Snatched

by Stephen Edger

  Sarah had hardly spoken to her father since her mother had passed away, three years earlier. To say their relationship was strained, would be an understatement. They sent each other the obligatory Christmas and birthday card, but neither bothered to phone the other to say thanks for the gesture.

  Alan Jenson lived in the town of Fortuneswell, on the island of Portland, which is on the edge of Weymouth, along the Southern coast of England. This was where Sarah had grown up and had been keen to leave, as soon as she turned eighteen. It was a nice enough town; with a long pebbled beach that stretched for miles. It was a pleasant bus ride into Weymouth itself; when the desire to shop struck, but that was as much as Fortuneswell had to offer. Sarah understood why her father liked the peaceful way of life there, but to an eighteen year old girl, discovering her sexuality, it was like a pit of quick sand that needed to be escaped from.

  Her father had been a prison guard at HMP Verne, which was on top of a large hill, over-looking the town like a medieval King; surveying his people. The prison was actually buried within the hill top, providing even greater security to local residents. It was opened in 1949, on the site of a military barracks, and only one known escapee had been recorded in historical documents, but that inmate was subsequently recaptured two days later. The prison housed Category-C inmates, who were deemed a danger to the public, but unlikely to attempt to escape from their incarceration. Alan Jenson had always had a sense of pride in working at the prison, and Sarah had often overheard him telling her mother that most of the inmates preferred being locked away, so that they could not bestow any harm on the public. Sarah couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be locked away and governed under strict rules for a substantial period of time. It was probably his experiences with inmates that had led her father to be so strict with her upbringing. She could still remember the look of disapproval her father had given her on her seventeenth birthday, when the local Police Constable had escorted her home from a nearby park where she had been caught drinking alcohol underage. The Police Constable had given her an informal slap on the wrist, but her father had refused to speak to her for more than a week, such was his shame at having his daughter caught breaking the law.

  She had always got on better with her mother, even though her mother was a vicar’s daughter. But her mother had always been there for her, ready to lend a shoulder to cry on when things had seemed difficult at school, or a welcome ear, when all Sarah needed was to be listened to. The cancer had been diagnosed too late for surgery and had aggressively attacked her mother’s body, until it actually seemed the kindest thing when she passed away: at least the pain was gone. Her father had taken a leave of absence from work, in the two weeks before the passing, in order to make her as comfortable as possible, but there had been very little he had been able to do for her. Sarah managed to secure a week’s compassionate leave to return home for the funeral, to cook and clean for him and he had seemed grateful.

  Sarah had been nervous about telling her mother she was gay, but actually the conversation had ultimately been very easy, with her mother giving that understanding smile that she always seemed to be able to produce, when it was most needed. Telling her father had been something she had avoided, until the day of her mother’s funeral, when she had just decided to bite the bullet and explain that the friend she had brought along for support was, in fact, her girlfriend. Erin had warned her that it was probably not the greatest time that she could tell him, but Sarah had been adamant that she was no longer going to keep it a secret. In hindsight, telling her father that she was gay, on the day he buried the woman he had loved for more than thirty years, was probably not a great move.

  She had waited until the service and wake had ended, and the three of them were back in the old family home, before sharing her news. He had looked shocked but had remained silent. She hated his inability to display his emotions, and how he maintained his stern expression, regardless of the situation. He had eventually commented that it was her life and she was big enough to make her own decisions. It was such an impassive response that she had been angered with him. She had not expected him to jump for joy, but at least if he had shouted at her or thrown her out of the house, she would have known how he felt and would have been able to move on with her life. But the lack of facial expression or words gave her no indication of his opinion, and to this day it drove her mad.

  Sarah had been an only child, and on some days, she did feel guilty that she did not stay in better contact with him. In truth, she had no idea what he currently did with his life, who he saw or what health he was in. She was aware that he had retired the year before, but only because a friend from the old neighbourhood had mentioned it to her in passing. He, too, had been an only child so there was no family around to check on him. She often wondered whether she would just receive a phone call one day saying he had been found dead in his home, and that the body had not been discovered for several days.

  Still, she had to make the phone call to him and let him know what was going on in her life; it was the least he deserved, for bringing her into the world. She fished her mobile out of her handbag and scrolled through her contacts till she found his number, and hit the call button. It rang several times before a gruff, male voice said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Dad, it’s Sarah,’ she began, hoping he might have changed and might have sounded pleased to hear from her.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ was his response, as if he were talking to a cold-caller.

  ‘I thought I’d phone and see how you are,’ Sarah continued. She had already determined that she would try and sound as upbeat as possible, so he would know that she was in a happy place in her life and might care to share in her pleasure.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he replied, leaving an awkward silence hanging in the air.

  ‘Good,’ she said when no further statement was forthcoming. ‘Have you been up to much?’

  ‘This and that.’

  Sarah wanted to shout at him down the phone, to tell him to take a fucking interest in her life and ask how she was, but she knew there was no point.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, deciding to surrender her chirpy attitude, ‘well I thought I would just let you know that I might be getting married in the next year.’

  ‘Oh right,’ he responded, followed by a dour, ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, sarcastically, before adding, ‘I am planning to propose to Erin tonight.’

  ‘Okay,’ he replied with no emotion. No questions about how she planned to pop the question, what type of venue they would be looking at, or even when they were planning the ceremony; none of the normal questions a father might ask his daughter on receiving such news.

  ‘Right,’ said Sarah dismissively, ‘well, I just thought I would let you know.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Sarah couldn’t be bothered to try anymore and disconnected the call. His stubbornness riled her. Her original plan had been to ask him to attend the ceremony and do the honourable thing and give her away, but his cold reaction to the news had changed her mind. He had been little more than a bit-part in her life story since the funeral, and, as far as she was concerned, he didn’t need to be any more than that in her future. So long as Erin was there on the day, nothing else mattered. She was the one she wanted to settle down with. If her father wasn’t prepared to accept the olive branch she was offering, then he didn’t deserve a part in her future.

  Sarah had originally planned to propose the night before, after dinner, and had planned to hide the engagement ring in the zabaglione. She wanted the mood to be just right. She had set up a playlist of Erin’s favourite songs that she would play in the background and would then get down on one knee and ask her the question. Butterflies danced in her stomach as she thought about the moment when Erin would say yes, and they would disappear off to the bedroom to consummate their love. This feeling totally banished the negative thoughts she had been experiencing about her father and caused her to smile as she left the
house and began her journey to work.

  10

  Ten minutes later, in the Police Headquarters building, Detective Inspector Jack Vincent was pacing at the front of the Major Incident room. He had pulled the whole team in for this morning’s briefing, to establish what progress had been made in the investigation into the disappearance of Natalie Barrett. As usual, his sleeves were rolled up, revealing his dark, hairy arms. His tie was pulled down an inch, allowing him to unfasten the top button on his shirt. Vincent was the sort of man who found pacing a great thought-provoker.

  ‘What have we got, people?’ he began, talking to nobody in particular.

  His question was met with silence. The group knew that nobody had yet discovered the vital clue that might lead to the recovery of the missing girl, but they also knew that Vincent would not be happy with this news. Senior members of the team glanced at each other nervously, hoping that someone would take the lead and feel the full force of Vincent’s anger.

  ‘Come on, people,’ Vincent repeated. ‘Somebody give me something; anything. Marsden, what happened with that witness who lives near the school?’

  Marsden’s face dropped, as he realised he was in the firing line, and had nothing to defend himself with. He removed a small notebook from his trouser pocket and flipped through the pages. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular; it was just a delaying tactic while he tried to work out how to phrase his response in the most positive light.

  ‘You mean, Mrs Jones, Guv?’ Marsden replied.

  ‘Does she live near the school?’ Vincent questioned. In truth, he had no idea what the witness’ name was, as it was irrelevant.

  ‘She lives across the road from the school, Guv.’

  ‘And what did she see?’ Vincent demanded, frustrated that he was being forced to manually extract the information from the tubby Marsden.

  ‘She claimed to see a red car outside the school around half past three, but could only confirm the colour. Her eyesight is pretty poor and given her age, she was unable to provide make, model or description of the vehicle. All she said was that it was different.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘In her early eighties, Guv,’ Marsden replied, pleased that Vincent had yet to shout.

  ‘Did you speak to her neighbours, to see if any of them recall seeing a red car parked outside the school?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Marsden, gulping.

  ‘What? Why not?’ shouted Vincent.

  Marsden dropped his eyes as he tried to justify this latest oversight in what had been a far-from-distinguished career to date.

  ‘Well, the Jones woman wasn’t even able to confirm if the girl got in the car. All she witnessed was a red car parked outside the school. It could have been anyone and may not be related to the case.’

  The rest of the group seemed to take a collective step backwards, as they waited for Vincent to explode.

  ‘It may not be related to the case?’ Vincent bellowed. ‘A witness saw a red car parked outside the school, at the time the girl was abducted and you think it may not be relevant? Are you fucking stupid? The first thing you should have done was to try and verify the account with the other residents in the street.’ Vincent stopped pacing and turned so that he was able to address the whole room. ‘Come on people. You are the best Hampshire has to offer; surely you don’t need me to do your jobs for you? We need to think smarter: faster.’

  Vincent began pacing again, taking deep breaths to calm himself down. He knew he shouldn’t have sworn at Marsden, but the pressure of the case was starting to get to him. No, it was the lack of progress that was getting to him.

  ‘What else have we got?’

  ‘I spoke with that footballer,’ offered a quiet voice, from near the back of the room. It caused Vincent to stop pacing again so that he could try and pick out who had spoken. The voice belonged to a young lad, who was being borrowed from uniform to support the investigation.

  ‘Davies isn’t it?’ Vincent asked to check he was speaking to the right person.

  ‘Davies, sir, yes. John.’

  ‘What did the footballer have to say?’ Vincent asked.

  ‘Mr Boller says he left the school a little after three. He said he vaguely remembers seeing a girl in a red coat, standing by the school gates alone. He said he was surprised that she was outside of the school, as he would have expected her to be waiting for her parents inside the school gates.’

  ‘Can he be any more specific about the time he left?’ asked Vincent.

  ‘He said he finished talking to Mr Stanley, the head of Year-5 as the school bell rang. Then he took a phone call from his agent, which lasted about ten or so minutes, after that he started the engine and drove home,’ replied Davies eagerly.

  ‘So that means she was still at the gates at about quarter past three?’

  ‘Yes, Guv.’

  ‘Good,’ mused Vincent. ‘That narrows our window a bit more. Marsden, did Mrs Jones recall seeing the little girl standing near the school after the red car had moved?’

  Marsden was still licking his wounds following the last attack, and was surprised to hear his name mentioned so soon after. He didn’t quite hear Vincent’s question and had to replay it in his head, before he eventually spoke up.

  ‘No, Guv. She was adamant that there was nobody by the gates once the car had moved.’

  ‘How can she be so certain of the time?’ asked Erin, suddenly intrigued by the red car angle of the investigation.

  ‘She was watching Countdown on the telly and whenever it went to an ad break, she glanced out of her window to see what was going on,’ replied Marsden. ‘She said the car was there at the second break but gone by the third.’

  Vincent’s eyes narrowed as he did the maths in his head. He then turned to face the three dry-wipe boards behind him, where the team had been updating facts of the case. Vincent grabbed at a marker pen and wrote ‘3:15 to 3:45’. Satisfied with his work, he turned back to the group. ‘Here it is, people. This is our window. Natalie Barrett was abducted between three fifteen and three forty-five. I want you to go out and re-canvas the area. I want you to knock on every door, talk to every shopkeeper. You are to ask them to recall that timeframe. Any sightings of the little girl or the red car.’

  Vincent looked pleased with himself. ‘What else have we got?’ he asked. ‘Have we established the whereabouts of all the perverts on our patch yet?’

  A few snickers echoed around the quiet office.

  ‘There’s one person of interest, Guv,’ said Davies, when the rest of the team had confirmed alibis for those they had spoken with.

  ‘Go on,’ Vincent urged.

  ‘Miles Heath, Guv,’ offered Davies. ‘No answer at his house on the three occasions I drove by yesterday. I spoke to his neighbour and she said she hasn’t seen him since Friday morning.’

  ‘Tell me there’s more than that?’

  ‘Yes, Guv. He was seen loading a suitcase and some boxes of food into a camper van, before heading off. The thing is Guv, he hasn’t checked in with his handler to say he is going on holiday. He lives in Thornhill, less than a mile from the school.’

  ‘Any idea of his whereabouts at the moment or when he is due back?’

  ‘The neighbour said she wasn’t sure, but it didn’t look like he’d packed much stuff, so she assumed he would be back in about a week. I spoke to the dairy company that delivers his milk, and he’s cancelled it until Thursday, so he should be back on Friday, I guess.’

  ‘Good work again, Davies. I want you to do some digging about. Find out the registration of the camper van, see if you can track it through the city’s cameras and find out where he was heading. On Friday, I want you at his place early, so you can bring him in as soon as he surfaces.’

  ‘Yes, Guv,’ replied Davies, nodding his agreement.

  ‘What about the parents, Guv?’ shouted another voice from the group. ‘Are we certain it’s not them?’

  ‘Who said that?’ asked Vincent glan
cing around the group.

  ‘Capshaw, sir,’ replied the voice.

  Oliver Capshaw was another officer on loan from uniform and was standing next to Davies. Having seen Davies receive praise for his efforts, Capshaw wanted in on the action.

  ‘Melanie Barrett’s alibi has been verified by her client,’ replied Vincent. ‘We have checked local traffic cameras and the route described by Melanie Barrett was chocker-block on Friday afternoon so we’re satisfied she’s telling the truth.’

  ‘And what about Neil Barrett? Have we checked the garage’s records yet?’ asked Capshaw again.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Erin, speaking up. ‘D.I. Vincent and I located the client who confirmed Neil Barrett arrived at his car at half past three and was with him until after five, when he received a call from Melanie, explaining that Natalie was missing. We’re pretty sure it’s not the parents.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all Capshaw could reply, disappointed that he hadn’t progressed the investigation any further. Unlike Davies, Capshaw had a strong desire to leave uniform and work for Vincent on a more permanent basis. He had taken the National Investigator’s exam four times already without success and was secretly hoping that Vincent would take him under his wing and act as mentor.

  ‘Any other ideas?’ Vincent asked his team of fifteen officers, with varying degrees of experience. The question was again met with silence. The truth was, none of them had any real idea who had taken Natalie Barrett. Vincent attempted to make eye contact with each of them, desperate for someone to shout out the solution to the problem but nobody was forthcoming. Vincent was about to wrap up the meeting and send them out to continue their enquiries when Erin stepped forward.

  ‘Yes, Cookie?’ Vincent asked, causing fourteen pairs of eyes to turn and stare at her.

  ‘What about Jimmy Barrett?’ she asked.

  ‘What about Jimmy Barrett?’ replied Vincent, surprised by the question.

  ‘Have we got an alibi for him yet?’