by Jane Isaac
If only… How those words had plagued her.
The not knowing was the hardest part to bear. But it was also soft and easy, like hiding behind a cushion. After all this time, finding Alicia uncovered harsh truths and she wasn’t sure she was strong enough to face them.
The building site on Boughton Green Road, the detective had said. Marie knew it well. She’d attended the secondary school nearby when she was growing up. It had been farmers’ fields, greenbelt, until recently when the diggers moved in. An icy shiver showered her shoulders.
So nearby.
Thoughts of Liam, swaddled in a blue and green fleece blanket with a teddy inside his tiny coffin, the shiny headstone she’d lovingly polished over the years were bad enough. But his sibling, the baby he’d shared womb space with, grown with, nestled beside… his own twin buried alone beneath the ground where nobody could visit her was too much for any mother. She opened her mouth and the scream that emitted pushed up from the pit of her stomach. Please, no. Don’t let the baby at the building site be her Alicia. She couldn’t imagine anything worse.
6
Back at the office, Beth slumped into her chair. It was awful delivering ‘might be’ news to Marie Russell, when there was still the chance this baby wasn’t Alicia.
During her nine years in the police Beth had worked many missing person cases. Some were found and brought back home safely, much to the relief of carers and families. Others vanished, never to be seen again. It was a harsh reality of the job that some disappearances remained unexplained, and the unsolved always left her uneasy. The families left in limbo with no closure, no explanation; constantly aware that at any time a knock at the door or the ring of a phone might bring some news.
And in the case of an alleged abduction, this was even more poignant.
With the missing there was always the fragile hope that loved ones were still out there, their hearts still beating. Hope that they might show up, return one day. As time passed, the hope sank, deep down into the depths of loved ones’ bones. But it never disappeared, and she’d seen that earlier look in Marie Russell’s eyes before, many a time. The look that harboured the faint longing that the now grown baby Alicia might discover the truth, track her roots, search for her biological family and they would be reunited. The more evidence Beth found to support the findings that the body was Alicia, the more she was erasing that thread of hope and it didn’t feel good.
The incident room hummed around her. Colleagues tapped keyboards and chatted into phone receivers, speaking with GP surgeries, carrying out searches. A liaison officer was deployed to get close to the family, sit in the background and watch for odd expressions, unusual comments, behaviour that may be construed inconsistent or out of keeping with the apparent situation. Most people were killed by someone close to them, someone they knew and while Beth supported families, she was also there to quietly investigate them. Before she could do that, she needed to familiarise herself with Alicia’s enquiry and she pored over the digital case file from Alicia’s disappearance: reading witness statements, checking alibis, working out where everybody had been in the hours leading up to the abduction.
She opened her day book, turned to a blank page, wrote Alicia’s name in the middle and circled it. Beside it, she drew a line and wrote Liam, (twin) deceased, and above Daniel and Marie Owen (parents – now divorced). Marie and Daniel were both now thirty-seven, twenty-two when Alicia was born. Reports indicated Marie’s family emigrated to Australia when she was nineteen. Her mother came over for a couple of weeks, soon after the twins were born, but essentially Marie had no other family nearby, not that she was in contact with. Daniel had a brother, Scott, who was three years younger than him, and a twin sister, Cara.
Apart from Marie’s mother, they had all been in contact with Alicia in the days before her abduction, given statements after the abduction and presented substantiated alibis. Daniel’s mother, Alicia’s grandma, had given a statement too, and died a little over a year afterwards.
Beth worked each of the names through the Police National Computer, more in hope than expectation. Even though these checks had already been completed during the original investigation, it was important to her to start from scratch and not only familiarise herself with the current family setup, but also that of the time. None of them held a police record, apart from Scott Owen who’d been convicted of a couple of counts of shoplifting and theft of motor vehicles in his late teens and received two hundred hours of community service. He was at work, at Burston’s Garage, on the other side of town, the day Alicia was kidnapped.
Marie divorced Daniel Owen twelve years ago, then married Vic Russell four months later. Beth added Vic to her family tree, along with their six-year-old son, Zac. Daniel Owen hadn’t re-married.
Beth tapped her pen against the book. Vic’s name was familiar. She reached for her keyboard, clicked a few keys and scrolled down. Yes, he’d given a statement as part of the case. He was the last person to visit Marie on the morning of the abduction. In his statement he referred to himself as a close friend of the family. So, he knew them before…
Was she having an affair with Vic while she was still with Daniel? It would have muddied the waters, but surely not enough to result in the abduction of her child?
She switched to Google, typed in ‘Alicia Owen’. Numerous old press articles flashed up, all showing similar pictures: the photo of the empty pram the police had released when appealing for witnesses, another photo of sleeping Alicia with a pink hat on. She looked restful, angelic, like any other baby. A distressed photo of Marie Russell, the blonde Mallen streak weaving through the right side of her long dark hair like a beacon. Marie’s hair was shorter now, cut into a long bob, but the thick streak remained. Beth remembered reading about those streaks. Something to do with lack of pigment; hair that was difficult to dye. It must have been tough to have such a distinguishing feature, be so easily recognisable, when the eyes of the country were on you during a police hunt.
Images of her visit to the Russells’ home earlier popped into Beth’s head. The spacious kitchen, the photos of Zac beside his splodgy paintings and drawings on the fridge. Vic placing his arm protectively around his wife. They appeared to have put the past behind them.
She glanced at her chart; these people were all cleared in the original investigation. Alicia was sleeping in her pram outside a supermarket when she was abducted. The supermarket was located within a small bank of shops on the Acre Lane housing estate, on the other side of Kingsthorpe to Boughton Green Road.
Marie had been scrutinised at the time, her mental health questioned as speculation grew over whether she’d killed her own child. Her conduct examined during public appeals where experts watched her body language from afar, searching for signs of latent guilt. And all they’d found was anxiety and sadness.
Marie Russell had said she was no longer in touch with Daniel Owen. Beth Googled Vic Russell and immediately found a personal piece about Marie marrying her husband’s best friend. No wonder they weren’t still in contact. Vic wasn’t just a family friend. He had been Daniel Owen’s best friend.
A hand on Beth’s shoulder interrupted her.
‘You ready?’ Nick said. ‘Freeman’s waiting for us all in the conference room.’
*
Nobody noticed the cleanly shaven man standing close to the police cordon on Boughton Green Road that morning. Baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes, tightly packed between residents and reporters, he was just another face in the crowd. Another bystander, filling the pavement.
Two women jostled beside him. One blonde, one dark-haired. Rubbing their hands together to keep warm, talking in excited whispers. Holding up their phones, clicking their cameras. He did his best to ignore them, instead inhaling the sharp December air, dragging the scent deep into his lungs. Nothing like the pungent smell of a dead body to bring out the rubberneckers.
A group of CSIs carrying cases wandered along a thin channel reserved for scene officia
ls. The officer guarding the cordon lifted the canopy behind the police tape to allow them through, exposing a narrow view of the building site beyond.
‘Look,’ blonde hair said, nudging her friend, pointing at the gap. Dark hair stood on her tiptoes, craning her neck to spy through the opening before the canopy flapped back into place.
‘I think I saw a forensic tent,’ dark hair whispered, so close her breath touched his ear. ‘Must be serious.’
A head turned in front of them. ‘No shit. They don’t bring this lot out for a dead fox.’
The two women sniggered.
Shoulders jostled as more onlookers joined the burgeoning crowd.
A voice called out to the officer at the cordon. ‘Can you confirm whether the injured party is male or female?’
The officer responded with a headshake, his remit clearly to guard the scene, not impart information. Another question followed from the back. And another. Their voices merging with the engines of the slow-moving traffic behind them, rising to a din. The officer fixed his gaze ahead, unfazed.
Time to go. He tipped the peak of the baseball cap lower, kept his head down as he squeezed his way out. The air was icy away from the horde of warm bodies; he pulled his jacket across his chest and twisted his head to the side until the cartilage cracked.
The putrid aroma hung, lingering like a dust cloud. He looked back at the crowd, pressed earphones into his ears and waited for the crisp sounds of Wagner to tickle his senses. He’d waited so long for this moment. They had no idea what was coming next.
7
Freeman stood at the front of the conference room and stretched out his back, an action that made his rotund stomach extend further than usual. ‘Okay everyone, gather around.’ He straightened as the last few officers shuffled forward. ‘Hunter brought in a specialist forensic anthropologist/archaeologist to make a start on breaking open the concrete block this afternoon.’ He crossed to a screen at the side of the room and angled it towards his audience. DC Pete Winston sat at a table nearby with his laptop open, poised.
‘The process of removing the child from the concrete is likely to take a couple of days. They’re filming it as they go along and sending us stills. We’ll get the stills printed out in due course.’ He nodded at Pete who clicked a button. The screen immediately filled with a child laid on its back in a sleeping pose, its trunk and legs covered in a dirty cream shawl. Only a blue-grey arm and face were visible. The eyes were closed and sunken, the skin around them shrivelled. A bush of hair stuck up from the head above a slightly distorted face, with mottled, greying skin that caved in beneath the cheekbones.
Barely two foot long. Who could do something like this? Beth thought. To a child. So small. So fragile.
‘Hunter was able to confirm the child was a baby girl, possibly only a few months old, and she’s certainly been there a while,’ Freeman said.
‘Do we know how long?’ Nick asked.
‘No, not until further tests have been carried out, but the forensic anthropologist/archaeologist is pretty sure we are looking at an historical case,’ Freeman said. ‘Sealing the child in concrete prevented oxygen from reaching the body, retarding the decomposition process.’
He gave Pete a nod and the screen changed. In the next shot the shawl had been pulled back, exposing a mottled trunk in a towelling vest. The remnants of a nappy poking out the sides. It was a pitiful sight.
A loose window rattling in the wind was the only sound to be heard.
‘Soil samples have been taken from the scene to compare with what is on the block,’ Freeman said, ‘to see if we can determine how long she has been buried and whether she’s been moved at any stage, but none of this is a quick process. It’ll be weeks before we get any firm results.’ A low-bellied murmur travelled around the room. ‘I know, I know.’ He lifted his hands to hush them. ‘There is one piece of positive news. They’ll be extracting DNA from the body today. Hunter is pretty confident there’s enough soft tissue for a fast-track trace.’
Beth’s shoulders slackened. Generally, in historic cases where bodies had been dead for long periods, DNA was taken from the bones, a lengthy process, often taking weeks to yield results. Fast-track traces were usually back in a matter of days. At least she would be able to confirm with the family soon.
The detective chief inspector tapped the screen. ‘In the description given at the time, Alicia’s mother said the child was wearing a towelling vest and a nappy. The contents of her changing bag, also taken with her, included a cream shawl, similar to the one this child was wrapped in. The burial site, if we can call it that, is less than two miles from the Owens’ home at the time, and not far from where Alicia went missing.’
‘Could it have been as long as fifteen years?’ Nick asked.
‘They can’t be completely sure before they run tests, but potentially, yes.’
‘So, we think it is her?’
‘From what we’ve uncovered so far, it seems likely. Pete’s been out to see the farmer who owns the land.’
DC Pete Winston approached the front of the room. He was a tall man, with short dark hair and soft brown eyes. The buttons on his shirt gaped slightly over an overhanging paunch. ‘The land was owned by the Moreton family before it was sold for development,’ he said. ‘Old man Moreton must be in his seventies now. He ran the farm with his only son, it had been in their family over a hundred years. He claims he had no idea how the body came to be on his land.’ Pete lifted a hand and circled an area on the map, indicating the location of the farm and the land attached to it. A purple-headed pin close to the edge marked the area where the remains were found.
‘Moreton was quite clear that this particular field—’ Pete tapped the crime scene twice ‘—has been used solely for crops for the last thirty years. It’s several acres away from the farmhouse and not overlooked. There are no bridle ways or walkways that run through, or close by, and it was edged with high hawthorn hedging along the roadside, until recently when the developers cut it back.’
‘How did they access the field?’ Nick asked.
‘Through a locked gate at the bottom of the road.’
‘So, he’s saying nobody else had access apart from farm workers?’
‘Not legitimately. He did admit there were a few breaks in the hedging back in the day, caused by badgers and other animals, where someone may have climbed through.’
Nick’s face crumpled. ‘Surely the farmer or a labourer working the land would have noticed something freshly buried, or that the soil was disturbed.’
‘Yeah, I mentioned that. Moreton wasn’t convinced.’ Pete glanced down and sifted through his notebook until he found what he was looking for. ‘This was one field in a farm of over 700 acres. They combine crop and cattle. The work is constant. They harvest, cultivate and sow the crops. Often fields aren’t touched for months in between. If the block was buried at the right time, the soil could have had plenty of weeks or months to settle afterwards.’
Beth narrowed her eyes. Once again, it indicated a level of knowledge and planning. To know when the seeds would be sown. Although it would have been cumbersome to transport a concrete lump that size into the field. The killer would have had to dig quite a hole to conceal it. ‘How far does their machinery penetrate the soil?’ she asked.
Pete shot Beth a knowing smile. ‘Down to a maximum of thirty centimetres.’
Which meant if the block was buried deeper than thirty centimetres it could have sat there for years, undisturbed. Beth gave an appreciative nod. ‘What about the builder working the digger this morning?’ she asked. ‘How come they didn’t notice they’d hit the concrete block? Especially if they were working through soil.’
‘They’d been breaking up the foundations of a dilapidated barn nearby. Some of the remains were mixed in with the soil in that part of the field. They probably didn’t give it a second thought.’ Pete snapped his notebook shut. ‘The farmer’s putting together a list of labourers he’s used. They’d know th
e area, be aware it was remote.’
Freeman thanked Pete and sunk his hands deep in his pockets. ‘As I said, if this is Alicia, the quickest way to confirm identity would be through a DNA check against her parents. Depending on how busy the labs are, we’d hopefully know within two to three days.’
‘I’ve already taken a sample from the mother,’ Beth said. ‘It was couriered to the lab this afternoon.’
‘Okay. How did the Russell family receive the news?’
‘Stunned, bewildered.’ The consternation in Marie’s face filled her mind. ‘I’ll give them time to digest today’s news, update them on the clothing tomorrow morning.’
‘Good idea,’ Freeman said. ‘We need to tread carefully. Make sure they are well supported.’
‘Do we know how the child died?’ Beth asked.
‘Not as yet. The body is still partially encased.’
‘I’ve been searching news coverage about the Owens,’ she added. ‘Marie Owen married Vic Russell three years after Alicia disappeared, less than a year after her divorce with Daniel.’
‘And?’
‘Vic Russell was Daniel’s best friend. One of the articles talks about him comforting her in her hour of need. The family are no longer in touch with Daniel.’
‘Yes, I remember that,’ Freeman said. ‘Although it’s not a crime to marry your ex-husband’s best friend.’ He turned back to the main room. ‘I know none of us here worked on the case, so I’ve been in touch with Mark Tanner, the original SIO. He’s agreed to help us in any way he can.’
‘Any news on the schoolgirl who found the body?’ Nick asked.
‘Yes, there were very few absentees at St George’s this morning, certainly in her age group. Only one with ginger hair. She’s been identified as Jordan Quinn.’
‘Is she known to us?’
‘No. Her mother’s bringing her in at 4 p.m. this afternoon for interview.’
‘Do we know what she was doing on the construction site?’