by Ed James
‘People are people. They make mistakes.’
‘You think this is his?’
She held up both hands, her fingers crossed.
Grinning, Corcoran pulled into a street engulfed in absolute bedlam. Workmen struggled to fight a raging torrent foaming up from a burst water main. A squad of police officers got in their way, moving the traffic away.
Corcoran parked and got out of the car, charging over before Palmer could remove her seatbelt.
She caught up with him, speaking to a tall woman with horse-riding hips, dark hair tied in a chunky ponytail.
Corcoran was putting away his warrant card. ‘Dr Palmer, this is Sergeant Broadribb.’
She held out a hand. ‘Call me Steph.’
‘Palmer.’ She shook it. ‘Marie.’
‘Okay, so I was just telling your partner here’ – Steph thumbed at Corcoran, but neither he nor Palmer corrected her assumption – ‘that one of the emergency workers saw a man abducting a young woman.’ She put her fingers round Corcoran’s neck. ‘He attacked her, grabbed her by the throat and shoved her in the back of his van.’ She let go of Corcoran and waved at a narrow lane set between some post-war houses, lit up by arc lights. ‘He reversed down that lane and that’s the last they saw of him.’
Corcoran nodded slowly. ‘You need to identify the victim and find that van.’
Steph shot him a glare. ‘You think I don’t know that?’ She shook her head. ‘Got half of Thames Valley out knocking on doors.’
‘And?’
‘Well. We’ve drawn a blank so far, but . . .’ Steph walked over to a squad car. She pulled out a rugged laptop and rested it on the roof. ‘I’ll check CCTV.’
‘A good plan.’ Corcoran gave her a warm smile, but Palmer saw his impatience, his fingers drumming his trouser legs. He focused on her. ‘Snap judgement?’
‘Well, it might be the right place but, assuming it’s him, he’s changed his MO.’
‘You mean letting himself be seen?’
‘Right. I mean, Sarah and Matt were abducted in similar locations.’
‘Hoi!’ Steph was waving at them, beckoning them over. ‘Okay, so I’ve got access to the local CCTV feed. Two of my guys are scouring through this back at base, but I suppose I could show you, if you ask nicely?’
Corcoran rolled his eyes. ‘Pretty please with sugar on the top and chocolate diamonds.’
Steph smiled, then let them see the screen and hit play.
The camera had views along another street, probably the one backing on to this. The sky was lighter and the flood of water was a lot worse, with yellow-vested workmen fighting a seemingly losing battle. A van slipped out of the side lane and drove along the street, before disappearing out of shot.
Corcoran’s shoulders slumped. ‘That’s it?’
‘Don’t know what you expect?’ Steph shrugged. ‘We can’t find it arriving and my lads have been through hours of footage already.’
‘Can you run the plates?’
‘Oh shit, why didn’t I think of that?’ Steph rolled her eyes at him. ‘There’s something masking the plates, some sort of reflective coating.’
Corcoran groaned. ‘Can I ask you to get your lads on CCTV duty to focus on other cameras in town? Cash machines, shops, red-light cameras, anything. Start at this time and this location, then fan out. There might be a shot where we can read the plates.’
‘I’ll get them to have a look, but only if you stop being such a dickhead.’
Palmer left them to have their power play and walked over to the lane.
Assuming it was their guy’s van, which seemed likely given the plate obfuscation, then it was very similar to the other three. And the CCTV search hadn’t been entirely futile. The absence of the van’s arrival indicated that it’d been waiting to whisk the victim away. To where, though? And to do what with her?
And who the hell was she?
‘You think it’s him?’
Palmer turned to nod at Corcoran. ‘Well, I’m certainly beginning to suspect that. But it’s incredibly unlikely he’d use his own van for this, don’t you think?’
‘Agreed. But it bears all the hallmarks.’ Corcoran sighed. ‘Most of them, anyway. Let’s take it a step at a time, okay? Do the basics and see where that takes us?’
‘Hoi!’ Steph jogged over to them, her ponytail dancing behind her. ‘One of my lads has identified her. Dawn Crossley.’ She pointed at a house behind her. ‘Lives in a flat upstairs.’
[18:07]
Exactly like Corcoran expected any young woman’s shared flat to be. Beige paintwork, neutral furniture, and the oppressive smell of perfume. A red velvet sofa covered in pillows and throws, and two fully stocked wine racks, mostly supermarket whites.
‘You think she’s been kidnapped?’ Dawn’s flatmate, Caroline, wouldn’t sit down. Couldn’t sit, by the looks of it, her wiry frame fizzing with energy. She ruffled her spiky hair. ‘I mean, really?’
‘Well, we have a witness statement suggesting someone was abducted.’ Palmer raised her hands. ‘But whether it’s Dawn is an assumption.’
‘Jesus.’ Caroline bit her lip, then set off again, walking around the small living room, shaking her head. ‘Jesus Christ.’
‘It might not be her.’ Corcoran joined Palmer on the sofa, easing himself down slowly. ‘Can you take us through the last time you heard from her?’
Caroline stopped her frantic pacing. ‘Okay, so she called me on the train, asking me to put the oven on for her.’ She put a hand to her forehead. ‘But she never showed up. And I’ve been going frantic since.’
Palmer got up and patted the sofa. ‘It might help if you sit down?’
‘There’s no way . . .’ Instead of sitting, Caroline leaned against the window, looking out at the chaotic mix of workmen and police officers. ‘I mean, if someone’s taken her . . . Dawn? Why?’
‘Well, it might be something entirely unrelated.’ Palmer rested a hand on Caroline’s forearm. ‘She likes a drink, right?’
Caroline cast a guilty look at the wine racks. ‘Who doesn’t?’
‘I’m asking if it’s possible she could’ve met someone after work?’
‘She did. Went for a glass of wine with some girls she works with.’
‘Locally?’
‘Dawn works in London, commutes in by train.’ Caroline finally sat, perching on the edge of the sofa. ‘Goes out with them every Thursday. Wine o’clock, they call it. Usually ends up on the last train, hammered. It’s a struggle to get her up at six on a Friday, I tell you.’
‘But it’s Wednesday?’
‘Right. She said they had a swift half after work tonight. Not unusual, if that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘How well do you know her?’
‘Went to school together. She grew up in Princes Ris. My parents moved us here from Birmingham when I was twelve. Dawn was a good friend to me, helped me settle in and, you know, we’ve been mates ever since.’
‘Caroline, can you think of any reason why someone would do this? Ex-boyfriend, maybe? Stalker? Anyone angry with her?’
‘Not really.’ Caroline got up again and started stomping around, her heavy footsteps thudding off the bare floorboards. ‘Feels like there’s something you’re not telling me. What is it?’
‘Well, it’s just if there were any secrets she had. A reason someone might think she had a “hidden” life?’
‘What?’ Caroline stabbed a finger in the air at her. ‘You can’t come in here, you know, and . . . and . . .’ She collapsed onto the sofa and started sobbing.
Palmer shared a look with Corcoran. She waited for Caroline to meet her eyes. Took almost a minute. ‘Is there something?’
‘We . . .’ Caroline brushed at her eyes. ‘We’re not just housemates. We’re girlfriends. Lovers. In love.’ She shut her eyes. ‘I mean, she still flirts with guys and . . . guys flirt with her, but she says it’s just sport. She’s playing with them. Or so she says . . .’
Palmer tri
ed it on for size. A secret lesbian. In 2019? It was hardly a motive. ‘Who knows about you?’
‘My folks do. Her mum.’
Corcoran frowned. ‘And her dad?’
‘He’s . . . a difficult guy. Hard to talk to. Set in his ways and all that. I mean, we can legally get married and have children and it’s really none of his business, but . . . he could never accept his only daughter being gay.’
Palmer still didn’t buy it as a motive. ‘Have either of you ever had any hassle about your sexuality?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know there have been a spate of hate crimes, right? That couple assaulted on the night bus in London, that kind of thing.’
‘Princes Ris isn’t that sort of place. I mean, it’s a bit fuddy-duddy, but they don’t lynch people here any more.’
‘Has Dawn ever mentioned a Sarah, a Howard or a Matt?’
‘Not that I can think of. I mean, she works with a Sara, but that’s without the h, you know. Sah-rah, not Say-rah. Howard or Matt?’ She exhaled slowly. ‘Nope.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘Is there any other reason that someone could target Dawn?’
‘Not that I can think of.’ Caroline bit her lip again, cracking her ruby lipstick. ‘The thing is, Dawn’s diabetic. Type one, from childhood. If she doesn’t get her insulin tonight, she’ll die.’
Thirty-seven
[Thompson, 18:29]
Thompson parked her Passat outside the Crossley house. One of those houses you’d get anywhere in England. So normal, so average, so beige. She could see right into their living room from the road. Another normal evening, him in his La-Z-Boy clone recliner, legs up on the footstool, reading glasses plonked on his forehead. She was on her sofa, the other side of the room. Glass of wine in their hands, the half-empty bottle on the coffee table between them, acting like a demilitarised zone. TV blasting out, rotting their brains.
David and Lesley Crossley, with no idea what was just about to hit them.
Thompson opened her door just as the local police car arrived. The uniforms got out into the thin rain. Both tall, but the lad was all skin and bones, his chunky partner about ten years older.
‘Well done, lads.’ Thompson led them towards the house. ‘I’ve driven from Oxford and I still beat you.’
The older one spoke. ‘Sorry, ma’am. It’s Alfie Stringer.’
‘Well, Alfie, you can call me Ala—. No, actually, ma’am’s fine.’ She opened the garden gate and set off down the path.
Lesley was in the window, looking out at the commotion, cupping her wineglass in her hands. Frowning, squinting, wondering why the police were outside her home at half past six. She set the glass on the windowsill and started fussing with her hair.
Thompson stopped by the door. ‘You want me to deliver the news?’
‘I’ll do it.’ Alfie the alpha cop puffed out his chest and gave the standard policeman’s knock. ‘Show Kieron here how it’s done.’ He waited, steeling himself, adjusting his hat until it sat perfectly. The thin rustle of distant traffic whispered over them.
The door opened and Lesley frowned out. ‘Can I help?’
‘Sorry to call so late, Mrs Crossley, but—’
Lesley slapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, my heavens. What’s happened? Has my mother had another fall?’
‘We better do this inside.’
‘Okay.’ Her frown deepened but she let them in.
Nice place, every inch of decor considered and carefully implemented.
Lesley showed the cops into the living room. David rocked forward on his chair, turning off the television and sinking the last of his wine. Alfie was holding his hat respectfully now, though Kieron wasn’t, and he politely nodded at David. ‘I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news about your daughter, Dawn.’
The news dropped like a bomb. David stared at the floor, dumbfounded, confused. Lesley got up and paced the room, looking like she urgently needed to clean or cook or something.
Thompson tried to blend into the background, staking out the room as they talked and soaked up the news.
The wood-burning stove pumped out heat below a mantelpiece dotted with tasteful picture frames, bookended by digital ones, both cycling different sets of shots. She stepped over to the window and the rain hammering the glass.
A car sat there, two spaces away from Thompson’s car. A man behind the wheel, glancing at the house, lost in a phone call. Another car shot along the street, driving way too fast, and parked opposite.
Corcoran got out first, followed by Dr Palmer, arguing about something. Some theory they’d got, some nonsense she was positing but he was disagreeing with. Like an old married couple already. So sweet.
The other car drove off slowly.
Thompson pulled the curtains.
Thirty-eight
[Corcoran, 18:36]
Corcoran pressed the bell and waited, peering through the fracture-patterned glass but seeing only a dark hallway. ‘Surely they’re still in?’
‘There’s a light on.’ Palmer stepped onto the gravel drive and inspected the bottle of insulin Caroline had given them. Half-full, but it looked enough to Corcoran’s untrained eye. ‘I thought your colleagues were supposed to be here?’
A car drove off, something dark and low-slung.
Palmer pocketed the drug and reached over to press the bell again. ‘I’ve been thinking. If this is our guy,’ – she held up a finger – ‘and that’s still a big if, then your “don’t shit where you eat” theory could mean he’s getting closer to home.’ She looked round, fear in her eyes. ‘Making it possible this is the last one, the victim he’s worked up to.’
Corcoran thought it through but didn’t take much hope from it. ‘Diabetes is my big worry right now. We’ve probably got just hours before Dawn slips into a coma. We need to find her and soon.’
A light glowed through the glass and seconds later the door opened.
‘DS Aidan Corcoran.’ He shoved his warrant card in the young beat cop’s face and charged past, his footsteps clunking off the hallway’s tiled floor. ‘Have you broken the news?’
The lad nodded, struggling to keep up. ‘Alfie’s just briefing them now, but your boss looks like she wants to take over.’
Corcoran got his sigh out of the way before entering the living room with a curt smile, friendly but trying for reassuring and confident.
Dawn’s parents sat on the sprawling sofa, beige and stuffed with cushions. David and Lesley Crossley, according to the file. Mid-fifties, but he was a silver fox. His wife must have borne the brunt of raising their daughter, looking a good ten years older. Maybe she was.
A hook-nosed uniform stood by the ornate fireplace, his gear at least a size too small for his bulky frame.
Thompson leaned against the windowsill, the curtains scrunched up behind her. She gave Corcoran a look that read, I’m very interested in seeing you make a pig’s arse of this.
‘I’m Aidan.’ He smiled at the parents. ‘I’m here to help find your daughter. We have a large team out combing the area for her. I gather my colleagues have briefed you?’
David got up and charged over, his face distorted, eyebrows twisted up in the middle. ‘You should’ve found her by now. This is unacceptable!’
‘David, you should—’
‘I’ll do nothing of the sort!’ He jabbed a finger in Corcoran’s face, not far off making contact, then over at the uniform by the fireplace. ‘This one says she’s been taken by a serial abductor. Is he right?’
Corcoran glared at the uniform, then looked back at David Crossley with a calming smile. ‘That’s an avenue we’re investigating, but it’s entirely possible Dawn has just dropped off the radar. Happens all the time.’
‘Say it like you mean it, then.’
‘Sir, I understand you’re distraught, but this isn’t helping us find your daughter.’
David stared him down. Then the violent energy stopped sparking
and he slumped next to his wife. ‘If anything happens to her . . .’
‘I understand, sir. The things we wouldn’t do for our children, right?’
He looked up at Corcoran, took his measure, then nodded. ‘Right.’
‘Now, I understand Dawn has diabetes.’
David nodded slowly, exhaling. ‘Diagnosed when she was a kid. Absolutely terrified us at the time. It’s a genetic thing. I’ve suffered all my life.’
‘How does she get her insulin?’
‘They tried fitting a pump, but it didn’t take, so she has her jag every night.’ David looked over at the mantelpiece and the brass carriage clock. ‘She should’ve had it by now. Christ.’
‘It’s possible she has had it and she’s out with friends.’
‘So who the hell are these friends, eh? And why isn’t she answering her bloody phone?’
‘Sir, I want to do everything in my power to save her. It’s important that we speak to anyone who knows her, okay? Now, is there anyone that springs to mind?’
David looked at his wife, then shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Sorry.’
‘We’ve already spoken to Caroline.’
David cleared his throat. ‘She knows our daughter better than we ever will.’
‘I understand.’ Palmer perched on an armchair by the window, almost blocking Corcoran’s view of Thompson. ‘Do you know if Dawn has any friends called Sarah, Howard, or Matt?’
A look passed between Dawn’s parents, then they both shook their heads.
Palmer held up her phone, showing Sarah’s before photograph, her round cheeks smiling. ‘Her?’
More shaking.
Then she showed Howard’s photo, him grinning in a wetsuit, carrying his surfboard under his right arm. ‘What about him?’
‘No.’
Finally, Matt’s LinkedIn profile photo, taken at a slight angle, a professional smile plastered over his face. ‘And what about him?’
Lesley took the phone from her and stared at it. ‘Wasn’t he on that property programme on the TV?’ She showed it to her husband. ‘You know, the one with the woman who’s always pregnant?’
‘It’s not him.’ David took the phone and handed it back. ‘Sorry. I don’t recognise any of these people. Is this who has her?’
