by Nick Louth
* * *
Craig set the hands-free to call Sam back, and when she tentatively picked up he said, ‘It’s sorted. I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble from our Mr Harrison.’
‘Oh, Craig, thank you.’ She paused for a moment, then asked tentatively: ‘What did you do?’
‘Don’t worry, nothing dramatic. I gave him a warning he won’t forget. I’ll be with you shortly.’
When Gillard pulled the Ford into her cul-de-sac he recognized her house immediately. It was the only one with all the lights on. It was a basic 1990s new-build terrace mostly made of uPVC and plastic cladding with a garage tucked into the ground floor, a small patch of weeds as an apology for a garden, and a front lean-to for dustbins, gas and electric meters. He rang the bell, and waited for a good couple of minutes: first for the slow bump-click tympani of a woman descending stairs on crutches, and then for the opening of a seemingly endless series of locks. When she opened the door, wearing just a long T-shirt, slippers and a self-conscious smile, he was shocked by how small, pale and vulnerable she looked, especially compared to the size of the black eye Harrison had given her. It made him want to go back and thump the bloke a few more times. But he was equally stirred that she had applied lipstick and a little eyeliner on the good eye, and what smelled like arnica cream on the bad one. Dignity in the face of mayhem. He wanted to compliment her, to say she looked nice. But many years ago he’d learned words weren’t really his thing, especially compared to Liz who really knew how to use them. Looking at Sam now he couldn’t think how to phrase what he wanted to say without it sounding silly or a lie. So instead he smiled, and after he had closed and double-locked the door behind him, gave her a hug. Her body began to shake silently against his.
‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ he said as he rubbed her back. Again, he felt the need to use words without it sounding like he was trying it on. ‘Do you want me to kip down on the sofa, if you’re feeling nervous?’
‘Would you?’ she said. ‘There’s a divan in the spare room already made up.’
He looked at his watch. He’d be lucky to get two hours’ sleep before having to get up.
* * *
Whether it was minutes or hours later, he couldn’t say. A sound on the landing had him instantly awake. It was still dark. He’d not yet figured out how Harrison had got in before, past all the locks. If it was him again…
But it wasn’t. The bedroom door cracked open, and a faint silhouette showed a feminine figure in T-shirt and shorts, wavy hair down to her shoulders. Sam eased her way quietly into the room. He pretended to be asleep, not sure otherwise what to do. She lifted the edge of the duvet and eased into the bed. She was very warm. Her arm snaked around his chest, her head resting on his shoulder and her sprained leg sticking out of the side of the bed. Within five minutes her heavier breathing indicated she was asleep. He lay awake for some time, his arm going dead where she was lying on it, wondering how his orderly life, his refuge, was going to survive the avalanche of chaos and responsibility that had arrived with this woman.
Chapter Five
Disastrous dinner party. Martin, losing an argument, mentioned my depression and stay in a psychiatric hospital. Helen loyally waded in on my side, before the shouting began. What’s happened to him? The night I first met Martin was the most wonderful of my life. The man was a force of nature, buzzing with ideas, and happy to share, listen and discuss with anyone, even a forthright woman like me. Now he’s well known and respected in the wider world, those private moments which were for listening are gone, just brief bursts of static in the Knightly broadcast. Conversation becomes one-versation.
Liz’s diary, November 2003
Gillard always gave DS Claire Mulholland a lift into work on a Wednesday morning. It was some unfathomable domestic algorithm of childcare, cars and school: a husband who often worked nights; three teenage kids, one of whom was working but had her own one-year-old daughter; two dogs and a neurotic rabbit. Claire’s family life was as complex as his was simple. Give him a VAT fraud any day over a life like that.
Most mornings Craig had plenty of time to get there at 7.45 a.m., but not today. He had woken up in an unfamiliar room to the sound of Sam moving around downstairs, and to the smell of toast and coffee. But he had barely had a chance to sample them before racing off, doing a quick change of clothes at home then leaping back in the car. As he queued his way through the Cobham rush hour, already 20 minutes late for Claire, he regretted not having had the good grace to patiently wait through Sam’s extended thank you. ‘I’ll never forget your kindness to me,’ she had said.
He finally pulled into the street where Claire lived. The front yard of her 1960s semi had been paved over, and once he’d pulled into the kerb and emerged from the car there was, as usual, a van and two cars on the pavement to squeeze past to get to the side door. Husband Baz was still there, judging by the presence of the plasterer’s van. Gillard rang the doorbell which, as always, unleashed an avalanche of dogs against the door’s glass panels, and a cacophony of barking and shouting. Claire, a cross between zoo-keeper and jailer, finally emerged with a volley of instructions back into the house about homework, shopping and granddaughter Kyra. In the past Claire had invited him in, but Gillard now knew it was better to wait outside. Most crime scenes were tidier than her lounge, and he’d more than once been pinned against the wall by their Irish wolfhound, Dexter, who had once left a jowl full of saliva on the crotch of his charcoal-grey trousers.
Claire followed him to the car, and as they pulled away into traffic she exhaled deeply. ‘Bad traffic today, was it?’
‘Yeah, and a bad night’s sleep,’ he said. He wasn’t ready to tell the real story. He didn’t even know yet what the story was. It was far from straight in his head, though he was sure that Claire of all people would understand. She was a handsome woman, with smiling eyes that belied her steely character.
She turned to him with a smile. ‘I found some new graffiti about you yesterday,’ she said.
Gillard couldn’t suppress a grin. One cubicle in the Ladies toilet in the portakabin outside the detective block at Surrey Police HQ had a whole conversation about Gillard’s sex appeal biroed into the grouting between the tiles. ‘What did it say this time?’
Mulholland raised her eyebrows. ‘It was of the “I’d like him to do me” variety, just a bit more graphic. She wanted to be handcuffed first, too.’
Gillard chuckled.
‘Maybe we should get forensics to find the culprit,’ Claire said, examining her nails.
‘I expect office services will rush to paint it over again before Alison Rigby sees it.’
‘Who knows, maybe she wrote it,’ Mulholland said.
Gillard’s yelp of laughter caused the car to twitch, sufficient for Mulholland to put a hand out to steady herself on the dashboard. ‘Steady, tiger,’ she said. She turned to him and then said: ‘Of course if it was Alison, it would be you who’d be in handcuffs, right?’
Gillard kept the wheel steady this time, even as he howled with laughter. The assistant chief constable was a formidable woman. Over six feet tall, firm-jawed, short, with spiky hair dyed jet black and ice-blue eyes. Paddy Kincaid had nicknamed her The Dominatrix.
Traffic for once wasn’t bad, and they arrived at Mount Browne on time. Gillard greeted the civilian receptionist and made his way quickly through to the main incident room. After checking with the call handlers, he discovered that Professor Knight had not called back. This was too much. He checked through his notes, and methodically rang each of the numbers they now had for the Knights: two landlines and two mobiles. He also left a message with Caterham to get an officer to visit the Coulsdon house.
Gillard went straight in to see his senior officer. Kincaid, a balding stocky figure in short-sleeved white shirt and skewed purple tie, was leaning over at least 30 box files which he had arranged like a mini Stonehenge on his desk. Horizontal files bridged a dozen others standing on end.
&nbs
p; ‘Best use for the Girl F inquiry paperwork,’ Kincaid said, spreading his arms to display his creation. ‘A judicial fucking monument to last ten thousand years, and to be looked at in wonder by future generations who will wonder: “What the fuck was it for?”.’ He looked up. ‘Jock McKinnon’s here this afternoon to second-guess my part in the investigation.’ The notoriously ferocious chief constable of Police Scotland was conducting the latest probe into Girl F, and would report to the broader Home Office inquiry under Lord Justice Cunliffe. ‘I’m not looking forward to it,’ he said gloomily, slapping at one end of his box file creation so it tumbled with a clatter across his desk, spilling two or three boxes onto the floor.
They both stared at the stationery carnage until finally Kincaid broke out of his reverie. ‘So what can I do for you, Craig?’
‘It’s a missing person’s case, sir.’ Gillard sketched out some details, partly to see if he could persuade himself: an absence of five days, completely out of character, a husband who seemed, at least initially, to be less-than-normally concerned, and now seems to be refusing to return calls. ‘I want to go public, appeal for him to get in contact, call in some CSI resources.’
Kincaid cleared his throat with impatient scepticism. ‘Couldn’t this just be some marital tiff, Craig? You’ve no idea, you’re a single man—’
‘Divorced, sir.’
‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten about her.’ He said it with more disdain than his two brief meetings with Valerie five years ago seemed to justify. The marriage had disintegrated within six months, and there followed a few months when Craig was sufficiently lonely to agree to go out for long drunken evenings with Kincaid. Paddy’s idea of cheering him up was to try to rope him in on persistent but hopeless attempts at picking up young women in the pub.
‘Whatever.’ Kincaid’s face tightened into an uglier knot than his tie. ‘Christ, I wish I had a pound for every time Muriel flounced off to see her bloody mother and wouldn’t return my calls.’
‘It’s not just the husband. Nobody has heard from her. Not her employer, not her friends, and she’s missed several critical meetings. It’s extremely out of character, sir. She’s a stickler for reliability.’
‘Really? Oh, well. I expect we’ll find her swinging gently from some beam in the house above some poetic note culled from Sylvia Plath.’
Craig winced at the image. ‘This is potentially very high profile, sir. We have to go by the book. The husband is Professor Martin Knight of the LSE…’
‘Him? The one who shoots his mouth off on the TV? Christ almighty.’ He rubbed his eyes with a hand that showed the tell-tale nicotine habit he had never quite been able to quit. Kincaid’s throat emitted a deep growl of irritation. ‘That fucker wrote the initial report on Girl F. “Twenty-first century police technology but eighteenth-century attitudes.” That’s his opinion of us, Craig. Never met him, but Coldrick has. A bumptious prick, was how he described him.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk.
‘Well, Gillard, it’s right up your street. As you say, it’ll have to go absolutely by the book, which I have just reread as part of my corrective re-education.’ He sighed. ‘She’s probably not a vulnerable person, but we’ll need a risk assessment anyway. If you think he’s bumped her off, you’ll be aware of the additional procedures that need to be followed. Knight will undoubtedly have influential friends in Whitehall.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ll certainly be able to dig up any resources you need.’
‘We will need a CSI in Kent, at the Knights’ holiday home.’
‘Okay, I’ll liaise with Kent, but you remain SIO.’ Kincaid bent to one of the open files, revealing a freckled pate around which sparse coppery hair nestled, surplus wiring to an overtaxed brain.
‘One final thing, sir.’
‘Yes?’ He looked up sharply.
‘I used to date the missing woman…’
‘For God’s sake, Gillard!’ Kincaid looked heavenwards, and took a deep breath.
‘It was 30 years ago. For about six weeks.’
Kincaid stared at him, drumming his fingers on a box file. ‘Ah, that’s a bit different. No recent contact?’
‘Not for a quarter of a century.’
Kincaid shrugged. ‘That’s okay, I suppose. Might give you extra insight too.’
‘Sir.’ Gillard nodded. ‘Can that just be between us? I don’t want anyone else knowing.’
‘Okay, now bugger off. I’ve got half an hour to prepare for that kilted lunatic McKinnon. And Gillard?’
‘Sir?’
‘The professor is a very influential man. So find her alive, for Christ’s sake.’
And for mine, Gillard thought as he turned to leave. He paused at the door, wanting to say something about Liz Knight. Something along the lines of: if she’s dead, I’ll not rest until the villain that did for her is caught. But when he looked at Paddy Kincaid he saw that the detective superintendent looked like a dog that was about to be taken out and shot, by a ferocious Scot no less. He decided to keep his mouth shut.
* * *
Craig hadn’t mentioned a subsequent time he’d met Liz in recent years. He’d been called to reports of a burglary at a house on Chaldon Rise back in 2011. It was 10 p.m. The householder, an elderly woman, was in shock at the mess her home had been left in and was being looked after by neighbours three doors up. When he knocked at the neighbours’ to take the woman’s statement, he found himself staring at Liz Knight. Subtly changed by the intervening years, a little filled out, but with the same warm brown eyes and delightful smile framed by the subtlest of creases. Her hair, still wavy, was pulled back into a ponytail.
She seemed not to recognize him until he introduced himself, and added: ‘Hello, Liz. It’s been a long time.’
‘Well, well,’ she said, her smile broadening. ‘So now you’re Detective Chief Inspector Craig Gillard. Come on in.’ She brought him into a large lounge where a frail and rather tearful lady in her 80s was sitting on a large leather sofa, surrounded by balled tissues.
‘Mrs Edwards,’ Liz said. The woman looked up. ‘They’ve sent the best detective brain in Surrey to solve the case. I can personally vouch for his dedication, so I think everything is going to be all right.’
Craig smiled. ‘We’re going to do our very best to catch him.’ After taking a statement, Craig joined Liz in their large family room for a biscuit and a cup of tea.
‘You seem to be doing just as well as I knew you would,’ Craig said, taking in the large house and peering out into the long, tree-fringed garden behind.
‘Yes.’ She let out a brief sigh as she too scanned the garden. ‘Martin’s done very well. I’ve just started as the deputy head of King Edward’s in Oxted. Oliver is at Oxford and Chloe’s doing very well too. Aiming for Cambridge, we think.’
‘So you’re happy, then.’ A question buried within a statement, and Liz shot back a look which indicated troubles of some kind. Craig was surprised to detect his own cruel pleasure at this fissure in her perfect existence, as if he could somehow, after all these years, slip through and snare her for himself. He was self-aware enough to wonder at his own stupidity.
‘So Craig, what about you? Wife, kids, a settled family life now?’ Liz asked, holding her cup to her mouth and eyeing him closely.
‘Well, not exactly. I only married last year, but it didn’t work out. We’re separated. No kids.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Her stare seemed to look right into his head. ‘You deserve to be happy.’
Further discussion was interrupted by the back door opening and the entry of a bear of a man, bearded and with unkempt hair, dressed in worn corduroys and a lumberjack shirt. ‘Bloody broadband’s gone again,’ he announced, as he kicked off a pair of mud-spattered Crocs. ‘Any tea on the go?’ He picked up a copy of the Guardian lying on the kitchen table and glared into it.
‘Martin, Detective Inspector Gillard’s here to see Mrs Edwards,’ Liz said.
‘Mm?’ His head
remained buried in the paper.
‘The burglary, you know.’ Getting no response from her husband, Liz glanced at Craig and rolled her eyes. ‘Martin, I think Mrs Edwards would like it if you went in there and expressed some sympathy,’ she added.
Martin looked up, quizzically.
‘She’s in the lounge. Go and say hello. She’s quite upset. And you had said you’d mend that fence for her last year. The one that the burglar got in through.’
‘Oh, Christ, I did.’ Martin gave Craig a nod of acknowledgement before shambling off.
‘Academics,’ she said, with a conspiratorial chuckle, the same surprisingly deep and infectious peal he recalled. A call from the control room called him away and he went to the car for some privacy. Fifteen minutes later, when he’d hung up, he looked back at the huge house, reflecting on the woman’s life that just once he had thought he might have shared. Now he might as well have been staring at the moon.
* * *
With backing from the DCS, Gillard called a meeting in the force control room with Detective Sergeant Claire Mulholland, Response Intelligence Officer DC Rob Townsend and Family Liaison Officer Gabby Underwood, plus the four detective constables who were going to make up the team.
He briefed them on Mrs Knight’s disappearance and appointed DS Mulholland to be the investigating officer, who would ensure that the missing person’s details were circulated on the Police National Computer. The incident room would be set up at Caterham police station, just 15 minutes’ drive from the Knights’ home. As RIO, Rob Townsend would liaise with all the specialists – the Hi-Tech Crime Unit for seized computer equipment and phone tracing, the CSI unit and forensic labs – leaving Gillard and Claire Mulholland free to question family and friends. It would save the hour-long drive from Mount Browne every time they had a piece of evidence.
