by Iain Cameron
‘They are.’
‘Mind you, it sounds not unlike, ‘this is for Kelly.’ In the heat of the moment, our witness might have been mistaken.’
‘Could be, but what does ‘this is for Kelly’ mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ Henderson said, ‘but we’ll think about it later as I’ve just thought of something. Now, tell me I’m wrong, but Ricky got jumped and then they pulled him into a space between two 4x4s?’
‘Yep.’
‘The attack would have been shielded from sight by these 4x4s, one of which was Mr Hinckley’s Audi Q7 on the left. Who or what was on the other side?’
‘I don’t know, they left without leaving details.’
‘What colour is it?’
‘The colour of what?’
‘The car, Carol; Hinckley’s Audi.’
‘Black.’
‘Ok. We think there were four assailants?’
‘Correct. Where are you going with this, you putting together a pub quiz?’
‘Four guys in a confined space all trying to get a kick at Ricky Wood,’ Henderson said, demonstrating the movements as he spoke. ‘He’s lying on the ground, squirming around, trying to get out of the way, so they move here and here, trying to find a better angle.’
‘Yep.’
‘What if one of the assailants, for leverage or because he fell back and tried to stop himself falling, left a paw print on Mr Hinckley’s black paintwork?’
TEN
He arrived late at the office, a bad start to the morning, as Brian Langton hated being late for anything. Since his wife disappeared, a neighbour, Gina Jamieson with a child at the same school as his boys, drove them to Williamson College, a job she used to share with Kelly. Today the Jamieson lad was sick and he had to do it.
He worked without a break for a couple of hours on a new proposal while ignoring a flurry of emails and Post-it notes sprouting around his desk like mushrooms under an old oak tree, before his P.A. Melanie Knight guided a reporter into his office.
She was a reporter with The Argus, the main newspaper in the Brighton and Hove area and the place he went for the latest on local news and sport. When she started modelling, Kelly joined a Brighton talent agency and her picture frequently appeared in the local paper and even now they were still interested in running stories about her and whatever she was up to. If he owed one newspaper a story, it was The Argus.
‘Good morning, Mr Langton,’ she said, shaking his hand, ‘I’m Rachel Jones from The Brighton Argus. These are nice offices you’ve got here, not what I was expecting at all.’
‘Good morning, Miss Jones. I suppose because it’s an old building on the outside, you’d expect to see mahogany panels and Chesterfield sofas on the inside, but we’re in the media business and not only do our people like to work in a place that is interesting and modern, and perhaps even a bit quirky and inspiring as well, our visitors do too. Otherwise they’d think we were a bunch of old fuddy-duddies who can’t communicate with our target audience.’
The inside of the building had been ripped out before they moved in and the floor laid with fancy-patterned wooden tiling, black desks arranged at random angles, the white walls lending a clean, utilitarian air, broken up by bold primary colours painted on panels hanging from walls, multi-coloured chairs, and large cushions scattered all around.
‘It makes sense.’
‘Now if you think this is modern, you should see the editing suite downstairs. It resembles the offices of a Californian computer games developer more than a place where we make television programmes, all soft seats, soft drinks, and high tech.’
He guided her to the conference table near the window. It was black and the seats were striped with a multitude of primary colours, a ray of sunshine when there wasn’t any outside. She sat down and removed a notepad and a digital recorder from her handbag and placed them on the table.
‘So what can I do for you Miss Jones? You said something on the phone about wanting to hear my side of the story.’
‘Yes, I did.’ She lifted the recorder. ‘Ok if I put this on?’
He shrugged. ‘Sure.’
She fiddled with a few buttons and laid the little electronic device between them. ‘First thing, let me offer my sympathy about your missing wife and I do hope, for everyone’s sake, she is found soon.’
He grunted something appreciative but in truth he was sick of people offering tea and sympathy and wished they would cut to the chase.
‘In cases like this,’ she said, ‘the media concentrate on what the police are, or are not doing, and publish stories based on press briefings and press releases, but they seem to forget there’s a family left behind who are often confused and traumatised about what’s happening and fearful of what the future might hold. Your wife, Kelly, has been missing for eight days now and I just wanted to get your perspective on what life is like and how you and your boys are coping.’
He watched her face as she spoke, as he was wary of journalists, even before his wife disappeared: not only after his run-in with Baz Kinghorn, but about a year ago protestors were outside the building, complaining about their depiction of Islamic people in one programme and an incident of wife-beating in another, and the coverage they got was less than favourable, despite issuing an apology and offering to meet the protestors to hear their grievances.
Jones was mid-thirties, tall and elegant with short, shiny, black hair and a finely-boned, round face which was photogenic without being overly pretty, but facial features were not the only method by which he made judgments about women. Her legs looked long and skinny with small boobs barely registering against the light material of her white blouse. He preferred legs a little thicker, ones to fill a pair of stockings and large boobs to get lost in. His mind was wandering and only with luck did he catch the end of her question.
‘...and considering all of those things: do you think enough is being done to find your wife?’
He puffed a blast of air, feigning frustration. ‘How much is enough? I don’t think you can ever say enough has been done, as they haven’t found her yet, have they? On the other hand, her picture is in all the papers, including yours, there’s been an appeal on the radio, the police are interviewing all her friends and neighbours and they’ve poked around our house and her car so...’ He shrugged, ‘I’m not sure what else they can do.’
‘What do you think has happened to her?’
‘I wish I knew, it’s not like I haven’t given it a lot of thought.’ He paused, searching for the right words. ‘At the start, I assumed she went off to see someone like a relative or an old friend and perhaps forgot to tell me about it, even though she’s never done anything like it before.’
‘She hasn’t?’
‘No, never. Then I’m thinking maybe she suffered a seizure or something and is lying in a hospital bed, unable to tell anybody who she is or where she lives but she’s such a well-known face, somebody in the hospital would have recognised her and called us by now, wouldn’t you think?’
‘You would think so.’
‘Since none of them are coming up with the goods, the only other thing I can think of is she must have been taken by some psycho.’
‘I would imagine the police are considering such a possibility with no activity on her credit card or mobile phone since she left.’
‘It’s the clincher for me as she’s always on the phone calling people in her business, her book agent, or the bank to check on her money. She’s always on somebody’s case.’
‘Did any of your friends or anybody else in the past show a strong interest in her? Perhaps there is someone she mentions a lot or spends time talking to at parties or on the phone?’
He sat back in the chair and stared at the piece of modern art behind her head. It was by Picasso and if he viewed the face one way, it was a single person but if he half-shut his eyes and glanced at it another way, it became two people. In some respects, it summed up his thinking, as he was confused too.
&n
bsp; He leaned forward. ‘I’ve been thinking hard about this, don’t think I haven’t. Sure, we’ve attended dinner parties, gone out for meals, gone to award dinners, and sometimes we both drink too much and say or do silly things, but I can’t recall anyone dancing with her all night or what you might call pestering or pawing her. We do most things together but when she’s out on her own, she never comes home smelling of someone else’s after-shave or looking like she’s been dragged through a hedge backwards.’
Jones paused as if about to say something profound. ‘How well do you and your wife get on, Mr Langton? The reason I ask, is many of your wife’s friends that I met at Williamson College were of the opinion the two of you were considering divorce.’
‘What?’ he shouted, and banged a fist on the table. ‘The fucking gossips. Is nothing private?’ He folded his arms as blood rose to his face, making him feel hot, as if his head was about to explode. ‘We’ve experienced a few problems, I mean, who doesn’t but we’re working through them. We discussed divorce in a sort of casual way, you know, ‘what if’ but we never came close to taking it any further, no bloody way. She loves me and I love her and she would do nothing to hurt our boys.’
‘You certainly cleared that up, thank you. How are the boys taking it?’
‘How d’ya think?’ he said, with a touch more aggression than intended. He was getting tired of these questions but he needed to be calm as it wasn’t smart to sound angry and forceful in an interview, as he knew how badly it would read in the black and white print of a morning newspaper. He paused for a few moments until his breathing became steady and the heat drained from his face.
‘They miss their mum, of course they do. The little one, who’s only eight, cries himself to sleep every night.’
‘Ah bless, it must be terrible for them. How are you managing on the domestic front?’
‘Not too bad. A neighbour with a kid at the same school as ours picks them up in the morning and brings them home at night. Josh is thirteen and makes sure Ben doesn’t get up to any nonsense until I get home around seven. He cooks tea for both of them, as long as it’s something simple he can bung under the grill or pop in the microwave.’
‘Good to hear, it must be a weight off your mind.’
He already dealt with all the household finances as even though his wife was a canny businesswoman and ran her business efficiently and profitably, she was hopeless when it came to managing her own money, unless spending the stuff in expensive boutiques in Brighton counted in such an equation.
‘We have a cleaning lady and someone else comes in to do the washing and ironing, as I’m pretty useless in that department. To be frank, I need all the help I can get at the moment, as we’re in the process of talking to all the big television companies as they are about to finalise spending plans for next year and trying to decide what they’ll finance. It’s important for me to be around.’
‘I understand. How is your business doing?’
‘Couldn’t be better. Prime Minister’s Questions is still the most popular political show of its type and we’ve also got Newshunt, and its sister show, Newshound will be available in the new year. In addition, in the last week we’ve finishing making a new documentary called The Battle of the Somme: A Soldier’s Lot, which three channels are bidding for.’
‘I’m glad to hear business is doing well, the last thing you need right now is money worries.’
‘Money worries? I haven’t had them since I was twenty years old.’
He said goodbye to Rachel Jones ten minutes later but rather than sit behind his computer and deal with emails and messages, as he intended, he stood at the window and stared out at the street scene below. Delivery drivers carried boxes into offices, locals headed back to their flats with their shopping, two guys stood on a street corner having an animated discussion over a fag, but his mind brooded over what he’d said or not said, and how it would appear in The Argus in the morning.
He knew all about the power of the press and if he sounded unsympathetic and aggressive, public opinion soon would turn against him and columnists would start baying for his arrest. He needed to be careful; this wasn’t the time for faint hearts.
ELEVEN
DI Henderson’s face was impassive as he sat in a meeting room listening to the reports of the teams responsible for interviewing the friends and relatives of Kelly Langton.
‘I suppose it’s something to do with the good start in life they had attending a posh school like Williamson College,’ DC Sally Graham said, ‘most of them seem to be in well-paid jobs all over the country, so not many have kept in touch with Kelly.’
‘That’s private school for you,’ DS Walters said. ‘A lot of the people I went to school with never moved more than a couple of streets from where they were born.’
‘Most of the friends I spoke to didn’t have a good word to say about her husband,’ DC Bentley said, ‘some suggesting she might have done better.’
‘Of course, it might be snobbery,’ Walters said, ‘Kelly going to Williamson College and him only attending the local comp in Brighton.’
‘Did no one else heard the rumour about Brian and his secretary?’ Henderson asked
Lots of shaking heads.
‘I’m disappointed as I would prefer a degree of corroboration, especially if we decide to come down heavier on Kelly’s husband, because with only Liz’s opinion to go by, he could dismiss it as wicked tittle-tattle, dreamed up by jealous or envious friends to drive a wedge between them.’
‘I’ve seen it done,’ Walters said, ‘people are strange when it comes to money and other people’s happiness.’
DS Walters had experienced at first-hand the effect of gossip on her own marriage when several of her neighbours in Portsmouth reported sightings of various women entering her house when she was out, on days when her husband worked from home.
Long and bitter recriminations between Walters and her husband followed before it could be ascertained the women in question were his sister, Miriam, who lived close by and a colleague from work who occasionally called in to deliver important documents, a woman old enough to be his mother. It didn’t help that neighbours saw her from a distance or through net curtains, as she could easily be mistaken for a younger woman than her forty-eight years as she kept fit, wore tight and short skirts, and had her hair dyed and styled once a month.
‘It’s a mixed bag,’ the DI said when everyone was finished. ‘If they were my so-called friends, I wouldn’t need any enemies as some of them sound downright nasty and jealous.’
Several laughed, not because it was all that funny but little in this case produced much to cheer them up.
He stood up and walked to the whiteboard. ‘In cases like this, I like to establish a timeline but the only things we know are this: Kelly Langton left home at eight on the morning of 6th September to drive to Williamson College in Cowfold; she left Williamson to drive home, but she hasn’t been seen since. We know she arrived at school because she also took the child of a neighbour...’
‘Gina Jamieson,’ volunteered DC Phil Bentley, an up and coming star if he kept his mind on the job and wasn’t so distracted by office politics.
‘Gina Jamieson, right. Gina said Kelly arrived at her house at five past eight and another couple of witnesses saw her at school so we know she got there ok, but we don’t know anything after then. How are you doing with CCTV, Sally?’
DC Sally Graham put down the packet of wine gums she fiddled with and picked up a piece of paper. ‘We didn’t find her car on the A23, in Burgess Hill or Hayward Heath town centres.’
‘Why didn’t you examine Brighton?’ Harry Wallop said. His hangdog face often gave the impression he was a crotchety old detective sergeant with years under his belt and retiring soon, but he was still in his late forties and his craggy features the result of too much sun from frequent forays to an apartment he owned in Tunisia.
‘There’s no need,’ Sally said. ‘The analysis of the A23 and A24 camera
s would pick her up and we also checked the A273 in case she took any of the back roads to get there.’
‘Good work,’ Henderson said, resuming his seat. ‘I take it none of the roads around the college are covered by cameras?’
‘No sir, it’s mainly country roads around there, and if she headed straight home after dropping the kids off and didn’t go to someone’s house for coffee or to work, no camera would track her.’
‘Home is where we think she was going, as she doesn’t go into work every day.’
‘No, you’re right she doesn’t,’ Walters said. ‘When she was at work on Monday, she told Jacques Fournier her assistant manager, she wouldn’t be coming in the next day as she intended to work on her book.’
‘We know she got to school but we don’t know if she left and if she did, if she was on her own or with someone. Carol we need to clear that one up. Take DC Agha and interview parents at Williamson College and get a handle on her state of mind that morning and if anyone saw her leave.’
‘Ok.’
‘If she did go home alone,’ Henderson said, ‘we can only assume something happened to her there, in which case we’re looking at a crime committed at, or near her house. If a crime hasn’t been committed then she voluntarily got into another car somewhere between school and home. Those, I believe are the only options we can surmise from the information we have at the moment.’
‘In the first scenario,’ Walters said, ‘an abduction, happening near or in her house, someone must also have taken her car to the place where we found it at Pound Hill shops. In which case, I would expect to see it on CCTV cameras, in or around Crawley, but of course we can’t be precise about the day.’
‘We’ve only examined routes around Williamson College,’ Sally Graham said, ‘and between there and her home in Hurstpierpoint.’
‘Widen the search to include Crawley,’ Henderson said. ‘If she or her kidnapper came though the town centre we will surely pick her up but if she came up the Balcombe Road which is rural, we’re back where we started.’
