by Cara Hunter
Somer gets out her phone and shows him a picture of the girl. ‘What about this young woman – have you ever seen her?’
The boy peers at the screen. ‘No idea.’
‘Are any of your flatmates in?’
‘Not sure. Haven’t seen anyone. Probably in the library. Finals. You know.’
She puts the phone away and hands him a card. ‘If any of them have any information about Mr Harper please ask them to call this number.’
‘What’s he done – started flashing the local biddies?’
‘What makes you say that?’
The lad flushes bright red. ‘Nothing. I just thought –’
‘If you could just pass on the message.’
She turns on her heel and leaves him standing there on the step, wondering what all that was about. A state of ignorance that lasts approximately a minute and a half, after he shuts the door and gets out his mobile.
‘Shit,’ he says as he scrolls down the news feed. ‘Shit shit shit.’
* * *
* * *
EVIDENCE KEY
CK/1 to 3
Assortment of empty packets recovered for chemical fingerprint enhancement from plastic sacks next to stairs in Cellar, Room A.
CK/4 to 5
Partial fingerprints lifted from tape sealing a box recovered next to stairs in Cellar, Room A.
CK/6
Fingerprints lifted from glossy cardboard box flap recovered in Cellar, Room A.
CK/7 to 10
Fingerprints lifted from multiple external surfaces of items recovered from an old tin bath in Cellar, Room A.
CK/11
Partial fingerprint lifted from locking bolt on Cellar Door B (exterior, Room A side).
CK/12
Partial fingerprints lifted from set of keys in locking mechanism of Cellar Door B (exterior, Room A side).
NM/1 to 5
Assortment of empty packets, food boxes and containers recovered for chemical fingerprint enhancement from a sack of rubbish in Cellar, Room B.
NM/6 to 8
Fingerprints lifted from empty plastic containers recovered from a sack of rubbish in Cellar, Room B.
NM/9
Dark pillow case with white staining (presumptive test positive for saliva) recovered from single mattress in Cellar, Room B.
NM/10
Grey bed sheet with multiple white staining (presumptive test positive for semen and saliva) recovered from single mattress in Cellar, Room B.
NM/11
White duvet with red staining (presumptive test positive for blood) recovered from single mattress in Cellar, Room B.
NM/12 to 13
Female underwear with white staining (presumptive test positive for semen) recovered from single mattress in Cellar, Room B.
NM/14
Piece of bedding with small red stain (presumptive test positive for blood) recovered from child’s bed in Cellar, Room B.
NM/15
Wet and dry swabs of red smears (presumptive test positive for blood) from neighbouring wall in Cellar, Room B.
NM/16
Box of miscellaneous items including several old books from Cellar, Room B.
NM/17
Torch containing dead batteries from Cellar, Room B.
* * *
* * *
I’m in the canteen buying a sandwich when DC Baxter finds me.
‘I think I’ve got something,’ he says, slightly out of breath. His wife tells him he has to take the stairs; it’s the only proper exercise he ever gets.
‘The girl?’
‘No. Harper. I gave up on Missing Persons but while I was at it I thought it was worth running Harper’s name through the system.’
‘And?’
‘No convictions. Not even speeding. And if he’s a kerb-crawler we haven’t caught him doing it. But I did find two call-outs to the house in Frampton Road. One in 2002 and one in 2004. No charges brought and the notes are a bit sketchy but it was clearly a domestic.’
‘Who was the attending officer?’
‘Jim Nicholls, both times.’
‘See if you can track him down. From what I remember he retired to Devon. But HR must have an address. Get him to give me a call.’
* * *
* * *
Shit man did u see the news? – that bloke down the road. He’s some sort of psycho. Locked some girl in his bloody cellar. Police just came. Wondered if I shd tell them
Fuck no way. Last thing we need. Just keep shtum right?
Did u recog the girl?
No never seen her b4
Well then so just shut the fuck up OK?
* * *
* * *
‘Bill Harper? Now that is a blast from the past.’
Russell Todd is the fourth former colleague of Harper’s that Gislingham’s called, and the results so far have been dead, dead, and forgetful, in that order. But Todd is not just alive and well, he’s talkative too.
‘So you remember him then?’ says Gislingham, trying not to get his hopes up.
‘Oh yes. Knew him quite well for a while, but it’s some years ago now. Why do you ask?’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
There’s a long exhalation at the other end. ‘We-e-ll,’ says Todd, ‘wasn’t exactly top notch. Academically, I mean. Not that he thought that himself, of course. In fact he probably considered ending up at Brum was decidedly infra dig, but his wife came from somewhere round there so that may have decided it. Buying that house in Oxford always struck me as classic denial. But he was solid enough. Knew his stuff. In fact, he did write one article that caused quite a stir –’
‘Is this the role-playing thing?’
‘Ah, you know about that, do you? Between you and me, it was a bit of a case of “right place at the right time”. I mean, the thinking was nothing very original, but Bill hit on the idea of applying it to internet games. Or whatever those things are called. This was back in 1997, so the web was really only just getting going. All of a sudden he was quite the thing.’
Todd’s tone has become increasingly waspish, and Gislingham detects a distinct whiff of peer envy. These academics, always stabbing each other in the back. He wonders in passing how many people would ever have considered Todd ‘top notch’.
‘Anyway,’ continues Todd, ‘after toiling in the dustier foothills of academe for the best part of thirty years, dear old Bill suddenly finds himself being courted by the likes of Stanford and MIT. There was even a rumour of Harvard.’
‘So what happened?’
Todd laughs, not very pleasantly. He’s starting to get up Gislingham’s nose. ‘It was positively Shakespearean. The hero brought low at the very moment of his triumph. The house was up for sale, the bags all but packed, and suddenly – bang. It all comes crashing down around his ears. Or perhaps another part of his anatomy would be a more apt metaphor. In the circumstances.’
‘I can guess,’ says Gislingham.
Todd is clearly amused. ‘Yes, I’m afraid Bill got caught with his pecker in the honeypot. It was all hushed up, of course, but you couldn’t see the Americans for dust. Married ma
n meddling with the students goes down very badly over there. Rather prudish about such things, the Yanks.’
‘Have you kept in touch with him since?’
‘Can’t say I have. I did hear his wife had died. Breast cancer, I think. I don’t know if he worked again. She had some money, the wife, so he may not have needed to.’
‘And was that the only time? I mean, did he have a reputation for harassing his students?’
‘Oh no, that was the thing – it was quite out of character. The irony was that if the authorities had wanted to make an example of someone there were several far more flagrant dragueurs they could have picked on – on both sides of the house. It wasn’t like it is now with lawsuits at the drop of your trousers.’
The good old days of harass at will; Gislingham mouths ‘wanker’ at the phone.
‘If anything,’ continues Todd, ‘Bill was on the strait-laced side of straight. If you take my meaning. It just goes to show you never can tell.’
‘No,’ says Gislingham through gritted teeth. ‘You can’t.’
* * *
* * *
American Journal of Social and Cognitive Sciences
Volume 12, number 3, Fall 1998
Dungeons and Damsels:
Role-Playing Games on the World-Wide Web
William M. Harper, PhD,
University of Birmingham
Abstract
This article looks at the potential for multi-participant role-playing games (RPGs) on the electronic telecommunications network known as the World-Wide Web. While very few enthusiasts yet have access to this technology, the capability exists to allow multiple players to interact in real time via computer terminals, across geographies and time zones. The article explores the cognitive and psycho-social implications of this ‘remote gaming’, including issues such as the impact of anonymous computer ‘personae’ on trust among players, and the effect on their decision-making processes. It also examines the possible neurological consequences of prolonged exposure to a violent ‘virtual’ world, including the erosion of empathy, an increase in interpersonal aggression, and the illusion of personal omnipotence.
* * *
* * *
It’s shortly after 4.00 p.m., and Everett is standing with one of the nurses, looking through a glass partition at the boy. The blinds in the room are down and he’s sitting alone in a playpen in the middle of the floor, staring at a pile of toys. Bricks, an aeroplane, a red and green train. Every now and then he reaches out and touches one of them. His dark hair hangs in curls, like a girl’s. There’s a woman sitting in the room with him, but she’s chosen the chair in the furthest corner.
‘He still won’t let anyone near him?’
The woman shakes her head. There’s a badge on her uniform that says STAFF NURSE JENNY KINGSLEY. ‘Poor lamb. The doctor checked him over and we’ve done some tests but we’re keeping it to the minimum for the moment. We don’t want to distress him any more than absolutely necessary. Especially after his mother reacted the way she did.’
She sees the question in Everett’s eyes. ‘We took him to her after we’d cleaned him up, but as soon as she saw him she started screaming. And I mean really screaming. And then the boy went completely rigid and he was screaming too. They had to sedate her in the end. That’s why we brought him back down here. That sort of stress – it’s not going to do either of them any good.’
‘Has he said anything?’
‘No. We’re not even sure if he can speak. The environment he was in – what he must have witnessed – it wouldn’t be that surprising if his development had been affected.’
Everett turns again to the window. The boy looks up and, for a few brief seconds, the two of them are gazing at each other. He has dark eyes, a slight flush to his cheeks. Then he turns his back and curls up against the side of the playpen, putting his arm over his face.
‘He’s been doing that a lot,’ says the nurse. ‘Could just be that he’s adjusting to the light, but his eyes might have been damaged from being in the dark for so long. It’s better to be safe than sorry. That’s why we’ve drawn the blinds.’
Everett watches a moment. ‘You just want to give him a cuddle and make it all go away.’
Jenny Kingsley sighs. ‘I know. It’s enough to break your heart.’
* * *
* * *
We have the first case meeting at 5.00 p.m. When I get to the incident room the team is gathering and Quinn is pinning up what little we have. A picture of the house, a photo of the girl, a street map. Something that basic would normally be Gis’s job, but I suspect Quinn wants to be seen doing something useful.
‘Right, everyone,’ he begins, ‘Everett’s still at the John Rad waiting to speak to the girl, but we’ve no idea how long that’s going to take.’
‘So we’re going on the basis that the kid is Harper’s?’ asks one of the DCs at the back.
‘Yes,’ says Quinn. ‘That’s the working assumption.’
‘So why not do a DNA test? That’d prove conclusively that he raped the girl.’
‘That’s more complicated than it sounds,’ I say, intervening, ‘given the girl’s in no state to give her permission. But I’ve spoken to Social Services and they’re on the case. And in the meantime we’re testing the bedding in the cellar. If we’re lucky, that’ll give us what we need.’
I nod to Quinn.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Thus far the house-to-house in Frampton Road hasn’t turned up anything useful. Apparently Harper’s a well-known local nutter but no one we’ve spoken to thinks he’s actually dangerous. One of the neighbours insists he has a son called John, but we know he doesn’t. So either the old lady’s mistaken –’
‘Not another daft old bat,’ someone mutters. Someone else laughs.
‘– or there is someone called John who used to visit Harper even though he’s not his son. So we’re going to have to find out who that is and track them down, even if only to eliminate them. And let’s remember that even if this “John” was going in there, he may not have known what was going on. We can’t afford to jump to conclusions.’
‘What, like you did, with that social worker?’
I don’t catch who says it but no one’s laughing this time. Quinn is staring at his feet. There’s an awkward pause, but I’m not going to dig him out of this one. It’s Gislingham, of all people, who comes to the rescue. Though to be fair, those two do seem to have settled their differences of late. After Quinn made DS it was guerrilla warfare for a while, but perhaps fatherhood has mellowed Gislingham. Or just worn him out. I know how that feels.
‘I spoke to Birmingham Uni,’ Gislingham says, ‘and one of Harper’s old colleagues there. Harper definitely had an affair with a student in the nineties. But that’s all. Nothing deviant as far as I can tell. But I’m still waiting for the full file – that might tell us more. Though there is an article he wrote back in the nineties about role-playing online and how it can make people think violence is OK because none of it’s real. “Dungeons and Damsels” it was called, which is more than a bit bloody spooky, if you ask me.’
‘And the supermarket – has anyone got through to them?’
‘I did,’ says a DC at the back. ‘They’ve spoken to the delivery guys who do that run and they can’t tell us anything. They just unload the carrier bags in the hall each time. Apparently Harper wasn’t one for making conversation.’
‘So on that basis,’ says Quinn, ‘the next job is to extend the house-to-house, in the hopes someone might recognize the girl, and/or know something about this John bloke.’
He steps back and points to the map he’s pinned up, and starts talking through exactly which streets they’re going to canvass next. But I’m not listening. I’m staring at the board, realizing for the first time what should have struck me hours ago. I get up and walk over to the map and
stand there. I can hear the room fall silent behind me.
‘Remind me what number Frampton Road Harper lives at?’
‘Thirty-three,’ says Quinn, frowning slightly. ‘Why?’
I pick the pen up and mark number thirty-three, then draw a line south-east.
‘I thought so.’
Quinn is still frowning. ‘Thought what?’
‘Harper’s house is directly behind Crescent Square. Eighty-one Crescent Square, to be precise.’
I turn round. Some of them clearly don’t have a clue what I’m getting at. Though, to be fair, not all this team were working here then. But Gislingham was, and I see realization dawn.
‘Hang on,’ he says. ‘Wasn’t that where Hannah Gardiner lived?’
And now the recognition is immediate. The name is like a shot in the vein; all of a sudden, the room is clamouring with questions.
‘Not that woman who went missing – the one they never found?’
‘When was that again? Two years ago?’
‘Shit, do you think there could be a connection?’
Quinn looks at me, a question in his eyes. ‘Coincidence?’ he says quietly.
I look again at the map, at the photograph of the girl, and I remember Hannah Gardiner’s face pinned to a board just like this, month after month, until we eventually took it down. She wasn’t that much older than this girl is now.
‘I don’t believe in coincidences,’ I say.
* * *
* * *
Channel: Mystery Central
Programme: Great Unsolved Crimes
Episode: The Disappearance of Hannah Gardiner
First shown: 09/12/2016
Panoramic shot of Oxford skyline, dawn, summer