Dead of Winter (22 page)

‘That’s not what I mean. You won’t talk about your future plans because you’re so bloomin’ private but I know you well enough to recognise that you’d make a wonderful partner for someone … you can pretend to be tough all you like but you can’t fool me.’

‘Whatever happened to that man you were in love with three summers ago?’ Naomi asked, staggering in under a tray of desserts that would have fed a rugby team.

‘There was no one, Naomi.’ Nightingale hated the way her sister-in-law noticed everything. It hadn’t been the death of her parents and a terrible period at work that had driven her away to the farm; it had been Fenwick, but that was her secret.

‘Rubbish, you had all the symptoms. I thought he was going to be the one.’

‘Well, he wasn’t,’ Nightingale replied sharply, preferring to acknowledge that there had been someone rather than risk the conversation dragging on.

‘I’m glad you dumped Clive,’ Simon continued. ‘Nice enough bloke but selfish.’

‘Enough, the two of you. I don’t ask embarrassing questions about your love life so leave mine alone!’ It was said with a laugh and they both had the grace to blush.

An hour later she was playing with Barnabas, who had been brought down to stop him screaming. He was chasing his new caterpillar, christened Eddie by his father who delighted in hitting its head rather hard in order to see it wriggle and squirm. Simon raised the subject again.

‘We’re a bit worried about you.’

‘What is it this time? My weight’s fine – firmly in the target range for my height, thank you – and the security at my flat would foil a safe-cracker.’

‘It’s the personal stuff. You live for your work. Sure, you’re good at it but it won’t keep you warm at night when you’re flab and fifty.’

‘So that’s what marriage is all about, is it? A security blanket for middle age.’

‘You know what I mean. It’s about love, finding a soulmate who makes everything you do worthwhile; maybe even having a family. You shouldn’t leave it too long.’

‘Simon! I’m not even thirty; do me a favour.’

He raised his hands in capitulation but couldn’t resist adding, ‘All right, but you do
me
a favour then. Indulge yourself; take time out; have some fun. You don’t deserve to end up a dried-out old maid. You’re far too good for that.’

Nightingale went to bed shortly afterwards, not so much driven away by their words as by the atmosphere of overwhelming domestic bliss. She didn’t envy them she told herself but too much of their contentment made her introspective and broody; because, of course, her brother was right. She ached to find the right partner and have a family; to know that there was someone, somewhere in the world who was worrying about her, waiting for her, caring about what she did, about how she felt, whether she was happy. Someone who would want to be the father of her children.

It was a basic, urgent need and maybe he was right to remind her of it. The only problem was that she would have to feel the same way about that person, to reciprocate absolutely, and so far there had been only one man for whom she had experienced that depth of feeling. Sadly he had made it very clear that he was unavailable, no matter what his daughter might have wished for.

Thoughts of his final conversation with Bernstein filled Fenwick’s head as he waited for the door to Saxby Hall to open on Sunday afternoon. He couldn’t just disappear without having seen them. Despite the most extensive search operation he had ever witnessed they had failed to find Issie. Norman was continuing the road checks and had committed more officers. Forces in Sussex, Hampshire and Kent were all on alert for Mariner and his Mondeo but the man had vanished.

At least the weather hadn’t deteriorated further. The predicted blizzard had veered south, with Surrey suffering only a flurry. Unfortunately in Sussex, particularly along the coast, three inches of snow had fallen in the last few hours. Alice, bless her, had left him another message that morning telling him not to worry; they were safe and warm and had enough to eat. The news just made him feel guilty.

Fenwick took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. Norman would already have told them that they had been within hours of finding their daughter; what more could he say to them except goodbye?

‘Yes? Oh, it’s you. Come in.’ The door was opened by Saxby
himself, looking even older than when Fenwick had seen him two days before.

He went straight to the drawing room where the bare Christmas tree leant forlorn. There was a small fire smoking in the grate and a pile of unopened post on a table by the sofa.

‘Jane’s still asleep, thank God. The doctor came last night and gave her an injection because she refused to take the pills. She’s in a terrible state, Fenwick. It’s six days now without any sight of Issie. Even though she – we – still hope, well … It’s not looking good, is it?’ Saxby had tears in his eyes and Fenwick didn’t know what to say. ‘It’s all right; I’m not asking you to lie. It’s just … I feel so helpless. The one thing that matters most to me is my wife and her daughter and I can’t help them. I can’t do a bloody thing.’

Saxby folded onto the sofa and pretended to look at the pile of post while blinking rapidly.

‘Christmas cards. I’ve stopped Jane opening them – these need to be cleared away. She breaks down when she sees Issie’s name. The letters from other parents at the school are even worse; people that wouldn’t acknowledge us before, sending us well-intentioned cards and notes of support …

‘The birthday cards will start soon. That’ll be even worse. A week today she’ll be eighteen.’

His voice broke and for a long moment there was just the soft crackling of the struggling fire to break the silence. Saxby shuddered and took a deep breath.

‘I just want Issie back and my wife to be happy. Not much to ask is it? So why are you here and not out there looking for her?’

Norman obviously hadn’t told them he was off the case. Fenwick thought rapidly and decided it wasn’t news for him to break.

‘I, er, just wanted to see if you had any questions after the latest development.’

Saxby shook his head but then paused and frowned at Fenwick.

‘As you’re here you might as well give me your take on the situation.’

Fenwick tried not to wince; he couldn’t afford to contradict Norman.

‘Well, the evidence is clear that Issie was kept somewhere relatively warm and that she was probably fed since leaving the caravan.’

‘Norman told me that much but what he wouldn’t tell me was how long she’d been in the pump house or how close you came to catching that bastard Mariner. Will you?’

Fenwick couldn’t meet his eye. Would it help to know how close they had come? No, just the reverse but he deserved to know.

‘We can’t say for sure but if you want my guess—’

‘I just asked for it!’

‘Then I would say we were hours behind them.’

‘So if you’d been a bit more bloody efficient …’ Saxby couldn’t finish the thought and stalked to the far end of the room.

Fenwick watched the tension in his shoulders, regretting that he had made the visit.

‘I should be going, sir.’

‘Wait! I haven’t finished with you yet.’ He walked back until he was standing less than five feet from Fenwick, his cheeks deep red, eyes bulging, obviously full of pent-up rage.

‘Why was Norman so certain Issie was kept there alive?’

Fenwick could tell by the way he asked the question that Saxby had already guessed.

‘At the pump station we found clear evidence that someone had been staying there, two people in fact.’

‘How can you be so certain?’ Saxby demanded.

Fenwick took a deep breath. He hated what he had to say next.

‘It looks as if she was abused by him, sir. I’m so sorry. There is a slight chance it was consensual of course but …’

Saxby lunged forward and took a swing at Fenwick, missing by inches as he managed to twist away. He grabbed Saxby’s arms and held them tight to his side, standing so close that he could whisper his next words.

‘I know; it hurts like hell that the only evidence that Issie is alive
is that she’s been abused, and I am so, so sorry but if you can bear to, try to see it as the proof of life we so needed.’

‘Fuck you, fuck your filthy mouth, you …’ But Saxby was crying too hard to finish.

‘It may even be that the kidnapper has formed some sort of attachment to her. That’s the best development we could hope for short of finding her.’

‘Jesus help us.’ It was said as a prayer, not blasphemy.

Fenwick guided Saxby back to the sofa and eased him down. The man lowered his face into his hands and wept. Realising that he would hate a witness to such a collapse, Fenwick motioned the FLO out and left to find the kitchen. The cook and butler were there red-eyed and white-faced.

‘He doesn’t like us up there, sir,’ the butler explained.

‘I understand but we need sustenance. Does he drink coffee or tea?’

‘Coffee, sir,’ the cook answered and jumped up, keen to be of use.

‘Good, make us a big pot, with milk and sugar on the side, please.’ He turned to leave.

‘If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, you could do with something yourself, and more than just coffee. I know the look of a man living on his reserves. Can I make you a nice plate of bacon and eggs?’ The cook looked at him hopefully and Fenwick’s stomach growled low in answer but he ignored it.

‘Welcome as that would be, I don’t think it would be acceptable right now, thank you.’

Saxby was stoking the fire when Fenwick returned.

‘Can we keep the news of the … assault on Issie from Jane?’

‘I won’t tell her, sir, and I’ll mention to Tony that it should be kept quiet but your wife is a smart lady – she will probably work it out for herself.’

‘Perhaps, but I’ll deal with that when it happens.’ Saxby looked at the portrait of his wife on the chimney breast and touched it with his fingertips.

‘There’s something else that may become public that you need to be aware of.’ Fenwick knew he was on thin ice as Norman should tell them, but he judged Saxby to be a man who hated anything being kept from him and had decided during the short visit to the kitchen that he had to know all.

‘You are a bird of ill omen, Fenwick; what now?’

‘It is very likely that Steven Mariner murdered his brother and possible that Issie saw it.’

‘Murdered?’ Saxby turned around and stared at Fenwick in horror.

‘We found the body of Daniel Mariner at the caravan where Issie was held. The killing might have been accidental; it might even have been to protect Issie. There is a risk that the press will pick up on this even though we have made no announcement. A murder is hard to keep quiet.’

‘Murder.’ Saxby looked back to his wife’s picture. ‘If he’s killed once …’

‘As I say, there is a strong possibility that it wasn’t intentional and there is nothing in the history of Steven Mariner to suggest a tendency towards violence.’

‘There was nothing to suggest he was a kidnapper either, was there?’

‘No, but if you recall, we thought the kidnap might be opportunistic. That would fit with what we know about him.’

Saxby glanced at him sceptically but swiftly turned his back when the butler brought in a large tray of coffee and biscuits. He retreated quickly, smiling sympathetically at Fenwick.

‘Coffee? I don’t need it, take it away.’

Fenwick recognised the tone of the bully taking over from the grieving stepfather.

‘But I do and I’m going to have some before I leave, if you don’t mind. I can get by on a few hours sleep a night with no problem as long as I have caffeine, but without it I run on empty. Something to eat and drink would do you good too.’

The bluntness of Fenwick’s answer surprised Saxby. He opened
his mouth to argue but shut it again and went over to the tray and poured himself a coffee with milk and sugar. Saxby added a measure of brandy to his coffee and waved the bottle at Fenwick who shook his head. They drank their coffee in a silence that could not have been described as congenial. Fenwick stood to leave.

‘There is something more that I need to tell you, sir. As Chief Constable Norman has assumed control of the investigation he will be keeping you updated personally on developments. There’s a team of over one hundred looking for Issie, across the whole of the south-east, with a nationwide alert that is bringing the eyes of the nation’s police and general public to our aid. He is determined to find her.’

Saxby nodded in reply, a proud man who would find it hard to apologise for anything and wouldn’t forgive a witness to his prior weakness easily. Fenwick picked up his coat, hat and scarf and made to leave. Before he reached the living room door, Saxby stuck his arm out and shook Fenwick’s hand, much to his surprise. His second, pleasant surprise was a warm packet thrust at him by the cook as he opened the front door.

‘Bacon sandwiches,’ she said with a smile, ‘for you and your driver. I pray to God every night for our Issie to come home and you’re doing his work. It’s the least I can do.’

Fenwick closed the door to the Hall softly and paused with his head bowed by her words, but the smell of hot bacon and the chill of the biting wind soon drove him to the shelter of the car.

Nightingale watched Jenni-with-an-I finish her plate of ham, egg and chips and wipe it clean with a slice of bread. The girl looked better, with the polished complexion of someone taking care of themselves. She was still receiving trauma counselling but had so far continued to refuse to give her real name. At least she was out of the cold.

‘OK if I see you again next week on my day off?’

The girl stared at her suspiciously.

‘Why are you doing this? I’m not going to tell you anything.’

‘I’m under no false illusions, Jenni. You’re clearly a person who makes up their own mind but someone once helped me rebuild my life. I don’t have any expectation that you need me to do the same for you but I do want you to know that you’re not alone. That’s all. No hidden agenda.’

Jenni shook her head and then shrugged.

‘Whatever, I appreciate the meal; it’s better than the stuff they serve at the shelter. We all have to muck in with the cooking and none of us is Jamie Oliver, that’s for sure.’

‘That should be an incentive to learn, then,’ Nightingale suggested laughing through Jenni’s scowl. ‘Can I give you a lift back?’

‘Nah, I’ll hang about a bit. There’s usually a good crowd about on a Saturday.’

‘OK.’ Nightingale put on her coat, scarf, hat and gloves.

‘See you for lunch next week, then? You can call anytime before, if you like.’

‘Suit yourself. My diary isn’t exactly overfull.’

Nightingale left biting her lip. Jenni wasn’t going to change. Outside, the wind funnelled down the open walkway bringing blasts of ice particles and grit that stung her face. It was another gloomy day that the seasonal shop windows failed to lighten, but despite the weather, people were out enjoying enforced camaraderie as they slipped about on crowded pavements.

What should she do next? It was her day off and she really did need to do some Christmas shopping, not that she had that many people to buy for but she was an indulgent aunt and this year she wanted to find something nice for Jenni and for Bess, Chris and Alice.

‘Better get on with it,’ she muttered and decided to drive closer in to Harlden town centre. She was pulling into the multi-storey car park when her mobile rang. The Harlden number that flashed up on the screen brought an instant knot of tension.

‘Hello?’

‘Louise? Is that you?’

She recognised the voice at once and her heart rate increased.

‘Alice, yes; what’s the matter?’

‘Thank goodness; it’s Bess. I wondered if you might have seen her. Only after last week when she ran off to meet you I thought …’

Nightingale could feel incipient panic but she kept her voice calm.

‘No, she’s not with me. If she’d contacted me I would have let you know.’

‘Of course you would, it’s just that … I hoped – that is, I thought … Oh, I’m worried sick. She’s not answering her mobile and I don’t want to leave the house in case she comes back. And there’s Chris to think about … what am I going to do?’

‘How long has she been missing?’

‘I noticed her gone half an hour ago. I’ve rung round her friends but she’s not with any of them. She’d been sulking all morning because she wants a new outfit for the school party on Monday and won’t let me take her to buy it.’

‘Have you called her father?’

‘I’ve tried but there’s no answer. He went in to work this morning even though it’s Saturday, but no one there knows where he is. What are we going to do?’

Nightingale noted that she was considered part of the solution and in other circumstances would have been pleased.

‘Let me think. You say you’ve tried Bess’s phone?’

‘Yes, but there’s no answer.’

‘If she has caller id and she’s in a sulk she may simply be refusing to pick up because the call’s coming from home. I’ll ring her now and call you back.’

Nightingale broke the connection and rang Bess’s number, which still showed on her phone from the previous week. She was answered at once.

‘Nightingale!’

‘Hello, Bess, how are you?’

‘OK, sort of. I’m looking for a dress but I can’t find one.’

‘Is Alice with you?’

‘No.’ The tone said
so what?

‘Your friend Lucy and her mum?’

‘No,’ more defensive now.

‘I see. So you’d be on your own?’

‘…’

‘Was that a yes, Bess?’

‘Yes,’ muttered.

‘And whereabouts are you?’

‘Guildford.’ Nightingale closed her eyes. ‘I came on the train; the bus wasn’t running.’

‘Hmm, that’s a long way from home on such a rotten day. When are you planning to come back?’

‘As soon as I’ve found a dress but …’ There was the faintest hint of a whine.

‘… you can’t find one and the trip hasn’t turned out as expected?’

‘Maybe.’

‘That can happen.’

Nightingale was biting her lip again. Understanding would work better than shouting if Bess’s character was anything like her’s had been at her age.

‘Are you lonely? I know I would be.’

‘Yes, a bit,’ said very quietly with maybe even a sniff. Nightingale wanted her contrite and cautious not emotional and even more vulnerable.

She kept her voice matter-of-fact even though her stomach was churning.

‘Whereabouts in Guildford are you?’

‘The Friary shopping centre, in Top Shop.’

‘I think there’s a café in the Friary isn’t there? I want you to go there and wait. When you’re at a table ring me back, OK?’

‘Yes. You’ll come for me?’

‘Either me, or Alice, or your daddy but somebody will. Now go and find a table.’

Nightingale plugged her phone into hands-free and rang Alice as she put her car in gear and headed north to Harlden train station. She told her the news and Alice was predictably delighted, furious and worried at the same time.

‘How on earth are we going to get the silly little madam back?’

‘Can you drive to Guildford with Chris?’

‘Not in this weather, dear; I hate driving at the best of times. I only go to and from town. I’d be terrified out on the roads in these conditions.’

‘I see. Well keep trying her father. Meanwhile, I’ll head for the train station and see if I can catch the fast service to Guildford. It will be much quicker than driving, provided the trains are running.’

Nightingale was stuck at traffic lights when Bess called.

‘I’m in the restaurant, Nightingale.’

‘Good. Is there a waitress nearby?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘I need to talk to her. Put her on the phone, please.’

‘That means asking her over … I can’t.’

‘If you consider yourself old enough to trot off to Guildford on your own in the middle of the worst winter we’ve had in years then you are
certainly
capable of speaking to a waitress. Please do it now.’

Nightingale was aware that she was using her ‘in charge’ voice, the one normally reserved for work. She had to smile as she heard the distant voice of an obviously shocked Bess asking someone to please come to the table for an important message. A wary waitress spoke into the mobile.

‘What’s your name, please?’

‘Angela.’

‘Angela, this is Detective Inspector Nightingale of Harlden police. The young lady at your table is lost and on her own and it is of vital importance to an ongoing inquiry that she is safely returned to her family as soon as possible. Please would you serve her a warm drink and maybe some food; but above all, make sure that she doesn’t leave the table until someone she knows or bearing police id comes to collect her.’

‘Why me? There’s a security guard just yards away.’

‘Even better; put him on please but make no mistake, Angela, if she isn’t there when we come to collect her we will also hold you responsible.’

‘But …’

‘The security guard, please.’

Nightingale repeated her message to the guard, noted down his details and gave him her mobile number just in case.

By this time she was parking at the station. If the trains had been cancelled or were severely delayed, she would have no option but to drive, but if a train was due she could be with Bess in forty minutes. She ran to the entrance. One look at the board told her that the two-thirty-two was leaving from platform four in less than three minutes!

She waved her warrant card in the general direction of the member of staff who had moved to intercept her as she jumped the ticket barrier and sprinted up the stairs. Seven strides along the bridge over the tracks and she was pounding down the stairs to the platform as she heard the beep of the doors about to close.

‘Police! Hold that train,’ she commanded as her feet hit the concrete. A startled-looking youth in a hoodie obliged by moving his body to block the automatic doors long enough for Nightingale to jump on board.

‘Thanks,’ she said to him, her sides heaving a bit more than they should have been.

‘No problem. Need a hand catchin’ someone?’

Nightingale grinned at him.

‘Thanks, but I think I can manage this one on my own.’

The doors closed behind her and the train started to move. A guard stalked down the carriage but she flashed her warrant card and he backed off.

‘How long to Guildford?’

‘Can’t say with this weather. The line was cleared earlier and we made it in normal time but the weather’s got worse since …’

He went away to check and came back to say that the line was still clear and they should be there within forty-five minutes; longer than normal but better than she had feared.

Nightingale found a quiet corner and rang Alice to give her an update. Then she called Bess, who was delighted that her friend was on her way and starting to enjoy her celebrity status far too much in the circumstances.
‘What are we going to do with her?’
Nightingale shook her head in frustration and took a deep breath before dialling Fenwick’s number. There was no answer and his messaging service was full. Typical.

She had heard from Big Mac that he had returned to MCS the previous Monday and was no longer involved in the hunt for Isabelle Mattias. Speculation was rife about what it meant for his reputation but at least there was someone decent in charge of the Flash Harry investigation again. Much as she liked Quinlan he
was a lousy detective. Big Mac was still seconded to MCS and had confided that they had made no progress.

In the two weeks since the case had been passed to MCS she had worked up her own theories and worried over them. Given the escalating pattern there should have been another attack by now and she wondered why there hadn’t been. It was something she planned to ask Fenwick when … if … she saw him. As the train eased forward there was nothing for her to do so she settled back in the seat and wished she had brought her notes with her in case Fenwick showed up.

The train pulled into Guildford station twenty minutes late. She showed her warrant card and bought return tickets from the guard at the barrier before making her way to the Friary. When she left the station it wasn’t actually snowing but the wind whipped up loose drifts as she walked through bustling, icy streets.

When she reached the shopping centre it took her a moment to orientate as it had changed since she was last there. A floor plan revealed that there were several restaurants and cafés to choose from and she had tried two of them before taking the escalator down to the third where she could see Bess below her. As she descended, a man approached Bess from behind. Nightingale let out a shout and called Bess’s name before running down the last few steps, slipping on the wet floor and into the café – almost stumbling on to Fenwick’s back as she did so. How had he made it so quickly from Lewes to Guildford?

‘Nightingale.’

‘Andrew.’

‘What are you doing here?’ The abruptness of his words stung.

‘Looking after your daughter. We couldn’t reach you so I agreed with Alice that I’d come myself to bring her home.’

‘Well, that’s kind of you but as you can see, there was no need.’

Nightingale stared at him open-mouthed. The man really could be an ungrateful bastard. She was about to tell him so when Bess intervened.

‘Daddy, that’s not very polite. We didn’t know that you’d turn
up, did we Nightingale, and Alice was worried sick. If it hadn’t been for Nightingale you don’t know where I might have been.’

Carried away with her passionate defence of her friend, Bess didn’t realise the hole she was digging for herself. Both adults turned to her with identical expressions of disapproval.

‘Whoops.’

‘Whoops indeed,’ they said together. Fenwick smiled at her bleakly.

‘Sorry, I was out of line. I should have said thank you for wasting your Saturday afternoon on our behalf.’

‘It wasn’t wasted. I’m just glad she’s OK.’ Nightingale turned to Bess. ‘You had us all worried sick, you know. This is not the way to behave; I’ve told you that before.’

‘But I didn’t lie. I just left the house and came here.’

‘Without telling anybody,’ Fenwick interjected. ‘We’ll talk more about this at home.’

He ran a hand through his hair in a gesture Nightingale recognised too well.

‘I can take her, Andrew, if you have to be somewhere.’

‘Could you?’

‘Daddy!’

‘Alice said you had to work so …’

‘It would be a big help.’

‘Daddy!’

‘Quiet, Bess.’

Given Bess’s earlier stroppiness, Nightingale expected an outburst but the child simply lowered her head.

‘Do you have time for a cup of tea and something to eat?’ Nightingale asked. ‘Knowing you, you’ve probably been living off coffee and scraps.’

‘I haven’t had any lunch, you’re right.’

They ordered three toasted cheese and ham sandwiches, a large pot of tea and a glass of milk. Bess’s request for a hot chocolate was denied. As they waited Nightingale wondered how to talk to Fenwick about Flash Harry. When Bess said she needed the loo
they let her go on her own as they could see the entrance from the table.

‘I really am grateful, Nightingale. Whatever you say, this has screwed up your day.’

‘It’s no problem, honestly. Look—’

‘Earlier you said to Bess “I’ve told you before”. Is this a common occurrence?’