by Damien Boyd
‘Sailes has gone missing and his friend Darryl just reported his car stolen.’ Potter snatched her handbag off the desk. ‘Want to come?’
‘Why not?’
Potter stopped at the top of the stairs. ‘Louise?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Check with Family Liaison and find out if he’s been to Tanya’s flat.’
‘It’s a breach of his bail conditions if he has,’ said Jane.
‘That’ll be the least of his worries when I catch up with him.’ Potter took her car keys out of her handbag. ‘Number thirty-two Drakes Close. D’you know it?’
‘It’s down behind the docks.’
Ten minutes later they were sitting in Potter’s car looking up at a line of blue garage doors with flats above; four garages in all, with a glazed front door at either end set in an extension just wide enough to accommodate a staircase.
‘I wonder what an estate agent would call these?’ asked Potter.
‘Coach houses, I expect,’ replied Jane.
‘You missed your vocation.’
‘Thanks.’
A patrol car was parked further along Drakes Close, and beyond that a dog van.
‘I thought we might threaten him with a sniffer dog,’ said Potter.
Jane smiled.
‘We’ll have that bin bag too,’ continued Potter, pointing at a bulging bin liner sitting on top of a grey bin behind a low wall. ‘We’ll leave this here,’ she said, switching off the engine.
‘Anyone would think they’d never seen a police car before,’ muttered Jane, gesturing towards a small crowd that had gathered on the corner.
‘Get uniform to speak to them.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘And the neighbours.’
Potter waited until Jane had briefed the uniformed officers, then knocked on the door.
‘It’s open.’
Jane raised her eyebrows.
Darryl was waiting for them at the top of the stairs. Bare feet, torn jeans, and an AC/DC T-shirt; long fingernails, tattoos on the knuckles and nicotine stains.
Haven’t you heard of shampoo?
‘Spring cleaning is it, Darryl?’ asked Potter, noticing the vacuum cleaner on the landing.
‘I always run the hoover round when I’ve got important guests coming.’ He grinned.
‘I bet you do.’ Potter smirked. ‘We’ve got a sniffer dog outside.’
‘Look, I’ve just reported my car stolen. I don’t want any trouble.’
‘May we . . . ?’
‘Yes, come up.’
The living space at the top of the stairs was open plan, with a bathroom visible through an open door on the far side. The kitchen was set against the back wall, the kettle boiling.
‘Coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Have a seat.’
‘When did you first notice your car was missing?’ asked Potter.
‘This morning. Just before I rang.’
‘Do you know who’s taken it?’
‘Not for sure, no.’
Potter waited.
‘Kevin came here yesterday after you lot released him. We smoked a bit of this and that, had a few beers and he left about nine or so. I heard a car start, but didn’t make the connection. It was only this morning I noticed my keys were gone.’
‘And he’s a friend?’
‘I’m worried about him. He can hit it pretty hard and . . .’ Darryl hesitated.
‘What?’
‘I can’t claim on the insurance without a crime number. That’s what they said when I rang them.’
Potter looked at Jane and took a deep breath.
‘What had he been smoking?’
‘A bit of weed. Nothing much. But he said he needed something a bit stronger. I don’t do that.’
‘We know, Darryl.’ Potter nodded. ‘Remind me, what’s your conviction for?’
‘Possession. It was a tiny amount. One joint. A fine, that’s all I got. A fine.’
‘Did he say anything about Alesha?’
‘Look, he was pissed before he got here, going on about how you lot were going to fit him up for it. With his past and everything.’
‘Fit him up for what?’
Darryl frowned. ‘He didn’t say, just that he didn’t stand a chance, with his record.’
‘How much did he have to drink?’
‘Three or four cans.’
‘What of?’
‘Special Brew.’
‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘No.’
‘Where was your car parked?’
‘In the road, where yours is now.’
‘And what is it?’
‘An old Renault Clio V6 Sport. Black.’
‘Has he taken it before?’
‘No. I’d never let him take it anyway. Not in the state he’s in.’
‘Well, he’s got his crime number,’ said Potter when the front door closed behind her.
‘With friends like that . . .’ Jane shook her head.
‘You can’t blame him. Kevin pinched his car and I’m guessing he has no intention of bringing it back either.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘He’s done a runner. Probably miles away already if he took the car at nine last night.’
‘With Alesha?’
‘If she’s still alive. That’s my guess, anyway. My phone’s buzzing.’ Potter began rummaging in her handbag. She looked at the screen. ‘Louise. I’d better ring her back.’
Jane waited. She was getting good at piecing together a conversation from listening to one side of it.
‘You rang?’ . . . ‘What time?’ . . . ‘For fuck’s sake.’ . . . ‘What time did he leave?’ . . . ‘Did he say where he was going?’ . . . ‘She’s lying. Tell them to stay there. I’m on my way. Then I’ll be over to see Tanya.’
Potter dropped her phone back into her handbag.
‘He turned up at Tanya’s?’ asked Jane.
‘Family Liaison went home at eight, would you believe it? Tanya’s bloody mother told them to, apparently.’ Potter pointed the key fob at her car and opened the doors. ‘He got there about nine thirty and left just after midnight. Said he was going to his mother’s, only she says she hasn’t seen him.’
‘At least it gives us a starting point for the traffic cameras.’
‘They’re already on it.’
The drive to Weston, two junctions north on the M5, took no more than twenty minutes and Jane spent most of the time watching the familiar landmarks flashing by: Brent Knoll, the lighthouse, Brean Down. She knew what Dixon would say: ‘You’re not going to find him looking where you know he isn’t.’ It was a good point, but maybe Sailes’s mother would know where he might have gone. It was worth asking, even if there was a touch of the headless chicken to the investigation. That was another of Dixon’s gems.
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Potter, as she turned off the motorway.
‘Nothing, Ma’am.’
‘Is this Moorland Road?’
‘Yes.’
‘What number is it?’
‘It’ll be that one up there, with the patrol car parked across the drive,’ replied Jane, looking along the line of almost identical grey stone houses, the only difference between them the colour of the cornicing on the bay windows.
Potter parked behind it, blocking the drive of the next door property, both cars astride the faded double yellow lines.
The front door opened just as Jane reached up for the bell.
‘You can’t leave that there.’
‘I think you’ll find I can, Mrs Birch,’ snapped Potter.
‘The neighbours’ll give me hell.’
Potter turned to the uniformed officer standing in the hall. ‘Have you spoken to the neighbours?’
‘Not yet, Ma’am.’
‘Now would be a good time.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
Mrs Birch sat down on the bottom of the stairs, flicked off her slippers
and began rubbing her bunions. Too many years in high heels, thought Jane. Black leggings and a black T-shirt that was far too tight; yesterday’s make-up. Jane glanced along the corridor at the collection of empty wine bottles on the kitchen table.
Potter frowned. ‘Birch?’
‘I married again. Twice, actually.’
‘And when was the last time you saw Kevin?’
‘I’ve been through this.’ Mrs Birch sighed loudly. ‘Last week.’
‘His sex offender registration gives this as his place of residence.’
‘Well, it isn’t.’
‘Have you spoken to him on the phone?’
‘No.’
‘Whose is that Fiesta parked out front?’
‘Mine.’
‘Does he ever use it?’
‘What? Let him use my car? The state he’s in most of the time? No bloody fear.’
‘What state is that?’
‘You know.’
Potter nodded. ‘We do.’
‘How often does he visit?’ asked Jane.
‘Once or twice a week, I suppose.’
‘Does he ever stay the night?’
‘On the sofa. There was a bed in the spare room, but I got rid of it, hoping he’d take the hint.’
‘Which one is Kevin?’ Jane was pointing at a photograph on the wall of two children astride donkeys on Weston beach, the pier visible in the background.
‘Neither. They’re my children by my second husband.’
‘Any photos of Kevin?’
‘No.’
‘How does he get here?’ asked Potter.
‘Bus.’
‘Has he ever owned a car?’
‘He used to have a Mini, one of the old ones, but it packed up.’ Mrs Birch leaned back on the stairs, her elbows propping her up.
‘Which way would he come, if he was driving?’
‘The main road. Why?’
‘He was driving a stolen car last night and left Tanya’s saying he was on his way here.’
‘He must’ve changed his mind then.’
Potter waited until the front door slammed behind her.
‘Fancy having a mother like that.’
‘Fancy,’ muttered Jane.
‘I told you you were wasting your bloody time.’ Sonia slammed the front door behind them, leaving them standing on the concrete steps outside Tanya’s flat contemplating the dash to the car.
Tanya was still unconscious, making the visit a complete waste of time, according to Potter. Add to that Sonia’s insistence that she had been asleep in Alesha’s bedroom the whole time Kevin had been at the flat, and the best that could be said about it was that it was on the way back to Express Park. Jane preferred to look on the bright side.
Karen Marsden was there and stood her ground as best she could. Of course it wasn’t ideal to leave them on their own, but she’d done an eighteen hour shift yesterday and there was no one else available in Family Liaison to take over. DCS Potter could always take it up with the Police Commissioner.
Risky, Karen, but Jane had enjoyed that last line all the same.
‘You got a brolly?’ asked Potter.
Jane shook her head.
‘Me neither.’
‘Let’s go for it.’
Potter unlocked her car as they ran along the garden path and Jane jumped in the passenger seat. ‘We must’ve learned something from that,’ she said, when Potter jumped in and closed the driver’s door behind her.
‘Like what?’
‘Tanya told Karen he turned up at nine, drank a bottle of vodka, pinched some of her methadone, had a row with her mum and left just after midnight.’
‘Without saying where he’d been or where he was going.’
‘Karen also said the neighbours heard a row, but couldn’t make out what was being said.’ Jane was putting on her seatbelt.
‘That’s my phone.’ Potter reached over and took her handbag off the back seat, dropping it into Jane’s lap. ‘Answer it, will you. It’s in the side pocket.’ Then she switched on the engine.
‘Jane Winter.’
‘Is the chief super there?’
‘She’s driving, Lou. What’s up?’
‘Another child’s gone missing.’
Chapter Nine
Potter screeched to a halt at the end of Worston Lane. ‘Where to?’ she asked, revving the engine.
‘Catcott.’
‘Where the fuck’s that?’
‘Just head out to the M5 and go south,’ replied Jane.
‘Have we got a name?’
‘Hatty Renner. Ten years old. Walks to school and never got there.’
‘Is she known to Safeguarding?’
‘No, but I’ll need to check.’
‘Another ten year old . . .’ Potter was edging out on to the roundabout, watching the traffic coming from her right.
‘Chief Inspector Bateman is Bronze Commander.’
‘Good.’
Once off the M5, Jane glanced across at the King’s Sedgemoor Drain as Potter raced down Puriton Hill heading east on the A39. More blue lights were screaming out of Bridgwater, just as they had done that night before Christmas when Dixon had got to her just in time. Not that she could remember much about it or see anything from the boot of the car. Still, she’d returned the favour since then.
‘D’you think it’s Sailes?’ she asked.
‘He’s a convicted paedophile and he’s done a runner.’
‘He’s not doing himself any favours, is he?’
‘No, he bloody well isn’t.’
The junction at Catcott was blocked by a patrol car that quickly moved when Potter waved her warrant card at it.
‘Where do we go now?’ she shouted across to a uniformed officer on foot.
‘Left at the crossroads, then next right into Old School Lane. It’s Old School House, up on the right.’
Another officer stepped out into the road and flagged them down as they raced along the lane. ‘Park over there, please, Ma’am. Chief Inspector Bateman is expecting you.’
‘Thank you.’
Jane wondered how many parents had pulled into the same lay-by to collect their children before it had been converted into a private house. And a big one at that. Grey stone again, with sandstone cornicing to the windows and doors. Jane imagined the windows plastered with art projects. The vegetable garden at the side must have been the playground.
Bateman came striding across the lane as Potter locked the car.
‘We’ve got house to house going already between here and the school.’
‘Tell them to ask about a white box van or a black Renault Clio.’
Bateman nodded.
‘Where’s the new school?’ asked Potter.
‘About half a mile that way,’ replied Bateman pointing along the lane. ‘The helicopter’s on its way and when we’ve got more boots on the ground we’ll start a search of the surrounding fields.’
‘Where are the parents?’
‘The mother’s inside. Not too good, as you might imagine.’
‘And the father?’
‘At work.’ Bateman shrugged his shoulders. ‘She hasn’t told him yet.’
‘He’ll hear it on the bloody news soon if she’s not careful.’
‘Family Liaison aren’t here yet, either. They’re a bit short staffed, apparently.’
Potter turned to Jane.
‘What about that young DC, Louise somebody?’
‘Willmott. I’ll call her.’
‘What’s the mother’s name?’ asked Potter, as Jane turned away with her phone clamped to her ear.
‘Adele.’
‘Has she got anyone with her?’
‘Her mother’s here. She lives in Stawell just over the A39 there. Got here before we did. And there’s a neighbour in there too. Ros somebody. She lives a couple of doors down, with her husband, Bob.’
‘Louise is on her way, Ma’am,’ said Jane, dropping her phone back into her handbag.
>
‘Let’s get in there then.’
Jane followed Potter through the open front door and into a large living room with a spiral staircase in the far corner leading up to a galleried landing. Beneath that a passageway led through to the kitchen.
At the other end of the room, to Jane’s left, leather furniture surrounded a wall mounted television with two tall stained glass windows either side of a wood burning stove. Sitting with their backs to Jane were two women, mother and daughter, the older with her arm clamped around the younger as she rocked backwards and forwards. An all too familiar sight.
‘Mrs Renner?’ Potter stepped forward.
‘Yes.’ She turned her head slowly, her eyes staring into space from behind the tears.
‘Detective Chief Superintendent Potter. I’m leading the investigation into the disappearance of—’
‘We’ve seen you on the telly,’ said the older woman.
‘And this is Detective Sergeant Winter,’ continued Potter. ‘Does Hatty have a mobile phone?’
‘Yes. I gave the other officer the number.’
‘Good. We’ll get a trace on it.’ Potter sat down on the edge of the sofa next to Adele. ‘You really need to tell your husband before he hears it from someone else.’
‘I know.’
‘D’you want me to ring him?’
That was brave, thought Jane.
‘No, I’ll do it.’ Adele stood up, took a deep breath and walked over to a table in the window. ‘I’ll take this in the kitchen, if you don’t . . .’ Her voice tailed off.
‘We can send a car for him if that would help,’ said Jane, watching her staring out across the garden, her eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Blue jeans and a cream cable sweater, hand knitted probably, her mousy brown hair held back in a band. No make-up to run in the tears that were drying on her cheeks.
‘Thank you.’ Adele picked up the telephone and trudged across the flagstone floor.
‘You need to tell your father too,’ said the older woman over her shoulder.
‘Later, Mum.’
‘He may be able to—’
‘Later.’
Adele stepped to one side in the doorway, allowing another older woman out of the kitchen. She was holding a mug in each hand.
‘The police are here, Ros,’ said Adele.
‘I was just making tea. Can I get you a cup?’
‘No, thank you.’ Potter turned to the older woman who was still sitting on the sofa. ‘You’ll be Hatty’s grandmother?’
