by Alex Lake
He looked away. He felt a mounting panic. He liked Penny; more than liked, he was very attracted to her, but that was the problem. He’d get attached, and then lose her in some way. She’d dump him or fall for someone else. It didn’t matter how it happened, only that it would. Or might. Even the risk was too much. He couldn’t risk losing someone else he cared about.
And what about when he told her about Maggie? That would make it almost certain she would leave him. He never told people. He didn’t want their sympathy. But he would have to tell Penny, and then she would look at him differently. At first she might pretend it didn’t matter, but over time she would see him as damaged goods. She might not think that, she might just think she was growing apart from him, but it would be because of what had happened. Who wanted to be with someone with that kind of baggage?
‘No,’ he said. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Oh,’ Penny said. ‘That’s pretty definitive. Is there a reason? It’s only a drink. Trust me, I’m not looking for another relationship right now.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not that. I can’t.’
She nodded slowly. ‘James. It’s only a drink, but fine. Another time, maybe.’
‘Maybe,’ James said. For a moment he considered telling her the whole story, but the words died on his lips. ‘Maybe.’
3
Carl took a drag on his spliff. ‘Have you got a photo of her?’
‘I think so. We had a team-building day.’ James scrolled through his photos. There was one of him, a guy called Paul, and Penny. ‘That’s her.’
Carl looked at the screen. In the photo, Penny had her hair scraped back in a ponytail. She was wearing a green T-shirt and tight black leggings.
‘You turned her down?’ Carl said. ‘Are you fucking crazy? Or secretly gay? It’s cool if you are. I’ll still be your mate.’
James regretted telling him at all, but they’d had at least six or seven pints of strong lager before coming home and starting on the weed, and he’d found himself explaining what had happened.
‘No, I’m not,’ he said. ‘I’m just not that interested.’
‘Give her my number if she’s looking for someone to help her get over the break-up,’ Carl said. ‘I’ll do it.’
There was a knock on the door. Carl nodded at it. ‘You go,’ he said. ‘I’m still in shock.’
James opened the door of the flat. A tall, thin man in a leather vest looked at him with dark, sunken eyes. He had a shaved head, the veins in his forehead visible.
‘All right, mate,’ he said. ‘Carl in?’
‘Yeah. I’ll get him.’
‘No need. I’ll come right in. Don’t worry, chicken. He knows me.’
James nodded and walked into the living room. The man followed him.
Carl clicked his tongue when he saw him. ‘Well, fuck me,’ he said. ‘Davy. When did you get out?’
‘Two days ago.’
‘Welcome back, mate.’ Carl looked at James. ‘This is Davy. Been a guest of Her Majesty. Davy, this is James.’
‘He living here?’ Davy said.
‘He is. Where you staying?’
‘At my mum’s. Looking for something permanent. Thought you might want to give me my old room back, but looks like it’s taken. Anyway, let’s celebrate.’ He pulled a plastic bag from his pocket. ‘Borrowed a few quid from the old woman,’ he said. ‘And got this.’
He emptied the bag on to the coffee table. There was a small vial of liquid and a needle.
‘Oh,’ Carl said. ‘You’re a bad man, Davy Simpson. I’ve not been near that stuff for a few years. And I don’t want to go back.’
‘Yes, you do,’ Davy said. ‘You always want to. You might tell yourself you don’t, but that’s bollocks.’
James looked at Carl. He was staring at the bag with yearning in his eyes.
He swallowed and rolled up his sleeve. ‘Come on then,’ Carl said, his voice low. ‘Let’s celebrate.’
4
It was – what? Like getting drunk but ten times better? A hundred times? A thousand?
Definitely, but it was more than simply better. It was different. It made you feel perfect, flawless, like nothing could touch you. And it was so quick. There’d been the prick of the needle and then he had felt it rushing through every cell in his body and pointing them all in the same direction.
All the thoughts and questions and worries that had been running around his head dissolved. Should he have said yes to Penny? Was his job how he wanted to spend his life? Was the hole inside him, the Maggie-shaped hole, ever going to be filled in?
All gone. None of it mattered. All the anxiety and sadness and conflict – gone. Vanished, in an instant. Replaced by bliss, and the knowledge that he was safe and nothing could hurt him. He’d been happy, for the first time in years.
He’d woken and his first thought had been of the heroin and he’d smiled. For a while, he lay in bed, watching the sun stream in through the gap in the curtains. It was a lovely summer day. He could go for a walk. Head up to the countryside. Maybe hike up Kinder Scout and look down on Manchester below. He imagined lying on the rocks, feeling their warmth against his back, the sound of a brook lulling him to sleep, a gentle breeze keeping him cool. Or maybe sit and read the paper in his garden with a cup of tea.
Maybe call Penny and say, Sorry about yesterday, do you still want a drink?
No. Why bother? That was too complicated. Too difficult. Too risky. Something might go wrong.
He knew what he wanted. He wanted that feeling again.
He’d be back in work Monday, but why not spend one weekend happy? It wasn’t like he’d get addicted. You couldn’t get addicted doing it twice.
He swung his legs out of bed. The house was quiet, but Carl wouldn’t mind being woken up.
Four Years Earlier: July 2014
DI Wynne
1
Wynne’s phone rang. A number she didn’t know, with an unfamiliar area code. Probably some telemarketing bullshit.
But maybe not.
‘This is Wynne.’
‘Detective Inspector Wynne? This is DS Liz Dales, from Alsbury.’
Wynne straightened in her chair. She reached for a pencil.
‘Yes. How can I help?’
‘We received a request related to a letter posted two days ago somewhere in the village. We were asked to review any CCTV footage that might show who posted it.’
‘That’s right. The request came from me.’
‘Well, we think we have it. We think we have the letter being posted.’
‘Who was it?’
‘A man in his late fifties, maybe early sixties. He lives here in the village.’
‘Thanks,’ Wynne said. ‘We’ll be there as soon as we can. Do nothing until we arrive.’
2
The letters had continued to come every year around the anniversary. There was no letter on the seventh year – like the third year – but other than that they came. Mocking, boastful, sick. They were posted in various locations around the north of England, dropped into a postbox by the man – she assumed it was a man – who had abducted Maggie Cooper.
Wynne had spent hours reading them, looking for some clue, but there was nothing. At least nothing in the letters themselves. She had wondered why he had missed the third and seventh anniversaries. There must have been a reason. It could have been as simple as illness, or laziness, but Wynne didn’t think so. She thought something had prevented him from sending them, something like prison, or a stint working abroad.
So she had checked the prison admissions in those years, looking for someone from the Warrington area who had been locked up in the third year, free in the fourth, and back inside in the seventh. There were one or two, but it had come to nothing. She checked the same with the Army; again, nothing.
And now she had the latest letter.
DEAR DETECTIVE INSPECTOR WYNNE:
EIGHT YEARS, DETECTIVE INSPECTOR. COMING UP ON A DECADE AND YOU’RE
NO CLOSER TO FINDING ME OR MAGGIE. I SEE YOU IN THE NEWS FROM TIME TO TIME, COMMENTING ON YOUR INVESTIGATIONS. ARE THEY AS MUCH OF A FAILURE AS THIS ONE? YOU WOULDN’T SAY SO, WOULD YOU?
I’LL RAISE A GLASS AGAIN THIS YEAR! EIGHT LONG YEARS. AND THERE’LL BE ANOTHER EIGHT. OR MORE. YOU HAVE NO CHANCE, DETECTIVE INSPECTOR WYNNE, NONE AT ALL.
AND YOU KNOW IT, WHICH IS THE BEST THING OF ALL.
YOURS SINCERELY,
???
But this time, the sender had made a mistake.
And Wynne was not going to waste the opportunity.
3
The letter was postmarked Alsbury, a small village in North Yorkshire.
A tiny village. No more than a road, a pub, a few houses and a petrol station. How many postboxes could there be in a village that size?
Wynne had asked and there were two. One near the pub, and one opposite the petrol station. The petrol station had CCTV and the camera covered the postbox, and, according to the DS who had called, the CCTV had recorded a man in his fifties or sixties posting a letter.
It was him. Wynne knew it.
The drive took over two hours. On the way, DI Wynne explained as much of the case as she could to her partner, DS Chan. When they arrived at the police station it was closed, but as they pulled up the side door opened and a woman in her late forties stepped outside.
‘DI Wynne?’ she said.
Wynne nodded and shook her hand. ‘Thank you for waiting.’
‘DS Liz Dales.’
‘Nice to meet you. This is DS Paul Chan.’
‘Come in.’
They went into a small office at the back of the building. Dales sat at the desk in front of a computer.
‘I must say, it was a very intriguing request,’ she said. ‘Was there any footage of someone posting a single C4 envelope on Wednesday afternoon? I didn’t hold out much hope. I thought there would be a lot of people doing it.’
‘But there weren’t?’ DS Chan asked.
‘No. Quite a few people posting letters, but only one posting a large white envelope.’ Dales pressed a key and a window popped up. On it was a still image of the garage forecourt, the postbox to the left. She pressed another key and a man walked on screen. He was wearing loose-fitting chinos, a short-sleeved shirt, and a flat cap. He approached the postbox, took an envelope from his back pocket, and put it into the slot.
‘That’s the only person who posted a letter Wednesday afternoon?’ Wynne said.
‘Yes,’ Dales replied. ‘As I say, others posted things, but they were multiple letters, or smaller format ones.’
DS Chan looked at Wynne. ‘Probably passing through. Stopped here to post it then moved on.’
‘Oh, he’s not passing through,’ Dales said. ‘That’s Fred Taylor, lives in the village. Would you like his address?’
4
Wynne rang the bell of a large detached house. It was the perfect place – big, private, secluded – to hide someone away. She didn’t want to jump the gun, but she felt they were getting closer. If this man had sent the letter, even if he wasn’t the one who took Maggie Cooper, he must have some connection to whoever had.
She and DS Chan waited as the echoes died down. She was about to ring it again when she heard the drawing of a bolt.
The door opened. A man – almost certainly the one from the CCTV – looked at them.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Mr Taylor?’ Wynne said.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Wynne,’ Wynne replied. ‘This is DS Chan. We were wondering whether we could ask you some questions?’
‘Of course,’ Taylor said. ‘Could I ask what it’s about?’
‘A letter you posted,’ DS Chan replied.
Taylor frowned. ‘A letter? What letter?’
‘Perhaps we could discuss it inside,’ Wynne said. ‘It’ll all become clear.’
They sat in a large living room. Even though it was summer, the room was chilly.
‘So,’ Taylor said. ‘A letter?’
Wynne took a folder from her bag. She pulled out a photocopy of the envelope that had arrived at the station.
‘Do you recognize this?’ she asked.
Taylor studied it. When he looked up, his expression was puzzled. ‘I do.’
‘We have CCTV footage of you posting a letter that looks a lot like this one,’ DS Chan said. ‘Did you post it?’
‘Yes, I did.’
He didn’t seem concerned. Didn’t seem like a kidnapper who had been caught out.
Wynne shifted in her chair. ‘Do you have anything to say about it?’
‘I do,’ Taylor said. ‘It’s quite an odd story, as it happens. I didn’t think too much about it at the time, but now I see there’s more to it than I thought.’
‘Didn’t think about what?’ Chan said.
‘The letter. You see, I found it.’
‘Did you open it?’ Chan said.
‘Of course not. I don’t open other people’s letters.’
‘Mr Taylor,’ Wynne said. ‘I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but I think you should know that we have tested the letter for DNA and there is some on it. If that matches your DNA then we will be questioning how you came into contact with the contents of an envelope you did not write or open.’
‘Fine. It won’t. I found the letter, and I posted it. I assumed someone had dropped it.’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘In Leeds, near the town hall. I had a meeting there last week.’ Fred Taylor folded his arms. He clearly prided himself on knowing how to deal with petty officials. ‘Is there anything else? Would you like some of my DNA for your tests?’
‘We would,’ Wynne said. ‘Just in case. An officer will arrange to collect it.’ She felt deflated. Taylor was nothing to do with this. Still, it was worth asking. ‘Mr Taylor, does the name Maggie Cooper mean anything to you?’
Taylor thought for a second. ‘It rings a bell.’
‘She was a girl who went missing,’ Wynne said. ‘Eight years ago.’
‘Yes,’ Taylor said, drawing out the word. ‘The teenager?’
‘That’s right.’ Wynne let him ask the obvious question.
‘What has this got to do with her?’
‘That letter was from the person who took her. They send one every year. To me. Mocking me.’
She was pleased to see him go pale.
‘Thank you, Mr Taylor. We’ll see ourselves out.’
5
They drove in silence. Wynne didn’t want to talk. It had been a waste of time.
After a while, DS Chan spoke. ‘We’re not much further along. All we know is it was someone who was in Leeds on Wednesday.’
‘Or the day before, or the day before that,’ Wynne said. ‘The letter could have lain there for a while.’ She tapped the steering wheel. ‘It does solve one mystery though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Why there isn’t a letter for every year. If his method is to drop them and hope someone picks them up to post them then sometimes it won’t happen. Sometimes the letter will be trampled or kicked down a drain or put in a bin.’
‘It’s smart,’ Chan said. ‘He drops the letter somewhere and waits. It’s almost impossible to trace.’
Wynne stared at the road ahead. She’d been hoping this was the lead that would break the case open. She wanted Maggie back.
And she wanted the letters to stop, but she couldn’t help wondering how many more there would be.
One? Two?
Twenty?
Four Years Earlier: July 2014
Martin
1
COOPER ELECTRICAL
It was written in large capitals on the side of a van. Martin paused and watched the van go down Deansgate. The driver was Stephen Anderson, one of the first trainees he had taken on. That was seven years ago, and Stephen now oversaw all the projects they did in Manchester. Martin took care of the others – in Liverpool, Lancaster, Pre
ston, Warrington – but was gradually handing them over to Karen Richardson, another trainee he had recruited when he had decided to branch out from doing jobs for other people and become an electrical firm.
It had been slow at first but in the last few years it had gone better than he had ever dreamed possible. He had a simple approach: he was careful who he hired, he was totally honest, and he never cut corners.
It seemed people liked it, and he now had a firm with over twenty full-time electricians and a turnover in the millions. It had attracted the attention of a national building firm, which was why he was in a shirt and trousers, about to go into the offices of an accounting firm in Manchester.
A woman in her late thirties was waiting by the front desk. She held out her hand.
‘Melinda Jameson. Pleased to meet you.’ She gestured towards a door. ‘We can talk in there.’
They sat at a polished metal table. There was a file in front of Melinda Jameson, which she picked up and opened.
‘So,’ she said. ‘You were contacted by Weaver Construction about acquiring your firm. I understand you would like to discuss having us represent you in this transaction?’
‘Yes,’ Martin said. ‘I have a lawyer and he gave me your name.’
‘Who was that, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Peter Sidwell.’
She nodded ‘I know him well. Will he be handling the legal side?’
‘He will.’
‘Then I’d say you’re in safe hands.’ She opened the folder. ‘Shall we review the offer Weaver made?’
The offer was to buy Cooper Electrical for three million pounds.
Martin enjoyed what he did and didn’t particularly want to sell, but it was a lot of money. He didn’t know how it could be worth so much, but when they had contacted him they had talked about revenue multiples and brand scalability and a bunch of other stuff he didn’t fully understand or care about.