by Nick Louth
‘Maybe there’ll be another opportunity,’ he said. ‘For the coffee. And good luck with your career.’
He got out to help her with her gear from the boot, and before she let him guide her down the path, she turned her face to him and stretched up to give him a kiss. Quick, but on the lips, and briefly reciprocated with an added touch of stubble. ‘Thank you, Craig.’ As she turned away she felt his eyes on her. She wanted to walk tall and swing her hips a little, but on the first step she staggered straight into the gate post.
Chapter Two
The tragic and unnecessary death of Girl F is a staggering indictment of the bigotry, myopia and indolence of the British police mentality. This young girl, in a desperate cry for help, begged for justice. But because she didn’t fit the victim stereotype, what she got instead was prejudice, procrastination, and – even now, years after her death – platitudes.
(LSE criminologist Professor Martin Knight, interviewed on BBC Newsnight, September 2013)
Tuesday, 18 October, 8 a.m.
Gillard drove back to Surrey Police HQ in Guildford, feeling restless. What had been sleet in Cumbria was just rain in Surrey, but there was plenty of it. There hadn’t been a decent gap in the weather for the rest of the weekend, and though he’d tramped a good 60 miles in all – around Wastwater, up Kirk Fell and amid teeming parties of schoolkids to the top of Great Gable – he’d given up his last chance for a really demanding rock climb. With a sinking feeling he remembered that another report was coming out soon about Girl F, a case that had for years been the bane of Surrey Police. A girl of 13 threw herself in front of a train back in 2009 after reporting repeated abuse by older men. The case, mishandled from the outset and still without a suspect, was now in the hands of the hindsight experts: highly paid barristers, child psychologists and criminologists deciding at their leisure what procedure should have been followed. One officer in the crosshairs was Detective Superintendent Paddy Kincaid, Gillard’s own boss. Back in 2009 Kincaid was a DCI investigating Girl F’s suicide, but had made little progress in finding out who had abused her. After criticisms from the family’s legal team he had eventually been removed from the case.
The atmosphere at HQ would probably be foul, Gillard decided. To cheer himself up, he slid a CD of ’80s hits into the player, and let his thoughts turn to Sam Phillips, the ill-prepared but shapely PCSO.
As he passed the security barrier, the imposing edifice of Mount Browne loomed. The former home of the Marquis of Sligo, the Gothic-style red-brick building boasted mullioned windows and high gables in extensive grounds. Behind it squatted the cramped and crowded car park and a hideous 1960s office block, Gillard’s base for the last five years.
His deputy, DS Claire Mulholland, was already there in the incident room, gripping her chipped mug emblazoned with wobbly glaze: Mum – world’s best detective. Her son Collum had made the mug at school when he was eight, and even though the handle had come off in the intervening seven years, few would take issue with the boast. If not the best, she was certainly pretty damn good. Claire’s solid physique belied her former career as dance teacher and tae kwon do instructor. The day after finishing training as a WPC, the five-foot-five blonde mother of three had been put on a drugs raid, with instructions to stand at the back and keep out of the way. But when the gang’s six-foot-three enforcer tried to stab a fellow officer, Claire had famously taken him down with a single kick to the stomach.
After greeting her, Gillard asked: ‘So what’s the latest on Girl F?’
‘Coldrick has asked Alison Rigby to restart the cold case review,’ she said. Assistant Chief Constable Rigby was a high-flyer, appointed by Chief Constable Graham Coldrick three months ago. She’d come from the National Crime Agency, with a reputation as a control freak.
‘Kincaid will not be a happy bunny,’ Gillard said, unable to control the smile on his face.
* * *
Caterham police station could be mistaken for a neglected suburban library were it not for the solitary patrol car outside. It was built for a full complement of officers, but now it was only intermittently staffed. Three civilian PCSOs and a desk sergeant, in theory. Today was more typical. PCSO Samantha Phillips was the only officer in the building, answering calls, logging incidents, the full desk-bound tedium.
It was late morning when the main Surrey call centre put through a report of a missing person in her neighbourhood.
‘Oh, hello. My name’s Katherine Parkinson, and I’d like to report a missing person. Liz Knight. She’s a close friend of mine, and she’s not turned up for work for two days. That’s really not done if you are deputy head of a secondary school. Her husband’s away at a conference in York and when I rang him he said he hasn’t seen her since Friday. I’m really quite worried. It’s so unlike her.’
Sam made detailed notes. Female, 48, missing at least two days. Not answering emails, her mobile seemingly switched off, and not returning calls to her landline. No answer at the doorbell. The address was Chaldon Rise, a crescent of beautiful houses in Old Coulsdon, where the southern fringes of London’s suburban sprawl washed up against the chalky hills of the North Downs. A place Sam would love to live, if she won the lottery.
Thinking back to her missing persons training, Sam asked: ‘Would you describe Mrs Knight as a vulnerable adult?’
‘You mean easily led, or mentally impaired, something like that?’ The caller laughed softly. ‘No. I would classify Liz as anything but vulnerable. She’s a dynamic, busy, confident and highly intelligent individual quite able to look after herself.’
‘Are there any children?’
‘Yes, two. Well, not children any more, and not at home. Oliver is a solicitor, 20-something, doing very well for himself, and Chloe has just gone up to Cambridge, her mother’s Alma Mater. There’s only Liz and her husband at home, though he travels a lot.
‘Do you work with her, Ms Parkinson?’
‘No, but I’ve known her for, gosh, 30 years. We’re also in amateur dramatics together. Just a small village production, you know, but she failed to show up for a rehearsal for The Mikado last night, which is absolutely not her at all.’
‘When did you speak to her husband?’
‘Just an hour or so ago. He’s breaking off the conference to come home, though he’s not happy about it.’
‘Why is that?’
‘He thinks I’m being overly dramatic. And overly amateur with it, probably. He didn’t want me to report her missing to you.’
‘Did he say why not?’
‘Well, he says he thinks he knows where she might be.’
‘So why didn’t you say this before?’ Sam said, turning her pen over and over between her fingers.
‘He thinks she has gone to Great Wickings. That’s their holiday cottage, down on the Kent coast. It’s a funny little wooden place, more like an overgrown shack really, close to that monstrosity of a nuclear power station at Dungeness. Anyway, it’s where she goes when she needs to think or when they’ve had a tiff. She’s got a little studio there, and likes to paint.’
‘So don’t you think it is possible that is where she is?’ Sam asked.
‘Well, perhaps. I have rung and left messages. But it’s strange. You see, it’s quite possible that she wouldn’t want to speak to him if she was down there after they’d had a row. Completely possible. But she would certainly pick up the phone to me. I mean, I’m her closest friend. Have been for years. She certainly hasn’t had a tiff with me. And she is such a stickler for courtesy and reliability. So I just cannot believe she wouldn’t call in sick to the school or for the rehearsal.’
Sam concurred.
‘Look,’ Kathy said. ‘It’s possible this may turn out to be just some domestic crisis, but I would hate it if something had happened to her and nobody had tipped you off. I mean, you hear such terrible things now, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘One final thing,’ she added. ‘When you speak to Martin, don’t say that I rep
orted her missing. He’s a bit fiery, and he might think I’m interfering. Can you just say it was the school?’
‘I won’t mention your name,’ Sam said, and after thanking her, hung up.
* * *
Over the next three hours Sam Phillips spoke to the headmaster at Liz Knight’s school, her friend Helen Jennings, and Bruce Cornwell, director of The Mikado. All backed up Kathy Parkinson’s story. Liz Knight seemed to have vanished, and no one had heard from her since last week. She then made her fourth attempt to get through to the husband, Martin Knight.
‘Knight.’ The word was barked like an impatient goodbye.
‘My name is Sam Phillips from Surrey Police. Am I speaking to Martin Knight?’ The PCSO could hear a train conductor making announcements in the background.
‘Professor Martin Knight, yes.’
‘Of number 16 Chaldon Rise, Old Coulsdon, Surrey? Can I just ask you to confirm your postcode, sir?’
‘Oh for God’s sake. I think I’d better have yours first, young lady. How do I know this isn’t some joker?’
After a few minutes’ jousting over identity, Knight made his point and the PCSO gave him confirmation of the station’s own address.
‘Now if we can return to the main point, Mr Knight—’
‘Professor…’
‘We’ve had a report that your wife, Elizabeth, is missing—’
‘I know very well what my wife is called, PC Phillips. You are a PC, I take it?’
‘I’m a PCSO actually. Now, about your wife—’
‘Shouldn’t you be out on the beat? Cycling around in high-vis or something, searching for symptoms of anti-social behaviour? I’ve just come out of a meeting with the Home Secretary, and she was very receptive to my opinion that at well over £100,000 per crime detected, spending on the PCSO programme would be better targeted elsewhere.’ He paused for a moment, and the tone of his voice softened. ‘Look, I’m very sorry that you have been disturbed with this. I’m pretty certain that I know where Liz is, and I’m going to go there this evening.’ Good cop, bad cop, Sam thought. And he isn’t even a cop.
She persisted. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘At breakfast on Friday morning. She mentioned she was going down to Kent for the weekend to paint, which is where I’m sure she still is.’
‘I’ve just rung your holiday home. There was no reply…’
There was a short silence. ‘Look, I’d appreciate you not ringing our children about this. Chloe’s only just gone up to Cambridge, and it would worry her silly. At least not until I’ve had a chance to check out Great Wickings for myself. I’ll ring you around six or so. If Liz isn’t there, you have my full permission to dig up the garden and burrow under the patio,’ he chuckled.
Sam took down the address of Great Wickings. Finally, she asked: ‘Would you ring this number as soon as you get down to the house. Quote incident number 459.’
‘I’ll do better than that. I’ll put her on the phone to talk to you herself, to put your mind at rest,’ he said. ‘And I’d like to apologize on my wife’s behalf for putting you all to so much trouble.’ The line went dead.
‘I think I’d bloody vanish to get away from him,’ Sam muttered as she reached for her notepad.
* * *
Sam Phillips had been due off at six, and it was now nearly seven. It had been a busy afternoon. A toddler had been rushed to hospital after an accident riding a supermarket trolley in Purley, and there were reports of vandalism at Coulsdon South railway station. She was just turning off her computer when she remembered Professor Knight. She checked the incident log, and then spoke to one of the control room staff. No call.
Just then she saw DCI Craig Gillard walk in wearing cycling gear. The full figure-hugging works, helmet with camera, plus soft green pointy shoes that clacked as he walked.
‘Hello, stranger,’ she said, catching her breath and thinking: this cannot be coincidence.
‘Hello, Sam. How’s the knee?’
‘Not too bad so long as I sit with a bag of ice on it. I still need crutches for stairs. Naturally, I’ve had no end of grief about the incident from the rest of the team.’ He’s come to see me!
He smiled. ‘I was just passing but thought I’d pick up the evidence for the Jackson case.’
A likely story. Sam wasn’t familiar with the case, but looked it up. ‘Is that the briefcase handed in yesterday?’
‘Yes. It’s not been checked for fingerprints or drug residues, has it?’
‘No. It’s still here.’ She unlocked the evidence room, little more than a large stationery cupboard, and showed Craig in. ‘It’s on the top shelf if you wouldn’t mind reaching.’
Craig leaned up and pulled down a huge brown paper evidence bag, while Sam glanced at his firm muscular legs and nice tight bum. Decidedly easy on the eye.
He hefted the bag and hesitated for a moment before starting to make his way out. ‘Thank you, Sam. I’ll be seeing you.’
Sam felt a small ripple of panic. He was shy, oh God. Come on, Craig, come on. Say something. ‘Before you go, can I ask you a favour?’ she blurted out.
‘Of course.’ He turned back to her and smiled.
She felt herself blush. ‘I’ve had a missing person report this morning.’ She described the bare bones of the case. ‘The husband’s gone off to find her and promised he would call either way an hour ago. He didn’t, and didn’t reply to the last message I left, so I went round to the house. No one answered the door, and neighbours say neither of their cars is there. So I was just wondering if you’d mind phoning him for me. He was quite rude to me last time. Reckons he’s best pal with the Home Secretary.’
Gillard laughed. ‘I’ve heard that one a few times.’ That smile again. Sam slid the form across. ‘It’s Professor Knight,’ she emphasized. ‘He’s quite up himself, to be honest. If someone senior like you rings him, at least you might get a bit of respect.’
Gillard rang the number, and when it clicked into voicemail he left a brief message and hung up. ‘I’ll try a bit later,’ he said. ‘You know, Sam, in this case he actually does know the Home Secretary,’ Gillard said, still looking down at the inquiry notes.
Sam watched his expression freeze then soften, as if trying to contain something powerful. She’d seen the same struggle for control when she’d gone with a PC to tell a mother her son had been knocked off his motorbike and killed.
‘So Liz Knight is missing.’ He pursed his lips.
‘Mrs Elizabeth Knight, yes. Do you know her?’
He glanced at Sam with narrowed grey-green eyes. ‘Yes, vaguely.’
Sam had only been out of PCSO training for a month. But she knew a whopping lie when she heard one.
Chapter Three
Craig Gillard had known Liz Knight for almost exactly 30 years. Or, to be more exact, for a few short but blissful weeks 30 years ago. He and Roger Carlton were sixth formers at Beechcroft Technical College in Purley, and at Roger’s instigation they had gatecrashed the sixth form summer barn dance at the Wallington High School for Girls. They had one objective in mind and one only: as Roger put it, to each find some high-class bit of stuff from the snob school and shag them senseless. Free tickets had been issued to a few of the fee-paying boys’ schools in the area, but not to the nearby working-class schools in Purley. Roger’s older brother Clive was employed as a lab assistant at one of the boys’ schools and had pilfered a handful of tickets.
Roger, six feet tall and a rugby player, was by his own account the more experienced. ‘I’ll have first pick, obviously. You can have the flat-chested one,’ he had laughed. Craig didn’t much care so long as he finally got his end away. Roger had a Miami Vice T-shirt underneath a white jacket, Levi 501s, cowboy boots and sunglasses. Craig had a black long-sleeved shirt and trousers, an Adam Ant waistcoat with silvery buttons, and a pair of winkle-pickers he’d found in a charity shop. He’d slapped on rather too much Brut, hoping it would draw attention away from his acne. Roger had accused h
im of stinking like a cut-price Moroccan rent boy, as if he had any knowledge of that subject. After each having three pints of Stella, they rolled up at a quarter to eleven, unaware that they were almost at the end of festivities. ‘Oh, will you look at that,’ said Roger, watching a dazzlingly pretty girl laughing with two friends. ‘I’ve got a hard-on already.’ Craig felt intimidated by these confident leggy girls in their elegant dresses, their glossy hair and clear eyes. They made him feel inferior and unworthy. The other boys – well, men in many cases – looked sophisticated and moneyed in their expensive suits. It was the first time he’d ever felt what his father would have called class envy.
Craig and Roger armed themselves with a glass each of Buck’s Fizz, which Roger complained was mostly orange juice, and picked among the stragglers. Roger, despite the firm pact to act as a team, was soon dancing with a tall girl with a long nose and glasses, but who sported what he would have called a ‘rather fine pair’. Craig walked towards the remains of the food, which was laid out on a trestle table.
As he did so, he caught the eye of a pretty and petite chestnut-haired girl with shapely legs, who was with a mixed group of what Roger would have called ‘retreads’: less than top-notch crumpet, with glasses, straight hair, flat shoes and longer skirts with pleats or, in one case, corduroy. The boys around them were skinny, jug-eared and gawky. Tomorrow’s mathematicians and programmers. Faced by these less overwhelming odds, Craig walked over to the group with a plate of pineapple and cheese in hand.
‘Anyone for a chunk?’ he said, perhaps the oddest opening line he’d ever tried.
‘All right, I’ll have a “chunk”,’ said the pretty girl, smiling at him with soft brown eyes.
