by Louise Voss
The car pulled up next to her and sat idle for a few moments, the engine falling silent. The passenger door popped open an inch.
Trembling, she approached it, and pulled the door fully open.
A man – Daniel – sat in the driver’s seat, his face turned away so she couldn’t see it. All she could tell was that he had brown hair and was about six feet tall.
‘Jump in, Amy,’ said the man mildly, and she climbed in, pulling the door shut behind her.
‘Where’s Becky?’ she said.
There was an odd, chemical smell in the car, like air freshener mixed with cleaning fluid.
He still had his face turned away from her, though his voice sounded familiar. She wanted to grab him, make him look at her.
But she didn’t need to – he swung round and faced her.
‘You!’ she said, recognizing him but still not being able to place him. ‘Where’s Daniel?’
He smiled, the cruellest smile she had ever seen, and she instinctively went for the door handle. But he was quicker – the locks clunked shut. The smell intensified and, like a cobra, he struck suddenly and silently, lunging for her face with something white and toxic. Chloroform.
The last thing Amy realized – as the planes circling in a holding stack in the sky above her contracted into tiny, shiny dots, then vanished – was Daniel’s true identity. But by then it was far too late.
40
Declan
Friday, 26 July
Declan hurried towards the SIO’s office with the photo of Amber Corrigan in one hand and a picture of Becky Coltman in the other. He’d hardly slept, despite his exhaustion, imaginary conversations playing out in his head all night. The first conversation he needed to have was with the SIO, DCI Anthony Fremantle – and here he was, not in his office, but walking purposefully towards the exit.
‘Sir,’ Declan called.
Fremantle turned his head but kept walking, and Declan hurried to catch up, wishing this fucking sweltering summer would end so he could stop sweating whenever he exerted the slightest bit of energy.
‘I need to run something by you, sir,’ he said.
‘Is this about your cesspit woman?’ the SIO replied, still walking.
Declan fell into step beside him. ‘Yes. Amber Corrigan. Look at these photos – the picture on the left is a woman called Becky Coltman who was reported missing by her sister last week. The resemblance is startling, don’t you think?’
‘Hmm. They do seem a little like each other.’
He hadn’t stopped to look at the photos properly, and Declan felt like grabbing his elbow and making him stop, telling him that this was more important than whatever meeting he was heading to.
‘I think they look like sisters,’ he insisted.
‘Is that possible?’ They turned a corner, the exit only a few metres away now. He needed to be quick.
‘No, the Corrigans only had one child. But that’s not the point. I don’t think they are sisters – but what if the person who murdered Amber is doing the same now? What if he goes after women who look alike – and his latest victim is Becky Coltman?’
‘That’s quite a leap,’ the DCI said. They were at the exit. Declan put his body between Fremantle and the double doors, causing Fremantle to raise a perfectly shaped eyebrow. Perhaps he’s off to a male grooming parlour, Declan’s brain chirped. He managed to stop himself imagining Fremantle getting a back, sack and crack.
‘Maybe. But I want to check it out.’
‘Is this other woman one of ours?’
‘No. She’s from London.’
‘And have you spoken to your former colleagues in the Met?’
An officer barged through the double doors as if they weren’t even there, almost knocking Declan to one side, allowing the DCI to shuffle past him and grasp the door handle, ready to get away.
‘Not yet. I wanted to run it past you first, sir. I want to go up to London, talk to the MISPER coordinator in Camberwell, where Ms Coltman was reported missing.’
He exhaled through his nose. ‘Your old station? It seems like a waste of time to me. Give them a call instead. I want you here, not running off to your former stomping ground. OK?’
Declan sighed. ‘OK. Sir.’
As soon as he got back to his desk, feeling deflated and faintly embarrassed by the encounter, he called Camberwell, surprised to find that he still knew the number by heart. The phone was answered by an officer he knew from the old days, Simon Fletcher, and they spent a couple of minutes catching up, even though Declan was itching to get past the small talk.
‘Who’s the MISPER coordinator these days?’ he asked, when Simon had finished telling him about how the whole borough – no, world – was going to hell in a handcart.
‘Jane Reeves,’ he replied.
Declan didn’t recognize the name. ‘Can you put me through to her?’
‘Sure, hang on.’ But a short while later, he came back on the line. ‘She’s away from her desk. I’ll get her to call you back.’
Declan hung up, then sat and drummed his fingers gently on his keyboard. Bob was off duty today but he thought about calling him, dragging him away from his family so he could run it all past him, see whether Bob thought he was going insane. Declan trusted his judgement.
Jane Reeves was either having the longest fag break in history or was suffering from a bad case of the squits. Declan called Camberwell station again and was told Reeves was still absent. ‘You mean the MISPER coordinator is a MISPER?’ Declan asked.
He couldn’t bear the tension, so went to grab himself a coffee from the vending machine in the corridor. As he returned to his desk, his phone started ringing and he rushed to snatch it up, spilling a searing hot splash of liquid onto the back of his hand.
‘DI Adams.’ He was a little out of breath.
It was Jane Reeves.
‘Thanks for getting back to me. I’m calling about a MISPER, name of Becky – or Rebecca – Coltman.’
Jane Reeves said, ‘Hang on, let me check the system … Yes, reported missing by her sister, an Amy Coltman, on 21 July.’
‘And can you tell me what progress has been made trying to find her?’
‘Hmm. Well, none as far as I can see.’
Declan wanted to reach through the phone and shake the rather bored-sounding Jane Reeves out of her torpor.
‘None?’
‘No … Well, it’s been marked as low risk.’
Declan waited in vain for the woman to elaborate then gave up and said, ‘Why’s that?’ It was like dragging information out of a five-year-old. He sucked the back of his stinging hand.
‘Because … she sent an email to her sister saying that she was going on holiday.’ There was a pause while Jane Reeves read the notes on screen. ‘But, apparently, the sister was very insistent that it was out of character.’
Declan felt his heart speed up. ‘Have you got a transcript of the email there?’
‘Yes … hold on.’
She read out the email.
Declan doubted if he would ever have another moment like this in his entire police career, this certainty that he had stumbled upon something big; the ordinary man in him going cold inside, but the police officer growing hot with excitement. He felt as if the whole week’s events, all his work, had been leading up to this one revelation.
‘Wait there,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t hang up.’
He scrabbled on his desk for the Amber Corrigan file, opened it and pulled out the letter Amber had supposedly sent to her parents. He stared at it and said, ‘OK, read it to me again.’
Jane Reeves intoned: ‘Dear Amy, I’m going away, and I’m not coming back. Don’t try to find me. I’m going to Asia, probably. I’ve always wanted to visit Vietnam and Cambodia. Sorry about our row. It’s not your fault. Tell Mum and Dad not to worry. Look after yourself. Love B.’
Declan read the Amber Corrigan letter to himself.
Dear Mum and Dad, I’m going away, and I’m not coming back. D
on’t try to find me. I’m going to Brazil …
Then she talked about meeting a man who she’d fallen in love with. It ended:
Don’t worry. Look after yourselves. Love Amber.
Apart from the middle lines, the wording was identical to the Becky Coltman email.
‘Holy shit,’ he said.
‘Excuse me?’ said Jane Reeves.
‘I need the name, phone number and address of the sister.’
As soon as he’d disconnected the call, he tried to ring Amy Coltman, but it went immediately to voicemail. Unable to stay seated at his desk, he dashed off to DCI Fremantle’s office but he wasn’t back yet. He tried Amy’s number again. Same result.
‘Sod this,’ he said, and walked as quickly as he could out of the building and to his car.
It was a two-hour drive from Eastbourne to Amy Coltman’s flat in south London. The traffic on the A22 heading up to town was refreshingly light, the woman on the sat nav stayed quiet for most of the journey and Declan turned her off as soon as he hit the South Circular. He knew these roads. Coincidentally, Amy lived just a few streets away from Declan’s old flat, which he had sold when he left London. But the similarity between the Corrigan letter and the Coltman email had to be more than a coincidence, especially when you factored in the physical similarity between the two women.
All the way up, Declan couldn’t help but wonder: how many more women were there who had vanished in the same way?
How many more victims?
As he reached Camberwell, his shoulder started to throb. It had to be psychosomatic. This was his first visit to the area since he’d cleared out his flat and fled to Sussex, and it wasn’t just the weaving, beeping traffic that was making his blood pressure rise. Sitting at a red light, he could have sworn he saw Terry Munson, the toe-rag who had shot him, waiting to cross. But it couldn’t be him. He was locked up, hopefully being gang-banged in the showers every day, although knowing him he’d be running his own gang in there, enjoying as good a time as it was possible to have at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
By the time Declan reversed into a parking spot outside Amy Coltman’s place, waiting a minute for a silver Honda to vacate the space, he had managed to get a grip on himself and his imagination. He rang Amy’s bell and heard a dog bark inside, but there was no answer. Brilliant. He tried to call her again, but the phone was still going straight to voicemail.
As he stood on the doorstep, he wondered what his next move should be – go and see his old colleagues at the local station; start following proper procedure? That would be the sensible thing. The proper thing to do. But Declan felt like a man on a mission, reluctant to hand over this case to anyone who would care about it less than him. As well as his desperate urge to find Amber’s killer, he now felt a duty towards Becky Coltman too. She was the only person right now who knew the connection between the two women. And there was something else too. When Terry Munson had shot him and he had spent all that time recuperating, fleeing London like a quitter, he had felt useless, a failure. He had lost his self-respect.
This was his chance to put that right. Not just for the women involved, but for himself.
He rang the doorbell again and waited for the dog to stop barking. Amy Coltman clearly wasn’t at home. Declan went back to his car and rummaged through his bag until he found a notebook and pen, intending to leave a note for Amy asking her to call him urgently. But as he was writing it, his phone rang.
It was Bob.
‘Isn’t it your day off?’ Declan asked.
Bob grunted. ‘Yeah. Isobel is sending daggers through the wall right now. But I’ve got something that’s pretty interesting.’
He stood up straight. ‘Go on.’
‘So, you know the property-development company that owned the land where Amber was found?’
‘JWF.’
‘That’s the one. Well, I left a message with one of the former owners, the guy who retired to Spain. Jonathan Pye. He just got back to me.’
Declan’s pulse accelerated. ‘Come on, stop teasing me.’
Bob laughed. ‘I’m getting there. Patience is a virtue, you know.’
‘And rage is a sin.’
‘All right, all right. Keep your hair on. Where was I? Oh, yeah – Pye is one of those old guys with the memory of an elephant. I got the feeling he could have regaled me for hours with tales of all his exciting property developments over the years. Robertson Farm was, according to him, a right pain in the arse. They could never get planning permission from the local council. Red tape, something about NIMBYs in the village not wanting all the extra traffic the hotel would bring. Then, in 1998 – autumn, he thought—’
‘Just after Amber’s murder.’
‘Yes, someone approached them wanting to buy the land. Made a good offer too, according to Pye. But Pye’s partner didn’t want to sell, was sure they could still get the hotel project off the ground. It had become something of a mission for him, apparently. Anyway, the deal fell through and they were stuck with the farm and then they went bust a few months later – for which Pye blames his partner.’
‘OK. And what was the name of the company that wanted to buy the land?’ Declan fished a cigarette from its packet and lit up. The air was so still that a cloud of smoke hovered around his head before drifting away slowly.
‘Denison Limited.’
‘Right.’
‘After I got off the phone to Pye, I checked the Companies House website. Because it seemed like quite a coincidence – somebody trying to buy the farm so soon after Amber’s murder. I mean, if I was a murderer and had dumped a victim on a piece of land that didn’t belong to me, I’d want to try to buy that land too – remove the risk of someone else finding the body. Denison Limited was registered in 1998, just before the application to buy the farm. It never traded – looks like it was a shell company. And there was one director listed.’ He paused. ‘Name of Lewis Vine.’
Declan threw his cigarette to the pavement. ‘Why do I know that name?’
‘Because he was at the conference.’
41
Amy
Friday, 26 July
When Amy came round she was lying on her back on a king-size bed, candlelight casting flickering shadows against a wall that seemed to be undulating – or was it just her head spinning? She felt so nauseous that she couldn’t tell. The candles were scented, a rich, cloying smell that she could not place. The room was hot, which was fortunate because all she had on was an unfamiliar and very horrible white corset. She had no idea where the rest of her clothes were, or her handbag and phone.
The man who had drugged her was Lewis Vine, Gary’s friend, the social-networking expert. Lewis Vine, whose name was on the Orchid Blue party list.
So it was Lewis Vine who had Becky. She shivered. She had sat with him in a restaurant, listened to him give her advice about how to find Becky. But where was she? What had Lewis done with Daniel? Nothing made sense.
The bed was covered with a satin quilt that felt slippery under her cold skin. There were pillows behind her to prop her up. Her arms were outstretched and handcuffed to the corners of the metal headboard, and they ached like hell. There were no windows in the room so she had no idea whether it was night or day. Was this what Becky was enduring too? For one confused moment, Amy thought she was Becky.
A movement made her jump – the sound of a key being turned in the lock and the door opening. Lewis walked in. Amy sat up as far as she could, trying to conceal her terror with belligerence.
‘What’s going on? Where’s Becky? Why have you tied me up? Where’s Daniel? I was supposed to be meeting Daniel, not you. What do you want?’
‘That’s a lot of questions, Amy. I’m the one who’s going to be asking the questions, so just shut up, all right? There’s a good girl.’
He sounded jokey, but his eyes were like flint as they roved up and down her body, critically but approvingly, examining her as though she was a carcass hanging from a meat hook. Perhaps she s
oon would be. His manner was completely different to when she had met him at Waterloo, when she had thought he was a marketing-obsessed businessman. He had been wearing a wedding ring then, she remembered. He wasn’t wearing it now.
‘Please tell me where Becky is,’ she persisted. ‘Please.’
A look of boredom flashed across his features, and he shrugged. ‘How would I know?’
‘I don’t believe you. You’ve got her too, haven’t you? You sent the email to me. But you fucked up … You didn’t know she’d been to Cambodia before. You won’t get away with it, you know that, don’t you?’ She rattled the handcuffs with her wrists in frustration. ‘You made out that you didn’t know her – you pretended to help me. But you knew her all along. Did you know she was Gary’s neighbour?’
Lewis smirked. ‘That was a surprise, I have to say.’
‘And then he asked you to help me find her.’
‘Yes. When I found out Becky had a sister … well, I had to meet you. And you are even more beautiful than her.’
Sweet Jesus, Amy thought. Gary had unwittingly sent her into the path of the man who had already taken her sister.
Lewis changed the subject. ‘I thought you might want to use the bathroom – here, let me.’ He approached her and Amy shrank away from him as he bent over her with a key, undoing the set of handcuffs that tethered her left hand. Amy’s mind went into overdrive – should she try to gouge his eyes out? Punch him in the throat? Then she saw what was in his other hand: a pistol-shaped object in black and yellow, with a large square muzzle, like a big ugly toy.
‘It’s a Taser gun,’ he said casually, aiming it at her. ‘And I will use it on you if you do anything stupid.’ As if in response, the gun crackled, like a massive, menacing wasp. When her arms were freed she let them drop meekly to her sides.
‘Over there,’ he said, helping her off the bed and towards a different door. ‘Do a bit of exercise while you’re up, too – you know, get the blood flowing again.’
She glared at him and went into the bathroom on unsteady legs, closing the door behind her, looking wildly around her. No lock, of course. No mirror that she could smash. No window, no towels. For a moment, she was taken back to the night she had spent locked in the bathroom by Nathan, and bile rose in her throat. She gritted her teeth. Either all men really were bastards, or she and Becky were the unluckiest women alive.