“I’ve just got off the phone to her mother who’s told me what’s happened. I’ll need to call an assembly to tell the other students as soon as possible,” he continued, not stopping for breath.
“You can do that later, Mr Richards. I need to ask you some questions first,” Phil said, taking control of the conversation.
“Of course, sorry. I’m just shocked, that’s all,” he replied, deliberately trying to calm himself down.
“Can you start by telling me what Grace is like? Did she truant or have any enemies?”
Mr Richards opened up Grace’s file on his desk and studied it.
“As far as her file goes, she’s an above average student with a ninety eight percent attendance rate,” he said, peering through the lenses of his bifocals. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you much about her character but her Head of Year, Miss Reynolds will be able to tell you more. She’s on her way to the office, now.”
There was a knock at the door as soon as he’d finished his sentence and the secretary appeared again, this time to introduce Miss Reynolds. Phil stood to greet her as she entered and took a seat across the room from him. She sat upright in an almost military fashion, her greying hair scraped tightly off her scrubbed face as she answered Phil’s questions efficiently.
“Grace is an exemplary student. She struggles a bit in English due to a touch of dyslexia but her attitude is good,” she said when Phil asked her to describe what Grace was like to teach. “She lived for ballet but unfortunately her height went against her and Miss Pearson had to tell her she wouldn’t be eligible for the College Of Performing Arts. She took it quite hard.”
“Is she a popular girl?”
Miss Reynold’s hesitated and Phil noticed her fidget slightly in her seat and noticeably exhale.
“I believe she was having some trouble with another girl in her year, Hayley Metcalf. But Grace would never report it or make a complaint so we couldn’t take it further.”
“So, if she didn’t report it, then how did you know?” Phil asked.
“I saw Hayley attack her while she waited at the bus stop yesterday morning. I was about to pull over but the bus arrived and blasted its horn, stopping the scuffle.”
Miss Reynolds frowned as she recalled the incident and Phil could tell it had annoyed her.
“Tell me about Hayley Metcalf,” Phil prompted her to continue.
Miss Reynolds let out a huff at the mention of her name.
“She’s the opposite of Grace. Homework is never done, constantly disrupting classes and is often absent. In the time I’ve known her, I’ve yet to meet her parents, and they never turn up to any parent evenings.”
“Since Hayley was one of the last people to see Grace, I’ll need to speak to her if that’s okay with you?” Phil asked. “She’s a minor so I’ll need an adult present while I have a chat to her.”
Mr Richards called through to his secretary and asked her to send the girl to his office and Miss Reynolds left to return to her class. Soon, the secretary knocked again, this time to introduce Hayley Metcalf. She ambled in and plonked herself down on a seat, not giving Phil any eye contact from beneath her heavy bleached fringe.
“I want a solicitor,” she announced.
“Hayley, you’re not under arrest. I merely want a chat as you were one of the last people to see Grace.”
She settled a little and tucked her hands underneath her legs to hide the chipped red nail varnish on her bitten down fingernails. She glared at him, her eyes heavily lined with black kohl.
“I know you’re not a fan of Grace,” Phil began. “Is there a reason for that?”
“I didn’t kill her if that’s what you mean,” she snapped.
“Who said anything about kill, Hayley?”
She lowered her eyes and fidgeted as Phil made a note of her comment.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“In the talk we had from that copper who visited yesterday. Some crime awareness thing. I waited for her at the bus stop but she didn’t turn up.”
Phil nodded and thanked her for her time. There was no point in continuing as any further questioning would only trigger a complaint from her parents, if she told them. He gave her his card and asked her to contact him if she heard anything about Grace’s whereabouts, then thanked Mr Richards and left.
Jason had instructed him to be back in the office by lunch to run over the information he had managed to gather, and he arrived with ten minutes to spare.
“So, what have you got?” Jason asked from his desk at the opposite cubicle and Phil relayed his notes.
“Not popular at school. Being bullied. No boyfriend and just found out she’d been turned down for her dream ambition. I think we’re looking at a runaway or suicide,” Jason said, flippantly.
“I disagree, sir,” Phil replied, boldly. “If she had run away then clothes would be missing. We did the checks ourselves and everything was still there. If she’d killed herself, then where’s the note? She’s only fourteen so you can bet there’d be a few amateur dramatics, a cry for help.”
Jason nodded. “I guess so. What about this Hayley character?”
“I went over to the estate where she lives and asked around. The local shopkeeper and the newsagents said he saw her at about 4.30pm. She has a history of shoplifting so he remembered her quite clearly.”
“Right, so she’s out of the frame. Which leaves the bus driver, or the prime suspect, Tom Dalton.”
Phil felt an uneasy feeling creep over him at the mention of Tom’s name and he excused himself to fill in paperwork for two other cases which needed his attention. Jason offered no words of praise or encouragement for his investigations, despite demonstrating he was able to work independently, and he felt a strong need to distance himself before the snide comments and cruel teasing resumed.
Jason had been unbearable since his promotion, taking every opportunity possible to rub salt into his wounded ego. He felt as if he were under a microscope with Jason sitting opposite and DCI Burns watching him through the vertical blinds of his office window only metres away. He found it stifling at times and his only escape was to bury himself in the deluge of paperwork and make sure his files were always correct and delivered on time to be signed off.
Chapter Seven
Eyes watched over the top of their partitions as necks stretched to watch Phil Harris’ reaction when he reached his desk. The newspaper had been carefully placed on top of the latest update on the Dalton case, prominently displayed as he reached his work cubicle. He calmly placed it in the rubbish bin beneath his desk, focusing hard on keeping a blank expression. It was bad enough the press were mocking his assignment to the case of another missing girl and comparing it to the Fletcher case, without giving the eyes any satisfaction or entertainment. Opening the case file for the latest updates, he lowered his head as if in deep concentration at its contents but his brain wasn’t absorbing any of the words written. The rage bubbling deep in his stomach blinded his eyes as he masked any reactions to the intended humiliation. Right now, all he was managing to do was not clench his teeth.
“Morning.”
Phil glanced up as Jason perched on the corner of his desk casually drinking coffee from his favourite mug.
“Not a newspaper fan, then?”
A smirk played across his lips confirming he had been the culprit. Phil didn’t respond. He knew by not reacting it would deny him his twisted pleasure. A serial provoker, Jason was all about control and Phil knew he would grab any opportunity possible to undermine him and make himself look better.
“I see the bus driver has been brought in,” Phil said, turning his attention back onto the case.
“We have to look at everyone, Phil. You of all people should know that.”
Jason was intent on pushing for a reaction. Phil sat firm and let the comment appear to roll over him, though it only fuelled the anger he was fighting to keep a lid on.
“He certainly fits the stereotypical profil
e. Forty-eight, still lives with his mum, bit of a loner.”
“Mick’s interviewing him in room five,” Jason replied as he had temporarily exhausted his supply of jibes.
Phil stood from his chair and started to walk out of the office with the file under his arm.
“Where are you going?” Jason called.
Phil paused as he reached the door, then turned to look at Jason still on the other side of the office. He wanted to make sure his co-workers would easily hear his response over the unnatural silence.
“I’m going to observe the interview, Sir. Isn’t that what any good detective should do?”
The anger within his stomach reduced a notch as the satisfaction he had managed to belittle Jason cooled its heat. By the time he had reached the observation room, Mick Burns was already questioning the suspect. He took a moment to study the man from behind the two-way mirrored glass as he tried to answer Mick’s questions through a worried expression. An ordinary man, Colin Rhodes filled the seat, his overweight stomach bulging over and obscuring the waistband of his grubby grey jogging bottoms as his picked at his fingers. Beads of sweat had formed a greasy layer on his forehead creating a shine on his pallid complexion, uneven and lumpy with neutral coloured moles. Was this the man they were going to pin the abduction on?
Ten minutes sped by and Phil watched the interview until a young PC knocked and entered the room, passing a note to Mick and whispering something into his ear. His senses sharpened. Interrupting an interview only ever meant one thing – new evidence. Mick leant across the table, stopped the recorder then stood from his seat, gesturing Colin toward the door, and Phil sprang from the room and out into the corridor for an update. He hung back until Colin, escorted by the young constable, was out of earshot.
“What happened, Sir?”
He tried to pass his agitation off as eagerness as he approached DCI Burns.
“Got a cast iron alibi,” Mick replied, placing his hands on his hips in disappointment. “Thought we’d got our guy for a while there.”
“Maybe his alibi is lying? Would it be worth digging a bit deeper?”
Mick shook his head and let out a small laugh.
“Not unless you fancy bringing in the entire guest list of diners, bar staff and waiting staff of the Hound and Pheasant. There are over twenty witnesses claiming he was there from four pm onwards.”
“The notes say he’s a loner?” Phil said, puzzled at the anomaly.
“He is,” Mick replied. “The only places he goes are work and to the pub, once a week to play darts. At the time Grace went missing he was hitting bullseyes in a match against the team at The Goose around the corner.”
“Ah, I see what you mean about ‘cast iron’.”
“There’s only one suspect on our radar now,” Mick said. “Tom Dalton.”
Phil’s expression became heavy.
“I know what you’re thinking, Phil. But the more we’re eliminating people from the inquiry, the more it’s pointing to him.”
Mick turned and walked away, leaving Phil to digest the new direction the case was taking. He thought back to the night Grace had gone missing and how distraught Tom Dalton had been, and a shiver ran across his shoulders at the prospect of him being made a prime suspect. He hurried back to his desk. The paperwork on Colin Rhodes had to be filled out and he decided to get it done so his desk was clear for when Tom Dalton arrived for questioning. He felt uncomfortable about the prospect of seeing him again but he knew if he raised too many objections then Jason would use the Fletcher case as ammunition to discredit him off the case.
The aroma of soup and ready meals were still hanging in the air when Mick signalled over the office to Jason and Phil. The paperwork on Colin Rhodes had been completed for over an hour but Phil had no appetite for lunch today. The prospect of seeing Mr Dalton under these circumstances sent a tremble through his body and he noticed the tips of his fingers were icy cold to the point of almost being numb.
“We’re questioning him together,” Jason said, as they left the office and headed in the direction of the interview room.
Phil cringed. He had hoped to take a seat in the observation room, out of sight from Tom but it seemed Mick Burns had other plans.
“We’ve got the results from forensics back and they confirm that the area in Greenwich Park is likely to be the area where Grace was snatched. They found a flattened patch of undergrowth and a couple of hairs matching her hairbrush were found at the scene. They also found a small drop of her blood on the path.”
Jason poured out the findings as he and Phil walked down the corridor, getting nearer and nearer to where Tom was being held.
“They have also confirmed the mud on Dalton’s shoes and plant debris on his clothes are a match.”
Phil felt his stomach lurch when Jason referred to Tom by his surname as if he were already tried and found guilty.
“It’s an open and shut case. Even you can’t fuck this up,” Jason said, grinning as he opened the door to the interview room where Tom sat patiently at the table.
He smiled at Phil when he appeared, as if seeing him as a friendly face who would support him. It was clear he had no idea about their theory of his involvement or the link between them which had played such a huge role in Phil’s life.
“Hello, Detective Harris,” Tom rose from his chair, greeting him with an outstretched arm.
It set Phil off balance and he felt acutely conscious of the coldness in his fingers as he reluctantly returned the gesture. Tom had worked in the city for the planning department since he had left university and greeting people with a handshake was second nature. During his time there he had worked his way up the ranks to Chief Planning Officer for Central London attending many meetings and functions. As always, apart from the evening of Grace’s disappearance, his suit was immaculate and shoes highly polished.
“Please, sit down,” Jason instructed, gesturing for Tom to return to his seat.
Phil watched as Tom pulled up the top of his trousers to avoid them creasing when he sat.
“Well, Mr Dalton,” Jason said, taking the lead. “We have the forensic report back and it confirms Grace was at the scene.”
Tom gasped and leant forward, resting his elbows on the table.
“It’s not the result I was hoping for,” Tom exclaimed.
“Oh, why’s that?” Jason asked.
Tom looked puzzled and frowned.
“Well, because it means Grace was there. She must have been taken.”
Jason leant back in his chair, resting his foot on the opposite knee and tapping his pen against his notepad.
“It also links you to the crime scene.”
Jason delivered his theory with cool precision and Phil stayed silent trying not to squirm as Tom’s eyes widened, flicking their focus between him and Jason as he searched their faces.
“Of course I was there,” Tom snapped. “I told you the reason the night I reported her missing.”
“Well, you told us a story of how you had an almost paranormal hunch which took you to the exact spot,” Jason levelled.
Phil sat in silence as the full horror of what Jason was inferring dawned on Tom’s expression, but he was powerless to stop the interrogation. He should have felt a sense of satisfaction at the sight of Tom squirming in his seat, but instead he found himself almost feeling a degree of sympathy. The sides of his face started to become hot and he busied himself making notes, concentrating on his body language for DCI Burns’ benefit whose eyes were watching on the other side of the mirror. He felt himself being scrutinised, every nervous twitch, every eye movement, every tremble of his hands were being observed to assess if he was capable of remaining on the case. As old memories of previous failures drifted through his mind, each one taunted him with varying levels of humiliation. The disappointment frequently seen on his mother’s face and latterly the long withering silences which had infested his marriage caused by his lack of promotion up the ranks. He had spent his whole life
trying to please and do the right thing. This time, he intended to win.
Chapter Eight
Grace woke to the usual stiffness. Cold from the concrete floor constantly seeping through the old, stained mattress making her pelvis ache. Natural light didn’t enter the windowless room and she had long given up trying to guess whether it was night or day. Only the light from the camping lantern broke the darkness, enabling her to read the one book he had given her. She had come to hate it. Alice in Wonderland had been one of her favourite stories as a child but now it felt more like a horror story with her being the main character.
Over time, she had gained his trust and now was no longer handcuffed to the pipe. She stood and shook her legs as she paced around the small room. Round and round, sometimes walking for what seemed like hours. Anything to relieve the mind altering boredom until he returned with food and supplies. She remembered reading how hair grew a little over a centimetre a month in one of her human biology text books when she was trying to guess how long her hair would be by the summer. She flicked the dark, greasy tendrils over her shoulder to gauge how much it had grown since her capture, pulling it down and trying to remember its original length. Six months? Eight months? Eight years? Or was her memory deceiving her?
He would be back soon, he always returned to empty the bucket which had become her toilet and check she was still alive. As the time had passed, her fear of him had diminished and, in a way she didn’t understand, she had reached a point where she almost looked forward to his visits. Maybe it was the solitude distorting her mind or the unrelenting hope of release. Sleep had no set patterns anymore as day and night merged between brief waves of light sleep and a distant consciousness. Time stood still.
Hearing the familiar sound of footsteps descending the stairs beyond the door, Grace realised she must have been in a light sleep. She knew the drill. Leaping up from her huddled ball, she knelt on the mattress and faced the wall as she listened to the door being unlocked. The bolt sliding across the top then the bottom followed by the faint jingle of a key and a sharp tug of the padlock. The routine never changed. A brief pause and the door opened just a chink till he was satisfied she was over on the mattress, then he stepped inside. The sudden brief gust of relatively fresh air whooshed into the room and stroked her skin as if taunting her to the freedom on the other side.
The Death of Me Page 4