What I Left Behind (The gripping prequel to the DS Jan Pearce Crime Fiction Series)

by Jacqueline Ward

  Glen tries to soften his features but he’s still pumped with stress and instead he looks terrified.

  ‘I can explain about the chemicals. They’re for an experiment. I’m a chemistry graduate. But who’s Maisie Lewis? I don’t know who that is?’

  Pat doesn’t answer for a moment or two. This gives me enough time to assess Glen’s reactions.

  ‘OK. I’ll give you a clue. A one year old child was abducted at nine o’clock on Saturday night. Your vehicle was used in the abduction. We’re fairly sure of that because we found ammonium nitrate traces at the scene of the crime and now we’ve found ammonium nitrate in your flat. It all kind of adds up, doesn’t it, Glen?’

  He flushes. He’s starting to put together the severity of the situation and how he might be implicated.

  ‘I’ve been here all week. I haven’t been out of the house for three days. I’ve got a witness. She’s been here all the time. Haven’t you, babe?’

  The girl in the doorway nods slowly. She’s pale and shaky and tearful. Pat picks up a small zip lock plastic bag from a nearby coffee table. It contains a white powder.

  ‘I’m going to repeat the question Glen. Where’s Maisie Lewis? We’ll get to the explosives later on. At the station. But right now we need to find that child.’

  I lean forward to see Glen’s reaction. I wish I was there to gauge it. To feel his fear and see his pupils dilate and recede, to catch him on the edge of a lie.

  ‘I swear I don’t know anything about any kid. I swear.’

  The officer who took the key appears. He shakes his head. Pat turns to him.

  ‘No vehicle?’

  He nods. Glen loses it. He jumps up and Pat lets him.

  ‘It’s definitely there. I left it there myself on Thursday. I checked on it and locked it up. It was there on Thursday and like I said I haven’t been out since. I swear.’

  Pat’s silent for a moment. I feel bile rise in my throat. Where the fuck is the car then? Who has it?

  ‘OK. Just to be sure, you can show us where the vehicle is. Better make the most of it, Glen, because you won’t be back for a while.’

  The two officers lead Glen to the door. Pat remains. He looks around the rooms, checking for anything that might have been missed.

  ‘Get SOCO here. Full forensics. As soon as possible.’

  He follows Gen and the officers out of the flat, down the road and up a gap between the townhouses. Body cam follows, more fragmented now, and in seconds they’re all around the back, in a built-up off-road area. A small courtyard with bays of white lines for resident’s parking. Pat looks around for cameras to confirm Glen’s story, to see who drove away, because the car is gone. He’s standing in the middle of the courtyard, staring at the spot where he says it was parked. He doesn’t look as confident now. I can see the doubt in his stance, the looking around desperately for clues to who took his car.

  ‘It was there. I swear. I checked it Thursday morning. I parked it up Wednesday night. I’d been out of town. To pick Jane up.’

  He signals towards the flat vaguely. Pat beckons body cam closer, close enough to hear what he says next.

  ‘So you’re telling me, Glen, that after driving out of town you left a shedload of potentially explosive chemicals on a side street in central London?’

  Glen’s silent for a while and I wonder if he’s going to take the bait. There are several responses to this question. There are no chemicals in the car. There isn’t enough in there to explode. I didn’t know they were explosives. He could even laugh in Pat’s face. Or ask for a lawyer. But he goes for the defensive.

  ‘It’s not a full car. About three quarter’s full. And they’re not collated. That was going to be done later.’ He realises just a second too late that he’s incriminated himself. ‘It wasn’t me, though. It wasn’t. I’ve got nothing to do with this. I want a solicitor.’

  Pat breaks out his smile again.

  ‘We’re already onto it. But let me just clarify. Where’s the little girl?’

  Glen’s shouting now. In the unusually silent London streets it echoes.

  ‘I don’t fucking know. I don’t know anything about no girl. That wasn’t the plan.’

  Pat stops in his tracks. He turns to face Glen and raises his eyebrows.

  ‘Oh. The plan. Would that be the Magellan plan?’

  Glen’s knees buckle. His face contorts in pain and he shakes his head.

  ‘I want a solicitor. I’m not sayin’ nothin’ else.’

  Pat shuts it down. He knows that anything else will be extracted in the privacy of a police van on the way to the station.

  ‘OK. Have it your way. I gave you a chance. Let’s take them in. Him and the girl, both of them. Get that flat sealed off and get the roads and the station open as soon as the chemicals have been removed from the property. I want CCTV from all the roads around here from Thursday morning onwards. Let’s see if Glen’s telling the truth. I can’t see any surveillance on these buildings, not overlooking this area, but it would be worth checking private systems in the properties around here.’

  He breaks out his cruel smile again and stares into the body cam lens.

  ‘OK, Manchester, over and out. We’ll resume when we get back to the station and start the questioning. Any questions?’

  Steve breaks the silence.

  ‘No questions. Jan will represent us at the interview. She’ll let you know what we need from him.’

  Pat’s expression softens a little.

  ‘Jan. Great. I’ll look forward to it.’ The smile reappears and I feel a little bit sick. I know what will happen between now and the interview. Pat will do his best to persuade Glen to talk. One way or another. Not my kind of policing, and nothing I can prove, which is partly why I am here and not still there. He looks back into the camera. ‘Bodycam off.’

  The screen blanks and we sit in silence. It slowly sinks in that the silver Range Rover that someone used to abduct Maisie isn’t there. Keith articulates my hope.

  ‘Probably one of his Magellan mates, driven it off. He’s covering for him.’

  We all nod, but I’m not sure. Lauren taps her fingers nervously on the desk. There’s an uncomfortable feeling in me, a sense of foreboding. Like when you think something good’s going to happen, but it doesn’t. Like a burning in my chest that I know is going to force me to take action.

  ‘So we’re no farther forward. And I still think that whoever took Maisie is from round here.’

  Steve swivels his chair to face me.

  ‘Thanks for that, Jan. Thanks a lot.’

  I know my strengths and I know my weaknesses. My weaknesses are mainly to do with my more recent past, the one that forced me out of London and into hiding. But my strengths lie is something that happened when I was very young. I grew up in isolated surroundings, not many friends. Only because we lived in a village and I attended a village school until secondary school. The thing is, I never learned to feel less than.

  I never developed a sense of others being better or worse than me, and I never really picked up on gender roles, despite my parents completely dysfunctional relationship. I spent a lot of time on my own and when I encountered other people, it was my own terms. I was astonished to find out later on that other people had insecurity issues and this is what made me study psychology. What makes the world that way?

  In spite of going through police training, I’ve never lost it. I’ve never lost a sense of being able to speak up when needed, to critique and to challenge. I’ve never really had that sense that other people have told me about of looking foolish or stupid or of others restoring to ad hominine insults. I’m not insensitive. I care deeply about other people. I’m just not concerned what they think of me so much.

  So I’m here to ask the difficult questions. I know that whatever reaction I get is down to the person reacting and their life filter, not mine. It doesn’t make me popular, but it does make me strong. And now is the time to be strong. I face Steve off.

&nbs
p; ‘That’s OK Steve. I wouldn’t want us to meander down a dead end now we’re onto something. All I’m saying is that the MO of the perpetrator isn’t consistent with a hardened activist like Glen Wright. Too disorganised. And knows the area.’

  Steve looks doubtful.

  ‘I don’t think so. I reckon Pat Knowles will get the names of the other members out of him and it’ll be one of them. Maybe it is someone from round here. Maybe not. But what else have we got?’

  Keith has resumed tapping on his keyboard and the rest of the officers have drifted back to the comms stations to avoid the tension. It isolates me and makes me question my own judgement. I know that Steve has to go on what he has, and it’s obvious that Glen Wright has something to do with this, but I’m still not sure.

  ‘Nothing. Except some pieces of paper and circumstantial. But there’s something in the back of my mind about those dolls. It’s a connection with the Lewis’ house and that area. I can’t quite place it.’

  I can see a vein in Steve’s forehead throbbing and he breaks a sweat on his forehead. I hate doing this to people, placing doubt when they think they’re on the right track. Eventually he blows.

  ‘For God’s sake, Jan. I know what you’re saying, but we have to follow the trail. The chemicals. All linked to Glen Wright. That Range Rover. We’ve just had half of London on a detour and we still don’t know where that fucking car is. I’ve got the whole police force looking for it. Every officer in the UK has the registration number, and all the motorways have it programmed into their auto number plate recognition grids. It’s got to be somewhere.’

  I move closer to him.

  ‘Yes. You’re right. It has to be somewhere. The car and the chemicals have to be somewhere. But you know, Steve, you didn’t mention Maisie. Not once in did you mention that little girl. It’s almost as if you’ve separated her abduction and the bomb making material in your mind, because the evidence doesn’t fit.’

  He steps backwards, avoiding my accusations.

  ‘I haven’t. No. I haven’t. We find the car, we find Maisie.’

  I lean in because he needs to face the truth.

  ‘But the thing is, Glen Wright knows all about those chemicals. He knows all about Magellan and the collation, as he called it. The plan. He’s going to tell Pat who he thinks has that car. I know Pat. He’ll have him ready to talk by now. But the problem is, Glen knows nothing about Maisie. Nothing at all.’

  He’s silent for a moment. I know he’s going over the arrest footage in his mind.

  ‘He could be lying. It’s not unknown, you know.’

  He’s right, he could. But all the signs say he’s not. I’m sure of it.

  ‘Believe me, he’s not lying. He completely panicked when Pat hit him with the abduction. He’s desensitised to the chemicals, convinced himself that it’s all in a good cause, for the greater good and all that. He’s all ready to defend that. But the kid threw him. That’s when he lost it.’

  Steve’s thinking. Trying to work round this revelation.

  ‘So one of the Magellan members takes the car and takes Maisie. They’d have a motive. You heard what Marc Lewis said about them, they’re everywhere he is, all over his business, and the intelligence.’

  I look at him. He’s pale and tired and it’s five past four. I don’t expect he slept last night. His greying hair is greasy from him running his fingers through it and his shirt collar is slightly blackened around the crease.

  ‘The only thing is, Steve, if it’s a gang thing, this Magellan, and they’re so tight, why didn’t whoever it is just tell Glen they were taking the car? And where’s the ransom demand?’

  Steve looks at the clock too. Nineteen hours since Maisie disappeared from her bed.

  Chapter Ten.

  An hour later I’m taking a call from Sally Rushworth. Sally used to be my Lauren at the Met, my understudy, always willing to go above and beyond, ever waiting for me to leave. So that she can step into my shoes.

  ‘Oh my God. Jan. How’ve you been?’

  I snort under my breath. How’ve I been? I would have thought that was obvious from my absence.

  ‘Good, Sal, good. You?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m working with Pat now, and sometimes Andy. You know.’

  Yes I do know. I know exactly. When I don’t speak she launches into the reason for her call.

  ‘You sure you’re OK, Jan? Only you seem different. Not different but… I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it.’

  I roll my eyes at the phone. Some people have no tact. She’s more like Lauren than I thought.

  ‘I’m fine. Sally. Just fine.’

  ‘Right. So could I have your number? Only I’d love to keep in touch.’

  And there it is. Right there, right at the beginning of my return to London. Someone asking for my mobile number, after I haven’t been in touch for a long time. It’s always awkward with phone numbers. You feel almost obliged to give your number out to anyone who asks for it, for fear of snubbing them. But it’s not awkward for me. Not awkward at all, and the wave of panic that passes through me when she asks reminds me why.

  ‘I don’t have a personal mobile. You can ring me at the station.’

  There’s a short silence.

  ‘Don’t have a mobile? Bloody hell, Jan? You used to have one, though. I have your old number here. I tried it a couple of times.’

  I sigh. I really didn’t want this scenario. I wanted to disappear, stay anonymous. Away from all those people in London who knew so much about me. Who wanted me dead.

  ‘Yeah. I have a work one, but, you know, the rules. No outside conversations and all that.’

  ‘Even at your level? Harsh. Anyway. I’m going to be in on the interview with Glen Wright. Is there anything in particular you want me to observe? I’ll be doing the behavioural analysis stuff.’

  I know that ‘just like you did’ is on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn’t say it. Just like you did in the job you loved so much. Lived for. And almost died for. Just like you, with your colleagues and in the city that’s so vibrant and loved by you, but where you can’t go now. But my panic retreats now she’s firmly focussed on work.

  ‘Yes. Yes there is. I expect he’ll be in the mood to speak about the chemicals, but in the initial interview he said he had no idea about Maisie Lewis, the little girl who’s gone missing. I need you to watch him very closely to see if he’s lying. There’s got to be a connection and he’s got the key to it.’

  ‘Right. Will do. I’m sure that Pat will find that key, and lovely to speak to you again, Jan, really. If you’re ever down here let me know. We could go for a drink or something?’

  ‘Thanks Sally. I definitely will if I’m ever in London.’

  This I won’t be. Ever. Not if I have my way. I end the call and go back to the main room where everyone is gathered to watch Glen Wright’s interview. Sky News looms large in the background of a monitor nearby. I see that the press are still focusing on the Lewis’s home and there are some aerial shots of the area, which is good, because it’s another resource to find the Range Rover. I watch as the news helicopter swoops over Dovestones reservoir. I watch for a silver oblong amongst the high rocks and back roads, or parked up in the many picnic sites that I know are dotted around the place that I know like the back of my hand. I wonder how Amy and Marc are coping and get my phone out to call Lorraine. But the large screen flashes blue then Pat Knowles appears.

  ‘I can see you all the time. But the sound will go off for me during the interview. If you have anything, signal it by raising a hand. Jan. I’ve missed you, mate. Looking good.’

  Looking into the background of the stark interview room, I can see a small screen in front of Pat and Sally, turned away towards the opposite side of the desk. I wave weakly and some of the officers smile at me.

  ‘Hi Pat. Good to see you too. What’s the crack then?’

  He laughs loudly. It was our catchphrase. What’s the crack? In another life when none of us knew what
was just around the corner. We all had passwords that would let us know that it was really us when we text each other, and they were never disclosed to anyone, but in the team we all knew each other’s. If the chips were down, we’d have to repeat where the password was sourced, for extra security. Mine was Rhiannon, as in Fleetwood Mac, as it’s the name I would have loved to be called and a fabulous song. Pat’s was Hollywood. After Bob Segar’s Hollywood Nights, his theme tune. I’ve never seen anyone look less Hollywood than Pat. Maybe that was the point. Pat looks much greyer and has more lines than when I last saw him last, when he was thirty. Now he looks nearer fifty. He’s aged about fifteen years. None of us got away lightly, it occurs to me.

  ‘What’s the crack? Bloody hell Jan that takes me back. Happy days, eh? Happy days.’

  Some of them were, to be sure. And what else can he say now? But I can tell from his eyes, the depth of the sorrow that still remains, that he’s fared no better than me in the meantime.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah they were.’

  He relaxes a little, both of us safe in the knowledge that we’re on the same page.

  ‘Right. This little fucker. Glen Wright. I’ve persuaded him that if he tells us what we want to know we’ll try to reduce the terrorism charge. I think he’ll talk. But just to let you know, he’s still saying he knows nothing about the kid and his Dad has got him a shit hot lawyer. Sally’s going to assist. You remember Sally, don’t you?’

  I smile. It’s odd to see Pat and Sally in an interview room I know so well, and not be there myself. But there’s no time for reminiscing because the back door, the one that leads from the cells, opens, and Glen Wright comes in followed by his solicitor. Glen’s deflated and his shoulders droop. I look at Steve and he looks surprised. He leans over and whispers to me.

  ‘Jesus. What’s he done to him?’

  ‘Oh. He’s got his methods. He’s not big on the cognitive interview. But he won’t have laid a finger on him.’