Chloe- Lost Girl

by Dan Laughey

  Since joining up with Missing Persons in the summer, however, things had changed. Those hair-raising encounters Capstick feared the most were getting more frequent. And less pleasant.

  Sant was breaking him in.

  ‘Who else, Capstick?’

  The detective constable hitched up his glasses. ‘Identities are coming through on the two young passengers seated towards the middle of the upper deck. Behind Dryden, that is. The male deceased was called Callum Willis. He was nineteen. Here’s his driver’s licence – passed his test six months ago.’

  Sant cupped his massive hands to shield the photocard from the sunlight. The man in the photo was smiling. A true smile. The smile of a young man looking forward to a life on the road. A life he’d never live.

  ‘What do we know about him?’

  ‘Not a lot, sir.’

  ‘Parents informed?’

  ‘The mother, yes. The father is estranged.’

  Long-lost dads. Sant stumbled upon them all the time.

  ‘And this was found on the female passenger sat next to Callum. A gym card for Kate Andrews, also aged nineteen. Callum and Kate were travelling together and my guess is they were more than just friends. Her parents were only informed an hour ago. It’s a bit early to ask them, you know, but they’ve agreed to speak to us as soon as they deem fit. Perhaps you’d be willing?’

  Speaking to grieving relatives was the worst. Sant nodded. He was no novice where grief was concerned.

  ‘What’s been found on Dryden?’

  ‘No details as yet.’

  ‘And the other passengers?’

  ‘Ditto. We’re expecting an update by midday.’

  Sant massaged his forehead with the thumb and fingers of his right hand. ‘Do a bit more chasing, Capstick. Talk to officers who’ve helped out Dryden of late. Uniforms especially.’

  Capstick nodded and pointed towards the bus, one side of which was being hacked at by firefighters in a futile attempt to dislodge the chassis from fallen masonry. ‘I assume you’ve seen the numbers, sir.’

  ‘Numbers?’

  ‘Found on the window next to Dryden.’

  Sant cursed his failing memory. ‘I’ll take another look.’

  ‘3-1-5 seems to be the consensus. Should we go public and see if anyone out there knows what they refer to?’

  ‘I’d rather keep them under wraps right now. They probably mean more to the perps than anyone else.’

  ‘Perps? More than one?’

  ‘Highly likely,’ shouted Sant, raising his voice above the din of a chopper circling overhead. ‘The whole episode feels orchestrated. The only thing out of place is the mess left behind. Ask yourself this, Capstick: was the bus really supposed to crash?’

  ‘Answers on a postcard.’

  ‘Or the forensic report if we’re lucky.’ Capstick made to leave but Sant called him back as the helicopter coasted away. ‘By the way, once we’re back at HQ, fill me in on progress with the Chloe Lee case.’

  ‘What progress, sir?’

  The inspector extracted a new toothpick from the inside pocket of his black raincoat. ‘I know it’s hardly high on our things-to-do list. But in the wise words of Old Man Gilligan, we must maintain momentum no matter how overcome we are with work, not least what’s happened here.’

  Capstick looked at his boss. ‘See a connection?’

  Sant bit hard at the toothpick before replying: ‘Dryden was working on the same cases as us. That might mean something.’

  ‘You mean, this could be some kind of reprisal?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened.’

  He left his partner to mull things over and caught a glimpse of Hardaker decked out in full forensic gear entering the bus, the hackers moving off to take a break. He put on some overalls of his own and followed the Chiefman up the stairs to the top deck. Veins standing up from hands gripping the rail relaxed when he saw Dryden’s blood-soaked body was no longer there.

  ‘You move fast, Chiefman.’ Hardaker, kneeling by the window, paused his scrutiny of the enigmatic numbers to look up and nod. ‘Don’t get your hands dirty. The next news briefing is on the hour.’

  Hardaker held up his white gloved fingers. ‘No chance of cross-contamination here.’

  Sant and Hardaker had joined CID at the same time. They were the same age, height and blood group, and were both native Yorkshiremen. They could have been twins.

  Both had been outstanding recruits, but in the last ten years their fortunes had taken different turns. Superintendent Hardaker had continued to please the Chief Officers Team with his diplomacy and public-facing proficiency. Sant, an awkward son of a bitch, was thought to be doing extremely well to have achieved his lesser rank.

  ‘What do you make of these numbers, Carl?’

  Sant bent forward for a closer look. ‘I’m stumped, Chiefman. What do the prints say?’

  ‘As expected, there’s a match with Dryden’s. What we’ll never know is how far the poor devil got with his last remarks before the lights went out.’

  Sant pointed to the marking furthest right. ‘5? Or an S?’

  The red-bearded officer squinted at it. ‘Probably a 5, though we’ll need more analysis. What do you say to the phone number theory?’

  ‘Already ran a check.’ Hardaker looked up, lips parting. The inspector rubbed his disjointed nose and smiled. ‘According to BT’s database, the directory is full of landline numbers beginning 3-1. But only ninety-two begin 3-1-5. I’ve got civvies trawling through those numbers as we speak.’

  ‘Excellent work. Let me know your findings A-SAP and I’ll report to Lister.’

  Sant shuffled on his feet. ‘So I take it you’re heading up this investigation and Lister is “overseeing”.’

  Hardaker stifled a laugh. ‘Don’t mock the chief constable, Carl. This isn’t the time for cheap shots. We’ve a mass murder to deal with. Let’s keep it professional. Agreed?’

  Sant didn’t reply. He ambled to the back of the bus, passing technicians in masks dusting black powder onto upholstery, hunting for fingerprints. A blonde woman nearly his height was placing scraps of fabric in a plastic jar. He eased by, ignoring his body’s response to her warmth and scent. Peering out of the rear window, up the hill down which the bus had careered, he got a letterbox view of stubborn rows of red-brick terraces rising up tree-topped slopes against the raw grain of the land. To his left, light industrial estates and long-gone industrial wastelands were shielded from everyday life by shrubbery and grassy mounds. To his right, search teams were taking apart bins in the hope of unveiling murder weapons and anything else that might constitute a clue.

  Over the crest of the hill protruded the partially ruined tower of Kirkstall Abbey, monument to ancient Leeds. Somehow, despite all the years and all the shifting ways of life, the abbey was still standing – most of it intact. No other city in England could boast a medieval monastery as well preserved as this one. Could Dryden have met his snitch there? It seemed a likely place to hang out. Impossible to miss, secluded enough not to draw attention.

  Sant retraced his steps to the front of the bus, glanced again at Dryden’s lonely numbers, then left.

  The police canteen was heaving, the din of chatter constant, the main topic of conversation a dead man among the rank and file. The concerned looks of officers sat at other tables made small talk with Holdsworth impossible. She and Sant ate boxed chow mein, too entwined with Dryden to close the shutters on his dreadful fate.

  ‘What about Dryden’s desk?’ he asked. ‘Anything revealing?’

  ‘Nothing we’ve been party to since forensics took over,’ said Holdsworth as she twisted her fork around a mouthful of noodles, ‘though it appears he was still occupied with a couple of hangovers from his uniformed sergeant days.’

  ‘A dedicated man,’ Sant said. ‘Most folk work to live. He lived to work.’

  ‘But that was stupid of him, wasn’t it?’ She glanced over her shoulder to warn off prying eyes. ‘Working when he w
asn’t supposed to; chasing some dodgy lead without telling us.’

  Sant spooned sugar in his tea. ‘That’s how some detectives do their business. It’s an addiction. Dryden wanted the world and still some. His next promotion was on his mind twenty-four seven.’

  ‘Except some of the time he was looking back, not forward.’ She reached for the expensive handbag perched on the chair next to her. Pulled out a plastic folder. ‘I found some notes under his desk relating to two incidents. Why he kept tabs on them is not clear.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The first was an armed robbery at a jeweller’s, but I’ve tracked the latest updates and there’s a watertight prosecution under way.’

  ‘Must’ve done a good job,’ said Sant, thumbing his empty box to one side.

  ‘True, but the same can’t be said of the other case. I can’t get my head around it, Carl. It appears he brought in a young man for possession of a screwdriver – going equipped for breaking and entering. The man gave his name as Owen Madeley but had no ID on him and was told to report back to Bridewell.’

  ‘No show?’

  ‘Not as yet.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath.’

  Holdsworth belched shamelessly before lowering her voice and drawing closer. ‘But there’s something odd here. You see, Dryden’s notes make it clear no officer on duty that night could identify him. So no previous, unlike most youths carrying screwdrivers round town.’

  Sant thought hard. ‘Maybe he’s good at disguises.’

  ‘What’s really strange, though, is the screwdriver. It was a cheap affair, bought by this Madeley character from a pound shop in town. I’ve seen the thing. It’s still with the duty sarge at Bridewell. The man signed a disclaimer allowing us to confiscate it.’

  He chewed that one over. ‘A pointed object, regardless of its value, is capable of doing damage.’

  ‘Not when it’s still wrapped in its packaging.’

  Sant had no argument this time.

  Holdsworth craned her head even closer to him, her spicy breath on his face. ‘And here lays the mystery. How do you know if someone’s carrying a screwdriver in its packaging?’

  He caught her drift. ‘If you’ve seen him buy it.’

  ‘Absolutely. It seems Dryden shadowed Madeley to the pound shop, waited for him to purchase the screwdriver, and hey presto, nabbed him.’

  ‘You’re on to something, Holdsworth. Dryden was tailing the man, maybe suspecting him of something, and found an excuse for an arrest on whatever grounds he could.’

  ‘But what’s even more bizarre,’ she continued, ‘is that screwdrivers are not defined by law as bladed articles – anyone, kids included, can buy a screwdriver. Of course, they can be classed as offensive weapons where there are reasonable grounds for suspicion, but Madeley had only just purchased the thing. Had a receipt to prove it.’

  Sant nodded. ‘Sounds like an abuse of stop and search. The only screwdrivers I’ve confiscated were adapted in some way; bent or sharpened.’

  ‘And this was neither. It was fresh out of the shop! We’re talking about such a petty matter. Most PCs wouldn’t even issue a caution, never mind a high-flying sarge like Dryden. I mean, how can we convict the ringleaders if we waste time on the artful dodgers?’

  ‘Or Owen Madeleys.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said, discarding the remains of her lunch. ‘Dryden wanted Madeley badly. May’ve even set him up. All he’d have to do was collar the kid, hand him the quid to buy the screwdriver while feeding him some crap about checking the store complies with trading laws, and the result? Double-crossed Madeley – the poor pet – finds himself facing a criminal charge.’

  Sant looked puzzled. ‘Didn’t you say screwdriver sales were not restricted by law?’

  ‘Yes, but wide-eyed Madeley would be none the wiser.’

  ‘I’m not convinced, Holdsworth. It all feels a bit contrived, and surely the charge was refused?’

  ‘Categorically. No real proof, no charge. The duty sarge overturned Dryden on the spot.’

  ‘Leaving the high-flying detective red faced,’ Sant added, getting up to leave. ‘It’s a line worth pursuing, but keep searching through Dryden’s stuff. His computer foremost.’

  ‘Computer’s out. Someone’s taken it away.’

  ‘On whose orders?’ barked the inspector, a fresh surge of anger brewing around the chow mein.

  ‘Hardaker’s of course. His desk and all his belongings are gone too.’ Holdsworth returned Sant’s glare. ‘Don’t blame me. Hardaker’s command overrides yours, Carl. I don’t like it either, but orders are orders and I’m not risking my job to save your face with the Chiefman.’

  Huddling around the nearest table, a group of young officers were held captive by her rising voice. Sant knew that nothing good ever came from making a scene. He took his cue and left Holdsworth to suffer the lingering gazes.

  She made to leave. Hiding a grin behind a mask of madness, she took one long look at the onlookers and bawled: ‘Can’t you lot keep your noses out?’

  He sat at his desk meditating over the bus murders as the afternoon wore on. Praying for a break in the forensic searches. Not a lot more could be done until Dr Wisdom delivered his preliminary report.

  He sat up, chair creaking. Looked at his workstation, the phone next to it, and was angry all over again.

  There was no jealousy regarding Hardaker. The ginger nut was a fine detective with a proven track record, comparable to his own. And besides, this wasn’t the first time Sant found himself firmly beneath the Chiefman in the pecking order.

  But this case was different; involved the murder of a sergeant under his watch, ploughing the same furrow in the field of death. Over the last few months he and Dryden had got on well. Sant would never forget them sharing a pint of the black stuff and, later, Dryden introducing his wife as they both swayed and laughed like morons in her charming presence. Christ, he knew the man better than Hardaker or anyone else pulling the strings.

  And still, no-one had asked his opinion.

  The questions kept coming, the absence of answers an increasing weight, a terrible throbbing pressure.

  What was he doing on the bus? Why would someone want to kill him? And what about the other passengers and the driver? Why them too?

  Was this the work of a random gunman, a serial killer? Or was Dryden the target and the others simply unlucky bystanders?

  Sant knew the bulk of the answers would be packaged together, boxed and locked out of sight. He rubbed his nose, stared across his office. The key lay in discovering what Dryden was investigating.

  What the hell had the man got involved in?

  Sant was not naïve; he knew officers who sometimes worked on the sly without informing their colleagues. He was not immune to lone-wolf syndrome himself.

  But Dryden had been a rookie when it came to missing persons cases, and certainly had never worked a serious one. Why risk his blossoming career laying a wild-card punt on tenuous intelligence? Unless, of course, the source was too good to ignore.

  As Sant lapsed into meditation, weighing up the visions and sounds pelting his mind, he became conscious of a buzzing noise doing battle with his inner self – his desk phone. He reached for the handset, his rigid arm outstretched like a robot.

  ‘Hello, is that you Carl? Hello?’

  ‘Speaking?’

  ‘It’s your mother, you silly billy!’

  He shook himself out of his trance and grunted an acknowledgement, propping the handset several inches from his ear. She hailed from that generation who shouted, didn’t speak, down the line.

  ‘Are you taking good care of yourself? Keeping out of harm’s way?’

  Now that he was a middle-aged divorcee Sant’s mother constantly worried about him. In defiance of logic, she worried more these days than ever before. He suspected his break-up with Elizabeth had tipped the scales.

  ‘No need to fret about me,’ he mumbled, leaning more on his elbow to rub his nose again
.

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that. Now I appreciate you’re busy, but don’t forget your tea. Six o’clock sharp! I’ve cooked your fave. Braising steak with creamy mash.’ Not his favourite dish any more, he vaguely remembered liking it many years ago. ‘And homemade treacle sponge pudding for afters,’ she bellowed.

  He let the silence grow, choosing his next words. He closed his eyes. ‘That’s wonderful of you, but something’s come up.’

  ‘Surely not, Carl. I’ve got it all ready for you!’

  ‘Put it to one side and I’ll eat as soon – ’

  ‘But – ’

  ‘Turn on the telly, mum, and you’ll see why I don’t have time.’

  He rang off and looked at his reflection in the monitor, face tight, showing his feelings. His stare went to a photo of his boys sellotaped in the corner. The pressure lifted somewhat, smile creasing his cheek. It was a sample of a school portrait. He loved it but had forgotten to order a print. His two sons were nestled shoulder to shoulder, heads leaning together, their fresh-faced dimples prominent despite the minuteness of the image.

  Guilt faded the smile. Like their grandmother he was a constant worrier. Worried about them all the time. How they might mix with the wrong crowd and he wouldn’t be there to protect them. Seeing his kids every day, picking them up from school, reading a bedtime story to them – precious moments his paternal soul yearned for.

  By comparison, separating from his wife had been painless, and brought to mind John Wesley’s famous saying: I did not forsake her, I did not dismiss her, I will not recall her.

  He’d asked Elizabeth to relent for the sake of Tom and Sam, but she’d made up her mind. They must split up; they had no future together; enough was enough.

  So they did split up. And he was the one to leave.