by M. G. Cole
“You’re enjoying the distraction?”
Garrick nodded. “I’m enjoying having a purpose.”
“When did you stop feeling that you had a purpose?”
“Emilie had always made me feeling like that,” he chuckled. “Younger sister, remember. Do you have siblings?” He’d previously noted she didn’t wear a wedding ring and had hated that he’d noticed. Dinosaur. He was laying suspicion on Peter Thorpe’s flirting, when he himself was guilty of it.
“Two brothers. But they feared me,” said answered with confidence.
“I can see why.” He cringed inwardly. Christ, he needed a filter.
Dr Harman possessed the professionalism not to react.
“I’ve already told you this. She was a pain in the arse. I reckon she would have been diagnosed with ADHD if they knew what it was back then. She was always fighting to be the centre of attention, and when she wasn’t, she threw a fit.”
“Like your fish.”
“Yes, my fish.” She had poured a bottle of bleach in his aquarium when he was fourteen, killing his beloved pets. He had punched her in retaliation, which had resulted in him being punished for two months straight. Emilie, as usual, had got away scot-free, and managed to create a division between David and his father that grew with exponential acrimony until the day he had died.
“You still feel it’s her fault?”
“Everything is her fault,” he snapped. “She’s probably responsible for getting herself killed!”
He regretted the words instantly and looked to see if Dr Harman had written anything down. Her pen hovered over the paper, but didn’t make contact.
“I didn’t mean it that way.” He folded his arms tightly, knowing how he would judge a suspect if they had said such things. “I meant she was never a victim. She was always the aggressor.”
“You never did anything wrong?”
“As soon as I was able, I went to university and got away from that toxic household.” And never looked back. “Of course, she left shortly afterwards and our parents blamed me for that too.” He suddenly laughed. “Wow, you really are trying to dig back into my childhood!”
“You brought all of this up.”
“Doctor, with all due respect, this is not helping either of us.”
“What would?”
“My work is helping me. It occupied all my time before Emilie’s death, so it’s only natural when I go back to it, it does the same. That’s no mystery or insight into how my mind works. It’s a distraction, a focused distraction, and if I’m honest I could do with more of them.”
“Have you gone on a date recently?” He looked at her. “You mentioned it in our last session.”
“I haven’t had a chance.”
“Mmmm…”
“But to answer your unspoken question, it probably would help. To be honest, I’m more preoccupied about this.” He tapped his head. “Which I think is a perfectly natural thing to do.”
He had told her about his CAT scan results during their very first meeting. They had discovered a small tumour that was placing a little pressure on his brain. They were sure it was benign. Sure, not certain. It was the cause of his headaches and his consultant had decided that monitoring it to see if it grows would be the best course of action. An MRI was the next step.
“I can only imagine how consuming that is for you.”
“Exactly, hardly the subject of a therapy session. I’m fine. My sister isn’t affecting my work, quite the contrary. So…” He shrugged. “If you want to go home early, I won’t tell.”
The February nights were incrementally becoming a little lighter as the weeks rolled on. It had been dark when Garrick left Dr Harman, who had made sure they used the entire allocated hour, but at least he had missed most rush hour traffic. He rumbled over Wye station’s level crossing and across the swollen Great Stour river, as he entered the village. Window-wipers squealing against the glass, he passed the inviting lights of the Tickled Trout pub. He couldn’t recall when he’d last had a social drink. A non-work related one, that is. Something so normal that he was pining for it.
Wye was a picturesque village of stone houses, possessing an unhurried vibe even during the busy farmer’s market. But there was nothing conventional about the little village that even boasted a Michelin-starred restaurant.
He parked outside the postcard-worthy church, greedily named after two Saints: Saint Gregory and Saint Martin. He pulled his Barbour tighter against the rain as he hurried into the eclectic main Church Street, which boasted several restaurants, an African safari holiday shop, a bakery, and the Pilgrim’s Tale Bookshop. It was approaching seven o’clock, but the lights burned within. John lived on the premises, so kept unconventional hours, only closing up when he was ready to retire to bed.
The bell chimed. A relic of tradition that hung on a metal spiral and vibrated when the opening door caught it. Every space was filled with books. Shelves lined the walls, with every available inch filled with second-hand books. They lay at odd angles, back-to-front, and upside-down. Garrick was certain there was no rhyme or reason to the organisation, yet the owner could find the exact volume he was searching for within seconds. Over the years, John had crammed more free-standing bookcases into the central space to create narrow aisles. Illumination came from several table lamps, the bases of each handcrafted in a variety of Gaudi-like shapes, their light diffused through soft lampshades. Combined with the warmth, and an electric air freshener that issued the scent of burning wood – John had long ago blocked off the fireplace – there was an instant soporific atmosphere.
“David!” John Howard emerged from the recesses of the room wearing a broad grin. “Happy new year!” Despite the hour, John was still wearing a smart black suit jacket, his favourite Ralph Lauren blue polo shirt, and smart jeans. John couldn’t recall seeing him wear anything else.
“It’s almost the middle of February.” Garrick shook his hand. He had a heck of grip for a sixty-something man, but that was what he got for a career in the military. Something he had been keen to put behind him.
“It’s never too late to bestow such wishes. Come!” he gestured to two old armchairs in the corner. They were torn, grubby, and bore the claw marks of a cat long since departed. A red dented metal cashbox was balanced on a small table that doubled as the unconventional till area. They sat and John pulled over a small table with two mugs prepared on it. They were stained brown inside, tide marks from years of careless washing, but Garrick was used to them by now. “Now, clap your tastebuds on this.”
He produced a glass jug from the side. The bottom was filled with tea leaves. A small electric kettle on the floor had come to the boil, and John filled the jug, carefully stirring the contents until the water turned a soft amber colour.
“This is a rather expensive Lapsang Souchong that a rather pleased customer sent me for Christmas.”
He placed the bottom of the jug over Garrick’s cup and pressed down. The water dispensed from the bottom of the jug, ingeniously filtering the tea leaves. John then filled his own cup and watched eagerly as Garrick sipped his.
“It tastes… woody.”
“Oh, you and your powers of descriptive reasoning,” John teased.
“I meant in a good way. A bit of pine… and paprika?”
John nodded encouragingly. “Wine connoisseurs think they have it all, but tea is the choice of emperors.”
Garrick’s eyelids felt heavy, so he was thankful for the caffeine jolt. “I swear you try to frighten off customers with the atmosphere in here.”
John smiled. “Customers only clutter the place up.”
Garrick eyed a nearby table lamp. Like the others in the shop, the base was a twisted sculpture, possibly artistic, but Garrick couldn’t guess what it was supposed to represent. The shade didn’t help, and if it had anything more than a sixty-watt bulb, then he was no detective, and the thin shade smothered the light. “I’m falling asleep already. Why don’t you get some proper lighting?”
&nbs
p; “These lamps are unique! Look at them. Each handcrafted and restored by yours truly.”
Garrick sniggered. “You don’t expect people to actually buy them, do you?”
John treated him to a withering look. “I don’t expect you to recognise art. These are my Mary Lynch collection. And yes, I have a lot of interest in them, thank you very much. Anyway, drink up,” he lifted his own cup, “and bring me news of the world outside.”
Over Christmas, he had gradually told John about his sister and subsequent compassionate leave. He listened without interruption, nodding in understanding, and giving the occasional articulation of horror.
Garrick was comfortable telling his old friend anything, but for some reason he sidestepped the issue of his health. Talking to his psychiatrist about it had actually been draining. His own self-diagnosis told him that the tumour was depressing him more than terrible events surrounding his sister. Instead, he slipped the conversation onto his latest case. John was a bastion of integrity, a holdover from his military service. He’d even won a medal for fighting in the Falklands Conflict in the eighties. Garrick wasn’t savvy to the full detail, but remembered that John saying that he’d been a Royal Marine. When he’d shared details of previously puzzling cases, John had often given him the benefit of his military experience with some impressive insights he had overlooked.
“That first body is intriguing,” John said thoughtfully. “Since Thomas Becket was canonised, that set Canterbury up as an important religious node. Pilgrims came, but they didn’t originally beat the path. After all, 1173 is a drop in the historical ocean. The trail has been here for a long time. Some experts claim the track was an ancient direct pathway all the way from Stonehenge. The Harrow Way, they call it. And it goes back 600 BC. We are talking a colourful history of highwaymen, thieves, Christians and pagans.”
That brought back the image of Trisha anxiously toying with her crucifix. John stood and disappeared into the depth of his store, still talking.
“Pilgrims were often targets for unscrupulous bandits…” He returned with a thin, red-bound book that had seen better days. He handed it to Garrick. “These are more tales of terror about gruesome deaths over the centuries. The whole of the Downs is steep in ghostly stories.”
Garrick flicked through the yellowing pages. The typeface was small and far from ideal for reading in the dim light. The chapter titles told him all he needed to know: the beheadings of the lost souls or midnight bandits. John sat opposite with a larger back tome of superior antiquity on his lap. He began leafing through.
“Speaking of pagans, they had some interesting views. We’ve just had Valentine’s day.” That had, as usual, passed Garrick by. He’d long ignored the card industry’s fight to sell overpriced tat to foolish lovers. “Well, some scholars think that Valentine’s day was in fact the eve of a more serious and carnal festival called Lupercalia. It sounds quite splendid to me.” He ran a finger down the page, picking out the pertinent points. “It took place in Rome and involved the ritual sacrifice of goats. It was followed by a feast in which naked men would prowl the streets lashing women, who begged for it, believing the lashes would bring fertility. They’d eat, drink, and pull the names of women from a jar, and have to have sex with them all night.” He peered over the edge of the book and smirked at Garrick. “Could you imagine that here? Half the residents of Wye would die of heart attacks on the spot.” He continued reading. “Ah, this is what rang a bell. In celebration, they would strip skin from the goats. They called it februa.”
“The day after Valentine’s day? That’s the fifteenth. That’s when the girl was found.”
John closed the book and placed it on his lap. “Really? Now that is fascinating.” He looked thoughtful. “You said the other girl was killed in November. I don’t recall any similar practises, but I will have a think.” He patted the tome. “Of course you are welcome to say and read.”
John was incredibly hospitable, but that stopped short of lending people books. Garrick had once asked him and received a withering reply: “I am not a library!” Since then, he knew best not to ask.
“I may well do,” he answered thoughtfully, although he hoped that there was no religious aspect to the killings, that always complicated things.
They rounded off another forty minutes idly chatting about how few people now ventured into the Pilgrim’s Tale, but the online trade was starting to beat his best days of bricks and mortar trade. He was becoming something of detective himself, locating rare and esoteric books for keen collectors.
Eventually, John found the book Garrick had ordered. It was a detailed text on how to carve fossils from the surrounding rock, and a quick thumb-through satisfied him that it was already better than the few YouTube videos he had been using as a reference.
John showed him to the door, casually mentioning some recent trouble they’d had with a group of travellers.
“Bloody gypsies, pitching up wherever they want. It had the Parish Council up in arms before they moved on to Hawkinge. Did you know origin of gypsies comes from northern India? This lot are Travellers.” He made air quotes with his fingers. “Except they don’t do much travelling when they settle down for weeks and shit on everyone’s lawns.”
Thrusting his book under his jacket to protect it from the rain, Garrick hurried to his car, his mind racing. The pagan element was intriguing, but he was sure it was coincidental. While the first girl had been identified as an immigrant, that did not necessarily mean their new Jane Doe was. Garrick had encountered Travelling communities several times during his career. Some were of Irish stock, but others were distinctly of Romani origin. Was it possible the girl came from there?
7
Garrick had planned to look into his Romani theory the very next day, but the morning tsunami of information had placed many plans on hold. It had started with PC Harry Lord bringing in a grease-stained paper bag filled with hot bacon sandwiches that he had bought from a food truck. Handing them out, he declared that it was his birthday present to the team – which resulted in a hastily organised round of drinks scheduled for the end of the day.
It tasted like heaven in Garrick’s mouth. It had been far too long since he’d eaten from a butty van. In his view, it was the only thing Britain really had that classed as traditional street food.
Then came PC Fanta Liu’s announcement that she had found Jane Doe on the footage they’d finally received from the Truckstop. She played it through a TV mounted next to the sparse evidence wall.
The restaurant had one camera inside, positioned to cover the serving area. It didn’t capture the entrance, but they watched the girl enter the frame as she headed straight to the counter, and started talking to Peter Thorpe. The quality wasn’t terrific. Her face was not in focus, but the clothing matched. She pulled something from her pocket and offered it to him. He motioned for her to put it away. Then she turned to presumably sit at a table, unfortunately just out of the range of the camera. Thirty seconds later, Peter cut across the image carrying a tray with food and a drink, and disappeared as he served her. A minute later he returned behind the counter.
“Just as he said.” Chib tapped Fanta on the shoulder. She was controlling the footage from a laptop. “Anything of her coming in?”
Fanta brightened, almost bouncing in her seat with excitement. “Oh, yes. And much better than that. I was up late doing a little video editing.”
Garrick smiled to himself. Back in the day, that would have required a team of specialists grinding through VHS tapes for a whole day. Now, PC Liu could do it all on her laptop.
The TV screen switched to a copy of Fanta’s laptop desktop as she juggled files. She found the one she wanted and double clicked it. The new footage was taken from an angle opposite the restaurant, at the other end of the floodlit carpark. The girl could been seen entering the building. Once again the image quality wasn’t good enough to make out a face, but when she walked through pools of light, the clothing matched. The time code read 22:24
.
“Once I had her entering the restaurant, it was easy enough to backtrack her movements. As you can see, the image quality is rubbish.”
The camera changed to another angle, this time from the site’s single entrance gate. The girl entered the site on foot, keeping to the side as several lorries passed her and took up the few remaining vacant parking spots. She didn’t turn left for the food area, instead she cut across the carpark, looking at something in her hand.”
“What’s she looking at? A note or a phone?”
There was the subtlest hint of light on her distant face.
“It’s a phone,” said Garrick. “Did they find one on her?”
Chib scrolled through the forensic report. “No.”
They watched as the girl walked along the line of lorries, then stopped at one at the far end, parked to face the main building. She seemed to compare it with her phone, then walked around to the passenger side door. It opened, and she climbed inside, pulled the door closed behind her.
“Then we jump thirty-six minutes and she leaves the truck and heads to the restaurant.”
The image jumped, the time code now read 23:04 as she exited the truck and hurried to the restaurant, head bowed against the rain.
“It was another thirty-two minutes before she left and walked out of the park, back the way she came.” The image jumped to match Fanta’s narration. On the way out, the girl was fixed on her phone.
“How did she get from Ashford to Folkestone? It’s a good fifteen miles. Is she calling somebody? A pimp? A friend?”
Fanta shrugged. “We don’t have anything beyond this. There is a McDonald’s in the Orbital Retail Park, opposite the roundabout that accesses the park. And a Jaguar showroom which will have cameras.”
“We need access to them this morning.”
“Can anybody make out the lorry’s registration?” Garrick asked.
“It left at six-sixteen in the morning,” Fanta reported with a proud grin. “And the ANPR picked it all up. I have the details.” She switched the screen, so the video was replaced with an image of the licence plate. “It’s Romanian. A haulier for TransServio, a small company based in Bucharest.”