‘Sir, is there something I should know about this case?’
Kane sighed. ‘It does seem to be attracting a lot of the wrong kind of interest.’
‘From the press?’
‘Them, too,’ Kane said, ‘but I’m talking about interest from senior officers.’
‘I see.’ Maybe that explained the pathologist’s words. Like Piccadilly Circus here this morning.
‘No, you don’t,’ Kane assured him. ‘It’s even more delicate than usual.’ By way of explanation, he added, ‘You know that Chief Constable Newman is going at the end of the year?’
‘I heard he was retiring a little early.’
Kane nodded. ‘He is off to tend to his garden, or whatever it is that the top brass do once they’re gone. Of course, his deputy, Edward Tyler, wants the job and is shadowing his boss until he goes.’ So that explained why Tyler was always on the telly these days. ‘He won’t want anything to go wrong on their joint watch until the successor is announced.’
‘And is he likely to get the top job?’
Kane snorted. ‘Call yourself a detective?’
‘I don’t tend to keep up with the gossip at senior level, sir.’
‘Well, you should. It’s called self-preservation. Tyler has the backing of the current chief constable. The alternative for the powers-that-be is to defy the existing incumbent, a man who is considered to have been a success’ ‒ he paused then added significantly ‒ ‘by the press and general public, at any rate, and risk passing over his deputy in return for an outsider.’
‘Who might make a mess of things,’ said Bradshaw. ‘They prefer a safe pair of hands.’
‘In my experience, they always do. No one wants to get the blame for appointing a loose cannon.’
‘It’s pretty rare for anyone above the rank of superintendent to even put their head round the door on a case.’
‘It is, but rest assured they are always watching us from on high, especially when there’s any press coverage that might harm their careers. In this particular case, Tyler has already been asking questions at AC level.’ This meant that Kane would have an assistant commissioner keeping an eye on him because the deputy chief constable was keeping an eye on the AC.
‘What’s he like?’
Kane almost seemed to wince. ‘Tyler has a certain reputation. Doesn’t take prisoners, won’t cut you any slack, has very high expectations of his officers and never forgives even a hint of disloyalty, so I’ve heard.’
‘Why has he taken an interest in this case?’
‘Press reports about the missing women. Then we have a body turning up and it’s someone who has been missing for a long time … it has all the makings of another bloody exposé, doesn’t it?’
Bradshaw knew that if there was any suggestion that Durham police had been negligent when the woman had gone missing eighteen years earlier, this would be used against them by the press during their current investigation.
‘Just be careful, that’s all.’ Kane gave him a thin smile. ‘You know what they say, Bradshaw, anyone who gets above a certain rank has to be a complete and utter bastard.’ There was a glint in his eye.
‘And what rank would that be, sir?’
His DCI showed an innocent face when he said, ‘Detective Chief Inspector, of course.’
First she scratched the blue, dried-on paint away from the centre of the screw, at the cost of a fingernail, which broke off painfully, right down to the quick, but at least Eva was left with a groove in the screw that she could work on, if she could just find something hard enough to make it turn. Each of the screws had been deliberately clogged with the paint to make them hard to undo. The vent was the only bit of the crate that wasn’t originally part of it. It was high up on the wall and the dim light from the table lamp couldn’t reach it, so Eva’s handiwork would be obscured from any eye that did not peer too closely. Her captor might not spot it at all, unless he examined the vent, and this gave her more hope.
If she could remove the dried paint from all four screws then find something to undo them, she might be able to remove the central part of the vent. She couldn’t be certain the whole section would come entirely free but if it did she was almost sure she could wriggle through the gap it would leave and get out of the container. What she would do on the other side once she was clear of it, she didn’t know, but Eva resolved to worry about that problem once she was out of her prison.
But what could she use to undo the screws? It would have to be something metal, which discounted virtually everything in the crate. She got down on to the floor and examined the frame of the camp bed. It was made from strips of metal that had been welded into place: no loose screws here. Then she noticed a piece of metal hanging down at the far end of the bed and crawled towards it for a closer examination. It was a steel clip that would fasten the two halves of the bed together when it was stored. The end that was furthest from the bed looked too thick for her purposes but it narrowed considerably as it got nearer the point where it joined the frame. If she could somehow sheer this piece of metal off the bed, this edge might prove thin enough to fit inside the centre of the screws and enable her to turn them.
Eva tugged at the clasp then tried bending it, but it went only so far before meeting the point of resistance. She put all her weight into it and thought she felt it give a tiny amount. But had it really bent slightly or was it just her imagination? She tugged and bent it again. There was definitely a slight movement and, if she could worry away at it for long enough, maybe she could pull it free. She tugged at it again and again, stopping only when her hand began to throb with the pain. She surveyed the clasp. It was a little looser. Eva swapped hands and began to tug at the metal once more, bending it back over and over again.
Tom’s phone was ringing, but he couldn’t remember where he’d left it. He kept still so he could try and trace the ring tone and realized the sound was coming from the living room, but when he went in he couldn’t see the phone anywhere. Then he remembered he’d left it on the coffee table under a newspaper and grabbed it before the caller rang off.
‘Hi, Tom. It’s Jenna.’
It was good to hear from her so soon after their drink, but it heightened Tom’s suspicion that Jenna might want something from him. If she did, she hid it well, her tone matter-of-fact.
‘I’m calling about our pub lunch,’ she said. ‘I reckon if we leave it, then we’ll never get around to arranging something and that would be a shame, so how about tomorrow?’
‘So soon?’
‘Tomorrow is good for me. It’s early closing.’
‘I could probably get away for a while,’ he said, wondering what he would tell Helen. Then he remembered she was his business partner, not his wife, so he could tell her what he pleased.
Eva’s hand was swollen and the skin on it red raw. There were blisters forming, she could barely flex her fingers and she was exhausted from her exertions, but she was nearly there. Once more, she swapped hands and began to pull on the clasp, back and forth, the pain transferred to her left hand.
She had to listen intently as she tugged at the clasp in case the man returned and opened the door before she could get back on to the bed. If he caught her now, all her efforts would be for nothing.
She knew she would have to stop soon, rest and let her hands heal for a while. Eva had been worrying away at the metal for ages. The last time she surveyed the clasp there was just a thin sliver of metal keeping it attached to the bed, and that had turned white from being bent repeatedly.
Exhaustion threatened to overcome Eva and she told herself to stop so she could rest and go at the task again later. She just wanted to sleep now but almost mechanically and without willing to she continued, a few more tugs that grew more and more half-hearted.
Suddenly and without any sound or warning the metal snapped and broke loose. Eva looked down at the thin strip of metal she was holding in her blistered hand and almost cried with relief.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Helen was deep in conversation in the hallway when Tom came down the stairs that morning. It was probably the idiot-ex-boyfriend, so he walked past her and left her to it. He made two cups of coffee in the kitchen and when he emerged again she was saying goodbye.
‘Who was that?’ he asked.
‘Ian,’ said Helen as she hung up the phone. ‘He was calling with an address. Sarah Barstow, the stoned girl, she had a brother. He lives in Newcastle these days. I thought it might be worth going to see him.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Don’t you think it’s a good idea?’
‘I do,’ he agreed. ‘I just can’t do it today.’ He hadn’t had the chance to explain about his lunch with Jenna or, more accurately, he had been putting off telling her.
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve got plans.’
‘What plans?’
‘Just plans.’
‘Are they to do with the case?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘Care to enlighten me?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘Are you deliberately trying to wind me up?’ And when he opened his mouth to say the same phrase a third time, she said, ‘Don’t even think about it.’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘it’s no big deal and I’ll be back in a few hours.’
‘How about I just go and do it on my own then?’ Her tone told him how unimpressed she was.
Tom wondered what was expected of him. If he said it was okay for her to go on her own, would she be annoyed at having to visit Sarah Barstow’s brother while he was elsewhere? If, however, he protested, was that likely to annoy her just as much, because it might imply she didn’t know how to do her job without him?
He knew he couldn’t win either way but he had an appointment to keep so he just said, ‘Fine.’
The pain in her hands was the first thing Eva noticed when she opened her eyes. She had slept fitfully but now she ignored the burning sensation and the blisters and went back to work. First she retrieved the metal tool from the hiding place she had fashioned for it in the side of the mattress. Then she got to her feet and removed the lamp from the makeshift bedside cabinet. The packing case was sturdy enough for her to stand on and just tall enough so she could reach the vent. She took the metal clasp and wedged its thinner end into the head of the screw, all the while desperately hoping the man wouldn’t suddenly come back to the crate and catch her doing it.
Bracing, Eva turned the clasp against the screw and silently prayed that it would give. It was stuck fast. She tried again and the clasp slipped, dislodging itself from the screw head and hitting the packing case by her feet and at the same time tipping her off balance. The case wobbled alarmingly and she almost fell, but she managed to regain her balance at the last moment and avoid crashing down.
Eva straightened up and tried once more. She put the end of the clasp into the screw and tried to turn it. Still it didn’t budge. She did it again and, before the thin metal slipped once more, she thought she felt it give just a little.
She tried one more time. She put the clasp into the head of the screw and pressed down hard, trying to keep it in place, then forced it to one side. The screw slowly began to turn.
‘You’re a very long way from home, pet.’ The man who opened the door to Helen seemed quite surprised by this.
She was used to this kind of comment. Helen only had to open her mouth for people to know that she was ‘not from round here’. The absence of a Geordie accent in Newcastle was still worthy of comment. A lot of people left the North-East for new opportunities down south. It was very rarely the other way around. Helen loved the city and the region but knew she would always feel like an outsider, no matter how friendly most of the natives were to her.
Phil Barstow listened patiently and silently while she explained her reason for visiting him. ‘You’re going to catch him, then?’ he asked. ‘Finally?’
Clearly there was no doubt in his mind that his sister had been abducted all those years ago.
‘That’s our aim, yes.’
He considered this for a moment, nodded once and invited her in. Then he put the kettle on and made Helen the darkest mug of builder’s tea she’d ever had.
‘Not too strong for you?’ he asked when they were seated in his living room.
She shook her head, even though you could have stood a spoon up in it, and made a point of sipping the tea while she asked him to recount the events following Sarah’s disappearance. He was scornful about the police’s theories.
‘I kept telling them she didn’t do drugs and she wasn’t a drinker. It didn’t make any sense to me. I knew my sister but the young detective who talked to her was so cold and arrogant. He just said, “No one really knows anyone.” And that was that. I said to him, “She had a pretty wild life for a librarian!” ’
‘She was working in the library when she disappeared?’
Phil nodded. ‘She liked books, always had done, ever since she was little.’ He sighed at the distant memory. ‘When she got the job at the library she was so happy. She’d been there for a couple of years when it happened.’
‘Could you tell me about the day she went missing?’
‘She did her shift at work then went to see a film in Durham with one of her friends.’
Helen was making notes. ‘This was someone from her town?’
‘No, it was a girl she worked with. They went to the film all right; it was that Quadrophenia, the other girl described it clear enough, and she had the ticket stub from the cinema in her purse when the police asked her. They were seen going in together, too.’
‘What happened after the film?’
‘They went their separate ways home, had different buses to catch, but Sarah didn’t get on hers. No one saw her after that. Not for more than a year.’
‘And it was uncharacteristic for her to just go off on her own? I mean, she was over eighteen so …’
‘My sister didn’t have a boyfriend or any wild friends. She was a quiet soul. She didn’t even like pubs.’
‘Did you alert the police?’
‘Not straight away,’ he admitted. ‘I just thought maybe the bus had broken down or something. Then, when it got very late, I drove up into the centre of town to look for her, and after that I drove to Durham and all around it to see if I could see her. My mother and father waited at home in case she came back.’
‘And you had no luck, so what did you do then?’
‘I went home,’ he said, ‘fully expecting to find her sitting there with some story about a bus cancellation or getting on the wrong one. There were no mobile phones back then. People couldn’t just call each other if there were traffic jams or breakdowns.’
‘And phone boxes weren’t exactly reliable either,’ she said.
‘Nearly always vandalized,’ he agreed.
‘But you weren’t too worried at first, though you reported it?’
‘My father did. He spoke to the police that night but because she was over eighteen they didn’t take it very seriously. They said they would look out for her but I don’t think they did anything at all, to be honest.’
‘And the next day?’
‘We went to see them and tried to explain this was not what my sister was like but even then it was, “We’ll make inquiries but let us know when she walks back through your door” ‒ not if, but when.’
‘They thought she was with someone?’
‘It didn’t matter who we spoke to or how many times we said it, the police just assumed she was a typical teenage girl ‒ you know, irresponsible, probably got drunk at a party, crashed there and didn’t come home, sleeping off a hangover somewhere or too embarrassed to phone or return to her family.’ He shook his head at their idiocy. ‘It was a Wednesday. Who has a party on a Wednesday night?’
‘When did they start to take it seriously?’
‘We lost three or four days before they began putting out appeals on the local news. By then we were all franti
c. We knew something terrible must have happened to Sarah but they kept asking about boyfriends she might have run off with. They were fixated with the idea that she had got bored with small-town life and run off to London without telling us, as if we would have disapproved of it.’
‘Would you?’
‘If she had wanted a new life somewhere, she could have come and talked to us about it. My dad wasn’t an ogre. He probably would have tried to talk her out of it but, like you said, she was over eighteen and could do what she liked. I’m telling you, though, she never once talked about a different life. She was happy.’
‘What do you think happened?’
‘We know she didn’t get on that bus,’ he said emphatically. ‘The driver remembered a couple of blokes getting on it, an old lady and a woman with a young kid who he thought was out well past its bedtime, which was why he recalled a routine pick-up at Durham station. There was no young lass on his bus that night. We spoke to the cinema and they told us the time the film ended. Sarah would have just missed her bus, leaving her an hour to …’ Did he pause because he was he about to say kill time? ‘… hang about. That bus station in Durham is bloody freezing when the wind rolls through it. She probably wouldn’t want to have stayed there all that time.’
‘What do you think she did?’
‘We don’t know but, like I said, she wasn’t into pubs. Maybe she walked up the high street and thought about a taxi.’
‘That would be an expensive end to the night,’ Helen said, ‘for a young girl on a librarian’s pay.’
‘I’ve thought of that, and she was careful with her money.’
‘Would she have accepted a lift from someone?’
‘From a stranger? No chance.’
‘What about someone she knew?’
‘I’ve thought about that, too, but she didn’t know any maniacs. Who from our village or her library is going to imprison a lass all that time she was gone?’
The Chosen Ones Page 10
