Torment (5 page)

“Who are you?” Susan asked.

“I’m Jennifer and this is my friend Mary,” the taller girl said.

“I’m Susan. I can’t really see you; it’s so dark in here. How old are you?”

“I’m ten,” said Jennifer.

“And I’m eight,” Mary jumped in. “How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-four,” Susan responded. There was silence for a few seconds and she thought the images were fading. Finally, the taller girl asked her if she could move.

“I … ow!” Susan cried out, trying to shift her position. “My head hurts and I think I’ve broken my leg.”

“It looks painful.”

“It is.” Susan tried to relax. “It’s Mary, isn’t it?”

“Yes. My brother broke his arm once when he fell out of a tree,” Mary gabbled on. “We had to take him to hospital and everything. He had a plaster on for six weeks. We all drew funny faces on it.” She chuckled. “That was around Christmas time. I love Christmas.”

“Me too,” said Jennifer.

“We’re all agreed then.” Susan gasped as she tried to move once more.

“You need to get to hospital,” Jennifer said seriously. “Does anyone know you’re here? Will someone come for you?”

“I don’t know, Jennifer. No one knew I was coming here. I didn’t know I was coming here myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m beginning to remember now. I was following someone and they led me here.”

“Why were you following somebody?”

“I … well, I was on a case.”

“A case?”

“Yes. I’m a journalist. Well, sort of. I’m going to university to study soon.”

“Really?” Mary said.

“Yes.” Susan paused and raised her hand to her head and felt the dampness in her hair. She rubbed her fingers together. “Well, I’ve really made a mess of things, landing down here,” she said. “This feels like blood.”

“It is,” Jennifer said.

Susan took a deep breath. “Do you think you could fetch help?”

The girls were silent and once more their images became fuzzy.

“Girls?  Are you still there?”

“We’re here,” Jennifer confirmed.

“There’s something wrong here isn’t there? You wouldn’t be here if you could get out would you?”

Again silence.

“What happened to you Jennifer?”

“I … I don’t think I can talk about it.”

“Did something bad happen, Mary?”

“Sorry, got to go.”

“Go? Go where? Jennifer? Mary? Don’t go!”

The basement fell silent and the big darkness returned.

7

Tuesday

Eight o’clock in the morning and Strong’s team were assembled in the CID room on the first floor of Wood Street police station. The cacophony of chatter subsided as Strong entered.

“Okay, ladies and gents,” he said, “This is what we know: Susan Brown, twenty-four years old, five six, medium build.” He placed a recent photograph of a mousy-haired woman on the display board and wrote her name and address below in felt-tip pen. “Last known contact with her sister, Gillian Ramsay, on Wednesday when they spoke on the phone. Susan, for the past four years, without fail, has visited her father in the Riverside Lodge Nursing Home every week.” He paused for a few seconds. “Last Sunday, she didn’t turn up. That was confirmed by the home manager.”

“So, apart from not visiting her dad for the first time in years,” Kelly Stainmore said, “she could just be pissed off with the same old routine. Maybe she had something better to do.”

Strong shook his head.

“What makes you uneasy, guv?” Jim Ryan asked.

“Besides no sign of her in her flat for the past few days?”

“Boyfriend perhaps?” Stainmore suggested.

“None that we know of. But try this.” Strong took a tape from his pocket, placed it in the cassette player on the desk in front of him and pressed the play button. The enigmatic message from Susan’s phone began.

The team listened to the voice, the hesitancy then the excitement.

“This was left on Saturday afternoon,” Strong told them. “I’ve got BT producing a proper recording and tracing the number. Luke, can you chase that up?”

Ormerod nodded.

“Next, her car is missing. It’s a silver Nissan Micra.” A photo of a typical model was pinned up. “This is the registration.” More writing on the board. “So far there are no reports of any incidents involving this vehicle but we really need to find it. Top priority, John.” Strong looked at Darby. “I’ve got this out to traffic and uniform so can you keep them focussed?”

“Guv,” Darby acknowledged.

“Now we need to narrow down exactly when Susan went missing, Sam, Trevor, organise a couple of uniforms and get down there. See if the neighbours can throw any light on that. Probably last sighting of the car might give us the best idea.”

Strong began to pace the room. “At the moment, Gillian was the last person we know who spoke to her. We don’t even know if Susan heard that message on Saturday.”

He stopped and looked round the room at the various members of the team. Some were writing notes, some looking at the briefing board, others just looking at him.

“Okay, I’m not saying there’s any connection whatsoever, we don’t take anything for granted but Jim, do you want to bring us up to speed with your Misper enquiry?”

Ryan approached the display board and stuck a photograph of a young blonde-haired woman onto it. “Helena Cryanovic,” he said, writing her name below. “Twenty-three years old. Originally from Albania. Arrived here last November with her sister, Magda.” He looked round at the assembled officers. “Initially reported missing by Magda on Friday when she failed to return home from visiting friends in Leeds. But, as you know, we couldn’t make it official until twenty-four hours had passed.”

“These ‘friends’,” Ormerod commented, “are they part of the Albanian community too?”

Before Ryan could answer, Sergeant Sidebotham entered the room, his eyes searching out the DCI.

“Sorry to interrupt, Colin,” he said, “but I’ve just taken a call from an irate farmer out beyond Pontefract. He’s complaining there’s a car blocking the entrance to a field he wants to spray.”

Groans emanated from the team.

“Go on, Bill,” Strong said, “what’s the punchline?”

A wry smile spread across the old sergeant’s face. “I reckon it’s that Nissan Micra you’re all looking for. Traffic are on their way.”

“Luke, Kelly, Can you get over there and check it out. You know the drill. I’ll be along as soon as I can. Keep me informed.”

Ormerod and Stainmore gathered their notes and hurriedly left the room.

Strong turned towards the display board, brows furrowed. “Jim, you thought she had a boyfriend?” he asked, bringing everyone’s attention back to the missing Albanian woman.

“That’s right, guv. Stefan Szymanski.” Ryan stuck his photo on the board and wrote the name below. “Thirty-one. Originally from Zakopane near the Czech border. Came here in 1998.” He turned to face the room. “Vice have him on their radar. Known to have a close association with this man, Stanislav Mirczack.” Another photo, this time a brutal looking bald man in his mid-thirties, was stuck to the board.

“You went to see Szymanski yesterday, didn’t you?” Strong asked.

“Malcolm and myself, that’s right. He said he’d split up with Helena at the beginning of last week.”

Strong’s mobile burst into life. Taking it from his pocket, Ormerod’ name lit up on the display. He turned away, holding up his hand in apology to Ryan. “Yes Luke.” He listened for a few seconds then ended the call.

“Sorry, Jim,” Strong said, “Traffic have confirmed the car they found is Susan Brown’s. I’m going down there now. You and Malcolm stick with your missing person. What’s your next move?”

“We’re trying to trace the friends she visited,” Ryan said. “Magda said she always used buses so we’ll see if there’s CCTV from any she might have been on. Also see if anyone remembers her on Thursday night.”

“All right, let’s reconvene at one, unless something develops.”

The scene of activity was a fifteen minute drive away. The forecast sunshine still hadn’t broken through the morning cloud cover. Traffic’s marked Granada was parked nose to nose with the Nissan, the two uniformed officers in conversation with Ormerod. Stainmore’s pool car was at the back of Susan’s. Behind, a tractor was tucked into the hedge, the large white barrel on the back and folded-up spraying arms evidence of the farmer’s intentions.

Strong drew into the lane entrance about fifty yards before them. As he got out, Ormerod approached.

“It’s definitely her car, guv,” Ormerod said. “Locked up and no sign of her.”

“Let’s hear what he’s got to say.” Strong nodded in the direction of the farmer talking to Stainmore.

The man in charge of the tractor was in his mid twenties dressed in wellington boots, short-sleeved tee shirt and a flat cap. Strong wondered if all farm labourers were born into a flat cap. The radio in the tractor’s cab was announcing the nine o’clock news bulletin much to the interest of the black and white mongrel dog inside.

“So when can ah get on wi’ me sprayin’ then?” the farmer was asking Stainmore. “Ah’ve got three more fields to do today, you know.”

“Mr er …” Strong said, extending a hand to the young man.

“Clay. Simon Clay.” He took Strong’s hand in a gigantic paw.

“Simon, I’m Detective Chief Inspector Strong.” He hesitated at his first official use of his title, albeit acting.

“You do surprise me.” Clay responded. “In’t thee a bit high-powered for just a bit of obstruction?”

Strong smiled, amused by the incongruous maturity and confidence of the young lad. “We’ve actually been looking for this vehicle and I happened to be in the area, that’s all,” he said.

“Ah’d ‘ave moved it mesen,” Simon offered in his broad Yorkshire accent, “but you lot might ‘ave charged me wi’ criminal damage or summat.”

“Ah, you’re probably right,” Strong said. “Best leave these things to us. Now I don’t suppose you can cast any light on how long this car has been here, can you?”

“Well, it wun’t ‘ere on Friday. Ah come past about nine on me way to the Black Horse.”

“And this is a regular route you take?”

“Once or twice a week.”

“Okay, thanks, Simon. I think it’s best if you rearrange your schedule and carry on with the other fields you have to spray. We’ll get a low loader down here to remove this but it may be this afternoon before that happens. In the meantime, can you give a quick statement to DC Ormerod here?”

Clay shrugged and set off with the detective towards the pool car.

“What do you think then, guv?” Stainmore asked.

“Something’s not right, Kelly.” He turned to look all round at the horizon. “What’s up there?” He indicated the farm buildings at the top of the lane where he’d parked his Mondeo.

“Not too familiar with round here,” Stainmore responded.

“Simon!” Strong shouted, as the farmer and Ormerod were about to sit in the car. “Simon, that’s not your place is it?”

Clay chuckled. “No chance.”

“Any ideas?”

“It’s the old Collinson place. Old man Wilf died about ten year since. His lad, Stanley, weird sod, wanted nowt to do wi’ it, so it were sold to the Ingleby Estates from Thirsk way not long after. They farm the land. Buildings are rented off separately but the house were just left.”

“Thanks,” Strong said.

He scanned the surrounding countryside once more then called for Stainmore to join him. “Let’s have a look round.”

They started up the farm track. The ground was dry and dusty but seemed to have been trafficked recently. All the way up they studied the hedgerow either side for any sign of disturbance or discarded items.

At the top of the rise the old farmyard opened out. To the left was a fairly new metal clad building with a window in the side. Below, an old upturned bucket was conveniently placed. Strong stood on it and peered inside. The building was empty.

Stainmore, meanwhile, wandered towards an older barn with padlocked timber doors. They circled the respective buildings, checking for any sign of forced entry. There was no evidence of any alternative ways in.

Meeting up again in the yard, Strong raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Nothing,” Stainmore said in response. “Just some old machinery and a tractor covered with a tarpaulin. Looks undisturbed for ages.”

On the right hand side of the yard stood the old farmhouse, a two-storey Yorkstone building with interesting roof lines and tall chimneys. The windows had rotted, leaving the stone mullions and transoms and in the porch, the front door hung drunkenly on one hinge.

“Let’s have a look in here,” Strong said. Before they could, his mobile rang. Answering, he looked intently at Stainmore for a few seconds then, with the phone jammed between his ear and shoulder, flipped open his notebook. After making a few notes, he ended the call.

“Developments?” she asked standing by the farmhouse doorway.

“That was Luke. BT have identified the number that left the message. Registered to one Steven Chapman.”

“Chapman?”

“Yes, pain in the arse little scrote from a few years back.” Strong walked over and joined his sergeant. “Previous for taking without owners consent and other driving offences but I haven’t heard of him for a few years now.”

“Must be a reformed character.”

“Or just more careful.”

Strong moved to the porch entrance and peered inside. The floor creaked and he could feel it give slightly with his weight. He stopped and shouted inside. “Hello! Susan! Anyone there!”

All was quiet.

“So, Chapman?” Stainmore said, “You got an address?”

“Luke has. Let’s go and have a word with our Mr Chapman. In the meantime, Kelly, get those two traffic officers to check the house out properly.”

As they made their way back down the track, the sun finally broke through.

8

Susan woke, aware of a bright light shining on her face. She opened her eyes, blinked and turned her head sharply to one side, immediately regretting it. The dull thudding pain increased as though a bag of marbles was rolling around inside her skull. It took several seconds for her to focus on her surroundings. Shafts of sunlight streamed through the ragged gaps in the floor above.  Dust floated through the beams of light. By contrast, dark cobwebs hung down from the joists. The floor on which she lay was compacted earth. Bits of floorboard, edges crumbling away to powder, lay all around.