The Body Under the Bridge
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Epilogue
Afterword
About the Author
DCI Craig Gillard Crime Thrillers
Also by Nick Louth
The Body on the Island
Copyright
For Louise, as always
Chapter One
11.30 a.m. Wednesday, 10 April
Unforgettable days often start in normal ways. Detective Chief Inspector Craig Gillard slid his unmarked grey Vauxhall into the last available space in Epsom Police Station car park. Shrugging up his raincoat against the squally wind, he made his way inside. He was not in a great mood. Chief Constable Alison Rigby had called him away from a colleague’s cremation service to take charge of a missing person case. It had irked him. There had been a phone call from Rigby’s secretary, then a text from the woman herself. No apology, no explanation. The murder of an officer was rare, and the death of DC Colin Hodges a month ago had been a shock to the entire team. Senior officers normally respected the close-knit nature of detective work, and it was unheard of for an officer to be dragged away from a funeral.
Particularly for a new case as apparently trivial as this.
Beatrice Ulbricht, a twenty-five-year-old German-born student at London’s Royal College of Music, had been due to perform as a member of a string quartet at the church of St Martin-in-the-Fields last night. She didn’t turn up, and hadn’t been seen since.
Big deal.
That had been Gillard’s initial reaction. A quarter of a million people go missing every year, for all sorts of reasons. Most of them turn up again, given enough time. The woman had been missing for less than twenty-four hours. In the case of a young child it would be significant, as it could be in the case of someone who had learning difficulties or was in some other way vulnerable. But an adult in these circumstances could have any number of reasons for not wanting to show up: illness, performance anxiety, nervous breakdown, falling out with another musician. There was also suicide to consider.
He knew that Rigby always had reasons for intervening in day-to-day policing, and didn’t always share them with those concerned. She didn’t micromanage lightly. He guessed there was something important he wasn’t being told. He hoped that it might become obvious once he spoke to the witness.
Gillard barged open the big double doors of the station, nodded to the desk sergeant, and was pointed towards the interview suite where PC Lynne Fairbanks was interviewing a young woman. Gillard apologised for missing the start. Introductions were made. Karen Ellsworth, a fellow member of the Lysander String Quartet, had reported Beatrice missing. Ellsworth had short dark hair, large dangly earrings and was wearing a charcoal grey trouser suit.
‘As I told the officer here, Beatrice said she was on her way to London, but never showed up. It would have been our big break, and I’m not sure we will get another chance.’ She seemed furious that her colleague had let her fellow musicians down.
‘Do you have fears for her safety?’
‘Yes, that’s why I came in to report it.’
‘Has she ever done anything like this before?’ Gillard asked.
‘Never. It’s completely out of character. I got a text from her yesterday afternoon to say she was on her way into Waterloo—’
‘Where from?’
‘From Guildford, on the train. Well, Clandon actually.’
Clandon’s small station, a few miles east of the city, served a semi-rural hinterland. On a good day its well-heeled commuters could reach central London in less than an hour. ‘Can you show me the message?’ Gillard asked.
Karen nodded and passed him the phone.
Bea, where are u? All set for tonite?
On the train now. I’ll be there. X
The reply was timed at 15.58 on the Tuesday.
‘Is that the entire thread?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Beatrice lives with you?’
‘Yes, we share a flat at the Royal College’s student accommodation in West London. She’s not been home.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘None of her stuff has been touched. The music stand has still got the music for the previous concert on it. And her violin is missing.’
‘Have you been in contact with her other friends?’
‘Yes, two of them are the other members of the quartet. I think all her London friends are musical. No one has heard from her since late yesterday afternoon.’
‘When did you actually last see her?’ Gillard asked.
‘On Sunday. The quartet played at a wedding at Clandon Park House, near Guildford.’
Gillard knew the place, it was a magnificent stately home belonging to the National Trust. ‘Are you aware of any change in her personal circumstances, such as a death in the family, breaking up with a boyfriend, anything that would make her particularly unhappy?’
‘No. She’s got a steady boyfriend in Germany.’
‘Does she have a tendency for mood swings—’
Karen shook her head until her earrings jangled. ‘I’m not getting this across to you. She’s steady as a rock. She’s the leader of our quartet. I mean she’s the one who makes sure that we turn up.’
Gillard nodded, and rolled a pencil between his fingers. ‘I know it’s a big thing for you, missing the concert and all, but people go missing for all kinds of reasons, and after such a short time there’s no fundamental reason to believe anything untoward has happened.’
‘She would never have missed that concert,’ Karen said. ‘You don’t know her.’
‘Okay. We’ll need a description. What was she wearing?’
‘When I saw her on Sunday, she was in her typical uniform. A mid-calf-length navy blue overcoat, with a long rainbow scarf. She had this lovely mauve fedora, too.’
‘She should stand out then,’ Gillard replied. ‘Do you have a photo?’
Karen dug into her bag and produced an iPad. ‘I picked this from her YouTube channel,’ she said, selecting a video and turning it around so the officers could see it. Beatrice was wearing a sparkly black dress, standing in front of a full orchestra, with her eyes half closed and a beatific smile. The detective tried to concentrate on the woman’s elfin face, framed by wavy chestnut hair, but the power of the music and its overwhelming melancholy kept intruding. It was almost as if the soundtrack for the case was getting ahead of itself, the woman’s musical epitaph appearing before they knew whether she was dead or alive.
Lynne’s jaw was almost hanging open in admiration. ‘She’s really good,’ she gasped.
Karen nodded. ‘That’s Zigeunerweisen, Pablo Sarasate’s masterpiece, one of the hardest pieces in the repertoire.’
Lynne was entranced. ‘I got up to grade six violin, but couldn’t begin to tackle that. All that double and treble-stopping, and glissando.’
Karen turned to Lynne, clearly surprised to find such knowledge in a PC. �
��Beatrice has such enormous talent.’ There was a catch in her throat as she said: ‘I have a really bad feeling about this.’
Gillard excused himself and beckoned for Lynne to join him outside the interview room. Once he was outside he said to her: ‘I don’t quite get why the Met Police aren’t investigating this. She disappeared on their patch.’
Lynne shrugged. ‘All I know is that it was passed back to us because the woman was last seen in Surrey. And I suppose because Ms Ellsworth first reported her missing to this station. Her parents live just up the road apparently and she was visiting them.’
Gillard blew a heavy sigh and made his way back into the interview room, followed by Lynne.
‘Ms Ellsworth, you say that your quartet played at a wedding reception in Surrey on Sunday evening? And that was when you last saw her?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you went back to London after that?’
‘Yes, three of us went back by train from Clandon on the Sunday evening.’
‘Why did she not accompany you?’
‘As I told the PC, after the recital she was picked up by a friend, Adrian Singer.’
‘Aha. Have you contacted him?’
‘Yes. I rang him. He said Beatrice left his home late on the Sunday to catch the last train to Waterloo.’
‘So we already have a disconnect, don’t we? Mr Singer told you she headed up to London on the Sunday, but two days later she replies to a text from you saying she is only that afternoon on her way up from Clandon.’
Karen nodded. Gillard saw that Lynne already had various phone numbers and addresses noted, including that of Mr Singer. He was beginning to see why the Met had passed it back.
After the interviewee had left, Lynne turned to the detective with a face full of respect. She asked: ‘What do you think?’
He pursed his lips. ‘Well, normally eighteen hours since the last phone contact is no time at all, except perhaps for a child. But the crucial thing here is that she missed an important concert. I’m no musician, but clearly it’s out of character.’ He was about to continue when his mobile rang. A glance at the screen confirmed the call was from the chief constable.
‘Yes, ma’am?’ he answered.
‘I was sorry to drag you away from the funeral earlier, Craig, but this is a very important case and I want you on it.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘The missing woman is the daughter of Germany’s Minister of Justice, Karl-Otto Ulbricht.’
‘I see.’ Suddenly it all made sense.
‘Exactly. I’ve had enquiries, via the Home Secretary, that is our Home Secretary. I tried to pass it back to the Metropolitan Police, because that is where the young woman lives, and as far as we can establish where she was last in contact with anybody, but unsurprisingly, because she was last seen here in Surrey, they don’t want to touch it with a barge pole. So it’s our baby. Your baby.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Gillard tried his damnedest to keep every trace of sarcasm from that response.
‘I’m sure you’ll do a fine job, Craig. I’m counting on you. I’m allocating DI Claire Mulholland to help you.’
The line went dead.
* * *
Gillard had originally entertained hopes of being able to make it for the funeral reception at the Red Lion, Colin Hodges’ local. His wife Joan would have ordered a great spread, and he had been looking forward to munching his way through a great stack of sandwiches. The magnitude and urgency of the case now dumped upon him made that impossible. He texted Joan his apologies.
Before driving back to Surrey Police headquarters in Guildford he emailed Research Intelligence Officer DC Rob Townsend, appended the missing woman’s mobile number and told him to get cell tower traces done in time for an incident room meeting in Mount Browne at four o’clock. Three hours should be enough. He also put in an urgent email request to the Met to get some basic interviews undertaken at the Royal College of Music in South Kensington with the missing woman’s teachers, friends and fellow students. He wanted her medical records, and any electronic devices at her student digs too. Years of experience led him to copy in the chief constable to ensure that his resource-grabbing request to the Met was treated with the appropriate respect, rather than the virtual two fingers that a nobody like him would normally get from the capital’s police service. Finally, he rang Mr Singer and left a message.
With the ball now rolling, Gillard began to consider the student’s movements. Lynne’s detailed notes showed that the Lysander Quartet had the week before taken a last-minute booking for the Clandon House wedding reception. Their set was over by eight, and all the musicians bar Beatrice went back to London. No one had seen her since that time, but there were two text messages from Beatrice’s phone on Tuesday afternoon. The one he had seen was to Karen Ellsworth, confirming that she would be at the concert in London. According to Karen, Beatrice’s second text was an hour later to another member of the quartet, saying she was fine and would be there on time.
The hands-free phone disturbed his thoughts as he was motoring on the A3. It was the control room patching through a call from an Adrian Singer. Perhaps the last person to see Beatrice Ulbricht.
‘Hello Mr Singer.’
‘I’m returning your call, detective chief inspector. I had a message earlier from PC Fairbanks. I’m really worried to hear about Beatrice. It’s quite unlike her.’
‘Yes, that’s what everybody says. I’d like to get you in to make a detailed statement, but perhaps I can just ask you a couple of questions.’
‘Of course.’
‘I understand that you had picked up Ms Ulbricht from Clandon House after the concert.’
‘I did, yes. I brought her back to my place in Westmeare for dinner, and after that I dropped her at the bus stop.’
‘So she was heading back to London?’
‘Yes.’
‘You went to fetch her from Clandon House five miles away, but you only dropped her back at the local bus stop. That’s four or five miles away from Clandon station.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘Actually, I didn’t drop her. She walked out to the main road where the bus stop is. It’s only two hundred yards.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Just before eleven.’
‘Are there bus services at that time of night on a Sunday?’
‘I don’t know.’
Gillard didn’t want to press too hard at this point. There were obvious question marks over Singer’s account, but he would rather apply pressure when he was in a position to make notes.
‘Did you contact her to make sure that she had got home all right?’
‘Not until the next day. And she didn’t reply. I think she’s upset with me.’
‘Why would that be?’
‘We had an argument. I think she misunderstood my intentions.’
Or understood them too well, Gillard thought.
‘Do you have any idea where she might have gone?’
‘None whatever.’
He arranged to visit Singer in the evening, and then hung up.
The man had volunteered a great deal of information, including some that did not put him in a great light. But it was equally likely he hadn’t told the complete truth.
* * *
Rob Townsend was waiting by Gillard’s desk, like a dog expecting dinner. The officer, whose fresh face and short gingery hair made him look younger than his twenty-six years, could never hide his excitement when he thought he had made a case breakthrough.
‘Sir, we’ve got a good clear trace on Beatrice’s phone. It shows her in Clandon, then later in Westmeare until eleven, when it was turned off. It remained off for all of Monday and a bit of Tuesday. On Tuesday afternoon she headed up to London, according to the cell site analysis. She lights up all the towers from Clandon to Waterloo. The speed and path fits with a train journey, with further traces within London during the evening. There’s another trip, seemingly by road, towards Bren
tford this morning.’
Gillard blew a sigh of relief. ‘Hopefully she’s not missing at all then. What about texts and emails?’
‘There’s dozens incoming, only a few in the other direction. I’ve just sent an electronic copy of the warrant to the service provider, so we should be able to see the full contents today.’
‘Did you call in any CCTV?’
‘Well, I thought maybe we didn’t need to. It would be hard to know where to start.’
‘Not Waterloo obviously, unless you want to send Carl Hoskins mad scanning a million people emerging from trains. You obviously start at the quietest place, where she would be easy to spot. Clandon station, I suppose. Does that fit the trace?’
‘Yes, that seems to be where she got on.’
‘Did you ring Network Rail to check whether it has CCTV there?’
Townsend looked flustered. ‘Not yet, sir.’ It was easy to see what he was thinking. She’s obviously alive and kicking, so why would we bother?
Gillard sighed. ‘Have you tried ringing her?’
‘Yes, but not for several hours. There was no reply.’
‘Let’s have another go.’ Gillard reached across for the paperwork, tapped out the number on his desk phone and heard it ring out. It then went to a message service which said the mailbox was full. He shrugged, waited a minute, then tried again. This time the phone was answered.
‘Hello, is that Beatrice Ulbricht?’
It clearly wasn’t. There was a lot of background noise, but Gillard could just about make out the words being spoken to him. He repeated Beatrice’s name, then loudly spelled it out. ‘Can you hold it all for me?’ Gillard asked, and then read out his police credentials. ‘Yes, the entire container.’
Gillard hung up, offering Townsend a dour expression.
‘Who was that?’ Townsend asked.
‘Someone called Gladys at the Brentford waste transfer station. She’s got Beatrice’s phone. Found in a consignment of rubbish.’
‘Oh shit,’ Townsend said. ‘That’s not good news.’
‘They just found the phone, Rob,’ Gillard said. ‘They haven’t found a body so far.’ Gladys had told him that the device had been picked up out of the container of unsorted rubbish this morning. It joined a dozen other phones recovered over the last week, along with fountain pens, spectacles and various other metallic items through which the overhead magnet earned its keep.
The Body Under the Bridge Page 1
