Shades of Evil (18 page)

‘Never. I couldn’t swear to it, of course, but I always thought that little madam had pinched them.’

‘The young man you saw with Lauren on those occasions, what was he like?’

‘I never saw his face. He had one of those hood things on. You know the sort I mean, like a jumper but with a hood?’

‘I know the sort you mean.’ The same as worn by the man Tony Swift had seen running down the road.

‘Although,’ she said, ‘I did see Lauren in town with him once. At least, I’m fairly certain it was the same one. It was back in the summer. He had a shaved head. You know how they have it these days? They used to call them skinheads years back.’

A shaved head. They weren’t talking about Ricky Marshall then.

‘Would you recognize him if you saw him again?’ he asked.

‘The one in town? Possibly. I don’t know really. And as I said, I’m not even sure it was the one who came to the house with her. I think it was, but it’s hard to tell.’

Their tea was drunk and Max decided to get her across the road while she was in a calmer state of mind.

‘Shall we go and see what’s what over the road then, Mrs Hollingsworth?’

She gave Vincent Cole’s house a swift look as if she expected all sorts of demons to be lurking behind its walls.

‘If we must,’ she replied, resigned.

They left her bungalow and walked slowly across the road to Vincent Cole’s house.

Max went straight to the sitting room. She followed, and her gaze, as Max had guessed it would, went straight to the old ceiling beams.

‘Right,’ she said, shaking herself. ‘Let’s see.’

She walked to the large mahogany sideboard, pulled open the doors and looked inside. Then she spun round to face him. ‘Have you lot moved stuff?’

‘No. Why? Is something missing?’

‘A large silver rose bowl. And a chess set. I can’t think what it was made from, but it was a gift from a friend of his in South America and I think it was valuable. They should be here. Of course, Vince could have put them somewhere else, I suppose.’ She looked up at him. ‘I can’t imagine why he’d do that though, can you? It would make no sense at all.’

Max wished he could remember the last time anything had made sense.

Frank Carlisle walked round the corner into the driveway of Mason’s Cottage, and was relieved to see that there was no sign of his daughter-in-law’s car. With luck, she’d be working. He guessed it would take more than her husband’s release from a police cell to stop Alison earning commission.

As he knocked on the door, he wondered if every father did that. Frank had three other children and, when visiting their homes, he simply walked round to the back door, pushed it open and shouted out to announce his arrival. They didn’t mind. If they’d considered it an invasion of their privacy, they would have said so.

There was no response so he knocked again. He was about to turn round and go home when his son’s dog ambled into view.

‘Hello, Cally. Is he round the back?’

Frank walked up the path between house and garage, and saw Steve shovelling snow from the patio.

When his son straightened, Frank realized that Ruth hadn’t been exaggerating. She’d called in yesterday afternoon and said he’d looked worse than she’d ever seen him. Frank had dismissed her concerns. After all, he’d only been released a few hours.

‘Give him a good night’s sleep in his own bed,’ Frank had told her, ‘and he’ll be as right as rain.’

A night’s sleep had done nothing to help, it seemed.

‘This is a surprise, Dad. Is everything all right?’

‘Yes. Just thought I’d call and see how you are. Is Alison working?’

‘She is, yes.’

As they spoke, Cally nuzzled Frank’s hand. Even the dog seemed sad.

‘I’ll get myself a spade,’ Frank said. ‘We’ll soon have this cleared.’

‘Don’t be daft. It can wait.’

‘Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today,’ Frank said, heading down the garden to the shed. ‘I’m not totally buggered yet, you know,’ he called over his shoulder.

He found a spade and was soon working alongside Steve.

‘It’s a cheap way of keeping warm,’ he said, enjoying the exercise.

‘It is, but don’t do your back in, Dad.’

‘I’m used to digging on the allotment,’ Frank reminded him, ‘and this is nothing. I remember when the snow was up to the – what?’ he asked, spotting Steve’s smile. ‘Ah, you’ve heard that before, haven’t you?’

‘A few times, Dad.’

It was good to see Steve smile, but it didn’t take the dark shadows from his eyes. The lad must have been to hell and back.

Frank felt guilty as they quietly cleared the snow. He should be supporting Steve, not bringing him bad news. But he’d come here determined to have some straight talking. If they were closer as a family, if they said what was on their mind, maybe Steve would never have been in this mess.

‘It’s not often we see you here,’ Steve remarked after a while.

‘It’s not. To be honest, I can’t say as I’ve ever felt particularly welcome.’

‘I know, Dad, and I’m really sorry about that.’

The apology hurt, and Frank wished he’d kept quiet. But what was the point? Families
didn’t
keep quiet. They didn’t keep feelings to themselves for fear of hurting one another.

‘So where’s Alison today?’ Frank wasn’t interested but he felt the need to make conversation.

‘The company’s holding an exhibition in Liverpool. Today and tomorrow. She’ll be back on Saturday morning.’

‘Liverpool?’ Frank scoffed. ‘Can’t she drive home from there?’

‘She has customers to entertain in the evening, Dad. You know how it is.’

Frank knew exactly how it was and he very much doubted if customers would be entertained.

Cally, not a fan of the outdoor life, took herself off to the shed. She’d find a warm spot and settle down to sleep.

‘I bet you’re glad to be home?’ Frank said quietly, and Steve nodded.

‘More than you’ll know. It was a bit – worrying.’

‘I daresay it was.’

‘In future I’ll only buy logs by the load and, instead of walking Cally over the hills, I’ll walk her through the village.’

‘Don’t be daft. You can’t let something like this change you.’

‘But it does.’ He gave Frank a weak smile. ‘So what have you
really
called in for?’

Such directness took Frank by surprise. It shouldn’t have. When you didn’t feel welcome, you didn’t visit unless you had to.

‘How are you and Alison getting on?’ he asked, hedging around the subject.

‘The same as ever.’ Which didn’t answer the question. ‘Why do you ask?’

Damn it, Frank had come with the intention of telling his son the truth and he was determined not to leave until he’d done just that. Maybe it wasn’t his place to say anything. God knows, he’d never interfered in his children’s lives before. But Alison had no right to cheat or lie.

‘I saw her,’ he confided, wishing his voice was a little stronger. ‘About six weeks back. I was in the car with Bill going to Burnley. Alison was in the car in front of us. She stopped at the lay-by, left her car and went to someone else’s, someone who was waiting for her. She kissed him.’ He realized he’d been holding his breath and he exhaled. ‘It wasn’t the sort of kiss she’d give a friend either.’

There, it was said.

He waited for some reaction from Steve, but there was nothing. The haunted look in his eyes didn’t change. The shoulders didn’t droop any lower.

‘I see,’ was all he said.

‘You knew?’ Frank asked.

‘No. But I’m not surprised.’

A blackbird landed on the snow-covered wooden bench about a yard from them. Perhaps it thought they were digging for worms. The ground was frozen too hard for beaks to drag out food, but there was plenty in the garden. Seeds, nuts and fat balls hung from the trees.

‘Does Mum know?’ Steve asked.

‘I haven’t told her, no.’

‘Probably best not to,’ Steve said. ‘You know how she worries.’

‘Tell me about it.’

They smiled at that, and carried on clearing snow in a silence that, surprisingly, wasn’t uncomfortable.

‘Don’t worry about things,’ Steve said after a while. ‘I’ve done a lot of thinking. I’ve realized what’s important and I’m going to sort things out. Everything will be fine, you’ll see.’

‘I’m glad. And I’m sorry if I was wrong to tell you about Alison. I just had to and that’s all there is to it. It was on my mind. I don’t like cheats.’

‘Who does?’

‘And at a time like this—’

‘It’s all right, Dad. Don’t worry about it.’

Their spades clanged against the paving slabs as they worked, and the patio was soon clear. ‘Time to put the kettle on,’ Steve said, and Frank nodded.

It was a long time since he’d felt so close to his son.

That evening Jill sat in on the briefing. Given the mood Max was in, she soon wished she hadn’t. He was snapping at everyone. He wasn’t getting answers and patience had never been one of his virtues. He looked stressed, too. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his tie had been loosened.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘The guy wearing the hoody who was seen running down Longman Drive on Monday night is our number one priority. If he’s the same person Mrs Hollingsworth saw, he’s visited the house with Lauren and knows his way around.’

‘We’re getting CCTV checked in the area,’ someone said.

‘Good. And we need to speak to everyone who might have known Lauren. Her diaries haven’t given us anything yet. Make sure every number is checked and double checked.’

Jill knew they’d checked those numbers. Most entries consisted of an initial, maybe two, and a mobile number. The mobiles had long gone and it was proving almost impossible to get details of past owners.

‘Ask her flatmate again,’ Max said. ‘She might know of someone fitting an admittedly vague description. Speak to Ricky Marshall again. It might be worth talking to Father Gosling again, too. Perhaps he saw Lauren with someone wearing a hoody.’

‘What about the mysterious Josh?’ Jill asked. Have you found him yet?’

‘No.’

‘You need to,’ Jill said with certainty. ‘If he was constantly on the phone to her, she knew him well. She would only take someone she trusted to her dad’s home.’

‘We’ve only her flatmate’s word that the bloke even existed,’ Max pointed out.

‘But surely you’ve checked Lauren’s phone?’

‘She changed her sim card,’ Max reminded her impatiently. ‘Now then –’ Dismissing Jill, he held up a sheet of paper.

‘This is the list of items missing from Vincent Cole’s home. It adds up to a fair sum. We need to ask around and see if someone’s tried to sell any of it.’

Jill’s mind began to wander. If this hoody-wearing young man had killed Vincent Cole, it must stand to reason that he’d also murdered Lauren.

He must have known of Lauren’s movements on the day in question. Had he also known Steve Carlisle’s? Had Lauren mentioned Steve to this person? Why? And in what context?

‘Given Lauren’s lifestyle,’ Max was saying, ‘it’s a fair bet that whoever stole these items is feeding a drug habit.’

‘What about the keys found on Lauren when she was murdered?’ Jill piped up.

‘One for her car and one for her flat,’ Max said, frowning to indicate she’d interrupted his train of thought.

‘But what about the key to her dad’s house? She’d called at her dad’s that morning expecting him to be out, right? So she must have had a key on her.’

‘We haven’t found it,’ Max said.

‘So it stands to reason the killer took it?’ Jill asked.

‘Nothing stands to reason,’ Max muttered. ‘All I can say is that we’re still looking for it.’

‘OK,’ she said. ‘So, if we assume –’ She saw the look on Max’s face. ‘I know, I know. Assume nothing. But my guess is that Lauren and this unknown wearer of the hoody were stealing stuff from her dad’s place together. That means she knew him well and trusted him. Deep down, she was a good girl and she loved her dad so—’

‘How do you figure that one?’ DS Fletcher called out in amazement. ‘She was stealing from him. She had a row with him and stormed out on the morning she was killed. Not the sort of love I’d want.’

‘She was a bright, happy girl who was doing very well at school until her mother died,’ Jill reminded the room in general. ‘They were a close family and Mrs Cole’s death was devastating for both Vincent and Lauren. Lauren turned away from the church
and
her father. She began playing truant and left school instead of going to uni as her dad had expected and hoped. She got herself a job, but couldn’t stick at that. She mixed with people who were afraid of nothing, who were experimenting with drugs. She tried anything that might ease the pain. She would have craved love from her dad, but he was lonely, and too wrapped up in his own pain to give it. She tried to get money from him, another attempt to get some attention. She boasted to her flatmate that her dad would give her anything. She wanted to be loved, told people that she was loved. In truth, she was lonely. Her dog was well cared for because he was all she had. Recently, she’d returned to the church and she would have returned to her father, too. Given time to heal, she would have been a bright happy woman again.’

She saw the smirks on their faces and heard a couple of whispered quips.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘was I stepping into the realms of psychology bollocks then? All I’m saying is that Lauren Cole loved her father. If she was allowing someone to steal from him, she would have known and trusted that person for a long time. It may be that she went to school with him even.’

Max must have decided to humour her.

‘There might be something in that,’ he said, but he sounded doubtful. ‘Talk to everyone who knew her – those who’ve known her for years as well as more recent acquaintances.’

‘And I bet his name is Josh,’ she couldn’t resist adding.

When the briefing was over, Jill was about to head to her office for her coat and then go home.

‘Jill, can I have word?’ Max called to her.

‘Yup.’ She walked over to him.

‘My office,’ he said, taking her by surprise.

They walked along the corridor to his office.

‘Well?’ She was curious now.

‘You’re staying at my place tonight.’

He perched on the edge of his desk and she could see he was waiting for an argument. Jill was too taken aback to give him one.

‘You what?’ she said.

‘You’re staying at my place.’

‘Blimey, quite the caveman, aren’t you? Why might I want to do that?’

For answer, he moved a couple of files on his desk and produced a large black and white photograph.

‘What’s this?’ she asked.

But she guessed that the hooded person in the photo might be fond of making late-night phone calls.

‘This person was outside your cottage. Now, I don’t suppose you get too many visitors wearing balaclavas, do you?’

‘Can’t say I do, Max.’

She was trying to make light of it to cover her shock.

‘Was this taken by the camera near my front door?’ she asked.

‘Yes, about five minutes before you got home last night.’

So it hadn’t been a fox after all.

‘Right,’ she said, unable to think of anything more appropriate.

‘So,’ he said briskly, ‘we’ll call at your place so that you can pack a few things and collect the cats. We’ll leave your car there. That way, he might think you’re inside. We’ll get all the lights put on timers. Also, we’re going to set up a caravan in Mrs Johnson’s drive. From there, we should be able to see anyone trespassing.’

Jill knew her neighbour would love that. She already saw herself as Miss Marple.

‘Right,’ she said again. ‘But I bet I could still—’

‘Flatten him? Maybe. Maybe not. I’d rather not take any chances just in case he’s an expert in Thai boxing, too. OK?’

She nodded. It was one thing being brave in Max’s office, but she knew from experience that it was a completely different matter when you wanted a shower and couldn’t banish that confounded scene from
Psycho
from your head.

‘He must phone first,’ she mused, ‘to see if I’m there.’

‘Maybe. He certainly doesn’t hang around on the phone for more than a second or two. Anyway, don’t worry, we’ll soon have him. Tell you what,’ he went on, ‘I need to call on Adam and Vivienne Smith but, when I’m done there, we’ll all go out for a meal. Me, you and the boys. I’ll even pay.’

‘Sounds good to me.’

‘Oh, and one other thing,’ Max added. ‘You don’t tell a living, breathing soul, right?’

‘Right.’

‘I mean it, Jill. We’re dealing with someone who knows you. Someone who knows we’re a couple.’

She was fully aware of that, and it wasn’t a comforting feeling.

Max had hoped that, as was usually the case, Adam Smith would be pounding the streets looking for his daughter. His wife, Vivienne, was far easier to deal with.

His luck was out, however. Adam Smith opened the door to him.

Max watched as Smith swayed in front of him. Not alcohol this time, Max suspected, but nerves. Smith might try to convince himself, as well as everyone else, that his daughter was lost on the streets, but even he must realize that, after so long, there was a very strong possibility that she was dead.

‘Nothing’s happened,’ Max assured him, ‘but I’d like a word if that’s all right. May I come in?’

Smith pulled the door open fully to allow him access.

‘What do you mean, nothing’s happened?’ he demanded.

‘I mean I don’t have anything to tell you other than that we may, and I stress the may, have had a positive sighting of your daughter in Blackpool.’

‘Blackpool?’

That threw him. It made a mockery of the hours he’d spent walking the streets of Harrington.

Vivienne Smith had been sitting in the lounge, but she rose to her feet, panic etched in every facial muscle.

No TV or radio had been on and Max guessed they had either been talking about their daughter or, more likely, simply staring into space, too terrified to voice their personal nightmares.

‘Hello, Mrs Smith,’ Max said, giving her what he hoped was a positive, upbeat sort of smile.

‘Did you say Blackpool?’ she asked, and Max nodded.

This room was like any other in the row of semidetached houses on West Street, but it had a sadness to it that seeped into your bones. He wondered what it had been like when Yasmin was living there. Filled with noise? Echoing with laughter? It was difficult to imagine.

The plasma TV screen was huge and to the side of that was an impressive audio system. There was a pebble-effect gas fire, a tan-coloured leather suite and cream carpets.

Max handed Adam Smith the photograph they’d pulled from the CCTV footage.

‘It’s the best we can do, I’m afraid,’ Max told them. ‘Would you say this is Yasmin?’

Max saw the way Smith’s chin quivered, and the way his jaw tightened as he strove for a tight grip on his emotions.

At first, Max thought the pain was from seeing his little girl in the photo. Then he realized it was because Smith couldn’t say for sure if it was Yasmin or not.

Wordlessly, he handed it to his wife.

‘That’s Yasmin,’ she said. ‘That’s our daughter, Chief Inspector.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘When was this taken?’ Smith asked.

‘Two nights ago.’ Max knew the couple expected him to go to Blackpool, collect Yasmin and bring her home. He only wished it was that simple. ‘The car she’s getting into is a white Mercedes,’ he went on, ‘but we can’t see anything to give us a clue as to its owner. No registration, no identifying marks, nothing. We’re scanning all other CCTV in Blackpool to see if we can get another sighting of either Yasmin or the car.’

Smith took the photo and stared at it for a few moments. Once again, emotion threatened to take over. Max was wrong; the emotion wasn’t due to not being able to recognize his own daughter, it was due to not daring to believe it could be her.

‘I wondered if you have more photos of Yasmin,’ Max said. ‘Or, even better, videos of her. We’d like to see the way she moves and talks, any gestures unique to her—’

‘We’ve given you photos,’ Smith muttered.

They’d given them two photos. In both, Yasmin had been smiling for the camera. The stance was too posed.

‘I know, and I’m asking for more. We have a lot of highly trained officers working on this, and it will be a great help if they can study Yasmin in more detail. If you have pictures where she’s been caught unawares, where she’s doing something other than looking at a camera, we’d be grateful.’

‘I’ll get them,’ Vivienne said.

She left the room briefly and returned clutching a large cake tin to her chest.

‘We’ll return them to you as soon as possible,’ Max promised.

When she lifted the lid, Max saw hundreds of photographs. They must have sorted them out over the last few months.

‘There are lots taken when she was a baby or a toddler,’ Vivienne warned.

‘They won’t be any use, will they?’ Smith snapped at his wife.

‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’ Preparing himself for the long haul, Max sat beside Mrs Smith and looked through them with her. Picture after picture.

One in particular caught his eye. It would have caught anyone’s eye. Fairly recent, it showed Yasmin dressed as Madonna. Instead of an innocent fifteen-year-old schoolgirl, she looked seductive and experienced. In short, she looked like every red-blooded man’s fantasy.

‘This one …’ Vivienne shot her husband an anxious look and spoke softly. ‘It was for a party at her friend’s house. They all dressed up like this. Yasmin thought it was a bit of fun, but then Beth, her friend, put pictures of everyone on the internet. Yasmin didn’t like that. She’s quite shy, you see, and she hates other people seeing her photo.’

Max longed to grab them both by their throats and shake them. Did they seriously imagine that finding a lost teenager was simply a case of having a couple of patrol cars on the streets ready to bring her home? Why in hell’s name hadn’t they mentioned this before?

‘Which internet site was it?’ Max asked, and Vivienne shook her head.

‘I don’t know about the internet,’ she apologized.

‘I need Beth’s address.’

‘Beth?’ Smith snapped. ‘You’ve got Beth’s address. You were given all her friends’ names and addresses.’

Yes, and they’d spoken to every last one of those friends. But while they’d checked everything on Yasmin’s computer, they hadn’t checked Beth’s.

Vivienne didn’t argue. She simply went to the address book by the phone, tore a page from the back, and carefully, stopping to double check, wrote down Beth’s address and phone number.

‘Thank you,’ Max said. ‘I need to take this photo, but I will let you have it back.’

They looked at every photo in that tin and, while there were several pictures of Yasmin that interested him, the Madonna lookalike was at the top of his list.