by Alison James
Rachel tapped her pen against her notebook. ‘Okay, bit of a long shot, but do you know anything about the death of the Harpers’ son, Oliver, in 2008?’
Rajavi nodded slowly. ‘I’d only just joined as a WPC then, but I do vaguely remember something about that; it came up when Lola went missing… Would you like me to find the file?’
She returned a few minutes later, and Rachel glanced through it, but there were only duplicates of the reports that had been on the divorce file.
‘My colleague Debbie Mount was one of the officers that went to the scene,’ Rajavi offered. ‘She said there was something off about it.’
‘In what way?’
‘Something about Michelle Harper’s reaction that didn’t seem right. How she kept embellishing the story. Went into minute detail about the baby’s schedule for the whole of the previous twenty-four hours, as if she’d rehearsed it. Said he’d had a sore ear, then changed it to a cough. When Debbie pointed this out, she claimed he’d had both, and got quite uppity about it. And she was the same when her daughter disappeared. If anyone said something she didn’t like, she became overly defensive. Almost aggressive. I distinctly remember, when we heard about Lola Jade, Debbie saying: ‘Oh, she’s the one with the dodgy cot death.’
‘But the pathology was inconclusive. Sadly, it usually is in Sudden Infant Death.’
Rajavi shrugged. ‘I’m not saying there was any evidence on which to proceed. But…’
‘There was a suspicion.’
‘Exactly.’
* * *
Rachel blagged a lift to Willow Way in a uniformed patrol car, asking the constable to drop her out of sight of number 57.
The precaution was redundant, however, as once again the house was empty. She rang the doorbell and peered through the living-room window, but it appeared exactly as it had been before: tidy but neglected.
The side gate was bolted, but a sharp jab with her shoulder opened it and let her into the garden. There was a plastic swing at the far end of the lawn, grimy with lack of use, and in the shed was a lilac and white child’s bike that didn’t look as though it had ever been ridden. The garden was backed by a ten-foot-tall brick wall, forming part of a purpose-built garage block for some of the smaller properties in the adjoining street, confirming Rachel’s assumption that the only way out of the property was via the front door.
Number 57 was link-attached by the garage to its identical neighbour, and from the old-fashioned potting shed, pond and kitsch garden ornaments, Rachel guessed its residents were older than the Harpers. She approached the front porch, proudly decked with pots of dahlias, and then she saw it.
A CCTV camera.
It was almost completely obscured by a thick creeper that wound up the front of the house between the garage and the front door, and you had to look hard to see it, but nevertheless there it was, pointing towards the shared driveways, and the street.
Rachel rang the bell, and an elderly woman answered it. She was plump and rounded and rather hunched. Rachel was reminded of Beatrix Potter’s Mrs Tiggywinkle. She showed her warrant card and asked if she could have a quick word.
‘I expect it’s about that little girl,’ the woman said with satisfaction. ‘Come on through, dear.’
‘And you are?’
‘Mrs Lewis. Marjorie.’
‘Do you live alone?’
‘No, dear, my husband’s still in the land of the living.’ She gave a throaty little chuckle. ‘He’s out in his shed. Norman. Shall I fetch him?’
‘Yes please.’
‘Drink and a biscuit for you, Detective?’
Rachel refused the biscuit, her stomach still gurgling from its intake of fried food, but accepted a glass of weak barley water. Norman Lewis came in and introduced himself, declining to shake hands on account of the soil on his. He was also rotund and rosy-cheeked, and wore a battered moleskin waistcoat. A perfect Mr Tiggywinkle.
‘We used to see little Lola playing out with the other kiddies in the close,’ Marjorie said without preamble. ‘Didn’t we, Norm?’
He grunted. ‘When her mother would let her.’
‘Yes, Michelle was never very keen on letting her out of her sight. Didn’t seem to like her having friends.’
‘Really?’ asked Rachel. ‘Do you know why?’
Marjorie pursed her lips. ‘You don’t like to talk badly about someone going through such an ordeal, but she could be a bit difficult, couldn’t she, Norm, Michelle Harper?’
Norm nodded, chewing a garibaldi.
‘You never quite knew where you were with her: sometimes she was nice as pie, sometimes she’d just look daggers. Wouldn’t she?’
Norm affirmed that this was the case.
‘And the other kids – I’m on friendly terms with Lyn at number forty-nine; she’s got little ones – they never went round to next door to play, did they? They were all scared of Michelle. She used to shout at them, apparently, and—’
‘I wanted to ask you about your security camera,’ Rachel interjected. ‘How long have you had it?’
Marjorie looked at her husband. ‘Six months, is it, Norm?’
‘Seven.’
‘So you had it at the beginning of May?’
‘Yes, definitely,’ said Norman, spraying crumbs. ‘Our Philip put it up when he was here for Easter lunch.’
Rachel discreetly offloaded her glass of squash behind a pot plant and leaned forward. ‘Did the police ask to see footage at the time?’
‘I don’t think so…’ Marjorie sought confirmation from Norman again. ‘A young policeman came round here to talk to us the next day when they were doing their house-to-house enquiries. There were several of them out there in the close. But they didn’t ask about the camera, no. And we didn’t think to say anything, did we?’ She looked guilty.
Rachel’s heart sank slightly. Most domestic CCTV cameras automatically wiped footage within four weeks. But Marjorie suddenly perked up, having thought of something. ‘Ooh, Norman, what was it Philip said about the backup thingy?’ She turned to Rachel. ‘Our son set it all up for us: he’s the one who’s a computer whizz, we know nothing at all about the things. But I do remember there was something about the recordings being saved to a computer file thingy.’
‘Would I be able to speak to your son?’
‘He lives in Morden, but I expect he’d be happy to talk to you. They come down for Sunday lunch sometimes, but he works ever so hard – both he and Sally work – so we don’t tend to see them in the week. Sometimes we have the grandkids to stay to give them a break. Felix and Finlay. They love it because they get a bedroom each; they have to share one at home, with their parents using one for an office. But we’ve got the two spare rooms, so—’
Rachel interrupted Marjorie’s spiel by standing up and reaching into her bag. She handed over one of her cards, which was accepted and clutched with great reverence.
‘Give your son my details, and ask him to phone me as soon as he gets a minute.’
Fifteen
‘Whoa, easy tiger!’ Howard stepped backwards and ducked out of the way as Rachel sent flying kicks at the punch ball. ‘I know your leg’s improving, but I don’t think you’re ready to cross over into kickboxing.’
Rachel dropped her leg and slumped her shoulders. ‘Sorry. I’ve had a bit of a day.’
It had started with a visit to Patten’s office, fired up and brimming with confidence. After updating her superior officer, she had told him with utter conviction that the next step for the investigation was to put Michelle Harper under covert surveillance.
‘She was adamant that if her husband was anywhere, he’d be in Spain. And yet he was in Portugal. It feels to me like a classic piece of misdirection.’
Patten had looked doubtful. ‘She could just have been mistaken.’
‘Perhaps. But she lied to us about why Gavin had one of Lola’s nighties with him. It’s as if she’s trying to shift blame in his direction.’
He had thought
this over before saying, ‘Even supposing you’re right, I’d still need something more tangible to go on, given how expensive twenty-four-hour surveillance is. Something I can give to the money men upstairs.’ He’d pointed upwards to an invisible finance department. ‘Otherwise I don’t think I can get the requisite manpower budget signed off.’
‘All right,’ agreed Rachel, who had more or less expected this. ‘How much do you need?’
‘Come on, Detective Inspector, you know how this works! I need actual evidence that points to the mother, not just a bad feeling about her. Find me something concrete, and we’ll take a closer look at her.’
Rachel’s mind had been working like a hamster in a wheel ever since, which was why she had taken herself off to the gym: to try and refocus.
‘Want to talk about it over a drink?’ Howard asked as they headed out of the building, both still in their kit with sweaty towels draped over their shoulders.
She shook her head. ‘I’d love to, but I need a shower, and then I’ve got some work I have to do.’
He stopped her in her tracks and turned her to face him. ‘Did you mean that?’
‘What?’
‘That you’d love to have a drink with me.’
Rachel was not about to tell him how ridiculously pleased she had been to see him when she had arrived at the gym that evening. That she’d been low on attractive male company recently, and that in her estimation Howard was definitely attractive. Despite swearing off men, it would be fun to sit in a pub or bar with him for a couple of hours.
‘Yes, I would. But you’re married.’
He smiled his easy smile. ‘It’s just a drink, not a joint bank account.’
She shuddered, remembering Stuart, who had sent two more unanswered texts that day. ‘Never planning on having one of those again. Not ever.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
‘Long story. I’ll tell you about it another time. Maybe.’
She reached up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek – she was tall, but he was a giant – and hurried away before she changed her mind.
Back at her flat, she took a long hot shower, poured herself a glass of wine and started to trawl through social media. Maybe Michelle Harper had left a digital crumb trail that could lead to something concrete.
She found an early Instagram account, opened in 2012, which only had a dozen or so posts on it. One of the first was of a crying toddler Lola with her earlobes newly pierced with diamanté studs, and the caption She hated it, but she’ll thank me when she’s older! The picture had attracted 123 comments, not many of them favourable.
OMG, this is not okay! one critic had posted.
She is way too young for this: child abuse! said another. There were several others in the same vein.
Eventually Michelle had responded: I’M the parent, she is MY CHILD. I get to make ALL decisions regarding her until she is 18 y/o. You haters need to remember: I MADE her, I OWN her.
‘Sit on the fence, why don’t you.’ Rachel muttered at the screen.
There were some very filtered selfies of Michelle pouting at the camera like a pantomime cow, a handful of pictures of Diva the dog, and a few more of Lola. They were posed, rather than natural action shots, and in all of them the child was staring wanly at the camera. All fairly enlightening, but it wasn’t evidence. Frustrated, she Skyped Brickall. He was bare-chested above tracksuit bottoms and eating a slice of pizza. So far, so normal.
‘What do you always tell me is the first rule of detecting?’ he asked Rachel after she had vented her frustration.
‘Go with your gut.’
‘Okay then, maybe not the first rule… What’s the second rule?’
She shrugged.
He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Follow the money. We know her old man is in all sorts of financial shit. So what’s the deal with Michelle? How’s she funding herself? Who’s paying for all those tacky hair extensions? Sex, revenge and money: the big three motives. So why not go with money and see where it takes us? Is there some sort of reward she could be scamming?’
He leaned back on his sofa with a look of self-satisfaction and wiped pizza crumbs from his naked torso. It wasn’t a bad torso either, Rachel was forced to acknowledge. Who knew sculpted abs like that could be created solely from junk food?
An all-too-familiar spark fired in her brain. ‘Hold on. You’ve just reminded me of something. See you in the morning.’
She hung up before he could respond, and pulled up the Find Lola Jade page on Facebook. There’d been little activity since she’d last checked it. People were losing interest. Then she clicked on the link to the JustGiving page. The donations now stood at £53,316.
Rachel phoned the NCA and asked to be put through to the on-call IT officer. It was a man called Lee Knightley, someone she had worked with before.
‘Hi, Lee, it’s Rachel Prince… Listen, if I send you a crowdfunding link, can you get into the account?’
‘Shouldn’t be a problem. Whack it over and I’ll give it a go.’
An hour later, Lee phoned her back.
‘Okay, I’m looking at the page now… Total raised: £53,316… Available funds: £23,316. Your withdrawals: £30,000… Raised since last withdrawal: £5,353.’
‘When was that money withdrawn?’
There was a pause while Lee looked for something. ‘The account was opened on the twelfth of May, and the thirty grand was taken out on the seventeenth. Pretty much as soon as the total hit the thirty K mark. Most of the donations were made within that first week, but funds have continued coming in at between one and three grand a month since the account was first opened. The total displayed on the landing page is the entire amount raised, not a current balance.’
Rachel’s heart was beating a little faster. ‘And the withdrawal went to Michelle Harper?’
‘Yes. To her linked bank account.’
‘Okay, Lee, I need you to get into that account and go through all her transactions since the tenth of May: try and work out where those funds went. Send anything you find to my work email, and call me back on this number.’
‘Tonight?’ Lee was doubtful. ‘It might take me a couple of hours.’
‘Yes, tonight. It doesn’t matter how late it is.’
He eventually phoned at quarter past midnight. It turned out her detective sergeant had been right, as he so often was.
* * *
She went straight to Patten’s office the next morning, only pausing long enough to print off Lee Knightley’s email.
‘Oi – what’s going on?’ grumbled Brickall as she brushed briskly past him, barely incapacitated by her right knee now.
‘Tell you later.’
If she had expected Nigel Patten to become fired up by this information, she was wrong. He frowned at the email, and then back at her.
‘So Michelle Harper legitimately withdrew funds from a crowdfunding account that was set up to benefit her. You’ll have to forgive me, but I don’t see this as significant. One of the first things any would-be detective learns, DI Prince: evidence of bad character is not evidence of a crime.’
Rachel tried to contain her exasperation. ‘She funnelled the money into her own bank account, then immediately withdrew the same amount – £30,000 – in cash. Cash. She’s got barely any income of her own, and is drowning in credit card debt. So where’s that 30,000 gone? And how does it relate to her daughter’s disappearance? I think there’s a clear question to be answered.’
Patten sighed, and rested his chin on his hands, thinking. ‘All right. I’ll speak to Ops and get some surveillance put in place. But obviously, given that your primary role is international liaison, I want you to make that your priority. You’ve re-interviewed the father since he got back?’
‘Yes, but he’s sticking to his story. There’s not going to be any more intel coming from him direct.’
‘So you need to trace his movements.’
‘I can’t do that, sir: he’s now banged up. On theft
charges.’
‘I meant back in Portugal. I want you to get yourself out to the Algarve, head up a team and keep looking out there until you find the girl.’
* * *
‘Did Patten pull one of his classic “you’re off the case” moves?’ Brickall was trying to read Rachel’s expression as they headed out of the building to the Pin and Needle for a much-needed liquid energy boost.
‘Not exactly. He wants me to go back and poke about in Albufeira.’
‘Another jolly in the sun! Cheers!’ He clinked glasses with her.
Rachel scowled. ‘I’d much rather be following up on ops this end.’
‘Tough. So – you divorced yet?’
Rachel shook her head. ‘I’m too busy avoiding my husband to divorce him.’
Brickall grinned. ‘Do I smell a last-minute change of heart? Will we be hearing the patter of tiny feet before too long?’
Before she had the chance to formulate a smart comeback, Rachel’s phone rang: an unfamiliar number.
‘Hello? Is that Detective Prince?’
‘Speaking.’
‘This is Philip Lewis.’
Rachel was momentarily blank.
‘You spoke to my parents, Marjorie and Norman. About their CCTV recordings.’
‘Oh, yes… Thanks for calling back. I know it’s a long shot, given the incident was several months ago and you probably no longer have anything from that period.’
‘Oh, I do,’ he said pleasantly but firmly. ‘I set up a program that automatically archives all footage. We’ve got every bit of it.’
Sixteen
‘I’m in computer programming, you see,’ said Philip Lewis. ‘So it was relatively simple for me to create this system.’
Looking at him, Rachel could quite easily believe it. She had expected the son of Mr and Mrs Tiggywinkle to be similarly short and rotund, but he was all bony angles, with a shaved head and Thunderbirds glasses. She had arranged to meet him in Willow Way and his parents were waiting anxiously on the patio in the garden, as if afraid to come into their own house. Their son spoke to them in a hectoring, even bullying tone, which probably explained this.
