Gone Astray (27 page)

Maggie was disappointed to be proved wrong and scolded herself for letting her personal feelings about Kathryn cloud her judgement. She didn’t like the girl but she knew better than to let
it sway her.

If Sarah Stockton was surprised to find them back on her doorstep she hid it well. As did Kathryn, who’d skipped her GCSE science exam because she was so upset about her
friend being missing. Maggie thought about Rosie’s diary entries and bit her lip.

‘Will this take long?’ Kathryn asked Umpire.

‘That depends on whether you’re going to tell the truth or not.’

Kathryn blanched and sat down next to her mum on the leather corner sofa in the sitting room.

‘Who is GS?’

Kathryn immediately became flustered.

‘I’ve already said, I don’t know.’

‘Don’t bullshit me, Kathryn, I’m not in the mood,’ said Umpire, unsmiling. ‘I think you know who it is because Rosie told you about him.’

‘I have no idea who you’re talking about.’

As Kathryn leaned against her mother for support, Maggie was struck by how young and scared she looked now she’d dropped the bravado.

‘We have evidence in our possession which suggests Rosie was being harassed by someone she knows as GS and we think you are an acquaintance of his. If GS turns out to be the person
responsible for her going missing and you refuse to tell us who it is, you could be in serious trouble for obstructing the investigation.’

Kathryn burst into tears. ‘I don’t know anyone whose name begins with GS. You can check my phone, my computer, everything. I’m not lying and I haven’t done anything
wrong. Mum, tell him!’ She fell into her mother’s arms and sobbed. Sarah turned on Umpire furiously.

‘How dare you threaten my daughter like that? She’s just a child.’

‘So is Rosie, and she’s been missing for two days. I need to find out who GS is,’ he shot back.

‘If I knew, I would tell you,’ wailed Kathryn. ‘But I honestly don’t.’

Umpire was about to reply but Maggie lightly touched his arm to stop him. ‘Can I ask something?’ she whispered. He nodded.

‘Kathryn, have you introduced Rosie to any boys recently who have taken a shine to her? Maybe they told you afterwards that they fancied her?’

Maggie posed her question in the gentlest voice she could manage, which seemed to calm Kathryn down. The teenager wiped her eyes roughly with the tips of her fingers.

‘She met a couple of my friends at Sasha’s birthday party, but neither liked her in that way, if you know what I mean. I don’t mean to sound horrible, but they both preferred
Lily.’

‘So you haven’t given Rosie’s mobile number to boys you know?’

‘Are you for real?’ Kathryn almost laughed. ‘If her dad found out she was texting or chatting to a boy he’d go mad. I wouldn’t want to get her into any more
trouble. Her dad’s strict enough as it is.’

Was she lying again? Before Maggie could decide, Umpire suddenly announced he had no further questions and that he and Maggie were leaving.

‘I’m sorry if I upset you,’ he said to Kathryn.

She tried to look nonchalant as she shrugged but her tear-streaked face showed how upset she was.

‘If you suddenly remember who GS is, you must tell us,’ he added.

‘I promise you I don’t know who that is,’ said Kathryn with such conviction that Maggie finally believed her.

They were almost at the door when he turned back.

‘Actually, I do have one more question, Kathryn. Do you own a pair of bright green, high-heeled sandals, with an ankle strap? Sort of summery?’

Kathryn looked like she’d just swallowed something unpleasant.

‘No way. I can’t stand green.’

‘I think she’s telling the truth,’ said Umpire as they walked back to Angel’s Reach. ‘She doesn’t know who GS is.’

‘But it can’t be a coincidence Rosie wrote about someone harassing her and then she goes missing. Maybe GS aren’t his real initials.’

‘Did Rosie make any mention of GS asking her for money anywhere in her diary? No? Yet we know the crayon writer is obsessed with the Kinnocks’ win. This GS character, on the other
hand, is obsessed with her,’ said Umpire as they reached the Kinnocks’ front gate. ‘I’m not convinced they’re the same person. GS will turn out to be some poor kid
who’s got an unrequited crush on Rosie. If it sounds dramatic from the way she writes it, it’s probably because she doesn’t know how to handle the situation.’

‘But what about the condom trace on the skirt in the bush? What if GS had something to do with that getting there?’

‘There’s been an update on that. Matheson doesn’t think Rosie was wearing the skirt when the blood loss occurred. Apparently, the tests he ran show that the blood soaked into
the tulle overlay first and then onto the skirt fabric beneath it, rather than the other way round. He thinks it’s more likely the skirt was used to staunch whatever wound the blood was
coming from and that the condom trace was most likely left there another time.’

‘I don’t know whether that’s good news or bad,’ said Maggie darkly. ‘It doesn’t change the fact a condom was used at some point.’

‘I hate to break it to you, DC Neville, but fifteen-year-old girls do have sex sometimes, underage or not. You seem really intent on holding up Rosie as some kind of paragon of
virtue.’

Maggie stared at him, shocked. ‘Do I?’

‘Yes. I didn’t realize you were so conservative. It’s the same every time Suzy Breed’s name crops up,’ he said, looking amused.

‘I’m not a prude, sir,’ she blustered.

‘I’ll have to take your word for that.’

Maggie felt herself blush. Keen to steer the conversation away from sex, she suggested GS might be someone Rosie knew from living in Mansell.

‘The diary entry implied Kathryn knows him, but what if Rosie introduced him to Kathryn and not the other way round?’ she said.

Umpire pondered her theory for a second. ‘Okay, call Cassie Perrie, the friend Rosie sent the email to, and see if she knows anyone called GS.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. I can’t spare anyone else. It’s just a phone call; I’m not asking you to interrogate her. Admin support will give you the number for her mum. Cassie’s
only fifteen so you’ll need to go through her first.’

Maggie was delighted to be trusted with a task that went beyond her remit, however small. It felt like another big step forward in repairing their working relationship.

‘I’ll get on to it straight away,’ she said.

‘Good.’ He stopped by his car. ‘Right, I need to get back to the station to chase up Suzy Breed’s phone records. Hopefully they’ll tell us what’s going on
between her and Mack and whether it has any bearing on Rosie going missing. I seriously doubt it has, especially now we know about the crayon writer, but we can at least put that line of inquiry to
bed, so to speak.’

Maggie caught the humour in his voice and blushed again. She stared down at the gravel driveway, wishing it would swallow her up.

‘Keep on at Lesley until she remembers where she’s seen the suspect before and call me the minute she does,’ Umpire went on. Then he stopped abruptly and stared at her.
‘You look tired, Neville. I don’t want DI Gant on my back telling me you’re overloaded, so DC Small should stay with the Kinnocks tonight if they want him to and you can have a
break.’

‘Sir, I’m fine, really,’ she said, appalled to think she looked otherwise.

‘It wasn’t a request, Neville. I’m well aware how draining FL duty can be because DI Gant tells me often enough. But he’s right to worry and I need you rested and ready
to deal with what’s ahead.’

‘What do you mean, sir?’

The smile fell from his face and he looked pained. ‘We’re almost at the end of day three and it feels like we’re no closer to finding her. I think we’re in for the long
haul.’

He sang all the way home listening to Absolute Radio. It didn’t matter whether he knew each song as it came on, he still belted out the words at the top of his voice,
substituting ‘la-la-la’ for those he didn’t know.

His headache had finally dissipated and he felt invincible. He swept back along the M40 to Mansell as though he owned it and ignored the motorists who sounded their horns at him for cutting them
up. Let them beep. Soon he’d own a car they’d all wish they could drive, rather than this crappy, second-hand Peugeot that wasn’t even his.

His conversation with the police officer in the incident room played on a loop in his head. Every time he reached the end he burst into gales of laughter. Surely now they’d sit up and take
notice: there was no question in his mind that they wouldn’t bow to his demands.

The previous evening he had spent hours on the Internet trying to establish the best means for them to send him his money. Dropping it off in a bag like they did in films was quickly dismissed;
banknotes could be too easily traced through their serial numbers and the police were bound to stake out the handover. Then he toyed with the idea of getting the Kinnocks to deposit it into an
untraceable Austrian bank account called a ‘Sparbuch’, but further digging revealed he would have to involve a third party to set it up and that was out of the question. Other offshore
accounts he researched required him to present his passport to set them up – too easily traceable – so the only other feasible option was a prepaid credit card. The Kinnocks would have
to get their bank to issue one in a false name provided by him, then arrange a collection or delivery point. It wasn’t ideal – there was a risk they could trace him through his
purchases if he wasn’t careful – but he should be able to sell the card on and pocket the balance. There were a couple of websites he found that explained exactly how to do that. And
although most pre-paid cards had a load limit of only £5,000, he expected customers as wealthy as the Kinnocks could demand more. He’d come across a Visa card called a T24 Black that
could take $50,000.

Back indoors he ran straight upstairs, the soles of his trainers slapping hard against the stripped floorboards. He reached the door to the spare room, which he’d commandeered as an
office, and threw it wide open. The painted green walls were hidden beneath piles of newspaper cuttings, photographs and pages of A4 paper filled in his neat handwriting. Above his desk, in the
centre of the wall, was a snapshot of the girl’s family that was originally published in the
Mansell Echo
. He wanted to scream every time he looked at it. The parents were smiling as
they raised their glasses of champagne at the camera, while the girl clutched a matching flute filled with what looked like orange juice. Propped up in front of them was an oversized cheque made
out for the sum of £15 million from Camelot, the distinctive crossed-fingers logo of the National Lottery in one corner and the EuroMillions logo in the other. He clenched his fists as he
studied the cheque. It wasn’t even like he was asking for the whole lot. He just wanted something as a thank you.

Next to the photograph was a torn-out page from the
Echo
with his picture on it. Or rather his side view, taken inside the garage moments after he’d let the mother shove in front
of him. He’d kept it to remind himself why he was doing all this.

‘You will pay up,’ he spoke aloud to the parents’ smiling faces. ‘You have no choice.’

The alarm on his watch beeped to remind him it was time for his testosterone injection. As he retrieved his syringe kit from his sports bag, he saw there was hardly any liquid left in the vial.
Rooting around the bottom of his bag he realized it was his last one and immediately he broke out in a sweat. He had just enough now, but if he didn’t get some more before his next injection
was due in a couple of days, his body would go into withdrawal. The last time he tried to come off it he’d become depressed, could barely eat or sleep, and the pain in his back was
agonizingly worse than it had been before. He couldn’t face that again.

He reached for his phone.

‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘I need some pumpers.’

The person he’d called knew exactly what he meant.

‘Already? I only got you that last batch a fortnight ago. It was a month’s supply.’

‘Don’t fucking lecture me. Can you get me some or not?’

The line went silent for a moment and he kicked himself for being rude to the one person he needed to keep on side.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. Can you sort me out?’

‘Yeah. When do you want it?’

‘Today. I can meet you at the gym.’

‘It’s a bit short notice. I don’t know if I can . . .’

‘Please, I need it,’ he said, hating himself for begging but knowing he had little choice.

‘Okay. I’ll text you when it’s ready. I’m at home now. Just think about how much you’re taking though, mate. This stuff can fuck you up big time.’

He rubbed the ridge on his forehead, the incontrovertible proof that it already had. But he couldn’t cut back, not now. He had to stay strong.

‘I know it does, I just lost track of my dosage. I’ll be more careful with the next lot. Thanks, Rob, you’re a mate.’

No matter how deep into the recesses of her memory she trawled, Lesley couldn’t place the man behind her in the queue. The police said they were going to enhance the CCTV
image so she could see it more clearly but, until that happened, she was left with only the grainy shot to ponder.

There was a kernel of recognition, but from where? Biting her nails as she perched on the edge of the sofa, she thought about everyone she knew. Was it someone’s son or brother? What about
a customer at the optician’s on the high street where she used to work part-time, or maybe a teacher from Rosie’s old school? But still she drew a blank and Mack grew more and more
frustrated with her until Belmar, hearing him shout, came back into the lounge and persuaded him to leave her alone to give her space to think.

Mack left his phone with her so she could use the picture on the
Echo
’s website to jog her memory. Straight away she checked his text messages to see if there were any more from
Suzy Breed but there were no new ones, and the ones she’d previously read had been deleted. Had he cut off contact because the police were asking about her, or was he using another means to
stay in touch? Lesley debated bringing it up but decided to bury her anger for the time being. She didn’t have the emotional capacity to deal with it on top of everything else.