She wasn’t much more than a child. Or maybe a teenager – she was tall, with thick red hair made darker by congealing blood. He felt a sense of relief that he didn’t recognize her.
It had been a long time since he’d been on a scene like this one, of carnage, decay, the rotting flesh a breeding ground for thousands of flies.
They’d need Forensics in here. And a painstaking search through what was left of the maize – though thanks to the harvesters, any evidence had most likely been ground up and lost for good. Quickly, he took a few photographs. Then he went back to find the woman. Her face was pale as she watched him come into view.
‘Do you know her?’
Jack shook his head. ‘Let’s go back to the others.’
‘I’ve got these two’s details,’ Underwood told Jack. ‘I’ll just make a note of yours.’ He glanced at the woman.
‘I’m Charlotte Harrison.’ She was very self-possessed, Jack couldn’t help noticing. Especially considering she’d just stumbled across a dead body.
Then Underwood said, ‘Charlotte Harrison? The same Charlotte Harrison who recognized the photo of Evie Sherman?’
The woman looked irritated. ‘That’s me.’
‘I took the call.’ He looked at her oddly.
‘Small world,’ she said blithely. ‘But I suppose there aren’t that many of you round this neck of the woods, are there? Do you think this has anything to do with Jen – Evie? I’m not sure which name you’re giving her?’
Underwood turned to Jack. ‘Evie Sherman was the woman who was attacked and found in another maize field – it happened while you were away.’
The case he’d seen mentioned in emails and that Abbie had started telling him about. As Underwood took her details, Jack looked around. ‘Who does this land belong to?’ He was addressing one of the drivers.
‘Jim Bellows. He owns about as far as you can see.’ He pointed in a westerly direction. ‘Lives at Lower Farm . . .’
Jack paused. ‘How long had you been working in this field?’
‘We started yesterday – around lunchtime.’
‘And did you see anything strange?’
They both shook their heads. ‘Don’t think we saw anyone, did we? Not until today, when she ran across the field,’ one of them said. They looked at Charlotte.
Jack turned back to the woman. ‘Did you notice anything out of the ordinary, before you found the body?’
‘No.’ Charlotte shook her head. ‘I was walking. It was only the birds that made me think something wasn’t right . . .’
Jack frowned. ‘That’s quite a conclusion to draw from a flock of birds circling.’
She stared at him. ‘After what’s been going on? Do you really think so?’
She seemed touchy. ‘It’s just as well you did, in any case.’ Jack didn’t want to antagonize anyone.
The girl thawed slightly. ‘It’s just that after Jen – Evie – was found in a maize field, and with her daughter missing, my imagination went into overdrive. Anyway, like you said, it’s just as well.’
He glanced at Underwood. ‘Have we got everything?’ Underwood nodded. ‘That’s all for now,’ he told them. ‘We need you to leave your farm machinery where it is I’m afraid. We’ll be in touch when we’re ready for you to move it.’
The men looked less than pleased. Charlotte stood there. ‘That’s it?’ she asked.
‘For now.’ He nodded. ‘Someone will contact you soon, to take a more detailed statement from you. Unless there’s anything else you can tell us?’
She shrugged. ‘Not really.’ She turned and started walking away, leaving Jack staring after her. He was thinking of the girl on the cliff edge last night. The one in the silver coat. Could it have been Charlotte Harrison? There was something in the way she carried herself, the way she’d turned and walked off just now. But he wasn’t sure.
Leaving Underwood to secure the crime scene and wait for more officers to show up, Jack started walking back across the field, unable to shake the image of the dead girl. She must have been there for some time, judging from the state of her flesh and what the birds had done to her – and the flies. It was obvious from the way the maize had been cleared that the killing had been planned. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to ensure the body was never found.
Had anyone missed her? The first thing he’d do when he got back was check their database of missing persons. That woman – Charlotte – was a strange one. Intelligent, he guessed. And incredibly self-confident. It took some chutzpah to go into the maize, alone, to check out what the birds had been circling above, but then it was unheard of for such a violent crime to happen in these parts, let alone two of them. It seemed like too much of a coincidence.
He walked faster, wanting to get back to the office and read the file Abbie had given him earlier. All kinds of bells were ringing in his head. But it was more than that, he realized. It was a long time since he’d had a case to get his teeth into, one that would challenge even his years of experience. He was fired up in a way he hadn’t been in a long time.
Sara was still behind the desk when he got back. ‘Do you know who the girl was?’
Jack shook his head. ‘Would you know if anyone’s been reported missing?’
‘I don’t think so . . .’ Sara looked blank. ‘I’ll check our records.’
But Jack wasn’t hanging around. Who knew how long it would take Sara to get round to it. It would be quicker if he did it himself. Judging from the state of the body, the girl had been missing for more than a few days. There was no doubt about that. But not all missing persons got reported. It was incredible what some people turned a blind eye to, just because it was easier.
As he sat down, he glanced at Abbie’s file. It would have to wait for now. He switched on his laptop, logged in to the station website and looked for the missing persons list.
It was a long list. Some of the names had been there for years, which he always found desperately sad. There was always a story – invariably a tragic one – behind someone who decided to abandon their life and their family, to just disappear. It was bad enough losing someone when you knew what had happened. He didn’t know how you coped with that – not knowing where a loved one was.
The majority of the list was taken up by adults or older teenagers – many of them mature enough to make their own decisions. The police had to respect that not everyone wanted to be found. But missing children were rare. They made the national press and television news programmes. A missing child was every parent’s worst nightmare – or so you’d think.
An entry caught his eye. A twelve-year-old girl with red hair. He frowned. The girl whose body they’d found looked too tall to be just twelve. He read on. Her name was Tamsyn Morgan. She’d been reported missing a week ago, not by her parents but by one of her teachers.
He read the notes. Apparently, Tamsyn had disappeared before, several times – for as long as two or three weeks at a time, usually in the summer, when she’d lived rough or camped out in a farmer’s barn, according to local sources. She was quite well known for such disappearances. The mother didn’t care enough to stop her – she just let her run wild. But since the term started, Tamsyn hadn’t been to school. That wasn’t her usual pattern, hence the teacher had reported it to the police after a couple of weeks.
He studied the photo, taking in her bright eyes and the pale skin that often went with red hair – it was the hair that was her most distinguishing feature, and as far as he could tell, it was similar in colour to that of the dead girl he’d seen earlier. She was described as tall, independent and spirited. Getting out his phone, he found the photos he’d taken in the field, comparing them with the one on file, then sat back. There wasn’t any question it was her.
He took Sara with him to break the news to Tamsyn’s parents, ignoring her idle chatter as they drove towards Wadebridge, turning off down one of the typically twisty narrow lanes with steep, stone-walled sides, then down a bumpy farm track towards a pair o
f shabby cottages.
All the time, thoughts of Josh filled his head. He knew what he was about to tell Tamsyn’s parents was the beginning of the most brutal transition anyone could go through. Life as you knew it ended in that moment you were told your child was dead.
Parking in a layby outside the cottages, they got out of the car.
‘We want number two,’ he told Sara, who was already walking towards a wooden gate hanging off its hinges.
‘This says number one,’ she called back to him.
Jack turned to the other cottage. There was a dim light in one of the windows and a curl of smoke coming from the chimney. Shutting off how this was making him feel, he started walking towards the front door.
The woman who opened it had a lined face and small, hard eyes.
‘DCI Jack Bentley, Truro police. This is Constable Sara Evans. May we come in?’
‘What’s she done this time?’ the woman said abruptly, stepping aside to let them in.
‘Is anyone else home?’ Sara asked, walking through into the small front room. It looked unused. It was cold in there; the curl of smoke Jack had seen clearly came from another room.
‘Just me. What’s going on?’
‘It’s about Tamsyn, Mrs Morgan.’ Jack paused. ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’
‘For God’s sake, that child’s always in trouble.’
‘When did you last see her?’ Jack hadn’t planned to ask the question, but this woman was anything but a caring mother.
‘Tamsyn?’ The woman laughed. ‘I don’t know. Could be a fortnight ago. Could be longer. Why?’
Even Sara looked shocked. ‘And you don’t know where she’s been in that time?’
‘Haven’t a clue, love. I gave up years ago. Tamsyn does what she wants.’
‘Isn’t she a little young to run wild like that? How old is she – twelve?’
‘You police are all the same. You don’t know what it’s like having a child like that,’ the woman sneered. ‘A law unto her bloody self, that one. More trouble than she’s worth.’
‘Well, you won’t have to worry any longer, Mrs Morgan.’ Jack couldn’t help himself. ‘We found your daughter earlier today.’ He paused. It was that moment. ‘I’m afraid she’s dead.’
‘That was a bit brutal,’ Sara said, as they drove away.
‘Yeah. I know.’ But Jack was angry. No one had to have a child these days. He hated how reluctant parents like Tamsyn’s mother could be so uncaring about their children, when there were so many couples who were desperate for a child to lavish love on. But there were too many people like Tamsyn’s mother. Life didn’t make sense. If it did, Josh would still be alive.
15
By the time Jack was back at the station, it was late afternoon. Abbie’s file lay on his desk, where she’d left it earlier. Rather than stay another hour, he decided to take it with him. He’d read it when he got home, or maybe save it for tomorrow – he’d planned to work from home rather than face another day at the station. Beamer would be grateful. Since Louise had left, the dog had become his closest companion.
Sure enough, when he opened the back door, he was greeted by Beamer’s grin and wagging tail. Jack didn’t like leaving him so long, but he had one or two friends who would call by and let him out for a while. Their help made the situation manageable – and when he could, Jack worked from home.
‘Here, boy.’ He whistled to Beamer. ‘Walk?’
The Labrador’s eyes lit up with hope, then he trotted off and came back carrying his lead, a trick Josh had taught him. Jack stood there a moment. There were still times, like now, when the fact that his son was dead seemed unreal. It felt like yesterday that he’d still been here. Part of him still expected to hear Josh’s voice echoing through the house, or his feet thundering down the stairs. Would that ever change? He missed his son more than his wife, that much he was certain of. But he and Louise had become a habit. He missed the sound of her in the house, the trivial words they exchanged. But that was what their marriage had been reduced to – familiarity and history. It wasn’t about love.
He sighed. He was still working through it all in his head. Shutting the door behind him, he set off across the garden with Beamer, heading towards the woods, where the air would smell of damp earth and fallen leaves and where, in the solitude, he knew his sadness would lift slightly. He half smiled to himself. He needed to remember that, in so many ways, he was lucky.
As usual, even after an hour of walking he hadn’t seen a soul. Occasionally he’d hear someone through the trees – voices, or maybe footsteps on dry twigs. He called his dog, waiting until Beamer came crashing through the bushes towards him, then turned and headed for home.
He had to think of the pluses of living alone. The fact that he could play classical music, which used to drive Louise insane. He could eat what he wanted to, as well. Tonight, after being in Spain, the fridge was empty. He’d completely forgotten to go shopping. Oh well. In the larder were a few tins of beans and the bottle of duty-free whisky he’d bought on the way home. As he grimaced at the thought of them together, he heard a car pull up outside.
Seconds later there was a knock at the door. Bemused, he went to answer it. He was less bemused when he saw who was there.
‘I brought you supper.’ It was Lucy, from the village shop, holding out a casserole. ‘Seeing as you’d been away and that.’ Pretty, with smiling eyes and full lips, she spoke with a thick Cornish accent.
‘Thanks.’ Jack was taken aback, more so as he realized how much make-up she was wearing and as more than a hint of perfume reached him. Oh God, he liked Lucy, but with her blonde hair and pink lipstick, she wasn’t his type. He hoped he hadn’t said anything to encourage her.
‘It’s chicken.’ She stood there expectantly.
Was she waiting for him to invite her in? ‘It’s really kind of you,’ he said at last. ‘Especially as I have to work tonight, and . . . OK, I have no food in the house, as you probably guessed!’
Giggling, Lucy winked at him. There was no subtlety about her.
‘Honestly,’ he said, more firmly. ‘I’d invite you in, but I really do have to work tonight. But thank you.’
At last she got the message. ‘Oh, go on, you. I’ll leave you to it. But don’t forget, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy . . .’
She giggled again as, inwardly, Jack cringed. Was he now to be the recipient of casseroles from the single women in the village? He sincerely hoped not.
‘I’ll drop the dish back tomorrow. Thanks, Lucy.’
As she turned and walked away, still giggling, she tripped. Had she been drinking? Sod it, he was off duty – and he wasn’t going to add Lucy to his list of problems. She didn’t have far to drive, and she was old enough to look after herself.
The casserole was good. So was the Scotch. Reinvigorated, Jack fetched Abbie’s file, and ate as he read.
On the morning of 25 September, two runners discovered a woman’s body lying on an unofficial footpath across a field of maize on Lower Farm. Jack frowned. The second body had been found on land belonging to Lower Farm, too, according to one of the drivers. He’d check. The woman had severe injuries, mainly to her head, and was unconscious. After being airlifted to the Royal Cornwall Hospital in Truro, she remained unconscious for two days. When she came round on 27 September, it was clear her memory was affected. She remembered her name, Evie, and that of her three-year-old daughter, Angel. Evie’s ex-partner, Nick Abraham, was traced but told the police he didn’t know he had a daughter. No one meeting Evie’s description has been reported missing and, with the exception of one woman, no one has recognized her. The name of the woman, who knew Evie at school, is Charlotte Harrison.
Jack stopped reading. The same Charlotte Harrison he’d met earlier, the woman who discovered Tamsyn’s body – the woman with attitude. He carried on.
Evie’s recollections are at best unreliable. The situation is further complicated; since she and Mr Abraham separ
ated, it appears she changed her name. Her birth name is Jen Russell. After leaving Mr Abraham, it’s believed she moved to Jessamine Cottage, a house that used to belong to her aunt, now deceased.
Jen Russell . . . The name rang a bell, but for the life of him, Jack couldn’t remember where he’d heard it before.
Forensic investigation has so far failed to find any proof that a child lives in Jessamine Cottage. There is no record of an Angel Sherman at local doctors’ surgeries or preschools. It’s possible that Evie/Jen was living elsewhere, but clothes and food as well as forensic evidence found there would appear to suggest it is her home.
Clipped to the next page were a couple of photos. One was of a girl in her late teens, which judging from the style of her fair hair, looked as though it had been taken several years ago. The other was more recent. A typical police mugshot of someone looking less than their best, but then, the woman was recovering from a brutal attack.
Her hair was lank and her eyes were lifeless. Something about her was familiar, though. When he compared the two photos, it was hard to believe they were of the same person, until you saw the cheekbones, the shape of her mouth. Forgetting his supper, Jack scrutinized them, then leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. Suddenly he remembered where he knew her from. It was the Danning case. Jen Russell had been the teenager who’d been looking after Leah Danning, he was sure of it.
As he read on, the last page of the summary confirmed it.
When a background check was carried out on Jen Russell, it was found that she’d been involved in the disappearance of another young girl. Three-year-old Leah Danning was in Jen’s care when she went missing from her home on 18th June 2001.
Jack remembered the case clearly. Leah’s disappearance had shocked him – Josh had been only a couple of years older. Louise had become paranoid, keeping the doors and windows locked, watching everyone with suspicious eyes, terrified to let Josh out of her sight.
The Death of Her Page 7
