Evil Valley (19 page)

Chapter Fourteen

T
WO YEARS HE'D BEEN
doing the job now and Dan had already faced countless numbers of these ordeals. There was no other word for them. Bereaved parents, partners, sisters or brothers, lamenting their loss, sometimes those desperately searching for the disappeared, hoping in the face of the uncaring odds that they might one day see them again. Occasionally it was even those who’d suffered themselves, victims of attacks or abuse, for some reason he never understood wanting to share their pain with the world through the hungry media. But always it came down to the same basic elements. Tears and trauma.

No matter how many of these stories he’d covered, he’d never grown used to it. Tonight Dan knew he’d get home, cuddle Rutherford, lie on his great blue sofa, drink whisky, stare at the passing sky and try to forget what he’d seen. But he never would. Many stories he covered were mundane, fillers, forgotten as soon as they were aired. These were different, marked by their raw humanity.

He could remember every single one. Arthur Bray had been the first, an old man sobbing for the loss of his son, blasted at close range by a shotgun in a revenge attack. Then there had been Katy Graham, facing the cameras in hunched anguish, desperate for news of the fiancé who had disappeared. To this day, there had been no sign of him, no hint of his fate. Dan wondered what Katy was doing now. Still hoping, her life on hold? Or had she finally moved on?

Then it was Lisa Pinecoffin – he would never forget that name – crying for the elderly mother murdered in a break-in at her cottage, pleading for anyone who could help the police find the killer to come forward. The appeal had worked, a man jailed for life for the murder after information from a criminal friend he’d boasted to. Adam had said at the time there was occasionally honour amongst thieves.

Then … countless others he didn’t want to think of. Sometimes a tearful face and their sobbed words would drift through a dream, passing ghosts he knew would never be exorcised. Such searing emotion did that. It etched an indelible mark.

Dirty El sidled in to the press conference and pushed his way through to the front, next to Dan and Nigel. He was sporting the biggest lens he could fit on the front of the camera and sharing precisely none of Dan’s sentiments.

‘I want to get right in there on her face. I need to see those beautiful tears dripping in a big, shocking close-up. That’s what sells the picture to the papers. Great story eh? It’s going to bring me a fair few quid.’ He stroked the bloated lens lovingly. ‘It broke so fast the national papers couldn’t get their own snappers down here in time, so they’ve all been on to me booking the shots.’

Dan wondered what El would say when he heard Adam’s statement about who the letters were addressed to. He could see his own picture in the papers tomorrow too, wasn’t looking forward to it. He didn’t photograph well. Lizzie had agreed and eagerly, on the proviso he kept a couple of exclusive details back and only aired them when he was live in the studio tonight. He still had to negotiate with Adam exactly what they would be. It was going to be a long day.

‘And another thing,’ whispered El, looking at his watch. Dan checked his too. It said quarter to four, so it was probably about five to. ‘What do you reckon to it being Mum who’s done away with the girl after all, and invented this story about an abduction? That’s what usually happens. You know the old hacks’ saying?’

Dan did, but suspected he was going to hear it again anyway. In fairness, it was often proved absolutely true. ‘Look for who’s crying the loudest in the press conference,’ continued El, ‘and there’s your killer.’

A door ground open at the side of the room and Dan had to duck the swing of El’s lens. Nigel spun his camera too. A policewoman walked slowly out, holding the arm of another woman who was leaning heavily against her. A blaze of photographers’ flashes lit the room and she looked up and blinked heavily, seemed to shrink from the blinding flares. The tears were already running down her cheeks. The policewoman guided her to a table at the front. She sat on one side, Adam the other, dark blue boards sporting the Greater Wessex Police badge behind them.

The room was packed with journalists, photographers and camera crews, a line of microphones set up on the table pointing at the woman. She was in her mid-thirties guessed Dan, plump, with shoulder-length dark hair. He couldn’t make out much of the detail of her face. The crying had blurred its definition. It was swollen and looked smudged. She was wearing a black jacket and white blouse, obviously her best.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is Karen Reece, Nicola’s mum,’ began Adam, surveying the crowd. ‘As you’ll appreciate, she’s very upset and is being extremely brave in managing to talk to you at all. She will read a prepared statement and then leave. There will be no questions. After that, I also have a statement for you, which I’m sure you’ll find interesting.’ Dan caught his look, suppressed a shiver at the words. His part in the growing drama.

Adam turned to his side and touched the woman’s shoulder. She looked down at a piece of paper, took a deep, gulping breath and began falteringly to read. More flashes strobed around the room.

‘Nicola … Nicola is my only daughter … my only child. She’s a beautiful girl. She’s bright and kind and loving … just … everything you could want from a young girl. But she’s more than my daughter. Much more … as she’s grown older, she’s become my friend too … my best friend. It’s not always easy, being two women alone trying to get on in the world, but we … we look after each other and when one of us is down, the other one picks her up. Nicola is … she’s my world and I love her with all my heart. She’s all I’ve really got in life.’

Karen Reece’s voice faded. Adam reached out an arm and wound it around her shoulders. Dan thought he looked angry and guilt-ridden, as though he felt he was responsible for her suffering. Was he thinking of Gibson, sitting in front of him at the Leisure Centre, going through that act, how he could have stopped all this if he’d realised?

She dabbed at her tears with a sleeve, continued. ‘Nicola is … she’s a … a kind and gentle person. To the man who has her, I say she would never harm anyone. Never. So please … please … don’t harm her. Please … see how much I’m suffering and how desperate I am and … please … let her go. Let Nicola go.’

Now, for the first time she lifted her eyes from the piece of paper and looked at the press pack leering down upon her, the cold, unblinking eyes of the cameras, the eager microphones, the scribbling notebooks. Her eyes widened and she choked on a breath.

Adam squeezed tighter and she steadied herself. ‘Please … please, please, let her come home safely to me … my little girl … my Nicola.’ Her voice faltered, was lost in her helpless sobbing.

The policewoman quickly got up, took Karen’s hand and led her back out through the door. Adam watched them go, drumming a finger on the table, his face set. Dan felt a lump in his throat and swallowed hard. He heard a gentle sigh from Nigel too, knew his sons would get a big hug when Dad returned home tonight.

‘Right … ladies and gentlemen, I’ve got a couple more things to update you with,’ said Adam, looking around the room. ‘Firstly, we still have no reported sightings at all of either Nicola, the man or the car. We desperately need some, so I renew my appeal to the public. If you think you’ve seen something – whatever it might be – please come forward.’

Adam waited while the journalists noted that down. Dan knew exactly what was coming next and took a couple of deep breaths. He’d never been in a situation remotely like this before.

‘Secondly, I have another important piece of information,’ said Adam. ‘Can I ask Dan Groves from Wessex Tonight to come and join me at the front please?’

Dan did, sat down at the table with Adam. He tried to ignore the buzz of puzzled conversation that rumbled around the room and the flaring of more camera flashes.

‘I can now reveal the man who we believe abducted Nicola left a series of messages in the form of letters. They were addressed to Dan. It seems the man saw him on the television and formed some kind of attachment to him. The man claims the letters contain a code giving clues about where Nicola is.’

Dan tried hard to keep a straight face as the journalists, cameramen and photographers stared at him. El was shaking his head hard, but it wasn’t stopping him from aiming that long lens right in Dan’s face. He felt a prickling sweat spreading from the base of his back.

‘It’s highly unusual, but because of that, I have had to treat Dan as part of this investigation,’ continued Adam. ‘The letters have been shown to him. You’ll appreciate I can’t go into detail as it may hamper the inquiry, but Dan has a statement to make. Again there will be no questions and despite his association with many of you here today, I have asked him not to make any further comment, as this could cause problems for the investigation. I know you will respect that. Finding Nicola has to be our utmost priority.’

For the first time, Dan appreciated how intimidating it was to be the subject of the media’s insatiable hunger. He’d been part of the pack enough times, safe in its group strength and anonymity, but never before the lonely prey.

All he could see were expectant faces, lenses, microphones, dancing blurs of light in his eyes from the camera flashes. All the countless times he’d stood talking to a camera didn’t help at all. Then it had been dispassionate, reporting on something he had no stake in, just doing his professional duty. Now it was intensely personal. He’d been singled out by Gibson as his messenger, and what he did and said could decide the fate of a young girl.

He swallowed hard, reached into his notebook for the statement he’d agreed with Adam earlier. Carefully worded, to give the hacks something to interest them and, more importantly, Gibson too.

‘The man says he’s an admirer of my work, and that’s why he’s written to me,’ Dan began, wondering at how shaky his voice sounded. ‘Within the letters, he claims there are coded references to where Nicola is being kept. He believes I might be able to solve them and find her. I have tried my hardest, but have been unable to. I am, however, keen to help in any way I can, so I make this appeal. If the man is listening, or sees my words reported in a newspaper, I ask this. Please let Nicola go. She is an innocent young girl who has done nothing wrong. Please let her go. If he can’t find it in himself to do that, at least please get in touch again with another clue that might help me work out where she is.’

When the press conference was over, Nigel drove them back to the studios. He’d been full of the questions Dan had promised Adam he wouldn’t answer. Nigel understood, but left him at the office with some fatherly words. ‘It sounds like you’re getting drawn into something pretty murky. Just take care, OK? And don’t forget which side of the fence – or story – you’re supposed to be on.’

As he climbed the stairs to the editing suites, Dan noticed he was still feeling shaky. He’d forgotten about his ankle in the nervousness of the press conference, but it was aching again. He was tired too. He wanted to get the day over and go home, lock himself away, cuddle his beloved dog and have a whisky. The Swamp was taking advantage of his fragility and starting to suck him in again.

He sat with a picture editor and put tonight’s story together, interrupted a couple of times by a fizzing Lizzie.

‘I knew I’d be lucky one day,’ she gushed. ‘A great story like this and we’ve got a personal involvement. I want you on every night telling us about it. That’s every night, you understand? The cops need you on this one, and there’s going to be a price.’

A long finger extended and a perfectly manicured nail began wagging right in his face.

‘It’s a story a night, and an exclusive one at that. It’s a fair deal. I want wall-to-wall coverage. I want every hint, nuance and detail. I want it live and I want it poignant. The viewers will love it. I want them to know we’re the ones with the inside track on the hunt for Nicola. They’ll be switching to us in droves. I want the works! I knew it was a good idea of mine to get you back in with the police …’

‘Your idea?’

‘Yes, mine. Oh, I can just see the ratings now …’

Dan couldn’t find the strength for any further argument, promised he’d deliver and eased her out of the edit suite.

He began the report with the picture of Nicola, then cut to her mother’s tearful words. It was classical TV, get the most important, most emotional material in first, true to another of the maxims of the medium – start with a bang and make sure the boring, basic data always comes later.

Then it was pictures of the police carrying out door-to-door inquiries in the street and a couple of clips of interview with local people. After that, a few seconds of Adam, asking for public help, followed by a graphic with the descriptions of Nicola, Gibson and the car. They didn’t name Gibson. Adam was holding that back for another story when he might have to appeal directly to him. The thought made Dan shudder again. He knew who’d be doing the appealing, if it came to that.

As he watched the report back, his mind wandered in imaginings of what was happening to Nicola. Where was she? In some cold cellar, alone in the dark, tied up and gagged? Bruised and beaten? Or worse, much worse? Why did men usually abduct children? He didn’t want to think about that, distracted himself by picking up his phone and sending a text message to Claire. His body and mind felt strangely cold. He needed the reassurance of some warmth in his life.

After the report, it was his interview in the studio, a two-way, as they were known. Dan didn’t often feel nervous when broadcasting live, but this time his hands were shaking. His imagination kept flashing up a picture of Nicola, lying in the corner of that cellar, hungry, terrified, too frightened even to cry. What must she be going through? Almost nine years old, her only experiences of the world love and kindness … until now.

He’d never so much as met her and he kept trying to suppress the thought, but Dan knew he felt responsible for what would become of Nicola. He wondered if this was how Adam felt about every case. It wasn’t an easy weight to carry, to say the least. And as for himself – if he was honest, what was making it worse was that he had always made a point in life of evading true responsibility. Himself and Rutherford, that had been about it. And now, suddenly a young girl to think of too …