“Must have been a nightmare for them.” Adam could imagine the scene. A family maybe shocked but stoic, or perhaps suddenly frantic with worry, never having entertained a doubt that their daughter was still alive. Their world falling apart in the space of a few minutes. If he’d been in the same situation, and please God he never would be, would he have made sure in advance that he had relevant information ready and waiting, just in case the worst happened? How could one expedite confirming an identification?
“It’s the part of the job I hate most.” Robin ran the back of his hand across his brow. “It’s never an easy conversation, and this one sounded particularly tricky. Turns out they’d known about the threats and that Pippa had been in fear for her life. The family had been complicit in her disappearing for a while and keeping as low a profile as they could, so that Sian Wheatstone—or any other aggrieved person—couldn’t track her down.”
“Did they know about her involvement with the fakes?”
“I believe so. Ben says they told the officer that she’d been inveigled into it by the other two.” Robin rolled his eyes. “I suspect we’ll never get to the truth about that racket in terms of who made who do what.”
“Bad as the kids at school. ‘It was his fault, sir, not mine.’” Adam did his best impression of an eight-year-old. “What happened when they mentioned the DNA?”
“Apparently Mrs. Palmer went ballistic. Accused the officer of wasting their time, of needlessly putting the family through an emotional wringer, when they knew it couldn’t be Pippa. She said she’d sue the police for damages for the distress we’d caused.” A rueful grin crept over Robin’s face. “And then Mr. Palmer had to confess that his uncle had been adopted, something which had evidently been a family secret for such a long time he’d never told the missus.”
“Blimey.” What made people keep things from their loved ones? At least Helen wouldn’t be able to keep the fact of her pregnancy hidden indefinitely; it was bound to show sooner or later. “Why do families get in such a state?”
“There seems to be a story behind it, and not a nice one. When the uncle was a boy he was taken from his natural parents, who were abusing him. Put into a loving family—the Palmers—and raised as their own, but before long he went off the rails.” Robin wrinkled his nose. “He assaulted someone so badly that the bloke had three fractured ribs and a cracked skull.”
Adam whistled. “Sounds like he really benefited from a loving upbringing, then.”
“Don’t be so quick to judge. Ben’s a keen lad, so he’d already looked up the case notes, and it appears the uncle got a light sentence for the assault because he’d got nothing on his record and he was severely provoked.” Robin shrugged. “The bloke who got beaten up had been making some pretty obnoxious statements about child abusers and how their victims brought it on themselves. I wouldn’t normally have a lot of tolerance for people pleading mitigating circumstances around a crime, but in this case I’ve got some sympathy.”
Adam could imagine how hard it would be for Robin to keep his fists under control if somebody made remarks about children who were victims of school bullies and how they’d asked for it. Those early inflicted mental wounds were still not properly healed and maybe never would be.
“But how did the family not realise it wasn’t Pippa? I mean, if you only interact with somebody online it’s easy to keep up a pretence, but didn’t they speak to her on the phone or anything like that?”
“You should be a copper.” Robin grinned. “That’s what the local officer asked, but they said they couldn’t. Pippa’s email had been hacked already—before she went travelling—so she’d had to set up new accounts, and then she was certain her phone account had been accessed, as well. She was paranoid that Sian was trying to trace her and wanted to minimise the chances of being detected. She wouldn’t even communicate via Messenger without using a VPN blocker.”
Adam whistled. “Cloak-and-dagger stuff. They must all have been terrified.”
“That’s the impression the officer got,” Robin confirmed. “Anyhow, long story short, Pippa had a couple of fractures in the past. Broke her right leg in a skiing accident when she was in her teens, and another one—Ben did say what, but I’ve forgotten. He’s spoken to Greg, and Greg says that matches with what he knows of the victim, but he’ll get a proper comparison done first thing tomorrow. Looks like we’ve got a name at last.”
“Now you just need the name of the killer.”
Robin sighed, his body visibly racked with strong emotion that might have been relief at some light emerging or could equally have been concern that they’d taken a wrong turning once more. “With any luck, we might have that too.”
Anderson hadn’t reappeared by Sunday evening. He’d sent a text around five o’clock to say they weren’t to worry—he hadn’t fallen off the end of the world, and he’d be back when he was back. Adam and Robin had received that communication with cautious optimism, although not sufficient to resume romantic relations. Who’d want to answer the doorbell and let Anderson into the house when they were still in flagrante delicto?
Anderson rang first thing on Monday, before Robin had left for work, sounding tickled pink.
“How’s the hand?” Robin asked.
“Sore but okay. Thank Campbell for me. He’s done the job.” Anderson chuckled. “After Helen gave me that rollicking—and then that poor nurse put her foot in it by doing the same—Helen apologised to both of us and explained exactly why she’d been so edgy. I’m going to be a father!”
“Wow.” Robin made sure he came across as suitably amazed. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks. Turn up for the books, eh?”
“Indeed it is.” So far so good.
“The daft woman thought I’d be angry, but I’m not. Bit of bridge-building with the family needed, especially because we’re not married, but nothing we can’t manage between us.”
Robin liked the sound of the “us.” “You’ll be fine. Make sure you have a big christening so both the grannies can buy a new frock and wear a big hat, and you’ll be laughing.”
“Just what we thought. And—assuming all goes well and we’re not counting our chickens before they’re hatched—we’d like you to be the baby’s godfather.”
“Oh. Yes. Thank you.” Robin’s turn to be tickled pink. “I’m not going to wear a big hat for the do, though.”
“Silly sod.” Anderson must be feeling chipper to address his ex-boss in so carefree a style. “I’ll be over to get my stuff tonight, if that’s all right?”
“Should be. Give Adam a text and check he’ll be here, but I’m pretty sure he’s not got parents’ evening or anything on.”
“Coolio Julio. Got to go. Bye.”
As the call ended abruptly, Robin, stunned, stared at his phone.
“What was all that?” Adam appeared in the hallway, bag of school stuff in one hand and car keys in the other.
“I think we’ve got rid of our unwanted guest. Touch wood.” Robin patted the banister. “Although I’ll believe that when he’s taken his stuff, which should be tonight. He’ll contact you to make sure you’re in. No guarantee I’ll be home early.”
“No worries. Especially if you being late means you’ve got a result.”
Robin touched the banister again. “Let’s hope so.” He gave Adam a kiss and followed him out the door.
Adam had a plan. Not as bold as Campbell’s supposed scheme to rid the house of Anderson, but hopefully as effective, although seeing as it involved one of the parents at the school, Rashford would need to be consulted.
The headteacher had seen the tabloid story himself, and admitted that Adam and Robin had crossed his mind at the time. “Not that you’ve done anything untoward, I’m sure.”
“Cross my heart. But when has that stopped the press from inventing a story? Or the local radio, come to that. I want to ask Mr. Baxter to get some names for me. See if I can link them back to Abbotston nick. And,” he added hastily, “I want t
o tell him to insist on having anonymity. And to make sure he deflects any questions about me or the school. We don’t want life getting tricky for Sophie.”
“I hadn’t thought about that. God, we don’t want her being dragged into it.” Rashford ran his hands through his hair. “Just as well he mentioned it to you.”
“Yep. Forewarned is forearmed.”
“Can’t we talk him out of speaking to this researcher? This is a murder case, after all. Sorry, sorry.” Rashford, snorting, shook his head. “You know that. It’s all old hat for you, I guess. But it won’t be for Mr. Baxter. I wouldn’t want him getting further entangled in this. It could be dangerous. For all we know one of the press is mixed up in the murder, or covering it up.”
“You’re quite right.” One day Adam would have to tell the headteacher just how dangerous being involved with a copper could be at times, but that wasn’t a conversation for today.
“I suppose I could try, but that wouldn’t help solve the ‘who’s the mole’ issue. Baxter’s pretty set on the meeting too. I’d volunteer to go with him, but that would be even more likely to risk exposure.”
“Very true.” Rashford sighed. “Okay. I’m sure you’ll try your best.”
“I will. And I promise I’m not going out with my Sherlock Holmes hat and magnifying glass. I’m steering clear of crime scenes. Been there, done that, haven’t I?” He wasn’t promising not to ask the appropriate questions, though. He and Rashford set about the teaching observations they had planned for the morning, albeit part of Adam’s mind remained on the note he’d be sending Baxter.
The Monday-morning team update was lively, despite the presence of Cowdrey, who’d dropped in to reassure the team that they were making progress and relieve them of any further need to address the media. “I’ll need another bloody holiday after all this,” he’d muttered before forcing a smile onto his face and joining the briefing.
He and Robin presented the new theory to the team, who greeted it with a mixture of enthusiasm and scepticism. Robin, who’d been expecting a healthy degree of doubt, had done some research on the web the previous evening to see if he could find any precedent.
“There was a case in Australia, a couple of years ago, where a victim’s mobile phone was used to make it seem she was still alive. Her family were duped for ages. I’m not saying that inspired what we think happened here; I’m just pointing out that it’s possible to get away with it.”
“If we can identify the body as Pippa Palmer, then we’ll know they got away with it,” Cowdrey pointed out. “At least up until this point.”
As though on cue, the phone rang; Greg, to say he was now ninety percent certain the dead woman was Pippa. He still had a DNA comparison with Mrs. Palmer to conduct—a fresh mouth-swab sample had been taken by the Bedford officers and was en route—but the picture the family had supplied was a reasonable match for what they knew of the dead woman’s face and hair, and the historical broken bones, right leg and two ribs, were spot on. That tentative identification, and what had emerged in Saturday’s interviews, was enough for the senior officers to justify getting Sian in for questioning.
When Robin had updated everybody and the briefing resumed, Ben said he’d gone over Sian’s original statement, where she’d stated that she worked at Stanebridge library on Mondays, and he offered to ring and check she was there before they headed across.
“While I don’t want to dint your initiative, I’m not sure that’s such a great idea. Sian herself might answer the phone and get the wind-up.” Robin blew out his cheeks. “Best just to turn up at the library and take it from there. I’m sure we could run her over to Stanebridge nick for questioning if necessary.”
Pru, who’d slipped out of the briefing to answer another call, stormed out of the inner office. “Sir?”
Both Cowdrey and Robin turned round, said, “Yes?” in unison, then chuckled, although Pru’s expression suggested this was no laughing matter.
“Sian’s gone.”
Robin leaped off the desk where he’d parked himself. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”
“Disappeared. Done a runner.” Pru slumped against the door frame. “That was the manager from the library on the phone. Sian was supposed to report for work today but didn’t. They rang her mobile, because she’s normally one hundred percent reliable, but she’s not picking up. Given that she works at Culford, they thought they should let us know. I think they were worried she’d been attacked too.”
“Sorry, sir. I left it too late.” Fine way to greet the boss on his return. “We should have talked to her yesterday.”
“You weren’t to know. I assume she’d not given any indication of clearing off up until then.” Cowdrey obviously knew Robin well enough by now to understand the guilt he was feeling.
“And we didn’t even have a proper ID on the victim, sir,” Pru pointed out. “We’d have looked like right idiots if it turned out the dead woman wasn’t Pippa Palmer. Imagine that all over the local media after we did the same thing with Becky Bairstow.”
“I’d have been willing to take that risk.” Robin wasn’t to be mollified that easily. “I could have hauled her in as soon as we had an inkling that it was Pippa Palmer in the grave.”
“And how long could we have kept Sian without charging her?” Cowdrey was the voice of reason. “A sympathetic judge might let us carry on with the questioning, but evidence was pretty thin forty-eight hours ago, wasn’t it? Probably too thin to make a viable case.”
“I take the point. Okay, we need to be pragmatic. Pru, get back to the library and see if anyone there has her on the ‘find my friend’ app. Ben, do the same with Clare at Culford.” Might as well make the most of modern technology. “With any luck, she’ll not have turned it off.”
“Good thinking.” Cowdrey nodded. “Sarah, can you go old school and get the airports-and-ports alerts up and running, along with the usual messages for forces to keep an eye out for her?”
“Will do, sir. Although if she’s obtained a fake passport or has simply gone to ground on the mainland, we’re stuffed.”
“Then let’s hope she hasn’t,” Cowdrey observed coldly.
“Can we put out an alert on Pippa Palmer’s passport too?” Robin suggested. “It’s unlikely to be at her parents’ house if they think she’s travelling, so there’s a chance that Sian got her hands on it and will try to make use of it.”
“How would she do that?” Alison asked, in a typically negative tone.
“If Pippa’s like almost every woman in Britain, she’d have carried some sort of handbag or rucksack. There wasn’t one found with her.” Pru sounded exasperated. “Remember? Pippa might have carried her passport with her routinely, particularly if she didn’t look her age and needed it for ID purposes.”
Alison wouldn’t let the point go. “That assumes Sian resembles her sufficiently to get through security.”
“How different are they?” Cowdrey, fingers drumming his knees, seemed as annoyed at Alison’s continued negativity as Robin was.
“We’ve only seen the one picture of Pippa, sir, and while they’re not doppelgängers, they’re not hugely dissimilar,” Pru replied.
“Hm. Well, it’s amazing what you can do with a wig and a bit of clever make-up. And luck,” Cowdrey added. “When we flew out of Heathrow a fortnight ago, I had to remind the check-in girl to check my picture. I could have been anybody. Travel at a busy time, and outside the immediate aftermath of a terrorist incident when procedures have turned lax, and who knows what you could get away with. It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
Robin, who’d been staring at the incident board, trying to figure out if there’d been any points where they’d missed the chance to act, brought the team back to the basics. “We shouldn’t ignore all the usual checks we’d normally do in the case of a mysterious disappearance. We’re making the dangerous assumption that Sian’s the killer, but what if she’s another victim? Pru and I will get round to her house as soon as we’re d
one here.”
“Quite right, Chief Inspector.” Cowdrey tapped the desk. “Very prudent. How many times does somebody go missing, and we start searches up and down the country, and then it turns out they’ve been done over by the nearest and dearest and stuffed behind a bath panel or buried in the garden?”
“Does Sian have nearest and dearest?” Pru asked. “I understood she fell out with her remaining family.”
Robin shrugged. “Perhaps she fell in again. She has to have friends. Maybe she found somebody to replace Jerry when he gave her the push. We’ll use our brains and not get blinkered.” There’d been a few too many presumptions already, and Pru should know better than to fall into that trap.
“And she might simply be delayed by circumstances out of her control,” Cowdrey pointed out. “Like I spent six hours at the airport because some idiots went on strike. Sian might have picked up a bug and spent six hours on the toilet, too ill to ring anybody.”
That was a reasonable point but, while they would have to follow the notion through, nobody appeared convinced there was a different explanation. Surely the bird had flown the coop. Robin scanned his team’s faces. “I want all of you ringing round, knocking on doors, whatever it takes to check with as many of Sian’s contacts as you can. Ben, you’re the king of social media. See what you can find there.”
“Will do, sir, but she’s not exactly got a big internet footprint. And what little there was slacked right off over the last year or so. She was keeping a low profile, maybe.”
Pru, who’d been looking less than happy, murmured—loud enough for everyone to hear—“I wonder who tipped her the wink? About the net tightening.”
“Not one of us,” Alison protested. “Like it wasn’t one of us who tipped off the media about Becky Bairstow.”
“I’m sure nobody’s thinking that,” Cowdrey insisted.
Robin kicked the desk leg; remarkable how cathartic it felt, beating the crap out of some inanimate object. Better than being tempted to beat the crap out of coppers who couldn’t keep their gobs shut. “Much more likely that somebody we’ve been questioning realised that we’re homing in and has let her know, although I can’t imagine Becky Bairstow doing it. Howarth’s a loose cannon, though. And Jamie ‘chip on the shoulder’ Warnock.”
Two Feet Under (Lindenshaw Mysteries Book 3) Page 21
