Cold Blood

by Jane Heafield

  ‘I understand you’re here about some visitors we had to the village. So this isn’t about what I believe Sally’s mother spoke to you about?’

  ‘What would that be?’

  ‘Sally Jenkins, the ten-year-old girl who went missing. Terrible thing. So you’re not investigating that?’

  At least this guy had the decency to refer to her by name. And he was the first person not to shove an alibi for that long-ago night in Bennet’s face. ‘No, although there is a connection of sorts. A four-person film crew came to shoot a documentary about that crime–’

  ‘Crime?’ Turner cut in. ‘There’s no proof that a crime was committed. She could be out there somewhere.’

  Bennet didn’t know the case, but he knew the odds and he wouldn’t have bet on them. Even Sally’s mother – and parents were usually the ones who lived in unfounded hope – thought she was dead. But he said none of this to Turner.

  The vet approached the entrance to the reception and held the door open. An invite. Bennet entered what was indeed a reception, with a waiting room. The expected set-up: reception desk, chairs, table of pamphlets and magazines, posters all over the walls, including a framed photograph of Mount Rushmore National Memorial. A door in the wall that the surgery shared with the house was marked STAFF ONLY. Another said SURGERY and a third RESTROOM.

  Turner leaned back against the reception desk, which had items for sale and a small hot drinks vending machine. A common interview tactic was to remain at eye level and close, but he figured Turner would open up his personality more if he didn’t feel so scrutinised. So Bennet took a sofa ten feet away.

  ‘So, the film crew? Don’t ask me for their names, because I don’t know,’ Turner said.

  ‘I know one of them. A helper they had, for local knowledge. She used to live here some years ago. Lorraine Cross, although she was a Taylor back then.’

  ‘I recall. She was your girlfriend.’

  Bennet nodded. He’d hoped to keep that piece of information in the dark.

  ‘And now you want her back?’

  ‘No, that’s not why I’m here. I need information from the film crew, on another matter. Apparently they stayed one day and then left.’

  ‘Yes. They were here Sunday. You spoke to someone at the café, so I gather you know they went in the Red Lion pub that night and caused trouble.’

  ‘I heard. What trouble?’

  ‘I don’t know. Sunday is usually my night for a little drink at the Lion, but I was helping my son with his car and didn’t go. But I heard they were quite arrogant. That’s beside the point, though. I can’t imagine Ms Jenkins had much to offer about these people, since she hardly goes out. But she would have had plenty to say about her daughter, I suspect.’

  Word had travelled fast.

  ‘She mentioned Sally liked to ride your horses. You taught her.’

  ‘Well, an acquaintance of mine did. A woman. And my son, he loved to help her too. I had two horses. A gift from a customer. I had land, so went for it. Yes, Sally used to ride Reeve, a three-year-old filly, but her mission was to brave B’fly, a mature Clydesdale.’

  Turner headed behind the reception desk and grabbed a glass and a bottle of Hennessy VS 44. He raised the bottle in Bennet’s direction, but received a shake of the head.

  ‘However, B’fly was a hundred and eighty centimetres. He dwarfed Sally. Far too big for her at her age, but he was her mission. No astronaut or hairdresser dreams for that girl. Her destiny was to ride B’fly one lap around the field before she hit sixteen. I’ll always remember how she used to stand right next to him, arms folded, looking up at him, as if contemplating the challenge. Like a mountaineer staring at Everest and thinking, you will not defeat me.’ Turner gave a smile at the memory, then quickly lost it. ‘It’s a shame she’ll never realise that dream.’

  Curious. ‘Never? But you think she’s got a new life out there.’

  ‘Don’t be so quick with judgements, detective. Reeve and B’fly died about two years ago, just months apart. That’s all I meant. I turned the stables into a workspace for my computer.’

  Turner came out from behind the reception and sat on the same sofa as Bennet. Eye level, three feet apart. ‘So, Mr Bennet, Anika had nothing helpful for you?’

  ‘She seemed unhappy about the lack of progression in the case. Amongst other things.’

  The councillor missed or ignored the accusation in Bennet’s final sentence. ‘No, unfortunately there wasn’t much progression. I didn’t feel the police did a very good job. My people were trying their best though. We tried to give them all the help we could, but the police didn’t seem to care. They did a shoddy job. No offence.’

  He smiled. Bennet smiled back. ‘None taken. Different police service. I’m not part of Derbyshire. So why a shoddy job? Because they didn’t buy your theory that she ran away?’

  ‘I didn’t say she ran away, detective.’

  Bennet sipped his tea. ‘You kind of did, councillor. You said there was no proof a crime had been committed. If she’d been taken away, even by a trusted uncle, or if she’d willingly gone off with a friend, she was not of legal age to make that choice and there was no permission from her mother, the legal guardian. That’s a crime.’

  ‘But I didn’t say it was a fact. Just a possibility. Just like her being out there somewhere. I know the police believed she was dead, although they didn’t dare say as much. Can you tell me Sally being alive and well this very day is not a possibility?’

  ‘A ten-year-old just one day gave up her parents, friends, everything? Never changed her mind come adulthood? Didn’t once get recognised from media appeals that would have gone out? Survived without a job or a home?’

  Turner had finished his cognac and poured another. He again waved the bottle at Bennet, who again passed. But he noticed the bottle’s label said it was a limited edition released in honour of Barack Obama. The bottle, and the Mount Rushmore photo, said something about this man. Did he think of himself as presidential, of his standing in Lampton as akin to that of the men honoured by the cognac and the national monument? More like a despot.

  ‘So, Mr Bennet, you can promise me such a thing is impossible? Impossible?’

  Bennet could have argued all day, but knew it would all be a waste. Ironically, the very circumstances he was denouncing – a street child able to fend for themself – had applied in his last big case less than a month ago. ‘Do you seriously think Sally Jenkins just left her life and she’s still out there? This is why the police did a shoddy job? Because they were open to other scenarios?’

  Turner gave a sly grin. ‘No, Bennet. I don’t know that for sure. And that’s entirely my point. Yes, some of my people theorised that Sally had run away, and the police steadfastly refused to believe it. But they also refused to believe that a stranger must have taken that little girl.’

  ‘Ah, so the police did a shoddy job because they considered the possibility that a local had snatched her? The police explore all avenues, Mr Turner.’

  ‘Everybody knows everybody here and she would have been spotted if she’d been with one of our own. Or someone would have gossiped. I asked my people, and they said they knew nothing.’

  ‘Well, a child abductor is hardly going to admit it.’

  Turner gave a wry smile, as if his guest had made a childish mistake. He continued without a response to Bennet’s claim. ‘But, just like with the runaway angle, the police ignored this advice. I can assure you, as someone right here at the time, that the police refused to use extra resources to search in other towns and cities, instead focusing on my people. And even Sally’s father, at one point. And when they hit a dead end, they lost interest.’

  ‘Lost interest. I can assure you that the police don’t just–’

  ‘Her disappearance didn’t get the nationwide exposure that some of the famous cases do, and doesn’t even today,’ Turner cut in, angry. ‘The police make a half-hearted show of still trying to solve it by sending a low-level detective
to ask useless questions once a year or so, but irreparable damage was already done. Time was wasted, evidence lost. Sally has been missing ten years in March. You’re defensive and blind because you’re a police officer.’

  Defensive, yes. Blind, no: he knew police investigations were often flawed. But Turner was missing a point and Bennet saw a route back to the reason he was here.

  ‘Let’s say you’re right, Mr Turner. Bad police, missed opportunities, and now it’s been ten years. People change, loving relationships end, and opinions get altered. There could be information out there now, or someone who’s ready to speak, and new exposure on the case could help bring it out. A TV documentary about the case would bring it back into the limelight. The film crew should have been accepted here like royalty, but I get the impression they weren’t welcome here.’

  ‘These reporters and film crews who periodically turn up, do you really think they have justice as their primary motivation? It’s money, detective. They turn up here, asking questions that tear open old wounds, and it’s all to sell a product to a public that craves blood-soaked gossip, creates celebrities out of criminals, and wants to experience outrage that can be shut off by the flick of a TV power button. None of my people are willing to cater to those who sell the trauma of others, especially not a group of amateur film-makers who don’t have the clout or the skills of the police. Ignoring these people was the correct thing to do.’

  That reminded Bennet of Sally’s mother’s words along the same line. He’d been here too long and wanted to wrap this conversation up, go home, and forget this place… but a bug had him and he couldn’t shake it. ‘Sally is the Scottish King, isn’t she?’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Your people are like actors who refuse to speak the name Macbeth outside of the script, out of fear of getting cursed, and instead use the title the Scottish King. In Lampton, Sally is known as the missing girl, and speaking of her will bring disaster. If someone slips up, do you send them out into the fields to perform a cleansing ritual?’

  Turner laughed, but there was loathing in his eyes. Then he got serious. ‘If you hit a brick wall with your questioning about this subject, it’s because people think poor Sally’s mother should be left alone and not hounded. Sally’s father ran away because he couldn’t take the heat, leaving Anika all alone. It’s because we care more for her well-being than the curiosity of morbid tourists and the bank balances of slimeball journalists.’

  Bennet leaned forward, his face just inches from Turner’s. ‘Sally’s mother wants to shout about her daughter from the rooftops. She wants to celebrate Sally’s birthday, and plant a tree, and probably talk about her in shops, and she wants people to reminisce about her daughter. It would help her accept her loss. But she couldn’t do those things, could she?’

  Uncomfortable with Bennet’s proximity, Turner shifted further down the sofa and folded his arms. ‘Each and every armchair detective who comes here thinks they can solve the case and the word murderer is always bandied around. There is no murderer, Mr Bennet, I can promise you that. Yet every time that word is mentioned on TV or in a paper or in a shop by someone in this village, it fortifies the horrible notion that Sally will never return. And Sally’s mother shouldn’t be allowed to think her daughter is dead. She should believe there’s every chance of Sally’s return alive and well, and not upset herself by talking about death and planting silly trees to commemorate Sally’s life. That is why my people will not talk about poor Sally, for it turns her into water-cooler gossip, as if she is nothing more than a soap opera twist.’

  There was all sorts in that statement Bennet could have leaped upon. He chose: ‘Shouldn’t be allowed? She believes her daughter’s dead, and I happen to agree. But everyone here seems to be trying to sell her a dream that’s not feasible. I think the only way Sally’s mother can properly move on is to accept that her daughter’s gone and grieve the way she wants, even if it involves a tree, or a headstone, or talking about her in front of people. But she’s been told not to, hasn’t she?’

  Turner looked puzzled. ‘Told not to?’

  ‘I think the Keys gave an order to the whole village: don’t go around talking about the missing kid, because we don’t like to be reminded of that. And people have become plugged into a hive mind that now sees Sally not as a vulnerable little girl, but as a dark cloud over this village.’

  Now the councillor’s puzzlement was replaced by anger again. ‘An order to not grieve? Not accept her loss? We gave only advice, you fool. I care for that woman and I did everything I could for her, to help her get past this. Just ask the woman, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Oh, she sang your praises, Mr Turner. You were very nice to her after the tragedy. A good friend. You bought her a dress. But this is where my understanding falls short. You gave her some age-progression photos, for instance. Paid for out of your own pocket.’

  ‘Convincing her that dwelling on her daughter is bad is one thing. I could hardly tell her to forget Sally altogether, could I? It was a nice touch I felt she deserved.’

  ‘This is the first time I’ve known of age-progression photos being given in advance. When Sally would have been forty, giving the mother a picture of her daughter aged forty is fine. The way you did it says Anika will need it because she’ll never see her again. Yet, in contradiction, the village doesn’t accept that Sally is dead.’

  ‘Sally is twenty now, and what if she doesn’t return until she’s sixty? And what if there are no photos of her in the interim? Anika will want to know how her daughter looked growing up, and I provided that.’

  Bennet could hardly believe what he’d just heard. Either Turner was clueless and running himself in circles trying to get a handle on it, or he was too proud to admit and correct his mistakes. Or maybe there was something out of whack in his head.

  Turner drained his glass and stood up. ‘All I ever thought about was Anika. What I did helped her to avoid drowning in grief. Now, I’ve given you enough time, Detective Bennet. Your film crew came, got ignored, and left, and your business here is done. I’ll bid you a safe trip home.’

  Bennet went for the door. His time with Richard Turner; bachelor, vet, councillor, had left him as drained as the toughest interrogation-room conversation with a deranged killer. But he had to have the last word.

  ‘You remind me of Kim Jong-il.’ Before Turner could take offence, Bennet grinned and added, ‘Big Hennessy fan.’

  19

  It was a long shot, but he’d kick himself if he didn’t scour the internet for Donald Ducke and later discovered it was actually the director’s real name. So he did that.

  He found numerous people on social media and whittled them down by photo – the guy was black and about fifty – and location – he lived in England – until he had a list of possibles. But there he got stuck. The possibles were only such not because of relevant details, but a lack of them. Some on Facebook had no profile picture, or no personal information, no posts, no hobbies list. Learning anything further would involve contact via message and he didn’t have the energy or will to embark upon what would probably be a lengthy, dead-end endeavour. Who was to say all these Donald Duckes weren’t also fake funny-name profiles? Why would anyone respond to his query anyway?

  So he gave it up. All of it. He’d been desperate to find Lorraine, fast, but why? To give Joe a nice surprise after school? The kid had waited years and he probably didn’t feel the rush his dad felt. It was unlikely Bennet wouldn’t get hold of Lorraine within the next week or so, and Joe would be fine with that. So Bennet would be, too. It was time to end the chase.

  Once on Lampton’s main road, heading towards freedom, his eye caught a street on the left. He turned into the corner, figuring he could spare five minutes for old times’ sake. Out of habit, he put the gearbox in neutral as he drove over the crest and down a road that fell away like a ski jump.

  He’d played this game hundreds of times. Roll down the hi
ll without power and see how far up the other side he could get. He’d never made it as far as the grit bin. He grinned as the truck gained speed, yet ran almost silently. So determined was he to succeed this time, he didn’t even touch the brakes as a car started to reverse out of a driveway. He hit his horn and the car jerked to a stop, and a woman mouthed unsweet things as he blew past just inches from her bumper.

  At the bottom of the hill, Liam bent forward and lifted his feet, as if somehow that would aid aerodynamics, and as the Pathfinder started to climb up the far side and began to slow, he coaxed it with soothing words.

  The Pathfinder gave a good showing, but lost the battle ten metres short of the grit bin on the pavement. Not even close to his best. As the truck started to roll back, he put it in gear and drove the last twenty metres to his destination.

  The houses on this street were all two-storey semis barely a few decades old, but many had ivy climbing the walls and trellises lashed to the red brickwork and ornate porches, as if to present the illusion of age. The house he sought had not subscribed to such trickery; it was plain, without bells and whistles, and the garden was easily the untidiest around. Unlike most, it also had no curtains or blinds, so Liam could stare right into the living room.

  How it had changed since Lorraine lived there. He could remember all the little signs of her around the place. The slippers she always liked to leave by the front door, and the lampshade she’d made herself out of pigskin, Ed Gein-like. The hair bobbles she always left hooked over interior door handles. She had insisted on a nautical theme, with unfinished wood windowsills, seashells everywhere, and blue wallpaper contrasting with a sand-coloured rug.

  ‘Good day to you all. I thought I’d let you know…’

  Bennet wound down his window, at first sure he was hearing things. He wasn’t. His eyes found a nearby telegraph pole, and the siren clamped to it.

  ‘…so, this infection they’re calling 2019-nCoV has now reached the USA, making it five countries with confirmed diagnosis and over five hundred affected…’