Chloe- Lost Girl Read online

  To put the heat on me, thought Sant. ‘Don’t worry, Chiefman. I’ll keep you informed.’

  Hardaker checked that Sant had his right work number. He did. That was met with an approving nod. Sant might even receive a Christmas card at this rate.

  Languishing outside the leisure centre and taking up much of the car-park space was the battered bus, surrounded in police tape. TV cameras and photographers were circling the vehicle, debating the best angles to take shots.

  Sant spoke a while with a group of journalists he knew from local TV and newspapers. They didn’t push him too hard so he tried to meet their demands for an exclusive. On more than a few occasions he’d leaked some juicy titbits their way, though only in situations where making public certain facts, or planting a few falsities, would assist in solving a crime.

  He asked them if they knew the young reporter who’d unleashed those searching questions at the news conference. Her astonishing performance, pontificating about other criminal cases and their potential link to an assassination-style slaying of Dryden, had more than a flavour of premonition to it. Sadly, no-one could place her or the news organisation she represented. Sant would try and track her down all the same.

  Kate Andrews’s mother was even higher on his radar, but Sant decided it was too soon to revisit the grieving mother. It was less than twenty-four hours since he and Hardaker had interviewed the distraught Mrs Andrews and her husband, and leaving the family in peace was the right thing to do. He would wait a couple of days, but no longer. Mrs Andrews’s reaction at interview suggested Kate and Chloe had known each other. If so, she was hiding something about the two girls’ relationship. He needed to know what – fast.

  Sant hadn’t forgotten, either, what Holdsworth had said about Dryden’s bizarre behaviour in his days as a uniformed sergeant: namely, arresting a young man for possession of a screwdriver still in its original packaging. Who and where was the unfortunate Owen Madeley? Was Madeley in some way linked to Chloe? And was he merely innocent prey for Dryden’s rash shadowing exploits, or did Dryden have good reason to keep tabs on him? This mysterious Madeley could be Jake Downing in disguise for all Sant knew.

  He was chewing on a new toothpick, pondering this internal universe of overlapping interconnections, when his phone rang. He guessed it must be Hardaker checking up on him, but it was an even less welcome caller: his ex.

  Elizabeth was calling.

  ‘Don’t, whatever you do, forget your appointment this evening.’

  ‘Hello to you too,’ Sant replied.

  ‘I’m serious, Carl. I’m already peeved off with you for not showing up to Sam’s birthday get-together the other day. You promised to take Sam and Tom bowling to make amends. The least you can do is keep to your word.’

  He was tempted to peeve her off even more by explaining how the small issue of a bus massacre was proving a stumbling block, but diplomacy got the better of temptation. In truth, he was officially off duty in two hours – had booked the time off for the express purpose of making it up with Sam – and would be with his sons tonight come hell or high water.

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as – ’

  ‘Not good enough. Can we pin down a mutually agreed time, please?’

  A mutually agreed time was agreed (by Elizabeth) and she promptly rang off without a ‘thank you’ or a ‘see you soon’ or anything approaching a civilised end to a phone conversation.

  Not long after that, Holdsworth called to give him a name matching the council-housing records for the tenancy of 11 Dufton Approach during the years 2004-08. Susan Smith. Chloe’s one-time neighbour and friend. Sant cursed the name: Verity Vargas or Penelope Perfect would’ve been so much easier to track down.

  He returned to HQ and his office, and found Capstick busy analysing a leather-bound book with its spine irreparably frayed.

  ‘A Gutenberg edition, Capstick?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Of the bible or whatever that there antique volume comprises.’

  Capstick chuckled and showed him the front cover. ‘An Illustrated Guide to Graphology. I’m using it strictly off the record. The term ‘graphology’ won’t be leaked to the Crown Prosecution Service, rest assured.’

  Sant smirked. ‘Now that would be amusing. So tell me, graphologist extraordinaire, what you’ve uncovered or decrypted or whatever the right term is.’

  ‘First let me show you what forensics sent over.’

  Sant stood with baited breath as Capstick fixed his laptop to a loose cable, fiddled with a projector attached to the ceiling, then pressed a few keys and without effort executed the task of bringing up an image on a retractable screen.

  ‘Top marks to the techno-geek.’

  ‘Why didn’t I expect a full-blown compliment, sir?’

  ‘You know my thoughts on technology, Capstick. The best technology ever invented was the human brain. Ask Dr Wisdom. Sadly, it’s cell phones over grey cells these days.’

  Capstick adjusted his thick-rimmed specs and moved his left index finger across a close-up shot of the numbers marked on the bus window. ‘3-1… and then we’re left with this.’

  ‘Probably a 5,’ Sant said. ‘Though I wouldn’t discount an S.’

  ‘Or neither?’

  Sant looked curiously at his colleague. ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘Well, wherever you have two numbers, you’d expect to find another – in this case, a 5. However, what we have here,’ Capstick declared with gusto, ‘is a psychological trick of the eye; an optical illusion. You see, the shape looks odd on closer inspection.’ He clicked a few times and zoomed in on the figure furthest to the right. ‘If you imagine the way a number 5 is normally penned, the upper half should be linear – two lines more or less at right angles – whereas the lower half is curved. My reference book here accounts for variable angles and curves formed by different pen movements. But with this figure here’ – he pointed decisively – ‘there’s evidence, albeit faint, of curves, not lines, to the upper and lower halves.’

  Sant gazed at the image and nodded. ‘We’re dealing with an S. And that leaves 3-1-S. Ordnance survey coordinates?’

  ‘That wouldn’t be my guess, nor is the last figure an S.’

  ‘What else could it be?’ said Sant, flummoxed.

  His partner took the cap off a red marker-pen and used it to transform the ‘S’. ‘I suggest Dryden was halfway through an 8, sir.’

  Sant stood staring at Capstick’s work, his expression unaltered. ‘It’s a possibility, I grant you that. And your handwriting bible backs you up?’

  ‘That’s right. You see, most people write the first half of an 8 in a different way to how they begin an S. The curvature in the middle region of the figure is usually less pronounced – in some styles it’s almost a straight line – and the upper curve is usually broader than the lower one, so most people’s eights turn out to have a slightly larger circle above than below.’

  ‘I didn’t realise graphology could be this interesting.’

  The detective constable was in his element now. ‘The next stage of any forensic document examination, which is modern-day speak for handwriting analysis, requires cross-referencing multiple sources of writing from the same hand.’

  ‘You’ve got samples of Dryden’s writing?’

  Capstick produced Dryden’s Rolodex. ‘Right here, sir. Several phone numbers containing the number eight, jotted down by Dryden, showing an orthodox style; a less pronounced middle-region curve and the upper circle larger than the lower.’

  ‘Nice work, partner, only there’s a problem with your analysis.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dryden didn’t handwrite these numbers – he used the tip of his finger.’

  Capstick’s smile faded a little. ‘Maybe the same principles apply to, you know, finger writing.’

  ‘You were right the first time, Capstick. This analysis of yours goes nowhere beyond these four walls. If the CPS get wind of it we’ll be struck off for life.’


  The young detective let out a long sigh. ‘Well, it was worth an hour of police time, surely.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it, and don’t look so downbeat. For what it’s worth I think you’re right. And if you are right, that gives us 3-1-8.’

  Capstick perked up. ‘Shall I run another BT database search?’

  ‘Worth a try, though I’m not convinced a phone number was what Dryden had in mind. We’re missing something else about these numbers. Something vital. And once we land on it, this whole chaotic business might make sense. 3-1-8 – any new ideas?’

  ‘No yet, sir, but I don’t mind wasting another hour of police time thinking it over.’

  ‘Be my guest,’ grinned Sant. ‘And now I must waste some valuable time of my own. I’ve got a bowling game to win.’

  And with a short nod and a reassuring thumbs-up, he left Capstick alone with his projected image and his red marker pen and his obscene publication on the pseudoscience of graphology.

  He rushed home, snacked on crisps, and got ready for the journey to pick up his sons. Before leaving he reached down for the newspaper on his doormat and unfolded it. The DEATH BUS MYSTERY headline he’d caught a glimpse of in the morning came with the by-line 7 SHOT DEAD IN HALLOWEEN HORROR. It caught him off-guard. The Halloween theme had passed him by. Perhaps the late hour of the incident explained why the date had failed to register. After all, the timing of the bus crash – 11.36pm – left only twenty-four minutes until the sanctuary of All Souls Day. Or perhaps the fact he hated the idea of celebrating evil and witchcraft had blinded Sant to the significance of the day. People dressing up in Jack the Ripper and Charles Manson costumes? Now that was a step too far.

  The darkness had already begun its descent as he drove to his ex’s. On bleak winter days, indeed, no descent into darkness was discernible. The day itself never bothered to appear, and all that was left was different shades of night.

  Pitch blackness had set in by the time he picked up Tom and Sam at 6pm as promised. They lived with their mother and her well off parents in the affluent spa town of Harrogate, some fifteen miles north of Leeds. Sant had to admit that his ex-wife had chosen a fine place to bring up their children. The schools in the area were excellent – no need to fork out fortunes on private education – and the air smelt fresher than it did in the city.

  The folks weren’t in when he called, but he didn’t dwell on niceties and instead gave Elizabeth a cursory wave before speeding off with Tom and Sam. The two boys sat in the back playing games on their Kindles. They preferred to sit together, so they would say, though their dad suspected his ex of warning them against sitting in the front passenger seat on account of her irrational fear that the airbag in his Fiesta might be faulty. In fact he’d recently gone out of his way to have the device tested especially for her peace of mind, but since Elizabeth hadn’t brought up the topic, he let it lie.

  Sant’s Fiesta afforded an amusing spectacle for passing motorists and pedestrians. For a man who measured six and a half feet, minus his shoes, he couldn’t have chosen a tinier car. Indeed, he had to duck his head to prevent it from pressing against the roof, his posture a diagonal slant. When he’d bought the car from a second-hand dealer – after turning a blind eye to the illegal immigrant employed by the dealer – Sant had been in two minds about whether to opt for the sunroof edition. And now, for obvious reasons, he wished he had.

  The bowling alley was full to the brim despite it being a Monday. They waited for half an hour before a polite young woman, getting the eye from Tom, signalled elegantly towards a free lane.

  Not bad taste Tommy, thought his dad, but he kept his thoughts to himself. There were lines of decency that fathers should never cross.

  The game that ensued amounted to nothing less than a humiliation for dad. He couldn’t disguise the fact he was hopeless at ten-pin. ‘Wait till I play you at crown-green bowls’ was the only comeback he could conjure up. Arm-muscle wasn’t the issue – Sant had more than enough in that department. Little Sam, on the other hand, was weedy and needed the aid of a ramp, yet he still toppled more pins than his big strong dad. What Sant couldn’t master was the art of direction. He could bowl the ball harder than anyone, but pinging it in a straight line proved impossible. It would spray everywhere, missing the skittles by miles.

  ‘Dad, you’re throwing it too hard.’ Sam motioned.

  The rolling thunder of resin over maple wood distracted Sant.

  ‘You’re meant to throw it hard,’ he retorted. ‘That’s what they do on TV.’

  ‘But dad – they’re good players on TV.’

  ‘Okay, don’t rub it in.’

  Getting redder in the face with every wayward effort, he arrived at his final throw staring at a very round figure on the electronic scoreboard – 0. By now the two boys were in hysterics. But good things come to those who wait, and no sooner had Sant let fly with his final ball than it thundered straight down the middle, destroying the ten skittles lying in its wake.

  ‘Strike!’ he cried, drawing the whole alley’s attention to his celebrations. Tom and Sam curled up on their bench, praying nobody would recognise them. ‘What did I tell you, lads?’ he beamed, exchanging random high-fives with a group of strangers in the next lane. ‘Practice makes perfect.’

  ‘I would place the emphasis on practice,’ was Tom’s riposte.

  ‘Touché!’

  ‘By the way, dad, you get another go.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Sant pretended he didn’t play ten-pin often enough to know the rules. ‘A chance for another strike.’ But it wasn’t to be, and he tried his best to laugh off his final score – a ‘perfect 10’.

  The scoreboard told the ultimate truth. Little Sam hadn’t fared much better. Tom was streets ahead:

  SAM 31

  DAD 10

  TOM 88

  ‘I told you I’d win,’ Tom boasted. ‘And the winner should choose where we eat. Nandos – how about it, dad?’

  ‘No, it’s my birthday do!’ Sam protested. ‘I want pizza!’

  ‘You’ve already had your birthday, Sammy. That was last week, and we had pizza then.’

  ‘Yeah, but this is my second party ‘cos dad couldn’t go to my first.’

  ‘No-one has two birthday parties.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Do!’

  And so the brotherly banter went on. But dad wasn’t annoyed; wasn’t even ready to intervene if things got physical. Because dad wasn’t listening. Dad was planted to the spot, brain working overtime. Something in his line of vision reminded him of the morning paper.

  ‘Dad! Dad, aren’t I right?’

  ‘No, I’m the winner so I decide. Isn’t that right, dad?’

  There was a brief rest bite before Sant broke out of his daze. ‘Sorry, lads, but maybe we should skip food this time.’

  Tom and Sam groaned.

  ‘But we’re starving.’

  ‘And you promised.’

  ‘I did promise, lads, but I’ve got to get back to work. Something’s just come up.’

  Tom looked curiously at his dad’s fixation with the scoreboard. ‘What’s the big deal with the scores?’

  Sant spoke a robotic response. ‘The num-bers.’

  ‘Numbers?’

  ‘That’s right, Tommy. The big deal’s the numbers, not the scores.’

  9

  She came out of a slumber several times deeper than the last. To her surprise she could move her arms and legs freely. She was lying on a single bed in what looked like a private ward, with hospital-issue bed-sheets thrown in. The walls around her were a brilliant white, peppered in places with oak-framed prints of famous paintings. A wilting aspidistra flanked one corner of the venetian-blinded room.

  ‘Good evening, Sheila.’

  Could it be evening already? She must have been out cold for six hours. But it was the sound of her name – her real name – that threw her most. The voice, well-spoken and polite, found an identity in a man wearing
a red baseball cap. Straining to get a better look at him, the dazzling of a desk lamp obscured her view.

  ‘Sheila Morrison, is it not?’ he purred.

  The woman sat in silence, knees knocking as her body began to tighten.

  ‘Sheila Morrison. This is your life. Born the 12th of August 1962 in London. Daughter of Patrick and Joanna Morrison. Attended boarding school in leafy Surrey, excelling in all your subjects. After which you read PPE at Cambridge, achieving first class honours. At the age of twenty-one you had the world at your feet, but you weren’t interested in the world, were you? You chose a humbler path instead. Is that not so?’

  Silence.

  ‘You became an undercover reporter; an in-vest-i-ga-tive journalist. Tut tut.’ The man swivelled his cap back to front. ‘No need to play ball just yet, Sheila. We’ve plenty of time to get to know each other, and my revered associate is keen to make a start. All in due course, so I told him.’

  He started pushing a serving trolley equipped with refreshments towards her.

  ‘Please, help yourself. More high tea than evening dinner, but you’ll relish the sandwiches. The scones are most agreeable too.’

  She stayed in bed, saying nothing, watching Baseball Cap removing the cling-film from a plastic tray of snacks.

  ‘I’ll leave you in peace for now. Eat up and get some rest. Take time to think things over. You will obey our every command, otherwise we will exterminate you.’ He pointed up at an art-nouveau wall clock. ‘At five tomorrow morning I shall call. That gives you seven hours to eat, sleep, shower and take a change of clothes. The bathroom is through the rear door and the wardrobe has a selection of appropriate garments. Be sure to be ready for us.’

  Baseball Cap offered the briefest of smiles before closing the door behind him and giving the handle a sharp tug.

  So that was that.

  She was a prisoner. In truth, she’d been a prisoner for a long time; only now the walls were literally closing in on her.

  She wasn’t thirsty; wasn’t hungry; didn’t need to wash. But she was exhausted. The heavy sedative would take several hours yet to shake off.