Snatched

by Stephen Edger

  ‘I don’t know. I know it sounds crazy, dad, but I just have a feeling in my stomach that I know who took her. If he did take her, then I think he will strike again. I have to stop him.’

  ‘What makes you think you can stop him? Or even find him? You’ve not spoken with him in over a decade,’ he protested.

  ‘I know what he looks like, dad,’ she replied. ‘I can tell the police who they are looking for and widen the net for him. I have to try.’

  ‘Okay, Sarah, okay,’ he said admitting defeat. ‘I’ll ask Pat and James what they remember about him, when I see them tonight. Maybe they can shed some light on where he was planning to move to, once he was released. I’ll let you know what I find out, if anything.’

  She smiled a reassuring smile in his direction. ‘Thanks, dad. I appreciate your help.’

  ‘Look after yourself, Sarah,’ he called after her as she opened the front door and headed out into the street. ‘I want to see you again, and soon. Be careful!’

  The door closed and she was gone.

  *

  Sarah had phoned a local taxi firm while she had been getting dressed and packed and the taxi she had booked was waiting for her when she stepped out of her father’s house, into the cobbled, and incredibly narrow, steep road that the house was located on. She clambered into the taxi and told the driver that he was to head for Weymouth train station. They reached their destination twenty minutes later and Sarah was just in time to buy a single ticket to Southampton and board the 10:20 train. It wasn’t a struggle to find a seat and once she was settled, Sarah pulled the Smart phone from her pocket and started to search for articles about Ryan Moss. She wanted to review all stories relating to the abduction of Chloe Greene, to satisfy herself that she wasn’t jumping to conclusions, and to try and find some tangible evidence linking Moss to Natalie Barrett.

  Sarah found various articles covering the abduction and read each one so that she had every angle covered, in her own mind at least. He also appeared in a feature story that Sarah had had no clue about. It appeared that Ryan Moss had featured in a Panorama programme on the BBC about prison inmates who were benefiting from the rehabilitation of incarceration. The programme had been aired nearly four years ago and, as it wasn’t the sort of programme that Sarah would watch, it was hardly surprising that she had missed it. She had a vague memory that Erin had mentioned such a programme, but then not knowing who Moss was, there was no reason that Erin would have made a connection to Sarah.

  Sarah found several images of Moss as well in a search engine. Some of the photos were shots taken while they had both been at school, but there weren’t many recent photos, with the exception of images used within the Panorama programme. Moss hadn’t aged well. The one-time good-looking teenager that Sarah had once dated was now rather bloated with a round face; gone were the well-defined arms and chest, replaced by a portly belly of a man that looked ten years older than he really was. There was a look in his eyes that gave Sarah the creeps; a dead look.

  The train journey flew by, as she continued scouring for as much information as she could find and she was surprised when the guard announced through the speaker system that the next stop was Southampton Central. Sarah put her phone in her pocket, grabbed her bag and headed for the nearest exit. Her plan was to return home, have a shower, and then write down everything she had learned about Chloe Greene’s abduction and how it linked in with Natalie Barrett’s disappearance. Her thinking was that it was better to approach Jack Vincent with a tangible story than the wittering of a grieving school teacher.

  Rain was starting to fall gently as Sarah emerged from the train station. Thankfully there were several taxis at the taxi rank outside the station, so she jumped into the first one and told the driver her address. The driver sped away and for the first time in three days, Sarah felt like she was finally making progress.

  22

  Jack Vincent didn’t like hospitals. The aroma of disinfectant, tinged with stewed vegetables, made his stomach turn. The odour was even worse down in the morgue where the added influence of death was enough to make any sane person ill. It amazed him that people actually worked down here. Vincent wasn’t a squeamish man, but even he had to admit to getting the creeps when he was near dead bodies. In his eyes, there was something quite unnatural about seeing the dead. It was the part of his job that he loathed the most, but being a man of principle, he endeavoured not to show it.

  Dr Neil Spinks had worked in the morgue of Southampton General Hospital for the past five years. A fifty-year-old man, he didn’t allow himself to get haunted by the lives of the victims that he tended to. Back in school, he had always had a fascination with the way things worked. From an early age, he had spent countless hours with his grandfather, a clock-maker, in his workshop observing how the old man’s gentle hands could place various cogs and thin strips of metal together, to create something magical. The young Neil Spinks had hoped to take over his grandfather’s business one day, but after the old man had passed away, Neil’s father had sold the business and that dream had vanished. The fascination with the make-up of machines developed through puberty as an adolescent Neil was given his first taste of biology. He was a natural when it came to dissecting frogs and earned himself a strong grade for Science and in turn set himself along the road to medical school.

  Dr Spinks had spent several years in various areas of medicine, general, psychiatry and surgery before he had finally decided to specialise in forensic pathology. He had since written several papers of note on the art of identifying cause of death. One such paper, Knowing your Victim is still used as a teaching paper in universities today. He had settled on the outskirts of Southampton, as he liked the idea of living near a big city but having the coast on his doorstep too.

  What helped Dr Spinks to work in an area where he was surrounded by death was his propensity to talk to the bodies that came his way, like they were living patients. It was quite eerie and had led to some complaints against him from other medical professionals, as well as police officers. However, despite their objections, he really wasn’t doing anything wrong. He argued that it helped him formulate a better idea of his patient and that led to achieving quicker results, about what may have caused their untimely demise. Vincent found the practice a bit disturbing as well, but Dr Spinks did deliver results much faster than his colleagues and had helped Vincent crack many a case thanks to his speed.

  ‘Good morning, Detective Inspector,’ Spinks hummed cheerily as Vincent walked through the door to the laboratory.

  Vincent struggled to understand how the pathologist stayed so relaxed. ‘Good morning, doctor,’ he replied gruffly.

  Vincent hadn’t slept since the call had come in the previous evening, confirming that a body had been discovered in the woods. After he had received the phone call in his office, stating that a red coat had been found, he had dispatched two patrol cars to the area to preserve what evidence there might be and had also put a call into the local Scene of Crime specialists. At that point no body had been discovered but in his gut, he knew one would be. Sure enough, within ten minutes of the patrol cars arriving, he received a call on his mobile to confirm that the body of a young girl had been located. He had already been in the car on his way to the site.

  The Scene of Crime Officers cordoned off the area and began to take samples of footprints and fibres in and around the body but, as the light started to dim, emergency lighting was produced from strong, halogen bulbs that the SOCOs always carried for late night discoveries. They had worked into the night, and Vincent had stayed to observe and to see if any new evidence had been uncovered that could help what had now gone from an abduction case to a murder investigation.

  He was still awaiting an official time of death from Dr Spinks so that he could arrange for a canvas of new witnesses who may have seen the killer dumping the body. That was why he had come down now, hopeful that the good doctor had prioritised the case as Vincent had requested over the phone in the early hours of
the morning. Spinks was the on-call specialist, and had been more than happy to come into the laboratory early to start work. He had been here since a little after three.

  Vincent had learned very little from the SOCOs. From all accounts, the body had been quite stiff when it had been discovered, which suggested it was days, rather than hours since she had been killed. In a way, he was relieved. It seemed likely that the child had been killed over the weekend; he wouldn’t be held accountable if Natalie, if indeed it was Natalie, had been killed before he had even taken over the case. This was scant consolation, however.

  ‘Have you managed to look at the little girl yet?’ asked Vincent, eager to move along the discussion and get back out to the crisp, odourless air of the outside world.

  ‘I have begun a primary examination of Betsy, yes,’ replied Spinks grinning. He had a tall, thin frame with white, not grey, hair. He was well over six feet tall, with wide shoulders, but there was barely a morsel of fat on his body. As Vincent observed him, smiling as he wheeled a trolley over towards Vincent, he reminded the detective of Lurch from The Adams Family.

  ‘Betsy?’ Vincent questioned.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Spinks, with an even broader grin. ‘Whenever I get a young patient without a name, I call her Betsy if it’s a girl and Bobby if it’s a boy. It just helps, you know?’

  Vincent nodded his acknowledgement, even though he disagreed with the logic.

  ‘And what have you learned about…’ Vincent began, unable to refer to the girl as Betsy.

  ‘Betsy?’ Spinks completed for him.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Betsy is between the ages of six and seven, judging by the length of her limbs and under-developed breasts,’ Spinks began, raising the glasses, which had been hanging around his neck, to the end of his nose. ‘Rigor mortis is evident, which would suggest she has been dead for some time.’

  ‘Can you be any more specific?’ Vincent interrupted.

  ‘Patience, Detective Inspector,’ Spinks countered. ‘Anyone would think you didn’t want to be down here,’ Spinks chortled to himself. ‘My initial estimate for time of death would be Saturday or Sunday, just passed, forgive the pun.’ He laughed to himself again.

  ‘And cause of death?’ Vincent persisted.

  ‘In due course, Detective Inspector,’ Spinks hummed.

  Vincent shrugged his shoulders to express that the doctor should continue.

  ‘Remember, this is just my preliminary examination. The results of the toxicology reports will take a couple of days to produce.’

  ‘Toxicology?’ Vincent asked. ‘Do you believe she may have been drugged?’

  ‘It’s too early to say,’ Spinks replied, ‘but I have reason to believe that something foreign may have been administered.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Vincent asked, intrigued.

  ‘Betsy has been sexually assaulted,’ Spinks replied matter-of-factly.

  ‘You’re certain?’ Vincent asked.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Spinks. ‘There is bruising and dried blood around the vagina and Betsy’s mouth. The contusions are classic signs of assault and from the looks of the damage sustained, it would seem the assault lasted several hours.’

  Vincent felt sick. What kind of bastard could rape a little girl, let alone for several hours?

  ‘Betsy appears to have lost a fair amount of blood, but I’m not sure the SOCOs will find much blood at the site,’ Spinks continued.

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Betsy’s body was moved, post mortem,’ Spinks replied. ‘There are markings on the back that have been caused after death that would suggest the body was thrown from a height to the location of discovery.’

  ‘Are there any clues as to where the assault may have happened?’ Vincent asked.

  ‘Not yet, I’m afraid,’ Spinks replied, frowning. ‘When I have completed the full examination, I may have more information, if I can find any fibres secreted on the body, but I wouldn’t hold your breath.’

  ‘Are there any traces of…’ Vincent was struggling to get the words out. ‘Are there any traces of…semen…on the victim?’

  ‘Not that I have found at the moment,’ Spinks replied. ‘There are traces of lubricant, which would suggest a condom or two were used during the attack. The assault on the vagina is quite severe and the victim would have been in significant discomfort, which is what leads me to think a sedative of some kind may have been used. The toxicology report should be able to confirm that information.’

  Vincent could feel himself welling up. He had never felt so emotional about a case. It made him even more determined to catch the killer of this little girl.

  ‘There is also significant bruising on the face, the nose appears to be broken and there are scratch marks on Betsy’s upper thighs,’ Spinks continued. ‘It may be wise not to show the victim’s parents her face. She appears to have a birthmark of sorts on the back of her left leg so probably worth seeing if they can identify her with that,’ Spinks suggested.

  ‘Okay,’ Vincent agreed. ‘So, was cause of death the loss of blood?’

  ‘No,’ Spinks replied abruptly. ‘She was strangled. The bruising around the neck suggests the strangulation was inflicted by a large pair of hands, suggestive of a male perpetrator.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’ Vincent asked, hopeful the answer would be ‘no’.

  ‘I think that’s all for now, Detective Inspector,’ Spinks replied, satisfied with what he had discovered in such a short time. ‘I will commence the full examination once the parents have been in, as it’s never nice for them to see the body after I have cut her open and removed different organs.’

  Vincent forced down the bile forming in the back of his throat, and turned to head for the exit door.

  ‘Thank you, doctor,’ he called out without turning back. He needed fresh air and a large cup of strong, black coffee.

  23

  Neil Barrett turned to look at his wife across the breakfast table. She was absent-mindedly staring out of the window, into the wet back garden. She had been doing a lot of staring into space in the last week, Neil observed. It felt as if she was hiding from the reality of what they were facing. Their little girl, their beautiful, clever, little girl was missing and for all they knew, dead. Sure, she had cried a lot, an indication of the emotional stress she was under, but she had yet to speak to him about it.

  They had been wheeled out, like a prize exhibit, in front of the gathered journalists on Tuesday evening, to plead for the life of their little girl. Neil knew the press conference was unlikely to make any difference to the outcome of this abduction case. It was naïve to think that the person or persons who had taken Natalie would be sitting at home watching the news, see the press conference, and decide that actually they had done the wrong thing and would return her. That sort of thing just didn’t happen. Still, it had been at Detective Inspector Vincent’s request that they attend the press conference and say the necessary things expected of concerned parents; someone watching just might have seen something, however, it had seemed so false to Neil. The statement that he and his wife had read out had been written by a duty solicitor, so it wasn’t even their own words. He had felt like a poor actor, as he had read the speech, and had half expected to see a review slating his performance in the paper the following day.

  Neil poured himself a fresh cup of tea from the pot that had been hiding beneath the woollen Southampton FC tea cosy. He raised the pot towards his wife, to try and get her attention, to see if she wanted a top up, but he couldn’t make eye contact with her. In fairness, she still hadn’t touched the cup that he had poured her earlier, which was probably only warm, at best, now. He took three spoonfuls of sugar from the open packet on the table and stirred them into his mug. Still she continued to stare out of the window. Was she grieving, even though the whereabouts of Natalie had yet to be confirmed? Was she imagining a life where this terrible thing hadn’t happened? Why wouldn’t she just speak to him? He was hurtin
g too!

  Vincent had phoned late the previous evening, while Neil had been dozing on the sofa. It was incredible how tired he had felt all week, even though he hadn’t been to work since her disappearance. Vincent had told him that the body of a young girl had been discovered somewhere near Dibden golf course. Neil had listened in stunned silence while Vincent had explained that they would need to come and confirm if the body was indeed that of Natalie. Neil had merely answered ‘Yes,’ when Vincent had asked if they could be at Southampton’s General Hospital by midday today. It hadn’t been until an hour after he had disconnected that the reality of what Vincent had said had sunk in. Both parents had spent the whole week clinging to the hope that their little girl would suddenly burst into the house, apologetic at running away for so long, with the promise that she would never be so naughty again. In Neil’s imagined vision, he would clasp her up in his arms and kiss her all over, telling her not to worry about it and that he forgave her. But now it seemed that that vision would remain merely imaginary.

  Neil had drunk half a bottle of vodka when he had finished crying and had woken Melanie, who had been asleep upstairs, courtesy of some pills the G.P. had given her. He had calmly told her what Vincent had said but she hadn’t really responded, before closing her eyes and returning to sleep. It was as if she had thought she was still asleep and having a bad dream. Neil had decided not to try and wake her again, instead choosing to seek solace in the bottle of cheap, supermarket-brand vodka.

  It wasn’t just the fear for his daughter’s safety that was causing his restlessness. It was also the guilt that he had not been at the school to collect Natalie on Friday. He had known there was a chance Melanie’s last appointment would overrun, but, rather than doing his fatherly duty, he had driven out to Cadnam to meet his contact. So far, the police had bought the cover story of a broken down vehicle, but if they continued to dig, it wouldn’t be long until the truth came out.