Читать книгу Stolen - Paul Finch - Страница 15

The woman was called Janet Dawson, and she was het up. Lucy met her at her father’s house just after ten that morning. She was in early middle age and tubby, with curly fair hair running to grey, and a pale, worried face.

The address was 8, Atkinson Row, and it belonged to an OAP called Harry Hopkins.

‘I’ve been ringing Dad for the last three days,’ she said, ushering Lucy down a short hall into the interior of a terraced house so neat and tidy it could have passed for a show home. ‘I’ve been asking around too. His friends and the locals down the pub. No one’s seen him.’

‘He keeps a tidy home,’ Lucy said, looking around the lounge and then heading upstairs.

‘Oh, yes.’ The woman followed. ‘He’s always been very house-proud.’

‘There’s absolutely nothing out of place?’ Lucy asked, looking into the two bedrooms.

‘Nothing obvious. Oh … apart from out at the back. Do you know about that already?’

‘Yeah, I was told about that before I got here.’

What had really panicked Janet Dawson, on calling to see her father this morning and discovering the house empty, had been the back door and back gate, which were both wide open. She’d quickly called the police. Uniform had arrived first and, not liking it either, had passed the info to CID.

‘We’ll look down at the back in a sec,’ Lucy said, still checking around upstairs.

She noticed a large, circular cushion on the carpet next to Harry’s bed. A well-chewed rubber bone sat in the middle of it.

‘Your dad has a dog?’

‘Yes. Milly … she’s a Pekingese.’

‘Does he take her out a lot?’

‘Yeah. She gets at least two walks a day. But he leaves her in when he’s off to the pub or the bookies, or something like that.’ The woman’s voice trembled as she spoke.

Lucy pondered. She didn’t say it aloud, because she simply wasn’t sure, but the absence of the dog made foul play a little less likely. If you were going to abduct someone, would you really go to the trouble of abducting their pet too? It seemed more possible that something had happened to the old guy while he was out walking the dog, but if there’d been an accident, or he’d dropped dead from a heart attack, someone ought to have found him by now. And then there was the mystery surrounding the back door and the back gate.

‘Could your father have left her here, forgotten to lock up at the back, and she’s just run away?’ she asked.

‘I honestly don’t think she’d run away,’ the woman replied. ‘And I’ve never known Dad make a mistake like that before. Plus, why would he go out without his hat and coat?’

They went downstairs and through into the lounge, where the television was playing away to itself, a range of Saturday-morning chefs producing a selection of mouth-watering dishes.

‘And that’s not like Dad either,’ Janet Dawson said. ‘The telly being on.’

‘It was on when you arrived here this morning?’ Lucy asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Could he not just have left it on as a security measure while he was going out … you know, to make thieves think he was in?’

‘Yes, but he only does that at night.’

The implication was evident.

‘What time did you arrive this morning?’ Lucy asked.

‘Just after eight.’

‘So you’re worried the television might have been left on all night?’

The woman looked even paler than before. ‘I can hardly bear to think what that might mean if it’s true.’

‘Your father doesn’t own any other property that we might look around?’ Lucy asked. ‘An allotment with a shed perhaps? A garage?’

‘No, I’m sorry.’

‘Okay.’ Lucy walked back through the house to the kitchen, where she halted next to one of the spotless worktops. A mug containing a dry teabag and an unused spoon sat alongside the kettle. This was more suggestive than anything she had seen at the house so far.

Most telling of all, though, was the open back door.

Lucy pulled on a pair of disposable latex gloves.

‘Oh, my God,’ Janet Dawson moaned.

‘It’s just a precaution.’ Lucy checked along the door’s edge and down the edge of the door-jamb. ‘There’s no sign of any damage here.’

‘I don’t think anyone forced entry. I mean, there’s no damage anywhere. And it’s not like there’s any sign of a scuffle. Nothing’s broken, there’re no blood spots or anything.’

‘So, if someone came into the house this way,’ Lucy said, ‘your father must have let them in willingly.’

‘I suppose so.’ Janet Dawson gave a weak, forced smile. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

Lucy didn’t mention that most of the violence in modern society was inflicted by persons known to the victim. Instead, she said, ‘How many of your father’s house-callers are in the habit of coming to the back door?’

‘I must admit … I can’t think of any who would do that, or why.’

They crossed the garden together. It was smoothly turfed aside from a crazy-paved path, with a brick platform on the right covered in potted plants. At odds with all this neatness, the back gate hung ajar.

‘The gate was like this, this morning?’ Lucy asked, again noting an absence of damage, which meant that this hadn’t been forced open either.

‘Exactly like it is now.’

‘We shouldn’t necessarily read something bad into this,’ Lucy said. ‘There are lots of possibilities here at present.’

Internally, however, she’d closed in on three main ones: a) an intruder had approached the house from the rear and had got inside that way, because Harry Hopkins had forgotten to lock up; or b) Harry Hopkins had gone outside himself, leaving the property by the back door and the back gate, and for some unknown reason had still not returned; or c) neither of those unpleasant alternatives had happened, and he was simply going about his everyday business, absent from home at this moment, again having neglected to lock up (and having left his hat and coat behind), and by pure coincidence had also been absent every time in the last three days when his daughter had phoned the house.

You wouldn’t earn a police commendation for working out which of those options seemed least likely.

Lucy stepped through into the back alley. ‘How often have you tried to contact your father in the last few days, Janet?’

The woman followed her out. ‘First it was every few hours, but then … I mean yesterday and last night, it was once every ten minutes.’

‘Is your father hard of hearing, by any chance?’

‘He wears a hearing aid, but no … he can hear when the phone’s ringing. He normally answers straight away.’

Lucy surveyed the alley. It was narrow, cobbled, and little more than a service passage running behind the row of houses. At present, it was clear of vehicles, or bins, or sacks of rubbish. On the other side, a high red-brick wall rose about ten feet, screening off the rest of the estate.

Lucy wasn’t comforted by this. A narrow backstreet hidden from view on one side.

She turned back to the gate – and stopped in her tracks. Like the house’s front door, the back gate had been painted a bright canary-yellow, but on the outside it had been spattered top to bottom with dried black trickle stains.

‘This is a bit of a mess, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Oh.’ Janet Dawson looked genuinely surprised. ‘Dad’ll go mad if he sees that. He hates scruffiness.’

‘He’d scrub it off, would he? Even though it’s on the outside?’

‘Certainly. As soon as he saw it.’

Which likely means this has happened since he went missing, Lucy thought to herself. Or did it happen at the time he went missing?

She wondered what might have caused it. A vehicle travelling at speed would have kicked up ground water, spraying the gate, though not today of course; it was sunny today, unusually warm for mid-September. She glanced around. The cobblestones were bone-dry. Thinking about it, the last time they’d had proper rain – the sort that would leave proper puddles – was on Tuesday afternoon.

Three days ago.

Alan Rodwell was somewhere in his late twenties, bald, bespectacled and bearded. He stood barefoot on his front doorstep, wearing mismatched shorts and a T-shirt, blinking at Lucy’s warrant card as she explained who she was and why she was here. A few seconds later, his wife, Sam, came down the hall from the kitchen. She was about the same age, a petite woman, also wearing shorts and a T-shirt, but with flipflops on her feet. She had shoulder-length brown hair, and plain, pale features still marked with makeup from the previous night.

‘We haven’t seen Harry for a couple of days,’ Alan Rodwell said, shaking his head.

‘When do you think you last saw him?’ Lucy asked.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Could be a week ago, easily. I don’t keep a record.’

‘So definitely not since last Tuesday?’

‘Nah, no way.’

‘Do you ever hear him?’ Lucy asked. ‘I mean through the dividing wall between the houses?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ This time it was the woman who answered. ‘In fact, you can hear his TV now. It’s been on for ages. It was on all night last night, and … oh?’

Only belatedly did this seem to strike her as strange.

‘It was on all night?’ Lucy asked.

‘And the night before, I think. And … maybe … hell, I don’t know … maybe the night before that, as well.’

For the last three days in fact, Lucy thought.

‘It never occurred to you, maybe, to go and knock on his door?’

Oddly, the couple glanced at each other with half-smiles, as if they were harbouring some mischievous secret.

‘We don’t really like to complain,’ Alan Rodwell said. ‘I’ll be honest, Harry does that quite a bit with us.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Lucy said.

‘Whenever we’ve got friends round,’ Sam Rodwell explained. ‘During the summer holidays usually. He gets upset if our barbecues go on too late and comes around, making a fuss. We don’t want to do that back to him … he’d just think it was retaliation.’

‘And, you know …’ Alan Rodwell shrugged. ‘Complaining’s not really our thing.’

Lucy looked at them askance. ‘I didn’t mean knock on his door to complain, I mean to check if everything was all right.’

‘Oh …’ Their impish smiles faded.

They shuffled their feet awkwardly but didn’t look guilty or afraid. Hardened criminals often had the ability to brazen things out when they were under suspicion; they could put on a front that even a seasoned detective might find it difficult to penetrate. But when ordinary people like these two had done something wrong, there were usually clear signs. Not so on this occasion. It was as though it hadn’t even struck them yet that they might be in the frame.

‘You’ve been hearing his television play continuously since – when?’ Lucy said. ‘Could it have been as far back as last Tuesday?’

‘Around then, I suppose,’ Sam Rodwell replied. ‘Tuesday night was probably the first night we heard when it hadn’t been turned off.’

‘That’s right,’ her husband agreed. ‘We were in bed and I could hear gunfire – like movie gunfire, you know. And cowboy film music. I said to Sam, “Christ, Harry’s pulling a late one.”’

Lucy nodded, and scrawled some notes in her pocket-book, one of which was to check if there’d been a western on TV late on Tuesday night.

‘Is this going to take long?’ Sam Rodwell asked. ‘You see, we were just going to—’

‘It’ll take as long as it needs to, I’m afraid, Mrs Rodwell. We have a pensioner missing, and we’d like to get to the bottom of whatever’s happened to him. So, I’d like you both to throw your minds back to Tuesday. Not just the night, but during the daytime as well. Did anything unusual happen? Doesn’t have to be serious, but anything that seemed like a break from the norm, apart from the telly being left on?’

Their faces turned blank as they tried to think it through.

‘You didn’t hear any raised voices, perhaps?’ Lucy prompted them. ‘Any shouting or even laughing?’

They still looked blank.

‘Any vehicles coming and going? Maybe at the back of the house?’

‘Oh yes, wait …’ Sam Rodwell said. ‘There was something like that. Hell, I think this was on Tuesday night too. We heard like a screeching of tyres along the Backs.’

Lucy watched her carefully. ‘Definitely along the Backs?’

The young woman nodded. ‘Like a vehicle was tearing away, you know. It was quite unusual, because it’s very narrow back there.’

‘Yeah, I remember that now,’ her husband said. ‘Only lasted a second and then it was gone.’

‘What time would this have been?’ Lucy asked.

‘I don’t know.’ Sam thought about it again. ‘We weren’t in bed at that stage, so not too late. Half-past ten, something like that.’

‘You don’t really think something bad could have happened to Harry, do you?’ Alan asked, finally sounding concerned.

‘That, sir,’ Lucy replied, ‘is what I’m trying to discover.’

‘What do we think about the daughter?’ Stan Beardmore asked from Lucy’s laptop screen.

Lucy sat back in her office chair. ‘I think she’s genuine. She took a long time coming around to check, but she lives in Blackburn, plus she’s a radiographer at the hospital there, so she works shifts. Sounds like this morning was the first chance she had to visit.’

‘And the neighbours?’

‘There’s no one in No. 6. An old lady owns it, but she’s in long-term care. The Rodwells, the couple who reported the speeding vehicle, live at No. 10. I don’t get any particularly bad vibes about them. Typical young suburbanites. Bit self-centred maybe, but who wasn’t at that age?’

‘These were the ones Hopkins didn’t get on with?’

‘I don’t think it was a case of him not getting on with them. Sounds more like the odd disagreement. Plus, if they were involved, wouldn’t they just have turned his telly off, locked the house up, tried to make it look like he’d gone away?’

‘Not if they wanted to make it look like he’d been attacked by an intruder,’ Beardmore suggested.

‘Outside his house at the back?’ Lucy said. ‘Late at night? If you were making a story up, would you seriously expect someone to buy that?’

Detective Sergeant Kirsty Banks, who was sitting on the desk behind Lucy, now cut in. She was a hefty woman, with an unruly mop of blonde hair and a penchant for wearing big cardigans over her T-shirts and jeans, though as it was warm today and electric fans whirred in the otherwise empty CID office, the cardigan at least had come off.

‘I must be honest, Stan,’ she said, ‘if the Rodwells had done something to Harry Hopkins, and were trying to make it look like an intruder, surely they’d have wrecked the interior of his house … tried to make it look like a burglar had broken in?’

‘That’s your gut instinct, is it, Kirst?’

‘I think Lucy’s on the money. This needs further investigation.’

Beardmore thought about it. From his open-neck polo shirt, the garden chair he reclined in, the kids running around the lawn in the background and the muted conversation of friends and neighbours, he too was spending his Saturday at a barbecue.

‘Lucy,’ he eventually said. ‘What other work have you got on?’

‘Just bottoming off the paper from the dog-fighting arrests,’ she replied.

‘Get that done ASAP. Then you’re on this exclusively till we get some kind of result.’

‘No probs.’

‘Kirsty … how buried is Tessa Payne?’

Banks flicked through the crime log. ‘Not very. Plus, she’s on call today.’

‘Okay. Lucy … you’ve got Tessa.’

Lucy nodded. That would suit Tessa, she thought. The youngster had come into CID excitedly, and even more so on learning she’d be working with Lucy, whose recent results had caught the imagination of many young women in the job. Whether having an adoring student along for the ride was ideal for her, Lucy was less sure, but help was help.

‘Right … you all know what you’re doing.’ Beardmore reached forward to switch off his laptop. ‘If you need me, get on the blower.’

‘Oh, boss …?’ Lucy said.

‘Yeah?’

‘Can we copy Serious Crimes Division in?’

Beardmore sat back, looking suspicious. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know …’ She shrugged. ‘But I’m hearing second-hand that some homeless people have dropped out of sight recently.’

Beardmore pondered this. ‘Pensioner age?’

‘They’re older people, certainly. And two different sources have now drawn my attention to it.’

‘Any suggestion these mis-pers have been abducted?’

‘I don’t know about that. I’ve not looked into it yet.’

There was a long pause while he considered it.

Lucy had already mentioned the vehicle at the back of Harry Hopkins’s house, but she’d purposely said nothing about a black van. In truth, the thought had occurred to her immediately on hearing about the screeching tyres, but, on reflection, it was a real stretch. Firstly, no evidence had been found that any such vehicle existed. From the outset, the black van had been more legend than fact. They’d gone after Les Mahoney through intel received by the RSPCA. It had seemed possible at the time that there was a connection with this rumoured black van, but it wasn’t the van, or any vehicle in particular, that had led them to his farm. Secondly, even if the black van was real, dog-napping didn’t easily equate to kidnapping. Where was the actual link between the two?

‘Copy Serious in if you want to,’ Beardmore said, interrupting her thoughts. ‘But be careful how you word it. Tell them this whole thing is open-ended as yet, and we’re only marking their card. Underline that we’ve observed nothing thus far to make us suspect that a series of abductions is under way.’

Lucy nodded and Beardmore leaned forward again and cut the call.

Banks stood up. ‘Big difference in MO, that, Luce. Grabbing someone from off the streets and grabbing someone from their own back door.’

‘I know …’ Lucy was equally uncomfortable with it. ‘Hunch, sixth sense, whatever you want to call it.’

‘Well, don’t beat yourself up too much.’ Banks headed back to her own desk. ‘Hunch and sixth sense have caught killers in the past.’

Killers, Lucy thought.

She wouldn’t have used that word herself. Not yet. But there was something disconcerting about all this, and the weirdness didn’t reduce it to merely silly. Despite the arrests at Wellspring Lane, over twenty dog-napping cases were still wide open, along with rumours that a late-night vehicle had been prowling the housing estates where they’d disappeared. And now they had people disappearing as well, and yet another late-night vehicle was possibly involved in that.

It was like an urban myth coming slowly to life right on their doorstep.

But no, no … she resisted that idea strenuously.

They only had fragments of information, none of which necessarily married up. This whole thing could still turn out to be nothing. And the only way they could make firm judgements on that was if they started gathering and collating some real evidence.

No. 8, Atkinson Row and the backstreet behind it were now officially designated crime scenes. The first CSIs would be there later today. That could only help. In addition, there were witness statements to be taken. As soon as Tessa Payne checked in, Lucy would send her to speak to the Rodwells – because she herself had someone else she needed to speak to, and that would be far from straightforward. If she wanted to learn more about these alleged missing homeless, to try and work out whether they actually had disappeared, rather than left the area of their own volition, the only thing to do was go and talk to the homeless themselves.

Or at least to their spokesperson.

‘Sister Cassie,’ she muttered, taking a Greater Manchester A-Z from the drawer in her desk and flipping to the page on which a street map of Crowley, and the St Clement’s ward especially, were displayed. ‘Where on earth do I find you today?’