Erika looked at Moss for a moment and then her phone rang. It was Peterson. She listened as he relayed the information they’d learned from Sada at the youth hostel in the Barbican. When she came off the phone she told Moss.
‘We should get in touch with the transport police – sounds like Janelle “acquired” this coffee bike; maybe one was reported stolen. This also puts Janelle at any number of locations across London before she went missing,’ Erika finished.
‘I’ve got details for Geraldine Corn,’ said Moss, consulting her phone. ‘She works at the local pharmacy, it’s about a mile away.’
‘Good. Let’s see if she can give us anything,’ said Erika.
Chapter Twenty-Four
They found the small run-down pharmacy on the end of a parade of local shops. A bell jangled when they opened the door, and inside was a quiet, studious atmosphere. The shelves were crammed and there was a smell of antiseptic and dust. They recognised Geraldine behind a scratched wooden counter, serving an elderly lady who had a white compression bandage taped over one eye. She was now a serious-looking young woman, compared to her teenage self in the photo album. Her white uniform was starched and spotless; her skin was very pale and flawless, and her long mousy hair was tied back at the nape of her neck.
Through a hatch behind her came a rattle of pills tipping onto a metal scale, and a fleeting glimpse of a small Indian man.
Erika and Moss waited until the lady had left, then went to the counter and introduced themselves, showing their warrant cards.
‘About time,’ said Geraldine.
‘You’re expecting us?’ asked Moss.
‘I had to find out from the local news. I was her best friend…’ She said it with anger, as if her status of best friend had been denied.
There was a buzz as the door opened and an elderly man came inside.
‘Hold on a moment,’ said Geraldine, going to serve him.
‘No. You hold on. We’d like to talk to you. Now,’ said Erika.
Geraldine looked back to the man through the hatch, and he nodded.
She led them through the packed shelves to a small door which opened out into an equally cramped stockroom with a table and chairs and a small sink with a kettle.
‘We’re sorry about Lacey,’ said Erika when they were settled at the table. ‘You two were close.’
Geraldine shifted in her chair and shrugged.
‘Two minutes ago, you told us you were best friends?’ added Moss.
‘We were. Off and on. It was complicated.’
‘We know you had a relationship. We found the polaroid photos hidden in a photo album,’ said Moss.
‘Hidden… Sums up everything really. When Lacey went away to university, it was like she dropped me.’
‘You didn’t want to go to university?’
‘My parents couldn’t afford the tuition… But this is a good job, secure. People are always ill, aren’t they?’ Her voice tailed off wistfully.
‘What did you know about Lacey’s friendships and relationships?’ asked Erika.
‘There was me. Three or four guys at Northumberland uni. She got around a bit,’ said Geraldine disapprovingly. ‘She was a very pretty girl; that’s what pretty girls do.’
‘When did your relationship end?’ asked Moss.
‘It never really ended. Whenever she was home in the holidays, she’d get miserable and call me, and we’d meet.’
‘Where?’
‘At my house. My mum’s cool with things. I think Lacey liked that she could relax. Charlotte is highly strung, and Don is properly downtrodden.’
‘All we saw were two devastated parents,’ said Erika.
‘They airbrushed me out of Lacey’s life,’ said Geraldine, crossing her arms.
‘Did you see Lacey in the months leading up to when she went missing?’
‘Yeah. We’d picked up again, September last year.’
‘How do you mean “picked up”?’
‘Friends… friends with benefits, sometimes. But it wasn’t the same. She was focused on other things. I was just, just a pastime for her.’
‘What other things was Lacey focused on?’ asked Moss.
‘She was applying for jobs; she wanted to work for the Arts Council or for an African charity. Typical rich girl bollocks. And she’d joined a dating app in the hope of finding Mr Right.’ Geraldine winced, as if the words had tasted bitter.
‘You can’t join an app,’ said Moss. ‘You can download an app, or join a dating site.’
‘I’m not on social media. I’m just answering your questions.’
‘Do you think that’s why you lost touch? It can happen, if you’re not on social media and your friends are. So much interaction goes on through them,’ said Erika.
‘I know how they work,’ snapped Geraldine.
‘Do you think Lacey was a lesbian?’ asked Moss.
‘You are, obviously. What do you think?’ Geraldine shot back.
‘I’m asking you,’ said Moss evenly.
Geraldine shrugged. ‘I sometimes think she was put on this earth just to make me feel every emotion.’
‘You loved her?’
‘Loved her, hated her… But I wish I’d loved her more, now she’s gone… Wish I’d told her not to meet that bloke.’
Geraldine took a little packet of tissues from the pocket of her overall and took one out, blotting her eyes.
‘Which bloke?’ asked Erika, exchanging a look with Moss.
‘The last time I saw Lacey, she was asking my advice about meeting this bloke. I felt she was asking to hurt me. So I told her to go ahead.’ She wiped tears from her eyes.
Erika and Moss exchanged another look.
‘When was this?’ asked Erika.
‘Between Christmas and New Year. She’d been chatting to him online for a few weeks. He wanted them to meet. She thought he was so handsome; he just looked a bit oily to me.’
‘What do you mean? You saw his picture?’ asked Erika.
‘Yes, she showed me it on her phone.’
‘What do you mean by “oily”?’
‘Swarthy. He had black hair, slicked back black hair, and a thin face with dark features. In lots of the pictures he was stripped from the waist down.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I think that she wanted me to be jealous, so she must have still cared.’
‘When exactly was this?’ asked Erika.
‘The Monday before New Year, the thirtieth. We met for coffee. She told me she was going to meet this Nico on Wednesday.’
‘His name was Nico,’ said Erika.
Geraldine scrubbed at her eyes with the balled-up tissue. ‘I’ve tried to tell this to the police.’
‘How?’ asked Moss.
‘I dialled 999, who told me to ring 101, which I did and I left a message. That was two weeks ago,’ said Geraldine. ‘Two weeks!’
‘What about Lacey’s parents, did you mention any of this to them?’ asked Erika.
‘I called them, but Charlotte put the phone down on me.’
Erika looked at Moss; they would have to follow this up. ‘Geraldine, if we can get an e-fit artist, do you think you could help us put together a likeness of the picture you saw on Lacey’s phone of this Nico?’
‘Yes, of course… How did she die?’
‘We can’t give details, I’m sorry,’ said Erika.
‘It was violent, though, wasn’t it? The way she died?’
Erika nodded. Geraldine broke down again, and this time Moss moved to comfort her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
A few hours later, Geraldine was working with an e-fit artist in the small stockroom at the back of the pharmacy. Erika was standing outside on the cold street, talking to Peterson on the phone. The sky was beginning to turn a deeper shade of grey, and the lights had come on in the window of the run-down dry cleaner next to the pharmacy.
‘Moss is on the way back to you at the nick; she’s trying to get things moving on Lacey’s laptop and phone.’
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‘Do you think you’re doing any good hanging there?’ asked Peterson. He too was back at West End Central, and Erika could hear Crane’s voice in the background.
‘It’s two weeks since Lacey went missing,’ said Erika. ‘And I only heard today that her closest friend was trying to get in contact, and she’s the only person who saw a photo of the guy Lacey went to meet. If we’d had an e-fit two weeks ago, just think…’
‘There’s not much point in talking about shoulda coulda woulda.’
‘I was lucky that an artist was able to get over so fast. As soon as I have something I’ll get it emailed straight over. How are things going with the CCTV?’
‘There’s an ATM opposite the Blue Boar pub where Lacey was due to meet this Nico guy. Crane’s trying to track down if it has any footage. We’re working on the assumption that Lacey was abducted in or around the pub, so there could be other points where CCTV might have picked something up. We’re working on tracing the different routes away from the pub.’
‘Good. What about coffee bikes?’
‘I’ve been in touch with British Transport Police to see if one’s been picked up or reported stolen,’ said Peterson. Erika heard a knocking and looked up. The e-fit artist, a young dark-haired guy in his early thirties, was at the pharmacy window, beckoning her in.
‘Sorry, I have to go,’ she said.
* * *
Erika came back into the pharmacy, relishing the warmth. The manager watched her pass from his little hatch, a little bewildered by his pharmacy being commandeered for a police enquiry. Geraldine was sitting in the stockroom at a table behind the e-fit artist’s laptop. She looked exhausted, but gave Erika a weak smile.
‘Okay, so this is who we have,’ said the e-fit artist, twisting the laptop to face Erika.
The face on the screen was of a man in his late twenties or early thirties. It was long and thin, with a wide nose, pronounced cheekbones, and brown eyes. His skin was smooth with very little stubble, and his black hair was long and brushed back from his forehead with a pronounced widow’s peak. It was eerie, a little blurred and unreal.
‘And you’re sure this is him?’ asked Erika.
‘Yes,’ said Geraldine, twisting her hands in her lap. ‘Do these things usually work? Will it help catch him?’
The e-fit artist shot her a look.
‘Yes, they do help,’ said Erika. ‘Thank you for doing this, Geraldine.’
* * *
When Erika came back out to the waiting squad car, the wind was blowing hard, and it felt like it was slicing through her skin. She called Peterson again.
‘I’ve just sent the image over,’ she said. ‘The second you have it, I want it shared with as many boroughs as possible, and I want it out to the media too. Let’s get this bastard.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
It had been a nightmare commute for Darryl back from London. There had been no seats when he boarded the train at Waterloo East, so he’d had to stand crushed against the door, amongst people coughing and sneezing for the best part of an hour. It had started to snow when he left the train station in his car, and this slowed his progress home even more.
It was seven thirty when he reached the brow of the hill leading down to the farm, and he saw a pair of car headlights about to pull out of the gates. He slowed on the approach, thinking they would pull past him, but they were stationary, and when he neared, he saw one of the large iron gates had jammed. He stopped the car and got out. The snow was coming down thick, and he dashed over to a figure in dark blue, wrestling to get the gate open. It was only when Darryl got closer, and looked past the glare of the headlights, that he saw it was a police car waiting to leave the driveway, and it was a uniformed officer pulling at the gate.
‘Evening, you want help?’ asked Darryl, holding up his hand against the snow and glare of the squad car. The police officer looked up at him.
‘Who are you?’
‘This is my parents’ farm.’
‘I think it’s the mechanism jammed,’ said the police officer. He was young with a boyish face and a dark goatee.
‘It does this sometimes. I keep telling my dad to get it fixed,’ said Darryl. ‘If we grab just under the middle section, we should be able to lift and release it.’
Darryl stood to one side of the gate, and directed the police officer to stand at the other side, and they lifted it up a few inches off its hinge. The mechanism began to whir and they had to step back quickly as it swung inwards.
‘Thanks,’ said the police officer, seeing his mucky hands and wiping them on his trousers. ‘You should tell your dad to get this fixed. Not much help in an emergency. They weigh a ton.’
‘Yes. I will. Is everything okay?’ asked Darryl, looking back at the squad car. He could see another officer in the passenger seat, and the outline of a figure sitting in the back.
‘We’ve had to arrest one of the men who works for your father…’
‘Who?’
‘Morris Cartwright.’
Darryl’s heart began to thump. ‘Something serious?’
The police officer raised his eyebrows. ‘You could say that. I can’t go into detail, but your dad will probably tell you. Thanks again.’
He sprinted back to the car, dodging one of the ice-filled potholes in the gravel.
Darryl stood to one side as the car pulled past. He could see Morris in the back. His hands cuffed together on his lap. His long thin face stared back at Darryl, black eyes devoid of emotion.
Darryl waited until the squad car was halfway up the hill, then went back to his car and drove through the gates. His heart was still thumping as he passed the farm house, seeing the lights on in the front room. He parked under the carport behind Morris’s car. He got out and went over to it, and tried to open the boot. It was locked. He walked round to the front of the car and placed his hand on the hood. It was cold.
* * *
Grendel met him at the back door with a volley of barks and licks, and he hung up his coat in the boot room. He could hear his mother and father beyond the kitchen, talking in hushed voices. He went through and found them in the farm office.
John was sitting at the messy desk, which was dominated by a huge old desktop computer. Mary was standing by his side, her hand leaning on the desk. They both looked concerned. The walls were packed with floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with paperwork. There was an aerial map on the back wall, slightly faded, and it showed the land as it had been twelve years earlier. The trees surrounding the swimming pool had just been planted, and were yet to turn into towering giants.
‘I just saw the police? What’s Morris done?’ asked Darryl.
John shook his head.
‘Bloody fool. He’s been nicking fertiliser off us, and trying to flog it to the neighbouring farms…’ Mary placed a hand on John’s shoulder, but he shook it off. ‘Problem is that when anyone tries to sell the combination of chemical fertiliser Morris got hold of, it rings alarm bells… and farmers are told to contact the police. Terrorists can make bombs with the chemicals.’
‘They think Morris is a threat to national security,’ said Darryl, unable to mask a smile.
‘It’s not funny, Darryl!’ shrilled his mother.
‘Come on, it is. The police think Morris is a terrorist? He couldn’t blow up a balloon without screwing it up,’ said Darryl, trying not to laugh.
‘He was only ever going to make a couple of hundred at most. He should have come to me. Now I’ve lost a good milker,’ said John.
‘Now come on, John, it might only be for a while,’ said Mary, placing a hand on his shoulder.
‘Go on, get supper on the table. Darryl’s home,’ he snapped, shaking her off. She nodded obediently and moved off to the kitchen.
‘What happens now?’ asked Darryl.
‘Morris has a record, and they like to come down hard on stuff like this. He could go down.’
Darryl had a sudden image of skinny little Morris in a prison cell, beggin
g and squealing as he was held down and raped by three big blokes. A snorting laugh escaped him, and John shot him a look.
‘Sorry, Dad… I’ll just go and wash my hands for dinner,’ he said.
* * *
Darryl went through the kitchen and up to his bedroom, where he turned on the light and shut the door, and burst out laughing. It went on for a few minutes, until he wiped his eyes and got himself under control.
He went to the window by his desk and drew the curtains. He jiggled the mouse to wake up his computer and sat down, typing in his password. His home screen appeared with a huge image of Grendel. He fired up the VPN, which masked his internet location, then logged into the new profile he had created on Facebook. A small chime indicated he had a new message, and he was pleased to see it was from the girl he’d been flirting with. She said how much she liked his photo, how cute he looked.
Darryl had decided after Lacey and Janelle that he would stop using the profile he had created with the name Nico. Twice had been risky enough, and he didn’t want to risk a hat-trick. He wasn’t sure if the police were on to it; so far they seemed to be clueless, and besides, he realised now that the picture looked a little like Morris. Not enough for people to make the link, but he’d had a scare earlier when he’d seen Morris in the back of the police car.
Poor stupid Morris. He thought back to the mental image of Morris in the prison cell, and this time added another two blokes queuing up to bugger his skinny writhing little arse.
Darryl sat back in his chair, and started to write a reply to the girl’s message. Her name was Ella, and he needed to lay some groundwork before he asked her to meet him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Erika woke on the sofa, disorientated. Instinctively she sat up and made for the bathroom to have her morning shower, then saw the television was showing the BBC News channel, and it was 2.16 a.m. She went to the kitchen and drank a glass of water, then checked her phone. Since she’d called Commander Marsh earlier in the evening, leaving him a message, he still hadn’t answered. It was unusual for him not to get back to her.