Blood Runs Cold_A completely unputdownable mystery and suspense thriller

by Dylan Young

  She took the A4232 off the M4 and headed in towards Llandough and Lavernock Point. Sully was full of three- and four-bedroom detached modern houses and scattered bungalows. Porlock Avenue looked newer than the rest. Red-brick buildings with clay tiled roofs and lots of flowers in baskets and raised beds. The people who lived here had time on their hands, conscious though they might be of it passing too quickly. Woakes met her as she pulled up, and he got into her car. It looked like he’d slept in his suit.

  ‘Is he back yet?’

  ‘Ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Bags still out front?’

  Woakes nodded towards the rest of the street. ‘They must be expecting a collection.’

  ‘What do you make of it?’ Anna asked.

  ‘We’ve rattled his cage, now we start poking.’

  ‘Didn’t you do that yesterday?’

  Woakes let out a derisory laugh. ‘That was just a measly tremor. He’s been collecting newspaper cuttings about missing kids, for Christ’s sake. He’s continuing the fantasy. It stinks. He stinks.’

  Woakes was right. Her antenna was twitching, too, but Woakes’ gung-ho approach bothered her almost as much as seeing those cuttings. ‘He’s done nothing illegal, Dave.’

  ‘Then he’s got nothing to worry about, has he?’

  Woakes opened the car door but Anna put a hand on his arm. ‘We don’t know what this is yet, but we need to be careful. I don’t like scatterguns, Dave.’

  Woakes held both hands up in supplication. ‘Fine. I’ll play nice.’

  He moved to get out again but Anna held him back. ‘Make sure you do. The heavy-handed bad cop routine can wear thin very quickly.’

  Shipwright had taught Anna a lot. He was old school but his theory about how you dealt with persons of interest had no paragraph entitled rubbing them up the wrong way until they bled.

  Anna followed Woakes out and walked to the door of a small 1970s red-brick bungalow. This was not a cottage, as envisioned. No cosy porch. No wild flower garden. Instead, there were white, practical uPVC windows and doors and easy-to-water shrubs in tubs. It looked exactly the sort of place a retired spinster or widow might live with bay trees and chrysanthemums out front. The only incongruity was a newish Audi parked to one side with a surfboard strapped to the roof.

  Woakes rang the bell.

  Hawley answered dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.

  ‘Dr Hawley,’ said Woakes. ‘Just a couple more questions, sir. Mind if we come in?’

  Hawley didn’t move. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Isn’t this where you live?’

  ‘No. I have a place in Bristol. This is my aunt’s…’ The words tailed off as Hawley did the maths. ‘You followed me.’

  ‘All part of the service, sir. Now, can we come in?’

  ‘Why. What do you want to know that I haven’t told you already?’

  Woakes turned slowly towards the three refuse bags. ‘Crows can be a real menace, can’t they? I’ve seen them rip open bags all along a street looking for scraps or shiny things. One of your bags was open earlier this morning. Very interesting collection of cuttings you have, Doc.’

  The colour drained from Hawley’s face. ‘You have no right—’

  ‘No, we don’t. So we could do all this back in Bristol, which would properly mess up your day off. Or you can let us in.’

  Hawley stood aside.

  It wasn’t a large bungalow. Two bedrooms, a kitchen and a living room with an extension out into the garden. Hawley led them to the tiny living room dominated by a wall-mounted TV, an Ikea drawer set, a leather sofa and a small kitchen table and chairs in matching smoked glass. On top of the drawer set, a reed diffuser lent the room the aroma of fresh laundry. A gutted laptop sat on the tabletop, its casing open, electronic components scattered in what looked like a haphazard arrangement. A wire led from a small soldering tool to a main plug below.

  ‘Broken computer?’ Anna said.

  ‘It’s a hobby. I modify, dabble with the mother board, tweak here, add some memory there. Basically bugger up the manufacturer’s warranty, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Delicate work.’

  Hawley shrugged.

  Beyond was the small conservatory with white plastic panels to waist height and glass above showing a view of a postage stamp lawn beyond. In the corner of the lawn stood a sturdy tool shed. Padlocked.

  ‘Nice little bolthole,’ Woakes said.

  ‘I’m probably going to sell it.’

  ‘Yeah. I can see that this would be some old dear’s idea of heaven. Coffee would be nice.’

  Hawley snorted softly. ‘Look, I’m happy to answer any questions but I didn’t ask you here. I don’t intend to make this a social visit.’

  Anna watched him, happy to observe his reactions. He was skittish. Woakes was making him nervous. Was it simply that he didn’t like people crowding him? God knows she understood that. Her own flat was off limits for all but the inner sanctum of her friends and relatives.

  Or are you nervous for another reason altogether, Dr Hawley?

  ‘OK,’ said Woakes. ‘Tell us about the cuttings.’

  ‘Old stuff,’ said Hawley. ‘Stuff I was getting rid of.’

  ‘Nothing to do with the fact that we’re sniffing around, then?’

  ‘I’m having a clear-out. I want to get this place ready for the market.’

  ‘Sure,’ nodded Woakes, his words dripping insincerity all over the beige rug. ‘If you’re throwing it all away, then you won’t mind if we take it?’

  ‘Yes, I would mind. There’s personal stuff there too.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Woakes asked. ‘Never heard of a shredder, Doc?’

  ‘It’s still on my property.’

  ‘But if you intended to abandon it, it isn’t theft,’ Anna said.

  Hawley threw her a glance. He looked disappointed in her. She was surprised at how uncomfortable that made her feel.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ Hawley asked.

  ‘Rosie Dawson,’ Woakes said. He was standing close to Hawley, the taller of the two, a mirthless smile on his lips that had nothing to do with being pleasant. ‘OK, perhaps you didn’t take her. But maybe you helped someone else. You had access to all her details. Maybe you flagged her up as a good fit for some pervert who sent you the photos afterwards.’ Woakes nodded at the table covered with electronic parts. ‘From the look of it, it’s obvious you know computers inside out. And we both know that’s how it works, don’t we, Doc?’

  Colour suddenly returned to Hawley’s face, a dark stain spreading up from his neck, his eyes glassy, like an animal caught in a trap. ‘It’s not what happened,’ he said.

  ‘No? Then why all the cuttings, eh?’ Woakes closed the gap between him and Hawley by half a belligerent step.

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘Of course it’s my business.’

  ‘Dave, enough,’ Anna said.

  Woakes looked at her as if he’d only that instant become aware of her presence. They were in the bungalow at Hawley’s invitation. They needed to be careful.

  ‘You’re right,’ Woakes said, holding up both hands. ‘Sorry. It’s this case. Kids, you know. Gets to me sometimes.’ He sighed. ‘Can I use your loo?’

  Hawley frowned momentarily as the tension deflated. ‘Uh, yeah. In the hall, first left.’

  Woakes left. Anna said, ‘How long had your aunt lived here?’

  ‘Fifteen years. She died eighteen months ago.’

  ‘You’re not in any hurry to sell, then?’

  ‘I thought about doing it up, but then I thought, what for? It’ll sell just as well as it is. Heat-efficient, low maintenance, there’s a market for that.’

  Anna nodded. Though she didn’t feel any of it herself, she sensed the appeal. ‘It’s quiet here.’

  Hawley nodded. ‘But the neighbours are close. Too close.’ He walked into the conservatory and pointed through a window at an identical-looking bungalow 4 metres away over a low fence. ‘
I love the seaside, but if ever I buy something, it’ll be away from the crowds.’

  She understood alright.

  ‘Maybe you could—’ Her words were cut off by a shout from Woakes.

  ‘Oy, oy! Look what I’ve found. Jackpot!’

  Fifteen

  Panic flared in Hawley’s face a second before he turned and bolted back into the living room and into the little hall beyond. Anna followed, wondering what Woakes was up to now.

  Which bit of being careful does he really not understand?

  The door to a neat bathroom stood open showing neutral oat-coloured tiles and a chrome shower unit next to the loo. But where all the other doors off the hall had been closed when she’d entered the property, they were open now, too. The nearest to the bathroom revealed a bedroom with a double bed, wardrobe and dressing table, a few clothes scattered untidily. But the next door along had Woakes framed in the doorway, his hunter’s eyes sparkling. ‘Look what I found,’ he said.

  ‘You shouldn’t be in there.’ Hawley tried to push past him but Woakes put a hand on his chest.

  ‘Sorry, got a bit lost. And I think that the inspector should see this, don’t you?’

  Hawley dropped his eyes and let out a juddering exhalation.

  Anna moved past him into the bedroom. On one wall hung a large framed painting, at least four feet square. On the bed, a similarly sized wooden frame lay flat, it’s string dangling, this one face down. It was what had been stuck on the back of the painting that was of interest. A back covered with photographs and cuttings. She instantly recognised some of the names. They’d all appeared in newspapers and on TV over the last six or more years. All the subject of massive police operations and all, without exception, still missing. At the bottom was a photograph of Blair Smeaton.

  ‘You have been a busy boy,’ Woakes said.

  Hawley protested. ‘I’m interested… I—’

  Woakes rounded on him. ‘Just give us an email list of your special friends, Doc. On your computer maybe? How does it work? Do you meet up with these other nonces in some shithole once they’ve taken the kids? They got a lockup somewhere? A little cellar where you keep them?’

  Something flickered behind Hawley’s eyes. A spark of something, horror or anger or both. He lunged at Woakes, pushing him backwards, driving him towards the bed, both falling, struggling, fists flailing towards each other. Anna moved quickly, grabbing Hawley’s arm, flexing his wrist into a classic gooseneck hold, pulling him up and mashing his face against a wall while Woakes got up and reached for some handcuffs.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Anna asked.

  ‘Restraining this bastard,’ Woakes grinned.

  ‘No, you are not. Get out of this room and cool down. Better still, sit in the car and wait for me.’

  ‘What?’

  Anna glared at him. ‘Do it now, Dave. Don’t make me tell you twice.’

  Woakes glared back, mouth open, ready to object.

  ‘Do it,’ Anna said through gritted teeth. She didn’t know what this was yet, but having Woakes in the room was suddenly a liability. She watched the emotions rage on the sergeant’s face. Anger, distrust, they were all there. Finally, after several seconds too long, he turned and walked away, slamming the front door in his wake.

  ‘I’m going to let you go now,’ Anna said to Hawley.

  She did and stood well back, giving him space to recover his dignity and his breath. He turned, panting, his lips thin and angry. ‘You have no right. No bloody right.’

  ‘I know.’ He was right. If it ever came to it, they’d have all sorts of problems justifying being there because they should not have been searching his property.

  Even though Woakes would probably say that the door was open and the painting already on your bed.

  Hawley glared.

  ‘And I am sorry for what just happened. There’s no excuse.’

  ‘You people.’

  ‘Wait a minute. We’re here investigating a serious crime.’

  ‘It’s not a crime to keep newspaper cuttings, is it?’

  ‘No, but it raises suspicion.’

  Hawley was still trembling from the altercation with Woakes, his face sour and hostile. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ he muttered, jaw clenched.

  ‘OK, I hear that. But it’s obvious you’ve been keeping tabs on things,’ she used her hand to indicate the cuttings, ‘and I would like to know why that is and what you think you’ve found, if anything. In my experience, when it comes to cold cases, the best information still comes from those involved from the outset.’ She was being deliberately reasonable, still unsure of exactly what was happening here.

  Hawley looked out of the window and Anna followed his gaze. Outside the day was shaping up nicely. Overnight rain had given way to blue sky and wispy clouds. A breeze shifted the leaves on a copper beech hedge, making them move up and down as if they were waving.

  Gradually, his breathing steadied and Hawley shook his head. ‘He had no right to go into that room.’

  Anna waited, letting him vent.

  ‘I’ll talk to you. But I won’t talk to him again, is that understood?’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Anna said.

  Hawley walked around the bed to the second painting and removed it. He carried the cumbersome frame out to the living room and fetched the one already on the bed. Anna followed to find he’d placed them neatly next to one another, leaning against the wall.

  Hawley stood for a moment, assessing his handiwork, and then went to the kitchen. ‘Water?’

  ‘Fine,’ Anna said, absently.

  She heard a tap running, but it was white noise as her eyes tried to assimilate what it was that sat propped against the living room wall in a spinster’s bungalow. There were five images in total, three on one board, two on the other, beginning with Rosie and ending with Blair Smeaton. They were reminiscent of the boards Trisha set up for them regularly in Portishead, though much more haphazard in their layout.

  Hawley came back into the room with two glasses.

  ‘Can you talk me through this?’ Anna asked.

  ‘I didn’t want anyone seeing this.’ He gestured towards the boards. ‘That’s why I hide them.’

  ‘Hiding it looks twice as suspicious, you must know that. Why, Dr Hawley?’

  ‘It’s Ben.’

  ‘Alright, Ben, why?’

  Hawley sighed. ‘I suppose I couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, about her… I kept watching the news, reading the papers. Anything to do with missing children. I don’t know if that’s normal, but when you’re caught up in it, trying to understand, you read and research and watch. Sometimes until your blood runs cold. And then, when something else happened, I began to wonder if there might be some sort of link. I tried to look for patterns.’

  Anna sat up. Patterns were most often what solved serial cases. Patterns that the perpetrator sometimes did not know he or she followed. She believed in patterns. But she had seen no evidence from the previous HOLMES searches so far that Rosie Dawson’s abduction had been replicated in any way.

  ‘And?’

  Hawley held both hands up, palms open. ‘Some threads, but…’ He laughed softly. ‘But I don’t know if they mean anything.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that, Ben. Please, tell me.’ She wanted him to keep on talking. If this was genuine, she wanted to know. If it wasn’t, if he was a narcissist documenting his own sick triumphs, thinking he was better than everyone else, the police especially, this was an opportunity to give him as much rope as he needed.

  ‘I’m not a detective. All I can access are press reports and the internet. But when I was being interviewed, they kept on about the fact that I was in a unique position. I knew where Rosie lived. I knew her family. I knew where she went to school, her background. It was all in the notes, in the history the triage nurses took.’ For a moment, Hawley lost himself in the recollection. ‘They kept on and on about how many other little girls I’d invited onto my lap
in the clinic.’ Hawley sighed. ‘It’s why they kept coming back to me. Me knowing all about Rosie.’

  ‘It would be a natural line to take.’

  Hawley nodded. ‘So, what you see on the boards is my attempt at trying to rationalise that. These five cases are all girls of a certain age, between ten and twelve. All missing. Rosie you know about; the others are from all over the country. Manchester, Devon, the Midlands and now Scotland.’

  ‘So, what’s the pattern?’

  Hawley shrugged. ‘I thought a lot about what the police were asking me. There is a lot of information on children in hospital notes. From what I learned from snippets in the press, these five kids all had some kind of illness that meant they’d had recent hospital attendances.’

  Anna frowned. ‘Surely, most kids will have been to hospital for something or other?’

  ‘Not really. GP, yes. Hospital, not so common.’

  ‘What you’re saying is that their illnesses are the link?’

  ‘I know how it sounds and it’s mad because they all have different conditions. Rosie I saw in A and E, Katelyn Prosser had asthma, I think Lily Callaghan might have been diabetic, Jade Hemmings had eczema. There are probably a load of other kids missing without illnesses. It doesn’t make any sense because most of these conditions require different specialist input. Doctors move around, especially when they’re training. But I can’t think of any one doctor who’d work in all these different specialisms in so many different areas of the country. It doesn’t add up. I know that the abductions – where and how they were taken – all have different features, but perhaps that’s deliberate. Perhaps the bloke knows to not have a pattern. I don’t know.’