She nodded at him, picked up one of the extra pictures, took it back into her office and propped it against her monitor. By now the email had come from the sketch artist and she enlarged it until it filled her screen.
Charlie made them coffee. “Right, so, the service area manager. He should have been back in work yesterday afternoon, after his day off. He didn’t show, and they haven’t been able to contact him.”
Tanya turned away from her study of the computer, “What do we know about him? Apart from him being a greasy, icky little man with obvious male chauvinist leanings.”
Charlie handed her a printed record of George Simpson’s brief brush with the authorities in the north east, near Newcastle. There had been nothing since then.
“It’s not much is it, and there was doubt about it all. Maybe he was genuinely caught short, perhaps his car did break down.” She shrugged, and then her eyes widened, “That’s it – bloody hell that’s who it was.”
“Nah, as I said it doesn’t look like him. Not really. Same sort of age I guess, as far as we can tell, but the hair’s wrong and…”
He was interrupted by the phone ringing and Tanya’s conversation with Bob Scunthorpe. It was difficult, and she blew out a breath as she put down the handset. “He’s going to contact Yorkshire, find out where this Keiran is at the moment. Christ, I hope we’re wrong, but I’ve put my head on the block a bit now.”
She pointed at the screen, “I don’t mean, Simpson. The bloke that came to his office, shit what was his name? It was after you went out. Someone pushed his way in and the assistant manager sent him away. He was a friend of Simpson or something, somebody who did casual work for him.” She thumped the desk, the noise turning the heads of the rest of the team in the other office. “Peter. That’s what it was. Peter. No surname I don’t think. We need to find him. What else do we know about Simpson? Apart from the fact that he might be a flasher and use prossies?”
“Well, I guess we should give him the benefit of the doubt especially with the rest of it.”
“What’s the rest of it then?”
“He lives in Wheatley, on his own as far as I could find out. Doesn’t socialise at work much. But here’s the oddity. He’s a lay minister.”
Tanya shook her head, puzzled. “Which means, what?”
“Well he’s not like a priest or a vicar exactly, but he goes and preaches. Like a volunteer I think. Methodist.”
“Methodist?”
Charlie nodded.
“I don’t know much about all that stuff. We never had much religion.”
Charlie grinned at her. “My granny made sure we had our share. I still go sometimes, to church you know. I like the singing, the getting together.”
“So, Methodists. They have angels, right?”
He nodded, scrolled through some sites that he’d been researching. He turned his screen so that she could read the article he had been looking at. “Yeah, they’re pretty big on angels.”
She nodded at him. “Have we got his address? This ties in with what I was told: charity work. The assistant manager at the services said this Peter helped with charity work. We need to find him, and the quickest way is going to be interfering with Simpson’s little holiday. Come on.”
They collected their coats, called into the incident room to let the team know where they were going and set off to have a word with the missing minister.
Tanya’s phone was on hands-free so they both heard the relief in Bob Scunthorpe’s voice when he told them that they could discount Officer Laing. He was invalided out with multiple sclerosis and used a wheelchair. They called the office to let a very relieved Paul know.
Chapter 35
George lived on the top floor of a three-story block. It was part of a short terrace built to give the appearance of tall houses, but they were obviously flats. Brick-built with chipped and peeling wood under the windows, it was drab and dull. It had probably originally been council property but ‘for sale’ signs indicated private ownership of at least some of them. The frontage had been concreted at some stage to provide parking, but it was crumbling at the joints and edges, weeds poking through. Green wheelie bins lined the space under the ground floor windows and recycling boxes were tucked into alcoves holding electric meters. Tanya peered up at the curtains drawn across the windows of what would be his flat and rang the bell. They couldn’t hear the chime but the small light behind the plastic cover flickered.
While they waited she turned, jigged from foot to foot, and stepped back to peer at the upper floor. Opposite, across the narrow road, was a row of flat-roofed, lock up garages. A couple of them had cars parked on the slab in front. It was Saturday afternoon, there were kids playing outside in the street, cars driving back and forth, teens on bikes. It was all very ordinary. It occurred to Tanya that probably none of these people were giving any thought to two dead women and a missing girl and yet it was such a short distance away. They must have all used the motorway, most of them stopping at the services. Small happenings, everyday things, but when they went wrong the repercussions were terrible.
She rang the bell again. Charlie had walked to the end of the terrace. He disappeared down the side. She heard his voice, another male answering. With a final quick glance upwards, she joined him around the corner.
The man Charlie was talking to was middle-aged, wearing jeans and an old, comfortable looking sweatshirt. He had a baseball cap on with some sort of logo on the front. He’d been decorating, or cleaning windows and, as they chatted, he fiddled with a wet rag clutched in his hands, twisting it repeatedly. Charlie still had his warrant card in his hand, so he had obviously taken the conversation to an official level. Tanya stood quietly, it was enough to listen, she didn’t need to join in.
The man shook his head. “No, I don’t think he’s away, as such. There was music; hymns. He’s some sort of a vicar or something in his spare time. We don’t have a lot to do with each other, but he’s no bother.”
“When did you hear the music? Was that today?”
Another shake of the head, a downturn of the thin, dry lips. “Nah, not today. Haven’t heard or seen him today, nor yesterday now you mention it. So, I suppose it was Thursday. Yeah. Thursday night. Quite late.”
“Thanks for that.” Charlie held out his hand, but the other man grinned and wagged the dripping cloth at him.
“No problem, mate. Oh, that’s his car there, the blue one, in front of his garage. I reckon he must be in then. He doesn’t walk anywhere as far as I can see. Not in trouble, is he?”
“No, we just needed a word that’s all.”
“Right.” He turned back to his cleaning.
With Tanya in the lead they went back to the front of the building, rang the bell again. There was still no response. They crossed the road and peered into the car, it was very ordinary. There was a sticker of a fish on the rear wing but that was the only overt indication of his religious affiliation. They rattled at the metal door of the garage. Charlie twisted the handle, but it was pointless because, as well as the lock integral to the handle, there was a padlock threaded through an extra hasp and staple screwed to the frame. It seemed that security might be a priority for George.
None of the others had extra locks and a couple of the doors were slightly open. It was the weekend, people were likely working with their tools, out on bikes. But not George.
It was one of the middle garages, there was no window. Charlie strode along the front, stepping aside to avoid a pool of oil, a couple of fast food cartons, and something else that looked like the results of overindulgence by someone the night before. The pavement down the narrow side passage was cracked and uneven, he had to steady himself with a hand against the wall as he made his way to the back. There were small square windows in the back of the block, one for each unit. A couple of them were broken and he had forgotten to count which one had been pointed out as George Simpson’s.
He was tired, he was becoming less efficient. He sighed. It couldn’t
be helped: a sleepless baby, worry about his wife and the pressure of this case, what did he expect?
Angry with himself he stomped back to the front, counted down the doors. Tanya was trying the boot of the blue car, but of course, that too was locked.
Eventually he was able to peer into the rear window of George Simpson’s garage with his hands either side of his head cutting out the light. The ill-fitting front door let in a sliver of daylight, but it was grey and dim inside. He squinted through the grubby glass expecting general junk, same as his own place and all those of his mates.
It was too dark to see clearly, but the place was tidy. There was a bench, or a table, with a chair in front of it. There was equipment of some sort, looked like a computer. Around the wall were shelves with boxes piled on top of each other. More boxes were on the floor. It was neat.
Tanya joined him, he stood aside to let her have a look. She pulled a torch from her shoulder bag and tried to shine it through the window but all that happened was that the light reflected on the grimy glass making it even more difficult to see anything. She turned to him, frowning. “What do you reckon?”
“Well, no answer from his flat, his car out front, the fact that nobody has seen him, though all indications are that he’s there – it’s odd. It’s unsettling. I can’t make out what’s going on here.” He indicated the grubby rear of the lock up.
Tanya nodded, turned, and went back to the front of the flats. “Try his phone again. Have you got his landline number?”
Charlie nodded, and dialled. They heard the phone ring out, the sound faint through the closed windows. “Try his mobile, though to be honest unless it’s on the window ledge I don’t reckon we’d hear it.” They didn’t.
“I could call and arrange for a warrant to search.” Tanya had taken out her mobile.
“It’s the weekend.”
“Are you worried about Mr Simpson, Charlie?”
He knew what he was supposed to say. They wanted to go inside but to do that they had to be able to say that they believed he was in danger. “Hang on.” He held up a hand and went back around the corner.
The man with the bucket and rags had moved to the rear of the terrace, there was a communal garden there, just a scraggy lawn, a couple of shrubs and a flower border with some petunias giving in to the end of the season.
“Hello mate. Sorry to bother you again.”
The neighbour gave a start, dropped his bucket, splashing grey water on the flags. “Shit mate, you scared the living daylights out of me. I thought you’d gone.”
“Sorry. It’s just that we are a bit worried about Mr Simpson. You wouldn’t know if anyone has a spare key for his flat, would you?” He’d taken out his warrant card again, held it by his side, a reminder that this was official business.
“Yeah, I should think Mrs Singh might well have one. She has one for me as well, most of us really. She’s disabled, doesn’t get out much so it’s handy for tradesmen, stuff like that. Holidays, watering plants, well only on the ground floor obviously, but you know it’s good isn’t it, somebody having a spare?”
Charlie nodded.
“Gives her a chance to see someone, makes her feel useful.” It was said in kindness, no sense of condescension. “She’s two doors down from the entrance on the ground floor, she’s got them grab handles beside her front door and a ramp for the chair.”
“Brilliant. Thanks.”
Mrs Singh was a plump Indian woman wearing a colourful sari. She had a bowl of keys on a shelf beside the front door. They showed her their identification and she rattled and riffled through them and then, with a huge grin, held out a key ring in the shape of a cross. Two keys jingled together as she leaned forward in her wheelchair to hand them over.
“Bloody hell, Tanya, there’s so much wrong with that. She had keys for practically the whole block, she’s vulnerable. That is such a bad idea.”
“You could arrange for a crime prevention visit, but you know what, sometimes it’s best to leave things alone. She feels like she’s helping, would you want to deprive her of that? It’s obviously a decent little community.”
Charlie sighed, “Yeah, I suppose you’re right, in a way, but honestly it really worries me.”
“I won’t stand in your way if you want to do something about it, but let’s just do this for now. I’ve got a bad feeling.”
One key allowed them access through the front door. The narrow hallway was clean and there were a couple of prints on the walls in cheap frames. They climbed two flights of stairs.
At the top there was a tiny square landing and a wooden door with a small reinforced translucent window set in the upper panel. Tanya knocked hard three times, she called out, “Mr Simpson. Police. Could you open the door please?”
Charlie’s phone rang. She turned to look at him, gave him a nod. He peered down, “Sorry.” He swept his hand across the screen. “Granny. Can’t talk right now. I’ll call you back. Okay, okay yes, for sure.”
Tanya smiled at him.
He looked sheepish, embarrassed. “I told her about the television thing. She wanted to know what you look like. I guess she wants to give me her opinion.”
She raised her eyebrows at him, grinned and then turned back and knocked again on the door. “Mr Simpson, we have a key, we are coming in.”
Chapter 36
The pain in Jane’s foot was a dull ache; as long as she didn’t try to move it she could cope without feeling sick. She had managed to slide across the rough floor so that she could lean her back against the wall. She didn’t want to be right there, beside the trap door, if he came back. Didn’t want to be within his reach. Maybe he wouldn’t come back. Maybe she had made him so angry that he would just leave her there.
She wasn’t that bothered any more. It was nearly dark, the pigeons had settled for the night, she had heard them scratching and cooing. She didn’t frighten them away this time, they were a sort of company and anyway, it was mean, and she didn’t want to be mean. If he didn’t come back, and nobody found her, then she would die there. She would die of thirst when the water ran out. She looked at the bottle in her hand, tipped it to feel the liquid inside. There was probably just over a half left. What should she do? She could drink it all back now in a couple of big gulps. That was so tempting, she was very thirsty, but that would be it. Once it was gone she would start to die. She could make it last, take tiny little sips. She tipped the bottle again, she could probably make it last more than a day. She knew that she had plenty of self-control. But if she sipped it slowly would that be enough to keep her alive? Surely she had a set amount of water and whether she dripped it into her body slowly or took it all in one go, it would hardly make any difference. She pulled off the top, tipped the bottle and finished it.
She tossed the bottle aside. Carefully, favouring her injured foot, she slid to the floor, curled into a ball and closed her eyes.
She had no idea how long she slept, the light hadn’t changed, so probably it wasn’t very long. She was very uncomfortable, her hip and shoulder bones ached with the pressure of the hard wood and her neck was stiff. She didn’t move, she listened. She heard him, he was moving about downstairs; if it was him. For a moment she wondered if it could be someone else, someone who was looking for her. Should she call out, hammer on the floor the way she had at first? She didn’t have the energy and anyway, it was probably him. A couple of tears rolled across her cheek, she didn’t bother about them.
She heard him on the ladder, lay still, what did any of it matter? She couldn’t even be bothered to be afraid anymore.
He was hesitant, putting his head through the trap carefully, shining his torch around until he found her. She turned her face to look at him. He ran the cone of light across her body and then it came to rest on her injured foot. She was shocked at the sight of it. Her toes were swollen, and the bruising went as far as her ankle – black and dark bluey green, and angry red. She lifted her head to look at it. It didn’t really look like her foot at
all.
“Oh, look what you did.” He sounded genuinely upset. She turned her head to look at his face but still made no effort to sit or move her body. “Why?” Surely, he didn’t expect an answer. “You were perfect and now…” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do.” Again, he looked at her, as if she could tell him.
“You could just let me go. Just let me go and I promise I won’t tell anyone what you did. I can tell them I ran away.” She didn’t know where the idea came from, but as she said it she felt a stirring of hope. “You could help me down and then, well, either take me back to the café, or just leave me somewhere and I’ll go home and say I ran away. They’ll believe me. I’ve done it before.”
He was shaking his head before she had finished speaking. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I don’t think you’d keep your promise. That’s it you see. You don’t keep your promises. You say you’ll do something and then you don’t. You say you’ll stay and then you go away. Only angels keep their promises and angels are perfect. You’re not perfect. You were, but…” He sighed again. “You can only be an angel if you’re perfect.” He lifted his hand and left two bottles on the floor beside the trap door “There’s not much I can do for you now.” He backed down the ladder closing the hatch and leaving her in the dark.
She slid on her behind to collect the bottles, tore off the plastic top and tipped the cool water into her mouth. She’d save the other one but this one was delicious. She felt drips on her chin, pulled the bottle away. The sides were wet, her hands were wet, how had she spilled it? She put it to her lips again, tipped it, more liquid dripped onto her chin. What was this? She held the bottle up, tilted it. Ran her fingers over the plastic. Just below the lid the outside of the bottle was moist, she held it over her hand, tilted it again. A small drop formed, dripped into her palm. There was a hole in the bottle, a tiny pin prick of a hole. She didn’t know what it meant, but a chill ran through her. She had drunk more than half of the water. She thought for a moment, glanced around the dark space, sighed deeply, pulled the top off the bottle and poured the rest of it into her mouth. She leaned back against the wall. After a while, she felt no fear.
Broken Angel Page 13
