Without a Trace

by Mari Hannah

  She closed her laptop as the waiter placed Hank’s lunch in front of him.

  ‘Call that a ploughman’s?’ he said loudly. ‘If you gave that to a ploughman where I come from, he’d kick your arse.’

  Kate didn’t laugh, though other customers were grinning at the hilarious Geordie sitting next to her. ‘Take no notice,’ she told the embarrassed waiter, pushing her plate towards Hank, pulling his towards her. His humour hadn’t lifted her, nor did it take her focus off Brian Allen.

  They were on the move. Kate made a few calls from the car, crossing hotel names off her shortlist as each one ruled itself out. Having drawn a blank, they had spent a while in nearby towns and villages she thought might attract Jo, calling in to one or two hotels that didn’t exactly match the criteria, two in the medieval market town of Burford on the River Windrush – The Bay Tree and The Lamb.

  No joy.

  The sun came out as they resumed their search, the improvement in the weather failing to lift Kate’s spirits as Hank drove on. She was running out of patience, running out of ideas, painfully aware that he was humouring her, for all the right reasons.

  Putting on her sunglasses, she opened up her laptop, conscious that she might have missed a hotel on her first run-through. Having lost concentration due to Brian’s text, she continued to scroll down on the loaded page. Her interest was taken by only one, the Old Swan and Minster Mill, a quintessential country ‘Wolds’ inn tucked away off a B-road – about fifteen miles from Oxford, a city Jo loved.

  ‘Definitely a contender,’ she said under her breath.

  ‘What is?’ Hank took his foot off the gas.

  She looked at him, a half-smile developing. ‘Ever heard of The Old Swan in Harrogate?’

  ‘No, and we’re not driving to Yorkshire—’

  ‘I’m not asking you to.’

  ‘Good, because we don’t have time.’

  ‘Will you let me finish? The Old Swan is where Agatha Christie was found after she famously went missing, an event that triggered a manhunt in the 1920s.’

  ‘Is there a point to this, or have you completely lost your marbles?’

  ‘There is if you shut up and listen. Jo loves crime fiction. It would tickle her to think that she was doing the same, escaping to a hideaway where she could be alone, be herself.’ She tapped her laptop. ‘There’s a hotel here of a similar name that happens to fit the bill. Their website offers pre-booked tickets to Blenheim Palace.’

  ‘Yeah, along with the other eleven million hotels and B&Bs around here.’

  ‘You’re such a cynic.’ Kate pointed to the front windscreen. ‘Keep driving, we’re on the right road, minutes away.’

  54

  Those few minutes were the longest Kate could ever recall. Brian was in her head. There and then, she decided she’d have to meet with him, for no other reason than to find out what he knew. If she didn’t find him first, he would sure as hell find her, which could blow her cover – and she wasn’t having that. His voice arrived in her head, a flashback from the only time she’d met him: you were following me, when all the time, I was following you.

  Kate’s eyes found the wing mirror, wondering if he was following her now. She was surveillance savvy, but then so was he. To do it effectively required resources, human and vehicular – both of which Brian would have in spades. His personnel would know when to keep their distance, when to hand over to another driver. Every car behind was potentially a tail. She didn’t mention this to Hank.

  There was only one way in to the Old Swan and Minster Mill, not the easiest place to find, a sharp left turn onto a leafy lane that took them back on themselves, down a hill, then right across a bridge, past a cricket pavilion. The hotel was split in two, The Old Swan on the right, The Minster Mill on the left, bathed in autumn sunshine. Spotting a sign for reception, Hank indicated left and turned in, parking directly opposite a path leading to the hotel’s main entrance. For some reason, Kate was more interested in the car that turned the other way. Or maybe it was the pretty houses with thatched roofs that had drawn her eye.

  As they got out of her vehicle, Hank sensed her anxiety. She’d pinned her hopes on a phone call lasting a few seconds and her personal knowledge of Jo. Fair enough, he could handle that. It was good police work, what they did every day of their working lives, albeit to find offenders. Tracking their movements. Visiting old haunts. Gathering insight from the people who knew them best.

  As nervous as she appeared to be, he was feeling it too. He opened the gate, standing aside to let her pass, the blood draining from her face.

  She didn’t look at him.

  Crunch time had arrived.

  Kate was running out of options, running out of time.

  He followed her up the narrow path and into the ancient building. Kate peered into a vaulted sitting room, tapestry-hung, with a minstrels’ gallery above, where guests were enjoying the charm and ambience of the place, chatting over coffee or a glass of wine. She didn’t say anything, just carried on around the corner to the check-in desk.

  The girl behind the counter was busy with other customers, a group of Americans, one of whom wanted a cab to Oxford University where his son was a senior research fellow at Jesus College.

  Hank rolled his eyes at Kate.

  She looked ready to deck the Yank.

  She’d have to get in the queue.

  A few minutes more of his verbal diarrhoea and she’d had enough. ‘You know what to do,’ she told him. ‘I’ll take a look around.’

  Kate walked out into the sunshine. Slipping her sunglasses back on, she turned right through the main gates, the Windrush on her left. On the river bank, a young couple were sharing a bottle of wine, the fast-flowing river in front of them. They paid her no heed as she passed by. Ahead, a block-paved pedestrianised road, fringed with plants, inaccessible to all but service vehicles cutting through the accommodation blocks, old and quaint, on either side. A sign pointing to the spa and fitness rooms.

  Kate followed the path.

  About halfway along, she saw movement and heard laughter. A middle-aged couple were playing croquet on the lawn. A happy scene. Her eyes moved past them to the vista beyond: weeping willows, pretty bridges, a domed summerhouse, the thatched roof of a tennis pavilion and a wild-flower meadow, the sound of water as it bubbled over rocks providing the perfect soundtrack. The place was idyllic, enchanting and tranquil.

  It had Jo’s name written all over it.

  Kate would give anything to spend some serious time here with her. A quick look over her shoulder. No sign of Hank. For a moment, she stood frozen to the spot, unable to go on or back, fearful that he’d been right all along. That she’d been chasing a dream that would end with flowers floating in the Atlantic Ocean above a crash site.

  Kate checked the spa: no Jo.

  She could hardly breathe.

  Get a grip.

  A text came in from Torres: Call me.

  Kate ignored it.

  Setting off again, she crossed one of the bridges, then turned, heading back towards the hotel, expecting to see Hank walking towards her, hopes fading fast. He was nowhere to be seen, proof if it were needed that he’d lucked out and was avoiding her. She sat down under a portico, taking a moment to compose herself. Her heart nearly stopped as a door to one of the riverside rooms opened onto the balcony, a woman, tall and slim, with blonde hair, emerging. In the sunshine, she sat down and opened up her newspaper.

  It wasn’t Jo.

  55

  Hank’s absence was a bad omen. Still no word from him: no call, no text, no comforting arm around her shoulder. Had the news been affirmative – had he found Jo as a registered guest – Kate would have known by now. Maybe he couldn’t face telling her. It didn’t mean that Jo wasn’t in the Cotswolds somewhere – Kate clung onto that slim hope – but time had beaten her.

  The search had finally run its course.

  Deep down, Kate was forced to acknowledge that she may have been wrong all along:
sight of that boarding card had broken her heart, sealing Jo’s fate; only one female passenger hadn’t boarded and her name was Elaine Hayes. Jo hadn’t been in touch – and while that wasn’t unusual, for all the reasons Kate had shared with Hank, the national coverage of the missing plane worried her.

  What could Hank say that he hadn’t already said?

  Even if Jo was found, what had it all been for?

  They were over long before now.

  Alone in the garden, Kate was overcome by exhaustion. She’d played her hand, going against everything she believed in, falling out with everyone along the way, chasing a dream that may never have existed. She only had herself to blame for how she was feeling. The sense of loss was crushing.

  Kate’s life would never be the same without Jo in it. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her face. Out of respect for her and all the victims of 0113, Kate had made a promise she intended to keep. She’d return to the capital to find those responsible if it took the rest of her life to do it.

  If Brian Allen offered help, she’d take it.

  Rules wouldn’t stand in her way.

  Kate would never love Jo more than she did right this minute. Scenes of their time together pushed their way into her thoughts, not the arguments or the secrecy that had blown them apart, but the joy of finding one another, the closeness that neither of them had experienced before. On so many occasions, Kate had imagined finding her, rehearsing what she’d say, how she’d beg for forgiveness – as she had so often – how things would be different from now on. In her head, she’d pictured Jo’s reaction, that unique smile lighting up her face, no need for recriminations, a first kiss as they fell into an embrace.

  Destiny was cruel sometimes.

  A few minutes later, the blonde sitting outside her riverside room put down her newspaper. A smile, not for Kate, but for someone out of her eyeline. Kate stood up to get a better view, then bolted along the river bank, injuring her leg as she leapt over a fire pit on someone’s patio, yelping in pain, ripping open her hand as she fell against a low stone wall. By the time she’d limped to the last room of the accommodation block, the door was shut.

  Kate knocked – no reply.

  She tried the handle.

  It wasn’t locked.

  Hesitating before pushing open the door, Kate arrived in a pleasant room, no sign of its occupant, only the smell of her perfume, gym kit discarded on the bed. Her eyes found the en suite, her ears the sound of a running shower. She held her breath for a second, two, three … the tap was turned off … four seconds, five.

  The sliding door opened.

  Jo’s eyes widened when she caught sight of her uninvited guest.

  She was stunned to find Kate standing there.

  That made two of them.

  An awkward moment when neither woman spoke.

  It was Jo who broke the deadlock. ‘Kate, how on earth did you find me?’

  Hearing her voice, Kate was instantly unglued, as speechless as she was distraught, a confusion of emotions taking her breath away. Deliriously happy on the one hand, confused on the other, an overwhelming mixture of relief and anger competing for space in her head. Unable to meet those pale blue eyes, she flipped out, the speech she’d rehearsed so carefully deserting her, stumbling over the only words she could find, disjointed as they came out …

  ‘I’m a detective. It’s what I do.’ Her practical persona took over. Putting Jo’s sons out of their misery was the only thing that mattered. ‘Ring the kids. Do it … now!’

  ‘What? Why? Are they OK?’

  ‘Depends how you define OK. I take it you’ve not seen the news?’

  ‘No, it’s full of shit—’

  ‘Yeah, it’s your shit it’s full of.’

  Kate picked up the remote, turning on the TV. Although the presenter was talking about a high school shooting in the States – five dead, including the shooter – headlines that had dominated every news channel all week were moving in a continuous stream across the bottom of the screen. Jo was speechless. For a moment there was silence, her eyes fixed to the set. It seemed to take forever for her to process what she was viewing, a moment more to look at Kate, a horrified expression.

  ‘Jesus! I didn’t know, I swear.’

  ‘Save it for Tom and James. They think you’ve perished on that fucking plane.’

  Jo rushed over to the desk by the window. Scooping up her mobile, she turned it on and rang home. There were tears, apologies, a promise that she’d be home tomorrow that Kate found hard to witness. She could only imagine the reaction at the other end.

  Jo hung up. ‘Kate, I’m so sorry. When I changed my plans—’

  ‘I don’t want your fucking excuses. I’ve been out of my mind.’

  ‘You think I haven’t? You know I …’ Jo’s gaze dropped to the floor where Kate was standing. ‘Kate, you’re bleeding.’

  She didn’t know how true that was.

  Kate looked down at the pale carpet, spotted with blood from a deep gash on the palm of her hand. She was so numb she couldn’t even feel it. She raised her head. ‘You are something else, you know that? When I think of the all the times you’ve accused me of being selfish—’

  ‘Don’t yell at me. How was I to know? I’m not a clairvoyant. I tried—’ A sharp rap on the door stopped her mid-flow. She went to answer it, leaving Kate standing there, blood dripping through her fingers.

  Kate was half expecting a pissed-off fellow guest telling them to keep it down.

  Hank pointed at her as he crossed the threshold. ‘You are fucking priceless!’

  ‘And you’re out of order, so keep it shut.’

  Jo stepped towards Kate, arms extended.

  Kate recoiled. ‘Don’t touch me.’

  Hank did all the things she should have done. Kind words. A hug. Jo was limp in his arms. From over her shoulder, he glared at Kate. They’d had their differences, but she’d never seen him this wound up, this grossed out by her behaviour. His disapproval hit its target: you don’t help yourself.

  Kate was too distraught to care what either of them thought of her.

  An incoming text from Torres, this one more impatient than the last:

  I’m waiting.

  ‘We’ve got to go.’ Kate pocketed her phone. ‘We don’t have time for this.’

  ‘Then make time,’ Hank said.

  ‘We’re leaving.’ Kate raised her mobile.

  ‘Not until you apologise.’

  ‘Can’t you stay?’ Jo said.

  Kate gave an unequivocal, ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll pack then. The least you can do is give me a lift home.’

  The subtext wasn’t lost on Kate. ‘We’re not heading north.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’ It wasn’t a lie. ‘We’ve got a job on.’

  ‘You’ve always got a job on.’ Regretting the words as soon as they were out of her mouth, Jo shut her eyes, then opened them again. ‘I’m sorry … Kate, I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  Hank intervened before it got ugly. ‘She’s right, we can’t tell you what it is even if—’

  ‘I can speak for myself,’ Kate said.

  She was back in work mode, with things to tell him she couldn’t say in front of a material witness. Jo was the only passenger booked on 0113 who was alive to tell the tale. She didn’t know it yet, but her evidence could prove crucial in a trial further down the line. ‘Hank will take your statement, then we must leave. You need to tell him everything about your decision not to travel, including how you were escorted landside and how you came to be in possession of someone else’s boarding card. I’ll let him explain.’

  She turned to leave.

  ‘Kate, wait!’ Jo’s eyes were pleading. ‘If I’ve given you grief, I promise it was unintentional. Can you honestly say the same? You didn’t abandon a holiday, you abandoned me. My hands are up. I overreacted, but then so did you. I offered to fly home. You knock
ed me back.’

  ‘She did what?’ Hank gave Kate the side-eye.

  Jo wasn’t finished, not even close. ‘Kate, you’re not the only one with feelings here. Assuming you even have any. Look at you. You’re an empty shell. Is it any wonder I needed some distance between us?’

  ‘You didn’t get far—’

  ‘Because of you! Because if I’d boarded that plane, there was no turning back.’ There was a long, painful pause. Jo held up a hand. ‘Fine, you can’t say I didn’t try. I hope your job makes you happy for the rest of your life, because I sure as hell couldn’t.’

  Kate gave Hank the nod. ‘Make it quick, say your goodbyes and meet me at the car.’

  56

  Kate left through the patio door, tears pricking her eyes. Avoiding the fire pit that almost took her left leg off, she staggered to the car, got in the passenger side, physically and mentally in no fit state to drive. Jo was alive. Alive! That’s all that mattered. Kate didn’t have a clue why she’d reacted that way, why the sight of her had triggered such a vicious outburst, the pent-up emotion flooding out. It had been an exhausting day, the most traumatic of her life. Taking into account what she did for a living, that was going some.

  Every part of her wanted to go back and tell Jo how much she was loved, but Kate couldn’t generate enough energy to get out of the car. She didn’t want to see Jo again until she’d calmed down. Kate believed her explanation. Pity she hadn’t accepted it. Jo loved to be free, hated listening to the news. Who could blame her? Lately, it had all been bad, doing everyone’s head in. The country was becoming desensitised to tragedy, terrorism in particular, the incidences of which were becoming more and more radical. Mass murder was no longer an infrequent occurrence.

  Flight 0113 was the latest atrocity but it wouldn’t be the last. Every other day a bomb went off resulting in horrendous loss of life somewhere in the world. Recently – and with increasing frequency – the target was European cities. It saddened Kate to think that the public viewed such events so dispassionately. After their initial shocked response, their interest in such appalling incidents tended to be short-lived – too painful a burden, in all probability. Post an ‘RIP’ tweet. Move on.