Smith took a long drag of the cigarette and smiled. For the first time in weeks, his head felt clear. He thought about Nathan Green. Abducted from his house in the middle of the night and wrapped in a blanket covered in lion hairs. Occam’s Razor, he thought, somebody at the Moreno circus knows a hell of a lot more than they are letting on.
TWENTY TWO
Abducted
Smith woke to the sound of light rain pattering on the roof of his house. He rubbed his eyes and smiled. Even though he had drank quite a few beers the night before, his head felt clear. Theakston was snoring on the blanket next to Smith’s mattress. Smith stood up and opened the curtains. The sun was visible behind a grey rain cloud and Smith knew the rain would be short lived. He went through to the kitchen, turned on the kettle and opened the back door. Theakston appeared in the hallway, stretched and lazily strolled outside. Smith made coffee and followed the dog outside with it. The sun was winning the war with the rain and only a few light drops fell from the sky. Smith lit a cigarette and sat down at the table. Brownhill had scheduled a meeting at nine. Smith planned to stop off at the solicitors’ office first to sign the paperwork pertaining to The Ghoul’s will.
Sixty five thousand, he thought, who would have thought The Ghoul would have left him sixty five thousand pounds? The sun was now beating down on his face. He finished the coffee and stubbed the cigarette out on the concrete under the table. He went back inside and put on some clean clothes. He was running out of clothes to wear. He chose a T shirt with a psychedelic print of Jimi Hendrix on it. He had not worn it for ages and it seemed to have grown in size. He washed his face, brushed his teeth and went back downstairs. He picked up the letter from the solicitors and left the house.
The sign on the door of Black and White Solicitors told Smith he was out of luck. Their office hours were 09.30 – 17.00, Monday to Friday. Smith cursed under his breath. He could not be late for the meeting at nine. He looked at his watch. It was only half past eight. He would have to come back later when he got a gap.
The traffic was busier than usual as Smith drove the few miles to the station. He could not understand why. A journey that normally took him under ten minutes took him almost half an hour and he made it to the station just in time. Everybody was already in the conference room when he walked in. DI Brownhill took one look at Smith in his sixties T shirt and rolled her eyes. Smith chose a seat next to Bridge.
“You’re brave,” Bridge whispered.
“Brave?” Smith was confused.
“Your T shirt,” Bridge said, “bearded Brownhill will have something to say about that.”
“Let her,” Smith said.
“Can we have a bit of hush in here?” Brownhill said to indicate the meeting had started, “I’ll try and keep this brief. I just want to run through what we have so far.”
The room was eerily silent.
“Nathan Green was taken from his house on Meadowgate around nine o clock on Friday night,” Brownhill said, “he was found on Saturday in St Olave’s church. Initial pathology reports indicate he had been strangled. The report also shows that there was no sign of sexual abuse so we can be sure this is not a sexually motivated murder. The blanket the child was wrapped in was covered in lion hairs. DS Smith and I managed to procure some hairs from a particularly poor specimen of a lion at the Moreno Circus. We are waiting for the lab to confirm the hairs are the same as those found on the blanket.”
“Isn’t all lion hair the same?” Thompson asked.
Brownhill glared at him.
“No,” she said, “every lion is different. Lions are like humans in that the DNA from every single lion is different. We can easily tell if the hairs are identical.”
Smith shook his head and smiled.
“Do you have something to add?” Brownhill looked at him.
“Bruce is our lion,” Smith said, “a man matching the description of one of the clowns in the circus reckons he saw a kid being carried in a blanket the night Nathan Green disappeared and that very same man has access to the lion. Coincidence? I don’t think so. I hate coincidences.
“Thank you detective,” Brownhill said, “but we’ll wait for the test results to come back nevertheless.”
“The circus is where we’ll find the answers,” Smith carried on undeterred, “there’s something odd going on there. We need to go back and talk to everybody there. And we need to find this Jimmy Moreno.”
“And we will,” Brownhill said, “Whitton and me will pay them a visit later this morning. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. I’m going to be hands on and I’m going to take the opportunity to work with all of you at one point or another. Only then will I be able to decide where to place you to the best of your potential.”
“I’ll come with you,” Smith said, “we can save time. We need to interview everybody involved with that freak show.”
“I agree,” Brownhill said, “but I have assigned you and Bridge to another task.”
Smith and Bridge stared at each other.
“I want you to speak to the Greens,” Brownhill said, “the dead boy’s parents. See if they’ve remembered anything else about that night. They may have thought of something important.”
“Thanks a lot boss,” Smith said.
Whitton started to giggle.
“You said it yourself DS Smith,” Brownhill ignored his comment, “you said we should talk to the parents. I remember you also wondered how the murderer managed to get the child out of the house. Something about a drainpipe if I can recall.”
“Come on Bridge,” Smith stood up.
“Hold your horses,” Brownhill looked at Thompson.
“Thompson,” she said, “I need you to liaise with missing persons. I’ve got a feeling in my gut and I don’t like it.”
“Feeling?” Thompson said.
“Find out if any other children have gone missing in the last few months,” Brownhill said, “find out if any of them are still missing. I want a full report by the close of business today.”
“Great,” Thompson said under his breath.
“We all have a job to do,” Brownhill had heard him, “I believe you will be most suited to this one.”
PC Baldwin burst into the room.
“You’re late,” Brownhill said.
“Sorry Ma’am,” Baldwin seemed quite agitated, “I’m not officially part of this investigation team. I’m not actually required to be here.”
“Then what do you want?” Brownhill said.
“Another child has disappeared,” Baldwin said, “I got the call about two minutes ago. It’s the first day back at school. A young girl set off from her house but she never arrived at school.”
“Are you sure?” Brownhill said.
“Positive. The school secretary phoned the girl’s mother to ask if there was anything wrong. Eight year old girl. Nobody has seen or heard from her since she left home at eight this morning. I wouldn’t normally panic but in light of recent events I thought it might be important. It looks like she was abducted.”
TWENTY THREE
Lingdale Junior
“Abducted?” Brownhill repeated.
The whole room was silent.
“The mother is in a right state,” Baldwin said, “the father’s at work but he’s on his way home now. Tiffany Beech. That’s the girl’s name. She’s a pupil at Lingdale Junior School. She set off at eight and never made it to school. The thing is, she loved school and her mother reckons she’s not the type to bunk off.”
“They all reckon that,” Thompson said, “do you know how many times I’ve spoken to the parents of young scrotes I’ve picked up and they say exactly the same thing. They think their bloody saintly offspring couldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Thank you for the input Thompson,” Brownhill said, “but you’re not exactly helping. Baldwin was right to take this one seriously; in light of what’s happened recently we can’t afford to ignore it.”
“Can I say something?” Whitton sp
oke up.
“Go on,” Brownhill said.
“I don’t get it,” Whitton said, “eight in the morning. First day back at school. There will have been loads of people around. Somebody must have seen something. Surely it’s impossible to abduct a child with all those people around.”
“Safety in numbers,” Smith thought out loud.
“Smith?” Brownhill said.
“Safety in numbers,” Smith said again, “this guys not stupid. First day back at school. For some of the kids it’ll be their first day ever at school. New kids, new parents. Chaos. He’s chosen a perfect day for it.”
“He?” Brownhill said.
“It’s a he,” Smith said, “I’m sure of that.”
“Ok,” Brownhill said, “let’s have a look at the facts shall we? Smith and Bridge, change of plan. Go and speak to Mr and Mrs Beech. Retrace the child’s footsteps. Talk to her friends at school. With any luck she’ll turn up.”
“I disagree,” Smith said.
“You disagree?” Brownhill said.
“I disagree Ma’am,” Smith emphasized the word ‘Ma’am’, “We’ll speak to the Greens first. That’s where all this started. I always find it’s more productive to start at the beginning.
“First impressions you mean?” Brownhill said.
“Exactly,” Smith had a feeling he was winning this woman over.
“DS Smith,” Brownhill said, “this is the real life; it’s not a detective novel. This first impression bullshit is a cliché that is way past its sell by date. Now get the address from Baldwin and see if you can find out what has happened to this missing girl.”
Smith was about to say something but Bridge put his hand on his shoulder.
“Let’s get out of here,” Bridge said.
Lingdale Junior was on Skeldergate just across the bridge from the River Ouse. The Beeches lived a five minute walk away on Nunthorpe road. Smith had decided it would be best if they spoke to the missing girl’s teachers first before talking to the parents. For once, he had agreed with Thompson; the parents had a tendency to be somewhat subjective where their offspring were concerned. A teacher would be able to give a more grounded opinion of the child. He parked his car in the staff car park and he and bridge got out.
“This is my old school,” Bridge said as they walked towards the entrance of the school.
“You’re not going to get all nostalgic in there are you?” Smith said.
“I had some good times here,” Bridge said, “I think I fell in love for the first time within these walls.”
Smith shook his head.
“Mrs Braithwaite,” Bridge carried on, “I was ten years old. Mrs Braithwaite. Long black hair and the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen.”
“You fell in love with one of your teachers?” Smith said.
“She was gorgeous,” Bridge said, “I was smitten.”
“You’re odd,” Smith tried to open the main door to the school.
It was locked.
“What the hell,” he said, “they’ve locked the door.”
“Security,” Bridge said, “most schools are like that these days. There are some sick people out there. You of all people should know that.”
Bridge pressed the buzzer next to the door and waited.
Thirty seconds later a short bald man with what appeared to be a permanent scowl on his face approached.
“Yes,” a voice was heard over the intercom.
“Police,” Smith said.
The man did not move.
“Show him your ID,” Smith said to Bridge, “I still haven’t replaced mine.”
Bridge held up his ID and the man moved closer to examine it. He opened the door and gestured for Smith and Bridge to go inside. He still had the scowl on his face.
“Duncan Moore,” the man said, “deputy head. I assume this is about the missing girl?”
“Yes it is,” Smith said, “could we have a word in your office?”
Moore looked Smith up and down. His eyes rested on the Jimi Hendrix T shirt and he could not seem to hide his disapproval. It appeared as if he were in two minds whether he believed this gaunt looking man in the loud T shirt could really be a police detective.
“Follow me,” he walked off down the wide corridor.
“Bring back memories?” Smith said as they tried to keep up with Mr Moore.
“I hardly recognize the place,” Bridge said, “it has been almost twenty years though.”
Mr Moore stopped outside a door and went inside. Smith and Bridge went in after him.
“Have a seat,” Moore said.
Smith and Bridge sat down. Bridge suddenly remembered he had sat in the exact chair when he was ten years old. He and another boy had been involved in a fight in the playground and they had been called into the headmaster’s office. Bridge could not remember what the fight had been about. Something trivial, he thought, kids were kids in those days.
“I’ll have you know we’re taking this matter very seriously indeed,” Moore began, “and we will cooperate with the police one hundred percent.”
“Thank you,” Smith said, “did you know Tiffany Beech very well?”
Moore looked at Smith as if he had asked if he were a homosexual.
“Constable,” Moore said, I know all of the children in this school. It is my job to do so.”
Smith was about to inform Moore he was a detective sergeant but Moore got in first.
“Tiffany Beech was a joy to teach,” he said, “I mean is a joy to teach. She’s always courteous. I’ll have to check the records of course but I’m pretty sure she didn’t miss a day of school last year. I have that kind of memory, you see. Of course, since I received my promotion to deputy head, I don’t enjoy the teaching duties I used to but I still fill in now and then when it’s necessary.”
“Who teaches Tiffany now?” Bridge asked.
“Mrs Braithwaite,” Moore said, “one of our longest serving member of staff.”
Bridge’s face turned a dark crimson colour.
Smith smiled.
“Can we talk to Mrs Braithwaite?” he said.
“She had a class at the moment,” Moore said, “but I’ll cover for her. Wait here.”
He stood up and left the room.
“Mrs Braithwaite,” Smith said, “what’s that song again? I’m hot for teacher.”
“Stop it,” Bridge was still blushing.
A couple of minutes later, a woman in her mid fifties opened the door and sat down behind Moore’s desk. She was rather plump with grey hair. She was wearing a pair of old fashioned glasses. Smith glanced over at Bridge and smirked.
“Good morning,” she said, “I believe you’re here about Tiffany. We’re all worried sick about her. She’s such a sweet little girl.”
“We appreciate you taking the time to speak to us,” Smith said, “we just need to ask you a few questions about Tiffany. She didn’t turn up for school this morning. Would you say that was unlike her?”
“Definitely,” Mrs Braithwaite said without hesitation, “Tiffany loves school. She’s never missed a day of school as far back as I can remember.”
“Mr Moore said something similar,” Smith said, “so she’s not the type to play truant?”
“Certainly not,” she said.
“And you’ve no suggestions as to where she might have gone?” Smith said.
“No,” Mrs Braithwaite pushed her glasses further up her nose, “that’s why we’re all so concerned about her. This is not typical of Tiffany at all. Something must have happened to her.”
“Thank you Mrs Braithwaite,” Smith said, “You’ve been very helpful.”
He stood up.
“Do I know you?” Mrs Braithwaite addressed Bridge.
“You used to be my teacher,” Bridge realized his hands were shaking.
“Rupert Bridge,” Mrs Braithwaite said, “in thirty years at this school I’ve never forgotten a pupil and you were one of the naughty ones if I remember.”
&nb
sp; Bridge’s face was now starting to burn up.
“DC Bridge has very fond memories of you Mrs Braithwaite,” Smith said, “thank you again for your time.”
He opened the door and left the office. Bridge glanced at his old school teacher and quickly followed Smith. He wanted to get out of the school as quickly as possible.
TWENTY FOUR
Lawton sweets
“Rupert?” Smith said to Bridge as they drove away from the school, “how long have we been working together? I didn’t know your name was Rupert.”
“I don’t exactly broadcast it,” Bridge said.
“We’re you named after the bear?” Smith asked, “Rupert bear. It suits you.”
“Shut up sir,” Bridge said.
Smith turned left on Dale Street and parked his car opposite number fifteen Nunthorpe Road.
“I see what you mean about Mrs Braithwaite,” he said, “real stunner that one.”
“It was nearly twenty years ago,” Bridge got out the car and slammed the door behind him, “I was ten years old.”
The door to number fifteen was opened before Smith and Bridge had even walked up the driveway. A tall blonde woman walked up to meet them.
“Have you found her?” she said.
“Mrs Beech?” Smith said.
“That’s right,” she said, “have you found Tiffany? Please tell me nothing’s happened to her.”
“We just came from her school,” Smith said.
“It’s not like Tiffany,” she looked like she was about to cry.
“We’re doing everything we can Mrs Beech,” Smith said.
“I feel so useless,” she said, “Bill said I should stay at home and wait by the phone for any news but I feel like I should be doing something.”
“Is Bill your husband?” Bridge asked.
“He’s out there now,” she said, “looking for our daughter. I should be doing the same.”
“Don’t worry Mrs Beech,” Bridge said.
“Do you have children?” she said.
“No,” Bridge replied.
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