by Jack Slater
Pete held her desperate gaze. ‘I’ll do everything I possibly can to find Rosie and bring her back to you, Mrs Whitlock. That’s a promise.’
She sighed. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ She held on to his hands for a moment longer, then sat back.
‘I’d better get moving.’ Pete stood up ‘We’ll keep you informed, of course.’ He wanted to say more, but it would have been platitudes and she was too brittle for those right now. She sat still and watched him leave.
*
King’s Tennis Club was a small, exclusive club on the north side of the city. Pete had heard of it, but never been there before. The narrow drive went up the side of the courts, between them and a nursing home. As he drove in, he saw that all but one were occupied despite it being late morning on a weekday.
The car park told him why. Range Rovers jostled with Jaguars and expensive sports cars. The nearest to a normal person’s car, he thought, was the bright red Golf GTI parked two spaces away from the doors of the solidly built wooden clubhouse with its tinted windows and wooden planters, bright with flowers despite the season. He found a parking space and went in.
Inside, the place was all expensive, modern wood and glass with big sliding doors looking over a wide balcony to the tennis courts beyond.
The receptionist looked up at the sound of the door and closed the ledger in front of her. Her smooth dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her make-up immaculate.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I hope so.’ Pete showed her his warrant card. ‘I’m hoping to speak to a Derek Tomlinson.’
‘He’s with a client at the moment. Court two.’ She raised a hand towards the patio doors. ‘He won’t be long, if you’d like to wait?’
‘How long?’
‘Just a few minutes.’
‘OK. Meantime, perhaps you can tell me if you know this girl?’ He brought out the picture of Rosie and put it on the counter in front of her.
She studied it then met his gaze. ‘She’s a member, isn’t she? Father’s a lawyer, mother’s a teacher or something?’
Pete nodded.
‘Rosie,’ she recalled. Then her eyes narrowed. ‘Is she the girl that’s missing, that’s been on the news?’
‘That’s right.’
She shook her head. ‘Awful.’
‘You don’t recall seeing her with anyone in particular, other than her parents and her coach?’
‘No. I, uh . . . try not to take too much notice of what the members do, as long as they don’t cause any trouble or embarrassment. And she’s never done that. She’s too young, and yet too old to run around yelling like a brat.’ She gave a small smile. ‘The perfect client, from my point of view, I suppose.’
‘Do you get much trouble and embarrassment here?’ Pete asked.
‘Not so much trouble. Occasionally some embarrassment when a member gets a little too involved in the training process.’
Or the trainer, Pete thought. ‘And what can you tell me about Mr Tomlinson? Has he ever been the cause of any embarrassment?’
‘Derek? No. Most of his clients are either young, like Rosie, or older ladies trying to stay fit.’
‘I see. Alright, thanks for your time.’ Pete picked up Rosie’s picture and headed for the deserted bar area. A man in white shirt and black trousers was wiping his hands on a tea towel behind the bar. ‘What can I get you?’
‘A coffee would do nicely, thanks.’
‘How do you like it?’
Pete looked at the complicated-looking chromed apparatus on the back bar and shuddered inwardly. ‘Nothing fancy. Just black with a couple of sugars.’
‘Coming up.’
The man reached for a cup and saucer from the shelf above the coffee maker. Moments later, there was an explosive, roaring hiss. He spooned two portions of brown sugar into the cup, placed a clean spoon in the saucer and turned back to Pete. ‘There you are, sir.’
‘Thanks.’ Pete showed him his warrant card and the photo of Rosie. ‘Do you recognise this girl?’ He picked up the spoon and stirred slowly.
The man nodded. ‘Tuesday evenings. Usually has a Coke. Why?’
‘Have you ever seen her with anyone other than her parents and her coach?’ He took a sip of coffee, keeping his eyes on the man in front of him.
He thought for a moment. ‘She sometimes has a friend with her. Brown-haired girl, about the same age but smaller. Other than that, she normally sits on her own, over by the window, until her mum or dad turns up for her.’
‘OK. Thanks.’ Pete took another sip. The coffee was strong and tasty. A completely different animal to what he normally survived on at the station. ‘I dare say you overhear quite a bit of chatter in here, eh?’
‘Some.’
‘Have you ever heard anything about Derek Tomlinson?’
The man’s expression shifted. Neutrality gave way to disapproval. ‘Something like that would be bad for the club, Detective.’
‘Like what?’
‘Telling tales on the staff. Not that there’s anything to tell in Derek’s case.’
‘Sure?’
‘Positive. Anyway, he doesn’t spend that much time here. About a third of the week, probably.’
‘Oh? Where else does he work, then?’
‘The country club on Topsham Road.’
‘Ah.’ The country club included a golf course and tennis club, he knew, with some top local coaches. And Pete knew that Tony Chambers was a member there. He made a mental note to have a word.
Footsteps sounded from reception. He heard the receptionist speaking quietly as he took another sip of his coffee. ‘Thanks for that, Mr . . . ?’
‘Paul Fellows.’
Pete nodded and set the coffee cup on the bar as a lean, clean-cut man in his mid-twenties with thick, sandy hair came around the corner from the reception desk.
‘DS Gayle?’
‘That’s me.’
‘I understand you’re looking for me?’
‘Derek Tomlinson, is it?’
‘That’s right.’ He extended a large hand. His grip was powerful but not oppressive.
‘Shall we sit?’ Pete picked up his coffee and headed for a table towards the windows. ‘It won’t take long.’
Tomlinson eased back in his chair. ‘What do you need to know?’
Pete finished his coffee, using the pause to study his man. The relaxed attitude could be a front but, if so, he was a good actor. He set the cup down. ‘Rosie Whitlock,’ he said bluntly. ‘She’s missing. I’m investigating.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard about it on the news. Terrible. What can I do to help?’
‘I need to know about anyone she’s been seen with, anyone she’s spent time with other than her parents.’
‘Including me.’
Pete inclined his head. ‘Naturally. But, for now, I’m seeing you as a potential witness rather than a suspect.’
‘That’s good of you, Detective.’
Pete returned his smile. ‘So, have you seen anyone talking to her? Anyone watching her?’
‘That’s creepy.’
Pete shrugged and Tomlinson dropped his gaze in thought. Then he shook his head. ‘No one I can think of. She comes here with a girlfriend sometimes, but that’s it, I think. That and her parents, of course.’
‘And you’ve never noticed anyone hanging around here, maybe a member doing more watching than playing?’
Tomlinson grinned. ‘All these short skirts, you mean?’ He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t recall anyone like that.’
‘OK. Thank you.’ Pete stood up.
‘I hope you find her, Detective. She’s a nice kid.’ Tomlinson stood and they shook hands again.
Pete followed him out. He would run a check on the coach, of course, but he doubted it would throw up anything. Which left the pool. Pools, he corrected himself. Unlike Tommy, Rosie had used both Exeter indoor pool and the outdoor one in Topsham.
He was walking back towards his car when his phone rang. He took
it out and saw the number was withheld. ‘Hello?’
‘Boss? It’s Jane. I’ve just had a call from a Ronald Greenway. Apparently, you left a card in his letterbox?’
‘Ah. Yes. Hang on.’ He fished out his notebook and pen. ‘What’s his number?’
Resting the notebook on the bonnet of a black Range Rover, Pete wrote it down as she read it out. ‘OK. I’ll go and see him next.’
‘You getting anywhere, boss?’
‘Not yet. You could do a check for me on a Derek Tomlinson. Tennis coach at both King’s and the country club. I don’t think it’ll come to anything, but you never know.’
*
‘Ronald Greenway?’ Pete asked when the man opened the front door.
‘Yes?’ He was in his late forties, Pete guessed. Brown hair, neatly cut. Dressed in chinos and an Oxford shirt with expensive-looking brogues.
Pete showed his badge. ‘DS Gayle. You called the station a little while ago. I was out, but they contacted me so I thought I’d pop round. Not a problem if it’s not convenient. I can come back later or you can come to the station.’
‘No, it’s fine. What’s this about?’
‘I gather you went out of the country on Tuesday?’
‘That’s right. Stockholm on business. Why?’
‘What time did you leave here?’
‘Nine-fifteen. I caught the train up to London, tube to Heathrow.’
‘Before you left, did you happen to notice anything unusual or out of place out here on the street? A vehicle that struck you as odd maybe? Or a person hanging around that you hadn’t seen before?’
Greenway frowned, thinking. Then he blinked. ‘Yes. An hour or so before I left there was a white van out there. Transit-type. I’m not sure of the make. I remember thinking I hadn’t seen it before, but maybe it was someone working at one of the neighbours’ or a father bringing a kid to school when the mother usually does it, perhaps running late for work or something. I noticed it when I went to open the gate. It saves having some fool park across the front of it, thinking a few minutes won’t hurt. You’d be surprised how often that happens along here. And the abuse you get, if you tell them to move! Anyway, I don’t suppose I’d have taken any notice of it, except I noticed the number plate. It ended in WAJ – the initials of a favourite singer of mine.’ He shrugged.
‘Oh, yes?’ Pete felt a spark of excitement but he wanted to keep the conversation flowing.
‘Waylon Jennings. American country star.’
‘I’ve heard of him. Did The Dukes of Hazard, didn’t he?’
‘That’s right.’ Greenway smiled.
‘Yeah, he’s quite good. So, this van – was there anything else about it that you noticed? The numbers on the plate? Or the driver, maybe?’
Greenway shook his head. ‘I couldn’t see if anyone was in it. It was facing away from me. But the number had a seven in it, I think at the end.’
Pete nodded. ‘And you didn’t see anything else that stuck in your mind that morning?’
‘No.’
‘OK. Well, thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’ Pete shook the man’s hand and walked back to his car. Sitting inside, he drew a deep, calming breath.
This had to be something important. It was the first solid lead they’d got on the van they knew was at the scene when Rosie was taken. He took out his smartphone and brought up the DVLA search site. He tapped in what he had of the registration, narrowed the search criteria by colour and location and hit Search.
The system in Swansea churned away for what seemed like ages until, finally, the little screen changed. Two white vans with a seven and WAJ in the plates came up in the area. One of which had been stolen two weeks before.
Pete felt a grin spreading across his face as he put the phone away and started the engine. The swimming pools could wait. He was going back to the station to follow this up.
CHAPTER 30
Pete dropped his coat over the back of his chair, put his phone beside his keyboard and sat down, reaching for the power button on his computer.
‘Got anything, boss?’ Jane asked, looking over the top of her screen.
‘Maybe.’ He logged on and brought up the NCD search screen. Glancing across at his phone, he typed in the full registration of the stolen van and hit Return.
‘Care to share?’ Jane asked, still looking at him.
Pete concentrated on the screen in front of him. ‘Give me a second and we’ll see if there’s anything to share.’
The data came up. The stolen van was a Toyota HiAce belonging to a carpenter and joiner from the south side of the city. It had been stolen from outside a job site in broad daylight, eight days ago. There had been no witnesses, according to the report, and the man himself had heard nothing as he had been at the back of the property, using an electric plane.
Pete scrolled down.
There was a new entry, made this morning. The van had been found yesterday afternoon in Plymouth, minus an estimated £2000 worth of tools and sundries.
‘Bugger.’
He looked up at Jane, but she had dropped her gaze to her own screen and was concentrating on whatever was there.
‘I got a partial plate from Ron Greenway,’ he said. ‘The bloke you and Dave couldn’t get hold of, across the road from the school. There are two local matches of the right colour, one of which was nicked a couple of weeks ago. It was found yesterday in Plymouth, minus a load of tools and stuff.’
‘Ah. Still, if they were going to use it to transport a person in, they’d have to make room, wouldn’t they? Has there been any sign of the tools turning up?’
‘Early days yet, but I doubt there will be. They’ll be spread about all over the place – eBay, cash-converters, junk shops, car boots.’
‘If they were the point of the exercise. If not, they’ll have been dumped somewhere. And the van might have been left in Plymouth to throw us off.’
‘Maybe.’
Picking up the landline, he tapped in a number.
‘Police. How can I help?’
‘This is Exeter CID. DS Gayle. I’m looking for information on a stolen van that turned up yesterday on your patch. Toyota HiAce.’ He read out the registration.
‘Hold on, Sergeant, I’ll see what I can find for you.’
There was a click followed by the standard musak as he was put on hold. He waited. And waited. Then: ‘Hello?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry to keep you. Yes, the van’s in the compound here. What do you need to know?’
Pete winced. ‘Driven or towed in?’
‘Towed.’
‘Ah. That’s something, at least. I need it checked for fingerprints and forensics. It may have been used in a child abduction here, three days ago.’
There was a hiss on the line. ‘Afraid you’re out of luck, mate. The bloke who reported it said it had been there for three days as of yesterday.’
‘Damn.’
*
Pete was too impatient to bother with lunch. Jane brought him a sandwich and a Mars bar, but by the time the results of his search came back on the other white van that matched his criteria, he had eaten only half of one of the sandwiches.
The van in question was another Toyota, a ProAce, registered to an Edward Burton, aged eighty-three, of High Acres Farm, Holcomb Burnell. Pete looked up the address on Google maps. It was five or six miles out to the west of the city, in an area dotted with isolated farms and little else except woods and fields. He wondered what Mr Burton would have to say about his van coming up in an abduction inquiry. He finished his first half-sandwich in two bites. He would pay him a visit and find out. Always best to talk to someone face to face, he thought. And if they had no warning, then they had no preparation time.
He grabbed the second half of his sandwich in its triangular plastic packet, shoved the Mars bar in with it and stood up.
‘Off out again, boss?’ Jane asked.
‘Got to see a man about a van. At eighty-three, I don’t suppo
se he’s our man, but he hasn’t reported it stolen, so he should be able to tell us who would have been driving it at the time.’
‘Hope it goes better than the other one.’
Pete grimaced. ‘Don’t rub it in.’
Her eyes widened innocently. ‘I was just saying.’
‘Less chatter and more work, DC Bennett.’
‘Yes, sir, boss.’ She saluted smartly.
Pete suppressed a grin. ‘And just you remember it,’ he said, heading for the door.
*
Pete turned left at the bottom of Heavitree Road and drove down towards the river. He crossed the bridge and headed out through the western fringes of the city, up the steep, wooded hill to the junction at the top, where he turned onto the Dunsford Road.
The day was bright and crisp, the bare outlines of the trees stark like black filigree overhead. From the edge of the city, the map function on his phone took him along five or six miles of tiny lanes, some with streams running alongside, past dark, oppressive woods and tiny, valley-slope fields.
High Acres Farm was a large, stone-built Georgian farmhouse with a square, formal lawn in front and the farm buildings to one side, behind a high stone wall. Pete parked in front of the house and went through the iron gate. There was a bell push on the door frame as well as the heavy knocker in the middle. He pressed the bell. The chime came faintly back to him. Moments later, the lock was turned and the door opened.
A woman in her forties stood before him. Tall, almost rangy, she had dark hair that was pulled up behind her head and dark eyes. Her face was handsome, rather than pretty, with a mouth that was slightly too big.
‘Yes?’ she said, wiping her hands on the front of her jeans.
Pete raised his warrant card. ‘I’m DS Gayle, Exeter CID. I’m looking for Edward Burton.’
‘Ah. Then, you’ve had a wasted journey, I’m afraid. He’s been dead nearly a year. What’s it about?’
Pete’s eyebrows rose. This was a morning for surprises. ‘Dead? Then can I ask who you are?’
‘Sarah Knox. My husband and I moved here a couple of months ago.’
‘I see. So, can you tell me who the agent was that you bought the place through?’
‘Oh, we didn’t buy it. We’re renting. The agent is Berry’s in Exeter.’