Crossed Out

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Seeing Cyril’s frustrated expression, Owen did not finish his explanation.

  “A69 between Haltwhistle and Hexham?” He did not wait for Owen to answer. “Has she been informed?”

  “In the process. I’ve asked that enquiries are made with the immediate neighbours regarding the possibility of a family dog.”

  Cyril nodded. “There’s nothing else to be done here but you can check in on the couple when we get back to Harrogate.” He fumbled in his pocket for his electronic cigarette.

  Owen pulled onto Ripon Market Square close to the Obelisk. He parked near four red telephone boxes and an old, green, wooden cabman’s shelter. Cyril jumped out and crossed to the butcher's, returning after five minutes carrying a paper bag. “Four Appleton’s pork pies, Owen, a reward for our visit. They’re still warm too.”

  The smell permeated the car, a delicious aroma of warm pastry that already had Owen salivating. Cyril placed the paper bag onto the floor by his feet.

  “Well what are we waiting for?” Cyril looked at Owen who was staring at the bag. He sighed. “You are not eating one in the car, we’ll sit on that bench.”

  Owen’s demeanour changed as he leaned into the footwell and grabbed the bag. Within fifteen minutes, there was one pie remaining, secured in the glove box. Owen turned onto the ring road heading for Harrogate.

  5

  The hospital was busy. Owen entered and waited until a space became available at the Reception desk. He showed his ID to the receptionist before mentioning the name Edge. She advised Owen to take a seat and informed him that someone would be with him shortly.

  Within five minutes, a nurse in a dark blue uniform approached and introduced herself.

  “DS Owen?”

  Owen stood and smiled.

  “ We’ll use this meeting room, Sergeant Owen, it’s private.” She lifted the watch attached to her uniform. “I can give you ten minutes, sorry.”

  It was unusual, as Owen only wanted to see and speak to either Mr or Mrs Edge, or if a relative were visiting they would do. He reluctantly followed. The room was typical NHS with the walls decorated with an upper and lower colour separated by a protective, wide, plastic dado rail. Two framed insipid looking prints were screwed to the wall; the light had bleached the colours to almost monochrome. The nurse sat and offered Owen a chair.

  “Mr Edge passed away this morning and Mrs Edge has been sedated; the shock, it must have been so traumatic for them. They could both easily have died in that house. Heart attack, he had clear signs of heart failure.”

  Owen was not surprised after the description of events from the fire officer. “Did either say anything when they were brought in?” Owen leaned forward.

  “According to the notes, Mrs Edge was asking after her husband. It was like a record constantly asking, ‘Is Ted here?’ Clearly she was severely troubled with Alzheimer’s and to be honest he was little different. All he would say was, ‘Ben, where’s Ben, Ben’s gone…’ He would break down then become angry. The Doctor asked who Ben was, but it was like talking to that television screen.” She pointed to the flat screen television attached to the wall that was silently churning out medical advice.

  “Was he just enquiring or was there more to it?”

  The nurse looked puzzled by the question.

  “Was he just asking or was he agitated, scared, anxious?”

  “He was worried. He was constantly searching the room and asking anyone who came in. His mood changed from being upset to being quite verbally aggressive. He had to be restrained from getting out of bed on occasion but then as he was about to be sedated he had a massive myocardial infarction…”

  “What about Mrs Edge?”

  The nurse shook her head. “You’ll struggle getting anything from her, she just keeps repeating, Is Ted here? Ted, you know, Mr Edge. That’s all she’s said. I’m amazed that they’ve remained in the house considering her physical and their mental condition. We’re accessing her medical records but they are few and far between. Last visited her GP March 1979, I believe, a few weeks after her son was killed in a road accident. Motorbike. Nothing since then and Mr Edge has no record of ever being seen.” Owen made a note to check the accident reports.

  “You mentioned heart failure. Surely he went to be checked with that?”

  “No, detected here when we wired him up. Severe too. His ankles were a right size, water retention, clear outward symptom.”

  “Has the daughter…” Owen glanced at the note he had scribbled on the back of his hand,”Emma Robson been in touch?”

  “Nothing as yet, the only call has been from Jim, the fireman.” She looked at Owen and then lifted her eyes to the roof in self-chastisement. “Sorry, let’s be politically correct, the fire fighter who found them.”

  Owen thanked her and stood. He handed her his card and asked to be kept in touch with any progress. He also asked if she would keep mentioning the name, Ben, to Mrs Edge, in the hope that she might remember something.

  As Owen left the hospital the sound of a siren could be heard somewhere in the distance. He quickly moved to his car. He leaned against it and watched the ambulance come to a standstill, the lights flashing blue. He rubbed his eyes before making a call to Control; he wanted the daughter’s details. He needed clarification on a number of points.

  As a member of the Major Crime Unit, cold case investigation was a small part of her role. DC Shakti Misra busied herself flicking through files she had removed from the two small towers that sat on her desk. It was a routine and orderly search. She occasionally turned to stare at the notes written on a whiteboard that stood on an easel at the far side of the room. She pulled her face, a contortion she had perfected since childhood when something just did not seem right. She tapped the pencil against her teeth before drawing a file from lower down the stack. Call it intuition but she had a feeling there was a key element waiting to be turned in an imaginary lock. Within minutes, her diligence had been rewarded, she heard the click in her head. “Bingo!”

  Brian Smirthwaite walked past the end of her desk quietly whistling some unidentifiable tune. He paused.

  “Cat got the cream, I see by your face, Shak?”

  “I’ve got a lead on Tracy Phillips, I think.” There was a slight waver to her voice and her facial expression suggested that she might be presuming too much. “She’s been missing for eighteen months… Look here and I’ll explain. It'll help clarify my thinking too. Tell me what you make of this piece of information. Is it right or is someone playing silly games?”

  Brian came round the desk and stood behind her.

  Emma Robson nursed the coffee on her lap and stared around the interview suite. She stood and admired the framed picture on the wall and sipped her coffee. The door was ajar and she could hear the conversation interspersed with the occasional sound of laughter. It went quiet and only then did she reflect on the nature of her visit. She thought about her old home and then her mother whom she had just been to visit. The truth was, Emma felt nothing; there was no flutter of emotion but then neither were there any pangs of guilt. All the anger had gone. She had managed to bury the past. Quickly, she looked back at the picture.

  “Mrs Robson?” Ruth followed Owen into the room. He smiled and held out his hand. “DS Owen and this is Ruth Jones, our Family Liaison Officer.”

  They sat informally and Owen opened the conversation by offering their condolences and quickly followed by asking after her mother. It was soon obvious that there was no love lost between them.

  “Sergeant, let’s not tread too softly on this. I’m here at your request and wouldn’t have travelled down here of my own accord. I don’t really know why I went to the hospital this morning, I guess to see if things might have changed.” She raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “How may I help you?”

  Owen outlined the discovery and the belief that the remains might have come from within the house. He was cautious as to what information was divulged.

  “You know nothing of
this family from what you say. First and foremost, I ran away when I was sixteen, pregnant and sixteen.”

  Ruth looked up from her note taking.

  “You know that my parents were into the theatre, amateur stuff, pantomimes and plays initially. My father started directing too and enjoyed the power. He then managed to get more work professionally and things really grew quickly. The actors that you saw on the television started to come to our house. Everything suddenly revolved around plays and actors, in fact we, my brother and I, were co-opted at any opportunity. We both played Jesus in many nativities and then progressed. With the success came money and more fame. There were post-production parties too. They’d open your eyes; let’s say that a number of eyes were turned away from some of the activities, the lovies, these thespians seemed to enjoy just that… love! I remember seeing my mother in bed with two male actors whilst my father would be elsewhere enjoying a similar activity.”

  “How old were you then?” Owen asked.

  “Maybe thirteen.”

  “Your brother?”

  “He, being older, enjoyed entertaining some of the more mature ladies.”

  “You?”

  She paused and looked down. For the first time since the conversation had started, Owen sensed a degree of deep, emotional trauma.

  “If you need a moment…”

  She held up her hand, the open palm facing them, and then slowly raised her head. Owen noticed the tears.

  “I was the Oscar, the prize, an award for the best actor, a reward award. It became expected. I got pregnant as I was approaching my sixteenth birthday. I was seeing a bloke who worked at the local farms. He was doing seasonal work. He seemed kind and gentle and he really didn’t take me for granted. He saw me as Emma, a person in my own right and not an object, and we used to walk by the river. He made me laugh and feel special. He picked flowers from the fields and gave them to me. He cherished me, giving and not taking. Can you believe for the first time I had met someone I thought I could trust? I had never really experienced anything like that before. I remember when I told him my birthday was approaching he brought a lamb for me to hold and he said he would look after it and call it Emma. He brought me a present, a present just for me!”

  Owen paused and let the words sink in, knowing his next question might seem callous. “Was it his baby?”

  Emma shook her head. “No. We never…” More tears appeared and she searched her bag for a tissue. “Sorry! I wanted to but he said no. He knew my age.”

  Owen looked at Ruth who moved and sat next to Emma slipping a reassuring arm around her shoulders.

  “Whose baby was it, Emma?” she asked.

  6

  It had been three days since the Ripon visit and the Borough Engineers had worked tirelessly to secure the building. Netting, scaffolding and wooden buttresses formed a complicated splint that temporarily guaranteed the integrity of the remaining parts of the structure. The full extent of the sinkhole had also been determined and areas deemed susceptible to further subsidence taped off. A select forensic team had been cleared to work, extracting the human remains and potential evidence from the sinkhole.

  Cyril stared at the screen and enlarged the images one after the other. It appeared that the Fire Officer had been correct in his assumption and the remains were human. What was significant was their condition; parts seemed to have been preserved, almost mummified, whilst other areas had decayed to the skeletal frame. The video images had been sent live and Cyril had watched with interest. He listened as the senior officer described the findings, identifying which parts could be immediately and safely extracted. It became clear that further excavation work would need to be done before more of the remains could be brought out. The video ceased. Cyril now focussed on the individual photographs that were being streamed.

  It was one particular image from the many that attracted his attention, an image of a foot. It had been separated from the leg and lay isolated on the masonry. The taut, yellowish, transparent skin allowing the tendons and bones to show through, had the appearance of aged yellow cling film. What appeared most bizarre were the toenails. The vivid red nail varnish seemed totally incongruous yet affirmed the fact that these fragments were once human, were once alive. Cyril felt a faint shiver run down to the nape of his neck. He flicked the next image quickly and stared at the partial skull. Although some dry flesh remained, there was no lower jaw and part of the right side of the left eye socket was missing; the jagged edges suggested some blunt trauma injury either pre or post mortem. He suddenly noticed the hair; it was positioned a short distance from the skull. He read the report attached to the image. He adjusted his glasses and stared at the hair again trying to comprehend what he had just read and to equate it with what he was seeing. His curiosity got the better of him and he typed the word wig into the search engine.

  “Owen!” Cyril called whilst still reading the information on screen.

  Owen trundled to the door, a half-eaten sausage roll between his fingers. Some fine flakes of pastry drifted to the carpet.

  Cyril watched the cascading crumbs and sighed. “Have you seen these?” He pointed at the screen.

  Owen approached the desk, looked briefly at the screen and nodded, his mouth full of sausage meat.

  “What do you make of this one?” Cyril asked eagerly.

  Owen positioned himself behind Cyril who quickly removed a tissue from a box and placed it onto the desk. He then pointed to the remains of the sausage roll in Owen’s hand and then at the tissue as if directing traffic. Owen placed his breakfast as indicated. Cyril lowered his head as he heard Owen rubbing his hands together behind him. He could only imagine the number of minute, greasy crumbs that would now be either in his hair or on his shoulders.

  “You can’t plan for every eventuality, Owen!” he said almost to himself.

  “Sorry?”

  Had Cyril turned his head he would have noticed the faintest smile move across Owen’s lips.

  “Nothing, Owen. Nothing. You were going to say?” He brushed his shoulder with his hand as Owen spoke.

  “Yes! I’ve seen the pictures from Ripon. Amazing how some parts of the body seem well preserved and other bits not. Could they be the remains of two separate people?”

  Cyril turned and looked at his colleague with a raised eyebrow. To be honest, he had not immediately considered that. “A good thought, Owen, a good thought. Have you seen the foot? Gave me the shivers I can tell you. The hair also, but according to the report, it’s a wig.”

  Owen leaned closer to the screen and expanded the image to focus purely on the hair. “Not read the report yet, just seen the pictures.”

  “If you look here,” Cyril indicated, “you can just see the inside, seems like fine netting. I’ve just researched wigs and you wouldn’t believe the complexity. They’re referred to as cranial prostheses and the most expensive wigs are crafted from human hair. Were you aware that wigs constructed using Russian or virgin European hair cost a bloody fortune? There’s all sorts from synthetic to cyber which is made from spun nylon…” Cyril heard Owen stifle a yawn.

  “Not surprised they’re expensive, not too many Russians or European virgins prepared to offer up their locks, I guess!” As he spoke Owen looked down at the top of Cyril’s head as if searching for signs of male pattern baldness before leaning over to pick up the remains of the sausage roll.

  “A moment longer,” Cyril instructed defensively whilst preventing Owen’s hand from retrieving the food. “Contact Forensics and see if we're dealing with one or multiple remains and then see what you can discover about the hair. Find out if it’s possible to trace the wig’s owner from any distinguishing DNA or manufacturer’s marks. Shouldn’t be too difficult. By the way, I was interested to read your interview with Emma Robson, Owen. Who’d have thought that these things were going on there of all places?” Cyril mused with a naïvety that seemed contradictory to his years of experience.

  “Don’t forget the number of military
bases in this area.”

  “She’s definitely sure her father was the man responsible?”

  “She is, but from the conversation we had, it could have been one of many. My money is on the kind boyfriend.” Owen moved to the side of the desk.

  Cyril simply smiled as he had thought the same. “Don’t forget Forensics.”

  Owen leaned and collected the roll. “Not too difficult. I’ll let them know you have full confidence in their abilities, sir.” He left Cyril to scoop up the pastry flakes from his desk into the tissue.

  “What news of the missing dog?” he called after Owen was out of sight, his question falling on deaf ears. He looked at the file on the computer detailing the results of the door-to-door enquiries. As far as the neighbours were concerned Mr and Mrs Edge had not had a dog for a number of years and it had not been called Ben.

  He quickly read through the interview with Emma Robson again. She had refused to look at the photographs brought from the house. He noticed that a number contained famous faces from the past. Cyril paused at one of her brother on his motorcycle taken days before his untimely death.

  Smirthwaite read through Shakti’s notes. Tracy Phillips had last been seen leaving the hotel where she had finished her shift. She had been a room attendant at The Oak Hotel, having been appointed two years previously. Her work record was exemplary. She had always taken two days off midweek and worked weekends apart from on three occasions, one of which was the weekend before her disappearance. As far as her colleagues knew, she lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment off Cold Bath Road. Reading through reports made at the time of her disappearance, it seemed that neighbours rarely saw her and in two it appeared that the descriptions did not come close to matching. However, they did refer to her height. Both said that she was about six foot tall, described the cleanliness of the place and how quiet she was.