‘That’s life, isn’t it? We tootle along trying to keep busy in case Sherlock decides to cut our numbers along with our budget only to have a flurry of serious investigations come in back to back.’
‘God, don’t chance fate like that. I don’t think I could cope with any more.’ She propped open her leather briefcase and placed Ellie’s photo face up, pushing it across the clear expanse of desk, her attention on his compressed lips and unflinching gaze.
‘Elodie Fry,’ she said, getting right to the point. It was easier that way. Less messy in the long run to deal in only the facts. ‘Ellie for short. Last seen yesterday evening when her mother went in to turn off her light, a regular occurrence as the girl is a voracious reader. Sometime after, she packed her school bag with all the rudiments of a runaway. She hasn’t been seen since.’ She stopped a moment, expecting him to interrupt with his usual insightful stream of questions but all she got was silence, a silence she finally broke. ‘I’ve left Amy holding the mother’s hand. She’s also in the ideal position if the CSIs turn up anything. In addition, Jax has started a door-to-door and Marie and Malachy are coordinating the sea and land searches respectively. I’ve asked them all to be on hand to give us an update at one o’clock if nothing’s turned up by then,’ she added, taking note of the time on the silver-finished clock that hung on the wall above the door.
‘What would you like me to do in the meantime? You seem to have all the bases covered—’
‘Accompany me when I interview the headmistress over at Ysgol Ger y Môr primary school. She’s made herself available to meet us even though it’s closed – I’m expected in thirty minutes, which doesn’t give us much time.’ She pushed back from her chair and picked up her mug. ‘Come on. I don’t want to be late. We have a lot to get through.’
‘Hold on a mo.’
Gaby watched him withdraw a folded sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket and gritted her teeth in anticipation of what he was about to tell her. She remembered back a week and the vow he’d made about not handing in his notice. But lots had happened in the last seven days. If he’d decided to rescind his promise there wasn’t a thing that she could do about it after what had so nearly happened to his wife.
‘God, Gaby. You need to lighten up.’ He opened the page and held it out to her. ‘You should see yourself – you look as if someone has died.’
‘That will be you, if that’s what I think it is?’ she said, eyeing the sheet with an expression that was all too easy to read.
‘Ha, as if.’ He gave a deep chuckle before letting the paper float down between them. ‘I don’t change my mind that easily. I’m here to stay, for the time being anyway. No. Sherlock collared me as soon as I came through the door. He’s disappointed not to have received your application for DI and, with the interviews arranged for tomorrow, he’s pretty livid that you haven’t bothered to apply.’
‘Ah. Yes. Well. I um haven’t quite made my mind up about—’
‘Perhaps this will help.’ He scooped up the sheet and held it out a second time. ‘Apparently there was a lot of interest in the position but only one candidate shortlisted.’
She glanced up from where she’d been toying with her pen, the inflection in his voice the only indication that he was about to tell her something she wasn’t going to like.
‘He also said that, as he’s out of the office later, he’d like you to take his place and show the candidate around.’
‘And?’
Owen picked up his empty mug and dangled it from one finger.
‘It’s that tosser you were telling me about back in Swansea. DS Bill Davis. If Sherlock doesn’t have your application in by midnight there’s a very good chance that Davis will be our new boss.’
Chapter 8
Owen
Monday 3 August, 10 a.m. St Asaph
Owen and Gaby didn’t waste any time. They were soon striding down the corridor and towards the main entrance, only to stop at the sound of the desk sergeant’s urgent tone.
‘I was about to phone, ma’am.’
‘Yes, what is it?’
He lowered his voice to such a level that they both had to lean forward across the desk to hear him.
‘There’s a problem that I can’t deal with,’ Clancy said, shifting his attention briefly to the other side of the room. ‘It looks as if a serious crime may have been committed.’
Owen’s attention flickered to the man sitting next to the fire extinguisher, a plastic bag resting across his knees. They got all sorts through the door and the man occupying the chair was only a variation. Dressed in stained jeans and a chequered shirt, he was obviously someone who worked with his hands, his fingernails blunt-cut and ingrained with dirt. The weather-beaten hue of his skin had Owen immediately jump to gardener, his curiosity piqued at the thought of what the man might have to tell them.
‘I think you’d be better to get the story first-hand,’ Clancy continued, his next words pulling him back into the conversation with a jolt. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard the like.’
Owen drew his brows into a frown, trying to imagine what could have popped through the door in the few minutes he’d been hiding away in Gaby’s office, but it was impossible. There was only one way to find out.
He walked across the floor, a ready smile on his lips. ‘Good morning, sir. I believe you have something to show us?’
As an experienced officer, Owen would never dream of shirking his duty but if he could find something to keep him away from thoughts of that missing girl, he’d grab it. He’d also worked with Gaby long enough to know that she’d let him. The interview at the school only needed one detective, which meant that she must be concerned as to how he’d cope. He wasn’t about to confirm those fears.
The man stood, his fingers curled around what appeared to be a sandwich bag, the crumbs clinging to the sides a clear indication of what it used to contain.
‘Yes. Although it would probably be best if I showed you in private?’
Owen took a moment to sum up the level of the problem, his gaze lingering on the dark shapes visible through the plastic as he tried to guess what they might be and knowing full well that the reception area wasn’t the place in which to discuss it. Coming to a snap decision, he turned to Gaby.
‘I think I should probably deal with this, ma’am. I’ll try and follow on in a few minutes.’ He didn’t wait for her frown. Instead he gestured for the man to follow him into interview room four, which he’d walked past on his way down the corridor and knew to be empty.
‘Right then. What can I help you with, Mr … er …?’ Owen asked as soon as they’d settled in their chairs.
‘Penrose. Martin Penrose. I work over at the Welsh Hills Memorial Gardens in Colwyn Bay.’ He placed the bag on the table, starting to pull at the neck. ‘I’d like to show you something.’
‘Wait a minute. If it’s evidence in there we need to …’ Owen dug around in his pocket and pulled out a pair of disposable gloves.
Martin grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth. ‘What, try and preserve it? I’ve watched a fair few crime dramas in my time but there’s no way you’re going to get any clues from this lot. The cremator can reach temperatures of 1,800 degrees Fahrenheit so any evidence is dust by now.’ He paused a moment, waiting for permission to continue. ‘Right then, just in case you don’t know what these are … prosthetic hips,’ he said, placing the three long objects on the table, quickly followed by three marble-sized balls, before tapping each one with a grubby fingertip. ‘Looks like something from an alien spaceship, doesn’t it? This here ball fits into the hip while the pointed bit is rammed into the top of the leg bone. Sometimes the long bone is still attached but not in this case.’
Owen sat there, wishing he hadn’t accepted that coffee from Gaby, the rush of hot acid up the back of his throat almost making him gag at the sight of the blackened lumps of metal. He reached out a hand before he could stop himself, the feel of the cold hard surface holding some
kind of a morbid fascination. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting but certainly not something like this. Martin had leant back in his chair, his arms folded across his broad chest while he waited for him to speak – what could he say?
‘Okay. So you’ve brought us these because …’
‘Because how many people do you know with three legs?’
‘Excuse me?’
Martin let out a low gravelly laugh. ‘I said, how many people do you know with three legs?’ He unfolded his arms and tapped each of the joints with his knuckle. ‘One. Two. Three. That’s how many hip joints I removed from the cremator on Saturday evening when there should only have been one, or two at the very most.’
‘Right.’ Owen removed his gloves and lurched out of the chair, the noise of the legs scraping against the floor causing him to wince. ‘I’d like to take it right back to the beginning but, as we might be here a while, would you like a cuppa?’
Martin nodded. ‘Is it okay if I have a smoke?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ he said, gesturing towards the iconic red and white sign pinned to the wall below the window. ‘I won’t be long.’
Owen couldn’t wait to get out of the room, his mind still trying to shift back into gear after a week of baby duties. He’d been hoping for a few quiet days where he’d be able to adjust to the changes in his home life. Now thoughts of even one normal shift flew out of the window as he worked the drinks machine, situated on the opposite end of the corridor, before grabbing a handful of sugar sachets.
‘Sorry, not sure if you take any?’ He dropped the packets on the table and sat back in his seat, his hand hovering over the switch on the wall-mounted microphone. ‘Now, I’d like you to confirm your full name and address and that you currently work at the Welsh Hills Memorial Gardens?’
It didn’t take long for Owen to deal with the formalities using his customary efficiency and leanness for words. He never used two words when one was more than sufficient.
‘What exactly happened, sir, for you to think that a crime may have been committed?’
‘Well, cleaning out the cremator after use is normally Barry Salt’s job but he’s been off sick the last couple of days.’ Martin took a sip from his mug, grimaced and added another sachet of sugar. ‘Do you know anything about cremations?’
‘No, absolutely nothing.’
‘The fact is that, while the hot temperatures will burn most things, there’s always a residual. Bones and metal don’t burn. So, in the same way you clear out your grate after a fire, someone has to clear out the bottom of the cremator. The bones get crushed while the metal gets discarded. You understand?’
Owen pulled a face. ‘Pretty gruesome but I get the picture. Carry on, you’re doing fine.’
‘We had a cremation on Friday and again on Saturday morning,’ Martin said, pointing to the hip prosthetics. ‘And it was my job to clean out the ash afterwards.’
‘So, with two bodies surely finding three metal hips isn’t out of the ordinary?’
‘You don’t understand, Detective. We have to clean out the cremator after each service and, as it was me doing the cleaning, there is no way any of the hips came from the first cremation.’
Owen leant back in his chair, one hand on his beard. ‘And I take it that no one else could have added one? You know, as a joke?’
Martin’s eyes widened. ‘A funny type of joke that would be! At weekends, apart from cremations, the whole place is closed up and there wasn’t any sign of a break-in.’
‘So, putting two and two together, it looks as if someone must have added something into the last coffin before it arrived at the crematorium?’
‘I can see that’s what it looks like,’ Martin said, his eyes narrowing into thin slits. ‘But I’m telling you, here and now, that that’s not what happened.’
Chapter 9
Gaby
Monday 3 August, 10.30 a.m. Colwyn Bay
Ysgol Ger y Môr primary school was situated along the thin ribbon of road that skirted the North Wales coast as far as the eye could see. After pulling into a parking space, Gaby grabbed her phone off the passenger seat and slipped out of the car, her shoes taking a second to get used to the loose grey gravel underfoot. She studied the building with interest as she headed for the main entrance, noting the dull grey frontage and the effort taken to make it less utilitarian with large tubs of annuals flanking either side of the door. There were hundreds of similar buildings dotted around the UK. The only thing setting it apart was the signage in two languages.
As with most non-Welsh-speaking people living in Wales, Gaby was reliant on the street signs and notices that included an English translation. Welsh was such a melodious language and something that she’d added to her bucket list to learn after she’d transferred from Liverpool to Cardiff. But as with most things, her busy lifestyle meant that she’d had to shift it to something that she’d like to do as opposed to needing to. With her current crazy workload the likelihood of her ever finding the time wasn’t something she was prepared to dwell on.
Miss Garland, the headmistress, was a thin, pale woman who wore her grey-streaked brown hair pulled back off her face in a French pleat. Dressed in tailored trousers and a cream silk blouse, she made Gaby feel scruffy. But there was nothing she could do about that apart from scheduling in a trip to Marks and Spencer for a new suit.
‘Take a seat, Detective. Is there anything I can get you? Tea? Coffee? A glass of water?’
‘No, I’m good, thanks,’ Gaby said, crossing one leg over the other and resting her phone on her knee. ‘And thank you again for coming in during your holidays. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.’ She paused a moment to open up the notebook App on her mobile. ‘As you’re already aware, Elodie Fry has gone missing so anything you can tell me that you think might be of use would be helpful.’
Miss Garland stared across her empty desk, toying with a thin gold bracelet on her wrist. ‘I really don’t know what to say. It’s the first time that anything like this has happened at the school.’
‘What’s she like as a pupil? That will do for a start.’
‘A quiet child, studious even.’ She continued playing with the bracelet, her attention fixed on the small gold heart charm dangling from the clasp. ‘You have to remember I’ve been a teacher for a very long time, the last fifteen years as headmistress of the school. I’ve seen all sorts of pupils over the years but Ellie is different.’
‘In what way?’
‘In every way, Detective Darin,’ she said, finally raising her head. ‘Oh, she looks normal enough with her long blonde hair and love of all things pink. She even likes some of the things that the rest of the girls in her year are mad about such as ballet. She’s obsessed with ballet but that’s where the similarity ends. In your job you must know what it’s like to be different, Detective? Different children, just like different adults, end up being picked on and that’s no reflection on the teachers. That’s just how it is. Outside of her lessons, she spends her time holed up in the library, reading. I’m not about to decry the advantages that come with an inquiring mind. There is more research than I can quote on the benefits of children who read but Ellie isn’t just stimulating her mind through the pages of a book, she’s hiding from her peers.’
Gaby’s heart sank at the words, which dragged her back twenty years to her own experiences of bullying. Growing up the youngest of first-generation Italian parents she was well versed in the devious ways of children who were determined to make the lives of others a misery. The only thing that had saved her was the strength of her mother and the support of her brothers. Ellie obviously wasn’t so lucky.
‘What about her background? I’m assuming that you’ve dealt with the mother on occasion?’
‘Ms Fry is pleasant enough. I’ve observed her with her daughter at school pick-up and parent–teacher meetings and they seem to have a good rapport, if that’s what you’re getting at? She has never given me any reason to think that she’s
anything other than a loving parent and there have certainly been no concerns expressed by the teachers as to any safeguarding issues in respect to Ellie’s home life.’
‘What about men?’ Gaby asked, making a couple of entries in her phone and raising her head. ‘Any sign that Ms Fry had a boyfriend?’
‘Teachers aren’t usually privy to that kind of personal information but she always attended school meetings either by herself or with her daughter.’
‘Okay. One final thing.’ Gaby tapped her forefinger against the side of her phone case. ‘What about any friends?’
‘I thought that was something you might ask,’ Miss Garland said, sliding back in her chair. ‘I managed to track down her teacher, who’s camping up in Scotland for the next couple of weeks, and she reminded me about Heather Powell. If I’m honest I think that it’s a friendship born out of necessity as opposed to anything that they might have in common. Heather is from quite a well-to-do family of hoteliers over in Rhyl but she’s different again and in need of careful handling.’
She rose from her chair, her hands pressed flat against the top of the desk. ‘I wouldn’t like you to get the wrong idea about us. But with such a large catchment area it’s a challenge to meet the individual needs of all of the children. The teachers do their best given the circumstances, but some children slip through the net. The likes of Ellie Fry and Heather Powell are what keep me up at night. Now, unless there’s anything else?’ she said, turning and walking through the door, her expression carefully tailored to reveal little of the inner woman.
Gaby filed away the conversation to puzzle over later, her footsteps slowing to a near stop as the memories of her own disappointing childhood flooded back. While she’d managed to erect a steel wall around her emotions, she’d still ended up carrying her poor self-esteem into adulthood. Something that had affected her relationships with men, she brooded, her mind swinging briefly to thoughts of Rusty. She’d like to tell each and every one of Ellie’s peers the damage they were causing with their behaviour but she wouldn’t. She knew that some of the children would be intrinsically good just as she knew that the home lives of some of them would drive weaker personalities off the rails. The teachers had impossible jobs and it was left to the parents to pick up the pieces. Those children who evaded help usually ended up coming to the notice of her team.
Lost Souls Page 4
