The Body on the Shore

by The Body on the Shore (retail) (epub)

  ‘Have you heard anything?’ Sophie asked eagerly.

  ‘We’ve made some progress,’ Gillard said. ‘But we don’t know yet where the children are.’

  Sophie closed her eyes and sighed, and Dag put an arm around her shoulders to comfort her.

  ‘I know you are doing everything you can, but if there’s anything more that we can do to help you’ve got to let us know,’ Dag said.

  ‘I take it you haven’t had a ransom demand?’ Gillard asked.

  They both shook their heads. ‘Nothing, nothing at all.’

  ‘No letters, emails, texts or any more of those curious symbols appearing anywhere?’

  Sophie shook her head. ‘I’ve walked all the bridleways and footpaths, with a camera in hand, looking for anything that has changed.’

  ‘What about you, Mr Lund? Has anyone been in contact? A ransom demand may not always be obvious – it can sometimes be a taunting message on your company’s website, an insult on Twitter even.’

  ‘Checking this was one of the first things I did,’ Dag said. ‘Anyone who has been in business at the level I have will have made enemies. I’ve been taken to court, of course I have, but I really can’t think of anybody so upset with me that they would do anything like this.’ He held out his hands expansively, as if the kidnap had taken place there in the room.

  Gillard decided to reveal a little of his own researches. ‘Five years ago your company was involved in dismantling one of your own rigs in the North Sea. You were accused of dumping bits of rig into the water.’

  Dag groaned at the rehearsing of a well-known complaint. ‘Jesus, we followed all the rules, I can assure you. Greenpeace and others have been hounding us about this for years. But-we-exactly-followed-the-official-guidelines.’ He chopped one hand into the palm of the other.

  ‘So those accusations are untrue?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector, I really can’t believe I’m in a conversation about this when my children are missing. But to answer your question, some heavy concrete elements and corroded structures cannot cost-effectively be retrieved. We make sure they are cleansed of pollutants before—’

  ‘The only reason I’m asking,’ Gillard said, ‘is that this is a possible motive from some on the fringes of the environmental movement.’

  ‘But I’m so green,’ Dag said emphatically. ‘My company is the most environmentally conscious in the industry. How can these people target us?’

  Michelle Tsu interjected. ‘Somebody has, Mr Lund, and they haven’t found it very difficult. Anyone reading the local newspaper could see what your children looked like, where they went to school, and the name and location of your home.’

  ‘Could this really be environmentalists?’ Sophie asked.

  Dag Lund steepled his hands on either side of his nose and closed his eyes as if having difficulty breathing. After a few moments he looked up. ‘You know, with all my years in the oil industry, I’ve lived in Angola and Nigeria, and we even lived together in Venezuela.’ Sophie nodded as Dag continued: ‘I took all of the precautions for my and Sophie’s safety that you would expect of places with their kind of reputation. But this is Britain. This is Surrey,’ he said opening his hands. ‘It’s supposed to be safe.’

  ‘Sadly, there is no such thing as absolute safety,’ Gillard said.

  ‘Look, what about this Albanian who was on my lawn, talking to my daughter?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘We haven’t made any clear progress on that. We only had that one brief statement from you about what was said between them,’ Gillard said. ‘But it is one of our major lines of enquiry.’

  ‘Well, we’re not waiting for you,’ Sophie said. ‘We’ve just taken on a private detective.’ She held up a letter.

  ‘Sophie,’ Dag said, rubbing his forehead in exasperation. ‘I told you not to mention that.’

  ‘Well actually I’m glad you did,’ Gillard replied. ‘In truth having two people chasing around trying to talk to the same witnesses only complicates matters. Particularly in the case of the kidnap, where the lives of your children are clearly in danger.’ Gillard asked the name of the firm they were using.

  ‘It’s GM Associates,’ Sophie said, reading from the letter. ‘A chap called Geoff Meadows. He says he knows you.’

  ‘He does indeed. I have no trouble working with Geoff.’ In fact he was secretly relieved to have such an experienced hand involved. Just as they were about to leave, Gillard said. ‘One more thing, Mrs Lund. You sent me a photograph of some bullets, said you’d kept the actual objects somewhere?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Hang on.’ She came back with a tin and showed it to Gillard. ‘Sorry about handling them and everything, I didn’t think about fingerprints.’

  They were indeed casings for pistol bullets, not shotgun cartridges. Someone had been firing a handgun.

  ‘Can you show me where you found them?’ Gillard asked. She nodded and led them into the boot room where she began to get changed into outdoor gear. The earlier rain had stopped, but it was half past three and the light was already getting low. Gillard went back to the car and got out a powerful LED inspection light from the boot and rejoined Michelle, Sophie and Dag at the back of the stables. Sophie led them on a slightly overgrown path which wound down through a copse on a footbridge over a stream, and then joined a larger but muddy track bearing right. There were a number of disused farm buildings at the top of the rise, and beyond them a windowless cottage.

  ‘We keep meaning to renovate all these,’ Sophie said. ‘But the Manor is such a money pit we never seem to get round to it.’ She led them into what would have been the back garden of the cottage, walled in what was once whitewashed brick, only a few flecks of paint remaining. The brickwork was overrun by ivy, nettles and brambles. Only the flag-stoned patio immediately behind the house was entirely clear of weeds, although a pavement path to the exterior gate could still be discerned.

  ‘It was right here that I found most of them,’ Sophie said, indicating the patio. ‘There’s a lot of broken glass down by the bottom wall, but it’s so overrun I didn’t feel like tackling it.’

  ‘It looks to me that someone has been doing a bit of target practice against the wall,’ Gillard said, illuminating the brickwork with the torch. ‘I’ll get someone to dig through this in daylight in the next couple of days. I’m sure we’ll find some bullets.’

  But even as he said it, Gillard was doubting that this could be connected to the abduction. A professional would never do their target practice in what was effectively the backyard of the victim. It just made no sense. On the way back to the house he shared his misgivings with Michelle Tsu. ‘This doesn’t add up,’ he whispered.

  ‘Maybe the eccentric neighbour likes to fire off a few rounds from time to time,’ she replied. ‘And maybe she’s a radical environmental activist.’

  ‘Christ, I hadn’t considered Geraldine Hinchcliffe at all,’ Gillard said. He now recalled that Geraldine Hinchcliffe had a Greenpeace sticker in the rear window of her car. And in her kitchen there was a calendar from some other environmentalist group – Sea Shepherd, he thought. ‘I do hope you’re wrong about there being a Hinchcliffe connection.’

  ‘Because she is the chief constable’s girlfriend?’

  News really does travel fast, Gillard thought. This investigation is getting more uncomfortable all the time.

  * * *

  Gillard dropped Tsu at Godalming railway station, just over five minutes from the village where the Lund children went to school. Driving out of the station car park, something occurred to him. On the edge of the town they had passed a Fiat dealership, still seemingly open late on a Sunday afternoon. He now turned around to go back to the place. The moment he set foot inside the showroom, a smartly dressed young man approached him with the usual sales patter. Before he’d got too far, Gillard identified himself and then showed him a photo of the au pair’s car. ‘Do you have any Fiat 500s in this livery?’

  ‘Yes, just the one.’ He led Gil
lard over to the car, near the front of the window of the dealership. ‘It’s pretty sporty for such an economical model, with three years warranty of course.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, but actually I don’t want to buy it. I’m on an investigation.’

  The young man pushed his hand through his dark hair. ‘Sorry, force of habit. Is this about those two abducted children? Seen that on the television. Terrible business.’

  ‘Indeed it is. So if I wanted to take it for a test drive, would I need to book it in advance?’

  The salesman now look confused ‘So you are interested?’

  ‘No, I mean if a customer wanted to take a test drive. A punter.’

  ‘Not necessarily. It depends.’

  ‘And you would go with the potential customer?’

  ‘Normally, unless we know them.’

  ‘Do you keep a record of the test drives?’

  ‘Well, we’re supposed to.’ He gave a conspiratorial look. ‘But in practice not always.’ The salesman led Gillard into the office and opened a ring binder. ‘They’re in here.’

  ‘Was this particular car taken on a test drive on Tuesday last week?’

  The salesman smiled. ‘Oh yes, I’ve no need to look that one up. It was, but it was returned within 25 minutes. I had thought about that when I saw the appeal on TV.’

  ‘You’re sure it was back that quickly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gillard shrugged and thanked the man. Still, it had been worth a try. He returned to his car and sat inside, and was just about to start the engine when he changed his mind. The salesman smiled to see him return. ‘Decided to buy after all, sir?’

  Gillard smiled indulgently. ‘Do you remember who took it for a spin?’

  ‘Yes, a charming Italian woman. She had been shopping for a Fiat for some time. Said her father used to make them. It was her third test drive in a week.’

  ‘No one else?’

  He checked the ledger. ‘Nope, that was it for that day.’

  ‘Did you or one of your colleagues go with her?’

  ‘No. As I say she had been a couple of times before. We trusted her not to drive off with it. We took an imprint of her credit card.’

  ‘No children in the car when she got back?’

  ‘No. Just her.’

  ‘I’d still like a record of her details, if you have them,’ Gillard said.

  The salesman flicked through a filing cabinet. ‘We don’t keep the credit card imprint, but I do recall a passport. Let me have a look. It might take a while.’ He began searching through screenshots on the PC.

  A little light bulb went off in Gillard’s head. ‘Bear with me one minute.’ He went back to the car and returned with his laptop which he powered up. Searching through the pictures connected with the case, he selected an image of Amber and David provided by the family. The two children were by a Christmas tree, surrounded with unopened presents. Sitting on the sofa behind them was a middle-aged woman in shiny tights, overly tight puce woollen dress and gold-framed spectacles. Teto Zerina.

  Gillard turned the screen so the salesman could see it. ‘Is this her?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Without a shadow of a doubt.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Gillard. ‘We need that car pushed out of the showroom and kept somewhere safe until we come to collect it…’

  ‘Pushed?’

  ‘Yes, ideally by fingertip with gloves on. No one is to go inside or touch the door handles. That car is a crime scene. Get one of you grease monkeys to disconnect the handbrake from underneath so it can be moved.’

  Gillard pulled out his phone and rang Rob Townsend to make arrangements. Auntie Zerina was one clever woman. She had taken the Lund children. But taken them where? And why?

  * * *

  Gillard drove straight back to Colsham Manor with the good news. Sophie Lund almost fell into his arms when she heard that the children were in all likelihood taken by their aunt. After waiting through a brief bout of tears, Gillard listened as she gradually moved from relief to indignation and from indignation to anger.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Sophie said. ‘Why didn’t she ask? We’ve encouraged Amber and David to keep in contact with her, and they both enjoy her company. Why on earth would she do something like this without speaking to me first?’

  ‘It’s possible that she no longer feels that they are safe at Colsham Manor,’ he said. ‘Maybe she knows something about the nature of the threats and hasn’t told you.’

  ‘But this is ridiculous. I’ve spoken to her most days since the abduction, and she seemed to be as worried about their safety as I was. In fact she was beside herself when I first told her. It just seems ridiculous that it was she who took them.’

  Gillard had to broach the trickiest matter. ‘From the point of view of Surrey Police, Mrs Lund, this matter may now be taken out of our hands.’

  ‘What? Are you really saying that she hasn’t broken the law?’

  ‘I’m sure she has, because you and your husband have parental responsibility and didn’t give her permission to take them. It’s more the fact that this becomes a child protection issue, in which social services would be in the driving seat. I’ve put in some calls to them but, seeing as it’s Sunday, not yet got any firm answers. My understanding is that there would be an emergency Family Court hearing to make the legal case watertight. In the meantime we have to tread a little carefully, but there are still numerous grounds for us to pursue the case, particularly if we have reason to believe that she might harm the children. Do you believe that might be the case?’

  Gillard watched Sophie Lund’s expression tighten as she calculated whether or not to lie in order to keep the police involved. Finally she said: ‘No, I don’t believe she would harm them. So where are they?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. They could be with her in Italy, but possibly still in the UK. We’re still checking her whereabouts. I’ve left a number of messages on Zerina Moretti’s mobile phone, but she hasn’t returned them. Perhaps if you were to try we might get a better result.’

  ‘Absolutely, I’ll ring her right now.’

  Gillard waited while Sophie made the call. ‘It went to voicemail,’ she said.

  ‘Surprise, surprise, she doesn’t want to speak to us,’ Gillard said.

  Monday morning

  Eventide Funeralcare in Thames Ditton was sandwiched between a Tesco Express and an independent financial adviser, and hid behind the blandest of shop frontages, with the signage in swirls of lilac. As instructed, Claire drove her unmarked Vauxhall up the shared access with the convenience store to parking bays around the back.

  She was met by Charles Anderson, the manager, a pleasant young man with short gingery hair and, for a man who listened to the last wishes of clients all day, the tiniest of ears. Claire had been notified yesterday morning that the coroner was satisfied to release Peter Young’s body to his family. Though there was much still to do in the investigation, the coroner’s initial report said that given that the cause of death was firmly established, the tissue, blood and organ samples being retained would be sufficient for any foreseeable further enquiry.

  That would be good news for Peter’s widow Laura, who appeared not to be coping very well. The first few days, as so often, seemed to be spent in denial. She had carried on renovating the house which she and Peter had bought together. According to liaison officer Gabby Underwood, Laura was well into the anger stage of grief. Being left with two young girls, a house in a barely liveable condition and all the mind-numbing probate paperwork had produced alternate bouts of inconsolable tears and a tendency to blame anyone who happened to be about. Gabby was used to being an emotional punchbag: none did it better. But even she struggled to find new ways to say that there had been little progress in finding the culprit. Claire knew that didn’t augur well for this evening’s interview.

  Her first task this morning, though, was one that required a small piece of subterfuge. She had asked to be present at the funeral home as Peter
Young’s body was being prepared. She explained it as natural curiosity, and indeed she had never seen it done, but she had an ulterior motive.

  Anderson introduced her to the embalmer, Tina, who was hidden under green scrubs, cap, face mask and overboots. They led Claire past the chapel of rest and along the corridor to the mortuary, a much smaller version of what she had seen at hospitals. ‘This is where we embalm the deceased,’ Anderson said.

  ‘The gentleman came in late yesterday, so we placed him in the fridge overnight,’ Tina said. She led Claire into another workshop-type room, where there was a floor-to-ceiling industrial refrigerator. Tina opened the door, letting a huge gust of cold air into the room. Claire’s ankles and feet were immediately chilled. The body, still zipped into the disposable body bag, was slid out onto a wheeled trolley and Tina pushed it through to the mortuary room. She and Anderson slid the bag onto an examination table. On a counter beside it was a cylinder like an office water cooler, with thick translucent rubber pipes, and next to it a tray of wicked-looking instruments.

  Tina unzipped the bag and a gust of foetid air wafted into the room. Claire felt her stomach twitch a little as the taint of death slid up her nostrils. The body was still inside the paper shroud provided after the post-mortem, and through it she could make out identity tags on both wrist and ankle. Tina slit the shroud with a scalpel, revealing Peter Young’s body as a pale, waxy mauve, with a huge, roughly sewn scar from pubis to clavicles and a matching scar across his scalp. ‘Because the gentleman has had a post-mortem, some of the messiest part of our work with the viscera has been done for us,’ Tina said. She used a spray disinfectant to cleanse him all over, particularly mouth, nose and ears, and carefully wiped the stains that disfigured the left-hand side of his head. The entry wound on the right side was by contrast small and unobtrusive. ‘I’ll rebuild the left-hand side of the skull with a wire frame and wax and cover the hair over later. Thankfully, he had a good head of hair. I’m still surprised they went for an open casket though,’ she said turning to Charles Anderson.