‘No,’ Cannon said, stretching the word out with a rising tone that made it sound more like a question. ‘As I said, she told me she was working on a big piece, so I assumed it was taking up all her time. And I’ve been pretty busy myself so I simply haven’t got around to calling her recently. Look, what is your interest in Julia, DC Handley? Is she OK? Has something happened?’
About time, Handley thought, but said, ‘We’re not sure Mr Cannon. It’s possible she’s fine and just tucked away working on her story. But there is also a possibility she either knows the whereabouts of or is actually with the person we would like to talk to.’
‘I take it, in that case, that you can find neither Julia nor this other individual?’
‘That’s correct, sir,’ was all Handley would say.
There was silence for a while until Cannon spoke again. ‘Tell you what, detective, why don’t you finish your coffee and I’ll pop upstairs and gather the information you’re after – how does that sound?’
‘That’d be great, sir. I appreciate your help with this.’
‘Not at all,’ Cannon said as he hurried off towards the lift.
Handley had just enough time to finish his coffee before Cannon reappeared with a brown folder under one arm.
‘This is everything we could lay our hands on, detective,’ he said handing over the folder. ‘There’s her profile photo in there and I also took the opportunity to dig out the last couple of articles Julia submitted here. I don’t know if they’ll prove useful but I thought they may be of some interest to you.’
‘Thank you, Mr Cannon,’ Handley replied, accepting the folder. ‘Very thoughtful – and as you say they may well be useful.’
Handley rose from the table and held out a business card. ‘Thanks for your time and assistance, Mr Cannon. If anything else occurs to you, please get in touch.’
‘There was one more thing, detective, that may save you some time,’ replied Cannon, taking the proffered card.
‘Yes?’ said Handley, wondering why people always drew stuff out, rather than simply telling you straightaway. Was it out of a sense of drama, he thought, or did he just not have the ability to obtain pertinent information with his questioning?
‘I noticed,’ Cannon said, ‘from Julia’s personal information, that her listed address is here in London, which to be fair is where she spent most of her time. Only she has a second place, you see? I don’t have the exact address but I know it was out near Tiptree in Essex. It’s not on the file, not that it would need to be of course, but I thought it would help you to know – you may not have come across it otherwise.’
‘Indeed, thank you, sir. That is very useful and will have saved us quite a lot of time,’ Handley said. ‘Now I’ve disturbed your day enough, thanks again.’
‘Not at all,’ Cannon replied shaking Handley’s hand.
As he exited the offices, Handley resisted the urge to pull open the file and call DCI Tanner immediately. He wanted a chance to work through what was there and follow up where he needed to. So, feigning a casual air, he walked back to the tube station and began to make his way back to the office.
He decided to read the contents of the file on the tube. All the information he’d requested was there, including the address of her London home which was in Islington. Handley sat expressionless for a moment – in his mind his meaty hand had just delivered an almighty slap to his forehead. She lived in Islington. He was on the Piccadilly line heading south. Had he looked at the file before boarding he could have got on the Victoria line at St. Pancras and gone straight to Highbury & Islington from there. With a grunt of annoyance at his own lack of foresight he rose from his seat and waited for the train to stop at the next station so he could turn around and start all over again.
*
With mixed feelings of relief and wariness Handley pushed the key into the lock of Julia Metcalfe’s flat. The block had been easily found a short walk from the tube station. During his walk there he had called the office to have a check run on the address.
On arriving, he’d knocked on her door twice to no answer and had tried her mobile phone twice, again to no answer and with no ringtone sounds coming from inside the flat. The office called back to say the flat was rented and so a second call to the letting agent had resulted in a young, skinny and nervous woman turning up with a spare set of keys.
The door swung open easily enough and Handley peered down a short hall with two doors off to the side and a third facing him at the far end. All were closed. He made to enter the flat then realised the young letting agent was shuffling about behind him, trying to see past him into the flat whilst at the same time trying to avoid actually entering.
‘It’s ok, you can wait outside. No reason for us both going in,’ he said, to the girl’s relief.
There were several letters and a pile of junk mail inside the door, testifying to the flat having been empty for some time. Moving these carefully to one side with the toe of his shoe, Handley entered the hall.
He tried the door to the left first, which led to a messy bedroom. Clothes were strewn around the floor, hung carelessly on a drier and draped over what looked like an old armchair – although it was hard to see what it was under the mass of jeans, jumpers and t-shirts. A dresser to one side was covered with make-up and jars of various creams. Its drawers were all slightly open – spilling socks, knickers and bras. The bed was a double and hadn’t been made, duvet thrown to one side. Clearly it had been left like that the last time its occupier had got up.
It was hard to be sure but Handley felt the room had always looked this way and the mess had not been created by anyone other than Julia Metcalfe herself.
He turned his attention to the door across the hall. As he’d suspected it was the bathroom, except with no bath, just a shower. The room also showed a certain lack of care and attention; it wasn’t dirty exactly, it just looked like its upkeep was very low on the occupant’s priority list. Again, nothing particularly stood out as noteworthy or troubling.
Finally, he turned his attention to the door at the far end of the hall. He already knew it must be the living room and, he assumed, the kitchen.
As soon as the door was open, he knew that the mess in front of him was not the casual untidiness of a busy and non-house-proud individual. The room had been turned upside down: paper and folders were scattered across the floor, an armchair had been turned over, two filing cabinets were lying on their sides with drawers pulled out – their contents, presumably, the swathes of paper on the floor.
Handley took an involuntary step back – he was in a crime scene. For some reason he hadn’t expected that to be the case. He had thought he would find the flat in an untouched condition but perhaps yielding a clue as to the last time Julia had been there or where she might be now. The place being done over like this hadn’t crossed his mind and now that it was obvious he cursed himself for the second time that day. He would have to explain to SOCO that he had touched a number of objects and door handles without gloves. There would be much tutting and heavenward glances and much embarrassment for him. Malcolm Tanner’s unamused, frowning visage came into his mind, shaking his bald head with deep disapproval. Handley shivered.
He turned and headed straight back out of the flat and called it into the station. Half an hour later, two uniforms, a team of three SOCOs and Handley’s colleague DS Davey Roberts were on scene.
‘Nice one Tone,’ was all Roberts had said when he heard of Handley’s blunder. They were standing outside the block of flats having made way for SOCO to do their thing and having sent the now visibly trembling letting agent back to her office.
‘Someone was looking for something in there,’ Roberts said once they were alone. ‘That doesn’t look like standard burglary to me. Door wasn’t forced for a start and the telly’s still there.’
Handley nodded. Davey Roberts was a decent sergeant and a good detective but had a propensity for stating the obvious and in a way that sounded like it was a
revelation.
‘How do we play this, Davey?’ Handley asked. ‘I couldn’t track down DCI Tanner to fill him in and Julia’s still missing. I think we need to concentrate on finding her now as the highest priority. Should we work together or spread the tasks between us?’
‘Yeah, Tanner’s in some management meeting or something, so I’m in charge this afternoon,’ Roberts said with a grin. ‘I’ll bring him up to speed when he’s out. I heard you found out about a second address for her, that right?’
Handley nodded. ‘Yeah, I haven’t got an exact address but it’s out in Essex somewhere.’
‘OK,’ Roberts said, ‘you head back to the office, see what you can find on this second address. I’ll wait here and see what comes up, if anything, and let you know as soon as I do anything that seems pertinent.’
Relieved at the decision over their course of action being taken out of his hands, Handley headed back to the tube station.
The hour it took to get back to the office felt like an eternity to Handley. He was desperate to find the second address for Julia Metcalfe and more desperate still to find her. His gut feeling was that she was in real trouble – either she was with Marcus Travers and both were on the run from whoever had turned the flat over, or Marcus and her had not been bosom buddies after all and he was the one who had turned the flat over. In either case, the likely outcome for Julia was not looking great.
The office was quiet when he eventually got back in. Most of his colleagues were out and it appeared the management meeting was still going on as there was still no sign of DCI Tanner. Handley swiftly headed over to his desk and unlocked the computer. He knew that with the new information he had on Julia Metcalfe he should be able to track down her second address easily enough. The search took five minutes – her second property was a cottage and, as Gary Cannon had said, it was near Tiptree in Essex. After a further five minutes he had a landline phone number for the place. He tried this several times and was unsurprised when there was no answer. On the off-chance he tried her mobile number again. Nothing.
Handley sat for a minute, fingers drumming on the desk, wondering whether he should wait for DCI Tanner, call DS Roberts or head straight out to Essex and let them both know he was on his way there. It took him 10 seconds to come to the conclusion that he couldn’t wait. Snatching his jacket off the back of his chair he made for the exit, dialling DS Roberts as he went.
*
As was usual for that part of the country, the drive took far longer than it should have. Traffic, roadworks and finally single-track country lanes conspired to slow his progress, with Handley becoming more and more agitated as time went on.
Eventually, he found the cottage. It was a typical picture-postcard country cottage: ivy growing up the walls on either side of the door, with what had probably been a neat and pretty garden out front. Handley noted it hadn’t been tended for some time, but then thought of the state of Julia’s bedroom and decided it didn’t necessarily mean anything. Surrounded by fields with a small woodland visible not too far away, the place was almost a cliché for the rural idyll. The nearest neighbours – he’d checked before leaving the office – were half a mile in one direction and a mile in the other.
Leaving his car unlocked, Handley made his way to the front door and knocked loudly. When there was no answer he began peering through the front windows. They both looked into what appeared to be a living room and it was in a complete state. The similarity with Julia’s flat was striking in that there was paper and files everywhere and furniture turned over; the only difference in this case was that the TV had been knocked over and lay smashed on the floor.
Becoming increasingly worried and concerned, Handley rushed round towards the back of the cottage. He found a back door in the side wall, which was locked. Further along the same wall was a small window but it was too grimy to see anything through it. Moving to the rear of the cottage there were two further windows. The first looked into the kitchen. Shielding his eyes from the reflecting sunlight, Handley peered in.
At first sight there was nothing of note to see. It was just a kitchen – there was a cooker and a fridge, various utensils hanging from a stand and a spice rack on the worktop. About to move on after this cursory glance he then realised his brain had been screaming that he had missed something. He looked again, more carefully this time.
After a second of complete stillness, Handley stepped back, turned and ran towards his car.
This was his second crime scene of the day, but this one contained a lot more blood.
‘89
This was it. He was finally ready to make his move. The Quest would begin here, tonight. His heart rate climbed another notch. The hairs on his arms rose and his skin tingled with the rush of fear and excitement. He tried unsuccessfully to calm his breathing which came in short, rapid pulses. He felt like a lion stalking its prey, inching nearer while muscles bunched, readying for the attack. Confidence, fear, worry, horror and elation filled his mind; this was the culmination of years of mental turmoil, months of suppressing the Urge and weeks of trials and practice.
He felt ready, knew deep within himself exactly how this would play out. He was already anticipating every move his target would make, every possible action and reaction. A thrill ran down his spine as she drew nearer to his intended capture site. Tonight, for the first time, he would Deliver a proxy. Tonight he would, at last, be able to penetrate her over and over, spilling this woman’s blood for her.
He was only 10 yards behind now. Too close, he told himself. He needed to calm himself down – his carefully laid plans would disappear if he allowed himself to get over-excited and rush in. Besides, he wanted to remember tonight for some time, wanted to be able to savour his first time in every detail, to dream the events of tonight with perfect clarity: the knife rising and falling, the muffled screams and pleas from his victim, the carving of her flesh with the mark of their shame.
With a huge effort of will, he stopped and bent down to feign tying his shoelace, calming himself with deep breaths whilst continuing to watch his target closely. Through hooded eyes he judged the distance between them to be just the right balance between close enough to make his move and far enough back for her to feel safe.
He had spotted her in Edinburgh’s Grassmarket, a square that sat below the looming, ancient castle that dominated the city. It was a popular nightspot for all sorts, from students and dealers to local hard men and tourists. It was Friday night and the area was predictably busy. He had visited a couple of the bars that occupied almost every other building and hung around watching, searching out an appropriate target. He’d been doing his best to blend in. He knew that a well-heeled, 20-something guy drinking alone would draw looks and attention he didn’t want. So he had, over the last few months, become adept at placing himself on the fringes of groups of drinkers, giving the appearance of being part of the group whilst staying far enough back to avoid them feeling he was trying to eavesdrop or butt in. It was on leaving one of these bars that she had come to his attention.
She’d been walking alone towards King’s Stables Road, that wound around the sheer sides of the mound on which the castle stood. She was of indeterminate age – younger than 30 but older than 20 – and by the way she was dressed he thought she had to be either a local ‘schemie’ or a prostitute or both. Either way, she was ideal. King’s Stables Road ran past a number of isolated spots and if he could catch her near one of these, he would have a chance.
He had wasted no time in moving to follow her and felt the excitement grow immediately – thoughts of sating the Urge for the first time beginning to fill his mind.
The Urge had been building steadily over the two years since its inception. He had graduated with a first class degree during that time and walked straight into a job at the Scottish Office. He hadn’t been home since then and had kept contact with his parents to a minimum. At first, he had used the Urge as nothing more than a comforting fantasy, one that prevented nightmares
and allowed the semblance of normal sleep and life. But gradually, it had grown – becoming more and more powerful with each imagining. Eventually, he had been unable to resist acting on it. The problem was the dreams and images didn’t show him how to go about the tricky business of obtaining a suitable proxy. That was something he would have to work out for himself.
He had initially thought that it should be relatively easy to identify a target in a quiet unpopulated spot, grab them, and then drag them into the bushes to carry out whatever he intended to do. In reality the city was busy and people, especially at night, could be found in every nook and cranny. Potential targets were not easy to follow and even harder to catch. Suitable places were few and far between and even when he found these they always felt like obvious spots for the police to patrol looking for nefarious types up to no good. Then there were the nerves and other elements that were out of his control. What if his target were to fight back much harder than expected? What if he were interrupted? And what if he were to lose his bottle? There was so much that couldn’t be controlled and he hated not having complete control.
Eventually, he had determined to begin with following potential targets to see how far he could get. The first few attempts went badly – they had spotted him quickly and would keep looking round to see if he was still there and then quicken their pace or head into a pub or café. It frustrated him that he couldn’t appear nonchalant enough to look as though he was simply following the same route and not interested in them or where they were going. There had to be something in his demeanour that alerted them to his intentions.
And so he had practised his technique for another three weeks, gaining some confidence and improving each time. He perfected a casual strolling gait that gave the impression he was just another person wandering their way home after a night out. He worked on observing his target from the other side of the road whilst never giving any hint he was looking at them or giving any attention to their movements. He would watch carefully as they neared junctions and learned to judge when they might turn or simply cross over and carry straight on. He got good enough on occasion to also be in front of them, listening to the sound of their shoes on the pavement to determine where they were and where they went.
Foreign Bodies Page 17