“What about you?” She looked at Smith.
“No,” Smith said.
“Then don’t tell me not to worry.”
“Could you show us the route Tiffany usually takes to school,” Smith said to change the subject, “somebody might have seen something.”
“I’ll get my coat,” Mrs Beech said.
She turned round and went back inside the house.
“Can you find a recent photograph of your daughter too,” Smith called after her.
Smith, Bridge and Mrs Beech walked together down Nunthorpe Road and turned right onto Dale Street.
“She’s been walking this way for three years,” Mrs Beech said, “it’s only a ten minute walk.”
“And she always walks on her own?” Bridge said.
“She normally meets up with Jane and Kylie on Nunnery Lane,” she said, “it’s just up here.”
She pointed to where the road forked and turned into Nunnery Lane. A row of terraced houses lined one side of the street.
“Have you spoken to Jane and Kylie?” Bridge asked.
“Of course I have,” Mrs Beech said, “that’s the very first thing I did. I spoke to both their parents. Jane lives here.”
She pointed to one of the terraced houses.
“And Kylie stays a few doors down,” she added, “they waited for Tiff and when she didn’t show up they carried on to the school without her.”
Smith had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“I think your husband had a point,” he said, “I think it would be a good idea to go home and wait by the phone. We can make our own way from here.”
“Please find her,” Mrs Beech looked Smith directly in the eyes, “she’s our only baby.”
She wiped her eyes and headed back towards her house.
“What do you think?” Bridge asked when Mrs Beech was out of sight.
“It’s not looking good,” Smith said, “from what we’ve heard, this girl isn’t the type to bunk off school but I reckon we can narrow down the search area a bit.”
“What do you mean?”
“She didn’t show up to meet her friends,” Smith said, “that means she didn’t go any further than where we are standing right now. We need to concentrate on the area around Dale Street. If she has been abducted, that’s where it probably happened.”
They walked back down Nunnery Lane and turned into Dale Street. Smith noticed a row of shops on the other side of the road.
“Let’s ask in there,” he pointed to a small sweet shop. Lawton Sweets.
They crossed the road and went inside the shop. A tired looking Indian woman was watching a small television screen in the corner of the shop.
“Morning,” Smith said, “can we have a word?”
The woman looked over at them but did not get up.
Bridge took out his ID. Smith made a mental note to organize his new ID when he next had the chance. The woman stood up and approached the counter.
“What do you want?” she had a look of suspicion in her eyes.
“We’re trying to find a young girl,” Smith handed her the photograph of Tiffany Beech, “she went missing this morning.”
“Tiffany,” the woman said, “I haven’t seen her since last term.”
“You know her then?” Bridge said.
“Of course,” the woman said, “she comes in here every morning before school. Very nice little girl. She’s not going to make us rich though. She buys two ounces of floral gums. Same thing every day.”
“So she didn’t come in this morning?” Bridge said.
“I told you that. I like Tiffany. Very polite. Some of those kids are little monsters.”
“Thank you for your time,” Smith said.
“This doesn’t make any sense at all,” Smith said as they walked back in the direction of where he had parked his car, “if she didn’t make it as far as the sweet shop it means she was abducted right outside her own house.”
“Maybe she didn’t feel like sweets this morning,” Bridge suggested.
“Maybe,” Smith said but he did not sound convinced.
“Somebody must have seen something,” Bridge said, “how far do you reckon it is between the sweet shop and the girl’s house?”
“No more than a hundred metres,” Smith calculated.
Bridge looked up and down the street.
“There aren’t many houses on this part of the street,” he said.
Smith seemed lost in thought for a moment. A young girl walking on her own, he thought, she takes the same route to school every day. This is the ideal place to snatch her.
“What are you thinking sir?” Bridge asked.
“If Tiffany Beech was abducted,” Smith said, “whoever did it was either very lucky or he had been watching her.”
“Watching her?”
“This is the perfect place to abduct someone,” Smith said, “without being seen. There are no houses on either side of the road.”
Smith’s phone started to ring in his pocket. He took it out and answered it.
“Jimmy Moreno has been spotted,” It was DI Brownhill, “he’s at the Lion’s Head pub around the corner from Meadowgate. A woman made an anonymous call to the station.”
“We’re on our way,” Smith said.
He was about to end the call but Brownhill was not finished.
“Be careful,” she said, “he might be dangerous, “me and Whitton are on our way there now.”
“Thanks for the concern,” Smith said and rang off.
“Jimmy Morenos at the Lions Head,” Smith said to Bridge.
“What about Tiffany Beech?”
“I hate to say this Bridge,” Smith said, “but we’re wasting our time here. Jimmy Moreno knows something about all of this. I’m sure of it.”
TWENTY FIVE
Tonic water
Smith parked his car outside the Lion’s Head pub and turned off the engine. He sat for a moment and thought about how best to approach the situation. Jimmy Moreno was a vital witness in the investigation into the murder of a child. He could quite possibly be the murderer.
“Let’s go,” Bridge said, “what are you waiting for?”
“Slow down,” Smith said, “I still haven’t decided how we are going to play this.”
“We go inside and grab the bastard,” Bridge said, “simple as that.”
Brownhill’s old Citroen pulled up behind them. The DI and Whitton got out. Smith opened his window as Brownhill approached.
“What’s wrong?” she asked him.
“I think we should wait,” Smith said, “I think we should wait until he’s a bit more oiled up before we go in all guns blazing.”
“And what is the logic behind that?” Brownhill did not look impressed.
“I think he might be a bit more manageable after a few drinks that’s all.”
“What if he realizes that something’s wrong?” Bridge said, “what if he legs it out of the back door.”
“Then we’ll keep an eye on him,” Smith said.
He nodded to Brownhill.
“Moreno has seen Whitton,” he said, “so he might recognize her as a policewoman. I think it would be best if you and me go inside. Bridge and Whitton can cover the back of the pub.”
He stared at Brownhill. Her facial hair seemed to be much thicker today.
“Can I buy you a drink boss?” he said.
Brownhill shook her head and walked across the road to the pub.
Jimmy Moreno was sitting in the far corner of the Lion’s Head when Smith and Brownhill walked in. Smith had not seen him before but the resemblance to his brother Alberto was remarkable. He was reading a newspaper. Smith walked up to the bar. Sean, the barman was washing glasses behind the bar. He was about to say something but Smith raised a finger to his lips to say keep quiet.
“What are you having boss?” He asked Brownhill.
“Tonic water,” Brownhill said, “and you’ll have the same.”
“Tonic w
ater?” Smith could not believe what he was hearing.
He looked at Sean.
“Pint of Theakstons please,” he said, “and a bucket of water for the horse.”
Sean started to snigger.
“On second thoughts,” Smith said, “better make that a tonic water.”
Brownhill did not look amused.
“It is forbidden to drink while you are on duty,” she said, “I hope you realize that.”
Sean put the drinks on the bar counter. Smith picked up the beer and took a long sip.
“Just blending in,” he said, “blokes do not drink tonic water.”
Brownhill was about to say something when Jimmy Moreno stood up and headed for the door. He was obviously very drunk. He had to hold onto the tables as he staggered past.
“Jimmy Moreno?” Smith stood in his way, “Police. Can we have a word with you?”
Moreno looked confused. He looked Smith up and down. His eyes were glazed over.
“I have to go,” he said, “I have a show to do tonight. I’m a clown in the circus you know.”
He started to laugh and a mild coughing fit ensued.
“Mr Moreno,” Brownhill said, “we are going to have to take you to the station. Do you understand that? We can do it quietly or we can cause a scene. It’s entirely up to you.”
Moreno looked at her and smiled. Brownhill could not help but stare at his perfect teeth.
“Take me away,” Moreno said.
His eyes seemed to be moving in two different directions.
“Take me away,” he said again, “put me in irons. Shackle the demons inside me.”
TWENTY SIX
Hash
“What do you think?” Brownhill asked Smith.
They were drinking coffee in the canteen at the station. They had left Jimmy Moreno by himself for a few minutes. It was Brownhill’s idea; to let him stew for a few minutes before they questioned him.
“There’s something not quite right about him,” Smith said, “I can’t quite put my finger on it. He doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about being brought in here.”
“I agree,” Brownhill said, “but you know as well as I do that the criminal mind is never predictable. Let’s go and see what Jimmy Moreno can tell us shall we.”
Moreno was half asleep in Interview Room 4 when Smith and Brownhill went in. There was a cup of strong black coffee on the table in front of him. He had barely touched it. Brownhill sat down opposite him. Smith sat next to her.
“Jimmy Moreno,” Brownhill turned on the recording device, “Interview with Jimmy Moreno started. Monday September 6, 2010. Time twelve forty five. Present DI Brownhill and DS Smith. Let’s get straight to it shall we.”
She looked at Moreno. His eyelids were heavy.
“What do you want to know?” Moreno asked.
“Last Friday,” Brownhill said, “you were walking home from the pub when you claimed to have seen a man carrying a child wrapped in a blanket. What can you tell us about that?”
“Do I need a solicitor?” Moreno asked.
“No,” Smith said, “just answer the question.”
“What was the question again?”
“Last Friday night,” Smith said, “you saw a man carrying a child in a blanket. Is that correct?”
“If you say so,” Moreno said, “what day is it today?”
“Monday,” Brownhill said, “let me jog your memory. On Saturday, that’s two days ago, you approached one of our colleagues and told her about the man with the child in the blanket.”
“Oh that,” Moreno seemed to remember, “nice green eyes that one. She didn’t look like any copper I’d seen before.”
“So you did see a man carrying a child?” Smith said.
“Like I say,” Moreno slumped back in his chair, “if you say I saw him then I must have. You police don’t lie do you?”
He looked Brownhill directly in the eyes. Brownhill was forced to break eye contact first.
“Do I need a solicitor?” Moreno asked again, “I think I should have a lawyer here. That’s what they do in the movies isn’t it?”
Smith turned off the recording device and stood up. Brownhill looked on in surprise.
“If you don’t mind boss,” Smith said, “I’m going to step outside for a smoke. Let’s leave Mr Moreno here to have a think about what he did or did not see that night.”
Without waiting for an answer, Smith left the interview room and walked down the corridor towards the exit. He walked to his car, unlocked the door and opened the glove compartment. Behind an old map of York there was a small plastic bag. Smith took out his packet of cigarettes and took out a cigarette he had prepared earlier. The tobacco in the top half of the cigarette had been tapped out. He carefully opened the bag containing the marijuana resin and lit the brown clump with his lighter. The resin began to crumble. Smith realized his hands were shaking. He tried to drop the hash inside the cigarette but most of it landed in his lap. He was starting to become paranoid. He looked around the car park. There was nobody around.
After what seemed like hours, Smith had managed to pack a half decent amount of the drug into the cigarette. He put the remaining hash back inside the glove compartment and got out of the car. He walked around the back of the police station and lit up behind an old wall. The cigarette hit the spot straight away. He wondered if he had put too much marijuana in but it was too late. He took a few quick drags and threw the butt on the floor. He thought about what Jimmy Moreno had seen that night; a child wrapped in a blanket. Suddenly, a myriad of thoughts invaded his brain. Why hadn’t they spoken to Nathan Green’s parents yet? Whatever Brownhill had said, that was where it had all started. They should be concentrating on that. They should be putting together a picture of what happened from the very beginning. What had become of Tiffany Beech? Smith thought. Jimmy Moreno is the key to this whole investigation, Smith walked back towards the front of the station, whether he’s the murderer or not, all of this has something to do with him. Smith smiled as he walked back inside the station. The effects of the marijuana were now in full swing and his mind felt sharper than it had in days.
TWENTY SEVEN
Esbjerg
“Where have you been?” Brownhill was standing next to the front desk when Smith walked in, “I thought you were only popping out for a cigarette. You’ve been gone for twenty minutes. Moreno has been sick all over Interview Room 4. Baldwin is busy cleaning it up.”
“Where’s Moreno now?” Smith asked.
“We had to move him to another room,” Brownhill said, “the stench in there was unbelievable.”
“Let’s have another crack at him then,” Smith said.
Jimmy Moreno flinched when the door to Interview Room 2 was opened and Smith and Brownhill went inside. Moreno looked deathly pale. There were specks of vomit in the corners of his mouth.
“Mr Moreno,” Smith sat down, “can I call you Jimmy? After all, this is basically just a chat about what you saw that night.”
Brownhill turned on the recording device.
“Interview with Jimmy Moreno recommenced thirteen thirty five. Present DI Brownhill and DS Smith.”
“So Jimmy,” Smith began, “as far as I can see, you’re not in any trouble.”
He decided to take a gamble.
“And you’re free to leave at any time,” he said, “we would be most grateful if you could try to remember what it was you saw last Friday night. Take your time.”
Brownhill glared at him but she remained silent.
“I’d been drinking all day,” Moreno said.
“Would you consider yourself a heavy drinker?” Brownhill said.
“On and off,” Moreno seemed to be much calmer now, “I have a tendency to go off on binges once in a while. It’s in the genes. My father was an alcoholic as was his father before him. We’re from Esbjerg. You could say it’s not really my fault. The Danish are traditionally notorious drinkers.”
“Very well,” Brownhill was
getting impatient, “you were drinking all day and then what?”
“I’d not quite finished,” Moreno said, “I’d had enough of one pub so I set out to find another one; one with a more pleasant clientele. That’s when I saw them.”
“Saw who?” Smith said.
“The man and the child of course. Isn’t that what this is all about?”
“Where did you see them?”
“Just round the corner from the Lion’s Head,” Moreno said.
“Could you explain exactly what it was you saw?” Brownhill said.
“Is she a bit thick?” Moreno asked Smith, “I’ve already told you what I saw a hundred times.”
“Just humour her,” Smith said, “DI Brownhill is very meticulous that’s all.”
“I saw a man carrying something over his shoulder,” Moreno said, “it was a blanket.”
“And what was in the blanket?” Brownhill said.
“I got a good look,” Moreno said, “there was a kid inside. His head was poking out.”
“What did this man look like?” Smith said.
“Like a man,” Moreno said, “it was dark and he had his head down.”
“Rough age?” Smith said, “height? Build?”
“About my age,” Moreno said, “average height, average build.”
“Great,” Smith said, “did this man see you?”
“He didn’t appear to,” Moreno said, “like I said, his head was bent down like he was staring at the floor.”
“And you can’t remember anything else about him?” Smith said.
“I didn’t think much more of it,” Moreno said, “I was thirsty. All I wanted to do was find a drink.”
“What time was this?” Brownhill asked.
“I have no idea.”
“You must have a rough idea,” Brownhill said, “think hard.”
“I headed off to the Yeoman’s Arms,” Moreno said, “and they called last orders about an hour later so I would say it was around ten.”
“Thank you Jimmy,” Smith said, “you’ve been a great help.”
“Can I go now?” Moreno said.
“Not just yet,” Brownhill said.
She glanced over at Smith.
“Can I have a word outside?” she said.
Harlequin Page 9
