‘There is one other thing,’ Karen said. ‘Beatrice knew how to look after herself. She was mugged once in Germany, years ago, and went on some kind of self-defence course, I don’t know what type. I know she sometimes carries a pepper spray.’
Gillard looked at the notes that the Met had provided. There was no mention of a spray having been found in her room. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said. Most types of pepper spray were illegal in the UK.
‘Is there any hope, detective?’ Ignacio asked.
Gillard shrugged. ‘If this was an abduction, yes. I think you can see this woman has gone to extraordinary lengths to create a fictitious journey for Beatrice. She had her phone, her precious violin and her clothes. Your friend would not voluntarily have parted with any of them, so the best hope we have is a kidnap.’
* * *
Gillard was back at Mount Browne by noon, and arranged an informal incident room meeting for one o’clock. In the meantime details had come by email via the Met Police about Beatrice’s bank accounts. For a supposedly struggling music student, Beatrice was not poor. There were several thousands spread over a current account, a savings account, and a separate euro account with a German bank. A solid monthly deposit was made into this from her parents’ account. But the balances were unchanged since Friday. Only the credit card had been used in the last four days, to buy a return rail ticket from Waterloo to Clandon on Sunday. That fitted with her journey to play at the wedding.
The biggest news was hiding at the end of the email. An asterisked section of the letter noted there had been an attempted withdrawal on Beatrice’s cash card on Tuesday afternoon at a cash machine in Earlsfield, where the impostor had got off the train. Gillard cross-checked the time and his jaw dropped. He double-checked the platform footage, and the last sight of the imposter leaving Earlsfield railway station. He swore softly to himself. It confirmed a growing suspicion, one that had been growing like a cancer in his gut ever since they had discovered the woman on the train was not Beatrice.
He gathered up his papers and walked into the incident room. It was nearly time. A whiteboard had been set vertically with marker pen notes to cover each aspect of the rail journey from Clandon to Earlsfield, with a parallel trace for the phone.
‘Okay, let’s get this meeting under way,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some fresh news for everybody.’
They all gathered together: DCs Hoskins and Macintosh, DI Claire Mulholland and DC Rob Townsend plus Christine McCafferty from the press office.
‘Let’s start with the evidence. Beatrice Ulbricht was last seen on Sunday leaving a wedding reception in Clandon, Surrey. That was five days ago, and is the last cast-iron evidence of her movements. She was given a lift by a friend called Adrian Singer and, according to him, intended to return to the station by bus from the stop near his house. There is no bus at that time. From eleven p.m. on Sunday to three p.m. on Tuesday she disappears, phone off.’ He tapped the whiteboard. ‘Then we have two ghosts, both elaborately conceived in an attempt to deflect the search for her. One, we have the movement of her phone from the time it was turned on at around three p.m. on Tuesday, via a journey by train up to Waterloo, being consigned to a waste receptacle on the train at some stage, before turning up at the Brentford waste transfer station. Pre-prepared texts were set on this phone to be sent at various points along the journey. That is ghost number one. The second phantom, and an equally impressive feat of organisation, is a young woman, taking the same train as the phone, wearing Beatrice’s distinctive fedora, overcoat and scarf, and carrying her violin. This young woman was very careful to hide her face from CCTV. We know nothing whatever about this impostor, but will be focusing more on her later.’
He turned back to a whiteboard on which was pinned an Ordnance Survey map of the area around Clandon. ‘What I want to do, belatedly, is focus the inquiry closely around the area from Clandon to Westmeare. Someone has been working very hard to distract us from this location, but I think it is crucial to our inquiry.’
Christine put up her hand. ‘I’m having to deal with a lot of pet theories from members of the press, sir. The Sunday Times insight team is working on some big piece, and I’ve had numerous calls from the German dailies which have asked us to comment on various political or kidnapping ideas. I’ve just had to say “no comment.” Is there anything you can tell me?’
‘Not at this stage, Christine. We are still treating her as a missing person, although I think many of you know that I’m increasingly worried about her safety. I am hoping it is an abduction, because the alternative is worse.’
Carl Hoskins interrupted. ‘Are you thinking she was kidnapped by that other woman, sir, the bird on the train?’
Gillard smiled at the detective constable’s slang, though he was aware it grated on many nerves within the department. ‘No, Carl, I have another theory, and in a few minutes I shall show you the proof. First let’s deal with the eyewitnesses to the impostor.’
He handed over to Claire, who ran through a fat clipboard full of summarised statements from those who had rung the helpline or sent in emails. ‘Sadly, we have no one who saw our impostor arrive at Clandon, and only a couple who noted her departure from Earlsfield railway station,’ she said. ‘We do have one witness, in a vehicle, who claims to have seen Beatrice at the bus stop in Westmeare at around eleven on Sunday night. I want to emphasise that we think this may be the real Beatrice Ulbricht. If so, it might mean that Adrian Singer is in the clear.’
Hoskins muttered: ‘Unless he came out all furious from home after the row, found her at the bus stop and clouted her one.’
‘We’ll check all that out when we re-interview him,’ Gillard said. He then detailed the fact that Beatrice’s bank accounts had not been touched.
‘I have got one very clear and significant piece of evidence that has come to light in the last hour,’ he said. ‘The banking audit trail shows an attempted cash withdrawal from her current account at a Spar supermarket in Earlsfield on Tuesday afternoon. Two attempts were made on the pin code, neither successful. Obviously not a third attempt because failure would have blocked the card.’
‘So maybe it is a robbery,’ Rainy said.
‘I’m thinking that it’s actually an attempt to communicate with us,’ Gillard said.
Everyone looked confused.
‘I don’t get it, sir,’ Hoskins said. ‘What is she trying to tell us?’
Gillard smiled. ‘The attempted withdrawal took place at 4.35 p.m. on Tuesday. At that time our impostor had not yet arrived at Earlsfield. She didn’t arrive until 4.37 p.m., according to platform CCTV.’
‘Jesus, sir, this is doing my nut in,’ Hoskins said, holding the shaven-headed article for emphasis. ‘How did she manage that?’
‘She’s a witch, told yers,’ Rainy said. ‘First she manages to be invisible, then two places at once, now time-shifting.’
The detective chief inspector shook his head. ‘Without seeming to be too misogynistic about it, I’d like to suggest that our impostor is simply a clever distraction. The purpose of the attempted cash withdrawal was simply to demonstrate to us that a second person is involved. This person, let’s assume a male, has a significant job to do. He drops the Beatrice double off at Clandon for her train journey, then drives up to London to pick her up again at Earlsfield, while the phone she abandons in the bin makes its merry way onwards to Brentford.’
‘Wow,’ Townsend muttered to Christine. ‘All stitched together so it makes sense.’
‘Any CCTV at the cash machine?’ Claire asked.
‘Surprise, surprise, no. It’s one of the few in the area without a camera,’ Gillard said. ‘I’ve already asked the Met Police to forward any street CCTV to us, but I’m not holding out my hopes. I think this particular location was picked very precisely, by someone who knows how to plan.’
‘What’s the next stage?’ Townsend asked.
‘ANPR. I want the nearest number plate recognition cameras to Earlsfield around that ti
me matched to any we can drag up from around Clandon or Westmeare an hour earlier. There’s a fighting chance we’ll get a match. I also want to drag in Adrian Singer and turn the screws a bit. I’ve already obtained the search warrant. Any questions?’
‘So definitely no ransom demand here or in Germany?’ Hoskins asked.
‘Nope. Not a thing. In six days there should have been something. I’m particularly concerned because of the twice failed bank card transaction.’
There was a short pause while the implications of that sank in to the assembled detectives.
‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ Rainy asked quietly. ‘Otherwise she would have given them the pin code to save her life, wouldn’t she?’
Gillard bit his lip, and nodded. ‘It seems quite likely.’
‘Och, the poor wee lassie.’
* * *
Adrian Singer was arrested in London on Friday afternoon and brought to Epsom Police Station for questioning. Meanwhile, CSI crawled all over his charming cottage in Westmeare, then bagged up his computer and other devices to be analysed.
The man himself, fairly peeved to have been dragged out of a Royal College of Music brass tutorial in front of two students, sat in a baggy jacket and cargo trousers with his arms folded while Gillard and Claire Mulholland went over his account of the evening spent with Beatrice Ulbricht.
After two hours of going backwards and forwards over his story Gillard said: ‘So just to be clear, you offered her the spare bedroom, and made no move on her. I can’t understand why she suddenly became so upset that she would leave immediately, especially given how uncertain the bus services were.’
Singer gave a long sigh, and said: ‘Look. I might have given her a hint that if she wanted to come to my room, that wouldn’t be a problem. I imagine that’s why she got upset.’
‘What kind of hint?’ Claire asked.
‘Honestly, it was nothing. She could just have ignored it.’
‘Can you remember what words you used?’
‘No, not really. We’d both had a bit to drink But I do recall thinking it was absurd that she should decide to leave at that point.’
‘What time was this?’ Gillard asked.
‘At 10.45 p.m., I think.’
‘Beatrice has money. I’m wondering why she didn’t just ring a taxi,’ Claire said.
‘I told her that there weren’t any nearby, which isn’t quite true. She couldn’t get a signal on her mobile either, typical for Westmeare.’ He paused and then said, ‘I told her there was a bus at eleven o’clock which stopped at Clandon station.’
‘That was a lie, wasn’t it?’ Gillard said.
Singer nodded. ‘I was really hoping she would stay. I thought that I would leave her at the bus stop for half an hour, to cool down, and then go and fetch her and bring her back.’
Claire folded her arms. ‘I don’t think you’re a very good judge of a woman’s character, if you expected leaving her to stew at a rainswept bus stop where the promised service never arrived would improve her mood.’
Singer shrugged. ‘I feel terrible about what happened, really I do. But I didn’t have anything to do with her disappearance. I promise you that.’
‘Sadly, we’re not in the position to take your word.’ Gillard looked down at his notes. It would take a few hours more for forensics to finish with the samples taken from Singer’s home. Going through his computer would probably take days. His gut instinct was that Singer was telling the truth, more or less. He had one gambit left to take.
‘Mr Singer, I just have one more question. It’s about the reason you left Meadowfields School in Dorking at such short notice.’
Singer went pale, and scowled at the worn floor tiles of the interview suite. ‘Some allegations were made about me.’
The detective looked down again at his notes, made a couple of small marks with his ballpoint pen on a random document, trying to give the impression that he had a detailed account of those allegations, even though he had no idea what the music teacher had been accused of. ‘Well, perhaps you’d like to give me your version.’
‘I didn’t think the police had ever been brought in. The school said it didn’t want a fuss. Did they report me?’
Gillard shrugged.
‘All right. A year eleven student who had been in my clarinet class accused me of inappropriately touching her.’
‘Did you touch her?’
‘I adjusted the position of the instrument, and corrected the fingering. Nothing more. I expect she has made some lurid allegation.’
‘Were you alone with the girl?’
‘Yes, for a minute, but only because the other tutee had left the room to get a new reed for her mouthpiece from the storeroom.’
The two detectives stared at Singer without saying anything.
He suddenly became animated. ‘The girl didn’t even want to be in the bloody class. Her ambitious parents had bought her a clarinet. She hated it. She hardly practised, had no gift or interest in music and probably felt trapped. An unwarranted complaint against me to her parents was the easiest way of getting her out of music. She probably had no idea of the collateral damage it would cause to me.’
It was a plausible story, and he relayed it with full eye contact. ‘If a whisper of this reaches the Royal College, I will be ruined,’ he said.
‘We’re just trying to get to the truth,’ Gillard said. He had no plans to pass on what he had heard.
‘Self-pity is never attractive,’ Claire told Singer. ‘You’re worrying about your career. You should be worried about Beatrice Ulbricht. You put her in harm’s way.’
Singer barked a sarcastic laugh. ‘If a woman waiting at a bus stop is considered to be in harm’s way, then millions of women are at risk every single day.’
‘It was in a lonely rural spot, at eleven at night,’ Claire said.
Singer looked heavenward. ‘Beatrice has a blue belt in Aikido. She can look after herself.’
‘Well, at the very least you were not very kind to her,’ Gillard said.
‘God, don’t you think I know that? If I could have the time again, of course I would have done things differently. I mean it was only twenty minutes after I watched her storm out that I went out to fetch her.’
‘You went to the bus stop?’ Claire asked.
‘Yes, on foot. I’d had too much to drink to take the car and it was only a short distance.’
‘And she wasn’t there?’
He shook his head. ‘Gone. Just vanished.’
Chapter Five
Alison Rigby had pulled in Gillard every day for updates. Friday afternoon’s summons came at around four o’clock, and the detective chief inspector found himself facing his boss across her desk. She listened intently as he laid out what they had discovered, and the intention to refocus the case around the village of Westmeare where the missing woman was last seen.
‘Mr and Mrs Ulbricht arrive tonight from Berlin,’ she said. ‘They’ll be staying at the Fynton Park Hotel in Guildford until we have a conclusion in the case. I’ve promised them all reasonable access to the latest developments in the inquiry. I’m sure the minister will want to speak to you from time to time.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Gillard felt his throat go dry at the prospect of being so closely scrutinised in his work.
Her blue eyes locked on to him. ‘Special Branch has already begun a preliminary investigation into Beatrice’s past, and found nothing untoward. But if you have the slightest feeling that the family is connected to her disappearance, the time to tell me is now,’ she said.
‘There is nothing to indicate it, ma’am.’
‘So what’s your best guess?’ she asked.
The detective chief inspector took a deep breath. ‘She could still be alive, I suppose. Our abductor, who I have a hunch is male, is extremely well organised, well-resourced with a vehicle, forensically aware as regards mobile phone and CCTV usage, and had access to a confederate who was willing to impersonate the missing woman
. The good news is that the chance of catching a criminal increases at the square of the number of people involved in the crime.’
‘So you think this was planned in advance?’
‘It has to be.’
‘But who could have predicted she would walk out from Singer’s house to that particular bus stop at that time of night?’
Gillard shrugged. ‘We only have Singer’s word for that sequence of events. We’ll get the DNA tests back from his home tomorrow morning. Then we’ll know more.’
‘I’m relying on you to crack this quickly. I don’t think I’ve ever had so many phone calls from Whitehall, offering extra officers, checking that we’ve got the latest forensic equipment, suggesting that they would fund an expanded training budget. It’s like austerity in reverse, so I’m not knocking it. Politically, of course, the Home Office is simply covering its back. They don’t want to risk me standing up and saying that we were too poorly resourced to investigate this crime properly. While it’s all very well us raking in extra cash, we need a result and we need it quickly. We are being watched.’
Dismissed, Gillard turned and retreated from his boss’s office. He certainly felt he was being watched.
* * *
DC Carrie ‘Rainy’ Macintosh had the unenviable task of assessing the helpline calls, social media postings and emails that flooded in about the case. She had a team of five, who winnowed out the cranks, the weirdos and the plainly abusive, of whom there were a lot. The fact that Beatrice Ulbricht was the daughter of a German minister seem to antagonise a small but vociferous section of the population who referenced the war, Nazis, or the World Cup final of 1966 in a variety of tasteless jokes. There were dozens of informants who suggested that the Beatrice Ulbricht imposter was actually their ex-wife, or estranged daughter, or in one case, dead daughter. Chasing up anything plausible was extremely time-consuming, particularly because only a minority of informants were willing to leave an address or phone number. After eliminating the absurd and abusive, Friday’s haul of possibles included a man in Inverness who reckoned the impostor was a girl that he taught in a music class in Edinburgh two years ago, a charity shop worker from Cheshire who recalled selling an identical hat to a young woman last Christmas, and, finally, someone who had emailed a link to one of Beatrice’s own videos, along with a short message.
The Body Under the Bridge Page 5
