by Tim Weaver
‘Well, it looks isolated. The parking lot is at the end of a two-mile coastal road – it’s a dead end, so that’s the only road back out – and then the peninsula is on the other side of the parking lot and sticks out into the sea for … I guess … half a mile or so. I don’t believe it’s a … you know, a place for … suicides.’
The last word weighed heavy.
‘I’ve read that the peninsula is only about fifteen feet above sea level, and on both sides there’s another ten to fifteen feet of rocks, boulders and shingle before you even get to the water’s edge.’ She stopped, breathed out, the idea of what her sister may have been doing out there, the anguish of it, like glue in her throat. ‘My point,’ she said faintly, ‘is that if someone did want to make a jump from the edge of the peninsula, the drop would only break a few bones – if that.’
‘It doesn’t sound like you thought Lynda was suicidal.’
‘No. No way.’
‘You said there was one security camera, at the entrance?’
‘That’s what I was told, yeah.’
‘There definitely weren’t any others?’
‘I asked DC White that, and he told me that there weren’t. He said the only camera was at the entrance. He emailed me some shots from the video: it’s definitely Lyn entering the lot. It’s her car. It’s her in the front seat. It’s Lyn.’
‘But there’s nothing after that?’
‘No, nothing. She just vanishes.’
‘She couldn’t have exited anywhere else?’
‘I don’t think so. From what DC White has told me, and what I’ve managed to find myself online, the entrance to the Stoke Point parking lot is on the other side of a stone bridge that connects the peninsula to the main coastal road. Even if she exited on foot, she still would have had to come back the same way she went in. She’d have been caught on camera, crossing the bridge, as she left.’
‘What about once she got on to the peninsula? No one saw her getting into a boat the day she disappeared, or wading into the water to get to one?’
‘Like I said, there were no witnesses.’
‘So someone could have picked her up in a boat?’
‘From what I read, I think it’s unlikely. I don’t know for sure, but anyone picking her up in a boat was taking a risk. According to the time code on the shots of the video, Lyn entered the parking lot at about nine in the morning. DC White told me that the tide would have been almost out at that time. He said, in that part of the world, all that’s left then is mud that’s like quicksand.’
She was right: due to its tidal range, great swathes of the Bristol Channel became mudflats at low tide. It not only made it an impossibility that someone could have guided a boat in, but it made it treacherous on foot too.
So where did Lynda Korin go?
‘Did DC White send you any other information?’
‘Some photographs. I’ve got a few emails from him.’
‘That’s it?’
She let out a long breath. ‘That’s it. All I know about Stoke Point is what I’ve read and what I’ve been told. I wish I knew more. I wish I could see it for myself. But leaving my husband, my kids, my grandkids, telling them I’ll be gone for I don’t know how long – I can’t do it. I love my sister dearly, but I can’t leave my family behind for months on end, pretending to be a detective …’ She made a short, desperate noise, a sound that spoke of her heartache clearer than any words could. ‘The reality is, I wouldn’t know where to start. I’m not a cop. I work as a nurse, for goodness’ sake. It’s why I decided to call you.’
I looked up from my laptop, and at the doors of the pub, backed by bright sunlight, I saw Melanie Craw.
‘I will give you everything I have,’ Wendy said, ‘every dollar, every cent. I don’t own much, I’m not worth much, but I will do it for Lyn. I will pour my heart and soul into helping you in whatever way I can, David. Please help me find her.’
I thought about it. But not for long.
‘Have you got a scanner there, Wendy?’
She seemed momentarily thrown by the question.
‘A computer scanner? Yeah, I’ve got one of those.’
‘This is what I need you to do, then. Scan in anything physical you’ve collated that’s directly related to Lynda’s disappearance, and email that over to me, along with the stuff DC White sent you. I’ll take a look at it all, and then call you back later on.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ she said, ‘thank you so much.’
I heard her voice trip even before she’d finished her sentence, and by the time she went to say thank you again, there was no sound from her but her tears.
3
‘I know,’ Melanie Craw said as she got to the table. ‘I’m hideously late.’
I got up and kissed her on the cheek. She was slim and understated, her blonde, shoulder-length hair tied up, her dark grey trouser-suit pristine. She looked sharp and formidable. It was exactly what she needed to be in the industry she was in, where any hint of weakness was pounced upon.
‘I’ve only got an hour,’ she said, waving one of the waiters over. ‘I’ve got a meeting at Paddington Green station, and I still have to swot up.’
Craw had spent almost half of her forty-five years working at the Met, and was currently a DCI in the Central command, which meant she was in charge of about fifty detectives, officers and support staff, all working murders. It was the job that had first brought us into contact with one another and, in the beginning, she – like many of the people she worked with – had viewed me with a deep and pervading suspicion.
Gradually, though, things had changed between the two of us, particularly after her father had gone missing. Desperate for answers, and out of options, she reluctantly asked me to find out what had happened to him, and in the aftermath I think she caught a glimpse of the person I was. She saw what my cases meant to me, how consumed I became by them. Those were often the qualities that had driven a wedge between me and other people – but with Craw it had done the opposite. Yet I still couldn’t say for certain whether we were in an official relationship or not. I liked her a lot. I found her attractive, interesting, challenging, but it always felt like she was hovering on the cusp of commitment, never willing to make the final leap. Her need to protect her reputation at the Met, staving off whatever vultures were currently circling, and my willingness to take risks, to skirt the very edges of the law in a way that she loathed, cast long shadows. In my most cynical moments, her reluctance to fully acknowledge what we were doing looked a little like an escape plan – if things went badly for me, she could just turn around and leave, her reputation intact, her job unaffected.
‘So what have you been up to this morning?’ she asked.
‘Not a whole lot.’
‘I didn’t realize self-employment was so relaxed.’
I smiled, sinking half of my beer. ‘I just got off the phone to a woman in Minneapolis. She asked me to try and find her sister.’
Craw looked at me. ‘As in Minneapolis, America?’
‘Relax,’ I said. ‘Her sister lives over here.’
‘Good. Last thing you need is a US tour. So what happened to her?’
I shrugged. ‘She drove down to some beauty spot out on the Somerset coast, abandoned her car and then vanished off the face of the earth.’
‘Are you going to take the case?’
‘Yes.’
She eyed me for a moment. What would once have been a blank, unreadable expression was more lucid now that I’d got to know her better. As unlikely as it seemed, this was a look of concern.
‘You’re in the same line of work as I am,’ I reminded her.
‘Except I’m not coming out of my cases looking like I’ve spent six months in a war zone.’ She paused, fingers drifting to the chain at her neck. She’d seen the scars on my body and, just as clearly, she’d come to know the scars that didn’t show. ‘Just keep in mind that, ten months ago, you were diagnosed with PTSD.’
‘Mild P
TSD.’
‘A mild amputation is still an amputation.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said to her.
‘You were supposed to see a psychologist.’
‘I don’t need to see a psychologist. I had one blackout, and one brief panic attack. That’s it. I’m sleeping well.’ I gestured to us. ‘Things are good. I’m happy.’
‘Don’t try and grease me up, Raker.’
That made us both smile.
I finished my beer, but by the time I was done, she was still watching me, the same look on her face. ‘You’ve got a daughter to think about,’ she said. ‘You’ve got Olivia to think about too.’
My daughter, Annabel, was twenty-six, and Olivia was her eleven-year-old sister. Biologically, Olivia wasn’t mine, but – as both her parents were gone and Annabel was all she had left – I looked out for her in the same way. They were in Spain with some of Annabel’s friends for the last week of the school holidays.
‘I’m fine, Craw.’
‘Look, I’m not going to sit here going over old ground with you. But when things are going well, of course you’re sleeping better and you’re feeling good. That’s just how life works. It’s when it all goes to shit that you stop sleeping and you can’t think about anything else.’ She paused as one of the bar staff brought a salad and a mineral water over for her, and a sandwich for me. Once we were alone again, she continued: ‘I know what you’re going to say. “How am I supposed to know, when I take on a case, which one is going to turn out well, and which one isn’t?” You can’t. But when you get to the stage where there’s a knife to your throat, that’s when you know.’ She shrugged, spearing some chicken. Craw wouldn’t ever ask me to give up my work, but her argument against it was always the same: at the Met, she was confined by rules, by procedures and structure; in my work, there were no rules. I had no one to stop me – and no one to prevent me from tumbling over the precipice.
‘Just promise me you’ll go to your doctor’s appointment on Friday morning,’ she said, and when I didn’t respond, she looked up at me. ‘Okay?’
I nodded, but in truth, I’d forgotten all about it.
‘Don’t end up like Colm Healy, Raker.’
This was something else she often reminded me of. Healy had been a man we’d both known, and had both worked with: a brilliant ex-cop, reduced to a shell by bad choices and deep wounds. Ten months ago, I’d been forced into a search for him and the case had overwhelmed me. I’d suffered a panic attack for the first time in my life, I’d blacked out, I’d spent a month unable to sleep more than a few hours. I became obsessed with finding Healy because it felt like I was the only person he had left. Eventually, I did find answers, but in the months since, Craw had started to believe that the hunt for him was a scratch I couldn’t itch; a case that continued to haunt me and affect my judgement.
‘The search for Healy made you sick,’ Craw said. ‘You did all you could for him. You don’t want to get like that again.’
I continued nodding, letting her know I was taking on board what she was saying. But this time I chose not to say anything for a very different reason: Craw could read me as well as anyone – and I didn’t want her to catch me in a lie.
I’d gone past the point where I could tell her what I’d really found at the end of my search for Healy. Too much time had passed now. My deceit had gone on too long. I wanted to tell her, often thought about what it would be like, whether it was likely she would forgive me, and, in the end, I always reached the same conclusion: she wouldn’t. It would be too much to forgive.
So I said nothing.
And in an old fisherman’s cottage on the south Devon coast, left to me by my parents – inside the rooms they’d once lived in – a man’s life went on, his existence undiscovered by anyone else except the few people he passed every day in the village. The man called himself Bryan Kennedy now. That was the name on his bank account, on his driver’s licence and in the pages of his passport.
But he and I knew the truth.
4
I left the Queen of Hearts and headed west along Marylebone Road. The day had become so hot, even in the shade, that while I could see a breeze disturb the trees that skirted the pavements, there was no hint of it against my skin.
As I walked, I made a couple of quick calls.
The first was to an old contact of mine, Ewan Tasker, who I’d got to know during my newspaper days. Back then, he’d worked for the NCIS and its successor, SOCA – both precursors to the National Crime Agency – but these days he was semi-retired and doing consultation work. What started out as a marriage of convenience – he fed me stories he wanted out in the open; I tapped him up as a source – had long since turned into friendship.
He answered after a couple of rings.
‘Raker! How’s things?’
‘Pretty good, Task. You?’
‘Not bad. Still able to go to the toilet by myself.’
‘Always a bonus. You okay to talk for a moment?’
‘Sure. What sort of trouble are you in this time?’
I smiled. ‘No trouble. Yet.’
‘Yeah, well, don’t make me come around there and force-feed you those pills. I may be old, but I reckon I could still hand out a damn good beating.’
‘I reckon you’re right,’ I told him, and thought of the pills he was referring to. They were in an unopened white bottle at home – antidepressants I’d been prescribed before the turn of the year, after the case with Healy had dragged me beyond my limits. As far as friends like Tasker were concerned, the pills had become a daily part of my life. But the truth was I’d never swallowed a single one of them. I hated the idea of not being in complete control of myself.
I manoeuvred us away from the subject.
‘Task, I’m after a missing persons report from October last year – a Lynda Korin. That’s Lynda with a y, K-O-R-I-N. She disappeared from somewhere called Stoke Point on 28 October.’
‘Stoke?’
‘Yeah. Usual spelling. It’s in Somerset.’
‘Okay. We expecting any nasty surprises?’
‘You mean, does she have a record? I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
‘I’ll check anyway. You got her DOB there?’
‘Yeah – 13 September 1952. One other thing: I’m also looking for some CCTV footage. It’s from the camera at the same place. I’m interested in the day prior to Korin going missing, the day of her disappearance, and maybe the day after – if you can get it. There’ll definitely be a reference to it on the system somewhere, but I don’t know if the video is digital or physical. I’m hoping digital.’
‘I’ll take a look and give you a shout later.’
‘Great. I appreciate it.’
I reached the entrance to Edgware Road station. Slick with sweat, and having sidestepped what felt like a million camera-phone-wielding tourists, I paused there for a moment, finding a second number. This was for another old contact I’d made in my days as a journalist: a hacker called Spike. We’d known each other for years, and although we’d never met in person, he was a useful contact to have. As long as you made your peace with the fact that he was breaking the law for you, email accounts, landline and mobile records, financial backgrounds and personal details were all within easy reach.
After Spike answered, I told him exactly what I was after.
‘So, basically, everything I can grab on this Korin woman?’ he asked.
‘Phone records, emails, financials, anything.’
‘Do you want to set some parameters?’
I thought about it.
‘Korin disappeared on 28 October, so maybe play it safe and grab me the six months leading up to her disappearance – and then the ten months since.’
‘You got it.’
‘Thanks, Spike. How long do you reckon this will take?’
‘For a man of my means?’ Spike paused, the silence filled with the sound of a pen tapping a desk. ‘I should probably have something for you tomorrow.’
5
The District-line platform at Edgware Road was busy, but I managed to find a space on a bench at the very end of it, beyond the reach of the sun. Next to me, a man in his sixties was talking to himself, or maybe to his shopping bags, so I pulled out some headphones and plugged them into my mobile. Once I’d drowned him out, I went to the browser and started seeing what kind of media coverage had greeted Lynda Korin’s disappearance. It had no bearing on my decision to take the case – once I’d agreed to find someone, I didn’t back out – but until I got the chance to talk to Wendy Fisher again, and to fill in some of the gaps, this would have to do.
In the end, though, there was little coverage in the national media, except for a brief story on the BBC website, which had been buried in the Bristol section of Local News. There were bigger stories in both the Bristol Post and the Western Daily Press, but neither offered much more than the bare bones, naming Korin, giving her age, her occupation as a part-time accountant, and then stating that she’d abandoned her car, a Ford Focus, at Stoke Point. Neither paper made any allusion to the most compelling aspect of the case – that she was seen entering, but never exiting, the car park – but that was probably more to do with the fact that, so soon after she vanished, the police would still have been in the process of procuring security footage, or at the very least going through it, so wouldn’t themselves have been fully aware of the circumstances. It was hard to see the perplexity of her disappearance burning to dust so quickly otherwise.
I’d hoped to find a picture of her in the local newspaper stories, just to get a sense of what she looked like, but the web versions only carried generic, photo library shots of the peninsula, so I shifted my attention to social media instead. That proved to be another dead end. Her surname was unusual, at least in the UK, so it was pretty easy to see that she didn’t have a Facebook page, a Twitter account or anything beyond that. I’d held on to the hope, as she’d still been working a couple of days a week, that she’d maintained a LinkedIn profile – a photograph perhaps, or a CV – but that was another blank.