by Ed James
He looked her up and down, his breathing settling. ‘A prison cell.’ He shook his head. ‘How can everything be okay when you’re locked up like that?’
‘I want to help find who did this, Howard. We’ll find who put you in that cell, okay?’
He nodded.
Palmer let out a shallow breath. ‘What’s your full name, Howard?’
‘What’s the date?’
‘It’s Tuesday the tenth of March.’
‘Isn’t life a dream?’ Howard slumped back in the bed. ‘Howard.’ He looked over at Hayden by the door. ‘My name is Howard!’
‘Have you got a surname, Howard?’
‘Howard Ritchie.’ He spoke like a child in primary school learning to repeat his name over and over. Had his ordeal reduced him to this, or did he have a learning disorder? ‘Howard Ritchie. I’m Howard Ritchie. Isn’t life a dream?’
‘That’s good, Howard. Thanks.’ Palmer gave him her warmest smile. ‘And how old are you, Howard?’
He frowned. ‘There’s nothing he can’t do.’
Palmer was starting to think a learning disability was more likely. ‘When were you born, Howard?’
‘Ninety. June. Eighteenth.’
‘Thanks, Howard.’ She gave him a broad smile. ‘You’re doing great.’ Another smile. ‘Where do you live, Howard?’
He mumbled something that sounded like ‘Devon’.
‘Did you say Devon?’
He nodded. ‘Ax. Ax. Ax.’
Devon could mean Axminster, or Axmouth. Maybe Exeter. Try them one at a time. ‘Do you mean Axminster?’
Howard was still nodding, furiously now. ‘Ax. Ax. Ax.’
‘Back in a sec.’ Corcoran walked out to the corridor.
Hayden stood there, hands in pockets, concern etched on her face.
Palmer gave her a curt nod, then focused on the twitching figure in the bed. ‘What do you do for a living, Howard?’
‘I’m a chef.’ He smiled at her, some humanity filling his face. ‘I cook. Love my job, love it. It makes everything okay!’ He laughed, joy filling his face. ‘Cooking, waves, drinking.’ He said it like it was a set phrase. ‘Charlie! Oh, Charlie! Isn’t this your sea?’ He was singing now.
Palmer stepped closer, gripping her hands into fists. ‘Howard, who’s Charlie?’
He stared at her like she should know.
‘Did Charlie take you, Howard?’
He sang again: ‘He’s Charlie the Seahorse and there’s nothing he can’t do!’
‘Is that a nickname?’
‘He’s Charlie the Seahorse and he makes everything okay!’ Tears streamed down his cheeks.
‘Do you like surfing, Howard?’
‘Surfing?’ He scowled at her through teary eyes. Something of the human being underneath crept back into his expression and an adult looked out at her. A mature intellect, someone to be reasoned with. Someone with awareness of his surroundings and his company. He punched his thigh. ‘Why would someone do this to me?’
Palmer raised her hands, palms out. ‘Howard, Ms Hayden and I are going to help you get through this, okay?’
He nodded, barely noticeable.
‘Now, you said someone put you in some sort of prison cell?’
‘Are you calling me a liar?’
‘No, Howard, I’m—’
‘Because they did!’ Howard jerked himself upright, his meaty fists pressing the bed. ‘Was it you?’ He grabbed Palmer by the arm and pulled her close to him, his fingers digging into her flesh. ‘Did you do this to me?!’
‘Stop!’ In a flash, Corcoran darted across the room, pushing himself between Howard and Palmer. ‘Stop!’ He grabbed Howard’s wrist and twisted, pressing him down to the bed, face first.
Palmer pushed herself away from them, rubbing at the biting pain in her forearm. She rolled up her sleeve and the skin already looked bruised.
‘You bastard! You fucking bastard . . .’ Howard was crying. ‘He’s Charlie the Seahorse and he’s here for you. He’s Charlie the Seahorse and it’s time to play.’
An orderly steamed into the room, six foot plus of fat, muscle and training, and took over from Corcoran. ‘Okay, mate, are you going to play it cool?’
Corcoran held tight as he let the orderly take over, eyebrows raised and focused on Palmer. ‘You okay?’
She stared into his baby-blue eyes. ‘I’ll live.’ Her voice sounded thin and vague.
‘Okay, guys.’ Hayden nudged Palmer and Corcoran, pushing them out of the room. ‘No amount of information is worth that.’ She closed the door as the orderly pierced a syringe into Howard’s arm.
‘Thanks for letting us in there.’ Palmer nodded at Corcoran and collapsed against the wall. ‘That was . . .’ She exhaled and tried to rub away the goosebumps puckering her arms. She set off down the corridor, determined to put as much space between herself and Howard as possible.
Corcoran followed. ‘Charlie the bloody Seahorse . . .’
‘Who the hell is he?’
‘You don’t know it?’
Palmer just shrugged. ‘Should I?’
‘Doc, doc, doc.’ Corcoran got out his smartphone. ‘It’s a kids’ cartoon. Pretty big with the three to five age group.’
He held up the screen, showing a video of a smiling seahorse dancing in the surf at a beach, shimmying past an octopus, a shark and a dolphin. The theme tune played low, a ghoulish kids’ choir, saccharine sweet: ‘He’s Charlie the Seahorse and there’s nothing he can’t do! He’s Charlie the Seahorse and he makes everything okay!’
Corcoran jabbed a finger on his phone and stopped the cacophony. ‘As to what it means? I wish I knew . . .’ He frowned. ‘But the good news is I think I’ve found him on the system. Howard John Ritchie, went missing from Axminster in Devon on the twenty-seventh of February.’
‘Twelve days ago . . .’ Something caught in Palmer’s throat. ‘That means – assuming this is related – that someone held Howard and Sarah simultaneously for twelve days?’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’ Corcoran put his phone away. ‘All I know is this guy left at dawn to go surfing at a beach about an hour away but didn’t come home. I’ve got a call out with the investigating officer.’
‘In Devon? You want to head down there now?’
‘No, doc. Let’s see where he was released first.’
Seventeen
[Corcoran, 12:11]
Corcoran kept it much slower than when they’d driven to the hospital, mainly because of Palmer’s overreaction. He pulled left onto a quiet street. A cat crossed the road in a hurry. Further up, a squad car sat outside a church hiding in the trees. He parked and let the engine die slowly. ‘I’m leading here, okay?’ He winched himself out onto the street.
No sign of the owners of the squad car.
A vicar stood in the doorway, staring into space, sucking on a cigarette with the look of a man who desperately needed a nicotine hit. He didn’t even glance up at Corcoran’s approach or his warrant card.
‘DS Aidan Corcoran, are you—?’
‘That’s me.’ The vicar stamped out his cigarette and put it in the bin. ‘I was here when he came over.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor, poor man. I can only imagine what he’s going through.’
Palmer was resting against the car, taking yet more notes.
Corcoran focused on the vicar again. ‘Did he attack you?’
‘Quite the opposite. He . . . I was just having my morning tea and running through Sunday’s sermon, when he raced up to me, wild-eyed and in a fury. Gave me the fright of my life, I swear.’ The vicar frowned. ‘And he was crying. Then . . .’ His frown deepened. ‘It’s hard to explain, but he was singing. The theme tune to that infernal programme. Charlie the Seahorse.’ His frown was now a scowl.
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘There was some mention of a prison cell, of course.’ The vicar screwed up his eyes. ‘I’m thankful to my friend up there’ – his eyes shifted to the heavens – ‘for sending
those police officers in my time of direst need.’ He waved behind Corcoran.
Two local cops walked over from a nearby house, big lumps looking like two-thirds of the front row of a rugby scrum.
‘Thanks.’ Corcoran flashed a smile at the vicar and walked over. ‘I expected you to be here when I arrived.’
‘Sorry.’ The sergeant held out a hand for Corcoran to shake. ‘Nigel Haverford.’ Slightly smaller than his mate, and heavily balding without his cap. One of those hairlines that were a couple of years past the point you should just shave it all off. ‘My lads have just finished taking the statement from the neighbour who called it in.’ He thumbed over the road. ‘Joe?’
The constable took over, reading from his flip-open notebook like it was a hymn book. ‘Bloke said his kid was getting ready for nursery when he noticed someone shouting at the vicar over there.’ He nodded at the church, but no sign of the rector. ‘Didn’t recognise the assailant, so he called it in. We were just round the corner, so we shot round and subdued the guy, and . . . mate, he was in a state, so—’
‘You mean a drunken state?’
Haverford gave a curt nod to let Joe know he was taking over. ‘We restrained him and got the paramedics to take him to the hospital instead.’
‘You did the right thing.’ Corcoran was aware of Palmer listening to them, still writing away. ‘Anything else?’
Haverford stepped in close, dipping his head. ‘There’s maybe something. Joe?’
‘I don’t believe it, Nige.’
Corcoran put up a hand. ‘Don’t believe what?’
‘Just tell him.’
‘Right.’ Joe closed his notebook. ‘So this kid, Harry, he’s four or five, but he might’ve seen this Howard bloke attacking a man.’
Palmer was between Corcoran and Joe now. ‘The vicar?’
‘No, love, before.’ Joe frowned. ‘Look, most of the stuff my youngest says is utter bollocks, some of—’
‘But not all of it is nonsense, Constable.’ Corcoran folded his arms. ‘What exactly did Harry see?’
‘Said this Howard was in a wheelchair and . . . There was this guy pushing him and Howard attacked him. Got into a scrape, rolled around on the floor. I mean, it sounds like WWE to me, but you never know.’ Joe shrugged.
The house was a post-war job, but set back in a generous garden. Thick foliage blocked their view of the road, even in March. Two big windows looked onto the street, so someone could probably see the road from inside.
Corcoran nodded at Haverford. ‘I want you to find this man, okay? If Howard attacked him, he might be injured, might be getting treated right now. Check with local hospitals, and get people speaking to the other neighbours.’
Haverford stood there, hands tucked into his belt. ‘Sure, sure.’
‘Any time you like.’
‘Oh, okay.’ Haverford and Joe cleared off towards the car.
Corcoran watched them go. ‘Pair of plonkers.’
Palmer was still making notes. ‘You think that’s important?’
‘Not sure, but unless we find this strange guy with the wheelchair, assuming he even exists, then we’re no further forward.’ Corcoran scratched at his chin. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘Well, primarily I’m trying to match the MO with Sarah in Minster Lovell. While Sarah and Howard were both dumped at the side of the road, Sarah’s was an isolated location in the countryside, whereas here . . .’ She looked up and waved around the leafy street. ‘There are houses and it’s overlooked on all sides. And I can’t get out of my head the feeling it’s like Howard was aimed at that church.’
‘You think someone targeted the vicar?’
‘Or the church.’ Palmer put her notebook away. ‘It could be to get police attention. But you saw the state Howard was in.’ She grabbed her forearm. ‘When he tried to attack me. Whoever had him, maybe they could predict what would happen when they released him. Focus the anger and rage.’
‘I see your point.’
‘Reluctantly?’
Corcoran grinned at her. ‘Always.’
‘So what’s the plan?’
Corcoran thought it through. So many options, none of them particularly promising. ‘I’m thinking I should head down to Devon. Spend a few hours speaking to Howard’s friends and family, maybe see if there’s any connection between Howard and Sarah.’
‘You don’t need me?’
‘Reckon it’s nearly four hours each way, plus you’re dealing with rural cops. Not to be recommended. I mean, it’s bad enough here and in Oxfordshire. You really think eight hours in a car with me is a good use of your time?’
She raised her eyebrows at him. ‘I suspect it’ll be much less than four hours given your idiotic driving.’
‘You could interview this child, see if his story matches up?’
‘I’m sure Thames Valley or Warwickshire constabularies have other advanced interviewers, someone trained in mining information from a child?’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Aidan, I’d really like to see where Howard was taken from with my own eyes.’
‘You’re the boss.’ Corcoran got his keys out of his pocket. ‘How about you spend that four hours talking me through all the scribbles in your notebook?’
Eighteen
[14:03]
‘Coming up, police still have no solid leads in the Witney woman case.’ The radio crackled as Corcoran pulled up at a roundabout, a queue of six cars ahead. The muppet at the front didn’t seem to know what they were doing. ‘We’ll be speaking to the lead detective just after these—’
Corcoran snapped off the radio and looked over to Palmer. She was talking but the words just floated over the engine, more background noise. He reached into the middle for his half-eaten burger and unwrapped it. Another hungry bite, swallowed down with cola, the ice all but melted.
‘You shouldn’t be eating behind the wheel, Aidan.’
‘My stomach’s devouring itself.’ He took another bite and slipped forward in the queue, chewing this time. He got another flash of the skeleton in the hospital bed. ‘Sarah . . . I shouldn’t joke about it.’
‘You shouldn’t. But I don’t think you were.’
‘You think these could be connected?’
‘Well.’ Palmer already had her eyebrows raised when he looked over. ‘Howard’s abduction has a similar MO to Sarah’s, but is it close enough? Are they actually connected? I know you’re hoping it’s just a coincidence, but two people who just so happen to have been caged, then released?’
Corcoran finished his burger, barely tasting it. His hands were clammy on the wheel.
‘I mean, this is all speculation, Aidan. Pre-scientific, naturally, but these two cases could be linked.’ Palmer was staring at her notebook, covered in ink like a footballer’s sleeve tattoos, her basic theories of how someone could abduct two people looking like a confusing mess of words and lines. ‘I just don’t know yet. I mean, it could be, but Howard’s too disoriented and confused to be sure. And what if his brain hasn’t recorded events correctly?’
Corcoran pulled forward in the queue. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Extreme disorientation can prevent the brain from recording. It’s what happens when people black out from alcohol – they experience it at the time, but their brain doesn’t record it for later.’ She flipped the page and started writing, sketching a diagram. Then stopped with a sigh. ‘You know what the trouble is, Aidan?’
He slipped forward another car length and looked over, meeting her stern gaze. ‘Trouble with what?’
‘This. This whole thing.’ She waved her pen around, indicating the whole world was in on it. ‘If these are connected, then someone has abducted two people, not just Sarah, and held them at the same time. That means we’re in a different territory, meaning my expertise comes to the fore.’ She looked at him, her eyes showing how much the thought terrified her. ‘Do you think they’re connected?’
‘All I know is it’s all over the news,
against my better judgement. When you go out to the public, people want to crawl over a famous case, including cops. They see connections that don’t exist. Other forces see an opportunity to shove a line on a spreadsheet over to someone else’s spreadsheet.’
‘But the cells, Aidan?’
‘I know of at least one serial offender who locked people up in cages.’ Corcoran couldn’t look at her. ‘Worked a case back in London where this murderer kept his victims for a while before he killed them.’ He gave her a glance. ‘But you’re the expert here. You’ve spoken to the people who do this, and in great detail. How do we find this guy before he starts killing people?’
‘As I was saying, the trouble with shifting from explanation to prediction, i.e. knowing where they’ll strike next – who, when, or how – is we need more data to go on. Three cases is the start of a pattern, but two? While tragic, it’s not enough.’
Corcoran nudged forward in the queue again. ‘Is assuming they’re connected the best move here?’
She stared out of the window. ‘I just don’t know.’
Corcoran inched forward again.
‘I need to be honest with you.’ Palmer was fiddling with the ends of her plait, unravelling and retying. ‘I realise I’m panicking about the pressure of being in an operational scenario. With you. Seeing my worst fears come to life, being out in the field with a serial offender.’
‘Come on, I’ve only offended you once.’
She laughed hard at that and the ice maybe started to melt a little.
[16:03]
‘Perfect timing.’ Corcoran pulled into the car park, with the sun a couple of hours above the horizon, almost due south-west. Over the low tidal wall, Exmouth beach spread out, wide and flat.
In the passenger seat, Palmer looked up from her notebook. ‘Not exactly great for surfing, is it?’ She went back to writing.
She had a point. The sea was about half a mile out and no sign of any surfers, just a middle-aged couple walking a greyhound, the poor thing shivering in its maroon coat.
‘I see what you mean.’ Corcoran got out onto the bitumen and stretched out. The cold air was bliss on his skin, burning from the heater Palmer had insisted on having up high. Three-and-a-half-hour straight drive, and his entire left side was numb. No pain, just a vague tingling. He swallowed down another pair of high-strength ibuprofen with the second half of the giant energy drink can. His phone was still locked on the driving mode, but he somehow got it to speak to him.