by M. A. Hunter
If it isn’t a perpetrator or a witness, then I’m at a loss. An amateur sleuth trying to flag these unconnected cases? A frustrated police officer finding no traction with their bosses? Usually I get a sixth sense about what’s happening. If presented with enough facts, my brain is good at deductive reasoning, and that was how I saw through Arthur Turgood’s lies when I first met and interviewed him. This was back when I only had Freddie’s word, and at the time Turgood was arrogant enough to think I wouldn’t keep digging for the truth. It was only when I found corroborative witnesses that he clammed up and refused to speak to me. It was the final nail in his coffin as far as I was concerned, but this time I have no such instinct as to who is responsible.
Once parked, we hurry along the road to Maddie’s office, finding her in reception ready to sign us in through the security gate. Maddie’s agency occupies half of floor 6 in this ten-storey building; the other floors are occupied by a variety of other small businesses – including two other literary agencies – who can’t afford to let an entire building in London without support. Usually the lobby takes my breath away, but today the overhead lights reflecting off the shiny marble walls make me feel as small as a pea. I’ve always been in control of how I investigate a situation. Be it Freddie’s story about St Francis, the Cassie Hilliard abduction, or even the Sally Curtis disappearance, it’s always been me asking the questions and hunting for clues. This is different though; I feel like a puppet being made to dance a jig at someone else’s whim.
She leads us through the barrier, up in the lift, and into her office, where she is careful to make sure the door is closed before removing the envelope from a locked drawer; it seems the importance of what is in her hands hasn’t been lost on Maddie either.
Jack snaps on plastic gloves and delicately takes it from her, placing it into the evidence bag he brought with him from the boot of his car.
‘Don’t you want to know what’s inside?’ Maddie asks, ever the curious creature.
I look at Jack, also somewhat surprised he is so prepared to accept that the envelope will contain the image of another missing child.
‘It’s safer to open it in protected surroundings,’ he says, ‘to prevent potential cross-contamination.’
Maddie bites down on her finger, pulling an awkward grimace that speaks volumes to me, even if it is somewhat lost on Jack.
‘Maddie, what did you do?’ I ask, reserving my judgement.
Her face almost folds in on itself as she shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot. ‘Okay, listen, I didn’t realise what I had at first. I’d just got in from my run and I fell into my chair as I always do, and started opening my post. I’ve been waiting for one of my other clients to forward me some work, and… I’m sorry, I opened it without even looking at who it was addressed to.’
Jack removes the envelope from the evidence bag. The slit in the top is more obvious now. The ceramic letter opener that was used for the deed shimmers on the desk.
Jack glowers but doesn’t say anything, I guess realising that taking it to the lab for forensic examination is less pressing now. Tipping the envelope upside down, he catches the image as it slides through the paper lips. I’m relieved that he’s the one who caught it as my palms are clammy in anticipation. I’m dreading the prospect that he’s about to flip over an image of Anna, along with an address. I’ve already been through the shock of the prospect of her being dead, only to be corrected; I’m not ready to about turn again just yet.
I rest my forearm on the filing cabinet beside me, leaning into it for strength, as Jack flips the image over. For the briefest of seconds I see Anna’s face staring back at me, and my legs almost give way, until I blink and realise that it isn’t her. In fact, it isn’t a picture of a child at all. Instead, what Jack appears to be holding is a black and white picture of three men sharing some kind of joke, judging by the open-mouthed grins.
Jack holds the image in one hand while examining the envelope for any other documents and, when finding none, returns the envelope to the evidence bag.
‘Can you flick on the light?’ he says to Maddie, who is closest to the switch of the desk lamp.
She obliges, and Jack holds the image beneath the glare, examining all the surfaces for signs for prints, but even I can see there aren’t any. Whoever put the photograph in the envelope was careful not to reveal their identity. Does that suggest some wrongdoing, because they’re worried about being caught? Should we be looking for a co-conspirator rather than an unwitting witness?
Jack flips to the reverse of the image, but again there is no obvious sign of fingerprints, though I’m no expert. What is noticeable is the lack of any dates or imprinted postcodes.
‘Is this all that was in the envelope?’ Jack asks Maddie, scrutinising the front image again.
‘I swear. I opened the envelope and peered inside, and as soon as I saw the picture I checked the front of the envelope and stopped what I was doing. I didn’t touch the picture. I phoned Emma straightaway and then locked it in that drawer. I’m sorry if I’ve ruined anything.’
Jack doesn’t acknowledge the apology, instead straightening and holding up the picture for me to see. Now that it is straight and the desk lamp beam isn’t reflecting from the surface, I can see the three men more clearly.
My brow furrows as I immediately recognise the figure on the far left of the image. ‘That’s Arthur Turgood,’ I say.
Jack nods. ‘Anyone else you recognise?’
I concentrate on the figure in the middle, and I’ll admit there’s something vaguely familiar about him, but I can’t place where I’ve seen those capped teeth and bushy grey moustache before. I gulp when I study the third figure.
‘Is that Peter Saltzing?’
‘Looks like him,’ Jack says, still looking at me rather than the image. He suddenly turns to Maddie. ‘Would you mind leaving us to it for a minute?’
She doesn’t argue, quickly standing and vacating her office, maybe less keen to hear the conversation, and still feeling guilty about jeopardising the evidence.
‘Turgood looks younger than when I met him,’ I say once she’s left, daring to take a step closer to the picture. And certainly not as vulnerable as he made himself look in court.’ I focus on Saltzing next. ‘He looks just like he did in the newspaper cuttings we took from the vicarage yesterday, but this isn’t news; we know he had dealings with the St Francis Home. Freddie confirmed as much last night. Why would this person send us this picture?’
Jack remains silent, allowing the connection to fire in my mind.
My eyes widen at the realisation. ‘Are they suggesting Saltzing and Turgood were involved in the abductions?’ A second connection fires. ‘Or are they saying that Turgood and Saltzing had something to do with the murders? Cormack is potentially buried in Jean-Claude Ribery’s grave, a service which Saltzing oversaw, but there’s been nothing to link him with Pendark thus far.’
‘But we know Turgood was at Pendark from what Freddie told us. Maybe all this picture is telling us is that Turgood was involved in what happened to Faye, and that Saltzing was complicit in Cormack’s burial, but I think it’s more than that. Do you recognise the man in the middle?’
I look at his moustache again, but shake my head. ‘Should I? It’s only when I look directly at Jack that I see the blood has drained from his face.
‘Unless he has a twin brother, that’s Sir Anthony Tomlinson, the former Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. The same man my DCI has been teeing off with.’
The implication hits me like a steam train. ‘Oh my God.’
Jack nods. ‘I’d bet my house on it being him, but before we jump to conclusions, it’s just a picture of three men laughing. Right? We don’t know where it was taken, who by, or whether it’s even genuine. There’s so much people can do with photograph manipulation on apps and software these days.’
I know he’s right to be cautious, but if I don’t say it, nobody will. ‘But what if it is genuine?’
‘There could be any number of reasons the former commissioner would come into contact with two prominent figures, right? I mean, we don’t know when the photograph was taken but all three look much younger, so we must be talking twenty to thirty years ago at best guess. Back then, Peter Saltzing was being celebrated for all his charitable work to support places like the St Francis Home, and there was no public outcry about Turgood and the home until you came along. It could be a perfectly innocent meeting – a fundraiser maybe, or a political event, I don’t know. We need to tread very carefully, before we start accusing Sir Anthony Tomlinson of collusion with known predators.’
When I think back to Freddie’s initial dealings with the police when he spoke about the abuse he suffered, and how no formal investigation into Turgood and the home ever materialised, this makes sense. I too know better than to muddy a person’s name without definitive proof, but something in my head has finally clicked, and even if Jack isn’t willing to say the words just yet, today’s picture screams conspiracy.
I take a deep breath, and slowly exhale. ‘Where do we go from here?’
Jack slides the picture back into the envelope and seals the evidence bag before snapping off his gloves. ‘I don’t know. We have to be careful but I’m not prepared to ignore it.’
‘Can you take it to your boss at the NCA? If he knows Tomlinson maybe he can shed some light on why he might have been pictured with the others.’
Jack shakes his head. ‘And what if Dainton is working with Tomlinson to influence the investigation? The reason I recognise Tomlinson is that Dainton has a photograph hanging on his wall from when the commissioner presented him with a bravery commendation. I’m not implying Dainton wouldn’t take our questions seriously, but I’d rather we secure something more concrete before speaking to him.’
‘We can’t do this on our own, Jack, but if he is involved, how do we know who we can trust?’
‘I know, I know,’ he concedes, the blood only now just starting to return to his face. ‘I’m not suggesting we go it alone. There is someone I think we should speak to. Someone I trust implicitly with this kind of information. Come on, if we leave now, we should be there within the hour.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Then
Newbury, Berkshire
‘So, what sorts of things are you into?’ the old man asked, as he gently rocked Joanna on his knee. There was something familiar about the way he spoke, but based on a voice she’d heard on one of her mum’s soap operas. Was it Emmerdale or Coronation Street? Certainly not local to her.
His thick white beard brushed against the top of her arm as he jostled her up and down much as her own grandfather had done with her when she was a toddler. Was this man someone’s grandfather as well? The end of the cigar glowed orange with every intake, and although he seemed to be doing his best to blow the smoke away from her, the room was filling quickly with smoke and it was making her eyes water and throat burn.
She looked across the room where Precious was smiling and laughing with the man she was with, occasionally brushing his cheek with her hand or thumb in an affectionate way she’d seen her parents do when they thought she wasn’t looking. At least he looked more normal. Less old and rugged than the man who was staring at Joanna, awaiting her answer. Precious glanced over and nodded encouragingly again, urging Joanna just to speak to him.
A bit of a chat counts for nothing, Precious had said.
‘Do you like ponies?’ he asked when she still hadn’t responded. ‘I keep horses at my stables. Such beautiful creatures, don’t you think?’
‘I-I-I like ponies,’ Joanna replied, turning in to face him, mirroring Precious’s posture and stroking his beard. It was like a wiry old brush her dad used to clean the griddle of the barbeque and she quickly withdrew her hand.
‘You’re very beautiful too,’ he said next, leaning closer so that only she could hear.
She didn’t know how to respond. ‘Thank you,’ she settled for.
‘What’s your name, lovely?’
‘J-Jo,’ she began, before stopping herself. ‘Kylie. My name’s Kylie.’
‘That’s a beautiful name. You look like a Kylie. Pretty little Kylie. Like the pop star. Do you want to know my name?’
She didn’t care what his name was but nodded as enthusiastically as she could muster.
‘I’m Bill. That’s what my friends call me. You can call me Bill too, because we’re friends now, aren’t we?’
She looked back to Precious who was talking non-stop while her beguiled client listened, eyes wide and mouth shut. The room was uncomfortably warm, the wood crackling in the fireplace as it burned bright and hot.
‘If you’d like, you could come and ride one of the horses at my stables. Would you like that, Kylie?’
Her mum had taken her and her sister to the beach to ride the donkeys there sometimes, and she’d always quite enjoyed it, but as much as she liked the idea of riding a horse, she didn’t yet trust Bill.
‘That’s what friends do,’ he continued. ‘We look after our friends and do nice things for them. Would you like to come and visit my stables? They’re not too far from here.’
A thought fired in the back of her head: if he was offering her a way out of this place, and could get her away from Grey and Mr Brown, wasn’t that a chance worth taking? She didn’t have her pot of savings, but if he could take her away she might be able to get a message to Precious, who could join them later and bring the money with her. If they could get away from Mr Brown and Grey, Joanna was certain they’d be able to start afresh on their own. Precious had certainly proved herself resourceful.
‘Can we go now?’ Joanna asked him.
‘Now? Oh no, it’s a bit late, sweetheart. No, not tonight, but if we are friends then I can definitely have a word with Mr Brown and see if you could come and stay at my farm for a bit. Would you like that? You’d be able to go riding every day, and it would just be the two of us. We could get to know each other better.’
In that moment, she saw through his lies, but nodded in compliance. He would tell her anything right now if it kept her from objecting to whatever he had on his mind. He rested a heavy, warm hand on her leg, and continued to bounce her jovially. Why were none of the other girls and boys complaining about this situation? She knew enough about the world to understand that old men didn’t date or marry children. Precious had alluded to what would happen when the clients moved to different rooms, but had been adamant that she would keep Joanna safe. She didn’t feel safe in this moment and desperately wanted to be anywhere but here.
A gong sounding from somewhere behind her made Joanna turn round. Mr Brown had returned to the room and was addressing his guests in an overly theatrical manner. ‘Gentlemen, it is time for you to make your choices and to retire to more comfortable surroundings. Everything you have asked for has been provided in your allotted room and each has been soundproofed. If you require anything further, you are only to sound the bell in the room and we will accommodate as best we can.’
Excited chatter and murmuring grew across the room as the men helped their prizes down from their laps and escorted them one by one towards Mr Brown, who complimented them on their choices.
Bill lifted Joanna down and took her hand, walking her towards the front of the room. She searched frantically for Precious but it was so hard to see past the wide girths blocking her view. She didn’t know exactly where they were going or what Bill had planned, but knew deep down it wasn’t something she wanted. Precious was still talking to her client, and couldn’t see Joanna’s pleading eyes.
‘And who have you chosen tonight, Bill?’ Mr Brown’s voice echoed above her head. ‘Oh, I see you’ve picked our latest arrival Kylie. An excellent selection as always. Have fun.’
Bill began to move her past Mr Brown, who had already started speaking to the next client. Joanna tried to pull her hand free of Bill’s grip but he was so strong that all she managed to do was slow them down. She tried digging
her heels into the carpet but she wasn’t used to walking in them properly, and went over on her ankle, yelping with pain. The noise caught the attention of all those still in the room, including Precious who rushed to her side.
‘Please don’t let him take me,’ Joanna whispered urgently to her friend. ‘I don’t want to go with him.’
Precious looked up at the hand still clutching Joanna’s wrist, only now realising what was going on. The venom filled her eyes and she leapt up, aiming her glare at Grey who was cowering just behind Mr Brown.
‘What the hell, Grey? We had a deal! Kylie is off limits for tonight.’
The outburst had Mr Brown looking from Precious to Grey who was squirming, his mouth opening and closing but no words emerging.
‘You said me and Kylie didn’t have to go with anyone tonight,’ Precious continued, making no effort to control her anger. ‘She’s only eleven, for heaven’s sake!’
‘What’s going on here, Brown?’ Bill spoke up, still holding onto Joanna’s wrist. ‘I thought you said this was okay?’
Mr Brown’s cheeks reddened. ‘It is okay, Bill. Just a misunderstanding here, I think. Come on, Kylie, on your feet, there’s a good girl. Let’s not disappoint Bill here.’
Precious folded her arms and glared at Mr Brown, finding an inner strength that Joanna could only envy. ‘Over my dead body. We had a deal; she comes here tonight as a taster only. She’s not going anywhere. And neither am I.’
Grey appeared from behind Mr Brown and stooped over to quietly address Precious. ‘Stop playing silly beggars and get her on her feet, yeah? You’re embarrassing Mr Brown in front of his friends.’
