The Lost Page 16

  Val pulled into the station, found a space and then switched off the engine. There was a short brittle silence.

  ‘So what next?’ Harry said.

  ‘You know what next. It’s the usual routine. We go inside, you give a statement and—’

  ‘I meant us,’ he said. ‘What happens about us? Don’t you think we need to talk?’

  Val got out of the car and carefully straightened her skirt. She gave a small dismissive wave of her hand. ‘This is hardly the time to be thinking about that.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Being under suspicion was an interesting, if somewhat disconcerting, experience. Jess had been aware of the phone calls being made, of her identity being checked, and of the cautious way she was being treated by the officers. Innocent until proven guilty? It hadn’t felt like that. Still, it would all have been a good deal worse if she’d been alone when she stumbled on the body.

  DI Holt had given her the third degree but she’d stuck to her guns, accurately relaying the facts and refusing to be intimidated. He had made her go over the story again and again as if intent on catching her out. The same questions, disguised by different words, had been repeatedly fired at her. Had she been a more vulnerable or easily influenced person, Holt’s relentless technique might have worn her down, made her question her own memory, but Jess had come upon the likes of the Inspector before. He was a third-rate bully of limited intelligence, a man with more power than personality.

  It seemed like an eternity since she had first arrived and now that she was free to go she tapped her foot impatiently while she waited for the cab. She had been offered a lift home but had turned it down; she had spent enough time in the company of coppers. She wondered what had happened to the Audi but wasn’t about to ask.

  Longing for a breath of fresh air – she had spent too many hours trapped first in Maidstone jail and now here in the police station – Jess would have stepped outside but the rain was tipping down and there was no shelter outside the building.

  Standing by the door, she glanced over towards the counter to see DS Valerie Middleton giving her the evil eye. Holt might be a bully but Harry’s girlfriend was a far more formidable prospect. At the moment she was looking Jess up and down in that way women do when they’re subtly assessing the opposition. What did she think had been going on? Then, with a sinking heart, Jess suddenly recalled a certain evening not so long ago, a drunken fumble in the back of a cab, a kiss …

  She quickly pulled herself together. Looking guilty wasn’t going to help and Valerie couldn’t even know about it unless … but no, she didn’t believe for a second that Harry had actually told her. Even he wasn’t that stupid!

  Jess smiled thinly back while she wondered how a woman quite so beautifully designed could possibly possess any of the more usual female insecurities. Tall and slender, the Sergeant was dressed in a simple navy suit that was the epitome of practicality and yet still managed to draw attention to every curve of her immaculate figure. Her skin was the colour of pale honey, her cheekbones defined, her eyes a soft shade of hazel. Even her long fair hair was twisted back into a perfect glossy plait.

  Jess made a mental note to renew her membership of the local gym. Her own body, which in a dim light could just about pass for voluptuous, was hovering on the brink of something less appealing. It wouldn’t be long before she was staring the horror of plumpness straight in the face.

  The Sergeant seemed in two minds as to whether she was going to approach or not. Jess sincerely hoped not. She’d already been at the receiving end of too many uncomfortable questions. All she wanted to do now was get home, have a long hot bath and try to put the miseries of the day behind her.

  Jess gave a sigh of relief as the taxi drew up outside the gates. At last! Braving the elements, she rushed out through the doors and dashed across the forecourt. She jumped into the passenger seat and barked out her address.

  The cabbie threw his fag out of the window and grinned at her. ‘Had a grilling?’ he said.

  Annoyed by the presumption – did she really look that dodgy? – Jess glared back at him. ‘Just a hard day, okay? And if you want a tip don’t even think about taking the scenic route home.’

  Harry raised his eyes to the ceiling and tried to keep his cool. How many times had they been through this? Holt knew he had nothing to do with it; he was just taking advantage of a God-sent opportunity to wind him up. ‘So what are you suggesting? That I got in a fight and then went back for revenge the very next day?’

  ‘It’s been known,’ Holt said smugly.

  ‘And has it also been known for anyone to take a local journalist along to witness the event?’

  ‘Well, perhaps if you could explain exactly what she was doing there with you …’

  Harry shook his head and smiled. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Jess had told Holt the bare minimum and he wasn’t prepared to fill in the gaps. Why should he? Her business was hers and it had nothing to do with what had happened to Troy. ‘It was pure chance,’ he said. ‘We’d had a business meeting and she was with me when Agnes called. I asked if she could drive me to Vista and she did.’

  ‘In your car?’

  ‘Why not?’ Harry said. ‘Is that a crime? I can’t drive at the moment and last time I checked there was nothing illegal about any qualified person driving a fully insured vehicle.’

  Holt’s nostrils flared, his mouth simultaneously turning down at the corners. ‘How can we be sure that there even was a call?’

  ‘Come on,’ Harry said. ‘Let’s not even go there. I’m sure you’ve already checked my phone.’

  Holt hesitated but, unsurprisingly, wasn’t willing to make any hasty admissions. ‘The CCTV wasn’t working so we’ve only got Ms Vaughan’s word that the two of you actually arrived at the murder scene when you say you did.’

  ‘And mine,’ Harry said. But his word clearly cut no ice with the Inspector. ‘Why on earth should she lie for me?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ Holt sneered.

  Harry wondered what Valerie had said to him. This was starting to feel more like an interrogation of his personal life than a murder inquiry. Leaning forward, Harry stared Holt straight in the eye. ‘So what do you want me to say, Frankie? That I was bearing a grudge, got there half an hour earlier, beat the victim to a pulp, found somewhere to change my clothes and have a shower and then deliberately went back to report the discovery of a body? Just how stupid do you think I am?’

  Holt, hearing the anger in his voice, shifted back an inch or two. ‘There’s no need to take that attitude.’

  ‘I’m not the one with attitude.’

  The two men glared at each other across the table. Holt was the first to look away. Aware that he had maybe crossed that invisible line between genuine inquiry and personal dislike, he quickly changed the subject. ‘So tell me about Ray Stagg.’

  ‘I’m sure you know as much as I do.’

  ‘Except you’re working for him, aren’t you?’

  ‘No,’ Harry said. ‘His sister is my client.’

  ‘But Ray Stagg’s still writing out the cheques.’

  ‘I get paid by David Mackenzie,’ Harry said. ‘And I’m sure you’re aware of who Mac is. He was a cop too, a good cop. Would you like to cast aspersions on his character as well as mine?’

  Holt glared at him. ‘So, can you give me a description of Agnes Bondar?’

  Harry sighed. What was he playing at now? Unless he was completely incompetent he should have got that information from the staff at Vista. ‘Are you even looking for her?’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  About five foot six,’ he said resignedly. ‘Slim. Blonde hair, green eyes.’

  ‘And you’ve known her for how long?’

  ‘I don’t know her at all,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve only met her a couple of times. I’ve already told you. I was working on a case, searching for a missing person. We talked briefly at Vista, I left her my card and she rang me late t
his afternoon. She said she needed help, I went to the club and—’

  ‘Right,’ Holt said slyly.

  Harry’s patience, such as it was, was rapidly wearing thin. ‘How much longer is this going to go on? You must have talked to forensics. You must know the time scale by now and unless you believe I’m the dumbest killer you ever came across then you haven’t got one good reason to keep me here.’

  ‘No one said you were a suspect.’

  Harry felt like he was being treated as one. ‘Fine,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘So am I free to go now?’

  Holt nodded and gathered up his papers ‘Don’t leave the country. We may need to talk to you again.’

  Harry stalked out of the room, walked back along the corridor and approached the duty officer at the desk. It was only ten months since he’d been working here but a lot of the faces, including this one, were unfamiliar.

  ‘Could I speak to Sergeant Middleton please? Tell her it’s Harry.’

  The woman he had addressed smiled nicely and picked up the phone. ‘Just a moment.’ She punched in a number and then had a brief conversation during which her cheeks turned faintly pink.

  He knew what was coming.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said, replacing the receiver. ‘Only it seems she’s … er, off duty now. I think she may have gone home.’

  Harry nodded. ‘Thank you.’ He knew Val wouldn’t be off duty – she was in the middle of a murder inquiry – but, even if that hadn’t been the case, home was the very last place she’d have gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  After the events of the previous day, Jess had decided that the only way forward was to stay focused, to try and push the image of Troy’s battered body to the back of her mind and to get on with the job in hand. Her leave wasn’t going to last forever and if she didn’t make some progress soon the trail was likely to go cold.

  For Len’s sake, she couldn’t allow that to happen.

  Sipping on her coffee, she stared down at the three brown folders on the table. Where to start? Deacon was perhaps best left alone until she saw what BJ came up with – if he came up with anything. Her hopes weren’t too high on that score. She flipped open the slim Ellen Shaw file but then as quickly closed it again. If she wanted to find out the truth she had to go back to the beginning and that meant going all the way back to when Grace Harper had gone missing.

  Jess lit a cigarette and began to peruse the thick pile of press articles. Coming so close on the heels of the other missing child, Grace’s disappearance had initially sparked fears of a serial killer. The senior investigating officer had been a superintendent called Fielding. If he was still alive, he’d be retired by now. She’d have to try and track him down but the chances of being able to do that on a Saturday were slight. Jess made a note to chase it up on Monday morning and then returned her attention to the clippings.

  Grace had disappeared on a Wednesday, on a hot summer’s afternoon in early August. It was the school holidays and after lunch she had left through the back door and run along the alley to play with friends at a neighbour’s house. At six o’clock, when she still hadn’t come home, Sharon had gone round to pick her up. But Grace, she discovered, had never arrived. The other kids hadn’t seen her. No one had seen her. Sharon raised the alarm and the police were called. By then her daughter had been missing for over five hours.

  There wasn’t much detail on Grace herself. Other than her age and physical appearance, there were only the usual emotive contributions from the Harpers’ neighbours and friends – that she had always been a ‘happy child’, that she was intelligent, that she wouldn’t just wander off on her own. Jess couldn’t help noticing that, even at this early stage, they were all presuming the worst. Little Grace Harper, it seemed, had been dead and buried before the investigation had even begun.

  She found herself staring down at pictures of the missing girl. A thin shiver ran through her. She took a drag on her cigarette and tapped the trembling grey residue into the ashtray. What was she doing? Perhaps everyone else was right and she was wrong. Perhaps even Harry Lind, although she hated to admit it, was seeing things more clearly than she was. With nothing to prove otherwise, there was every chance that poor Grace Harper was dead.

  In which case Len had made one almighty mistake.

  And if she wasn’t careful, she might be compounding it.

  Was that possible? Jess rapped her fingertips against the table and groaned. Now wasn’t the time to start having those doubts again. Len Curzon might have been a hopeless drunk but even at his worst he’d been able to string a few coherent thoughts together. And he couldn’t have been legless for the entire ten days he’d sat outside Ellen Shaw’s flat.

  ‘No,’ she said firmly.

  Pulling the file closer, she started reading again. There must be something in here. Eventually she found a short interview with an aunt, a woman called Joan Sewell. She was the sister of Grace’s father and was vehemently protesting his innocence. From her comments it was clear that the finger of suspicion was pointing straight at Michael Harper. That was hardly surprising. In cases of this kind members of the family were usually the first to be investigated and, from what Jess could recall, Michael had had a history of violence.

  She flipped back through the pages of her notebook and nodded. Harper had served two jail sentences for GBH, been fined for numerous minor incidents and been generally renowned for the ferocity of his temper. However, he had never been accused of any form of domestic violence and also had a rock solid alibi for the afternoon in question. He’d been at work at the time Grace had disappeared with enough witnesses to theoretically silence the worst of his accusers. Still, that never stopped the tongues from wagging.

  Michael Harper had died over eighteen years ago and so whatever he knew – if he knew anything at all – had gone to the grave with him. His sister, however, could be very much alive and kicking. The local article Jess had been reading gave Joan Sewell’s address as Peak Street. That wasn’t too far away. Was it possible that, twenty years on, she could still be living there?

  Jess grabbed the local phone book and ran through the listings. She found a handful of Sewells but only one registered in Peak Street. It was number thirty-four. Her eyes widened with surprise. Could it really be that simple? Well, sometimes it was but before she got too excited it was worth reminding herself that finding the address was the easy bit; getting Joan Sewell to talk could prove to be a far bigger hurdle. Should she call first? Maybe not. That would only give the woman an opportunity to slam the phone down. Face to face, Jess would have the chance to at least try and persuade her.

  Jess changed out of her jeans and put on a pair of smart grey woollen trousers and a black jumper. She looked in the mirror, applied a smudge of lipstick and smoothed down her hair. This might be a waste of time but anything was better than sitting around in the flat.

  It was one of those deceptively bright mornings where the sun was shining but the temperature was icy. The freezing air hit her as she walked out of the door. Jess tucked her chin into her scarf, pushed her hands deep into her pockets and set off briskly down the street. After twenty yards she crossed the road and took the shortcut through Victoria Park.

  Fifteen minutes later she was standing alongside a terrace of small yellow brick houses in Peak Street. Some of the properties were bordering on the ramshackle but number thirty-four was neat and tidy, its windows gleaming and the net curtains white as snow.

  She rang the bell and waited.

  The woman who answered the door was in her late fifties. She was tall and angular with a thin face and narrow lips. Her hair was iron grey and cut unflatteringly short.

  ‘Mrs Joan Sewell?’ Jess asked.

  The woman nodded, drying her hands on an apron.

  So she had found her! Jess had to stop herself from smiling too broadly. ‘My name’s Jessica Vaughan. I’m sorry to disturb you but I was wondering if we could talk. I’m looking into the case of Grace Harper
.’

  At the mention of Grace, a light instantly sprang into Mrs Sewell’s eyes. She took a step forward. ‘Is there some news?’ she said. ‘Have you found her?’

  By which Jess knew that she was asking if the body had been discovered. She could hear the emotion in her voice, a combination of dread and hope, dread that her worst fears had been confirmed, hope that Grace might finally be put to rest. ‘I’m sorry,’ she replied softly. ‘I’m not from the police. I’m a reporter and I’m investigating several—’

  But the word ‘reporter’ was enough to set off alarm bells. As if Jess had deliberately misled her, Mrs Sewell’s eyes grew cold. ‘Clear off!’ she said. She flapped her hands in an effort to shoo her away. ‘Can’t you vultures leave anyone in peace?’

  Her experience of the press had clearly not been a positive one. Already she had turned her back and Jess knew she only had seconds to persuade her. Once that door was closed it would never be opened again. ‘I just wanted to say that I don’t believe Michael had anything to do with it.’

  Mrs Sewell stopped abruptly and looked over her shoulder.

  ‘He was treated very badly,’ Jess said quickly. ‘And I was thinking, hoping, that maybe you could help me put the record straight.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Her voice remained suspicious but was not entirely hostile.

  Jess glanced deliberately towards the houses to the left and right as if the neighbours already had their noses pressed against the glass. ‘Perhaps if we could talk inside?’

  Mrs Sewell hesitated. Eventually, she nodded. ‘I suppose I could give you five minutes.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Jess followed her in. There was a tiny hallway with a mat on which she dutifully wiped her muddy feet before advancing into the living room. Everything, as she’d already anticipated, was scrupulously clean and tidy, all the surfaces gleaming and not a speck of dust in sight.

  ‘Let me take your coat.’

  Jess relinquished it reluctantly. It wasn’t that much warmer inside than out. There was no central heating and the hissing gas fire was turned down low.