by Carol Wyer
She smiled. It was nice to talk to Hunter. He was always so positive and easy to chat to. The heaviness in her chest wouldn’t go away. She needed to tell him the truth or break up with him. She began to type.
Kitten: I have to tell you something.
Hunter: Before you say anything, I’ve really loved talking to you. You’re the funniest, nicest and the sweetest person I’ve met on this site. The other girls are nothing compared to you. You’ve made me laugh and I really like you. I’d like to meet up with you.
Kitten: I can’t.
Hunter: Oh no. You’ve found out, haven’t you?
Kitten: Found out about what?
Hunter: That I’m not really at work and in my twenties.
Kitten: You’re not?
Hunter: I thought you’d found out and that’s why you didn’t want to meet me. I look a lot older than I am. I’m sure we could still hit it off. There can’t be too much difference in our ages.
Kitten: How old are you?
There was a pause. Florence waited, heart thudding against her ribs.
Hunter: I’m only sixteen. Actually I’ll be sixteen in May. I understand if you don’t want to meet me now. I’m very adult for my age. Don’t give up on us because I’m too young for you.
Florence began to giggle – loud, uncontrollable giggles.
Kitten: Oh dear. I have to admit I lied too. I don’t work in an office or travel. I’m not nineteen.
Hunter: NO!
Kitten: I’ll be fourteen in November.
Hunter: OMG! We’re both still at school. I thought you were way older, looking at your picture. We blagged each other? That’s hilarious. Would you still like to meet me, even though I’ve fibbed about everything?
Kitten: Would you still like to meet me?
Hunter: Deffo. I’d love to meet you. All that stuff I said about you is true. You’re lovely.
Florence went pink.
Kitten: Where shall we meet? I live very near to Uttoxeter.
Hunter: I’m at school at Sandwell. We have sports on Wednesday but if we’re not involved in a match, we can have the afternoon off and go to Derby. I can catch a train from there to Uttoxeter. You could bunk off lessons early and meet me or after you finish. What time’s best?
Her pulse quickened. The school wasn’t far from the railway station. She could walk there after classes, and it was art on Wednesdays, so she could sneak away earlier if she tried. The art teacher wouldn’t mind, given Florence was such a good pupil. It wouldn’t take long to reach Uttoxeter station.
Kitten: I could meet you at Uttoxeter railway station at about three fifteen.
Hunter: That’s a good idea. I’ll be waiting. Are you sure you really want to meet me?
Kitten: Sure.
Hunter: Can’t wait to actually see you. You and me are going to have such a laugh together. I have to go now. Got loads of homework to do and I have some really strict teachers. One is patrolling the studies now and we’re not supposed to have phones while working so I’d better turn it off.
She grinned again.
Kitten: I understand. See you on Wednesday.
Hunter sent a smiling emoji and a kiss and disappeared offline. Florence sat back against her pillow, an enormous smile on her face. She no longer felt dispirited. She had a real boyfriend.
Forty
Robyn leant back in her chair, eyes closed. Compton had seemed genuine, and she was convinced he hadn’t had any relations with Carrie Miller. Mitz had come to the same conclusions. She opened her eyes. ‘He was our only suspect. I haven’t even got enough grounds to search his house or check his electronic equipment, and the flipping boyfriend was adamant Logan was too sick on Friday to move, so he couldn’t possibly have snatched Siobhan Connors.’ She threw the file onto her desk where it landed with a hefty thump, and rubbed the base of her neck.
She checked her notes, reading through dates to seek some pattern or significance, but nothing made sense. On Monday the sixteenth of January, Carrie Miller had been found in the self-storage warehouse, six months after she went missing. Her last Facebook message to Jade North had been sent on the twentieth of December 2016. Had she been alive until that date? The pathologist’s report had put her death sometime between late July and mid-August, so it was not likely. Amber Dalton had gone missing sometime after the second of January, her last message was sent on the seventh of January, and her body was discovered thirteen days later, on Friday the twentieth of January. It had been ascertained that she’d been murdered sometime between the seventh and thirteenth. Meanwhile, Siobhan Connors had disappeared on Friday the thirteenth of January. She had last sent a message on Wednesday the eighteenth of January. Where had she been kept hidden during that time, and had she made contact with Amber? And more importantly, was she still alive? Robyn could decipher no pattern that made any sense. Carrie’s body was found in Rugeley, and Amber’s on Cannock Chase. Where, oh where, was Siobhan? Was she even being held captive? She searched through her files for the forensic pathologist reports. She needed to establish some pattern. She opened the file and read.
Carrie Miller’s throat had been slit and she had bled to death. There was tissue evidence that indicated her body had, at some stage, been frozen. She wondered how Harry McKenzie was getting on and if he could confirm that a rectangular piece of flesh had also been removed from Carrie’s head.
Amber Dalton had been poisoned, although until the full toxicology report arrived, the exact poison was unknown. So far, post-mortem findings showed the girl’s lungs had been congested, her trachea had contained blood, and her stomach walls had been inflamed. Tissue damage indicated she too had been kept in cold storage. Both had suffered cruel and horrific endings to their young lives.
The phone rang. Matt Higham was on the end of the line. ‘Guv, I’m calling from a B&Q store. I came in to buy some wallpaper, and at the checkout there was a bloke with a load of plasterboard. I made some comment about hoping he had a very big car to fit it in, and he told me that it was okay because the store lets you rent a van by the hour. I checked it out, and you can rent vans for as long as you want. The vehicles bear a B&Q logo and an additional Hertz logo in yellow but the older vans on the fleet have the original logo which is white lettering inside an orange square.’
‘Oh, you top man,’ said Robyn, suddenly lifted again. ‘That could be what we’re looking for. We’ll get onto it. Enjoy your day off and don’t overdo the wallpapering.’
She turned to Anna. ‘Can you email all the B&Q DIY stores in Staffordshire, and the hire company they’re teamed up with, to find out who leased vans on the nineteenth and twentieth of December last year, and particularly any women?’
It was too much to hope that Joanne Hutchinson had rented a vehicle from the company using the same alias, but stranger things had happened. Robyn pulled up a map of B&Q stores in the area and decided she ought to check those in the neighbouring county of Derbyshire as well, especially given that Carrie was from Derby. She sighed as the map filled with the locations of stores. It was going to be another long job.
Mitz was working at his desk when his email alert pinged. ‘Got something too, boss.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘I’ve had a response from a company in Manchester that makes bespoke travel trunks. They confirmed that one fitting the dimensions of the trunk we discovered was paid for and delivered to an address in Manchester. They have no name or invoice, because whoever bought it paid by cash, but you’ll never guess who owns the property they delivered to. It’s only Mr Dev Khan, the owner of the self-storage unit at Rugeley.’
The team paused as they all waited for instructions. Robyn strode to the window, her pulse once again racing. They might have lost one suspect but now they had two new pointers. At last, things were beginning to move. It was unthinkable that Dev Khan would murder a girl and leave her body in one of his own units. It defied logic. Or maybe that’s what he wanted them to believe. It could be a double bluff. Either way, he owed them an explanation. A trunk mat
ching the description of the one they’d found had been delivered to one of his properties. It might be no more than a coincidence, but Robyn didn’t much like coincidences. She’d find out what he had to say for himself.
She watched raindrops slide down the windowpane as she considered her choices. She could telephone him and ask him about the trunk or she could ask him to come to the station. She made the decision in a flash. ‘Bring him in for questioning, Mitz.’ The faces of Carrie and Amber swam in front of her. Robyn blinked back a tear. She’d avenge these girls. She’d make sure Mr Khan didn’t leave until she’d squeezed every bit of information out of him. She wouldn’t let them down.
Forty-One
The call came shortly after Mitz had left for Manchester. Amy Walters sounded aggrieved.
‘I kept my part of the deal and yet someone has leaked information to a rival paper.’
Robyn drew herself up in her chair. She didn’t need this. Not now. Not when they had hot leads and a suspect coming in.
‘Which paper?’
‘Derby Times. Victoria Kenilworth’s written a piece in today’s edition about missing schoolgirl Amber Dalton.’
Robyn tapped into her computer and found the Derby Times website. Sure enough the piece was headline news, with a picture of Amber’s parents emerging from a funeral home, Bianca’s face ashen but hauntingly beautiful and Charles, zombified, an arm around his wife’s shoulders. The headline read:
‘Was Amber Murdered by a Schoolgirl Stalker?’
‘Is it true?’ Amy’s voice whined like an irritating mosquito.
‘Let me read it first.’ Robyn scanned the article:
Staff and pupils were in deep shock following the discovery of a body believed to be that of Amber Dalton (16).
Amber, a student at the £30,000 a year, fee-paying school, was considered one of the brightest stars of her year.
Her father Charles Dalton (52) and mother Bianca (46) were unavailable for comment. Neighbours said the couple are in shock following the discovery of a body on Cannock Chase earlier this week. Derbyshire Police have been searching for Amber since January 8th when she was reported missing from the Daltons’ £850,000 mansion in Tutbury where she had been staying while her parents were on holiday in the Algarve.
‘Bianca and Charles are devoted parents and Amber is one of the politest girls I’ve ever met,’ said Mr Wilfred Jones (67) a neighbour.
Today, Sandwell School was in mourning for Amber, a high-flying Oxbridge hopeful. Samantha Dancer (17) one of Amber’s closest friends told us, ‘I can’t believe she’s gone. I keep expecting to see her at her desk. She was so clever and so beautiful.’
Tributes have been appearing on social media websites including one that reads, ‘RIP Amber. May you continue to shine brightly in heaven.’
The last paragraph bothered her the most.
There is further concern that Amber Dalton’s disappearance is connected to that of Derby schoolgirl Carrie Miller, an ex-pupil of Fairline Academy, whose body was also discovered earlier this month, and begs the question: is there a schoolgirl stalker out there?
A small muscle flexed in Robyn’s jaw. ‘It hasn’t come from here. We’re keeping information to a bare minimum.’
‘Are you denying there’s a connection between the murders?’
‘I’m saying “no comment”. Ask Victoria Kenilworth where she got her information.’
‘She’s not exactly on speaking terms with me. Victoria is somewhat overzealous about her vocation and refuses to discuss her stories. Of course she won’t divulge her sources. In short, she’s a sneaky mare.’
Robyn bit her tongue. As far as she could tell, Victoria was no worse than Amy. Amy would sell her soul for a good story. And this article, which should have focused on how heinous this crime was and garnered sympathy for the grieving parents, chose instead to highlight the Daltons’ wealth, and even dared to hint that their absence was somehow to blame for their daughter’s disappearance. Robyn ached for them and hoped they had not read the piece. They had been advised not to speak to the press and now would need further guidance on how to deal with the public’s reaction. Journalists were parasites, preying on emotions and fears, and fuelling the public’s demand for sensationalism. Amy huffed into the earpiece.
‘Well, is there a connection between the girls?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘You can’t or you won’t?’
‘I can’t. We really don’t know. It’s as simple as that. And when I do get that information, I refuse to compromise this investigation by leaking it to you or anyone else. You know how I operate. I made a promise. You’ll get your story.’
‘Have you got a suspect yet?’
‘No further comment, Amy. Go and pester Victoria. She might be able to satiate your uncontrollable thirst for a story.’
Robyn dropped the phone onto her desk. She could do without the likes of Amy Walters and Victoria Kenilworth. The media had a role to play and could be useful, but stories like this helped no one. She read it through once more. There was a photo of Samantha Dancer, Amber’s friend, laying a red rose outside Chapel House.
‘Anything yet?’ she asked Anna.
‘Amber’s Facebook wall is filling up with messages, so I keep losing my place, but I think I might have something here. There’s a section that shows pages she’s liked. There are all sorts of films, celebrities and internet games, fashion pages and there’s this.’ She pointed out a page with a jolly header of a cartoon fox and a dog. It’s a dating app for over eighteens called Fox or Dog. I cross-referenced the sites with Carrie Miller’s Facebook page and she also liked the Fox or Dog Facebook page. Mind you, they also liked lots of the same pages so it might mean nothing.’
Robyn wrote down the name of the app on one of her Post-its. ‘Can you find out if other girls liked the Fox or Dog Facebook page?’
‘Who did you have in mind?’
‘Any of the girls we’ve come across during this investigation.’
‘I can. It’ll be quicker to ask Jade North and Samantha Dancer, rather than me trying to get into their accounts. I’ll phone them.’
‘Do that first, then check out Siobhan Connors’s.’
Finally, the case had momentum. She felt she was actually getting somewhere. The face of Siobhan Connors stared out at her from the whiteboard. Robyn only could hope she would be in time to save her.
Forty-Two
Dev Khan, dapper in a bright-blue suit that hugged his frame, an immaculately clean shirt open at the neck revealing a subtle gold chain, and dark nubuck shoes with bright-blue laces completing his ensemble, was surprisingly charming. Robyn had fully intended to launch into the interview by asking him a barrage of questions and found herself disarmed.
‘Good afternoon, DI Carter. I understand you have some questions for me about some properties I own in Manchester. Could you not have rung me about them? I’m a busy man. Like you, I have to work weekends.’ He dropped his BlackBerry and leather-encased smartphone on the table to make his point.
‘I’m aware of that, and thank you for coming here.’
‘I didn’t have much choice, did I? Sergeant Patel hunted me down.’ He nodded in the direction of Mitz who stood beside the door.
‘Interesting choice of the word “hunted”,’ she said.
His left eyebrow arched quizzically. ‘Not really. According to my secretary, Sergeant Patel’s been tracking my movements. It was a good job he caught me when he did. I was on my way to Milton Keynes to look at a site for a new storage warehouse.’
‘Mr Khan, how many properties do you own in Manchester?’
‘We have fifteen houses in our property portfolio, all of them in and around Manchester. My brother and I have a property company that’s separate to the storage units.’
‘Is 13 Edgar Street one of the properties you still own?’
‘It is.’
‘Do you live in it?’
Dev’s white teeth gleamed as h
e chuckled. ‘No chance. It’s not my idea of a dream house. I let it out to students. All the properties are student lets. It’s within walking distance of many of the university buildings, and rooms are spacious. I removed it from the university’s list a couple of years ago as I was getting fed up vetting students who I thought would be suitable, and now it gets let out via word of mouth and I only take students known to and recommended by someone already renting.’
‘How many students live in it?’
‘It’s a three-bedroomed house, so three. It’s one of our best houses, so it’s only let out to students in their final year. Hopefully, by then, they’ve got over the all-night party phase.’
‘Can you tell me who rented it last year, between September 2015 and June 2016?’
‘Dominic Granger. His cousin had rented it the year before.’
‘Is Dominic still living in Manchester?’
‘No idea. I don’t stay in touch with any of them.’ He snorted and rolled his eyes.
‘You say three students rented it. Who were the other two?’
Dev’s mobile glowed blue, interrupting proceedings. ‘Can I take a quick look at my message? I think it might be important.’
‘We’re in the middle of an interview.’
‘I’d like to remind you I came here voluntarily. I’m here to assist the police. I could have refused to come along and gone to my meeting instead.’ His demeanour remained relaxed although his eyes glittered.
‘Mr Khan, the names of the other two students, please.’
He huffed. ‘Let me check my emails. I might still have their details.’ He thumbed his BlackBerry and looked up after a couple of minutes. ‘Stephen Robinson and Phil Eastwood.’
