by Carole Pitt
Her misgivings about the case resurfaced as she concentrated on the site. Ghost town was the only description that fitted. Elizabeth closed her eyes and pictured life here prior to the flood. On the surface, she guessed it had appeared an ordinary place. Devoid of its inhabitants coupled with the discovery of a body close by, the atmosphere had changed. Like any deserted place, a vivid imagination could alter the perspective. People left behind a resonance of themselves after they had gone, multiply that by several dozen and she could almost hear their whispers echoing around her. She wandered around the site looking at the damage. Patterson emerged from one pitiful mobile home. 'This is too difficult Liz. There's no way we can do this.’
'I'll talk to Daly about whether it's worth asking one of the teams to do a forensic sweep but ultimately it will be up to them. Go and tell the other two we've called it a day.'
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tuesday 18th March
Daly sat in his new office evaluating the decor. Granted it was more spacious than his old one, but it didn't feel right. Those months working in London should have helped him forget about the old Park Road HQ but it hadn't. Here in this ultra modern, state of the art building it was like living in a goldfish bowl. It was about time, he thought, that architects tried working sixty hours a week in one of their grand designs before expecting other people to.
Separated from the rest of his squad by floor to ceiling glass walls he felt that everyone who passed by was tempted to peek through the gaps in the expensive window treatments. What was all that about, he wondered, window treatments? In his vocabulary, they were blinds, and not private enough for his liking. Neither had the company responsible hung them properly. He'd tried closing them only to find they refused to move the final and crucial three inches. Daly yearned for the old-fashioned plastic Venetian type, a compulsory window treatment at Park Road. That they were always badly stained and falling down seemed to have escaped his memory.
He glanced around at the minimalist furnishings. Light wood fixtures and fittings combined with brilliant white walls made him feel as if he could just as easily be in an operating theatre. All that was missing was the table and the dome shaped lights above.
He switched off his computer and idly shuffled the paperwork lying on his desk. His phone buzzed, it was Grayson to say he hadn't received the toxicology reports yet. Then Daly had listened to his plans for the facial reconstruction. Daly had pointed out he still needed authorisation to spend the money. Even he didn't believe the results would justify the cost but Grayson had insisted that without it the case would stall. When Daly had tried to voice his doubts, Grayson had interrupted and stated he already had someone in mind, a Dr Virginia Dalman.
'I want you to understand how important this procedure is,' Grayson had added. 'I've always hoped I might work with Virginia and now there's a possibility, we must go ahead.'
So that's the real reason for Grayson's enthusiasm Daly thought, anything to further his career. He'd suppressed the urge to argue, fully aware that without expert help the investigation would run out of steam. If that happened he would become surplus to requirements and he knew where that status would lead, imminent retirement. Having decided to hang on to his job, he needed a positive outcome for his own selfish reasons, so he could hardly accuse Grayson of feathering his own nest. His other option was to launch a carefully scripted media appeal to give the impression the investigation was gathering pace and at the same time plug an information gap between the present situation and if or when Dr Dalman would begin her lengthy and expensive work.
Daly wished he had more intelligence on the case, something to get his brain buzzing. Unlike previous ones, where from the onset his adrenaline had pumped and his mind had gone into overdrive, this was different and he knew it was partly due to adjusting back to his role as a senior officer and not an undercover operative. In one way, he was glad to have moved house, at least he'd had a temporary distraction.
The Pointer puppy had already kept them awake at night and he felt weary from lack of sleep. He hadn't realised that puppies, like babies, fretted when separated from their mother and Jean, constantly up and down did her best to console it. The final straw came when she'd brought it upstairs and insisted it remain in the bedroom. He'd argued that when it was fully-grown she'd bitterly regret her decision, but as usual, she'd ignored him.
Daly's restlessness got the better of him and he wondered what to do next. On an impulse, he switched his computer back on and searched a specific database for information on the Walker family disappearance. He hadn't worked on the case but remembered the papers had dubbed it Gloucestershire's biggest mystery. He clicked on the next page and recalled the time when it seemed the investigation was on the brink of a breakthrough. The senior officer was confident, but DNA was in its infancy and often results weren't sufficiently conclusive for a prosecution. Daly familiarised himself with the senior investigating officer's name and wondered what had happened to him. A tough call for any detective, a family had vanished and no one had ever faced justice.
The media had kept the story going but public criticism of the police, forced the then Chief Constable to close the case pending further evidence. The senior investigating officer took the flak and had retired early. Once more, the prospect of forced retirement crept unwillingly into his head. He needed a plan, one that would secure his tenure for months, if not longer.
Before he knew it, Daly had read for almost an hour and his wife still hadn't turned up. He’d agreed to look after the puppy while she went to the supermarket. For a brief moment, he panicked wondering what could have happened to her. He picked up the phone and it seemed to ring for ages before she answered.
'What happened to you?' he said. 'I checked the time and was getting concerned.’
Jean Daly sounded exasperated. 'The puppy escaped Ted. Thank God, one of our neighbours half a mile up the road caught him and brought him back. I invited Les in for a coffee to say thank you and we had a lovely chat about dogs.’
Daly felt annoyed for worrying about her. He'd pictured her in a traffic accident when all along she was at home entertaining a man called Les. He didn't like the idea. The bloke could be a sexual predator, or worse, she might end up fancying him.
'Has this Les gone now?' he asked.
'He has and he's a very nice man. We must ask him round for a meal at some point.'
'I presume that you're not going shopping now which is just as well because I'm busy.'
He heard his wife's sigh then the puppy bark. 'Shush,' she said quietly. 'What time are you home tonight?'
Daly didn't want to commit himself. 'Not sure. I have to see Jewell. Why?'
'I thought we might do the shopping later, then stop off and take the dog for a walk.’
The prospect of a walk didn't fill Daly with pleasure. He was hoping for a nice evening with a couple of cans watching the telly. Now the dog needed a walk every bloody evening.'
'I'll ring when Jewell's gets in, I’ll have a better idea then.' he said, trying to sound positive.
'Let me know or I'll have to take him out on my own. I guess you won't want to be disturbed again,' Jean Daly added sarcastically and put the phone down.
Daly wondered if the dog would come between them. He understood Jean's need for more in her life after he'd single-handedly ruined all her ambitions. Rather than have to think about that he picked up his glasses and carried on reading.
Information started to come back to him, names, locations, but most of all the theories about what had happened to the family. He tried to picture the handful of cops who’d worked on the case and were still at Park Road when he’d arrived there. It was a long time ago and some of the older ones might even be dead now. Daly ploughed on, determined to find one specific name. Another database produced the answer. The senior detective on the case, DI Brotherton, was still alive and living in Sunderland.
He leaned back in his new chair, which wasn't as comfortable as the one at Park Road.
Then an idea occurred to him. All he needed was a telephone number. Fifteen minutes later, he had it. He stared at the phone and twice reached out to pick up the handset. His only reservation was the consequences of this impulsive action. Under Anita's tutelage he'd had his first insight into living dangerously and he'd found it addictive. Daly's mind began doing what he'd wished for earlier, it had started buzzing with ideas. What better way to replicate the feeling. Go after a cold case and solve the bugger. He wondered if Brotherton lived alone, if so he might be glad of some company for a couple of days.
He was primed to punch in the number when his mobile rang. It was Jewell. 'I'll be back in ten minutes and I need to talk to you about a forensics team going over these two sites. Before you get rattled, I'm fully aware it's a monumental task.'
All of a sudden, Daly's head and heart began to pound. Jewell had thwarted his plan. He heard his tone and even he found it overbearing. 'I've had a hard day Jewell and right now I'm off to the canteen for a cuppa and a cake. To hell with this healthy eating, you can find me in there.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Time. A lot can happen in a few seconds, so much more in an hour. A period of several years doesn't always bear thinking about.
We measure time by what we perceive as reality. Why should one day seem longer than the day before? Do we have a logical explanation for why one particular day rushes by yet another drags?
Thirty years is more difficult, time can distort the memory but it can also provide answers. That old saying, everything comes to those who wait. The truth is never easy if those people resisting it refuse to listen and instead continue to believe myths and falsehoods. How to untangle the web of deceit is the biggest obstacle to finding the truth.
Skeletons in cupboards only exist in the mind as opposed to dark and dusty spaces hung with cobwebs. It's only when the skeletons fall apart and emerge into the unforgiving light that the past takes on a different meaning.
Time can bury what went before unless someone speaks out. Then who knows what may happen.
It appears there are conflicting opinions, which is important. People perceive certain events very differently and those who have reasons to bend the rules of time will mould their ideas accordingly. Others just talk for the sake of it.
One thing's certain. Whatever method employed to unearth the past will change the future, because no one can ignore the past. Time gives up its secrets and that's the interesting aspect to this present situation, not knowing how or when.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Daly was talking to someone Elizabeth didn't recognise. His face looked familiar but she couldn't put a name to him. She walked over to the far end of the cafeteria and noticed Daly had a plate of cakes in front of him. At this rate, she thought, his new slim line look wouldn't last long. He looked up and smiled and she waited for the introduction to the tall brown haired person who looked to be in his mid forties.
Daly did the honours. 'Press officer,' he said.
The media man swept his eyes all over her then held out his hand. 'I haven't met you before. The name's Callum Davidson.'
Elizabeth shook to be polite but felt annoyed by his blatancy. She supposed she should feel flattered and it wasn't appropriate to ask if he was married with five children.
She pointed to the plate of cakes. 'How many of those have you eaten Sir?'
Daly picked another one up and peeled away the fluted wrapping. Before he put into his mouth, she noticed his cutting tone. 'So you're the cake police now. Let me give you some advice Jewell. I don't take kindly to anyone criticising my choice of food or observing what I eat. That's a private matter.'
'Let me get you a coffee,' Davidson said, revealing his Hollywood smile. 'You look as if you need one.'
Elizabeth was too tired to ward off a pushy bloke. 'Thanks, maybe my boss will let me have one of his cakes.'
Daly shrugged and picked up another one. 'These were the last ones so you'll have to make do with a biscuit.'
Elizabeth didn't comment. Instead, she wondered why Daly was with him. As far as she was aware, the media embargo was still in place. When Davidson went to the self-service counter, she asked, 'Why are you hobnobbing with the press officer?'
'Sorting out an interim statement.’
'I thought you were going to delay the press conference until Grayson gets his results.'
'I’ve changed my mind. Better to get on with it, so we're hoping for lunchtime tomorrow.'
Elizabeth felt annoyed he hadn't consulted her. 'Davidson's a creep.'
Daly’s mouth was full, but he still had to comment. 'He might be in your eyes but he's competent enough. He chewed for a few seconds. 'He'll sort it out for me. Oh, forgot to mention I'll be away for a couple of days later in the week.'
Elizabeth sat up and wondered where he was sneaking off to this time. 'Am I allowed to ask where?'
Daly took a sip of his tea. 'No you're not. It's a private matter.'
Elizabeth couldn't resist asking. 'And is Mrs Daly accompanying you?'
Daly slammed down his cup. ‘Stop bloody interrogating me. I've done the right thing, told you I'm away. I don't need to explain to you my every move. When I need to tell you stuff, I will. I don't deliberately withhold information unlike some people I know.'
'What's that supposed to mean?' she said, her temper rising. She was tired and couldn't wait to go home. She wanted to see Dean too, but most of all she wanted to ask Daly about the Walker case. Saddled with Callum Davidson she couldn't. She checked the time. 'I need to discuss the Walker story with you. I presume you know what I'm talking about.'
'I do,' Daly said. 'I can't discuss that until tomorrow morning.'
'I've got a doctor's appointment in the morning.'
Daly turned and looked at her with concern. 'You face is peaky. Make sure you let me know what the quack says.'
Elizabeth felt like crying. She'd controlled the pain all day and now it was getting to the point where it was almost unbearable.'
'I have a lot of pain in my joints.'
'That's old-age,' Daly said laughing. 'A few pills will soon sort that out.'
'Thank you for the sympathy,' she said, just as Callum Davidson returned bearing a tray. He put it down in front of her. Somehow, he'd managed to find a couple of cakes for which she was extremely grateful. A sugar hit might temporarily help and although she hadn't made an appointment at the surgery she still intended to go on the off chance one of the doctors could see her.
Daly finished off the last cake and leaned back contentedly in his chair. He'd removed his jacket and Elizabeth noticed his slim fitting shirt was a little too taut across his stomach. At this rate, she thought, if he doesn't lay off the sweet stuff he'd have to buy the next size up. In one way, she wasn't unhappy about him returning to his former shape. Until the powers shipped him off to play at spies, he’d been overweight. His transformation to svelte and well groomed had shocked nearly everyone at Park Road, and like her, they all agreed that he hadn't just slimmed down, he'd lost something much more important, his larger than life character combined with his sarcastic wit. Now she'd had her first glimpse of the old Daly, and to her surprise, it had cheered her up.
Davidson sat down and Elizabeth assumed she had interrupted their conversation. In any case, her feet were so bad she couldn't get up, so whether they liked it or not she would have to stay put. Rather than ask if she was in the way, she decided to wait until they resumed. Daly was a little secretive and she needed to know what he was planning. He sat quietly, not giving anything away and Elizabeth got the distinct feeling that Davidson too, had something on his mind. From their uneasy body language, she sensed there was a problem. They had nothing specific to tell the public, the death of an unknown woman didn't have the appeal other cases did, which these days was essential for engaging ordinary folk and persuading them to become interested enough to come forward with information.
All investigating officers knew the value of public input,
but unfortunately, these days they were more likely to go on the internet, join a sleuthing forum and try to figure out the crime for themselves. Most forces had dispensed with their researchers due to cost effectiveness. Elizabeth sighed; damned if you do and damned if you don't. The silence was becoming embarrassing and Daly seemed annoyed at her presence.
'Just tell me to piss off,' she said.
Callum Davidson looked shocked and Daly sounded exasperated. 'For god's sake Liz, stop acting like a two year old. You know better than anyone, walls have ears. Callum's trying to construct a media plan that doesn't show us in a bad light, so the less people know about it the better.'
Elizabeth took a deep breath. 'Me leak information to the press? That's a laugh coming from you. Why the cloak and dagger stuff all of a sudden? You're not hanging out with the spooks again, are you?'
Daly brushed crumbs from his shirt. 'This bloody place is worse than bloody Park Road for gossip. If I was engaged in any other investigations you'd be the first to know.'
Despite his heavy-handed tone, Elizabeth couldn't help laughing. 'This isn't a spy movie you're acting in. It's a routine murder investigation, or it will be when Grayson decides that it is definitely a murder.'
Davidson turned to her. 'I don't think the boss is intimating that you would say anything untoward but we've encountered loose tongues in the past concerning media statements. For instance, that idiot Crosbie got hold of a leaked press statement and spiced it up. It bore no resemblance to the original draft and I got a bollocking for it. We're in an iffy situation. This is not a high profile case but at the same time if we don't report anything to the public they'll become suspicious and accuse us of cover-ups. This one's only a stopgap. We don't have an ID but that doesn't stop lazy journalists telling lies. The person we hope will do the facial reconstruction hasn't confirmed yet. Until she does, we can't expose her to unscrupulous newspaper reports. She has testified as an expert witness in trials and doesn't appreciate her name bandied about in the red tops.'
