Chloe- Lost Girl

by Dan Laughey

  ‘Why did you split up from Chloe’s mother?’

  ‘That’s a bit personal. Besides, we parted ways years ago.’

  ‘It would be helpful to know all the same.’

  Lee planted his meagre butt on a stool. ‘Well, I suppose it happened the way of most couples no longer suited to each other.’

  ‘It’s my understanding, Mr Lee, that you left her.’ It was a stab in the dark, but it paid off.

  ‘Fair comment. Though don’t think Vanessa was the innocent, faithful loving wife.’

  ‘She had affairs too?’

  Lee gulped some tea and wiped his mouth with his free hand. ‘She had her share of male friends. But I suppose I’d be a hypocrite if I accused her of playing around.’

  ‘Chloe must’ve taken the break-up badly.’

  Lee twisted his lips and looked at the ceiling. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you, and I was fretful she’d go off the rails. Why? Because I nurtured that child. As soon as I returned from Bosnia, that is. I missed the first six months of her life – regretted it ever since.’ His gaze watered, rolled down to the furniture. ‘But seven years ago, when I left her mother, well, I guess we saw it coming.’

  ‘So Chloe wasn’t especially upset?’

  ‘A tear or two. Or perhaps that’s wishful thinking on my part.’ Lee laughed at himself and then went serious again. ‘Vanessa cried. But then she cried all the time. The effects of post-natal depression, the doctor said. Chloe, well now, she’s different altogether. She rarely cries. Chip off the old block.’

  ‘Did you see much of your daughter after the separation?’

  ‘Once a week. Where possible. But I’d other mouths to feed. A new wife and baby for starters. And building work was picking up. The boom years had arrived.’

  Sant felt a mixture of bitterness and empathy for the man facing him. Sant had been forced out of his own marriage; Lee had had a choice, and chose to leave. But Sant could still relate to that guilt and sorrow haunting any right-minded adult exiting the sacred theatre of family life.

  ‘You mentioned Bosnia, Mr Lee.’

  Lee spat out the rest of his tea and briskly rinsed the bottom of the mug. ‘Stationed there for two years, Inspector. Served in the Gulf too – still suffer from Gulf War Syndrome.’ He swiped a finger along his jaw. ‘Headaches. Depression. Back problems. But I don’t talk much about my time in the army. The things I saw out there…’

  Sant let the silence dwell. The soldiers he knew never spoke of their fighting days. Fond memories of camaraderie and football in the desert scarcely compensated for the horrors of combat. He swallowed his empathy and got back to business.

  ‘Did Chloe and her mother get on well?’

  ‘Most of the time.’ He swiped at his jaw again. ‘Though they had a few bust-ups. Whereas me and Chloe never came to blows.’

  ‘By bust-ups, you mean physical confrontation?’

  Lee nodded. ‘I remember one occasion when all hell broke loose, mostly down to Vanessa’s hot-headedness. Like two bears in a pit they were. As it transpired, Chloe said her goodbyes, packed a bag, and went off to stay with a neighbour.’

  ‘A neighbour?’

  ‘Aye, a nice bird. She lived on her own – a stone’s throw from our house.’

  ‘How old was Chloe when this happened?’

  Lee leaned on the kitchen worktop and coughed a reply. ‘Must’ve been ten, eleven.’

  ‘And how long was she away from home?’

  ‘Not long. But that was just the first time. Chloe struck up quite a bond with that woman. You couldn’t get her to come back on occasions.’

  Sant arched his dark eyebrows. ‘Were you ever suspicious about this neighbour?’

  ‘Vanessa was, at first. I wasn’t. But soon enough we got invited over there. And then Vanessa got to know her. Felt the woman would do Chloe some good. You know, educate her a bit. You see, this neighbour lived on her own. No hubby. No kids. But she was clever. Won the pub quiz whenever she turned out. And I guess we felt she might impart some of that knowledge on Chloe. Free tuition on the side, if you like. And the payoffs went both ways ‘cos Chloe proved good company for her. I suppose everybody needs a companion.’

  ‘Plenty of lonely people out there,’ Sant nodded, directing his glass at Darren Lee’s murky kitchen window.

  ‘I never could understand that.’ He looked at the glass, the window. ‘I call them loners, but apparently it’s the norm to be a loner these days.’

  Sant was faintly amused by Lee’s take on people like himself. After all, he’d been a loner for the best part of two years and counting. But he didn’t feel isolated. There were lonely spells, yes, but the upsides of going it alone explained why so many walked that path.

  ‘Does this woman still live in the same house?’

  ‘No, she left about the same time I left. Seems silly, I know, but Chloe was more upset at the neighbour leaving than me.’

  ‘You have a name?’

  Lee shook his head. ‘I can’t recall asking her – or she offering it.’

  ‘What about other people Chloe was close to? Friends, relatives, folks she saw regularly. Like Jake Downing?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A former boyfriend.’

  Lee shook his head again, a little too nonchalantly for Sant’s liking.

  ‘The names Kate Andrews and Callum Willis mean anything to you?’

  ‘Can’t say they do. I’m out of touch when it comes to Chloe’s social life. Vanessa would know.’

  ‘But she’s halfway around the world,’ said Sant, looking pointedly at the man facing him. He detected a slight wince on that wrinkled face.

  Lee drew in breath. ‘Just like my ex to take off on the spur of the moment.’

  ‘She didn’t tell you?’

  ‘Why would she?’ He laughed. ‘Unless she was after some spending money.’

  ‘Does she often ask for money?’

  ‘Not these days, thank God. She’s finally realised what a divorce is. A severance. Once and for all.’

  Sant handed over the glass of water and made to leave. Then turned back. ‘One last thing. Have you any idea where Chloe may have run off to?’

  ‘No idea,’ Lee answered, no hesitation. He kicked a box aside to make way for his departing visitor. ‘She’s made off before. Even when she was little. Don’t bet against her turning up soon.’

  Sant was taken aback by the overconfident parting shot, but he chose not to dampen the man’s optimism. His daughter may have fled from home for a day or two once upon a time. But on this occasion it was almost two months since anyone had last seen her. When someone’s gone for that long, they seldom come back.

  No, Chloe was out there on her own, a young woman in need of someone to watch over her.

  By the time he returned to Elland Road HQ the station clock showed it was nearing eleven. Sant trudged into his office and saw Holdsworth attaching an A3 of incomprehensible data to a flipchart.

  ‘The results of the phone number search,’ she explained. ‘I’ve had this sent down from Hardaker. It’s a list cross-referenced by bill-payer and what we know about them. It turns out that not one of the ninety-two Leeds households with a landline starting 3-1-5 has anything relevant on our files. Nor is there a known connection between any of them and Dryden or the other bus fatalities.’

  Sant and Capstick were both thinking the same thing: how all these numbers and codes translated into Holdsworth’s Plain English.

  ‘It defies the laws of probability,’ Capstick piped up. ‘For ninety-two people and their co-habiting relations not to have so much as a driving conviction against their names is remarkable.’

  Holdsworth aimed a pointed look at her colleague. ‘If you’d listened a little closer, Detective Constable Capstick, I uttered the word relevant. Non-relevant offences, like speeding, don’t get factored in.’

  ‘So what was the worst offence traced back to these ninety-two pillars of society?’ Capstick took a certain delight in qui
rky stats.

  Holdsworth looked down her list. ‘Theft of a phone booth. One of those old telephone boxes – red and made of cast iron. Worth a fortune overseas.’

  ‘I’d like to see someone attempt to smuggle one of those out of the country.’

  Sant interrupted. ‘How does the informant theory stack up in all this? Was Dryden trying to reveal the number of his snitch?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Holdsworth, ‘in which case the poor soul made a mistake with his numbers, or the sequence, or we’ve missed something.’

  ‘Or a combination of all three,’ Capstick said, ‘leaving us with a maze of permutations not worth contemplating.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Holdsworth.

  ‘Simple mathematics, Detective Sergeant Holdsworth.’

  Holdsworth stuck out her tongue. ‘For the record, Brad, I sailed through O Level Maths, thank you very much.’

  Sant interrupted again, faintly annoyed at the banter. ‘Permutations or otherwise, those numbers are vital. There’s definitely something about the 3-1-5 we’ve yet to register.’

  Silence hung over the room for a while, the tension in Sant’s voice chiming like a warning bell. Holdsworth and Capstick smirked at each other. Best to let him speak next.

  ‘What do we know about the ticketing receipts for the bus, Capstick?’

  Capstick grabbed his tablet and tapped a few keys. ‘No full details as yet. The young couple sitting behind Dryden on the top deck had student passes, so no tickets were issued for them.’

  ‘And Dryden?’

  Capstick scrolled down the screen. ‘No ticket was found on DS Dryden.’

  Holdsworth frowned. ‘That’s strange. Surely he needed one to travel.’

  ‘Unless he abused his position.’

  Sant sighed. ‘It’s possible. Anyone prepared to do the job outside of working hours may feel he has a right to live above the law. Then again, if he wished to remain incognito, the last thing on his mind would be a free bus ride.’

  Capstick turned back to his screen. ‘Data coming through from the bus vault tells us the last ticket issued was at 23.33. Thirty-three minutes past eleven in old speak.’

  Sant crossed his arms. ‘I can read the 24-hour clock, you know.’

  ‘No offence, sir. Anyway, the exact time when the bus crashed hasn’t been established. All we know for certain is that the first call received by emergency services was at 11.36pm. Which means the last paying passenger boarded the bus no more than three minutes prior to the crash.’

  Sant turned over an egg timer in his head. ‘A couple of miles of travelling time at most.’

  ‘And before that,’ continued Capstick, ‘a total of nine tickets were issued between the start and end of the journey: at 23.09, 23.09, 23.09, 23.12, 23.14, 23.14, 23.16, 23.18 and 23.19. Four people have already contacted police confirming they bought tickets at those times, though only two retained them. Receipts for the other two tickets have since been retrieved from the bottom deck – both issued at 23.14.’

  Holdsworth breathed deeply. ‘I bet those passengers are thanking Heaven they got off that bus before…’ She clenched her perfectly straight teeth.

  ‘Were any of the deceased carrying tickets?’ Sant asked.

  ‘Only one confirmed so far,’ said Capstick. ‘Robert Cameron, a middle-aged man travelling on his own. His ticket was issued at 23.19. That’s all the info we have for now. Forensics say the situation is fluid.’

  Sant scowled. ‘Fluid? It’s gunked up! That sort of information should be signed and delivered prompto. It’s going on twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Well, it is a Sunday, sir. Took a while to get a full quota of officers.’

  ‘What’s next?’ Holdsworth asked.

  ‘A tour of the bus stops,’ said Sant. ‘Coats on. It’s time to explore.’

  Capstick took the A660 to Otley, Holdsworth occupying the front passenger seat and Sant rattling around in the back. Map and satnav at the ready, they tracked the 33 route from the Otley terminus towards Leeds, pausing at every bus stop in simulation of a stop-start bus ride.

  At intervals scenes-of-crime officers could be seen inspecting CCTV cameras. Others equipped with sniffer dogs and metal detectors were combing every inch of ground as Capstick’s Fiat Punto coasted by. Industrial vacuums like gigantic pythons were being plunged down street drains on the off chance they might slurp up vital evidence.

  The murder weapon, for sure, represented the biggest prize. Although Sant harboured no real hope of finding the firearm – he doubted they were dealing with a novice assassin – there was always a chance the gunman panicked and ditched it.

  Any hitman worth his salt knew leaving the tool of his trade behind was suicidal. Whether fingerprints were detectable or not, each gun had its own ballistics; a unique set of markings on the bullet casings it fired. No matter whose black market it passed through, identifying it was easy. DNA traces – the minutest were needed – ticked the right boxes too.

  Sant’s vision panned across the horizon. On the hilltop, runway lights at Leeds-Bradford Airport looked like luminous bullet holes puncturing a dinosaur’s spine. Sant pondered the eventualities. The five stops located on the A65 in Horsforth were less than two hundred yards apart along a busy stretch of the town lined with pubs and restaurants – always lively on a Saturday night. He drummed a thumb on his leg. It was an unlikely area for Dryden to meet with anyone in secret.

  More probable were the six bus stops beyond, on the approach to Kirkstall Abbey. The gap between them extended to four hundred yards in places. Fewer people used these stops. No obtrusive street lighting either. Ideal territory for muggers and informants alike.

  The two stops closest to Kirkstall Abbey were at the centre of Sant’s radar. It was this stretch of the A65 that afforded real potential for diversionary tactics. Giant ash trees lined both sides of the road, 1950s bungalows giving way to a protected belt of surrounding parkland, shrubbery and woods.

  A popular family retreat by day, the fifty acres that made up the abbey grounds were practically deserted at night. Occasionally a travelling fair brought an injection of night-time economy, but no fair had used the site since September. That rules out the raging fair-ground operator, Sant mused.

  Capstick pulled his Punto onto the verge of the road before it veered around the abbey. Saw the ROAD CLOSED sign and parked. They got out and gazed back up the road, the goalposts at either end of a rugby pitch forming points of a triangle with the Vesper Gate pub. Sant could have murdered a pint of ale, but he kept his hankerings to himself.

  He broke off from the others and vaulted the stone wall bordering the abbey, sand sticking to his palms, landing soft. He could see where he was walking courtesy of a full moon that smiled down in sympathy, casting an eerie silhouette on the ancient façade. Large iron gates barred unwanted visitors. Signs warned them off: NO BALL GAMES… NO BICYCLES. The ruined millstone tower at the far end of the monastery had, over centuries of erosion, peeled in half like a thunderstruck tree. Only half of it remained, miraculously surviving a dozen or more battles and fires over those bloody years. The brittle structure resembled a protruding index finger pointing skyward, crooked, defiant.

  The greatest act of defiance had been resistance to King Henry the Eighth’s Dissolution of the abbeys and nunneries back in 1540. On splitting from the Catholic Church after Rome refused him a second marriage, Henry named himself Supreme Head of the Church of England and forbade Catholicism. And all other dissenting faiths. Abbeys like Kirkstall were plundered for their gold and land, and sold to wealthy families loyal to king and country. Many monasteries were torched in the Dissolution, but an anti-Royalist faction – ultimately defeated – defended Kirkstall Abbey from attack by the King’s men, preventing it from being raised to the ground.

  Sant passed by the remains of the Abbey Guest House, used by Cistercian monks on their pilgrimages across what was once called Elmet and much later the West Riding of Yorkshire. It was difficult to believe these crumb
led ruins were almost nine hundred years old, like the rest of the original structure. Gothic was not the word. English Gothic described a nineteenth-century architectural revival. This place prefigured Early Gothic: it was Gothic before Gothic began.

  He turned back towards the main road. A mock-Tudor Edwardian house stood at the summit of a hill overlooking everything. An upstairs window was lighted and Sant imagined it offering an ideal view of the events of the previous night. But if he was warm and these medieval ruins really were the backdrop for the secret rendezvous, then it would be terrible for Dryden and his informant to stand around in the open, no more than a hundred yards from traffic and passers-by, lighted windows beyond.

  Sant followed his nose and crossed over damp grass in the direction of the river. An overgrown bowling green and bricked-up paddling pool told a bygone story of better days for the park adjoining the abbey. Smashed beer bottles and the stench of urine spoke volumes about its present use. Not that he blamed the teen posse responsible for this mess. Where else could the kids of today spend their spare time without forking out a small fortune on what the profiteers deemed appropriate entertainment?

  As the River Aire came into view, wending its way towards the city, he looked to his right and noticed a disused track leading into woods and down to the riverside. He stepped along the path cautiously, wary of uprooted tree trunks and metal poles and slabs of stone planted in the ground like discarded memorials for the dead. No more than fifty yards along was a muddy clearing that sloped downwards and brought the path out onto the verge of the riverbank. Head down, Sant wished he’d carried his torch as he watched the barely visible verge, grey-black against the blackness of the river. One wrong step and he’d be soaked. The waters here were so still they seemed not to flow at all, as if the whole tributary was holding out against its sluggish descent towards post-industrial smut.

  He walked a little further, slipping in the mud before the blackness gave way to milky moonlight poking through drooping branches. He came to a holt, perched on the jagged end of a fallen trunk to catch his breath. Behind him, a steep bank rose ten metres high, flanked by a thick wall of oaks. An ideal hiding place for sure. Merely a couple of football pitches from the abbey grounds and the main road, this secret belt of undergrowth felt a million miles from civilisation.