by Gwyn GB
‘Okay, so what happened?’
‘Good luck indeed came to the family who had found the Welaman, for they grew rich and so folks around that area heeded the warnings and stayed away from the beaches. People would come from miles away to touch the Welaman and receive its blessing.’
‘Hmm, I feel a “but” coming on.’
Harrison shrugged and smiled at her again. ‘The family grew rich because they were luring ships onto the rocks, wrecking them, and stealing their cargo during storms. They even slaughtered the crew to prevent them from telling people what was going on and left their bodies on the beach to make it look as though the Welaman’s kind had been there.’
‘That wasn’t very nice.’
‘No. Eventually, a few of the locals, who were less gullible and not so taken with folklore, watched the beach one stormy night. The family were arrested, put on trial, and found guilty. The women of the family died of disease in jail while the men were hanged.’
‘So what exactly is that thing? The so-called Welaman?’
‘It played on the Cornish folklore of mermaids and of course the long history of seafaring invasions from the likes of the Romans, Irish, French, and Vikings. It was scientifically examined in the nineteen eighties and found to be a mixture of different birds and animals, put together to create this tiny humanlike form. That’s pig’s skin covering it and blackened with some kind of tar.’
‘Eugh!’ said Tanya, screwing up her face and rubbing the hand she’d used to touch the Welaman on her leg. ‘Well, I guess I’d better get…’
‘Why are you nervous around me?’ Harrison asked her.
She turned to face him and saw him studying her. ‘Nervous? I… well…’ She was flustered now.
‘I don’t believe in any of this, you know,’ he said, gesturing around him at the various witchcraft and cult relics in his office. ‘They’re just stories made up by people who want to control others.’
‘No. I mean yes, but no, I didn’t think… I’m not nervous because I think you do this stuff…’ Tanya was still flustered and couldn’t seem to get her brain to engage under his scrutiny. She was a grown, intelligent woman, and she was behaving like a shy schoolgirl. She needed to get a grip.
Fortunately, Ryan saved her as he arrived back with a new batch of junk food, which he deposited on his overflowing desk.
‘Hi, boss. Hi, Dr Jones,’ he said cheerily, the prospect of consuming his haul making him beam from ear to ear. He looked at the pair of them with his eyebrows raised and forehead wrinkled, waiting for them to reply and realising he’d just interrupted something.
Dr Jones took the opportunity to escape. ‘I’ll make sure the results get to you asap,’ she told Harrison, then disappeared out the office.
Ryan looked at his boss and smiled. ‘She’s got the hots for you, that one.’
Harrison looked genuinely surprised. Ryan laughed to himself. For a man who prided himself on his observation skills, spotting that someone was attracted to him clearly wasn’t one of those he had mastered.
He watched as his boss went to his desk and took out a photograph before pinning it onto the board by his desk. It contained three people: an evil-looking man in black robes, flanked by two women. One was a young blonde woman who was staring at the man with what could only be described as an adoring look. The other was a plain-looking but hard-faced woman who stared straight at the camera.
‘Who’s that?’ Ryan asked.
‘Someone I’ve been looking for a very long time, only I think he’s just found me.’ He peered at the hard-faced woman’s features. It was her, the old woman from the graveyard. That’s why she seemed familiar—just twenty years older.
‘What happened with the graffiti?’ Ryan asked.
‘Graffiti? Oh, just kids.’
Ryan knew Harrison well enough to know that was the end of the conversation. If it was nothing of any use, he wouldn’t waste time explaining it.
‘Actually, Ryan, would you mind doing some digging for me?’
‘That’s what I’m here for.’ He smiled back. He loved nothing more than doing a bit of digging.
‘Nunhead Cemetery. It used to be shut and was quite rundown and neglected, but I have a vague memory of something happening there back in the early to mid-nineties before they properly reopened it. I know fire destroyed the chapel, but that was in the mid-seventies. It’s something else. Maybe not even a major thing, but it could be significant for some reason. Also, look further back. I’ll send you some GPS coordinates. See if the site has any kind of ancient significance. Not a priority, though. Anything to do with the murder of Darren and finding Alex Fuller takes priority.’
‘Got it. Leave it with me,’ Ryan replied. He knew not to pry and ask too many questions. Harrison always told him that if he gave him too much information, it could cloud his research, cause him to look more narrowly for something that would reinforce what he suspected rather than open his eyes to possibilities. Something to do with confirmation bias. So he preferred him to have the vaguest of briefs and see what he came up with.
The pair turned their attentions to their screens, and the natural balance of silence settled back in their workspace, broken only by the click of a computer mouse, or the rustling and crunching that emanated from Ryan’s corner.
Harrison tried hard not to think about the lingering scent of perfume which seemed to hang like an invisible will-o-wisp in the air around his desk, teasing his nose and leading his imagination to a mirage of an oasis for his heart.
Eventually Ryan stood up again and stretched. The fizzy drinks had gone through him and he needed a toilet break. Harrison had been concentrating on something for about an hour, so before Ryan left, he wandered to his boss’s desk to see what had been keeping his interest.
He had up various CCTV camera feeds from the streets around where Alex Fuller had been snatched. There was no camera in the exact vicinity of where he’d disappeared, but they’d pulled every other available camera in the area, hoping to find something.
‘I thought they were looking through the CCTV at Lewisham,’ Ryan said.
‘They are, but you know as well as I do that just because they’re looking doesn’t mean they’ll actually see anything.’
‘Right. Well, I’m heading out for five minutes.’
Just as Ryan reached the door, a burst of noise came from behind him. Harrison had thumped the table and sprung from his chair.
‘Got him.’
Ryan stopped and waited for it.
‘Ryan?’
‘Yes, boss?’
‘I need you to track down this post van.’
An hour later, Harrison was in DCI Barker’s office, pointing to a post office van in a grainy CCTV image on her screen.
‘It’s not an official van, but it looks like it is,’ he said. ‘Just one road away from where Darren went missing. That’s what the smell in Darren’s hair was: spray paint. I tracked the routes of the genuine vans. This one didn’t follow any of the set routes. It didn’t stop at any postboxes.’
He pulled up another image. This was from the streets around where Alex Fuller had been taken.
‘Same van. Same random route. This time he drove around for a bit… I suspect scoping for his next victim. Post office has confirmed it’s not one of theirs.’
‘Well done, Harrison. Amazing how four officers doing nothing else but trawling through CCTV didn’t spot that.’
‘They were looking for something unusual. To get away with this, it had to look completely usual. Blend in with everyday life and no one gives you a second glance. That’s why the boys seemed to disappear into thin air.’
DCI Barker took a chocolate from the box in her top drawer.
‘Chocolate?’ she offered Harrison.
He shook his head.
‘No, thanks, Sandra. Don’t like chocolate,’ he replied.
The office door opened, and an exhausted-looking Jack Salter walked in, just as Harrison had turned to leave
.
‘You’re not normal, Harrison Lane,’ DCI Barker shouted after him as he exited.
Salter’s ears pricked up, and he closed the door behind Harrison conspiratorially. ‘What’s he done? What’s not normal?’
‘Him. Do you know, not only does he not drink alcohol or coffee, but he doesn’t like chocolate? How can anyone not like chocolate? I’d have been dead years ago without all three. Want one?’
She offered Jack one, but he had slumped into the chair opposite, all enthusiasm and energy drained. He looked done in. His shirt was creased, his skin pale and drawn.
‘You okay, Jack? Do you want to talk about it?’
‘I’m struggling to get on top of this case,’ he admitted.
‘You need to trust him more.’
‘What? The man with no vices?’
‘I never said he didn’t have any vices. Now what’s the problem?’ Barker asked, her voice softening and losing its joking tone.
‘I tracked down the two men our witness saw. Managed to wreck some bloke’s marriage. Turns out that car park is a gay pickup spot. I just don’t know how he does it. He said it wasn’t them.’
‘You’re a good cop. You just need to focus on the job and stop seeing Harrison as a rival. This isn’t a competition. He sees things neither you nor I can see, but you’re methodical and intuitive, you know the system. You have a great track record and an excellent career ahead of you. Don’t lose sight of that. Together you’re a brilliant team.’
‘Yeah,’ he replied, but his voice told her he wasn’t convinced.
‘So we’re looking for a fake post office van,’ she said, changing the topic; it had always worked well as a distraction technique with her kids. ‘He had to get it spray painted somewhere. It’s a professional job.’
‘Yeah, okay. I’ll get onto all the spray-paint workshops,’ Jack replied, trying to rally himself.
‘First thing in the morning. They’ll be shut on Sunday. Go home. You look exhausted.’
He got up to leave.
‘Jack, it’s not a weakness to ask for help or to take a break. We all need it sometimes. Your family has to come first, so if you need some time off, ask me. We’ll manage here. I’ll shift resources around. Jack?’
‘Thanks. I’m fine.’
Sandra Barker wasn’t convinced. This job was tough on a good day. With stress at home, she’d seen officers like Jack make some poor choices and lose sight of what they’d joined the service for. She watched him leave before returning her attention to the box of chocolates in her drawer and the computer screen in front of her.
17
Sally Fuller walked into the Lewisham Police Station reception at eight the next morning. Despite the relatively early hour, the place was already full of the various detritus of human life waiting to be seen or still there after the previous night. It was open 24/7, which meant a nonstop flow of traffic. Sally walked straight up to the desk. She’d been crying, and her clothes were dishevelled; she was clearly distraught.
‘My name’s Sally Fuller. I want to speak to the officer in charge of the search for my son. I want to talk to Detective Chief Inspector Barker or Dr Lane.’
The receptionist, a woman in her fifties, could see she was upset, and as soon as she said her name, she understood why.
‘Is the DCI expecting you?’ she asked.
Sally shook her head.
‘Why don’t you come with me into one of the waiting rooms? Then I can see if either of them are in.’
‘I don’t want to go in a waiting room. I’ll stay here as long as it takes,’ Sally replied, and went across to the plastic seats, which were fixed down in case someone decided to try to throw them at somebody. The woman at the front desk got straight on the phone.
Sally was so agitated she could barely sit still. She folded and unfolded her legs, then stood and sat down again. Her eyes darted everywhere but saw nothing. The middle-aged man who’d been waiting to discuss a robbery at his garage eyed her warily. He got up on the pretence to look at a poster but sat down on the other side of the room. His imagination had her high on some amphetamine, and he didn’t want to be close to her in case she did something like pull a knife on him.
Another occupant of the waiting room was a woman with pulled-back grey-streaked brown hair, who looked like she’d lived a hard life. She was waiting for her son to be released after a night in custody. She watched Sally. Although she had no idea who she was or why she was there, she recognised the anxiety of a distressed mother. It reminded her of the days when hers had been younger and the worrying had only just started. It also reminded her she needed a smoke, so she got up and stepped outside to light up.
‘DCI Barker will be down, and Dr Lane is on his way.’ The woman behind the front desk had come out and walked over to Sally, worried she might faint or hyperventilate. She had kids of her own; and wouldn’t wish what Sally was going through on anyone. She wanted her some place where she could get some privacy.
‘The DCI has asked if you could come into one of the interview rooms. She’ll join you in a moment,’ she told her, hoping that by quoting the DCI, she might persuade Sally to move.
‘I’m not moving. You’re not shoving me out the way. I need to know what’s going on,’ Sally replied, and didn’t budge.
The door opened with a blast of outside air. They both looked up, but it was a courier making a delivery. He stared at them, left the package on the desk, and exited.
Sally chewed at her inside cheek and rocked in her chair. The receptionist went back to her desk on the pretence of seeing who the parcel was for, but in reality she went to check where her first aid book was. She’d done the course, but that had been a while ago now, and she was trying to remember exactly how you were supposed to position someone if they’d fainted, so they didn’t swallow their tongue and block their airways. She was more than relieved when DCI Barker appeared through one of the internal doors moments later. She’d rushed down as fast as she could.
‘Mrs Fuller, how can I help you?’ The woman’s state was immediately apparent. ‘Please, why don’t you come somewhere more private? We can talk there.’
‘My Alex, he’s been gone nearly two days. I want to know why you haven’t found him, what you’re doing. I want to know where he is.’
‘Mrs Fuller, we’ve been keeping you up to date with the enquiry…’
‘You’re not telling me everything. I know you’re not.’
Sally seemed to have found a strength that her previous agitated state wouldn’t have suggested possible. She planted her feet firmly on the floor and stood in front of DCI Barker, eyes wild but her gaze unflinching. Sandra Barker had seen this look before, the look of a mother who’d do anything for her child. The look of a mother who was completely helpless and verging on hysteria.
‘Mrs Fuller, please come with me. Let’s go sit down, and we can talk through the investigation in private.’
‘Why can’t you tell me now? You’ve no idea where he is. You think he’s dead! Oh, God, he’s dead, isn’t he?’
‘Mrs Fuller, I can’t talk in reception. Does your husband know you’ve come here? Please let me take you home, and I can give you both a progress report.’
‘Progress report… I don’t want a report. I want my little boy! I want you to find my son. He’s not coming back to us, is he?’
Sally dropped to her knees, sobbing, just as Harrison walked into the reception area. DCI Barker crouched beside her.
‘Mrs Fuller, please, let me help you up,’ she pleaded. ‘You’re going to hurt yourself.’
A uniformed police officer had been alerted by the front desk and had also come round to help. The two of them were attempting to take Sally’s arms to help her up. She rejected them both, pushed away their hands. Her voice was rising in pitch and volume. She was getting close to the point of hysterical no return, and DCI Barker was considering calling a medic.
Harrison walked up to the group and stood directly in front of Sally.
‘Mrs Fuller… Sally, please look at me.’ His voice was calm but authoritative.
Sally paused and looked up at him. Her tear-streaked face was pale with anxiety, and her whole body shook with nerves. Her breathing was shallow and fast.
‘Give me your hand,’ Harrison said, offering his. ‘I need you to come with me and help us with the enquiry. Help us find Alex.’ DCI Barker and the police constable stopped their attempts to hoist Sally and stepped back as she slowly stretched out her hand and took Harrison’s. He didn’t take his eyes from hers, his face reassuring.
‘Come with me,’ he said, and helped her up from the floor.
The woman with the pulled-back hair walked back into the scene with a puff of fresh air and smoke. She stopped in her tracks as she saw a large muscular man in black bike leathers helping the hysterical mother off the floor. He was good looking too. Lucky bitch, she thought as she watched him support her out of the reception area and into the depths of the police station.
The receptionist quickly opened the security door to allow them through. ‘Interview room one is free,’ she told Harrison and the DCI.
‘I just want my little boy home, I just want my Alex,’ Sally sobbed as Harrison helped her into the room, closely followed by a relieved DCI Barker.
18
DS Jack Salter and a young detective constable, David Oaks, stood in the entrance of Davey & Thomson’s spray-painting workshop, a large rundown warehouse split into compartments by plastic curtains and booths. It wasn’t the most technologically advanced and modern setup. Jack guessed part of the reason its owner was decidedly shifty and defensive was because the business probably was on the borderline with safety standards, not to mention the dodgy deals he was cutting on the side with less-desirable members of the community. There were four staff working in full overalls and facemasks; any one of them could be their killer or know who he was.