What I Left Behind (The gripping prequel to the DS Jan Pearce Crime Fiction Series)
Page 5
I know what he means. But it’s hard to see what else there is to look at. All the teams up at the Lewis' have gone over the house and the area with a fine-tooth comb and come up with what we have.
‘But forensics have scanned now. What more is there?’
He wipes his forehead. The lift stops but he holds the doors closed. His pale skin looks grey with worry.
‘There’s something else. Something we’ve missed. We’ve found fingerprints and bits of paper with a connecting chemical signature. But we can’t find the vehicle. Think around it Jan. Go back up there and think about it.’
The doors try to open, but he holds them firmly closed.
‘You can do it Jan. If anyone can do it, you can.’
When the doors part we walk into the lab. Petra’s already there and she shows us to a room where two technicians are waiting. We join them and she put out the lights.
‘I wanted to show you the effects of ammonium nitrate so that you know what we are dealing with.’
My heart sinks. This is going to be difficult for all of us. Especially Steve. But he steps up.
‘Wasn’t it used in the Trade Centre bomb? And… others?’
I see him wince at not so distant memories. In response she presses play on the remote control and the screen flickers into life. A film showing a large amount of ammonium nitrate being detonated runs and then changes to a different perspective. The resulting explosion is so large it makes us turn our faces away. I see the flames reflected on Steve’s pale face, and on Petra’s glasses. Fear rushes through my body. She turns the lights back on.
‘Of course, it has to be detonated. It’s unlikely to explode without a detonator or the presence of other chemicals.’
Steve’s calm, but obviously shaken. His hands are visible trembling and he’s blinking fast.
‘Do you think the chemical is in the vehicle, Petra, or stored somewhere?’
She thinks for a moment.
‘Impossible to say. All we know is that the person who abducted Maisie, and handled the notes, has been near it. Until we find the vehicle and Maisie we’re in the dark.’
Petra gives Steve the paperwork and they both sign it. Steve leaves us and goes off to arrange for the necessary security and I wait to speak to Petra while I push my own terror down to the depths and struggle to keep calm. She’s busy finding out if the handwriting analysis is back, which it isn’t. Eventually she comes and sits with me.
‘What is it? Is there something else?’
There is something else. Something that’s been playing on my mind and I need to share.
‘Yes. This case has escalated big time. To frightening proportions. But I can’t get past the crime scene. So careless.’
It’s difficult for Petra to give an opinion and I feel bad asking her. But she does anyway.
‘My job is to analyse whatever’s there. I’ve seen worse. But agreed, it seemed like the work of an amateur.’
So I’m not imagining it.
‘Mmm. Not just that. What’s really bugging me, what doesn’t fit with any of this, is those paper dolls. Who would go to all that trouble? It’s the MO of a single operator, unbalanced, with their own signature. This is much bigger. Abducted child and ammonium nitrate. Steve’s right, this is more like the work of a group or organisation, someone with a plan. The dolls? Well, I could understand it if it was some kind of a symbolism known only to the perpetrator. But that seems unlikely if it’s a group. What organised criminal gang is likely to sit cutting out paper dollies?’
She’s more animated when I mention the dolls.
‘That’s been bothering me too. Dolls mean a lot of things to a lot of people. Childhood. Collectables. Babies. Then there are the messages. They hardly seem like threats. Against children. More a statement of fact. Out of keeping with hardened criminals. More stalker or… oh I don’t know. We need more, Jan. We need more.’
I stand and she hugs me.
‘You go back and do what you can.’
I leave and as I look back she’s watching me. I can see her sadness and I know she shares my fear for Maisie and what could happen with the potent chemicals. And the unspoken fear that we all shared, whoever had Maisie was going to take put a nuclear power plant.
This is one of the times I wish I was driving. As it is, I have to get a police van to take me up to Saddleworth. I hop up into the front and watch the concrete turn to rolling hills as I consider what Steve said. I should do what I do. I can’t accurately describe how I do what I do but it involves being in the right state of mind and taking action. It’s a bit like the lines out of Shakespeare’s Henry V.’ But when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger: Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage…’
Summon up the blood. It’s like becoming a more acute version of me, where all the little details stand out of the background. But it isn’t some magical process. It comes for years of reflexive training and excluding the outside world for the duration of enquiries. I’ve never taken drugs, but some of my close friends have told me that LSD produces a distorted world of altered sensory perception. I guess my experience of being in the zone is close to this but without the bizarre ideas that go with tripping.
I can dip in and out of it once the blood, as it were, is summoned. Right now, as we arrive at Marc Lewis’s home, I can confirm that the blood is truly here. The vista that meets me is a blanket of yellow making its way up the sloping moor behind the Lewis’s house. As we turn into the dirt track I see two cars parked at end of the Link Lane, behind a cordon. One of the occupants jumps out and presses a camera against the van window and it momentarily blinds me. Oh my God. It’s happened. For the first time since I’ve left London I’ve been snapped.
The flash hits my retinas and I’m back in the middle of the Met investigation, the paparazzi hounding me on bikes and me driving through the busy London streets, winding in and out of lanes and pressing the blue light onto the roof of my car. My heart beating fast in my chest. Pulse racing. That’s how you learn to control it, by doing it and facing the fear.
I’m shocked, but I have to carry on. I have to put Maisie first. As we draw to a halt just before the gate I realise that this is probably the start of the abductors journey. I turn to the driver, a young officer who was at the morning briefing and knows what is going on, hence his driving just a little bit faster than normal.
‘Thanks. Can I just ask, what made you park here? Just here. Before the gate?’
He thinks for a minute.
‘Instinct, I expect. Not wanting to block the gate. Not wanting to park farther on and have to walk back. I dunno. Seems the natural place.’
I get out of the van and walk around the outside of the wall. None of the duty officers stop me; they recognise me and nod. At first the grass is short but farther on it gets longer. Even in daylight the path is difficult and all I can see is the moor to one side, backed by black hills, and the wall to the other side. I can’t see the house.
I walk on until I reach the hedge. It takes about forty seconds and I manage to squeeze through the end of the hedge fairly easily, although I’m scratched by the sharp edges of branches. I’m facing the outside of the Lewis’s bedroom, with the huge windows. The perpetrator would have taken a big risk; there was no way to check that no one is in the bedroom, and nowhere to hide if there is. I step onto the lawn and continue to Maisie’s room, which is sealed off now.
I call inside for someone to remove the polythene from the window. The tall forensics officer I met yesterday pulls it away and I climb through the window. It’s no struggle for me at five feet five inches and one sixty pounds. Once inside I get a feel for exactly what the abductor saw. The picture, the cot, Maisie asleep. I turn back to the window; climb out again, then back in, taking care to note the points where the window fastener catches my clothes around the shoulder and the waist as I step into the room.
I know that the doll was fou
nd on the floor, folded as if it had been stepped on. I look back out of the window. What was the doll? What’s its significance? It’s still bugging me when Lauren Dixon comes up behind me.
‘Jan. Anything?’
I snap out of the zone and face her.
‘No. I only just got here. What about you?
‘Not yet.’ I see her glance at the picture. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking but how do you do it in cases like this?’
I look at the floor. I know where this is going.
‘Do what?’
‘Well wouldn’t you have to empathise with the parents? And how would you do that? You don’t have any children.’
I stiffen up, but only imperceptibly. No one would be able to detect the tightening of the sinews in my jaw, and the crushing of my heart. It sounds like a genuine question, but from Lauren it has undertones of ‘wouldn’t I be better based on the premise that I’ve given birth?’
I suddenly flash back to a cold office. Three plastic chairs and only me sitting there. The one next to me is empty and a chill had run through my soul as a door opened and someone different to who I was expecting entered and smiled tightly. I push it down, down into my soul. It’s not time now for this. Not now.
‘Lauren. I’ve studied. I’ve got several years in the field. I know what I’m doing. I’m not coming at this from a purely subjective level at all. You should know that. It’s a mixture of that, objectivity and strong instinct. And knowing how to use them.’
She looks at me but doesn’t say anything. It’s one of those ‘you’re not getting great results with that though, are you?’ looks. I ignore her and press on.
‘Did you get the camera footage from the shops and the station?’
She pulls down her peplum jacket.
‘All underway. Keith should have a complete set of CCTV for the whole proposed route in about half an hour.’
I look at my phone. No messages, but I realise that it’s ten o’clock. Thirteen hours since Maisie was taken. Lauren is staring at me.
‘So, what’s next, Lauren? Have you been up to the farms to see of anyone asked for directions?’
Her eyes go to her thin heeled shoes and natural tights, under a tight short skirt.
‘No. Not yet. I thought one of the interview team could go.’
I walk round the room and Maisie’s eyes follow me. I wonder what she’s seeing now and what she’s feeling. Missing her mum. Missing her dad. I hope beyond hope that she’s safe, and the sick feeling I have makes me unnecessarily sharp with Lauren.
‘Look, just go up there, will you. Borrow some wellies or something. This is important Lauren. More important than your suit.’
She hurries off and I’m immediately sorry. She’s a city girl, not used to mud and bogs. Not used to endless dusty tracks and heather. Even so, it’s better that I’m alone again to get a feel for this place. The geographic profiling is pretty clear. The other locations were very public and even though the perpetrator took a chance by walking through the garden, lit by the bedroom lamps, twice. It was easier pickings than the city. But why hang about in the bedroom? Picking up pictures? Touching everything without gloves?
I pin the polythene up at the window and turn to go. Before I leave the room I have a last look at the picture of Maisie and the flame of my rage rises higher, and I promise her again that I’ll find her soon.
I walk down the hallway and turn off into the lounge. Lorraine gets up quickly. Amy Lewis looks like she has taken a sedative. Her eyes are docile and hooded from crying, and she barely registers my presence. Marc is at his computer and I can see, even from this distance, he’s scanning news sites for any snippet of information. He’s so involved in his task that he doesn’t see me in the doorway.
I look past him out of the lounge window and into the garden. I can see the front gate clearly from here and I wonder if, with the curtains drawn, as they were yesterday evening, traffic from the road can be heard. I get my answer before I test the theory. Lorraine greets me.
‘Hi Jan. I didn’t see you come in.’
‘Didn’t you hear the van? It’s parked just outside the gate.’
I move over to the window. I can’t see the van from here. Lorraine shakes her head.
‘No. And I wouldn’t have heard it either. The whole building is triple glazed. Industrial level. Amy said it’s so cold they have to keep the heating on, even in summer. Come round the back did you?’
I nod. ‘Yes. I came around the back. And no one saw me arrive. Not Lauren, not the forensics team and not Lorraine. And not the Lewis.'
Chapter Six.
Marc turns around when he hears me. I immediately sense a change in his demeanour from last night. His eyes are red-rimmed and his skin the pale grey of someone worried for their child, but he’s more alert and business like. He shakes my hand.
‘DC Pearce.’
I meet his eyes. Fear mixed with sadness. No sign of anger. Not yet.
‘Jan, please.’
He signals me to sit down on the sofa, in the place he was sitting last night. He stands beside me.
‘Right. The thing is, I’ve been thinking. I can be part of your investigation. I can help you look for Maisie. It’s an impossible situation, me sitting here and doing nothing.’
I glance at Lorraine. She out of his line of vision makes a confused face and shakes her head. I think fast. I need to keep him on side. Stop him from speaking to the press. From meddling and making matters worse.
‘Well I wouldn’t say that you’ve been doing nothing Marc. I wouldn’t say that at all. You’ve been very helpful. All the information about your daughter and the house.’
He begins to pace around. All the energy he needs to use to look for his daughter is trying to escape any way it can. Anyone could see that he’s like a caged animal.
‘Look. I need to be out there searching. I need to be looking for her. I need to be visible, so that she knows I’m there for her.’
Amy starts to cry again and Lorraine comforts her. I think quickly. What’s the best way Marc Lewis can help us?
‘Actually, Marc, I’m here to ask you a few questions. About the threats you mentioned yesterday. I need to talk to you about any organisations that might be targeting you and your business. I need as much information as you can give me, Marc.’
He thinks for a minute.
‘But I sent all the threats from my work server to someone called Keith Johnson.’
‘And he’ll index them. But I need your impression, Marc. That’s just a list. I need to know who you think this is. Your best guess.’
He’s mulling it over. I know how tough it is to dredge your memory banks when you are under immense pressure. How all thoughts lead back to your current problem, and away from logic? He’s trying. Finally he sits down and looks at me, his eyes filling with tears.
‘There are so many. It’s hard to say. On one hand there are the financial aspects. My business in worth millions of dollars. There’s a lot of competition, but there are unspoken rules, even amongst third world countries. One a contract is won, one the land in claimed, we leave each other alone. We don’t piss in our own back yard, so to speak. If it were this that had triggered someone breaking into my house and taking my daughter I’d be very surprised. They’d take me. Sad to say, but to them, I’m worth more than Maisie.’
I take my phone from under my bra strap and text Keith with some notes. Marc watches me and frowns as I remove my phone from my clothing.
‘So I can hear it. I need to be available at all times.’
He’s satisfied with this and he continues.
‘So if it’s not the business end, it’s got to be the activists. I’d have thought their best bet would be to get the media to cover whatever protest they have thought up and beat us down that way. They’ve already got massive PR this way and again, I’m fucking astonished that they would use my little girl to get attention. Although more lately some of them have been getting closer to us.’
‘Oh. Who?’
‘Names? They don’t go by names. Sometimes they use codenames, but we don’t take much notice of them. Usually poster campaigns, sometimes they pay for adverts in the press. Sometimes personal stuff like throwing eggs and paint, or damage to our vehicles. They’re different to the financial organisations, which’re running a tight ship where money is no object and they bribe people to achieve their objective. But don’t get me wrong. The activists are just as organised, but in a different way. They might appear to be haphazard and a bit bumbly with their camps, but they go the long haul. The organised gangs have the quick hit; the activists have the sit in. Both are as damaging in their different ways.’
Both effective, but neither fit the profile of this crime. I look at my phone. Two messages. One from Steve. ‘Integrity secured’. He’s done it. He’s shut down access to the national infrastructure. Lorraine has just read the same message and again she looks confused. That’s good. It means the communications blanket strategy has worked and word hasn’t reached her yet. The second message is from Keith. ‘First sweep complete. No further evidence found.’
Fuck. The sweep of the evidence area up here will be much easier than somewhere urban, where all nature of items are collected, most of them of no consequence. Up here, in an almost
Barren wasteland outside the property walls, save for some heather and scrub, there’s not much to find at all.
I carry on with Marc, ever mindful of the time ticking on. I repeat my question.
‘Who’s been getting closer, Marc?’
‘A couple of specific activists. You could probably find their photos in the newspapers. Their faces come up again and again, not just with us but on the banking protests and suchlike. We think they’re professional protesters. They’ve been round at our offices in London, trying to get in. We have a key fob security system, al the latest technology, but somehow they got hold of someone’s fob and gained access. We found them in one of the stairwells, one of the security guys noticed them acting strangely.’