Lost Souls

by Jenny O'Brien

  ‘I’m sorry, Owen, but I couldn’t sit and face him.’

  ‘No, of course not and no one would expect you to.’ He pushed to his feet and grabbed his suit jacket from behind his chair. ‘Come on. It’s probably a good idea for us to get away from the office in case that erstwhile husband of yours decides that he can accost you at work. Diane and I have already arranged to meet up with Barbara Matthews’ bosom pals over at her house to see if they can add anything now that the CSIs have finished with the property.’ He picked up his pen and wrote a quick couple of lines on a Post-it Note. ‘I’ll leave this with the desk sergeant on the way out to let Diane know that I’ll be working with you for the remainder of the shift. There’s no point in swapping back halfway.’

  Owen hated the complexities of people management, which was the main reason why he’d never decided to go further than detective constable, despite his crime-solving skills and excellent memory, which were a huge bonus to any team. He viewed himself as a backroom detective, quite happy to stay in the shadows and have the limelight diverted to those who relished the attention. The likes of CS Winters and DCI Sherlock were more than happy to leave him to it. It was only Gaby who was determined to see him shoot up the ladder, just as much as he was determined to stay glued to his current rung.

  Having Marie along while he visited Barbara Matthews’ home was his way out of a potentially awkward situation. With those three old biddies present, there would be very little opportunity for Marie to discuss anything that wasn’t work-related – unlike the last time they were in the office together, he remembered. A win all round as far as he was concerned.

  Owen found himself struggling not to laugh at the way Mildred Pennyworth and her friend Iris Farnsworth immediately accosted him at the front door, both vying for his attention and very much ignoring Doreen Frost, who had taken a step back and was clearly distressed at the whole situation. Once inside, it was Doreen who sat on the chair nearest to the door, her hands neatly folded in her lap, apparently quite happy for Mildred and Iris to take the lead. With her bright twinkling eyes and calm demeanour, Owen had already pegged Doreen as the more observant of the group. The other two would have been too busy asserting themselves to take much notice of anything else. He might be proved wrong but he very much doubted it.

  With Marie taking notes, he led them through the lounge and across into the study while they argued between themselves as to what might be missing, Doreen trailing behind.

  ‘There was a Georgian silver teapot,’ Mildred said, ‘and a collection of Royal Doulton Toby jugs. Three I think.’

  ‘Edwardian, dear, and actually seven jugs,’ Doreen interrupted in her quiet voice. ‘Don’t you remember her telling us that it was Henry VIII and his six wives?’ She tilted her head towards Marie, a gentle smile holding a glimmer of the beautiful girl she’d once been. ‘Barbara’s father used to be a collector, you know. There were also some miniatures that she used to keep in that drawer over there.’ She pointed to an apple wood desk with ornate brass handles. ‘She rarely took them out as she hated the idea of paying her cleaner extra to dust them.’

  ‘There’s no sign of them now,’ Marie said with a shake of her head as she stared down at the empty space.

  ‘She employed a cleaner, did she?’ Owen’s brows knit together, trying to join the dots. If Ellie Fry’s mother was Barbara Matthews’ cleaner …? He shook his head, unable to arrange them into a workable pattern.

  ‘Two hours a week, rain, hail or shine,’ Mildred said, darting a look of dislike at Doreen, presumably at the temerity of her hogging the conversation. ‘Actually, that’s a point.’ She frowned. ‘Someone’s going to have to tell her to stop coming.’

  ‘That’s easily done. She’s bound to have her details in that little red Radley address book she always kept in her handbag.’ Doreen met Owen’s gaze. ‘She had a thing about Radley handbags.’

  ‘So, basically what you’re all saying,’ Marie said, tapping away on her handheld, ‘is that, in addition to Mrs Matthews’ disappearance, there’s an eclectic mix of potentially valuable antiques missing that no one, apart from her close friends, would necessarily have noticed unless they’d been itemised individually on her contents insurance?’ She waved her hand towards the large, flat-screen TV and the top-of-the-range sound system.

  ‘That’s about it and as she didn’t have any family, no one but us would have noticed,’ Mildred said, rejoining the conversation, her narrow eyes sparkling but without a glimmer of compassion or kindness in their depths.

  Owen ran his hand across his beard, disgusted with both her behaviour and how he was letting her get to him, but he only had himself to blame. No. His hand paused as he remembered that it had been originally Diane’s idea. If he hadn’t worked with her earlier, he’d never have had the insight to arrange to meet up with the trio of supposed best friends.

  ‘While you’re here, can you tell me a little more about your friend so that we can get a better picture of the type of person she is? Is it correct that she used to run a shop in Llandudno?’

  ‘Yes. Indeed. Bonbons, one of those old-fashioned sweetshops with everything stored away in those huge glass jars. It was situated next to Marie et Cie, which has also long since gone, more’s the pity – used to buy all my children’s clothes there,’ Mildred said, again taking hold of the reins of the conversation and running with them. ‘I don’t know how she used to cope with all those horrible, sticky children fingering the shelves.’

  ‘Actually I was born and bred in Llandudno,’ Owen said, his brief smile confined to his lips. ‘I remember it well. I used to be one of those – how did you put it – horrible, sticky children? Although now I come to think of it, I don’t remember a woman … there was an old gent. Always wore the same blue bow tie?’

  ‘That would have been her father. She only ran it for a short while following his death,’ Doreen said, feasting her eyes on the blush staining Mildred’s cheeks an unflattering cherry-red. ‘Barbara wasn’t really shop-owner material. She couldn’t keep staff to save her life.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘People have different expectations, Detective. I, for instance, expect very little from people and therefore am rarely disappointed,’ she replied, her attention flickering between her two friends sitting opposite. ‘However, Barbara is cut from a completely different cloth. She always has an opinion about everything and has no difficulty in sharing those sentiments, no matter how hurtful they are. While I’m sad she’s missing, I’m not totally surprised that you’re as concerned about her whereabouts as we are. Perhaps she said the wrong thing to the wrong person once too often?’

  Chapter 37

  Gaby

  Tuesday 4 August, 10 a.m. The Vicarage, Llandudno

  The last time Gaby had been anywhere near a church was when she’d been investigating the disappearance of Alys Grant – not her finest hour by any means and as memories went, one she preferred to tuck away in the back of her mind to never see the cold light of day again.

  The manse was a tall, narrow building tucked down a side street. From the outside, it appeared to be a well-maintained Victorian property with a large garden bound by a groundsman-perfect lawn and a tidy hedge clipped to within an inch of its life. The forest-green door was opened by a well-rounded blonde with dark roots striving for freedom and a taste in shoes that would do any stilt-walker proud.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Gaby quickly made introductions. ‘We’re here to see Reverend Albert Honeybun, if he has a minute?’

  ‘Of course – I’m Mrs Honeybun.’ She stretched out a hand, her grip firm, her fingernails talon long and fuchsia pink. ‘Come this way,’ she said, gesturing for them to follow down a long, dark hallway. The walls were panelled with wood and with a tiled floor in bold cream and red alternating squares that should have felt out of place but didn’t. ‘He’s tinkering away in the study, keeping out from under my feet.’

  Gaby managed to catch Diane’s eye, her
twitching lips reflecting her thoughts. If this was the wife, what would the husband be like?

  Reverend Honeybun was nothing like his wife. For a start he was short and round with a head of wispy grey hair that looked as if it hadn’t seen a brush let alone a hairdresser in months. But his kindly grey eyes and bellowing laugh, as he spoke to his wife, told Gaby more than any words coming out of his mouth that here was a man she could trust.

  Gaby took in the book-lined study in one encompassing glance. The faded chintz furnishings and general air of impoverished gentility. The collection of pottery running the length of the mantelpiece, which included a fine display of lustreware teapots, the copper glaze reflecting the sunlight streaming through the mullioned windows. Unlike most of the homes she visited, it was a room she felt comfortable in. Her only query was that it didn’t seem to fit in with Mrs Honeybun’s glamorous persona, but who was she to judge, she thought, her mind swinging briefly to the state of her lounge and the two still-unopened cans of paint.

  ‘Come in and take a seat. Tea, my love, and a few of those little Battenburg cakes, if it’s not too much trouble. There’s nothing like a little cake to help with sermon writing.’ He patted his stomach, which hung over the belt of his dark brown trousers. ‘Now, how can I be of help, officers?’ he said, waiting a moment until the door had clicked closed behind his wife’s retreating back.

  ‘We’re concerned as to the whereabouts of Ronan Stevens. Anything that you can tell us would be helpful.’

  The happy-go-lucky, jovial face altered, the smile now a frown as muscles tightened to redistribute his features. ‘Ah yes. There’s a complex, troubled young man if ever there was one. The sins of the past lie heavily on his young shoulders.’ He ran his hand over his neck, his speech paused at the sound of a trolley squeaking along the tiles outside the door. He only resumed the conversation when his wife had left the room for a second time after distributing an array of china. ‘So, what exactly would you like to know?’

  ‘Anything obvious that you can tell us.’

  ‘There’s not a lot. He came to me. No. That’s not quite right,’ he said, his frown deepening. ‘I was in the Victorian Arcade, let me see now, it must have been about six weeks ago, when I saw this tall gangly lad sitting on one of the benches and I knew he was in trouble.’ He raised his head, a muscle in his right cheek starting to twitch. ‘It didn’t take me long to realise how much.’ He took a quick sip of his tea before clattering his cup back in the saucer, his fat fingers struggling with the dainty handle. ‘There’s always something about the eyes … They aren’t called the windows to the soul for nothing. His were dead, glazed over with the same stigma we find in kids who’ve seen far too much in their young lives. He couldn’t have tried to save himself even if he’d wanted to.

  ‘It was around about the same time that his mother came to see me – the work I do with society’s less fortunates is common knowledge in the local community. I agreed to watch out for him and within days had put him to work in the garden. The church is surrounded on all sides and digging and the like is not my forte, shall we say,’ he said, choosing a second cake and managing to pop it into his mouth whole with barely a pause in the conversation. ‘I had thought that we were winning. The shell, once broken, is a fragile thing and so it was with Ronan. The general hubbub of church life was causing a hairline fracture through his emotions, the real Ronan seeping out through the cracks.’

  ‘And what is he like?’ Gaby asked, eyeing him over the rim of her bone china teacup, liking this unassuming man more and more and again wondering where he’d found such a wife.

  ‘I’d say genuine and honest. Always keen to help and nice to be around. Very quiet though, quiet and deep. There’s a huge amount going on in that mind of his that rarely makes the surface.’ He leant back in his chair, his cup now back on the tray, his hands neatly folded across his belly. ‘Such a waste of a life but I did think that he was starting to get back on track, but it appears that that’s not the case?’

  Gaby was tempted to confide at least part of her concerns but something held her back; she had no idea what. It wasn’t as if he’d break her confidence and they needed all the help they could get.

  Instead of answering his implied question, she decided to ask one of her own. ‘So, you have no idea where he might be? We need to speak to him urgently.’

  ‘And he would know this, would he?’

  Gaby met Diane’s gaze as they both shared the same thought.

  ‘As you say, he’s an intelligent lad so, yes, he’d know.’

  ‘Then I think you’re in a lot of trouble because it’s highly unlikely you’ll find him until the time comes when he wants to be found.’

  Chapter 38

  Gaby

  Tuesday 4 August, 11 a.m. St Asaph Police Station

  Gaby and DCI Henry Sherlock had what could be termed a satisfactory relationship. He told her what to do and mostly she did it. They only fell out when she went off piste and, to be truthful, after the last occasion when she’d ended up in hospital attached to life support, she was trying to benefit from his wisdom and learn from her mistakes. Impulsivity in police work often ended with unexpected consequences, which she was reminded about each time her side ached as the wound in her left side continued to heal.

  Being summoned to her boss’s office was all she needed. But with her job application form in his inbox, in addition to three major investigations on the table, she couldn’t really blame him.

  ‘Take a seat and tell me how you’re getting on with the search.’

  Gaby lowered herself into the chair positioned directly in front of his desk, trying to marshal her thoughts as she pulled her jacket across her chest and linked her hands in her lap. There was a thing or two she’d like to ask him in return – like how Bill Davis’s interview had gone. She’d seen him exiting the building in a brand-new suit and carefully arranged smile, which had the desired negative effect on her mood. But she was intelligent enough to appreciate that it was all for show. It wasn’t in Sherlock’s nature to make snap decisions. She was also wise enough to realise that if he did decide to appoint Davis, he’d only have himself to blame. The fallout on the team would be as immediate as it would be disastrous.

  ‘Not as well as we would have hoped at this stage, thirty hours or so since her disappearance,’ she finally said, managing a fleeting smile. ‘Thoughts are that she’s attached herself to Ronan Stevens, the son of Casper.’ She leant forward, focusing briefly on his wire-framed spectacles, which were in their usual position on top of his forehead, before dropping her gaze to meet his. ‘It’s not something the press have managed to get hold of yet but, as we both know, it won’t be long until somebody spills the beans and all hell breaks loose.’

  DCI Sherlock rested his elbows on the desk and, steepling his fingers, propped his chin on the tips. ‘Now, tell me some good news.’

  There isn’t any! But all she said was, ‘We took Janice Stevens into custody because of blood found in her bathroom but we’re going to have to release her if her alibi checks out and there’s nothing to suppose that it won’t. The facts all agree that, if Ronan took Ellie, there wasn’t time for his mother to assist him. But she could still have helped him cover up his tracks following Ellie’s disappearance. The blood is the most important thing. I’ve asked the CSIs to rush through the DNA analysis but until we can confirm or not that it belongs to Ellie Fry, there’s not a lot we can do with the information.’

  She paused to take a long breath. ‘There’s been no further sightings of Ronan Stevens and no suggestion as to where he would have taken Ellie, if indeed he has. But we’ve broadened the search with this in mind.’ She lifted a hand up to tuck a stray curl back behind her ear. ‘There’s also the disappearance of Barbara Matthews, sir, and a possible link with the disappearance of Katherine Jane. Bates is taking the lead.’

  ‘Hmm. I received your application form earlier, Darin,’ he said after a brief pause, shifting the conversation alon
g with his glasses, which he dropped onto his nose. ‘Cutting it a little fine, weren’t we?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure if I had the necessary experience, sir.’

  ‘What? Thirteen years isn’t long enough? How much experience do you need?’

  She refrained from answering, determined not to say anything she might regret. She had the makings of a good life, and one wrong move would end it in an instant.

  ‘Okay. I can see you’ve taken an oath of silence,’ he said, his eyes glinting. ‘CS Winters has rearranged his calendar accordingly so back here in the office at five for your interview.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts, Darin. We’re already getting pressure from HR because of extending the submission date. The new DI will be announced 10 a.m. tomorrow morning whether we interview you or not. If you can’t manage your workload then you’re certainly not up to managing the team on a more formal footing.’

  Back in the incident room, a coffee by her elbow, Gaby almost dropped her head into her hands in frustration at Sherlock’s intransigent behaviour. He didn’t seem to understand her workload, either that or he was unprepared to make allowances. But whatever the reason for his stance, she was far too busy to spend time thinking about it. The case had taken on a life of its own. It had so many loops and twists that she was struggling to stay focused. She recollected a conversation she’d had with one of her previous bosses about woods and trees but the forest was thick and the branches and foliage obstructed her view.

  Her phone pinged and the first proper smile of the day touched her lips at the sight of Rusty’s name filling the screen and the little x that ended the message. The thought of Conor having a sleepover and Rusty’s plans to cook her tea around at his place broadened her smile into a grin until she remembered how unlikely it was that she’d be finished anywhere near the usual time afforded people in nine-to-five jobs.