‘Nothing regarding Hayley Collard?’ Ruth asked. Nick had already debriefed Ruth about his trip to Rhyl.
‘Nothing. No mention of her anywhere that I could find. However Rosie and Hayley contacted each other, we couldn’t find it,’ Sian explained.
At that moment, Nick approached. ‘Boss, PNC and criminal record check on Hayley Collard. Shoplifting. Possession of class-A drugs. And three counts of soliciting. One when she was thirteen.’
Ruth shook her head. She had heard and seen it all before, but the idea of a teenage girl selling sex to grown men still sent a shiver down her back.
Nick was looking at the printout and said grimly, ‘It’s the usual story. Addict parents. Grew up in care. Foster parents, running away, children’s homes and then petty crime.’
They shared a look. It was Ruth’s favourite topic when she drank too much and became maudlin. The endless cycle of poverty, abuse, addiction and crime that passed from generation to generation, and that no one seemed to be willing to tackle. It was their job to hold it together as best they could.
Ruth let out an irritated noise, then snapped. ‘We’ve got nothing. No motive, no suspects, no leads.’ She could feel herself welling with a mixture of frustration and sadness.
‘We’ve got Hayley Collard. It’s the one thing that doesn’t add up on that night,’ Sian suggested.
‘It doesn’t give us anything. Rosie was friends online with a teenage prostitute. So what? Tonight is Rosie Wright’s third night away from her home. We don’t get many teenage girls that come back after that!’ Ruth said sharply. It was starting to get to her.
Ruth could see that Nick and Sian were a little surprised by her outburst.
‘Ruth? Can I borrow you?’ Drake appeared at the door and beckoned Ruth to come over. There seemed to be some sense of urgency in his manner that Ruth thought was unusual.
Walking down the corridor towards Drake’s office, Ruth took a moment to compose herself. She felt bad for snapping at Sian.
‘Everything all right, boss?’ Ruth asked, wondering why there was the need for all the cloak-and-dagger stuff. Was she in some kind of trouble?
‘Yeah. I need to borrow you for a bit,’ Drake explained.
Ruth didn’t like the sound of that. Why hadn’t he spoken to her in front of everyone else in briefing? She had a sinking feeling in her stomach.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you how Paula is, boss?’ Ruth asked, now remembering that she was still suffering from cancer.
Drake slowed for a moment. ‘The chemo is working. But it’s making her very ill. She’s lost her hair ...’ he said sadly.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Ruth replied.
‘Main thing is, the cancer hasn’t spread. That’s what I was worried about,’ Drake admitted.
Ruth nodded. ‘Tell her that I’m thinking about her.’
She had only met Paula twice, but she seemed to be a woman with a real zest for life and an infectious laugh. It was horrible to think about what she was going through.
‘Thanks, Ruth,’ Drake said as they arrived at his door.
At the table on the far side of Drake’s large office were two detectives. One was a middle-aged man, thickset and wearing a worn-looking navy suit. The other was in her thirties, Asian and pretty. The detectives looked up as Ruth entered and Drake closed the door.
‘Have a seat, Ruth,’ Drake said gesturing to a chair on the opposite side of the meeting table to the two detectives. ‘This is our SIO on the Rosie Wright case, DI Ruth Hunter.’
‘Hi there,’ Ruth said, a little annoyed and even concerned about why they were meeting. They didn’t look like officers from the IPCC.
‘DI Lyon and DS Buckley are officers in the Regional Prison Investigation Team,’ Drake explained.
Ruth frowned. What the hell does any of this have to do with the RPIT? Then the penny dropped. Kathy Wright was a prison officer. The two must be connected, mustn’t they? But how?
Lyon shifted in his seat and moved a folder to the centre of the table. ‘The RPIT has had Kathy Wright under surveillance for the past six months. We believe that she is running a team of prison officers who are smuggling drugs and mobile phones into HMP Rhoswen.’
What the—? Ruth’s mind whirred with the information, trying to piece it together. Did this have any bearing on Rosie’s disappearance?
‘We didn’t realise that Kathy Wright was Rosie Wright’s mother until we put two and two together this morning,’ Buckley said.
‘Do you think the two things are connected?’ Ruth asked.
‘We’re not sure,’ confessed Buckley.
Ruth looked up at Drake and then said with a sense of urgency, ‘Boss, we need to get Kathy Wright in now and find out if what she’s doing at Rhoswen has resulted in Rosie being harmed.’
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ Drake explained as he leaned on his desk and picked up his coffee. The phrase cool as a cucumber must have been invented for Drake.
‘Why? We’re running out of time if we want to find Rosie alive,’ Ruth snapped. ‘What the hell are we waiting for?’
Drake shot her a look. Ruth didn’t normally challenge Drake with that kind of resolve, but when a young girl’s life was at stake, she was compelled.
‘At the moment, we’re still at the evidence-gathering stage. And we don’t have enough to arrest and hold her or any of the other prison officers. If we alert her that she’s being watched, then we lose everything,’ Lyon said.
Ruth snorted. She couldn’t believe what was being said. Fuck evidence gathering!
‘Jesus Christ! A sixteen-year-old girl was attacked and abducted ten minutes from where she lives. She’s either dying or dead. We have no idea who took her or where she is. But we can’t interview the mother because she’s smuggling stuff into a prison!’ Ruth exclaimed angrily.
‘That’s not quite the full story, Ruth,’ Drake said calmly.
Lyon took an A4 photo out of an envelope and slid it over the table for Ruth to look at.
Now what?
‘Do you know this man?’ Lyon asked.
Ruth looked. She instantly recognised the shaved head, the perma-tan and expensive teeth.
‘Curtis Blake.’ Ruth nodded. They knew all about Curtis Blake, the Liverpudlian gangster that Llancastell CID had dealt with when he had made county-lines inroads into North Wales. ‘An officer from our CID ended up dead after crossing paths with Curtis Blake. There are plenty of detectives here who would like to see him hang,’ Ruth said.
‘Curtis Blake was transferred from HMP Wakefield to Rhoswen for his own protection. There’s a turf war in Merseyside as gangs try to divvy up Blake’s empire. It seems that Blake has ruffled a few feathers in Rhoswen in the past couple of months as he’s decided that he’s now running the show there. We believe that might have brought him into direct conflict with the old-time criminals who were running things before and with Kathy Wright, their inside girl,’ Buckley explained.
‘Maybe Blake threatened to harm Kathy’s family if she didn’t do what he wanted her to do?’ suggested Ruth.
Instinctively, Ruth felt this was a solid lead. There was now definite motive.
Lyon nodded. ‘That’s a distinct possibility. And if she called his bluff or didn’t believe him, then maybe that puts him in the frame for Rosie’s disappearance.’
‘However, we do need to tread carefully. There is no compelling evidence against Kathy Wright for the supply of drugs and mobile phones at Rhoswen. At least nothing that we would get past the CPS. And Kathy Wright has a missing teenage daughter who has been seriously harmed or worse,’ Drake explained.
Ruth knew what Drake was getting at, but she had a teenage girl to find. Everything else was secondary to that. ‘No. I’m sorry, but we don’t have time to tread carefully, boss. If we have any kind of lead on why Rosie was taken, we need to move on it now.’
Lyon leaned forward. ‘If we drag Kathy Wright in for questioning for a crime that she turns out to be
innocent of while the whole country is watching her and her family’s terrible anxiety over Rosie, then it’s a huge PR disaster for not just North Wales Police but the entire force.’
‘Bollocks to PR! This is a girl’s life we’re talking about,’ Ruth thundered.
How bloody dare they see this in terms of PR!
Drake shot Ruth a look to keep a lid on it.
Buckley looked around at them all with an air that suggested she had a solution. ‘As far as we know, Kathy Wright has no idea that she is under surveillance. We’re confident there will be something at her home that would help us caution or even arrest her, but we can’t get enough for a search warrant.’
‘Why not?’ Drake asked in disbelief.
‘We’ve constructed what we believed was a solid ITO twice now. And twice we’ve been turned down by the magistrate because there were no reasonable or probable grounds for the search,’ Buckley explained. An ITO stood for Information To Obtain, which was a document filed by a police officer to a judge seeking authorisation to obtain a search warrant, often to look for evidence of an offence.
‘We can search the property,’ Ruth said, thinking out loud.
‘Sorry, I’m not following.’ Lyon frowned as he looked over at Ruth. Buckley smiled at Ruth; the two women were on to something.
‘We can search the Wright’s property as part of our investigation into Rosie’s disappearance. Kathy and Jason Wright are due to do a press conference with me here at eleven tomorrow morning, so they won’t be at the property. If DCI Drake agrees, I’m sure that you could “observe” some of our officers from CID giving the Wrights’ home a thorough search. If they are looking for clues to Rosie’s disappearance but happen to stumble across something else, that is just coincidence. But it will be admissible in court as it is covered by our search warrant,’ Ruth explained, feeling energised and rather pleased with herself.
Drake looked over and gave her a nod to show he was impressed.
‘Perfect,’ Lyon said as he nodded at Buckley.
Now we’re getting somewhere, Ruth thought.
CHAPTER 9
Having arrived home twenty minutes earlier, Sian came into the garage in search of a screwdriver. The arm of the sofa had slumped again, dropping her drink to the floor, and she was determined to fix it.
It’s just a waste of good alcohol.
Sian’s head was still full of the Rosie Wright case. Not only from work, but it was the major news story on the various BBC radio stations she had listened to on her way home. At the moment, CID didn’t really have any clear motive, means or opportunity. Did that mean Rosie Wright had been taken by a total stranger? Of course, it wasn’t impossible. It was just unlikely.
Stepping over Ruth’s boxes that were still full of DVDs, CDs and books, she saw a toolbox. Brilliant. But inside, there was only a large hammer, tacks, nails and a long-handled metal tool – she had no idea what that was or what it did.
Where would she find a screwdriver? Balancing as she stepped over another box, she headed to the far end of the garage. The smell of grass from the lawnmower was stronger, and the air seemed thicker and warmer back there. Still no bloody screwdriver. Maybe she would go and get a cold beer and sit on the patio instead.
Turning to go, she spotted something through the cheap metal shelving unit that seemed to sit in the middle of the garage space for no apparent reason. A small table and chair.
What the hell is that doing there? The chair was tucked neatly under the table and there were photos and maps stuck to the wall.
Approaching slowly, a realisation dawned on Sian. Her fears were confirmed. The wall was a little shrine to Sarah and Ruth’s ongoing investigation into her disappearance. There were half a dozen or so photos of Sarah at festivals, weddings and bars. A map of London with Crystal Palace and London Victoria marked with red pins, as they would be if this was Llancastell CID. To the right, photographs of the CCTV from Crystal Palace station and London Victoria on that day in 2013.
And then what Sian knew was the darker side of the disappearance. A police Photofit of the German banker Jurgen Kessler, who passengers saw talking to Sarah on the train that morning. A man that Berlin Police wanted in connection with two murders. His blank expression and dead eyes behind glasses looked cold and creepy.
Closing her eyes for a moment, Sian felt the emotional pain in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t compete with a ghost. A ghost that in the rose-tinted perspective of ever passing time was perfect in every way.
THE SUN WAS BEGINNING to drop by the time Nick and Amanda began to walk up to the impressive Caernarfon Castle. It had taken them an hour to get there, but it was worth it. It was the most impressive of all of Wales’s castles, Nick thought, even knowing that it was technically an English construction.
Amanda reached for his hand as they ambled along the cobblestones. The warm summer breeze blew from the Menai Strait, giving it the salty sea smell of holidays. Wasps hovered noisily over a bin where ice cream wrappers and cans of drink had been discarded.
As they looked up at the imposing thirteenth-century turrets, Amanda smiled and said, ‘Are you going to bore me with everything you know about this castle?’
‘Do you want me to bore you?’ Nick smiled back.
‘Of course,’ she said, squeezing his hand.
‘Okay, it’s medieval and was built by the dirty English scum and their king, Edward I, at the end of the thirteenth century.’
‘Racist.’
‘Now, there was a Roman fort on it before and—’
Amanda interrupted him, ‘Actually, on second thoughts, no. Can we just walk around and just look at it?’ Amanda said.
‘Oh fine. Be ignorant. Prince Charles was here when he became Prince of Wales in 1969.’
‘Okay, that’s vaguely interesting,’ Amanda teased and then pulled him by the hand. ‘Come on. Before you break out in full-blown tedium-itis.’
As they walked, Nick looked over at the forty or so boats that were moored up along the marina and around the actual harbour. From here, cruises would take tourists over to Anglesey or inland to look at the Snowdonia mountain range. The castle’s reflection stretched out lazily across the water and only stopped where the water was shallow and small pebbled beaches had begun to appear at low tide.
Amanda frowned, stopped and put her hand to her pregnant bump.
‘You okay?’ Nick asked, already concerned.
Amanda smiled. ‘I think Junior just kicked!’ There had been movement before, but this was the first time the baby had kicked properly – a look of joy spread across both their faces.
‘What?’ Nick beamed and put his hand on her bump. A moment later, the unmistakable kick of their baby. ‘He did it again!’
‘He? He? You’re such a bloke.’ Amanda hit him playfully.
‘I’ve just got a feeling. And I can tell he’s definitely a left kegger.’
‘A left what-er?’ Amanda asked, rolling her eyes at his banality.
‘Left-footed. All the best rugby players are left-footed. Dan Carter, Jonny Wilkinson ...’
‘Bloody hell. That’s what I love about you, Nick. You can go from boring old man to moronic juvenile in the blink of an eye.’
‘As you said, that’s what you love about me,’ Nick quipped.
He wished evenings like this would go on for ever. He loved being under this fairy-tale castle with Amanda, but he also felt a twinge of fear. What if he just didn’t have it in him to be a responsible dad and partner? ‘Doesn’t it scare you?’
‘What?’ Amanda asked as she looked at him. ‘Having a baby?’
‘Yeah,’ Nick mumbled quietly. He wasn’t quite sure how much to reveal about his true feelings.
‘Of course. It’s terrifying. But that’s how everyone feels, especially the first time,’ Amanda explained.
‘Do they?’ Nick asked. He came from a culture where no one really talked about how they felt about anything. Especially men. It wasn’t the done thing to roc
k up in the pub to watch the rugby and try to discuss your anxieties about becoming a father for the first time.
Amanda’s phone buzzed and interrupted Nick’s train of thought. She checked it and frowned. ‘My dad? Which is weird.’
‘Why?’ Nick asked. She rarely mentioned her dad and all Nick knew was that he had walked out on her and her mum when she was a teenager and was now in prison. He wasn’t even sure why.
‘Well, he doesn’t text me a lot, does he?’
‘No. But what’s he doing with a mobile phone in prison anyway?’ Nick asked.
‘They moved him to an open prison last month,’ Amanda explained.
‘Near here?’
‘Cheshire, so not far,’ Amanda said.
‘Will you go visit him?’ Nick asked.
‘I should do. I haven’t seen him since I was pregnant.’
‘Does he know?’
‘Oh yeah. And he’s happy for me. But it’s always a bit difficult, you know?’
‘Does he know I’m a copper?’ Nick had been out with a couple of girls who had had to hide the fact that he was on the job from their less than salubrious families.
‘Yeah. I’ve told him about you.’
Nick waited a moment. He knew all about difficult relationships with fathers. It had only really been in the last year that he and his father had had any kind of proper relationship. But that’s what sobriety had given them both.
‘You never talk about why he’s in prison,’ Nick said, wondering how Amanda would respond to this.
‘No,’ Amanda said, and his question hovered in the air between them.
‘It’s fine. We don’t need to talk about it,’ Nick said eventually, breaking the tension.
‘No, I want to ... I spent so much of my adult life being dishonest and secretive .... I want us to tell each other everything.’
‘No, I get that. My motto used to be “If in doubt, lie. And then lie again”,’ Nick admitted. He still struggled to tell the truth if lying made it easier.
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