by Damien Boyd
Poland turned to Dixon as he stepped out of the lift on the first floor. ‘Tell me about Ted Buckler, then.’
‘In the car.’ He wrenched open the back door to the staff car park.
‘I know how this works, Nick.’
‘I know you do.’ Dixon was peering into the back of his Land Rover.
‘Is Monty asleep?’ asked Jane.
‘I left him at home. I’ve got the back seats down.’
‘I’ll drive,’ said Roger, rummaging in his pocket for his keys. ‘Mine’s over there.’
‘Buckler’s denying everything,’ said Dixon when the last of the car doors slammed shut. ‘He says the van in the photo isn’t his and he hasn’t seen Sailes for twelve months.’
‘What about the anklet?’
‘You are well informed, Roger.’
Poland shrugged his shoulders.
‘He clammed up when Potter put that to him. Asked to see his solicitor.’
‘So, we’re no nearer finding Hatty?’
‘We’ll find her, Roger.’ Jane leaned forward and put her hand on Poland’s shoulder.
‘You keep saying that.’
‘What are we going to find at Catcott?’ asked Dixon, changing the subject.
‘I spoke to Adele this morning. She’s not good. Jeremy’s in a bit of a state too.’
‘Is Geraldine there?’
‘She’d gone home to feed her cats, but she’ll be back by now, I expect.’
‘You know what to do,’ said Dixon.
‘What?’
‘Take a deep breath and count to ten. You tell me to do it often enough.’
Poland parked behind a Mercedes two-seater in the lay-by opposite Old School House. ‘That’s Geraldine’s,’ he muttered. ‘I’m still paying for it.’
‘This is about Hatty, Roger.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ll get someone to shift that lot too,’ said Dixon, frowning at a small group of journalists and photographers hovering at the far end of the lay-by.
Poland rang the doorbell, at the same time looking through the stained glass window in the door, Dixon and Jane standing behind him, peering over his shoulder. ‘Who’s this, I wonder?’
‘Family Liaison,’ said Jane. ‘Down from Bristol.’
The officer was dressed casually; windproof trousers and a fleece. Potter would approve, thought Dixon. He stepped in front of Poland, warrant card in hand.
‘Detective Inspector Dixon,’ he said, when the door opened. ‘This is DS Winter and Dr Poland, Adele’s father.’
‘Oh, come in, Sir. I’m Richard Page, FLO, just filling in, really.’
‘We know.’
‘Is there any news?’ whispered Page.
Dixon shook his head. ‘Lead on.’
They followed Page into the living area. Adele jumped up, ran over and threw her arms around Poland, sobbing into his shoulder. ‘I thought you were coming yesterday,’ she gasped.
‘I rang and was told not to.’ He glanced around the room and up at the galleried landing. ‘Where’s your mother?’ he asked.
‘In the garden with Ros.’ Jeremy had been sitting with his back to them and stood up, his eyes bloodshot, his face ashen behind a thin layer of stubble.
‘This is Nick Dixon, the police officer I told you about, Adele,’ said Roger.
‘Have you found her?’
‘We’ve made an arrest,’ replied Dixon, ‘but there’s no connection with Hatty at the moment. Possibly Alesha, but there’s still a long way to go.’
‘Who is it?’ asked Jeremy.
‘I really can’t divulge—’
‘Dad?’
‘He doesn’t know, Adele.’ It was a white lie Dixon could live with, if it saved Roger from lying to his daughter. Or worse still, telling her more than he should.
‘Mum wants to bring in a clairvoyant.’
‘She would,’ muttered Roger.
‘She knows someone, apparently. It can’t do any harm, can it?’
‘No,’ replied Dixon. False hope was still hope, if they were lucky to get even that.
Poland glared at him, but was distracted by Geraldine appearing in the doorway, brushing leaves off her long skirt.
‘Oh, you’re here,’ she said, glaring at Roger.
‘We all are, Mrs Poland,’ said Dixon, noticing the holes in the elbows of her cardigan and the small tattoo on her right wrist, not quite hidden by the bangles. The beads were quite something too.
‘And you’ll be the police officer?’
‘Detective Inspector Dixon.’
‘Well, it’s Ms Crosby, if you don’t mind. I use my maiden name now. And this is Ros Hicks,’ she replied, looking over her shoulder. ‘A neighbour.’
‘I just popped in to see if there was anything I could do,’ said Ros, hesitating in the doorway. ‘I’ll leave you to it, Adele, if the police are here.’
‘Thank you.’
Then Ros stepped back out of the French windows into the garden and disappeared around the side of the house.
‘Has Hatty ever gone missing before?’ asked Dixon, walking round to the fireplace and looking at the pictures on the mantelpiece.
‘No. Never,’ replied Jeremy.
Innocuous family photos: Hatty on a pony, grinning from ear to ear; on a beach building a sandcastle; on her father’s shoulders with several donkeys in the background; a wedding photograph. Dixon raised his eyebrows – Roger and Geraldine were holding hands in that one.
‘Are you here to ask the same questions we’ve been asked countless times already?’
Dixon’s association with Roger would be enough to account for the immediate hostility. ‘Ms Crosby, I’m here to find Hatty. Either you want to help or you don’t.’
‘You can’t speak to me like that.’
‘Yes, he can,’ snapped Poland. ‘Just shut up for once in your life.’
‘Cup of tea, anyone?’ asked Page.
‘Thank you.’ Jeremy sighed. He knelt in front of Adele, who had collapsed on to the sofa, sobbing. ‘It’s going to be fine,’ he said, his eyes wide. ‘We’ll get her back. I know we will.’
‘Have you been able to think of any connection between Hatty and the other girl, Alesha Daniels?’ asked Jane.
‘No,’ replied Jeremy. ‘Nothing. Does there have to be one?’
‘Not at all.’ Dixon turned around with a photograph in each hand, taken off the built in shelves by the fire. ‘It’s just that if the girls are connected then it’s reasonable to assume there’s some connection between them and whoever might have got them.’
‘Reasonable to assume?’ sneered Geraldine.
‘It’s a starting point.’ He looked back down at the picture in his left hand. ‘Who’s the skier?’ he asked.
‘That’ll be me,’ replied Jeremy. ‘That’s the Hahnenkamm. Took me twenty minutes to get down. They do it in less than two when they’re racing.’
‘What about this one?’ Dixon asked, looking at the photograph in his right hand: four lads and a girl in a bar, several empty champagne bottles on the table in front of them. ‘Celebrating something?’ he asked, holding it in front of Adele.
‘That was the old champagne bar on Paddington station. It’s gone now. That was years ago; we’d just sold our internet company.’
‘He doesn’t want to hear about that now, Adele,’ said Jeremy.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘We sold it for just under eleven million pounds. I had ten per cent. But we were locked in as founding directors. We couldn’t sell our shares for two years and the internet bubble burst in the meantime.’ Adele shrugged her shoulders. ‘We came away with enough for a round of drinks in the end, but it was a lot of fun.’
‘And this was before you met?’
‘Yes, thank God,’ mumbled Jeremy.
‘What about birthday parties?’ asked Dixon, replacing the photograph on the shelf amongst the family snaps. ‘Is it possible the girls were at the same party at some point?’
‘Shut up, Mother,’ snapped Adele. ‘For God’s sake.’
Geraldine stormed into the kitchen. Poland looked at Dixon and rolled his eyes.
‘You’ve been asked about a white van?’ continued Dixon.
‘We’ve not seen one,’ said Adele, shaking her head.
‘Excuse me.’ Dixon reached into his jacket pocket and took out his phone. ‘I need to go, I’m afraid.’
‘Has she—?’
‘I’m sorry, no. It’s lab results, that’s all.’
Adele jumped up off the sofa and took hold of his wrist. ‘Don’t stop looking for her. Please.’
‘He won’t,’ said Poland.
‘Only, she’s alive. I know she is.’ Tears were streaming down Adele’s face now. ‘Or, at least, I’d know if she was dead. I’d know that.’
‘I’ll give you a lift.’
‘Can’t you stay, Dad?’
‘Well, I . . . er . . . yes, of course.’ Poland threw his car keys to Dixon. ‘Here, take it.’
‘I’ll bring it back in one piece.’
‘Just bring Hatty back in one piece.’
Chapter Sixteen
‘It’s a bloody automatic,’ muttered Dixon, looking down at the pedals.
‘D’you want me to drive?’
‘No, I’ll be fine.’
‘What are the lab results?’ asked Jane, putting on her seatbelt.
‘It’s Alesha’s anklet, so Potter wants to interview Buckler again.’
‘Roger’s ex is a bit of a dragon, isn’t she?’
‘He did warn us.’
‘And a clairvoyant?’ Jane shrugged her shoulders. ‘Can’t do any harm, I suppose.’
‘That depends on what she says. It could be a waste of bloody time.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Jane was looking over her shoulder. ‘You can turn left and then left again takes you back out to the main road.’
Dixon was staring in the rear view mirror, doing a three point turn outside the house.
‘Clear at the back,’ said Jane.
‘What if she says Hatty is, I don’t know, in Scotland, say. She hears “Mull of Kintyre” and sees a vision. Are we supposed to drop everything we’re doing and go look for her on Mull?’
‘Kintyre.’
‘Whatever.’ Dixon turned out on to the main road. ‘Because the family will soon jump on us if we don’t.’
‘Why didn’t you say that?’
‘The mother’d probably do it anyway. And it might give them some comfort.’
‘Potter won’t like it.’
‘She’ll get over it.’
‘What did you make of the husband?’ Jane frowned. ‘There’s a speed camera along here.’
‘I don’t know.’ Dixon stamped on the brakes just before he reached the yellow speed gun. ‘What did you think of him?’
‘Just as you’d expect really. Trying to hold it together for Adele’s sake, I suppose.’
Dixon left Roger’s Volvo in the visitors’ car park outside Express Park and they ran in the front door.
‘Superintendent Potter is waiting for you in the custody suite, Sir,’ said the receptionist.
‘Thank you.’
Jane swiped her ID card and opened the security door. ‘I’ll see if I’m needed upstairs, then nip home and sort Monty out.’
‘Bring him back, will you?’
‘Yeah, fine.’
‘A prepared statement.’ Potter slammed the door behind her. ‘A bloody prepared statement.’
‘What was the solicitor’s name again?’
‘Holt. From some bucket shop in Taunton.’
‘Sharp, though,’ muttered Dixon, making a mental note of the name in case he ever needed a solicitor himself.
‘He’s lying, Ma’am,’ said Chard, emerging from a door behind them. ‘We were watching on the CCTV.’ Superintendent Guthrie followed him out into the corridor.
‘What d’you think, Sally?’ asked Potter.
‘Lying,’ she replied. ‘He has to be.’
‘And you?’ Potter turned to Dixon.
‘Everything he says is plausible.’
‘You believe him?’ snapped Chard.
‘He says it’s not his van and we can’t prove it is,’ continued Dixon. ‘We say he disguised the number plate; he says someone else did it to make it look like he was disguising it, casting suspicion on him. And if he’s right, it’s worked.’
‘Someone went to the trouble of getting an identical plate and then changed it?’ asked Guthrie.
‘That’s what he’s saying, yes. They’d know we’d be looking for it and it makes him look bad, doesn’t it? Is there any glue residue on his number plate?’
Guthrie frowned. ‘No.’
‘Had it been cleaned?’
‘No.’
‘Whose fucking side are you on?’ snapped Chard.
Dixon glared at him. ‘Alesha and Hatty’s.’
‘How d’you explain the anklet then?’ asked Potter.
‘I don’t. Not yet. But he says someone must’ve thrown it over his fence, which ties in with where we found it.’
‘For fuck’s sake.’ Chard turned away.
‘He’s a high profile convicted sex offender. If you wanted to snatch a child and set someone up to get us barking up the wrong tree then he’s your man, isn’t he?’
‘Bollocks.’
‘What about the insulating tape?’ asked Potter.
‘I’ve got some at home somewhere,’ replied Dixon. ‘I used it to mark my rock climbing gear. Mine was black and Jake’s red.’ He shook his head. ‘You can get it at B&Q.’
Potter folded her arms and let out a long sigh. ‘We’ve got some too. God knows what my husband uses it for, but it’s in the drawer with the spare batteries.’
‘My husband’s an electrician so don’t look at me,’ said Guthrie, shrugging her shoulders.
‘Well, I’m not letting him go. At least, not until SOCO have finished the search and if that means a custody extension then so be it.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘When I need your opinion, Simon, I’ll ask for it.’ Potter scowled.
Chard blushed. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Sally, your team can stay on him. Look for any recent contact with Sailes.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘What do we tell the press, Ma’am?’ asked Chard. ‘They know we’ve made an arrest and Vicky Thomas is coming under pressure to give them an update.’
‘You didn’t say whether you believed him, Nick,’ said Potter, turning to Dixon.
Dixon felt Chard’s eyes burning into the back of his head. As if glaring at him was going to make a difference. Still, there was a time and place for everything, and this was not it. Not yet.
‘I don’t know, Ma’am,’ he said.
Potter leaned back against the wall. ‘We tell the press nothing for the time being. And if Buckler’s name gets out I’ll want to know who leaked it.’
‘This just came in,’ said Potter, perching on the corner of Dixon’s workstation. She handed him a colour photograph. ‘It’s from the speed camera at Woolavington. Yesterday morning just before nine. I’m getting it blown up and enhanced to see if we can see the tape on the number plate.’
He leaned back in his chair and looked at the image, holding it up in front of him.
‘Buckler’s van’s come back clear too,’ continued Potter. ‘There’s no trace of Alesha or Hatty.’
‘It must be the same van from the M5 traffic camera,’ said Dixon. ‘Makes you wonder whether Hatty’s in the back.’
‘Buckler said he didn’t go out at all yesterday, but we’ve got a trace on his mobile phone, so we’ll soon see.’
Dixon sighed. ‘All that will tell us is that his phone stayed at home. Doesn’t mean he did.’
‘We’re checking for CCTV along the route,’ said Potter. ‘You never know, we may get a look at the driver.’
&nbs
p; Dixon slid his iPhone out of his pocket and opened ‘Photos’, then began scrolling through the pictures he had taken of Buckler’s van in the barn at Watchfield. He stopped at an image of the back of the van and used his fingers to zoom in on the number plate.
He nodded, then handed the colour photograph from the speed gun back to Potter. ‘It’s definitely not Buckler’s van,’ he said.
‘How d’you know?’
‘I took this photo of his number plate yesterday. It must be the original – you can see the two screws holding it on where the little yellow plastic caps have come off.’ He passed his phone to Potter. ‘Now look at the image from the speed camera.’
Potter had Dixon’s iPhone in her right hand and the photograph in her left. ‘No screws,’ she said.
‘That’s right, which means that number plate’s been stuck on. There’ll be another one behind it.’
‘So, Buckler is telling the truth?’
‘Possibly.’
‘What d’you mean “possibly”?’
‘He’s telling the truth about the van. That’s all we can say with any degree of certainty. Someone has doctored that number plate . . .’ Dixon was pointing at the image from the speed camera. ‘To make it resemble his. If it was him, then why would he do that? If it was someone else, then who and where are they? Because if we can find them I’m guessing we’ll find Alesha and Hatty as well.’
‘Maybe it’s some sort of elaborate alibi?’ asked Potter.
No reply.
‘Nick?’
‘You have to ask yourself why the driver got himself caught on this speed camera too. It’s a bloody great big yellow box on top of a pole. There are even signs warning you it’s there. If you’re making your getaway with a child in the back you’re not going to draw attention to yourself like this, are you?’
‘Unless it’s deliberate?’
‘Exactly. We were meant to see this.’ Dixon frowned. ‘It’s more evidence against Buckler on the face of it.’
‘If you accept it’s his van.’
‘Which we’re supposed to but don’t.’
‘Which you don’t.’
‘And you doubt.’
Potter nodded.
‘Let him go and put a tail on him. That’s what I’d do,’ continued Dixon.
‘You’re kidding?’
‘It’s about finding the girls now, and we’re not going to do that with him sitting in a cell. That’s assuming he’s got anything to do with it at all.’