by Carol Wyer
Anna: Who were these friends she hung out with?
Harriet: No idea. She didn’t talk about them afterwards. I don’t think they were really friends, as such. They were probably some lads she got off with at a club. She wasn’t fussy, if you know what I mean.
Anna: She’s had casual relationships, then?
Harriet: Yeah. She doesn’t like to get serious. If you want my opinion, she may have had the looks and everything, and was into everything, but inside, she was scared of getting involved properly with someone. She dumped a few guys at school. She never had to try to get a fella, but she never kept them neither.
Anna: When you say into everything, what do you mean?
Harriet: She was adventurous.
Anna: Did she take drugs?
Harriet: Now and again. Only light stuff – the odd E, that sort of thing. She smoked weed too but never nothing too heavy. She wasn’t a druggie, if that’s what you want to know.
Anna: And after you received the message telling you about the new boyfriend, did you try to contact Carrie?
Harriet: Yeah. I phoned her a few times. It always went to answerphone. Left a message about the baby. I thought she’d like to know he’d been born, but she didn’t return the call or even send a card. I thought she was a right cow for ignoring me and probably jealous, so I didn’t bother with her any more. I called her a bitch. How could I? She wasn’t, was she? She couldn’t answer me because she was dead.
Robyn checked her watch. It was almost three but she didn’t feel tired. Her mind was restless. She had to solve this puzzle. Carrie was cavalier in her attitude towards men. Had she met someone, tried to dump them and been murdered? If so, where did Amber Dalton fit in? And did Siobhan Connors also fit in or was Robyn going off-piste with that suggestion?
She stood, stretched, and ambled towards the whiteboard. She had two possible victims. One had been murdered in July or August 2016 and taken to the self-storage unit on the twentieth of December 2016; the other had disappeared sometime before the eighth of January 2017. One had attended an academy in Derby while the other was at a private school in Sandwell in Derbyshire. The only connection Robyn could come up with was that both attended schools in Derbyshire. She jotted this down on a Post-it note in her hand and stuck it on the board. She considered the relevance of both girls’ phones being used in the Derby area before writing ‘mobile – Derby’ on a note and adding it to her board, now a multicoloured collage. Robyn paced her office floor, convinced there was something she was missing.
She tried to connect the girls in other ways. She wrote down ‘attractive’ and ‘only a few close friends’. She stared at the notes before sticking them on the whiteboard. She couldn’t detect any connection between these facts. With a heavy sigh, she removed the notes from the board and read through the rest of Anna’s paperwork.
Unable to speak in person to Siobhan Connors, the other girl who’d received a message from Carrie, Anna had left an answerphone message on her mobile. She’d also contacted the supervisor at the supermarket where Siobhan worked, who’d confirmed she’d taken compassionate leave. It was a dead end until they could talk to her. Siobhan was out of contact. Robyn listened to the accelerated beat of her heart. Had she really taken compassionate leave or was she now also in the hands of the killer? Anna had added an address – a rented flat in Uttoxeter that Siobhan shared with her boyfriend. Robyn wrote out the three girls’ names and studied it. Derby, Sandwell, Uttoxeter. The girls moved in completely different circles. They didn’t attend the same school or work together. What was the connection? It had to be the Internet. The trio were on Facebook, yet weren’t ‘friends’. Anna had explained that messages could be sent to people even if they weren’t friends on Facebook. While Carrie was friends with Jade and Harriet on the site, she was not friends with either Amber or Siobhan. So why the strange message about meeting up with them? She read the message Carrie had supposedly sent once more: You sound a lot like me. I hope we meet sometime soon.
Robyn shook her head. It wasn’t coming together for her. She drew out the photograph of Siobhan Connors from the file. Like the other young women, she was striking in her appearance, with large, olive-green eyes, ebony skin and dark brown hair styled expertly in a sharp, graded bob cut that enhanced her elfin features. She was older than the other two and in a steady relationship. She noted the man’s name – Adam Josephs. She’d arrange for someone to speak to them both.
She yawned. It was now almost six thirty. A door banged. The station was coming to life. It was three days since Carrie had been found. Robyn had to find her killer. There was no time to waste, especially if he intended to murder again.
Twenty-Three
Ross had been watching the property for a couple of days and was convinced he’d found Princess. Gary Sessions was not best pleased at having his lunch interrupted.
‘What d’ya want? I’m trying to get some grub before I go back to work,’ he snarled. Somewhere inside the house a dog barked.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Ross, wafting his investigator’s licence. ‘I have reason to believe you have a dog stolen from a property in Gallow Street.’
‘Naff off. Dog’s mine.’ Gary Sessions stood at five foot five, with coal black eyes, a shaved head and a thick neck decorated with a tattoo of a large skull. ‘Bought it, didn’t I?’
‘In that case, we don’t have a problem, and when you prove that, I’ll be on my way.’
‘I got it from a breeder.’ The man scowled at Ross.
‘Then you’ll have paperwork to show that, sir.’
‘Who the fuck are you, anyway? You could be some hustler after my dog. Why don’t you just fuck off?’ Gary shoved at the front door and scowled again as it bounced against Ross’s heavy-duty boot.
‘I’ll call the police if you don’t clear off,’ he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. Ross maintained a level voice.
‘That would be fine too, sir. Why not give them a call? Then we can settle this argument.’ Inside, the dog howled, a melancholy wail.
‘I’ve had enough of this nonsense. Get off my property.’
‘You maintain the animal inside is yours?’
‘Yes, it fucking is. Now for the last time, get lost or I’ll give you a battering you won’t forget.’
Gary Sessions’s neck went red as he breathed out noisily, reminding Ross of a bull about to charge.
‘The dog I’m searching for has a microchip which will identify it and the real owner.’
For a second, Gary Sessions seemed perplexed. He blinked several times. A voice rose behind him.
‘Gary, you muppet. Bloody animal’s been chipped.’ A woman appeared behind Gary. She’d been in hearing distance the entire time. She was about the same size as Gary, with short, cropped hair and a stud in her nose. ‘Who are you?’
Ross held up his licence again. ‘Private investigator, madam. You must be Mrs Sessions.’
‘It doesn’t matter who the fuck I am. Gary found the mutt wandering the streets. We thought it had been abandoned, didn’t we, Gary?’
Gary turned his head sharply, caught the look in his wife’s eyes and nodded repeatedly. ‘Yeah, it was outside. Looked hungry. I whistled for it to come to me. We like dogs so we thought we’d look after it for a bit, like.’
‘And it didn’t have a collar?’
‘No, mate. That’s why we didn’t know where it had come from.’ Gary’s eyes narrowed.
‘And you didn’t check with the police to see if the dog was missing, or take it to the vet to see if it had an identification chip?’
‘Look, I told you the dog was wandering about outside. We took it in. Good citizens, like. We fed it and looked after it. Not had time to find out what careless bastard lost it.’
‘Shut up, Gary.’ His wife pushed ahead of him, her body filling the doorway, thick arms folded across her chest. ‘Gary’s telling the truth. What are you after? Are you one of them reward seekers, cos if there’s a reward, we want it. W
e found the animal and we’re not handing it over to you so you can collect money from the owners.’
Ross shook his head. ‘There’s no reward money. The owner is as skint as can be. She’s a single mum.’
‘Then how come she’s hired a private detective?’ Her eyebrows rose.
‘I’m working the case for free. She’s devastated. I couldn’t bear to see anyone that unhappy. Her dog is everything to her but she can’t afford to pay to get it back. Now, can I take the dog, please, or do I have to involve the police? I’m quite happy to ring them and explain the situation.’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake, take the fucking animal. It shits everywhere and whines all the time. But don’t you say nothing to the cops. We found it outside, like I told you. Legit, like.’
‘Of course, Mrs Sessions.’
Ross waited patiently while Gary fetched the creature, dragging it to the door. A piece of rope hung around its neck. ‘See, like I said, no collar.’
‘Hello, Princess,’ said Ross. The dog looked up at him. Its tail thumped once against the doorframe. ‘Time to take you home.’
Twenty-Four
DAY FOUR – THURSDAY 19 JANUARY
Mitz leaned forward into his computer screen as if it might yield the answers to all the questions that puzzled him. His face bore a faint trace of stubble, unusual for a man who took enormous pride in his appearance and never came on duty without pressed shirts and accompanied by a pleasant smell of deodorant, body spray or aftershave.
Robyn wasn’t feeling quite as wholesome, with the effects of working all night and the frustration of making little progress. In spite of all their efforts, they’d not got closer to finding the woman in blue, nor tracked down Siobhan Connors, and Amber Dalton was still missing. They’d interviewed Carrie’s ex-school friends and neighbours and got no more useful information, and to cap it all, Robyn had a meeting with DCI Flint.
Flint waved his hand for her to sit down. The report she’d written was laid out on the desk. He rested his hands on it and spoke, his voice ponderous.
‘I’ve read through your concerns and given them due consideration.’
She waited for the inevitable ‘but’ she sensed was coming.
‘But we have little reason to believe that Amber Dalton’s disappearance is in any way connected to Carrie Miller’s. He held up a finger as her mouth opened to protest. She closed it again.
‘Your reasoning that there is some connection due to a message sent on Facebook has some validity, but insufficient for it to warrant investigating.’ Again she began to protest. Flint quietened her with a look. ‘I’ve spoken to DCI Forge, who’s investigating the girl’s disappearance. They now suspect Amber Dalton has run away. Further interviews with her friends have led them to believe she was under considerable pressure from her parents to do well at school and pass the Oxbridge exams. Amber told one of her friends that she’d never live up to her parents’ expectations and some days she felt like “doing a bunk”. In fact, she told the same person, she’d fantasised about running away. In light of this, they’re looking into that possibility.’
‘Which friend spoke to the police? I understood she was the model student.’
‘It’s irrelevant who gave them that information. Derbyshire Police is handling Amber Dalton’s disappearance. She’s not our responsibility. However, Carrie Miller is. Unless you can provide more concrete evidence than a message on Facebook, I can’t allow you to use resources and go off on a wild-goose chase.’
‘Sir, I must protest—’ she began.
He cut her off by raising his hand. ‘Noted. What progress have you made in the Carrie Miller case? Have you located the woman who deposited the trunk?’
‘We’re still looking into it, sir.’
‘No suspects yet?’
She shook her head.
‘And you spent yesterday afternoon talking to Amber’s parents?’
‘I had good reason to believe the cases were connected,’ she said, head up, defiance in her eyes.
‘I’m sure you did.’
His voice suggested she had been wasting her time and not concentrating on Carrie Miller.
‘Sir, you read my report. I believe these cases are connected and I’m concerned we have a potential serial killer on our hands here. Amber Dalton and also Siobhan Connors might be in danger, and I think we should act on that.’
‘I understand your concerns but unfortunately there’s insufficient evidence to support them. Give me more and I’ll be more accommodating.’ He raised his hands, open-palmed, a resigned gesture. ‘For now, concentrate on Carrie Miller. The clock is ticking, DI Carter. I want this Joanna Hutchinson found, and I mean soon.’
* * *
Her watch read 2.50 p.m. and she blinked her eyes, gritty from lack of sleep. She’d have to give Flint more evidence or a suspect. Her instincts rarely let her down, and she was convinced Amber and Siobhan were in danger. She needed to think. She would take a few hours off and relax her mind. Davies had taught her that too: that by not thinking about the very thing that was troubling her, she could actually look at it more clearly. She checked her watch. She’d slip out and take the girls to the cinema. That might help her.
She heard Sergeant Matt Higham’s infectious laugh, an explosion of sound and then clattering as boots tramped down the corridor. He thumped the door to the office. ‘Okay to join you, guv?’
‘Thought you were working on Shearer’s team.’
‘Nailed the bastards. Freddie the snitch was right about the man in the pub. Don’t know what DI Shearer said to him, but he coughed up all the information we needed to make an arrest. Bagged ourselves four criminals and a wardrobe stuffed with goodies – a massive stash of heroin and pills. Shearer’s like the proverbial dog with two tails. He’s with DCI Flint. No doubt getting a pat on the head. He told us to “bugger off back to DI Carter.” He also said, “Ask her why she’s still here looking like a panda that’s gone several rounds with a boxing champion and lost when, according to the rota, she’s supposed to be off duty.”’
‘Charming as ever, then.’ Robyn was pleased for Tom. His tenacity had paid off. Sounded like they’d both been up all night. ‘Good thing you’re back. We’ve a few leads to chase up on. Mitz, give these two heroes, Matt and David, some names to check out. Pass David the dimensions for that trunk and set him to work on that. Matt, once Mitz has given you the details, go back to the self-storage warehouse and find the man who helped Frank Cummings offload the trunk. He might work in the area or have been visiting one of the other premises there. Anna has a CCTV photo of him.’
‘So, it isn’t your day off?’ Matt Higham grinned at her.
‘It is, but I’m only taking a few hours out. I’ll be back later.’
Matt grinned. ‘Is that to check up on us?’
‘Right, because as soon as I’m out of here, you’ll be swanning about drinking coffee and scoffing the office supply of custard creams. The tin has only just been refilled.’
He batted his eyelashes. ‘I can’t help it. I’m addicted to them. They make the best dunkers.’
Don’t talk rubbish,’ Mitz said. ‘You can’t get a better dunking biscuit than a Rich Tea.’
Robyn retrieved her keys from under the file she’d been reading. ‘Please tell me you’re going to get on to proper police work and not spend the afternoon debating which biscuit is the best for dunking.’
‘Course, guv. There’s no debate. Custard creams win every time.’
She shook her head in mock despair. This lot were worse than children when they were having what she called a ‘silly moment’. At least she had a good-natured team. For that she was very thankful. ‘Bye, bye, kiddies. Behave yourselves or I’ll have to ask DI Shearer to come and sit with you.’
She shut the door and checked her watch. Time for a quick shower, and then to collect Amélie and Florence. She couldn’t let them down again. She’d been promising to take them out to the cinema for ages. It was probably a blessing sh
e didn’t have children of her own. She’d never be able to fulfil both functions at the same time – a detective and a mother. A familiar pang rose in her chest. It would have been nice to have been given the opportunity.
Twenty-Five
Florence could barely contain her excitement. Hunter was due to chat to her, but before that she had to go to the cinema with Amélie and Robyn.
Ordinarily she’d have been really pleased to go to the cinema, but today she didn’t want to go. She wanted to think up answers to Hunter’s possible questions and prepare for her boyfriend. That’s how she now viewed him.
Hunter had changed everything even though they’d only chatted the once. Before Hunter, she’d been a silly teenager, angst-ridden and desperate to be liked. Amélie was everything she wasn’t. Not that Florence begrudged her friend being so attractive and clever. But the fact remained that she was Amélie’s less attractive sidekick. She was the frumpy, boring one who couldn’t answer questions during science and had no idea how to do fractions, while Amélie found everything so easy. If Amélie had been vain and started getting all bitchy, like many of the others, Florence would have dropped her, but she was simply a nice, quiet, clever, composed girl who put her friend first. Florence couldn’t ignore that fact.
The year before, Florence had chased after an older boy, thinking he was interested in her. It had transpired the only reason he’d talked to her was because he was interested in Amélie. She’d felt so stupid. Anyway, now she had a boy who was interested in her and her alone.
She checked her appearance again. She’d spent ages brushing on thick eyebrows. Her real, pale-ginger eyebrows were almost non-existent. These ones were awesome and she looked at least three years older. She may only be going out to the cinema, but she wanted to look as good as she could. She flopped onto her fluffy pillow and sighed. No matter how much make-up she put on, there was no getting away from her age. She was going to have to tell Hunter the truth, or near-truth. He was expecting someone over eighteen. She examined her fluorescent-pink nails. She’d stuck the false nails over her own chewed nails and one was already lifting. She searched for the nail glue and attempted to squeeze some under it, hoping it would stay in place. She would tell Hunter she was sixteen. That wasn’t too far from her real age, after all.
