"Is there anything you can give us to help maybe speed up the process of finding Oliver?" Olivia's question took her by surprise, and Harriet froze, fingers wrapped around the handle of the milk carton.
"What do you mean?"
"Isn't there something you can tell Drew that will crack this thing wide open? Anything at all?"
Straightening up, Harriet placed the milk on the counter before she shook her head. "There's really nothing I can say. Until we have more information, I have nothing to go on."
"But the fact that our guy has taken a child, that must mean something, right?"
Sighing, Harriet tucked a non-existent curl behind her ear. This was the problem when it came to mixing what she did with policing. Hollywood had a lot to answer for. At least in the movies, or on the tv there was always an easy answer, a quick fix that led them to the perpetrator. The same could not be said when it came to reality. Quick fixes, and easy answers played no part in the job they did. But it seemed that wouldn't stop people from wishing it were true.
"It means exactly what you think it means," Harriet said. "There is a predator out there who had the capability to snatch a child in broad-daylight without anybody noticing."
Olivia stared at her with an eager expression, as though she were waiting for Harriet to bestow some kind of life-changing wisdom. It made Harriet uncomfortable, and she regretted following the DC into the kitchen.
"So that must mean that we're dealing with somebody particularly smart and organised?"
"Possibly," Harriet said. "You cannot rule out the possibility that there was luck involved, and opportunity. Oliver took the shortcut into the forest. For all we know the person who took him, would have snatched just any child who happened to stumble across their path."
Olivia's expression fell, and Harriet knew she'd disappointed the young detective. "You think this a wild-goose chase, don't you?" Olivia lifted the milk carton, and topped up both cups with a generous amount, before she slid Harriet's mug towards her. The milk swirled outwards, lightening the almost black depths to a rich tan colour.
"I wouldn't say that," Harriet said carefully. "Unfortunately, it's one of those situations where I need more information to be of any real assistance."
"So you don't think it's strange that twenty years ago three kids went missing in the same place?"
"What?" Harriet snapped her attention up from the cup in front of her. "Nobody said anything to me about others going missing in the same area."
Olivia nodded before she took a large mouthful of tea. "Yeah, twenty years ago, three other children, of a similar age to Oliver Poole disappeared in the woods near Darkby. Drew had me look into it because of the body they found in the woods over the weekend."
"Can I see the files?"
Olivia nodded. "I don't see why not. They're three cold-cases now. It was a terrible blow to the village when they couldn't find the kids. And now with Oliver going missing, I think it's only a matter of time before the press latch onto the history of the place and spin it up into some Bermuda-style-triangle thing for kids."
Harriet nodded absent-mindedly, her thoughts already awash with the possibilities. It was too much of a coincidence, and she'd always found that coincidence had a terrible habit of stretching the limits of credibility. No, there had to be a connection, and perhaps if she could figure it out then they would stand a chance of getting Oliver Poole home.
"You're not listening to me anymore, are you?" Olivia asked. Her question brought Harriet up short, and she glanced over at the other woman.
"Of course, I am." Heat climbed into her cheeks, as guilt twisted her stomach.
Not that she needed to have bothered with the emotion. Olivia it seemed was either made of sterner stuff, or she was all too used to those around her following their own thoughts down more interesting rabbit-holes. She grinned and shook her head before indicating the now tepid tea Harriet had set down on the counter earlier. "Come on, I'll get you set up with the files I've managed to dig out so far."
Happily Harriet followed Olivia back into the office. It was then she noticed the space across the hall was occupied. "I didn't know you had more officers seconded to the task force?"
Olivia shook her head. "Nope. Those are the analysts, and forensic digital experts sent over by the NCA." Harriet pulled a face, and Olivia smiled. "The National Crime Agency. I've got a feeling they're here to assess performance."
"Why would it matter to them?"
"Because they're always looking for the best and brightest to join their team."
"But aren't we all working for the same goal?"
Olivia shrugged. "You'd think so, but I sometimes wonder if anybody has told them that." She indicated the others in the room across the hall. "Well, here you go." Olivia slapped the top of a large box that took up most of the space on her desk. As her hand connected with the lid, it caused a plume of dust to rise off the cardboard surface.
"Is this everything?" Harriet asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. She'd grown accustomed to large files and reports that filled numerous boxes for even the most straight-forward of cases.
"God, no," Olivia said. "This is just what I managed to gather as a brief overview of the facts. The rest of the files, and exhibits are still over in the storage facility. If I tried to check those out, we wouldn't have any room to run our own investigation."
Harriet smiled sheepishly. "Of course."
"You can take over one of the desks in the corner if you like. Most of us here hot-desk, so we don't have any specific workspace."
Picking up the box, Harriet strained beneath the weight of the files within. If this was just a brief overview of the case from twenty-years ago, then she didn't dare imagine how many more files she would find if she was forced to get them from storage. She carried them over to the desk and set the box down before taking a seat. The hustle and bustle of activity around her faded into the background as she pulled off the lid and took out the first file on top. Flipping it open, Harriet was faced with the pictures of three children. They smiled up at her from the front of the file, two boys, and a girl; their open expressions and trusting eyes sparkling with so much joy it caused her stomach to clench painfully.
Twenty-one years, and they had never come home. It was a bitter agony for any parent. But perhaps, if she was lucky, the Poole's story would have a happier ending and they would see their son returned to them. Setting the images to one side, Harriet positioned their pictures so they were at the edge of her vision; never out of sight. It seemed important that she not lose sight of them as she started to pull other files from the box. As though by keeping them there, and always visible, they would somehow guide her to the truth. It was a fanciful notion, but with another child missing, Harriet was willing to try anything; no matter how much of a long shot it might seem.
Chapter Thirty
Martina settled her shoulders as Ambrose rapped his knuckles against the wood front door. The silence stretched around them and Ambrose scratched at the stubble growing along his chin. "I told her we were calling around," he said, sounding a little bewildered. "Why would she go out?"
"Somebody's here," Martina said, jerking her head in the direction of the car parked in front of the garage. "Engine is still warm."
"How can you tell?"
"You can hear the tick of it cooling down," Martina said. "Maybe I should go around--" She cut off as the front door swung open to reveal a man in his late thirties.
"DS Ambrose Scofield, and this is my colleague DC Nicoll," Ambrose said, a warm smile curling his lips up at the corners. "We spoke to a Marjorie Campbell about an hour ago, is she in?"
"You found him, didn't you?" There was no preamble in the man's question.
"I was hoping maybe we could come in to have a chat?" Ambrose said. "Can I ask your name?"
"Sorry, I'm Greg Campbell, Marjorie is my mother." Martina ducked her gaze and felt her chest constrict. As she stood there and listened to the murmur of her partner
's voice as he spoke to Jack Campbell's brother, she found herself wondering how strong of a resemblance there would have been between the two men had Jack lived.
She followed Ambrose into the house as Greg directed them through to a cosy living room. The floral print couches were worn, but comfortable. The dark green patterned carpet underfoot looked brand new, although Martina had a feeling that it was anything but. There was a matte black wood burner set back into a fireplace in the corner of the room. The orange glow of the flames inside cast odd shadows across the floor. Martina's gaze trailed over to the woman who sat next to it. A small bird of a woman, fine-boned and delicate, but the expression on her face was anything but delicate.
Marjorie Campbell met Martina's gaze head on. Her shrewd hazel eyes were like two chips of granite, and Martina dropped her attention to the carpet rather than find herself locked into a battle of wills.
"You found him, didn't you?" Marjorie's unwavering voice belied the woman's more fragile appearance, and Martina's respect for the mother who had lost her son twenty years ago climbed even higher.
"We spoke on the phone," Ambrose began to speak, but Marjorie's gaze withered him where he stood.
"Just tell me, did you find my son, or not?"
"We did," Martina said finally, breaking her silence.
Marjorie's gaze shifted to Martina, the momentary flicker of hope extinguished almost immediately, and Marjorie slumped back into the chair. She shrank in on herself, her small shoulder's rounding over. She exhaled harshly as though Martina had punched her straight into the solar-plexus.
"Mum." Greg pushed past them and rushed to his mother's side, placing his hand on hers.
She pushed him away, turning her hard expression on him. "Don't." That one word carried with it so many years of hurt and anguish, and Greg flinched, withdrawing from his mother.
"Where?" Marjorie's voice was husky with emotion, but there were no tears that Martina could see in her eyes.
"Dalby Forest," Ambrose said.
Marjorie nodded. "He liked to walk the trails there." She spoke as though she was only one in the room. "He loved everything to do with wildlife, always off birdwatching, or looking for fox tracks." She glanced down at her curled hands in her lap. “Who killed my son?”
"What makes you say that?" Ambrose asked.
“My son didn’t just wander off one day and forget to come home. Somebody stopped him from coming back to me, there’s no doubt in my mind.”
“Did he have enemies?” Martina could tell from the tone of Ambrose’s voice that he felt as off kilter by the entire situation as she did.
"Only the ignorant fools who didn't understand him. They thought he was weird, odd. The children used to make fun of him because he liked to go out on the nature walks with the scouts..." She glanced over at Greg, and for a moment Martina was almost certain she caught sight of something bitter in the other woman's expression. "They thought he was unnatural. That he behaved inappropriately for a man of twenty-four." Marjorie turned her attention back to Martina. “How did he die?”
“I’m not sure that’s—” Ambrose started to speak, but Marjorie shook her head.
“I’ve waited twenty years to know what happened to him. I deserve to know the truth.”
“It’s our belief that he was murdered,” Martina said.
“I figured that out for myself,” Marjorie said. “I want to know how.”
Martina shook her head. “My colleague is correct, I—”
“I don’t need your pity,” Marjorie snapped. “I don’t need it, and I certainly never asked for it. I want to know the truth. I let him down all those years ago because I wasn’t with him. I need to know what happened to him. Maybe if I know the truth, I can take some of the pain—some of the fear he must have felt —” Her voice cracked over the words.
“I really don’t—”
“He sustained a serious head injury,” Martina said, cutting her partner off. “According to the post-mortem, it’s the belief of the pathologist that he took a beating. He has broken bones, it would have caused some severe internal injuries.”
Marjorie remained dry-eyed, but there was no denying the tightening around her mouth, and she closed her eyes as she drank down every detail Martina shared with her.
“And would he have known what was happening to him?” Marjorie asked. “Did he call out for me?”
“Mum, please—” Greg said hoarsely, the grief he felt evident in his face.
Martina swallowed hard. “There’s no way to know…” It was a lie of omission, but to her at least it felt necessary.
Marjorie nodded. “He knew. My boy knew what they were doing to him. He would have called out for me.”
"Can you tell us what happened the day he went missing?" Martina asked, edging a little closer.
"Why, so you can lie and pretend I'm just overreacting? You know, they told me he was a grown man, that he was entitled to leave if he wanted to..." She choked off angrily, and lifted her eyes to Martina. "But I was right, wasn't I?"
"You were," Martina said gently. "But we need your help, Mrs Campbell. I want to find the person responsible for your son's murder." Martina glanced over at Ambrose, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Perhaps you could show me where I can make some tea," Ambrose said brusquely. "The wife said the only thing I'm good for is boiling a kettle."
Marjorie kept her attention riveted on her hands in her lap as Greg pushed onto his feet and followed Ambrose from the room. As the door clicked shut, Martina turned her attention to the woman across from her. "Do you mind if I sit?"
"Go ahead," Marjorie said tightly. "I don't know what you expect me to tell you that I didn't already say when he first disappeared."
"Did your son have many friends?"
Marjorie scoffed loudly. "Friends? He thought they were his friends, but they weren't..."
"Who are they? Can you remember their names?"
She nodded. "I wrote it all down," she said, reaching down the side of her chair. "When I spoke to your colleague, I got this out..." She clasped a small notepad in her hand, the edges of which were dog-eared and stained from age and usage. "I knew one day I would need it all, and I was worried I might forget." She glanced over at a framed picture of a young man on the table next to her. "I never wanted to let him down."
"You didn't."
Her smile was a bitter twist of her lips. "I wasn't there when he needed me. He died alone and afraid, and I wasn't there for him. I should have been there to protect him, to hold his hand..." Her voice broke over the last sentence and she dashed the back of her hand over her eyes. "If that's not letting somebody down, DC Nicoll, then I don't know what is."
There was a pit in the bottom of Martina's stomach as she took the proffered notebook from Marjorie. "You said people thought your son was behaving inappropriately," Martina said hesitantly. "What did you mean exactly?"
Marjorie glanced down at her weathered hands. "He was twenty-four, but that was in body only." She drew in a deep breath. "He was born with a severe form of DiGeorge syndrome, which made his life difficult," she said. “He had a cleft-lip and palate that he received surgery for, but not before it damaged his hearing. Those two things alone were enough to single him out as different. But there were complications even before he was born that made his life harder. The umbilical cord prolapsed prior to birth, and he was starved of oxygen resulting in a severe brain injury.” She glanced over at the picture on the table. “He was such a handsome young man, and so bright.” She closed her eyes. “Physically he was twenty-four, but Jack had the mental age of a very young child. He had difficulty tying his shoelaces and writing his name, but people don’t see that. Instead, they saw a grown man wanting to play hide-and-seek with their children. As far as Jack was concerned, he couldn't see the difference between himself and who he thought were his friends...”
"The parents complained?"
Marjorie nodded. "A few months before he went missing there was an alter
cation..." She drew in a shaky breath.
"Would this altercation have been around the same time as the three children who went missing in Dalby Forest?"
Marjorie lifted her gaze. “I told them he would never have hurt those children. They were his friends. But one of the fathers wouldn't listen to reason and demanded to know what he'd done to them. Somebody threw a punch, and Jack wound up losing a tooth. He had to have surgery. I remember how much he cried because he couldn’t understand why I wasn’t taking away the pain. I reported the incident, but nothing came of it.”
"Jack was actually friends with the three children who went missing?" Martina asked, unable to keep the edge of excitement from her voice.
"He was, among others. They had all been part of the same scouts’ troop. The people who ran it allowed Jack to tag along, but after the three disappeared that all stopped."
"They stopped Jack from going?"
Marjorie shook her head. "No, I put a stop to it. I had a chat with one of the scout leaders, Graham I think his name was. It’s all in the notebook anyway. I spoke to him and told him my concerns and we agreed it was better for Jack to stay away."
"You thought someone would go after him when he was with the troop?"
Marjorie's smile was tinged with sadness. "I was partially right. But maybe if I'd let him stay with the group he'd have been safer."
"The day he went missing, where was Jack?"
Marjorie leaned back in her chair. “We'd gone to York earlier in the day, and when we came back, I asked Greg to take him along the forest trail, but Greg came home without him. Said he'd popped into the shop because Jack wanted ice cream.”
"And where was Jack when Greg was in the shop?"
"Greg told me Jack wanted to wait outside, and he thought it was safe."
"How old was Greg?"
“Fifteen…” She closed her eyes. "I don't blame him," she said. “I know that’s what you’re thinking.” She paused and closed her eyes. “I know it’s what he thinks too. But, the truth is, I don't blame him at all. He was young and I put far too much responsibility on his shoulders. No, I don’t hold my son accountable, it’s my fault. I should have been there, and I wasn’t. I let them both down that day.”
Hunting the Silence: The Yorkshire Murders (DI Haskell & Quinn Crime Thriller Series Book 4) Page 18