Lost Souls

by Jenny O'Brien

  So, what had Ellie Fry done or not done to think that running away was the only option open to her and why was it that her mother had no knowledge of her being bullied?

  Chapter 10

  Owen

  Monday 3 August, 11.30 a.m. St Asaph

  Owen stifled the yawn that had been trying to work its way up his chest ever since he’d crawled out of bed. It was all very well having had a week’s paternity leave but it wasn’t in any way a break. Not that he minded in the slightest. While there was very little he could do to help Kate with feeding their newborn daughter, he’d strengthened his nappy-changing skills and taken over the mountain of washing that had invaded every surface of the house. Had it been the same with Pip, their soon-to-be three-year-old? It seemed so long ago now that he could barely remember.

  All he could think about was trying to keep busy, and awake, until the hands of his watch shifted to five. Being stuck in the office meant that he’d have to catch up with Ellie’s disappearance when Gaby got back but there was little he could do about that. Her terse reply to the quick phone call he’d made to her was warning enough of the pressure they were under to find her.

  With every available team member taking part in the search, he had the incident room to himself and the temptation was to rest his head in his arms and take a quick forty winks. Instead he took a detour to the most important piece of equipment in the office, the cafetiere, and poured himself a mug, adding a heaped spoonful of sugar for good measure. He didn’t have a sweet tooth but caffeine and sugar were the next best things to the solid seven hours’ sleep that he wouldn’t be getting anytime soon.

  He felt guilty at not being involved in the hunt for the girl but, with a dearth of clues, the rest of the team was as stumped as he was as to what could have happened to her. He was partly placated by the fact that a detective had to hang around within shouting distance of the station – it might as well be him and, in the meantime, he could continue working on what was going on at the crematorium.

  There were only two secretaries for the whole building to type up victim witness statements and reports but Owen’s near one hundred per cent recall meant that he didn’t have to wait. Opening up the lid of his laptop, he cleaned the dust off the screen with his sleeve and logged on to the system. It didn’t take him more than a few seconds to create a new spreadsheet, his mind working through everything that Martin had told him, fact by gruesome fact.

  The obvious answer was that Martin hadn’t cleaned the cremator properly between funerals but that was also the most convenient and Owen had been around too long to settle for the convenient answer. The direction he was leaning towards was murder. What if someone had hit upon a cremator being the ideal method of body disposal? He had to admit that it was a pretty spectacular way of getting rid of clues. They could have been doing it for years. In fact, apart from that slip, it could be viewed as the perfect crime.

  Killers usually got caught by being sloppy. They were either seen entering or leaving the scene of the crime or traced because of clues left on or near to the body. If the murderer had found a foolproof way of beating the system, they’d markedly reduce the risk of getting caught. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, his eyes trained on the screen, while he read back over what he’d typed, his mind going off on a tangent. If they’d found the perfect formula for murder, why stop at one victim?

  He picked up his mug and, after draining it in one, pushed it to the side. He’d get in touch with the undertaker in charge of yesterday’s cremation and take it from there.

  H Prince and Sons funeral directors was situated only a five-minute drive away in a small lane behind Chester Street, which was as good an excuse as any for Owen to shift his bottom off his chair and visit them in person. His reasoning was twofold: the sensitive nature of the inquiry and the lack of impact the caffeine and sugar combo was having on his ability to keep his eyes open. Sitting behind the wheel of his car, he spent a minute to check in with Kate but, apart from a request to pop into the supermarket for a few things on the way home, everything was running as well as could be expected under the circumstances.

  H Prince turned out to be Hayley, a diminutive brunette with an attractive face and an overexuberance when it came to the application of make-up. In her mid-to-late thirties or so, Owen could only assume that the sons were a work in progress.

  After enduring the heat of the mid-morning sun from inside a stifling car, he welcomed the cool interior of the funeral home and the offer of another coffee, in the vague hope that an extra shot of caffeine was what he needed.

  ‘Do take a seat, Detective Bates. I’ll be back with you shortly,’ she said, directing him into her office, a room dominated by a large mahogany desk, a couple of easy chairs and a squidgy sofa pushed up against one wall. The thick, mushroom-coloured carpet muffled the sound of her heels as she strolled towards the door, leaving a lingering trace of some perfume he didn’t recognise but thought Kate might like. He hadn’t gotten around to buying her a gift yet but perhaps a bottle of scent might be a nice gesture until he could take her to help him choose something special. He’d learnt the hard way how fussy she was with regards to jewellery. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the necklace he’d bought her, to commemorate the birth of Pip, anywhere apart from in the bottom of her jewellery box.

  He was pulled out of his musings by the sight of Mrs Prince pushing the door open with her elbow and, leaping to his feet, he divested her of the tray, which held white bone china cups and saucers and a plate of biscuits.

  ‘This is very kind of you, Mrs Prince. I’ve never met a detective yet who’s turned down an offer of coffee.’

  ‘You’re very welcome. My brother’s a copper in Whitstable and I’ve heard, on more than one occasion, what a tough gig it is.’

  She joined him on the plain, mushroom-coloured sofa and crossed one ankle over the other, her slim hands neatly folded, a thin yellow band the only jewellery on display apart from discreet diamond studs in her earlobes.

  ‘Go on, help yourself.’ She pushed the plate of biscuits in his direction.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Now, how can I be of help?’

  ‘I’m afraid this is a little delicate, Mrs Prince.’

  ‘Well, Detective, we’re used to dealing with delicate situations within these walls. You’d be surprised by the requests from some of the relatives and that’s not even touching on the family dynamics that get revealed.’

  ‘I can imagine. We have a situation going on with regards to one of your recent clients, shall we say?’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘There was a ceremony on Saturday over at the Welsh Hills Memorial Gardens that I believe you arranged?’

  ‘Saturday, you say? The one just gone?’ She rose and made her way across the room to the desk before flipping through the large black leather-bound diary. ‘It’s just that, despite our size, we’re a very busy firm. Last Saturday we had one interment of ashes and one cremation?’ she continued, the inflection in her soft voice matching her raised eyebrows.

  ‘The cremation. A Mr Broome, I believe.’

  ‘Ah yes. Mr Duncan Broome – Broome with an E. His family were very particular about us not forgetting to leave out the E on his headstone,’ she confirmed, one hand resting against the polished surface of the desktop.

  Owen started, nearly spilling his tea. ‘But I thought that he was cremated?’

  ‘He was, but his two daughters particularly specified that his wishes were for his ashes to be interred along with his wife, who’s buried in Llanrhos Cemetery.’

  ‘Okay. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m not that au fait with what goes on with regards to burials and the like.’

  ‘No need to apologise, Detective. It’s not something people need to know about until it happens to a family member.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He gave an embarrassed laugh. It wasn’t the time to think about his parents, happily living out their retirement in Llandudno. ‘
So, getting back to Mr Broome, what else can you tell me?’

  ‘Hold on a minute while I check.’ She settled into her chair and, reaching out a manicured fingertip, flipped open her laptop. It didn’t take her long to bring up the correct file. ‘Here it is. Mr Duncan Broome, aged eighty-five, died on July 1st. His daughter contacted us by phone on the same day but we had to wait a few days for the body to be released. We picked him up from St Asaph’s on the 5th.’

  ‘And it’s taken all this time for him to be cremated?’

  ‘Well yes. I did say that we were very busy. It’s not like the old days where you could get buried within the same week, sadly.’

  ‘And why the delay at the hospital?’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy. Mr Broome was an in-patient at St Asaph’s and, as the verifying doctor was unable to confirm the cause of death, his family agreed to an autopsy.’

  Owen turned away from the already depleted pile of ginger nuts, lifting a hand to wipe the crumbs from his beard. ‘And that’s usual practice, is it?’

  ‘It’s a regular occurrence, sadly, although relatives can argue against the importance of knowing the exact cause of death – an autopsy is distressing for everyone concerned.’ She lifted a hand to tuck a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘Going back to the funeral and his interment …’ He paused. ‘How does that even happen?’

  ‘It’s a very simple process, Detective. Usually the family have a member of the clergy attending the graveside to say a few words. Then the ashes, contained within an urn, are placed in a specially dug hole.’

  ‘Okay. So, getting back to Mr Broome, was there anything else unusual in the instructions?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I’m not really sure,’ he said, with a disarming expression. ‘In any way?’

  She returned to the computer screen. ‘Nothing. He had a pacemaker but that was removed by the hospital.’

  ‘And why was that?’

  ‘Because they explode when the cremator reaches temperature, Detective,’ she replied, her eyes twinkling.

  ‘Really? Not something I’ve ever heard about.’

  ‘Probably on a need-to-know basis. There’s nothing else. He was a nice old boy. We did our best to follow both his wishes and that of his family.’

  He met her gaze over the rim of his cup. ‘You didn’t say that you knew him?’

  ‘Does that make a difference?’ She closed the lid of her laptop and returned to the sofa, picking up her cup, which must have been cold by then. ‘He signed up to one of our PAYG schemes following the death of his wife. Funerals can place a huge financial burden on families so he decided to spread the cost of his own by paying a little each month.’

  ‘Oh, I see. What an amazing thing.’

  ‘Isn’t it just? We’re so pleased that we’re able to offer it.’ She placed her barely touched drink back on the tray, her intention obvious. ‘Well, if you have everything you came for, Detective, I’ve a few things I need to be getting on with.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you. Oh, there is just one thing. Nothing to do with the case or anything,’ he added, feeling a flush creep up to warm his neck. ‘That scent you’re wearing. I think it’s something my wife might enjoy.’

  ‘I’m sure she would.’ She smiled. ‘It’s d’Orage by Chanel. My husband lacks imagination in the present-giving department so he keeps to a few set gifts, this perfume being one of them.’

  ‘I’d better write that down.’ Owen had an encyclopaedic brain full of all sorts but there was very little hope of him remembering the name of some random perfume. Removing his diary from his pocket, he frowned down at the blunt end of the attached pencil, another of the little tasks that had evaded his memory with his recent disturbed nights.

  ‘Here, take mine,’ she said, sliding her pen across. ‘They stock the scent in Boots. A little pricey but then I’m sure that she’s worth it.’

  Chapter 11

  Gaby

  Monday 3 August, 12.45 p.m. St Asaph

  Gaby watched her team walk through the door of the incident room in dribs and drabs, their body language telling her more than her silent phone that there was no news. Owen appeared the most upbeat but that was hardly surprising considering his recent family news. But Malachy Devine and Marie Morgan’s downcast heads and an absence of their usual banter echoed her own low mood. Time was running away from them and, with nothing to follow other than the standard protocols written by police experts on what to do in the case of a missing child, it was all becoming a bit desperate. There was no sign of Jax Williams so, in the interim, Gaby pointed to the sandwiches she’d arranged to be delivered from the station canteen.

  ‘Sorry, it’s going to be a working lunch but we have a lot to get through. While we’re waiting for Jax to arrive has anyone got anything pressing to say about the case?’

  ‘Only that I’m surprised a ten-year-old can disappear so completely,’ Owen said into the lengthening silence, a cheese sandwich in his hand. ‘There’s usually someone who’s seen something or knows something in cases like this, surely? For a girl of her age to go wandering off beggars belief.’

  ‘But that’s what appears to have happened,’ Gaby said, selecting a ham and tomato on brown and lifting her head in the direction of the door. ‘Ah good. Shut the door, Jax, and grab a sandwich. I take it there’s no news from the park warden?’

  ‘Not a dickybird. Dafydd’s got a team of volunteers scouring the Great Orme and is having the caves and old mines searched as we speak.’

  Gaby set her, as yet untouched, sandwich to one side and headed for the first of the three whiteboards that took up the whole length of one wall. Choosing the black marker, she started to scribble in her neatest handwriting, which was far from neat.

  ‘So, Elodie Fry, aged ten, suddenly decides one morning to up and leave. To all intents and purposes her home life is a happy one. It’s her school life that’s more worrying.’ She recapped the marker, placed it on the table and turned back to face the room. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that when a person runs away they are either driven to it by circumstance or made to because it’s the only option open to them. In Ellie’s case that’s not clear-cut as yet.’ She picked up her sandwich and took a quick bite, her attention back on the whiteboard and Ellie’s most recent photo. ‘I’m not even going to touch on what could have possibly happened to her once she decided to leave home. What we need to concentrate on is the reason for her disappearance.’

  ‘Who knows what kind of rubbish goes on in a ten-year-old’s head?’ Malachy said through a mouthful of sandwich.

  ‘Exactly, but we have to start somewhere, Mal, and any ideas would be welcome.’

  Gaby switched her attention between Jax and Malachy, the younger members of the team. While they might be of a similar age, they couldn’t be more different in both their looks and outlook. Jax Williams was tall and blond with the body of a runner and a cheeky smile to match his bright blue eyes. Malachy Devine was also tall but that’s where any similarity ended. Brooding was the best term she could find for the large handsome man with a physique only to be found in the most determined of gym aficionados. If truth be told, not that she’d admit it to anyone, up until recently she’d preferred Jax. But during the course of the last case, Mal had proved himself a worthy member of the team – even if his mouth still had a tendency to get him into trouble at every opportunity.

  ‘What about fear?’ Marie said, picking up her mug and cradling it between her fingers, ignoring the sandwiches.

  ‘What about it? What would a ten-year-old have to be frightened of?’

  ‘More than you know, Mal. She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?’ Marie continued. ‘What if the fear was closer to home? A man? A family friend? The mother’s partner? Even a teacher at the school? And it doesn’t have to be a man. There’s just as many female weirdos running around.’

  ‘Okay, good point. Let’s continue in that vein.’
Gaby started to make a list on the whiteboard. ‘I’ve met the mother in addition to the head teacher. On the face of it there’s nothing untoward and Ms Fry comes across as being devastated. She says there’s no father on the scene but that’s something we can easily confirm. There’ll be Ellie’s birth certificate to start with. Also we can pull up the tenant agreement she would have had to sign with the housing association. Marie, I’ll put you on to it as there’s probably not a lot of coordinating to do now that the air and sea searches are underway. You’re far more use to the investigation working from your desk than chasing around Wales.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘You can also make tentative inquiries at the school. I’ve already primed the head teacher so a list of employees should be winging its way over anytime soon. They should all have had an enhanced DBS check but, as we’re aware, some people always manage to slip through the net.’ She lifted her hand, smoothing her hair back off her forehead. ‘The same goes for the ballet class she attended.’

  Gaby returned her attention to Malachy, noting his smart silver-grey suit without a change in her expression. He looked like a male model and, for the thousandth time, she wondered what he was doing working on the MIT. Amy had told her the rumour going around the office that Marie was staying with him since the break-up of her marriage. She only hoped it wasn’t going to affect their working relationship.