by Graham Smith
According to Willow’s parents, she had last been seen by her friends around 12.30 a.m. when they’d parted company when she had gone to get a taxi home. As Willow hadn’t yet been missing for twenty-four hours and wasn’t considered to be a vulnerable person, there was little the police could do officially, but a constable who’d gone to school with Willow had spoken to a few of the taxi drivers and one had recalled arranging to come back for Willow, but by the time he returned from dropping his fare off, she’d vanished.
It was still unknown if Willow had hooked up with someone while waiting for the taxi to return. Her friends had told Willow’s parents she’d chatted to a couple of guys, but hadn’t acted as if she was going to take things further.
So far as Beth could work out, Willow had gone missing around 12.45 a.m., which meant that she’d now been missing for a full eleven hours. That might not seem like a long time, but if Willow had been taken by the Lakeland Ripper, those eleven hours would seem like an eternity to her.
The Lakeland Ripper’s selection of victims had got younger until Felicia Evans and something in her gut had convinced Beth that he hadn’t satisfied his urges with the elderly lady. While only her mother would describe Joanne Armstrong as pretty, Harriet Quantrell was an attractive young woman. However, Willow was better-looking than Harriet, which further fuelled Beth’s conviction that he had taken her to finish the job that had been started with Felicia Evans.
There was always an outside chance that Willow had been abducted by someone else or had taken off of her own accord, but Beth didn’t waste time thinking about either of those scenarios.
Fifty-Nine
Beth took in the area as she walked along the narrow concrete path to the Brown’s front door. Everything was neat and the ages and models of the cars suggested a certain level of affluence. The people who lived in this street wouldn’t be classed as wealthy, but neither would they have to scrimp and save just to survive.
Willow’s father answered the door. He was a short man with a straight back and, while he was obviously worried about his daughter, there was a stoicism to him that boded well should Beth’s fears prove correct. Beth had learned very soon in her career that people who fell apart emotionally were unreliable as witnesses; their recollections were vague, and that rather than give questions proper thought before answering, they blurted something out, rather than face harsh truths that may be uncovered by internal analysis. Mr Brown may not be a witness in the strictest sense of the word, but he was still giving them information and answering their questions.
Mrs Brown was a delicate woman who insisted on making Beth a cuppa. She fussed around, all of a twitter as she plumped a cushion, got a coaster and tossed looks towards the kitchen as she waited for the kettle to boil.
The TV in the corner was showing a cookery programme, but its volume was low and Beth was confident neither of the Browns had paid it any real attention.
When the woman was sitting in a chair, her legs crossed and uncrossed at the ankle as her worry manifested itself as nervous energy, Beth started to put her questions forward.
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked off seventeen minutes as Beth wrung every drop of information she could from Willow’s parents.
Beth hadn’t known Willow had walked out on her husband. For a moment she’d entertained hopes that the missing woman had called him when drunk and had gone back to him, but when she learned why Willow had returned to the family home, she’d given up on the idea.
Another possibility was that the husband had come back for her. That he’d persuaded Willow to get in his car and had taken her back to the marital home. It was unlikely if his tastes lay in another direction. Plus, when Willow sobered up, her mind would change, or she’d at least contact her parents.
Could her husband have kidnapped Willow? she wondered. But according to the parents, he’d not fought for his marriage. He’d been civil and cordial as Willow moved out and the only possession he’d argued over was the springer spaniel curled up by Mr Brown’s feet.
At every mention of Willow’s husband, Mr Brown’s hands had clenched into white-knuckled fists then relaxed only to clench again.
Beth could understand his emotions; he’d have been furious that his daughter had been hurt. The primeval part of his DNA would compel him to seek vengeance for the daughter he’d failed to protect.
Her own father was the same way. Only once in her life had she seen him angry enough to fight. His usual calm and understanding manner eroded away by his desire to punish the men responsible for the broken bottle which had slammed into her cheek. Her mother had interrupted his rant by taking his arm and pulling him alongside the hospital bed until Beth could hold his hand. She’d never forget the words her mother had used to calm him. ‘Beth needs you to be the dad you’ve always been. Be her dad. Leave it to the police to punish the men who did this.’
Beth’s mother had been right about her needing him to be the dependable father she’d always known and loved, although she’d been wrong about the police catching the two fighters.
Mrs Brown brought out a laptop and showed her Willow’s Facebook feed. The information available was only what Willow’s mother could see as a friend, but it showed pictures of Willow laughing and dancing with friends the previous evening. The last update to her Facebook profile happened at 12.15 a.m. – it was a blurry picture of a tray of chips with cracked pavement as a backdrop. The accompanying words simply said ‘Chips. Cheeeese. Gravy. #Delish’. It was a typical social-media update that showed the world she was having a good time.
What grabbed Beth’s interest more than anything was the way Willow was dressed. The canary-yellow dress she wore clung to her body. Its hem was mid-thigh at best and in Beth’s mind, it was a statement that screamed ‘hey everyone, look at me’.
She knew it was a leap, and that she was making assumptions, but Willow’s choice of dress suggested to her that she’d gone out with the intention of being noticed. That was fine by Beth, people could and should wear whatever they liked, however, to some twisted idiots, a dress like Willow’s suggested an invitation the wearer had never sent.
With this thought came the fear that she was wasting her time; that Willow had gone off with an admirer and would turn up in time for work on Monday with a wide smile and a fistful of apologies to her parents.
One of the common ways to trace missing people was to track their mobiles. By triangulating signals from the masts, the phone and its whereabouts could be followed. If Willow had shacked up with someone for the weekend, her phone would reveal her location. Had something more sinister happened to Willow, the phone would either lead them to where she was – provided whomever had taken her hadn’t disposed of it – or because the signal kept working even if the mobile itself was switched off, they’d be able to find the phone itself. If the phone had been smashed or dumped, they’d be able to assess whether Willow’s disappearance was the result of foul play.
Beth got the phone numbers of Willow’s friends from Mrs Brown. She planned to call them while she waited for Willow’s mobile to be traced.
Sixty
O’Dowd was outside Carleton Hall puffing on a cigarette when Beth killed the engine of her car. The DI’s face was thunderous as she inhaled smoke into her lungs one scowl at a time.
‘Tell me you’ve got something worthwhile.’
Beth outlined not just what she’d found, but her suspicions about the Lakeland Ripper having taken Willow as O’Dowd listened without interrupting. When Beth was finished the DI arced her cigarette butt in the general direction of the sand bucket that was the ashtray and pulled out another.
‘That’s all I have, ma’am. Have you got anything new?’
‘Not a bloody thing. Although I did have the pleasure of being reminded what it’s like to be eviscerated by Hilton.’ A pause to rasp the wheel of her lighter and touch its flame to her cigarette. ‘Bloody man has a cheek. First he halves my team and then he expects us to not only cover for them, but a
lso to double our efforts.’
Beth winced in sympathy but kept her mouth shut as it was clear to her that O’Dowd was in a foul mood.
‘To make matters worse, that preening bag of rotten offal, Mannequin, was there. Just when I thought I’d got myself off a hook, he’d point out some procedural point or other and then I’d have even more explaining to do. It’s the first time I’ve known that bugger to be in on a Saturday morning. He’s up to something and I for one would like to know what it is.’
There was no way she was going to say it just now, but the thoughts running around Beth’s head were centred on the idea that the superiors, whose oversights had allowed the Lakeland Ripper to remain undetected for so long, were setting up O’Dowd and the FMIT as the scapegoats for their own failings.
‘Have you had any word on replacements for Thompson and Unthank?’
‘Yes.’ The word came out as a hiss. ‘Due to annual leave and everyone being up to their eyes in it, we’re not getting anyone else until Monday at the soonest.’
‘What, just you and me to investigate four murders? Jesus wept, don’t they want us to catch this killer? Have they forgotten about all the media attention that’s on us?’
‘That’s enough.’ O’Dowd kept her voice low, but there was no mistaking the anger in her tone. ‘Their hands are tied as much as ours are. Whether we like it or not, it’s just the two of us until Monday. If you’ve got any sense about you, you’ll accept what you cannot change and keep your trap shut. Lots of cops want to be on FMIT, and if you’re overheard complaining about what the chief super has or hasn’t done, you may just find yourself being transferred.’
Beth raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Ma’am, you still haven’t commented on what I’ve told you.’
‘What do you want me to say? That you’ve done well? Is that the only reason you came back here tonight, to get a pat on the head?’
‘No. I came back here to report to you. To let you know what I’ve learned, and to see if you can use your experience to find something I’ve missed. Another reason I came back is that I trust you to tell me if I’m barking up the wrong tree so I won’t waste any more time on ideas you don’t think will pan out.’ O’Dowd’s words had cut Beth deep enough that she couldn’t keep the venom from her reply. ‘So which is it, Detective Inspector? Am I on the right track, or do you have another direction you’d like to point me in?’
Beth knew from the twist of O’Dowd’s face that using O’Dowd’s rank the way she had was a mistake, but she couldn’t take it back now. Instead she waited for the swearing that would undoubtedly come her way.
‘Problem, ladies?’ Mannequin’s question made them both jump. ‘You both seem somewhat animated.’
Beth hadn’t heard the man’s approach, but that didn’t surprise her. Rubber-heelers.
‘Why would there be?’ Rather than let O’Dowd blow at him, Beth knew she had to rescue the situation. ‘DI O’Dowd and I often have this kind of frank discussion. Both of us have found that a spot of verbal cut and thrust, where no quarter is either given or expected, stimulates our thought processes.’ Beth tilted her head as she looked at Mannequin. ‘You know what it’s like when five minutes after having an argument you think of the point that would have given you a guaranteed win? Well this is the same thing; we come out here, have a go at each other on the understanding that nothing that’s said is really meant, and we see what shakes loose.’
‘I see.’ Mannequin’s tone was filled with doubt. ‘Well, I shall be most interested in seeing what conclusions your tête-à-tête has brought forward. In future, though, I suggest that you have your, ahem, discussions, in a more respectful way. Should either of you be inclined to register a complaint against the other, I would be available if you’d like to have that conversation.’
As Mannequin strode away, O’Dowd shot an undecipherable look Beth’s way, but when her mouth opened, there was no trace of the earlier anger. ‘Not only are you a liar, but you’re a very convincing one. Should I be worried about you ever lying to me?’
‘Never. And, truth be told, I didn’t lie to him either.’ Beth gave a shrug. ‘Okay, so we don’t plan our arguments, but the principle stands all the same. I had a whinge at you this morning and you slapped me down. I was angry, but the anger got my brain working at ways to out-think you.’
‘Did you think of anything?’
‘You’ve heard it all.’ Beth gave O’Dowd a soft grin as yet another cigarette was pushed in the DI’s mouth. ‘But you still haven’t told me what you think.’
O’Dowd’s arms flapped outwards from her sides like the wings of a penguin. ‘There’s not a lot to say. I think you’re stretching things a bit with the Brown lass, but otherwise, I can’t fault your thinking.’
‘Thanks.’ Beth turned and went towards the back door so she could enter the building.
‘Where you going?’
‘I’ve got reports to write up and there’s no way I’m leaving them until tomorrow.’ Beth set off towards the office, fully intent on spending a few hours with her spreadsheets as soon as she’d got her paperwork up to date. She also planned to chase up the detectives in Bolton and Newcastle who’d been tasked with speaking to Christine Peterson’s and Joanne Armstrong’s families.
It was 9.00 p.m. when Beth pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. Her spreadsheets were up to date and she’d gone over them a dozen times without finding a connection that made sense. She’d also looked for further evidence to back up the nasty suspicions she had about Felicia Evans’s assault and murder.
Willow Brown still hadn’t returned home or made contact with her parents, but at least the teenager who’d been reported missing had been found. Granted the lass had gone back to the family home with her neck covered in love bites and reeking of alcohol, but at least she was safe and sound.
She’d managed to get a hold of the Bolton and Newcastle detectives but neither family had anything to add to their original statements.
Perhaps the morning would produce some better ideas, but she knew that was more a case of wishful thinking than a likely probability.
Sixty-One
As much as he fancied pouring himself a large cognac, Derek Forster reached for the carton of orange juice instead. This had been an interesting week and he still had work to do.
A lot of his duties as mayor might well be ceremonial, but he’d managed to use his position to do a lot of good as well. Whenever a win-win situation came up, he made sure that he took full advantage of it.
His goal was to become an MP, to gain a seat in the most powerful building in the country. With luck on his side, and a favourable electorate, it would happen within the next two years. After that, who knew what chances may come his way? A seat on the cabinet or shadow cabinet depending on which party was in power. Maybe even one of the plum jobs like home or foreign secretary.
So far as the top job went, he had no interest in that. He wanted power, great power, but he knew that he didn’t want the poisoned chalice that was the premiership. That’s why he’d sold SimpleBooker; it had grown too big for him: the next stage of its development would have required a large workforce, a call centre and layers of managers.
He didn’t want to be a CEO; he’d enjoyed being on the ground floor with his team, had loved the challenges associated with creating a programme which meshed with so many other systems, but he’d recognised that running the business was losing its lustre for him the more the company grew. The company he’d sold SimpleBooker to had added all those other things at their main office, and they had promoted Inga to manager so that his old team had some structure.
Forster had found that his time as deputy mayor had given him a taste for politics. More than anything, it gave him a chance to acquire his biggest thrill on a regular basis.
Sex, alcohol or money may be drivers for other people, but for him, the bending of people to his will was the greatest high he could get. Whether he changed their opinions about a poli
tical issue or persuaded them to do something he knew they didn’t want to, nothing came close to the feeling he got when he could manipulate others.
The women he dated were those he had to pursue. The easy conquests held no interest for him. He wanted to earn his reward, to fight for what he wanted. The brazen women who launched themselves forward repulsed him more than they attracted him. When a woman showed indifference to his charms, he found himself besotted by them. They became all he could think about until he bedded them.
Beth was the target of his current project. Even with the scarred cheek she was a beautiful young woman. She was strong, determined and tenacious to the point of being single-minded. Try as he might, he couldn’t get her out of his mind.
As he flicked through his diary, he found an entry that made him smile. He was invited to a party tomorrow evening. Nothing too fancy, just a few drinks and a bite to eat in the garden of a plush hotel in Keswick.
The person throwing the party was an old friend Forster had run the odd welfare project with. He was top-drawer when it came to charitable funds. He was someone Forster had already planned on consulting, but it would make sense if Beth could join them.
Forster’s plan was to get Beth as deeply involved in the charity as he could. Not only would her inner fire benefit the charity, it’d tie her to him. They’d meet on many occasions and he’d be able to worm his way into her affections, and then her bed.
He didn’t believe that she’d want anything long-term or serious with him, but that wasn’t important to Forster: what mattered was that he could get her into bed in the first place. To him that would represent victory. After that, repeat performances would be a bonus, but if there was to be no encore, he’d move on to someone else having already claimed his prize.