Lost Souls

by Jenny O'Brien

  She had an idea that she wouldn’t find Mrs Matthews at home; after all, the police had already conducted a thorough search. But Gaby was nothing if not exacting in all aspects of her life. She’d be the last person to admit that she was a control freak but checking up was something she did. It wasn’t about a lack of trust, far from it. It wasn’t even that she thought herself better than anyone else – the reality was she had self-esteem issues, so nothing could be further from the truth. No. Gaby was again attempting to walk in someone else’s footsteps even if, in this instance, there was no evidence that a crime had been committed.

  The downstairs of the airy dormer bungalow was painted in rich creams to maximise the light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, which framed the most spectacular views out across the marina. In her mind’s eye, she closed the hall door behind her and, after slipping off her shoes, padded into the kitchen towards the kettle. With the switch depressed, the next job would’ve been to gather together a mug before unloading the food into their relevant cupboards …

  Giving a little start, Gaby shook her head, returning to the reality of the empty house. She took in the neat pile of side plates and linen napkins placed at one end of the table alongside four cherry-red wine goblets. Her brow pulled into a frown at the sight of the preparations for the bridge party. Careful not to touch anything, she removed a fresh pair of disposable gloves from her pocket and crossed over to the large American-style fridge, her frown deepening when she caught sight of the box of cheeses just like Mildred Pennyworth had suggested. It looked as if the only thing stopping the bridge party from going ahead was the absence of the hostess. And yet, with no evidence to the contrary, she couldn’t be sure that Mrs Matthews hadn’t been delayed by something unexpected.

  For some reason her concern, which had been negligible, had upgraded to alarm in part due to her inability to trace the blasted woman. The hospitals had all come up blank as had the next-door neighbour, who’d seen her return to the property earlier with her hands straining under the weight of her shopping bags. They’d even passed the time of day on their respective doorsteps like they’d done hundreds of times previously. There was nothing unusual or suspect except her failure to be where she was expected. Reports of missing people in and around North Wales were rare. To have two in one day was unheard of.

  Walking through the rooms, Gaby pulled open every cupboard and searched under every bed. She only turned her attention to the outside after she’d exhausted every hiding place. The exterior of the bungalow was surrounded on three sides by nicely manicured lawns and a small patio at the back with steps down to the marina. Apart from a shed, which contained the usual gardening tools, there was nowhere for Barbara Matthews to hide and no reason Gaby could think of for her to do so. Wandering back into the kitchen, she walked over to the sink and the full mug of tea resting on the draining board, which added veracity to her earlier thought that the next thing Barbara Matthews would have done after removing her shoes was to make herself a cuppa. But why leave it barely touched? The rest of the room showed the distinct mark of someone that was house proud. It didn’t fit that Barbara Matthews would leave a dirty mug on the draining board unless she had to.

  Making one of the snap decisions that she was famed for, Gaby pulled out her phone and speed-dialled the station. She had very little to go on, certainly nothing of any substance, but that had never stopped her from calling for help. A pair of shoes. A mug of cold tea. A few dishes piled up neatly at the end of the table and a fridge full of award-winning cheeses. Call it instinct or sheer bloody-mindedness but she knew that something had happened to Barbara Matthews. The only problem was she had no idea what.

  The CSIs took half an hour to arrive but within minutes of the plain white van pulling up outside the property, the bungalow was surrounded by an army of paper-suited personnel, with only part of their faces visible under their drawstring hoods.

  ‘Do you ever go home, Jason?’ Gaby said, recognising the sparsely framed, senior CSI by his distinctive green eyes and friendly smile.

  ‘Hah, chance would be a fine thing. I’ve nearly forgotten my address since you joined the team, Gaby,’ he replied, his broad grin taking the sting out of his words. ‘So, what is it to be this time? Another serial killer or just an isolated dead body?’ he said, making reference to the recent cases that had pushed them to the limit.

  ‘I hope neither,’ she said with a smile, propping her elbow on the door of the van while she waited for him to hand out the clear plastic boxes that contained their equipment. ‘What I really want is for it to be a huge false alarm and for Sherlock to drag me into the office tomorrow and give me a rollicking for wasting police resources on an unwarranted call-out.’

  ‘There’s been one or two of these missing old people over the last year or so though. Is that what you’re thinking?’ he said, falling in beside her as she walked back inside the property.

  ‘To be honest I’m not really thinking anything apart from finding her as quickly as possible so that I don’t have to deflect any resources away from Ellie’s disappearance.’

  ‘There’s no news on that front?’

  ‘Not even a dickie bird. Poor old PC Carbone has been searching through CCTV for most of the day and all she’s come up with is an image from near the girl’s home. It’s as if Ellie has disappeared into thin air.’

  ‘Or something’s happened to her?’

  She stared across at him. ‘Yes, well, obviously we can’t rule that out but I’m hoping not. We’re exploring all scenarios and sadly that has to be one of them.’

  Standing in the small hall, shoulder to shoulder, Gaby watched him scan the area, his team milling about waiting for instructions. There was something in the way he stooped down to stare at the floor and where it met the plain white skirting board that reaffirmed her suspicions.

  She’d long suspected that Jason Moore was as intuitive as he was clever. She’d never come across a CSI quite like him despite her varied employment history of appointments in Liverpool, Cardiff, Swansea and now St Asaph. He seemed to spend more time looking than he actually did doing but still managed to find an array of extraordinary evidence that even somebody with Gaby’s extensive experience would have missed.

  ‘So, what have you found, if anything?’

  ‘I haven’t found anything as such.’ He returned to his feet, his gloved hand slipping a clipboard out from under his arm. ‘Nothing that will be of any use to you, yet. But what I will say is, it’s a good job that it’s the end of the day and not the beginning.’

  ‘I’m not with you?’

  ‘Perfume, Gaby. I never wear aftershave at work and any scent that you might have been wearing will have long worn off by now.’ He strolled into the lounge, Gaby trailing behind him. ‘As you know, one of the prerequisites of this job is having a discerning nose. All I’m prepared to say is that what I smelt when I walked into the hall wasn’t what I’d been expecting,’ he said, starting to write on his clipboard. ‘For an upmarket property such as this there should be an undertone of polish and perhaps a hint of the owner’s unique body odour, be that perfume or whichever hygiene products they use like soaps, shampoos, deodorants or even washing powder. But death leaves a scent too, as anyone who’s ever had the grim pleasure of attending an autopsy will attest. I’d almost be prepared to swear under oath that blood has been spilt – I’d hazard large volumes of the stuff for it to leave residual particles in the air after, what is it, six hours or so since she was last seen?’

  Gaby’s lids shuttered closed. She’d never been comfortable when conversations veered towards the gritty reality of blood, and thoughts of the amount Jason was talking about caused her to weaken at the knees. She wasn’t a wuss, far from it. But she’d had an early start to the day and not much to eat. She filled her lungs with air and finally met his gaze, her mind returning to the case that Jax had been talking about earlier: the disappearance of Miss Jane. Two missing pensioners and not one clue between them.
The only difference being that with Mildred Pennyworth raising the alarm so quickly, the scent of blood hadn’t had a chance to dissipate. Any more cases and she’d have to call in additional staff. She might still have to.

  Thoughts of the missing girl took precedence but she couldn’t ignore the facts. She dug in her pocket, pulled out her mobile and tapped in DCI Sherlock’s number. After this call, she’d phone Rusty, deliberately pushing aside all the reasons why she shouldn’t be thinking of embarking on a relationship with him. She’d use this as a trial run and see how he measured up in a crisis. Her lips twisted. Welcome to her life.

  ‘Good evening, sir. We have a problem.’

  Chapter 23

  Marie

  Monday 3 August, 7.45 p.m. St Asaph

  Marie squinted down at the little clock displayed on her screen. It was well past the time when she should be thinking of going home but with Malachy having volunteered to join the search party along with Jax, she’d offered to stay in the office until eight when the late shift took over the reins. It wasn’t fair that Owen should have to stay when there was nothing for her to go home to apart from an empty room. Oh sure, she had the whole of Malachy’s apartment to roam, all apart from his bedroom which was out of bounds, but there was still the embarrassment to work through. It had been a very long time since she’d lived with anyone apart from Ivo, her soon-to-be ex-husband, and she was determined not to outstay her welcome.

  With the makings of a casserole slow-cooking in the crockpot since first thing this morning, she didn’t even have to worry about having to prepare a meal. What spare time she had was her own and she had no better thought of how to spend it than to continue with her search into anyone and everyone who’d ever come into contact with Ellie Fry and her mother.

  The array of dirty mugs told their own story as she stood and stretched, her shoulders bunching under the thin fabric of her cream blouse, which was sticking to her skin. Caffeine was the very last thing she wanted but the thing she needed to keep her from flagging. With a flick of her hand, she scrunched the tell-tale KitKat wrapper into a ball, flinging it into the bin under her desk before collecting up all the mugs and heading to the sink, frowning across at Diane Carbone on the way. Not that the middle-aged blonde would notice. Her head was nearly completely masked by two large computer screens, which held all the CCTV footage available within a six-mile radius of Ellie’s home.

  The policewoman was an unknown entity, someone she’d come across from time to time when she’d had to visit the Llandudno Station but she’d only ever spoken a few words to her that weren’t work-related. Now was the time to change all that especially as she’d overheard Gaby speaking to Owen about encouraging her to undertake her sergeant exams.

  ‘Fancy another one?’ she said, angling her head in the direction of Diane’s mug. ‘You must be square-eyed after a day in front of the screens.’

  ‘You’re a lifesaver. Milk, no sugar.’ Diane lifted up her hand to her smooth chin-length bob, tucking the ends behind her ears. ‘Any luck with the school search?’

  Marie shook her head. ‘Nope but that’s what I’d been hoping.’ She picked up the glass coffee pot, pleased to see that it was half full. ‘A sexual predator is exactly what we don’t need right now. Are you going to go on for much longer or—?’ Marie handed her back her mug and, propping her hip against Diane’s desk, eyed her over the rim.

  ‘For a bit. Since my dear husband ran off with the barmaid from our local, there’s nobody to go home to apart from the cat and Delilah is well able to fend for herself for a few hours,’ she said, flashing her a brief smile.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’

  ‘No reason why you should. It happened while I was still working in Llandudno and was the reason for my transfer. With the kids having deserted the nest and the house sold, the only remaining link is my surname and I’m in the process of changing that. Diane Smith here I come, and not a minute too soon.’

  ‘I never knew that it was so easy?’

  ‘Best eighteen quid I’ve ever spent. I should have kicked the jerk out years ago.’

  Marie couldn’t help but admire the strength and confidence exuding from the attractive blonde, so very different to how she’d been feeing since the break-up of her own marriage and she vowed there and then to change both her attitude and her name as soon as possible.

  ‘How are you getting on with the CCTV?’ she finally asked, taking a long sip of her drink, trying and failing to ignore the aftertaste that only stewed coffee could give.

  ‘I’m backtracking a bit over some footage taken yesterday to see if I can come up with a better image of the person she’s with. They’re too grainy to identify them by anything apart from their clothes and rucksacks. If I can just get a decent shot of his face we can show it around – maybe even include it in the media releases. Here, what do you think?’ She stretched out a hand, pushing a small pile of printouts across the desk. ‘The one on top is the best image by far. It was taken from a camera off the top of Upper Mostyn Street.’

  Marie placed her mug down and picked up the photos, shuffling through slowly. CCTV footage was a waste of time mostly, the images too distorted and grainy to be of any use except in giving the briefest idea as to what someone looked like. But they still had to go through them on the off-chance that they recognised someone.

  There were four photos that featured the man, more of a lad really, dressed in a padded anorak on what was one of the hottest days of the year. That jacket told her a lot about the kind of person he was as did the large rucksack strapped to his back. But for Marie the most telling part of the sharing exercise wasn’t either the clothes or the bag but the lad’s face – a face she thought she recognised.

  ‘Be back in a sec.’ She hopped off the desk and within seconds was logging in to her laptop but this time instead of accessing the police databanks she pulled up Google, searching for footage from one of the most horrific cases Wales had ever known. It didn’t take her long to scroll through the images to find the one she wanted, the last photo of the Stevens family, reproduced over and over again for the eager ghoul-loving gratification of the British public. There wasn’t anything exciting about the picture. Millions of similar snaps existed in dusty albums the length and breadth of the country. The bright cheesy smiles. The parents standing at the back, their arms around the two younger boys. The surly-looking teenager standing slightly apart as if he was struggling to feel part of the group. She printed off two copies of the image and, while she waited, scanned the article for a name, slapping her hand against her thigh when she found it.

  Ronan Stevens. She knew it was something unusual. But what a lad of eighteen or thereabouts would be doing with Elodie Fry was another thing as she struggled to remember what Darin had said about him at the time. She blinked, her frown lines creasing. Troubled. That was it. A troubled young man tormented by the actions of others.

  Chapter 24

  Ronan

  Monday 3 August, 7.45 p.m. Caernarfon

  The bedroom was very different to the last time Ronan had seen it. The antique walnut dressing table and matching wardrobe were nowhere in sight and instead of the large double bed all that remained was a dusty space. There was nothing in this room now. No shadows of the family photos and the cut-crystal perfume bottles that his grandmother used to collect. All that was left of the paintings that had spanned the walls were faded shapes on the wallpaper, a fierce reminder of the changes wrought since their death. He didn’t allow himself the luxury of doing more than glancing at the bare floorboards, which had once been topped with a thick pile carpet in a nondescript brown to match the bedspread. His thoughts shut down the image that was threatening to take over his mind.

  Touching the brass handle, he pulled the door closed with a gentle but resolute click and hid his trembling fingers deep inside the pockets of his jeans. While he’d had to see the room if only to prove to himself that everything he’d been told was true, there was no way he ever
intended to cross the threshold again.

  Back in the hall, he was pleased to note that Ellie hadn’t moved. He’d only been gone less than a minute but in that time her chin had sunk onto her chest. It looked as if she’d dropped off to sleep. Her eyes were certainly closed and her chest was rising up and down with a regularity that suggested her relaxed state. It seemed a shame to have to move her so he didn’t. Instead he stepped around and walked to the other end of the hall and the rooms on the right.

  This was the original part of the farmhouse with a large rustic kitchen and earthenware flagstones. Here the oval table took pride of place and he could still see the marks on the surface from where his grandmother had used to prepare their meals. But he didn’t linger, instead he metaphorically crossed his fingers inside his pockets and made his way to the room next door.

  He hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath until he felt the air rush through his teeth in relief at the sight of the bunk beds pushed up against the wall opposite and the solitary single divan under the window. This had been their domain. The place where he and his brothers had slept all those summers when their parents had shipped them off to stay with their grandparents while they continued working at their respective jobs. It was here that the three of them had collapsed each evening in an untidy heap, dead to the world as soon as their heads had touched the pillow after a day spent either on the beach or roaming the countryside. The farm had been cleared by his father of anything of any importance soon after his grandfather’s funeral. It was providential that the bunk beds and old divan held little value to anyone except for a couple of weary travellers in desperate need of a good night’s sleep.