He had woken a little after seven this morning, and fixed himself several cups of coffee before switching to tea when Melanie had surfaced. She looked like a panda, with big, black bags under her eyes, despite the sleep. They had been at the breakfast table for the last half an hour, neither really eating, more like machines just going through the motions of breakfast chores. It was nearly eleven a.m. and they would have to leave in twenty minutes to get across town to the hospital. Vincent had said something about getting cleared by security before they would be admitted to the morgue, where the identification would take place.
He wasn’t sure what he should wear to the appointment. What was the protocol for such events? A shirt and tie? Was that too formal? Jeans and a t-shirt? Was that too casual? Ultimately, it mattered not what he chose to wear to go to the hospital, but at least it preoccupied his mind and stopped him thinking about the prospect of formally identifying his little girl.
*
Jack Vincent knocked back the final dregs of the coffee in the cardboard cup and grimaced at the luke-warm sensation: the coffee had gone cold while he had been waiting and he despised the taste of warm coffee. He couldn’t believe they still hadn’t arrived yet.
Vincent had been standing outside the pathologist’s office for the last half-hour as he had agreed to be present with the Barretts to identify the body if it was indeed that of Natalie Barrett. Having already seen several photographs of Natalie, Vincent knew it was her, but procedure was procedure and a living relative was required to formally identify the body. Having never been in the position of having to provide such confirmation himself, Vincent couldn’t really begin to appreciate the stress and strain that Neil and Melanie Barrett were currently going through.
The morgue at Southampton’s General Hospital was located in what could be considered the basement of the building. It could only be reached through a special entrance, and all visitors had to be formally identified through on-site security. Vincent looked at his watch for the umpteenth time and tutted when he saw how long he had been waiting.
He heard the ping of a lift arriving, down the corridor and, a moment later, in walked a visibly-upset Melanie Barrett, being led tenderly by her husband. Melanie burst into another wave of tears when she saw Vincent waiting at the door with a manila folder and a cardboard cup in his hand.
‘Mr and Mrs Barrett,’ he began, sounding as calm as he could. ‘Thank you for coming down. There are a few details that I need to cover with you before we go in.’
Vincent waited for an acknowledgement, and when none seemed to be coming he decided to proceed. He opened the manila folder, in which he had hidden a checklist of points he needed to cover with them. When he had completed his reading, he raised his head to look at them and he could see that Neil Barrett was trying to hold back the tears in his eyes, and that Melanie’s head was still buried in her husband’s shoulder.
‘There is a chance that the body behind the curtain is not Natalie,’ he said cautiously, knowing that he was causing false hope. ‘Also, I only need one of you to confirm identity if either of you would prefer not to go into the room?’
‘We’ll both be going in,’ replied Neil, still forcing back the tears.
‘Okay,’ said Vincent, turning so that he could open the door to the room and lead them through. The room itself looked like something out of a Soho peep show. It was small, with a couple of wooden chairs and a glass window at the front, which had curtains drawn behind the glass. There was an intercom next to the glass where Vincent would talk to the attendant when they were seated and ready to view the body.
‘Are there any distinguishing marks on Natalie that would help us confirm identity?’ Vincent asked, once they were seated on the chairs.
‘She has a small red mark, in the shape of a triangle, on the back of her left leg, just above the knee,’ replied Melanie, wiping tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. It seemed that she had found a new inner-strength since they had entered the room.
‘Vincent pressed the button on the intercom and relayed the information to the attendant. The dark curtains parted slightly, revealing a metal stretcher with a large sheet draped over the small body beneath it. A gloved hand appeared from behind the curtain and lifted part of the cream sheet up to reveal a small leg. The gloved hand manoeuvred the limb so that the back of the leg was visible. Melanie Barrett burst into a new sob as a red, triangular shape was revealed.
Vincent gave a little cough before saying, ‘Can you confirm that you recognise the birth mark?’
‘I want to see her face!’ Neil Barrett demanded bluntly.
‘That’s not necessary, Mr Barrett,’ Vincent began, but he was cut off by Barrett repeating the statement.
Vincent reluctantly pressed the button on the intercom once again, and advised the attendant that a full examination was required. The curtains opened wider, to reveal the rest of the stretcher along with the owner of the gloved hand, a bespectacled man in his early twenties, probably a student. The attendant pulled the sheet back from the cadaver’s head to reveal the pretty, but now lifeless, face of a young, blond-haired girl.
This time it was Neil Barrett who let out a gasp as he collapsed to his knees and wailed, ‘No!’ at the top of his voice. Vincent signalled to the attendant that the curtains could be closed once more, and he dutifully obliged. He had all the confirmation he required.
24
Sarah turned the key in the lock to her front door and pushed it open. The first thing she noticed was the absence of Erin. She had, of course, returned home several times alone before, when Erin had been at work, so an empty house shouldn’t have been so unfamiliar to her, but today the absence of Erin seemed all the more apparent. For the first time, however, she didn’t feel the urge to cry, as her heart panged for the loss of Erin.
There were a couple of envelopes on the door mat, which she casually scooped up and placed on the small table, near the door, where she tended to leave her house keys when at home. She decided she would look at the mail later as all she really wanted to do right now, was jump into a hot shower, and wash off the dirt and stress of the last couple of days. She was planning to pop into the school and see Peggy McGregor later, to request some time off to grieve and she knew she couldn’t go in with her hair in its current state.
Sarah noticed a red light flashing on the home phone, indicating a missed call. She checked the answer-phone but no messages had been left. The number that had phoned didn’t look familiar but had called six or seven times since yesterday afternoon.
If the call was so important, why didn’t the caller leave a message, she wondered.
She decided not to return the calls and instead headed for the shower.
Twenty minutes later, she emerged, feeling as close to a new woman, as circumstances would allow. She went through her wardrobe, looking for something she could wear that reflected her mood: grieving widow, determined to continue with her life. The trip home had been good for Sarah; reconnecting with her father at a time when she needed it most. She was still worried about the re-emergence of Ryan Moss. Was it really possible that he could have kept feelings of hatred towards her buried for more than a decade, until he had had such time as to convince the authorities of his rehabilitation, to then return and seek his revenge? The more she thought about it, the more she believed it possible. A niggling doubt remained; Sarah still believed that Erin’s death was related to Natalie’s disappearance, but she couldn’t fathom how Erin would have found out about Moss. She decided to push that last thought from her mind, as her suspicions made more sense without it.
Not finding anything adequate to wear, she ventured over to Erin’s wardrobe. As she opened the doors tentatively, she was greeted by Erin’s unmistakeable scent and for a moment it was like she was in the room with Sarah. It gave her a warm feeling. She idly ran her hand through some of Erin’s trouser suits that she had worn each day to work. She had always looked so smart and sexy when she was wearing them, giving o
ff an air of confidence that was infectious. It was this feeling that Sarah was looking for so she selected a black ensemble with a bright turquoise-coloured, satin blouse. She had never worn Erin’s clothes before, and questioned whether her decision to borrow the clothes now was a bit depraved. But as she tried the trousers and blouse on and slipped the jacket over her shoulders, she knew she was doing the right thing. In a strange way it made her feel like Erin was there with her, shielding her from danger. She admired herself in the long mirror, in the corner of the room, and was pleased with the results; it was fortunate they had been of similar build.
Sarah’s attention was caught by the sound of her home telephone ringing in the other room. She wondered whether it was the mysterious caller again. As she did, a terrible thought struck her: what if the mystery caller was Ryan Moss, phoning to taunt her? It would make sense for him not to leave a message, to avoid incriminating himself. She stopped still, not wanting to go near the phone. The phone number was again unfamiliar, but it wasn’t the same number that had phoned earlier. She eventually picked up the receiver when she realised how ridiculous her behaviour was.
‘Hello?’ she said quietly into the phone.
‘Sarah? Thank God I got hold of you,’ replied a male voice.
‘Dad?’
‘Yes love, it’s me,’ replied Alan Jenson.
‘What number are you phoning from?’ Sarah enquired. ‘I didn’t recognise it.’
‘My new mobile phone,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been meaning to get up to speed with modern technology for a while, and seeing you yesterday inspired me to nip to Weymouth to buy one.’
Sarah smiled with admiration, her father, who had been a technophobe most of his life had just bought a mobile phone!
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘That’s not why I am ringing. I have some news about Ryan Moss that I thought you should hear.’
‘What is it?’ she asked, unable to hide the trace of panic from her voice.
‘I decided to speak to James and Pat, before tonight’s catch up, so I phoned them both, just after you left.’
‘And?’
‘They suggested I speak to the current prison warden, chap by the name of Doug Barnes. He offered to speak with Moss’ former cell mate, to see if he had said where he might head upon release. The cell mate gave quite a candid statement.’
‘What did he say, dad?’
‘Well,’ continued her father, ‘He didn’t know where Moss was headed exactly but he did say that he had a message to deliver to a former girlfriend. Apparently he didn’t mention anyone by name, but he did say he hadn’t seen this girlfriend since he had been locked up. I’m sorry, love, but it looks like you might be right. He’s coming for you.’
Sarah nearly dropped the phone and stood there open-mouthed as the reality hit her.
‘Listen to me, love,’ her father said. ‘He was released two months ago but you’ve not heard from him, so there is still a chance that he wasn’t referring to you, but I think you need to be on the lookout. Did Erin have any friends in the force that you could perhaps stay with or at least speak to, to advise what is going on?’
Sarah tried to think about Erin’s colleagues. Erin had never liked to mix business with pleasure, and although Erin had referred to some of them by name, Sarah had never really been formally introduced to any of them.
‘Sarah? Are you still there?’ her father asked, when she hadn’t replied.
‘Yes, dad, I’m here. Sorry, I was trying to think of someone.’
‘Do you want me to come up and stay with you for a bit? You know, as added protection?’
Sarah nearly laughed out loud. ‘Dad, I hardly think you’re in any position to be my bodyguard,’ she teased gently. ‘Not with a heart condition like yours.’
‘Okay,’ he conceded. ‘Is there anyone you can call?’
‘I suppose I can speak with Erin’s old boss, Jack Vincent,’ said Sarah, thinking out loud. ‘He’s a bit of a chauvinist, but if he thinks it is linked to Natalie Barrett’s disappearance, he might be prepared to listen.’
‘Good,’ said her father. ‘Speak to him now. See if he can arrange any protection for you. I’ll give you a call back tonight and see how you got on.’
‘Thanks, dad,’ she said. ‘By the way, do you know which country uses the dialling code ‘+32’?’
‘Not sure. How come?’
‘I’ve missed several calls from a strange telephone number. The number begins with a ‘+32’ so I wondered whether you recognised it?’ she replied.
‘Can’t say I do, to be honest. Maybe Germany or France?’
‘Never mind,’ she replied. ‘I’ll look it up on the internet later.’
Sarah and Alan Jenson said their good byes and she then returned to her bedroom, to apply some make-up to her face. Once she was satisfied with the results, she sat down and dialled the number she had for Jack Vincent.
25
Vincent was back in his office at the Central Headquarters when Sarah’s phone call came through. Against his better judgement, he had remained with the Barretts for an hour after the identification, doing his best, but failing miserably, to calm them down. He had seen many relatives confirm the identity of victims, but today was the first time he had seen two parents, so young, grieving for their child. Vincent believed he was a man of the world, but, as much as he hated it, he had to admit that today had affected him more than he had anticipated. The way Neil Barrett had dropped to his knees and broken into loud, unhinged sobbing, was a memory that would stay with him forever. Barrett had looked and sounded a broken man and if that could happen to him, then potentially it could also happen to Vincent; this was a thought that sent a shudder down his spine.
As he had made his way up to the Major Incident room he had hoped to be bombarded by his team, with new leads that had been uncovered in his absence or maybe even a crack in the case: he was disappointed. He had managed to freely navigate his way from the entrance to the station, up the stairs, through the incident room and into the solace of his private office with fewer than two ‘Hellos’. In fairness, there weren’t many of his team around. Again, the optimist in him, hoped that meant they were out on the streets, shaking down suspects, and not hidden in the nearby McDonald’s, fearful to return to the office without an update.
Those officers he had spotted had been poring over old child abduction cases, looking for links and similarities between those cases and the on-going investigation. Their glum faces, as he had made eye-contact, had been enough to tell him how well progress was going. He really wasn’t in the mood for any kind of argument or confrontation, so he had opted not to engage with any of them, instead marching onwards to the little room that had become his home, in more ways than one.
There were still some thin shards of broken glass on his desk, but the larger parts that he had been handling the evening before were safely stashed in the waste bin in the corner. It showed that the office cleaner hadn’t been in, but this was more cause for celebration than complaint. The last thing he needed now was for somebody to raise questions over his possible mental state. Last night had been a bump in the road, he told himself. He was fine! At least, he hoped so.
He had sat down at the desk and forced the memory of the night’s drunken antics from his mind: repression was a kind of exorcism, he figured. He had been replaying what he knew about Natalie’s disappearance in his mind when the phone on the desk had started to ring. The display revealed it to be a local number, so he answered it, unaware who it might be. When he heard Sarah’s voice at the other end, he didn’t know whether he was pleased or disheartened.
‘Detective Inspector?’ her voice had enquired, eagerly. ‘It’s Sarah Jenson, Erin’s other half,’ but her voice trailed off as she remembered that she was no longer anybody’s significant other. ‘It’s Sarah Jenson,’ she had reaffirmed.
‘Yes,’ he had replied, unsure what to say. Vincent had never been one for small talk, and he was even worse at talking to pe
ople in difficult circumstances, particularly when they had lost someone close.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ she had asked, the enthusiasm once more returning to her voice.
‘No,’ he replied before adding, ‘That’s fine.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘How is the case going?’
Vincent wasn’t sure if she was referring to the disappearance of Natalie or her belief that a case should be opened into what had happened to Cookie.
‘I can’t really discuss an open investigation,’ he said, choosing to bluff his way out of potentially awkward questions. ‘It’s policy,’ he added in a pointless effort to shift responsibility for his avoidance of the question.
‘I have an idea who took Natalie,’ Sarah stated, matter-of-factly.
‘I see,’ said Vincent, opting to humour her rather than telling her to get her nose out of his business.
‘Does the name Ryan Moss mean anything to you?’ she asked, hoping to bait him into asking her questions about what she knew.
‘No,’ he replied.
Annoyed, Sarah added, ‘You might want to look him up.’
‘I see,’ said Vincent, leaning back in his chair and lifting his legs so that he could stretch them out across his desk. ‘And why might I like to do that?’
Vincent didn’t like to be told how to do his job, and he had a sneaking suspicion that it had been Sarah’s interfering that had led Erin into proposing Jimmy Barrett as a possible suspect at Tuesday’s briefing.
On the other end of the line, Sarah was weighing up in her mind whether to blurt out everything she knew about Ryan Moss, and what she had learned in the last day, or whether to feed Vincent just enough and hope he went away to investigate himself. She chose the latter option.
‘Ryan Moss is a convicted child abductor who attempted to murder his last victim,’ she began, keen not to trivialise the story in an attempt to give it credence. ‘He has just been released.’
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