Cold Blood

by Jane Heafield

  It tingled his detective senses. This woman wanted to tell him something and was worried about eavesdroppers. But it was almost one o’clock and he had to pick Joe up at three. He considered his options and made a decision. He called one of his team, a sergeant called Sienna Todd, and asked her to go pick up Joe because he was stuck in a place called Lampton in the Peak District. She agreed and he called the school to inform them.

  Google Maps told him Arton Place and Grodes Place, his destination, were cul-de-sacs with a small green area between them. But he also noticed something curious. Although the entry to Arton Place was just across the road, between the four red-brick houses, there was no through route for a vehicle. For a crow, the simplest way was to follow the arrow on the sketch map, as advertised, but a driver would have to take a more winding journey to reach Grodes Place. And the woman who drew the map knew he was in a car.

  He exited the car park, turned right and just seconds later spun the wheel left, onto Arton Place. The street was lined with semi-detached homes with small gardens. Beyond the turning circle at the end was an alley splitting a pair of detached homes, with trees beyond. He parked.

  At the end of the alley the trees parted for a cycle barrier. This was where he stopped, staring out into a green area about a hundred metres long and ringed by trees. In the centre was a basic children’s playpark. At the far side he saw the end houses of Grodes Place poking above the trees. Nobody was about.

  Why had the woman wanted him to come this way, knowing he’d have to leave his car? Perhaps she figured he wouldn’t mind a stroll, or maybe there were roadworks blocking the other route. The reason could be completely innocent, but he’d been a policeman too long to ignore a gut feeling. And his gut told him this wasn’t about ease or practicality. He didn’t like the fact that the only windows giving a view of the green area were those in the two houses behind him and the pair across the way.

  He’d already googled the nearest police station and tapped its phone number into his mobile. There it was, on the screen, and with his finger hovering over the call button, he started walking. If he saw anyone who wasn’t the large woman coming his way, he’d call the station, report his location, and keep the officer on the line until he got safely across the green.

  Nobody appeared. While passing the playpark, he saw a metal post at its edge with another siren attached. The park’s apparatus was clean, in shape, but its emptiness made him think about his son. Joe and his friends often chatted online and visited each other’s houses to play Xbox games, and good old-fashioned days larking at places like this were minimal. It was a shame that technology had forced more kids indoors.

  At Grodes Place he encountered another alleyway created by the high side-fences of two back gardens. He got partway down when a voice called out.

  ‘In here, quick.’

  A gate in the high fence opened and the same large woman poked her head out. An arm waved frantically. She locked the gate behind him and scuttled into the house. He followed her into a kitchen, and only when the back door was shut did she seem to relax. Clearly, she didn’t want to be seen with a Loper. Or a police officer. Now he saw her name badge said Anika, Team Helper.

  ‘Upstairs.’ He followed her up, into a room with a large oak dining table loaded with boxes. They were also stacked beneath it and around the walls. At the window, she stared out. He watched, waiting, and she said, ‘It’s tough to see it every day. But this is my home. I can’t leave.’

  He didn’t understand. ‘The green?’

  Anika turned to him, puzzled. Now he saw she’d picked up a large, padded envelope at some point. ‘The playpark. It hurts to look out the window and see where Sally had her most fun. Where she had her worst experience. Where she might have died.’

  Now it fell into place. Sally. The missing girl from ten years ago. Anika was her mother.

  ‘This was her bedroom. I use it for storage now, because it hurts too much to stand in here and look out at the park. Do you think I should have kept this place as a shrine? I know some grieving parents do that. I couldn’t. I needed to move on. That was the advice.’

  Now he knew why she’d wanted to talk. She had heard a policeman was in the village, and she’d assumed he was here because…

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not here about your missing daughter.’

  ‘Not here for Sally?’ The thought dismayed her. ‘But why not?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m here on separate business. I’m not part of Derbyshire Constabulary, and they’re the ones who would be investigating her case.’

  ‘Oh, they are. It’s still an open case. But unless they get new evidence, there’s not much they can do.’

  Sounded about right. He looked past her, at the playpark beyond the window. He felt it wouldn’t help to continue this conversation, but he couldn’t fight his intrigue. ‘She was taken from the park?’

  ‘I know you police have theories it might have happened somewhere else, but I’m certain. I just know. So why are you in Lampton if not for Sally?’

  ‘I’m here to find four people. A film crew. They came here…’ He left it there, unwilling to state why the crew had come to Lampton.

  ‘Oh. I know who you mean. They were here on Sunday. They wanted to tell the story of my Sally. So are you connected to this after all?’

  She seemed buoyed again, and he needed to shut it down. ‘No. Sorry. I need to find them about a separate matter. It’s not connected to your daughter’s disappearance, I’m afraid. I heard Chesterfield mentioned. You know why that might be?’

  She gave a slow nod. ‘Chesterfield. That makes sense. The party. Sally was at a party in Chesterfield the night she disappeared. I think the film people might have mentioned going to Chesterfield.’

  ‘So they contacted you?’

  ‘They did. I got a phone call. It was on Saturday afternoon. But I couldn’t talk to them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It wouldn’t do any good, would it? They were just telling the story. They weren’t investigating. They couldn’t help me, so I didn’t speak to them. I mean, I know the exposure might have helped. But… it was the correct thing to do not to talk to them.’

  He didn’t understand. But whatever she meant, she didn’t sound that certain she’d made the right choice.

  ‘It’s old news now,’ she continued. ‘My Sally’s disappearance was a dark time for this village, and it brings back bad memories. And I wasn’t supposed to have something like this open old wounds. It’s not good remembering Sally in this way. I shouldn’t celebrate her birthday. I stopped honouring her death, you know. The anniversary of when she went missing. I wanted to plant small trees, one for each passing year. Ten years next March 6th, did you know? But it wasn’t the correct thing to do. Just like not keeping her bedroom as a dedication to her. A shrine. I should move on. Move on and wait to see if she comes back, I mean. And I have.’

  It didn’t sound like she had. Something was off about her choice of words: the way she talked about things she should do or was not supposed to do. And a slip of the tongue she’d tried to slyly correct.

  ‘You grieve in the way you want to,’ Bennet said. ‘If you want to plant trees, or keep her bedroom the way she had it, you can. You are allowed to.’

  That seemed to strike a nerve, but she said nothing. He knew she had led him here via the playpark not to make sure no one saw, but to let him see the crime scene in order to stoke emotion about her daughter’s disappearance. So that he would want to help her. And she still clutched that envelope in her hands. She needed a prompt and he gave it by asking what she held.

  As if she’d long yearned for the opportunity, she opened the envelope and stepped close to him, and pulled out photographs and newspaper clippings. She held up a picture of a cute girl in black leggings under a short tartan skirt and a T-shirt with a sequined butterfly on the front. She was holding back tears.

  ‘This wasn’t taken the night she went missing, but this is what she wore. Her favourite
outfit. She loved butterflies. She had a butterfly claw clip in her hair.’

  She tried to smile at the photo, perhaps reminded of good times, but Bennet knew something else, beyond her daughter’s disappearance. ‘You talk as if you believe your daughter will be back. But you also mentioned her death.’

  The tears started. ‘Nobody talks about her, you know. I only have a handful of friends, and we talk about my girl, but it has to be in secret. I wanted to officially declare her dead, but I’m not supposed to. Sally might return. That’s the theory. A lot of people think she’s alive, living a nice life somewhere. So we have to go with that. So, to the world, she’s alive. So there’s no grave. But I know she’s dead. And no one will help me.’

  ‘You say you have no one, but what about family? Sally’s father?’

  ‘Family are scattered. I meet them now and then, but not here, not where it happened. They wouldn’t be welcomed by the village if people knew they were here because of Sally. I go to them, instead. It’s a much-needed break for me. I don’t know why I don’t just leave this place forever. And Sally’s father… my husband and me drifted apart because of this. Perhaps Sally was the glue that kept us together, and without her… he left not long after she went missing. I don’t hear from him. I don’t want to burden him, because he’s in enough pain.’

  She thrust another photo into his face. He could tell from the computer-generated image that it was an age-progression depiction. He was staring at somebody’s guestimation of how Sally would look today, aged twenty instead of ten. The creator had crafted Sally’s head, shoulders and upper torso, and he’d put her in the same butterfly T-shirt. The existence of this picture meant the police were still investigating, still cared. This photo could help someone recognise her as she’d look today.

  But before he could say this, he saw other computer-generated images in her hands and he took them. Sally aged about fifteen. And twenty-five. And thirty. And forty.

  It made no sense. But he was certain of one thing. ‘The police didn’t create these.’

  ‘No, Councillor Turner paid for them. Not long after she went missing. After Sally’s father ran away. He wanted me to know how she would look. To ease my pain. He’s very sweet. He looked after me in the first few days. The morning after Sally disappeared, he bought me a dress. A black dress for the TV, you know? So I would have the right look for appealing on TV and in papers to talk about Sally. And Sally liked him too.’

  She thrust another photo at him. In this, Sally wore riding gear and was knelt by the front leg of a large brown horse with white markings. She seemed to be brushing the horse’s white feathering, which was so thick it seemed to wear pompoms.

  ‘Sally loved to ride one of Richard’s horses and one of his friends was teaching her. Not this horse, although she actually renamed it. This one was too big. There was another. She would go at weekends mostly. She and Richard’s son, one of her best friends, they were learning together. She had an ill cat and Richard helped it. He’s a vet. Will you help me?’

  The sudden swerve from history into a plea for help threw him. There wasn’t much he could do, but the best detectives were people who cared for others and were desperate to help them find justice. It wasn’t his case, and he wasn’t a Derby sleuth, but he’d seen that possible crime scene, he’d seen photographs of the girl, and his mother had begged to his face. Now he was obliged by his own moral code to do at least something for this woman.

  ‘I can’t do much. I can talk to my boss and see if he’ll find out anything new from Derby police. Maybe I can prompt an officer to come talk to you, or to do another round of publicity. But I can’t investigate. I’m not allowed. But for now, I really have to go.’ He didn’t tell her he needed to pick up his own child, the same age the one she’d lost.

  His agreeing to help seemed to satisfy her. She led him to the back door, but as he was about to step out, her fingers snapped around his wrist. ‘Do you have children?’

  ‘Yes, a ten-year-old boy. His mother left just a few months after he was born. She has a new life.’

  ‘Such a contrast. A mother who knows exactly where her child is, but doesn’t want to see him. And a mother who would do anything to know where her baby is. So you have some idea of what I’m going through. Will you promise to do all you can to help me? You know my pain. You have your boy, the same age as my girl when she was abducted. So will you promise to find my Sally?’

  Agreeing to offer aid was one thing. But what she was asking was a step too far. ‘I can’t help you. I’m sorry.’

  17

  When he got back to his car, parked in the turning circle on Arton Place, Lucas Turner was leaning against it. He still wore his coveralls, but a biker jacket had been added. The bike it accompanied was nearby with a helmet on the seat. This wasn’t going to be a scalding for laying his vehicle up in someone else’s spot.

  ‘Councillor Turner wants to talk to you,’ the young man said. ‘Follow me, please.’

  Councillor Turner? A strange way for the kid to refer to his father. Intrigued, Bennet knew he would go and see what the top-dog Key wanted. But he wouldn’t make it too easy for this kid. Given what Bennet had recently learned, all respect for Richard Turner and his kin had departed. He opened his door. ‘I have a prior engagement, I’m afraid.’

  A look of surprise came over Lucas’s face. Then annoyance, suggesting a threat was imminent. But then he seemed to realise he was dealing with a policeman, or a Loper who didn’t have to follow the rules, or maybe just a bigger, stronger guy. ‘It won’t take long. Please. My father is a parish councillor.’

  It sounded like he wanted Bennet to be impressed, but his narrowed eyes gave his words a sinister sheen, as if ‘parish councillor’ was slang for mafia hitman. Eager to go, but not eager to please, Bennet checked his watch and hummed and hawed. ‘I guess I have a few minutes spare. Lead on.’

  Bennet followed the bike out of Arton Place and down another side street closer to the centre. Two turns later, Lucas pulled up at the end of another cul-de-sac. It was much like the others Bennet had seen, except instead of two houses at the end, there was just a single large one. It was fifty feet behind an eight-feet-high brick wall that curved around half the entire turning circle. The high walls ran down each side, suggesting an enclosed plot, and he could see a fair splash of land behind the home. A sign by the large iron gates advertised Turner’s – Veterinary Surgeon. Bennet had expected Turner to have a lavish domain, but not this large, and not slap bang in the middle of a typical residential street.

  Lucas Turner rode onto the pavement and stopped at an intercom by the gates. Bennet didn’t catch what he said, but it was a handful of words at best and he didn’t await a reply. He turned to Bennet, said, ‘Don’t lie to him, okay? He’ll know,’ and off he blew, far too fast down the road. Bennet watched the gates automatically swing open.

  A driveway bearing a flashy Mercedes G-class four-by-four, led to the large porch, and the front door was ajar: another invitation. But Bennet stood his ground out on the road. Two minutes later the door fully opened and Councillor Turner stood on the threshold, dressed in the same suit as before but now without his jacket and with his sleeves rolled up.

  Bennet waited. He’d gotten the impression that Turner had barked orders from behind a large, imposing desk and had waited there to receive his guest like a king. It wasn’t going to go down that easy.

  After at least thirty seconds standing on the threshold, Turner realised he was going to have to give a little more. He made the long walk to the gates, braving the cold. ‘You could have come in, you know, detective. That’s why I opened the gate.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I felt it was rude to just enter your home. I waited to be invited in.’

  ‘Well, that was my invitation to – oh, it doesn’t matter. So, I hope my son was polite to you. He’s not a fan of strangers.’

  ‘He barely said a word. Maybe still smarting because I told him off years ago for trying to steal c
ars.’

  ‘I believe he told me about that misunderstanding. He was making sure they were locked.’

  Bennet kept a straight face. ‘My mistake. So, you want a word with me?’

  ‘Yes. Let’s walk.’

  Turner snapped his fingers, as if calling a dog. It made Bennet eager for a fight.

  18

  They strolled down the driveway, then Bennet veered onto the grass and alongside the house. Turner didn’t look comfortable in the cold, but made no objection.

  They went around the back, where Bennet saw a long extension to the house in white plastic and glass. The daylight made it hard to see much beyond the giant windows, more so because a security light above the back door of the main house had flicked on at their presence. But he made out a reception area and there was another sign for Turner’s vet surgery on the door. The backyard was oval and large and pretty bare apart from a wooden building at the far end. Stables, by the look of it, although it looked unused as such; there was no equestrian gear and the area out front was spotless, no straw or horse poo or churned mud in sight. The retaining wall lay before a ring of high trees that gave additional privacy.

  ‘This is a nice set-up,’ Bennet said. ‘Vet work must pay well.’

  ‘Well, I do it part-time now, just weekends. My time is mostly taken up with my civic duties.’

  The councillor had basically just admitted he made less money than Bennet had assumed, but elaborated no further. Turner was probably financing himself by milking various well-off widows and divorcees in this commune and others.

  Turner stopped. He looked cold but trying to hide it. Maybe he’d sussed that Bennet had angled away from the house specifically to keep him uncomfortable.