Somebody's Daughter

by Carol Wyer

  Natalie waited for the hissing milk to froth in her cup and the ‘remove cup’ sign to flash. The top-of-the-range coffee machine was a departmental present from Dan, but given it relied on capsules nobody remembered to purchase, it was more often than not overlooked in favour of the coffee shop a street away. However, today, a box of capsules had been left on the top, and seeing them there, Natalie had helped herself.

  The coffee was too hot to drink so she carried it from the small staffroom, occupied mostly by the personnel who manned the front desk, and meandered into the hallway. Raised voices drifted from reception. ‘I don’t want to talk to you. I want to talk to the lead officer on the investigation.’

  ‘I’m afraid DI Carmichael isn’t in at the moment and there’s no reply from her team’s office phone. Let me take your name and contact details and one of them will ring you back shortly.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t matter. Forget it. I’ll maybe call back later.’

  ‘Please, give me your details…’

  The officer’s words were drowned out by the clattering of heels, and a woman in her mid-fifties, dressed in a shiny silver ski jacket, trousers and knee-high boots, strode from the room.

  Natalie stopped her. ‘Can I help you at all?’

  The woman spun around. ‘I wanted to pass on some information I thought might be useful to the team investigating the death of a teenager in Prince’s Park, but there’s nobody here who can talk to me other than the person on the desk.’

  Natalie approached and held out her free hand. ‘I’m DCI Ward. I oversee the team. Maybe I can be of assistance.’

  The woman tucked her handbag under her arm. ‘I don’t want to waste your time. My friend said it probably wasn’t important but I still thought I should let you know what we saw.’

  ‘Come and join me in my office. You can tell me what you saw. Would you like a coffee or tea or anything?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  Natalie waved her into the room and sat opposite her. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Jenny Barchester.’

  ‘Well then, Jenny, what did you see?’

  ‘It was Saturday mid-morning. My friend Katarina and I were walking through the park when we spotted a girl, the girl who was killed in the park, in front of the public toilets with a man who kept trying to grab her hand. It was the look on her face that concerned me. My friend agreed she looked scared and I had to do something. I asked if he was bothering her, and although she didn’t say anything, it was obvious she was upset by his presence. I threatened to ring the police and he took off straight away.’

  ‘Are you sure it was the same girl?’

  ‘I saw her photograph in the newspaper yesterday. It was definitely her. I checked with Katarina. She didn’t think it was relevant but I slept on it last night and thought you ought to know.’

  ‘I’m glad you told us.’

  The woman’s shoulders relaxed at Natalie’s response.

  ‘Can you describe this man?’

  ‘Not in any great detail. I was drawn more to the girl because she looked anxious and frightened.’

  ‘Did he have frizzy hair?’

  ‘I don’t know if it was frizzy. He wore a beanie hat. It was definitely long though. Shoulder-length.’

  ‘What about an earring, a large one in his left lobe?’

  ‘No. He didn’t have an earring.’

  ‘What about his clothes? Can you describe what he was wearing?’

  ‘His coat was ripped and grubby, and he wore a faded scarf. To be honest he looked like a vagrant.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can remember?’

  ‘His eyes. They were an unusual colour blue, like bright sapphires.’

  Lucy had stopped by Prince’s Park and walked towards the toilets, out of bounds, with crime scene tape across both doors. She slipped on plastic gloves and opened the door to the gents’. Standing in the room, toilet at one end and sink at the other, she shut her eyes and tried to replay the horror that might well have unfolded here. The door lock would have ensured privacy and allowed Eugene to perform his debased actions without fear of interruption. Anyone outside would have heard cries or screams had Katie called out for him to stop. Had somebody heard her? She stepped back out into the fresh air, aware all the muscles in her face had tightened. The phone call was a welcome interlude, the voice that spoke a surprise.

  ‘DI Carmichael. This is Dee Neilson. You’ve been trying to reach me. I’m sorry, I was in hospital for a minor procedure and unable to take any calls.’

  ‘Thank you for getting back to me. I wanted to talk about Katie Bray again. You left a message on the Brays’ Facebook page.’

  ‘Yes. I saw her. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘You spoke to DS Andy Foxton last time, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did. I told him what I saw.’

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard the news recently, but I’m sorry to tell you Katie has been found dead.’

  There was a stunned pause. ‘I had no idea. How awful. I only got home a few minutes ago and answered your call immediately. The poor girl.’

  ‘You told DS Foxton you’d seen Katie on Marston Street with a tall man older than her, with long, frizzy hair.’

  ‘Long not frizzy.’

  ‘You didn’t tell DS Foxton it was frizzy?’

  Her reply was a hesitant, ‘No. I definitely said long. His hair was mostly covered by a beanie hat. I wouldn’t have been able to tell if it was frizzy or not.’

  ‘Did the man have a large earring in his left lobe?’

  ‘No. He didn’t.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was he wearing at the time?’

  ‘A scruffy coat, scarf and boots.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell me about him?’

  ‘Sorry, no. DS Foxton seemed to know who he was. He thought it might have been Katie’s boyfriend but I thought he looked too old for her.’

  ‘How old do you think he was?’

  ‘He looked about forty but it was difficult to tell with his unshaven face.’

  ‘Were there any distinguishing features, tattoos, piercings?’

  ‘Nothing I can think of.’

  ‘Thank you again for ringing me. I might need to ask for your help again.’

  ‘Any time. I’ll be at home for the next week or two. I can’t go far.’

  The call over, Lucy didn’t waste time ringing Natalie.

  ‘I think I’ve had a breakthrough. Dee Neilson probably didn’t see Katie with Tommy in Marston Street as we first thought. The man she saw her with was older, had long hair and had no earring.’

  ‘Did he wear a beanie hat?’

  ‘Yes, how did you know?’

  ‘I think we’ve both had breakthroughs. Another woman saw Katie near the toilets with an older man, one who looked like a vagrant and had unusual blue eyes. Lucy, I think we need to pull in Rob Yeomans.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Then

  The captioned photographs are on Facebook. There he is, flat on his back, his genitals exposed, and his comrades, masks covering their faces, pointing guns at his head. He is disgusted by how weak he looks. He is no hero. His insides turn liquid with the shame of it all. There are other photographs too that rattle his self-confidence further, and although they share the same accommodation and are in the same regiment, he despises the men he once held in regard. They are no more than bullies.

  Whitey is laughing at his dismay. ‘It was only a bit of fun. You should grow a pair… actually, looking at that photo, you really should grow a pair. They look like hazelnuts not plums!’ Laughter explodes in the room.

  The banter has gone from gentle to downright abusive. The last two days have been hellish and still he’s remained silent. He could take this to the sergeant major or to someone higher in the chain of command and launch an official complaint, but he knows it will only serve to do him further harm. He signed up for four year
s and he will have to share his life with these men, maybe face serious conflicts with them by his side, and he can’t alienate them. The best he can hope for is they will eventually let the whole thing drop. Whitey’s had his revenge.

  Once the laughter dies away, Whitey sits on his bed and gives a smile. His voice drops conspiratorially. ‘Got a bit of bad news for you, mate. While I was online at the Internet café, I also messaged Felicity. Told her you’d been getting it on with a female squaddie here and I was sorry to be the one to break the news. She was pretty shaken by it.’

  ‘She won’t believe you.’

  ‘I’m afraid she already does. I sent her a photo of you and the bitch, Lorna. You might have a job explaining it. Actually, I don’t think she wants to hear any explanation, not after what I told her you and Lorna have been doing.’

  He knows how Felicity will interpret the photograph. He has his arms around Lorna, his face against her neck. Whitey’s right in his face, eyes blazing, spittle on his chin. He balls his fists, his nails digging into his fleshy palms. He forces them in deeper, hoping the pain will distract him from the anger and mental trauma he is experiencing, and the physical pain will drag him back to the present. He doesn’t reply. Whitey goads him further. ‘Didn’t realise you fancied Lorna too, mate. Was that the real reason you butted in when you did, eh? Did you fancy a piece of her? Should have said. We both could have had a go at her. Still, you probably wouldn’t have been able to, given you’re nothing more than a bum boy. You probably won’t be able to get it up again for another woman now you’ve experienced real men.’

  ‘You fucker,’ he growls.

  ‘Careful! We have plenty of witnesses if you assault me.’

  He drops his fists. How is he going to resolve this? He’ll not only have to tell Felicity about Whitey attacking Lorna but then tell her about the bullying, being bound and raped by the men in his troop. Even if she believes him, she’ll never look at him in the same way, or be proud of her man. She’s seen these photographs, realised he’s weak and despised by his comrades. His world is collapsing.

  The door opens suddenly. ‘On your feet and outside on the double!’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant!’

  They zoom about to get ready, scattering to various lockers, reaching for boots, camouflage helmets and rifles before racing outside to join the others in the regiment. Whitey hasn’t finished with him. ‘Thought I might invite Felicity out myself. She seems keen to meet me.’ Whitey shoves him hard and he falls against the nearest locker. ‘Oops!’

  ‘You fucker!’ he begins but it’s too late, Whitey is on his way out to join the others. He hares after him and takes his place. He is last to arrive and it is noted. The sergeant major eyeballs him coldly.

  ‘I know it’s the final day of the training course, but if you thought you were going to have a nice day off to do your packing and buy your duty free, then you were sadly mistaken.’ The comment, directed at him, raises low laughter and all eyes turn towards him. Their disdain is tangible and he wants to shrink from view. The sergeant major lets him squirm before saying, ‘Last day, final exercise. Give it your all. You’ll receive full instructions once you are on route. Into the vehicles!’

  He races for the second truck and clambers on board, sitting on the bench that runs the length of the vehicle. Whitey, who’s made for the same vehicle, sits opposite him and grins – a cocky, know-it-all, fuck you look, causing the anger in his chest to expand, and he fights with everything he’s got to control it. Whitey stares at him, no doubt hoping he’ll crack and go for him. The others opposite him cotton on to the staring match and nudge each other and give sly grins. Not one of them will speak out for him. They’re hoping he’ll attack Whitey, then they’ll all join in and kick the shit out of him. The truck lurches away from the military base, through the town in the direction of Mount Kenya, where many of the exercises have taken place. Locals barely look in their direction as they ramble past. Soldiers and vehicles are a familiar sight in this area.

  He sways in synchronised movement with the truck as it rumbles along the road. What could he possibly say to Felicity to make her understand she’s been fed lies? How can he ever win back her respect, and how can he stop Whitey from making a move on her? They’re on the outskirts of town when the truck lurches to the left, throwing him to the floor at Whitey’s feet. His ears ring from the explosion and he shakes his head to clear the sound, to no avail. The other soldiers shake themselves and rise to their feet. He is the first to clamber from the vehicle and takes in the sight. The first vehicle is in flames, bodies strewn across the road.

  He moves among the ruined faces, sightless eyes and ripped limbs.

  He sees Lorna, blond hair undone from its clips, face bloody. He drops his rifle and bends beside her. ‘Help… me.’

  Her words die on her lips. Her eyes grow glassy and he can do no more than hold her hand and whisper, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  The emotion of the last few days engulfs and begins to suffocate him. His body shudders as he’s overcome by violent, body-shaking sobs, and Whitey, who’s observed the scene, turns away, a half-smile on his face.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Tuesday, 5 November – Early Evening

  It was almost six thirty and Lucy had recalled everyone to Holborn House. The tech staff had given her sufficient basic information about Rob for her to brief the team. They’d gathered again in the office, a group of grey-faced individuals in need of a good meal, a shower and sleep.

  Lucy emerged from her office, a renewed sense of purpose bouncing her across the carpet to a screen fixed to the wall, the modern-day equivalent of a whiteboard. Lifting the control, she pressed the ‘on’ button and a photograph appeared of a young man in military apparel, fresh-faced, sandy-haired, hands behind his back, head high for the camera.

  ‘We have a new person of interest: thirty-year-old Rob Yeomans, of no fixed address, Samford. He was born in October 1989 and raised in Derby. His father, sixty-two-year-old Jay Yeomans, an ex-fireman, still lives there at 28 Ramsdown Way. His mother, Una Yeomans, passed away in 2008. He joined the army in 2009 but was granted a medical discharge in 2010, and two years later, in 2012, was sectioned under the Mental Health Act. He spent two years as a regular outpatient at Swanley Clinic in Derby. Between 2014 and 2016, he lived with his father in Ramsdown Way and had several jobs, none of which lasted longer than three weeks.

  ‘Rob came to us at the beginning of this investigation as a witness. We had no reason to suspect him at the time; since then, he was spotted with Katie Bray, and although Dee Neilson hasn’t confirmed it, we believe a couple of weeks ago she also saw him with Katie on Marston Street.’

  ‘I thought she saw Katie with Tommy,’ said Andy, arms folded, face set.

  Lucy shook her head. ‘She saw a man with long hair in a beanie hat who definitely didn’t have an earring.’

  ‘She told me he had frizzy hair. She never mentioned a fucking beanie hat! She described Tommy to me.’ Andy’s voice rose in indignation. He cast about the room but was ignored by the others.

  Lucy brushed over it. ‘Now isn’t the time to discuss this, Andy. We need to find this man. I’ll visit Jay Yeomans to get further information on Rob and a more recent photograph to show Dee and our other witness, Jenny, to confirm it was actually him they saw with Katie. When we questioned him last, he assured us he never left town and could be found dossing under Samford Bridge, or at one of the homeless shelters. Try them all. I don’t know who we’re dealing with here, whether or not he gave us false information regarding Amelia and Tommy to cover his own back, or what. However, if he is the killer, he is cunning, military-trained and ruthless, so be wary and take care, people. If he knows we’re onto him, he might try and do a runner or become aggressive. Murray and Celeste, try the bridge and the shelters. Ian and Andy, the homeless drop-in centres, streets and parks. All of us are to remain in contact, and if you find him, approach with care.’

  Andy and Ian were first out of th
e door. Natalie reached for her phone to let Josh know she wouldn’t be home for a while and noticed for the first time the flashing message icon. Ringing the answerphone service, she listened to the breathless, garbled message and decided to call Bev back. The phone rang out. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have worried about such matters, but Bev had sounded cornered and confused before her usual bravado had kicked in. She grabbed hold of one of the technical crew who was passing by and gave him Bev’s number.

  ‘Run a quick check on this phone for me, see who called it recently.’

  ‘Sure.’ He trotted off, leaving Natalie in the now empty hall. She couldn’t look for Rob until she knew for certain Bev was safe. Someone who might have been the killer had accused the journalist of being as guilty as the others, which gave Natalie cause for concern. As much as she disliked the woman, she didn’t want her to become another victim.

  She crossed the hall, a chess piece moving across the black-and-white layout of tiles, and paused on a white square while she dialled Josh’s number. She listened for his voice, then moved to an adjacent black tile when she heard the recorded message and instantly recalled the text from Josh – he’d gone to the library. She left a message to say she’d be late and hoped the assignment was going well and ended with, ‘Love you.’ A vision of Leigh floated before her eyes and she moved two squares closer to the front door, where she tried Bev’s number again with the same result – answering service. It was no use. She couldn’t shake off the feeling Bev was in trouble. With quick strides, she returned to her office. There was a slim chance one of the reporters would still be at work.