There were shouts of alarm but Nightingale merely shook her head.
‘Don’t be stupid. Threatening a police officer doesn’t do your situation any good at all.’
Her calm confused him. She was meant to panic at the sight of the weapon. His mouth dropped open as he tried to think what to do next. Nightingale saved him the trouble.
She closed the distance between them in one step, locked her hand about the fist that held the knife, squeezed, rotated and pulled back sharply in a classic self-defence move, neatly stepping on the knife as it landed on the floor. In the same motion she twisted the
man’s arm up behind his back again and grabbed his other hand with her free one.
‘I need my scarf to secure him,’ she said to the Asian lady who obliged with alacrity.
Nightingale secured both his arms to a support and addressed the rest of the bus.
‘I’m sorry to delay your journey but we’re going to have to wait for my colleagues to turn up and take this gentleman away.’
There were a few murmurs but most people appeared resigned or relieved. The lady beside her was glowing with accomplishment.
‘I knew it was the right time to make a stand,’ she said with satisfaction.
‘Madam, we never advise having a go. Please don’t make a habit of it.’
Nightingale managed to hide her delight at having an excuse to arrest the suspect without having to prove any connection to Jenni. It would give them a full twenty-four hours with him in custody. She was feeling very pleased with herself when an RTC blue and yellow turned up. The uniformed officer took in the scene, with the knife on the floor and the burly man struggling against his restraint. Nightingale smiled at him triumphantly as she announced her name and rank but he scowled back.
‘You could have been badly hurt,’ he hissed. ‘He’s a big man; you should have left it to us!’
‘Things didn’t work out that way and don’t fuss. He was no bother at all, were you?’
She smiled at the man who had ceased to shout and swear but looked prepared to do murder.
‘Watch out!’ The officer pulled her back just in time to avoid a gob of spittle that smeared the collar of her coat.
Nightingale looked at it in disgust.
‘I saw it all,’ the Asian lady said, ‘and I’m very happy to be a witness to everything.’
‘I’ll find out where you live,’ the man growled, adding to the list of potential charges against him.
The look the lady gave him was majestic in its contempt.
‘Thank you,’ Nightingale said, smiling. It was turning into a really good day!
They had a suspect in custody who might have assaulted Jenni and enough to hold him on to give them time to hope the girl regained consciousness and could make a statement. On top of that, she had had a virtually risk-free opportunity to test a little of her self-defence. Years before, she and a colleague had been attacked by a knife-wielding teenager high on drugs. Ever since then Nightingale had attended regular refreshers on self-defence and joined a
kick-boxing
class. She still ran at least three times a week but the
kick-boxing
had added muscle tone and quickened her reflexes.
It was sweet of the officer to be concerned, she thought, wriggling her toes inside her boots, but that man hadn’t stood a chance!
She accompanied the suspect to Guildford HQ where she handed him over, reluctantly, to a detective there. The assault on Jenni had happened in Cranleigh; the man had tried to get to her in the Royal Surrey based in Guildford; and she had arrested him minutes from the Friary. No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t find a way to insinuate herself into the case as anything other than witness and arresting officer.
She gave a full statement to a young detective constable with red hair who seemed diligent and asked the right questions. Afterwards she shared everything she knew or suspected of Jenni and her background, including the idea that Stanley was the man in custody and could well be the cousin Jenni had been planning to stay with when she had first run away from home. When she asked if he would keep her informed the officer was only too pleased to oblige.
Nightingale left Guildford HQ on a high and paused for a coffee, selecting by chance Fenwick’s neighbourhood favourite from his short involvement on Operation Goldilocks. As she sipped a long Americano her thoughts swung first to him and then to her conversation with Lulu the day before. Her mood shifted. It was time, she knew. What she had to do could no longer be put off. She shut her eyes briefly in resignation then picked up her handbag and left.
If Acting Chief Constable Harper-Brown was pleased to see Fenwick after his resolution of the Flash Harry case he did a good job of concealing it. Their meeting took longer than the normal hour as H-B listed the problems that had accumulated during Fenwick’s absence but which remained unresolved despite his return.
‘The department is clearly missing decisive leadership, Superintendent. And while I am relieved that the so-called Flash Harry case has been resolved it barely starts to return your solve rate to a respectable level.’
Fenwick didn’t bother to remind the CC that his detection rate was now merely in line with that of the county.
‘I’ll put a task force together to tackle the priority cases, sir, just as soon as I have finalised the Flash Harry reports and organised the necessary FLO follow-up with his victims.’
‘You’re surely not going to get distracted into that personally, are you?’
‘The officer seconded from Harlden is doing the heavy lifting but the sign-off will obviously be my responsibility.’
‘I meant the victim follow-up; don’t be obtuse.’
‘I need to make sure it’s well organised, that’s all. The work will be managed in the relevant divisions.’
‘Good. Are you planning to take any time off over Christmas?’
The abrupt change of subject confused him. He thought quickly.
‘With your permission, sir, I was hoping to. I haven’t seen that much of my children these past weeks.’
Harper-Brown studied him over the top of the half-moon glasses he had taken to wearing recently, perched low down on the bridge of his nose. His icy expression softened.
‘I imagine not. And they probably need to see you, don’t they, particularly at this time of year, with their, ah, not having a mother at home … at least, that is still the case?’
‘It is.’
‘Very well; so today’s the twenty-first. Why don’t we agree that you put things square for the New Year today and then take a week off? That will give you a long weekend to get ready for Christmas on Monday, what?’
He’s watching too many old WWII movies
, Fenwick thought but he appreciated the kindness.
‘Thank you, sir. And may I take this opportunity to wish you and Mrs Harper-Brown a very happy Christmas?’
‘Indeed you may; likewise.’
If this was to be his last day in the office Fenwick realised he needed to buy some presents for the civilian staff that supported him and his team. As there was a pause in the sleet he went out immediately and bought his customary mix of chocolates, scent and flowers, remembering at the last minute that he needed Christmas cards too. On his way back he stopped for a double espresso and another to go.
The tokens were received with surprised thanks, which was a bit unfair as he did the same each year. On his desk was a gift-wrapped package from the secretarial assistant and several envelopes that he stuffed in his briefcase. No one remarked on his bandaged hand, though one of the older constables was bold enough to remark that he was glad the boss was going to get some rest over Christmas.
Fenwick knew he looked tired and he had lost weight but the man’s solicitude still wasn’t welcome.
Big Mac’s report was waiting in his in-box and he downloaded it to print. An hour later he realised he hadn’t drunk his takeaway coffee and he was missing it. As it was almost noon he decided to head for the canteen. Just as he was leaving his office, his mobile rang.
‘You were right!’ Bernstein shouted before he could even say his name. ‘Bazza’s had the locals checking every house on that estate agent’s flyer. He prioritised any that were vacant and in remote locations. He thinks we’ve got something.
‘There’s a house in a village called Dragon’s Green, east of Billingshurst on the A272 with signs of recent occupation. It could be where Mariner holed up with Issie after he left the pump station.’
‘Is an operations unit on the way?’
‘Already there; Bazza and I aren’t far behind but the house looks unoccupied according to the report, so don’t get your hopes up.’
‘If they’ve been there since the Saturday before last how on earth did no one see them?’
Even though it was his lead that had led to the discovery, Fenwick found it hard to believe that Mariner would have been able to stay in an inhabited area for so long.
‘The house is on the outskirts of the village at the end of an unmade road. The electricity had been turned off so there wouldn’t have been any lights to give them away, but there is an Aga that would have been enough to keep them warm.’
‘But what did they do for food? The supplies Mariner had taken from his wife’s store cupboard would have run out long ago.’
‘He could have walked into the village so no one would have seen his car, and in this weather it wouldn’t raise suspicions if he muffled up to conceal his face. Anyway we’ll find out soon enough. As soon as we’ve checked out the location I’ll start a door-to-door while CST do a fingertip.’
‘That makes sense.’ Fenwick tried to keep the longing out of his voice.
‘Look, Andrew. This call is off the record. OK?’
‘Of course.’
‘And the postcode I’m about to text you from my private phone didn’t come from me.’
‘You mean …?’
‘Don’t be obtuse, I’m asking if you want to join us there.’
Norman had made it clear if he ever went near the Goldilocks operation again he would have his head, and H-B expected a master plan for MCS before Christmas. But the A272 … he could just head west out of Lewes and keep on going.
‘I have a few things I must do but as soon as they’re finished I’ll be over. Thank you, Deidre, I appreciate this.’
Fenwick spent his most productive two hours ever clearing the Flash Harry report and outlining the New Year strategy to get MCS back on track. At three he bid a cheerful farewell to his team and left. He would drive himself and no one would ever know officially that he wasn’t going straight home.
Bernstein walked Fenwick to just inside the back door, which opened directly into the kitchen. It was lit by battery-operated spotlights allowing the crime scene technicians to work through the dusk and into the night. There was rubbish everywhere, left in untidy piles. A short woman called Partridge, dressed as they all were in head-to-toe white coveralls, took Fenwick through what they had found so far.
‘That’s a sleeping bag over there. As soon as the photographer has finished in that corner we’ll be sending it off for forensic tests. Fingerprints already confirm that Mariner and Issie Mattias were here. They are widespread about this room, in a hall back there and a bathroom. There’s no sign of where they might have gone on leaving.’
Fenwick walked with Bernstein on raised aluminium steps across the room, to prevent them from contaminating the scene. Thick litter was evidence of a long period of occupation. Plastic bags bearing the logo of the local convenience store bore witness that
Mariner had ventured out for supplies and hadn’t been recognised. Partridge passed them a bagged till receipt dated the eighteenth. They looked at each other and grimaced. So close yet again.
Every item was being meticulously numbered and photographed
in situ
before bagging and sending to the lab. Less than half the room had been cleared, with the bags stacked ready for despatch. Against the far wall the sleeping bag lay in a crumpled heap. Even in the damp cold it stank of urine and sweat. Beside it was a girl’s blouse, torn and bloody.
Bernstein knelt down and used the tip of her pen to lift it from the ground. It had been photographed so she could move it. There were spiky auburn hairs matted in a clot of blood. Fenwick closed his eyes briefly and then crouched down beside her, noting the label at the neck; women’s size small, the same as his daughter Bess wore. He was suddenly consumed with a rage so fierce his sight blurred.
Without saying anything the two detectives rose and walked away to find somewhere warm to wait for the CSTs to do enough for them to have a proper look at the scene. It would take at least another hour.
‘Bloody Cobb.’ Bernstein was eating a quick sandwich with Fenwick and Bazza in the near-empty village pub.
Other than the three of them the rest of the team was continuing door-to-door enquiries. There was no street CCTV but the shop had a camera and the film had been requisitioned. Another officer had been despatched to secure and check camera coverage of the A272. The POLSA, police search advisor, had advised them on the search of the premises. First priority had been a sweep of the house and grounds with dogs in case Issie had been left there, alive or dead, but it had come up empty. Now the immediate focus was on the only room with heat, though the rest of the house would be pulled apart in due course in case a body had been well hidden, as had happened in the past.
‘I should have known not to trust him.’
Fenwick said nothing.
‘At least we know that Issie was alive when she arrived,’ Bazza volunteered.
‘Do we?’ Bernstein looked gloomy.
Fenwick took a small sip of beer but he wasn’t enjoying it; too bitter for his taste.
‘What do you think? She
was
alive at the house, wasn’t she, sir?’ Bazza seemed determined to be optimistic.
Fenwick wanted to agree with him but he was worried it was hope not insight and so he was careful in his reply. The blood on the T-shirt was human, that had been determined with a presumptive test, and the good news was that there wasn’t a lot of it. The spatter pattern was consistent – in his inexpert opinion – with a nosebleed or cut lip, nothing more.
‘If she was held there, the really good news is that: one, he didn’t panic and abandon her after the failed ransom demand; and two, they had somewhere to shelter out of the weather.’
‘Exactly,’ Bazza insisted.
Fenwick understood; the man was compensating for his guilt about the length of time it had taken them to locate the second hiding place but that wasn’t what really mattered.
‘So where did Mariner go next?’ Fenwick asked, pushing the half pint aside.
Bernstein shook her head in frustration.
‘We don’t know. Just like we have no idea whether he’s dumped Issie’s body rather than cope with the fact that he’s a kidnapper.’
‘And murderer,’ Bazza added.
‘As if we need to be reminded. The problem is that we don’t understand Mariner. The profile we had done is only good for toilet paper.’
Fenwick agreed. According to the profiler, Mariner was basically an ordinary bloke. Except that he had abducted and abused a young girl and murdered his brother in the process; so much for ordinary! In less trying circumstances Fenwick might have meditated on how easily a man could find himself so far from the life he thought he was going to follow; how he had taken small but irreversible steps towards a doom that condemned him as society’s pariah. But he didn’t have time to waste on that.
‘We do know Issie,’ he said. ‘Maybe we should be profiling her.’
He said it to be provocative, to lift them out of their gloom but as the words left his mouth he realised he meant them.
‘Supposing Issie is still alive …’
‘You hope,’ Bernstein said.
‘So do you. Listen; Issie’s smart, athletic, resourceful and creative – compared with Mariner she’s Einstein. Why are we assuming she has no influence after two weeks together?’ He was waving his arms around and Bazza rescued his glass. Over by the bar a lone drinker turned to stare.
‘OK,’ Bernstein whispered, ‘it’s an idea; where are you going with it?’
Fenwick didn’t know.
‘Well,’ Bazza ventured softly, ‘let’s think: what would Issie do? She’s held by a guy who has no idea what to do with her but hasn’t killed her. Her main motive will be to stay alive. So how will she do that?’
They all knew.
‘Sex,’ Bernstein said at last for all of them.
‘And drink,’ Bazza added. They both looked at him. ‘We know from his friend that Mariner enjoyed a tipple.’
‘Let’s hope he drinks enough to be incapable.’ Bernstein shuddered as she downed the last of her lemonade.
Fenwick found himself liking her more.
‘My round,’ he said and headed to the bar for a change of ale to the guest brew of the month, Black Cat.
He was served quickly and managed to carry a tray back without spilling any despite his bad hand.
‘So, where is she?’ Bernstein asked as soon as he sat down.
Fenwick concentrated on placing the drinks down carefully.
‘Well?’
‘Good beer this,’ he said after a slow mouthful during which he managed to mask his resentment at her expectations.
‘For heaven’s sake, Andrew, screw the beer!’
Now even the barman was listening.
‘You smoke, don’t you Bazza?’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘Let’s take these outside.’
It was freezing and the promised sleet had started.
Bernstein shivered, chewed and looked enviously at Bazza as he inhaled.
‘Well?’
‘Assuming that Issie’s alive but realises Mariner isn’t going to let her go, she’ll try and help him find somewhere warm. Let’s assume she has some influence; where would she take him?’
Bernstein and Bazza looked at him as if he were mad.
‘Bear with me; we’re treating her as a victim but what if she’s managed to build a relationship with him – it may only be sexual – but supposing she’s managed to take them somewhere familiar and safe?’
‘You’re crediting her with a lot, Andrew.’
‘Mariner hasn’t many choices left and he might be desperate for an idea. Why don’t you see her parents again and collect all the addresses of anywhere she might have been as a child?’
‘We did that day one,’ Bernstein said, stamping her feet to encourage circulation, ‘and we checked them thoroughly, twice.’ It was said with emphasis.
‘You should revisit them all now we know he’s on the move again.’
Bazza nodded and stubbed out his cigarette. It was a plan and it was better than nothing.
‘We have the addresses,’ Bernstein acknowledged. ‘Redistribute them, Bazza, and send Henderson to reinterview the parents to make sure we have everything. Better yet, get Tony to do it.’