'Good spot, Chief; so she carried on north. Where's the next camera?'
'There are traffic cameras at the intersection of Camden High Street, Hawley Crescent and Jamestown Road. Get those up.'
Ayala tapped away at the keyboard once more and the intersection camera feeds sprang to life. The detectives watched the feed for an hour, still playing the recording at quadruple speed.
'No sign of Tina,' Morton summarised after watching.
'Perhaps she went into one of the pubs or eateries along that strip of shops. Almost one o'clock sounds like lunchtime to me,' Ayala said, realising how hungry he was.
'Maybe. You keep looking through the feed, I'm going to get down there and talk to the shop owners. Someone might remember her.'
'OK, boss.'
'And Ayala? Thanks for all this help. I know it's off the clock.'
'She'd do the same for us.'
***
It was a bitterly cold night, but Tina's shivering had stopped. She had been dumped at four in the morning, but in the depths of January the sun didn't rise until a little after eight. In a brief moment of lucidity, she had curled up into a foetal position to conserve the modicum of warmth she had left.
Eventually, she became aware of people nearby. First were the joggers, music blaring from their earphones, totally oblivious to Tina's plight. Then came the dog walkers, striding briskly along the path nearby. None stopped to help her.
Tina's skin was pale, and her pupils dilated. Her squalid appearance could easily be mistaken for someone under the influence of narcotics. It seemed her dirty, dishevelled look was not gaining her any sympathy with pedestrians.
Around half past eight a mother pushing a pram, toddler in tow, glanced towards her.
'Don't look, Tommy, just keep on walking,' she said as she hurried her brood away from Tina.
Tina tried to raise an arm to get the woman's attention, but her muscles were locked, rigid and unable to move. Every fibre of her being suffered cramping from lactic acid build-up.
A small cry escaped her lips, 'Help me.'
But no one heard her.
***
Camden Market was winding down for the evening as Morton approached from the south. It was 4:56 p.m., over a full hour before closing, but many stallholders were already packing away. The pavements had gained a fresh coat of ice the previous night, and Morton was forced to walk slowly to avoid slipping.
Morton's first ports of call were the two eateries between the point Tina disappeared off CCTV and the next set of cameras at the crossing to the north. One, a fast food joint serving up deep-fried battered chicken, was not to Tina's tastes. There was no way she'd voluntarily consume that many carbohydrates in one sitting.
The second was the Scarlet Lion, a fixture on the local real-ale scene. It was slightly closer to the market, and as well as offering local beers, had a decent food menu. It was by no means a gastro pub, but as the poster outside declared, it was homemade grub at student prices, served from Monday to Sunday. It seemed a better bet than the fast food joint, so Morton made a beeline for the entrance.
As he skipped over the black ice on the pavement, Morton read the bronze plaque above the door, which proclaimed that the publican was Mr H M Barry.
Inside, the Dragon was relatively empty. A pair of elderly gentlemen propped up the bar, supping pints of cider, and eying up a pair of women sharing a bottle of rosé. Morton ignored them as he strode towards the bar. 'Mr Barry?'
The bartender looked up from wiping a pint glass with a rag that was in severe need of a wash. 'Who's asking?' He spoke in a thick Scottish brogue.
'DCI David Morton. Metropolitan Police. I'm looking into the disappearance of a young woman in the area. Were you working on Sunday?'
'Aye, me and the missus. Plus a couple of the waitresses.'
Morton produced a picture of Tina. 'Did you see this woman?'
'Nae. No lass like that. We had a load of students in, plus a few of our regulars.' Barry gestured towards the drunks, who were appraising Morton with sly glances.
'Was it busy?'
'Sundays usually are. We open at midday, serve dinner through 'til five, then close up an hour later.'
'This woman would have been in the area shortly before one,' Morton prompted.
'Like I said, she didn't come in here. Pretty lass like that, these guys would have been drooling all afternoon.'
Morton twisted to face the two elderly drunks. 'Did you see this woman?'
'Might have. What's in it for me?' the nearest replied, resulting in a low chuckle from both of them.
Morton considered threatening them with drunk and disorderly charges, but they were too world-weary to fall for that trick. 'I'll buy you a round,' he conceded.
The nearer drunk nodded, a cruel smile forming on his thin lips. 'She never came in.'
'Marvellous,' Morton said bitterly and threw a ten-pounds note onto the bar. 'Enjoy your drinks.'
Morton turned to go when the drunk grabbed his collar. 'Hey, young 'un. I said she didn't come in. Didn't say we didn't see her, 'cause we did, didn't we, Cecil?'
'That we did, Frank. Walked right past. Pretty lass.'
Morton's heart leapt. He had to be sure they weren't making it up in the hopes of more drinks. 'What was she wearing?'
'Knee-high boots. Those fur-lined things. Matched her overcoat, light brown thing. She wore it open at the front, showing off her... you know. Barely concealed under a black and white top, weren't they, Frank?'
'Oh yes, Cecil. Lovely legs too. And the prettiest eyes.'
'What time did she go by, gentlemen?' Morton asked, recognising the description of the Tina's clothing.
'Must have been before our lunch. We always eat at one. Not long before though,' Frank replied.
'And which way was she going?'
'Heading up the road. Away from the tube.'
'Thank you, gentlemen.' Morton threw another note on the bar, then made his way back to the high street.
Outside, he glanced up the street. There was very little between the pub and the crossing. Tina had to have disappeared somewhere in that short space. There were no side roads for her to have taken, not even an alleyway. She had to have disappeared somewhere between the Scarlet Lion and the intersection.
***
'Ayala!' Kiaran O'Connor's singsong voice called out as he walked into the Incident Room.
'No. Whatever it is, find someone else.' Ayala didn't bother to look up from his laptop.
'I'm not after a favour. Have you seen Vaughn? I need her to sign off on some paperwork from Saturday and she's not answering her phone.'
Ayala bolted upright. 'You haven't heard? She's missing. She disappeared sometime Sunday without telling anyone.'
'I've been in court. I take it that's why I've got missed calls from your chief. You got Missing Persons out looking?' Kiaran perched on the edge of the conference room table.
'Of course. Morton sorted all that on the dot of twenty-four hours. He's out retracing her steps now.'
'What's he found?'
'She disappeared somewhere in Camden Market. At lunchtime Sunday, she went past a pub called the Scarlet Lion on Camden High Street. She never made it to the crossing a hundred feet or so past that point and she didn't come back along Camden High Street either. She's just disappeared into thin air.'
'Camden? She was there on Saturday. She called me in over a fencing bust.'
'What was she doing investigating stolen goods on her day off?'
'No idea. It was supposed to be my day off, too. I wasn't exactly pleased to get roped in. The guy she was investigating was in Camden. Get my case history up on that laptop of yours. It was in that area. Maybe she went back for some reason,' Kiaran suggested.
'Got it. She was at the residence of Craig Linden, right on Camden High Street – between the Scarlet Lion and the intersection of Camden High Street, Hawley Crescent and Jamestown Road. I'll call David.' Ayala reached for his phone and began to dial.
'You do that; I'll get a warrant to search the flat.'
***
By the time an ambulance was finally called, Tina's body had gone into what her doctors would later call a metabolic icebox state. To the untrained eye, she was already dead. Her pulse had slowed to less than half her normal heart rate, and her breathing was so shallow that it created no mist in the cold January air. Biting winds snapped through Brockwell Park Gardens, chilling Tina to the bone.
She was unaware of the hands swaddling her in blankets, layer upon layer until she was cocooned in fabric. She didn't even notice as she was lifted into the ambulance that would speed her to Chelsea and Westminster Hospital's accident and emergency department.
'Sweetheart, stay with me. Can you tell me your name?' The paramedic tried in vain to get her to talk. She had no ID, not that it would pose a problem for the hospital. The NHS treated all patients equally, but if she didn't improve soon then a name would expedite finding a next of kin.
As the ambulance screamed towards the hospital, the only movement Tina could muster was a flickering of the eyelids, which would soon cease.
***
'Craig Linden! Open up.' Morton thumped the inside door with his fist. They had piggybacked a neighbour at the front security door, and Morton now stood in the stairwell. Ayala stepped forward, interposing himself between Morton and the door. In his hand, he held a battering ram, ready to force entry.
'Open it.' Morton nodded at Ayala, and then covered his ears to insulate himself from the noise that would emanate from the impact.
Ayala swung backwards then forwards, throwing his weight into the ram. With an almighty crack, he made contact with the door, scattering splinters and flecks of green paint over the well-worn carpet. He swung again, this time going straight through the weakened door panels. He passed the ram back to Morton, then reached through the newly created gap in the door, and unlatched the door from the inside using a manual release switch. With a click the door opened inwards. Ayala crept forwards cautiously with three uniformed officers in his wake.
One uniformed office dashed towards the kitchenette while the other two dashed towards the tiny bedroom and its en-suite bathroom. It was blindingly oblivious that no one was home, but each uniformed officer dutifully called out 'Clear!' in turn.
'No sign of Linden or his wife. They could be out,' Ayala called towards Morton as Morton ducked into the living room.
'Chief! In here,' one of the officers called from the small bathroom. Morton and Ayala darted into the bedroom, and then shimmied around the bed to the bathroom, where a cast-iron bath on clawed feet stood against the far wall.
'That looks like blood to you?' Ayala pointed at the sinkhole in the bath, which had a slight pink discolouration.
'Could be. We need to get forensics in here.' Morton stepped back to make room, then lifted his radio and thumbed the push-to-talk button.
'This is David Morton, it's all clear. Send forensics up.' Morton's request was immediately acknowledged with a double-beep. Forensics then disembarked from the unmarked van parked on the double-yellow lines outside, and made their way up to the flat.
Stuart Purcell came up the stairs first, panting heavily. He followed the sound of voices into the bedroom. Morton jerked a thumb towards the bath, and Purcell bent over the bath with a cotton swab, dabbed at the plughole, then straightened up. After a quick chemical spray, the swab turned pink.
'Positive for blood,' Purcell declared.
'Get that sample back for DNA, and put a rush on it.' Morton swept Purcell from the room with an arm, then peered around the bathroom. Apart from the tiny splotch of blood, there were no signs of a struggle.
'What do you think, boss?'
'Something went down here. I just don't know what. Tina isn't here. The question is: how did she leave? Was she alone? And more importantly, where is she now?'
CHAPTER 39: SWITCHED
Morton and Ayala worked in silence with only the barely audible click of fingers on keyboards resounding through the Incident Room. The detectives had two cases to work: the murder of Joe Bloggs Junior, and the disappearance of Tina Vaughn. The latter had stalled when re-examination of the CCTV proved Ayala hadn't missed Tina's departure, so Morton was forced to turn his considerable attention back to the murder investigation.
'I don't get it,' Ayala whispered. 'How can someone have switched a kid, and no one noticed?'
'He's in the system. Sad to say it, but no one pays attention to foster kids. They come and go. We know the real Charlie was with the Grants for years. The neighbours confirmed that. The next foster carers, Adrian and Prudence Lovejoy, allegedly remember the fake Charlie, the one we've interviewed twice,' Morton said.
'Allegedly? You don't seriously think they did it. They've got a houseful of kids. One of them would have noticed.'
'The substitution happened either immediately before Charlie stayed with them, during that time, or immediately after. They're crisis foster carers so only have kids for about a month. With a high turnover, they could easily substitute one child for another.'
'You think the Lovejoys killed Charlie, and then put another kid in his place? How? Why?'
'I don't know. I can't see the Grants killing Charlie, and then dying in a house fire. That's too much of a coincidence. It clearly didn't happen at the Lattimers', as we know the real Charlie was gone before then. That leaves the Lovejoys as the logical suspects.'
Ayala arched a dubious eyebrow. 'What does the substitution gain them?'
'Money? Our faux-Charlie doesn't speak much. We, and the school, thought that was down to autistic tendencies. What if he simply doesn't understand much English? There are plenty of families around the world who would pay to give their kids a chance at the English lifestyle. We moan day in, day out, but we've got it pretty easy compared to some,' Morton said.
'I'll run a check on the Lovejoys, and see if they've been spending beyond their means then.' From his tone, it was easy to tell that Ayala didn't expect to find anything.
'Good. I want to know who this faux-Charlie really is. There's something bigger than one child at stake here, I can feel it.'
***
'David, open the door. I know you're in there.' Sarah stood in a long hallway. The door in front of her, leading to Tina Vaughn's apartment, had the number thirteen marked by large bronze numbers. Sarah was carrying a cheap plastic carrier bag containing a Chinese takeaway.
When the door opened, David Morton appeared in the doorway wearing a t-shirt, and sporting three-day-old stubble.
'Sarah, what are you doing here?'
'I heard about Tina,' his wife replied.
Morton wondered whom she'd heard it from. Sarah was friendly with only a few of his colleagues, and only Ayala would have the nerve to speak to his wife behind his back.
'I'm sorry she's missing. I thought you might need a bite to eat. Maybe we can talk about your case theory, like old times.'
Morton sniffed at the alluring scent of chicken chow mein rising from the bag. 'I don't need any food,' he lied stubbornly. At that moment, his stomach betrayed him and a loud rumble erupted from his belly. Lunch suddenly seemed an eternity ago.
'Come in,' he relented.
Sarah followed her husband, relief flooding her face when she saw blankets smothering the settee.
'How have you been?' she asked.
'Bloody marvellous. Three-course a la carte meals, and the occasional trip to the theatre.' Morton's voice rose an octave, and he gestured theatrically at the instant noodles on a trestle table.
'Me too. I'm sorry I overreacted before. You know I can get a bit tetchy when it comes to money.'
'We'll get it sorted. Want to grab a couple of plates, and some cutlery from the kitchen?' Morton indicated the small galley kitchen at the back of the living room. 'I've just got to grab something from my car.'
Sarah grabbed the cutlery, set the plates on the sideboard and dished up the takeaway. As she waited for Morton to return, she
wandered around the small apartment examining the photographs. On the centre of the mantelpiece, a framed ten-by-eight showed Tina with Detective Ayala at a New Year's party in Mansion House. She was wearing a ball gown, in stark contrast to her usual attire, while Ayala was his usual dapper self, dressed to the nines in a plum waistcoat and tails. David and Sarah had been there too, and waltzed the night away after enjoying champagne and canapés with the City of London's aldermen.
While Sarah was lost in her reverie, David returned carrying a parcel wrapped up in brown paper and string. He sat down, and then tucked the parcel underneath a cushion.
They ate without talking. The sound of munching was merged with the twang of cutlery reverberating on china as David demolished his share of the takeaway.
'I spoke to the bank today,' Sarah said.
Morton chewed his noodles quickly, gulped, then asked, 'What did they say?'
'They've cancelled all the unauthorised credit charges.'
'Well, that's a start. We can get by on credit cards for a few weeks while we sort the actual debit payments out.'
Sarah looked down with her hands folded in her lap. 'That's the thing, David, they said they've got no intention of refunding the money; that it is our fault.'
'It'll get sorted. I promise. For God's sake, they can't just empty our bank accounts without our consent,' David declared.
'Apparently they can.' Sarah smiled wryly, then looked up and met her husband's gaze. 'I've missed you, David.'
'I've missed you too. Here. This was for Valentine's, but that's weeks away. I want you to have it as a peace offering.' David proffered the parcel wrapped in brown paper.
'David, I'm not sure. I wouldn't feel right opening it now. We're sat in another woman's apartment, and she's missing.'
'OK. Well then, the moment we find Tina, you open it. Deal?'
'Deal. Now, let's go home.'
***
Doctor Larry Chiswick whistled cheerfully as he strode down the corridor outside Autopsy Room Number Three. While it was nine o'clock on a Monday morning, he had no immediate superior, and the prospect of an entire weekend's worth of dead bodies waiting to be autopsied posed no problem. The dead were a patient bunch.
Cleaver Square Page 18
