The Lost

by Mari Hannah

  She nodded. ‘I’ve driven and walked the route.’

  ‘Great. Where do you want us to start?’

  ‘There are three locations I’m interested in, for no other reason than it’s where I’d dispose of a bike if it was hot. Our theory is that the offender we’re after used a wrench to commit a serious offence and a bike to get home and then disposed of it later. Working on that assumption, it has to be a place where a car might stop for long enough for our offender to lift a pedal cycle the weight and size of Jerry Dixon’s from a vehicle and lob it with enough force to reach deep water.’ She pointed at the shoreline. ‘As you can see, it’s pretty shallow near the edge.’ An afterthought: ‘That’s assuming they had a car and didn’t ride here.’

  ‘And if they didn’t?’

  ‘Then we’re screwed. If they came on the bike the items could have been disposed of anywhere along the water’s edge and we/you have no resources to drag the whole lake. I can only hope that’s not the case.’

  Frankie had half-inched four leaflets from a dispenser on the wall outside the visitor centre, illustrating the lake and surrounding area. She took them from her pocket. On each one, she’d marked three locations in blue biro and numbered them in order of priority. She gave Burnett three copies for his team and kept the last so she could explain what she was after. He was both impressed and grateful.

  The Marine Unit were drawing a crowd. They were a friendly bunch, well used to public attention as they donned dry suits. They chatted away to day-trippers, explaining that they were on a routine training exercise in a search-and-recovery-style operation. One diver was allowing kids a sneak peek of their equipment van, another issuing a gentle warning of the dangers of playing even in shallow water as he pulled on breathing apparatus.

  Burnett and Frankie moved out of earshot.

  ‘My number one choice is on the south-west side where the road is nearest to the lake,’ she said. ‘There’s a pull-in there with direct access to the water’s edge. In my opinion, location two on the south-east side is risky but doable, depending on visitor numbers.’ She looked at Burnett. ‘It was tanking down on the day we’re interested in, so maybe not that many people were about, unless they were anglers who like to get wet.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘June twenty-second. Why d’you ask?’

  ‘It was closed season until a fortnight ago,’ he said. ‘So, there may well have been quite a few anglers about. Even if there weren’t, people like to sit in their cars and read, have a picnic, or even something more personal on a rainy day.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Her eyes were on the map. ‘As you can see, number two is closest to the car park where we’re standing, which also happens to be the busiest. See this . . .’ She moved her finger. ‘A lone parking spot on the south side of the road with easy access via stone steps to the shoreline. Once up the steps and over the wall, the location is hidden from the road by rhododendron bushes. A good spot in which to hide and pick your time. Assuming the bike and weapon were dumped here, our offender would have good vision in all directions and would hear anyone coming a mile off.’

  Burnett was way ahead of her, studying the map closely. ‘Location three is risky in my view. The jetty on the south side is useful to lose the bike in deeper water, but it’s much less secure. It can be seen from other areas by walkers who don’t mind the rain. It only takes one pair of eyes and you’d never be aware of them from that distance if it was chucking it down. The jetty would be visible to anyone sheltering on the northern bank.’

  Frankie agreed.

  ‘Tell me about the weapon.’ Burnett waited.

  ‘It’s a wide-jaw adjustable wrench. Pretty heavy.’

  ‘Make?’

  ‘Holden: fourteen inches long.’

  The Marine Unit sergeant scribbled down her description.

  ‘Don’t hold your breath on that score,’ he said, looking up. ‘Thrown with some welly, it would go a damned sight further than a bike. We might never find it. To be honest, if it was me, I’d have chucked the items in separately. Less chance of being found that way, assuming your offender was thinking straight at the time.’

  Burnett glanced at his watch. It was almost six. His team were ready to roll. Frankie watched them huddle together for a quick briefing. They climbed into a transit van and set off in the direction of the West Wood, leaving their spectators behind, Frankie included. She went to her car to wait, then got out again. She couldn’t settle.

  The wind was picking up. After a beautiful day, the sun had gone. A darkening sky hinted at more rain. After pacing up and down for half an hour, her phone rang: Burnett.

  Mentally, she crossed her fingers. ‘Oliver.’

  ‘Location one is a negative, Frank. No bike or wrench.’

  ‘Damnit!’ She tried not to sound downhearted. ‘Tell your lads the beers are on me if they find either.’

  ‘I offered them curry.’ Burnett chuckled. ‘Isn’t that what Saturday nights are for?’

  ‘You’re on.’ Frankie had no plans for the evening beyond calling on her dad. The thought that marine officers might have private business pricked at her conscience – she hoped she wasn’t trashing their arrangements or wasting their time.

  ‘We’re moving on to location two,’ Burnett said.

  ‘I’ll meet you there in ten.’

  He ended the call.

  Wildfowl bobbed up and down on choppy water and swans took shelter in the shallows as Frankie made her way on foot to meet them. A canoe sailed by as she arrived, the kids inside craning their necks to see what was going on. A diver Burnett had introduced earlier as PC Gail Rickerby disappeared beneath water that was gunmetal grey, the canoeists moved on by dive buddies holding her safety line. There were always more officers above the surface than below.

  It was starting to rain.

  Frankie was a little claustrophobic. She couldn’t imagine how cold it was in the murky water, groping your way through mud and debris with nil visibility and the constant danger of entanglement. The Marine Unit would never have suited her. With one eye on the operation, she called Stone. Reception was poor. He was in transit, probably making his way to his dilapidated cottage in Pauperhaugh. Right now, she’d give anything to be sitting in his nan’s rocking chair in front of a roaring fire, a glass of good malt, the prospect of a night of television ahead of her.

  ‘Sorry not to have good news,’ she told him.

  ‘Keep at it, Frank.’

  ‘We don’t even know that Bolam Lake is the dump site.’

  ‘You should have thought about that.’ He was joking. ‘Don’t give up. Your intuition has been right so far.’

  Twenty minutes later, a bike emerged from the depths of the lake, held aloft by Rickerby. Burnett raised a thumb and took a photographic record of the diver standing there with her find. Frankie waited with bated breath, hoping that the pedal cycle was the one she was looking for and not someone else’s. Photo shoot over, the bike was transported from the water, covered in sludge.

  More photographs . . .

  More detail . . .

  A Marin Muirwoods 29ER, matte black with reflective graphics.

  Accessing the Notes app on her mobile, Frankie knelt beside the Marin, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves. She wiped a small amount of muck away from the serial number, checking it against the entry as Rickerby arrived by her side. Frankie’s smile was all the confirmation the officer needed that her job was done – half of it anyway. If she could find the wrench, they would hear Frankie scream from Northern Command HQ.

  A familiar voice shouted: ‘Good work!’

  Frankie stood up, turning to the voice.

  Stone was right behind her, sheltering from the rain, a Sunderland FC football scarf hanging loose round his neck. She burst out laughing and so did Burnett.

  ‘I told him you’re a Too
n supporter,’ Frankie said.

  Stone handed Burnett the scarf, any rivalry between them melting away.

  54

  The search at Bolam Lake went on, Burnett insisting that he’d use the remaining daylight hours to locate the wrench, assuming it was there. He suggested that Stone and Oliver leave his team to it – now that the bike had been found the detectives had much to discuss. Frankie wasn’t having that. Dragging them out on a Saturday night weighed heavily on her mind. The least she could do was feed them. Her old man’s weekly bulletin would have to wait.

  Cancelling her plans to visit him, she texted instead:

  Still grafting, Dad. It’s nice for some!

  Any point keeping you some bait?

  None. I’ll be hours yet.

  Stay safe. x

  xx

  Frankie pocketed her phone. Her father would be disappointed. He loved their special time together when her mum was playing bridge. If Rae and Andrea were there too, all the better. Policing had been her father’s life. Since his retirement, he’d found it hard to switch off. Stone opened the car door and climbed in.

  He saw her sad expression before she had to time hide it.

  ‘Everything OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Couldn’t be better,’ she lied.

  She’d miss her dad tonight.

  Starting the car, she left Boathouse Wood, turning right towards Belsay, then left on the A696 to Ponteland – a village eight miles south. According to Burnett, the team had binned the idea of curry in favour of Cantonese. The New Rendezvous restaurant had a fantastic takeaway menu, especially for groups as big as theirs. He’d called the order in and was told it would be ready in an hour, enough time for Stone and Oliver to slip into the Diamond Pub next door for a swift half and a chat before collection.

  They took their drinks outside. It had stopped raining and the sun had come out. The seats were wet, so they stood in the sunshine, neither of them saying much. After all the excitement of recovering the bike, Stone began to question how far it would take them. ‘Have you considered the possibility that this burglary has sod-all to do with our investigation?’

  ‘Several times . . . but there hasn’t been a burglary in that area for moons. It’s practically a crime-free zone, David. I told you, it’s like your place – nowt happens there.’

  ‘You’re not selling it to me, Frank.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Your cottage is divine. All I’m saying is, Marjorie Smith has lived in her house for fifty-plus years and has never known trouble, let alone a break-in.’

  ‘Then it’s well overdue.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a coincidence. Do you? Really?’

  ‘No.’ He was buzzing.

  Frankie took a sip of lemonade. ‘If it was only the bike, I might consider it. Linked with a tool identical to the one used on our victim, no. That is a coincidence too far. It must be connected. There’s no other way to read it, in my view. You heard the pathologist. Justine’s injuries are entirely consistent with the wrench we sourced, even down to the size of the worm screw and adjustable jaws. It all fits. That’s why we need that weapon.’

  She paused, checking her phone, her face set in a scowl.

  Stone’s eyes were asking if there had been any developments. She shook her head and he carried on as if there had been no interruption. ‘Deep down, we both know that weapon came from Dixon’s shed. It’s a question of whether the burglary was random or not: ancient shed; stolen wrench; Justine in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or . . . and this is important . . . was the wrench stolen to facilitate her murder?’

  He let the sentence hang.

  In any murder case, the possibilities were endless. Frankie was mulling it over, trying to fit it all together in her head. It was the first time that he’d properly looked at her. She was tired and yet undeterred. She would debate the whys and wherefores all day long if it resulted in putting away the sick bastard that struck an innocent jogger, incapacitating her, dragging her on to a bridge to face certain death. It was an action beyond cruel. Frankie wouldn’t rest until someone was behind bars.

  ‘Maybe there’s another question we should be asking ourselves,’ she said.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘If the burglar kicked the door in knowing exactly what was inside, maybe they’re trying to pull a fast one by pointing us in the wrong direction. We have one eye on Parker, right? Me, more than you, probably . . .’ Stone didn’t argue. Frankie wasn’t done. ‘He lives close to our crime scene and admits to being home—’

  ‘He had no choice. He was seen by Alex.’

  ‘But why stay home if he was guilty? If he is the culprit, wouldn’t he make damn sure he wasn’t there? I would. The fact that he was home draws, rather than deflects, suspicion.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune.’

  ‘Hey! I called as I saw it. What was it you said? Just because I don’t like him doesn’t make him guilty. Rule 8: If you’ve made an arse of yourself, front up.’ She pulled a silly face. ‘I’m more than happy to be wrong if someone is trying to shaft him, David.’

  Traffic lights outside the pub changed to red. In seconds, there was a long line of cars waiting in both directions. It gave Frankie an idea. ‘There were many men in Justine’s life. Maybe one of her admirers is trying to frame Parker for reasons unknown to us. Curtis, for example. His convenient fishing trip worries me. And another thing . . . if Justine knew her assailant, that could explain how they got close to her. That person may even have parked in the woods opposite—’

  Stone shook his head. ‘Why would they need the bike if they had a car?’

  ‘Hear me out. Our search team didn’t go into the woods until hours later, after Marjorie Smith pointed out that it was a regular rendezvous. Andrea said there was a tailback of traffic immediately after the incident. If the assailant’s exit route was blocked, that could account for the bike theft. We’re assuming both items were lifted at the same time. We don’t know that for sure. If Justine’s attacker was blocked in, they may have doubled back to Dixon’s shed to steal the bike as a means of escape, or maybe Jeremiah knows more about this than he’s letting on.’

  Her comment entered Stone’s head in the shape of a question mark. Another theory, another avenue to explore. He was almost frightened to ask where she was heading. Burnett’s intervention meant he didn’t have to.

  55

  Against the odds, the Marine Unit had found the wrench and retained it in a tray in their utility vehicle. It wasn’t unprecedented, but it was unusual for underwater investigators to process evidence at the scene. It would be transported to the laboratory for forensic examination. No bagging was necessary. Leaving it to dry in ambient temperature would preserve it, giving scientists half a chance of success. Immersion in water destroyed most things. Frankie hoped they would get lucky.

  The wrench was rusty, its surface pitted with age. That would aid the pathologist to determine if it was the actual murder weapon. It was unlikely to help the investigation beyond that. Nevertheless, there were high fives all round, well-earned thanks as well as sincere congratulations extended to every member of the dive team, a big pat on the back for Burnett, without whom the operation would never have taken place. With goodwill and no funding, his unit had gone above and beyond a duty call.

  Stone proffered a hand. ‘This won’t be forgotten.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Frankie said. ‘We owe you, Stan.’

  ‘And you will pay.’ Burnett had half an eye on the takeaway. ‘Anything in those bags will do. Get ’em open, Frank. My crew are ravenous.’

  She dumped the Cantonese on a picnic table, telling everyone to dig in. No one held back. There wasn’t room for everyone to sit so she and Stone grabbed some food and parked themselves on the tailgate of her car. In fading light, the divers ate enthusiastically – and so did they – until David’s mobile pi
erced the peace and tranquillity of Boathouse Wood. After such a long and taxing day, Frankie was irritated by the interruption.

  ‘We’re not in,’ she said. It wasn’t like her to be grumpy.

  ‘If only that were true,’ Stone told her. Theirs was the age of constant interruption, when every police officer was contactable round the clock. He checked his mobile and was visibly apprehensive.

  Frankie was instantly on her guard. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘My old boss.’

  ‘Could be worse.’

  ‘No, it couldn’t.’

  She laughed. ‘I was thinking Professional Standards.’

  ‘That’s not remotely funny.’ It was out of his mouth before he could stop it.

  Frankie was taken aback. He’d gone from jubilant to irritated in the blink of an eye. She wanted to apologise, retract her comment and explain that she hadn’t meant anything by it, but no words would remove the wounded expression on his face. She couldn’t fathom what had triggered his angry outburst when they were in such a bloody good mood.

  Burnett looked over in their direction, a concerned expression. Frankie smiled, covering her distress. He returned to his food and she relaxed. He drank with her old man and she didn’t want him telling tales out of school. If her dad thought Stone was giving her a hard time, there would be hell to pay. She was a big girl now, capable of fighting her own battles. And still Stone was procrastinating.

  As far as Frankie was aware, this was the first time anyone from the Met had been in touch with him. Now she came to think of it, that was odd. The police family were famous for maintaining contact. She only needed to look across the car park to the picnic table to witness the camaraderie. You didn’t last long in their job without the support of fellow officers. Fighting crime was the glue that bound them together. Watching each other’s backs came as second nature. They trusted each other instinctively. If one was hurting, they all were. They didn’t forget or lose touch.