by Sarah Ward
‘So you specialised in matrimonial law. Yvonne Jenkins was divorced.’
‘I handled the case. Don’t look at me like that, Francis. How many solicitors’ practices were in Bampton then? There were two of us. Me and Daniel Weiss. And Daniel’s practice was far more traditional. Little old ladies doing their wills.’
‘It’s still going, isn’t it?’
‘We both are, thank God, although there’s far more competition these days. But we’re both fixtures, Daniel Weiss and me. Danny’s son Richard has more or less taken over the business and I have a two partners working for me. So it’s not all doom and gloom. Anyway, Yvonne Jenkins came to me and asked me to handle her divorce and I agreed. Do you still want to talk or am I now connected to the case?’
Sadler did some rapid thinking. How many independent witnesses was he likely to find? ‘Sophie’s parents were eliminated as suspects early on. Were you interviewed by the police in relation to this?’
‘No one came near me. It wouldn’t have done any good anyway as I was still negotiating some of the financial arrangements for Sophie. They would have been protected by client confidentiality, even though the girl had gone missing. For a long time we really thought Sophie would return alive so we kept the case files in the basement.’
‘And now?’ Sadler looked across at his neighbour and thought about how little he knew about the people living around him. ‘Are you still protected by client confidentiality?’
‘It’s been over thirty years. The passage of time gives me more freedom to talk about the case and, to be honest, I always wondered what really happened.’
Sadler poured them both another glass of wine.
‘It all started routinely enough. A nervous Yvonne Jenkins walked into the practice one day and asked to see a solicitor.’
‘Did she have your name specifically?’
‘God, Francis, I don’t remember that much. All I remember is she saw me without an appointment. In those days I had time to see people who came off the streets. Now you have to wait a week, sometimes two, just to get an appointment with me.’
‘Not as bad as a dentist yet.’
‘We’re getting there. Anyway, so Yvonne Jenkins sat down in my office and told me that the previous evening, her husband had announced he was leaving her for another woman.’
‘Just like that.’
Clive sipped at his wine. ‘It’s funny, really, but now I come to think of it, it was much more like that in those days. Grand gestures and sudden schisms. Now, it’s about attrition, complicated lives, second and third marriages.’
‘Was she shocked? Yvonne Jenkins?’
‘Yes, I think she was. Her sense of outrage was exacerbated by the fact that this woman – the woman he was leaving her for – had a ready-made family, two small boys, and Peter Jenkins had apparently been perfectly willing to swap his own family for another. There was never going to be any drawn-out custody battle because Peter Jenkins simply no longer wished to see his daughter.’
‘Thank God those days are over at least.’
Clive snorted into his wine. ‘It’s less common now, admittedly, but once upon a time that sort of thing was the norm. You simply left your children behind.’
‘But you said you were sorting out the financial arrangements.’
‘Just to confirm that Yvonne Jenkins would have sole custody and that Peter Jenkins would be providing maintenance.’
And it had all been checked out, according to Llewellyn. Peter Jenkins had been one of the earliest people interviewed and he had had a perfect alibi. A lecturer at the local tech, he had been seen in the college building at eight thirty a.m. around the time that Sophie and Rachel had been abducted. For the rest of the morning, he had been lecturing to his students. And Yvonne Jenkins had never learned to drive and couldn’t have been the woman, even in disguise from her own child.
‘So you met Yvonne Jenkins and agreed to represent her in her divorce. What were your initial thoughts of her?’
‘She was very attractive. Short dyed blonde hair, good figure. I remember thinking that this divorce wouldn’t be an absolute disaster for her. That she would soon find someone else.’
‘Did you think that there was someone else at the time?’
‘Actually, no. She seemed genuinely upset by the situation, but determined to sort out her own financial and domestic position.’
‘And how long was this before Sophie was abducted?’
‘Eight months. As I said, we were finalising the custody arrangements when Sophie went missing. I had, in effect, finished with her as a client.’
‘What about the rest of your firm? She presumably made a will?’
‘I don’t think so, no. I would almost certainly have advised her to make a will at the time of her divorce, but if she did make one it wasn’t with me – perhaps she went to Daniel Weiss. I never saw her again after her daughter was abducted. I can remember the files lay open for a while, because we didn’t know what to do with them. There was no longer any need to make any financial arrangements for Sophie and he had already signed over the house to Yvonne Jenkins as part of the financial settlement.’
‘The whole house?’
‘Yes, I know it was quite unusual. What usually happened was that the woman kept the house to bring up the children in, and then when they reached eighteen it would be sold and the proceeds divided up.’
‘But that hadn’t been the arrangement?’
‘No. It was my first glimpse of the person behind the mask that Yvonne Jenkins presented to the world. She was adamant that she wanted to keep the house, I think it was a bungalow, and that it was Peter Jenkins’s duty to give it to her.’
‘Presumably he thought differently?’
‘Initially yes, but I think he wanted to marry his new partner and losing half the house was to be the quid pro quo.’
‘And Sophie. It was definitely his decision to cut all ties with her?’
‘According to Mrs Jenkins, yes. And he certainly never made any alternative requests through his solicitor.’
Sadler thought back to Connie’s description of the bungalow. She had stayed in the same house all this time. But even before Sophie had been abducted, her mother had not wanted to leave. Perhaps this seemingly minor detail was a crack widening into something large, something everyone else had missed. Sadler shook his head and brought his thoughts around to the present and back to Clive Mottram sitting across the room from him.
‘OK, so I’ve had your professional opinion. Now tell me about the events in January. You knew Yvonne Jenkins professionally. What were your thoughts when you heard about the missing girls?’
‘Well, the first interesting thing I remember hearing was that there had been no news about the abduction until after Rachel Jones had been discovered. The two girls were supposed to turn up for school and when neither of them arrived it had just been assumed by the school that they were both off sick.’
‘No one called home?’
‘I don’t think that anyone was unduly worried about two friends being off sick. Things were much more relaxed then.’
‘And then Rachel Jones was found in a distressed state about a quarter of a mile away from the school.’ Sadler poured the rest of the bottle into their glasses.
‘It was about midday. Rachel Jones was found, as you say, stumbling around in a dazed state off the Bampton Road. I think that there was something about her missing her shoes and socks, but I can’t really remember now.’
‘I’ll need to check the file – it might be important. And she could remember nothing about her abduction?’
Clive Mottram looked at Sadler with keen eyes. ‘We’re on your territory now, Francis. I remember the papers saying that she had been chloroformed, or something similar. She could remember getting into a car with a female driver, with Sophie, and the next thing she remembered was being in Truscott Woods. And no Sophie.’
Chapter 11
The house now felt pleasantly warm.
Rachel sat cross-legged on the floor with her back to the hot radiator and looked at her notebook. The writing had become slightly blurred after the sleet of the afternoon and the pages had small ridges in them from the damp. She had files of all the material anyway, in case of accident, and they were sitting in her desk drawer, but she preferred to work from the notebook. There was a reassuring solidity about handwriting, something tangible that computer files couldn’t give her.
She had often returned to these notebooks over the course of her career. She found other people’s family history absorbing but, early on, she’d constructed her own chart, fascinated by the maternal line that was often ignored by traditional history. Her grandmother Nancy had initially been dismissive about her work.
‘What do you want to be getting involved in all that for?’ she’d grumbled, but as Rachel went further and further back into the past, to the farming family in rural Wales, Nancy’s interest had grown and she even asked questions about long-forgotten ancestors.
‘You’re just like my mother,’ she kept repeating. ‘Only interested in the women of the family.’ But when Rachel had questioned her further about this, Nancy refused to say anything else. Suddenly tired, Rachel gently shut the notebook and placed it on top of the radiator so that the pages could dry out completely.
The doorbell of her cottage buzzed and, surprised, Rachel got up to answer it, glancing at the clock. As soon as she opened her door, she realised her mistake. Journalists hadn’t really changed in the last thirty-odd years. The old ones had usually been men and usually very persistent. Now they were both sexes but still with that keen-eyed hunger. This one was a thin-faced woman with a long nose. Immaculately dressed, with a cherry-red trench coat that Rachel coveted immediately.
‘Can I have a word, Ms Jones?’
Rachel went to shut the door and the woman made the mistake of putting her foot out. An old trick. And one the woman must have regretted when she saw the look of fury in Rachel’s eyes. She hurriedly withdrew her suede-clad foot and Rachel slammed the door shut and leaned back against it. Through the closed door she could hear the woman shouting at her. A sum of money was mentioned, more that she had earned last year.
‘Did you know they’re reopening your case? How do you feel about that, Ms Jones?’
Rachel felt her heart pause. Had she heard that correctly? Shaking, she walked over to the phone and pulled out the card Superintendent Llewellyn had given to her yesterday outside the hotel. With trembling hands she dialled the number.
‘Llewellyn here.’ She remembered the younger him now. When he had spoken to her on the steps of the Wilton Hotel, her shock at the news of Mrs Jenkins’s death hadn’t stopped her noticing his familiarity with her but she had been too stunned to comment on it. Now she could marry up the name on the card with her memory of the young policeman in the interview room with his shock of ginger hair carefully brushed to one side. He had been kind, she remembered that. And now he was a superintendent, high up in the echelons of the police force.
‘It’s Rachel. Rachel Jones. They’re here already.’
‘Who? Who’s there?’ The voice was sharp, concerned.
‘The press. A journalist’s just knocked on my door. Trying to get in.’ She sounded calm to her own ears and it cost her an effort.
There was a sigh down the line. ‘I’m sorry, Rachel. It doesn’t take them long to pick up on a story.’
‘But they said that you’re reopening the case. Is that true? Are you?’
There was a silence down the line. ‘I’m getting a team together to look over the case again. It’s been a while since there was a review. Look, Rachel . . .’
‘But I don’t want it reopened. I don’t want people looking at me all over again. I—’
‘It’s time the case was looked at again, especially in the light of Yvonne Jenkins’s death. It’s important to do these things, however painful. I’m sorry.’
He sounded firm but also genuinely sorry.
‘Will they want to speak to me?’
‘They’re going to have to, Rachel. I can send—’
‘I don’t want a policewoman. I’d prefer a man.’
Again, silence.
‘And what should I do about all those journalists outside the door?’
‘Draw all the curtains and put lights on in a couple of rooms so they can’t work out where you are in the house. Don’t answer the telephone or mobile unless you recognise the number. Add my mobile to your contacts so I can get hold of you. And sit tight for tonight. I’ll send a patrol car past your house a few times to check all is OK. And I’ll be back in touch tomorrow morning. And Rachel . . .’
‘Yes?’ She couldn’t conceal the tremor any longer.
‘Try and get some sleep.’
Chapter 12
As usual, Connie woke at five and listened to the birds chatter as they anticipated the cheerless dawn. She switched on her bedside lamp and contemplated her newly painted ceiling. The first thing she had done once her probationary period at Bampton had been concluded was to look for another flat to replace the dank bolt hole taken in haste when she arrived in the town from nearby Matlock. Unfortunately, despite the recession, house prices were still high, people attracted to the market town with its views of the Derbyshire Peaks. The landscape was stunning whatever the weather, from the slate grey hues of the wintry hills overhung with heavy black clouds to the verdant green of a summer’s day. It was a landscape to catch your breath and wonder. So to buy anything had been out of reach of her limited budget. However, instead of rushing to find a replacement for her scruffy apartment, she had taken her time over three months and had eventually found this place.
What had surprised her was that it overlooked the town’s canal. In her old flat, she had hated the fact that the stagnant water ran across the bottom of the garden. She refused to venture near it, but it preyed on her mind, its deep still waters rocking unseen at night. She had nearly not viewed her present flat. Once she saw from the agent’s particulars that it overlooked the canal she’d passed it over. But a month later she was on her way to investigate a burglary in the area and had realised that the ‘To Let’ sign was the same apartment she’d rejected. It hadn’t been an auspicious start. The burglary had taken place in the same block, although the owner cheerfully admitted to having left a window open on the ground floor. After taking the man’s statement she’d wandered up the stairs of the old wharf building and been surprised by the charm of the views. Here the canal was open, with a small life force moving the water along. The only possible blot on an otherwise perfect arrangement was that she had heard that Sadler’s cottage lay about five hundred metres along the same stretch of canal. Fortunately, they had different access roads and Connie was yet to stumble across him outside work.
In Sadler, Connie sensed a tacit approval of her attempts to climb the ranks of the force. He had, after all, supported her application to move from uniform into CID, although the interview had been gruelling enough. Perhaps that was the where her instinctive reserve towards her boss came from. When she had sat in front of the interview panel, Sadler had asked her the one question that she had been dreading. ‘Why do you want to become a detective?’ Of course she’d had a few stock answers ready but one look at his cool blue eyes had frozen the platitudes on her lips. So she’d taken a deep breath and gone for it.
‘Derbyshire CID, from what I can see, is full of southern university graduates looking for nice place to bring up their children. I’d like someone whose family has worked in this place for generations to make their mark.’
She later realised her mistake. Sadler, too, was a local, although the hard edge of the north Derbyshire vowels could only just be heard. But he’d given her the job despite, or perhaps because of, her answer. Her problem was that she had never been able to work out which one it was. He was also physically attractive. Not like Palmer’s compact physicality. Sadler was tall and remote. But she’d seen other women at the station looking at him.
She had too much sense to explore what his attractiveness might mean to her, relationships between colleagues were generally discouraged, but, within her, she was drawn to his distant energy.
She’d been warned by Llewellyn not to look at any press coverage of the old case. And if that’s what they had been instructed to do then Sadler would be watching his team to ensure that they bided by the rules. Which was all very well if you’d worked on the investigation first time round but how exactly was she to find out any information? Sadler had scheduled a meeting for that morning but she could hardly turn up and expect to sit and not speak. She bet that at this very moment Palmer was also awake and brushing up on the case, despite his impending nuptials, and she had no intention of being left behind.
She sent him a text. Are you awake?
The phone beeped a reply. Sod off Connie. It’s 5 a.m.
Still in bed, she opened up her laptop and started to search under the names of Yvonne and Sophie Jenkins. It was pointless. She had 257,389 results, most of which when she clicked on them were the same reports rehashed in different ways. She opened a few of the links, skim read the contents and then shut them down again. She tried next the name of Rachel Jones and Bampton. Same result, although the first hit was the website for a Rachel Jones, a family historian based in Bampton. It probably wasn’t the same person. Jones was a common surname, although it couldn’t be helpful having a name like that with this case going on.
Connie opened up the site and clicked the ‘About’ tab. There was a photo at the top of the page showing an attractive plump woman in her early forties with a short brown bob that she had tucked behind her ears. She was smiling at the camera and holding a cup of tea in her hands. The tea was presumably to reassure potential customers. She was easily identifiable as an updated version of the schoolgirl whose picture had dominated the news in 1978.