‘And how did Sam seem?’ asked Mariner, keeping it light.
‘Fine,’ Gaby told him. ‘I think he was quite looking forward to it. I mean, it gets a bit frustrating at times; you know what that stuff can be like to put together—’
‘I do,’ said Mariner with feeling, unconsciously rubbing a finger over the puncture wound in his right thumb. ‘And that’s the last time you saw Sam?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He was going to do the shelves and then go back to his place.’
‘You didn’t think of going with him, staying the night?’ Mariner asked, thinking that’s surely what most young couples would be tempted to do.
‘No.’ A hint of defensiveness crept into her voice. ‘I know it’s not fashionable, but we’re waiting until after we’re married.’
‘And you’re both happy with that arrangement?’ Mariner asked.
‘Of course.’ So firm was her conviction, the question seemed to surprise her. ‘It’s the right thing to do. Anyway, I wasn’t feeling too well.’
‘And that’s the last contact you had with Sam, when you both left Charlie’s?’
‘No, he texted me at about eleven, to say goodnight, like he always does,’ she said.
‘And where was he then?’ asked Mariner.
‘He was just leaving the house to go back to his flat. I reminded him to set the burglar alarm.’
So they couldn’t be sure that he’d got home. ‘Have you checked with anyone else who might have seen Sam after that?’ Mariner asked.
‘Everyone I can think of,’ said Gaby. ‘And nobody has. That’s why I’m worried. I’ve been to his place and he isn’t there and nor is his car. He has to park on the street, but there are several regular spots where he would normally leave it, and it’s not in any of them. And he hasn’t turned up to work, which is really unlike him.’
‘What sort of car does he drive?’ Mariner asked. While they were talking he’d had found a pen, retrieved an old envelope out of the bin and had begun to jot things down.
‘It’s a dark grey Vauxhall Astra Sport. And the number plates are distinctive: SAM 51. I gave them to him for his birthday.’ Mariner wrote it down. ‘And it has a bike rack on top, for when he’s doing competitions.’
‘Competitions?’
‘He does triathlons.’
If Sam was missing, from the last time she’d had contact it was less than seventy-two hours; way too soon to take any kind of official action for a mature, responsible adult. But Mariner had a gut feeling that this one wasn’t about to go away, especially given the link with Charlie. ‘When is it that you’re getting married?’ he asked.
‘The weekend after next.’
Mariner tried to be tactful. ‘Is it possible that Sam might just want some time to himself before the big event?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Gaby.
‘Well, marriage is a big life change,’ Mariner said, thinking that Vicky Jesson would have handled this so much better.
‘Are you suggesting he’s having second thoughts?’ She sounded prickly. Point proven.
‘Not at all,’ Mariner hedged. ‘I was just wondering if perhaps he needed a bit of space.’
‘We don’t live in each other’s pockets,’ Gaby retorted. ‘He goes out with his own friends and so do I. And he has his space, on the weekends when he works away.’ It sounded rehearsed, like ground that had been covered before and Mariner wondered if it was a contentious area. He was about to point out that working away is not quite the same thing, when she continued: ‘Anyway, if there was any problem, he would have talked to his Guiding Light about it, and he hasn’t.’
‘His Guiding Light?’
‘All the young people in church, when they embark on long-term relationships, have a nominated Guiding Light,’ said Gaby. ‘Sam’s is Laurie, one of the elders of the church. If there was anything wrong, he’d be the first person Sam would talk to, but I’ve checked and Laurie hasn’t seen him either.’
Mariner couldn’t help thinking that having all these people watching over him might be the very reason Sam had felt the need to get away. But Gaby was clearly anxious and he felt some responsibility towards her, or at least to Charlie. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’m going to text you my office email address. Send me the contact details of Sam’s workplace, his family and any other friends you think he could get in touch with, and I’ll make a few enquiries. A recent photo would help too. But I’d try not to worry. Getting married is a big thing. It really just may just be that Sam needs a bit of time to himself. You said that your sister-in-law suggested you contact us?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Could you give me a contact number for her now?’
‘Of course.’
It was just before seven, so it didn’t seem unreasonable for Mariner to ring and speak to Fiona Fleetwood straight away. There was a lot to do tomorrow and he wouldn’t have much spare time. Given that Fiona had prompted the call to him, he wanted to check if she knew anything Gaby wasn’t telling him. He preferred to identify himself face-to-face and she agreed immediately that he could come out and talk to her. ‘I just want to know where Sam is, and that he’s safe,’ she said, giving him her address.
Fiona Fleetwood lived in a modest two-up-two-down terraced house in what used to be a fashionable part of Moseley. The interior had a ‘new age’ feel to it, Indian print throws brightening up shabby furniture, and Mariner had to duck his head to avoid the numerous wind chimes and dream catchers dangling from door frames. The underlying hint of sandalwood evoked a powerful memory of his grandparents’ house, where he’d grown up.
In terms of physical attributes there were certain similarities between Fiona and her future sister-in-law: she was well built, with fair hair, but she was taller and less well groomed, her complexion suggesting a harder life. She looked to be in her early forties, so she was older than Sam.
‘Would you like a drink?’ She made tea and Mariner sat on a sofa next to bookshelves to rival Suzy’s, though the titles here all appeared to feature ‘mindfulness’ or ‘karma’.
Fiona dropped on to a giant bean bag and lit up a herbal cigarette. ‘You’re not asthmatic or anything, are you?’
‘No. You suggested Gaby should get in touch with us?’ Mariner said.
‘Yes.’ She plucked a stray tobacco strand from her lip. ‘I had an important meeting with social care this morning, about our mum. I knew that Sam wouldn’t be able to come along, he rarely can because of work, but I was surprised that he didn’t at least call me afterwards to find out how it went. He’s always utterly reliable at remembering stuff like that, and it has implications for both of us too, in terms of how much we’re going to have to pay towards Mum’s care. At the moment she’s in sheltered housing, but she can no longer move around independently and needs more support, so she’ll have to move to a nursing home. I’ve been trying Sam on his mobile all day, but there’s no reply. When I called his office they said he hadn’t turned up for work, yesterday or today. They didn’t seem that worried, but it’s so unlike Sam and I can’t understand where he would be. That’s when I called Gaby.’
‘Sam is a grown man,’ Mariner pointed out.
‘I know, but he’s my baby brother so I have to look out for him, and this is so completely out of character. It’s just— it doesn’t feel right,’ she concluded.
People were reported missing all the time, often too soon, and often by relatives overreacting to a falling out of some kind. But with Fiona Fleetwood, Mariner didn’t get the impression of a hysterical woman. Quite the opposite, in fact. ‘How has Sam seemed lately?’ he asked.
‘I hardly ever see him,’ she said. ‘Not properly, anyway. He’s too busy planning the wedding and his future life; he has to dance to someone else’s tune now.’ Although pointed, the remark appeared to be without rancour. ‘Any conversations we have these days tend to be on the phone, and then it’s only really to discuss Mum. We’ve never been massively close, mainly becaus
e of the age gap, but now I don’t really fit in with his new spiritual life and friends either.’
‘So the church hasn’t always been important to Sam?’ said Mariner.
‘God, no,’ said Fiona. ‘That all started when he met Gaby. But I can’t deny that it’s helped him. Sam has always had a restless streak. Our dad walked out when he was only seven. It was hard for him; old enough to know what was going on, but too young to manage the emotions, so I think Sam suppressed them. He’s got more introspective as he’s got older.’
‘Is he prone to depression at all?’
‘No.’ She was unequivocal. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but Sam’s not like that. It’s more as if he’s been searching for something.’
‘And Christianity fits the bill?’ said Mariner.
‘Seems to – especially when it comes with an attractive and wealthy girlfriend attached.’ Her smile was wry. ‘But Sam wouldn’t be going into marriage lightly. I’m glad for him.’
‘How long have he and Gaby been together?’
‘I suppose it must be about eighteen months or so.’
It didn’t seem that long to Mariner. ‘Do you know how they met?’ he asked.
‘At a club, I think.’
‘So not at the church?’
Fiona laughed. ‘Oh no, that came later.’
‘And you don’t have any idea where Sam might have gone?’ Mariner asked her. ‘Friends he might be staying with, anything like that?’
‘No, and nor did Little Miss Perfect have any ideas.’
Mariner raised an eyebrow.
‘I know. She’s really quite sweet, but you must have seen how much her dad dotes on her. Anything Gaby wants, Gaby gets. Anyway, we both think it’s just odd for Sam to go so completely off the radar, which is why I thought we should do something. When Gaby said she knew a policeman, it seemed the ideal solution.’ She frowned, trying to work it out. ‘How is it you know her?’
‘Oh, I don’t,’ explained Mariner. ‘We just happened to meet at the weekend. The friend she was talking about goes to her church, but he’s away on leave, so I’ve stepped in. Am I to take it that you don’t get on with Gaby?’
‘Let’s just say we don’t have much in common,’ she said. ‘But I’m sure you had already worked that out for yourself. Apart from anything else, I’m an abomination in the eyes of the Lord.’ She caught Mariner’s blank look and said it as the penny dropped. ‘I’m a lesbian.’
‘I’ve asked Gaby to send me contact details for anyone she can think of who might know where Sam is. Perhaps you could do the same? I know there will be some overlap, but hopefully between the two of you I’ll have a comprehensive list.’
On his way out Mariner passed a number of old framed photos displayed on the wall, their colours faded. They featured two children, one pre-adolescent, the other about five or six. In all of them the younger child had a teddy tucked under his arm, including one in which he was comically dressed in an oversized jacket and an old lady’s felt hat, with what looked like a feather boa draped around his neck.
Fiona smiled. ‘Yes, that’s Sam,’ she confirmed, amused by the captured memory. ‘From before Dad left. He was such a little character back then.’
By the time Mariner had driven home again he saw that two lists of names and phone numbers had already appeared in his email inbox.
EIGHT
Vicky Jesson made it in early on Wednesday morning and was feeling virtuous until she got to CID and saw Brown already at his work station, glued to his computer screen. ‘God, you’re keen, aren’t you?’ she said, dumping her bag beside her desk.
‘Nothing wrong with that, is there?’ he said, without looking up.
Jesson walked over. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it,’ she said.
‘Sorry, it’s just …’ He shrugged, but kept his eyes fixed on the screen.
‘Pete Stone’s an arse,’ Jesson told him. ‘We’re not like that up here. Anything new come up?’
‘Not much,’ said Brown. ‘Nothing more from the Fire Investigation team, and I’m still trying to track down any insurance policies the Shahs had. Something interesting with Mustafa Shah’s bank account, though,’ he added. ‘He drew out ten thousand quid in cash, about a—’
He was interrupted by a knock on the door. ‘Anyone home?’ They looked up to see a young Asian woman, walking hesitantly towards them.
‘Millie! Thank God!’ said Jesson. ‘How are you?’ She jumped up and went to meet her returning colleague. ‘How’s Haroon?’
‘He’s great,’ said Millie with a sigh. ‘Outgrowing everything. It’s been tough leaving him, though.’ She forced a smile.
Vicky pulled a sympathetic face. ‘I know, but it will get easier, I promise. I remember it well. But we’re so glad to see you. It’s about time for a cuppa, do you want one?’
‘I’ll get them,’ said Brown, getting up from his desk.
‘Oh, this is our newest recruit,’ said Vicky, making the introductions.
‘And this is it?’ said Millie, looking around the office, where there were just a couple of other support staff and Max, the IT specialist.
‘While Charlie’s away, yes,’ said Vicky.
‘And is the boss about?’ Millie asked. But the noisy welcome must have found its way to Mariner’s office because there he was, coming in to give Millie a hug. A HUG. Vicky had to stop herself from staring. Word had it that back in the day Mariner and Millie had a thing going, and this seemed to add a bit more fuel to the rumour.
‘What about this fire?’ said Millie, keen to get started. ‘You want me to cover family liaison?’ Brown had returned with tea, and she took the mug from him with a nod of thanks.
‘No, there’s something else I need you to look into,’ Mariner said. ‘Come with me.’ And he headed back towards his office, Millie following on. Jesson watched them go.
‘New kid on the block,’ observed Brown.
‘And you can shut up,’ said Jesson.
‘We’re a bit thin on the ground, as you’ll have noticed,’ Mariner said to Millie, when they were seated in his office. ‘And PC Brown, as you’ll soon find out, seems to have relocated from the Keystone Cops, although I have to admit he seems to be doing all right with the collation so far. But something else has come up, as of yesterday evening, that no one else knows about yet; a possible MisPer.’
‘Sounds intriguing,’ said Millie.
He explained Gaby and Fiona’s concerns to her. ‘There may be nothing in it,’ he said. ‘The poor bloke’s probably taking some time out. But given the connection with Charlie, I feel obliged to at least make some initial enquiries, and I know I can rely on you to do a thorough and discreet job on his behalf. I’ve scribbled down some stuff from the conversations I’ve already had with Sam Fleetwood’s sister and fiancée. Between them, they’ve raised the alarm.’ He gathered together the various scraps of paper that littered his desk; printed lists of the contact details and some handwritten notes.
‘Scribbled being the operative,’ Millie said, already casting an eye over the hieroglyphics on the back of what looked like an old utilities envelope. She came to the photo of Sam that Gaby had emailed through. ‘Hm, attractive bloke,’ she said. ‘The original tall, dark and handsome. He could be a model.’ She looked up at Mariner. ‘So this isn’t official,’ she said, understanding at once.
‘It’s informal and low key,’ said Mariner, ‘until we’ve established – if we do – that Sam Fleetwood has gone missing unwillingly. The impressions I had, in the short time I saw them, were that his future wife, Gaby, and her father, are used to getting what they want. His father-in-law is putting pressure on for him to join the family business. What with that and the church, which clearly has a big influence, I could imagine it all getting a bit claustrophobic for Sam. It would also be helpful to find out from friends and acquaintances if there’s any chance that he could have been having second thoughts about this wedding altogether. It seems to me that there are one or two
reasons why he might.’
‘And if I manage to find him?’ Millie asked.
‘Make cautious contact and let him know that family and friends are concerned,’ said Mariner. ‘They just want to know that he is safe and well. And let me know too. If you need someone else on the legwork, you can try twisting Inspector Stone’s arm, but don’t hold your breath.’
Millie got up to go. ‘This fire’s a nasty thing,’ she said. ‘Any idea what caused it?’
Mariner shook his head. ‘Still waiting for Fire Investigation to do their bit. We’ve had some delays, but it’s probably time to check in with them again.’ He lifted his coat from the hook on the wall and they walked out of the office together. ‘Keep me informed, eh?’
It seemed to Mariner that Vicky Jesson was looking forward to the morning briefing at Wellington Road, and he was pretty sure it had nothing to do with him or the fire. The scene had changed subtly since the last time they were here, as Gerry Docherty and his team started to get to grips with the job. Chunks of blackened timber and upholstery, with a hint here and there of the colours they had once been, were starting to appear on the front lawn, seemingly in random fashion, but Mariner knew that each would have been examined, catalogued and carefully placed. This morning he and Jesson were to be allowed in to the exact location for the first time. ‘We’ve a long way to go,’ said Docherty cheerfully. ‘But come and see what progress we’re making.’
Putting on forensic suits this time, along with their hard hats, Mariner and Jesson followed Docherty into the house. This time he stopped at the doorway to their left; the front ground-floor room that looked out on to the street and ran the depth of the house, front to back. They couldn’t go in very far, the pile of charcoaled debris so high that it obscured the windows front and back. Sheets of tarpaulin had been laid across the exposed roof as protection against the weather, so arc lamps provided the only light. ‘The room was chock full of stuff anyway, and then we’ve got to try and differentiate the material that has come in from above,’ said Docherty. From this angle it was impossible to see that there had once been a bedroom up there. The only remnant visible, now that some of the surface debris had been shifted, was the flimsy metal bed frame, tipping over the edge, with the molten lump of mattress stuck to it. The place where Soltan Ahmed had died.
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