Reunion: a gripping crime thriller (DI Kate Fletcher Book Book 4)

by Heleyne Hammersley

  Paulson had dropped off Simon’s radar in the late nineties and he’d eventually heard through an acquaintance in a chat room that he’d been killed in a motorcycle crash in the Scottish Borders.

  He’d checked the sender’s address again ‘Amigos31988’, but it meant nothing to him. That had been three days ago. Since then he’d received three more messages. One simply said, ‘I know what you did’. The second claimed that Simon had ‘fucked up’ the sender’s life and that he was a ‘broken man’ and the final one was a request to meet with a date, time and place so that the sender could get ‘closure’.

  Simon had been suspicious, but what choice did he have? If he didn’t turn up, this man might go to the police and he was always hearing about historic sexual abuse cases on the news. If they talked, Simon thought, he might be able to make this stranger see reason and keep his mouth shut. If not, there was always money.

  He was starting to feel a bit foolish though. Half an hour in a deserted car park waiting for somebody he wouldn’t even recognise – what the hell was he doing? Even if this person did have some evidence of what had happened that summer it was unlikely to point to Simon. Whitaker was the ringleader – he always was, he liked to be in charge – and Whitaker was in prison. Unless this was all part of some sort of set-up to get him a lighter sentence. That didn’t make sense though – Whitaker had been put away months ago. If he was going to broker some sort of deal, he’d have already done it.

  ‘Bloody paranoid,’ Charlton mumbled to himself, finally acknowledging the feeling of unease that had been plaguing him ever since he’d opened that first e-mail.

  A figure appeared at the entrance to the car park and Simon sat up in his seat. Was this him? He watched as it approached and became clearer. A woman with a buggy, one of those three-wheeled, off-road jobs that cost almost as much as a small car. She passed him without a glance, and he watched in the rear-view mirror as she approached a car two rows behind him in the almost-deserted car park.

  He heard the beep as she unlocked the doors and then he watched as she lifted the child into the back seat. He looked through the windscreen again, back to the entrance, vowing to give it another five minutes and then he’d go home.

  Two minutes later and Simon realised that the woman with the kid hadn’t driven off. He looked in his mirror and saw that she was still struggling with the buggy. She was trying to fold it up, but it seemed unwilling to collapse. He watched for a few seconds and was about to get out and help when the buggy seemed to fold of its own accord, trapping the woman’s arm.

  ‘Shit!’ he hissed, leaping out of the car and reaching for his phone. He knew that the woman could easily have broken her arm or dislocated her shoulder – he’d read about the dangers of big buggies online in an article about transporting toddlers. As he approached, Simon could see the pain in the contortions of the woman’s face. She was half bent over the boot of the car, clutching her forearm in the other, undamaged, hand.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Let me help.’ He slipped his phone back into his pocket; there was no blood so probably no need for an ambulance. The woman held out her damaged arm and Simon saw her other hand disappear into her pocket. Before he could tell her that he knew first aid he felt an agonising jolt up his spine and his legs started to give way. The woman swung her supposedly damaged arm at him and used it to guide him towards the car boot. He couldn’t stop her; couldn’t move his legs or arms and he was fairly sure he’d pissed himself. The bitch had a Taser.

  Simon didn’t think he’d been fully unconscious, but he couldn’t be sure. The movement of the car and the pain in his lower back both had a disorienting effect, but he gradually became aware that he was being driven away from the car park. As his muscles spasmed back into life he tried banging on the rear seats of the car.

  ‘Hey! What the hell are you doing? What’s going on?’

  Silence from the driver. He tried to roll over so he could kick the back seats down, but the space was too confined, so he tried banging on the inside of the boot that was a few inches above his face. Again he shouted, but this time it was for help. If somebody on the street heard him they might get a registration number and call the police.

  After what seemed like hours the car slowed to a stop and he heard the driver’s door open and close. Bracing himself he tensed to attack whoever opened the boot. He waited, holding his breath. And waited. Nothing. Had he just been abandoned?

  Trying to calm his breathing, Simon tilted his head so he could listen for footsteps either approaching or retreating but he couldn’t hear anything. He gave in to the claustrophobia and started banging on the boot and shouting for help, not caring whether he attracted the attention of his assailant or of a passer-by – anybody who could get him out of there would be a blessing.

  ‘Is somebody there?’ A voice from outside.

  ‘Yes! Oh God! Get me out.’ Simon could hear the sob of relief in his own voice. The boot opened and a face peered in, followed by a rush of cold air. A young man wearing a baseball cap and a goatee.

  ‘You okay, mate?’

  ‘Do I look okay?’ Simon asked, sitting up. ‘Did you see the driver of this car? A woman with a kid?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Nobody around. I’ve just finished my shift at the pub and I heard you banging on the boot. Thought I’d better have a look.’

  Simon eased himself up into a sitting position and swung his legs over the edge of the boot, ignoring the cramping sensation in his thighs. He appeared to be in a poorly lit car park next to a red-brick building.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Thorpe,’ the young man said, still peering at him intensely. ‘You look like shit. Hang on.’ He eased a small backpack off his shoulder and dug around inside.

  ‘Here y’go,’ he said, offering Simon a bottle of water.

  Simon grabbed it and drank greedily.

  ‘You wanna tell me what happened?’

  Simon was only part way through his story when he started to feel woozy. At first he thought it might be the after-effects of being Tasered but, as his vision blurred he began to wonder about the water that he’d just drunk. ‘Don’t feel great,’ he mumbled trying to stand up.

  ‘It’s okay,’ the young man said. ‘Let’s get you over here and you can have a good long lie down.’

  Simon made no protest as he allowed himself to be led down a narrow alley between high red-brick walls. He noticed that the man had something in his hand. Something that was catching the occasional flash of light from the street lamps. Something that looked very much like a blade.

  And then it went black.

  July 1988

  The last day. Dusty lay on her side in her sleeping bag trying to decide what to do. Mr Whitaker had threatened them both with all kinds of punishments if either of them breathed a word about what had happened but what could he do, really? If she told her mum when they got back, then surely her mum would believe her and would go to the police. But what if nobody believed her? And what about the police? They’d ask her all sorts of questions about why she and Lucky had been wandering around in the middle of the night. They might ask her to describe what had happened and how could she do that? She didn’t even want to think about it, despite the images that bombarded her mind every time she closed her eyes.

  She knew that stuff like this happened – that some men liked to do things to children, but those men wore long coats and spoke in hushed voices. How could her teacher be one of those men? And who would believe that he was? Everybody said he was handsome and a decent man. It would be her word against his and who’d believe an eleven-year-old girl over a respected teacher?

  She needed to talk to Lucky, but she wasn’t sure if she could face him. He’d have seen what Whitaker did to her; he’d have seen her with her pants off. He’d know what happened and he’d know that she’d seen what that other man had done to him.

  And then there was Ned. Mr Whitaker had taken him back to his tent to get changed and Ned had been d
ifferent afterwards. Had the teacher done something to Ned as well? Dusty suspected that might be the case but she couldn’t ask in case she was wrong. Or in case she was right.

  ‘You’ve got to get up,’ Angela said, poking her head through the unzipped doors of the tent. ‘We’re having a group photo before breakfast. Everybody has to be there.’

  Dusty considered hurling a mouthful of swear words at the girl but, instead, she dragged her body out of the sleeping bag and struggled into her last clean T-shirt and a pair of denim shorts. As she crawled out of the tent she was assaulted by the sunlight – much too bright for a morning like this – she wanted rain and thunderclouds not blue skies and birds singing as though nothing had happened, nothing had changed.

  Squinting against the brightness she scanned the clearing for her friends, but it looked like all the other kids had done as they were told as they were gathered round the ashes of last night’s campfire. Heavy-legged, Dusty walked over to the group, still looking for Ned and Lucky. As she got closer, she realised why it had been difficult for her to spot them – they weren’t together. Ned was at one side of the group and Lucky was at the other. Both looked utterly miserable. She gave Lucky a half smile as she walked past him to take up a position near the middle of the group, but he looked away, his eyes focused on a point in the middle distance. He looked tired, darkness beneath his eyes suggesting that he hadn’t slept. Dusty supposed that she must look the same.

  ‘Right!’ the sergeant major barked. ‘Everybody keep still and give us a big smile.’ Dusty wanted to yell at him. To accuse him of… of what? The last time she’d seen him he was leaning against the door of the staff quarters, arms folded and a stupid grin on his face. He hadn’t actually done anything, but he seemed to have enjoyed watching the other two men assault her and Lucky.

  She couldn’t manage a smile. She couldn’t even pretend. Instead she stared at the ground waiting for it all to be over, waiting until she could go home where she was safe.

  Breakfast was a rushed meal of cereal and juice and then it was time to start packing their things. Dusty ran back to her tent and stuffed her dirty clothes in her bag, throwing everything in as quickly as she could as if it would get her out of there faster.

  ‘You okay?’ A quiet voice from the doorway. Dusty turned, expecting it to be Ned or Lucky so she was disappointed to see Angela squinting at her with an expression of concern.

  ‘I just want to go home,’ Dusty said.

  ‘You don’t look well.’

  ‘I’m fine. I just want to go home!’ Dusty was aware that she was shouting but she didn’t seem to be able to control the volume of her voice. ‘So, bugger off and let me get on with my packing.’

  Instead of following her instructions, Angela edged inside and zipped up the door flaps.

  ‘Vicky, I’m so sorry.’

  Dusty froze. Did Angela know? How could she know?

  ‘I told Mr Whitaker that you lot were planning a midnight walk. I know I should have kept my mouth shut but I was worried that you’d get lost or fall in the stream or something. I didn’t…’ The girl’s words were tumbling out in a rush, but they were lost on Dusty. She hadn’t got past the first two. I told…

  ‘You spragged on us? You told Mr Whitaker?’

  Angela knelt at the foot of Dusty’s sleeping bag, her eyes downcast.

  ‘Oh my God! You know, don’t you? You saw what happened – what they did to me and Lucky.’

  Angela’s cheeks flushed. ‘I looked through the window but then I ran off.’

  ‘And it’s all your fault. If you’d kept your mouth shut, they wouldn’t have caught us. They wouldn’t have…’

  Angela made a noise that was a cross between a hiccup and a sob.

  ‘Come home with me and tell my mum and dad. They might believe it if you back me up.’

  The other girl shook her head furiously. ‘No. No way. They might come after me. I’m scared.’ She edged away, one hand on the tent zip, her face suddenly pale in the strange orange light.

  ‘Angela, what those men did was wrong. You know that. They told us that if we went to the police or to an adult they’d come after us and kill us. They said that nobody would believe us anyway.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Angela whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’ The zip whizzed up and she was gone, but Dusty wasn’t finished. This girl was responsible for what had happened – she had to pay.

  ‘You little shit!’ she yelled, following Angela out into the clearing. ‘I’ll fucking kill you!’

  At least ten pairs of eyes bored into her as she screamed her rage. ‘You’d better stay away from me, Angela Fox, because if I ever get you alone, you’re dead! Fucking dead! I’ll get you – I don’t care how long I have to wait. I’ll fucking kill you! You’d better watch your back because I won’t ever forget what you did!’

  Dusty felt a hand on her arm and she swung round, fists clenched, ready to fight.

  ‘Hey, calm down.’ It was June Tuffrey staring at her as if she’d gone mad. ‘What’s she done?’

  ‘I… she…’ Dusty spluttered, unable to vocalise her hurt. ‘She’s a fucking bitch, that’s all.’

  June looked across the clearing and then back at Dusty. ‘Can I help?’

  Dusty shook her head. Movement from the boys’ side caught her eye. Lucky staring at her as he eased his backpack onto his skinny shoulders.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Nobody can help.’

  18

  Kate’s phone rang just as she and Hollis were passing the turn for Wetherby. She hadn’t bothered to connect it to the car’s Bluetooth, so she passed it to Hollis after a quick glance at the screen.

  ‘Get that for me. It’s Das. And put it on speaker so I can hear what she wants.’

  Hollis followed her instructions – holding the phone up to his mouth with the microphone close to his lips.

  ‘DI Fletcher’s phone, DC Hollis speaking.’

  ‘Where’s Kate?’ Das snapped.

  ‘She’s driving, ma’am. She asked me to take the call and to put you on speaker.’

  Kate smiled to herself at Hollis’s subtle warning to Das that every word could be heard by both occupants of the car.

  ‘How was the mother?’

  ‘Distraught,’ Hollis said before Kate could answer. ‘But she gave us a lot of background.’

  ‘Is there a connection?’

  ‘Hard to say at this stage,’ Kate said, raising her voice so that she could be heard above the sound of the engine. ‘Maureen confirmed that Chris was David Whitaker’s son. She adopted him when he was two weeks old.’

  Hollis raised his eyebrows at her lie. Adoption was far too formal a word for such a loose arrangement – especially one based on blackmail.

  ‘She hadn’t seen her sister since,’ Kate continued. ‘To be honest she didn’t seem too bothered about Margaret’s death. She didn’t want anything to do with her after Margaret told her about Whitaker.’

  ‘Told her what?’

  ‘That he’s a pervert – Maureen’s word – and that he was controlling during the marriage.’

  There was a lengthy silence as Das appeared to be considering the implication of the information.

  ‘How’s the investigation going, ma’am?’ Kate asked, prompting headshaking and a throat-cutting gesture from Hollis. Kate didn’t care. It had been her case and she felt she had a right to know.

  ‘That’s why I’m ringing. A body’s been found in Thorpe – in the school playground.’

  ‘A child?’

  ‘No. A man in his late fifties. ID was left in his pocket – Simon Charlton. Given the location I have to consider a connection between this and Margaret Whitaker. Her husband taught at the school – there might be a message here. O’Connor’s there with Barratt but I’d like you to take a look. It’s a bit of a grisly one so be prepared.’

  Das hung up, leaving Kate baffled. ‘Am I back on the case?’ she asked Hollis.

  He grinned at her. ‘Looks like it.’
<
br />   ‘Bloody hell! She could have said as much rather than talk to me like I’m doing her a favour. And what’s with the warning? I’ve seen my share of “grisly” bodies.’

  ‘Shall I ring Steve or Matt? They might tell me what’s going on.’

  Kate squinted as a blue road sign flew past the passenger side window. Judging by their current location they’d be in Thorpe in around forty-five minutes – if O’Connor and Barratt hadn’t been told that she was on her way they might have finished with the scene by the time she got there. And it would be polite to let O’Connor know that she was back on the case. He wasn’t a natural leader, but Hollis claimed that he’d been doing well with the organisation of the team and she didn’t want to arrive unannounced and piss on his bonfire.

  ‘Give Matt a buzz,’ she said. ‘Steve’ll be busy overseeing the scene. But let them both know that we’re on our way.’

  She tried to concentrate on the traffic as Hollis made the call, but it was impossible to ignore his disbelieving ‘What the fuck?’ – Barratt must have divulged something especially juicy.

  ‘Pre- or post-mortem?’ Hollis asked and she saw him physically wince at the reply.

  ‘Shit, that’s rough.’ He hung up. ‘Do you want the gory bit first?’

  ‘Go on. How bad is it?’

  Hollis took a deep breath. ‘Simon Charlton was discovered with his trousers round his ankles and his penis and testicles missing.’

  ‘Nasty,’ Kate said. ‘Sounds like whoever did it had a grudge and it certainly links with Whitaker being a paedophile. Do they know anything about him beyond his ID? Where he was from, links to Whitaker or any other grooming gangs?’

  ‘Not yet. Cooper’s on the ID follow-up so I’d expect something quite soon. Matt said the pathologist’s there at the moment so you might want to slow down a bit.’