by Graham Smith
On the day she was taken, she’d been tackling the Coledale Horseshoe, which was one of the toughest walks the Lakes had to offer. She’d set off at eight thirty in the morning and hadn’t been seen again. Like Christine’s Mazda, her little VW sat in a car park until the police traced it.
Appeals had gone out for anyone who might have seen what happened to Joanne, but until her body turned up two days after her sister had reported her missing, it was presumed that she’d had an accident during her walk. The mountain rescue team had scoured the hillside looking for Joanne, as a matter of course, but naturally they’d found no sign of her. Beth knew it was too much to expect that they’d identified the place from where she was taken, but she wished that the investigating officers had at least asked the question.
Harriet Quantrell was a different proposition. She’d last been seen walking home from the bars and clubs of Botchergate in Carlisle.
Like Joanne she’d been alone. The last of her friends had said goodbye before Harriet had embarked on the last quarter of a mile.
Maybe the young women should have got a taxi, but the fact it had been a balmy summer’s night and they all lived within a mile of the city centre suggested that the girls had chosen to walk.
It was a decision which had more than likely cost Harriet her life.
All the files gave details of the victims’ families and notes on any behaviour which had struck a chord with the investigating officers. There was the usual outpouring of grief and anger from all families. What stood out was Harriet’s uncle, a Howard Stanton. According to the reports from the Family Liaison Officer who’d sat with the Quantrell family, he was a hothead whose rants about getting revenge on the person who’d killed his niece had suggested a serious intent rather than anger finding an outlet in empty words. The FLO had kept an eye on him, but as there had been no progress with apprehending Harriet’s murderer, his anger had turned on the police. In the end, Harriet’s mother had dealt with Stanton by unloading her own anger at him in a tear-filled rant.
Beth’s next thoughts were about how the victims had each been transported from where they’d been snatched to where they were dumped. As much as it might be a cliché for abductors to use a van, they were the perfect vehicle for the job. With no rear windows and plenty of space for the victim, vans ticked every box. Their presence on the roads is as unremarkable as the average car and as such they are ignored.
That two of the three women had been taken at a beauty spot made it even less likely that the abductions were observed. Faced with a panoramic view, very few people would pay attention to a van and its occupants.
The question Beth was struggling with was: How had the killer got the women into the van? A ruse about seeing some puppies wouldn’t work on grown women and if he cracked them over the head with something, he’d still have had to lug their bodies to the vehicle. While bystanders may have their attention on the scenery, they wouldn’t fail to notice a woman being bundled into the back of a van. Plus, none of the victims’ PM reports had noted any head trauma.
Christine was from Bolton and Joanne from Newcastle, so the nearest and most logical person to investigate first was the third victim, Harriet.
Beth got the address for Harriet’s fiancé from the file and reached for her jacket. As much as she wanted to continue with her spreadsheet, she also needed to get out of the office and speak to someone connected to a victim. The fire in her belly that compelled her to work as hard as was necessary to catch a killer was building nicely, but she knew from experience that a single conversation with a victim or one of their family members would fan its flames enough to keep her at her desk long after everyone else had gone home.
Fourteen
Denton Holme in Carlisle is known as a village within a city and the red-brick terrace houses that line its streets are bland in their uniformity. Once home to the workers employed by the city’s textile mills and manufacturing plants, the area is devoid of individuality beyond the colours of woodwork and the cars sandwiched nose to tail along the cobbled streets.
As much as Beth despised having to cut her lawn, she knew she’d rather spend an hour a week doing that, than live in a place where a hanging basket or a window box constituted a garden.
She knew this area well enough from her days in uniform. There was a community spirit like few other areas in the ‘Great Border City’. Despite the fact that everyone’s house was laid out the same way, or a mirror image, right down to the positioning of doors and plug sockets, they seemed to rub along with more grace than could be expected.
The street felt claustrophobic to Beth as she knocked on the door of Harriet’s last-known address. There was something about its narrowness and the way the sun was streaming between the chimney pots that made her feel like she was trapped.
For those who’d returned here after a long day working in the mills it would have been even worse. They would live and work with the same people all their lives. By day they’d stand beside a noisy, dangerous loom or some other piece of machinery, and at night they’d be cooped up in their tiny identikit homes with three or more generations living in each other’s pockets.
Beth closed her eyes momentarily and pictured the street as it would have been a hundred and fifty years ago. Boys in short trousers playing games on the cobbles while girls jumped along a hopscotch grid or helped their mothers. The rooftops would be wreathed in the smoke from a hundred coal fires.
The men in her vision wore flat caps and grim expressions, while the women wore looks of acceptance for their lot as they went about their daily routine. Above them all, Dixon’s Chimney would tower like a guard post, its presence a reminder of where they belonged and where they must remain.
When it was completed, Shaddon Mill – which was the reason for Dixon’s Chimney – was the largest cotton mill in England and its accompanying chimney was the eighth tallest in the world.
Beth couldn’t begin to imagine the workers’ fury if they knew their place of employment had been converted into flats, or their sense of containment living in the shadows of their workplace, but it made her feel happier about her own circumstances. Her job let her travel around the county on a daily basis; her home might be a subsidised police house, but she had it to herself and because of this she benefitted from all the freedoms which came from living alone.
The door creaked open and a young man with a toddler on his hip opened the door. The man had the kind of mussy hair that took effort and the girl snuggling against him was clean and well clothed, if bleary eyed.
‘Alreet.’ His voice was as broad a Carlisle accent as Beth had ever heard.
Beth introduced herself and checked the man’s identity. When he confirmed that he was Rory Newham she explained why she was there.
As soon as she mentioned Harriet’s name his eyes flashed in hope. It was a primitive reaction borne of a longing for news of an arrest and the closure it brought. Regardless of anything she may learn from Newham, that split-second glimpse into his pain had made the visit worthwhile in Beth’s view, as the memory of his grief would drive her on through what was bound to be a long and difficult investigation.
‘I’m sure this is all very painful for you and I certainly don’t want to reopen old wounds, but I’d like to ask you a few questions about Harriet.’
Newham opened the door and stepped back so she could enter. As with all houses on the street, the front door opened right into the living room and there was a staircase directly in front of them. It was the kind of arrangement that was once common for working-class homes, although it was as impractical an arrangement as Beth had ever known. On winter days, the open door would flood the house’s main room with cold air and back in the days of coal fires, the doors would have been a constant source of draughts.
As Beth let Newham direct her to a seat, she took in the room. It was tidy without being a show home. The furniture was an eclectic mishmash of styles that spoke of Newham picking up second-hand bargains. The decor was simple
but tasteful, and a wicker basket tucked beside a chair held a variety of children’s toys and books.
The most striking thing about the room wasn’t the 40-inch TV dominating one corner but the picture gallery hanging on the chimney breast. In pride of place was the same picture of Harriet that had been stapled to their file, and surrounding it was a medley of pictures featuring Harriet and Newham, or of the two of them with their infant daughter. Below the central picture was an image of a tired, but ecstatic Harriet holding a newborn baby wrapped in a pink blanket.
If ever Newham had been questioned in relation to Harriet’s murder, this spoke of his innocence. The man had become a single parent the day his fiancée had been murdered, and here he was, nearly two years later, still seemingly carrying a torch. The pictures on the chimney breast said as much, but they also said a lot more.
Until Beth had seen them, she’d subtly looked around for a pair of woman’s shoes or a cup with a smear of lipstick. It had been instinctive to her to check for signs that Newham had moved on.
All those ideas had been refuted by the presence of the pictures, and there was nothing to suggest that his affections lay anywhere other than with his daughter.
‘I hope you have more success in finding the charver who killed our Harriet than them other coppers. Right bunch of radgees them lot.’
There was no hostility in Newham’s tone, and Beth had spent enough time working in Carlisle to translate ‘charver’ into man and ‘radgees’ into idiots without having to think about it.
Like so many other parts of the country, Cumbria has its own speech patterns and while a lot of the terms have influences from neighbouring counties, many have origins in the traditional Cumbrian dialect. This dialect has been traced back to the fifth century when Cumbria was central to the kingdom known as Rheged – which covered Northern England and southern Scotland – when a form of the Brythonic language spoken by the tribes at the time had evolved into Cumbric. Norse influences crossed the Irish Sea in the tenth century and its effect was best found in place names, although it had many subtle effects on the slang which lay between proper English and the traditional dialect.
‘I get what you’re saying, Rory.’ Beth used his first name to try and establish a bond. Newham was skeletally thin, and other than his carefully mussed hair, he had nothing going for him looks-wise. ‘But I’m not here to criticise my colleagues; I’m here because my team has been tasked with bringing a new focus to the investigation into Harriet’s death.’
‘Mummy.’ The girl peeled her way out from under Newham’s arm and pointed at the picture on the chimney breast.
Newham lifted the child up so she was level with the picture. ‘That’s right, Kerrie. That’s your mummy.’
Beth fell silent as Newham dealt with his daughter. Her mind was on the little girl; the girl who would grow up knowing only a photograph as a mother.
For the child to not have a mother to lean on would be incredibly hard. Beth had always enjoyed a close relationship with her own mum – even during her teenage years – and she couldn’t imagine what it would be like for a girl to navigate her way through adolescence and puberty without a mother’s support. Grandparents and family would, of course, step up, and Newham seemed to be a very caring, loving father. But the girl would still miss out on an awful lot of natural support.
As Beth half-listened to Newham’s answers to her questions, she tried to find a new angle, a question that had yet to be asked, but she couldn’t think of anything that hadn’t been covered.
When Newham mentioned that Harriet had disappeared on her first night out after Kerrie had been born, it had been all Beth could do not to take the child from Newham’s arms and give her a huge cuddle for the misfortune which had befallen her young life.
Kerrie would become Beth’s poster girl for her determination to solve this case.
Fifteen
When Beth walked into the Crown that evening, her eyes flitted round the room in the same practised way they did whenever she entered a busy area. Always at the back of her mind was her desire to spot the man with the two kisses tattooed on his neck, as he was the one who’d deflected the bottle into her face on that fateful night.
She didn’t spot him, but she did see Ethan. He was standing by the bar facing the door.
Beth liked that he’d picked a vantage point where he could see her arrive. She also appreciated that he wasn’t engaged in a deep conversation with anyone as she entered.
She gave him a quick assessment as she crossed the bar to meet him. He was dressed in a smart shirt and a fashionable pair of jeans. His body language was relaxed and the pint on the bar with a mouthful out of the top was his first if the clarity of his eyes meant anything.
‘Hi. Good to see you.’ His tone was easy and he gave her the space she needed without being stand-offish. ‘What would you like to drink?’
Beth caught the unspoken message. He’d had doubts as to whether she’d come. That was fair enough, she’d had the same doubts herself.
‘Good to see you too. A glass of white wine, please. Chardonnay if they have it.’ Beth gestured at her clothes. ‘Sorry, I haven’t had the chance to go home and change. You’ll have to take me as you find me.’
As soon as the words were out, Beth gave an inward wince. Had she just given him the wrong signal?
‘You look fine.’ Ethan’s shrug was accompanied by a mischievous smirk. ‘Well, a little rumpled if I’m honest, but I’d sooner you turn up rumpled than not show at all.’
‘Why thank you, kind sir, you really know how to flatter a lady.’ Beth lifted her glass and toasted him. ‘Shall we get a table?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
As she trailed Ethan to a vacant table, Beth felt a pulse of excitement. Ethan seemed like he was good company and, best of all, there was something about him that put a smile on her face. Whether it was his good looks, easy charm or his jokey nature, she felt that she was going to have a pleasant evening.
When the barman called last orders, Beth saw her own surprise at how quickly the time had passed reflected on Ethan’s face. They’d only had two drinks and yet almost two hours had gone by.
Beth was glad that Ethan sipped at his pints rather than glugged them down as if it was a race to drunkenness. As a general rule she could take or leave alcohol, and she didn’t want to date someone who liked to get drunk four nights a week.
The conversation had flowed back and forth between them. They’d discussed their jobs, and although he had the good manners not to ask, which was something she appreciated, Beth had filled Ethan in on the fact his tip-off had given the police a solid lead.
‘Do you want another drink?’
‘I do, but I’m going to have to say no. I have an early start what with the investigation.’
‘I understand. I’m on shift at seven tomorrow morning myself.’
Beth returned Ethan’s rueful grin. ‘The joys of shift work. I don’t miss it one bit, but even now I’m with FMIT, I still can’t predict what time I’ll get home.’
Ethan held the door open for Beth as she exited into the street. ‘I’m free on Wednesday night if you’d like to meet up again.’
Beth leaned in and gave him a quick kiss. ‘Here at nine again works for me.’
‘Sweet.’
As Beth was climbing into a taxi, she got a text from him.
‘Goodnight, beautiful. I really enjoyed chatting with you tonight and I’m looking forward to Wednesday.’
Sixteen
The dog whistle went to Willow’s mouth for perhaps the hundredth time since her springer spaniel had run off. As a rule of thumb, Spike was a good and obedient dog, but the move back to Maryport had unsettled him.
Spike going missing was an end to her day that she could well do without. As part of her role at the bank she had to visit customers at their home or office. The first visit was with a customer called Andrew Cooper, which had been bad enough as he’d flirted with her awkwardly, despite her not
giving him any kind of encouragement, but when she’d arrived to meet her next client, Oliver Morrison, the experience with Cooper had paled into insignificance by comparison.
Cooper had been polite and respectful in his awkwardness whereas Morrison had been plain lecherous. It wasn’t so much that he was undressing her with his eyes, more that he was re-dressing her in whatever outfits fuelled his fantasies. As she’d left she’d felt the need for a long shower and she was already dreading her next visit to his business.
Willow put the whistle to her lips again. Spike had lost the battle for supremacy with her mother’s black Lab and as such he was struggling to find his place in the new environment. But Willow had had to return to the family home – it had become necessary when she’d caught her husband in bed with the next-door neighbour.
If it had been their neighbour’s pretty wife she may have been able to understand, but what attraction he’d found in a balding man with a paunch was beyond her.
Willow had thought a long walk along the banks of the River Ellen would tire out Spike while simultaneously giving him a treat. He’d gone wandering off a half hour ago just as the light was beginning to fade and she had been thinking about turning for home.
She’d walked this route often enough in the days before she left home to not worry about navigating it in the dark, but until she found Spike, there was no way she was returning to her parents’ house.
As he’d run off, she was left in a quandary, should she head up or downstream looking for him, or should she remain where she was?
Perhaps he’d crossed the river and was gadding about on the far bank. Letting him off the lead the first time she’d brought him on this walk had been a mistake. He’d wandered off at once, his nose following a thousand and one smells, but he’d done his usual trick of coming back every few minutes and checking where she was.
