'Depends on what age they met.'
She shrugs, uncertain if she understands. 'Leanne hasn't heard from Barry since that night. She wants to go back to that house and see him. I can't let her go back there. Not on her own.'
'Of course you can't,' I say reassuringly, trying to remain patient.
'But she doesn't want me to go with her. She is so angry, because I tried to stop her. I can't believe Barry will want to see her and she'll be so ... hurt, when he rejects her. I'm sure he will do that!'
'What can I do to help?'
'Maybe, if I can find that house again, and you come with me ... we can find out if Barry really loves her or not ... then I'll know she'll be alright.'
Hearing a fourteen-year-old talking so seriously about love can be sad or amusing but also dangerous. Teenagers have committed suicide for less. Unfortunately, suicide is no longer a rare incident these days. We hear of suicides so often that it’s almost become a trend and we're so used to stories about it appearing on the internet that we barely flinch any more. For young people, the number has increased even more. One of the main reasons is bullying at school, and cyber bullying. I'm not sure whether Leanne would go that far, but discovering that the boy you think you love has made a fool of you, can make you feel that your life is no longer worth living.
'Do you know when Leanne will be going there?'
'She said something about missing school. Pretending she's unwell.'
'Today?'
'I don’t know.
I hesitate. 'Whereabouts is that house, Siobhan?'
'I think ... it was somewhere on the Camel Trail. But it was dark and ... everything looked the same. Woods and fields.'
'Will Leanne be able to find it?'
'I hope not.' She has fallen silent. Frowning. Contemplating the options. Weighing up her chances. 'I can skip classes. I can say I'm having my period or something like that,' she says naively.
'Is your father's man still parked in front of the school?'
'I suppose so.'
'You think you'll find the house?' I ask casually, careful not to imply that she and her friend have been lying to me all along.
'I believe so, yes.' Her voice is low and full of guilt.
'Okay.’
Fifteen minutes later, she gives me a vague smile as she walks quickly through the back alley, undoing the lock in the gate with more experience than I care to know.
'Are you sure about this?' I ask, not yet starting the car.
'Yes. Of course.' She's almost as nervous as I am. ‘I have to help Leanne. She’s my friend.'
The statement tells me a lot about her friendship and loyalty and I envy her.
'Let's go then.' I start the engine and put my hand on the gearstick. 'Do you know where we're going?'
'Yes.' She's holding her mobile in her hand. It's switched on. I can see a map on the screen.
'It's a con, you know. I think that Barry's just been using her. Now that he's had ... what he wanted, he's not interested in her any more. But she won't believe me. We fell out when I told her.'
I pull out and we drive past the entrance to the school building. The car with her bodyguard in it is still in the same spot. She ducks down by way of precaution, but he doesn't notice us. His head is resting back, earplugs in his ears, staring out of the window without noticing anything that he should be alert to. Being a bodyguard isn't as exciting as it seems to be. The poor man must be bored to death sitting here while the girl he's supposed to be guarding is sneaking out like Matt Lucas in the wheelchair sketch in Little Britain.
She's spent hours on her computer, searching on Google Earth, retracing their steps from the house where Sally Pollinger used to live with her mother to the house they spent the night in. Staring alternately at the map on her mobile phone and out of the window, she guides me towards a lane in Wadebridge, alongside the river Camel, where our car journey ends. We park in a small car park between two other cars and she leans back with a deep sigh.
'Is it here?'
'No. I need to use street view to recognise anything, but the Google camera doesn't go any further.'
I try to hide my disappointment, but seeing her bottom lip tremble, I say encouragingly, 'Where shall we go next?'
'I'm not sure.' She looks uncertain, eyeing the area as though she is Little Thumb looking for the trail of breadcrumbs he left behind to find his way back. Amazingly, she recognises something. With a broadening smile, she points to an old wooden post that once bore a sign indicating the trail.
'This is it. I'm sure.'
She gets out and I follow her as she stops at the old sign post, sliding a fingertip down the weathered wood. 'I stuck my chewing gum here.' A faint smile lights up her face as she points to a faded pink piece of rubbery stuff clinging to the cracks on the post.
'We came from there.' She gestures in the opposite direction to Wadebridge.
'Okay, let's start here, shall we?' I spread out a map on the bonnet of my car, but she shakes her head.
'I think we'll have to walk. Otherwise, I won't be able to find it.'
'The Camel Trail is about 18 miles long from Padstow to the end at Wenford Bridge. It will take us several hours to walk it all. You’ll be too late back to school and your father's man will raise the alarm.'
It works. She’s too scared of her father and his repercussions.
'Okay then, what do you suggest?'
'We drive to the next place where we can access the trail. If you recognise it as a place you came past, we'll go further on, if not, we'll walk back to this point, hoping we find it on our way.'
'Okay.' She hesitates, her shoulders sagging. 'What else can we do?' she asks miserably.
We follow the river and turn right on a narrow single track that leads up the hill. Siobhan shakes her head. 'I can't remember a hill so steep.'
'We'll find the Camel Trail on the other side.'
'Do you know this area?'
'I have been here before.'
'Do you know where we're going?'
'There is a car park is across the bridge. We'll get out and find the trail. Perhaps you’ll recognise something.'
She is silent, growing restless as we start to go down hill after a while. Dark and damp woods, where the sun barely shines, obscure the area. We pass a few buildings, but nothing familiar. 'The house was close to the trail,' she remembers. 'I don't think we had to climb a steep path. Or go down one.'
'The trail is almost flat as it’s a disused railway line that once connected Padstow with Bodmin.
'There!'
She remembers the old bridge spanning the trail and the river. With a groan, she recalls slimy water dripping from between the old bricks. When she complained that she was thirsty, Leanne suggested opening her mouth and catching some.
Slowly, we drive over the bridge and park between puddles that are in too much shadow to dry out. Getting out, Siobhan shivers, although the valley is sheltered and the sun is warm.
'I think it is here,' she repeats.
There are a few buildings on the sunnier side of the valley. One has a yard littered with motor parts and old fences. Hens pick their way between shrubs and a dog sniffs along a half-paved path leading to a garage. The other building is a two-storey house with a tall chimney and walls painted a light colour between yellow and green. The curtains are drawn and the short driveway is empty. On a fence is a sign. 'Polbrook Cottage.'
Siobhan ducks behind me. 'This is it,' she whispers with a mixture of excitement and fear.
'Are you sure? Shall we have a look?'
She stops mid-step, hesitating.
'You can wait in the car if you like,' I suggest, but the thought of being alone, albeit in a car locked from the inside, is less appealing.
Grabbing my hand, she gives me one last anxious look, then nods. 'Okay.' There is no one around. We approach the house and find a key under a flowerpot containing pink geraniums.
'Is this it, Siobhan? Do you remember this door?'
Sliding the key into the lock, it’s my turn to hesitate. The lock clicks. The door opens. We shouldn't be doing this. Entering a house without the permission of the owner is an illegal act. Even for a policeman working on a case. We ought to call the police and let them handle it but Siobhan is already ahead of me.
I am beginning to regret this. I should have backed off as soon as Siobhan confirmed it was the house they spent the night in. I didn't listen to my instincts. Sometimes, I wish I could turn off my impetuousness and think things through before I leap into action. This situation is a good example. The problem is that now I can't turn back. Even if I wanted to. Once again, my curiosity takes over from common sense.
'Hello?' Siobhan’s voice echoes against the bare walls of a narrow hallway. There is no response.
There are no coats on the hooks, no shoes, boots or wellingtons on a metal grate underneath. A single pale blue umbrella sits in a ceramic vase. The house is cold and damp. The heating is off. Nothing to indicate that the electricity is on either.
I push open the first door and enter a kitchen. Bare shelves. The fridge door is ajar, with a neatly folded checked tea towel draped over to keep it open. The fridge light is off. Dark. Empty. Deserted. No electricity. The house must be unoccupied. Unless by coincidence there is a power cut.
Siobhan doesn't bother with the living area. Climbing the steep, narrow staircase, her footsteps are hollow and loud on the painted steps. Reluctantly, I follow her, gazing at a door to the living room which I would have liked to check before going upstairs.
All the doors are open. One is a newly refurbished bathroom with white tiles from floor to ceiling and blue sanitary ware. The other rooms have double beds made up; in one room, there is a cot in the corner with a wind-up mobile hanging motionless on a plastic ring above it. Small piles of blue bath towels and face cloths are on top of each bed.
'This was my room,' she says softly, stopping just before the threshold, pointing at a key in an old rusty lock. 'You can't take the key out. I locked the door from inside.' Her face is pale and her eyes are restless. Every so often she licks her lips as if the atmosphere makes them dry. She didn't want Barry's friend to come into her room.
'And Leanne was in the other room?'
'Yes. With Barry.' Her eyes fill with tears. 'I got away with it because I was angry. They didn't like that.'
'The other guy?'
She nods. 'Ronald. I locked myself in the room and they left me there. I guess they could have kicked the door, or something, but they didn't. Barry made Leanne promise that she wouldn't tell anyone.'
‘So Leanne and Barry were in the other room?’
'Yes. I could hear them. First, she was laughing, but then I heard her crying. She asked him to stop. But when I asked her later, she said it was alright. She said he was ... kind to her. He understood that it was her first time.' She smiles sadly. 'I wanted to come out to help her, but I was scared of the other guy. I think he was meant ... for me.'
Entering the room Leanne shared with her so-called boyfriend, I check the bed, the wardrobe and chest of drawers, then the bathroom. Someone has done a perfect job of cleaning. Siobhan follows my movements with an expression that tells me she is regretting she'd brought me here. It brings back memories and she knows her nightmares about it will only get worse for having come back.
'You are a very brave girl, Siobhan.'
She looks doubtful. Whispers. 'I’m doing it for Leanne.'
'I know you are.' I lift the corner of a mat covering the wooden floor under the bed. Not even the tiniest speck of dust.
'Someone has cleaned up very thoroughly.'
'Don’t you believe me?' She sounds tired and disappointed. Defeated.
'Of course I do. I was thinking of forensic evidence. If we can find traces of DNA from Leanne and you, then I'd also expect to find some of Barry and his accomplice. If they're in the police database, we'll be able to find them.'
'And then what?'
'I understand that Barry was in bed with Leanne. She is only fourteen. It’s illegal to have sex with under-age teenagers.'
'She wanted to do it. She said she loved him.'
'Did he know her age?'
'I don’t know. Maybe she lied to him.’ She hangs her head, staring at her feet. Her voice is almost inaudible. ‘Will he be punished?'
'Probably. But we’ll have to find him first.’
40
Penrose drops a yellow post-it note on my desk. It flutters until it lands on top of my keyboard, sticking to the escape key. It’s upside down. I can’t read her scribble.
‘What is this, Jennette?’
Her cheeks are flushed and there is anger in her eyes, but mixed with triumph.
‘Sometimes people can be so clever that it’s no surprise that we can never catch them,’ she announces.
‘Most people make a mistake. It only takes one to get caught.’
She shrugs, quickly dismissing my interruption. Getting back to her original train of thought, she grins. ‘But sometimes they can be so utterly stupid that it's unbelievable.’
I pick up the yellow note. It has several initials written on it. SB. BS. FB. MR? ‘What is this, Jennette?’
She pulls a seat from beside someone’s desk and lowers herself onto it, planting her elbows on my desk and lowering her voice as though she might be overheard. There is nobody else near us other than two colleagues staring at computer screens deep in concentration.
She nods, more patiently now that she has my full attention.
‘I googled the address of Polbrook Cottage. The cottage was bought three years ago by a businessman from London. He had it refurbished and tried to sell it. Now, an estate agency that also specialises on holiday rental handles his behalf.’ Her breath is quick and shallow. Her face grows an unhealthy red and her eyes are shining. We are nearing the climax of her story.
‘I was going call the agency and ask them which cleaning company they use for the house in Polbrook. But I didn’t need to ask them anything. I found this website. I’d like you to look at it.’ Her head jerks towards the yellow note. The initials haven’t become any clearer.
‘KeyhomesinCornwall?’
‘Yes. One word. Dot com.’
Staring at the screen with eyebrows almost touching in concentration, she pushes the keyboard in my direction. I type the address of the website and a homepage gradually opens. On top of the page is a row of tiny thumbnail images of keys and properties of varying kinds and the name, Key Homes in Cornwall.
Underneath is a box where potential customers can fill in the details of what they are looking for so that the site can find all the properties they may be interested in. The kind of property. Location. Price range. Next to this box is a snapshot of a man probably in his fifties, David Green, grey hair and black eyebrows, looking at ease into the camera – definitely not a distorted face like on a selfie - smiling broadly as though he is completely trustworthy. Under his picture is some text saying why he is the best man to approach if someone is interested in buying a new home.
Homes for sale. Penrose sees the words forming on my lips. Tells me, ‘Further down.’
The site is having technical problems and like a rollercoaster slowing down, it is now moving so slowly it has almost come to a halt. As Penrose is usually the impatient one of us, I try to hide the feeling that she is wasting my time.
Another box comes up to fill in with another range of preferences. Bald and bearded Benjamin Hill is the person to contact for residential lettings. He is younger than David Green but his face has the same sort of broad smile. It makes me feel that estate agents are a bit smarmy.
‘Go down further,’ Penrose says.
We finally reach the right place, but I’m still not excited enough yet to scream and shout as though we are loving the ride, but are really scared inside. At least I would be.
The bottom part of this page is for holiday lettings. Another box with more options. Number of beds. Near the coast or
inland. With a swimming pool. Wheelchair access.
I read on. Holding my breath. It is staring me in the face. Literally. A picture of Barry.
His face is as handsome as Siobhan described, with his hair dyed and trimmed to perfection. The same broad smile as his older colleagues, but with a hint of charm and amusement.
Barry is the perfect man to contact if you would like to have your property listed as a holiday home. The agency will take care of everything, from contacts with customers and taking bookings to cleaners and insurance. All you need to do is wait to receive the money in your bank account.
‘We will have to show this to the girls.’
‘Yes.’ Somehow Penrose seems to think that my reaction is not excited enough. It feels like the rollercoaster isn’t going as fast as it should do. Instead, the brakes are controlling its descent.
‘We need to have a word with him, Jennette. This is brilliant.’
She smiles, blushing, but shakes her head. ‘There is more.’
I wait. ‘His name is Steven Barry.’ Her index finger taps on his smiling face. ‘I’ve looked at Leanne’s Facebook page. He is one of her friends. On Facebook.’
‘Show me, Jennette.’
She taps three keys and a Facebook page unfolds. It has the same photo as on top of the property website. Only here his name is Barry Stevens.
‘How did you know he uses an alias?’
‘I didn’t. I recognised his photo.’
‘And Leanne is one of his ‘friends’?’
‘Yes. Her name is …’ She finds a small notebook amongst the papers on her desk. ‘… Leanne Jayne.’
I could have saved her the trouble of finding Leanne’s page. ‘Can we print a list of all of their ‘friends’?’
She motions towards the printer. ‘I’ve already done that, sir. In fact, I’ve done more.’ She clicks the keyboard again and a simple spread sheet comes up. Two columns, disappearing below the screen. ‘These are all the friends of Siobhan, Leanne and Barry,’ she explains. ‘I sorted them and came up with mutual friends.’ She glances at my face. ‘You know how Facebook works, Sir?’
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