Crabtree found a key amongst a set and walked to the door. He took a deep breath before inserting the key. Liam noticed that the handle and lock were heavy-duty, and shiny as only the brand new can be. Another deep breath, then the farmer pushed open the door.
Immediately the emptiness hit Bennet. Like that cold aura you get upon entering your own home after being away on holiday, but amplified. There was little furniture. The painted wooden walls were bare, floors too. Except for the graffiti.
Red and black and green swirls, twists, lines and curves, everywhere. The floor, the walls, the ceilings, all ruined. No words or pictures, just chaos. There were streaks and bare spots and smears and translucent areas where attempts had been made to scrub the paint away, and cleaning materials were in every room, reeking of it. In each room, Crabtree ranted as if seeing the carnage for the first time.
In the living room, Bennet noted an oblong section of the wooden floor that was a little less scuffed than the rest of the room. Where a sofa had been. Crabtree was quick to explain: ‘They ruined my sofa. And it was the first sofa me and my wife bought for our house. Vandals.’
In the kitchen were a set of four wooden chairs against a wall. ‘Kitchen table, oak. Lovely. Someone gouged a load of swear words into it. My wife’s mother gave us that table, and I had to smash it up and burn it.’
There were two bedrooms, one with a single bed and one bearing a double. Both were just metal frames. ‘I burned the mattresses and covers. Dirty scumbags shat on them. I couldn’t use them again. How could I? I burned all the stuff, and I burned everything they left behind, all their nasty trash. There was loads of it, like squatters had lived here for months. Doesn’t this make you angry?’
No, just confused. He tried to picture Lorraine here, a maniacal grin on her face as she smashed and graffitied, but it wouldn’t come. Too far-fetched. Had she watched in horror as the others, in revenge for being snubbed by the village, let loose their inner wild child? It was the only answer that made sense.
Unless Lorraine was no longer the woman he knew. Did he want such a person reunited with Joe?
Crabtree grabbed his arm. ‘Come see their stuff.’
Bennet shrugged the hand away. ‘No. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I need to be leaving. Call the damn police about this.’
But outside, he stopped, and when Crabtree turned to walk around the back of the ranch, he followed to a brick annex with a heavy iron door that was fire-blackened on the inside, like the bare brick walls. The space had no lighting, so Crabtree used the torch on his phone to light up a concrete floor covered in ash and survived paper fragments, twisted metal and springs from a sofa, blackened nails and pieces of metal from other items. It all still gave off heat.
‘You burned it inside after all. Hardly a shrine now,’ Bennet said, aware that he was lashing out at the farmer unfairly but unable to prevent it.
‘Piss off,’ Crabtree spat. ‘There was nowhere else. Look, this is all the shit and trash they left behind. Maybe you can get something from it, some evidence these scumbags did this. Cos I know they’ll just say the ranch was fine when they left.’
Bennet strolled through the mess, kicking at things, turning others. He bent in amongst the ash and burned wood and spiky metal and paper that disintegrated under his shoe. He bent down and picked up a sliver of white paper with the typed letters ‘EXT – STR’. He figured he knew what it was. ‘EXT –’ was movie terminology for exterior, meaning a scene shot outdoors. Possibly on a STReet. He’d found a piece of a script. The film crew had definitely been here. But it didn’t prove they’d caused the destruction Crabtree was blaming them for. Maybe the ranch had been fine when they left.
Or was that his brain trying to defend his son’s mother?
Bennet’s ears pricked up at the sound of an approaching vehicle.
28
It was a Mercedes G-class four-by-four, coming at speed and dancing on its suspension. Clearly recognising it, Crabtree ran ahead to greet it. Liam knew the farmer planned to say something in secret to the driver, but he didn’t care.
The driver was Councillor Richard Turner. When he exited, he was careful not to get his fine shoes dirty. It seemed obvious that Turner had heard about Bennet’s visit to Crabtree, possibly from the man himself, and rushed over. Just like when he’d learned of Bennet’s meeting with Anika Jenkins.
‘I told him I’d cleaned the place of their foul memory,’ Crabtree told the councillor. Turner gave a slow nod and threw his arms wide.
‘Now, detective, what do you think of your film crew?’
‘A little over the top, but I understand their reaction. If they’d been carried out of town on a rail.’
Crabtree looked puzzled; Turner didn’t. An educated man, he knew what Liam referred to. Riding the rail was a form of punishment popular in the USA in the 18th and 19th centuries, in which undesirables were carried about town on a rail, parading them before they were evicted. Liam had read about it in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
‘If these people felt unwanted,’ Turner said, ‘that was on them. We’ve had this discussion and I have no mind to repeat it. As you can see, your girlfriend and her people have gone. My village would relax, but there’s an annoying off-duty policeman slinking about, asking questions.’
It was as good as an admission. Bennet had come to suspect that the film crew had suffered more than just a wall of silence. They’d been run out of the village.
‘Wait a minute,’ Crabtree said, staring at Bennet. ‘Girlfriend? I thought you said they were criminals.’
Turner grinned. ‘Ah, our friend here is on a personal mission, not police business. Look, detective, your film crew were bothersome, here for nothing but selling a story. No one here cared and they certainly have no interest in where these people went. They came, they vandalised this pretty home, and then they left. Good riddance. I’m sorry you’re having problems with your girlfriend, but that’s no reason to cause trouble. And that’s certainly what you’re doing.’
‘Ex-girlfriend,’ Bennet said. ‘I’m just trying to do right by my son and find his mother–’
‘Enough,’ Turner cut in with a flick of the hand, as if dealing with a pesky fly at a picnic. ‘You’re not here on official business and we don’t have to answer any more questions. I’ve had to interject twice now, to make sure you’re not harassing my people, and it’s tiresome. I suggest you head home and continue your enquiries without interrupting our lives any further. Otherwise, I may make a call to your superiors about a harassment charge. Do you understand my meaning, detective? Game over with the monkey business. If you want to do right by your son, buy him a Lego set.’
Turner was awaiting a response, with a slappable grin on his face despite claiming to be upset. The response Bennet gave was to start walking. The loader’s tracks offered a route to chase back to his car.
‘Goodbye, detective. You should report this vandalism, by the way. Now that you know about it.’
Bennet wanted the last word. As he passed the G-class, he said, ‘Idi Amin was also a Mercedes fan. Have a good day.’
29
The rush-hour traffic thinned when he got out of the boondocks. Once free of the Peak District, Bennet turned his mind to the Buttery Park case, which he’d neglected for his personal mission. He was still on a pair of days off, so the investigation hadn’t suffered without his input, but that didn’t stop him feeling he’d mired it in mud with his absence. On the drive home, he made some calls with an eye to directing some angle or other, but his team had fared well without their decision maker. No forward movement, though, which was a growing cause for concern.
After that, he found his thoughts again turning to Lorraine. He checked her Facebook and Twitter, but she’d made no updates today. He pulled in at a lay-by and composed a text to Hooper, requesting him to trace the unknown number she’d called his landline from. But he couldn’t send it. Today he might talk to Lorraine, and tonight he could watch her and Joe ha
ve a good old time, but tomorrow the Independent Ethics Panel would come down on him like a ton of bricks. There were easier ways, like messaging Lorraine’s husband, but that felt just as wrong.
He emailed Francis Overeem instead and saw a chance to give his contact a semi-official mask. His lie: he’d gotten wind of a vandalism accusation and wanted answers before he reported it to Derbyshire police. He then scoured the director’s blog again and found the names and pictures of the two unknown crew he’d visited the Peak District with. Betty Crute, sound engineer, was a petite girl in a tank top with red dreadlocks and tattoos all down both arms. John Crickmer, cameraman, was a guy who looked like a grunger, with shaggy long hair and a heavy-metal jacket. Bennet sent both of them the same email he’d written to Overeem.
Which made him think. Turner had been right: Bennet now knew about the vandalism and had a duty to report it. His mind made a leap from that to an image of Lorraine in court to answer such charges, with Joe crying as he watched her get sentenced and taken into custody. Unlikely, but he couldn’t shake the idea. He decided he would get the story from Lorraine and the others before passing its details to Derbyshire police. He sent Lorraine yet another message via Messenger – this one asking her to urgently get in contact – then tossed his phone onto the passenger seat and rubbed his face. What a goddamn day.
He was home soon after. Stepping in the car to stepping out again: seventy-three minutes. Joe and Patricia were eating dinner before heading out to the cinema. He’d already called Patricia to explain his plan and she had some cottage pie left over for him. The lengthy return journey for a trip of about twenty miles had included a McDonald’s stop, but he found space for her cooking.
Perhaps because Patricia filled the void, or he didn’t want to mention her in front of the neighbour, Joe didn’t bring up his mother that evening. But Bennet didn’t fool himself that it meant Joe was over her. As they queued to park, and bought popcorn, and squeezed past legs to find their seats at the cinema, Bennet debated his next move. Joe’s nonchalance had cut the urgency Bennet had felt all day, and with time on his hands, and room to think clearly, he came up with a plan.
If she hadn’t called him by tomorrow morning, he would get hold of her husband by Facebook. An innocent little note to a man who surely knew about Joe’s existence. Just a prompt: hey, do you think Lorraine would consider seeing Joe for an hour or two? Her husband probably wouldn’t mind, unless he was an immature bastard, and his blessing might convince Lorraine it was a good idea. No more of this silly chasing her, and no need for guilt-trips. He just had to hope the snarky message he’d left her didn’t mess things up. He would also liaise with Crabtree to find a resolution not involving the police. The farmer didn’t want police traipsing through his ranch, and Lorraine’s husband was rich, so maybe there was a fiscal route through this mess.
Knowing he had a way forward if necessary, Bennet relaxed a little. He even followed the movie. But the worries came back at close to midnight. While heading upstairs to bed, he checked in on Joe and saw something unnerving as he bent to kiss his sleeping boy’s cheek. A portion of his pillow by his nose was puckered, and there were dried streaks of fluid on his cheek. Tears. Joe had been crying in bed. And the culprit, his phone, was in his hand.
Bennet took it and, out on the landing, hit the wake button. The device immediately opened onto Facebook Messenger. Top of the list of message recipients: Lorraine. Joe had written HI IT IS JOE HOW ARE YOU? Seven hours ago now, but no tick to show she’d read it. What if Joe didn’t know what that tick meant? Maybe he believed his mother had ignored him. Maybe she had.
Was this Bennet’s fault? Had he promised too much, too early? Had he made a mistake by giving Joe his mother’s new name, thus allowing him to find her on social media? Had he already ruined any chance mother and son had at reconciliation with that stupid message he’d sent, warning her to stay away?
He felt like crying into his own pillow. This entire day was one he wished he could erase from history.
30
His phone rang at four in the morning, but he was already awake. A dream had roused him minutes earlier. Not quite a dream, but a memory.
I can’t help you. I’m sorry.
His last words to Anika, mother of a missing, possibly dead young girl. He’d investigated missing people before, perhaps two dozen, and in every single case he’d performed as a police officer bound by duty. That meant consoling a worried family member and promising to provide them with answers, good or bad. Sometimes the missing turned up and his team backed off, but often a body was found and the investigation hit turbo boost. Sometimes there was glorious success and sometimes there was nightmare failure. But the constant was always that pledge to do everything in his power to right the wrong.
Until this last time. That he wasn’t attached to the Sally Jenkins case, or even there in a police capacity, didn’t matter. He had still stood before the girl’s traumatised mother and as good as shrugged her off: I can’t help you.
The memory burned him because he had never experienced it before. Even if Sally rode home tomorrow on a golden horse, twenty years old and beautiful and rich, he would experience this nightmare for days to come. Somehow, it was worse than if he’d agreed to help Anika and then delivered her a corpse.
The ringing phone cut into his thoughts. Unknown number. He snatched it up, sure it was Lorraine. For the moment, Anika’s hellish world was forgotten.
‘Have you seen Lorraine?’ a male voice said. ‘I just finished my night shift. She’s not at home. I called people, but no one’s heard from her.’
It took Bennet’s sleepy brain a moment to orientate. He realised he was speaking to Lorraine’s husband. ‘No. You haven’t heard from her?’
‘No, I said no one has. I know you two had history. I thought she might have told you what she was doing. We didn’t argue, so I’m worried.’
Bennet sat up, instantly fully awake. ‘She tried to get my help. I left a message on social media, but I’ve not heard back. She went to Lampton? She didn’t return? There’s no evidence in the house that she came back?’
‘No, she hasn’t been back. She went off to do a documentary with some people. She was supposed to be away Sunday and Monday, back Tuesday evening. She didn’t come back.’
‘She never contacted you at all while she was away?’
‘No. Sometimes we go days without, you know? It gets like that after you’ve been with someone a while, doesn’t it?’
Bennet wouldn’t know, at least for the last decade. ‘Do you know who the film crew are? Any contact numbers? Did you meet them?’
‘No. She dealt with all that. She drove off to meet them, down in Oxford. But after that I didn’t hear from her. She was looking forward to the trip. I’ve been working nights, so I was asleep when she went, and I wouldn’t try to call her at night while I’m working.’
Bennet put the phone on speaker on the bedside table so he could talk as he got dressed.
‘Look around the house, look for a note or something to do with the film crew. When she contacted these people, she might have written something down. Look for a name or a number, perhaps on a flyer, because that’s how she contacted them.’
‘I know that someone called Joe contacted her on Facebook. I saw that. There’s been no activity on her account since I last saw her, though, which is also strange. She posts a lot. I’ll go look at this Joe’s profile and see what’s what.’
Bennet was dismayed, and not just because a simmering fear about Lorraine had now ignited into an inferno. He’d always wondered how her new family felt knowing an old family was out there. Now he had his answer: they didn’t feel anything, because they didn’t know. Lorraine’s daughter didn’t know she had an older half-brother. Her husband had no clue his wife had had a child years before she met him.
‘Joe’s nothing to do with this,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘He’s someone I know. Look for that note. Stay by this phone. I’m going to call you again
within half an hour. Okay?’
‘Should I report her missing? This just seems bad. Did that film crew do something to her?’
‘Just do what I said. I’ll get back to you.’
He hung up, his head a muddle. He’d spent a day hunting Lorraine, without success. He should have had more answers for her husband. He should have found her.
But now he had no shackles, and he would find her. He called Detective Constable Hooper. No answer at such an hour, so he left a message: Call me the moment you get this.
Dressed, he got a key from one of the kitchen drawers, then headed into Joe’s room. He lifted him, still in his duvet, and carried him from the house. The cold wind outside didn’t stir the boy, nor did he wake when Bennet almost dropped him while unlocking Patricia’s front door. He put Joe on the sofa and sent Patricia a text saying he had to go out and Joe was downstairs. As he was climbing into his car, he saw Patricia’s bedroom light flick on. God, she was great.
Churchfield Police Station was closed until 8am, so he let himself in with his key fob and sat behind the reception desk. Data protection meant the PC was password protected, but nobody broke into a building full of police and the password was on a sticker on the monitor. He loaded up CONTACT, the system used to file a Misper – a missing persons report. He called Lorraine’s husband back.
An initial report needed such details as name, age, description, address, location missing from and locations frequented, as well as information regarding concerns the reporter had about the Misper’s likelihood to be sexually exploited, if they’d been missing before, were likely to harm themselves or others, or travel out of the country. He didn’t need all that. He asked Lorraine’s husband for the names and contact details of close friends and her vehicle registration, and then he hung up without a goodbye.
Cold Blood Page 11