John Dresser—or Johnny, as he was termed by the tabloid press—was twenty-nine months old. He was the only child of Alan and Donna Dresser, and on a working day he was normally minded by his fifty-eight-year-old grandmother. He walked perfectly well, but like many toddler boys, he was slow to develop language. His vocabulary at twenty-nine months consisted of Mummy, Da, and Lolly (this last referring to the family dog). He could not say his name.
On this particular day, his grandmother had gone to Liverpool for an appointment with a specialist to discuss her failing vision. As she could not drive herself, her husband took her. This placed Alan and Donna Dresser in the position of having no child care, and when this occurred (as it did occasionally), it was their habit to take turns minding John since neither of them found it easy to take time off from work to see to him. (Donna Dresser was at this time a secondary school chemistry teacher and her husband a solicitor specialising in property sales.) By all accounts, they were excellent parents, and John had been a much-anticipated addition to their lives. Donna Dresser had not found it easy to become pregnant in the first place and had taken great care during her pregnancy to ensure the birth of a healthy baby. While she came under scrutiny and criticism for being a working mother who allowed her husband to care for their child on this particular day, it should not be assumed that she was anything other than a devoted mother to John.
Alan Dresser took the toddler to the Barriers at midday. He used the little boy’s push chair, and he walked the half mile from their home to get there. The Dressers lived on the Mountbatten Housing Estate, the most upmarket of the three neighbourhoods that touched on the Barriers and the one farthest from that shopping arcade. Prior to John’s birth, his parents had purchased a detached three-bedroom home there, and on the day of John’s disappearance they were still in the process of renovating one of the two bathrooms. In his statement to the police, Alan Dresser explains that he went to the Barriers at his wife’s request to fetch paint samples from Stanley Wallingford’s, an independent DIY shop not far from the Gallows end of the shopping arcade. He also goes on to say that he wanted a “bit of air for me and the boy,” a reasonable desire considering the thirteen days of bad weather that had preceded this outing.
Evidently, at some point while in Stanley Wallingford’s, Alan Dresser promised John the treat of a McDonald’s lunch. This seems to have been at least partially an attempt to settle the child, a fact which the shop assistant later verified to the police, for John was restless, unhappy in his pushchair, and difficult to keep occupied while his father chose the paint samples and made purchases relevant to the bathroom renovation. By the time Dresser got his son to McDonald’s, John was irritable and hungry and Dresser himself was annoyed. Parenting did not come naturally to him, and he was not averse to “swatting a bum” when his son did not behave appropriately in public. The fact that he was indeed seen just outside McDonald’s giving John a sharp smack on his bottom ultimately caused a delay in the investigation once John disappeared although it’s unlikely that even an immediate search for the boy would have altered the outcome of the day.
While Ian Barker’s interview has him claiming that he didn’t care about being excluded from the imaginary playing of video games, Michael Spargo evidently assumed that this exclusion prompted Ian to “grass me and Reg to the security guard,” an accusation that Ian hotly denied. However they came to the guard’s attention, though, they escaped his further attention when they next went into the Items-for-a-Pound shop.
Even today, this establishment is chock-a-block with goods, offering everything from clothing to tea. Its aisles are narrow, its shelves are tall, its bins are a jumble of socks, scarves, gloves, and knickers. It sells overruns, knockoffs, seconds, mislabeled items, and Chinese imports, and it’s impossible to see how stock control is managed although the shop’s proprietor seems to have perfected a mental system that takes all items into account.
Michael, Ian, and Reggie entered the shop with the intent of stealing, arguably as an outlet for the displeasure they felt at having been told to leave the video arcade. While the shop had two CCTV cameras, on this day they were not operational and had not been for at least two years. This was widely known to the neighbourhood children, who evidently made Items-for-a-Pound a frequent haunt. Ian Barker was among the most regular visitors to the shop, as its owner was able to name him although he was unfamiliar with Ian’s surname.
While in the shop, the boys managed to steal a hairbrush, a bag of Christmas poppers, and a package of felt-tip marking pens, but the ease of this activity either did not satisfy their need for antisocial behaviour or lacked a suitable frisson of excitement, so upon leaving they went next to a snack kiosk in the arcade’s centre, where Reggie Arnold was quite well known to the proprietor, a fifty-seven-year-old Sikh called Wallace Gupta. Mr. Gupta’s interview—taken two days after the fact and consequently at least somewhat suspect—indicates that he told the boys to clear off at once, threatening them with the security guard and being labeled in turn “Paki,” “wanker,” “bumboy,” “fucker,” and “towelhead.” When the boys did not move away from the kiosk with the alacrity he desired, Mr. Gupta pulled from beneath the till a spray bottle in which he kept bleach, the only weapon he had with which to defend himself or to urge their cooperation. The boys’ reaction, reported by Ian Barker with a fair degree of pride, was laughter, followed by the appropriation of five bags of crisps (one of which was later found at the Dawkins building site), which prompted Mr. Gupta to make good on his threat. He sprayed them with the bleach, hitting Ian Barker on the cheek and in the eye, Reggie Arnold on the trousers, and Michael Spargo on both trousers and anorak.
While both Michael and Reggie understood quickly that their school trousers were as good as ruined, their reaction to Mr. Gupta’s attack upon them was not as fierce as Ian’s reportedly was. “He wanted to get that Paki,” Reggie Arnold declared when questioned by the police. “He went mental. He wanted to rubbish the kiosk, but I stopped him, I did,” an assertion unsupported by any facts that followed.
It’s likely, however, that Ian was in pain and, lacking any socially acceptable response to pain (it appears unlikely that the boys sought out a public lavatory in which to wash the bleach from Ian’s face), Ian reacted by blaming both Reggie and Michael for his situation.
Perhaps as a means of deflecting Ian’s anger and avoiding a thrashing, Reggie pointed out Jones-Carver Pets and Supplies, in the window of which three Persian kittens played on a carpet-covered set of platforms. Reggie becomes vague at this point, when asked by the police what attracted him to the kittens, but he later accuses Ian of suggesting they steal one of the animals “for a bit of fun.” Ian denied this during his questioning, but Michael Spargo has the other boy saying that they could cut off the cat’s tail or “nail it to a board like Jesus” and “he thought that’d be wicked, that’s what he said.” Naturally, it’s difficult to know who was suggesting what at this point, for as the boys’ stories take them closer and closer to John Dresser, they become less and less forthright.
What is known is this: The kittens in question were not readily available to anyone, being locked inside the window-display cage because of their value. But standing in front of the cage was Tenille Cooper, four years old, who was watching the kittens as her mother made a purchase of dog food some six yards away. Both Reggie and Michael—interviewed independently and in the presence of a parent and a social worker—agree that Ian Barker grabbed little Tenille by the hand and announced, “This is better than a cat, innit,” with the clear intention of walking off with her. In this he was thwarted by the child’s mother, Adrienne, who stopped the boys and, in some outrage, began to question them, to demand why they weren’t at school, and to threaten them with not only the security guard but also with the truant officer and the police. She was, of course, crucial in identifying them later, managing to pick photographs of all three of them from sixty pictures that were presented to her at the police station.
Chapter Two
“YOU’RE UP TO SPEED ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED TO DI Lynley, I take it?” Hillier asked, and Isabelle Ardery considered the man as well as the question before she replied. They were in his office at New Scotland Yard, where banks of windows looked out on the rooftops of Westminster and some of the costliest real estate in the country. Sir David Hillier was standing behind his oceanic desk, looking crisp and clean and remarkably fit for a man his age. He had to be somewhere in his middle sixties, she decided.
At his insistence, she herself was seated, which she thought quite clever of him. He wanted her to feel his dominance on the chance that she might think herself his superior. This would be physically, of course. She was unlikely to conclude that she had some other sort of ascendancy over the assistant commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. She was taller than he by a full three inches—even more if she wore higher heels—however, there her advantage ended.
She said, “You’re referring to Inspector Lynley’s wife? Yes. I know what happened to her. I daresay everyone in the force knows what happened. How is he? Where is he?”
“Still in Cornwall, as far as I know. But the team want him back, and you’re going to feel it. Havers, Nkata, Hale …All of them. Even John Stewart. From detectives to filing clerks. The lot. Custodians as well, I have no doubt. He’s a popular figure.”
“I know. I’ve met him. He’s quite the gent. That would be the word, wouldn’t it? Gent.”
Hillier eyed her in a way she didn’t much like, suggesting he had some thoughts on the wheres and hows of her acquaintance with Detective Inspector Thomas Lynley. She considered an elucidation on the subject, but she rejected the idea. Let the man think what the man would think. She had her chance to capture the job she wanted, and all that mattered was proving to him that she was worthy to be named permanent and not just acting detective superintendent.
“They’re professionals, the lot of them. They won’t make your life a misery,” Hillier said. “Still, there’re strong loyalties among them. Some things die hard.”
And some don’t die at all, she thought. She wondered if Hillier intended to sit or whether this interview was going to be conducted entirely in the headmaster/recalcitrant pupil mode that his present position seemed to indicate. She also wondered if she’d made some sort of professional faux pas in sitting herself, but it seemed to her that he had made an unambiguous gesture towards one of the two chairs that were positioned in front of his desk, hadn’t he?
“…won’t give you a problem. Good man,” Hillier was saying. “But John Stewart’s another matter. He still wants the superintendent’s position, and he didn’t take it well when he wasn’t named permanent superintendent at the end of his trial period.”
Isabelle brought herself round with a mental jolt. The mention of DI John Stewart’s name told her that Hillier had been speaking of the others who had worked temporarily in the detective superintendent’s job. He’d have been talking about the in-house officers, she concluded. Mentioning those who, like her, had auditioned—there was no other word for it—from outside the Met would have been pointless as she was unlikely to run into them in one or another of the endless, lino-floored corridors in Tower Block or Victoria Block. DI John Stewart, on the other hand, would be part of her team. His feathers were going to need smoothing out. This wasn’t one of her strengths, but she would do what she could.
“I understand,” she told Hillier. “I’ll tread carefully with him. I’ll tread carefully with them all.”
“Very good. How are you settling in? How are the boys? Twins, aren’t they?”
She made her lips curve as one would normally do when “the children” were mentioned, and she forced herself to think about them exactly like that, in inverted commas. The inverted commas kept them at a distance from her emotions, which was where she needed them. She said, “We’ve decided—their father and I—that they’re better off remaining with him for now, since I’m only here on trial. Bob’s not far from Maidstone, he has a lovely property in the countryside, and as it’s their summer holidays, it seemed wisest to have them live with their father for a while.”
“Not easy for you, I expect,” Hillier noted. “You’ll be missing them.”
“I’ll be busy,” she said. “And you know what boys are like. Eight years old? They need supervising and plenty of it. As both Bob and his wife are at home, they’re in a good position to keep them on the straight and narrow, a far better position than I’ll be in, I daresay. It should be fine.” She made the situation sound ideal: herself hard at work in London, nose to the metaphorical grindstone, while Bob and Sandra breathed copious amounts of fresh air in the countryside, all the time doting on the boys and feeding them home-cooked chicken pies filled with everything organic and served with ice-cold milk. And, truth be told, that wasn’t too far from how it likely would be. Bob, after all, adored his sons and Sandra was perfectly lovely in her own way, if a bit too school-marmish for Isabelle’s taste. She had her own two children, but that hadn’t meant she had no room in her home and her heart for Isabelle’s boys. For Isabelle’s boys were Bob’s boys as well, and he was a good dad and always had been. He kept his eye on the ball, did Robert Ardery. He asked the right questions at just the right time, and he never made a threat that didn’t sound like an inspiration he’d just been struck by.
Hillier seemed to be reading her, or at least attempting to, but Isabelle knew she was more than a match for anyone’s effort to see beyond the role she played. She’d made a virtual art of appearing cool, controlled, and completely competent, and this façade had served her so well for so many years that it was second nature by now to wear her professional persona like chain mail. Such was the result of having ambition in a world dominated by men.
“Yes.” Hillier drew out the word, making it less confirmation than calculation. “You’re right, of course. Good that you have a civilised relationship with the ex, as well. High marks for that. It can’t be easy.”
“We’ve tried to remain friendly throughout the years,” Isabelle told him, again with that curve of her lips. “It seemed best for the boys. Warring parents? That’s never good for anyone, is it.”
“Glad to hear it, glad to hear it.” Hillier looked towards the doorway as if expecting someone to enter. No one did. He seemed ill at ease, and Isabelle didn’t consider this a bad thing. Ill at ease could work to her advantage. It suggested that the AC wasn’t as dominant a male as he thought he was. “I expect,” he said, in the tone of a man concluding their interview, “you’d like to get to know the team. Be introduced formally. Get down to work.”
“I would,” she said. “I’m going to want individual conversations with them.”
“No time like the present,” Hillier said with a smile. “Shall I take you down to them?”
“Brilliant.” She smiled back and held his gaze long enough to see him colour. He was a florid man already, so he coloured easily. She tried to imagine what he looked like in a rage. “If I can just pop into the ladies’, sir … ?”
“Of course,” he said. “Take your time.”
Which, naturally, was the very last thing he actually wanted her to do. She wondered if he did that often, making remarks he didn’t mean. Not that it mattered, as it wasn’t her intention to spend a great deal of time with the man. But it was always helpful to know how people operated.
Hillier’s secretary—a severe-looking woman with five unfortunate facial warts in need of dermatological exploration—directed Isabelle towards the ladies’. Once
inside, she checked carefully to ensure that she had the room to herself. She ducked into the stall farthest from the door and there she did her business. But this was merely for effect. Her real purpose lay within her shoulder bag.
She found the airline bottle where she’d earlier stowed it, and she opened it, drinking down the contents in two swift gulps. Vodka. Yes. It had long been just the ticket. She waited a few moments till she felt it take hold.
Then she left the stall and went to the basin, where she fished in her bag for her toothbrush and toothpaste. She brushed thoroughly, her teeth and her tongue.
Finished, she was ready to face the world.
THE TEAM OF detectives she’d be supervising worked in close confines, so Isabelle met them together first. They were wary of her; she was wary of them. This was natural, and she wasn’t bothered by it. Introductions were made by Hillier and he offered them her background chronologically: community liaison officer, burglary, vice, arson investigation, and more recently MCIT. He didn’t add the period of time she’d spent in each of her positions. She was on the fast track, and they would know it by reckoning her age, which was thirty-eight although she liked to think she looked younger, the result of wisely having stayed away from cigarettes and out of the sun for most of her life.
The only one of them who looked impressed with her background was the departmental secretary, a princess-in-waiting type called Dorothea Harriman. Isabelle wondered how any young woman could look so put together on what her salary had to be. She reckoned Dorothea found her clothing in charity shops of the type where one could dig out timeless treasures if one was persistent, had an eye for quality, and looked hard enough.
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