by Simon Hall
Dan took a glance at his notes to find a gap to think. They were approaching the difficult ground. The kingdom of thought-fear.
“You’ve given me a picture of a fine young woman. But Annette’s a teenager and she’s human; both dangerous traits. There has been… friction?”
“Oh yes,” the heart of the father replied. “There was her disappearance from school. That was one hell of a way to make a point. And she’s been in trouble for having a few drinks and dabbling with boys. But what young girl hasn’t? She’s got a boyfriend now – James, he lives in Manchester, they met on some trip – and do you know what she announced? She said she’s going to have him to stay, and in her room, too.”
Such familiar battles of the generations, aired so publicly. It would have prompted laughter, had it not been for the context of the interview. Annette was all around them. Those eyes, which relished life, now filled with dread. And looking here, to this room, this conversation and these few minutes for help.
“And what did you say to her… suggestion?”
“I said she would do no such thing. When she was 18 we might think about it, but not before. I tell you this: sometimes I wish I’d had a son. Daughters give you no end of trouble.”
Dan had matched Newman’s smile, but now let it fade. They were moving towards the end of the interview. It was time to change the mood, to ingrain the message which would fill the airwaves.
A great professional and a sensitive mind, Nigel felt the shift and gently zoomed in his shot for the power of the close-up. Newman’s face would fill the screen, the moistening of his eyes emphasised by the dark circles of sleepless fears that surrounded them.
“And worries are what we’re talking about here,” Dan said softly. “Difficult though it may be, can you tell us what you’ve been going through?”
With each answer before, Newman had taken a second or two to consider his words. But now the reply was instant. This was the only thought, the sole feeling, the one consideration.
“It’s been torment. There’s no other way I can describe it. Every minute, every second, I’m thinking of Annette. I’m wondering where she is. And…”
His voice cracked and almost broke, but he gulped in a hurried breath and rallied.
“I’m wondering what’s happening to her. Fearing it. Dreading it. I see her face everywhere, even when I close my eyes. Every time the phone goes, I think it’s someone calling to break the news – to tell me…”
Dan nodded at the unspeakable, unthinkable fear, but kept quiet; let the denouement of the interview play out. And it did – how it did.
“I can’t eat, I can’t sleep,” Newman continued. “I can’t do anything. I’m so lost. So damned helpless. All I can do is think about Annette. I’d ask – please, please, if anyone has her, or knows where she is, please help me get her back.”
***
Adam held open the door and they walked across the compound to the satellite van. On the road outside, amidst the white haze of a cherry tree, Dan saw a glint of polished glass.
“Ouch!” he yelped, bending down to massage his knee.
Adam, Newman and Katrina stopped too. “What?” Adam asked, impatiently. “Come on, we’ve got to feed the interview.”
“Only a touch of cramp. It might not have been such a good idea to go for a run this morning.”
It was 7.28 when Dan handed the memory card to Loud. “Cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you?” the engineer grumbled, holding up a list running to several pages. “You wouldn’t believe who’s waiting for this.”
They’d left Nigel in the MIR to pack up the camera and lights.
A police driver was ready to give Newman a lift home, but he said he would like to see the interview being fed.
“I’ve spent more than enough time at home lately. All I’ve got there are thoughts of Annette.”
Loud started to explain how the pool feed worked, but it sounded like a lecture from the final year of a physics degree, so Dan eased the van door closed and translated. For major events, when there was no benefit in rival broadcasters all providing their own camera crews to get exactly the same footage, one organisation would be designated to provide the coverage.
It was commonly used for royal, presidential or prime ministerial visits and had the added advantage of not offending the regal dignitary with an unseemly gang of cameras and journalists.
Newman watched the interview being replayed on the monitors. “You were right about the open neck,” he told Dan. “And the powder. I look almost human, for once. Sorry if I snapped at you.”
Dan patted the man’s shoulder. “It’s no problem. I would say I know how you’re feeling, but how could I?”
“You only asked a few questions. Will that be enough?”
“Six or seven minutes are plenty. Most radio and TV stations and websites will run the interview in full to start with, then use clips later. The newspapers will lift some of your quotes.”
“And use one of their old pictures of me to illustrate it?”
“Something like that,” Dan replied, trying to keep his voice neutral.
“I can’t believe you got all that stuff out of me. About Annette, and well…”
“All I did was let you talk.”
Newman reached out a hand, took Dan’s and shook it hard. “Nice try, but I’d say there was a bit more to it than that. If you ever get fed up with this TV lark, just call. I could use a man like you. I don’t know how you do it. You always look so calm on camera.”
“I usually think of it as a tissue thin layer of bluff,” Dan replied. “It hides the panic in my head.”
***
They walked back upstairs to the canteen to get a coffee. It wasn’t yet eight o’clock, but already felt well into the working day.
Newman had gone home with his police escort. Adam and Katrina had a couple more questions first. They wanted to know if he could see any possible significance in the letters PP in the ransom note. Newman thought hard and long, but said he couldn’t.
Katrina raised the issue of whether he might have been targeted as part of a grudge, or if there was a location which had special meaning for him and Annette. Some kind of second home or favourite escape, somewhere the kidnappers might consider as a hide out to taunt him. But again Newman was unable to help.
On the way upstairs they checked the TV, radio and internet. The interview was everywhere. In major news events, there is often a remarkable unanimity amongst journalists about the headline. Father’s Emotional Plea to Kidnappers over his Missing Girl was running on most stations.
The websites were using a photograph of Newman in his open necked shirt. It had clearly been taken in the police station’s backyard.
“Anything to do with you, that?” Adam asked, wryly.
“With a story like this there are bound to be snappers trying to get a shot of Newman,” Dan replied, as innocently as he knew how. “Anyway, isn’t it what we want? Maximum exposure?”
Adam chose to answer by folding his arms and adopting a knowing look.
Dan fetched the drinks. He had spent many pained years failing to get used to police tea and coffee. They were invariably of a potency sufficient to prompt paint to peel from the walls. And today, he faced the worst of fates. The canteen wasn’t open, so he had no choice but to chance the machine.
It grumbled and gurgled, as if suffering chronic indigestion, and eventually produced three small cups of jet-black liquid. Dan picked them up, pointedly holding the offerings at arm’s length and carried them over to the table. In the best tradition of the police service, Adam added milk and a couple of sugars. Katrina took hers pure black and bitter.
“That was a very moving interview,” she said, as Dan sat down.
Nature does have a habit of flaunting her achievements. A total eclipse, a meteor shower, even the earthly wonders of a mountain range or a mighty waterfall are difficult to overlook. On a smaller scale, the colours of a rainbow or the unique sparkle of a diamond are eq
ual fascinations.
Proud Mother Nature hadn’t missed the opportunity to emphasise Katrina’s eyes. She was one of those people who blink at a rate approximately half the average for the human race, and it accentuated the different shades.
Be it that, the surprise of the compliment, or perhaps the potent mix of the pairing, Dan was left with no option but to flounder.
“Oh, was it? Oh… thanks.”
“It really brought Annette to life. I felt I got to know her from your questions.”
“Um, yeah, well… thank you.”
“And it was clever, the way you led Newman into putting some powder on.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t bad at all,” Adam agreed, rather begrudgingly. “He made her out to be a bit more of an angel than she actually is, but otherwise it was ok.”
“In what way?” Dan asked.
“Annette’s got a caution for possessing cannabis. It was after some party. It wasn’t much, and I’m surprised we even bothered. You have to have enough to get half the city higher than the clouds these days.”
The rancour of the detective’s disapproval could have soured the air. Dan had to look away to hide a smile. He was sure Katrina was doing the same.
“But I suppose it wasn’t really relevant to the interview,” Adam conceded, loftily. “Now, enough of this self-congratulation. Annette’s still missing. So – what next?”
“We keep waiting,” Katrina replied. “To see how the kidnappers react to the interview.”
“And that’s it?”
“It’s all about patience.”
“I never really got the hang of patience,” Adam said, sulkily.
And now Katrina and Dan exchanged a look, and a smile too.
A trio of policemen walked into the canteen. At the sight of a senior officer, all made a play of collapsing onto chairs with the exhaustion of their law enforcing endeavours. One seat squeaked loudly. The sound was reminiscent of a fledgling bird.
Dan stood up, knocking over the remains of his drink.
“Be careful, will you,” Adam protested. “This suit’s new.”
“Get me a car.” Dan said. “Now.”
“What for? Where to?”
“Our studios. I’ve just realised how I know the bird song in the ransom call.”
Chapter Ten
Like one of the family who has never quite fitted in, the news library lived life a little detached. It was to be found in the far corner of the Wessex Tonight studios, part of a modern annex to the Victorian edifice. The library overlooked the garden; an accident of appropriateness. It was one of the few calm havens in a building more familiar with looming deadlines, running feet and shouted commands.
Dan had long mused on how much knowledge was contained in one small room. He discovered a bond with the library early in his career. The simplicity of its peace appealed in days that could feel filled with incessant noise. It was also an unspoken asset that Lizzie seldom visited. The clash of characters between her and this room made an effort to enter like coaxing a demon onto holy ground.
The delightful anachronism of the metal cabinets filled with card index files lined one wall. For years now, records of all the stories Wessex Tonight covered had been saved on computer. But there dated back many decades of the earlier times of the programme, and all were remembered in these files.
A project to transfer them to the far less evocative destination of a hard drive, or set of memory sticks, had been mooted for many a year. But in the great tradition of the British, it had never quite been got round to.
Dan was quietly pleased by this, and would always argue for any available resources to be directed elsewhere. Computers may be faster and more efficient, but they lacked the soul of these indexes; the yellowing colour of the card and the smell of the history they told.
All of which made precisely no impression on the pragmatic detective with a missing young woman to find.
“So we’re in a library,” Adam complained, as they strode through the door. “So what?”
He’d been carping for most of the short drive. In truth, although Dan could remember covering a story featuring the mysterious sre, sre, sre birds, he wasn’t sure exactly where and when. More importantly, he had no thoughts at all about what relevance it could possibly have in finding Annette.
As Adam so deflatingly put it, “We’re hunting kidnappers and you’ve got me following a lead which consists of some birds singing?”
“Well… yes.”
“It doesn’t sound great.”
“No,” Dan conceded.
“Not even anywhere close to remotely approaching great.”
“Well, no.”
“So why are we doing it?”
“Just – a feeling.”
It was Katrina who again took on the role of referee, one she had fast realised was required when dealing with the odd relationship set before her.
“There’s nothing else we can do at the moment,” she soothed. “So we’re not losing anything and we might just make a gain.”
The journey up to the studios had been a five minute interlude. Adam drove, intermittently wondering aloud whether the kidnappers would have heard Newman’s interview and bemoaning the tenuousness of the lead. Dan sat in the back, trying to remember the story and the enigmatic birds, but instead found himself studying Katrina.
It was another fair morning. The traffic was light, with almost as many buses on the roads as cars. But that was common for Plymouth: a city of historically low wages, and so – even in this automobile-obsessed society – relatively light car ownership.
The fine hair on the back of Katrina’s neck made for a chevron. It took no Olympian leap of Dan’s imagination to envisage an inviting path downwards.
He focused instead on a couple walking past. Both were rotund, to push the art of euphemism to its limits, and sweating in the day’s warmth.
The straps of Katrina’s bra bevelled through the white of her blouse. They were edged with patterns of lace. Dan wondered if it was silk or cotton. The former, he suspected. It was far more her.
The strolling couple were sporting skimpier clothes than might have been advisable. The exposed flesh shone like a snowfield in the sun. The male of the species lit a cigarette, which it passed to the female.
The outline of a dark shape patterned the back of Katrina’s shoulder. It was subtle, difficult to make out through her blouse and no bigger than a few centimetres tall, but looked like a tattoo. Dan thought he could see the details of a figure, perhaps a loop on top of a cross.
Subtlety was not a concept that came easily to the smoking couple. Much of the available area of legs and arms had been inked. It was as if they’d made a block booking at the tattooist. Perhaps the parlour had been attempting to work up some trade and running a Buy One, Get Lots More Free offer.
Tattoos, Dan reflected in one of his common philosophical moments, were all very well for now. He was not, however, looking forward to a generation of tattooed grandparents.
But Katrina’s looked strangely intriguing. And probably meaningful too, knowing what little he did of the woman.
***
As if fate were also sceptical of his hunch, the duty librarian was the one Dan was expecting and dreading. Brenda was a lady in her very late 50s, whom Lizzie had taken against and set about ushering towards retirement. Part of the deal was weekend work, which suited her well. It wasn’t taxing and didn’t usually demand any rapidity of response.
Today, instead of replacing tapes in the archive or unearthing long forgotten sequences of pictures for reporters, they found her gazing out at the garden. In terms of enterprise, Brenda was polishing the spoons of the library tea set, a fine old combination of china and silver. She truly was the last empress of a forgotten world.
“Daniel,” she exclaimed softly, as he walked in. “How lovely to see you again, and your friends too.” She surveyed Adam with a maternal smile. “Is this your brother? He looks like you.”
The d
etective’s snort was far more communicative than mere words.
“And this must be your wife. I’m sorry, partner we say these days, don’t we?”
There was an odd silence before Dan stuttered, with a triumph of unconvincing wit, “Err, no, I’m afraid no such luck.”
He hastily introduced the two police officers, and yet again had to request Brenda not use the name he viewed as reserved for maiden aunts, tax demands and court summonses.
“But Daniel is so much nicer,” she objected, with all the force of Neville Chamberlain on a bad day. “Now, would you like a cup of tea? I’ve got a lovely lot of fruit teas. And some sponge cake I’ve just made.”
“I’m sorry, we’re in a hurry,” Dan interjected, before the chatter could gain momentum.
“You young people always are,” she replied, sadly. “The pace you go, you miss so much of life.”
“It’s called news,” Dan hissed under his breath, before adding, “If you wouldn’t mind helping me look out some stories? I need ones from my time covering environment.”
Brenda’s face warmed with nostalgia. “I loved the reports you did then. Lots of ponies and otters and our wonderful countryside. So much nicer than now. These horrid murders and kidnappings and—”
“I know what you mean. But can you find the stories I did on birds, please?”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea?”
The ominously lurking Adam emitted a noise that sounded like a rocket preparing for take- off.
“Yes,” Dan said. “Sorry, I mean no, we don’t want one. As I said, we are in a hurry.”
Brenda nodded slowly, put on her glasses and tapped at a computer.
“Puffins!” she said, happily. “You were on the Isles of Scilly. Such beautiful birds. Lovely, coloured beaks.”
“Yes, that’s puffins. What else?”
“Oooh, look! Choughs. Such character – those funny red legs.”
“Yep, that’s choughs. What else?”
