Torment
Page 13
“Sure.”
Bullen began to peruse the shelves of video tapes along one wall. After a few seconds, he pulled one out.
“Here we are,” he said, “Saturday 27th Market Square, 20:00 to 00:00.”
He took the tape and placed it in a player at the far end. Fast forwarding it to around three quarters of the way through, he stopped it and pressed play. A grainy black and white image appeared with the time in the corner indicating 23:08. The view was a general one from the bottom end of the square looking towards the cathedral. Four young women were standing on the right hand side.
“That’s Maria there,” Sammy said pointing to a dark-haired girl dressed in a short, light coloured skirt and dark top, smoking a cigarette.
Souter recognised Sammy with her shoulder length straight blonde hair. “Is that Tracey in the boots?”
“Yea.”
“So who’s the other girl?”
“Calls herself Bridget but that was the first time I’d seen her. I think she goes off in a big Jag soon.”
Sure enough, a dark Jaguar pulled up alongside her, she leaned in towards the passenger window and after a few seconds got in the front seat. The timer read 23:13.
“Is this the only view of here?” Souter asked Bullen.
“There’s another camera at the top end but that was out of action for about ten days. Pity, because that’s a lot better resolution.”
“It must have been about five minutes after this,” Sammy said.
A drunk came staggering down the road, gesturing to the girls.
Sammy shook her head. “Forgot about him. Fucking nuisance.”
The drunk had moved away when a small hatchback approached the kerb.
“This is Jerry,” Sammy said.
On screen, she had just climbed in when a white van came into shot, stopping at the top of the road for a few seconds. As the hatchback pulled slowly away, the van moved alongside Maria and Tracey. Maria exchanged a few words with the driver through the passenger window before getting in. The van then moved off and turned right in front of the camera. The resolution wasn’t good enough to read the number plate but the line of dark colour on the bottom of the door, presumably the rust, could clearly be seen.
“Don’t suppose you could enhance any of that, Jezza? Any chance of getting the number or closer shot of the driver?”
Bullen puffed out his cheeks. “If it had been the other one, probably, but this is one of the originals. We’re due to replace it this year. I’ll see what I can do.”
The tape played on and about fifteen minutes later Sammy returned. Tracey had gone off about five minutes before in a light coloured BMW. Sammy was on her own until Tracey came back at 23:52. From Sammy’s body language she was obviously agitated about Maria not returning.
“How much longer did you wait around?” Souter asked.
“Tracey went off about half twelve and I suppose I must have given it another half hour.”
They watched until the tape ended at midnight. “Want to see the next one?” Bullen asked.
“Better check it out if you don’t mind,” Souter said.
They fast forwarded the second tape until 03:00 with no further activity of interest after Sammy had left.
Back in Bullen’s office, he presented them with two A4 stills from the camera, one of the front of the van, zoomed in as far as possible to see the windscreen, an indistinguishable driver and Maria in the passenger seat. The other showed the side detail and rust markings on the passenger door.
“Thanks, Jezza. Appreciate this,” Souter said as they made their way back along the ground floor corridor to reception.
“No problem. Only wish I could get more detail for you but if I zoomed in any more, we’d lose any advantage.” Bullen shook hands with Souter. “I hope you find her. I have a daughter not much younger than her.”
“Thank you,” Sammy said.
“You take care,” Bullen said with genuine feeling.
* * *
Strong pulled out of the station’s car park and was about to turn left onto Wood Street when a familiar figure walked across the road. Souter and a young blonde-haired girl looked up the road before spotting his car. A raised hand then Souter broke into a jog to join him.
Strong dropped the passenger window and Souter stuck his head in. “Now then, mate,” he said with a smile in his eyes, “Not like you to put a Saturday in.”
“Cheeky sod. Least I’m not bumming a free ticket to a match and calling it work.”
Souter grinned and knelt down by the car, Sammy ambled over and stood on the pavement beside him. “Any further forward with Chris Baker’s murder?” he asked.
“Halliday’s running that but we’re still trying to get to the bottom of activities at Meadow Woods Farm.”
“Still no sign of his younger brother?”
“Nothing. Nor of his mate, Steve Chapman. Only lead we have is a cousin Chapman was close to as a kid. Some bloke by the name of Barry Whitefield, living down south somewhere, we think. But he doesn’t seem to feature on police records. On top of that, I’ve still got a missing Albanian woman.”
“I know the feeling.” Souter looked round to his companion. “Sorry, Colin, this is Sammy. I told you about her missing friend.”
The young blonde girl bent down, gave a brief smile then stood back up looking disinterested.
“Just been to see Jezza,” Souter continued. “What we saw confirmed Maria getting into a white Ford Escort van with rust along the bottom of the passenger door. Unfortunately, the only pictures we have aren’t good enough to get the number plate or a particularly clear view of the driver.”
“You got stills there?”
“Yeah, Jezza printed them off.”
“Let’s have a look.”
Souter passed them through the window for Strong to study.
“I see what you mean. How long has this been now?”
“A week.”
“You need to make this official, Bob.” Strong handed the photos back.
“I know,” Souter turned and looked at Sammy.
“No time like the present.” Strong nodded towards the station entrance behind his friend. “Ask for DS Kelly Stainmore. She’ll be sympathetic, if your friend’s not too keen on us.”
“I’ll do that, Colin. See you.” Souter watched as Strong raised the window and set off down Wood Street, turning right on a green light and disappearing from view.
28
Sunday
A short dark-haired stocky man was hosing down his Vauxhall Astra on the drive of the modern semi-detached house in the quiet cul-de-sac in Sharlston. Soap suds had formed a trail into a drain in the gutter.
“Excuse me,” Souter said as he approached, “is it Mr Duggan? Mr Paul Duggan?”
The man turned and eyed him suspiciously. “Who wants to know?” He continued to rinse the car.
“My name’s Souter, Robert Souter.”
“And what do you want, Mr Souter?”
Souter hesitated. Now he was face to face with Mary’s brother, things could go one of two ways. “Do you have a younger sister who went missing in 1989?”
Duggan put the hose down and walked over to the tap and turned it off. He sauntered slowly back to face him. “Who are you?”
Souter pulled out a card and handed it to the man. “Robert Souter,” he repeated. “I think I might have some new information.”
Duggan studied the card. “Yorkshire Post? You’re a journalist? What sort of new information can you have that the police haven’t already told me?”
Two young children were cycling past on the pavement and a neighbour across the road had stopped cutting his postage stamp of a lawn.
“This is a little unusual, Mr Duggan.” Souter looked all round. “Is there somewhere private we could talk?”
Duggan paused, glanced over Souter’s shoulder and waved to his neighbour. Quietly, he said, “If you’re here to rake up some crap over Mary, I’ll lay you out.”
“Come in, the wife’s taken our young un riding.”
Leading the way round the side of the house and into a small kitchen, he indicated for Souter to take a seat at the breakfast bar. “So, what is it that you’ve got to tell me?” he asked.
Souter took a deep breath. “This might seem odd to you,” he said, “but I’ve spoken to someone who thinks they may be able to help solve Mary’s disappearance.”
Duggan sat opposite with no intention of offering any refreshment. “Who might be able to help? And how?”
“Can I ask you a couple of questions first?” Souter held both hands up. “I promise you this is no cheap way of trying to dig up a story. That’s not my style.”
The man studied him for a few seconds. “Go on,” he finally said.
“As I understand it, you were the oldest of the family.”
Duggan nodded.
“And Mary was, what, seven years younger than you?”
“That’s right.”
“Can I ask, before Mary’s disappearance, did you ever have an accident? One that involved hospital treatment?”
The man looked puzzled, thought for a moment, then said, “Well, yes, I broke my arm when I was about thirteen, just before Christmas.”
“And how did you do that?”
“I fell out of a tree.”
Souter smiled. “And it had a cast, yes?”
“Of course, it was a broken bone.”
“And what did Mary and your friends do?”
“What do you mean, ‘do’?”
Souter sighed. “I’m trying not to lead you here, Mr Duggan. You need to tell me what, if anything your friends, and Mary, did with your cast.”
“Are you talking about drawing cartoons and signing their names on it?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I meant,” he said with a grim smile.
Duggan seemed confused. “What’s that got to do with Mary’s disappearance?”
“That incident – or fact, whatever you want to call it, as far as I can ascertain was never in the public domain. There were no reports in any of the media. Would that be correct?”
Duggan reached for a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. “Not as far as I know,” he said, holding out the opened packet to Souter. “It’s so insignificant, I can’t possibly see its importance.”
He took a cigarette and allowed Duggan to light it for him before replying. “The fact that it wasn’t made public and it is so unimportant to you, is its great significance now, because it gives credence to what this witness has to say.”
Duggan placed a glass ashtray on the breakfast bar. “Which new witness is this?”
“At the moment, I can’t tell you that.”
Duggan looked angry.
“But what I’d like you to do,” Souter added quickly, “is contact the police – specifically try to see Detective Chief Inspector Strong at Wood Street.”
“And say what exactly? That I’ve had some journalist come and pester me about a new witness?”
Souter exhaled and flicked ash into the tray. “I understand your … annoyance, Mr Duggan, but if you saw DCI Strong and told him what you’ve just told me about your arm all those years ago, it would probably persuade him to take what my witness has said seriously.”
“And you think this would help find Mary?”
Souter held his gaze. “I do, Paul. I honestly do.”
Duggan stood up and turned away, holding his head in his hands. “Christ, there’s never a day goes by when I don’t think of our Mary.” He turned back again. “She was only eight years old.”
“I know.”
“Answer me this, Mr Souter. Honestly. Do you think she’s alive?”
Souter stood. “No,” he said, “I think she’s gone a long time ago.”
Duggan’s eyes filled with tears and he leaned against the bar before sagging back down into the chair.
Souter placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Paul, but you asked me to give you an honest answer.” He stubbed out his cigarette and made to leave, pausing at the back door. “You will contact DCI Strong?”
Duggan nodded and Souter departed feeling like shit for knocking the stuffing out of the man.
29
With a towel wrapped around her head, Veronica came into the living room and was about to plug in the hairdryer when the phone rang. She looked at it for several seconds, nervous of who might be on the other end. She’d had visits from the police and then she’d had that thug call round on Friday night. If he’d gotten their address, then he could easily obtain the telephone number. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what she’d bargained for when she’d moved in to share Steve Chapman’s bed. She knew he was no saint, but she never thought he’d bring her trouble like this. Bad enough the police; she’d never been visited by them before. But there was something threatening, subtle, but still real, about that character looking for Steve.
She snatched the handset. “Yes,” she said, as sternly as she could.
“Veronica, it’s me. Is everything okay?”
“Steve! What the Hell’s going on? You disappear in the middle of the night, don’t tell me anything. Where are you?” Instinctively, she looked out the window to see if anyone was watching the house.
“It’s best I don’t tell you. But I’m safe.”
“You’re safe. Well that’s all bloody right then. What about me? I’m here answering questions from the police about where you’ve got to.”
“I thought they’d be round. What did you tell them?”
“What could I tell them? You’d pissed off and I’d no idea where. Anyway, never mind the police, I had some other man here on Friday, just after the coppers left, asking where you were.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, he didn’t say. But he frightened me, Steve.” She sat down on the sofa. “Said something about an arrangement and needing to talk to you. What arrangement? Because whatever it is, I don’t want you to bring me into it. I’m twenty-four years old and this is the first time the police have ever found their way to me. I’m not having it, you hear me?”
“This other man … what did he look like?”
She hesitated for a second, aware he’d just ignored her rant, focussing on her mysterious visitor. “Tall, about six foot, filled out his jacket well enough. Round face and a slight accent.”
“What kind of accent?”
“I don’t bloody know, do I? … Foreign.” She could hear her boyfriend take a deep breath. “Steve,” she continued in a level tone, “what have you got yourself involved in?”
“It’s just spiralled. I was only helping Gaz. It’s all to do with his brother, Chris.”
She could feel the colour drain from her face. “You mean …” She hadn’t made the connection before. Not paying too much attention to Steve’s annoying, slightly simple friend, she never picked up on his surname. “That man who was murdered in Garforth last week?” The question went unanswered. “Oh Christ, Steve.”
“Look, don’t worry. It’ll all blow over. We’ll just keep a low profile for a while.”
“Don’t worry? It’s not you here frightened to answer the door. Crapping myself when I hear creaks and groans in the night.”
“I’m sorry Veronica. I didn’t know this would … Can’t you go and stay with your sister for a while? Just while …”
“Why? Why should I?” She stood up. “Just because someone I was stupid enough to … No. You’re quite right, Steve. I’m leaving. Don’t bother looking for me. I won’t be coming back.”
“No, listen Veronica, I didn’t …”
She put the phone down. A few seconds later, she picked it up again and dialled 1471. Number withheld. She began to sob uncontrollably, letting her feelings gush out. Finally released from her pent up worries about Steve, her relief turned to anger. He’d put her through hell. Not knowing what had happened to him, where he was; that worry had carried her t
hrough the visits from the police and the stranger; it had made her stronger. Now the little shit had called. He was safe somewhere, saving his own skin and she would be left to pick up the pieces. Well she wasn’t having that. She came to a decision. Wiping her eyes on the towel, hair forgotten, she strode into the bedroom. From under the bed, she retrieved a black holdall then threw open the wardrobe doors. She looked at her collection of clothes and began to carefully fold them up and place them in the holdall. She wasn’t going to be beholden to her sister though. She’d sort something out. She’d speak to her friend at work tomorrow. She packed most of her clothes and left the last few bits for when she knew exactly what she would be doing. Finally she zipped up the bag and threw it on the floor by the front door, ready for a quick exit.
30
Monday
Eleven o’clock on a bright sunny morning and Strong caught his first tenuous sight of Felixstowe. Crossing the Orwell Bridge on the A14 at Ipswich, he looked to his right and spotted the dock cranes on the horizon, like some pre-historic arachnid.
It had been late Sunday afternoon before the owner of the Lexus had called Stainmore back. He’d been away in the vehicle for the weekend and certainly had no intention of exporting it. He also told her he’d contacted Olympia Insurance for a quote six weeks ago but had not taken it up.
“Flynn was okay with this then?” Stainmore had asked on the journey south.
“No real objections, Kelly. Even suggested Sarah Wagstaff to sign the warrant.”
“Is that the old girl from Sandal, wears her grey hair in a severe bun and looks like she’s sucking on a lemon?”
Strong chuckled. “No, Sally’s a lot younger, wild blonde hair, looks like Bonnie Tyler on a bad night. Not like your typical magistrate at all.”
After a short while, Stainmore had taken up the conversation again. “I had your friend call in to see me on Saturday,” she said.
“Which friend would that be?”
“That Yorkshire Post journalist, Souter. The one involved in the Calder Street shooting back in February.”