The Devil's Chair

by Priscilla Masters

  Randall hesitated before reading out the final entry on his list. He wasn’t quite sure how to put it. He didn’t really want to send his officers hurtling down a route of myth and legend but in his mind there was little doubt that this last thing played a part.

  So he plunged in. ‘And lastly, there is the area itself. We all know that the Long Mynd and its environs are remote and wild and the place has a bad reputation – partly to do with folklore and partly to do with its geography. I concede that there is something menacing about the hills rising so suddenly out of the Shropshire Plain.’ He was choosing his words very carefully. ‘So while I wouldn’t want you to be influenced by folklore and superstition, bear it in mind, will you?’ There were a few dubious nods of acknowledgment but DI Randall couldn’t help noticing that there were no smiles, no mockery, no leg-pulling. The faces looking back at him were grim. A few glanced across at the board holding Daisy Walsh’s picture as though to remind themselves of the missing child: the sweet little girl with sparkly eyes who peeped around a door and was still missing.

  Alex Randall was mischievously aware that he had deliberately left out Sergeant Paul Talith. When the room had emptied Talith still waited, hovering like an expectant father. Randall grinned at him. ‘Fancy a trip up to Scotland, Paul?’

  Truth was Talith didn’t – not really. He’d promised Diana he’d give her a hand tidying the garden up but he could hardly say that to DI Randall, could he? No. So he simply nodded. ‘When, sir?’

  EIGHTEEN

  Wednesday, 24 April, 7.30 p.m.

  Martha was at a Stoke City home game in which Sam was playing. She watched the ferocity of his game, the speed of his sprints, his skill with the ball and then, heaven of heavens, he curled one which grazed the top bar and dropped in, rolling innocuously into the back of the net to an accompanying roar from the enthusiastic crowd and a look of dismay from the goalie. She looked around her. Even if she had had the skill she would not have liked to have been in Sam’s shoes. All that focus. All that fervour. All that adulation which could so easily and quickly turn sour. But as she watched Sam’s glances move left and right she realized something that had never quite hit her before. He did not see it like that. He was not an individual. It was not his shoulders that carried the game. It was the team. He was only part of a team. A limb of a whole body. The team members made up the rest. They were his blood brothers. His family. If he let them down they would forgive him because they were parts of the whole. It was then that she began to understand why such a fuss was made at affairs between the partners of team members. It was treachery, traitorous. Worse than incest. She looked around her at the others in the members’ box. They probably already knew this. One very good-looking man, about her age, with dark hair and wearing a thick jacket, leaned over. ‘You must be so proud of Sam.’

  She smiled into a pair of warm brown eyes that she didn’t recognize. ‘I am,’ she confessed, ‘and fearful too. So much can go wrong.’

  ‘I wouldn’t look too far into the future,’ he said softly, ‘particularly if you’re a pessimist.’

  She began to protest. ‘I’m not,’ she said before she met his eyes again and realized he was teasing her.

  She sat back and relaxed. The thought that Sam was playing with members of his ‘family’ was a comforting thought.

  She allowed her mind to wander.

  Sukey was at home learning lines. She was at a school for the performing arts and loving every minute of it. She still looked young enough to play children’s parts and yet woman enough to act the temptress. Seventeen years old with the poise of a woman of thirty. Sukey now had an agent and when the agent was approached with a script for a TV production or, even on one occasion, a movie, she had been auditioned and had been successful for two minor parts to date: a sheriff’s daughter in a remake of a classic Western which in Martha’s opinion hadn’t needed remaking, the critics agreeing with her. But her second part had been in a wonderful adaptation of one of Martha’s favourite titles: A Tale of Two Cities, where, helped by her wonderful golden hair and innocent eyes, she had played Little Lucie. While not ignoring the fact that she was probably ten years too old to play it, the critics had forgiven the liberty taken with Dickens and had praised her ‘wonderful mastery’ of the French Revolution story and the child innocent of the horrors wheeling around her. In particular they had praised the scenes played with her grandfather, Doctor Manette, who had been played by one of the leading actors of the time. A friendship had blossomed – the actor had taken her under his wing and there was a suggestion that she would play opposite him again.

  Where would it all end? Martha did not have a clue and for tonight she didn’t care either. Her children were not such a heavy responsibility any more. She was realizing, like countless parents before her, that they were adults and must make their own choices and career moves. And yes, make their own mistakes too. She was startled out of her reflections by a roar from the crowd. The game was over. Stoke were the victors. She glanced across at the man. He was standing up, his back to her, chatting animatedly to a few members of the crowd. She hesitated then made her way to the exit. She must find out whether Sam was coming home with her or with one of his teammates.

  Thursday, 25 April, 8.45 a.m.

  Police Constable Gary Coleman was the force’s computer expert. A few flicks of the keys and he could discover facts about its owner that even they were unaware of. That was the easy bit. The difficult bit had been removing it from Tracy and Neil’s house. Neil had objected – strongly. ‘What about my emails? And my business?’

  Coleman was soothing. ‘You’ll have it back in a day or two.’

  ‘But …’ And Mansfield had fallen quiet, his anger not abated but tempered by something else. What, Coleman wondered, was Mansfield so worried about?

  He got to work.

  Gethin Roberts, meanwhile, had just reached the spectacular Long Mynd Hotel. Set halfway up the hill overlooking the pretty Victorian town of Church Stretton, it was an upmarket place with some very wonderful views. A year or so ago Roberts and his girlfriend, Flora, had been driving south down the A49. The night had been snowy and the hotel had blazed its light, like a beacon, right across the valley, looking somehow majestic and mysterious at the same time. Flora had touched his arm. ‘It looks just like the hotel in The Shining,’ she’d whispered in awe. And Roberts had been forced to agree.

  As he climbed out of the car he reflected that he wouldn’t mind a few nights here himself and wondered if it had a swimming pool.

  It did. Outdoor and heated.

  The manager met him in the hall. Roberto Agostino was a small, dapper Italian with oily black eyes and swept back hair. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said with a tight smile. In general, four-star hotels do not like police attention. The visible presence of the long arm of the law is not considered good for business. Knowing this, Roberts gave him a bland smile in return and followed the manager into his small office.

  Agostino closed the door behind them. ‘Now,’ he said, not fooling Roberts for a moment with his friendly manner, ‘how can I help you?’

  ‘It’s about one of your employees,’ Roberts said.

  Agostino lifted his eyebrows.

  ‘Tracy Walsh.’

  Agostino’s face cleared. ‘Ah, Tracy. Such a shame. I knew she sometimes had a drink too many but, eh,’ he said with a Continental shrug and a pout of his lips, ‘this is awful. The poor girl. We have collected for her charity. And the little girl, Daisy. You still have not found her?’ There was a note of accusation in his voice.

  Roberts coloured. ‘No. Unfortunately we haven’t.’ Something struck him. ‘You knew Daisy?’ he queried.

  Another continental shrug. ‘Tracy brought her to work with her once or twice when she didn’t have child care. We did not approve,’ he added quickly, ‘of course. But what can you do?’

  ‘Yes,’ Roberts commented vaguely. It was the first time he had ever considered the problem. Child care and work. Ho
w did people manage? He had the briefest glimpse into the future. How would Flora manage when they had their own children? Answer – he didn’t have a clue. Her mum, he supposed, or child care. And that was expensive. He turned his attention back to Agostino who was speaking, the black eyes narrowed.

  ‘So. How can I help you?’

  ‘Tell me about Tracy. Was she popular?’

  Agostino winked. ‘With the men,’ he said. ‘Not always with the women.’

  ‘You mean she was a flirt?’

  ‘She would …’ Agostino frowned in concentration, trying to locate the right words in his vocabulary. ‘Step over the mark,’ he said finally. ‘But sometimes she would hit it off with some female visitor.’ He spoke the phrase in a tentative voice, as though testing the water.

  ‘Anyone in particular?’

  ‘Back in November,’ he said slowly, ‘we had a convention for social workers. One of them seemed to strike up quite a friendship with Tracy,’ he said, ‘though I wouldn’t have thought she was her kind.’

  It seemed unimportant but Roberts asked anyway. ‘Her name?’

  ‘Sheila Weston. She was from Slough. She kept an eye on Daisy a time or two.’

  ‘And with the rest of the staff?’

  ‘She did her work.’

  Which led Roberts to speculate that Tracy Walsh was not that popular amongst her colleagues.

  Roberts tried to think of something more he should be asking or even what he should have gleaned from the interview but his mind had seized up. He simply shook Agostino’s hand. ‘Well, thanks very much,’ he said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  Agostino looked a bit puzzled at that but shrugged and smiled. ‘It is my duty,’ he said.

  As he was leaving, Roberts looked around him. ‘This is a lovely place,’ he said. ‘Do you mind me asking how much it costs to stay here a night?’

  ‘It depends on which room you have,’ the manager said. ‘But around one hundred and twenty pounds is average.’

  Roberts nodded. He would love to bring Flora here.

  ‘What sort of people stay here?’

  ‘Well, it is a good base to explore Shropshire from,’ Agostino said. ‘The hills are great for walkers and explorers. The town is beautiful too. A great antiques centre and lovely individual shops and restaurants. Shrewsbury and Ludlow are not far. There is Acton Scott Farm.’ He grinned. ‘Plenty to do if you wish to be active. But many people just want to chill.’

  Roberts decided Agostino was definitely wearing his hotelier’s hat. He was sounding like someone from the Shropshire Tourist Board.

  Agostino continued. ‘And, of course, we do conferences here too. A month ago we had social workers again. Thirty social workers.’ Agostino smiled, showing one stained incisor. ‘Imagine thirty social workers.’

  Roberts decided he’d rather not.

  As he was leaving Agostino put his hand on his arm. ‘I hope you find the little girl,’ he said. ‘She was such a sweet little thing. A real hit with some of the guests.’

  Roberts left then, turning back as he drove back down towards the town of Church Stretton.

  Just as Randall and DS Talith were heading for the airport, events took an unexpected turn.

  NINETEEN

  Thursday, 25 April, 9.45 a.m.

  It began with that most innocuous event of all, yet another phone call from a member of the public. The investigating team was getting more than a hundred a day, usually from people who thought they’d seen Daisy. It was impossible to look into them all. The team did what they could, looked into the most likely sightings and relied on local police forces to help them out. Already the numbers of officers assigned to the case was over a hundred. There were literally yards of computer printouts, megabytes of information stored and hundreds of statements and forensic results. As was usual in cases like this, the information gathering had been wide and extensive, proliferating as though it had a life of its own, which in a way it did. Information appeared to generate information. The phrase no stone unturned was perfectly appropriate.

  But this phone call was different from the others. For a start it originated from an alert octogenarian who kept fit by trotting up and down Carding Mill Valley. Daily, come rain or shine, snow, frost or heat wave. He timed himself rigorously and stuck to exactly the same route every day so the search for Daisy Walsh had been an inconvenience, messing up his lifestyle of extreme regularity. But that was the point. ‘Exactly the same route,’ he barked down the phone. ‘No deviation whatsoever. I could do it blindfolded.’

  Only he hadn’t. He’d kept his eyes wide open.

  Added to that this interesting and unique situation the octogenarian’s eyesight was as sharp as an eagle’s and he also had the observation powers of a secret agent. These were the points to consider and to remember. And Desk Sergeant Sandy Mucklow did. The life of a desk sergeant could be sadly mundane – plenty of drunks, arguing motorists, stroppy druggies and so on, but as he listened to the content of the call his toes began their familiar twitching. There was something about Freddy Ribbler’s voice, born to command, which made perfect sense as he had served his country proudly in the Second World War alongside General Montgomery. Incidentally it was ‘Monty’ who had handed him his first cigarette, a habit he had struggled to conquer for the next fifteen years.

  ‘It wasn’t there yesterday,’ Ribble insisted. No one would have argued with him.

  Mucklow frowned. ‘What wasn’t there?’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit sodden but it looks like a child’s dressing gown, if you ask me.’ There was a moment of bluster before Ribbler continued. ‘Not that I’m in any way an expert. My wife and I were not blessed with little sprogs but I rather think it might be the one that the little girl— The child who’s missing. It could be the very one she was wearing. It’s pink with a little motif on the front. And I’m afraid …’

  Mucklow listened with dread.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s a stain on it. It looks very much like blood.’

  Desk Sergeant Mucklow was instantly alert. ‘We’ll send somebody out. I don’t suppose you’d mind waiting with the garment?’

  ‘We-ell. It’s freezing cold, you know, now I’ve stopped running.’

  ‘We’ll be no longer than half an hour, sir. We’d be very grateful.’

  ‘All right, if it helps to find the poor child. Wherever she is,’ he added gruffly.

  ‘And please try not to touch it.’

  The request provoked a harrumph in response.

  So at the very time that Talith and Alex Randall were airborne, mobiles off, heading up to Scotland, PC Sean Dart was heading south down the A49 back towards Church Stretton. Knowing it wasn’t really justified, he didn’t dare put the blue light on but broke the speed limit anyway, straightening out the corners in his anxiety to arrive.

  What the hell was going on? Was this it? Was it a deliberate plant by someone with a warped interest in the case? Would the next thing they discovered be her body? Was this trail of clues leading them to that, or something else?

  Thursday, 25 April, 10 a.m.

  Scotland.

  A car had been provided to take Randall and Talith to a small cottage, just outside a village ten miles from Inverness, where Allistair Donaldson lived – with his mother, they’d imagined.

  When they reached the cottage they saw two cars outside, a four-wheel drive Toyota and a small Hyundai. But when they knocked on the door it was pulled open by a very pretty, young girl with waist-length poker straight blonde hair, patently not Mrs Donaldson. Talith simply stared. The girl was a vision, bright red lipstick, sprayed-on tight black leggings on long, long legs and a loose white shirt unbuttoned at the top to show … Talith cleared his throat noisily and the girl stepped forward, a warm smile sweetening her face even more. ‘You must be the police,’ she said, not a trace of anxiety. ‘Sorry you’ve had to come all this way for nothing. Come in,’ she continued and they followed the swinging blonde hair into the inside.


  The up-to-date look of the girl was at odds with the interior of the cottage, which was quite rough and old fashioned. She led them into a sitting room where a tall young man was just easing himself out of a deep chintzy sofa. ‘Hello there,’ he said, with only the faintest of Scottish brogues. ‘I’m Allistair. And I think you’ve already met Arlene.’

  The blonde girl gave the two police a wide smile. ‘We’ve met,’ she said with the confidence of the beautiful.

  Thursday, 25 April, 10.10 a.m.

  Lara Tinsley had finally got through to passport control and had some answers. Charity Ignatio had left the UK on 3 April and returned on 24 April. She was out of the picture. With iris recognition, she was assured, by a rather snotty immigration official, no, Ms Ignatio could not possibly have slipped back into the country. She scored her own back by responding in an equally aloof tone that she was one of the officers assigned to investigate a fatal car accident and the abduction of a four-year-old girl. That shut his pompous mouth. She banged the phone down.

  Thursday, 25 April, 10.20 a.m.

  WPC Delia Shaw had hit lucky. When she pulled up outside Lucy Stanstead’s house she could see only one car in the drive and a pale face staring out of the window. Lucy Stanstead opened the door before she’d even had time to knock. ‘He’s had to report back to his boat,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Sorry – his ship,’ she corrected with a grin.