Exposed

by M. A. Hunter

  He grunted suddenly, waking himself in time to catch the brown bottle that had nearly slipped from his grasp. He raised it now and drained the rest of the beer. Rubbing his eyes, he only realised Emma was still there when he happened to glance around the room.

  ‘You made me jump,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘What are you up to?’

  She lifted the spine of her Point Horror book and showed him the cover. ‘Just reading my book. You fell asleep.’

  He rolled his eyes in silent admonishment of his behaviour, before mouthing sorry. He’d looked tired when he’d collected her from the bus stop, and she’d overheard him telling her mum that he’d pulled an all-nighter at work, but was fine to still look after Emma for the day. The weight he’d lost in the aftermath of Anna’s disappearance had returned with a vengeance and he’d been quite breathless as they’d made it up the hill to the bedsit, but he’d waved away her concern when she’d mentioned it. Judging by the bags of crisps and takeaway dinner packets she’d spotted in his outside dustbin, he wasn’t taking proper care of himself. If ever there was someone who would benefit from a warm bed and a home-cooked meal it was him, but he was too proud to admit he was struggling. Emma couldn’t understand why he couldn’t just move home with them. He’d have been closer to work, and with the money saved on the bedsit rent, probably wouldn’t have had to work such long hours. He’d also be able to take care of her when her mum was handing out flyers to anyone who would spare her two minutes to listen. Not that she went out as often as she once did, but it had become their Sunday morning ritual after the church service.

  Her dad suddenly looked at his watch, exhaling in relief that he hadn’t slept through the time he should be taking her back to the bus stop to meet her mum. Emma was all too aware that they had to be back by five, and that they’d need to leave by quarter to at the latest. She would have woken him when the time came.

  ‘My race is on in a minute,’ he said, sitting up straighter and raising the volume of the television. ‘Are you going to come and cheer her on with me?’

  This was another of their monthly rituals, but based on the familiar way he spoke with the woman behind the counter at the bookmakers, Emma sensed he didn’t only go in there when she visited. It had started that first visit. Having devoured the burger, fries, and milkshake, they’d wandered around the small town centre like a couple of tourists, and as the sun had begun to set, he’d suggested she help him pick a winner in the four o’clock horse race. She’d never been in a bookmaker’s before, and as he’d read out the names of the horses to race, she’d chosen Mother’s Helper as that was the name of the Point Horror book she was reading at the time. She hadn’t expected it to actually win, but the smile on her dad’s face when it had come in first was a memory she’d wanted to repeat. Alas, the three horses she’d subsequently picked didn’t fare so well.

  ‘I have a good feeling about this one,’ he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the ticket. ‘Come and watch it with me, and bring us some luck.’

  Carefully inserting the bookmark at the present page, she placed the book on her cushion and moved across to the armchair. In her eyes, she was too big to sit on his lap now, but he patted his knee, and wrapped his arms around her when she climbed on. She turned her face away as the pong of the beer on his breath assaulted her nostrils.

  ‘She was a seven to two shot so she has a chance of coming in the top three,’ he explained. ‘What made you pick her out of the crowd?’

  When he’d read out Soeur Perdue, she hadn’t hesitated, understanding the translation from French better than him.

  ‘I just liked the sound of her name,’ she fibbed. ‘It kind of rhymes.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope she’s in form today.’ He paused. ‘Would you do me a favour and fetch me another beer from the fridge?’

  She hopped down and took the empty bottle from him, dropping it into the dustbin and counting at least three other bottles it clattered against. Pulling open the small fridge door, she selected the final bottle from the door, ignoring the obvious lumps in the plastic carton of milk beside it. She carried the bottle back to him, where he proceeded to open and sip from it.

  Soeur Perdue finished third, which meant he was in a good mood when the time came for them to leave. Exiting the bedsit, she was disappointed that the stray cat wasn’t there waiting for her like usual, but didn’t like to think about what could have happened to her in the last month. She was already missing one eye and walked with a limp, which suggested she hadn’t had much luck in life.

  She looked away as he lit up a cigarette.

  ‘Don’t tell your mum,’ he said, exhaling a huge cloud of smoke. ‘I know she doesn’t like it.’

  Emma bit her lip, uncertain whether to admit that she didn’t like him smoking either. They’d been shown a video in school which explained what happened to the lungs of people who smoked, and how it could cause cancer, and ultimately death.

  She was about to tell him as much when she felt his arm move across the front of her, as if shielding her from some oncoming threat. He continued to manoeuver her around until she was standing directly behind him, and when he stopped suddenly, she jolted into the back of him.

  ‘Johnny boy, just the man I was looking for,’ a young man’s voice said from somewhere in front of them.

  ‘Not now, Sean,’ her dad replied. ‘I’ve got my daughter with me, and I’m taking her back to her mum. I was going to come and see you afterwards.’

  ‘Was you now?’ the first voice challenged, with a northern accent. ‘That’s good to hear, Johnny boy, because I was starting to think you was trying to avoid me. And we can’t have that now, can we?’

  ‘Please, Sean, let me just get my daughter to the bus stop and then you and I can go for a pint and chat through things. Yeah?’

  Emma tried to peek out from behind her dad’s legs, but his hand pushed her back in.

  ‘And who do we have here then?’ the second man asked, moving around the side of her dad until he was staring directly at Emma.

  He didn’t look how she’d expected – much younger than her dad – and if she was forced to guess, probably barely ten years older than her. He was wearing a white Adidas tracksuit top with black wavy lines, making him resemble a zebra. His hair was covered by a red baseball cap, and he had holes in the knees of his designer jeans. Definitely not the sort of friend she was used to seeing her dad engaging with.

  ‘What’s your name, little girl?’ he asked, but before she could even consider the merits of replying, her dad’s hand once again shepherded her behind him.

  ‘None of your business, Sean.’

  Her dad turned to face her, and gave her some change from his pocket. ‘Why don’t you run along to the newsagent’s up the road and buy yourself a bag of crisps for the bus ride home?’

  She counted the money in her hand.

  ‘Buy your mum a bag too,’ her dad encouraged, pushing her to move forwards and away from their conversation.

  ‘Pretty young thing,’ she overheard Sean comment as she moved away, but she didn’t hear how her dad responded.

  Turning into the newsagent’s doorway, she stopped herself entering the shop fully, instead peering out round the edge of the doorway, instinct telling her to keep an eye on her dad for his own safety. She was too far away to hear what they were talking about, but from the way Sean’s hands were moving, jutting out and gesticulating, she sensed he wasn’t happy about something. Her dad just stood there, head bowed, eyes on his shoes, as he accepted the reprimand. She guessed this would probably be another little secret she needed to keep from her mum.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Now

  Alton, Hampshire

  I can tell Rachel is less than convinced that our trip to Jane Austen’s house is a worthy use of two hours in the car. Not that she’s said as much, but as she circles the car park, looking for a space as far from the entrance as possible, I can hear her attempts to suppress her irritation.
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br />   ‘You don’t have to stay,’ I tell her, as she pulls in on the other side of a classic VW camper. ‘I understand if you want to get back.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she says, with a short shake of her head, but avoiding looking at me directly. ‘If you think this is where we’ll find Anna, then I’m all in.’

  To be honest, I’m no longer convinced either, but as the car park empties around us, we don’t have much time to find out. According to the Alton House website, they’ll be closing in the next hour, so we may already be too late to catch up with Anna even if she is here.

  Exiting the car, I’m about to hand Rachel her phone back, when I see Jack’s name appear on the screen next to a green phone icon.

  ‘Answer it,’ Rachel says, when I show her the display, and so I put the phone to my ear.

  ‘Hi Jack, it’s Emma,’ I say, as Rachel pays for a parking ticket at the machine.

  ‘Great, I was hoping you’d still be with Rachel. I tried your landline but there was no answer.’

  ‘What’s up? What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m on my way to collect Mila from school, but I thought I should update you on what I’ve found. I drove straight to DCS Rawani, and he agreed to speak to me. His access to the NCA server has also been removed, but he was able to share some of the documents he’d downloaded and printed prior to his access being revoked. There’s not a lot about Ian Beauchamp, however what I have found is how his name came up in the investigation. According to the notes, his name was flagged because of a scandal he was involved in during his bid for leadership of the Conservative party back in the mid-90s.’

  This rings the tiniest of bells in my head, but I allow Jack to continue speaking. Rachel returns and sticks the parking ticket to the inside of the windscreen.

  ‘Beauchamp was the frontrunner in the campaign after John Major decided to step down, having lost the General Election to Tony Blair and the Labour party. In fact, Beauchamp was the bookies’ favourite to take control of the party until he voluntarily stepped aside and withdrew his nomination from the race. It was all very sudden and mysterious and he publicly claimed his decision was influenced by family illness. He disappeared from the public eye, only returning to the party several years later, but in a backbencher capacity.’

  ‘I don’t understand what any of this has to do with our investigation,’ I say when Jack stops talking.

  ‘Rumour has it that the sudden change of heart had nothing to do with a family illness as Beauchamp claimed, and everything to do with the death of a rent boy in Battersea Park. What brought his name to our interest was an interview with another male prostitute that never saw the light of day in court. According to the statement, the victim was hired by Beauchamp the day before his body was discovered, and when the team to whom the statement was made chose not to pursue charges against Beauchamp, the witness took his story to the tabloids. The story was never published, but the timing with Beauchamp’s sudden withdrawal from the election shouldn’t be overlooked.’

  ‘You think he was blackmailed into withdrawing from the leadership race?’ I conclude.

  ‘Bear in mind that at the time, there was still stigma attached to being openly gay in the public eye, and in 1997 only a handful of MPs had formally come out during their time in office. Things are more relaxed now, but not back then. It’s perfectly feasible to assume that the pressure or threat of exposure would have been enough to see Beauchamp step away.’

  ‘But that doesn’t mean he had anything to do with our investigation.’

  ‘Which was the conclusion drawn by the NCA agent who was investigating this time around. That’s not to say your sister hasn’t found something to contradict that conclusion, or has personal eyewitness testimony to directly tie Beauchamp into the ring, which could be why she targeted his great-niece. Ian Beauchamp and his wife Hilary have no children of their own, and from what I’ve managed to find, they pay the fees for the school Daisy attends. If they have a vulnerability, it would seem Daisy is it.’

  Rachel ushers us out of the car park and towards the signs for the museum and the house where Jane Austen lived in the early nineteenth century.

  ‘She targeted Tomlinson, who we believe is linked to the ring, so there must be more to Beauchamp than we’ve found so far,’ I say, hurrying to catch up with Rachel.

  ‘Assuming Tomlinson is in fact tied to all this,’ Jack says, and I can hear the doubt in his voice. ‘Playing devil’s advocate, the only thing that we found to tie Tomlinson to any of this is that photograph of him with Turgood and the vicar, right? But we don’t know who supplied that image. What if it was sent to us by your sister?’

  I stop still as my brain works overtime processing the possibility. ‘That would mean she also sent us the pictures of Faye McKenna and Cormack Fitzpatrick,’ I say.

  ‘It’s not against the realms of possibility,’ Jack says. ‘What if she knew them, and her sending us the pictures was to help us connect the dots? Do you remember the bunch of flowers at Ribery’s grave, left in the memory of Cormack? What if Anna has been trying to expose the ring all this time, and has been feeding us breadcrumbs to follow?’

  It never sat easy with us that there seemed to be some mystery person helping us along, and I’ve hoped it might be an insider keen to tear down the organisation.

  ‘Well, what if it is?’ I say, chasing after Rachel again. ‘If Anna was the one leading us to Tomlinson, and is now targeting Beauchamp, what are her intentions towards Daisy? Tomlinson was killed, but surely she wouldn’t…?’

  Chief Superintendent Mike North’s words fire to the front of my mind: we believe Anna Hunter is armed and extremely dangerous.

  ‘It explains why Beauchamp is putting so much pressure on the police to get Daisy home. But that doesn’t mean Anna is right. Either way, I think we need to speak to her. If she’s the one who’s been trying to help us, we need to know everything she does. We may be the only ones who can help her. Where are you now?’

  We stop outside the small wooden fence wrapped around the orange brickwork of Jane Austen’s house. There are four upstairs windows, plus two in the roof, and a large white door at the front. A small group of tourists exits the property via the door, but as Rachel and I move forward towards it, a woman in a beige gilet blocks our path.

  ‘I’m sorry, but the last admittance was at three twenty. We’re closed for the day now.’

  I lower the phone to my chest. ‘No, we need to go inside. I’m sorry, but I’m expecting to find something there. Please?’

  She shakes her head, the large round glasses reminiscent of a style popular in the 80s. ‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to come back tomorrow. We’re open from half ten.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I try. ‘I’m Emma Hunter, maybe you’ve heard of me?’

  The heat rises to my cheeks, and I hate that I’m relying on the fame I’ve shirked for so long, but if Anna is the one who’s been feeding us these clues as Jack has suggested, then I’m certain I’ll find another one inside that will reveal where she’s gone.

  ‘I’m sorry but I don’t know who you are, and it doesn’t make a difference today. We are able to arrange special out-of-hours private parties, but you’d need to phone ahead to organise something like that.’

  ‘Please, we’ll only be ten minutes, and I’m willing to make a generous donation to the upkeep of the museum, if you’d just let us in. Please?’

  She doesn’t budge; doesn’t even consider the request. ‘I’m sorry, but we’re closing.’

  I don’t step away either. ‘Can you at least tell me how many people are inside? I was supposed to be meeting my sister here, and she may still be inside. Can I wait and see if she appears?’

  She gives an irritated nod of her head, but doesn’t object, clearly bored of the conversation.

  Two minutes pass, but nobody emerges. The woman – her badge identifies her as Gwen – pokes her head in through the door and has a brief conversation with someone inside, before turning back t
o Rachel and me.

  ‘There’s nobody left,’ she says pleasantly enough. ‘I’m afraid if your sister was here, she isn’t anymore. There’s a pub just along the road; perhaps she is waiting for you in there. They do a wonderful afternoon tea.’

  I look up the road where she has indicated, but I don’t feel like Anna would wait in a pub full of people who might identify who she is.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to the woman, returning the phone to my ear. ‘Jack? Sorry about that.’

  ‘No worries, what’s going on?’

  ‘Rach and I came to Alton in Hampshire following a gut instinct, but it seems the lead has gone cold. Are you able to call in any favours and get an update on progress from the team coordinating the hunt? I hate to ask, but I’m worried about what’s going to happen if the police catch up with her first.’

  ‘I can reach out to Zoe Cavendish if you want? I think she’s still a DI in the Bournemouth and Poole area.’

  I shudder at mention of Cavendish’s name, remembering our two previous encounters with her. She’s certainly no fan of mine, and I doubt she’ll be willing to help us in our quest.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, deflated. ‘If you think it will help, I’ll try anything right now.’

  Jack says he’ll phone back as soon as he knows more, but I’m more certain than ever that we’ve missed our window to catch up with Anna.

  ‘You know, afternoon tea doesn’t sound like an outlandish idea,’ Rachel says, mirroring my disappointment. ‘We should probably get something to eat at some point.’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry but I have no appetite at the moment. Would you mind if we headed back? And Rach? I’m sorry to have wasted your time coming here. I was so certain…’