Senseless

by Ed James

  ‘Okay, thanks for your time.’ Corcoran gave him a final nod, then led Palmer out of the supermarket. His brain was fizzing with possibilities, but all of them showed their lack of progress. ‘So what the hell do we do now?’

  ‘I’m struggling, Aidan.’

  ‘Me too. I mean . . .’ He stopped by the car and breathed out slowly. ‘I don’t know what I mean.’

  ‘So in lieu of tracking down some drinkers from the late eighties and nineties, we’re stuck.’

  ‘Right. Doesn’t sound like Terry could’ve faked his suicide.’ Corcoran stopped by his car, head bowed. ‘I was clinging to that hope.’

  ‘Officers!’ Manfred was jogging over to them, his arms waving wildly. ‘Heard about Hayley, right?’

  ‘Hayley?’

  ‘Terry met her a couple of times. Saw him sneaking off. Young Hayley Mitchell.’ Manfred thumbed inside the store. ‘Worked the cigarette kiosk. Flirted with him. He wasn’t any good at it. Saw them in The Crown once. Bottles of wine. Pints of bitter. All over each other.’

  ‘They were an item?’

  ‘Don’t know. Sorry. I identified his body. You’d think if they were together . . .’

  ‘Any idea if she’s still in Princes Risborough?’

  Manfred shrugged. ‘She died.’

  Forty-seven

  [Palmer, 20:48]

  ‘Thing is, I’ve got six Hayley Mitchells in Princes Risborough.’ Sortwell’s voice echoed out of the dashboard speakers as they drove. ‘You need to help me narrow it down.’

  ‘Let’s see if I can. Cheers, Pete.’ Corcoran killed the call and kept driving. ‘Smashing.’

  Palmer sagged back in her seat. ‘So what do we do?’

  Corcoran followed the satnav’s directions and pulled in. ‘Have we got any other options?’

  The brick building seemed to house a few businesses as well as the local GP surgery.

  ‘Well, there are still lights on.’ Palmer checked her watch. Nearly nine o’clock. You never knew. She got out and set off across the car park. Still a few other cars parked there, high-end models that a doctor would drive. She knocked on the door and waited.

  ‘Marie, this is a waste of time.’ Corcoran was out of breath as he caught up with her. ‘We should . . . I don’t know.’ He rubbed a hand across the fresh stubble on his chin. ‘Dawn’s going to die, isn’t she?’

  He’d imploded into despair and negative thinking. Maybe his usual casual, confident manner was a bluff, his way of dealing with failure.

  She took another look at the lights and figured it was just an automated system to deter burglars. Her turn to sigh. ‘You’re right. We should regroup tomorrow and—’

  The door clattered open. ‘Elsie, we’ll just have to see, won’t we?’ A male nurse stood there, one hand holding the door, the other gripping the handle of a wheelchair, an ancient lady slumped in it. As he saw Corcoran’s warrant card, hope diminished in his eyes. The prospect of a quiet drink in front of the television was slipping away, replaced with questions from the police. ‘We’re shut, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Police.’ Corcoran shook his warrant card in the man’s face. ‘I know it’s late, but there’s an emergency situation. A woman was—’

  ‘David Crossley’s girl.’ The old woman shook her head, glazed eyes like she’d had a healthy dose of morphine. ‘Is she okay?’

  Corcoran didn’t seem to take any notice of her. ‘Sir, we need to access some medical records and desperately need your help here.’

  ‘And I can’t give you it.’ The nurse scowled. ‘I’m the only member of staff here. After his last appointment, Dr Lindsay was out of the door like a shot. Of course, that’s when Elsie here had her little fall and cracked her hip. It really shouldn’t take three hours for an ambulance to come here, should it?’

  ‘There’s a burst water main in town.’ Palmer elbowed Corcoran out of the way. ‘And there are police surveillance checks all over the place after the abduction.’

  ‘Lord save us . . .’

  Corcoran took another step towards him. ‘We really need to see records relating to a couple of your patients. It’s crucial.’

  ‘As much as I’d love to help, there’s just no way. The standard procedure is for you to request a warrant, then present it to a doctor. I’m not a doctor, so I can’t help, even if I wanted to. Now, if you come back in the morning with all the paperwork, then you can see what any of our doctors think. They can help you. I can’t.’

  Palmer tilted her head to the side and spoke in an undertone. ‘Listen, I’m not a police officer. I’m a criminal psychologist working for the NHS.’ She dug into her purse for her own ID, wrapped in a navy lanyard. ‘And I am a medical doctor, so I can have access to records as I see fit. Now, I can call your supervisor or you can help me find a serial abductor and maybe save a woman’s life.’

  The nurse took a hard look at her, then patted his patient’s arm. ‘Come on, Elsie, looks like we’ve got time for another cup of tea.’ He wheeled her back into the surgery, all pine cladding and green-felt chairs. ‘Do you two want one?’

  ‘Lifesaver.’ Corcoran flashed a smile. ‘Just milk, cheers.’

  ‘And you, love?’

  ‘If you’ve got green, otherwise I’m fine.’ Palmer looked around. ‘Where are the records kept?’

  The nurse wagged a finger. ‘I don’t want him going in there, okay?’

  Corcoran held up his hands. ‘I’ll keep Elsie company.’ But he reached into his pocket for his phone.

  Palmer followed the nurse into a long corridor. Office doors for the staff, with even the nurses getting one each. He unlocked one marked Records and held the door for her. ‘I’ll come help you in a minute, once I’ve put a brew on.’

  ‘Thanks for this. I really do appreciate it.’ Palmer opened the door and got the musty smell of any filing room. ‘I’ll put in a good word for you about Elsie, okay?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘She’s a nightmare. I can’t feel anything wrong with her, but I’ve got to err on the side of caution. Her son’s a lawyer who’s got a rep for suing us.’

  ‘Like I say, anything I can do.’ She winked.

  ‘Thanks.’ He sashayed off into the kitchen, a beat in his step.

  Leaving Palmer with the records. Mac—Mc filled a whole cabinet on the far wall. Next was Ma—Me, meaning Mitchell was in the next one, Mi—Mo. She rifled through it. Four dead Hayley Mitchells, two living. Great.

  Manfred the storeman had intimated that Hayley was younger than Terry, who would’ve been eighteen in 1986, so born in 1968. 1973 to 1983 seemed a reasonable starting point.

  She flicked through them. First, born September 1923. Second, born June 1981. Unlikely, but possible. She set it aside. Third, born November 1973.

  Possible to likely.

  She pulled out the hefty file and started reading. This Hayley Mitchell died of alcohol-related liver failure last April. Becoming probable . . . A short life filled with so many tragedies and traumas. Self-harming, depression, treatment for alcohol abuse. Had her stomach pumped three times as a teenager, then her body seemed to cope with it as she got older. The doctor’s notes referred to her suffering aching feet and back from standing all day while working at a supermarket. Bingo.

  Palmer headed back through to reception. ‘Got a possible date of birth for you.’ She held up the cover sheet. ‘See what you can get.’

  Corcoran started calling someone. ‘How did she go?’

  ‘Assuming this is who we’re after, she died of liver disease. Possibly caused by all that drinking.’

  ‘What a way to go.’ Corcoran whistled and walked off, phone to his ear.

  Palmer went back to the file, flicking through pages and pages of notes. One of the first patients in the UK on Prozac, not that it seemed to have done her much good. Referrals to depression clinics, to alcohol clinics, to a hospital specialist for a cough that wouldn’t go away.

  Wait a second.

  Pages bundled together, water damage ty
ing them at the edges.

  Referral to a maternity ward.

  A copy birth certificate for a son. DOB 10th January 1994.

  John Terence Mitchell.

  No father’s name on the birth certificate.

  Born when she was twenty, and he was twenty-five when she died. Sixteen when Terry killed himself.

  But that name . . . Surely he would be John Terence Beane the sixth?

  Surely he was Terry’s child?

  Forty-eight

  [Corcoran, 20:59]

  Corcoran killed the engine but didn’t get out. He nodded at the block of flats. ‘So he still lives in Princes Risborough.’

  Palmer looked over from her notebook. ‘Terry’s son abducting and torturing the children of his father’s tormentors back in the eighties. Does that fit?’

  ‘I can certainly buy it. Are you saying you can’t?’

  ‘No. I do, but that’s the problem. This is a perfect fit. I just don’t want us to have all our eggs in one basket.’

  ‘Sometimes that’s just how it works.’ Corcoran stepped out onto the parking bay, the zigzag brick patterns soaked through. He waited for her to get out before charging over to the address. ‘Want to lead here?’

  ‘That’s not my job.’

  ‘You could’ve fooled me back at the doctor’s.’

  ‘We were desperate. I did what we needed to do.’

  ‘How Machiavellian.’ Corcoran knocked on the door and waited, listening for any movement inside. Or out the back. Assuming this was their guy, he’d possibly make a break for it. Then again, the kind of person who can do this to people, their psychology leads them to be charming and manipulative. The kind of person who can talk themselves out of any situation, who can offer any explanation for every outcome.

  And there was that word again. Assumption.

  They were assuming it was John Mitchell because of some old stories. Desperate parents clutching at straws. A desperate cop looking for simple answers. Revenge for what they did to his old man. A father not even on his birth certificate. Who was clutching at straws now?

  The door slid open and a young man stood there, tie tucked over his left shoulder, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms damp with soap suds. ‘Can I help?’

  Corcoran showed his warrant card. ‘Looking for a John Mitchell.’

  ‘Sorry, but he doesn’t live here.’

  ‘We’ve got this as his address.’

  ‘Very pleased for you, mate. He doesn’t live here.’

  ‘But he did live here?’

  ‘Last tenant, I think. Keep getting his sodding mail.’

  Corcoran tried to keep faith that they were on the right track. ‘Mind if I have a look at it?’

  ‘Fine.’ The door slammed in their faces.

  ‘This isn’t looking good, Aidan.’

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  The door slid open and the current tenant handed them a pile of old letters. ‘That’s all the stuff I’ve got. Now, I’ve got to head out, so if you don’t mind?’ And he was gone.

  Corcoran flicked through the post. Pizza adverts, loyalty cards, a credit card statement, and a payslip from last July.

  Unopened, the tear strip still intact.

  [21:10]

  For an architectural firm, BEV Associates took surprisingly little care with its own building. A strange extension between two old stone buildings, bricks painted dark blue with yellow metal piping. The mismatched windows were all still brightly lit, even at this time, and the bottom floor had a long single-paned window, showing a plush reception area and four offices, all filled with busy workers. A billboard stood in the lawn just outside, an advert for a development at the scrapyard.

  Corcoran stopped. ‘Shit, it’s him. Isn’t it? This is how he got access to that building.’

  ‘Makes sense.’

  He looked over at Palmer. ‘Not, I told you so?’

  ‘I told you I don’t play games, Aidan. I just want to find Dawn.’ She gave him a narrow-eyed look. ‘Shouldn’t we wait for backup?’

  ‘We’ve got a ticking clock. Dawn’s diabetes.’ Corcoran pushed into the building and the bleary-eyed security guard looked up from a laptop, easing off his headphones to let excited football commentary bleed out. ‘Need to speak to a John Terence Mitchell.’

  The guard typed something into a keyboard. ‘Just a sec.’

  ‘What did you just do?’

  ‘Sent a Slack message.’

  ‘A what?’

  The door behind them opened and a tall man eased through. Hands stuffed into shiny grey slacks. Navy cardigan, hiking boots, his curly mullet glistening with hair product. ‘Thanks, Jordan.’

  ‘Mr Mitchell?’

  ‘Afraid not.’ He held out a hand for Corcoran to shake. ‘Mark Vaughn. I’m the V in BEV.’ He beckoned them through into an office and gestured at seats in front of a giant draughtsman’s table, pitched up at an angle. Looked like he still kept up the drawing despite having an initial above the door. ‘John’s on leave just now and I’m—’

  ‘DS Aidan Corcoran.’ He held out his warrant card. ‘We really need to speak to a John Mitchell.’

  ‘Can this wait until the morning? I’m up to here.’ Vaughn raised his hand way above his head.

  ‘We need to speak to Mr Mitchell.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to divulge that, sir.’

  ‘Shit.’ Vaughn set his pencil back down again. ‘Look, John is an employee in the firm but he’s on leave.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘You’ve got to understand . . .’ But he bit his tongue.

  Palmer stood over him, leaning against the board. ‘Help me understand.’

  ‘Been a hellish few months for all of us here, getting this development through planning, then the funding drying up. And the current owner of the scrapyard, well it’s his son, but he isn’t exactly a willing seller. Every single thing is a complete nightmare. And John, bless his soul, was leading on the development. He took it all to heart, so he’s taking some time out just now.’

  ‘Taken what to heart?’

  ‘The development’s stalled. Not usually our problem but the builder’s not the most orthodox firm. Made us take on more of a project management role. Trouble is, we’re short of a few instalments of our seven-figure fee because of things we can’t control.’

  ‘And John was leading this?’

  ‘Right. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great worker. Give him a few words and he’ll come up with something magnificent. And he’s a whizz on the computer programs. I can use them, have to, but I much prefer pencil and paper. But John’s had a difficult life. Takes things a bit too personally at times.’

  ‘You seem close?’

  ‘Totally. I took him under my wing when he started here, see him as a protégé. He’s a good guy. I thought he was. But . . .’ Vaughn laid the pencil down on his board.

  ‘Sir.’ Palmer waited for him to look up. ‘We need to know—’

  ‘You need to tell me what he’s done?’

  She looked over at Corcoran.

  He took over. ‘We believe he’s abducted and tortured three people.’

  Vaughn slowly placed a hand on his mouth. A calm but measured reaction, but his eyes betrayed the sheer shock. ‘Listen to me, John was taken into care at a young age. Didn’t know his dad and his mum was an alcoholic, a complete mess. He went through foster homes, always getting into trouble. His fifth foster family, John lucked out and connected with the father. Guy was a hero, had the patience to turn John round and ended up adopting him. Got him back on track and he went to university, which is how he ended up here.’

  ‘Are you trying to defend him?’

  ‘No, I just can’t believe he’s capable of even contemplating something like this.’

  ‘Sarah Langton. Howard Ritchie. Matt Gladwin. We also believe he has abducted a Dawn Crossley this evening. She’s diabetic and if she—’

  ‘Good heavens.’ Vaughn sprang up f
rom his board and found a sheet of paper. ‘John’s just moved house. Place he built himself, just outside town.’

  [21:35]

  Corcoran took the corner way too fast, but still managed to stick to his side of the road. He got the speedo over ninety on the street, then slowed to seventy for the next bend, slaloming round as a car swept past them. The town’s streetlights gave way to countryside darkness.

  The dashboard lit up and his ringtone blasted out. Unknown caller. ‘Yep?’

  ‘Why’s your Airwave off?’ A woman’s voice.

  ‘Because I’m driving. Who is this?’

  ‘Sergeant Broadribb.’

  Corcoran hit the floor and blasted past a pair of cars. ‘Are you on your way?’

  ‘Is this going to be a total waste of effort like last time?’

  ‘It might be, but it’s called doing our jobs, Sergeant. Just get there with a gang of knuckle-draggers, okay?’

  Steph sighed down the line. ‘Fine. We’ll be waiting.’ And she was gone.

  Palmer was staring out of the window at the passing darkness, trees and sleeping cows lit up by the moon’s glow. Didn’t even have her notebook out.

  ‘You okay?’

  She didn’t reply immediately. ‘The pressure’s getting to us both, Aidan. I just can’t stop thinking about Dawn and . . . You know, John Mitchell fits my profile in so many ways. He’s in his twenties and he’s built his own house, hence being capable of adapting the cells and creating the torture devices. But there are other details I was missing, such as having access to the scrapyard through his job.’

  ‘And how could you have got that from a profile?’ He looked over but got a shrug. ‘He’s a loner with a troubled upbringing. Sure that’s in there?’

  ‘Well, yes, but . . .’

  The satnav indicated the next turning, so Corcoran hit the brakes, trying to gauge his speed with the turning, then hared up a barren backroad winding up a gentle hill. Up ahead, torchlight shone outside a dark house, a modern building looking like it was built from a kit.

  Corcoran parked behind two squad cars and traced the four torch beams back to the uniformed officers searching the vicinity. Steph Broadribb was one of them, shouting orders and instructions. He got out and jogged over as fast as his hip would let him, his own beam dancing across the rough ground.