SHADOW CRIMES a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by MICHAEL HAMBLING

  * * *

  The mysterious BMW belonged to Liam Fenners, resident of a corner house that backed onto the parking area where the car had been left the night before. According to the DVLC, he’d bought it second-hand two years previously, and the license, insurance and MOT certificate were all up to date.

  ‘Find out what you can about him, Tommy. It might give us another lead. We got nowhere last night, so we dearly need another angle if we hope to find Andrea before it’s too late.’ The Weymouth detective Sophie was addressing, had seemed slightly dozy the previous day, and no wonder. Like the rest of the local team, he’d worked long hours since Andrea’s disappearance had been confirmed. The squad were shaping up well.

  Appearing in the doorway, Barry Marsh shook his head in response to her look of enquiry. ‘None of the search teams came up with anything,’ he said. ‘They were out until midnight, knocking on doors and looking around likely spots in the town. Not a sign of her anywhere. Nothing from any of the neighbours in her block either, which is a bit strange. Two of them say they often spot her on her way in and out, but neither has seen her since Monday evening. As far as I can see, there’s three possible explanations. She’s done a runner, maybe abroad. She’s been abducted and is a prisoner somewhere. Or she’s dead. Take your pick. I haven’t mentioned that last one to any of the locals, by the way, but they all know it’s a possibility. What do we do now?’

  Sophie thought for a few moments. ‘Once Tommy’s got the background on this Fenners guy, we’ll go back to his place and have a look around. Then we’ll pay him a visit, either at home or where he works. I’ll need to call Rae first to see how she and Ameera are getting on with analysing all the computer stuff. It would be a good idea if you and I could find the time to go back to Andrea’s flat. Maybe before seeing Fenners? Forensics will have just about finished, so it’s time we got a feel for the place. Maybe there’s something there that might give us a clue as to where she is.’

  It didn’t take long for Tommy Carter to find some basic information on Fenners. He worked as a general labourer at the local docks and lived with his wife and two teenage children, a fifteen-year-old daughter, Kerry, and Danny, who was thirteen. Having listened to Carter’s report, Sophie and Barry left the station.

  The rooms of the flat were tidier than on Sophie’s previous visit. All Andrea’s belongings had been tidied away, although probably not in the right places. They walked quickly from room to room, looking around as they went, absorbing the atmosphere of Andrea’s home and getting a feel for the kind of person she was when off duty. They followed this with a detailed search, in the unlikely hope that they might spot something that would yield a vital clue to Andrea’s whereabouts. Sophie examined the framed photographs, turning them over to check for writing on the rear, but to no avail. They mainly featured Andrea in a variety of sunny, holiday settings.

  Again, the paintings caught Sophie’s attention. ‘Do these look Mediterranean to you, Barry?’

  He looked over her shoulder. ‘It’s possible. They could be Spanish. Or maybe Italian?’

  The prints showed coastal views, blue sea and sky, often forming a backdrop to crumbly, sun-bleached villas.

  Sophie looked through the contents of a book cupboard. There were few books in it, but it did have an old scrapbook in the corner, so she took it across to the window to get a better look. She turned the pages slowly.

  ‘She was a convent girl. It’s a scrapbook of a school trip to Spain that she went on. Look. She won a prize for it.’

  Barry came across and peered at the handwritten diary entries, sketches, maps, extracts from pamphlets and a few faded photos. The prize certificate was stuck to the inside cover page. “Andrea Ford, Form 5C. First Prize.” The citation read: “Well done, Andrea. This is such a lovely piece of work. The trip obviously meant a great deal to you and shows that you can do excellent work when you try.”

  ‘Well, maybe that tells us something, don’t you think?’ Sophie said. ‘Does it imply that she was usually a bit half-hearted about her school work?’

  Barry shrugged again. ‘That applies to half the population, doesn’t it? It summed up my school years, anyway.’

  ‘But you work like stink now. I can’t say the same for Andrea, going by what we’ve found out about her. She was a good bit older than you but still a DC. Why didn’t she ever get promotion? Didn’t she want it, or didn’t she ever show the aptitude? Listen, Barry, when we get back can you follow up on that? You won’t find the full reason in her personnel record, but a couple of off-the-record chats with her ex-bosses might give us the answer.’

  Andrea’s main bedroom was furnished in a sumptuous deep red, giving it a feel that was both welcoming and slightly exotic. Sophie recognised the style — that of a woman looking to impress her boyfriend. Or boyfriends. She looked through the wardrobe, and then tackled the drawers. Most of the clothes were as Sophie expected, but with a few more upmarket dresses and some very pretty lingerie.

  Barry was searching the kitchen, examining the contents of each cupboard. He came across two matching cups with Spanish images stamped on the front. From the cutlery drawer, he pulled out a sugar spoon with a Costa Del Sol handle.

  ‘Ma’am! More Spanish stuff,’ he called out.

  Sophie stood for a moment, and then returned to the wardrobe, pulling out a flamenco style dress that she’d glanced at earlier. The label showed it to be made in Spain. She then opened one of the bedside drawers. A couple of well-thumbed travel booklets for the south of Spain lay inside. It looked very much as though Andrea had paid several visits to Spain in recent years. Probably not relevant to her disappearance, but useful background.

  The second bedroom was evidently used as guest accommodation, and was decorated in a more neutral style. The cupboards were largely empty. A small bureau stood in one corner, and in the drawer Sophie found Andrea’s passport and various other travel related documents. She flipped through this paperwork but there was little of obvious interest.

  She took another walk around the flat. There was no evidence of children ever having stayed there. No toys, no reading material for youngsters, no DVDs of children’s films. They already knew that Andrea had no children of her own, but it also looked as though she rarely, if ever, had young relatives to stay. Not unless they brought their own toys and reading matter. She looked at her watch. Time they were on their way.

  They left the flat and retraced their route of the previous night, when they were on the trail of the black saloon. They found it still sitting in the same parking area. Sophie decided to have a few words with the house occupants if they were in, and left Barry in the car.

  The small house was an end of terrace with a front and side gate both set in overgrown hedges and both decidedly rickety. The garden was untidy and infested with weeds. Sophie made her way to the front door.

  Chapter 12: Prison Visits

  Wednesday

  Lydia Pillay and Jimmy Melsom were heading across the rolling countryside south of Shaftesbury to Guys Marsh prison. They’d spent the morning at Portland, speaking to senior staff about the realities prison governors confronted in the current climate, and the problems they had in attempting to counter the smuggling that was rife.

  The governors’ main concerns were drugs, weapons and miniature mobile phones. ‘Drugs provide an escape from the harsh daily reality,’ one Portland officer had told them. ‘That’s how the prisoners view them. But the mental health problems they create are horrendous. And if they go berserk when they’ve got a weapon on them, even if it’s homemade, the resulting injuries can be dreadful. Our fight against the smuggling is never-ending, and we’re hampered by staffing shortages and a lack of resources. The mobile phones are a real issue. Without them, the smuggling would be a lot harder to arrange. These latest miniature ones are a pig to deal with.’

  ‘How’s the stuff coming in?’ Lydia had asked.

  ‘Well, the old-fashioned methods were to get the stuff direct from visitors
, or it was chucked over the perimeter. But these days drones are the problem. It’s unbelievable what they can do. They’re fitted with cameras and the operator can see exactly where they’re going. They can direct the things to within a yard or so of a target.’ The officer paused. ‘Course, all these problems started with the budget cuts and the drop in staff numbers.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  The drive north east to Guys Marsh passed largely in silence. The prison staff’s description of the difficulties they faced had been sobering, and their dedication impressive. They often worked in extremely challenging circumstances, and there was no doubt that the prison was under intense strain. Would Guys Marsh be any different?

  The answer was no. A different prison, but facing the same problems: overcrowding, under-resourcing and overworked staff. Psychotic drugs, mainly so-called legal highs, were freely available, smuggled in by all kinds of circuitous routes. Debt among prisoners. The bullying and assaults resulted in many prisoners living in constant fear.

  If the smuggling chains could somehow be broken, the atmosphere within Dorset’s prisons would improve. But who was behind it? Whoever it was, it must be a highly lucrative operation. The people at the top of the smuggling gangs would be raking in the cash. Surely this would show up in someone’s financial records, wouldn’t it, once they had a few names to work with?

  Jimmy spent most of the drive back to Bournemouth staring gloomily out of the window. Finally he said, ‘They’re such depressing places, aren’t they, boss? Remind me never to end up in one.’

  Lydia laughed. ‘Why, were you considering it? Bloody hell, Jimmy, I just can’t imagine you in a place like that. It would just about finish you off.’

  ‘By the way, did you get anything out of the deputy governor at Portland about the dead guy, Quigley?’

  ‘Yes, though he was a bit reluctant to say much. Understandable, I suppose. But there was a cloud of suspicion hanging over Quigley. The thing is, we’ve been given an idea of how this stuff gets smuggled in, but there’s always been an additional problem of bent staff turning a blind eye in return for cash. No one wants to talk about it to outsiders like us, but even though the numbers will likely be small, it has an effect. I reckon Quigley was on the make. We have strong suspicions but no proof. You know what we need to do now, don’t you? My favourite phrase?’

  Jimmy looked blank for a while, then brightened. ‘Follow the money?’

  ‘Dead right. You know, the boss was right about my two years with the fraud unit. It’s proved invaluable.’

  ‘Oh. That boss. Didn’t you say you’d bumped into her a couple of days ago?’

  They approached a roundabout and Lydia changed down a gear. ‘That’s right. It was weird the way it happened. Anyway, she’s offered us full support because our two cases overlap. So we’re kind of back working for her again. Just like old times, Jimmy, when we were both rookie detectives with a lot to learn.’

  Jimmy said nothing. He had mixed feelings about Sophie Allen, caused partly by his belief that he hadn’t shaped up to her exacting standards. The problem was, she liked people who were real quick thinkers, like Lydia and that Rae Gregson. And Jimmy knew that he wasn’t in their league, not in terms of coming up with ideas. He was a plodder, a grafter, someone who needed to be told what to do. Once he had a clear set of instructions to follow, he’d work like stink and get the results. Oh well. Not to worry. He was happy enough working in the Bournemouth CID unit and he admired his senior officer, Kevin McGreedie. Good bloke, even if he did support Arsenal.

  * * *

  Lydia was busy working on her weekly report on the prison smuggling problem. This was required by the chief constable’s office. Not that the chief herself had demanded it, it was a Home Office diktat, driven by the peculiarly British practice of never trusting public employees to just get on with their jobs.

  Her boss, Kevin McGreedie, walked into the room. ‘Worthwhile visits?’

  ‘Well, yes, although it didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know. But it was good to see the issues in real life. It’s utterly different reading about these things and then seeing the effects being played out in front of you. You see the stresses and strains. We wondered how the staff coped and kept their sanity, but then they probably think the same about us.’ She paused. ‘Did you want to see me about something in particular, boss?’

  ‘I just want you to be extra careful, Lydia. What with Quigley’s murder and Andrea Ford going missing, we need to reinforce all our precautions. Log all risks when you, Jimmy or anyone else is out on a visit. No one goes out alone, and all details are checked with me beforehand. Okay?’

  Lydia frowned. ‘But I always do, boss. You know that.’

  ‘Yes, I know you do, but it’s now official. Jimmy needs to know as well. Sophie Allen’s been on the phone. She seems to think things could get nastier. Christ. It’s like bloody warfare.’

  Lydia could sense that he was still feeling down.

  ‘Well, at least I’m starting to make headway, boss. I’ve got a few useful leads to follow up. Jimmy’s on one now. But there’s something else.’

  Kevin waited, eyebrows raised. Finally, she said, ‘We’ve been given this job because we have two prisons on our patch, in Dorset I mean. But I’ve been talking to my opposite numbers in Wiltshire and Hampshire. The problems are exactly the same, of course, and we’re sharing useful info. But it makes me think. What if this isn’t just a local problem? What if the organisers of all this smuggling are spread across a whole region? Maybe the gang doing our prisons is also operating in Winchester and Devizes, and others besides. The amounts of money involved must be enormous. Someone is making a lot of dosh out of this. It’s almost a military operation. Okay, there may be some small-scale operators getting stuff in to family members and pals that are locked up, but a lot of it looks third party. That ties in with what’s happened to Quigley and Andrea. Maybe they thought they were dealing with small fry, but they weren’t. They trod on some fairly significant toes, serious heavyweights who didn’t like the thought of their operations being upset. The whole process, boss, none of it is amateurish. It’s slick and smooth running. It might even be a group that’s operating on a national scale.’

  ‘Heaven forbid,’ Kevin said.

  ‘Nevertheless, we have to consider it. Here we all are, blundering around in our local areas just like the Home Office asked, but all we might be doing is scratching the surface. If so, it’ll be like a hydra. We cut off a head in one locality and it’ll just grow another somewhere else.’

  ‘So, what do you suggest we do?’

  ‘Well, I’m too junior to have any clout with the Home Office. But someone on high might have more influence. Sophie Allen’s running this murder and missing person enquiry so she’s too busy, but what about her boss, the DCS? Would he be able to stir up some interest?’

  ‘Leave it with me. I’ll keep you posted.’ Kevin stopped at the door, turned and said quietly, ‘Lydia, you never fail to impress me. Great thinking.’

  Chapter 13: Danny Fenners

  Wednesday

  What do you do when your dad’s a crook, your mum’s always drunk and your older sister makes a bit of extra cash at school by allowing boys to feel her breasts at a pound a go?

  Thirteen-year-old Danny Fenners had spent countless hours pondering such questions, often lying awake late into the night. He just wished his family was normal, like the ones he saw on TV. In those normal families the parents were mostly happy and only had a few rows, meals were prepared in a proper kitchen and were eaten at normal times around a table, people talked to each other about things, instead of shouting and screaming abuse, doors were opened and closed quietly instead of being hurled open and slammed shut in a rage. If only he had a family where he wouldn’t feel the need to hide away from his parents and the constant threat of violence simmering just under the surface.

  Danny kept a secret diary, hidden in an old biscuit tin stashed behind a pile of jumper
s on the top shelf of the wardrobe in his bedroom. Not that he really needed to keep it so well hidden. His parents showed little interest in him or his possessions, and much of the time he was left to fend for himself. It wasn’t a proper diary, he knew that. He didn’t write stuff in it every day, just when an idea struck him, or when he needed to let off steam. It was mostly his hopes and dreams, interspersed with entries that recorded the harsh realities of his home life. He also wrote down some of the things his granddad told him.

  His grandad was the person he loved most in the world. Old Charlie Bailey was a man of integrity. He’d even explained to Danny what the word integrity meant, and why he was proud to describe himself in those terms. Danny wasn’t entirely sure he fully understood, but he did know that his grandad led a well-ordered existence in his little retirement bungalow, a five-minute walk away from the perpetual chaos of Danny’s home. How had this man of integrity managed to father a sluttish woman like his mum? Danny often wondered about this. But he knew the expression “black sheep,” and had seen how the rest of the Bailey family kept her very much at a distance. His aunts and uncles seemed fairly normal, and Danny was perceptive enough to realise that they all kept their eye on him, even if from afar. His Uncle Jim, some kind of engineer, talked to him about the importance of education, and his Aunt Joyce always asked about his health. She told him about hygiene and why he should keep himself clean. He knew why she said it — the Fenners’ house always looked as if a herd of warthogs had just been on the rampage through it. Danny was proud of that comparison. He’d invented it himself for an essay entitled My Home that he’d had to write at school the previous year. His English teacher had complimented him on his writing style and his imagination. The trouble was, none of it had been made up.

  Danny also knew that his uncle and aunt had given up all hope for Kerry, his older sister. The last straw was when she’d smuggled a bottle of vodka into her cousin’s birthday tea, got drunk and told the adults to “go and wank yourselves off, you fuckers.” She’d been fourteen at the time. Danny could understand their attitude. Kerry could be really rude without even trying. He used to suggest to her that she should work a bit harder at school, but she just looked at him scornfully and replied with one of their mother’s favourite expressions: ‘fuck off, you twat.’