old boy doesn’t just vanish at nine o clock on a Friday night.”
“And…” Brownhill said.
“I don’t know Ma’am,” Whitton said, “you asked me for my first impression and I gave it to you.”
“What about you?” Brownhill looked at Bridge.
“I think the kid will turn up,” Bridge said.
“And what makes you think that?”
Bridge glanced over at Whitton.
“It’s probably just a phase he’s going through,” he said, “a lot of kids run away from home at that age. He’ll come back when he’s hungry.”
“Mm,” Brownhill said, “I think I’m inclined to go with DC Whitton on this one. She’s right, a five year old boy doesn’t just disappear late at night. Get on to it.”
“Get on to it?” Bridge repeated and instantly wished he hadn’t.
“Find the boy,” Brownhill said, “or at least make it look like you’re doing everything you can to find him. Knock on doors, check the hospitals, speak to the neighbours. I assume you have a photograph of the child?”
“I got a recent photo from the mother,” Whitton said.
“Good,” Brownhill smiled at her.
Her teeth were crooked and yellow.
“Let me know what you find out,” Brownhill marched off down the corridor towards her new office.
“That woman is an ogre,” Bridge said when Brownhill was out of earshot, “Shrek has nothing on her.”
“Do you know what she said to me?” Baldwin said, “She said she’s noticed that I spend too much time behind this desk. Can you believe it? Everybody knows how many hours I put in here. She said she wanted to get some kind of rotational system going so nobody is in the same post for more than a week at a time. I can’t wait for Smith to meet her.”
Bridge and Whitton looked at each other but neither of them spoke.
“We’d better get moving,” Whitton said eventually, “before Shrek comes back. Baldwin, can you find out who’s available to help us with the door to door? We’ll start at Meadow Gate and move outwards.”
“Can I have the photo of the boy?” Baldwin asked.
Whitton handed her the photograph that Jessica Green had given her. Baldwin quickly scanned it into the computer and handed it back to Whitton.
“I’ll get this out to the hospitals in the area,” Baldwin said, “and I’ll add it to the missing person archives.”
“Thanks Baldwin,” Whitton said, “don’t worry about Brownhill. She’s only stamping her authority. Things will calm down again when she’s settled in a bit.”
“I’ll see who’s in the area to help you with the door to door,” Baldwin said.
SEVEN
Olave
The centipede of tourists wound their way around the ruins of St Mary’s Abbey walls, furiously snapping away on cell phones, I Pads and laptops. The not so technically obsessed among them used old fashioned cameras to capture the ancient ruins. Milly Phoenix pushed her way through the line of people; her husband Dwain was nowhere to be seen. Milly had last seen him in the great halls of the York Minster but now, Dwain seemed to have separated himself from the group of tourists, most of them Japanese or American. Milly frantically barged her way through the Japanese contingent, inadvertently photo bombing a group photograph with St Olave’s in the background.
“Have you seen my husband?” she asked a man by the name of Hank.
Hank was a fellow American who was approaching ninety and was busy ticking off places to see on his bucket list before his time ran out.
“The guy in the red cap?” Hank said.
“That’s right,” Milly said, “I haven’t seen him since the Minster.”
“He went inside the church I think,” Hank pointed to the entrance of St Olave’s church, “religious guy is he?”
“Not in the slightest,” Milly said, “thanks.”
She walked through the grand entrance into the church. She spotted Dwain straight away. He was taking a photograph of the stained glass win
dows at the back of the church. He was holding his red baseball cap in his hand. Milly smiled, even though Dwain did not believe in God he still had the sense to respect the reverence of the building.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Milly approached him.
Dwain turned round and smiled at her.
“Sorry,” he said, “I wanted to get in here before the Japs took over. Isn’t this place amazing?”
St Olave’s church dated back to the eleventh century. It took its name from the patron saint of Norway. The whole church was rebuilt in the fifteenth century and then again two hundred years later.
“Why are you so obsessed with churches?” Milly said, “I don’t think I’ve ever met an atheist with such an interest in religious buildings.”
“They’re fascinating buildings,” Dwain started to walk back down the aisle, “just look at this place. Look at the history here. You can almost feel it. It’s almost a thousand years old. Completely wasted on the damn Catholics though.”
“Dwain,” Milly said, “you’re terrible.”
She was about to say something else when she spotted something out of the corner of her eye. Underneath one of the far pews, next to one of the stone pillars, there was something on the floor. It looked like a bundled up blanket.
“Let’s get out of here,” Dwain said, “let’s make a move before those goddam slant eyes invade the place like they did Pearl Harbor.”
Milly was not listening. The object on the floor was intriguing her.
“Come on,” Dwain said, “I’m hungry. There’s a great little restaurant on Gillygate. I read about it in the guide book.”
“Hold on,” Milly said, “I want to see what this is.”
She pointed to the bundle on the floor. Dwain followed her finger. The chattering of Japanese could be heard from outside. They were about to enter the church.
Milly approached the bundle on the floor. She had to squeeze past one of the stone pillars to reach it.
“They’re already in the church,” Dwain said, “when we get to Edinburgh, we’re doing this on our own. I told you I hated tour groups.”
Milly looked closely at the blanket. It was a thick brown woolen one with cream around the edges. She did not know why it had caught her attention but it seemed to be out of place in an ancient church. The Japanese tourists were now swarming all over the church. Milly sat down on the bench and ran her hand along the rim of the blanket. She flinched and felt a cold shiver run through her body. The blanket was freezing. From the shape of the blanket she knew there was something inside. She moved the top away and screamed. The church suddenly went silent. The Japanese tourists had stopped talking. A small head had poked out of the blanket; a head that looked like it belonged to a child of five or six years old. His eyes were open and he was staring directly ahead towards the stained glass windows behind the altar.
EIGHT
Korosu
Bridge and Whitton sat in Bridge’s car. They had knocked on every door in Meadow Gate and they were now about to start in Monk Gate. Nobody they had spoken to remembered seeing a boy matching Nathan Green’s description in the area the previous night. Bridge took a sip from a bottle of water. PC Simon rapped on the window. Bridge pressed the button on the dashboard and the window slid down with a low hum.
“Anything?” Bridge said.
“Not a sausage,” Simon said, “we’ve done every house on Jewbury. A few of the people weren’t in but it looks like the kid hasn’t been seen by anybody.”
Whitton got out of the car.
“Simon,” she said, “you and PC Flint can carry on along the Foss Bank. We’ll take Monk Gate. Somebody must have seen something.”
“This is a waste of time,” Bridge said.
He looked at the clock on the dashboard. Lucky Seven, the dead cert at Harrogate was about to leave the gates.
“Bridge,” Whitton said, “there’s a missing child out there. Let’s do what they pay us to do and try and find him.”
She took out her phone and dialed the station.
“Baldwin,” she said, “any news from the hospitals?”
“Nothing,” Baldwin said, “I’ve tried them all. At least that’s something. The boy hasn’t been hurt.”
“Thanks Baldwin,” Whitton put the phone back in her pocket.
A man approached them from the other side of the street. From the way he was rocking from side to side, it was clear he was intoxicated.
“Hallo,” he said, “whatssup?”
Whitton could smell the alcohol on his breath from three metres away.
“What’s the police doing here?” he asked.
“We’re looking for somebody,” Whitton said.
“Aint that the truth,” the man slurred, “we’re all looking for somebody aren’t we? You know my wife left me? She said I drank too much. Can you believe that? Who are you looking for?”
“Move along please,” PC Simon said, “I think you should go home and sleep it off.”
“Can’t sleep,” the man said, “we should all try and help the police shouldn’t we?”
He smiled and revealed a set of perfect white teeth.
“A boy went missing last night,” Whitton said, “a five year old boy.”
Her phone started to ring in her pocket. She took it out and looked at the screen. It was Baldwin. She walked towards Bridge’s car.
“Wrapped in a blanket he was,” the drunken man said, “didn’t make a sound.”
“Move along now sir,” PC Simon said, “before I arrest you for being drunk and disorderly.”
Whitton answered the phone.
The drunken man staggered off mumbling something to himself.
Bridge knew straight away that something was wrong when he saw the expression on Whitton’s face. Her eyes had grown bigger and the colour seemed to have drained from her face. She finished the call and stared at the phone.
“A body’s been found at St Olave’s,” she said, “an American tourist found it. It’s the body of a young boy.”
Bridge did not know what to say.
“Shit,” he said eventually, “do you think it’s…”
“It has to be,” Whitton said.
She felt inside her pocket. The photograph of Nathan Green was still there.
There was a crowd of people outside St Olave’s church as Bridge parked his car on St Mary’s. He and Whitton got out of the car and walked towards them. A group of Japanese tourists were chattering loudly. The noise was deafening. Bridge could not understand the language but one word was repeated again and again: “Korosu, Korosu.”
A police tape had already been placed around the entrance to the church. Two policemen in uniform were standing behind it. Whitton did not recognize either of them. She lifted the tape and walked towards them.
“Korosu,” that word again, “Korosu.”
The word sounded sinister. Whitton was sure she would never forget it.
“I wonder what they’re saying,” Bridge said.
They showed their ID’s to one of the uniformed officers.
“Korosu,” he said, “I think it means killed. Murdered.”
Whitton just stared at him.
“I’m doing a correspondence course in Japanese,” the officer said, “I’m sure Korosu means murdered.”
Whitton felt sick as she went inside the church. A man in a suit was sitting on one of the pews at the front. He had his hands together as if in prayer. Whitton knew him to be one of the police doctors. She recognized Nathan Green immediately. She did not even need to look at the photograph. His head was poking out of the brown blanket; his eyes staring straight ahead.
“Oh my god,” Bridge said, “It’s him isn’t it?”
Whitton could not speak. She found herself staring at the five year old boy wrapped in the blanket. She was finding it hard to breathe and specks of white light were playing tricks on her vision.
“Whitton?” Bridge said.
Whitton gazed at the stai
ned glass windows at the back of the church. The sunshine was bursting in, casting strange images on the walls of the church.
“Are you alright?” Bridge asked.
Whitton felt like she was suffocating. The stone pillars were closing in on her, crushing the life out of her body. She looked at Bridge and ran out of the church.
NINE
Idaho
“Is Whitton alright?” Grant Webber, the head of the forensics unit asked Bridge inside the church, “She’s sitting outside against the wall of the church. She looks terrible.”
“She’ll be fine,” Bridge said, “I think the death of the kid freaked her out a bit.”
“Has anybody else been inside here since the body was found?” Webber said.
“No,” Bridge said, “it’s just been me, Whitton and old Samuels, the police doctor.”
“Good,” Webber said, “where’s Samuels now?”
“Where he’s been since we came in,” Bridge said, “sitting at the front of the church. I think he’s quite religious.”
Two men Bridge had never seen before entered the church. Webber walked over to them. Bridge assumed they must be part of his team.
“I’m going outside to get some air,” he called to Webber, “churches seem to have this suffocating effect. I need to see if Whitton is alright.”
Whitton was still leaning against the walls of the church when Bridge emerged into the sunshine. The crowd of people had thinned out.
“Are you alright?” Bridge said.
Whitton still looked very pale.
“I lost it for a while in there,” Whitton said, “I’ve seen more dead bodies than I can count but I don’t think anything can prepare you for the murder of a child.”
“I know,” Bridge knelt down beside her, “It’s unnatural somehow.”
“What do you think happened?” Whitton said.
“I don’t know,” Bridge said, “Webber is inside now. If anyone can tell us anything it will be him.”
An old brown Citroen drove up and parked across the road from the church. Bridge sighed as the door to the car was opened and DI Bryony Brownhill got out.
Harlequin Page 3
