‘You can see exactly the same damage to the sole,’ she confirmed. ‘It’s a match!’
Phoenix was peering at the oil stains on the floor. ‘I think we’ve got another match here,’ he said, holding his hand out for the tablet. He checked the tyre print that he’d run through the Treadmate app. ‘Yep, zigzag pattern matches.’ Phoenix straightened up. ‘That’s three important points—the green SUV with a scratch, matching workboots and tyre tread,’ he continued. ‘That seems pretty conclusive.’
‘It’s all circumstantial though,’ said Jazz. ‘Even so, it is pointing to Neil Sinclair as being our guy. It would help if we could find some hard evidence that links him directly to Anika.’
Phoenix noticed a door in the back wall of the garage. ‘We’ve got to get inside the house.’
Jazz could only nod. The thought that Anika could be here filled her with nervous excitement. She tried the handle. ‘It’s locked.’ She looked around the shelves in the garage.
‘Do you reckon we could pick the lock?’ asked Phoenix. ‘Do you know how?’
Jazz rolled her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t be standing here like a dork if I did.’ She picked up a long file with a pointed end. ‘We’ll just have to go old school.’
‘Are you serious?’ said Phoenix. ‘I hope the kidnapper doesn’t come back while we’re doing this,’ he muttered.
‘I hope the kidnapper doesn’t come back—’ Jazz gave a grunt as she pushed the file between the doorjamb and the lock, ‘—at all,’ she said as the doorframe splintered enough to release the lock.
Jazz tugged the internal door open and cautiously they crept inside the house. The first room they encountered was a narrow laundry. They tiptoed through it and came to a kitchen which opened out into a large living area.
‘Let’s just make sure there is no-one else home,’ warned Phoenix. They stood in silence, listening. ‘I think we’re clear.’
A few business letters lay on the counter and Jazz glanced at the one on top addressed to Mr Cornelius Sinclair. ‘Cornelius—Neil for short! That’s why it was listed under C Sinclair.’
‘And Jazz, look at this whiteboard.’
‘There’s a winking face next to it! Just like the emoticons Anonymous left on Anika’s blog.’ Jazz turned to Phoenix. ‘Phoenix, I think this proves that Anonymous is the kidnapper, who is Neil Sinclair! Who could be a murderer too . . . and we’re in his house. Let’s see if we can find Anika quickly so we can get out of here!’
Stealthily, they searched the downstairs level. As they opened each door Jazz’s heart caught in her mouth, hoping to see Anika there but at the same time feeling terrified of what they might find. A thorough search of the rooms downstairs turned up nothing.
A glance out the door to the backyard showed an open expanse of lawn—nowhere to hide a hostage.
‘How about we keep looking for Anika upstairs?’ said Jazz, one hand on the banister.
Phoenix nodded. ‘And for more evidence.’
Step by step, they crept upstairs until they came to the landing, furnished with a comfortable sitting nook. A tall storage cupboard with a sliding door was flanked on each side by bedrooms. Jazz pushed the door of the first room open and cautiously stepped inside.
It was a bedroom, clearly a man’s, because of the shaving gear on the dressing table, and the pair of trousers draped over a chair. The bed had been pulled up roughly but not made well. A framed wedding photo hung on the wall, showing a fit, radiantly happy couple, the man strongly built and with a slightly receding hairline.
‘Do you think that’s Sinclair?’ Phoenix asked. ‘Maybe this is his second wife.’
Jazz looked closer and gasped. ‘The photo’s dated! It’s from the nineties. If that’s Sinclair, it must be him and Linda.’ She grimaced. ‘What kind of sicko keeps a photo of himself and the wife he murdered in his bedroom?’ An answer from her true crime readings came to her almost immediately. ‘Killers often keep trophies!’
They checked the walk-in robe, the ensuite and under the bed, but found no further evidence of Anika.
‘Let’s try the next room,’ whispered Jazz.
The second bedroom also showed signs of habitation. ‘Is someone staying with him?’ pondered Phoenix.
‘This looks like a woman’s bedroom,’ Jazz replied. A dress hung on the back of the door and a pair of high heels poked out from under the bed. ‘A woman with massive feet,’ commented Jazz, looking more closely at the shoes.
They stepped back out into the hall. ‘There’s one more room,’ whispered Phoenix, nodding at the closed door that faced them from the end of the hall. Jazz turned the handle, heart pounding, then opened the door.
Her heart sank. This room was a sparsely furnished home office. There was nowhere for Anika to be hidden. Nevertheless, she scanned the bookshelves.
She stifled a gasp when she spotted a volume bound in red-and-white leather hiding in plain sight among the science textbooks. They may not have found Anika but now they had the evidence they needed—the journal! Jazz pulled it triumphantly from the shelf.
‘Gotcha!’ she said, showing it to Phoenix. ‘Linda Sinclair’s journal is right here in Neil’s house! It was taken from Anika’s bedroom the night she disappeared. This clinches it.’
Phoenix made a triumphant fist. ‘Yes! We’ve got him!’
<12:58>
‘We need to read that final post that was deleted from Anika’s blog.’
Jazz carefully flipped through the handwritten entries of the journal that filled page after page until she found one they hadn’t read. She and Phoenix could scarcely breathe as they took it in.
22 November
I’ve been crying for days now because there is no longer any doubt about it. I’ve been doing research when he’s not here and my symptoms point to the awful truth. Neil is definitely trying to kill me!
I’m getting weaker by the day and can barely get out of bed. Karen says I must go to the police—and I will. I believe he is poisoning me in some way, probably putting it in my food or drinks. But if I don’t eat anything, I’ll get weaker and weaker until I starve. I’m in a terrible predicament. I pretend to eat the food he’s brought me, and eat only what Karen brings me. Thank goodness for my sister, otherwise I’d starve to death or die of poisoning!
And finally, I have the proof I need. I needed evidence. And now I have it. I have hidden it safely in my wooden jewellery box. No-one, not even Karen, knows where I’ve put it.
With her help, I will get to the police, make a statement and hand the evidence over to them. Meanwhile, I mustn’t arouse his suspicions.
If he suspects that I know . . . he might do away with me on the spot! Within a few days, I should have my suspicions confirmed and then I’ll be able to get him charged with attempted murder. I’ll write more tomorrow as I’m feeling very weak today.
Another entry, dated the following day, the handwriting feeble and faint, was very short:
23 November 1994
Something happened. How could I have been so wrong about the man I married . . . ?
LT
Jazz and Phoenix were both quiet for a moment.
‘Linda was poisoned,’ Jazz said, looking at Phoenix, ‘by her husband. Neil Sinclair.’
‘And she had proof,’ nodded Phoenix, ‘hidden inside the jewellery box. Just as we thought. It’s vital for Sinclair to find it because it proves he’s a murderer.’
‘It’s vital to us too. It’s the direct evidence we need to nail this sicko.’ She glanced again at the final entries. ‘There’s a clue too in the way she signed off—LT. That’s what the kidnapper—Sinclair—said is on top of the jewellery box. It must stand for Linda Taylor, her name before she got married.’
‘Hey, what was the date on that newspaper article you found?’ asked Phoenix.
Jazz grabbed her phone and opened up the link. She raised her eyes and gave Phoenix a sombre look. ‘Three days after that entry.’
‘She didn’t survive to write an
y more.’ Phoenix gave a sad shake of his head.
‘I wonder what she meant when she wrote “some-thing happened”,’ pondered Jazz.
‘No idea. Maybe we’ll find out . . . and maybe we won’t.’
The edgy anxiety Jazz had been feeling the whole time they’d been in Sinclair’s house escalated to a full-scale ringing in her ears as she fully realised the gravity of the story they were unravelling. And Anika was caught in the thick of it!
‘This confirms it,’ said Phoenix. ‘Sinclair finds out about the blog and gets very, very worried. Especially when he reads that bit about the hidden evidence. He’s got to get that jewellery box and that journal.’
‘But where is he holding Anika?’
‘I’m going to check out the laptop,’ Phoenix said, moving over to Neil Sinclair’s home office computer and giving the mouse a wiggle.
Brow knitted, Phoenix clicked and tapped between windows and applications. Jazz paced behind him, arms folded across her chest.
‘Just as we thought,’ he said, directing Jazz’s attention to the screen. For a moment, Jazz thought they were back in the Belmonts’ house looking at the CCTV—it was the same grey, grainy style of footage. But this was showing the Belmonts’ house from the outside, clearly from a second-storey window.
‘Deepwater,’ said Jazz.
‘Yep,’ agreed Phoenix. ‘This file is just one in a folder full of surveillance feeds, all from the last few months.’
Jazz looked at the dates on the surveillance files, then checked her notes about the blog on CrimeSeen. ‘The surveillance started just after Anika started blogging. He must have been watching Anika’s house for ages.’ Jazz shivered. ‘Crouching up there in the dark, rotting mansion, waiting to swoop down and snatch Anika.’
Phoenix clicked on some more files on the computer and let out a low whistle. ‘Sinclair really knows what he’s doing.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Jazz.
‘This,’ he said, bringing up a file filled with white lines of code against a dark background. ‘It’s how he took down that last blog post. This is some serious hacking,’ Phoenix added.
‘Are you admiring him?’ said Jazz, incredulously. ‘This guy murdered his wife and has taken my best friend hostage. He’s a—’ Jazz stopped, unable to go on. What had happened to Anika? All through the investigation she had been spurred on by the thought of helping her, saving her, getting her back. But what if . . . she tried to stop herself finishing the thought. What if Anika wasn’t OK?
Phoenix opened up yet another window. ‘What the—’ he gasped as he stepped back from the screen. ‘Jazz,’ he said, in a low voice that made her look up, fearful. ‘You need to see this.’
<12:16>
‘Anika,’ Jazz breathed, tears flooding her eyes. On screen was grainy CCTV footage of Anika, huddled in a tiny room. The recording data running along the bottom of the screen showed this was live surveillance.
‘Where is she?’ cried Jazz. ‘Phoenix, do something!’
Before he could look any further, they heard the sound of a vehicle outside.
Phoenix jumped up and ran to the window. ‘It’s Sinclair! He’s just pulled back into the driveway!’
‘If he goes in through the garage, he’ll see the broken door lock!’ cried Jazz. ‘We’ve got to get out of here—fast!’
Phoenix shook his head as he turned from the window. ‘He won’t see . . . yet. He’s heading for the front door. We have to hide!’
They hurried from the study. After a moment’s hesitation, Phoenix made for the tall cupboard on the landing and slid open the door. Much of the cupboard was taken up with shelves piled neatly with towels and sheets. But there was also an area for hanging coats that provided the possibility of a hiding spot—as long as no-one opened the door! Jazz and Phoenix stepped inside and pulled the door across in front of them. They tried to calm their breathing in the pitch dark as they heard the front door opening and Sinclair walking around downstairs.
‘We can’t get out with him down there,’ Jazz whispered.
‘We might have to wait it out for a while.’
‘What will we do if he opens this cupboard to get a fresh towel or something?’
Phoenix didn’t answer.
Neither of them wanted to imagine how Sinclair would react if he found the two of them holed up in his house.
As they waited, they realised they weren’t going anywhere any time soon. Sinclair made no move towards the stairs or the front door and so there was no way for Jazz and Phoenix to get out of the house undetected. Jazz had a moment to think how weird it was that this was the second time in two days she’d found herself squashed into a cupboard with Phoenix Lyons. They settled in as well as they could for a long, and uncomfortable, wait.
After a while, the space in the cupboard suddenly lit up as Phoenix reached for his phone and started scrolling through computing sites. He looked up at Jazz, face illuminated by his screen, and gave a shrug as if to say, Well, what else are we going to do?
Jazz reached into her pocket for her own phone, and started doing the same. As long as Sinclair stayed downstairs, they were safe enough.
Over the next couple of hours they listened as Sinclair shuffled about, doing the dishes, making a few phone calls. Jazz agonised at the thought of him going in to the laundry to put on some washing and noticing the broken door from the garage. Surely then he’d search the house and find them!
Jazz tried not to think too much of the time ticking away. They’d done so well to gather the fresh evidence in the first 48HOURS that led them to the perpetrator, but now that they’d found their suspect they were helpless to act!
Eventually they heard the noise they’d been dreading. Heavy footsteps came up the stairs, and walked across the landing, heading straight for the linen cupboard! Closer and closer they came. Jazz tried to shrink herself into the cupboard wall; she could feel Phoenix go rigid beside her. The footsteps paused and then continued until they heard a door opening and closing and then silence.
Slowly, they exhaled. ‘He’s gone into his bedroom,’ hissed Phoenix. ‘We have to take our chance.’ He dared to slide the cupboard door open a fraction and looked around, then turned back to signal to Jazz that the coast was clear. The two stepped quietly over to the staircase, grateful for the thick carpet that muffled the sound.
They finally reached the bottom of the stairs and Phoenix pointed to the back door. This is too easy, Jazz was thinking, hurrying after him when . . .
CREEAAAAK!
She stood on a creaking floorboard!
They heard the bedroom door opening upstairs and Sinclair came running down the stairs.
Phoenix reached the sliding doors at the back of the house and slid the heavy door across. ‘Quick! Hurry!’ he hissed.
They hurtled outside, but found themselves on the manicured lawn with nowhere to hide and no escape route. ‘We’ll have to go over the back fence. Come on!’ Phoenix said as he took a running jump at the wooden fence. He hauled himself up, flinging first one leg, then the other over and jumping down to the other side. Jazz did the same, but as she scrambled to get her legs over the top of the fence, the back of her jacket caught on the fence post. She couldn’t move.
‘Hey, you up on the fence! What do you think you’re doing busting into my house? You just wait ’til I catch you!’ Cornelius Sinclair came barrelling out of the house. Some of his muscle had turned to fat, and his hairline was now non-existent rather than receding, but it was definitely the same man that they’d seen in the wedding portrait. Linda Sinclair’s killer, within metres of them!
As Jazz desperately tried to free herself, Phoenix reached back over the fence, yanked at her jacket and dragged her over. He caught her before she fell to the rough surface of the lane. Wordlessly, he took her hand as she scrambled to gain her balance and in seconds they were racing down the lane together.
A swift backward glance showed Sinclair’s head peering over the fence. Jazz could see his p
ale face. But it was also clear that he was not going to be able to climb up and over. This didn’t stop them running as fast as they could.
They ran until they could run no more, Phoenix pulling up, head to his knees, gasping for air. Jazz stopped beside him.
‘That was a close call,’ he panted. Phoenix straightened up, hands on hips, breath starting to come more regularly. He glanced at Jazz, astonished to see a grin splitting her face from ear to ear.
He shook his head. ‘We almost get sprung burgling the house of a known killer, and you look like you’ve just won the lottery. What gives?’
Excitement pulsed through Jazz. ‘We’ve got to get back to the Belmonts’. I know where the jewellery box is!’
<09:00>
There was no answer when they knocked on the Belmonts’ front door. ‘How are we going to get inside?’ Jazz wondered out loud.
‘Just use your key,’ instructed Phoenix.
‘Mmm. I’m not comfortable doing that when they’re not here.’
‘You didn’t mind using it before.’
‘That was different. That was when there was someone in the house.’
‘I don’t get it. You don’t mind walking in when someone is there, but you won’t go in when no-one’s home!’ He shook his head. ‘You don’t make any sense!’
‘It makes perfect sense!’ retorted Jazz, her excitement replaced by anger. ‘Anyone else—anyone normal— would get it.’
They glared at each other.
‘So we’re just going to wait until someone comes home?’ Phoenix said. ‘We are up against the clock, remember. Sinclair said we have to return the jewellery box by midnight.’
‘You’re right,’ she said. Finding Anika was far more important than worrying about getting in trouble from the Belmonts. It might feel odd, but she knew they were doing the right thing. It was like the saying Phoenix had quoted to her—fight with everything you’ve got. That’s what they had to do to uncover the truth. She smirked as she fished out the key to Anika’s house, thinking how unlikely it would have seemed two days ago that she’d be taking Phoenix Lyons’ advice on anything. She had to admit though, they really were working on this as a team, and it obviously mattered to Phoenix that they saw this through.
The Vanishing Page 9