The Lost

by Mari Hannah

  Despite Alex’s rejection of drugs this time round, he’d been slipping them into her drinks undetected since her trip to the Balearics. They seemed to be working too. No histrionics from her. She was Ms Cool ’n’ Collected, exactly the way she liked it: with Stone, that bitch Oliver, Justine and Dan. The only one getting the thick end of the wedge was him, now that Golden Boy was home. Tim could swear she didn’t believe a word he said these days.

  He glanced across the hallway into Daniel’s bedroom.

  What in God’s name did Alex think there was to smile about? When she’d lost their baby girl, she’d been upset, but not on the same scale as losing Daniel temporarily. The difference was startling . . . and hurtful. Understandable on one level: Daniel had a personality, a shared history with his mother that Tim’s child didn’t have. Daniel was a real person, not the idea of one she could forget in a few months or so.

  Daniel was her world.

  The dizziness hit Tim again. He couldn’t concentrate and his coordination wasn’t what it should be. After his difficult interview with Oliver yesterday, he’d increased his intake. A big mistake. Good thing it was Sunday. He’d never make it to work. Had it been a weekday, he’d have made an excuse and taken a taxi. Curtis would have spotted his odd behaviour for sure. He wanted to wind up the company, blaming Tim for making bad financial decisions.

  He wasn’t having that.

  He had to focus, lay off the drugs and booze, despite the impulse to do the exact opposite. He almost jumped out of his skin when his phone bleeped. Taking it from his pocket, he glanced at the screen. Not an email or iMessage. His skin began to creep, the full focus of his attention Twitter’s signature bird logo.

  He was terrified to tap on it.

  There were seven general notifications and a tiny number 1 on the DM envelope. His finger hovered over it for several seconds before he plucked up the courage to access it. The picture of a close friend he’d not seen for a year or more was at the top of the column of followers listed there. The blurry words seemed to dance in front of his eyes:

  Thanks for the invite, Tim. Great to hear from you. ETA around three. Debbie and I can’t wait to catch up with you guys.

  Thanks for the invite?

  What the fuck?

  The doorbell rang.

  Frankie pressed the bell again and waited. The windows were open and she could hear classical music playing inside. Uplifting. She couldn’t identify the piece – Mozart, possibly – but she loved the clarinet. One thing she was certain of: this was a very different house to the one she’d visited yesterday.

  Alex arrived at the door seconds later. She’d chilled out since they had met at the café, a wide smile on her face reaching her eyes as she invited Frankie in. All was well in the Parker household. Despite instructions from her guv’nor to lay off, Frankie wasn’t standing down until she was satisfied that the boy was safe and well. Mitchell had already seen and identified him, but she couldn’t help herself; she wanted to sign off on the investigation properly, to be sure that nothing untoward had happened to him and that no offences had been committed.

  ‘Could I have a word with you and Tim before I see Daniel?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, of course. Wait here, I’ll get him.’ Alex disappeared along the corridor.

  From her position in the hallway, Frankie could see into Daniel’s room. The boy was lying on his bed, head in a comic book as if nothing untoward had happened and they had all been panicking unnecessarily. He was the spitting image of his mother, fair-haired, bow-lipped with the clearest skin she’d ever seen on a kid heading for puberty.

  Alex was back, Tim in tow.

  ‘Will this take long?’ she asked. ‘I’m sorry, but Tim’s feeling under par this morning.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Frankie said. ‘It’s been a difficult few—’

  ‘Don’t justify yourself to her!’ Tim shot his wife a black look, adding one for Frankie. ‘For the record, DS Oliver, I’ll be fine – as soon as you get out of my house.’

  What was his problem?

  Despite the early hour, Frankie could see he’d been drinking – or worse. She cut out the small talk and got straight down to business. It didn’t take long for her to feel confident that everything was as it should be. ‘Well, if you’re both satisfied that nothing untoward has gone on, I’ll close the case,’ she said. ‘I want you both to know that if anything like this ever happens again, or if there’s something I can do for you in the future—’

  Parker cut her off. ‘As I told your young colleague yesterday, we’re not interested in what the police think. All we ever cared about was getting Daniel home.’

  ‘Tim!’ Alex was livid.

  ‘It’s right, isn’t it? Our precious boy is home and nothing else matters.’

  ‘How dare you! Excuse my husband’s rudeness, DS Oliver. I don’t know what’s come over him.’

  Parker glared at Frankie. ‘Now you mention it, there is something you could do . . . for me anyway. Alex has what she wants. Why should I be any different?’

  ‘Name it,’ Frankie said.

  ‘I want a formal apology.’

  ‘For what, sir? Doing my job?’

  ‘She’s right, Tim.’ Alex switched her attention to Frankie: ‘As far as I’m concerned, you have nothing to apologise for, Detective. We’re both grateful for all you’ve done. And please extend our thanks to DI Stone when you see him. There’s no need for a post-mortem—’

  ‘Figuratively speaking,’ Tim interrupted. ‘Unfortunate choice of words, dear.’

  His condescending tone infuriated Frankie. It hadn’t been directed at her and it wasn’t her place to rise to it. She kept her focus on Alex. ‘There are some practical steps you might consider taking: changing passwords on your devices being one; perhaps supplying Daniel with a mobile telephone so you can keep in touch with him.’

  Alex was nodding. ‘That sounds very sensible.’

  ‘If either of you are concerned about anything, no matter how small, please get in touch.’ Another glance into Daniel’s room. ‘I’ve got one quick question for your boy.’ She was gone before either parent had time to object. If they wanted another domestic, she’d rather not play referee. She gave Daniel’s door a tap and stuck her head in. ‘Hi, Daniel . . . I’m Frankie, one of the detectives playing hide and seek when you weren’t lost.’ She grinned.

  ‘Hi.’ He gave a little wave, a smile developing as she stepped over the threshold.

  Frankie pushed the door to, shutting out the hushed, angry voices that could be heard from the hallway. No wonder the boy spent so much time alone. ‘I’m pleased to meet you. I hear you’ve been missing your mum.’

  ‘Yeah.’ The lad’s eyes lit up when she handed over his iPad. Technical Support had finished with it. There was nothing on it, only games and stuff, no mention of Charlie Dawson.

  She had to know.

  Daniel got up and put the device on charge. ‘Mum’s taking me with her next time.’

  ‘Bet you didn’t miss her as much as she missed you. She was very worried about you, but the mystery is solved. These things happen sometimes. A misunderstanding. No one’s fault.’

  ‘So why are they arguing?’

  She looked over her shoulder and leaned in. ‘Adults do that sometimes. They don’t need a reason.’ Her smile was returned and she changed the subject. ‘I have one question for you, is that OK?’

  He nodded, keen to know what it was.

  ‘Who is Charlie Dawson?’ His enquiring reaction demanded an explanation. ‘When we were looking for clues as to your whereabouts, your mum found a piece of paper with the name written on it.’

  The lad appeared slightly embarrassed. ‘He’s a policeman.’

  Frankie’s chest tightened. ‘And how do you know him?’

  Daniel giggled, eyes sparkling with delight. He held
up his story generator. ‘I’m writing a detective story. Charlie’s the main character. You can read it if you like.’

  28

  One minute the jogger was running in the sunshine, listening to her favourite playlist, the next her arms had stopped pumping and she was no longer moving forward. She was pinned to the tarmac by her own dead weight. She lay motionless, though she didn’t know whether she’d lost consciousness and, if so, for how long. The pain in her head was immense. The fingers of her right hand twitched involuntarily as she attempted to move, the vibration travelling up her arm. A sob left her throat as she felt the movement, the grit like kitty litter beneath the palm of her hand a sign that she wasn’t paralysed from the neck down. With heroic effort, she managed to inch her fingers a little further to the left, a change of texture . . . no gravel . . . here the tarmac was raised and smooth.

  The white line . . .

  This unnerving information caused her to cry out. The only markings on this isolated stretch were unbroken lines down the centre, ensuring no overtaking on the bends. She was in the middle of the road, disabled, physically and mentally compromised.

  Roadkill.

  Just then, the wind took her hair, whipping it across her face, covering one eye. The realisation that she had a finite time to get up and save her life hit her like a brick. Crippled with fear, expecting a car to come racing around the bend at sixty miles an hour, was a premonition like no other. Even the tallest four-by-fours wouldn’t see over the hedgerow. They would be upon her before she knew it. And still her limbs refused to budge.

  Her eyelids were heavier now. Forcing them open, she had an impression of blue to her left and grey straight ahead, a hint that she was on her back, head turned to the right, but with no sensory perception to uphold that point of view.

  Her unrestricted eye saw movement . . .

  There it was again, no more than a dark shadow in the distance. She froze momentarily, unable to trust her eyesight, panic taking hold, squeezing what little breath she had left in her lungs. The shadow moved closer. It wasn’t a car, lorry or, God forbid, a tractor. It was tall and thin, a human closing in, someone running to her rescue. Help had arrived. She cared less that it might be the person who’d knocked her down. In whatever form it took, she’d take it. In her alternative world, the fact that she wasn’t alone was all that mattered.

  She could hear the heavy breaths of her rescuer, her right earplug having been knocked out. Then she was grabbed by the wrists and manhandled, hauled across the road surface like a sack of spuds. As she was carted away, a warm trickle of what she assumed was blood ran down and pooled in the hollow of her neck. She was powerless to stem it, incapable of resisting, unable to do anything. She wanted to beg whoever was aiding her, explain that they were causing injury, that they should leave her be and call for assistance from a professional. But she couldn’t formulate words.

  Then suddenly she was still.

  The glaring sunshine had disappeared, an ominous darkness taking its place. A summer storm broke overhead, rapid and violent, the distant rumble of thunder, followed by a crack of lightning that lit up the sky. A splodge of rain hit her eyelid, followed by another crash of thunder, much closer now, warm torrential rain hitting her skin like knitting needles. She felt cold, so very cold, her breathing increasingly shallow.

  The darkness was winning. She couldn’t tell if she was losing consciousness, fading into a coma, or something worse. A voice broke through the soundtrack playing loudly in one ear, muffled as if being transmitted through a sodden blanket. The words seemed strange and faraway. Oddly familiar. She made a final valiant attempt to keep her eyes open. A blurred figure passed in front of her. She strained to focus on the indistinct silhouette hovering above her head. Whoever was standing there was crying too. It took enormous effort to raise a hand and grab at them but her grip was weak and ineffective. The figure unpeeled her fingers and walked away.

  She was alone.

  29

  Due to a violent and unnatural death from a road traffic accident, an inquest had been opened and adjourned, the coroner delaying her decision to release Luke Stone’s body for burial until further enquiries were made. Unable to hack it at home while he waited to say his final goodbyes to his brother, David Stone returned to work to assist with the aggravated burglaries Windy was so keen to resolve, the offences carrying a hefty sentence – a good collar, if they could find those responsible. It wasn’t the first time that country houses, stately homes or castles had come under attack by organised thieves on their turf. In the nineties, Frankie’s old man had been involved in Operation Border Reivers. Weeks of surveillance and intelligence-gathering on both sides of the Scottish border had led to the arrest and detention of a gang who’d been stealing to order, local and prolific career criminals prepared to risk lengthy terms of imprisonment to make a buck.

  At Stone’s request, Frankie had leaned on an informant who’d tipped her off that a gang were planning an imminent hit on Alnwick Castle this time around, the seat of the Dukes of Northumberland and their families for seven hundred plus years, made more famous by the creation of Alnwick Garden by the current duchess; even more so as J. K. Rowling’s fictional Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

  Frankie smiled.

  Someone at the briefing had told her to get on her broomstick and head over there, moaning when she handed him the graveyard shift. Everyone laughed, including Stone. He’d ordered immediate, round-the-clock surveillance of the castle until further notice.

  Stone and Oliver were double-crewed. They had been sitting in the car for hour upon mind-numbing hour, keeping observations in Alnwick market town. Working with detectives from across the force area, they had grafted for days without a lead, hoping to spot suspicious characters, or better yet, the dual-coloured, blue transit van with a bad paint job Frankie’s snout had told her they were using. There was no offence more upsetting than invading people’s homes, making them feel anxious in a place in which they should feel safe. If Stone had his way, he’d throw the book at them, but first he had to catch them.

  ‘How trustworthy is your source?’ he asked. ‘I’m bored now.’

  Frankie’s eyes never left the windscreen. ‘He’s a conniving, dishonourable little shit, but he’s never given me a bum steer up to now. The syndicate he’s ratting on aren’t finished yet.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘So do I . . .’ Frankie glanced at him. On her say-so, covert officers had been posted on all routes, an expensive operation. He wasn’t happy about it. ‘You’ll get no sympathy from me, boss,’ she said when he complained. ‘You ignored my advice to take your full entitlement to compassionate leave. You should’ve stopped at home.’

  During periods of inactivity, he’d talked about Luke quite a bit, making Frankie laugh like a drain at how they had fought, man and boy, over the beautiful game. Football was in her blood too. There had been many a row over it in her own household. All the same, she couldn’t pass up the opportunity for a sarky remark about him being related to a ‘Mackem’ – the slang for a native of Sunderland and supporter of their rival team.

  The radio crackled into life: ‘Control to Hermes.’

  Stone rolled his eyes at Frankie for the daft operational name their guv’nor had designated to the recent spate of organised crime littering his desk. Windy liked to think of himself as a bit of a scholar. Everyone else thought he was something unrepeatable in polite company, Frankie’s description of him even worse.

  Putting his burger on the dash, Stone licked the grease from his fingers and pressed to receive. ‘Go ahead, Control.’

  ‘Urgent message from Superintendent Gale,’ the controller said. ‘Stand down and return to base ASAP.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’ Frankie didn’t fancy foot patrol. She continued noshing her lunchtime carbs and spoke between chews. ‘He needs to make up his bloody mind. Ei
ther he wants his name in the papers, his face on the news, or he doesn’t. He can’t have it both ways.’ Windy would get a big pat on the back from HQ if they were to detect a series of offences targeting art and antiquities in the hands of the upper class.

  ‘Did he say why?’ Stone was asking.

  ‘Not to me,’ Control said. ‘But I sent you a link to the force-wide incident log at his request.’

  ‘OK, I’ll check it out. Anything else?’

  ‘He wants DS Oliver too, sir.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Frankie snorted. ‘To make the tea.’

  The controller laughed and ended the transmission. Like everyone in Northumbria force, he knew there was bad blood there.

  Stone picked up his lunch. ‘Does it bother you?’

  ‘Does what bother me?’

  ‘The way the guv’nor routinely hands you all the shit jobs.’

  ‘I’m impressed you noticed.’

  ‘It’s hard not to.’

  Now she looked at him, a wry grin appearing. ‘Rule 4 in the Frank Oliver Handbook: Never let the bastards grind you down. That’s not original but it’ll do. I have mates who’ll bend over backwards to lend a hand if I’m stretched, David. What does Windy have?’

  ‘The more offences you crack, the more he seems to resent you.’

  ‘Comes with the territory. Rule 5: Avoid joining a force where your old man and his old man before him have made enemies. It’s my fault, David. My dad tried telling me to join Durham Constabulary. I wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Well, the guv’nor has every detective in CID roped in on this one.’

  ‘Yeah. If this is a new job, it must be decent or he wouldn’t be pulling us off. We should go. Can’t believe our targets will show their faces in daylight, can you? They’re not that stupid. They’ll have done their homework long before now and will send a numpty in to recce the place, a drive-through. If they think they’ve been rumbled or suspect a stake-out, they’ll be on their way until the heat dies down. They can’t risk running into a police roadblock with a stash worth millions on board.’