‘Not yet,’ replied Davies, as he opened the back door of the car and ushered him into the car.
*
‘Perhaps you can start by telling us where you went on Friday morning?’ asked Vincent, when he had Davies and Heath in an interview room.
‘I’ve been up to Blackpool, to visit some friends,’ Heath replied as sternly as he could.
‘And can these friends verify that?’
‘Of course they bloody can. Do you need them to?’ Heath challenged back.
‘It would be good if somebody could confirm where you were for the last week, yes.’
‘Fine,’ replied Heath. ‘Give me a flaming pen and paper and I’ll write their numbers down.’
‘Have you lived in Thornhill for long?’
‘Three years, since I was released from prison. I’m assuming you knew that, so what was the point of the question?’
‘Three years you say? So you are pretty familiar with the area then?’ asked Vincent calmly.
‘You could say that,’ replied Heath, rolling his eyes.
‘And your release order, what does it say about where you can and can’t live?’ continued Vincent.
‘It says I am not to go within a two mile radius of a school, and that if I do, I am liable to further prosecution. Look, I know where you are going with this, but it wasn’t my choice to move into that poxy house in Thornhill, it was the council’s. They put me there. I raised it with my Community Support Liaison Officer but she said that it would have to make do.’
‘So you know where St Monica’s School is then?’ asked Vincent.
‘Yes I do, but I’ve never been there. I didn’t like being locked up, darlin’ and I don’t intend to go back inside. I wouldn’t set foot near that school.’
‘You mentioned to my colleague that there was a bit of a mess in the back of your van. What kind of mess are we talking about?’ Vincent asked. ‘I have a team of forensics specialists looking at the van at the moment, so it’s in your best interests to tell me.’
‘Probably a mixture of semen and breadcrumbs, darlin’,’ replied Heath, smirking.
‘What about blood?’
‘I’ve been to Blackpool, love, not a flamin’ pagan festival. I’ve been sleeping in that van for the last week, so there are bound to be some tell-tale stains. Know what I mean? That’s why I wanted to get it cleaned up.’
‘What do you know about the murdered school girl?’ Davies asked.
‘Only what I’ve read in the papers. Tragic story.’
‘So you have nothing to do with her disappearance? You didn’t load your van up with supplies last Friday morning, drive to the school and wait for a little girl to appear, so you could take her away and satisfy your perverse desires?’
‘Did you not read my file, love?’ questioned Heath, folding his arms. ‘Girls don’t do it for me.’
‘What?’ asked Vincent, looking across to Davies for not pointing this out.
‘That’s right, love,’ replied Heath, starting to smile. ‘It was young lads that did it for me. I’ve got as much interest in a young girl as you would, a dog. Besides, there are places men like me can go, when we wish to satisfy our desires, as you put it.’
Vincent shot a glare at Davies, which told him they would be having serious words later.
‘Look,’ continued Heath, unfolding his arms and leaning in. ‘If you still don’t believe me, fetch my phone and call Bobby. His will be the first name on the redial list. Call him and ask what time I arrived in Blackpool. There is no way I could have abducted that little girl, as I was hundreds of miles away.’
Vincent stood up angrily and left the room, slamming the door behind him. Heath stood up and smiled at Davies.
‘What did you mean when you said there were places you could go to?’
‘Satisfy my urges?’ finished Heath. He pulled a paper card out of his wallet, and placed it on the table in front of them. ‘This place, here,’ he said pointing to the card. ‘Everyone is over the legal age, but they get them to dress younger, for those of us who like something…fresher. You should come by some time. I’m sure we could find something for you.’
Davies rose quickly and left the room, he too, slamming the door behind him. Heath gathered up his few belongings and put the paper card back in his wallet. He laughed, as he did so, at how sensitive some modern policemen could be.
31
Sarah rolled her sleeve up and glanced at her watch. It was nearly five, but she had been waiting for her guest for ten minutes already. She had driven from her flat to the coffee bar and had given herself plenty of time to allow for possible rush-hour traffic. She hadn’t expected to be so punctual but at least it gave her the opportunity to try and spot who might be the journalist. She had spent most of the afternoon replaying the conversation with Rêmet in her head. He had sounded so confident that he knew who had killed Natalie. He hadn’t mentioned Erin’s name, but Sarah was still hopeful that whoever had taken Natalie had also caused Erin’s death, and that what Rêmet was due to reveal this afternoon would bring her closer to the truth.
The coffee bar was run by a friendly Italian family and, even though this was her first visit to the establishment, they had welcomed her with open arms and broad smiles. She had opted for a table in the corner, giving her a good view of the street and the entrance to the bar. She had tried to find an image of Rêmet on the internet, when she had been at home but, although she had found several references to him, from various articles, there had been no image attached to any of the internet pages. From his voice, she imagined him to look like Clouseau from the Peter Sellers’ films, but, so far, nobody fitting that description had approached the café.
There was another couple, a man and a woman, in the opposite corner to her, but they looked young and in love, so she was pretty confident neither of those was Rêmet. Otherwise, the café was empty, save for the young owner, standing behind the counter, preparing her drink. She had ordered a fruit smoothie, as she was bored of the taste of coffee, having drunk nothing but all afternoon.
The whirring of the food processor came to a halt. She could then see the young Italian pouring the contents into a tall glass, before he moved across to her table and presented the beverage. She thanked him and he disappeared back off behind the counter. There was another thought troubling Sarah: what if Rêmet was in fact Natalie’s abductor, relishing the chance to see the pain his destruction had caused? It was unlikely, but it was odd how he was adamant not to involve the police. It was also odd that he had approached her, and that’s what worried Sarah the most: She had agreed to meet a total stranger who had managed to identify her as Natalie’s teacher. Why approach her? How did he know that she was trying to discover who had taken Natalie? She tried to push the thoughts to the back of her mind, and took a slurp of drink through the brightly-coloured straw that it had come with.
A bell pinged above the door to the café, indicating the arrival of a new customer. It caused Sarah to glance up and she knew instinctively that the man at the door was Rêmet. He was a short, portly man with light grey hair, rectangular-shaped glasses, and wearing a yellow mac. He wasn’t Clouseau but was maybe what Clouseau would have looked like if he grew old and put on a lot of weight. Rêmet’s round belly could be distinctly seen beneath his jacket. He had a small, brown satchel bag over his shoulder and was holding a black, leather briefcase.
Rêmet looked around the café until he spotted Sarah, and then he waved. She waved back, before she could stop herself, and he made his way over to the table.
‘Mademoiselle Jenson?’ he enquired in his deep, Gallic tone.
‘Yes…yes,’ she stuttered, unsure whether she should stand and shake his hand, or kiss him on the cheek; what was the correct etiquette for this kind of situation? Before she could decide, he had swivelled his back to her and beckoned for the Italian to bring him over a large espresso. He then turned back to face Sarah, and took the seat opposite her.
‘I apologise f
or being late, mademoiselle,’ he began, shrugging his shoulders, and placing the satchel bag on the floor. ‘The train was unavoidably delayed.’
Sarah was surprised at how well he spoke her language. She smiled kindly, and told him it was okay. The Italian brought the large coffee mug to the table and returned to his previous perch again. Rêmet took a long gulp of coffee and then opened the briefcase he had been carrying. He removed several plastic wallets, full of paper, and placed them on the table before Sarah. He then closed the briefcase and put it on the floor by his feet.
‘Thank you for meeting with me,’ he said. ‘I am not sure where to begin.’
‘Well,’ replied Sarah. ‘Perhaps you could start with who you are, where you are from, and how you came to contact me.’
Rêmet seemed surprised by the directness of her questions and took another gulp of coffee before saying, ‘My name is Claude Rêmet and I am a journalist working freelance across Europe.’
‘Freelance?’
‘Oui,’ he said. ‘I go where there are big news stories; I investigate and sell my findings to the national newspapers of whatever country I am in.’
‘I see,’ she replied. ‘And how did you come across me?’
‘I spend a lot of time reading the internet, and I read that a little girl had been abducted from a school in England. I looked up the school and found you were the teacher of the missing girl.’
‘I’m confused,’ Sarah interrupted. ‘What makes you think you know who took the little girl?’
Rêmet paused and picked up one of the plastic wallets of paper. He began to flick through pages, until he found what he was looking for. He placed the chosen page on the table in front of him. To Sarah, it looked like some scribbled notes that weren’t legible.
‘Let me tell you what I know and that might answer your questions,’ he said. When Sarah didn’t respond, he took it as his cue to continue. ‘Five years ago, I was working in Baden on a story about drug trafficking, when I came across a news item about a girl who had gone missing during a school trip. Her class had been camping in tents, in a local nature reserve, but when they had woken up in the morning, the little girl could not be located. She was seven years old, pretty and very popular with her classmates. The teachers raised the alarm, and the nature reserve was scoured by police and dogs, but she still could not be found. A week or so later, her body had been discovered badly beaten and abused. The police were investigating the matter, when I came across the story. After some investigation, I thought I had identified the perpetrator, but the police were not interested in my conclusion. I persisted and when they eventually spoke with my suspect, his friends gave him a cast-iron alibi. I tried to sell my story to a newspaper, but they laughed me out of their office. But I knew; I knew it was him. I remained in the town for another three months, doing more investigative work, but it was no use, I could not find the piece of evidence that would confirm my suspicions.’
Rêmet paused to take another gulp of coffee and Sarah sipped from her smoothie, transfixed by what Rêmet had to say.
‘I moved on with my life, but I could not forget what happened, so once in a while I would search for him and see what he was up to.’
‘That’s all very interesting, but what does that have to do with me?’ Sarah questioned.
‘Well,’ said Rêmet. ‘The man I suspected of taking and killing the girl is now living in Southampton. He moved here two years ago, so when I saw the story about your missing girl, and the way she disappeared, I just knew it had to be him again.’
‘Who?’ said Sarah.
Instead of answering, Rêmet opened one of the plastic wallets and pulled out an A4 black and white photograph and placed it in front of Sarah.
‘Do you recognise any of the men in this photograph?’ Rêmet asked.
Sarah studied the picture carefully, and a chill went down her spine when she realised exactly who he was referring to.
32
‘Wait a second,’ said Sarah, staring more intently at the photograph in her hands. ‘This is…no…it can’t be.’
The photograph was of about a dozen men, in two lines, half of them were on their knees, in front of the remaining men. They appeared to be in some kind of field, though it was hard to tell, due to the age of the picture.
‘So you recognise him?’ asked Rêmet rhetorically.
She continued to look at the man in the photo. It sent a further shiver through her. Sarah’s eyes darted to the faces of the other men in the photograph, desperate for any kind of additional recognition that might indicate that Rêmet was referring to somebody other than the man she knew all too well. No other faces looked familiar, even in the slightest.
‘But this is…’
‘Yes, mademoiselle,’ said Rêmet, ‘It is Johan Boller; the football player.’
‘Wait…you don’t really think Johan Boller took Natalie?’
‘No, I don’t think it; I know it!’ Rêmet responded authoritatively.
Sarah burst into a fit of giggles, convinced that this was some kind of practical joke. When Rêmet remained silent, staring at the strange reaction, her giggles stopped.
‘You cannot be serious, Mr Rêmet?’ she said. ‘You think Premiership footballer Johan Boller is some kind of paedophile? He plays international football for Switzerland. He is a fucking hero in this city, for Christ’s sake!’
‘Lower your voice, mademoiselle,’ Rêmet said, placing his finger to his lips in the same way Sarah had done more than a hundred times with noisy children in her class.
Sarah leaned forward so that her whisper would still be audible to the journalist. ‘You’re crazy, Rêmet. No wonder the police didn’t want to know. It’s madness!’
‘I’m sorry, you think so, mademoiselle, but I think you’ll find you are the one who is mistaken.’
His reaction was so calm, so passive. He didn’t look like he was crazy, a little dishevelled, maybe, but that was to be expected given his profession.
‘I have evidence that will prove my theory to you,’ he continued in hushed tones, concerned about who might overhear their conversation. ‘It is not with me, now, but I can show it to you tomorrow.’
‘Oh, well that’s convenient,’ Sarah said sarcastically.
‘Please, mademoiselle, keep your voice down. I don’t want people to know what we are talking about. It is a sensitive topic.’
‘You mean you don’t want people to hear what a nutcase you are?’
‘I assure you, I am quite sane, mademoiselle, and I will prove to you I am right.’
Sarah looked back at the photograph again, disbelieving. At the bottom of the image was some kind of placard that read, ‘Baden sous les 21: Champions de foot.’
‘The photograph was taken one week before the little girl went missing in Switzerland,’ said Rêmet, aware that Sarah was starting to consider what he was saying. ‘The local football team in Baden had just won the under-21 football league. Boller had been a key figure in the side, helping them to their first ever championship.’
‘Okay, Rêmet,’ Sarah whispered. ‘I’ll humour you, what makes you believe Johan is responsible?’
Rêmet fished through one of the other plastic wallets, still scattered on the table before them, and retrieved a printed copy of a map. The label at the top revealed it was of Baden and its surrounding towns. There were several markings on the map as well as Rêmet’s scribbled notes. He placed the map down so that Sarah could see what he was going to point to.
‘This area, here,’ said Rêmet, pointing at the left edge of the image, ‘is where the children were camping. It is a well-known nature reserve, and the school held the same trip to the area every year. The nature reserve spans about eight kilometres in diameter, and there is only one road into it from the Baden town centre.’
Sarah glanced up at the journalist and saw him lick his lips, showing the passion he had for this topic of conversation; it made her wonder how many other people had been bombarded with this spec
ulative nonsense.
‘The trip was on May twenty six, two thousand and seven,’ Rêmet continued, catching Sarah watching him. When Sarah saw that he had seen her, her eyes darted back down to the image and her cheeks flushed slightly. ‘The school arrived at the site, just before midday on the Saturday, and spent the first hour constructing all the tents, where the children and teachers would sleep. The tents could each house two students. Nichole, the girl who went missing, was in a tent with another girl called Arielle. They were best friends and did everything together. The girl’s teacher, later told me, that they were inseparable, like sisters.’
Rêmet paused, long enough to signal the Italian behind the bar, to order another large espresso.
‘A little after five in the evening, the teachers built a small fire to cook some fish and pasta. All the children ate the small meal together, at six o’clock, and then they all sang songs and toasted marshmallows on the fire until the children were told to enter their tents at seven o’clock. Two of the teachers took it in turns to patrol the site, until nine o’clock, when they were satisfied that the children were asleep. There was a small concrete building next to where the tents had been placed that the children were to use as a toilet and washroom. The children were aware that they could use the facilities, in the event that they needed to, during the night.’
The Italian brought Rêmet’s cup of espresso over, along with a small paper receipt. He placed both items on the table before Rêmet looked up, angry at the disruption.
‘Where was I?’ he asked rhetorically, before continuing. ‘There were no lights at the site, so each child had been given a torch they could use, to help them find their way in the darkness. It had been a warm day, and according to meteorologists, there was very little cloud that night, so it would have been relatively light outside of the tents, but the torches were there for extra precaution. Arielle said she and Nichole fell asleep just before nine o’clock, and that she could vaguely remember hearing the zip on the tent being opened during the night and she thinks Nichole said she was going to the toilet. Arielle admitted that she was half-asleep, and did not make a note of the time. The teachers came to wake the children up just before eight o’clock in the morning, and that is when it was discovered that Nichole was missing. The teachers searched all over the site, but there was no trace of her. The Baden police were called, as were Nichole’s parents, but she could not be located. As I said earlier, her badly beaten body was discovered five days later, a mile from the camp site in a shallow grave. The coroner confirmed that Nichole had been sexually assaulted.’
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