by D. S. Butler
Karen ended the call and stared at the phone. She was starting to regret agreeing to this. And when she sat down at her desk, Sophie approached with more bad news.
‘Sorry, Sarge, we’re not going to be able to talk to Mark Bell’s mother. She passed away two years ago in Nottingham.’
Karen leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling. When were they going to catch a break?
The Fox family seemed to have put Oliver on some kind of pedestal. None of them had mentioned the child abuse allegations, and surely they would have known about them. Maybe not his sons, they’d have been too young, but Elizabeth must have known, and Laura – and so must Detective Superintendent Fox.
So far, they only had the word of DI Goodfield to go on regarding the allegations. A man who, by his own admission, had turned to drink. Despite that, Karen thought he was the most reliable person they’d spoken to so far about Oliver Fox’s disappearance.
‘Thanks, Sophie. Well done for tracking her down so quickly.’
‘Where on earth do we go from here, Sarge?’
Karen shrugged. That was a very good question.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sophie and Rick had left for home an hour ago, but Karen and DI Morgan were still at the station, collating information and trawling through the old paperwork. Karen was trying to make some headway on DI Goodfield’s notes. They’d been removed from the original notepad to be scanned in, and it was hard to follow the order of the pages. Karen had a sneaking suspicion that some of the pages could be missing. She could find no mention of the alleged abuse in Oliver Fox’s missing persons file. She thought that was strange.
DI Morgan left his office, yawning. ‘I’m going to call it a day. I’ve got a house full of boxes I need to unpack, and my brain could do with a break. We can come at this fresh in the morning.’
Karen looked up and stretched. She’d been sitting in front of her computer in the same position for too long, and her neck was starting to ache. ‘You’re right, we can’t do anything else tonight. Tomorrow we can contact the students from Greenhill Secondary School we’ve traced, and ask Oliver Fox’s old colleagues if any of them knew about the abuse allegations.’
After DI Morgan had collected his jacket from his office, Karen asked, ‘Do you need a hand tonight? I could probably keep my eyes open for another hour or so if you want some help unpacking.’
‘No, you should get some rest. I’ll manage.’
‘I really don’t mind. Besides, it’ll give me an excuse to see your new house.’ She grinned.
‘Well, if you’re sure, that would be great. Thanks.’
They left the station together, but drove to Heighington in separate cars.
Karen picked up a bottle of Shiraz on the way, and then headed to DI Morgan’s new house in the heart of the village. He’d opted for one of the older properties, near the stream that ran through the centre. It was a terraced cottage, with a small driveway just big enough for two cars, and Karen managed to squeeze her Honda Civic in beside DI Morgan’s car.
She held out the wine as he opened the door. ‘Housewarming gift.’
‘Cheers, I’ll get some glasses.’ He led the way through the house and into the kitchen. It had been remodelled at some point – a wall had been knocked through to make a spacious kitchen-diner. Every counter was covered with cardboard boxes.
‘Don’t feel you have to open it now on my account. I’ll be sticking to water because I’ve got to drive home,’ Karen said. ‘Are we unpacking the kitchen stuff first?’
DI Morgan nodded. ‘If you don’t mind. That box there is cups and glasses, and the one next to it is plates. At least, I think it is. I should have used a better labelling system.’
‘When’s the rest of your stuff coming?’
‘I didn’t bother with a removal firm. I’ve not got that much furniture, but I hired a couple of guys with a van to give me a hand on Saturday with the bed, sofa and dining table.’
‘So you’re not sleeping here tonight, then?’
‘I am. I’ve got one of those blow-up mattresses in the bedroom. That’ll do me for tonight.’
Karen got to work unwrapping the glasses and stacking them in the cupboard above the sink. It took her an hour to fill the cupboards and drawers in the kitchen with plates, cutlery, glasses and cups. ‘I can tell you’re not a minimalist!’ Karen said.
‘It’s only when you move that you realise how much stuff you’ve got,’ DI Morgan said. ‘I’m surprised how much I’d managed to accumulate over the last few months. Thanks for your help. I’m nearly finished here. I’ve just got to unload two more boxes, and then I’ll buy you dinner if you like. We can go to my local.’
Karen smothered a yawn. ‘Sounds good.’
‘Don’t sound too enthusiastic,’ DI Morgan said dryly. ‘Here, can you unpack that box and put the CDs in that cabinet?’
He pointed to a cabinet close to the television unit. Karen knelt down on the floor and began to delve into the box of CDs.
She held one up. ‘Oh, so you’re a Bowie fan. You must have every single one of his albums here.’ She pulled them all out, inspecting the covers, then turned to put them in the cabinet.
‘I have. I’ve even got the Tin Machine stuff. Only a true fan listens to that.’
Karen chuckled and started to inspect the rest of his CDs. He had quite the collection, a mixture of classical and popular artists from the seventies and eighties. He didn’t have much modern stuff.
‘Are you going to put those CDs away, or just read the titles?’ he asked as he finished putting books on to one of the bookshelves and then opened the final box.
Karen smirked. ‘You’re just getting touchy because you know I’m about to discover your secret love for One Direction or Boyzone.’
DI Morgan laughed. ‘I think you’re confusing my taste with yours.’
She slid a couple more CDs on the shelf and said, ‘Actually, I’ve hardly got any CDs left. I got rid of most of them when I was having a clear-out a couple of years ago. I’m nearly all digital these days. I have to admit, I did find New Kids on the Block in my collection, though.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘I don’t know why I suddenly thought of them. I think it’s this case. It’s making me remember the late eighties. Things were so different then. I was only a kid, but it’s funny the things you remember. It’s not just computers and technology that’s changed, but attitudes and the way things are handled by the police. I keep thinking about that poor boy.’
‘Mark Bell?’
‘Yes. Imagine building up the courage to tell somebody, and then nothing being done to help you. I just . . .’ Karen trailed off and shook her head. ‘It must have been horrendous for him. I can’t imagine how frustrated DI Goodfield felt when he couldn’t help through official channels.’
Karen caught DI Morgan’s gaze. Neither of them said it, but both were wondering whether DI Goodfield had done anything through unofficial channels.
As Karen slid the last of the CDs on to the shelf, DI Morgan flattened the empty boxes. ‘Right, let’s leave it for tonight. Come on, I’ll buy you dinner at the Butcher and the Beast. It’s the least I can do for all your hard work reading the covers of my CDs.’
The pub was busy when they got there, but fortunately for them it was still serving food. They were sat at a table and chatting when Karen noticed Dennis Dean walking towards them. He was the father of one of the girls who’d been kidnapped from Heighington a few months ago. He was unpredictable, and Karen shot a look at DI Morgan to communicate that trouble could be on its way. Dean was holding a pint of bitter and a glass of Coke.
‘Dennis, how are you?’ Karen asked as he reached their table.
‘Fine, thanks.’ He set the drinks down. ‘These are for you.’
DI Morgan said, ‘Cheers, Dennis. How is Emily?’
‘She’s doing all right, considering everything that happened.’ He smiled at them, patted Karen on the shoulder and then turned to go back to the bar.
That was a turn up for the books, Karen thought. She’d been expecting a few harsh words, not a drink. It was certainly a surprise considering Dennis Dean’s chequered history with law enforcement. He liked to play the hard man, but now he’d shown that underneath he was a father who was extremely grateful they’d managed to get his daughter back home.
One of the waiting staff brought over their food, and over dinner they discussed the case again. Karen realised it was weighing on DI Morgan just as heavily as it weighed on her. He also had to worry about the superintendent putting more pressure on the team after the events of the day.
When the body had first been discovered, it had been a perplexing case, but now the investigation had twisted and turned into something very sinister. Who had sent the note? Who, after all this time, wanted Albert Johnson to pay for his crime? And what, precisely, was that crime? Karen was starting to think they would never get to the bottom of it.
Once Karen had driven home, DI Morgan returned to the kitchen. His gaze lingered on the spirits he hadn’t yet put away. Gin, whisky and brandy. He was tempted, but turned away and switched on the kettle. They had a big day ahead of them, potentially with hundreds of people to talk to about Oliver Fox and the allegations against him. He needed a clear head.
He’d just spooned some instant coffee into a mug when there was a knock at the front door.
Odd, he thought. It was late. Too late for a neighbour to call by to welcome him to the village.
When he’d got back from work earlier he’d found a little card from his next-door neighbours, welcoming him to his new home. Heighington was a small, sociable village and the people were friendly, although his first introduction to the area hadn’t been particularly pleasant. His first major case in Lincolnshire had been a tough one.
When DI Morgan opened the front door, he saw a face he recognised but couldn’t quite place. ‘Can I help you?’
The man stepped closer to the light coming from the hallway, and DI Morgan’s stomach sank.
‘Hello, Scott. Long time no see, mate,’ he said.
For a while, DI Morgan simply stared at him. Then he finally managed to choke out, ‘How did you find out where I lived?’
He’d moved here today. It didn’t make any sense. How could he have tracked him here?
‘I’m a copper, aren’t I? Finding out things like that is what I’m good at. Aren’t you going to ask me in?’
DI Morgan was tempted to shut the door in his face, but on reflection he thought that wasn’t a good idea. He stood back and opened the door wide.
‘Thanks. It’s a nice place you’ve got here.’
DI Morgan followed his visitor into the living room and folded his arms over his chest. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘That’s no way to greet an old friend.’
But the man standing in front of DI Morgan wasn’t a friend. He was Rob Miller, head of his old unit at Thames Valley Police.
DI Morgan didn’t respond, and just waited for Rob to tell him what he was doing there. He would have a reason for the visit. He always had an ulterior motive.
DI Morgan had managed to bring three of the matching dining-room chairs over in his car, figuring he would get the rest on Saturday. Rob pulled one of the chairs towards him and sat down.
‘I can see you’re busy,’ Rob said, gesturing to the folded boxes on the living room floor. ‘So I’ll get to my point straightaway. I need a favour.’
DI Morgan stared at him blankly.
‘It’s not much. I wouldn’t want you to put yourself out, but I’ve done you favours in the past, and I kept my mouth shut. I saw you in the pub earlier. Was that a colleague you were with?’
DI Morgan nodded once, furious he hadn’t noticed Rob was there, watching. He had let his guard down because he felt comfortable, safe.
‘She seemed nice. I could tell she was an officer straight off. You always can, can’t you?’
DI Morgan said nothing.
‘You probably wouldn’t want her or any of your other colleagues finding out what happened before you left us, would you?’
DI Morgan tensed. ‘I don’t have any secrets, Rob. You can’t blackmail me.’
‘So you’ve already told them what happened, have you?’
He gritted his teeth and stared at the ground.
‘I thought not.’
‘If they want to find out what happened, they can. There’s no way I can stop that.’
‘True, but they probably don’t know what they’re looking for, do they? I suppose I could give them a heads-up, but I didn’t think you would like that very much.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t look at me like that! I’m not going to tell anyone. We’re friends.’
He settled himself in the chair, crossing one leg over the other and resting his right ankle on his left knee. ‘All I need from you is one little favour. It’s not much to ask of a friend, is it?’
‘Get to the point. What do you want, Rob?’
He’d never liked his old unit leader. Rob Miller was an officer who liked to cut corners. He’d chosen a career in the police because it made him feel powerful, not because he wanted to help people.
‘It’s about a woman,’ Rob said. ‘Isn’t that a cliché? But you know what it’s like. Your ex-wife cheated on you, didn’t she? For better or worse, don’t make me laugh! Your missus ran off at the first sign of things getting tough, didn’t she?’
DI Morgan stared at him with intense dislike.
‘Anyway, let’s not get into that. I can see it’s a touchy subject for you. Let’s focus on my problem. It’s my girlfriend. We’ve been going through a rough patch, and she decided to take a job up here with your lot. She’s on civilian staff but works out of Nettleham station. Her name is Louise Jackson. Do you know her? She only started there a couple of weeks ago.’
DI Morgan shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard of her.’
‘Well, I need you to keep an eye on her for me. I just don’t want her making a fool of me, and you know what that’s like, eh?’
‘What exactly do you expect me to do?’
Rob took out his phone and pulled up a photo, turning the screen and showing it to DI Morgan. The photo had been taken at night, and the flash made Louise Jackson look startled. He thought she would be shocked if she knew what Rob was up to right now.
‘I want you to use your considerable detective skills.’ Rob smirked. ‘You won’t find it difficult. All I want to know is where she lives and if she’s seeing anyone else. Just find out those two things and your colleagues won’t hear a dicky bird from me. Have we got a deal?’
He stood up and held out his hand for DI Morgan to shake.
DI Morgan kept his arms folded. ‘Why can’t you do it?’
‘Me? She wouldn’t like that. It would be creepy.’
‘It’s not any less creepy if you get someone else to do it for you. Does she know you’re up here spying on her?’
Rob laughed and put his hands in his pockets. ‘But I’m not the one who’ll be doing the spying. You will.’ Still laughing, he walked past DI Morgan, into the hallway and out of the front door. ‘See you later, Scotty.’
After Rob left, DI Morgan went back to the kitchen, ignored the coffee mug and instead poured himself a large measure of Glenmorangie. As he sipped his drink, he looked out of the window into the dark back garden.
No matter how far he moved, he couldn’t escape the past.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When the alarm went off the following morning, Karen groaned and buried her head in the pillow. A long day stretched ahead of her, and she expected to spend most of it at her desk on the phone, chasing up leads.
She reached for her mobile to silence the alarm and she saw she’d missed a call last night. Sitting up in bed, she looked at the call history. She didn’t recognise the most recent number; it began with the area code for Lincoln. Perhaps it was a telemarketer? It couldn’t be the station. The switchboard had her home number.
; Karen rolled her eyes when she saw she’d somehow pressed the button on the side of the phone to put it on silent. Fortunately, although that button muted calls, it didn’t mute her alarm. She needed to get an early start today and couldn’t afford to oversleep.
She left her phone on the nightstand and headed to the bathroom. Whoever had called would have to wait. It was too early to call back now. Most people would still be sleeping.
Karen finished showering and getting ready, but the missed call niggled at her. By the time she was ready to leave for work, it was just after seven.
She googled the number, expecting the search to come back with a business name, but got nothing. She picked up her mobile and pressed redial. If it was a telemarketer, she would soon find out. There would probably be some kind of recorded message.
The phone rang six or seven times, then an answerphone kicked in.
‘This is William Grant. I can’t take your call right now, but if you leave a message, I’ll get back to you.’
Karen left a brief message explaining she was returning his call, and then hung up. She had a bad feeling. It was still early, and if she’d tried to call anyone else, Karen would simply have assumed they were still in bed. But William Grant had made a point of saying he was up by five a.m. every morning. Was this morning an exception, for some reason? Had he slept in? Or had he gone out? But where would he go this time of the morning?
Maybe he hadn’t heard the phone, or perhaps he’d gone out to get the paper.
Karen worked through the possibilities in her mind as she searched for her keys, but she couldn’t put her worries to rest. She located the keys, grabbed her bag, looped her jacket over her arm and called DI Morgan’s number.
He answered just as she was locking the front door.
‘I missed a call last night from William Grant. He phoned me about ten, but my phone was on silent.’
‘Did he leave a message?’
‘No, and I just called him back and got the answering service. It was quite late for him to phone me. I’m concerned. I was thinking of popping in to see him on my way to work.’