Far Cry

by John Harvey

  'Recently?' Pierce pushed out his bottom lip. 'Nothing special. Storing bits and pieces.'

  'That's all?'

  'That's all.'

  'And can you explain how Beatrice Lawson's top came to be found there?'

  Pierce shrugged.

  'In words, please,' Will said. 'For the tape.'

  'Of course,' Pierce said, abruptly smiling. 'For the tape, I just shrugged, indicating that I don't know.'

  Will wanted to slap the smile off his face. Beside him, he could sense Jim Straley's hands being made into fists.

  'Think again, Mr Pierce. How did this garment come to be found where it was?'

  'I'm afraid I don't know.'

  Will leaned forward. 'Right now, there's a Scene of Crime team going over not just that barn, but every inch of your property. What do you think they're going to find?'

  Pierce shook his head. 'No comment.'

  'I'm sorry?'

  'No comment.'

  'Your ex-wife's young daughter goes missing, she's been missing now for five days. Some of her clothing is found on your property and you've no comment?'

  'I'm afraid not.' This time the smile was less certain, the voice less cocksure.

  'It's within my client's rights ...' Matthew Oliver began, finally stirring.

  'I think your client's all too aware of his rights,' Will said. Then, abruptly. 'We'll take a break.'

  'You can't,' Pierce said. 'We've only just started.'

  But Will was already out of his seat and turning towards the door. A pace further and he swung back fast, leaning down towards Pierce in his chair. 'If you know where Beatrice Lawson is, for Christ's sake, tell me now.'

  Pierce reared back, alarmed. 'I don't. I swear.'

  Straightening, Will pointed a finger. 'If her life's in danger because you know something you're not saying—some stupid little game you're playing—you'll regret it every minute you live.'

  The two officers stood outside in the corridor, anger still bright in Will's face.

  'I thought you were going to smack him one,' Straley said. 'More to the point so did he.'

  'We'll give them five minutes,' Will said, 'then go back in. There was no sign of a car out there, that's right, isn't it? This Toyota registered to him?'

  Straley shook his head. 'Couple of old tyres in the tall barn. Oil on the floor.'

  'Okay. We'll see what he has to say.'

  'I'll get four teas, shall I? Take 'em back in?'

  'Why not? Just make mine a coffee, okay?'

  Pierce's Toyota Corolla, Pierce told them when the interview resumed, had been towed into the garage six days before, the day before Beatrice went missing: problems with the transmission. Vernon Lansdale's garage just the other side of Ely. Immediately, a nerve began vibrating at the side of Will's head. The same garage where, until recently, Mitchell Roberts had been working. Too much of a coincidence, surely, to be purely accidental?

  'Why there?'

  'Huh?'

  'Why that garage? Why there?'

  'I'd stopped there a couple of times before. Just for petrol, least that's what I'd thought, but the man, Vernon, he noticed one of my tyres was practically flat. Had it fixed for me straight away.'

  'He didn't fix it himself?'

  Pierce shook his head. 'Someone in the workshop.'

  'Someone? Who?'

  'I really don't know.'

  'You talk to him at all? This man in the workshop?

  'No, not really. Just, you know, what's wrong? How long will it take?'

  'That was all?'

  'Yes, of course that was all. What more was there to say?'

  Will excuse himself and returned minutes later with a photograph of Mitchell Roberts.

  'Is this the man?'

  Pierce looked at it carefully. 'It might be.'

  'Only might?'

  'Yes. I said, all we did was exchange a few words. He got on and changed the tyre, I stood around outside, that's all it was. Why? Why's it so important?' He looked back down at the photo. 'Who is he, anyway?'

  'You've not seen his picture? Recently?'

  'No, where?'

  'In the paper, on the news.'

  Pierce smiled a wan little smile. 'I don't keep up, I'm afraid.'

  Will slid the photograph from sight. 'Last Tuesday evening, between five-thirty and seven, where were you?'

  'Tuesday?'

  'Tuesday.'

  'Home, had to be.'

  'Had to?'

  'The car went off to the garage around ten that morning. Vernon came out with the truck and fetched it himself.' He gestured with his hands. 'No transport out there, you're snookered. Not that I mind. Always plenty to occupy my mind.'

  I'll bet, Will thought. Half an hour later, he called another break. If Helen were there, he would have happily handed the questioning over to her like a captain switching his bowlers when a batsman becomes entrenched: change of angle, change of pace.

  As it was, Jim Straley would have to step up.

  'Take Ellie in with you,'Will said. 'Concentrate on the photographs. When he took them. Why. Why send them to the mother. I'm going to go and talk to her after I've checked out the garage. Meantime, let's hope Scene of Crime turn up something fast.'

  60

  Will stopped off at Lansdale's garage on the way into Ely. The youth who came out to greet him was seventeen or eighteen, straw-haired, wearing blue overalls a size too large, iPod headphones dangling from the top of the bib. Vernon, he said, never worked Sundays if he could avoid it. Well, nor did Will, but this was different.

  At the sight of Will's warrant card, the youth gave over Vernon's mobile number, but there was no answer and Will left a message, asking Vernon to call him back as soon as possible.

  'How long've you been working here?' Will asked.

  'Sundays, must be best part of a year.'

  'You know a man called Roberts used to work here till recently?'

  'Mitch, is that?'

  Will nodded.

  'Seen him once or twice, not for a while. He quit, Vernon said. Said as how he might train me up, take his place, like.' The youth smiled hopefully.

  'Still got a Toyota here, being worked on?'

  'Corolla, N reg.' He nodded in the direction of the closed workshop. 'Still waiting on parts.'

  Will took one of his cards from his wallet. 'Vernon comes back, calls in, whatever, just in case he hasn't got my message, get him to call me. Okay? It's important.'

  'Right, right.' As Will turned back towards his car, he slipped his earpieces back into place, nothing more to do than watch him go.

  Ruth had been thinking about Simon off and on all of that day, thinking about him seriously for perhaps the first time since their divorce. When it had become clear, in the wake of Heather's death, that their relationship was not going to survive—that what had happened had only served to accentuate the differences that had been growing between them for some time—her assumption had been that it would be Simon who would move on most easily; Simon who would find a new partner, remarry, perhaps even have another child.

  When she had met him in London and told him of her relationship with Andrew, the fact that she was the one going to marry again, he had taken it almost with aplomb. Congratulations. A smile. Slightly sardonic, perhaps, but a smile nevertheless. And then, more or less nothing. He had slipped out of her life and she had let him. Moving to Ely as she had done, she had chosen to sever almost all ties with her old life. She supposed that was what happened, especially after something as traumatic as the death of a child. The more you were together, the more you remembered.

  Even the Effords' marriage had not survived. There had been a letter from Alan that had somehow found her, forwarded from address to address; he was living in a two-room flat in north London, near the Archway, and seeing the children at weekends. The tone of his letter was regretful, almost desperate. Why don't we meet up? It would be good to see you again. She hadn't replied.

  When the doorbell went
now she paid it little attention; either Andrew or Anita would answer it, assuming Anita was still around.

  A few moments later, Andrew opened the door to the living room and ushered Will inside. 'The Detective Inspector wants to ask us some more questions.'

  Ruth smoothed down her skirt and waited while Andrew sat beside her, a hand on her shoulder.

  Will sat opposite.

  'Is it about Simon?' she asked.

  'Not directly, no. I just wanted to ask you again about the top that we found. You said it went missing, I think, seven days after the photographs appeared on your computer?'

  'Yes, as far as I can remember.'

  'And your assumption was what? That it had been lost somewhere?'

  'Yes, I suppose so. I mean, we searched, Beatrice and I. You have to realise, this wasn't the first time something like this had happened. Clothes put away in the wrong place, stuffed down for some reason beneath the mattress, not put away at all. When it still didn't turn up, I imagined it had been left at school.'

  'She wore it to school?'

  'Sometimes. There is a uniform, but it's fairly basic, and on Fridays, within reason, they can wear what they choose. I told Beatrice to check in lost property, make sure no one had taken it by mistake. She'd been for a sleepover at her friend Sasha's just a few nights before and I rang Sasha's mother to check she hadn't left it there. There was nothing. It seemed to have just disappeared.'

  'You never thought it had been stolen?'

  'No, not really, only ...' She shook her head.

  'Yes?'

  'It doesn't matter, it's nothing.'

  'Please. Whatever you were going to say, it might be important.'

  Ruth looked away. There were goose bumps on her arms. 'Andrew, I'm sorry, but perhaps I could talk to the Detective Inspector alone?'

  'I don't see why. I mean, surely there's no need ...'

  'Andrew, please.'

  'All right, if that's what you want.' He looked back at her from the door, a long look of disappointment and gathering mistrust, then closed it quietly at his back.

  Alone with Will, Ruth hesitated, uncertain how to begin.

  'It was the evening I spoke about,' she said eventually. 'When Beatrice was at Sasha's. Andrew was out, too, some meeting, so I was all alone in the house. That wouldn't usually bother me, in fact sometimes I quite welcome it, the chance to be on my own—but this particular evening, I don't know why, I was feeling edgy, nervous almost. Worried about Beatrice, probably, not that there was any need. I mean, she was fine. I'd phoned to check. Happy to be where she was. But then I heard this noise. Upstairs, at least that's where I thought it was coming from. Upstairs in Beatrice's room.'

  'What kind of a noise?'

  'A footstep, that's what it sounded like. Someone walking. And then a door, a door closing. I went up and there was nothing, just a window that had been left open, banging, but somehow I couldn't shake the feeling that somebody else had been there, in the house.'

  'You mean, broken in?'

  'Yes, I suppose so.'

  'And it couldn't have been Andrew? Come home early without saying?'

  'No, not at all. He didn't come back for quite a while afterwards.'

  'He didn't know about it then?'

  Ruth shook her head.

  'Why didn't you want him in the room when you told me?'

  'It's not that simple.' She pressed the palms of her hands together. 'Not easy to explain.'

  'That's okay. Take your time.'

  'It's Heather.'

  'Your other daughter? The one who died?'

  'Yes.'

  'What about her?'

  'Sometimes she ... she comes to see me. She ... I don't know how to say it ... she just appears. And we talk.'

  'And that's what happened that evening?'

  'Yes.'

  'And you think that might have been what you heard? Heather?'

  'Yes.'

  'Upstairs in Beatrice's room?'

  'Yes.'

  'But you're not sure that's what it was? The sound you heard?'

  'No, you see, whenever I've seen her before, she just, well, like I said, she appears. There isn't any sound. It's just suddenly she's there.'

  'And then what happens?'

  'We talk. Usually we talk. Sometimes we hold hands. And then, after a little while, she goes.' Ruth pressed her hands against her face. 'You think I'm crazy, don't you? Making all this up. Another middle-aged neurotic woman.'

  'No, I don't think that at all.'

  'But you don't believe me.'

  'That doesn't matter. What I believe.'

  'Andrew would tut-tut and tell me I've been under a strain and I should go back to the therapist. Get some more help. Get it all washed out of my system.' She pushed her fingers up through her hair. 'I don't want her out of my system. I've lost her once and I don't want to lose her again. Especially not now.'

  Looking back at Ruth, Will realised he had no idea how to respond or what to say.

  61

  By the time Will returned to the police station where Simon Pierce was being held, the first thorough search of the house and outbuildings at Padnal Fen was still continuing, without any further sign of the missing girl so far being found. Samples of what might be human blood, taken from the former henhouse, had been sent to the lab, but more in hope than expectation.

  No longer a game, if that's what it had been, Simon Pierce had gradually confessed to having followed Beatrice over a period of several months, sometimes taking photographs, sometimes merely watching from a distance. At no time, he said, had he attempted to speak to her; at no point had he made any direct contact whatsoever. The facade of confidence he had sat behind when the first interview began was starting to crack, but, to Will's regret, there was still nothing that made his connection with Mitchell Roberts any more than tauntingly coincidental.

  An examination of the two memory sticks found with his computer revealed several hundred images of Beatrice, all apparently taken without her knowledge. There were more on the hard drive, some repeated, some different. It was a small selection of these that he had sent to Ruth.

  'Why try and disguise where they'd come from?' Straley had asked. 'Why not make it clear they were from you?'

  'I didn't think she'd like that.'

  'The photos or the fact that you'd sent them?'

  'That I'd sent them.'

  'Why was that?'

  'I don't know. The time I met them, her and Beatrice, in Cambridge, she didn't seem very happy to see me, that's all.'

  'Why do you think that was?'

  'I don't know.'

  'And Beatrice? Was she happy to see you?'

  'She didn't know me.'

  'She didn't recognise you?'

  'How could she? She didn't know who I was.'

  'Until then.'

  'That's right.'

  'Surely she must have seen you following her around?'

  'I wasn't following her around, not in the way you make it sound.'

  'What way's that?'

  'You make it sound nasty, unpleasant.'

  'It wasn't?'

  'No.'

  'Spending all that time trailing after a young girl, barely ten years old?' Straley could scarcely keep the disgust from spilling out of his voice.

  'Stop it,' Pierce said. 'Stop it. That's not what it was like at all.'

  'No?'

  'That's your mind, not mine.'

  'Tell me what it was like then. Make me understand.'

  Pierce took one long, shallow breath and then another. 'I just wanted ... I just wanted to get to know her. What she was like. There's no harm in that. No harm at all.'

  'Where is she now?' Straley asked.

  'I don't know. Don't you think I'd tell you if I did?'

  Not surprisingly, the media had got hold of the fact that the police were holding somebody and they were clamouring for details; Will had agreed to a press conference being scheduled for later in the day, but without any inte
ntion of giving up Pierce's identity. Once that became public, and his former relationship with the missing girl's mother became known, speculation would be rife and the pressure on Pierce himself intense. So much sound and fury serving only to disguise the truth.

  Right now, Pierce having his regulatory meal break, sitting opposite his solicitor, toying with sausage and chips. Jim Straley and Ellie Chapin were in Will's office, drinking coffee; that is, Jim and Will were drinking coffee, Ellie was drinking from a flask of ginger tea she brought in each day from home.

  'Ellie,' Will said, 'see what you can find out about these Internet groups Pierce is involved in. Fathers without children, that kind of thing. Talk to Liam Noble, he might know something. Either that or point you in the direction of someone who does. Okay? Jim, you come back in with me.'

  On the way to the interview room, Will took Matthew Oliver off to one side. 'If your client's name gets out before we release it officially, I'll know who to come looking for. Understood?'

  'Me?' Oliver said, widening his eyes. 'As if.'

  Simon Pierce sat apprehensively now that Will was back conducting the interview himself; there was a splodge of something that might be have been ketchup on the front of his cotton sweater.

  'Can you imagine what it'd be like,' Will said, starting speaking almost before he had sat down, 'if we allowed your name and what we're holding you for to get beyond this room? An article of clothing belonging to the missing girl was found hidden on your property, right out in the back of beyond. You know what crowds are like, you've seen them on TV, all that righteous anger. You'd be lucky to get out of here in one piece.'

  Pierce's eyes were shut tight.

  'Threats, Detective Inspector?' Oliver said. 'Intimidation?'

  'Simply wanting your client to appreciate the facts.'

  'My task, I believe.'

  'Then do it. While there's time.'

  Oliver sighed. 'Perhaps my client and I might be allowed five minutes to talk?'

  'You've just had forty, for God's sake.'

  'Then what's five more?'

  'Use them wisely.' Will pushed back his chair.

  Outside, they walked to the end of the corridor, down on to the lower landing and looked out at the traffic making its slow way along Parkside and turning off towards the Newmarket Road. On the piece of open ground opposite, the trees had now lost most of their leaves.