Chasing Innocence

by Potter, John

  The floor was hard, a carpet over concrete. She reached out with her left hand and found a third wall but only emptiness on her right. Fight the fear. The air was stale like attics and sheds. There was no sound other than her own breathing and the friction of her body against the carpet. Utter dark, utter silence. On all fours she moved blindly into the empty space, fearful for what she might touch as she reached forward. The tips of her fingers landed on something smooth, wood she concluded, cautiously feeling the object in her hands. A small footstool. She put it to one side, reached out again and touched a soft material. A small mattress pushed against the final wall. A very small space. Fight the fear. Her hand glanced off something cold on the floor, knocking it over. It was round, slightly smaller than a football. A curling shape protruded from one end, a bulb. She found the cord, then the switch and pressed it. Light filled the space, timidly at first, a tepid orange glow that grew brighter with each passing second.

  Sarah was in a room she could not stand in. A small rectangle no more than four foot by eight. The carpet was old, a worn rusty colour with dark swirls. She could see no door, but there had to be one. She reined in the panic. The room was walled with wide strips of plywood, including the ceiling. She perched on the edge of the mattress and drew her knees close.

  There were two old shelves of tatty books, a motionless extractor fan in one corner. On the floor beneath the shelves, where she had just lain, was the footstool, ancient and pitted. Tacked on the wall above the mattress were two creased posters of fairies. Sarah shook her head, they were grotesque in this context. She was in a prison designed for a child, a girl child. She looked closer at the wall beside the bed at a random cluster of scratches, the scrubbed traces of stubborn pen marks. She did not dare think now of those who had been here before.

  Thrown into the corner on the mattress was a thick red blanket. Sarah reached over and pulled it towards her, revealing a light blue bag that triggered a memory of the girl outside Boots. She resisted the urge to look inside, instead spreading the red blanket over the mattress. Then she shuffled around the room on her knees, rapping hard with her knuckles across every space of the four walls and then the ceiling. There was no sound that gave any indication of an exit.

  She consoled herself with the knowledge that if she had got in, she must be able to get out. For now she knew all about the room she could know. Now she had to steel herself for what would come, she could not afford to be weak. She had to be in control, be rational and be ready. She would be none of these things if she gave in to fear and panic.

  Sitting back on the mattress Sarah closed her eyes. She firmed her resolve and took two deep breaths. She turned off the light and suppressed every urge to turn it straight back on.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Helen Ferreira shifted the thick wad of folders between her arms and buzzed the intercom. It was early Sunday morning and quiet save for the drip of rainwater from trees and guttering. A shape emerged through the thick glass, wearing a voluminous white shirt. To her surprise it was Boer. Not because he was in, he was always in, just seldom downstairs. The lock clicked and he pulled open the door.

  ‘Helen.’

  ‘I take it you did go home, Fran?’ She stepped inside.

  ‘I did, couldn’t sleep. Can’t get the Sawacki woman out of my head. I came in to chivvy things along, see if we can get a head start.’

  He held out his arms. ‘Give me some of those, just stack them up.’

  Ferreira hesitated.

  ‘Come on now, I’m not a write-off yet.’

  She shifted the files onto his arms and then followed him, passing the post room of wire-framed pigeon holes and the kitchen, sparsely clean. He stopped at the vacant duty desk, stacked her folders onto the desk and perched himself on the edge.

  Ferreira paused. ‘And why precisely are you downstairs covering the duty desk?’

  ‘I asked the sergeant to find me a fresh case file.’

  ‘And why would you want one of those?’

  ‘Because I want something to put all the detail of this case into. Something I can actually hold on to and browse through without battling through bloody screen savers and no end of passwords.’

  She smiled as the sergeant returned, handing Boer the empty file – a thick blue hardback with a wide spine edged in a dull metal. He stacked it on top of the folders and carried them up the stairs.

  The office was a stark contrast to the bustle of the week. The phones sat silent and the chairs were empty, the occasional desk neatly tidied amid the general clutter. A long window cut horizontally along one wall, covered by partially closed blinds. Boer’s dark jacket hung from the back of his chair, as it did most days of the week. It was surrounded by sheets of paper laid on the floor, some piled on his desk, their desks the last two on the right facing each other beneath the window. Ferreira looked at her watch. It was not yet seven thirty. ‘Exactly what time did you get in this morning?’

  ‘Early. A lot of the stuff we requested got printed remotely overnight. I got in and found it all over the floor. I’ve been sorting through it.’

  Ferreira took her folders from Boer and he took his file from the top.

  ‘I take it you got through to the Chief Inspector?’ she asked, moving the folders to the floor beside the radiator and dropping her bag on top.

  ‘Yup, she’s setting up an ‘all ports’ and kicking the media team into action. Depending on what we find today she’ll decide tonight on what kind of media. If this is what it appears, the circus will start tomorrow. She sounded positively upbeat.’

  ‘She’s very photogenic. Was she OK with us on this?’

  ‘Of course.’ Boer looked across at Ferreira, a frown creasing his forehead. ‘Although she made it clear this was her case. We’re to head up the localised investigation while she runs the wider show.’

  Ferreira sighed. ‘Dear Chief Darling. And in your considered opinion what does this appear to be?’

  ‘Abduction of a child by non-parent. Family Liaison are in Northampton with the mother now. She was at a church function with a raft of witnesses yesterday, and the stepfather was in Harrogate surrounded by technicians. The girl’s father was minding the door at Banjo’s until four thirty. He was the one who reported her missing.’

  ‘Did we find out if she had a mobile?’

  Boer nodded. ‘The mother doesn’t allow her to have one, same story with a computer. They only use the stepfather’s laptop and never on their own. We’re trying to get hold of that.’

  ‘And you’re sure the abduction by non-parent is not abduction by Sarah Sawacki?’ she offered.

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Didn’t say that Fran, just putting it out there.’

  ‘Anything is possible, Helen, but I just don’t see it, not with the data we have.’

  Ferreira watched Boer lower himself to the floor, one knee at a time, a hand on the desk for support, his concentration morphing his expression to a grimace. Whenever she asked him to describe the pain, he said it was indescribable. He was also royally proud, so she left him sorting sheets of paper into piles on his desk. She turned on her computer, pulling the keyboard towards her as she waited to log in. ‘I’ll print the rest of these reports, then we can work out where to focus.’

  Ten minutes and the printer was busy spewing paper, Boer clipping pages into his file like a schoolboy intent on a project. She opened a new case file on her computer and pasted in the digital versions of the same documents, her preferred method, neatly ordered alphabetically and cross-referenced by topic, each word indexed. By eight thirty she was almost finished. She left the computer indexing and placed both hands on the desk. ‘Coffee?’

  He looked up. ‘Tea. I’ll go, it must be my turn.’

  ‘Stay there, Fran, I need caffeine in the next ten minutes, not this afternoon.’ Her voice was tender and amused. He smiled and she retrieved her purse, resting her hand briefly on his shoulder as she walked to the double doors.

  Outside the p
avements and roads were slick, the blue sky reflected in varying sized puddles. Yellow tape fluttered in the morning breeze, cordoning off the alley. A constable stood sentry, raising a hand in acknowledgement. Another would be stationed by the car park exit. Often forensics in open places, especially public places, felt futile. Occasionally something was discovered that changed their whole perspective.

  She resisted the urge to take a look and catch up on gossip, carrying on into a narrow café favoured by station staff and taxi drivers for the strong coffee. She ordered two skinny muffins, a large tea for Boer and a large filter coffee for herself. She was passing the train station on her way back when her phone started vibrating. But with a bag dangling from her left hand and a large cup in each, she let it ring. As she neared the bridge it started vibrating again. Someone needed to talk but there was nothing she could do about that, except walk faster.

  Back at her desk she put the cups and muffins to one side and immediately checked her phone. Three missed calls from a mobile she did not recognise. She called the number from her desk phone and to her surprise Adam Sawacki answered. He told her of Sarah’s call the night before, summarising the detail and giving Ferreira the pin number to his home voicemail, pre-empting her request to come over and listen. All she had to do was dial his home number, punch in the code and she could listen to the message.

  She thanked him, dropped the handset into the cradle and clicked on the loudspeaker, checking the number on her notepad as she dialled. The fact Adam was jittery had registered, but she put that down to a sleepless night worrying about his wife. She got Boer’s attention and they waited in silence, listening to the ringing. She imagined Adam at home, tempted to pick up the call anyway, in the hope it was Sarah. When the messaging service announced itself Ferreira keyed the code and readied her pen.

  She played the message over until she had every word, taking the best part of thirty minutes. Finally she accepted the voicemail’s offer of calling the caller, hoping she would be connected to whoever owned the phone Sarah had used. The number was withheld. Boer sat with his elbows on the open casebook throughout, waiting for her to disconnect before he spoke.

  ‘Your thoughts on Sarah Sawacki now?’

  Ferreira considered her answer, placing Boer’s tea and muffin next to the case file. ‘She’s been slipping down my list of suspects since we heard the messages last night. Either that or she needs an Oscar nomination.’

  ‘And some,’ he agreed. ‘She got his name. That’s pretty impressive. Warwick gives us a few geographic possibilities.’

  They both looked across at the UK map. There was one almost floor to ceiling each end of the office, a multi-coloured demographic of Berkshire crime tacked on the side. They checked off Hambury below Oxford, to the left of Reading, tracing the path from Hambury to Delamere horizontally west, then deviating diagonally north east to Warwick. The path created a shape like the bottom of a Z.

  ‘What does it tell you?’ he asked.

  Ferreira leaned back in her chair, pulling the lid from her coffee while studying the map. ‘He seems to have followed a fundamental escape philosophy, run in the wrong direction and then turn and run home.’

  ‘Where does the line end if you keep going?’ He leaned forward and squinted.

  She traced the imaginary line, continuing north and east to the coast. ‘Hull, if he didn’t make any other turns.’ She looked back at Boer. ‘The fact Sarah even followed him to Delamere means he wasn’t paying attention.’

  Boer agreed. ‘His main point of risk was taking the girl in the alley. After that he knows the odds are in his favour and getting better with every minute. If it wasn’t for Sarah we would’ve wasted days combing through the local countryside and dredging that damn canal. Except Sarah walked right under his radar.’

  ‘Or she did,’ said Ferreira, drinking from her coffee. She watched him over the top of the cup.

  He stopped, his mouth open mid-thought. ‘Yes…twelve hours is too long. Her luck ran out.’

  ‘So now we have two victims and are none the wiser.’

  ‘We are wiser, Helen. Simon didn’t take the child to kill her, at least not straight away. And I doubt any man’s first instinct is to kill Sarah Sawacki.’

  ‘Four days?’ she proffered.

  Boer lay his hands flat on the case file. ‘Two at least. We need to get busy. That probably starts with Warwick.’

  Ferreira nodded, looking back at the map. ‘Warwick is fairly central. I can’t see him going south again. He must have thought he was home free. So he either went straight on north east with the furthest equation being Hull. Or … if he turned north west we have Blackpool. Or God knows where else.’

  Boer started flicking through pages in the case file. ‘Let’s see if the partial number plate matches any of those geographic areas. I’ll race you, paper versus computer.’

  She swung around, placing the coffee on her desk. ‘I’m not playing your silly games, Fran, just tell me.’ She picked at her muffin and impatiently tapped a finger against the keyboard, checking the computer’s progress on the index. Less than ten per cent. Boer moved backwards and forwards between pages.

  ‘There are seventeen possibles based on colour and the variables on the number plate. They’re spread across the UK.’ His finger traced across the pages. ‘And none registered to a Simon.’

  ‘Which means the car was stolen or he just bought it.’

  ‘Yes.’ Boer spent several seconds scanning through the list of addresses, then looked up at Ferreira. ‘We need the CCTV from Delamere and the rest of that number pl…’

  A long intrusive tone cut through the conversation. An internal call to his desk phone. He reached over and answered, giving Ferreira a concerned glance as he pulled across a notepad. By the time he replaced the handset he had turned a shade greyer. She waited.

  ‘West Midlands just called in Sarah’s car. The fire brigade were called to a vehicle fire in West Heath at four this morning. Totally burnt out. The plates were missing. They ran the engine’s serial number and got us via the lease hire.’

  ‘Did they find anything inside?’

  ‘A body type anything, no. Forensics are waiting for our lead. I gave them context, they’ll get a proper look this afternoon when the Chief signs it off.’

  ‘We already knew the twelve-hour gap wasn’t going to bring anything good.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  They both fell quiet, processing the extra information.

  ‘You know what?’

  He looked up enquiringly.

  ‘Sarah Sawacki’s car tells us Simon isn’t working alone.’

  He sighed. ‘To be expected. There’s usually some other misguided individual lurking in the background.’

  ‘So where to first, boss?’

  ‘The beginning. Dazzle me, Helen.’

  ‘Right.’ She pulled across her notepad, clicking her pen. She had thought this through while waiting for sleep the night before. ‘Our first port of call has to be opportunity. She had to be targeted.’

  ‘Not a desperate predator and a random child?’

  She shook her head. ‘This was planned and methodical. Someone knew a lot about her.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘A friend of Andrea’s? Possibly of the family. Although judging from Brian Dunstan’s statement the mother can’t know what goes on while Andrea’s here, or she’d never let the girl come back. He’s hardly at home.’

  Boer moved with the intention of retrieving Brian’s statement but his stomach convinced him otherwise. ‘Who took his statement?’

  Ferreira plucked it from the pile and handed it to him. ‘Warren and Natasha. They said he was a mess, aggressive as well.’

  Boer looked through the transcript. ‘I’m not surprised, I’d be too if my daughter was missing.’

  ‘No, a mess like in what he wore, what he was like. We need to talk to him.’

  ‘We do. When did you last drive to Northampton?’

  ‘N
orthampton?’ she said, surprised. ‘Ricky and I went earlier in the year, it took about ninety minutes. You want to talk to the mother first?’

  He nodded. ‘Nobody will know Andrea better, what she’s like and who her friends are. Who else might have known her routine. We find out what the mother knows about Andrea’s visits to Hambury and it’ll give us a better perspective on Brian. The mother gave Andrea her own surname and not Brian’s, you know that?’

  She shook her head, finishing the last mouthful of her muffin before replying. ‘I’ll arrange an interview with Brian’s ex here and get the duty sergeant to chase up the Delamere CCTV, it should be in Reading by now.’

  ‘They’re probably waiting for the Chief to sanction Sunday overtime.’ Boer failed to keep the frustration from his voice.

  Ferreira was used to this when it came to Boer’s relationship with CI Anne Darling. She gave his untouched muffin a predatory look. ‘You going to be OK in a car for three hours? That’s a long time and you’ve already put a day’s shift in.’

  ‘To the cause, Helen. There’ll be less traffic on a Sunday. Should be quicker. I want to check out the stepfather as well. If I sleep in the car, all the better. I certainly wouldn’t at home or here.’

  She stacked loose papers and slid them into a drawer, checking for her keys and phone. ‘We’ll get Brian Dunstan picked up on the way back.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’ He eased into his jacket, completing a similar check for his keys. He clasped the case file under one arm and his tea in his free hand. ‘Would you like my muffin, Helen? I’m afraid I’m not hungry.’

  ‘No, I’m fine Fran, you eat it. You could do with the calories, I couldn’t.’

  ‘Helen, take it, I’m not hungry and you probably didn’t get breakfast.’

  She waited a beat and then took it. ‘Only because I’m following direct orders, you understand.’

  As they walked across the car park a thought suddenly occurred to Boer. ‘Did you have anything planned for today?’

  Ferreira shook her head and smiled. ‘After last night I cancelled everything including church, Tesco’s, ironing and trash TV.’