by Ed James
No messages from anyone.
He felt his shoulders deflate along with any lingering hope that Thompson would’ve solved the case while they drove down.
Aside from a brief chat at a roundabout, Palmer had spent the journey doodling in her notebook, while he played the case through all the filters in his brain. And when he’d listened to the radio, it was either terrible music or speculation about the case. His case. Their case, maybe.
Palmer stepped out of her side and took in their surroundings. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘One way of looking at it.’ Corcoran crushed his can and looked around for a recycling bin. Nothing, so he dropped it in the door pocket. ‘You got any fresh insights?’
Palmer’s grin slipped away. ‘No matter how hard I push, I just keep drawing blanks. I need more data.’
‘Meaning more kidnappings?’
‘Maybe not.’ She gritted her teeth. ‘But I keep replaying the traumas Sarah and Howard endured. Can you imagine what it must’ve been like?’
Corcoran looked away from the beach, following the gradual slope up to some sheer cliffs. ‘I can’t begin to imagine.’
‘It’s all I can do, Aidan.’ Palmer splayed her notebook on the roof, her forehead tightening as she stared at it.
Was he being too hard on her? She seemed tough, with experience and expertise as tightly knitted as her plaited hair, but that could just be a front.
Corcoran could spot a masochist at a hundred paces. She seemed the sort to push herself too hard, to punish herself just as badly as he would. And she needed the result as badly as he did, or just an insight, a lead, anything, something to give them hope.
Behind her, the car park was busy with cars and vans, a few covered with adverts for local dog-walking companies – Exmouth Doggie Heaven, Derek’s Dogs, WalkYrDogs – covering the full range from hip frippery to professional to aggressive canine keep-fit. Up on the cliffs, a young woman took charge of eight dogs, including a few Jack Russells and a pair of hulking ridgebacks. A few hundred metres behind her, a man pulled his own pack.
‘They must have a good view out to sea up there.’ Palmer was following his gaze. ‘Meaning that if they . . . Hmm.’ She walked over to a van, Derek’s Dogs, advertising ‘four walks a day, dawn to dusk’, and frowned. ‘Meaning someone could’ve been here when Howard was taken. Meaning this isn’t a perfect abduction site.’
Corcoran joined her by the van. ‘Sarah was taken from a back street, sure, but it was still a street. People in houses who could oversee what happened to her. Same with where Howard was released. My point is it doesn’t need to be perfect, just needs to be the best spot to take them in their daily or weekly routine.’
A Mondeo swerved into the car park and shot over to them, missing Corcoran by inches. The door opened with a blast of death metal roar and thrash. A short woman got out, scabby suit, dyed-silver hair tied back in a severe ponytail. ‘You’re early.’
Corcoran held out his hand, but she didn’t shake it. ‘DC Pritzakis?’
‘Right.’ She leaned back against her car, arms folded across her chest. ‘You can call me Kathy if I can call you Aidan.’
Corcoran smiled. ‘I didn’t say you could call me that. This is . . .’ He looked over at Palmer, but she was wandering between the dog-walking vans, scribbling away. ‘Fine, you can call me Aidan.’
‘Just so you know, I’ve briefed Howard’s father. My partner’s taking him up to the hospital. I’ve never been to Rugby.’
‘You’re not missing much.’ Corcoran motioned around the beach. ‘It’s beautiful here.’
‘Is it?’ Kathy walked over to the wall and hopped up in one bound. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Everything. Start with his disappearance.’
‘Well, I got a call almost two weeks ago.’ She walked along the wall, hands in pockets like she didn’t mind the prospect of smacking teeth-first onto the tarmac below. ‘Howard Ritchie. He lives in Axminster, where I’m based now. It’s about an hour away from here, kind of inland, but kind of along the coast too. It’s practically Dorset.’ She spat out the word. Clearly their own ‘them and us’ thing going on down here. ‘Anyway, Howard’s a chef at a hotel in Ax. Nice enough place, if you like posh food.’
Corcoran kept up with her slow progress along the wall, like he was walking with a small child. Up ahead, a dad was doing the same with his kid. No sign of Palmer now, but her thoughts resonated in his head. ‘This doesn’t look like a great place to abduct someone. Way too busy.’
‘Howard came here first thing. We think, anyway.’ Kathy skipped down off the wall and sped up, pushing Corcoran to keep up with her. ‘All I’ve pieced together is he left his flat really early and drove here to be in the water for the first surf at dawn.’ She gave him a sly look. ‘Shared flat, and yes, we’ve interviewed his housemate.’
‘This doesn’t exactly strike me as a great spot for surfing.’
‘You an expert?’ Kathy held his gaze, an impish grin on her face, and pointed out to sea, to the couple with the greyhound, now walking back to the dry sand. ‘According to Howard’s housemate, this is a hidden gem and Howard drove here every morning to surf.’
Corcoran felt a jab in his neck. Another repeating pattern. ‘Every morning?’
‘Pretty much. I checked the charts and so on. I mean, tides being what they are, this place is weird. Most of the week, you can get good surf until nine o’clock. Some strange rip-tide further out causes it. I don’t know.’
‘Every single day?’
‘Well, not quite. Sometimes Howard had to cover breakfast at the hotel, and he’d get out after his shift ended. There are another couple of places nearer Ax.’ She pointed away towards Axminster and shrugged again. ‘So, that’s you up to speed, I guess.’
‘He definitely arrived here?’ Palmer was standing next to Corcoran.
Kathy scowled at her. ‘Eh, who the hell are you?’
‘Dr Marie Palmer.’ She tucked her notebook under her arm and shook Kathy’s hand. ‘I’m working with DS Corcoran.’
‘Right. Well, he definitely arrived.’ Kathy pointed at a black Tesla shining in the dusk glow. ‘His van was in that very space. Local cops called it in and we hotfooted it over here. No sign of him. His wetsuit and board were inside and bone dry.’ She looked out to sea again. ‘I mean, we combed the area, the better half of Devon and Cornwall police, plus some idiots from Dorset. Walked right out at low tide, along the coast in both directions. Inland for a mile-by-six search grid. Coastguards were out too. And we found nothing. So we stopped. I’m sure you get missing persons up in Thames Valley?’
Corcoran examined the parking space, like the Tesla hid some missed clue. ‘The colleges bring students and enough stress to break some of them. And the rest of our area isn’t as affluent as you’d think. That brings different pressures.’
‘So you’ll know that we just have to give up on them, then.’
‘Right.’ Just like in Cambridge. Corcoran caught Palmer making notes, like she was keeping a record of the chat. He focused on Kathy again. ‘So what was your take on it?’
‘My take?’ She laughed. ‘I’m not paid enough to have a take. My bosses, though, they thought it was either a suicide or he died out there.’ She looked out to sea, eyes misting over.
Palmer looked up from her notes. ‘But?’
Kathy’s gaze snapped back to focus on her. ‘People think Devon’s this lovely place, all cream teas and seaside walks and real ale. A few years back, Exmouth High School was the biggest in Europe. Place was huge. Thousands of kids, and that brings problems. Drugs, violence, rape, you name it. They’ve sorted it out a bit now, but it takes a long time for the tail to fade away, if you catch my drift.’
‘Assuming I do, your theory is some locals killed him?’
‘Why, I don’t know.’ Another shrug. ‘That, or he killed himself.’
‘I can see that.’ Corcoran’s turn to shrug. ‘But he came here every day?’
/>
‘Maybe plucking up the courage?’
Palmer twisted her face into a scowl. ‘Anything specific to make you think this was a random attack from some locals?’
Kathy shifted her gaze between them. ‘Is this where you tell me it was something else?’
‘A local gang wouldn’t cage someone and—’
‘Cage?’ Kathy’s cool mask slipped. ‘What the hell?’
‘It was more of a cell, but . . .’
Kathy looked over at Corcoran, eyes full of fury. ‘You should’ve told me!’
‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘You think this is funny?’ Kathy got in Corcoran’s face, jabbing her finger against his chest. ‘Giving me enough rope to hang myself? Having a laugh at my expense, yeah?’
‘It’s nothing like that.’ Corcoran fought to keep his expression neutral. ‘I wanted your opinion untainted.’ He glanced at Palmer, then back into Kathy’s ire. ‘We think this case might be connected to another. I just wanted to know what you thought, uncoloured by that.’ He flashed her a grin. ‘Believe me, I’d rather this was a simple disappearance and completely unrelated to my case, then I could be rid of her.’
But Palmer wasn’t listening. She sat on the wall, tracing a finger across her notebook. She looked up, locking her gaze onto Kathy. ‘Does Charlie the Seahorse mean anything to you?’
Kathy frowned, then took a deep breath. ‘There’s something you should see.’
Nineteen
[17:03]
Corcoran followed Kathy’s Mondeo along what passed for a high street in Axminster, a gently curving road lined with soft white streetlights giving the place a magical, Christmassy feel. A chemist and a few other chains, but more local businesses than he’d expected. The big church on the right, maybe the minster of the town’s name, was surrounded by sprawling trees already budding in March. ‘Four hours from home but the seasons are a month or so earlier down here.’
Palmer was still staring at her notebook.
Kathy stopped and her arm popped out of her open window, gesturing at a hotel, presumably where Howard worked as a chef. A board on the pavement showed a menu, surrounded by neat chalk writing. Free-range eggs, locally sourced organic meat, extensive vegan options.
Kathy pulled out into traffic, then quickly parked outside a large stone building, three storeys and at least twenty windows wide, none of them looking like anything was going on behind them.
Palmer was tapping her pen off her notebook. ‘Well, that seems to suggest that your animal cruelty angle doesn’t apply to Howard.’
‘Explain?’
‘Even with meat on the menu, if someone attacked Sarah because she worked for a biotech firm that operated on animals, they’d surely pick a farmer or an abattoir, not a chef.’
‘I suppose.’ Corcoran found a space and got out. The numbness had faded into a dull ache. He followed Palmer across the road, limping slightly, and joined Kathy on the pavement. ‘So what’s this place?’
‘Police station, closed down a couple of years ago.’ Kathy walked up to the door and unlocked it. ‘We reopened it last week.’ She led inside, down a long corridor that stank of mushrooms and stale pizza, but she walked past the stairwell and out the back. Murky darkness, the sodium-yellow lights failing to illuminate the single vehicle parked out there. ‘This is the old impound lot and that’s Howard’s van.’ She pulled a lever and floodlights burst into life, shining on an ageing VW camper with a dark-grey paint job. ‘There you go.’
‘There we go what?’
Kathy rolled her eyes. ‘The stickers!’
Corcoran squinted in the gloom until he saw it. The van was covered in them, with at least twenty of Charlie the Seahorse clustered to the side. Half of them were like the kids’ cartoon, all summery and fun. But the other half were zany student humour, poor old Charlie either looking like he’d had a few too many or was smoking drugs.
Kathy tapped on one where Charlie sat in a squat, smoking his life away. ‘This what you were getting at?’
Corcoran didn’t know. Looked like Palmer didn’t either. ‘When we saw him in hospital, he kept singing the theme tune over and over.’
‘That’s pretty random.’
‘You’re telling me.’
Palmer had her phone out and was snapping shots, the flash whipping across the van’s body. ‘It’s possible that whoever abducted Howard saw these stickers.’
‘Maybe.’ Kathy clicked her tongue a few times. ‘Probably a good idea for you to meet my boss.’
[17:12]
The upstairs office that looked across the yard to Howard Ritchie’s old van didn’t seem too shabby. Freshly painted and decked out with decent-looking furniture.
Kathy was working at a laptop rather than a standard-issue desktop from the force’s preferred supplier. So probably not on a network, meaning something hooky was going on. ‘Here.’ She shifted her laptop round for them to see. ‘You look at this, I’ll see where he’s got to.’ She left them to it.
Her screen was filled with a photo of a large bedroom. An unmade bed and clothes strewn across the floor. Stacks of CDs and DVDs. An Xbox and a PlayStation both sat in front of a monster TV. Dumb-bells and kettle bells. Drying wetsuits hanging from a trampoline. Drug paraphernalia filled the mantelpiece: a few bongs; some lighters; a pile of cigarette papers. A giant poster of Charlie the Seahorse hung on the wall, the poor guy sucking on a joint, with bloodshot eyes and a monster line of cocaine in front of him. It was unclear how he’d put the rolled-up banknote to his nostrils, or even if seahorses had them.
‘Probably a million student rooms across the planet with that poster.’ Corcoran stood up tall and stretched out. ‘I’m struggling to see the connection here. So Howard likes a smoke, fine, but why would he be singing that song?’ He closed the image and found a standard folder structure. There was a crime scene inventory, meaning some poor sod had been given the pleasure of cataloguing the CDs, DVDs and video games. He opened it and scanned the contents. ‘No Charlie the Seahorse videos in here, but the contents of the PlayStation or the Xbox aren’t listed. Possible Howard has them on either console, or he used the internet to watch it.’
‘Or that Howard’s interest in Charlie simply just extended to some ironic drug posters and stickers.’ Palmer was writing notes again. ‘No, there’s got to be something in this.’
‘Assuming, again.’
‘Well, of course, but . . .’ She looked over at the door.
‘In here, sir.’ Kathy reappeared. ‘This is DS Corcoran. Dr Palmer.’
‘Ah, the very man.’ A broad grin and neat haircut stuffed into a Burton’s off-the-rack suit. ‘DI Patrick Magrane, pleasure’s all mine.’ Ultra-posh accent that could slice crystal from across the ballroom. And a firm handshake with some masonic flourish that Corcoran didn’t dare return, not even as a wind-up. He gave Palmer a wide smile but she didn’t shake his hand. ‘So, what brings you two down here?’
Corcoran looked over at Kathy, but she wouldn’t return his gaze. ‘Aside from Howard Ritchie turning up in Rugby?’
‘Good lord.’ Magrane looked rattled, his forehead twitching. ‘Knew some chaps at college who attended Rugby School. Not the brightest, but not the worst.’ His frown deepened. ‘It’s definitely him?’
‘DC Pritzakis said his father is heading up there to confirm, but I’m pretty sure.’
Magrane nodded slowly. ‘Please excuse me thinking it funny that Thames Valley are investigating something that happened in Warwickshire?’
‘It’s possibly related to another abduction.’
‘Ah, the “Witney woman”?’
‘That’s what the press are calling her. Sarah Langton. Ring any bells?’
‘Not to me.’ Magrane frowned at Kathy, his eyelids flickering. ‘DC Pritzakis?’
‘Not come up in the case, sir.’
‘Can you check?’
‘Sir.’ She grabbed her laptop and started working away.
Magrane perched on the edge
of her desk, clasping his hands on his lap like he was posing for a portrait. ‘I’m afraid there’s not much else I can tell you. Howard’s disappearance is a drop in the ocean compared with what else we’re dealing with here.’
‘And what would that be, sir?’
‘This station was shut two years ago to save operational costs and maybe acquire a bit of capital in these troubled times. The powers-that-be arranged a deal to sell it off to property developers. However, completing on said deal was beyond them, so it’s still on the books. Hence me requisitioning it for Operation Ilium.’
‘That’s an interesting name.’
‘Ilium was the Trojan city in The Iliad.’ Magrane did a grimace-smile. ‘And you know these are randomly allocated, but it fits spookily well. Ilium’s a drugs investigation, if you must know.’
Corcoran walked over to the window and leaned back against the sill. ‘So why is a big drugs sting looking at a disappearance?’
Magrane wagged a finger at him. ‘You’re a sharp one.’ He smiled. ‘Your accent’s London?’
‘What’s your theory about Howard, sir?’
‘We thought he’d done a Reggie Perrin. Swam out to sea and disappeared. That or suicide.’
‘And why would he do either?’
Magrane cleared his throat.
‘Come on, sir, this is—’
‘I’m not at liberty to divulge that kind of information.’
Corcoran held his gaze. ‘If you saw the state of Howard, you’d—’
‘I just can’t!’
Corcoran rubbed at his temples. ‘Sir, my DI’s going spare because she thinks this is connected to the Sarah Langton case.’
‘But I see no reason why they should be. When DC Pritz—’
‘Sir, Sarah and Howard were both kept in cells.’
Magrane stared into space, his mouth hanging open. ‘I see.’ His neck pulsed again.
