by J. S. Spicer
He’d had enough.
At least he still had his van. The police would be on the lookout for it, but if he was careful he might have a chance. He would grab his stuff and drive; he could be miles away by evening. Once he’d put some distance between himself and Blackbridge he’d risk a cheap hotel room and a few hot meals. Then, when he was rested and his knife wound had healed, he’d focus on getting across the channel and out of the country.
Sitting on that cold, tiled floor in an abandoned building suddenly Aubrey wanted nothing more in the world than to get away. A new start had been a scary proposition before, but now he craved it like clean air for a gasping man.
Grabbing his clothes and what remained of the first aid kit he got unsteadily to his feet. The dizziness passed quickly but he took each step slowly and steadily.
As he mounted the stairs to the upper level offices he began plotting the route he’d take. He wasn’t going to go south; too obvious. He’d head north instead, make his way up to Hull, or maybe even Newcastle. When things settled down he could get a ferry from either of those across to Holland. Once he was underway he’d make an anonymous call to the police. Joseph Myers might have already gotten rid of the Volvo but once the police had his name in connection to the disappearance of that bank employee he was in for an unpleasant time. If they did their job properly they might even shift the whole investigation in his direction, giving Aubrey the space and time he needed to slip quietly away.
He reached the top and paused. Had he left that door open?
Aubrey stepped quietly across the landing and put his palm against the office door to slowly ease it open. A second later he was scrambling to get inside.
The room was a mess.
The flattened boxes he’d used for bedding had been scattered, strewn across the office. He could see boot marks on the trampled cardboard; someone had stamped and kicked those boxes apart. In the corner the snacks he’d bought had been tipped onto the floor and smashed into a crumbly mess.
He didn’t care about any of that.
What he cared about was his backpack containing the jewels. Where was it?
He’d left it tucked behind his makeshift bed, but now there was no sign of it. Aubrey searched, pulling aside boxes and sweeping everything out of his path in his effort to find it.
He continued searching long after he knew it was gone, even checking all the other rooms and the warehouse, pounding up and down the stairs frantically, even though he knew precisely where he’d left it.
Nevertheless he searched, again and again, hoping it would suddenly be where he’d already looked.
Finally he sat down on the bottom step and admitted the truth to himself.
It was gone.
He tried to focus, to clear his mind. The backpack had been there yesterday.
When he’d got back early that morning he’d gone straight to the kitchen where he’d fallen asleep. He hadn’t even checked upstairs. Was it already gone then?
He didn’t think so. The way the room had been trashed looked personal, yet there were no signs of intrusion anywhere else. Even his van was still there, the keys left in it, untouched.
Aubrey quickly formulated a simple theory, one that fit the facts and the timescales involved.
Joseph Myers!
Aubrey hadn’t been too careful on his trip back after the encounter at Myers’ house, he’d been too distracted by the blood oozing from his stab wound.
He must have been followed. Myers had discovered where he was hiding and whilst Aubrey was passed out in the kitchen he’d found his way in and taken the bag, trashing the room in the process as some petty revenge for his traumatised mother.
This changed things. This changed everything.
Joseph Myers’ actions had already impacted Aubrey’s life significantly. The police believed Aubrey was connected to Hugh Bishop’s death and the disappearance of Jennifer Kim, when in fact it had to be the work of Myers. Now, to really add insult to injury, the bastard had stolen the jewels; Aubrey’s last and only hope for a future.
He came to a decision. He stood and made his way to his van. But he wasn’t going to run away, not anymore.
He had a new destination in mind.
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
She’d spent the morning by the window. The strips of sunshine pushing through the cracks in the boards had lured her there. Looking out was better than looking in; but it wasn’t promising. All she could see was a cobbled yard below, skirted by a low brick wall, and beyond that fields. The view didn’t help her predicament. She couldn’t see a single house or any other buildings anywhere. Of course, she could only see what was on this side of the house; for all she knew on the other side there might be a bustling metropolis.
Except there wouldn’t be. There was only silence here, punctuated now and then by optimistic birdsong which seemed to mock her situation. She heard no traffic, no people, not even a plane flying overhead. She was isolated. Alone, except for her abductor. She still didn’t know why he’d taken her, but she now realised it wasn’t about the robbery or her boss. She’d had plenty of time to think; plenty of time to remember.
She realised she recognised him.
He was the guy who’d spoken to her outside the sandwich shop last week; the one with her glove. She’d given him some directions and he’d just stood there, staring. It had been awkward and creepy. Jennifer had got away from him as quickly as possible.
But that hadn’t been the first time she’d seen him. As she’d lain huddled in her robe waiting for daylight another memory had surfaced. Something so mundane and insignificant she was surprised she recalled it at all. It was a couple of weeks ago. This guy, this was the same guy who’d offered her his seat on the train. She would have forgotten him instantly but he kept staring at her then too, smiling stupidly if she happened to catch his eye. It was the staring that had made her uncomfortable, and that was why she recalled such a small incident.
He must have been following her. How else could he have been at the flat? He’d followed her; he knew where she lived. She’d been so stupid, so careless.
She hadn’t realised she had a stalker until he’d abducted her.
Now she had to save herself.
When she’d thought her abduction and Hugh Bishop’s murder had been connected to the robbery she’d hoped there was a way out, a way to bargain with him. But what he wanted was her; and he already had her.
She had to be logical, approach the problem using reason. She was in an empty locked room with the window boarded up. It wouldn’t be that hard to pull down the boarding but she didn’t fancy the drop to the cobbles below.
That left the door.
It was sturdy; heavy. Trying to break through would be difficult, not to mention noisy. She was sure he left the house sometimes, but she hadn’t been monitoring his movements. She’d been too busy cowering in fear.
Was he here now?
She would have to be more attentive. She needed to plan.
Even if she was sure she was alone in the house she’d have a hard time getting through that damned door. She likely wouldn’t be strong enough on a good day, let alone in her weakened state.
When he’d offered food she’d refused, rejecting the limp sandwich he’d brought. That was foolish. She needed strength, nourishment. She had to be smart; practical not emotional.
If he was willing to give her food and drink then he’d also have to let her use a bathroom. If she needed the toilet she could get out of this room. That would be her chance.
His return caught her off guard. She’d sat in the corner of the room, intending to stay alert, listening for any sounds, but instead she’d dozed off. He was already opening the door and stepping inside as she tried to shake off sleep and clear her head. With his sudden reappearance her fear blossomed anew, chasing away her earlier rationality.
As she fumbled her way to her feet she tried to stifle the terror. She wished he wouldn’t smile at her like that; goofy, enthusiast
ic, like they were great friends. That clueless optimism was the scariest thing of all.
For a few moments she stood, pressed against the wall, staring at him and trembling. Then she spotted the paper bag in his hand. Her brain slowly kicked into gear, striving to overcome her instincts. She had a plan. Well, more of an intention than a real plan. She had to escape. First step; eat.
“Did…did you bring me something?” Her voice was weak and croaky but he looked delighted and nodded eagerly, holding the bag higher for her to see.
“Soup,” he declared happily. “Tomato. It’s not quite cold yet.”
He took another step closer, holding the bag out at arm’s length. It took every ounce of Jennifer’s willpower to reach for it. She watched her own quivering hands grasp the bag. As he let go of the top she gently pulled in into her chest and held it there, hearing the crinkle of the bag and feeling the warmth of the container inside. For some reason holding onto this tepid soup offering made her want to cry and she had to blink to chase away the tears.
He watched her for a while longer. His eyes moved from her face to the bag once, twice. She didn’t move. If he expected her to eat in front of him he had another thing coming. It was taking all of her resolve just to stand upright and not drop the bag.
Eventually he turned and left. The door snapped shut then she heard the click of the key in the lock. How ironic that click came as such a relief.
The soup was lukewarm and a skin was beginning to form on the surface. It was a cheap, salty brand that had been heated and transferred into a plastic container. In her ravenous state she rapidly scooped up every drop with the metal tea spoon he’d provided as if it was the tastiest thing she’d ever had. When she’d finished she put the plastic tub back inside the paper bag and laid it near the door. She kept the teaspoon, wiped it on the sleeve of her increasingly grubby white robe, then dropped it into the pocket.
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
Travers felt a little more optimistic when he got back to the station. Before they’d only linked Davis to the burglary because he was spotted at the caravan where Carol Bishop’s body had been found. Now Max had a witness that actually placed him within spitting distance of the bank on several occasions in the weeks leading up to the crime.
He knew Carrie wasn’t happy about going over the Market Street CCTV footage again; maybe knowing Davis had been a frequent visitor to the café might help. The café owner had positively identified Davis but beyond that she’d been vague and unhelpful. She couldn’t remember exact times or dates he’d been there, nor if he’d ever met anyone, she thought not but couldn’t be certain. Travers wasn’t about to take it on her word; she was hardly the sharpest tool in the box. If Davis had an accomplice, an insider feeding him information, the café may have been the perfect place for them to meet.
To sweeten the way with Carrie he’d picked up coffee – real coffee, not the acrid swill from the canteen – and a sugared donut. As he approached her desk she looked up. Right away he recognised the look of someone who had news; good news.
“What’d you find?”
A smug smile spread across her face and she beckoned him with a crook of her finger.
He leaned in, eagerly scanning her screen as she brought up an image.
“That dual carriageway I mentioned, the one Bishop’s car had to go down, well, the cameras are much better. Better focus, better angles.”
“Which gives us what?”
“Which gives us the face of the driver.”
“You’re kidding!”
She wiggled her mouse then clicked a couple of times. An image of the dual carriageway appeared on screen. Carrie centred on Bishop’s Volvo then started to zoom in.
“I thought you lost focus when you enlarged the image?”
“Like I said, better cameras, better focus.”
Travers felt his excitement grow as Carrie manipulated the image before them until the car’s windscreen filled the computer screen and he found himself looking at the face of the driver. His excitement stalled, turned to confusion.
“Who the hell is that?”
Carrie spread her hands. “Don’t know yet, but it’s definitely not Jennifer Kim.”
Max peered more closely at the driver of the Volvo. The image was slightly grainy, but not enough to mistake that it was a man driving, a white man in his thirties or forties with a thick mop of hair.
“It’s not Aubrey Davis either,” he murmured.
Carrie peered at him in surprise. “Did you think it might be?”
He didn’t answer. Yes, he’d half expected to see Aubrey Davis behind the wheel of that car. All kinds of scenarios had flown through his brain in his efforts to join all the dots. Maybe Aubrey Davis and Jennifer had plotted together to rob the bank. Though in his gut he hadn’t suspected Jennifer, he couldn’t ignore how short a time she’d been at the bank, nor that her disappearance had occurred so soon after the burglary.
Not to mention the dead Bank Manager in her bath!
But now here was another face, yet another player to account for.
“There’s no-one in the passenger seat,” Max observed, squinting at the image, desperate to draw out the slightest details from the picture. “Can you tell if anyone’s in the back.”
“You think Jennifer might have been in the car too?” Carrie took up her mouse. Despite her skill and best efforts the image gave up nothing new. Without prompting she began re-examining the other camera shots she’d found from the car’s journey along the dual carriageway. None of them gave as clear a view of the interior as the first one though.
Travers hung over her as the photos scrolled across the screen.
“Wait. Go back one.”
Carrie returned to the previous picture. “This one? You can’t see anything.”
“I know, but there’s a view from the side of the car. See?” He pointed to the back window. “You can see daylight on the other side.”
“Meaning there’s nobody in the back.” Carrie zoomed in. “Hang on, there is something.”
“What?”
“No idea, just a block of white showing up on the image. Could be anything.”
“Could it be a person? Someone lying down across the back seat?”
Carrie glanced up at him hopelessly. “Sorry, Travers. There’s just no way to tell.”
He stared at the smear of white just visible through the back window. They didn’t know what Jennifer Kim had been wearing when she disappeared. Max visualised her flat in his mind; the crime scene. He recalled her handbag dumped on the living room floor, its contents strewn about. He saw the body of Hugh Bishop drown in the bath. The bath had been full and forensics found traces of scented bubble bath in the water. That bath hadn’t been filled for Hugh Bishop’s benefit.
“Carrie, can you pull up the crime scene photos of Jennifer Kim’s flat.”
It took her just a moment to oblige.
“Show me the bathroom shots.”
Carrie brought up each image for a few seconds then moved to the next with a prompting nod from Travers. After half a dozen or so he spotted what he was after.
“There!”
“The bathroom door?”
“The hook on the back of the bathroom door. Where’s Jennifer’s bathrobe?”
“Maybe she didn’t have one. That hook could have been there from the previous tenant.”
“Should be easy enough to find out. She only recently moved out of her parents’ home. Find out if she owned a bathrobe, and if so what colour was it.”
Suddenly Travers was convinced that Jennifer Kim was in the back of that Volvo when it was caught on camera.
But the question still remained. Why?
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
“Do you know why Carol would keep a safety deposit box in her maiden name, and using this address?”
“How should I know?” She was beginning to look bored. Max wasn’t playing along with her flirty little game and she was losing interest in the convers
ation.
He was back at Belvedere Court, once again trying to entice something useful out the neighbour, the flighty and flirtatious Nina.
“People usually use them to store items that are particularly valuable, or perhaps just very private.”
That piqued her interest again for a second. “You think Carol had some dark, dirty secrets?” Her eyes glinted mischievously. Max tried to hide his distaste for this woman who claimed to have once been a friend to Carol Bishop; so far she’d shown not a shred of remorse for her passing.
He shrugged. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
The glint faded. “Very doubtful,” she scoffed. “Carol was a dull old thing I’m afraid, a bit too stiff and proper.”
Max looked down at the notebook in his lap; the blank page staring up at him seemed to mock him.
“Ooh, maybe it was old Roberta’s jewellery collection!”
Max’s head snapped back up. “Who’s Roberta?”
“Roberta was Carol’s aunt; the old dear passed on some years ago, just before Carol got married.”
“And she left Carol some jewellery?”
“Oh, yes, quite a bit.” Nina shuffled forward an inch or two, warming to the topic. “Roberta was a dotty old bird but quite wealthy. She had a passion for jewellery and built up quite a collection.”
He nodded for her to go on.
“Roberta’s husband died years before she did. Her son took over the business; made a real hash of things. She watched their fortune whittled away with one bad decision after another. She wasn’t impressed, nor I gather was she the sort to be swayed by motherly affection.”
“So Carol got the jewels instead?”
She nodded. “Carol was very close to her aunt. I suppose Roberta didn’t want that son of hers selling off her precious jewels if things got really bad.”
“Still, I doubt he was too happy about it.”
