Sarah hadn’t been back this way since her mother’s funeral, three years before, and was amazed at how much development had gone on in Weymouth in that time It now looked like a proper British seaside resort, with plenty for all the family to do, if they came to visit for a weekend. Fortuneswell, by contrast, had hardly changed since Sarah had left over a decade ago. The main road was less than half a mile long and had more vacant properties than it had shops. It made Sarah feel sad for the residents of the town, and she pitied anyone who didn’t have a car to take them to the mainland. There were a couple of takeaway restaurants, a newsagent, a small convenience store and a hair-salon. There were still one or two pubs and a local working man’s club, but these all looked quite run down, and in dire need of a good lick of paint to brighten them up.
Sarah asked the taxi driver to drop her by the working man’s club, which had been the venue for her mother’s wake. It had also been the hang-out for her father for as many years as Sarah could remember. It still looked the same as it had done three years ago, the windows lined with yellow from where people had previously been allowed to smoke inside. As she opened the door, she was once again greeted by the stale, musty smell, a combination of male sweat, damp corners and beer. The building was split into two parts. As she walked through the door, she turned to the left towards where she knew the bar was. To the right was a door into a large back room, which had, in the past, been used to host quiz nights and private parties, including her mother’s wake. Sarah had no guarantees that he would be in there, but wasn’t surprised when she spotted the familiar face of him talking to someone behind the bar. The pint glass in his hand was nearly empty so, as she walked up behind him, she said, ‘Can I buy you another?’
At first he didn’t seem to recognise her and was about to tell her it was a members-only club, when he realised who she was.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, with little excitement in his voice.
‘Let me buy you another drink and I’ll tell you,’ she said, determined not to allow her disappointment, at his lack of emotion, show.
Her father turned back to the man behind the bar he had been talking to and said, ‘I’ll have another bitter, please Les, and she’ll have a cola.’
‘I’ll bring them over,’ said Les, smiling towards Sarah, realising she must be his daughter.
Alan Jenson turned back to his daughter and put his arm out, indicating an empty table they could go and sit. Once they had taken their seats and their drinks had arrived, Sarah said, ‘How are you?’
‘As well as I was yesterday when I spoke to you on the phone. Did I give you cause for alarm?’
‘Alarm? No, what makes you say that?’
‘Well, you phone me out of the blue one day, and come and see me the next. It just seems a little odd, that’s all. What do you need, money?’
Sarah could feel herself already growing frustrated with her father and challenged, ‘What makes you think I need anything?’
Her father took a sip from his drink while he considered his daughter. ‘Call it intuition,’ he said.
‘Are you still in touch with any of your former colleagues up at the Verne?’ Sarah eventually asked when she could think of no other small talk.
‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘I see Pat and James every Thursday night at darts.’
Sarah could still remember Pat O’Connell and James Dale who had been her father’s best friends for several years. They had also acted as pall bearers at her mother’s funeral.
‘Really?’ Sarah replied. ‘Have they not retired yet?’
‘You forget that they were both a couple of years younger than me. Pat is due to pack it in next summer, but James is planning to work on a couple of extra years on a part-time basis to support his pension. Why do you ask anyway? What’s your interest in the Verne?’
Her Majesty’s Prison Verne was locally referred to as ‘the Verne’, owing to its domineering presence on the island’s landscape.
Sarah wasn’t sure how much to tell him, partly for how crazy she might sound, but partly as she wasn’t sure he would be interested. She decided to tell him everything, as she really wasn’t sure how to provide an abridged version of the week’s events.
‘Do you remember Ryan Moss?’ she asked.
Alan Jenson slowly lowered the pint glass from his lips and observed his daughter and asked, ‘Why the interest in him?’
‘Do you remember him?’ she repeated.
‘Of course I do. He was on my wing. You’re not planning a reunion with him are you?’
Sarah chose to ignore the facetious comment. Alan Jenson had never liked Ryan Moss, had never trusted him and he had not approved when Sarah had begun dating him. His judgement had been truly vindicated by what had happened to Chloe Greene, but, in his defence, he had never gloated over his foresight.
‘Something happened at my school on Friday night,’ Sarah continued. ‘A little girl from my class was abducted while walking home from the school and she hasn’t been seen since. It reminded me of what Ryan did to that little girl here.’
Her father nodded slowly, remembering the scandal and how it had affected the neighbourhood, ‘A truly despicable crime,’ he surmised.
‘The police are canvassing Southampton, looking for clues and witnesses, or anybody who can throw any light on who might have taken her or what might have become of her.’
‘And you think it’s Moss who is responsible?’ her father asked taking another sip from his drink.
‘No,’ Sarah answered affirmatively. ‘I thought that if I could speak to him, to find out what he had been thinking when he abducted Chloe, I might be able to get an idea of how the person’s mind works, and figure out what might have happened to Natalie.’
‘Natalie?’ her father asked. ‘Is that the girl’s name?’
‘It is,’ Sarah nodded. ‘She is such a bright child.’
‘Why don’t you just leave it to the police to do their job? I’m sure they are more likely to figure this out than you.’
Her father raised his glass towards Les behind the bar to indicate he was ready for another drink.
‘Nobody knows Natalie as well as I do,’ Sarah protested.
‘What about your little friend? Can’t she look into it for you?’
Her father was clearly referring to Erin; he was old school and wouldn’t bring himself to acknowledge that Erin was Sarah’s life partner.
‘Erin’s dead,’ Sarah said bluntly.
‘What?’ asked her father, his face a contorted portrait of angst. ‘When?’
Sarah could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. It was the first time she had said the words: to admit that Erin was gone and would never be returning. She wanted to speak; to tell him that Erin had died this morning, but, even as she tried to open her mouth, the words would not appear. Sarah felt the emotion get the better of her and she began to sob. She so desperately wanted him to scoop her up in his arms and tell her that it would all be okay but she knew he wouldn’t. As if her prayer had been answered, Alan Jenson stood, moved around the table, wrapped his large arms around his daughter’s shoulders and held her there. It made the emotion of the moment even stronger and as surprised as she was, Sarah embraced the connection and pulled his arms in closer to her.
‘I’m so sorry, Sarah,’ she heard him say and knew he, too, was crying, from the crack in his voice.
19
Jack Vincent poked his head out of the door of his cramped office and, on seeing that the outer office was empty, he re-closed the door and headed back to his desk. It was just after six p.m. and he felt shattered. He had only managed a couple of hours sleep in the last thirty six, and all he wanted to do was close his eyes and shut out the rest of the world. The team had put in an incredible effort, so far this week, to try and find a break in the Natalie Barrett case, but they still had nothing concrete to go on. Vincent had decided to send the whole team home for a good night’s rest with an impassioned plea that they return firs
t thing in the morning and review all the facts of the case again, looking for possible suspects and motives. He should have taken his own advice really and headed home too, but ‘home’ was not really somewhere he wanted to be.
Vincent lived in a one bedroom studio flat in the Shirley area of Southampton, but the flat was bare of any homely touches. It had a bed, a tiny kitchen and a shower cubicle that only seemed to pump out hot water between five and six a.m. It lacked a woman’s touch but then, in truth, so did Vincent. He was forty-three years old, with an ever-increasing patch of baldness spreading across the top of his head. He did his best to brush the few dark, stray hairs that remained, back across the baldness but it was there for all to see. He knew his chances of meeting someone to share his life with were getting slimmer by the day, but, like most of the people he had joined the force with, he was married to his job.
A couple of years ago, he had still been kidding himself that he was capable of going out of an evening and meeting young, attractive women, but things had changed in the last couple of months. No, correction, he had changed in the last couple of months. He no longer felt satisfied meeting women in bars. Those women, who would offer him more than a second glance, were getting older and more-desperate and it just wasn’t the same.
When he had been a younger officer, he had used his uniform to get his way with younger women and had been guilty of letting charges slip to achieve what he wanted. As promotions had come and he had started to rise within the ranks he had understood that he could no longer be seen to dabble in such circles, but he had actually found that his position within the force had been something of an aphrodisiac for women of a certain age. Not anymore.
In late December, a mere five months ago, he had lost one of his officers in a botched undercover operation. D.C. Alison Jacobs, ‘Ali’ to her friends, had been one of the brightest officers Vincent had come across during his time in the force. He had disliked her when they had first met, as she had been young, overly-ambitious and incredibly hot-headed. She had seemed so keen to get out of Hampshire and make a name for herself in London and he had resented this streak in her. She had managed to wangle herself a small secondment to a special arm of the Serious Organised Crime Unit, and had been placed undercover, as a prostitute, in a Russian mafia family. The role had taken her to London and then seen her return to Southampton shortly after Christmas. Vincent was not aware of all the details of the case as things had quickly been brushed up and the case file sealed by the security services. What Vincent did know is that Ali had been arrested, on suspicion of killing the lead officer of the unit she was working for, and Vincent had been asked to take her back to Southampton, in his custody. He had planned to offer Ali a post in his new team of detectives when she had slipped his custody, and had ended up being caught in the cross fire between Russian and Irish gangsters in a hotel. She had died in his arms, with him helpless to do anything about it.
Losing Ali had affected Vincent more than he had ever realised it would. He had seen a spark in her that he admired but was too late to tell her of his respect. He had seen a similar spark in Cookie and now she too was gone. Vincent had read a tribute at Ali’s funeral at the request of the D.C.I. and, having spoken to friends and family of the fallen officer, it soon became clear how little he had known about her life. It had spurred him on to take a greater interest in his team’s personal lives, within reason, of course.
D.C. Erin Cooke was a lot different from D.C. Ali Jacobs. Cookie was ambitious, but didn’t have a desperation to make a name for herself. Instead, she was keener on achieving the respect of her colleagues. Vincent had had high hopes for Cookie. He was sure she would pass the forthcoming Sergeant’s exam and he had already put in a good word for her with the D.C.I. There was rumoured to be an acting-Sergeant’s role coming up, and Vincent had recommended Cookie as a potential candidate.
Vincent removed the nearly empty bottle of whisky from his bottom drawer and unscrewed the cap. He usually only saved the bottle for special occasions, but today he just wanted to forget: to forget the two officers that he had failed to protect. Vincent put the bottle between his lips and took a large swig as he felt tears start to roll down his cheeks. He felt ashamed that he was sitting in his office, crying, but he couldn’t stop himself. He felt like a failure. He was unmarried and child-less, which he was sure disappointed his ageing mother who had always longed for grandchildren. He had allowed Ali to get killed while on the job, and now he had allowed Cookie to die. It was all his fault, he determined. It was his decision to send Cookie off to meet Jimmy Barrett in a pub. How could he have been so careless, sending a recovering alcoholic to a pub to interview a suspect? Of course she would be tempted. What made it worse was that he was still no closer to solving the disappearance of little Natalie.
Cookie’s lover, Sarah Jenson, claimed that something untoward had happened to her, that she wouldn’t have given in to temptation but the theory was absurd. Wasn’t it? Vincent began to wonder exactly what Cookie had been doing in Dibden. He had assumed she was checking on something that Jimmy Barrett might have said, but why would she have ended up out that way? It wasn’t a long drive from Southampton, but it was by no means the kind of place you visited on your way home, not if you lived and worked in Southampton as Cookie did. It made no sense, but Sarah had been adamant that Cookie would not have yielded in her rehabilitation.
Vincent took another slug from the bottle and wiped his running nose with the back of his hand. How had he messed his life up so much? He decided to take another drink from the bottle, but it was empty. Would nothing go right with his life, he thought? Now he couldn’t even have a fucking drink! Vincent smacked the bottle down on the desktop and was pleased when he heard it smash into several pieces. Light from the overhead halogen bulbs reflected off the large shards of glass on the desk before him, making them almost sparkle in his teary eyes.
A dark thought swept through Jack Vincent’s mind and he took a deep breath in through his nose to stifle another sob. Maybe there was an end to this misery he thought as he picked up the nearest shard of glass and examined its rough edge with his thumb.
Vincent had been present during several investigations into suicides and he was wise enough to know that to successfully attempt the act, it was important to move a sharp instrument up, along the arm, rather than across the wrists. Having spoken to several survivors, he also knew that the pain didn’t last very long as the sudden loss of blood tended to numb the mind.
Vincent continued to survey the edge of the glass shard, considering his options. It would be so easy. A quick swipe here, another swipe there and the journey would start. Nobody would be due back in until seven, at the earliest, and by that time it would be too late. There would probably be a big mess, but that would be out of his control.
Vincent was still considering the ease of what he was contemplating when the telephone on the edge of his desk started to ring. It startled him and he dropped the shard of glass, quickly trying to compose himself, wiping the tears from his eyes and clearing his throat.
‘Vincent,’ he shouted into the receiver as he put the handset to his ear.
‘Oh, Sir,’ came the reply from a nervous sounding uniform in the radio room, ‘I’m glad someone is up there.’
‘What is it Constable McIntyre?’ Vincent asked, sounding his usual gruff self, annoyed by the interruption. He would recognise the Australian twang of D.C. Phil McIntyre anywhere.
‘We’ve just had a call from a member of the public. She’s found a coat, half buried in some woods near Dibden golf course,’ replied the Aussie.
‘And?’ asked Vincent, not making the connection.
‘It’s a child’s coat, Sir, a red coat.’
20
Sarah watched as her father spoke with Les, behind the bar. They seemed to be laughing or joking about something that she couldn’t quite hear, but at this moment she didn’t care. She had learned more about her father in the last hour than she had in the previous th
irty years of her life.
She had been really moved by his embrace when she tried to explain what had happened to Erin. He had hugged her tightly and she had felt so safe with him there. It had been as if the warmth of his body was acting as a force field against all the evils of the world. He had cried too, which had come as a massive shock. She couldn’t tell what had brought on his tears, as he had never shown any real consideration for Erin, so she could only assume it was his seeing her so upset that had caused it. None of that mattered now, anyway.
He had pulled a chair up close to her, so that he could still hug her from a seated position and then he had started asking her questions about what had happened to Erin, along with several other questions about her life: had she been happy, did she enjoy being a teacher, was she good at her job, that kind of thing. It was the most interest he had shown in her life and, whilst it frustrated her that he hadn’t shown more willing in the past, it delighted her that he was opening up and making an effort at last.
She had explained how she had met Erin; how it had been an affirmation of the confused feelings she had felt as a youngster but been too scared to admit. She had explained how Erin’s fine cookery skills were starting to rub off on Sarah too, and she was starting to experiment more in the kitchen. She told him where they lived and described the lay-out of their small but adequate. It had been strange, once she had started talking and telling him about her life, she couldn’t stop. He had ordered them both a couple of whiskies, ‘for the shock,’ he had explained but knew that was for her benefit only. She had sipped hers and enjoyed the feeling as the smooth liquid scorched her throat on the way down. She had cried so much in the last twenty four hours that she felt all cried out and it allowed her to talk quite openly about Erin, without breaking down in tears as she had done earlier.
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