“Never mind that. Where was the TV ordered from?”
“I can do better than that; I can tell you which firm the store uses to deliver its goods. Anytime Deliveries. They’re based in an industrial unit just outside York.”
“What’s the address?” Battle asked. Then he remembered that it was Christmas Day and there wouldn’t be anyone there. “Shit.”
“You’ve just realised what day it is and that no one will be at the industrial unit,” Toombs guessed. “Luckily I pulled the depot manager’s mobile number. His name is Simon Beale.” He listed off a string of numbers, which Battle asked him to repeat and then committed to memory.
“Good work,” he said.
“You’re welcome, boss.” The line clicked as Toombs hung up.
Battle slowed down gradually and pulled over to the side of the road. Behind him, Morgan’s car did the same. She put her hazard lights on as she came to a stop.
He got out of the Range Rover and walked over to her Yaris, holding his hand up in front of his face as the snow lashed at him.
When he got to Morgan’s car, her window was down. “Everything all right, guv?”
“I just got a call from a tech at the station. He’s found the delivery firm. I’ve got the depot manager’s mobile number. I’m going to ring him and see if he knows who delivered that television.”
“Come in out of the wind, guv.” She hit the central locking and unlocked the car.
Battle got his phone out of his pocket and climbed in. The Yaris was much smaller than his Range Rover and he felt like his bulk filled the entire car. He dialled the number Toombs had given him and waited while the call connected.
The man that answered sounded tired, as if he’d just woken up. “Hello?”
“Is that Simon Beale?”
“Yes, it is. Look, if this is about a delivery you were expecting yesterday, the weather—“
“It isn’t about that, Mr Beale. This is DCI Stewart Battle of…” He paused. He used to say Derbyshire Police at this point of his introduction, but that wasn’t right. North Yorkshire Police wasn’t right either. “Murder Force,” he said finally.
“Murder Force?” Beale sounded perkier now. “I’ve heard about you guys from the telly.” He paused and then said, “Why are you ringing me?”
“I need to know the details of one of your employees. First name Samuel.”
There was a pause and then Beale said, “I don’t have any drivers with that name.”
“He may go by Sam, or Sammy. Anything like that.”
“No, sorry. I don’t have any employees by that name. You must have the wrong—“
“I need to know who delivered a television to an address in Tarnby yesterday. If his name isn’t Samuel, then it’s something else. But I need to know who made that delivery.”
Now, Beale sounded confused. “What? A television? What’s this all about?”
“Would you have that information, sir?” Battle asked impatiently.
“Yes, of course, if we delivered it. The records are at the office, though.”
“Mr Beale, I need to see those records right away.”
“What, today? Can’t this wait until tomorrow? The weather—“
“This is a matter of grave importance,” Battle said. “Lives are at stake.”
A note of curiosity entered Beale’s voice as he said, “Is this something to do with that woman and girl that are missing?”
“What’s the address of your office?” Battle said, losing his patience. His mimed a writing motion to DS Morgan. She got her notebook and pen ready.
Beale recited the address. Battle repeated it to Morgan, who wrote it down. She was already typing it into her SatNav when Battle asked Beale, “How soon can you meet us there?”
“I can be there in about an hour,” the depot manager said.
Battle checked Morgan’s SatNav display. According to its calculations, they should be there at two o’ clock, an hour from now. “We’ll be there at about the same time,” he told Beale. “If you get there before us, check the records for a delivery of a television set to 24 Lime Avenue, Tarnby. I want to know which driver made that delivery.”
“Okay,” Beale said. “See you later.”
Battle hung up. He turned to Morgan and said, “Right, we need to get to that address as soon as possible.”
“It’ll take us more than an hour in this weather,” Morgan said. “I don’t think the SatNav accounts for that.”
“Well, like I said, as soon as possible. And Beale had better wait for us.” He climbed out of the Yaris and said, “I’ll follow you,” before he closed the door.
Climbing back into his Range Rover, he waited for Morgan to drive past and then followed her car through the snowstorm. If they lost Teresa and Gemma because of the weather, he’d never forgive himself. That was irrational, of course; he had no control over the snow. But he also knew that a lack of control over the weather wouldn’t stop him from taking the blame personally if this case ended tragically.
He’d blamed himself in the past when things had gone wrong, even when the reason for failure had been out of his hands. Like the Daisy Riddle case. Daisy had gone missing fifteen years ago and he’d promised her parents he’d find her. That had been a mistake; all these years later, nobody had any idea what had happened to her.
And he took every ounce of blame for that on his own shoulders.
There had been parts of the investigation that he’d had no control over, like the fact that Powers had denied him some resources that might have helped in the search for the girl. But, at the end of the day, Battle had been in charge of the investigation and its failure was, ultimately, his fault. He’d made a foolish promise to Daisy’s parents; a promise he’d been unable to keep.
As he followed DS Morgan’s cherry red Toyota Yaris across the moors, he made a silent promise to himself.
We’ll find them and we’ll bring them back.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Christmas Day, 1:49 p.m.
Sheridan had remained mostly quiet in the passenger seat, which suited Dani fine since she had to concentrate on keeping the Land Rover on the road, which was all but invisible in the snow. They were moving at a snail’s pace but she daren’t go any faster. According to the SatNav, they’d be at Larkmoor House in five minutes. She only hoped the psychologist sitting next to her was right and that Samuel’s name would be somewhere in their records.
She looked over at Sheridan. He looked pale and his right hand was gripping his seatbelt with fingers and knuckles that had turned white. She didn’t think her driving was that bad.
“You okay?” she asked him.
“Yeah,” he said, his eyes fixed on the whiteness beyond the windscreen. “I’m fine.”
“No offence, but you don’t look it. Do you want me to pull over for a few minutes?”
He shook his head. “I’m not car sick or anything like that.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” He let out a breath between his lips and said, “I’ve got a thing about hospitals, that’s all. I spent quite a lot of time in one a couple of years ago and I have some bad memories.”
“You were involved in the Lake Erie Ripper case, weren’t you?” she asked gently.
Sheridan nodded. “I can see you’ve done your homework.”
“It was on breakfast TV yesterday.”
“Was it?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “I didn’t see that.”
“So you were the psychologist who went into the Ripper’s house and saved those girls.”
“That was me,” he said.
“If you want to stay in the car when we get to the hospital—“
“No, really, I don’t. That’s not going to help anyone, is it? I just need to face my fear, or aversion, or whatever it is, and get on with it.”
She remembered something and frowned. “You interviewed Abigail Newton in the hospital at Whitby, didn’t you?” If he’d managed to go into the hosp
ital and all the way to Abigail’s room, his phobia couldn’t be that bad, could it?
“Yes, I did. Believe it or not, I was helped by DC Tom Ryan.”
“Oh, I see. If there’s anything you want me to do to help you, just ask.”
“Well, that’s the thing; I didn’t ask Ryan to help me. I didn’t even tell him about my fear. He just seemed to know somehow.”
“So what did he do that helped you?”
“He distracted me. Told me he was going to stand in the corner and watch my interview with Abigail. I couldn’t have that; I was trying to look non-threatening to her, and Ryan looks anything but. So we argued and the next thing I knew, I was in Abigail’s room.”
“So you want me to argue with you? Distract you?”
“No, really, it’s fine. I’ll be fine.”
She wanted to tell him that he didn’t look fine but held her tongue. He’d acquired this psychological wound—whatever it was—because he’d saved two lives. Two women would be dead if not for Sheridan saving them from one of Canada’s worst serial killers. He deserved some respect.
“We’re here,” she said when she saw the driveway that led up to the large Victorian house. Putting the Land Rover into low gear so it wouldn’t slip on the incline, she followed the driveway up to the car park.
There were only half a dozen cars here. Dani supposed that relatives who might be otherwise visiting loved ones in Larkmoor today had been put off by the weather.
She killed the engine and turned to Sheridan. “Are you sure you’re okay, Tony?”
He nodded. “It doesn’t even look like a hospital. It just looks like a house.”
“Great.” She got out of the car and was immediately battered by the wind and snow.
Sheridan got out of the other side and together, they rushed to the entrance door and into the reception area.
The same nurse who had been behind the reception desk earlier was still there. When she saw Dani, her eyebrows knitted together. “You again. Did you speak to Maureen?”
“We did,” Dani said. “And now we’re back.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“We need to talk to you about past patients,” Sheridan said. “It’s very important and could save lives.”
She turned to face him, her demeanour changing from hostile to cooperative. “Oh, all right. What do you want to know?”
Dani had no idea how Sheridan had seemingly charmed the nurse, but she stepped back slightly and let him do his thing.
“How about the name Samuel?” he asked. “Does that mean anything to you?”
The nurse chewed her lip for a few seconds and seemed to be thinking. Finally, she shook her head. “No, that doesn’t ring any bells.”
“How long have you worked here?” Dani asked, remembering Maureen’s admission that she’d only been at Larkmoor a few months.
The taciturn demeanour returned as the nurse regarded her. “I’ve been here three years, although I can’t see what’s that got to do with anything.”
“The thing is, Patricia. May I call you Patricia?” Sheridan asked, leaning his elbows on the desk and giving the nurse his full attention.
Dani wondered if she’d have had a better response from the nurse if she’d also called her by the name on her badge. Probably not.
“It’s Trish, actually,” the nurse said, smiling.
“Trish,” Sheridan said, returning her smile. “The thing is, the patient we’re interested in might have been here some time ago. We don’t know that for sure, but it’s a possibility. Is there anyone working here today who’s been at Larkmoor a long time?”
She thought for a moment and then nodded, “Sheila Hopkins. She’s been here donkey’s years.”
“Could we possibly speak to Sheila?” Sheridan asked. “Thank you.”
Trish picked up the telephone and dialled a short number. “John, could you bring Sheila to Reception, please? The police want to talk to her. Thanks.”
She put the receiver down and turned her attention back to Sheridan. “She’ll be here in a moment. The security guard is just going to fetch her.”
Dani remembered the name Sheila Hopkins from the interviews she and Matt had conducted. Sheila had seen Tanya Ward drive away in her Beetle for the last time. She’d said in her interview that she’d worked here for almost twenty years. If anyone was going to remember a past patient, it would be her.
The phone on the desk rang and Trish answered it. After listening for a few seconds, she nodded and said, “Okay, thanks, John, I’ll tell them.” She replaced the receiver and said, “Sheila is dealing with a patient at the moment. She’ll be down in fifteen minutes.” She pointed at a row of vinyl-covered chairs lined up against the wall. “Have a seat while you wait.”
Dani took a seat and Sheridan joined her.
“If our man was ever here, I’m sure Sheila will know,” he said.
“And if he wasn’t?”
He shrugged. “Then we have to hope the tech guys can find out who delivered that TV.”
Dani nodded and checked her phone. No word from Battle. She wondered how he was doing tracking down that delivery.
* * *
* * *
* * *
The industrial park where Anytime Deliveries was based consisted of a number of identical warehouses. The only thing that set them apart from each other were the name and logos of various companies. Battle parked next to DS Morgan’s car outside a unit that bore the name Anytime Deliveries.
A grey BMW was parked nearby, and Battle hoped it belonged to Simon Beale and that the depot manager was still waiting for them. It was 2:34 p.m., exactly half an hour after Battle had said he’d be here.
The door to the warehouse was opened by a slight man with collar-length greasy hair and gold-rimmed glasses. He nodded to Battle and Morgan as they approached him. “DCI Battle, I presume?”
“Yes,” Battle said, “And this is DS Morgan. Have you had time to check those records?”
Beale nodded. “Yes, I have. Come in and I’ll show you what I’ve found.” He led them into the warehouse, which was lined with metal racks upon which hundreds of packages waited to be delivered to their final destinations. The air smelled of dust.
Beale opened a plain wooden door that led into a walled-off section of the warehouse that served as an office. Inside, an old computer sat on a scarred desk. Apart from a chair, there weren’t any other furnishings.
“Here,” Beale said, handing Battle a sheet of paper. “I printed this off for you. This is our driver who was supposed to make that delivery.”
“Supposed to?” Morgan asked.
“Yeah, he never made it there. If he had, he’d have scanned the bar code on the box and got a signature. That would show on my computer. There’s no record of the delivery. I checked.”
“That’s because he was too busy abducting the occupants of the house to get a signature,” Battle said. He looked down at the sheet of paper in his hands. It was a photocopy of a driving licence belonging to a Michael Stokes.
The photo on the licence showed a dark-haired young man looking emotionlessly into the camera. Battle checked the date of birth and a quick mental calculation told him that Stokes was now 28 years old, although he’d looked a lot younger when this photo had been taken. According to the licence issue date, he’d been 17. The photo had expired last year.
“And this is the definitely the guy who delivered that TV to Lime Avenue?” he asked Beale.
“I told you, he didn’t deliver it. There’s no electronic record. But it was on his van, yes. It was the next delivery on his route before I called him off the job.”
“Was he in Derbyshire three weeks ago?”
Beale nodded. “Yeah, he was. We had a fridge freezer sent here by accident. It should have gone to a delivery hub in Derby. Michael volunteered to drive it down there.”
“And that’s when he saw Abigail Newton,” Battle said. He handed the photocopy to DS Morgan. “Michael Stokes. Not
Samuel. His middle name isn’t even Samuel, it’s Jonathan. Maureen Williams was wrong.”
“Or he gave her a false name,” Morgan suggested, looking over the paper. “At least we’ve got an address. Grantham Farm, Cold Kirby, North Yorkshire.”
“We need to get over there right away. And we need arrest and search warrants.” He turned to the depot manager. “Mr Beale, thanks for your time. Do not contact Michael Stokes in any way. And if he contacts you, do not tell him we’ve been here or that we’re looking for him. Is that understood?”
Beale shrugged. “I have no intention of contacting him. I’m going home to my turkey dinner.”
Battle remembered the Christmas dinner he’d arranged with his wife and DI Summers. The DI obviously realised those plans had been cancelled but he hadn’t contacted Rowena.
He left the office and strode through the warehouse towards the exit but stopped before he reached it.
“Everything okay, guv?” Morgan asked.
“I’ve got to call DI Summers,” he said. “She’s gone to that hospital to find a patient called Samuel. She’s got the wrong name.”
He dialled Summers’ number. When she answered, he said, “Are you still at Larkmoor House?”
“Yes, guv, we’re waiting to speak to one of the nurses.”
“Listen, his name isn’t Samuel. It’s Michael Stokes, 28 years old. We’ve got his address and I’m going to sort out a warrant.”
“That’s great news. Do you want us to assist with the arrest?”
“No, you might as well stay there. No need to drive down here in this weather. Find out if Stokes was a patient there.”
“Will do, guv.”
He ended the call and stepped out into the wind, shielding his face against the swirling snow. “You get those warrants sorted out,” he said to Morgan as she went to her car. “I need to call my wife. Otherwise, I’ll be in the doghouse.”
As he got into the Range Rover, he rang Rowena.
“Where are you?” she asked as soon as she picked up. Her voice held notes of anger and fear.
Eyes of the Wicked Page 19
