Found

by Erin Kinsley

  The house she’s looking for turns out to be one of the new-builds – a townhouse at the end of a cul-de-sac, white-rendered and with ridiculously tiny windows both upstairs and down, which could surely have made sense in an architect’s mind only as a means to frustrate the neighbours’ peeping. Attached to the house are two parking spaces, one of them occupied by a Hyundai hatchback with a disabled sticker on the rear windscreen.

  Naylor parks in the vacant space and unlocks her phone. There are a couple of new emails, but nothing so far from Hagen in Wolverhampton. She checks her face in the rear-view mirror, applies lipstick and climbs from the car.

  She doesn’t use the doorbell. When doorbells don’t get answered, it’s impossible to know whether that’s because there’s no one home, or the individual she’s looking for is heading out the back door as she’s standing at the front, or maybe the bell is broken. Knuckles eliminate the last possibility. She raps on the glass, and immediately a dog begins to bark – a yappy terrier, her least favourite kind. Within a moment, a woman’s ineffectually telling it to be quiet, but the dog’s ignoring her, scratching at the door to get at the visitor. Naylor hears muttering, the rattle of keys, and a firmer order for the dog to go to its bed. Surprisingly, the barking stops as it complies. A key turns in the lock, and a chain is taken off the latch.

  The woman who opens the door is enormously overweight. The journey down the hallway seems to have winded her, and she’s breathing as heavily as if she’d run a mile, leaning on a stick held in a hand wearing three diamond rings, all pressing into the flesh of her fingers to such a degree, Naylor thinks they must be painful. And yet she might be attractive; she looks no more than forty, and she’s made an effort with her hair and clothes, which, though voluminous, are all matched as an outfit.

  Naylor holds up her ID.

  ‘Mrs Birch? Sheila Birch? DS Rachel Naylor, Thames Valley Police. Do you mind if I have a word?’

  ‘Police?’ asks Mrs Birch. ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Just a routine enquiry. May I come in?’

  Sheila Birch holds open the door, and Naylor steps inside. The house is beautifully kept, the carpets vacuumed, the paintwork freshly white, with a strong scent of lavender potpourri from a bowl on the sill of the tiny hall window.

  ‘We can go in the lounge,’ says Mrs Birch, limping and wheezing as she leads the way. ‘I’ve put Oscar in the kitchen. He’s not very good with visitors.’

  ‘Sounds like he makes a good guard-dog.’

  ‘He’s a Jack Russell and all mouth. He doesn’t even come up to my knee, and I’m not tall. I don’t suppose anyone would find him very scary. Have a seat.’

  Sighing with effort and breathlessness, she lowers herself into a fireside chair which appears to be of abnormally large proportions. On a side table, she has all her home comforts: the TV remote, a Samsung tablet, a mobile phone in a candy-pink case dotted with fake gems. Naylor takes a seat opposite, in a normal-sized armchair. Mrs Birch props her stick against the chair arm and looks expectantly at Naylor.

  ‘I’ve a few questions, if I may, regarding a vehicle you own which was recently reported stolen. An 09-plate Ford Focus. Is that your car?’

  ‘Well, yes and no. It’s my name on the paperwork, but it’s Brian who generally drives it. I have the Hyundai which is better for my needs.’

  ‘Brian being?’

  ‘My husband.’

  ‘And you’ve owned the car how long?’

  ‘I should say it’s about eighteen months since he bought it. Brian wanted a workhorse – as he put it – and he really rates his Fords. I preferred the newer model – I think it looks sportier, more modern – but he wasn’t so keen. He thought it would leave his samples exposed if he had to leave them in the car. The model he bought has the full boot, which I suppose is more secure.’

  ‘What samples, Mrs Birch? What does your husband do?’

  ‘He sells compressed air, pneumatics, things like that. He’s what they used to call a rep, a travelling salesman. The stuff he sells is quite specialised, so he covers a big area. He travels all over the country seeing customers.’

  ‘And how long has he been doing that?’

  ‘A while. Is this about Brian or the car? I’m surprised you’re taking such an interest. I assumed gone was gone, and that’d be an end to it. You haven’t found it, have you? Only we’ve started the insurance claim. I’ll be disappointed to be honest if you have. I was hoping we might get something newer.’

  ‘We have found it, yes, but that doesn’t mean your insurance claim will be invalid. The car was involved in a criminal offence, so we’ll be hanging on to it for a while longer yet.’

  ‘A crime? What sort of crime?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ve got Brian’s samples? Was there anything in the boot?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, no.’

  ‘I expect they’ve sold them. Some of his stuff must be worth good money.’

  Naylor is finding Mrs Birch’s wheezing disconcerting, like sitting opposite a vastly oversized pug.

  ‘Where was the car when it was stolen, Mrs Birch?’

  ‘I don’t know, exactly. I wasn’t there, was I? You’d have to ask Brian. Haven’t you got that information from when he reported it?’

  ‘Where did he tell you it was?’

  ‘He was in Hartlepool. He goes there regularly. They’re doing a lot with wind farms up there and Brian’s company’s involved in all that.’

  ‘And what company is that?’

  Mrs Birch scowls.

  ‘I don’t see what that has to do with anything. He’ll have told the police up there where it was taken from. Don’t you people talk to each other? I can give you the incident number if you don’t have it. I needed it for the insurance.’

  ‘I already have that, thank you. We’re just trying to establish where the car was between when it was taken and when it was found. It makes it easier for us to narrow the field of suspects. Who did you say your husband works for?’

  ‘Petersen Hydraulics. Petersen with an “e”.’

  ‘They sound foreign.’

  ‘Dutch.’

  ‘And they have offices in Hartlepool as well as here in Chelmsford?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He was seeing a customer up there. But I don’t see why that’s of interest. I just need to know where we stand with the insurance.’

  ‘If they’re an international company, don’t they offer their reps company cars?’

  ‘They do in the normal way of things. But Brian preferred to have the money instead, and sort a car out for himself. It works out better for us financially, in the long run. Anyway, he’s a bit fickle with cars, always chopping and changing. He’s got a couple of others he keeps at a friend’s yard, old things he calls his projects. He wasn’t heartbroken to see the back of this one, I don’t think.’

  ‘Did it give him trouble, then?’

  ‘Oh no. It was always reliable. Fords, they just keep going, don’t they? No, he just likes a change. He’s always been that way, ever since I’ve known him.’

  ‘So what’s he driving now?’

  ‘Something someone lent him as a stopgap. A Vauxhall, I think. Blue. Or is it silver?’

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, if he’s so keen on his Fords, how come you have a Hyundai?’

  ‘It’s better suited to my needs. I have it through the Motability scheme.’

  Naylor nods.

  ‘I see. I wonder if I could speak to your husband? Is he likely to be home this afternoon?’

  ‘I’m not expecting him today, no. I don’t think he’ll be home before Friday.’

  ‘Do you have a number I could contact him on?’

  ‘I’ve got his mobile.’

  ‘That would be great, thank you. And can I have your
number here, just in case?’

  Mrs Birch recites two numbers which Naylor notes down.

  ‘Well, thanks for your time. I’ll give you a card. Your husband’s welcome to ring me if I don’t get to him first.’

  ‘What about the insurance?’

  ‘I suggest you ring them and explain the situation. They’ll tell you how to proceed. Please, don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.’

  When she sees Naylor drive away, Sheila picks up her phone and dials.

  ‘Hello, babe,’ Brian Birch answers. ‘How’re you doing?’

  There’s noise in the background, the murmur of traffic and tyres on tarmac.

  ‘Oh, I’m all right,’ she says, and sighs. ‘Tired.’

  ‘You take it easy, lady. What’re you up to today?’

  ‘Not much. Where are you?’

  ‘According to the sign I’ve just passed, I’m not too far from Rotherham.’

  ‘What’re you doing there?’

  ‘You know me, babe. I go where the money is.’

  ‘Will you be home soon?’

  ‘A couple more days. Thursday or Friday.’

  ‘I just had a visitor. She said she’ll be ringing you.’

  ‘Who’s that, then?’

  ‘A woman from the police. About the Focus.’ There’s a moment of silence. ‘Brian? Are you there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here. Bad signal. What about the Focus?’

  ‘She says they’ve found it, but she didn’t say where. I asked her about the insurance, but she said I have to ring them to sort it out. She said they won’t be giving the car back any time soon. Apparently it’s been used in a crime.’

  ‘What crime?’

  ‘She wouldn’t say. They haven’t found your stuff, though. She’d come all the way from Thames Valley.’

  ‘Thames Valley? What have they got to do with it?’

  ‘How should I know? Anyway, she’s going to ring you. She wants to know where it was taken from, though I told her you’d given them all the details when you reported it stolen. I said I thought it was Hartlepool. Was I right?’

  ‘Thereabouts. Did you give her this number?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d better get off the phone, then, hadn’t I?’

  ‘I’ll ring you later, shall I?’

  ‘You do that,’ says Birch. ‘Love you. Gotta go.’

  He ends the call, and drives on grim-faced. Traffic news comes on the radio, with reports of hold-ups at junction 33 on the M1, in the Rotherham area.

  But Birch’s Vauxhall is on an urban dual carriageway where traffic is running freely, and the next exit is signposted Aylesbury. Above the road noise, something is rattling in the boot.

  There’s a lay-by coming up and he pulls into it. On the seat beside him there’s another phone, a cheap, low-function pay-as-you-go similar to the one he’s just been speaking on. Using the second phone, he dials a number from the contacts book, tapping the steering-wheel with impatience while it rings out.

  ‘What’s up?’

  The voice that’s answered is terse.

  ‘We might have a problem.’

  ‘What problem?’

  ‘I’m expecting a call from the filth.’

  A silence. Then, ‘What’re you talking about?’

  ‘Sheila gave them my number. They’re asking questions about the car.’

  There’s a sigh of relief.

  ‘Is that all? I thought it was something serious. How can they not ask questions about the car? They’re just joining the dots. Even they’re not so stupid as to ignore a gift like that. Just stay calm and stick to the story. They’ve got nothing on you, so you give them their DNA samples and their dabs if they want them and let them eliminate you from their enquiries.’

  ‘I’m not happy giving them DNA.’

  ‘And if you refuse? Then they’ll really show an interest.’

  Birch bites his lip.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘Don’t sweat it, Brian. Cross that bridge when you come to it. Maybe they won’t ask. Meantime, just stick with the script.’

  ‘Right. But what if—’

  He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. The man he’s calling has hung up.

  Naylor has a policy always to accept coffee if it’s offered. People speak more freely when they’re occupied with filling kettles and finding milk. But Sheila Birch disappointed, and hadn’t even thought to make the offer. Now Naylor’s thirsty, and she could eat something, too.

  It’s in her mind to pay a visit to Brian Birch’s employers, Petersen’s, thinking she’ll get confirmation of Birch’s work for them in Hartlepool. She’s not expecting to learn anything which will be a great help, but she’s been trained by Ron Perdue, and graduated from his No Stone Unturned school of thinking. As a member of the public who’s had his car nicked, Brian Birch may be an unlikely stone, but he still needs turning over. For completeness’s sake, she might as well do it while she’s here.

  She Googles Petersen’s and gets an address from their website, then keys it into the satnav. She’s a ten-minute drive away, depending on traffic. A couple of streets from the Birches’ house, there’s a row of shops with a boutique café in the middle. Naylor finds a place to park and dials the number Sheila Birch has given her.

  The call is answered promptly.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Mr Birch, Brian Birch?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘This is DI Rachel Naylor, from Thames Valley Police. I was just speaking to your wife regarding the theft of your vehicle, a red 09-plate Ford Focus.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘We’ve recovered the vehicle, Mr Birch, but as I explained to your wife, unfortunately we can’t return it to you as it’s been involved in a crime. I’ve just got a couple of questions to put to you, if you don’t mind, regarding the actual loss of the vehicle.’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘Can you confirm where it was taken from? Our information says Hartlepool, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you were there on business, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what were the circumstances of the theft, exactly?’

  ‘I left it parked at the roadside. When I came back, it wasn’t there.’

  A thought occurs to Naylor.

  ‘So how did you proceed, Mr Birch? How did you get home or to your office, wherever you were going?’

  There’s noise on the line, the sound in the background of an indicator flashing.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s a bad line,’ says Birch. ‘Can you repeat the question?’

  ‘I asked what you used for transport when you found the car was gone.’

  ‘I called a taxi.’

  ‘And he took you where?’

  ‘The station. I got the train home. Cost me an arm and a leg, it did. I should have got the insurance to stump up for that.’

  ‘Was that Hartlepool station?’

  Naylor hears a few seconds of empty static.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Birch says at last, ‘you’re breaking up again.’

  ‘Hartlepool. Was it Hartlepool?’

  ‘Yes, Hartlepool. Took me into Euston and I found my own way easy enough from there. Look, I’m sorry but I’m just going into a meeting. Is there anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘No, thanks, you’ve been very helpful,’ says Naylor. ‘Thanks for your time.’

  When the call’s ended, Birch turns into a residential side street and finds a space to park. Picking up the phone he’s just been speaking on, he copies a couple of entries from the contacts book into the second pay-as-you-go, before removing the back of the first phone and taking out the SIM.

  The battery and the casing are ea
sily separated. He tosses both into the passenger footwell, puts the car into gear and drives away.

  The café’s all on-trend retro, duck-egg-blue paint and artisan breads, a menu board of coffee beans from South America and the Caribbean. It’s the kind of place Hagen hates, and she’s glad he’s not with her; he would have gone in the chip shop two doors down. But Naylor’s pleased to choose from sandwich options which include hummus and green olive ciabatta. She plumps for that with tapenade and turkey, and asks them to add some chipotle mayo to make it interesting. She gets a bottle of water and a Costa Rican flat white to drink, but resists the white chocolate brownies for the sake of her waistline and her purse.

  She finds an empty corner table with a good view of the street, where she can watch the comings and goings of kids in school uniform buying lunch at the chippy and the newsagent’s. Some of them are young, about the age Evan was when he was taken, and too many of them seem obsessed with their phones. Naylor’s all too aware of the dangers that lurk behind those screens and buttons: predators, groomers, the creeping and irrevocable loss of innocence. No wonder clued-up Silicon Valley bosses are sending their children to schools where technology is banned. When parents first gave kids phones, their main reason was for safety, but Evan’s phone did nothing to save him. It disappeared and went silent only minutes after he went missing, switched off and no doubt chucked in some river or dropped down a drain.

  Walking back to the car after lunch, she checks her own phone again. Still nothing from Hagen, but as she starts the engine, the phone rings. She glances at the hands-free screen on the dashboard and sees a number she knows well, unidentified by a name. She presses a button to accept the call.

  ‘Rachel? It’s me.’

  She doesn’t speak.

  ‘Rachel, are you there?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Are you still mad at me?’

  ‘I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at me, for being such a mug.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry about what happened. It was just one of those things, you know?’

  ‘Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.’

  ‘Can we talk about it? Where are you now? I’ve got a couple of hours.’