by Edward Figg
Baxter’s phone rang. He answered it and spoke for a few minutes then hung up. Heads turned in his direction. He just shook his head, then got up from his desk, and walked over to the open doorway of Carter’s office.
‘Jill has checked in. She has arranged for a FLO from Dartford to keep the wife informed of any developments. The sister is coming down from London to stay with her.’
Somewhere in the room a phone rang. PC Tanner picked it up, spoke briefly then, putting his hand over the mouth piece called out, ‘Inspector Baxter, sir. It’s for you. Lady won’t give her name.’
Baxter walked over and took the phone.
‘Detective Inspector Baxter speaking.’ There was a brief silence before he said. ‘Ah, yes. No, that’s fine. By all means. So, what did you find?’ He listened while continually making notes, then after a few minutes, said, ‘Great. I owe you one. Remind me to buy you dinner some time. Thanks for that. Give my best to Martin,’ he hung up.
He walked back to where Carter was talking to Marcia Kirby. She was updating the incident board.
‘I’ve just been given some info about Harris’s mental state.’ He thought it best not to reveal the identity of his caller. If it became known where the information had come from, she could lose her job. ‘My friend is well placed in the NHS. I asked her to see what she could find out about Harris. Well. Turns out he has a season ticket to Chartham.’
‘What the hell do you mean by that?’ Kirby asked, turning away from the board and looking perplexed.
‘It’s an expression a lot of people here in Kent use. Chartham was a mental hospital just outside of Canterbury. It’s no longer in operation, closed down in ’93. Anyway, my source has told me that Harris has been in for psychiatric treatment five times since leaving the army.’ He looked at his notes. ‘And I quote: He suffers from Antisocial Personality Disorder, bipolar disorder, delusions, paranoia and breakdowns. He lacks empathy and can easily manipulate people. His type feels absolutely no guilt after breaking social norms. Unquote. It all stemmed from a head wound he’d received while in Afghanistan. He has a bullet fragment pressing on his brain. It was considered too dangerous to remove it. According to my contact, who knows what they’re talking about, Harris is a totally psychotic.
‘Well, so how come he’s still out on the bloody streets then? He should have been locked up ages ago,’ Carter said.
‘According to what I was told, as long as he keeps taking his pills, he’ll remain reasonably stable. One other thing. I did ask this one question, because my friend knows about this psychiatric stuff. I asked, why would he kidnap someone he doesn’t know? What would be the logic behind it? I was told that there might not be a reason or even that there doesn’t have to be one. If he is having one of his episodes, he doesn’t need a reason. My source tells me, insanity means that that you don’t have to justify your actions.’
He raised his eyebrows and looked from Carter to Kirby then back to Carter. ‘If you think about it. It explains why he’s killed those women. He has no reason. He’s just plain mad. He needs to be locked up in a mental home and have the key thrown away. I wonder if he’s run out of his medication? If he has, God knows what he’s capable of doing.’
*******
It was getting late. Only three people were left in the office. Carter was at his desk. He looked out through the glass wall to where Baxter and Kirby stood looking down at something on the table. The others had gone home hours ago. The wind began to get stronger and the first drops of rain, heralding a coming storm, had started to attack the window of his office. Somewhere, off in the night, distant thunder rumbled. Carter rubbed his eyes, yawned and looked at the wall clock. It was getting late. He stood, stretched, yawned again, switched off the light, then, closing the door behind him, walked out of his office.
‘Oi, you two,’ he said. ‘Let’s call it a night. I think it’s time you both got off home. Get off to your missus Ted before she locks you out.’ He looked out of the window into the dark night. ‘Looks like we’re in for a bit of a wet night.’ Again, Thor struck the earth with his hammer. ‘There’s bugger all we can do here tonight. Looks like the bastard’s gone to ground.’ For a brief moment, he wondered where Harris was spending his night and if his kidnapped victim, Richard Austin, was alive or dead. ‘I'm off for a beer before they close. Anyone care to join me?’
‘Sounds good to me,’ said Kirby.
‘Thanks for the offer, but its best I think, if I head off home,’ said Baxter, stifling a yawn.
The trio walked out, switching off the lights behind them.
*******
Many miles away Richard Austin’s head ached as he lay in the dark trying to gather his thoughts. In his befuddled mind, he tried to understand why he was wet. How did he get into the boot of the car in the first place? How long had he been unconscious? Then after a minute or two, things started to came back to him. The stop for petrol. He was free to move his limbs. He rummaged in his pockets for his mobile phone. It was not there. Neither was his wallet. Both had gone. The water in the boot was getting deeper. He could hear running water. Why? What was happening? Then to his horror he realised the car must be in a river and that it was slowly sinking. He panicked, screaming and shouting for help. Nobody came. He desperately kicked out with his feet at the side of the boot and started hammering on the underside of the closed boot lid. He knew he was about to die. He screamed even louder as the water began to creep higher up his trembling body.
*******
Later, after his visit to the Black Bear and a couple of whisky’s at home in his cottage, he felt restless and on edge and unable to settle down. He decided to ring Christine. He went over to the mobile and picked it up. He was about to hit her number but, looking at his watch, decided against it, it was a bad idea. It was eleven thirty. She'd be in bed and asleep by now. Instead, he got through to the communications centre and spoke to the Duty Inspector, asking if there had been any news of the car or Harris. There was still nothing. He told the inspector to call him immediately if something came in. He felt hungry. No wonder. It suddenly dawned on him he had not eaten anything since breakfast. He went into the kitchen and opened the fridge door and took out six eggs. He grabbed a glass bowl from the kitchen cupboard, broke the eggs into it and started to vigorously attack them with a whisk. Next, he took the frying pan from its resting place on the shelf and put it on the stove and poured in the beaten eggs. ‘It’s no gourmet meal but it’s the best I can do at such short notice, he told himself.’ He yawned and added half a tin of diced tomatoes. In few minutes, he walked back into the lounge holding his plate with the tomato omelette on it. He sat down and turned on the telly, then set about devouring the contents of the plate.
A little while later as he sat there nursing his third whisky, he started thinking. ‘Where had Harris gone? With his SAS training, he was capable of just melting into the countryside. He’s trained to live off the land but he can't do that forever. He has to surface eventually and when he does, I’ll be there waiting.’
He drank down his whisky in one gulp, closed his eyes, and leant his head back on the settee, thinking. His thoughts drifted to Austin. He tried to imagine the pain his family must be going through at that moment, not knowing if he were dead or alive. A wife without a husband; children without a father. Carter’s mind slowly closed down and within a few minutes he was fast asleep.
Chapter 16
Wednesday 13th October
When he opened his eyes, daylight was seeping through the open curtains. Outside, birds were chirping. He stood up and stretched, trying to relieve the stiffness in his back and neck.
He shuffled off to the kitchen, boiled some water for coffee and put two slices of bread in the toaster. While waiting for his toast to pop up he thought about calling the communications room. No. It was obvious that there was still no sighting of Harris otherwise they would have called him. The man appeared to have just vanished.
After breakfast, he walked from the
kitchen, vowing to himself he'd do the dishes later. He showered, dressed and put on a clean shirt. He tossed his discarded clothes into the laundry basket. Looking at the overflowing basket he made a mental note to do the laundry, that night, straight after the dishes. He grabbed his keys off of the hall table and headed out to his car.
Like an invading army, a damp mist was slowly marching across the fields. A light drizzle had started to fall. He started the engine and switched on his car radio, tuning it to Radio Kent. The voice from the radio announced the next song. It was Iron Maiden playing 'The Evil that Men do.’
'You don't know how bloody right you are mate,' said Carter, looking at the radio. He set the wipers going and drove off. By the time, he got to the end of the lane all thoughts of the laundry basket and the dishes had long gone. The only thought he was harbouring was for one very special man. His name was George Reginald Harris.
*******
The morning’s briefing was a short affair. Carter took a mouthful of coffee, put down his mug and addressed those seated around the briefing room.
‘As you would all have gathered by now, Harris is still out there. As for the car, it still hasn't been found. There have only been three yellow Ford Fiestas logged overnight.’ He read from the report. ‘The first was a driver under the influence. The second was a local baker on his way to work. The last one was at two this morning. According to this,’ he said, looking at the report and smiling, ‘the driver was found in the back seat with his pants down around his ankles. Says here, that the lady with him was well known to the local plods.’
This brought snorts of laughter and a few bawdy comments.
‘Lucky sod.’ commented Lynch. ‘Wonder what the going rate for nookie is these days?’
‘Who's a lucky sod?’ said Superintendent Janice Watkins, who had quietly entered the room. Nobody noticed her enter.
‘Christ.’ Bill Turner said to Reid. ‘She's got ears like a bat.’
Reid gave Turner’s leg a sharp kick. ‘Belt up, she'll hear you.’
‘Good morning all,’ she said.
They all rose from their chairs.
She looked at Carter. ‘Please carry on.’ Looking over to where Lynch stood, she said, ‘You were saying, DC Lynch. Who has all the luck?’
Leaving Lynch to explain, the others around the room sat down in silence, awaiting his reply.
‘It’s really nothing ma’am,’ he said, blushing. ‘It was... um… just a comment about the raffle winner in the pub I was in last night.’
‘Didn’t realise they actually raffled nookie these days DC Lynch? Must be something new?’ She smiled. Then, directing her gaze towards Bill Turner, said. ‘And for future reference DC Turner.’ She stared intently at him. ‘I do not sleep upside down hanging from a branch, OK? I see I’m going to have to keep an eye on you two.’
‘Yes ma’am, sorry ma’am.’ Turner shrank back into his chair. Lynch stared down at his shoes.
It was only Carter who saw it, but as Janice Watkins left the room, she gave Carter a sly wink and a smile. He gave a slight nod in return. They got the message.
*******
Maisie and Dolly Larkin were two elderly spinster sisters living together in Rose Cottage, Lower Wall Road, West Hythe. They had joined the local ramblers and walking group back in 2001. They enjoyed walking. Maisie, 58 was the bossy one. Her sister Dolly, the forgetful one, was two or three years older. Both were devout Christians. Come rain or shine they attended church every Sunday and could always be relied upon to help with the church bazaar and the local village fête. They were into all things churchy.
Last summer, the pair had set out to tackle the oldest foot path in Britain, the Pennine Way in the North of England. The Pennine Way is often described as the ‘Backbone of England.’ It forms, more-or-less, a continuous range stretching northwards from the Peak District in the north Midlands, around the northern and eastern edges of Lancashire and Greater Manchester, through the Yorkshire Dales past the Cumbrian Fells to the Cheviot Hills on the Anglo-Scottish border. It’s not a hike for the faint-hearted. The complete Pennine chain runs for two hundred and sixty-eight miles. The guide book says it’s at least a three week walk but after Masie got stuck in a bog on the first day they called it quits, booked into a local B&B and returned home to Rose Cottage the following day.
Today’s little walk was to be something entirely different. No bogs and a lot shorter. They had planned it some days before after deciding that they would not do - as first suggested by Dolly - the cliff top walk from Folkestone to Dover. In the end, they agreed the do the walk from home, along the Royal Military Canal to Appledore, stay there for afternoon tea and then return home by bus. It was the better option.
The overnight rain had passed and the new day dawned bright and clear, heralding what promised to be a cloudless, sunny day. At least, that was what the weather man said on the radio earlier. Dolly was busy in the kitchen preparing cucumber and salmon paste sandwiches leaving Maisie to set about filling their flasks with tea and coffee. After doing that, Maisie went in search of the guide book and walk map that they would keep them on the path to righteousness and away from any boggy areas. Since the debacle on the Dales, Maisie vowed never again to let Dolly navigate.
They set out just after nine that morning, armed with stout walking sticks and wearing bright red anoraks. On their feet, they wore their new, imitation, Scarpa Trek GTX walking boots. Both carried rucksacks, slung across their shoulders.
‘Let’s cross the stile here. We can walk across the field, then along the canal bank ‘till we get to the road. We can then cross over the bridge to other side. How does that sound?’ said Maisie.
‘OK’, said her sister, looking over into the field, ‘but keep an eye out where yer walking. Last night’s rain could have made things a bit soft and there’s quite a lot of cow pats around.’
They made it to the canal bank without incident and stopped for a few minutes watching the iridescent blue of the kingfishers flashing and sparkling in the sun as they skimmed the surface of the water looking for small fish. A pair of mute swans drifted serenely by, occasionally dipping their heads below the water, hunting out aquatic vegetation.
After about a mile they came to the road that Maisie had mentioned earlier, clambered over a stile, crossed the bridge to the northern bank and continued their journey along the embankment to Appledore.
It was nearly midday when Maisie pointed, and said, ‘Let’s get to the bend further along, there by the trees. The carpark has seats. We can stop there for a bite to eat. It’s almost lunch time and I’m famished,’ she said.
Dolly raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. ‘Is that the spot where we saw those baby badgers playing by their hole last year?’ she asked.
‘No Dolly,’ she said, tut-tutting and shaking her head. ‘It wasn’t last year it was only a few weeks ago, and how many times do I have to remind you?’ she sighed. ‘They’re not called babies; they’re called cubs and they live in burrows not holes and the burrows are called setts.’
They walked on a bit further then Maisie started up the bank towards the small grove of trees that surrounded the carpark. When she got there, she put her haversack down on the seat beneath one of the trees and started to take out her sandwiches and poured some tea from her flask.
Dolly stood staring intently at a patch of bulrushes a little further along the canal. After a few moments, she turned back and went over to join her sister. She sat down opposite her and opened her lunch box, sorted through its contents and selected the cucumber and paste sandwich.
‘Maisie,’ she said, sounding a little concerned. ‘I know, as you get old and doddery, you start to forget things, like for instance, what you said about the badgers, but you said it was only a few weeks since we were here last, right?’
Maisie, who had a mouthful of sandwich mumbled something and nodded at her.
Dolly stood up and looked towards the rushes again. ‘You told me this morning
that we had to get the car serviced next week. I remembered that.’
Maisie washed down the remains of her sandwich with the tea before answering.
‘Yes, I did. You remembered that. Why ask? What on earth made you think of that?’ said Maisie, with a surprised look on her face.
‘That there,’ she said, pointing. ‘That car. The one in the water. It wasn’t here the last time we came. Was it?
*******
Constable Dipak Khan handed the cup back to Dolly. ‘Thank you for that. That was a nice cup of tea.’
‘I thought you’d like the tea, constable,’ said Dolly, ‘It’s Indian. Would you like a sandwich? Paste and cucumber?’ she asked, holding one out. ‘We have plenty. or maybe you’d prefer a hard-boiled egg instead?’
‘That’s very nice of you Miss Larkin,’ said Khan, ‘but I’d best be getting back over to my colleague and give him a hand. I have all your details here in my notebook but I doubt very much we’ll have to bother you any further. You can carry on with the rest of your walk now, if you wish.’
After Constable Khan had gone, they set about putting their lunch boxes back in their haversacks then sat watching the activity from their vantage point under the trees.
After Maisie had dialled 999 it wasn’t long before the first police car arrived. The pair watched as both constables went down the embankment to the half-submerged car. After a brief look, one came quickly back to the patrol car, while the other spoke on his mobile. Within ten minutes the carpark was a hive of activity. First came an ambulance. That was followed some minutes later by another patrol car, its blue lights flashing. The men that arrived in the third car were not in uniform. The last to arrive on the scene was a large flat-bed recovery vehicle, with a yellow revolving light on the roof of its cab. The vehicle was fitted out with a winch.