Back in the secret car park, Bennet sat in his car and wondered what to do. He checked Messenger, but Lorraine still hadn’t viewed his message. If the film crew had been and gone, she’d clearly not needed his input for their documentary. Maybe they’d wrangled someone else’s help in getting police files on the missing girl.
He’d entertained the possibility that Lorraine’s access to Facebook and Messenger was via desktop rather than mobile: she hadn’t posted a thing on the social media site since Saturday, so maybe she was unable to while away from home. Now, he found a more worrying idea take the helm. Perhaps there was a way to view Messenger messages without the software acknowledging it, and she’d read his cruel words and something had changed. He’d threatened that his help came at a price: see her son. Had she decided that was a price not worth paying and now wouldn’t ever contact him again?
Having to bribe Joe’s own mother to see him. What a damn joke. And if she had gotten the files, she no longer needed him and he had nothing to bargain with. All he could do was wait for her to call, if she ever would. Meantime, he was far from home for no reason and facing an awkward chat with his son.
He started driving, hoping to be home, feet up, within the hour. But at the end of the track through the Crabtrees’ field, he didn’t make a right turn on Benders Road, for the A6 and home. Instead, he spun the wheel left, for the main road into Lampton’s northern end, and hoped he wasn’t about to make a big mistake.
15
At the junction of Benders Road and Main Street, which ran all the way into Lampton’s Well, there was what looked like a Guy Fawkes effigy by the village noticeboard. A sign on the effigy told Liam he’d missed the Lampton Scarecrow Festival by five days. He’d live. He turned left, towards the village.
Although Main Street led nowhere but the Well and dead-ended there, a sign pointed the way ahead. Just before a run of four modern, red-brick homes with a side street splitting them was a medium-sized Tesco on the right with a Shell garage next door and the Porsche showroom facing both across a wide road of smooth, bright tarmac, all of it indicative of an urban town instead of a remote village. Only beyond the final two houses did the effect change.
Here, the road thinned and its condition worsened, the houses aged and grew further apart, interspersed with small shops, and became a mix of taller and shorter, cheaper and affluent. A hundred metres later was the main residential area and here the land sank on both sides as the road coursed along the spine of a hill, with side streets slipping down like ribs. Once past the final two side streets, the main road veered downwards at a slight curve towards the Well. The view from this spine road, through breaks in the buildings, was breathtaking, and probably the cause of many a vehicular accident.
The Pandora was ahead on his left. It was a timber-framed, three-storey, converted clergy house set back from the road behind its car park. At one time, back before the church had sold it, the house had sat in lush gardens, but in the sixties the new owner had widened the track into what was now Main Street, and built many of the houses along it. Out front, the only remnant of those gardens was a small walled lawn with a fountain dead centre of the cark park. That was as much as Liam knew about the place, despite having lived in Lampton for a year. A lady called Gemma had managed the hotel way back, but if the sandwich shop was anything to go by, she was long gone.
So was the name, or he’d remembered it wrong. The sign at the mouth of the car park said Panorama, not Pandora. As he waited for a tractor to pass so he could turn into the car park, he again had to remind himself why this was a good idea.
If he went home, he’d worry about that upcoming talk with Joe, wouldn’t he? He still had a few hours until he had to pick his son up from school, so it wouldn’t hurt to hang around a little longer, ask another question or two. And this was the best place. Given that the crew had visited the local pub at night, they’d probably overnighted in the village. There were various homes that owners had converted into bed and breakfasts, but the Panorama was the only bona fide hotel in the area. Maybe he’d find the crew still there, or one of them had left a phone number when booking.
His phone buzzed with a text message. Once his car was laid up close to the fountain, he read it. Not Lorraine. It was from DC Hooper, who he’d tasked with acquiring information about the missing girl case in 2010. He’d forgotten about that.
Gave your number to a former tec Sarg Ford on case you mentioned, he said he will call you. Looked him up. Fired for misconduct, now works supermarket security. I think he thinks he can make a buck or two for his info, so be wary. Anything else?
Bennet’s reply said thanks and, no, there was nothing else. Of course there wasn’t, since the whole plan to bribe Lorraine with help had gone to pot. Hopefully the detective-cum-Asda-guard wouldn’t call.
The Panorama’s foyer retained timber framing bare brick, but paint had been applied to gloss it all up. The walls were hung with art depicting scenes from the ancient era of the house’s construction, but were encased in modern frames. The furniture was clearly pseudo-medieval, given how it was all within bumping and fingering distance. The patterned carpet was dull pink along the traffic line and bright red at the untrampled edges.
The reception desk was on the right in a large arched alcove, but empty of life. He rang a bell and picked up a leaflet flaunting some local attraction.
‘Hello?’ a voice said behind him. A middle-aged black woman with curly hair appeared in the corridor. So Gemma Bowler had managed to hang on to her job, but the years had been cruel. Way back, Gemma had been on crutches because of debilitating arthritis in both feet. Now she was in a wheelchair. She’d also picked up a thick forehead scar somewhere.
She wheeled around his legs and into the alcove, and spun to face him across the counter. She wore jeans and a white T-shirt with a picture of her hotel on it. ‘Visiting? Need a room?’
He’d met Gemma a couple of times in the Yorkshire Bank queue. She was a chatty lady who made friends easily. ‘How’s the detective fiction going?’
At first suspicion, then realisation. ‘Lee! How are you? That is you, isn’t it?’
‘Liam. Here I am. You still write detective fiction?’
She reached out to shake his hand. His was sweaty and he wiped it on his trousers first. ‘Oh, I gave that up for fantasy because the research is easier and I’ve always loved it. Although I did consider having my detective chase a mythical serial killer. I imagine there isn’t a police book out there that mentions a Bakhtak. That wouldn’t sell.’
‘Might get away with saying it once. Twice, no. Anyway, I don’t need a room. Not staying. I’m just in the area looking for some people. Lopers. Three of them, anyway. One is Lorraine Taylor, my girlfriend way back. Lived here. Did you know her?’
Gemma thought and shook her head. ‘I remember you saying you had a girlfriend, but I don’t think we ever met properly. It happens, even in a place of just a few hundred people. She left to live with you, is that right? Bradford?’
‘Barnsley. Over ten years ago, so it’s easy to forget. She was part of a four-person film crew that came to Lampton on Sunday. Did they stay here?’
Gemma looked a little unsure, until he added a teeny white lie: ‘I heard they stayed here.’
She remembered now. ‘Yes. Well, one of them. A man who said he was a director. I remember that, because we don’t get many directors. He was middle-aged, like fifty or so, if that helps. Oh, and he was black. A black man. I don’t know what they were filming.’
‘A documentary about a young girl who went missing here about ten years ago. He didn’t talk to you about that?’
She needed to think again, which puzzled him. Did hordes of kids go missing round here? ‘Oh. Yes, I know the story. I was on holiday that week she vanished. But no, he didn’t mention it.’
‘You were here back then. You could have given some insight into the way of life here in those days. Good filler for the documentary. Are you sure this director didn’t men
tion it?’
‘Terrible thing, that girl running away. The family was devastated. We kind of don’t much talk about it to people when they come asking. Reporters and tourists who know about it. Out of respect to the mother.’
He’d run face-first into a wall of protection around the tale of the missing girl, even though he’d stressed that he wasn’t here about that long-ago event. ‘And you didn’t ask this director what he was filming? You’re always one for chatting with strangers.’
‘No. But the way he was casually dressed when he went out that night, I thought maybe he was videoing birds or something. Night animals, maybe. A nature documentary. You can film that sort of thing alone, I thought. He had a camera bag, so that was what I figured. I didn’t really ask. We get all sorts in here and a lot don’t like to talk about themselves. I tend not to chat to my guests unless they look like they want to, and he didn’t.’
‘He went out filming Sunday night? What time was that? I heard the crew went to the Red Lion on Sunday.’
She nodded. ‘Oh, yes, I heard that too. But this was after. He came back, collected his camera bag and folder. Oh, I’d say about a quarter to ten. I thought he’d maybe had an important call or something, because he was a little rushed.’
Bennet put the leaflet back on its pile. ‘Folder?’
‘Yes. Like a file folder, yellow. And his bag.’
‘A camera bag, you said. So no suitcase of clothes?’
‘Nothing like that. And that was it, he left. I had to give him the code for the door, which made me think he was coming back, but he didn’t. I get that sometimes when people have to rush off. They leave the key in the lock, and he did that. I know, strange that he didn’t bring any luggage, but I didn’t ask.’
Actually, the lack of belongings didn’t puzzle Bennet – he’d sometimes been away overnight to survey or arrest a suspect in another city and hadn’t taken much more than his phone and some cash. More intriguing was why the director had stayed at the hotel alone. A falling out with his crew? He needed space and peace to write a script, which might also explain the yellow file folder? Was he a diva-type, unwilling to bed down in a car or a cheesy bed and breakfast?
‘He stayed here alone, but didn’t anyone accompany him here? To drop him off, maybe?’
Gemma shook her head. ‘At least not that I saw. I was inside. But other people could have been outside, in a car. He only stayed fifteen minutes or so after he checked in, so he might have had people waiting outside. I just don’t know.’
‘Fifteen minutes? And how long was he gone for?’
‘Oh, until that night. He checked in in the afternoon and left and I didn’t see him again until nearly ten, after, like you say, they’d been to the Lion. But a lot of tourists do that, because they’re off sightseeing.’
Liam glanced at the guest register, where he saw only one person had checked in on Sunday. Room: seven. Duration: one night. Name: Donald Ducke. The contact number column was empty. But he hadn’t signed out.
‘You don’t mind people using silly fake names?’
Gemma leaned in to look closely at the register. It took a few seconds for her puzzled expression to become one of mirth. ‘Oh my, I didn’t even notice. It was the E that threw me, I reckon. He pronounced it like duke. Oh, what an idiot.’
Did she mean the director, or herself? ‘Any idea where they were heading next?’
‘No,’ Gemma said. ‘I never ask such a thing. I can’t help you there, I’m afraid. I only know they upped and offed. You could try the Lion.’
‘What about CCTV? I don’t see any cameras.’
Gemma rubbed at her legs, as if they hurt. ‘No. Busted for a few months now. I keep meaning to get around to it.’
‘You really should. You deal with strangers who don’t live local and often use fake names.’
She shrugged. He thanked Gemma and turned to leave, but one final question begged to be asked. No name to trace or phone number to call, but perhaps there was a clue in the room Donald Ducke had taken. A forgotten driver’s licence would do nicely. Could he see the room?
She gave him a key and he took the stairs. The room was the simple affair he’d expected. Bed, shower, TV with probably only a handful of channels, wifi with porn doubtless blocked, and a table against a wall with a pair of chairs and the paraphernalia for making hot caffeine. It was a blizzard of white, from the walls to the TV to the kettle to the towels, like an apartment in a sci-fi movie. Apart from odd snippets like the TV remote and coffee sachets, the only colour came from the window in the opposite wall to the door. He could see a corner of the housing estate, beyond which it was all green fields and snaking, thread-thin roads and walking trails set against a backdrop of faraway towns and villages.
Liam stood in the centre of the room, hands in his pockets, and ran his eyes around. The hotelier, Gemma, had joked about his seeking fingerprints, but she hadn’t been wildly off. He was after some kind of clue as to where the film crew might have gone, but of course, the room had been cleaned since the director checked out. It felt a little odd to be searching a room without other detectives and crime-scene techs around.
Even if the room hadn’t been cleaned, what had he expected to find? A handy little Post-it note with an address? There was nothing here that would move him forward, so he needed a new track. Lorraine had mentioned Chesterfield, so perhaps that should be his next location. But that was a big city and he had no idea what the crew was doing there, and it seemed like too much trouble. Even being here felt like a waste of time. He should just keep sending her messages on social media until she replied.
Back downstairs, he returned the key and thanked Gemma for her time. ‘The room. Anything out of order when you went to clean it? Find anything?’
She shook her head. ‘The tea table had been moved into the middle of the room, but that was it. Anything else you need me for?’ she asked.
There wasn’t, but simple curiosity prompted: ‘Yeah. What happened to the Argyles?’
Her answer surprised him: ‘Oh, that would be telling. Maybe over a candlelit dinner. Seriously, though, we’re not supposed to say.’
‘Small village, shock horror, eh?’
She just shrugged. ‘Not supposed to say. At the last town meeting the Keys decided we shouldn’t talk about it. Not to anyone.’
Hallelujah. Keys, that was the name for the handful of important residents who controlled the village. In Bennet’s time here, he’d never attended a town meeting, but they were held once a month or when necessary. After dealing with community news, all nice and normal, most of the village folk had to leave the room so the Keys could vote on important matters not for mortal ears.
‘Surely the rule is you just don’t discuss the Argyles with Lopers? Seriously, what happened to them? Did they get eaten by Bakhtak?’
‘No, I can’t tell you. I really can’t.’
Lorraine had given him the low-down on the Keys. Everyone had to follow their rules and disobedience was punished. A teenaged tearaway had been banned from the Red Lion and given a 9pm curfew. A shopkeeper had been forced to shut his shop for a week because he’d sold alcohol to underaged Lopers. And an event back in the 1980s was still shrouded in mystery – a man had been evicted from the village, with just the clothes he wore, for getting a facial tattoo.
Liam had cracked a joke about getting put in the stocks and pelted with tomatoes, but he hadn’t really taken it seriously. He’d been consumed by police work and uninterested in village matters or gossip. Now that he thought about it, the whole shebang with the Keys seemed a bit scary.
‘You know, there’s no legal basis for what the Keys do, Gemma. They can’t punish you for disobeying their unofficial rules.’
‘I know, but we all agreed, didn’t we? I mean, the Keys aren’t councillors or anything, except Mr Turner. He’s been one for about four terms now. He covers a few parishes and he’s mostly involved with car parks and recreation grounds. But the Keys are something he put together o
ff-the-books, if you like. They’re not official but we’ve all accepted it and it’s been that way for fifteen years or so. I guess it’s like playing Monopoly, and the Keys are the banker. If you want to play the game, you obey the rules of the banker, but you can quit the game at any time.’
By leaving your home? Sweet. The Monopoly analogy sounded like a gem written by the Keys to justify their actions, perhaps the brainchild of their top dog, Richard Turner, bachelor, vet, councillor. Whatever. Not his concern. He had his own life to worry about and it was time to get back to it.
16
His detective paranoia buzzed as he left the hotel. The car park had space for thirty vehicles and the five that had been here when he arrived were scattered. Now a new car had arrived, and it was parked right next to his own, facing the opposite way so that both driver’s doors were close. He approached casually, aware of all the times a police colleague had been attacked by a disgruntled criminal or angry family member of one.
He could see the outline of someone in the driver’s seat. He approached his passenger side, for caution, and watched the driver wind their window down. It was a large woman, about sixty. She wore a blue-and-white uniform shirt and had a name badge, although he couldn’t read it at this angle. She spoke rapidly.
‘You’re the detective who’s come here. I need to speak with you. Quick. Please.’
Word had travelled fast. ‘About what?’
‘Not here. We can’t be seen.’ She tossed a ball of paper onto his bonnet and drove away, fast. He noted the registration number just in case a coming day required a trace and picked up the balled paper.
There was a sketch of what looked like a pair of lollipops with their heads facing each other. Between them was a circle with GRASS written inside. One of the lollipops was labelled ARTON PLACE and had an arrow running across to the other, GRODES PLACE, at whose end was a little square house with an X. The arrow said FOLLOW THIS. A rough map, it seemed. Apparently he was supposed to go down Arton Place, cross some grass, and meet the woman at one of the houses on Grodes Place.
Cold Blood Page 5