Dead End

by Dead End (retail) (epub)

  The TV had been left on full volume for some reason, and the noise assaulted them.

  ‘Concerns are growing as to the whereabouts of two young women in Cumbria,’ said the reporter. The man was standing ten minutes from Kelly’s door, at Howtown campsite. Both Kelly and Johnny were aware of the drama unfolding not ten minutes from where they lived; Johnny had been a part of the initial search for the girls, which was still ongoing. They watched the report intently and Kelly sipped her wine. It was full-bodied and herby, just the way she liked it. She’d put one of her junior officers in charge. These types of cases usually ended up the same way: with the unfortunate hikers being found stuck on some crag somewhere with piss poor equipment and no phone. Kelly laid her head on Johnny’s chest, and he moved so that he could put his feet up with hers. He probably wouldn’t be going anywhere tonight.

  ‘The two women were last seen at around six o’clock on Sunday evening, two days ago.’

  Kelly’s eyes half closed as she allowed herself to relax. She was trusting Rob Shawcross to investigate the case; unless something major changed to elevate the file beyond missing, she herself wouldn’t need to become involved. Now, however, photographs of the missing girls appeared on the screen, and she sat up.

  ‘What is it?’ Johnny asked.

  The missing persons’ case had been just that to Kelly: a report containing data that needed to be classified, and that was all. It wasn’t necessary for a detective of her rank to delve further unless it was elevated to suspicious, and that didn’t normally happen for forty-eight hours, by which time they’d surely be found. She hadn’t seen the girls’ photographs. Until now.

  The two young women were in their late teens. They attended Lancaster University together and had been on a camping trip to Howtown, near Ullswater, when they disappeared. Initial enquiries had unearthed ordinary profiles; nothing that raised alarms. The girls seemed to be sensible, skilled and used to the mountains, with no history of rash decisions or risk-taking. Rob had contributed the details in the team brief this morning, and mountain rescue was working round the clock.

  Kelly fiddled with her hair and looked at the photographs again. Johnny watched her.

  As she studied their faces, she bit the inside of her lip. Both girls had striking blonde hair, and were also extremely pretty. It was something in the shape of the faces, as well as the hair colour and age, that made Kelly reassess the status of the inquiry. In February, another young woman had gone missing and there’d been a medium-scale hunt involving local TV and radio, but the case had been passed to Lancaster when it was revealed that the last sighting was Carnforth train station. Now, alarm bells were ringing.

  ‘They look just like Freya,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’ Johnny asked.

  ‘Freya Hamilton. She went missing just under four months ago. We got a call from Humberside Police – that’s where it was reported, by her sister – saying she was working in the Lakes at the time. We took it on, but it quickly became clear that there’d been a sighting of her since then in Lancashire, so we passed it to them.’

  ‘You never mentioned her,’ Johnny said.

  ‘I know, the case was off my desk as quickly as it landed really. To be honest, I never gave it a second thought after it went to Lancashire Police.’

  ‘So you’ve no idea if she was found?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But now you want to know?’

  She looked at him and nodded, biting her lip.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  Chapter 3

  As Kelly drove out of Pooley Bridge the following morning, the hamlet had yet to wake up. The first steamers in May didn’t land at the jetty until gone 9 a.m., and the pubs and B&Bs had yet to fill up to their peak season capacity. She left Johnny in bed, envying him his shift work. He wasn’t due in until this afternoon. Her hope was that by the time he woke up, the two girls would have been found safe and well.

  Only last winter two men had gone missing on Scafell Pike. In such severe conditions, after four days’ searching, the consensus was that they had met with tragedy; however, after another two days, they’d been found, dehydrated and with a few broken bones, but dug in and warm – and most importantly, alive – in a snowy insulated hole. So it was early days yet and no one was reaching any hasty conclusions.

  Recently Johnny had begun to leave more clothes at her place, and when she thought about it, it didn’t bother her. More than that, she liked it. When he was there, he made himself at home, cooked meals, ran baths for her and washed her clothes. She’d moved out of her mother’s for some freedom, and to get away from her sister, and it could be said that she’d replaced their needs with someone else’s, but she didn’t see it like that. This was different.

  Part of her missed her mother, but it had been the right move for both of them. Wendy now had to fend for herself and not rely on either daughter, and it had done her good. She was more independent and both of them could breathe. As for Kelly’s sister Nikki, she’d become more of a burden in ways that no one could have foreseen.

  Kelly pushed thoughts of her family firmly to the back of her mind as she strode into Eden House. She never tired of the red-brick facade and the anticipation of briefing her team. She’d built a solid squad and couldn’t imagine that changing. DCI Cane would have to work a lot harder to split them up; for now, none of them were going anywhere.

  It was looking like the beginnings of a hot day, and the plain-clothes shuffle, as she liked to call the awkwardness detectives exuded in their suits, would be more uncomfortable than normal. This was the kind of weather that made Kelly want to get her running kit on and follow Johnny up a mountain. They all felt it; it was like some kind of itch, and by the end of the day, ties would be pulled low, skirts would be fiddled with and shoes kicked off. That was the order of Kelly’s office, and it suited them. If they could get away with coming to work in casual shorts and flip-flops, they would, but it was out of the question.

  She made her way upstairs to her team, ready to listen to Rob’s brief. Today was day three of the girls being missing, and questions would be asked. There were several factors that could elevate the hunt to something more sinister – telephone use, bank card use, anything flagged up around friends and family. Kelly kept the latter to herself. She’d have no idea, until she spoke to Lancashire Police, whether Freya Hamilton had turned up alive and well. She also wasn’t sure what she’d do if it turned out that she was still missing.

  The news about the girls was still local; they were adults after all. But that would soon change if they didn’t turn up soon. A standard holding statement had been issued by HQ, but as Kelly walked into the office, she looked around for Rob, keen for an update. DC Will Phillips was already at his desk and he waved to her as she walked into the briefing room.

  ‘Rob’s gone for coffee,’ he said.

  ‘No worries, it’s early yet. I’ve got something to catch up on, so we’ll start when he gets in,’ she said. Will nodded and went back to his screen. They’d worked together for a year now, and were familiar with each other’s habits. Kelly was known as no-nonsense.

  There was a pleasant waft of Ralph Lauren in the office, as there always was when Will was on shift, and it reminded Kelly of her father: always immaculately turned out, no matter the weather. If Will struggled to juggle work and home with a new wife, he didn’t show it. She remembered the number of cold plates of food that had been thrown into the bin by her mother when she’d got fed up of waiting for Kelly’s father. To Kelly, that was all her mother ever seemed to do: sit by the window waiting for John Porter to come home and be looked after. It was her reason for living; and Kelly’s reason for remaining unattached – that was, until Johnny.

  At her computer, she searched for the closed file on Freya Hamilton and wrote down the number for the detective in charge of the case in Lancashire. It was a start. She tapped her pen on her desk, toying with what she might say. She felt a little foolish; the girl had probably been found h
appy and well months ago, but she still knew that she had to make the call.

  By the time she walked into the briefing room, Kelly had her answer, and it wasn’t the one she’d been hoping for. Freya Hamilton was still missing.

  * * *

  At 8.30, those on the day shift filed into the meeting room and sat down with notepads. Kate Umshaw, fresh from a ciggie outside, brought the familiar pungency of tobacco with her, while Will and Rob nursed coffee. It was just the four of them. Kelly was keen to start and kicked things off bang on time. Her colleagues noted her knitted brow but didn’t comment; Kelly Porter was the type of boss who let you know if she wasn’t happy.

  There was a smattering of check-ups on a burglary, two domestics, and an assault on a teacher at the local school, then Kelly got to the point.

  ‘Rob, can you bring us up to date on the missing girls, please.’

  Rob Shawcross had joined the team last year and was proving to be a valuable asset. He was Kelly’s ideal colleague: he didn’t say a lot, but what he did say was worth remembering. He and Will were a good match, and Kelly reckoned that in a tight spot, they’d be her first two choices to have around.

  Rob tapped on his laptop and brought up a diagram on the whiteboard. The simple family-and-friends tree was used for all standard profiles, only this time there were two of them.

  ‘Have we had any sightings yet?’ Kelly asked.

  ‘No. Not one. Mountain rescue are scratching their heads,’ Rob said.

  ‘Is the site secure?’ Kelly asked.

  ‘Yes, guv. We’ve done a search of their tent, and the manager of the park is collating a list of visitors for the past two weeks, as well as the girls’ routines.’

  Kelly made a note. ‘What about the families? Have liaison officers been dispatched? Any secrets there?’

  Rob looked at his notes. ‘Only one red flag, and that’s the ex-boyfriend of Sophie Daker, Garth Cooke. He’s been staying at the same campsite. He’s been questioned and told to remain in the area. He’s a scumbag, but nothing has jumped out so far. Apparently Sophie dumped him and he’s not happy about it.’

  ‘Why was he staying at the same campsite if he’d been dumped?’

  ‘He says they were going to get back together but she needed time.’

  It sounded lame to everyone in the room.

  ‘So, he’s pissed off that he was dumped but not that she’s missing?’ There was a ripple of mirth around the small group.

  ‘How many statements?’ Kelly knew that uniforms at the site would have taken detailed statements, and she hoped there was something to go on.

  ‘Forty-three so far. If it’s all right with you, guv, I’d like to coordinate a larger search from the campsite, including local volunteers. We’ve had over a hundred enquiries offering to help. I think it’s time we drafted in some more uniforms too.’

  ‘I agree, we’re on day three and I don’t like the way it’s going. Do we know of any bank account or phone activity?’

  ‘One mobile phone was found in the tent, so it looks like they only had one with them when they left the campsite. No bank transactions, and no activity on the other phone since a Facebook post on Sunday.’

  ‘Saying what?’

  ‘Hashtag friends.’ Rob flicked a key and a photo flashed up on the whiteboard. The photo was a selfie of the girls outside their tent, beaming faces close together.

  ‘Nice. They’re attractive girls.’ Kate Umshaw spoke for the first time. Her colleagues looked at her and agreed.

  ‘What’s this Garth Cooke like?’ Kelly asked. ‘Is he worth speaking to again?’

  ‘A bit of a twat, to be honest,’ Rob said.

  ‘Bring him in. OK, let’s use this photo as a media lead. It’s a good one, it’ll get sympathies flowing. Are the parents up for a TV appeal?’

  Televised appeals often helped. They were also good for ruling out the family. Plenty of cases had taken unexpected turns after a public appeal. For one, she’d have a body-language expert and a criminal psychologist watching. And for two, it would give her an insight into the girls’ relationships with their nearest and dearest.

  ‘Can we liaise with Lancaster Police and get some statements from friends at the university too, please?’ There was always the possibility that the girls had taken off and were in a different county by now.

  Was that what Freya Hamilton had done?

  ‘I spoke to Hannah’s pastoral head at Grizedale College and also Sophie’s at Furness College. They both hold the girls in high esteem, and gave portraits of polite, conscientious but private members of their communities. They’re model students,’ Rob said.

  The case bugged Kelly. People went missing on the fells all the time, but seldom for this long. It was incredibly rare for someone to get lost and not be picked up by mountain rescue. Johnny and his fellow volunteers knew the fells like London cabbies knew the streets of the East End. They came from all over the world and had probably notched up thousands of peaks between them, some at competition level. They knew all the popular walks, as well as those doing the rounds on social media for being unorthodox and even dangerous. Websites boasting secret crags and base jumps were becoming more and more prevalent, and Kelly wondered if the girls were thrill-seekers. She needed to work out the motivation behind their trip: were they adrenalin junkies looking for kicks, now at the bottom of a hidden ravine? It didn’t sound like it. They weren’t members of extreme rock-climbing or unusual sports groups, plus they’d grown up round the fells; they were both local girls. And that begged another question: had they made a pact to disappear for some reason?

  ‘I’m assuming everything was bagged and tagged from the tent and sent to the lab?’ She didn’t look up. It was standard procedure; she was just ticking off her to-do list. ‘Anything unusual?’

  Rob tapped his pen.

  ‘Rob?’

  ‘I just thought it was too tidy for two teenage girls.’

  ‘Explain?’

  ‘I’ve got a sister, and her bedroom is a nightmare: make-up, perfume, books and clothes everywhere. Their tent looked as though it had been tidied up before we got there.’

  Chapter 4

  Xavier-Paulus Fitzgerald, the 7th Earl of Lowesdale, lay on the slab of senior pathologist Ted Wallis. Ted had been told that the suspected cause of death was suicide, but it was his job to decide whether this was supported by his findings. That was all. He wasn’t a judge and he wasn’t a detective.

  But many things bugged him about the corpse lying sprawled in front of him. Not least because Ted remembered the earl in his prime, hosting grand balls in his tuxedo. He could have opted to pass the autopsy to a junior colleague, but his curiosity had got the better of him. The old goat was ninety-five years old, and Ted wanted to know whether he’d taken his own life. He had plenty of questions, and he wanted to find his own conclusions, not trusting anyone else to do so. His biggest query was how a ninety-five-year-old man had got himself up on a stool and balanced there long enough to tie a complex knot, get the noose round his neck and step to his death.

  He’d read the gossip. The earl was said to be a virtual recluse these days, excepting his grandson, and the fact that the nineteen-year-old had found the body disturbed Ted. The boy was no doubt in line to collect a lot of money; relatives had killed before for less, but he didn’t want anything to cloud his judgement at this stage and pushed the thought away. Perhaps the answer would lie in the earl’s brain; he could have been riddled with Alzheimer’s or dementia. Ted doubted it, however. Looking at the statements from the grandson and housekeeper, it seemed the earl had still possessed all his faculties.

  The earl’s once grand estate, reaching from the ancient hunting grounds of Little Mell in the north to Haweswater in the south, had been reduced to one old pile on the shores of Ullswater. Nobility no longer paid. Wasdale Hall was a shadow of its former self, he’d heard. But he hadn’t heard that the earl was crazy; just fiercely private. With good reason.

  Ted paused. T
he old man looked in good shape, and the distinctive Fitzgerald nose and high brow struck him. He hadn’t really changed. Ted had been invited to the hall on several occasions. There was no doubt that Xavier-Paulus Fitzgerald knew how to throw a good party, and having a senior pathologist brushing shoulders with the guests seemed to add kudos and legitimacy, something the earl craved in spades.

  The lofty hall and drawing rooms had echoed with dancing and singing as local society enjoyed behaving itself badly. Ted also remembered the couples who stole embraces in the garden by the fountain, and wondered if it was still there. It was that fountain that had led to the eventual disintegration of his own marriage. He never found out who told Mary, but it didn’t matter now. Images came back to him and he closed his eyes. They’d been drunk. They’d giggled like children as she flicked water at him and he’d kissed her for the first time.

  He opened his eyes and steeled himself for the job at hand. Even the old earl had been at it; they all were.

  With no legitimate heirs, the title would die out now, and who knew what would happen to the house. Maybe it would pass to the earl’s illegitimate grandson, Zachary, though no doubt distant relatives would emerge, lured by the scraps of what was left. Ted didn’t believe that Xavier had only ever sired two children – there had to be more. A virile old dog like him must have been screwing beautiful women for decades. And there’d been plenty of that going on at Wasdale Hall.

  Turning to the body, Ted pulled his overall over his head. His hands were elegantly steady as he tied the strings behind his back. His nails were short and clean, although no scrubbing-up was done for an autopsy. He adjusted the glasses perched on his strong nose and switched his head torch on before saying a silent apology to the man who’d been the perfect host but had met such a desperate end.