Chapter 20
Gaby
Monday 3 August, 4.55 p.m. St Asaph Police Station
‘If you’re trying to make me believe that I’m bad at my job …’
‘Oh no, Detective. You’ve managed that without any help from me. The mammoth cock-up in Swansea should have told you that as a copper you suck. You couldn’t find your way out of a paper bag let alone find the missing girl. Enough already! When I get the job, you’ll find yourself at the end of a very long dole queue, which is only what you deserve,’ Bill said, lumbering to his feet.
‘Only time will tell, or do you include crystal ball gazing and palm reading on your short list of attributes?’
Gaby had never felt more like thumping someone than she did Bill Davis. She’d spent the last twenty minutes or so listening to him slating off the members of her team while her fingernails dug deep crescents into her palms. And yet as soon as the clock ticked its way to five, he lurched to his feet and headed for the door, all the while talking about the leisurely meal and early night he intended in preparation for his interview in the morning. He was just the man they didn’t want in charge of the MIT but the only way she could block him was by finding the time to submit her own application.
She made a mental note to download the job application form before turning her attention back to her phone. The longer the silence around Ellie’s disappearance hovered, the increased likelihood of an unsavoury result and there wasn’t a thing that she could do to change that statistical inevitability. They’d pulled in extra police from across the Welsh network, teams of highly trained professionals who were currently walking side by side as they searched the numerous green fields and beaches that flourished in the area. She’d even managed to secure a sniffer dog and all they’d got for their efforts was a possible hit on the Great Orme, a trail than ran cold as soon as her handler had followed her to the traffic-filled street of North Parade.
PC Diane Carbone had been given a desk and access to the CCTV camera footage in and around Colwyn Bay and Llandudno, a herculean task that she embraced with a large steel coffee mug at her elbow. There was a lot of hope residing in these images but apart from a single shot of Ellie Fry’s blurred outline as she’d walked along Greenfield Road at 3.01 a.m. there’d been no other sightings. The thought was that she’d headed for Colwyn Bay beach, a CCTV camera black spot. From there, if the dog handler was right, she must have followed the shoreline around to Llandudno, a huge ask for an adult let alone a ten-year-old. Doable if she was desperate enough and that’s where Gaby’s thoughts were leading her, a pencil in her hand as she worked out the average walking speed on the top of her A4 pad.
Gaby dropped her pencil on her desk and placed her hands on either side of her head, staring at the numbers in front of her. With sunrise not till 5.30 it would have still been dark, a daunting prospect at the best of times but a young child must have been scared witless. If Gaby had been in her position she’d have run most of the way, not that her fitness levels were up to it. But Ellie was reed-slim in her photos and used to running about at school not to mention undertaking all those ballet lessons. No, she’d have arrived at her destination before most of North Wales had even filled their kettle for their morning cuppa. And that’s where Gaby’s thoughts stopped because she couldn’t for the life of her think of what her plan had been. To hole up in the Great Orme with a rucksack stuffed full with tins of baked beans. What then?
Pushing back from her desk, she crossed over to the window to stretch her legs. She’d been thinking about the problem on and off all day but was no further forward. But then again she wasn’t a scared ten-year-old, which was probably the main difficulty.
Gaby had a tendency to place herself in the shoes of whichever person she was investigating. It was a trick she’d learnt during her job as a PC in Liverpool and something that had stood her in good stead over the years. But now the common-sense application of standard principles behind human behaviour didn’t apply. She could rationalise that Ellie must have been scared but after that? Nothing.
Instead of returning to her desk, she looked up at the sound of knuckle against wood.
‘Come in.’
‘Hi, Gaby, sorry to interrupt you but it’s those old women again about their missing friend, Barbara Matthews,’ Clancy said, propping up the doorway. ‘They’re not prepared to let it rest and are even threatening to take it to the media.’
‘Are they now?’ Gaby’s eyes glittered. ‘Look, Sergeant, I have too much on my plate already. The only way I could possibly squeeze even a modicum of interest, this early in her disappearance, would be if it turns out she’s had a hip replacement.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘Just ignore me, Clancy.’ She lifted a hand to her neck briefly to try and stem the building tension. ‘For one thing the timing is out. What was that about the media?’
‘Apparently one of them knows the editor of the Llandudno Chronicle.’
‘Really. How interesting.’ Gaby might sound offhand but the very last thing she wanted was some nosy journo upsetting Sherlock not to mention Chief Superintendent Murdock Winters, who prided himself on his long association with the press. It would also be a black mark if she ever found the time to complete that blasted job application form. She heaved her shoulders in annoyance as she plucked her jacket from the back of the chair. With a bit of luck she’d alleviate their fears and avoid a media storm into the bargain.
‘Show them into interview room two, would you please, Clancy, and teas all round. By the sound of things they’re the sort that demand the little extras.’
In the time it took for her to pop into the incident room to check that, as she suspected, there was no news about Ellie, Clancy had worked his magic with a tray of tea presented in matching china mugs, which he must have had stashed away in one of the cupboards in the back room for just such an eventuality. But it only took Gaby one glance at the ramrod-straight spines and identikit purse-string lips of the trio in front of her to realise that it would take a lot more than a mug of Tetley’s finest to get the three pensioners to agree to any solution apart from the one that demanded maximum effort on her part.
After the usual introductions, she settled down in her chair and set an A4 notepad in front of her, instinctively focusing her attention on the thinnest, for no other reason than the woman acted as if she was in charge.
‘I believe you’re concerned as to the whereabouts of your friend? Mrs … er?’ Her pen was poised over her pad.
‘I’m Mildred Pennyworth,’ she said, her voice as sour as the resident expression on her face. ‘To put it bluntly, our dear friend, Barbara Matthews, is missing and we want to know what you intend to do about it.’
‘I’m not sure quite what you want from us? We’ve already sent a car around to check on the property, in addition to an ambulance in the unlikely event that she’s been taken unwell. There was no sign of any disturbance. They’ve checked all the rooms, including the grounds and didn’t find anything suspicious. Surely it’s not outside the realms of possibility that your friend forgot about the arrangements or indeed that something else cropped up? After all, no time has passed.’ She sat back in her chair, more determined than ever to send this lot on their way in time to catch the six o’clock news, which was due to feature an appeal for Ellie Fry.
‘Absolutely no chance of that,’ Mildred Pennyworth said, hugging her bag tightly, the skin on the back of her hands mottled and thin, the only jewellery a fragile thread of gold on her wedding finger. ‘Barbara would have been very keen to recoup last week’s losses.’
‘Losses?’ Gaby laid her pen across her pad, her polite smile frozen in place. ‘I thought you played bridge?’
‘And what of it? A little bet on the side doesn’t do anyone any harm. It’s not as if we were playing for anything big. The odd fiver here and there. It’s fun, especially as Barbara hates to lose.’ She relaxed her lips to allow a glimmer of grey teeth. ‘No. There’d be no way on earth she w
ouldn’t be there to meet us in her second-best skirt – she saves her best for church on Sunday – and a plate of designer nibbles. She even phoned yesterday, bragging that she’d managed to get some of that Castell Gwyn cracked black pepper cream cheese that we’re all so fond of. Her way of rubbing it in that she’s far better than the rest of us at preparing a spread. Isn’t that right, Doreen and Iris?’
The sight of both women nodding their heads in unison did little to calm Gaby’s mind. All she wanted was to send them on their way but that was looking increasingly unlikely. The three of them, with their matching salon-set hairdos and determined expressions meant business and any palming off on her part would probably lead to her photo on the front of tomorrow morning’s Chronicle – exactly the type of negative media attention that would skew her chances of getting the job.
Picking up her pen again, she turned over to a fresh page and jotted down the date and time in her illegible scrawl, resigned to her fate. If she got home at all tonight she’d be lucky. The thought that she’d need to text Rusty about being late perversely elevated her mood. For the first time in what felt like ages it was nice to have someone on her side, someone who would be waiting with the kettle on standby.
‘Right then, ladies. Let’s take it from the beginning. Tell me everything you know about Barbara Matthews and what makes you so determined that something awful has befallen her. But before you start …’ She looked up. ‘Tell me if your friend ever had any kind of joint surgery. A hip replacement for instance?’
Chapter 21
Ronan
Monday 3 August, 6.15 p.m. Caernarfon
The walk from Caernarfon to Dinas Dinlle was very different to the short car journey he used to take with his grandparents. Then there’d been laughter and little games like I-spy to pass the time. But the stress of the train ride compounded by his silent companion made any form of communication an effort Ronan wasn’t prepared to make. He knew it was the ideal opportunity to get her to open up about why she’d left home. Having a child in tow with no idea as to what desperation had driven her to such an extreme act was stupid. She could be anyone and not only that. After the experience they’d been through with his father, Ronan knew more than most the darkness that some people hid under the cover of normality. There was so much he wanted to ask her but, with the sun beaming down and the weight of their rucksacks increasing with each step, he felt instinctively that now wasn’t the time. She probably wouldn’t tell him the truth but that wasn’t his main reason for staying silent. There was a gentle trust building, something he was loath to damage. She’d already run away once. She might not be so lucky the next time with who she bumped into.
He decided to stop off for a quick rest at Foryd Bay, one of the beaches nearest to the farmhouse and a great favourite with the family. The place was deserted apart from a bunch of teenagers throwing stones into the sea. The crystal-clear water was inviting but he turned away, having to drag a reluctant Ellie with him. She was tired, visibly dropping in front of his eyes. With the unexpected activity of the last few hours, he’d have liked nothing better than to curl up on the warm sand for a snooze. But safety was paramount. He had a feeling that he wouldn’t feel secure until he had a roof over their heads and a front door to bolt behind them. While north-west Wales was a world away from his isolated hideaway up the Great Orme, it would only take one stranger to change all that.
Keeping the Menai Strait, and the Isle of Anglesey on the right and Caernarfon Airport up ahead, this was the most anxious time for Ronan. The screaming roar of aeroplanes taking off and landing was a constant threat and once he even had to pull Ellie to one side, trying to hide her among the tangled mess of greenery that lined the route. He heaved a sigh of relief when he spotted the tiny hamlet of Saron, the landmark he’d been hoping for. From there it was another half-hour walk following the coastal path until they came to a bridge he recognised.
With Dinas Dinlle beach in the distance, he could finally start to relax and funnily enough so did Ellie. Now instead of silence there was nervous chatter as if she had too much to say and not enough time in which to say it. He learnt lots but nothing of any importance, mainly about her hope to train in London as a ballerina when she left school and her love of reading. He even learnt about her best friend, Heather, and the difficulties they were having at school, their friendship forged by the unkindness of their classmates. He could tell her a lot about bullying but instead he let her continue in case she let something slip that would reveal her reason for running away. But her chatter stopped as quickly as it had started, the sugar rush, from the chocolate he’d plied her with during their short break only a distant memory as she faded into complete silence.
‘It won’t be long, kid. Another five or ten minutes and then it’s straight to bed.’
There was no reply.
The dirt track up to his grandparents’ property was starting to show signs of neglect with weeds poking their way through the narrow sloping driveway. The long low farmhouse was just how he remembered, the stone-fronted building as familiar to him as his own home. With the memory of how it had once been pushing through the layers of his mind, the sight of the empty planters that straddled the doorway was a physical stabbing pain as reality hit. To lose both grandparents and his father in the course of a year right on the back of his expulsion from school and his mother’s cancer diagnosis was almost too much for him to bear.
His hands laced through the straps of his rucksack and gripped together over his chest, his bitten nails finding purchase on the tender flesh of his palm. The past was best left alone, something he’d been telling himself ever since he’d left his mother’s house – he couldn’t call it home, not now.
He reached the front door and, fumbling in his pockets, his fingers curled around the hard, cold outline of the keys he’d taken. Ellie waited patiently at his side. The worst of it was that it was all his fault. If he hadn’t taken that final stand against those two boys in St Gildas, the cataclysmic chain of events that had led to the destruction of everything he cherished would never have started. There wasn’t even anything he could do to make it right. Redemption for him was a never-ending roundabout of what-ifs and maybes, the past something he’d like to change in the hollows of his mind. That was his tragedy and the cause of his recent mental and emotional decay. He needed saving but what was the likelihood with no one around, apart from a ten-year-old girl?
With the Yale key in the lock, he lifted his arm, holding it out to prevent Ellie from entering as he finally examined the wisdom in bringing her here. He’d heard the rumours of what had happened at the isolated farmhouse. He’d have had to be living in Timbuktu not to be privy to the story that had filled the front pages of every paper. Now that they’d arrived, he could almost see a high-resolution image of what might be lying in wait in the room at the end of the hall.
‘You stay here. I need to check that it’s safe.’ He swung his rucksack off his shoulders and propped it up against the flocked wallpaper.
The farmhouse was long and low with only attic space above, he recalled, his attention drawn as if by some invisible force to the hatch that punctuated one end of the ceiling. He used to love rummaging among the old tea chests that held everything an imaginative boy could want. The long hours he’d spent with his brothers playing make-believe with the long-discarded and forgotten clothes held an importance far in excess of the reality of mouldy rags and web-strewn rafters.
Ignoring the living space on the right, he walked in the opposite direction to the extension where a master bedroom and en suite had been added sometime in the Seventies, his pace slowing to a stop when he reached the door.
Chapter 22
Gaby
Monday 3 August, 6.30 p.m. Wisteria Cottage
Wisteria Cottage was the last property situated in the highly sought-after area of Deganwy Quay. Edging the waterfront, the bungalow enjoyed the most magnificent views across the Conwy estuary and the castle beyond.
Tur
ning her attention away from the sight of King Edward II’s imposing edifice, Gaby pulled into the driveway behind what was presumably Barbara Matthews’ dark green Toyota hatchback, more than half annoyed that she’d reluctantly agreed to visit the property. She had far too much on her plate to be bothered with an old biddy who’d decided to go AWOL rather than face up to the fact that her friends were better than her at bridge.
Instead of jumping out of the car, she paused a moment to examine the sharp lines of the stark cream house, which didn’t immediately present with any of the usual features she’d come to associate with the term cottage. The front garden was a neat square of green, cut into regimented strips, where no weed would dare to pop up its head. There were no flowers or shrubs, apart from a pair of neatly clipped box hedges heralding the entrance and certainly no sign of wisteria crawling up the brickwork.
It only took a second to select the Yale from the small bunch of keys clutched in her palm that Clancy had passed on earlier. Modern policing meant that the days of entering a property by force were long gone unless it was either a dire emergency or unavoidable. All it had taken was a knock on the next-door neighbour’s house, by the paramedics earlier, to ascertain that they had an arrangement to keep an eye on each other’s properties – within moments the keys had exchanged hands.
The hall was tiny with barely space for the narrow table, a pair of navy lace-ups carefully positioned beneath. The lace-ups interested Gaby simply because removing her shoes when she came in from the outside was one of the first things she did after dropping her keys into the shallow bowl she’d bought for that express purpose. It was something that her mother had drummed into her along with hanging up her jacket in her bedroom and ensuring that her bags were packed and ready in preparation for the next day. Little routines that she still performed except, instead of a school bag, she now carried around a smart leather briefcase. If Gaby’s work shoes weren’t neatly placed in the hall there was a very good chance that she was at the office, a fact that was starting to make her feel uneasy about the current location of Barbara Matthews.
Lost Souls Page 10
