by Ed James
‘No, sir, these are—’ Corcoran’s phone thrummed in his pocket. He got it out and checked the display. DS Sortwell. ‘Sorry, I better take this.’ He smiled at Palmer to take over and left the room. The hallway was lined with old books. First-edition hardback novels, and enough gardening books to cover the average lawn. He put the phone to his ear. ‘Alright, Pete?’
‘Aidan, mate. I can’t find your overtime from last month.’
Corcoran clenched his teeth. ‘I’m in the middle of a—’ He sighed. ‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘Yeah, I am.’ Sortwell laughed. ‘Sorry, the boss asked for an update on your van but she’s not answering her phone.’
Corcoran made eye contact with Thompson through in the living room. ‘Right, I’ll pass it to her.’
‘Okay, so my old mate Steph spoke to some curtain twitcher in that street that girl’s gone missing from. Mad old coot who looks for strange cars and writes down their plates. Called in this van yesterday morning, but nobody did anything about it.’
‘Yesterday?’
‘It was in the lane next to Dawn’s house.’
Something tingled on Corcoran’s neck. ‘Take it you’ve run the plates?’
‘That’s where it gets weirder. Reported stolen from Buckingham last week. Owner’s heading to the station up there to give a statement, but it looks kosher.’
The hairs on the back of Corcoran’s neck stood on end. ‘The owner probably isn’t our guy, but check if he saw anyone around the time. Cheers, Pete.’ Corcoran put his phone away but didn’t go back through straight away.
That news definitely meant something. A stolen Tiguan and now a stolen van. Someone covering their tracks, someone who had parked the van there, knowing they’d search CCTV for it arriving and not find anything. Masked the plates, even though the van was nicked. More and more, it looked like their guy.
A fourth victim.
He walked back through the living room. The older uniform stood next to David in the window, the curtains open again, and they looked out onto the street.
Palmer was with Lesley and Thompson by the fireplace, looking at framed photos. ‘That’s a lovely shot.’
‘Oh, David’s the photographer, though I’m quite good at framing, I have to say.’
Corcoran joined them.
Lesley flipped open the back of a picture frame and shuffled out a snap of Dawn at her college graduation. ‘Oh, that was such a lovely day.’ She wiped a tear from her eye and passed the photo to Palmer.
Corcoran looked at the other shots, mostly family photos of the three of them in various locations, ranging from a hike in what looked like the Peak District to a Greek taverna at night. At either side, the electronic photo frames cycled through older shots, snapshots from their youth in the eighties. David in a long greatcoat in the middle of summer, Lesley all Bananarama hair and dresses.
The one on the left shifted to a snap of Dawn’s father on his last day of school, big hair flying as he and a group of other teenagers did a collective leap.
Corcoran frowned at it, his neck tingling again. He recognised something in it . . . some connection . . .
THERE.
Next to David was Sally Norton.
Sarah Langton’s mother.
Thirty-nine
[Palmer, 18:48]
‘Here.’ Corcoran handed Palmer a digital photo frame.
She stared at the screen, showing a grainy and faded photo. Twelve kids jumping in the air, holding hands, loving life.
And it was gone, replaced with a moody photo of David outside a university quad, all floppy-fringed and intense.
Corcoran grabbed the device and found the controls on the back. He flicked back to the previous photo. ‘Recognise anyone?’
Palmer immediately spotted David. But next to him . . . A lot older now, but it was very clearly the same person. The same eyes, physique, same intense look. ‘Oh my god.’
Corcoran took it over to the window and passed the photo to David, tapping at the screen. ‘Who is this?’
David took the frame and held it out at arm’s length. ‘Her?’ He swallowed. ‘Oh that’s . . .’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Sally Burford.’
‘You know her?’
‘Knew her.’ Another hard swallow. ‘We were friends at school. Haven’t seen her since . . . Oh, good heavens. 2001? 2002? Something like that. School reunion. Like in that Pulp song. Let’s all meet up in the year 2000. We missed it by a couple of years, but we still did it.’
‘Until now, we haven’t found a connection between the victims.’ Corcoran pointed at Sally on the photo. ‘She is the mother of Sarah Langton, the first victim.’
‘My god.’ David tightened his grip on the photo frame. ‘Sweet Jesus.’
Corcoran got out his phone and walked away from them, back to the fireplace. ‘Hi Pete, you still at your desk?’ He paused. ‘I need the names of Howard Ritchie’s parents.’
Palmer joined him.
Lesley stood over her husband. ‘David, what the hell’s going on?’
‘I don’t know, love.’
Corcoran turned to Palmer. ‘Turns out Tommy Ritchie is Howard’s stepfather. Howard changed his surname when his mother remarried.’ He looked over at David. ‘Does Nathan Barnes mean anything to you?’
David scanned the photo again, then tapped at a kid on the far right, the only one whose legs hadn’t cleared the ground when the photo was taken. Wild goth hair like that guy from The Cure.
Anticipation gnawed at Palmer’s gut. ‘What about Melissa Gladwin?’
‘That’s Melissa Perry.’ David pointed at the woman next to Nathan Barnes, holding his hand as she jumped. ‘Does this mean you can find Dawn?’
‘Maybe.’ Corcoran walked over to Palmer. ‘That’s our link. One parent of each victim knew each other as teenagers. They may have since moved away, or married and changed names, but they all lived in Princes Risborough at the same time.’
The connection she’d been looking for. Knowing the answer now, it was so obvious. Impersonal torture, followed by release. Indirect attacks that made the parents suffer as much as the victims. Their worst fears coming to life – their children, badly harmed.
All the victims had a parent in this group of friends. Did that mean there were another eight possible victims? Another eight children who had already suffered?
‘Who could be doing this?’ Palmer handed the photo frame to David Crossley. ‘Who would want to take revenge against you all?’
David shook his head. ‘I have no idea. I mean, we were just kids there. Bunch of dickheads who thought they knew everything, but in reality knew nothing. Then we went to uni, drifted apart and that was it. Nothing more to say.’
‘Are you sure?’ Palmer saw guilt in his eyes. She just needed to coax it out. ‘Someone has tormented three of these people’s children and now they’ve taken Dawn. And I think you know why.’
David grabbed the half-empty bottle of red and tipped out a glass.
Corcoran snatched it out of his hands before he could finish, splashing some onto the red carpet. ‘There are twelve people on here. So far, three of these people’s children have been taken, tortured and released. Your daughter was abducted tonight. Do I need to get the other eight’s families into protective custody?’
David clammed up, his eyes locked on the wineglass in Corcoran’s hands. ‘No.’
‘Is there something specific connecting you four?’
‘David?’ Lesley shook his arm. ‘David, what the hell is going on?’
He ran a hand across his face. ‘Good Christ . . .’
‘David, tell them everything you know. Now.’
He collapsed onto the sofa, pushed his head into the rest and stared up at the ceiling. Then the tears started, his throat locking, his face screwing tight. ‘Oh, Dawnie-Dawn . . .’
‘What have you done?’ Lesley kneeled on the sofa and punched him on the arm. ‘What the hell have you done!?’ Another punch.
Thompso
n eased her aside, holding her and stopping her from attacking her husband. She collapsed into her arms, sobbing into her shoulder.
Which let Palmer in. ‘Mr Crossley, it’s important that you talk to us. I know how hard this is, but we need to do everything we can to find your daughter.’
David looked up at her, tears streaming down his face. He dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, then blew air out of his lungs, years of guilt or shame erupting in one go. ‘Okay.’
Palmer took the wineglass from the table and handed it back. ‘Here.’
David sank the glass in one go, then rested it between his fingers, spinning it slowly. ‘Sally, Melissa, Nate and I used to hang out as teenagers. We drank and listened to music. Then we started smoking dope. Hash, marijuana, whatever they call it nowadays. The state we’d get into . . .’ He laughed, lost to some flight of nostalgia. ‘We were all from good homes, good grades and all that.’ He gave his wife a nervous look, but really she was the least of his worries. ‘One evening, in 1986. August, not long before we all went to uni, we . . .’
Lesley cried in Thompson’s arms.
‘What happened that night?’
David looked over at Palmer, like he’d just remembered what was happening. That his daughter was missing and it was all tracing back to his youth. ‘Where do I start?’
Forty
David
David sat there, cross-legged, the burning sun on the back of his neck. Bobbing his head in time to his Walkman as ‘The Cutter’ reached its beautiful crescendo, his fingers working double time as he tipped the contents of the cigarette onto the skins, stuck together with saliva. He sparked his lighter and put the cube of dope into the flame, then crumbled a good chunk into the joint as the song faded out. Then the Arabic guitars of ‘The Killing Moon’ kicked in. He finished skinning up, closing the joint with another lick. Perfect, even if he did say so himself.
He put it behind his ear and hopped up to standing, shrugging up the collar of his army greatcoat. He caught a glimpse of himself in a broken van wing mirror, and sang along with the music, every inch Ian McCulloch on Top of the Pops.
Sweat trickled down his back. His shirt was soaked. Wearing a coat like that in August, but he wouldn’t listen to his mother, would he?
Someone tapped his shoulder and he spun round, tearing his headphones away.
Nate stood there, grinning from ear to ear, looking like a jumble sale version of Robert Smith from The Cure. His dark hair stood up, blow-dried and backcombed to within an inch of its life. ‘You having fun there?’
‘I’m okay.’ David cleared his throat. ‘What the hell are you doing with your hair?’
No nervous patting or anything. Nate just stood there, shrugging. ‘Thought I’d give it a go.’
‘Mel seen it?’
‘It’s my hair.’
David reached up for the joint, but it wasn’t there.
Nate reached up to the other ear and produced it like a trick. ‘Ta-da!’
‘Very funny.’ David snatched it back. ‘You want first toke?’
‘Better if we wait, yeah?’ Nate took out a cigarette instead, cupping his hands like a rock star in an NME spread as he lit it. ‘Should get some grass instead of that crap next time.’
‘Can’t afford it. I’m saving up to buy a bass.’
‘A bass?’ Nate exhaled smoke out of the side of his mouth. ‘Stop buying those stupid coats then.’
‘Says goth boy.’
Nate grinned. ‘And here’s goth girl.’
Melissa strutted through the scrapyard towards them, thin to the point of skinny. Long black dress, her dark hair wild and flowing.
David let out a sigh. ‘I want what you’ve got with her.’
‘Well, hands off.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Nate nodded, exhaling again. ‘Going to ask Sally tonight?’
David glanced at him, but couldn’t hold his look. ‘If she turns up.’
‘You get nervous, I understand.’ Nate clamped his shoulder. ‘Just think what would Bowie do? Or Ian McCulloch.’
‘Like I’d know that.’
‘What are you two talking about?’ Mel took the cigarette out of Nate’s mouth and took a deep puff. ‘Where’s the joint?’
Nate swiped it out of David’s hands and gave it to her. ‘You want first toke?’
‘Only if you haven’t spiked it with something.’
‘As if I would.’ Nate smirked, and lit the joint for her.
Mel took the first toke, her expression souring. She coughed. ‘That’s harsh, Dave. Where did you get it?’
‘Big Mixu.’
‘Keep telling Nate we should get some grass. This stuff will rot our brains. We’ll be lucky to have kids.’
David muttered, ‘Like anyone’s interested in having mine.’
Mel nodded at him, as if to ask what he’d said. ‘Sally is coming, isn’t she?’
David shrugged. ‘Not sure.’
‘Well, let’s go downstairs, shall we? I don’t want to get caught with this.’ Mel took another smoke and passed the joint to Nate.
David stepped over to the front door of the squat one-storey building. Derelict and out of time. But he spotted Sally walking through the scrapyard. He skipped back down the steps and checked his haircut in the broken mirror. Sweating like a pig now.
Mel laughed. ‘Just ask her, you dimwit. She likes you.’
‘Okay.’ David turned to Sally with a broad grin.
But Sally wasn’t alone. A big lumbering idiot walked behind her.
Mel put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh.’
Nate was frowning. ‘Who the hell is that?’
‘Don’t you remember?’
‘No.’
‘What about you, Dave?’
He spotted the guy. Massive, at least six five and strong like he could tear cars apart with his bare hands. He shook his head. ‘Oh no.’
‘It’s Terry Beane.’ Mel prodded Nate’s chest. ‘That loser everyone made fun of at school. Someone called him Frankenstein’s monster.’
David recognised him. The dunce who’d moved to town at the start of lower sixth, who’d spent that year staring out of the window in class. He used to be a streak of piss but he’d filled out a lot since he last saw him. ‘Mel, even the teachers used to pick on him.’
‘That’s probably why he dropped out.’
Terry wore black jeans tucked into those stupid white Hi-Tec basketball boots. A Megadeth T-shirt under a blue denim jacket, covered in Iron Maiden patches.
David’s mouth was dry, so he took the joint off Mel and sucked deep. ‘What the hell is he doing with her?’
Terry grabbed Sally’s hand, and she held it as they approached, only breaking off to hug Mel. ‘How are you doing? Haven’t seen you in ages.’
‘Yeah, I’m alright. And it’s only been like a week?’ Mel frowned at Terry. ‘Hi, I’m Mel.’
‘Eh, Terry. Terry Beane.’
‘Right.’ Mel gave Sally a puzzled look. ‘Nice to meet you, Terry.’
‘Em, I sat next to you in Geography in lower sixth?’
‘Did you?’ Mel took the spliff back from Nate and passed it to Sally. ‘Here you go, you’re playing catch up.’
Sally took a toke and sucked smoke deep into her lungs. Then she grabbed Terry in a kiss and blew smoke into his mouth. But she was staring at David all the time.
His sweating increased. Like his heart rate. ‘You got kicked out of school, didn’t you?’
Terry took the joint and inhaled like a pro. ‘I hated it, so I left, mate.’
David took a long hit, struggling not to cough.
Sally took it from him. ‘Shall we go downstairs to smoke this?’
Terry frowned at her. ‘Em . . .’
‘What’s up?’
‘I’d rather not.’
Sensing weakness, David stepped closer. ‘Come on, you can head down there first.’
Terry’s eyes widened. ‘No way.’
David clapped Terry’s shoulder. ‘Come on, mate, go down there. It’s cool. Used to be a prison in the war or something.’
Terry brushed his hand away. ‘Fuck off.’
Nate stepped forward, hands raised. ‘Come on, Tez. Just head down there. It’s easy. We all go down there.’
‘I ain’t stopping you, and never call me Tez.’
‘What, so you are chicken?’
Sally sighed. ‘Nate, back off.’
Nate made a chicken noise.
‘Look, I’ve got a phobia of the dark.’ Terry swallowed, then turned to Sally. ‘If you’d told me we were going down into somewhere like that . . .’
She gripped his hand tight. ‘It’s okay, we can—’
‘Mate . . .’ Nate spun round, his stupid haircut catching the breeze. ‘Oh, come on, Tez, it’s a piece of piss. Just go down there, stop anyone smelling that joint.’
Sally pushed Nate away. Maybe being sensitive was the way to her heart.
But Nate kept up his assault. ‘Tez, you are such a chicken!’ He made squawking noises, jigging his arms like a hen. ‘Chicken!’
Mel started laughing, her stoned eyes showing she didn’t care about Terry’s feelings.
David stayed back, letting it all play out, ready to jump either way, depending on how Sally seemed.
Terry was staring at his shoes, shaking his head. ‘Fine.’
‘No.’ Sally ran a hand across his back. ‘It’s okay, Terry, we can go to the pub or something.’
‘No, I’m fine.’ Terry brushed her off and stomped up to the door. He stood there for a few seconds, staring up at the sky. Then grabbed the handle and yanked the door fully open. A long, deep breath, and he stepped inside.
Nate followed him up and stood by the door, blocking his exit. ‘Over there.’
David joined him and peered inside.
Terry was over by the ramp, the concrete all cracked, almost hidden in the gloom. He looked round at David with the expression of a scared child. ‘This’ll do, right?’ His deep voice was thin and shrill now.
David looked round at Sally and got an eye roll from her. He saw then that he never had a chance with her. Sod it. He turned back. ‘Not even close to being done.’