‘It’s not your fault,’ said Tom, fishing his mobile phone out of his pocket and turning it back on, now the interview was over. ‘How were you to know she was so stupid she thought she could sell her exclusive story several times over?’
‘There was a clue,’ Helen reminded him. ‘She is currently married to her former father-in-law.’ She sighed. ‘All this way for nothing. What the hell are we going to do now? For money, I mean. I just wish we had something lined up.’
Tom didn’t answer. He was too busy concentrating on the phone, which had rung the moment it kicked back into life, to tell him there was a voicemail. He held it to his ear and listened. The message was a long one.
‘What is it?’ she asked him.
‘Not quite your fairy godmother,’ he said when he had finished listening to the message, ‘but your wish has been granted. It’s our old mate Ian Bradshaw, and he might have a job for us.’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Not exactly dressed for the occasion, are you?’ The SOCO regarded Bradshaw dubiously as he climbed from his car, which was parked by the end of the footpath that led off into the woods. Bradshaw’s suit and smart shoes weren’t the most practical clothing for this terrain.
‘I was told she was by the side of the road,’ explained Bradshaw.
‘She’s in the trees.’ The SOCO nodded towards the woodland at the end of the muddy track.
‘Who found her?’ Bradshaw guessed it would have been a jogger or a dog-walker, as usual.
‘Kids. They were playing in there. I suspect it’s a sight that will stay with them, poor bastards. Get your gear on and I’ll show you.’
Bradshaw was doing as he was told, lifting protective clothing from the boot of his car, when a second car pulled up not far from his and Detective Constable Hugh Rennie got out. Both he and Rennie normally reported to Kate Tennant. The veteran seemed as perplexed by the sight of Bradshaw standing there as the younger man was to see him. ‘Kane sent me,’ explained Bradshaw. ‘They think this might be one of the Disappeared.’
‘Katie Tennant asked me to drive up,’ said Rennie. ‘In case it’s her.’ He didn’t have to say a name. Everyone on Tennant’s team was expecting to get a call any day now to say that the young girl who had been missing for more than two weeks had been found. Only then could they really hope to put a proper case together against the man they were already privately referring to as ‘Evil Stepdad’, such was the suspect’s wild-eyed eccentricity during police interviews and press conferences. The stepfather had managed to contradict and trip himself up on more than one occasion and seemed pretty calm, considering his fifteen-year-old stepdaughter had gone missing. As DC Malone succinctly put it, ‘He’s guilty of being guilty, plain and simple.’
‘Left hand, right hand,’ said a world-weary Rennie, explaining the lack of communication that had led to them both driving separately out here to check the same crime scene. ‘This is the last thing I need when I’m so busy. I’ve only got a fortnight left, you know.’
Bradshaw did know, because Hugh Rennie had made a point of ensuring everyone was aware how close he was to retirement and just how much he had to tidy up before he went, so no one would have the nerve to give him something new to do. Bradshaw brought his finger to his lips as if shushing the older man. ‘Careful, Hugh. You know what happens to cops in films when they only have a couple of weeks to go before retirement? They get killed,’ he said solemnly. ‘Sorry, mate. It happens every time.’
‘Very funny,’ said Rennie, who didn’t look remotely amused.
They donned their protective suits then put coverings over their shoes and plastic guards across their mouths. The three men trudged along the muddy footpath, Bradshaw trying not to slide in the mud, now that he had lost what little grip his shoes had had. The SOCO led them through a gap in the trees where the ground was a little firmer, and they continued until they reached some yellow police tape that had been used to mark a perimeter. The SOCO lifted it and they ducked underneath. They took a few more steps then went beyond the bushes that had been shielding the crime scene from view.
There was activity all around the clearing. One man was photographing everything in the vicinity, while a number of officers examined small sections of the cordoned-off zone for clues. Bradshaw’s eye was immediately drawn to the victim. She was sitting up with her back pressed against a tree. From a distance, it might have appeared she was alive and merely resting. Up close, however, there was no mistaking that she was dead. The sightless eyes bulged wide open, the body was kept in place by the ligature pulled tightly around the neck, a grubby but sturdy length of grey rope that had cut deep into the flesh. Instead of simply strangling the woman by wrapping the rope around her neck, the killer had stretched it all the way around the tree she was leaning against then pulled it taut from behind until she was dead. To Bradshaw it looked almost ritualistic, and he wondered why the woman hadn’t struggled. Her mouth was open, as if she had fought for a last breath, but gravity had forced her chin down and her tongue lolled out of her mouth.
Her hair was a greying auburn colour, but her most striking feature was her emaciated body, the bones showing through skin as white as paint. The only contrast to her pale complexion aside from the red markings either side of the rope on her neck was a faded dark strip around her wrist where an old tattoo could still be made out. Bradshaw bent lower and realized it was in the shape of a Celtic band.
‘Time of death?’ he asked, knowing it could only be a rough estimate at this stage.
‘Nothing confirmed yet, but we’re probably looking at a couple of days ago,’ said the SOCO.
Bradshaw trod carefully around the body and peered at the back of the tree. He saw that the rope had been knotted around a long, thick stick which had been repeatedly turned to tighten the noose. It seemed an elaborate way to kill the victim and he wondered how the killer had achieved it without her wriggling free. Had she been too weak to fight back?
When he stepped back to survey the victim once more, the SOCO nodded towards her. ‘That one of your girls, then?’
Bradshaw shook his head. ‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’ He sounded surprised. There weren’t that many murders in the North-East.
‘About twenty years too old,’ Bradshaw informed him. By the same reckoning, it couldn’t be Hugh Rennie’s missing girl either.
‘Sorry to hear that.’ When they both looked questioningly at the SOCO, he added: ‘You know what I mean ‒ you’ve wasted your time.’
‘At least I can rule her out,’ said Bradshaw. ‘No clue as to the identity yet, then?’
‘We were hoping you could shed some light on it,’ the SOCO said. ‘She had no purse or ID of any kind on her, no door keys or money, no jewellery. All we’ve got so far in the way of distinguishing marks is a mole on her neck and the tattoo on her wrist.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe that will be enough.’
‘Someone will know her,’ said Bradshaw, then he noticed that DC Rennie had his head to one side and was peering down at the victim with what appeared to be great concentration, even though this could not possibly be the girl he was looking for.
‘What is it?’ asked Bradshaw.
Rennie didn’t answer at first, then he said, ‘Nothing.’
‘You seen her before?’
‘Don’t think so,’ he said doubtfully, but Rennie continued to peer at the woman as Bradshaw and the SOCO exchanged a look. Rennie was lying, and they both knew it.
CHAPTER SIX
A man of words and not of deeds
Is like a garden full of weeds.
‘Gammer Gurton’s Garland’, 1784
The last thing Eva recalled before waking up inside the box was being incredibly tired. Nothing to explain her presence here.
It was all so unreal.
She couldn’t deny the reality of it now, though. Eva had been taken by someone and imprisoned in this box. Surely it couldn’t be anyone she knew. None of her ex-boyfriends was this vengeful or unhinged.
Eva had no obsessive stalkers or overzealous admirers, so who could have done this, and why? To rape, torture ‒ perhaps even kill her? Eva’s mind raced with the possibilities it could imagine, while knowing there might be others it could not. Why would a man imprison a girl except to harm her? Kidnap? A ransom? She barely made enough from her job on the reception desk at the gym to live; her mother was just about surviving financially. It couldn’t be that, then, unless it was a case of mistaken identity. Did she look like some rich daddy’s girl? Was there another young woman with long, red hair like hers, from a prosperous family somewhere, who the kidnapper was meant to have snatched instead? It seemed impossible, but then so did everything else about her situation. Her anxiety reached a whole new level. It was the thought of her mother sitting at home, frantic with worry, that did it. All that came into Eva’s mind now was what would happen if she did not get out of here, and fast.
She sat bolt upright when she heard the door. Someone was unlocking it from the outside and she was torn between conflicting emotions of fear and relief.
Was he letting her out?
Why was he letting her out? To let her go? To kill her? To do something else to her?
Oh God.
She tried to stay calm when the door swung open and light poured through it.
Her captor leaned in and she saw him clearly for the first time.
Then she screamed.
The scream was an involuntary response to the sight before her. A dark face, its features completely hidden by a mask. No, a balaclava, like the ones terrorists or bank robbers wore, but this one was home-made, and all the more disturbing for its shoddy, amateur construction. It hung loosely over the man’s head, obscuring his entire face, apart from the eye holes and a thin slit where the mouth was.
Then he stepped into the box and she saw the shotgun. He was carrying it in one hand, pointing it straight at her, his finger near the trigger, and she flinched then pushed herself backwards as far as she could go, until her back was pressed right against the wall. He stood still for a moment, and at first she couldn’t take her eyes away from the gun, terrified it would go off. Then, when she realized he wasn’t about to fire it, she took in a squat figure in a thick jumper with a padded body-warmer over it. He was average height, perhaps a little overweight, but powerfully built. There was strength here, she could tell. Then she saw that he was balancing a small tray in the palm of his other hand. He set it down next to a book on a packing case by the door. It held a plate of food and a glass of water, along with a plastic container.
He straightened and took a step nearer. Eva felt a growing sense of panic.
‘Who are you?’ she managed, her voice wavering. ‘What do you want?’
‘If you do what you’re told,’ the man said, his deep voice was almost a growl, ‘you’ll be safe.’
Did he say safe? It sounded like it, but his voice was muffled by the balaclava.
‘Safe?’ she asked.
‘If you listen to him, you’ll be saved.’
‘Who?’ she sobbed, her eyes darting around the room, even though she knew no one else was there. ‘Listen to who?’
‘Father.’ And as he said this her eyes settled on the book next to the food. It was well worn and leather bound, with a gold cross embossed on the cover, along with the words ‘Holy Bible’.
Was that what he meant by Father or was he talking about his father? She didn’t understand. Eva was about to ask him, but he was already leaving, backing out of the room, the shotgun still pointed towards her.
‘Wait. Don’t go. Why are you keeping me here?’
‘You’ll be saved,’ the man’s deep voice assured her as he left.
‘Don’t leave me in here!’ she shrieked, but his only response was to shut the door and bolt it from the outside, muffling her cries once more.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DC Malone greeted Ian Bradshaw’s reappearance at HQ with bad grace and a sneer.
‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ she demanded, but she didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Kane dragged me in early to wade through all this shit for you.’
This shit turned out to be the evidence on the Disappeared women gathered by the detectives now on suspension, much of which was on her desk, along with a mug of tea that had gone cold. It had ‘You don’t have to be mad to work here but it helps!’ written on it. Next to the mug was a half-eaten packet of Jaffa cakes. She didn’t offer him one.
‘Is this everything?’ he asked her.
‘Nope. Grab some of it and come with me.’
He scooped up a mound of papers then followed the similarly laden DC away from her desk and into a conference room no one was using.
‘Oh Christ,’ he said, when he saw how many files Malone had been asked to collate for him. ‘What the hell is all this?’
She placed a palm on the first pile of papers as she explained its contents. ‘Background on each missing woman: height, weight, age, vital stats,’ she said dryly. ‘Whether she was blonde, brunette, married, single or seeing someone. Did she live alone or with her family? Was she in work or signing on?’ Then she added facetiously, ‘Favourite food, star sign, sexual preferences ‒ you get the picture.’ Malone went on to the next pile. ‘All the witness reports from the times they went missing, the last people to see them, and when and where; statements from friends, family, colleagues, bar staff ‒ you name it.’ She moved on to another stack of papers. ‘Background statements from nearest and dearest ‒ whether they had any problems, worries, stalkers, addictions, mental disorders, or any other reasons for taking off.’ She sighed, ‘As far as I can tell, the answer to all of those questions about each of the victims is no.’
‘Helpful,’ he said.
‘Yep.’ She stopped then, as if tiring of the exercise. ‘Obviously, I haven’t read every word on every piece of paper. That’s your job,’ she added ominously, ‘but as far as I can see, there is hardly anything in the way of actual evidence here. I mean, otherwise, they would have had a lead to go on, and they didn’t.’ She thought for a while. ‘Unless they were just crap or lazy … or too busy shaking down drug-dealers.’
‘Allegedly,’ he reminded her.
‘Allegedly,’ she agreed. ‘Anyway, I reckon you’re more or less starting again from scratch. Who else have you got to help you? And don’t look at me. I’m way too busy.’
‘Trying to nail the most suspicious step-parent since Snow White bit into an apple? I know. Tough case to crack, that one.’
‘We know it was the evil stepdad. It’s proving it; that’s the hard part.’ When Malone had finished admonishing him, she asked, ‘So who have you got?’
‘At the moment, I am on my tod.’
‘You’ll be lucky to get out of the building, then, unless you’re a very quick reader. What are you going to do?’
‘I’m trying to get some outside help, if I can,’ he told her.
‘Not those bloody journalists again?’
‘Why not?’
‘In case you haven’t noticed, reporters aren’t the most popular people round here just now, particularly the investigating kind.’
Bradshaw didn’t want to get into an argument about the merits of hiring Helen and Tom. It would have been premature, anyway, as he hadn’t been able to get hold of them yet. Perhaps Kane was right and they were too busy working on the glamorous stuff these days. Maybe he really was on his own.
He picked up the nearest file and opened it. Malone left him to it.
Bradshaw started backwards, with the woman who had been missing for just forty-eight hours. He reasoned she was the one most likely to turn up alive. If it was true that she hadn’t simply run away, then she could be the latest victim of a serial abductor, and he was surely only doing this for one of two reasons: murder or rape. Often the rape would lead to a murder, to silence the victims. None of the missing women had emerged from their ordeal, so it didn’t look good for any of them. True, no bodies had yet been found, and that was unusual,
but it could just mean the killer was proficient at disposing of the remains.
Bradshaw went over the details. Eva’s height: five feet four; weight; around nine stone; medium to slim build; aged twenty-three; lives at home with her mum and her brother. He examined the photograph of the young woman. Eva Dunbar had a nice face. She was smiling in this photograph, which had been supplied to them by her mother. Eva was on holiday somewhere hot, standing with her arm around a friend, on the terrace of a beach-side bar with the sea in the background. Her face was lightly tanned, which made her smile seem brighter. A note had been stuck to the picture so it was clear which one of the girls was Eva. She had long red hair and bright green eyes and she was leaning forward slightly towards the camera, her face animated. She seemed so full of life, and there was something about her that made Bradshaw warm to her, even though he realized she might very well be dead already.
‘Where are you, Eva?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘Who took you, and why?’
It struck him then that Eva Dunbar had the same colour hair as the woman in the woods.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Helen turned the handle of the bathroom door, but it was locked, which was odd, because she was usually up and out of her room in the morning before Tom had left his. As well as his business partner, Helen was also Tom’s lodger; an accidental, supposedly short-term arrangement, caused by an attack on her, which they had narrowly escaped but that had resulted in the trashing of her flat. ‘Sorry!’ she called, loudly enough so Tom could hear her from the landing. Helen was about to go back into her own room to wait when she heard the lock click. The door opened and a face emerged, but it was not Tom.
‘Hi, Helen.’ The voice was always a little grating to Helen’s ear. The younger girl spoke in a perma-cheerful squeak, and she was wrapped in a large towel, steam billowing out behind her from an over-long shower, which probably meant she had used most of their hot water … again.
The Chosen Ones Page 3
