‘No idea,’ Chris said. He continued to tap the steering wheel and considered the facts regarding Jamie Griffiths. His profile wasn’t glowing. He had a fairly extensive criminal background, including convictions for GBH and perverting the course of justice. He had received a two year prison sentence in 2002, but had served just half that.
‘Whatever it is,’ he told Matthew, ‘you can bet her mother will know. She went to her mother’s the night Jamie was killed because she wanted to avoid another argument right?’
‘And avoid him pissed,’ Matthew added.
‘Exactly. That wouldn’t have been the first time she’d gone to her mother’s to get away from him. Whatever was going on – the drinking, the money problems – she’s bound to have confided in her mother.’
They were now on the A470, making their way back to Pontypridd. The daily traffic jam that had blocked the other carriageway heading into Cardiff earlier that morning had now dispersed and the road was clear. They were passing the turn off for Caerphilly when Chris’ mobile phone started ringing in his pocket. He reached for it, took it and handed it to Matthew.
‘DCI Jones?’
‘No, it’s Matthew Curtis.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Diane Morris said, her voice characteristically flustered. ‘I’ve just had a thought. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before. That Adam I told DCI Jones about – his wife’s a teacher. He told Michael that she works in Park Hill Comprehensive. Her name’s Sarah. She’s an English teacher.’
Matthew thanked her and hung up. He looked at Chris.
‘Time for one more stop off?’
Twenty Seven
It was Friday. Kate couldn’t help the feeling that came over her as she waited outside Superintendent Clayton’s office. It wasn’t arrogance or pride, just the fact that today she might avoid the look of disappointment that had become customary when he faced her.
On Tuesday she thought she’d lost two children: today, she was confident she’d find at least one of them.
She waited outside his office as he took a telephone call. During the drive to work that morning she had been distracted by thoughts of the evening before and had decided to wait until later before allowing herself to think of Neil again. There was too much to think about; too many conflicting feelings that needed her full attention. There was Daniel and Andrew, and the fact that she still hadn’t heard back from him.
In the meantime, she had more pressing matters to deal with and a little girl to find. Stacey Reed came first. Everything else after that would have to wait.
After she’d got back to the flat the previous evening she realised she’d lost her phone. She got the number of the pub from the internet and tried calling from the phone in the flat, but by then the pub had already closed. She’d called by that morning before heading to the station but it was too early and there were no signs of life. It was beyond careless and Kate was annoyed with herself for being so clumsy at a time when her phone meant possible access to potential information about Daniel. She had accessed Andrew Langley’s website again, this time from the internet at home, and called his office number, knowing that no one would be there at that time of night. She left a message explaining that she had misplaced her mobile and asked if he could call her again at the station the following day.
Clayton called Kate into the office and smiled. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘Good,’ she told him honestly. She hadn’t mentioned Andrew Langley to anyone, not even Chris. She didn’t want them to think she’d taken her focus off the Stacey Reed case, and today would prove that she hadn’t.
Besides that, Clayton would only worry about her being led to yet another dead end, with yet another door of disappointment slammed in her face.
He nodded encouragingly. ‘What have you got for me?’
Kate placed a sheet of paper on the desk in front of him. As it happened, the unhelpful manager of the car rental place hadn’t been lying about the history of rentals being deleted from the computer system. What he had failed to inform Kate of, however, was how it easy it was to regain access to them.
‘I watched the CCTV again,’ she told Superintendent Clayton. ‘Somehow, everyone had overlooked a mysterious car that spent a hell of a long time parked on Taff Street the day Stacey Reed went missing. No one got out of it and no one got in. I’ve had the vehicle traced – it belongs to Morgan’s car rental company next to Ponty train station.’
Clayton raised his eyebrows and studied the license number, waiting for more.
‘The car was stationary for almost two hours,’ Kate continued, trying to suppress the excitement in her voice, ‘before moving into one of the side lanes at twenty to five, ten minutes after the last reported sighting of Stacey. It was there for little more than a minute before reappearing and driving away.’
Clayton studied her contemplatively. ‘CCTV in the lane?’
Kate shook her head. ‘Seems a bit strange for someone to be hanging around that long then just happen to move again that close to the time Stacey goes missing. Check the name on the receipt,’ she prompted him, pushing the paper towards him.
Clayton looked down at the receipt, his chunky finger tracing the information as he scanned it.
‘Dean Williams,’ he said, looking back up at her.
‘Dean Williams,’ Kate repeated.
Clayton exhaled loudly. The eyebrow dropped. ‘Related to Nathan Williams?’ he asked.
‘Cousin.’
Clayton shook his head and sighed. ‘Wasn’t this man at the search just before Christmas?’ he reminded himself.
‘Yes. He was practically leading the thing.’
Kate remembered the widely televised search for little Stacey Reed that had taken place in the weeks following her disappearance. Friends and neighbours had joined the family in a search of the streets; Dean Williams at the head of the crowd, wearing the same ‘Find Stacey’ T-shirt that was worn by Nathan and Dawn.
Kate thought of the tape she had watched again a couple of nights earlier: Dawn Reed, the poor grieving mother, sobbing for the cameras, and her partner, Nathan Williams, keeping a decidedly low profile. The more Kate thought about it and the more footage she replayed, the less she believed Dawn Reed was involved in her daughter’s disappearance. Kate had seen enough to know the very worst existed in both men and women, but if Dawn had been involved in any way then her pretence and her deceit reached a level that Kate instinctively just didn’t believe her capable of.
Nathan Williams, on the other hand, had guilt slapped right across his greasy face.
‘The girl’s been missing right over the Christmas period,’ Clayton said, shaking his head. ‘Would an uncle do that?’
‘People have done a lot worse, Sir. Besides, he’s not really related to her.’
It sickened Kate to think of Nathan Williams enjoying a festive season free of the step-kid whilst Stacey was being held somewhere, robbed of her seventh Christmas. The thought that the girl’s own mother might have been involved was something else altogether. Surely not, Kate thought, rolling the question around in her mind once more.
Nathan Williams made her sick though. He represented everything she despised most in a person: he was devious, suspicious and, worst of all, stupid. He also smelled like a shithouse door made out of kipper boxes, but it was his stupidity that offended her the most. Stupidity was often the most dangerous of crimes.
Whether Dawn was involved or not, there was no doubt in Kate’s mind her boyfriend knew what had happened to Stacey. She wished that someone had listened to her earlier; if they had, perhaps Stacey would have been found by now. Kate shuddered at the thought of how they might now find the little girl. She could only hope that she would be found safe and well. Any other thoughts would be a distraction that would get in the way of finding her.
This was the price she had paid for her commitment to finding her brother. Her refusal to stop believing that he could be found had cost her the respect of her peers
and her superiors. Her apparent tendency to ‘see things that aren’t there’, as Clayton had put it, meant that people questioned her opinions; her judgements: her abilities as a detective. And weren’t they also indirectly questioning her mental state?
Had they had faith in her as a detective they might have listened, and she wouldn’t have been in this office having to present hard evidence to Clayton. He would have trusted her instincts.
Whatever Chris had said about hunches, she hoped that he’d be right and she’d be wrong on this one. Finding Stacey held by members of her own extended family wasn’t going to be a victory for Kate. She doubted that was wrong though. It reminded her too much of a case that had made national headlines in 2008.
‘Get a search warrant and get a team together,’ Clayton said.
Kate didn’t wait for further instruction, or for a chance for Clayton to change his mind.
‘And Kate,’ he said, as she was opening the door to his office. ‘I hope for both our sakes you’re right.’
Twenty Eight
Matthew and Chris pulled into the school car park. It was presumably break time, as teenagers seethed over the school grounds like maggots on a carcass. Some kicked footballs or huddled in groups whispering sedition.
‘I hate schools,’ Matthew said, getting out of the car and grimacing. ‘Worst days of my life.’
Chris could imagine that Matthew hadn’t been a star pupil during school; he was easily distracted and tended to have the attention span of a goldfish. Daydreaming would have been a mild term to use to describe the distant, almost removed state in which Matthew so often seemed to be. Chris had often wondered what the hell was going on inside his head, but it was probably best not to even consider it. Wherever he was, most of the time he wasn’t on the job in hand.
He wasn’t the sharpest either, Chris often noticed; there was sometimes a disturbing lack of common sense, usually when it was most needed. He wasn’t stupid by a long shot; if he had been, there was no way he’d ever have made it into the force. Sometimes – usually when least expected - he’d shock everyone by seeing something that had otherwise gone unnoticed, or provide an insight that no one else had considered. It was mainly the daydreaming that was an issue; enough to frustrate even the most patient of teachers, Chris imagined.
Matthew had probably been bullied by the other kids at school. He was prime victim material, just for the fact that he was such a daydreamer and always seemed to be two seconds behind. His tall, skinny frame had probably caused him to stand out like a chicken at a fox’s tea party: perfect prey. Why he had ever wanted to join the police was often a mystery to Chris. Maybe he had something to prove to the people who had doubted him. Wasn’t Chris also one of those people? Perhaps Matthew was intent on proving him wrong too.
Chris had parked the car near reception and they made their way into the school. A group of girls, all wearing heavy make-up, loitered by the front of the main building, watching the two men as they headed for reception. One of them whistled at Matthew, nudging her friend with a sharp elbow and looking him up and down. Matthew avoided eye contact and grimaced.
‘Stud,’ Chris said quietly, hiding a smile.
It never failed to amaze him, how confident kids were nowadays. When he’d been in school he wouldn’t have as much as looked the wrong way at a police officer, and Chris had been far from a model child. Now kids were either wolf whistling or trying to assault them.
Matthew groaned. ‘How short were those skirts?’ he said. ‘Would you let your daughter go to school looking like that?’
Chris thought of Holly; wondered what she’d be like as a teenager and vowed not to let her out of his sight until she was at least twenty one. No, make that twenty five.
He sighed inwardly. He wouldn’t be able to do that, even had he wanted to. He wouldn’t be there regularly enough to influence what she did. That would be Lydia’s job. She had demoted him to the role of part time dad, a weekend visit here, an evening sleeping over there.
‘To school?’ Chris said. ‘I wouldn’t let her leave the house to go anywhere dressed like that.’
There were two women gossiping in the office when Chris reached the front desk. At great personal sacrifice, the elder of the two broke off their conversation mid-flow and, looking down a foot of nose, said, ‘Can I help you?’
‘I hope so,’ he said, showing her his ID. ‘We’re looking for Sarah – sorry, I don’t know her surname. Works in the English department apparently.’
The lady looked surprised and then inconvenienced, as though Chris had wasted her time. ‘Sorry,’ she said brusquely. ‘We don’t have an English teacher named Sarah.’
Chris looked to Matthew, who shrugged and turned to watch a group of boys playing football outside.
‘Come to think of it though, we did have for a little while,’ the woman continued, tilting her head. ‘But that was, God, how long ago now?’ She paused, her hard face softening. ‘Four years probably. Lovely lady,’ she said sadly. ‘Died in a car accident. Tragic really.’
Chris was frustrated. Every time they seemed to be getting somewhere, something pushed them a step back. Matthew was already making his way back to the main door. He was hoping the bell for end of break would sound and they wouldn’t have to walk back by the group of girls they’d passed on the way in. They were like vultures, he thought.
Chris turned back to the woman at reception. ‘Did you know Sarah well?’ he asked.
‘Fairly well,’ she said. ‘She was only here for a year or so, but she settled in very quickly.’
‘Did she have a husband?’ Chris asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Nice man, if I remember correctly. Never got over Sarah’s death, so I’m told.’
‘Do you remember his name, Mrs…?’
‘Ooh, call me Margaret,’ the woman said, softening further.
‘Do you remember Sarah’s husband’s name, Margaret?’ Chris asked.
She shook her head. ‘Sorry. Memory’s not what it used to be.’
‘Did Sarah have any children?’
‘Boy and a girl,’ she said. She pressed a hand to her mouth. ‘Now, then,’ she said. ‘What were their names?’
She tutted. ‘God, I’m getting worse,’ she said, plumping up her grey hair. ‘The amount of names I have to remember in this place, you know. They go in one and out the other. I’ll remember a face any day, but give me a name and I’m useless.’ She tapped her head with a forefinger. ‘Age, you see.’ She rested her arms on the front desk. ‘The girl came here, but only briefly. Pretty little thing. What was her name?’
Margaret looked to the main entrance, as if the answer to her dilemma would suddenly walk in to greet her.
‘Sophie!’ she exclaimed suddenly, clicking her fingers. ‘That was it. Sophie. No idea about the boy though – he never came to this school. Have you got two minutes?’ she asked.
Chris nodded.
‘If you give me a moment I’ll ring through to the Art department. Sarah was friendly with Lisa, head of Art. She’ll know her son’s name.’
Margaret disappeared back into the office. The bell to signal the end of break time sounded and teenagers swarmed the front of the building, making their way back to lessons, though most were probably coming in to get out of the cold rather than be the first to class. Chris looked outside to where Matthew paced the ground before the front entrance. The list of places that seemed to make him uncomfortable was growing longer by the day.
Margaret returned shortly.
‘It’s not your day,’ she told Chris. ‘Lisa’s on a course in Preston.’
Twenty Nine
Dean Williams, who had hired the car spotted on the CCTV footage, wasn’t expecting the cavalry that arrived at his house just after midday that afternoon. Kate led them to the front door. She gestured to the door and the uniformed officer beside her hammered it with a fist the size of a boxing glove. Williams opened it slightly and peered through the crack like a myopic rodent, th
e same shifty eyes as his cousin making them instantly recognisable as family.
‘Can we come in, Mr Williams?’ Kate asked, smiling. ‘Thanks.’
She shoved the door open, pushed past the man and stepped into the hallway. The house was on the same estate as Dawn Reed’s and had the same layout, with living room to the left and stairs straight ahead at the end of the narrow hallway. If Dawn Reed’s house had been a mess, this was something else. The carpet was thick with clogged dirt and something that looked unnervingly like blood was splattered the length of the hallway wall.
‘You can’t just come in ’ere,’ Dean had started to protest. ‘You need a warrant.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Kate said, slapping her forehead theatrically. ‘Silly me.’
Dean Williams, for the first time, looked panicked. He eyed the officers who followed behind Kate, aimlessly attempting to block their entry with his stocky frame. Kate reached into her pocket and produced the search warrant, thrusting the paper into Dean’s hand.
‘There we go,’ she said. ‘Now we can carry on.’
The officers began spreading themselves throughout the house whilst Dean continued to protest their presence. Two went upstairs, whilst another pair started to search the living room.
‘Do you have a car, Mr Williams?’ Kate asked.
‘Yeah,’ he said defensively, crossing his bulky arms. ‘So what?’
Kate made a point of looking around the room, taking in the chaos and disorder of Dean Williams’ living room. Empty take away boxes littered the floor by the sofa and the carpet looked as though it had never had a close encounter with a vacuum cleaner. She doubted Dean Williams even owned one. The sofa was split, foam bursting out from the arms on each end. Mould had been left to grow around the windowsill.
‘So, I was just wondering why you needed to hire a car on December 12th?’
Dean Williams shifted edgily. ‘Not a crime is it?’
There was obviously no point in trying to deny the car hire; Kate could see from the look on Dean’s face that he knew he was caught out and that his name would be in black and white on the car rental company receipt.
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