by Jane Adams
Cassie, more composed now, had turned towards him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was just upset, the news, it . . . it made me think of things.’
‘Miss?’
Fergus took over.
‘We were just on our way down to you, Officer. To the incident room that is.’
‘Really, sir.’ The young man’s face took on an air of careful, professional interest. ‘Well, any help you feel you can give . . . ?’
He left the implied question hanging between them. Fergus sighed. ‘It’s probably nothing very useful,’ he said, trying very hard to give Cassie a breathing space.
The constable waited with polite, but impatient attention. Fergus took the plunge.
‘The fact is, my wife was walking in the Greenway at around six last night. I know it’s not the time in question, but it’s always possible she might have seen something and not realized it. We, well that is—’ He broke off, looked at Cassie who sat motionless but seemingly composed. ‘The fact is, we thought we should at least report it.’
The constable nodded slowly. This was not news to him. The searchers out last evening had reported seeing the woman walking in the direction of the Greenway, had called out to her. They said she had waved and walked on, obviously too far distant to hear them.
He glanced once more around the room. There was tension here that ran far deeper than mere distress for a child none of these strangers even knew. He turned his attention back to Cassie.
‘If I could just have your name.’
‘Cassie, Cassandra Maltham,’ She indicated Fergus. ‘This is my husband.’ Her tone, almost over-controlled, made Fergus think of formal introductions. He reacted to her tone automatically, reached out, almost as though to shake hands, saw the young officer’s face and allowed his hand to drop uselessly to his side once more.
The Constable wrote the names down. ‘And you were on your own, Mrs Maltham?’
Cassie nodded.
‘And about what time was this?’
Cassie wasn’t certain. ‘Six, six-fifteen, no later.’
‘She was back here by six-thirty. We left then to go into Norwich.’ Anna had spoken quickly, almost defensively. She fell silent as the officer glanced at her, a slight frown creasing the space between his eyebrows.
‘Thank you, Miss,’ he said, pointedly, and turned back to Cassie. Anna sighed, sat down at the table opposite her friend.
‘So you were back here by six-thirty then?’
Cassie nodded. ‘Yes, it couldn’t have been any later than that. I really wasn’t out for very long, I just needed to walk for a while.’
Her distress was increasing again — she’d chosen the Greenway for her walk — it was impossible to hide it. The constable frowned again, sensing once more the tension that seemed inconsistent with the scene.
Anna reached across the table, took Cassie’s hand. ‘It’s all right, sweetheart. Just a few questions. There’s nothing you can tell them.’
Again the constable awarded her an impatient glance.
‘I think that’s for us to decide, Miss, don’t you?’
Anna scowled at him, but said nothing. She looked across at Simon. He’d been uncharacteristically silent during the whole interview.
The constable was about to speak again, fiddling with his personal radio as though debating whether or not to call in. He wasn’t sure about this one. The timing was wrong for the woman to be involved, but that didn’t stop her from being there earlier. In any event, from the state of her, she knew something.
He got up from the table, moved over towards the window. ‘I’m going to call in, Miss, chances are they’ll want you down at the incident room to make a proper statement.’ He watched her, seeing what effect his words would have. The woman didn’t move. He frowned.
Fergus spoke for her. ‘Of course, Officer. Anything we can do.’
The constable nodded, prepared to call in. His thoughts were broken by the harsh sobbing of the woman seated at the table.
‘I was there,’ she said. ‘She disappeared and I was left behind.’
Fergus tightened his grip on Cassie’s shoulders, trying to calm her. Anna reached across, anxiously, knowing how the words must sound.
‘You were there, Mrs Maltham?’ The officer’s voice was sharp with surprise and suspicion. He took a step back towards the table. Anna interrupted loudly.
‘Cassie, that wasn’t now, that was years ago. It’s nonsense to think that has any connection with this.’
Until then, Simon had felt nothing but vague annoyance at the whole interview, now, it looked to be turning very unpleasant. Despite that, he found himself casting a wry glance at Anna. Not connected? He remembered Anna’s dramatic rush to bring him the news earlier that morning.
He tempered his mood hastily. This was not the moment for even the vaguest of flippancies.
‘What other time, Miss . . . ?’ the constable was asking.
Anna glared at him, waved her hand in exasperation, then looked back at Cassie, sitting, head bent, staring at the pattern on the tablecloth. Fergus moved, stepped between Cassie and the rest of them, pulling her head against his belly, stroking her hair protectively.
His voice snapped with anger and his normally gentle blue eyes hardened with the coldness of it. ‘My wife knows nothing. Just get out of here and leave her alone.’
The policeman didn’t move. When he spoke again, his tone changed to one which, he hoped, emphasized the seriousness of the situation, reminding this member of the public that he was an officer of the law, just doing his job.
‘Your wife was on the Greenway, sir. If she has anything which might help us then we must know about it.’
Once more Simon had to fight to control the irrational, irresponsible desire to laugh out loud. It was a desire so strong, he almost choked on it . . . then he looked at Cassie, motionless, frozen now in a time that should have long since passed. Looked at Fergus, who so rarely showed anything but the most damnable calm but who now appeared ready to take on the world, never mind this meagre representative of British law, in order to defend his woman. And Anna. Eyes desperate, bemused, deeply fearful. Suddenly, there seemed not the slightest — even most inappropriate — sense of amusement left in the situation. Simon bit his lip. Looked away.
The policeman was speaking into his radio, evidently feeling the need for reinforcement. Simon moved to stand beside Fergus.
‘She’s just upset,’ he found himself saying. ‘This whole thing, it’s brought back memories. Things she thought she’d put behind her.’
The officer looked at him curiously, an official frown creasing his very young features.
‘My superiors will be taking over now, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m sure they’ll be very interested in anything you have to say.’
Simon glared at him. Then he sighed, pulled out a chair and sat down beside Cassie, laying a hand gently on her arm.
* * *
Tynan stared down the length of the room at the young woman seated at the table, a little knot of others keeping close to her. Cassie Junor, as was. So she was Cassie Maltham now. He’d often thought of her, wondered how her life had turned out when the files had been shelved and their official contact ended. Could she have something to do with this present mystery? It seemed an obvious conclusion. Too obvious. Tynan instinctively disliked the obvious. It took the interest out of things. He sipped at his tea once more, content to watch. After all, he had no official capacity here — as yet — might never have if this new man, Croft, took exception to his being there.
Heavy footsteps echoing on the wooden floor of the village hall-come-incident room, made him look up as two men entered. One, he knew. Bill Enfield, been around almost as long as Tynan himself. Due for retirement. The other must be Croft. Tynan watched as both men paused to speak to the young constable who had brought Cassie Maltham and her little party of supporters down here. Bill didn’t appear to have changed much, but then, he was one of those men who�
��d been born looking experienced. Tynan continued to sip his tea contentedly, regarded the second man with interest. Mike Croft was tall, well built, but walked with a light leftward stoop, as though bending to hear what someone had to say. Dark hair, beginning to show grey and a way of moving that suggested he might at any moment take off at a run.
The two men were approaching him now, Bill Enfield extending a hand, making introductions.
‘How are you, Bill?’
‘I’m well. Yourself?’
Tynan nodded, aware that Croft’s attention had moved from them.
‘Cassie Junor, as she was when I knew her. Married to the bloke with the beard.’ He paused, Mike Croft hadn’t looked at him, but the slight, attentive stoop had increased and Tynan knew he had the other’s attention. ‘Though how the hell he got her away from that mother of hers . . . Devil himself would have thought twice about tackling Mrs Junor.’
Croft glanced at him. ‘I’ll be frank. Until I heard of the Maltham woman, I couldn’t see how there could be any connection with Suzanne Ashmore. I still don’t, unless Mrs Maltham was in some way responsible for the child’s disappearance and on the face of it that doesn’t seem likely.’
‘Oh?’
Croft had turned to accept a mug of tea. Bill answered for him.
‘Seems all four of them were out watching the lobster boats come in, in full view of around a dozen people when Sara Jane went missing. So, unless she had an accomplice . . .’ Tynan could hear the shrug in his voice.
‘But, in spite of that, you now think there may be a connection?’ Tynan asked.
Croft sighed, nodded slowly. ‘I don’t like coincidence. Twenty years and this place is like the grave. Stolen bicycles, the occasional RTA. Nothing. Then, as soon as Cassie Maltham decides to come back here, this happens.’ He’d begun to move towards the now restless and expectant group at the far end of the hall. ‘I’m not saying she was responsible, not saying that she wasn’t, only that it’s too much to pass over, her being here both times.’
Bill fell into step beside his superior. Tynan, their silence to the contrary offering him acceptance, brought up the rear.
Chapter 7
DI Mike Croft had always thought that the term ‘fingertip search’ was something of a misnomer. His son had always called it an ‘eyes-down-poke-it-with-a-stick-search’ and, privately, Mike always thought of it in this way. He missed Steven; missed Maggie too, but now was not the right time to start thinking about that. Angrily, he wrenched his thoughts aside and concentrated on his view of the slow-moving ranks of men and women crossing the field.
The Cassidys had been persuaded home, exhaustion and the growing ranks of journalists had been too much for them to cope with. Mike was glad they had gone. The press had been directed to a cordoned area on the main road and he’d left the liaison to Bill Enfield. He knew, though, that he’d have to make some kind of statement soon.
Glancing across the pea field he could see the Thomas’s, Anna and Simon at the end of a line of searchers. He cast his mind back to the earlier interview with Cassie Maltham. He’d quietly taken her aside from the others, seated her at a comer table and drawn a chair up at right angles to her, consciously creating a private, controlled space. Tynan had seated himself on the other side, and Bill, ever reliable, had kept the situation calm, arranging tea, encouraging the other three to talk about themselves, their jobs, their lives elsewhere and moved them away from the interview area. Fergus had not been happy, but he’d gone along with things. The other two, Mike knew, had been glad of a break in the tension, Bill had no trouble engaging them in conversation.
That had left Mike to deal with Cassie.
She’d been tense, anxious, obviously distressed, but, equally obviously, eager to be helpful. Mike had kept the questions simple, going over her statement about the walk she had taken in the Greenway, what she had seen — nothing — anything she had noticed as she came back onto the road — nothing. Several times she had glanced at Tynan, as though some half-memory of him stirred, but she had not acknowledged him directly until Mike’s questions had drawn to an end and he’d asked her if she had anything further to add. She looked properly at Tynan, then back at Mike. Something, it seemed, had to shift from her mind first.
‘That constable, the one who came to the cottage.’
Mike nodded.
‘He must have thought I was crazy, wondered what he’d walked into.’
Mike gave her a thoughtful look, then said, ‘It’s been explained to him, about your cousin. I’m sure whatever judgement he made has been tempered by that.’
He’d kept his voice deliberately cool, his answer coldly formal, watching her response. She’d bitten her lip, looked uncertainly at him, then turned once more to Tynan.
‘Excuse me, but don’t I know you?’
Tynan glanced at Mike, then nodded. ‘We’ve met, Cassie.’
His voice filled in the gaps for her. ‘You’re the policeman that investigated, when Suzie went, you were there then?’
Tynan nodded slowly. ‘DI Tynan that was. I’m officially retired now.’
Bewildered, she looked from one to the other. ‘But, you’re here. I mean, you think there’s a connection? A real connection? But that was twenty years ago.’
Croft was about to answer, Tynan was way ahead.
‘There are two connections already, Cassie. The place. Two children missing on the Greenway—’
‘And me,’ she finished for him, her voice dull, tired.
Tynan nodded.
Cassie looked at Mike Croft once more. ‘You think I had something to do with it, don’t you?’ She was keeping her voice deliberately calm, but Mike could hear that the control was brittle.
He replied cautiously. ‘Mrs Maltham, I have to investigate every possibility fully. I can’t discount a connection. I can’t, yet, discount your involvement.’ He rose, so did Tynan, Cassie swallowed nervously, then struggled to her feet.
‘You intended to stay here for another three days, I understand?’
She nodded.
‘Well, for now, keep to your original plans. You needn’t restrict your movements, but it would be helpful if you’d check with one of my officers when you leave the village, just let us know where you plan to be.’
She gave him a sharp, angry look and was about to follow it with words, when a commotion at the entrance to the hall distracted everyone. Mike turned, swore softly as he saw the Cassidys enter, accompanied by the young WPC he had spoken with earlier.
Bill Enfield gave him a wry, sideways glance and moved towards the advancing group. Mike got ready, not certain what tack to play. Mrs Cassidy made the decision for him, rushing forward and grabbing Cassie by the arm.
‘Did you see her? Did you see who took her?’
Mike shifted quickly to intercept, but Cassie waved him away. He stopped; deciding to run with the confrontation, see what it exposed.
‘It’s all right,’ Cassie was saying. ‘It’s all right!’
Mike wasn’t certain whether she spoke to him or the distraught woman now clinging to both arms. He was aware of Fergus Maltham and the other two hovering behind him, of Mr Cassidy, embarrassed and awkward.
Cassie was speaking to the other woman. ‘If I’d seen anything, believe me, I’d tell. I didn’t go to the Greenway till about six, too late to see anything.’
‘But you were there, that other time. Maybe you saw something then, maybe something you forgot about, maybe it was the same man took my Sara.’ She broke off, stared wildly around her, then howled, ‘Can’t you understand! My little girl’s gone! Can’t any of you understand that?’
‘Oh, God!’ Clumsily, Cassie moved clear of the table. Jim Cassidy held his wife’s shoulders, trying to draw her away, get her to release the clawlike grip she had now on both Cassie’s arms. His own hands were shaking and he was obviously not in a much better state than his wife.
Mike decided now might be a good time to intervene. He signed to the WPC who
came forward to join Jim Cassidy’s efforts with his wife. Cassie was speaking again.
‘If I knew anything. Oh, God! I wish I did.’ The mother was crying now, hysteria over, replaced by a harsh sobbing that cut through the silence which had fallen on the rest of the room. It was Cassie who gathered Janice Cassidy into her arms.
Croft frowned, then gave in to the moment, as the two women, both crying now, headed towards the door. Their husbands following, reluctant, awkward, looking like outsiders. Great picture this was going to make for the waiting press, Croft thought cynically as he’d assigned people to give them escort home.
He’d looked across at the silent figure of John Tynan, wondering what memories were flooding the older man’s mind just then.
* * *
‘If we could just have a few words, Inspector?’
Mike turned an enquiring glance towards the speaker, taking in as he did so the fact that most of the big dailies and at least two of the TV networks had put in an appearance. The speed with which they arrived at any scene had always amazed him. Did they, he wondered, have the equivalent of flying squads on standby? The thought almost amused him.
‘There’s little I can tell you at the present. I’m sure you can appreciate, everything that can be done is being done.’ He was amazed as always just how smoothly such platitudes slipped off the tongue; amazed too that they still bothered to write them down.
‘Inspector, are you linking this to the Ashmore case?’ Mike paused, then said cautiously, ‘Not specifically, but of course, we will rule out no line of enquiry.’
‘And Suzanne Ashmore was never found, was she, sir?’
‘Unfortunately, she was not.’
‘Would you deny, Inspector, that there are many similarities?’
‘There are similarities, yes, but the thing you must remember is that Suzanne Ashmore disappeared almost twenty years ago.’
‘Philip Andrews of the Chronicle here, Inspector.’ Mike glanced sideways at him; one of the locals, this, an elderly man with a much younger photographer in tow. Mike vaguely remembered seeing them earlier when they had left the village hall. ‘Yes, Mr Andrews?’
