by T. M. Logan
I want to help. Please tell me how to find her. Just the address
No reply. I ring the number, only to be greeted by an automated female voice.
‘Sorry, this number is out of service.’
I curse and throw the phone on the bed. He’s likely already destroyed the SIM card and dumped the phone. I suppose I could sit around here and wait for him to contact me again. Or I could take the initiative, get on the front foot. I wasn’t sure of a surname for Mia’s grandparents, but I could start with Clifton and see where that led. I remember a favourite quote of one of the instructors at the Royal Naval College, who taught the leadership element of the officers’ course. A good plan, vigorously executed now, is better than a perfect plan next week. The words have always stuck in my memory for some reason. It’s better to crack on with what you have, rather than waiting and waiting for everything to line up in perfect order. Do I even have a good plan? Maybe not, but I’m certainly not going to sit around in a hotel room waiting for my phone to ring. I grab my keys and coat and head out.
*
As I drive north out of London, I turn the question over in my head. Did I mean what I said to Dominic, when I agreed to talk to Mia’s grandparents? Was I just saying whatever I needed to say, to get away from him in one piece? Maybe. But beneath that there is something else. I want to know if what he said is true, to judge for myself if Mia is safe. I told Dominic I would talk to them – and I will. To warn them. All I have to do is find her.
Prestwood Ash is a small, picture-perfect Chiltern village nestled in a shallow valley. Huge oaks and horse chestnut trees tower on both sides of the road as I approach, branches touching overhead as if I am driving through a dark, forested tunnel. The satnav announces that I’ve reached the village, a speed limit sign urging drivers to stick to twenty miles an hour, the trees giving way to hedgerows, then walls and fences, then a neat village green with large houses set back behind gates and walls. I drive around for a few minutes, taking it slowly, getting a feel for the place. Three and four cars on shaded driveways, Range Rovers and Mercedes, Audis and a couple of Aston Martins. A tennis court in the garden of one house, a triple garage next door, an outdoor pool covered for the winter; landscaped lawns and tall wrought iron gates. Everything about it says money.
It’s not quite what I had envisaged. I thought there would be somewhere I could go, a meeting place with people I could ask. But there is no pub, no post office, no starting place for a conversation that might lead me to the right house. I even thought I might catch sight of Mia through a window, maybe in a pushchair being taken for a walk. But it’s almost six o’clock on a Friday evening and a sharp autumn shower from the darkening skies seems to have cleared the streets of people, if there were even any out in the first place. Maybe this isn’t the kind of place where you walk even when the sun’s shining. I circle the village twice, driving in and out of the long main road before doing a U-turn in a farmer’s track and going back through, looking for a car seat strapped into a car, a stroller in a porch, a glimpse through a window. Nothing.
An elderly man walking a dog emerges from the woods at the end of the lane. I wait for him to come level with my car and buzz my window down.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, ‘I’m a bit lost, could you help me? I’m looking for the Clifton house.’
His eyes narrow slightly, the lines of his face pinching into a frown as he clocks me for an outsider. He bends awkwardly down to my window.
‘Who?’
I repeat the question and his frown deepens.
‘Sorry.’ He shakes his head. ‘Can’t help you.’
Turning around again, I drive back up the main street and pull over next to a teenage boy on a bike. He’s maybe thirteen or fourteen, leaning on his handlebars and intent on the screen of his mobile phone, and he barely removes one earpod for long enough to listen to my question before shaking his head no and putting it back into his ear.
A single street lamp flickers hesitantly into life, throwing a narrow wash of pale light that only serves to emphasise how dark the rest of the street has become as night falls. I’m starting to get the feeling that Prestwood Ash is one of those places you see on the news sometimes, the kind of place where everyone keeps themselves to themselves, where you might know your immediate neighbours to say hello to but not many beyond that. No pub to bump into people, no shop to trade gossip at the till, most residents happy to stay cocooned inside their own little bubbles of wealth, with their walls and gates and gravel driveways. I take out my phone and google the village name again in frustration. This is definitely the place. One of these houses. There can’t be more than a few dozen here, fifty at most. But which one? I get out of my car and go to the nearest gate, a driveway leading up to a large whitewashed house with a thatched roof.
I press the buzzer and a woman’s voice barks a single word in response.
‘Yes?’
‘Hi, I wonder if you can help me, I’m looking for—’
‘Not interested, thank you.’
The intercom clicks again: the conversation is over. I walk down to the next gate, the next intercom, press the buzzer. A dazzling halogen security light comes on, half-blinding me, but there is no answer at all from inside the house. The next one has never heard the name Clifton and the occupant of the one after that – an older man by the sound of him, with a thin, reedy voice like a frightened bird – threatens to call the police if I press the bell again.
It’s almost fully dark now, windy, wet and cold out – all factors working against me, against the stranger at the gate. I could keep knocking on doors in the hope of striking lucky or finding someone who knows Kathryn’s family. But almost all of these houses have gates with intercoms, cameras and keypads to keep visitors at arms’ length. I get a strong sense that the residents of Prestwood Ash are pulling curtains and locking doors, hunkering down, shutting themselves up in their multimillion pound houses for the night. But there’s still a little time left. I’ve got to try.
I’m starting up another tree-shaded driveway when I register the sound of rapid footsteps behind me. A heavy, unfriendly tap on my shoulder. A man’s voice.
‘Hey!’ the voice says. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
47
I turn and recognise him instantly. Tall and heavily built with a sleeve of tattoos visible through his white shirt, dark hair cropped close to his scalp. Kathryn’s boyfriend, Max, faces me at the head of the driveway.
‘I asked you a question,’ he says. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Trying to find someone.’
He stands close, too close, pure aggression in the set of his shoulders and the jut of his chin. ‘You are one of them, aren’t you?’
‘What?’
‘A reporter.’ His eyes narrow. ‘Trying to stir up shit and print lies about people.’
‘I’m not a reporter. We met the other day, remember?’
‘And now you’re knocking on my mum’s door.’ He jerks a thumb back over his shoulder towards one of the other houses on the street. ‘You can’t go around harassing people in their own homes.’
‘I wasn’t harassing anyone, I was just trying to find out where—’
‘Who do you work for? The Sun? Express?’
He moves still closer and I smell his sharply pungent aftershave with a base coat of sour sweat. He’s got to be sixteen stone at least, the kind of guy who’s used to impressing and intimidating people with his size, his bulk, using it to get what he wants. I take a step back away from him – further from the street, from the anaemic street light – and he comes forward again, nostrils flaring. I go to move around and past him but he puts out his big arms and now he’s crowding me, blocking my path back to the pavement. There’s no one else around, dusk is falling fast, and for the first time I feel a shiver of unease flash up my spine. I think of the attack alarm in my handbag, slung over my shoulder, wondering if anyone will respond if I trigger it.
‘Let me through,�
� I say, trying to make it sound more like an instruction than a request.
‘You don’t get away that easily. Not until I’ve seen some ID.’
‘Can you let me pass, please?’
‘Show me your ID.’
‘I’m not going to do that.’ I reach into my handbag.
‘Then you ain’t leaving.’ He jerks his chin at my handbag. ‘What’s in the bag?’
‘Nothing very interesting.’
‘OK I’ll just report you for harassment right now then.’ He pulls a mobile from his pocket and before I know what he’s doing there’s a camera flash. ‘I’m sick of you people.’
‘Did you just take my picture?’
‘Going to make sure everyone knows who you are.’
‘This is ridiculous.’
‘I’ve got another idea,’ he says. ‘How about—’
Another voice cuts him off. A male voice, calm, neutral, reasonable. ‘Is there a problem here?’
Half over his shoulder, Max says tonelessly, ‘No problem, mate.’
There is a crunch of footsteps on gravel as the figure approaches and I feel the relief and gratitude wash through me as a familiar face appears at Max’s shoulder.
‘Everything all right?’ Gilbourne asks.
‘Everything’s cool,’ Max says, without taking his eyes off me. ‘We’re just having a chat.’
‘Why don’t you take a couple of steps back, sir.’
Max turns on him angrily, his expression darkening as he registers the warrant card open in Gilbourne’s hand, the photo ID and Met Police crest.
‘Eh?’
‘Just take two steps back, sir, and we’ll get this all sorted out, shall we?’
‘She’s harassing people.’
‘It’s all right. She’s with me.’
‘What?’ Max’s face creases with confusion. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We were actually just leaving, weren’t we Ellen?’ He gives Max a nod. ‘Have a good evening, sir.’
He turns and heads back out to the pavement. Max doesn’t try to stop me as I follow.
When we’re safely out of earshot, I say: ‘Max seems to have some anger issues.’
‘Yeah. We’ve been keeping an eye on him.’
‘Is that why you’re here? Because he’s a suspect?’
Gilbourne gives me a sideways glance as we walk beside the village green. He has his hands in his pockets and his pace is slow, casual, as if he’s in no hurry to be anywhere else.
‘To be honest, Ellen, I’m more interested in why you’re here.’
There doesn’t seem to be any reason to lie.
‘You know why. I’m looking for Mia.’
‘And what do you plan to do when you find her?’
‘Warn them. Tell them about Dominic Church, about Leon Markovitz, about people coming after her.’
‘You think they don’t know about all of that already?’
I blow out a breath. ‘I have to do something. I have to know that she’s safe.’
He considers my answer for a moment. ‘So have you found her?’
‘Not yet.’ When he doesn’t reply, I add, ‘Is this where you tell me to back off, keep my nose out of it again?’
He looks across at me and sighs. ‘I don’t think you’re the sort of person who takes kindly to being told what to do, Ellen. I’m just worried about you, that’s all.’
‘I’m fine. I can’t just sit on my hands waiting for news.’ Something occurs to me. ‘But you know where she is, right?’
‘I do, yes.’
‘How about you tell me, off the record? Since I’ve driven all the way out here.’
‘You know I can’t do that, Ellen. It would be breaching about six different rules.’
‘I thought you weren’t bothered about breaking the rules now and again?’
‘I’m bothered about the victim’s family,’ he says. ‘They need privacy.’
We reach my Citroën; his black Alfa Romeo is parked right next to it. He leans against the door of his car and slides a cigarette out of a packet of Marlboros. I’ve been trying to decide for the last few hours whether to tell him what happened at the rooftop car park today. But now we’re here, together, and I can still feel the tingle of relief that he defused the situation with Max. I make a snap decision.
‘I spoke to Dominic today.’
Gilbourne’s eyes widen, the lighter pausing on its way to his cigarette.
I update him – in broad outline – what Dominic told me earlier. ‘He said she’s in danger, she’s a sitting duck. He asked me to talk to her grandparents, persuade them to take her somewhere else.’
Gilbourne blows out a lungful of smoke with an exasperated sigh.
‘Well of course that’s what he wants, Ellen. He tried to take her from you and failed. He’s tried to get to her there, and failed again. So he wants Mia to be out in the open, unprotected, where he can try to get to her for a third time. She’s much better off where she is.’
‘So, should she have police protection at the house, some kind of security?’
‘I offered that to the family but they declined. They’re private people. Her grandfather in particular is quite a . . . strong-willed character. Knows what he wants.’ He gestures at me with his cigarette. ‘He’s not the only one. You don’t give up, do you?’
‘I can’t get Mia out of my head.’
He takes a deep drag, blows grey streams of smoke through his nose that drift and dissipate on the evening air.
‘I don’t get you, Ellen. You don’t have skin in this game, Mia’s not your flesh and blood. You could have walked away, but you didn’t.’
For a moment, I think about telling him a story I have only ever shared with Richard. About the memories I can’t shake, the guilt that pulls me down with invisible anchors. About the first time a complete stranger had put her baby in my arms.
A decade ago, a different time, a different life.
He says, ‘Why are you putting yourself at risk?’
‘Because sometimes you just have to do what you think is right, and damn the consequences.’
‘Amen to that.’
‘So let me help you.’
‘You can help me by staying safe.’ He drops his cigarette onto the tarmac and grinds it beneath his shoe. ‘Listen, I’ve got to get back to the station, let’s catch up tomorrow. And Ellen?’
‘Yes?’
‘Look after yourself.’
‘Thanks for earlier.’ I gesture back over my shoulder. ‘With Max.’
He nods, gives me a half-smile.
‘You’re welcome.’
He drives away and I watch as his Alfa Romeo accelerates into the distance and then, as the road curves away, is gone. I get in my own car and sit for a minute, thinking about what he said. He didn’t specifically say I couldn’t keep looking for Mia. He wants Mia to be out in the open, unprotected, where he can try to get to her for a third time. The least I can do is tell Mia’s grandparents what Dominic is planning.
I resolve to come back in the morning. And even if I have to knock on every door in the village, I’m going to find her.
SATURDAY
48
There is a buzzing by my ear. I jerk awake, wreathed in sweat, a moment of terror as I realise I have absolutely no idea where I am. A dark room, almost pitch black, just a thin line of light to my right side. Not my pillow, not my bed. Not my house. I twist onto my back, heart drumming against my ribs—
The hotel. It’s OK. I’m OK. The door is shut, the room is quiet. No one in the shadows behind the door. No one here but me. My phone, on the bedside table, buzzes again. Two texts from Tara.
Morning. How’s the hotel? Sleep OK? T x
Check your email x
It’s 6.09 a.m., I guess she’s up early with the boys. I let go a deep breath.
My head throbs from lack of sleep. I swing my legs out of bed and pull the blackout curtain halfway open, squinting as grey morning light floods the room. I fli
ck the little kettle on and pour a sachet of instant coffee into one of the mugs on a pull-out tray below the desk. Check the chain is still secured on the door and get back on the bed, unplugging my phone from the charger. There are a few emails from work which I ignore.
And there at the top of my inbox is a forwarded email from Tara, with a message from her at the top.
Hope you’re OK. Dizzy fine. See below. Call me if you want ANYTHING. Take care, T xx
Below it, the original message from Matt Simms, Crime Correspondent at the Daily Mail. Sent to her just after 10 p.m. last night.
Hey Tara,
Great to talk earlier, really good to hear from you. Brilliant to hear you’re looking for freelance stuff, will mention your name to a few buddies. Here’s the link to that unsolved case I mentioned on the phone:
www.dailymail.co.uk/news/uk/crime/alkj8lpoa9bqtrd
Let me know when you want to go for that drink
Matt x
I click on the link and a new browser window opens on my phone, the screen filling with a headline from the MailOnline.
Has The Ghost Struck Again?
By Matt Simms, Crime Correspondent
A WOMAN attacked and left for dead could be the latest victim of a serial killer dubbed the Ghost, according to police.
Detectives are appealing for witnesses after a 30-year-old woman was subjected to a ‘sustained and brutal’ attack in a London park. The victim is believed to be in a critical but stable condition in hospital.
A Metropolitan Police source said, ‘It’s very possible these three cases are linked – the latest attack bears all the hallmarks of previous crimes. We need to stop this man before he strikes again.’
The killer, dubbed ‘the Ghost’ on social media after police were left baffled by the lack of physical evidence at his crime scenes, has evaded officers for more than three months. Murder detectives have reportedly been unable to find ANY fingerprints, fibres or traces of DNA that could help them narrow the search before he strikes again.