Vincent looked down at Neil Barrett, who was still seated on the sofa, looking uncomfortable. It was as if he knew that Erin had planned a ‘divide and conquer’ strategy that had worked perfectly; Neil was uncomfortable, as he had been left in the room with the ‘bad cop’ in the partnership.
‘Can you tell me where you were on Friday afternoon, Mr Barrett,’ Vincent began.
‘I told the other woman, I was on a call out.’
‘And where was this ‘call out’?’ Vincent continued.
‘Near junction-1 of the M27 near Cadnam.’
‘Near Cadnam? That’s a bit out of the way of Sholing, isn’t it? Do you do many call outs that far away?’
‘Not really, no. Not always. It depends. If someone calls us from a distance, and we’re not too busy, then we might take the call.’
‘So was it quiet on Friday afternoon?’ Vincent asked, trying to sound innocent.
‘I guess it must have been,’ replied Neil.
‘What was the name of the person on this ‘call out’?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘You don’t remember? Okay, how about this one: was it a man or a woman?’ Vincent asked.
‘A man.’
‘And what car did he drive?’ asked Vincent, eager to fire the questions quickly at Neil Barrett, in an effort to catch him in a lie.
‘A BMW. A black one.’
‘A black BMW? What series?’ Vincent fired.
‘What series?’
‘Yes. What series? A three series? A five? A seven?’
‘A five, I think,’ said Neil, blinking rapidly, trying to process the rapid questions.
‘You think? Well don’t you know? You were there, weren’t you? You must remember what type of car was in need of repair? How about this one: What was wrong with the car?’ Vincent was almost shouting now.
‘It wouldn’t start.’
‘Why not? How did you fix it?’
‘The wire between the ignition switch and the battery was damaged. I made a temporary repair with some insulating tape and told him to take it to a garage for a proper repair,’ replied Neil Barrett, squirming in the chair. He did not like the way Vincent was speaking to him.
‘And how long did all this take?’
‘About an hour, I think.’
‘An hour?’ Vincent asked. ‘What time did the call come in?’
‘I don’t know. About two thirty maybe. A lot has happened since Friday, I can’t recall everything. Check the log at the office. That will confirm all the details.’
‘I already have, Mr Barrett,’ Vincent replied, smiling. ‘I just want to check the accuracy of the record, by testing your recollection of events.’
‘Why are you interrogating me?’ shouted Neil, standing up and going nose-to-nose with Vincent. ‘I had nothing to do with my daughter’s disappearance. You should be out there trying to find the son of a bitch who has taken her, not in here pestering us.’
At that moment, Erin and Melanie Barrett re-entered the room, Erin carrying a tray with two mugs on top of it.
‘Neil!’ admonished Melanie. ‘What are you doing? Sit down!’
Neil looked over at his wife, and sensing that she was right, returned to his seat like an injured dog licking his wounds.
‘Sir, I just had a call. We are needed back at the station. Pronto,’ said Erin, nudging her head, to indicate they should leave.
Vincent looked confused at first, as he hadn’t finished questioning Neil Barrett, but when Erin cocked her head again, he understood that it was time to leave.
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Barrett,’ Vincent said, as he strode across the room. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
Erin led the way back to the car, and once they were seated inside, she said, ‘Melanie told me what the arguments have been about. To cut a long story short, they’ve been arguing about Neil’s brother, Jimmy.’
‘What about Jimmy?’
‘Melanie says he always comes home drunk, shouts things in his sleep, and is generally making their life quite difficult. She told me she argues with Neil about when Jimmy is going to move out, so they can get on with their own lives. Apparently, they had been talking about having another baby, before Jimmy rocked up on the scene, but that’s gone out the window now. The argument on Valentine’s Day was because Jimmy had originally agreed to babysit Natalie, so Neil and Melanie could go out for dinner, but then Jimmy arrived home late and drunk as a skunk, so they had to cancel their plans. Melanie said she instigated the argument as she felt it was the last straw. The loud banging that the nosy neighbour heard, was Melanie throwing several plates at the wall, out of frustration.’
‘Do you believe her?’ Vincent asked, calmly.
‘I do, Guv, yes,’ replied Erin. ‘I don’t think the Barretts had anything to do with Natalie’s disappearance, Melanie certainly not. She opened up to me in the kitchen, and she was far too upset to have done anything to her daughter.’
‘Okay,’ replied Vincent, ‘but I still don’t trust Neil Barrett. There is something he’s not telling us; I can sense it. We need to find out what the brother was up to at the time as well.’
‘What do you want to do next then?’
‘We’ll ease up the pressure on the Barretts for now, but I’ll assign someone to do some further digging into Neil Barrett, quietly. If he is hiding something, I want to know what it is. Same goes for Jimmy.’
‘Okay.’
‘I also want someone to talk to the nosy neighbour. What number did they say she lived at, fourteen? We’ll get someone to question her, and check up on the other side of the story,’ Vincent replied.
‘I’ll do it, if you want, Guv?’ offered Erin.
‘Okay, Erin. That’s not a bad idea. What was the call from the station, you received?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Erin, remembering why they had left. ‘Apparently, the D.C.I. has arranged an urgent press conference with local media agencies. He wants the Barretts to make a heart-felt appeal for information. Oh, and he wants you to chair the conference.’
‘Bloody brilliant!’ muttered Vincent, under his breath.
6
‘Are you ready to go?’
It was a strange question to be asked at this point in proceedings. Vincent stared down at the white cards he had scribbled his notes on, checking that the numbers scrawled in the top corners were in sequential order.
‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ he replied, glancing up to the composed eyes of D.C. Erin Cooke, who had posed the question.
Both were standing outside the communications suite at the Police Central Headquarters in Southampton. Despite the obvious chill from the draft of the corridor in which they were stood, Vincent felt overly warm. He ran the tips of his fingers in the small space between his shirt collar and his neck, desperately trying to widen the gap. Why did it feel so tight? He decided to undo the top button of his shirt and readjusted his tie, with note cards still between his fingers. He could feel a small wall of sweat forming at the edge of his hair line and opted to use his handkerchief to wipe it away.
‘Are you sure you’re okay, Sir?’ asked Erin, aware that her boss was not a big fan of public speaking, especially in front of the country’s media.
‘How many times, Cookie, I’m fine. It’s just another press conference.’
‘Cookie’ was the nickname that Erin had acquired during her eighteen month spell in D.I. Vincent’s team. She knew that most of the men in the team fancied her, but she had been quick to point out that her interest clearly lay elsewhere. At first there had been some awkward moments, with the team getting to grips with having a lesbian within the ranks. It wasn’t homophobia, they didn’t have an issue with the fact that Erin liked other women: their issue was knowing what to say, so as not to offend her. The modern day police force had been so bombarded with political-correctness that most officers didn’t dare breathe in the wrong direction, for fear of offending some minority group: blacks, gays, single parents, religious
types. The modern day police force truly was a diverse population of individuals.
Those first few weeks had been wrought with tension, as even Vincent had been careful with his words and the requests he had made of Erin. It didn’t seem to matter how many times she had said it, they just seemed unable to relate to her as a fellow officer. About six weeks into her new role she had been called in, on her day off, to take part in an armed raid of a house in nearby Chilworth. Chilworth was an affluent part of Southampton, where your annual income needed to be above six figures just to view a property in the area. The raid had been intended to locate and arrest a Southampton-based man, accused of laundering money at the bank where he worked and who had allegedly murdered the owners of the property being raided. The team had successfully caught the assailant in bed, and he had been tried and convicted within four months of his arrest. Erin had made sure she was one of the first officers through the door and had held the suspect down while cuffs had been fastened around his wrists.
The team had headed out into Southampton city centre that evening and had hit several bars and clubs, celebrating the success of the operation. Erin had tagged along, and had more than held her own when it came to drinking games, and once everyone’s inhibitions had been lowered, she had happily shared some insights from her life. By the end of the evening, she was no longer a woman whom the team needed to be careful around: she was ‘Cookie’, one of the guys who didn’t mind when her colleagues fawned over passing women. Over the last year she had proved herself to be more than adept at detective work and had earned her colleagues’ respect.
Vincent looked back at Cookie and smiled. He really was proud of the officer she was becoming. She was bright, sharp and very articulate. He had big plans for her and had already spoken to his D.C.I. about her applying to sit the Sergeants’ exam in the coming months. He did envy her a little, though: at least she didn’t have to go out and talk in front of the gathered masses of journalists currently setting up cameras and recording equipment, just the other side of the door he was next to. Vincent pulled his jacket sleeve up and looked at his wrist watch. It was nearly six.
‘Is it time to go in?’ asked Erin, noticing him looking at his watch.
‘Yes it is,’ croaked Vincent, before clearing his throat and repeating the line.
Erin twisted the door handle and pulled the door open, allowing Vincent to enter first. There was a loud hum in the room as journalists continued to talk to each other in loud whispers. Erin couldn’t distinguish what was being said only that everyone seemed to be talking at the same time. Cameras began to flash, as some of the group noticed Vincent approaching the long table at the front of the room, behind which were four chairs and a large plasma monitor attached to the wall. Vincent ran his right hand over his dark moustache, checking to ensure that he had cleared the sweat, and then he pulled out the chair closest to him and sat down. The remaining three chairs to his right-hand side would be filled when the Barretts were escorted through.
A silence befell the room as each of the conversations ended simultaneously and the journalists prepared to ask the hundred and one questions they already had, without hearing what Vincent was about to say. They already knew what this press conference was about, although Vincent had no idea how they could have found out, as there had been no contact between the police and the media prior to this point, but then they always seemed to know. Vincent wished some of his team had the contacts on the street that some of the local press did; they were always one step ahead.
The Communications Suite was a long room, able to comfortably seat about thirty journalists with room for video-cameras and camera stands. It had been built for this very purpose: a press conference where the police would be able to appeal to the public for help with a specific case. Vincent had chaired several such meetings in the past, but even he had never seen this many journalists crammed in, there was at least twice the usual number. He didn’t like speaking in front of a dozen strangers, let alone the thirty or so that had turned up today. It seemed the D.C.I. had called in some favours, as there were representatives from SKY, the BBC, Meridian and Channel 5, as well as representatives from local radio stations, the Daily Echo and other London-based newspaper agencies.
Vincent rechecked the sequence of his note cards again and cleared his throat, ready to speak.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the gathered press, my name is Detective Inspector Jack Vin-sent. Thank you for attending this evening’s press conference.’
Vincent paused, as he took a sip of water from the glass on the table in front of him. Thankfully, there was also a jug full of additional water on the table, which he had a feeling he was going to need: his throat felt so dry.
‘Every year in the U.K. approximately one hundred and fifty thousand children go missing from their homes. That is one child every three and a half minutes on average. The reason I am sitting before you here this evening, is that a child from Southampton has gone missing and we believe she may have been abducted.’
Vincent paused for effect, to allow the masses to take in the news. He half-expected extreme in-takes of breath or gasps but instead all he heard was the snapping and popping of camera lenses and flashes. He sighed; what had the world come to that the news of an abducted child could be met with silence and a total lack of surprise? Vincent nodded his head, the signal that the image of Natalie Barrett’s face should now be beamed to the large monitor above his head, on the wall behind his chair.
‘Natalie Barrett was last seen walking from St. Monica’s Primary School in the district of Sholing, between three p.m. and half past on Friday. She is seven years-old, has bright blonde, shoulder-length hair and was wearing a bright red coat. It is likely that the hood of the coat was pulled up over her head as it was raining on Friday afternoon. We have begun door to door enquiries of all the houses between the school and Natalie’s house, which is a mile from where she was last seen.’
Vincent paused for a further sip of water before continuing, ‘Natalie was a very bright and popular child and had no history of running away from home, which is why we are treating this case as abduction and not as any other missing child case. We will be sharing images of Natalie with you and my officers will shortly pass you a wallet of information and contact points that we would like you to use, in helping us uncover additional information to aid this case.’
‘D.I. Vincent, Marshall Lancaster from the BBC,’ said a ginger-haired man in the front row. ‘Are you presuming the child has been taken by a stranger?’
‘We are making no presumptions at this time, Mr Lancaster. We want to gather as many leads as possible and will consider each and every piece of evidence, as it surfaces.’
‘D.I. Vincent, D.I. Vincent,’ chorused several other journalists.
‘Please, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Vincent raising a hand to restore calm, ‘there will be time for questions at the end. Now, Natalie’s family are here and wish to read a statement.’
Vincent turned and looked over his left shoulder to where Erin was stood. He nodded at her, to indicate she could now bring the family through. Erin disappeared out through the door they had both entered minutes before, and returned through an alternate door to Vincent’s right, with Neil and Melanie Barrett and Neil’s brother, Jimmy. Erin ushered for them to sit in the three chairs next to Vincent, and this was greeted with a further flurry of popping camera flashes, as the hungry journalists got their first look at the parents.
Melanie, a bleached-blonde woman in her late thirties was the picture of despair, her eyes full of tears, ready to drop at the merest nudge. She was wearing a long, black woollen dress with short sleeves, giving the impression she was on her way to a funeral, rather than a press conference. Neil, also in his late thirties was wearing dark blue jeans and a blue and cream lumberjack shirt. His curly hair had been brushed but maintained the unkempt look it always did. Melanie was sat in the chair closest to Vincent with Neil next to her and making up the threesome was Natalie�
�s Uncle Jimmy.
‘Begin when you’re ready,’ whispered Vincent to Melanie, with a hint of empathy.
Melanie didn’t respond, but did move her hands to the table so that she could pick up the piece of white A4 paper, which had been left on the table prior to the arrival of the press. The paper was a prepared, typed statement that had been hastily put together by Vincent’s team, with the help of an on-call duty solicitor.
‘This is a plea to the person or persons, who have taken our daughter,’ Melanie began. ‘Please return our daughter, unharmed. Natalie is a beautiful, funny and friendly little girl. She deserves to be at home with her family...’ She was unable to finish the sentence before the flood-gates opened and the tears flowed down her cheeks. She pushed the sheet of paper to her husband and leaned into his arm for support. Neil Barrett wiped a tear from his own eye and put a loving arm around his wife’s shoulders and picked up the piece of paper with his free hand.
‘The police believe that Natalie was taken on Friday, between the school finishing and three thirty. We are also appealing to anybody who may have seen our little girl in her red coat, walking or being approached by anyone. Even if you only saw her, at least that might help the police better pin-point the moment she was taken.’
Neil leant over and kissed the head of his wife, who was still sobbing uncontrollably.
‘Unless you have sat where we are now,’ he continued, ‘you cannot begin to imagine the anguish we are currently going through, not knowing what has happened to our little angel. We are begging people to look closely at the image of our daughter, and to try and remember if you saw her on Friday afternoon. If you do remember anything, no matter how small, please contact the police immediately and pass on the information.’
Neil placed the piece of white paper back on the table in front of them and placed his second arm around his wife so that he was now fully embracing her. Vincent took a sip of water from his glass, before topping it up from the jug. He then signalled to Erin again, this time it was the nod that she could begin distributing the prepared packs to the journalists in the room.
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