by Sibel Hodge
I snatched up the Samsung smartphone and pressed the home button. It asked me for a password. I wiggled it in front of him. ‘What’s the password?’
‘Five, five, four, four,’ he said wearily.
I typed it in and the home screen popped up.
‘I don’t look at children. That’s disgusting.’
‘What, and videoing people without their knowledge isn’t?’
‘You don’t understand.’ His voice was quiet now, deflated. ‘I can’t do anything any more.’ He slapped his legs. ‘I used to be like everyone else.’ He pointed a shaky finger out of the window, towards a man hurrying down the street, carrying a rucksack. ‘I used to be able to go anywhere. Now I’m stuck in here and I’m useless. Useless!’ His eyes watered. ‘So I . . . I film them because I’ve got no life. And I watch theirs instead. And I imagine that I’m them, walking, running. Going somewhere. Being able to go somewhere. Having that choice. I record it because I don’t like to miss anything. Please don’t tell anyone. I’m not doing anything to hurt people. It’s not like that.’
Of course I got it. I felt sympathy for him. But I couldn’t afford to indulge that in a long spiel about understanding. ‘I’m sorry for your situation.’ I looked at the phone screen again. ‘Was the camera recording when Toni left the house that day?’
‘Yes,’ he said softly.
I pressed on the security company’s icon.
‘I wouldn’t hurt anyone.’ He sobbed out loud.
‘Then you’ll want to help me, right?’
‘Of course.’
‘Where’s the camera set up?’
‘Attached to the satellite dish on the outside wall upstairs. It’s really small, you can’t notice it.’
Luckily, the videos were listed in date order. I scrolled back through to the date and time Toni went missing, pressed play and watched, my jaw tight with anticipation. The camera had a wide-angle view of the street and crisp definition. The footage had started off filming a thirty-something woman walking past his window. She had high heels on and a short skirt and kept flicking her long hair over her shoulder. After she went out of frame, a sparrow flew down and perched on Bert’s wooden bird table in his front garden, pecking at crusts of bread. A little later a mum walked up the street with a pushchair. And then I saw Toni emerging from her front door across the road.
She shut the door and stood on the front step for a moment, hesitating. Then she clamped her lips together and headed down the path. She turned left, in the direction of the cutting. Hurried down the street, her rucksack bouncing against her back as she took long, purposeful strides before disappearing from view.
And that’s when a van came into sight. White. Nondescript. No sign writing on it. Nothing to distinguish it from all the other thousands of white vans out there. It was following slowly behind Toni. The driver was blurred by the sunlight reflecting off the vehicle’s window, but I could tell he had his head turned away slightly, looking towards the kerb. Towards where Toni would be walking along the footpath. Not even a side profile of him, just the back of his head.
‘What is it?’ Bert asked meekly.
I waved my hand to silence him. Rewound it. Watched it again. And the more I watched, the more I observed further details I’d missed the first time.
The van had what looked like a patch of speckled rust over the offside rear wheel arch and a dent in the offside front wing in the shape of a V.
And the camera had managed to capture the registration plate.
THE DETECTIVE
Chapter 31
I yawned as I parked the car on the street outside Paula Eagan’s small terraced house. I ran my hands over my face and picked up my folder from the passenger seat.
She answered on the second knock. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying.
‘Do you have any news? I just saw the press appeal on TV.’ She stood awkwardly in front of me, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘They showed a photo of that woman. Do you really think she killed Mum and Dad?’
‘I don’t know if she pulled the trigger, but Tracy Stevens was there. We know that much. Can I come in for a moment?’
‘Yes.’ She led me into a compact but tidy lounge.
‘Is Grant here?’
‘Um . . . yes. Upstairs.’
‘I need to ask him some questions, too.’
‘I’ll just go and get him. Have a seat.’
I sat on a sagging velour sofa and heard her footsteps retreat upstairs. Then two pairs of heavy tread on the way back down. Grant came into the room followed by Paula. He was stocky with a beer gut, tattoo sleeves on both arms, and wearing a football shirt. I could understand why the Jamesons had taken a dislike to him. He looked like a thug. He was a drinker and a gambler. They obviously thought their daughter could do better. But everyone made mistakes. Hopefully he would turn his life around now he was getting help for his gambling problem. And looks could always be deceptive.
‘Do you have any news?’ Grant took hold of Paula’s hand and squeezed it. She slumped against his shoulder, as if she needed him for support.
‘Not yet, I’m afraid. But I wanted to know if you recognised Tracy Stevens when you saw her on the TV.’
‘No. I’ve never seen her before in my life,’ Grant said.
Paula shook her head. ‘Never.’
‘I have some other pictures of her. Sometimes people look different in different photos.’ I reached into my folder and pulled out some more samples, taken from when Tracy was arrested. I handed them to Paula and she flicked through, lips pressed together in a tight line, hatred burning in her eyes, while Grant looked over her shoulder. ‘I think it’s possible your parents might’ve known her.’
Slowly she shook her head. ‘No. I’ve never seen her before.’
‘Me, neither,’ Grant added.
‘Anyway, how on earth would my parents have known her? Detective Superintendent Greene said on TV it was a random attempted burglary that went wrong. Mum and Dad surprised them and then they were murdered. He thinks this Tracy Stevens and her accomplice panicked then and ran.’
Grant put his arm around his wife, giving her a look of sympathy. Whatever else he might have been, he looked like a man who genuinely cared about his wife.
‘Things aren’t always what they seem. I think there had to be some kind of connection between Tracy Stevens and your parents.’
Her jaw fell open. ‘You’re saying Dad was using a . . . a prostitute?’ Anger flashed in her eyes as she walked to the window overlooking the street and turned her back to me. ‘That’s absolutely ridiculous! They were a happily married couple. And they were always together. He wouldn’t have had the time, even if he’d wanted to . . . to . . . shag some whore.’
‘I’m not suggesting that at all.’
She swung around to face me, eyes full of hurt. ‘Then what are you suggesting?’
‘I very much doubt Tracy Stevens would’ve randomly stumbled upon your parents’ house, particularly when there were obviously empty properties right next door with plenty of things in them to steal. There must be a reason why they went there.’
She slumped down on the edge of the armchair. Grant stood behind her, hands on her shoulders.
‘It could’ve been your mum that knew Tracy,’ I suggested.
‘I don’t see how that’s possible,’ she snapped. ‘I told you all of Mum and Dad’s friends and they’re all middle-aged or retired, respectable couples. I’m pretty damn sure she wouldn’t have come into contact with a druggie prostitute!’
‘Did your parents ever do any volunteer work?’
‘No.’
‘Did they have any hobbies that took them out of the house? For example, were they members of any clubs, or maybe a gym?’ There’d been no monthly payments to any clubs from the Jamesons’ bank statements but maybe they’d paid in cash.
‘No. They were both homebirds, really. They liked gardening and reading and walks in the country. Sometimes Mum would meet up wit
h her friends for coffee.’
‘Tracy Stevens lived and worked in Berrisford. Did either of your parents ever mention going there? Or knowing anyone there?’
‘No. As far as I know they’ve never been there. It’s the other side of the county, and they definitely didn’t have friends up that way.’
‘Did they have any work done recently on their property? Maybe they came into contact with someone who scouted out the house when they were doing jobs for your parents.’ I’d found no bills in the collection of documents we’d taken from the house to indicate that but I had to ask.
She shook her head. ‘Mum didn’t say anything like that, but . . . well, as you know, she might not have done after the argument we had about the money. I doubt it, though. Dad was a dab hand at DIY and maintenance. He used to do everything around the place.’
But Mike had been ill. Maybe there was an urgent plumbing or electrical job that needed seeing to and couldn’t wait for Mike to recover.
None the wiser, I left Paula to her grief and got back in the car.
Bill Graves was in the middle of cooking an omelette when I got to his farm. He quickly ushered me into the kitchen and turned off the hob. The smell of fried onion and melted cheese hit my nostrils and my stomach rumbled.
‘Sorry to interrupt your dinner. This won’t take long,’ I said.
‘No problem. You’re lucky you caught me, actually. I’m just heading down to Brighton for a couple of days after dinner to stay with my sister.’ Bill leaned against the kitchen worktop and wiped his hands on a tea towel.
‘Did you see the press appeal on TV?’ I asked.
‘Sorry, I haven’t had time to watch the telly.’
I retrieved a photograph of Tracy from my file and showed it to him. ‘Do you recognise this woman? Did you ever see her visiting the Jamesons or hanging around the area? I know you didn’t see anything on the day of their murder, but before that, maybe?’
Bill took the photo and studied it, concentration etching lines on his forehead. ‘No, sorry. I’ve never seen her before. Is this who you think did it?’
‘We have evidence she was at their house.’
Bill shook his head and handed back the photo. ‘What could cause a young girl like that to do something so awful?’
I had no answer to that. Yet.
‘Did Jan or Mike mention anything about any maintenance people doing work on their property recently?’
Bill scrunched his face up, thinking. ‘No. Mike used to do everything like that.’
‘But he’d been ill. It’s possible someone they came into contact with recently targeted them.’
He shook his head. ‘No, they never mentioned any problems. And I’m pretty sure Jan would’ve just called me to help out until Mike got back on his feet if it was urgent. It’s how we’ve always done things with each other.’
‘OK, thanks.’
My next stop was Simms Livery Stables to ask Jenny Fullerton the same questions, but she’d never seen Tracy Stevens before, either.
I drove down the lane, swung a left and headed to Parker Farm.
I pulled to a stop outside the gates enclosing the property. Connor Parker had more security than Fort Knox now. I got out of the car and tried the gates but they were firmly locked. I pressed the bell on the wall several times but there was no response so I called Becky and asked her to see if she could find a phone number for Mr Parker.
After a few minutes of tapping sounds, Becky said, ‘He’s ex-directory, I’m afraid.’
‘OK, thanks. I’ll leave a note for him to contact me instead.’
I pulled a business card out of my glove box, wrote on the back, asking him to get in touch, and popped it in his post box attached to the wall. Then I headed back to the nick, knowing that I was missing something; some vital little thread that would make sense of everything, but unsure what the hell it could be.
THE VIGILANTE
Chapter 32
I wasn’t holding out much hope that Lee could trace an owner for the van. No one in their right minds would kidnap someone using an identifiable plate number. And these people were organised and clever and knew about anonymity. So the plates were either cloned or the van was stolen. But I had to try.
Lee picked up on the fourth ring. His first words were, ‘I’m still searching for some kind of vulnerability I can exploit on the website.’
‘I’m not chasing you up. I need something else. Can you check out a number plate for me?’ I explained what I’d seen.
‘Sure. Go ahead with it.’
I told him and listened to him typing on the other end.
‘Email me the video. I’ll check CCTV in the area that might’ve caught the van around the time Toni was taken. And depending on his route, it may have been picked up on Automatic Number Plate Recognition cameras, too.’
‘Will do. As soon as I hang up.’
‘Got it . . . The owner’s registered as a Timothy Clark. He lives in Norwich.’ Lee gave me the address. ‘There are no reports lost or stolen. The van’s got no markers against it. But my guess would be it’s cloned. If it was stolen or on a false plate, it would’ve been flagged up on any ANPR cameras straight away, and they wouldn’t want to risk that with Toni in the van.’
‘I think you’re right but it’s all I’ve got so I’ll take a drive up to the address. It’s got a dent in the driver’s side front wing and what looks like rust over the wheel arch, but it could be splatters of dirt. If you manage to find any other identifying marks on the van when you sharpen the image, let me know.’
‘I’m on it.’ Lee ended the call, and I emailed him the video from Bert’s phone, which he’d given me without any protest.
I filled a pint glass of water and downed it in one. Grabbed an apple from Corinne’s fruit bowl and went to find Maya, who was in the lounge on the sofa, legs tucked up beside her, staring through the French doors at the kids on the school’s playing field having a game of hockey, visible over Corinne’s boundary fence.
‘You OK?’ I asked.
She nodded. ‘I just feel so bad for Corinne. And I don’t think I’m helping her much. When I lost Jamie, I didn’t want people around me, watching me, feeling sorry for me, suffocating me. I wanted to be alone.’ She sighed. ‘I want to comfort her but there’s nothing I can do or say. I feel useless, to be honest.’
‘You and me both. But sometimes words aren’t necessary. Sometimes it’s enough just to be there for someone.’ I put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I have news, though. I’ve got a lead.’ I told her about the van.
Her eyes lit up. ‘That’s great.’ Then she took in the expression on my face and added, ‘Isn’t it?’
‘I think it’s a clone, but I’m going to check it out anyway. Who knows? We could get lucky.’
‘I’ll let Corinne know when she gets up. Hopefully, she’ll have managed a few hours’ sleep.’
I gave her a hug, grabbed my daysack and got in my pick-up. After setting up the satnav, I drove away.
I was an hour into my two-and-a-half-hour journey when Lee called back with a result. The day before Toni had gone missing, the van had been caught on a CCTV camera outside the public library Toni had visited. They’d obviously been watching her, finding out her movements, doing a recce of the area so they could work out where best to make the snatch. And the cameras had caught the driver in both full-frontal and side shots. Lee was going to run it through various systems and programs to see if he could come up with any kind of facial-recognition match. There were no passengers captured, but I suspected someone else would’ve been inside the van, hidden from view, ready to snatch Toni when the opportunity arose.
Lee had also enhanced the images from Bert’s video and confirmed the discoloured patch over the wheel arch was rust. He’d discovered another identifying mark on the van. A small, round, orange sticker on the corner of the glass panel in the right-hand rear door.
I clutched the steering wheel tight and concentrated on the road ahead, pr
aying we’d found the first intel that would lead me to Toni.
An hour and a half later I was in a residential street of narrow terraced houses. It was just gone 1 p.m., and I was worried that Timothy Clark, if he existed, would be at work. Luckily, a sweep of the road offered me up a prize. The van was outside his address in all its glory. The road was half full of parked cars on either side so I found a parking spot and switched off the engine. I reached for my phone to look at the images of the driver Lee had sent over to me. My first proper glimpse of the man I was certain had taken Toni. Lee had obviously zoomed in the camera shot as it was a close-up. A young guy, maybe mid-twenties. Dark, short hair. Thick eyebrows. A nose that looked like it had been busted a few times. Thin lips.
I ground my jaw, committed his face to memory, then took my Glock from my daysack, slid it into my pancake holster and untucked my shirt to cover it, before getting out of the car.
I approached the van from the rear. And with every footstep that took me closer, my eyes were fixed on the glass panel in the back doors.
No orange sticker.
When I was right up close to it I stood and looked at the driver’s side. No V-shaped dent. No rust.
My heart sank.
THE DETECTIVE
Chapter 33
‘Cup of coffee, guv?’ Ronnie asked from his position in front of the office kettle.
‘Yeah, thanks.’
‘There’s no milk, though. Someone nicked the last lot when Becky popped out.’
‘Bastards,’ Becky muttered, her head bent over some paperwork on her desk.
I plonked myself on my desk, feeling about a hundred years old. My back ached and my head throbbed. Maybe I should go to the gym. Go on a diet. Stop eating crap. Or maybe I really should retire. Somewhere warm where I could walk on the beach and swim in the sea. Didn’t they say the sun was good for old people? Not that I was that old, but I felt it these days. ‘I’ll have my coffee natural-coloured, please,’ I said to Ronnie.