by Damien Boyd
‘I tried that too.’
‘Where’s Potter?’
‘They’ve had the press conference downstairs. Roger’s daughter and son-in-law are here. It’s finished now, I think.’
‘Is there any connection between the two girls?’
‘Not that we can find.’ Jane sighed. ‘Yet, anyway.’
‘Do they look alike?’
‘Not really.’
‘I’ll drop Monty off at home and ring you when I’m on the way. I should be at Express Park by nine thirty.’
‘I forgot to tell you, DCI Chard’s staffing again.’
‘Oh, joy.’
‘Ring me when you get home.’
‘I will.’ Dixon rang off, dropped his phone on to the passenger seat and picked up a chocolate bar. He tore open the wrapper with his teeth as he accelerated down the slip road on to the southbound M6, hoping that he would have missed the Birmingham rush hour.
Two girls, no obvious similarities and no connection between them, snatched within twenty-four – forty-eight – 9 a.m. today . . . The maths eluded him. Another bite of chocolate was called for. Sixty-four hours of each other; that was it. Tiredness was creeping in and he needed the extra sugar.
It reminded him of his days in the Met and the Friday night drive to the Lakes or North Wales, climbing all day Saturday and Sunday, followed by the race home on Sunday evening, just in time for the night shift sometimes. Still, he’d been younger and fitter then.
Poor Roger. He must be climbing the walls.
Dixon glanced into the back of the Land Rover. Monty was fast asleep, his head resting on the corner of the Scrabble box. Lucky sod.
And DCI Chard again? Dixon shook his head. Still, third time lucky. He’d made Chard look like an idiot twice now – first at the school, then Manchester – but that was likely to be the least of his worries.
Twat.
The sudden urge to vomit held Dixon in a vice-like grip for a few seconds. He leaned forward over the steering wheel and grimaced, then it was gone. Taking with it the vision of him standing in front of Roger, telling him that he’d found Hatty’s body.
It was the movement that caught his eye as he turned into the visitors’ car park at Express Park just after 9 p.m. Dixon glanced up at the floor to ceiling windows on the first floor just in time to see Roger jump up from his swivel chair and head for the stairs, Jane close behind him.
‘You’re supposed to use the staff entrance,’ said the receptionist when Dixon pressed the buzzer.
‘Just open it.’
He heard the loud sigh over the intercom, followed by the telltale click of the door unlocking.
‘Thanks, Reg,’ said Dixon, wrenching open the door.
‘We keep them locked at this time of night for a reason, y’know.’
Dixon let it slam behind him as he headed for the security door at the side of the reception desk.
‘You haven’t noticed the lights.’ Reg was grinning and pointing up at the ceiling. ‘They’ve been fixed.’
‘Maybe later.’
‘Fair enough.’
Roger was halfway down the stairs behind the security door when Dixon opened it. He slumped down on to the step behind him, put his head in his hands and began to sob.
‘We’ll find her, Roger,’ said Dixon.
‘Dead or alive?’
‘He’s been holding it together all night.’ Jane was standing above Roger, watching his shoulders heaving. ‘He wouldn’t go home.’
‘Where’s his daughter?’
‘She went home with her husband. Her mother’s there as well. And Louise is filling in for Family Liaison.’
‘What about Potter?’
‘She’s still here.’ Jane raised her eyebrows. ‘Waiting for you, I think.’
Dixon squatted down in front of Roger. ‘Look, it’s going to take me a couple of hours to get up to speed, then we’ll have a chat. All right?’
Roger nodded.
‘We’ll get someone to take you home. Or would you rather go to your daughter’s?’
‘Home.’
‘Leave him with me,’ said Jane.
Dixon stepped over Roger on to the step above him. It was a tight squeeze with Jane standing on the same step. He put his arm around her waist and pulled her close to him as he went past. ‘I missed you,’ he whispered.
‘Me too,’ said Jane, moving her lips but making no sound. ‘I’ll catch you up when I’ve got Roger into a car.’
‘I’ll be on the top floor.’
‘I know.’
Dixon was walking past meeting room 2 when the door opened behind him.
‘In here.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Dixon recognised Lewis’s voice.
‘Long drive?’ asked Lewis, closing the door behind him.
‘Long enough.’
Dixon pulled a chair out from under the table.
‘Don’t sit down; you won’t be staying,’ said Lewis. ‘Just watch your back and remember Deborah Potter’s running the show.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Roger went out on a limb to get you assigned to the MIT.’
‘On a limb?’
‘Let’s just say he threatened to pull a few strings.’ Lewis sat down. ‘Seems to think no one else can find her, which won’t go down well with the rest of the team.’
‘I don’t give a flying f—’
‘I know you don’t,’ snapped Lewis. ‘Just watch your back, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And keep out of Chard’s way. I’ve got enough on my plate without having to bail you out of another disciplinary.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And for all our sakes, just find her.’
‘I was hoping to find them both, Sir.’
The sound of telephones ringing, being snatched off desks and slammed back down again carried from the Incident Room on the second floor, the conversations merging into a low murmur, getting louder all the time as Dixon took the stairs two at a time. All of the workstations were occupied, some officers speaking on their phones, others leaning back in their chairs, eyes closed, if only fleetingly until the phone rang on the desk in front of them and they lurched forward to answer it.
Dixon spotted DCI Chard out of the corner of his eye, watching his every move. And Deborah Potter sitting at a workstation – scrolling through the call logs, probably – the grey streaks in her dark hair gone, replaced by highlights. Bags under tired eyes too.
Two large whiteboards had been mounted on the wall to his left, a photo of a ten year old girl at the top of each. Beneath, different coloured arrows led in different directions to other photographs, more on the left, Alesha’s board – which Dixon had expected; the investigation had been going on longer, after all.
‘Where’s Jane?’
Dixon spun round to find Potter standing behind him. ‘Putting Roger in a car. I said I’d see him later.’
‘We’re getting a good response on the phones, by the looks of things.’
Dixon nodded.
‘Jane can bring you up to speed,’ continued Potter. ‘Then we’ll speak tomorrow.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘It’s Deborah when no one’s listening. I’ve told you that before.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Just remember you report to me and no one else.’ Potter smiled. ‘And I’ll try to keep Simon Chard out of your hair while I’m about it.’
‘That would be appreciated.’
‘I bet it would. All the statements are on the system. A password should’ve been emailed to you by now.’
‘I’ll check.’
‘I’ll be going home in a minute, but you’ve got my mobile number?’
‘I have.’
‘Have you thought any more about Portishead?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Well, the offer’s there if you want it.’
‘Thank you . . .’ Dixon hesitated and looked over his shoulder. ‘Deborah.
’
He was still standing in front of the whiteboards when Jane appeared next to him, holding a coffee in each hand.
‘Here,’ she said, passing him a mug. ‘What d’you want to do first?’
‘What d’you think of Kevin Sailes?’ asked Dixon, stepping forward and peering at his photograph.
‘He’s a registered sex offender living in a flat with a ten year old girl. They’ll tell you he doesn’t live there, but he does. And why’s he done a runner? Where the bloody hell is he?’
‘Get me everything we’ve got on him, will you?’
‘Paper copies?’
Dixon nodded. ‘You’ve met him before?’
‘Once, at Tanya’s flat a couple of months ago. Then I sat in when Potter interviewed him yesterday.’
‘Can I see the tape?’
‘It’s on the system. Give me a minute.’ Jane glanced over her shoulder. ‘We’ll need to find a vacant workstation downstairs.’
‘Is this the best shot of the van?’ Dixon was pointing at a black and white photograph, taken on a traffic camera at junction 22 of the southbound M5. It was grainy, at best, and impossible to identify the driver.
‘There’s another one at the motorway roundabout, which shows the number plate, but that’s it.’
‘And it’s false?’
‘Registered to a Datsun 120Y that was written off in 1991.’
‘Surprised it lasted that long,’ said Dixon, frowning at the photograph. The registration number had been scribbled on the whiteboard underneath. ‘A244 AEG,’ he muttered.
‘What?’
‘Who’s looking at the van?’
‘Bob somebody. Dave’s in his team.’
‘I’ll be down in a minute.’ Dixon was scanning the workstations, looking for Harding.
‘He’s at the back,’ said Jane, heading for the stairs. ‘Sitting next to Mark.’
‘Thanks.’
Mark Pearce saw him first, reached over and tapped Dave Harding on the elbow. He swivelled round on his chair, with his phone still clamped to his ear, and smiled at Dixon standing behind him.
‘And you saw this when?’ asked Dave, turning back to his notepad. Dixon watched him making notes as he fired questions at the caller.
‘What was she wearing?’ . . . ‘And what did the man do?’ . . . ‘What sort of vehicle was it?’ . . . ‘An estate car?’ . . . ‘Colour?’ . . . ‘Did you get the registration num—?’ . . . ‘Let me make note of your phone number, Mrs Calvert, and someone will be in touch with you tomorrow to take a statement.’ He wrote it down on the bottom of the note. ‘In the meantime, please try to remember anything else you can, no matter how insignificant it may seem.’ . . . ‘Thank you.’ . . . ‘And thank you for your call.’
Harding replaced the handset. ‘Another well meaning time waster.’ The telephone rang again almost immediately. ‘Nice to see you, Sir,’ he said, turning back around to face Dixon. ‘How was your holiday?’
‘Short. Tell me about the van.’
‘It was spotted by a witness in Marine Drive and we picked it up on the traffic cameras from that. Why?’
‘Who checked the registration?’
‘I did.’
‘Did you check any others?’
‘No. It’s false, a dead end.’
Dixon sighed. ‘If I gave you a roll of black insulating tape and a pair of scissors, how long would it take you to change an “L” or an “F” into an “E”?’
‘Oh shit.’
‘Just for argument’s sake, you know.’
‘Two minutes, at most,’ said Pearce, grinning.
‘C’mon, Dave, it’s the oldest trick in the book.’
‘But it’d be obvious—’
‘To everyone except a traffic camera,’ interrupted Dixon. ‘And that’s all he cares about.’
‘That “G” could be a “C”, couldn’t it? For fuck’s sake.’ Harding threw his pen on to the desk. ‘Shall I run it past Bob Rutledge?’ he asked.
‘No, just do it.’ Dixon turned towards the stairs. ‘And if you find anything, tell him you used your initiative.’
Chapter Twelve
‘Hello, Sir.’
‘They said you were filling in for Family Liaison over at Catcott.’
‘Someone turned up in the end,’ said Louise. She was perched on the corner of Jane’s workstation. ‘What time did you get here?’
‘Nineish.’ Dixon pulled up a chair next to Jane. ‘How were Hatty’s family?’
‘Not good. The mother’s had to be sedated.’
‘She’s Roger’s daughter,’ said Jane.
‘I know.’
‘And the father?’ asked Dixon.
‘Much the same, but he refused a sedative.’
‘Did Roger turn up?’
‘No, his ex-wife rang him and he said he’d come straight here. I’m assuming he did, which is why you’re here?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Well, I’d better get upstairs.’
‘Stay,’ said Dixon. ‘You might as well watch this too.’
‘What is it?’
‘Sailes’s interview.’
Dixon watched the tape in silence, only once leaning forward and scrolling the film back. That was the bit when Sailes was running through his whereabouts when Alesha disappeared. He’d had to lean forward too when Sailes’s voice dropped to a whisper as he was explaining why he hadn’t told Tanya he was on the Sex Offender Register. The noise of the printers on the shelf behind them hadn’t helped.
‘Well?’ asked Jane.
‘Who’s looking for him?’
‘Superintendent Guthrie.’
‘How big’s her team?’
‘Eight.’
‘Well, that’s eight officers wasting their time.’ Dixon shook his head.
‘How d’you know?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Dixon. ‘Are those the statements?’ he asked, gesturing to the printers.
‘That’s them.’ Jane jumped up and took the piles of papers off both, together making a bundle an inch thick. She dropped it on the workstation in front of Dixon.
‘Does it include the ones you took this morning?’
‘Only the handwritten versions.’
‘They’ll do.’
Dixon began flicking through the bundle.
‘We’ll leave you to it,’ said Jane. ‘We’ll be upstairs.’
‘Thanks.’
He was still reading when Jane and Louise reappeared, each holding a strong black coffee. The phones had long since gone quiet. There had been a debriefing from Potter, after which officers who had been on duty all day began to drift off home.
‘Anything?’
‘Six good leads,’ replied Jane. ‘Potter’s got uniform following up two now and the rest tomorrow.’
A loud click came from Dixon’s neck as he looked up at the ceiling and yawned.
Jane winced. ‘Long day?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows.
‘Very.’
‘What now?’
‘You go home and get some sleep. I need to see Roger.’
‘But, it’s nearly one in the morning.’
‘D’you think he’ll be asleep?’
Jane shook her head.
‘Then we find Sailes.’
Jane was standing by the passenger door of Dixon’s Land Rover, pulling on the handle. He leaned across from the driver’s side and flicked the lock.
‘Stop that, you’ll break it.’
‘I thought these things were supposed to be indestructible,’ Jane said, jumping in.
‘And I thought you were going home to bed.’
‘I’m coming with you to see Roger.’
They were out on the M5 before Jane spoke again. ‘Makes it more than just a job when something like this happens, doesn’t it?’
‘It’s never just a job, but I know what you mean.’
Dixon watched the headlights of traffic passing on the opposite carriageway flickering in
Jane’s eyes as those on full beam lit up the passenger compartment, before it was plunged into semi-darkness again, lit only by the lights from the dashboard and the moon reflecting off the white bonnet.
‘You did ring Lucy and tell her we wouldn’t be calling in?’ he said, without turning his head.
‘She put the phone down on me.’
Maybe now was the time to chance his arm? Just a little.
‘You thought any more about what you said?’
‘What did I say?’
Dixon smiled, watching her out of the corner of his eye.
As if you don’t know.
‘You said quite a lot, but “I can’t do this any more” sticks out.’
‘I was angry. Devastated, if you must know. I thought you were dead, for fuck’s sake.’
‘So, can you do this any more?’
‘Can you?’
‘I never said I couldn’t.’
Dixon waited, allowing the conversation to hang while he listened to his new diesel engine; much quieter than the old one, and without the annoying rattle.
‘Of course I can.’ Jane was looking out of the passenger window. ‘There, I’ve said it.’
Dixon smiled.
‘And I’m sorry,’ continued Jane.
‘What for?’
‘Everything.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
Dixon decided that he had pushed it enough.
‘So, what happens now?’ asked Jane, as he drove down the off slip at Taunton.
‘We find Sailes.’ That was not the answer she had been expecting; he could see her frown in the orange glow from the streetlights on the motorway roundabout. The time would come to take the conversation further, but this was not it. Not now, not while Hatty was missing and his best man was in pieces.
‘How?’
‘You’ll see.’
Dixon parked in the gravel drive, behind Roger’s Volvo, and looked up at the house. All the lights on the ground floor were on. ‘See, I told you he wouldn’t be asleep.’
By the time they had climbed out of the Land Rover, Roger was standing on the doorstep, a glass of whisky in his hand.
‘You came,’ he said, appearing to sway from side to side.
Dixon stepped forward and put his arms around him. ‘Let’s get you inside.’