Before It's Too Late (15 page)

Chapter
Twenty-Six

The backs of fingers swept across my cheekbone. Grandmother. I blinked, reached up. But the air above me was empty. Of course it was. She died almost five years ago
.

Images of Tomb Sweeping Day filled my mind. Visiting the family crypt last year. The candles we lit in the rain as we remembered our loved ones that had passed
.

I sat up, rubbed my cheek, desperately trying to regain that familiar feeling. Grandmother stroked my cheek every night when she put me to bed as a child. The memory warmed my insides
.

Grandmother was at home when I left for school in the morning, there to greet me when I returned. With both parents working, she was the one who made sure I ate a cooked meal and did my homework, the person who seemed to have endless free time to play and chat with me. Sometimes we’d walk to the park, sit on the bench and stare at the clouds in the sky. Grandmother loved clouds. She said they were free to move, visit other lands and experience new pleasures
.

We’d spend hours out in that park, talking about my school, my friends, the things that seemed so important in my little world. And she would tell me about her childhood. I loved to hear her talk about where she grew up in Shandong. I never knew her age, but her face bore the deep-set lines of a long hard life. She told me stories about her childhood, how from an early age they shared in the household chores, worked the land with their parents. Her community still practised some of the ancient Chinese customs, ignoring the bans and restrictions applied by wider government. Her earliest memory at home was watching her sister being led away to a room upstairs, then hearing her cries as each toe was broken, all apart from the big toe, her foot folded back and bound in the coveted lotus shape. They were told that it was good for girls, especially the eldest in a family – the secret to making a good marriage. For days after that she watched her sister weaken. The local women had rallied around, administering herbal medicines as red spikes shot up her sister’s legs. A week after the binding she died from an infection
.

I was never sure whether it was being exposed to such raw experiences so early in life, or just a blunt stubbornness that imbued Grandmother with a staunch sense of individuality. Outwardly she respected the strict regime. Inwardly she fought hard against it. Through Mao’s rule when everything from her reading material to the music she listened to was controlled by the government, then later as Deng introduced economic reform and the communist reigns relaxed a little she saw opportunities: pushing for an education and career for her daughter, supporting her son-in-law in his quest to run a factory, then later for me
.

‘I feel your sense of adventure, my little Lan Hua,’ she would say. ‘You are like a little caged bird: fed, watered and nurtured. One day, the cage door will spring open so that you can spread your wings and fly. And when that day comes, you must fly high and never look back. And you will experience new opportunities that the rest of us can only dream of.’

New adventures. I looked around me, swallowed hard
.

I wanted to scream back at her, ‘But Grandmother, the clouds aren’t free, they are governed by the wind. A wind that can get angry and whip them up into a frenzy. A wind that can wipe them clean from the sky. And you didn’t tell me what to do when they get angry, when they disappear. You taught me to take advantage of every opportunity, but you didn’t tell me what to do when it all goes wrong,’

At that moment desperation like no other clawed at me. I fell to the floor, hunched like a child, and wept
.

Time stood still. Slowly, exhaustion wrapped around me, pulling me back to my slumber. It was too hot. Don’t sleep. Don’t sleep. My mind spiralled. How much longer would I be kept here? My eyelids felt heavy. Just for a moment…

Chapter
Twenty-Seven

Jackman leant against the edge of the desk at the morning briefing and cast his eyes across the board in front of him. A spider diagram filled the area with Min’s photo in the centre and lines leading out to Tom, Qiang Li, the ransom note. Min had been missing for over two days and, as far as he could see, they were no closer to locating her. “Any news on the motorbike?”

Keane nodded, “I sent the photo over to a dealer. They think it’s a DRZ Suzuki. A popular dirt bike, sir. Easy to steal. We’re working through the reports of missing bikes. Nothing yet.”

“What about the helmet?”

“Nothing significant. Forty-six refers to the race number of Valentino Rossi, nine times world champion. The stickers are easily available online.”

“There’s been a huge response to the public appeal,” Davies said hopefully. “We’re prioritising the messages, eliminating the time-wasters. It’s a mammoth task.”

Jackman nodded. “Good. Any sightings of the van?”

“We’re struggling on that one,” Davies said. “We’ve trawled the police cameras over the past three weeks and checked the sightings of the number plate with the owner in Coventry. We can’t find any movements he can’t account for. It could be that they’re changing the plates.”

“Any news from the family?”

Russell shook her head. “Her father’s been talking to people in their local community, trying to locate anyone that may have kept in contact with Qiang Li. Nothing yet. They’re panicking,” she added, “I can hear it in her father’s voice. Talking about coming over to help with the search.”

“What about the phones of the people that made the ransom drop?”

“All pay as you go and not registered,” Keane said. “They used a different SIM card every time they contacted Mr Li. Can’t trace them.”

“And the money?”

“Paid.”

Jackman raised a brow.

“His contacts over here arranged it,” Russell said. “He borrowed from local associates, several different sources and passed it to the man he met who organised everything.”

“The man whom he can no longer reach?”

Russell nodded. “So he says.”

Jackman shook his head wearily. He stared out into the sea of faces. “What about the uncle, Qiang Li?”

Davies spoke up, “His details have been distributed nationally and internationally. If he’s known to the police, somebody’s bound to holler.” She cleared her throat. “What time are you due back in Birmingham?”

“I’m meeting the local beat officer in the Chinese Quarter at 4.15pm.” He blew out a sigh. “Let’s hope we have more luck than yesterday.”

Jackman checked his watch. 8.45am. “Right, I need to get going. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. You can reach me on my mobile.”

Davies pulled off the main Campden Road, past the New Inn Hotel and into Clifford Chambers, squinting through the morning sun that bounced off her windscreen.

As she drove down the main drag she found herself in the midst of middle England at its finest. A plethora of detached houses and quaint cottages lined the street, all surrounded by rolling rural countryside.

She turned at the bottom by the wrought-iron gates that led down the drive to the Manor House, doubled back and parked up on the right, just past the old church. The group of stone, terraced cottages were situated directly on the pavement and she guessed they would have once been owned by the Manor House.

The twitch of a curtain at the second house from the end caught her attention. She cut the engine wearily. The influx of calls from the press appeal was stretching resources to the limit and with the DI out of the office this morning, the last thing she needed was another time-waster.

By the time she’d exited the car and walked along the cracked concrete pavement, the door was pulled open to reveal an elderly man with a slight stoop. He was dressed in grey trousers and a beige knitted cardigan over an open-necked cream shirt, in spite of the soaring temperatures outside.

Davies raised her badge. “Mr Graeme Ward? I’m DS Davies. You called us with some information?” He reached up and scratched the wisps of hair that barely covered the liver spots on his head.

“Yes, do come in.”

She wandered past him into the narrow hallway. “Go on through,” he added, “first door on the right.”

She could hear the sound of a dog barking in the distance as she opened the door into a sitting room. A green sofa decorated with floral cushions stood next to a reclining armchair opposite a seventies-style electric bar fire. An old-fashioned box television sat on a cabinet in the corner. A sideboard against the far wall was covered with a mixture of painted porcelain figurines and photographs of children at various stages of growth. The air smelt musty and thick, like an old oven that hadn’t been cleaned in years.

Graeme Ward shuffled in behind her. “Do sit down,” he said, then turned towards the closed door at the end of the room that Davies guessed led out to the kitchen. “That’s enough, Flick!” he commanded, although the dog showed no sign of abating.

“Now, what about tea?” The man’s voice rasped as he attempted to raise it another decibel.

Davies managed a smile. “No, thank you.”

“Oh, I insist!” Graeme raised a single hand and turned to the door at the end. No sooner had he pressed down the handle than a small dog rushed out bellowing louder than ever.

Graeme turned, “Don’t mind Flick. She only wants to be friendly.”

The dog looked anything but friendly, hovering well within biting distance and emitting rolling growls through its teeth. Davies watched it warily, relieved when Graeme returned with cups and saucers jostling together on the tray as his hands shook. Flick rushed to his side.

“Let me help you with that,” Davies said and eyed the dog carefully as she stood and relieved him of the tray which was now slopped with tea from the metal pot. She placed it on the small coffee table between them and proceeded to pour the tea.

“You live here alone, sir?” she asked as she passed him a cup and sat back down on the sofa.

“Graeme, please.” He widened his eyes. “Yes, since my Vera passed, six years ago.”

She nodded. “When you called the station you said you had some information that might be relevant to our enquiry?”

Graeme relaxed back into his armchair. “Yes.” He paused for a moment to take a sip of tea. “I saw a van, like the one they mentioned on the radio.”

“Can you describe it?”

“A white, Volkswagen van. Quite distinctive it was, with blurred marks on the side where the sign had once been, and a rust circle around the diesel cap.”

Davies sat forward. “This is very important, Graeme. Where did you see it?”

Graeme placed his cup on the saucer. “Hmm, let’s see. I was out with Flick.” He glanced at the dog. “We walk for miles around here every day, don’t we girl?” The dog immediately stood, cocked her head and wagged her wiry tail. Graeme winked at Annie, “Keeps me young.”

Davies could feel a sense of irritation ripple beneath her skin, but said nothing.

Graeme looked up at the ceiling. “It would have been on the main road, earlier this week. Monday or Tuesday.”

“What time?”

Graeme didn’t answer. His eyes crossed to the side, deep in thought. “You know, I think if she’s here, I bet they’ve got her in the old wood.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The girl you’re looking for? That’s why you’re here isn’t it? There’s some water tanks in the old wood on the hill, haven’t been used in years. Perfect place to keep a body, I’d say.”

“What makes you say that?”

Graeme shrugged. “It makes plain sense to me. Go down to the old Manor House gates and turn right. You’ll have to take it on foot from there, but you’ll see the wood directly ahead of you up the hill.”

Davies felt a stir of alarm. The ransom note hadn’t been released to the press. The last thing they needed were the ramblings of an old man to spark interest and get the public speculating. “Of course we’ll look into it, but at the moment this is only a missing person enquiry.”

She thought hard. Clifford Chambers was practically a hamlet. The main stretch was a dead end for vehicles beside the hall. One way in, one way out. Surely too risky for a kidnapper to consider using?

Graeme stared into space as he continued, “Always comings and goings down here just recently. This used to be a quiet place.” He turned his head from side to side. “Things have changed… ”

“How do you mean?”

Davies stared at him perplexed, and was just about to press him further on the van when she heard the slam of a door. Flick jumped up. The kitchen door opened and a younger man with a shaved head marched through. “What’s going on here?”

Davies rose from her seat as the dog rushed to the intruder. But instead of barking, Flick wagged her tail and bounced around his ankles. Graeme looked up as he spoke, “Ahh, Carl. Nice to see you.” He turned back to Davies, “This is my son, Carl. He’s a fine-looking lad, isn’t he?”

Carl was an intense forty-something in dirty combat trousers and a navy polo shirt that clung to his muscular chest. He wiped a rough hand across his sweaty forehead and viewed Davies suspiciously as he spoke, “Who’s this?”