The Greenway

by Jane Adams

  ‘And when you couldn’t find her and she didn’t come back?’ He knew the answer from last night’s interviews, but still . . .

  ‘We got scared.’ It was Beth who replied this time. ‘Jenny said Sara might be hurt or something and we should get help. We was late then too. I thought my mum would be mad.’

  ‘So you went back to the village?’

  Beth nodded. ‘Tom and Joe stayed behind just in case she really was hiding and thought we’d all gone and left her.’

  ‘And who thought of that?’ Mike asked gently.

  ‘Jenny did.’

  Mike smiled at the child, gave Jenny an approving nod. ‘Well, I think that was very sensible of her, don’t you?’

  He’d let them go then. Parents had stayed to speak to him, bewildered, angry. He had felt the entire pressure of this close-knit community bearing down on him. One of theirs was missing. Just what was he going to do about it?

  He sighed.

  If it hadn’t been for Jenny, insisting that the two boys remain behind, he would have assumed abduction. That the little girl had been hiding, hoping to scare her friends maybe and let the joke go too far, been snatched as she came back onto the main road. That in itself would have been coincidence piled on coincidence, but it would have made a kind of sense, given him somewhere to start. As it was . . .

  ‘Sir?’

  Sergeant Enfield’s voice cut through his thoughts. He turned towards him. ‘Yes, Bill?’

  The other man relaxed, smiled slightly. ‘We’ve had a phone call.’

  ‘I imagine we’ve had a lot of those.’

  Bill Enfield allowed himself the luxury of a full smile this time. ‘More than a few,’ he acknowledged, ‘but this one might be useful.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You ever get to meet DI Tynan? Held your job before Flint.’

  Mike shook his head. ‘No, we never got to meet. Why?’

  ‘Well, that’s who the call was from. Offers his services he does, should you want them.’

  Mike cast the older man a puzzled look. By tacit consent they had begun to walk back to the village and the incident room set up in the village hall.

  ‘I get the feeling you think I should accept,’ he said.

  ‘Could do worse.’

  There was a pause. Mike had held his post here for a few months only. Long enough though to get to know the regional officers like Bill Enfield. Long enough to know that Bill was best telling things his own way. He waited as the older man prepared himself ‘Tynan investigated a similar case. A child, gone missing, playing on the Greenway. Name of—’

  ‘Ashmore. Suzanne Ashmore. Sorry, Bill, the jungle drums got in ahead of you.’

  ‘We don’t have no jungle drums here, boy, we beat our own rhythm out on the boat keels.’ He smiled quickly at Mike. There had been liking between them right from when Mike had first joined Divisional. Not like his predecessor. Flint was a by-the-book man. This one had respect for local knowledge, local people, men like himself, doing the same job year in year out.

  ‘But since you know so much you’ll know that Suzie Ashmore was never found.’ He paused before continuing. ‘First big case Tynan ever handled that was and it rankled with him all through that he couldn’t solve it.’ He paused again, looked sideways at Mike. ‘I told them at control to pass on he’d be welcome. Sir.’ This last a gentle reminder that they’d reached the first houses.’

  ‘All right, Sergeant. If ex-DI Tynan feels he has something to say then I’ll listen. But dammit, Enfield, that was what, fifteen years ago?’

  ‘More like twenty, sir.’

  ‘Coincidence, has to be.’ He shrugged, suddenly angry. What else could it be? He felt too a moment of irritation towards Enfield. Bill Enfield thought he needed a hand-holder, did he? He squashed the thought almost as it arrived. If Bill Enfield had a moment of doubt on that score, Mike would know it by now. Lower rank he might be, but round here it was experience, local knowledge that counted. Flint, Mike’s predecessor had fallen flat on his face by ignoring that, had practically sunk without trace in the cow shit.

  He sighed, grimaced slightly and spoke. ‘We’d better talk to the parents again.’

  * * *

  Cassie had taken the news better than Anna had hoped. She read the report carefully, face pale and drawn, but seemed calm, concerned only for the child.

  ‘I should tell them I was there,’ she said.

  ‘When?’ Anna questioned.

  ‘Last night, well, evening really. Six, six-thirty, you remember, I went for a walk just before we drove out to Norwich.’

  ‘You went there, to the Greenway, on your own? Did you see them, the children I mean? No. I guess they would have gone by then.’ She frowned. The woman in the shop, she said they were searching. Didn’t you see anyone?’

  Cassie shook her head thoughtfully. ‘There was no one on the Greenway, not then. But if they were searching for her they’d surely have moved further out by then. There’s not that much of the Greenway to search.’

  Fergus, standing behind her, placed hands gently on Cassie’s shoulders.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we should let someone know. You might have seen something, without knowing it, I mean.’ He broke off, hands moving gently to massage his wife’s shoulders. He could feel the tension in them, feel her shaking. He cursed silently. Why this? Why now? It ruined everything. Then he felt overwhelmed by guilt as he thought of the child, wherever she was. Dead maybe, or alive and frightened. Of her parents. His hands tightened on Cassie as the questions in his head repeated themselves, just to spite him. Why this? Why now?

  ‘They’ve set up an incident room,’ Simon said. ‘We talked to the Thorsons at the shop, found out what we could. Said if they needed extra help with anything . . .’

  Fergus nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said. This tragedy was theirs as well, he thought. For good or ill they were involved.

  Suddenly, he felt completely overwhelmed. The peace, the optimism of only an hour or so ago evaporating like sea mist, the resentment he felt as unbearable as it was unfair. He swallowed nervously, feeling very selfish, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, felt Cassie’s shoulders begin to shake more violently as if his own grief communicated to her through his touch.

  ‘Cassie. Love.’

  She seemed to collapse forward out of his partial embrace, head dropping, burying her face in her arms resting on the tabletop.

  ‘Cassie!’

  Fergus reached out for her again, only to be distracted by a sharp rap on the outer door. Reluctantly, Anna went to open it. She returned a few moments later, a young constable in tow.

  ‘It’s the police,’ she said irrelevantly. ‘They’re doing house-to-house, want to ask some questions.’

  The officer glanced at her, then allowed his gaze to travel over the others in the room, finally resting on Cassie, her head raised now, trying to regain some measure of control.

  ‘Are you all right, Miss?’ he asked.

  * * *

  Mike allowed the local man to precede him into the Cassidys’ sitting room, detaining the WPC in the hallway. The young woman looked pale and tired, well into overtime now and feeling the strain. He didn’t envy her. Close, undiluted proximity to grief was worse, far worse than a night of activity. Hard work could be remedied by a hot bath and a night’s sleep. The kind of watching, supporting role she had been playing only sapped the mind.

  ‘How are they coping?’ It was, he knew, a silly question.

  She gave him a wry, somewhat crooked smile. ‘Stopped raging and started crying at around two, sir. Doctor came and gave Janice, Mrs Cassidy, a sedative, so she’s had a bit of sleep. Mr’s spent the night pacing. Keeps going to the garden gate, watching for her.’ She sighed. ‘Any more news, sir?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing yet. We’ll see what house-to-house turns up, take it from there.’ He gave her a sympathetic look. ‘I’ll get someone in to relieve you, soon as we can.’

  From the si
tting room he could hear Bill Enfield’s voice, low and calm as ever, the modulated burr of it designed to sooth. Too much to hope it would work now. He could hear Mrs Cassidy, voice high and plaintive, words broken and her husband, angry, bewildered. He turned to enter the room. ‘Go down and get yourself fed,’ he told the WPC. She smiled, thanked him and disappeared with almost inhuman haste.

  Sighing, Mike entered the room.

  Janice Cassidy was seated on a small blue sofa, husband beside her. She was, he guessed in her early thirties, but right now she could have been anything up to fifty. Short blonde hair that should have stood in slightly spiky waves, sagged above a pleasantly high forehead softened by a sparse fringe. Wet blue eyes, red-rimmed. It was easy to see where Sara Jane had got her prettiness. Her slight tendency towards plumpness too. The father was dark, tall, heavily built. His dark eyes as red-rimmed as his wife’s.

  ‘Well?’ Cassidy demanded.

  Mike waited before answering, sat down opposite them and leaned forward slightly as he began to talk. ‘Right now, I don’t have any answers, Mr Cassidy. But . . . please, Mr Cassidy, if you’ll let me finish.’ He deliberately allowed his voice to rise a little, to allow a note of hardness to creep in. All night these people had endured sympathy, soft reassurances. Now, he suspected, that was the last thing they needed. They wanted action, someone who at least gave the appearance of being in control.

  Cassidy had fallen silent, surprised at the change in tone. He glared, seemed about to start again so Mike spoke quickly.

  ‘Right now, I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know. We need answers just as much as you do. We’re drafting in every extra officer the force can supply. The incident room’s set up and we’re conducting house-to-house, we’ll know more when those interviews are complete.’ He hoped.

  Cassidy had begun to protest again. ‘We should be out looking. Not sitting here on our bums doing fuck all.’

  ‘Please, Jim.’ His wife laid her hand on his arm.

  ‘We should be though. She could be hurt, could be anywhere.’

  Mrs Cassidy bit her lip hard as tears threatened again, her husband circling an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘Should be out looking for her,’ he repeated, but some of the fight had gone now.

  Mike relaxed a little, knowing that he was getting through. ‘If you feel up to it you can join the search later.’ He felt Bill Enfield’s eyes on him, disapproving, but continued anyway. ‘We’ll be asking for volunteers, anyone who can spare an hour or so.’

  Cassidy nodded. For the first time there was a slight relaxation of the muscles at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘We’ll need you to help liaise between the different groups.’ He felt Bill ease off on him. Liaison, well that was different from actually putting the parents in the front line where they might find . . . well, he’d rather not think that far.

  ‘We’ll need you with us, need to know everything we can about where Sara likes to play, her hiding places, the kind of games she likes, anything that might give us a clue. We know that she ran into the Greenway, we don’t know where she might have gone to after that.’ He paused, hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Tell me about her, what’s she like? A loner or someone who wants to be in a group?’ He paused again, then smiled encouragingly. The Cassidys exchanged a quick look, not knowing where to begin, but, it seemed, glad to be at least involved in something. Mrs Cassidy tried to speak, then closed her mouth again, suddenly, as though clamping down on threatened tears. Mike could feel the whole scenario threatening to collapse and prepared another tack. It was Bill Enfield who rescued him, getting to his feet and smiling at Janice Cassidy. ‘Maybe I could help you make some tea, my dear,’ he suggested, opening the living-room door and waiting for her to move. She rose gratefully, finding refuge in the ordinary, the practical, in Bill Enfield’s quiet authority.

  Mike waited until they had gone, glancing around the room before speaking. Cassidy got in first, asking the question uppermost in his mind.

  ‘You think she’s dead?’ He asked it brusquely, with artificial calm. He might have been asking for a judgement on the day’s weather.

  For a moment, Mike weighed platitudes. Then shook his head. ‘I don’t want to think that, Mr Cassidy. None of us do.’

  Cassidy stared at him as though hoping for more. Then he sighed, leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes.

  ‘Jim,’ he said, ‘might as well call me Jim.’ He shook himself as though it would help to clear his head. Mike, sensing he wanted time to get his thoughts in order, glanced around the room again.

  ‘You’re a farm worker.’

  ‘Yes, foreman up at Top Farm.’

  Mike nodded. The room was comfortable. Two matching sofas, blue moquette. They looked new. Then the chair he was sitting in. Old, scuffed and faded-green leather with a peculiar studded pattern on the face of both arms.

  The curtains had a newish look to them, bought maybe to go with the sofas. The carpet, older, had begun to fade.

  There were photos and cheap prints everywhere. The photos, many of them featuring Sara Jane, had the look of family snapshots, taken by a competent amateur. The prints the kind that Mike’s wife had been fond of. The kind of thing that could be seen everywhere.

  Sara Jane was an only child.

  Why did that make it worse?

  Cassidy was speaking again. Voice low, controlled.

  ‘The boss called earlier, said you was to have any men you needed. Nothing much’ll get done today I reckon.’ He stopped again, looking Mike in the eyes.

  ‘Round here, we don’t expect these things to happen. Not here.’ He leaned forward. Mike could already guess what he was about to hear, knew the man had to say it and got his official protest at the ready.

  ‘You hear me, Mr Detective Inspector Croft, you just listen. You’d better find her and you’d better find the bastard that took her away. For his sake, Mr Detective Inspector, you’d better pray for his sake that you get to him first.’

  Chapter 6

  Anna gave the constable one of her best ‘I’m not feeling intimidated by a mere policeman’ smiles and offered him tea. He declined, politely, a little queasily too, Anna thought. No doubt the same offer had been made more than once this morning.

  Cassie, more composed now, had turned towards him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was just upset, the news, it . . . it made me think of things.’

  ‘Miss?’

  Fergus took over.

  ‘We were just on our way down to you, Officer. To the incident room that is.’

  ‘Really, sir.’ The young man’s face took on an air of careful, professional interest. ‘Well, any help you feel you can give . . . ?’

  He left the implied question hanging between them. Fergus sighed. ‘It’s probably nothing very useful,’ he said, trying very hard to give Cassie a breathing space.

  The constable waited with polite, but impatient attention. Fergus took the plunge.

  ‘The fact is, my wife was walking in the Greenway at around six last night. I know it’s not the time in question, but it’s always possible she might have seen something and not realized it. We, well that is—’ He broke off, looked at Cassie who sat motionless but seemingly composed. ‘The fact is, we thought we should at least report it.’

  The constable nodded slowly. This was not news to him. The searchers out last evening had reported seeing the woman walking in the direction of the Greenway, had called out to her. They said she had waved and walked on, obviously too far distant to hear them.

  He glanced once more around the room. There was tension here that ran far deeper than mere distress for a child none of these strangers even knew. He turned his attention back to Cassie.

  ‘If I could just have your name.’

  ‘Cassie, Cassandra Maltham,’ She indicated Fergus. ‘This is my husband.’ Her tone, almost over-controlled, made Fergus think of formal introductions. He reacted to her tone automatically, reache
d out, almost as though to shake hands, saw the young officer’s face and allowed his hand to drop uselessly to his side once more.

  The Constable wrote the names down. ‘And you were on your own, Mrs Maltham?’

  Cassie nodded.

  ‘And about what time was this?’

  Cassie wasn’t certain. ‘Six, six-fifteen, no later.’

  ‘She was back here by six-thirty. We left then to go into Norwich.’ Anna had spoken quickly, almost defensively. She fell silent as the officer glanced at her, a slight frown creasing the space between his eyebrows.

  ‘Thank you, Miss,’ he said, pointedly, and turned back to Cassie. Anna sighed, sat down at the table opposite her friend.

  ‘So you were back here by six-thirty then?’

  Cassie nodded. ‘Yes, it couldn’t have been any later than that. I really wasn’t out for very long, I just needed to walk for a while.’

  Her distress was increasing again — she’d chosen the Greenway for her walk — it was impossible to hide it. The constable frowned again, sensing once more the tension that seemed inconsistent with the scene.

  Anna reached across the table, took Cassie’s hand. ‘It’s all right, sweetheart. Just a few questions. There’s nothing you can tell them.’

  Again the constable awarded her an impatient glance.

  ‘I think that’s for us to decide, Miss, don’t you?’

  Anna scowled at him, but said nothing. She looked across at Simon. He’d been uncharacteristically silent during the whole interview.

  The constable was about to speak again, fiddling with his personal radio as though debating whether or not to call in. He wasn’t sure about this one. The timing was wrong for the woman to be involved, but that didn’t stop her from being there earlier. In any event, from the state of her, she knew something.

  He got up from the table, moved over towards the window. ‘I’m going to call in, Miss, chances are they’ll want you down at the incident room to make a proper statement.’ He watched her, seeing what effect his words would have. The woman didn’t move. He frowned.