The Various Haunts of Men (30 page)

‘Come in.’ He pointed to the newspaper on his desk.

‘I take it you will have seen this morning’s
Post
?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Gawd knows where it came from, guv, only not out of here,
I can tell you.’

‘Freya?’

‘Categorically not, sir.’

‘So how does this reporter – Rachel Carr – know about the other missing woman, how has she found out her name, her address, where she works? Someone must have talked to her.’

‘No one in the station. To start with, not many people here even know about Angela Randall, she was just another name in the missing persons file. Nathan and I have
been the only ones looking into the case in detail
and neither of us briefed this reporter.’ There was a sliver of ice in Freya’s own voice.

‘OK, I take your word for it. But these are exactly the sort of headlines I wanted to avoid … look at some of these provocative questions – “Can Lafferton women now feel safe in their own town?” … “Have the Lafferton police failed to keep those enjoying
the town’s prime open space, the Hill, safe from a serial killer?” Serial killer, for God’s sake, there isn’t even a body. Right, we’d better anticipate them. I want a press briefing called for twelve noon. I want local radio, regional television, the news agencies, the lot – and get on to it now before they get on to us. I’ve put the search team out on to the Hill again but they’ll have finished
by this afternoon. Any joy at Starly?’

‘What? With Dava the Diva! Gawd, what a plonker.’

‘I doubt if he knows anything about Debbie Parker’s disappearance,’ Freya said. ‘She had two appointments with him and he gave us all the New Age psychobabble, but I didn’t get the impression he had anything to hide.’

‘All the same, we’ll keep him in the frame for the time being. Apart from anything else,
Debbie seems to have made some new friends up at Starly and her flatmate might not have been told everything about them. It’s a better lead than any other as to where she might have gone.’

‘With the raggle-taggle gypsies, O. I used to fancy being a gypsy when I was a kid –’

‘Thank you, Nathan, save the childhood reminiscences and get on the phone. I want this press briefing to be and to look
orderly, organised and hyper-professional. We’re in charge, we’re in control and we have to get that message across. Public confidence is going to take a
knock from this rubbish. Oh, and if national press get wind and call up, put them on to me. Say nothing.’

‘Sir.’

Freya looked at Serrailler as she turned away, to see if he would catch her eye with some flicker of intimacy. He did not. She
hesitated for a second, letting Nathan go first out of the door.

The telephone rang.

‘Serrailler. Good morning, sir. I have read it, yes.’

Freya fled.

More press came into the conference room for the noon briefing than had attended for a long time. They sensed that a major story might be about to break and they smelled blood. DCI Serrailler walked smartly into the room as the clock struck
and took the rostrum with Freya, Nathan and Inspector Black, who was in charge of searching the Hill.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentleman. Thank you all for coming. As you know, an appeal was made to the public yesterday for any information about a local woman, Debbie Parker, who was last seen on the evening of the 31st and who may have left her home early the next morning. She has not been seen
or heard from since, she left no message, she has not been in touch with her family or friends and so far as we know she has no reason to go missing of her own accord. She did not take any belongings with her apart from her house keys. Her handbag and all other personal possessions and outdoor clothes were left in her flat.

‘We are becoming increasingly concerned for Debbie Parker’s safety and
as well as the broadcast public appeal for information, have had search teams out on the Hill
and its surrounding area, where it is thought she may have been out walking.

‘As I am sure you are aware, people go missing for many reasons; they may have a history of depression or other mental health problems, they may have domestic, family or monetary problems. They usually return of their own accord.
We always take a missing person report very seriously, but in some cases we have more reason for concern and this is true of the young woman, Debbie Parker.

‘Another Lafferton woman, Angela Randall of 4 Barn Close, was reported missing by her employer at the Four Ways Nursing Home on 18 December last year, but although we took full reports and made an investigation at the time, we had no reason
to see Miss Randall’s disappearance as suspicious. However, in the light of the disappearance of Debbie Parker, we are looking at that of Angela Randall again as there are certain links between the two.

‘We have had calls from the public as a result of our broadcast appeal and we are following up a number of leads but so far we have no definite information which may lead us to her. We will be
making a similar appeal to the public about the disappearance of Angela Randall. We’ll naturally keep you all closely informed of developments. Meanwhile, I would be grateful if the press would refrain from wild and lurid speculation, which is not only unhelpful, but distressing for the families and friends of the missing women and causes general public alarm.’

Rachel Carr stood up. ‘Chief Inspector,
surely it must occur to you that the moment you put out an appeal for information about a missing young woman it gives rise to what you term “general public alarm”?’

‘Of course people will be concerned but we put out the request for information in as undramatic a manner as possible, precisely so as not to cause alarm, while at the same time alerting people to the case.’

‘Why did you conceal
the disappearance of Angela Randall?’

‘No one has concealed anything, Miss …’

‘Sorry, Rachel Carr, Bevham Newspapers …’

‘Yes, I rather thought that’s who you might be.’

There was a ripple of amusement. Rachel Carr’s spikiness and naked ambition did not make her popular with her colleagues.

‘Well, Miss Carr … that is exactly the kind of phraseology to which I was referring. Angela Randall’s
disappearance was reported to us and we made initial investigations. But we do not and cannot put out a general appeal or public statement about every person who goes missing, even within a place the size of Lafferton.’

‘But you’re taking her case seriously now?’

‘As I said, we take every case of a missing person seriously. Are there any more questions, as Miss Carr seems to have decided the
debate is open to the floor.’

‘Jason Fox, County News Agency. Chief Inspector, are you worried for the safety of one or both of the missing women?’

‘As neither has been in touch, and as time goes on without any news, then yes, there is cause for concern. But I would stress that we have no evidence at all that any harm has come to either woman.’

The questions came fast now.

‘Is this a murder
inquiry?’

‘Has the search of the Hill yielded any trace of either woman?’

‘Why has no search been made of other parts of the town?’

‘Are people advised to stay away from the Hill?’

‘Are women on their own to be concerned for their safety in Lafferton?’

And, from Rachel Carr again, ‘Why is Lafferton inadequately policed? Why are there no patrols in the area of the Hill on a regular basis?’
And yet again, ‘If you are, as you say, concerned for the safety of these two women and if, as you say, you feel there is a link between their disappearances, are you looking for anyone in connection with these missing women? Do you think it likely they have been abducted or murdered? Is there a serial killer preying upon the women of Lafferton?’

Jim Williams had heard yesterday’s Radio BEV appeal
for information about the missing girl and afterwards he had sat down in the comfortable Parker Knoll reclining chair to think. Now, this morning, he had gone out, as usual, the half-mile to Akre Street to buy the
Post
and his packet of Mintoes. It was a beautiful day, too beautiful – too warm, the daffodils too far out, the birds singing too joyously. That could only mean a return to sleet, east
winds and hard frosts at night. He had taken off the white fleece with which he lovingly draped the camellias in their pots outside on the terrace but he would look at the thermometer just before the ten o’clock news and go out to wrap them again if it looked like dropping too low.

He thought about camellias all the way back home. The
Post
was folded under his arm. He did not indulge himself
in opening it in the street, partly because it spoiled the pleasure of reading it over his tea and because
he had a vague sense that just as it was common to eat in the street, so it might be common to read the paper there too.

He had not forgotten the news bulletin about the missing girl. He was still turning it over in his mind as he made his bacon and eggs and mushrooms, sliced and buttered
the bread, put the teapot ready and the kettle on to boil. He opened the kitchen window and the unmistakable smell of spring drifted in. Once the first person in the street cut their grass it would be even sweeter.

Ten minutes later, he was sitting at the table, his full plate in front of him, his tea poured, and the
Post
propped up against the pot. The missing girl was headline news. But as
he read on, he was most taken by the mention of another woman, Angela Randall, who had disappeared before Christmas. Both women had been known to go running or walking on the Hill and as Jim studied the photograph of Debbie Parker, he felt fairly sure he had indeed seen her up there, though it was not easy to tell from the rather blurred picture of a girl wobbling about on ice skates. Still, she looked
familiar and if he closed his eyes he thought he could see her out walking. But the police would want to know more than that; dozens of people might ring in to say they ‘thought’ they ‘might’ have seen the girl on the Hill, though they couldn’t be sure exactly when.

But as far as the other woman was concerned, Jim felt more confident. There was no picture of Angela Randall but there was a good
description of her. The main thing that jogged his memory though was the fact that she had last been seen running off towards the Hill, wearing a light grey tracksuit, very early on that December morning when it had been so foggy. Jim had been out that day
with Skippy, and early too because he hadn’t been able to sleep and he remembered the fog because when he had left the house it hadn’t seemed
too bad, not much more than a mist, but by the time he had got on to the Hill, it had been quite dense and damp too, a fog that clung about your face and hair and chilled you.

He cleaned his plate round with half a slice of bread, and went to the fridge to check what he would have for his tea later. There was a pork chop he could have with potatoes and greens, and the individual apple pie he
had bought yesterday from Cross’s bakery which he could have with a tin of Devon Custard. It was his favourite sweet, though in the summer he generally ate the apple pie with ice cream.

He reread the article in the
Post
carefully. No, he probably hadn’t enough on Debbie Parker to bother the police with, but the more he thought about it, the more he thought he should go to them and tell them that
he had seen the other woman running through the fog.

Having decided, he folded the paper, cleared the table and washed up the pots, before settling down in the living room to watch the football previews. Beside him on the small stool, the
Radio Times
lay open on that day’s page, with the programmes he planned to watch highlighted in red. He went through it from cover to cover on the day it arrived,
scheduling his viewing week. This afternoon he had almost three hours of enjoyable television sport ahead of him and then it would be time for him to take his short walk to the end of the road, round the corner and back the other way, before making his tea and settling in for his evening viewing. Therefore, he would go to Lafferton Police Station now, this morning. He would make sure that he
told his story not to whoever was on
the front desk but to someone properly on the case. He knew about messages that were never passed on, notes that were slipped into files and never looked at again.

He switched off the television and put on his coat and cap. He’d tell the police all he could remember. For some reason, he felt he owed that not only to the missing woman, but to Phyllis – and
after her, to Skippy.

As Freya walked across the CID room after the briefing, the phone on her desk started to ring.

‘DS Graffham.’

The desk sergeant was calling up to report an elderly man who had been in.

‘Said he had something he wanted to say about the missing woman, Angela Randall, but he wouldn’t tell me what, he wants to talk to someone directly involved.’

‘What sort of elderly man,
Roy?’

‘Seventies, raincoat and cap. I don’t think it’s a wind-up, he seemed genuine.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Gone home. He waited a bit. I’ve got all the details here.’

‘Give them to me, will you?’

She scribbled down the name and address. As she put the phone down, it rang again.

‘Freya, would you come in for a minute, please?’

This time, she went down the corridor to Simon Serrailler’s room
without Nathan in tow.

‘Thanks,’ he said as she opened the door,

‘That young woman from the
Echo
is out for blood.’

Simon made a dismissive gesture. ‘She’s just a local terrier. Now, Debbie Parker. The only real lead we have on her is Starly. That was something new in her life, she
was caught up in it, and I have a feeling that if there are going to be any clues as to why she went off and where
she is now, we’ll find them up there. You saw the one therapist, but I want a lot more. I want Starly saturating with uniform, every shop, consulting room, café … tepee. House-to-house near enough. Get that picture of Debbie on Have You Seen leaflets and spray them round the place. We want anyone who recognises her or knows her. We’ve drawn a blank on the Hill.’