by Sibel Hodge
‘Huh?’ He frowned.
‘Well, I never know what I’m allowed to bloody say these days.’
‘You mean you want it black?’ Becky asked.
‘Yep.’ I sat upright and leaned my elbows on my desk. ‘So, what’s been going on here?’ I asked Becky.
‘Tracy Stevens doesn’t have a passport, but I’ve circulated her details to all ports anyway. Her phone’s been switched off since 11.31 p.m. on the night she was last seen in London Road. They’ll let me know if and when it gets switched back on. I’m awaiting an email from them about her call and text history. They’re expediting it so it should be here soon. About the council CCTV in London Road, though . . . Bad news, I’m afraid. There was some kind of major technical problem that night and it was down from the hours of nine p.m. to six a.m.’
I groaned. ‘Great. Then we need to contact any businesses or residential properties on that street with private cameras. The businesses will probably all be closed now, but hopefully we can get an out-of-hours number for them and get them to keep hold of it until we can check it out. Are there any bank account details we can go on? Has Tracy used a debit or credit card since she went missing?’
‘I’m still working on it, but I can’t find any details of Tracy actually having any bank account so far.’
I rubbed my forehead and stifled another yawn. ‘OK, good work. Have any sightings of Tracy come in following the press conference?’
‘The calls are being fielded to the new helpdesk and not us. Ronnie and I wouldn’t be able to cope with all those messages on our own so at least that’s something, I suppose.’
The helpdesk had been set up a few months ago to answer all kinds of random and bizarre questions that weren’t actually police problems, or that would involve a minimal amount of work finding the answer to. I knew one of the civilians who worked there and she’d given me a hilarious commentary about the kinds of things the public were phoning in about. It seemed crazy to me that police officers and civilians were being hoicked from real departments to answer queries like what to do about a deer wandering around in the garden when we were down to the bare bones of staff investigating a double murder. Modern policing at its finest.
‘So far, we’ve had the usual nutters coming out of the woodwork or questionable sightings. Nothing helpful,’ Becky added.
‘Are you allowed to say “nutters” now?’ I asked.
‘Probably not.’ She grinned, opening her drawer and peering at her stash of chocolate inside. ‘You want a Snickers?’ she asked me.
‘How come they don’t nick the Snickers but they take the milk and my cakes?’ I asked incredulously.
Her eyes glinted slyly. ‘I keep my drawer locked when I’m not here.’
‘A woman after my own heart,’ I said. ‘I’ll give twenty quid to anyone who comes up with a way to lock the fridge door.’
Ronnie stirred my coffee, looking down at the fridge thoughtfully.
Becky threw the Snickers in my direction, then said to Ronnie, ‘Want one?’
He rubbed his stomach as he put the mug of coffee on my desk. ‘No, thanks. I’ve got some raw almonds to snack on.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Becky tore the wrapper off her Snickers as if she hadn’t seen food in a week, took a huge bite and chewed quickly.
I did the same with mine and groaned appreciatively. ‘I think I’m a little bit in love with you,’ I said to Becky.
‘Now that’s sexual harassment.’ She pointed her Snickers at me.
‘So’s pointing a chocolate bar at me in a suggestive manner.’
I was going to miss her when I left. I’d miss Ronnie, too. Even listening to the sometimes graphic descriptions of his delicate intestines. If I left. Ellie’s words echoed in my ears. Why don’t you have a serious think about what you really want for your future and let me know. But don’t leave it too long. What the hell was I going to do? I pushed the thought away. There were more important things to deal with right now.
Becky put her half-eaten Snickers on her desk and said, ‘I finally got the phone and financials back for the Jamesons and Eagans. There’s nothing from the Eagans’ bank accounts that raises any flags. Other than Paula and Grant’s debt problem, which we’re already aware of, there’s nothing much to tell. Nothing suspicious going on in the Jamesons’ bank accounts, either. They lived on a state pension and had a couple of tax-free savings accounts with forty thousand pounds in. There are no strange transactions, no sudden withdrawals or deposits. In fact, they were pretty frugal and predictable in their spending patterns. There’s no trail linking them to any criminal activities. Mike didn’t have a mobile phone. Jan didn’t use hers much, only for texting her friends. There were no calls made from her mobile or the landline at the house the day they were killed and the only ones made in the weeks before their murder were to their GP, to Bill Graves, and to several friends. Paula’s phone records are equally innocuous. Nothing to link any of them to Tracy Stevens so far, or to connect the Jamesons to any unsavoury characters. They are what they seem – a respectable, retired couple with no criminal connections.’
‘Were,’ Ronnie corrected.
‘Yes, were,’ I said, glancing up at the whiteboard with the photos of Mike and Jan tacked to it, frustration and sadness coursing through me at their violent murder. They weren’t just a statistic to me, they were real people. Innocent people who didn’t deserve to die like that. I tore my gaze away and said, ‘OK, maybe the connection isn’t with Tracy. Maybe she was just along for the ride. It could be her accomplice that knew the Jamesons. I want you to go through Jan’s address book. Ronnie may well have spoken to a lot of their friends listed in it, but see if there are any people unaccounted for that seem suspect. Also find out if anyone the Jamesons knew have connections to Berrisford. They must’ve known Stevens or her accomplice somehow for them to rock up at that isolated address for whatever reason. There’s a link somewhere.’
‘Will do.’
‘Right, Ronnie, what have you got for me?’ I bit into another chunk of chocolate.
‘I took the pink stones recovered from Tracy’s bedroom to the lab. They had a look while I waited. I used my charm.’ He smiled broadly.
‘You didn’t tell them about your irritable bowel, did you?’ I asked.
Becky snorted with laughter and nearly choked on her Snickers.
Ronnie shook his head, taking it on the chin. ‘They did confirm the stones and glue appear to be a visual match to the ones found in the Jamesons’ lounge, though. They’d need to run more tests to confirm.’
I shrugged. ‘It’s just ticking boxes. We know Tracy was in both locations so it doesn’t move us any further forward.’ I threw my chocolate wrapper in the office bin and walked to the whiteboard, staring at the satellite map with the Jamesons’ property in the centre. I studied the surrounding area – Simms Livery Stables to the right, Bill Graves’s farm on the left, and the country lane in front of them both, the woods at the rear of the Jamesons’ land before it led to Parker Farm. The map was crystal clear – you could even see vehicles. No doubt on the Internet you could zoom in and see number plates and street signs. I wondered how often the satellite took photos and beamed them back to earth. George Orwell had got it spot on. Big Brother was watching every move we made, even if we didn’t realise it.
I pressed my palms together and rested my fingertips under my chin, my gaze drifting across to the photos of Tracy Stevens and the crime scene photos of the lounge.
I looked at the landline’s cordless handset on the coffee table in front of Jan’s corpse. Had it really all happened too fast for her to reach for it? I pictured her sitting on the sofa, reading the book that now rested on it, looking up and seeing the offenders at the rear patio doors. One of the offenders opening the unlocked door, the other close behind, suddenly in the room, Jan’s jaw dropping open, eyes wide with fear.
My visualisation was interrupted by Becky.
‘The email from Tracy’s phone compan
y’s here.’
I swung around.
‘They’ve got the calls but the texts will take a little longer to come in.’ She shoved the last of the chocolate bar in her mouth and clicked a few buttons on her laptop.
I walked to Becky’s desk and stood behind her as she opened the email. Attached to it was a paltry one-page document, which she printed out while Ronnie waited patiently by the printer so he could hand it to me when it had finished spewing out its contents.
‘Thanks.’ I took it and scanned the numbers. Her phone hadn’t been used for two days before she’d last been seen. I handed Becky the printout. ‘One of those numbers is probably Dex, her dealer. Some of them may be punters who probably won’t want to give us anything useful, but still, can you ring them all? See if any of them have heard from Tracy. See if any could be the accomplice she was with.’
Ronnie’s phone rang then and he rushed across the room to answer it as I glanced at the clock. It was just gone 10 p.m. and London Road would be coming alive soon.
Ronnie muttered a ‘thanks’ before hanging up and telling me it had been our counterparts in Bristol, who’d done a house enquiry at Tracy’s parents’ place. They hadn’t seen her since she’d left home at sixteen, and there was still a high degree of animosity directed at their daughter after all these years.
Another dead end.
THE MISSING
Chapter 34
I’m pacing the room. It’s seven steps long. Five steps wide. I count the steps in my head over and over again. Back and forth, back and forth I go, trying to get rid of the adrenaline trapped inside. Because I have to be strong when they come back for me. I don’t want to be a quivering wreck.
I’ve thought about what Dad would do. Even though I never knew him, Mum told me stories about what he got up to, and I’ve read books about the SAS. How they plan things. It doesn’t matter that I’m a skinny, short girl and they are huge, powerful men. Strength isn’t just about size. It’s all about the mental focus, too.
So I focus on the things I know. The red room I saw on the video wasn’t this cell-like building. It was bigger, with a camera capturing every vicious thing they did. It was covered from floor to ceiling in white tiles. White tiles that were spattered with . . . No. I’m not going that far ahead. I’m not going there. I push away the blood and the girl screaming on the wooden table in the middle of the room with restraints holding her locked in place as she struggled uselessly against them, and the sound of the baseball bat’s sickening crack against her body. There was another small table in the corner of that room with other tools that . . . Anyway, not thinking about that part, either.
The point is. The point is . . . it was a different room. So they’ll have to move me. Out along that corridor. And when they come for me, when they unlock that door, I can try to escape. The fat one said someone else had escaped. Did they get away? No, they couldn’t have, because they would’ve gone to the police already. They would’ve led them here. But that won’t stop me trying, too.
My gaze darts to the countdown clock.
3:45:23
3:45:22
3:45:21
My death is getting closer.
I swallow back the acid rising in my throat and think again.
Think! Think! Come on!
How? How can I do it when I have no weapon?
I clench my fists. Pace. Picture my dad’s face, smiling at me saying, You can do it, Toni. You can beat them.
‘What would you do?’ I say aloud. ‘How would you do it?’ But my dad was a big man, trained to kill with his hands. He could do a lot more than I ever could.
And then the thought slams into my brain.
The kirby grip in my hair. I can use it.
My hand flies to the top of my head, where I put my fringe up before I left the house to keep it out of my eyes. The grip is brown, like my hair, disguised.
I touch it. It’s still there. It didn’t fall out when I was punched and grabbed and tossed into the van. It slid further inside my thick hair, towards my scalp, covered over with other hair so that they didn’t even notice it.
I slide it out and the front of my hair falls down over my face. I bat it out of the way but it sticks to the slickness on my forehead. I grab it and smooth it away from my eyes then pick off the little plastic nub on the end of the wire grip, designed to prevent you stabbing your scalp with the sharp end of metal. But it’s not a grip any more, it’s a weapon. And I want that hard, blunt end exposed so I can stick it into an eyeball.
I grip the wire tight between my thumb and forefinger, like a crab’s pincer.
Then I hear knocking. And I freeze.
THE VIGILANTE
Chapter 35
I pulled into a layby on the journey back to Corinne’s, where a mobile burger van was parked up. I’d had just five hours’ sleep the night before and could feel my eyes getting heavy, my mind drifting, not concentrating on the road.
I got out of the pick-up and ran up and down the layby for five minutes to wake myself up, ignoring the curious look from the woman in the van.
Heart rate pumping, a burst of fresh air in my lungs and my muscles woken up, I walked towards her and ordered a monster burger and a bottle of orange juice to get some calories down me while I could.
By the time the bun was fully loaded, Lee was back on the phone. I answered with one hand, tucked the OJ in my pocket and reached out for the Styrofoam container from the woman with the other before heading back to the pick-up. ‘What have you got?’
‘Still no luck tracing the website. We’re doing all we can. Like I said, it’s a slow process trying different avenues. But I have some good intel for you. ANPR cameras picked up the van on the A1M on the day Toni disappeared. It’s definitely the same one, it has the same identifying marks. I hacked into traffic cameras en route and tracked it getting off at junction six, which is the Welwyn turn-off. It’s a small village in Hertfordshire. Then it disappeared from any cameras and hasn’t been seen since.’
I thought about that as I took a bite of the burger, chewed, swallowed. ‘So, three possibilities. Either they swapped vehicles somewhere after that. Or their destination was around that area, out in the country, with no cameras. Or it followed another route after it got off the motorway that managed to avoid any cameras.’ I took another bite. ‘I don’t think they swapped vehicles. They were already using a cloned plate that couldn’t be traced to them so it didn’t matter if they were caught on cameras because they didn’t bank on Bert filming them following Toni. So that leaves the last two choices.’
‘I’ve mapped out the surrounding areas near that junction. There are plenty of back roads with no cameras which lead to many villages along the way. They could’ve taken her anywhere.’
‘I thought you said this was good intel.’
‘Well, it gets better, because I know who the driver is.’
I detected a triumphant smile in his voice.
‘I matched him using facial recognition to the Met Police’s databases.’
I quickly swallowed the lump of burger in my mouth before I blurted out, ‘Who is he?’
‘Jimmy Delaney. He started off with minor vehicle crime – nicking cars and car stereos. Then he moved on to drug offences. Possession of cannabis and barbiturates. He’d been given fines and community service up till that point, until he got involved in an assault. He stabbed a bloke at a petrol station after a road rage incident. He got six years at Her Majesty’s pleasure for that, but he got out in three. He’s been back on the streets for just over a year.’
‘You got an address?’ I dumped the burger in the foam container, wiped my hand on a napkin, and reached for a pen and pad in the centre console.
‘Last known address was at 198 Balham Place, an estate in south-east London. When he got out, he signed on the dole for six months. At the time he was claiming benefits he told them he was living there. I’ve checked various databases, and he’s not on the voter’s register there or anywhere. H
e doesn’t have a vehicle registered to him at that address or any other. According to his tax and national insurance records, he’s received no payments from an employer and paid no tax since before he went inside. He’s got a bank account and their address for him is still Balham Place. And the guy thinks he’s clever but he’s a fucking idiot.’
‘How so?’
‘The people who pay to watch or direct the red room footage pay in D-coins, right?’
‘Yeah. Which is supposed to be anonymous, I know.’
‘Like I said before, it could’ve taken months to get a trail on the transactions, but his bank actually did me a huge favour. Delaney’s been getting payments from the company who holds his D-coin wallet directly into his regular bank account. For a guy who doesn’t appear to be working, he’s made fifty grand already this year in D-coin payments. He withdraws them in amounts of under ten grand, so it doesn’t raise any flags with the bank. All the deposits from his wallet include the same reference number. So I got into the wallet service, traced the reference number back to Delaney’s D-coin address and key. Then I made some test payments on the red room site and analysed some D-coin traffic. Long story short . . . Delaney’s D-coin address belongs to the red-room site. He’s your guy.’
I smiled. ‘Are there any other payments from the same wallet service to other people? Delaney can’t be doing this on his own. He’d need at least one other guy – someone to work the live feed on the Internet while the other was in the red room. He sounds like the hired muscle to me, rather than the brains behind this.’
‘I already checked that out. Delaney’s the only one taking money from the website. He regularly withdraws between five and nine grand a time after he takes a payment in D-coins, so I’m guessing he’s passing on cash to whoever else is involved. No paper trail.’
‘Whoever the others are, they’ll be keeping hidden so if anything goes wrong, Jimmy will be the fall guy because the money’s gone to his account.’