What I Left Behind (The gripping prequel to the DS Jan Pearce Crime Fiction Series)

by Jacqueline Ward

  I think about it. Pat Knowles. I’m guessing that he has exerted maximum pressure on Glenn. I know his methods. Cruel and calculating, but effective. Pat says his methods are 100% successful. It certainly seemed to work on Glen. He divulged almost immediately and even gave us the addresses of the Magellan gang. Pat would have asked him specific question, but I know that they would have included asking him for everyone who knew about the plans, the chemicals, who he got bomb making advice from. It’s certainly plausible that this could have all been done within the gang, but had Glen missed anyone?

  Gangs are led by people who are strategists, and have foot soldiers. Pat and Sally will be busy working out who is who and logging it all for future intelligence. This investigation has turned up trumps for them, identifying a major threat on their patch. But gangs have bystanders. People in the background who are privy to their workings. Mothers, brothers, fathers, sisters, partners. All of them invested with some emotional weighting is just enough not to make them tell about their loved one’s criminal activity. I answer Steve.

  ‘Very confident. But to be sure, I’m going to go over Glen Wright’s file and the other interviews myself. Just to make sure. And I’ve asked Pat to re-interview him.’

  Steve looks more motivated now.

  ‘Right. Back to it. I’m going to check on the security arrangements. Lauren, can you supervise the all-forces collation of intelligence. Keith. Half hourly reports.’

  He strides off and Lauren leaves. Keith remains and hangs around for a few minutes before he approaches me.

  ‘OK?’

  I’m not OK. Far from it. But that’s inside. On the outside I remain calm.

  ‘No choice. I either do it or I don’t.’

  He turns to go but stops.

  ‘For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing at the appeal. Opening it out. It’s a risk, you know, inciting media panic if they find out about the bomb, but it’s the only way.’

  He leaves and I’m relieved to be alone, because an idea is forming. It’s often what’s not said that tells the bigger part of the story. People omit facts for various reasons. We haven’t told the public about the potential explosives because it would cause mass hysteria and that wouldn’t help find Maisie. But people also omit information for other reasons.

  I’ve seen it before in eyewitness accounts. Quite often people leave out huge chunks of description because they don’t think it’s relevant. This can be for many reasons; the perception of what they think is relevant to a particular crime, their personal preference, even biases and cultural influences. They don’t do it on purpose to be obstructive. And the reason they do this is so deeply ingrained in their self that it’s carried out subconsciously.

  I imagine Pat in the station, in an interview room, pushing Glen to the limit with guarded threat Pat may or may not be able to carry out. Glen, searching his memory for information relevant to Magellan and the plan he so willingly told us about earlier. But what if there’s something important, hidden in his psyche, that he doesn’t think is relevant? Someone on the peripheral of his life who he knows won’t blab. Someone so invested that he doesn’t even give them a second thought.

  I trawl through the interview transcripts. Nothing in Glen’s, so I read carefully through all the Magellan gangs interviews on the screen in front of me. Everyone they mentioned has been brought in, all indexed and catalogued carefully on the familiar Met templates. Nothing in Glen’s background. Only child, elderly parents, living together in Buckinghamshire, both at home at the time Maisie was abducted.

  The young woman from the flat, Jane, knew nothing. Her statement confirmed Glen’s whereabouts and his copious use of cocaine. She hadn’t known him long and she knew nothing about Magellan. She had been hysterical when told about the chemicals in the flat and asked Sally to say she was sorry to Maisie’s parents. They were still holding her, mainly because she knows so much about the case.

  I phone Pat again. He answers in half a ring.

  ‘Pat. Any joy?’

  ‘No. He’s in a right state. Spewing everywhere. Doc says he’s not fit to be interviewed.’

  I feel my body tense with anger.

  ‘Probably withdrawals. I’ve read the reports. Plenty of drugs inside the flat. And probably inside him.’

  ‘Yeah, He was looking dodgy overnight. I looked in on him a couple of time. Reminded him what would happen if he didn’t talk.’

  I bet he did. He wouldn’t leave Glen alone until he’d drained him of any information and the case was closed. I talk to Pat softly.

  ‘You need to try again, as soon as possible. I’ve got a feeling that there’s something else. Someone involved in his life that he trusts not to say anything.’ I’ve got to be careful. Pat’s good at his job and I don’t want to insult him. ‘Something buried deep that only your, er, methods, can bring up.’

  Pat sighs heavily. It’s his way of being sarcastic.

  ‘You know my hands are tied, Jan. You know what I can and can’t do.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to do anything outside the rules. Just open up the range of people who might have been near him. Has he got a cleaner? Someone he sees on a regular basis? His dealer? I don’t know. It’s got to be someone he thinks isn’t important. Did you get any impression of what he’s like, you know, biases, preferences?’

  There’s a pause. I can hear Pat light a cigarette.

  ‘Yeah, he’s a prick who likes his cocaine a little bit too much.’

  ‘A prick?’

  ‘Yeah, he tried to lie at every turn. Thinking he could do one over on me and Sal. But we explained the consequences to him on the way to the interview room, what would happen to him inside if he’s convicted for trying to blow a kid up. You know. He’s got no respect for himself or anyone else. Completely self-centred little twat.’

  He takes another drag of his cigarette.

  ‘My first port of call was his parents and I explained to him how we’d tell them everything and what it would do to them. All he cared about was them bankrolling him and this fucking Magellan operation. What I can’t understand is why this Marc Lewis character didn’t report them in the first place. It could have saved all this. Anyway, I showed him the intelligence we already had and Sally said he showed signs of actually fucking approving of how he looked on the videos. Touching his hair and face, nodding and smiling. Vain little fucker. Not much else. Oh. The girl said he was shit in bed.’

  Self-obsessed. Convinced he’s right. Fits my profile.

  ‘Thing is Pat, I think he knows who this is really. I think he knows but he doesn’t know he does. He’s discounted a set of circumstances.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Anyone at all who came in and out of the flat in the last month. Anyone. Impress upon him that we mean everyone, not just who he thinks is important.’

  Pat sighs again. This time it isn’t sarcasm.

  ‘Fucking hell, Jan, I wish you were here.’

  I end the call quickly. That’s not what I want to hear. Obviously the news about my heightened visibility hasn’t reached Pat.

  I go through the evidence one more time. I look again at the dolls, desperately trying to place the shape. I’m seeing it all the time now, at the back of the colour field images when I close my eyes. I know it. It’s there somewhere and I just need a trigger to drag it upwards. I speak the words of the story into my phone. Then I put my earphones in and listen to it.

  I’m struggling to contain my tears. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I can no longer go home, once again don’t belong anywhere, or the growing sadness of the words, but my emotions are gurgling up from a hard pressed down place inside. The person who’s written those words on the jotter is obviously desperately sad. Has lost something. Something precious to them.

  They’re devastated and are writing to soothe whatever pain they are feeling. They know it by heart, and it’s like a soft old blanket or a favourite coat, sitting close to their torment in order to numb it. I
look at a picture of Maisie and at the dolls. How could anyone who knows so much pain inflict it on someone else? Unless it was revenge.

  I check my own mobile, but Pat hasn’t rang back. I scan around the SMIT suite and everyone is busy one the phones, taking information, scanning screens, waiting for the one snippet of information that will move the case forward. It’s astounding that no one has seen the car. Unless it’s parked up somewhere remote.

  I go back to the maps and try to figure out a route based on which way it went. It was traced out of Greenfield but once in more populated areas it disappeared where it left the main roads and entered areas with no cameras. No sightings at all after nine fifteen on Saturday night. It’s quarter past one now. Forty hours since Maisie was taken. Forty hours since that little girl has seen her mother. Forty hours with someone who, according to the evidence, increasingly appears unbalanced.

  I go to call Jean and Graham. Jean answers.

  ‘Oh hello, love.’

  I swallow hard. This isn’t going to be easy.

  ‘Jean. I’m not going to be home for a while.’

  ‘Oh. Oh dear. Going away?’

  I can hear Kirby in the background, squeaking a toy. I keep my breathing steady, stay calm.

  ‘Yeah. Going away.’

  ‘Any idea how long for, love? Only we can take care of Kirby until you get back, and check on the house. If you like.’

  I stare out of the window onto Manchester Centre. There’s a steady stream of cars travelling up and down the road outside. Any one of them could be whoever is coming for me.

  ‘No. I don’t know how long. I’ll send you some money for Kirby’s food.’

  ‘No need for that love. You can give it to me when you get back. Will you drop the key off?’

  I know that I won’t be dropping the key off. I know that my home will sit empty until I it’s safe to go back there. If it ever is.

  ‘There’s a key under the right hand flower pot, right of the front door as you face it.’ All my plants and careful gardening, it’ll all grow wild now. No one to care for it. No one to pick the fruit that’ll ripen on the trees and no one to harvest the vegetables I planted in the spring. I choke when I think about how clinical I am when I’m storing seeds, all in evidence bags, neatly stored in the dark. How much I’ll miss it. ‘Thanks Jean. Sorry to trouble you with this. And if anyone asks...’

  ‘Mum’s the word. I’ll tell Graham.’

  I’m just about to go into detail about Kirby’s flea spray and how she’s allergic to certain ones when I feel a gentle vibration against my chest. It’s a different tone from the earlier text and I immediately look at Keith who holds up his hand to signal a call. I drop my own phone and pull out the other one.

  ‘Hello. This is Janet Pearce. Thanks you very much for calling. I’m here to help you.’

  I keep my eyes focused on Keith who makes a winding signal that tells me to keep the call open while he traces it. I listen carefully. Backgrounds hold heavy secrets, a collage of signals and signs to the nature of the call. This one is silent. I strain to hear sounds and there are passing cars in the distance, and someone reading a story. I press the phone as close as it will go to my ear. Even though Keith will be recording, I need to get an immediate impression.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The whole SMIT suite falls silent as the call is relayed with a two second delay through the huge speakers. The Red shoes. The rhythmic reading, a deep male voice, continues and I try again.

  ‘Is there anything you want to tell me? The little girl, Maisie, is she with you? She’s called Maisie.’

  But it’s just cars passing by the occasional rattle of a lorry.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. We’ll help you all we can. We just want to get Maisie back to her Mum.’

  The call is ended and there’s a scramble to analyse it. Lauren hurries over.

  ‘Do you think that was him? Do you think that was the perp?’

  I spin around.

  ‘Him? Why him?’

  She narrows her eyes.

  ‘Well, I don’t believe a woman would take a child. The probability is that it’s a man. And the chemicals. And Magellan. It all points to…’

  ‘A man? Fuck off, Lauren. You’re being too subjective. Just because you wouldn’t do it doesn’t mean any woman would.’

  She stands her ground.

  ‘Would you? Well, would you, Jan? Even though you’re not a mother and you could never understand, no matter how much you say you do, how it feels to hold your own child.’

  I’m back in the car park with my brown suitcase. Empty. Empty. My hand is in the car door handle and I push myself to open it and throw the suitcase into the back seat. It’s all I have left. Instead of starting the car and driving away I get out and stretch. I stare at the suitcase through the window for a long time, then lock the car and walk away.

  I stare at her, my breath shallow. I know my skin will be flushed and my pupils will narrow to pinpricks. My body temperature will raise a fraction and my pulse is quickening. Depending on how perceptive Lauren is, she will see this to and, depending on what her real motive is, she will stop baiting me with this line. I don’t want to talk about my personal life to anyone on the team. It weakens you, makes you vulnerable. It gives anyone who has the slightest inkling of a disliking for you ammunition. I know that other women see me, even at my young age, single and childless, as some kind of poor lonely soul, but it suits me. The freedom, the ability to take off when I feel like it. I have my reasons. Lauren will never understand this. So I decide to take another direction.

  ‘Like I said before, yesterday at the Lewis’, it doesn’t matter what you and I think. It’s dangerous ground, that subjective position. Whether I would or you would is not the issue. The issue is what the evidence tells us and if it is remotely possible. And if you want to get personal, I’ll explain to you once again how I do my work. I’m a trained profiler. I’m trained in reflexivity. I know my own biases and push them into the background when I make decisions.’

  I realise every eye in the room is on me. But Lauren comes back.

  ‘But you’re always going on about following your instinct. Gut feeling. And my gut feeling is that this is a man. There’s no real evidence that it’s a woman. Men can read stories and cut out dolls.’

  I raise my hands in mock horror.

  ‘OK. Let’s see, Lauren. One thing we know for sure now is whoever has Maisie has made contact. Man or woman, which means she’s most probably safe. Otherwise they wouldn’t bother would they? Of course, it could all be some massive coincidence that the main evidence is a chain of dolls. And of you and the bloody press have their way it’s your stereotypical builder in a four by four, which doesn’t fit my profile at all. But we’ll soon see, because they’ll make contact again. This case is finally moving.’

  She backs down. We’re still eye to eye when Steve intervenes. He rushes into SMIT alerted to the call.

  ‘Did we get a trace?’

  Keith rubs his hand over his head.

  ‘Pay as you go mobile on the vodaphone network. It’s somewhere in the cell network between Central Oldham, Royton and Chadderton. We’re working to get more details from the network operator about the chip and the phone and the call.’

  Lauren’s glaring at me and Steve intervenes.

  ‘Look Lauren. Jan knows what she’s doing. She’s done this before.’

  She turns around to face him.

  ‘But all my training’s been on negotiating on child kidnap cases and abuse cases. And I’ve got the empathy angle as I’ve got kids of my own. I don’t see why Jan has to lead on this when she hasn’t.’

  Steve stares at her. He doesn’t need this. None of us do. I close it down quickly.

  ‘Right. We’ll work on it together, Lauren. We’ll use your training and my experience. Just don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m doing and we’ll get on just fine. Just respect my right to have my view, children or not, yeah?’

 
I can tell she’s still not happy, but what choice does she have? She’s young and ambitious, but it would serve her better to hang around and gain experience. But the look in her eyes now reads that she’s thinking I might be gone soon anyway. Maybe she’s right.

  I realise I haven’t eaten lunch and I head for the café. I’m only halfway down the glass corridor when I hear Lauren’s voice behind me.

  ‘Jan. Jan. Come back.’

  I turn around just enough to see her but avoid eye contact.

  ‘Don’t bother apologising. Let’s just get on with things. I’ve got enough on my plate.’

  She’s shaking her head.

  ‘No. It’s not that. It’s a phone call. Some information.’

  We hurry back and Keith plays the call over the loudspeakers. It’s a woman’s voice.

  ‘I’m ringing to report a baby crying. I’ve heard it crying for hours now, and I saw a woman leave this morning. I’m at the Travelodge at Chadderton. I’ve told the staff but they don’t believe me. Poor little mite, in that room on its own.’

  The emergency services operator speaks.

  ‘Can you give me your exact location?’

  ‘I’m at the Travelodge at the roundabout near the M62 junction. The one with the Toby Carvery on the side. Just in front of the shopping centre.’

  We grab our belongings and rush to the car park. Lauren drives me to the Travelodge and just as we arrive she finally speaks.

  ‘You know, Jan, I’m not being difficult. You might not always be right.’

  No time for discussions. We get out of the car and go into reception. Steve’s right behind us with two SMIT officers and a woman from social services.

  ‘We’ve had a call about a baby crying. Mother left this morning.’

  The blonde receptionist doesn’t look up.

  ‘She came back. Told the woman who phoned. Wastin’ yer time.’

  I lean over the desk.

  ‘Which room?’

  She looks up now but it’s too late. Her attitude has pissed me off and there’s no time to waste.